(SCENE 2.)

Enter Henrico Gusman, his sword drawne, & Eleonora.

Hen. Yet the Citty is safe enough; feare not, Eleonora; The Bullets make no noyse here: if the Towne Should yield her strength up to th'invader, thou Art lockd up like a spirit in a Christall: Not an enchanted Castle, held up by Strong charme, is halfe so safe. This house, though now It carry not the figure & faire shape Which the first workeman gave it, eating Time Having devourd the face of't, is within A Sanctuary, & hath so much cunning Couchd in the body not a Laborinth Is so full of Meanders.

Ele. Sir, your presence Confirmes me in opinion of my safety; Not of my life so much, for that's a thing I owe