SCENE 1.

Enter Magdalen, Timothy and Alexander.

Ma. Run, good sweet Timothy; search the barnes, the stab[les], while I looke in the Chambers. Should she be lost or come to any harme my lady will hang us all. Why dost not fly?

Tim. Hey day, if her feet walke as fast as thy tongue, sh[e's] far enough ere this time. What a stir you make! Were you, as shee is, with your sweet heart, you would [be] pursud, would you? You would be hangd as soone. Al[as], good gentlewoman, heaven speed her!

Ma. You will not goe then?

Tim. No, indeed, will I not. Her mother may be angry if she please. The time has bin she would as willingly Bin at the sport her selfe as now her daughter. The ge[ntleman] shees gon with is a man, And see theres no harme d[one], I warrant you.

Lov. Ha, ha, gramercy, Timothy, thou hittst it right. Maudlin, goe to; should Tim here offer as much to you, ha, I beleave you would not lock your selfe up in my ladyes closett; goe to, and goe to.

[Exeunt.

Ma. Udsme, my lady!

Enter Lady.

Lady. Lost, past redemption! I pursue a fier Which like the giddy Meteors that seduce With their false light benighted travellers Allures me to distruction. To curse fate Were to allow I feard it, and admit Participation in me of that spiritt I most detest, a womans.

Lov. Please your good Ladyship.

Lady. Yes, that you depart.— [Exit Alexander. What can he see in her more worthy love Then is in me? shees but a picture drawne By my dimensions, and men sooner fancy The Substance then the Shaddow. Oh, but shee Is the true image not of what I am But what I was, when like the spring I wore My virgin roses on my cheeks.

Lov. Madam, you seeme—

Lady. Angry at your impertinency; learne manners, leave me.

Lov. She has coniurd downe my spirit: these are immodest devills that make modest ladyes become strickers[118]. Ile out oth storme, take shelter in the cellar. Goe to and goe to; tis better venter quarriling mongst those hogesheads. [Exit Alexander.

Enter Maudlin [and Timothy.]

Ma. Madam, your daughter—

Lady. Where is she? Who? Clariana?

Ma. The faire Belisea.

Enter Clariana.

Cla. Did you call me, madam.

Lady. Noe: were you soe neere? begon againe,— Yet stay.—Maudlin, avoid the Roome, and if you see Mr. Thurston, entreat him hither. Timothy, Find out my son and charge him to delay The execution of my late comaund Till I next speake with him. [Exeunt Mag. and Tim. Clariana, you did what I comanded?

Cla. Yes, on my Soule.

Lady. But thou art ignorant Why with such violence I inioyn[e]d thee To leave thy Thurstons love?

Cla. Were I not sure Theres nought in him that can be titled ill, I should have thought your circumspective Judgment Had spide some error in him, and in care Of me your child forbidden me his love. But whatsoer's the cause, though your comaund Was like perdition welcome, my obedience Fullfild it truly, without questioning The reason why or the unlimited power Of you my mother.

Lady. You did very well. Now thou shalt know the reason, which before I doe relate, afford me leave to weepe, To save thy teares, which at the hearing of it Will, like the dew on lillies, pearle thy cheekes. I have beheld thee with a Rivalls eye In Thurstons love; my penetrable heart, Like a moist cloud, has opened and receivd Loves fine bolt into it. Now thou knowst it, Methinks I see confusion in thy lookes Prepard to blast me.

Cla. Heaven forbid it I Should ere conceive the meanest thought of ill Of you, my parent. Since you love him, here To heaven and you I give my interest up And would I could as well commaund his heart As he might mine, beleive me you should then Affect you with as true and deare a zeale As ever I did him: I should be happie In making you soe.

Lady. Charitable girle, Forgive thy cruell mother, who must yet Impose a stronger penance on thy duty: Thou must go to thy Thurston, and obtaine His love.

Cla. A little labour will serve for that.

Lady. Not for thy selfe but for thy haplesse mother, Who am, without it, nothing. Woe him for me, Use the inchanting musicke of thy voice On my behalfe, who, though thy Rivall, yet Remember I'm thy mother; nor canst thou Consigne thy breath to a more holy use (Though thou shouldst spend it in religious prayers) Then to redeeme thy parent. Weepe for me, And in requitall for each drop thou shedst I'll pay to heaven a Hecatombe of teares For thy successe. But take good heede, deare child, While thou art weeping, thou dost not disclose That face of thine; for, were he mine by vow, Loves powerfull Retorick uttered [in?] thyne eyes Would winn from me.

Enter Thurston and Thorowgood.

Cla. Here comes the Gentleman.

Lady. Be earnest, Clariana, I shall heare you. [Exit.

Tho. Sir, you must iuistifie this.

Thu. Feare it not; yonder she goes; I'll tell her of it, sheele not denie it.

Cla. Mr. Thurston, whether do you walke soe fast?

Thu. O, Clarianna, are you there?

Cla. Nay, stay, I have a suite to you.

Thu. I would Be loth to offend your eyes; when we last met You chargd me never to behold you more.

Cla. I did indeed, but on mature advice I have reclaimd that imposition. You shall behold me dayly, talke with me, Doe all the acts that love with Innocence Can suffer, if youle but overrule your will To graunt me one request.

Thu. You wrong my faith In questioning my graunt of any thing You can desire wer't to undoe my selfe Or combate miseries as yet unheard of, You[r] least breath may expose me to them.

Cla. Nay, in this theres no danger; if there be A real happines on earth, this way You shall arrive to it.

Tho. He were unwise Would he not graunt it then.

Thu. Please you declare it.

Cla. There is a lady, Of such a perfect virtue, grace and sweetnes, That Nature was to all our sex beside A niggard, only bountiful to her; One whose harmonious bewtie may intitule All hearts its captive: yet she doats on you With such a masculine fancy that to love her Is duty in you.

Thu. It is herselfe, Ime sure.

Tho. It surely is no other.

Cla. No, tis one So farr transcending me, that twere a sinne Should I deprive you, the most perfect man, Of her, the perfectest woman. She will weepe Even at your name; breath miriads of sighes; Wring her hands thus; demonstrate all the signes Of a destracted lover; that in pitty, Though I did love you well, I have transferd My right to her, and charge you by all ties That you affect her with the same true zeale Which you did me, and ift be possible, Purer and better.

Tho. This is the strangest madnes I ere heard of.

Thu. Is it you, Clariana, that speake all this?

Cla. You know and heare it is.

Thu. But I doe scarce Credit my hearing, or conceive I am Mortall, for surely, had I bin, your words Like the decree of heaven had struck me dead. What strong temptation lay you on my faith! O, Clariana, let me but decline Passion, and tell you seriously that this Is cruel in you, first to scorne my love, Next to admitt a scruple of beleife, Though you can be perfidious to your selfe, That I can be soe. Noe; since you are lost, Ile like the solitary turtle mourne Cause I must live without you. But, pray, tell me What is she you would have me love?

Cla. My Mother.

Thu. Ha, your Mother!

Tho. Ist possible, lady? you much doe wrong Your innocence in laboring to enforce That upon him which is my interest. Heaven Smild at the contract twixt us; quiers of Saints Receivd our mutuall vowes, and though your Mother May in her passion seeme to have forgott Her pretious faith, yet when I shall awake Her sleeping reason with the memory Of that has past betwixt us, my strong hope Tells me I shall induce her to the spheare Which she has movd from.

Cla. Would heaven you could! How coldly in this cause Doe I perswade! when I would speake, my heart Checks its bold orator, my tongue, and tells it Tis traitorous to its Mr.—Noble Sir, [kneele I doe conceit you infinitly good, So pittiful that mercy is in you Even naturally superlative, (forgive me, If I offend) you doe in this transgresse Humanity, to let a lady love you Without requitall. But I must professe To heaven and you, that here Ile fix to earth, Weepe till I am a statue, but Ile gaine Your pitie for her: pray consider ont.

Thu. Consider ont? wonder has soe engrossd To its wild use all corners of my heart That there remaines scarce one poore concave left To hold consideration. I must either Love her I hate or see her whome I love Wilfully perish. See, shee kneeles and weeps, Prays as she meant to expiate all the sinns Earth ere committed. One of those pure drops Does (as my lives blood in a soddaine trance) Surround my heart. You have prevaild, arise: At your request I will performe an act, Which may no story hold least all who love Hereafter curse the president,—Ile love her. That deathfull word comes from my torturd soule As a consent doth from a timorous maid For an enforcing ravisher.

Tho. You are not mad, sir? what doe you meane?

Cla. I thanke you. But love her dearely, Thurston, sheele deserv't: I doe remember, when my Father livd, How he would praise her goodnes. Think on me As one that lovd you well, but neer like her; And, if you please, bestow each day a kisse Uppon her in my memory. Soe, farewell.— Sorrows flow high: one griefe succeed another; I die in piety to redeeme my Mother. [Exit.

Tho. But, harke you, sir, do you intend to love her.

Thu. Good sir, torment me not.

Enter Grimes.

Grimes. By your leave, gentlemen: good Mr. Thorowgood, a word or two in private.

Thu. Compeld to love my enemy! what man, That had but so much spiritt as a mule, Could suffer this! Lay nice prescriptions, Ambiguous bookmen, on submissive slaves; Affright with terror of a wilfull death Those whom black murders of inhumane sin Has living damnd; Ime yet in my owne heart White as a babe, as Innocent as light From any mortall guilt; and were my soule Drawn fro this mew[119] of flesh twould quickly streatch Like a swift Falkon her aspiring wings And soare at heaven. Nature instructs us Death Is due to all: how can't be then a Sinn To die, or he more guilty of offense That kills himselfe or [than?] he who in his bed Some shivoring ague murders? Ime resol[v']d; Ile rather chuse to immolate my life In Martirdome to virtue then reserve't Till it be staind with mischiefes.

Enter Lady.

Lady. How doe you, sir?

Thu. Oh, oh, my head, my head! Stand further of, good nightcrow: if thou comst As a presaging harbinger of death, Howlt in thy direfulst and most horrid notes, And ['t] will be wellcome as choyse musick to me And Ile adore thee fort, with teares of ioy Make thy black feathers white.

Lady. Good sir, mistake me not, I am your friend.

Thu. I cry you mercy, lady; you are shee Whom I had vowd to love;—a wild conceite Had seasd my fancy. Pardon me, I must Proclaim to heaven and to the world a truth Which I should study to forget: you are A Creature so suparlatively bad That, were the earth as absolute from sinn As in its first creation, youre sole crimes Would pull a curse upon it. I should tell you The specialties wherein you're foule, but dare not Breath in the same ayre with you; I begin To feel infection:—fare you well. [Exit.

Lady. Contemnd againe! deprive me of the name And soule of woman! render me a scorne To the most base of our revengefull sex! If I beare this while there be knives or swords, Poyson or ought left to extinguish life That womans spleene can compasse— Alexander! within there!

Enter Alexander.

Goe to my sonn; inioyne him by all rights Of naturall duty to accomplish that Which in youre hearing I comanded him. Beare him this Jewell and this gold, that when Tis don he may escape; be carefull, As you expect my favour.

Alex. I shall inculcate your desires unto him. —Her favour! goe to, theres comfort. [Exit.

Enter Thorowgood.

Tho. Madam, theres one brings a sad message to you.

Lady. From whome, I pray you.

Tho. From two friends of yours Your cruelty has murdred,

Lady. My cruelty Never extended to that horrid height, Not to my foes. Who are they?

Tho. Your daughter, The innocent Belisia, and my friend, Her worthy suiter, Bonvill.

Lady. Your freind and my daughter dead and by my meanes! This cannot be; my daughters sure in the house. Good sir, unfould this ridle, it begetts Wonder and terror in me.

Tho. Madam, you know with what a cruel messuage You sent me to my friend, which provd as false As your faire daughter virtuous. Why you did it I will not question, nor upbraid you with This violation of your faith.

Lady. This story Conduces nothing to the deathes you talkd of.

Tho. Yes, since then A iust mistrust that you would crosse their match Causd them last night privatly to steale hence With an intention to have reacht the house Where Bonvills mother lives; but see the fates How they dispose of men! crossing the River That runns beneath your orchard, and ith darke, Their headstrong horses missing the ford overthrew them And, which I cannot without true griefe utter, There drownd them both. Was it not soe, Grimes?

Grimes. Tis too sad a truth; and I, After all meanes to save their life was past, Lookd to my owne and got the shore: their bodies I feare the violence of the tide has carried Into the Sea by this time.

Lady. Enough, good friend; no more. Had a rude Scythian, ignorant of teares, Unlesse the wind enforcd them from his eyes, Heard this relation, sure he would have wept; And yet I cannot. I have lost all sense Of pitty with my womanhood, and now That once essentiall Mistress of my soule, Warme charity, no more inflames my brest Than does the glowewormes ineffectual fire The ha[n]d that touches it. Good sir, desist The agravation of your sad report; [Weepe Ive to much greife already.

Tho. It becomes you: You do appeare more glorious in these t[ears] Then the red morne when she adornes her cheeks With Nabathean pearls: in such a posture Stand Phaetons sisters when they doe distill Their much prisd amber. Madam, but resume Your banishd reason to you, and consider How many Iliads of preposterous mischeife From your intemperate breach of faith to me Fetch their loathed essence; thinke but on the love, The holy love I bore you, that we two —Had you bin constant—might have taught the wor[ld] Affections primitive purenes; when, from Your abrogation of it, Bonvills death, Your daughter['s] losse have luc[k]lessly insu'd. The streame that, like a Crocodile, did weepe Ore them whom with an over ravenous kisse Its moyst lips stifled, will record your fault In watery characters as lastingly As iff twere cut in marble. Heaven, forgive you; Ile pray for you; repent.

[Exeunt Thorowgood and Grimes.

Grimes. O, my deare Master!

Lady. Repent! should I but spend The weakest accent of my breath in sighes Or vaine compunction, I should feare I sinnd Against my will, then which I doe confes Noe other diety. Passions[120] doe surround My intellectual powers; only my heart, Like to a Rocky Island, does advance Above the foming violence of the waves Its unmovd head, bids me my fate outdare. Ills sure prevention is a swift despaire.

[Exit.

([SCENE] 2.)

Enter Alexander and Young Marlowe.

Alex. Thinke, sir, to whome the Iniury was don,—go to—your Lady Mother, a vertuous lady, I say and I sayt agen, a very vertuous lady. Had I but youth and strength as you have, in what cause should I sooner hazard both then in this?

Y. M. Murder, my friend!

Alex. Noe, tis doing sacrifice to slaunderd goodnes.

Y. M. Rob my beloved Sister of a husband!

Alex. Yes, to redeeme to your mother her lost honour.

Y. M. Art not a Divell?

Alex. Ha!

Y. M. Thy breath has blasted me.

Alex. I must confes indeed I have eaten garlicke.

Y. M. All pious thoughts that lately fild this spheare Are scatterd with the winds that issu'd from thee, Which, like the infectious yawning of a hill, Belching forth death inevitable, Has distroyd freindship and nature in me. Thou canst not poyson worse: I can feed now, Feed and nere burst with mallice. Sing, Syren, sing And swell me with revenge sweet as the straines Falls from the Thrasian lyre; charme each sence With musick of Revenge, let Innocence In softest tunes like the expiring Swann Dy singing her owne Epitaph.

Alex. What meane you, sir? are you mad? goe to and goe to; you doe not use me well; I say and I say, you do not. Have I this for my love to you and your good Mother? Why, I might be your Father by my age, which is falne on me in my old Mrs service; he would have used me better.

Y. M. Dost weepe, old Crocodile? looke dost see this sword.

Alex. Oh, I beseech you, sir; goe to; what meane you?

Y. M. No harme to thee; this was my Fathers once, My honord Father; this did never view The glaring Sunn but in a noble cause, And then returnd home blushing with red spoyles, Which sung his fame and conquest. Goe, intreat My Mother be as pleasant as she was That night my Father got me. I am going, say, Most cheerfully to finish her comaund.

Alex. Heaven prosper you. Ha!

Enter Thurston.

Thu. Freind, I was looking for you.

Y. M. And you have found me, Villaine.

Thu. What meane you?

Y. M. If thou darst follow me I will conduct thee Unto the seate of death.

Thu. Dare! Ile goe with thee, hand in hand; goe on.

[Exeunt ambo.

Alex. Goe, goe to and goe to, I say and I sait; here wilbe some revenge. If the Gent[leman] fall my lady has promist me a farme of 100 pounds a yeare; goe to, then. Now, if her sonn be slayne, heres then this purse of gold and this rich Jewell which she sent to him. By this wee see, whoever has the worst, The fox fares well, but better when hees curst.[121] Goe to and goe to then.

[Exit.

Actus Quintus.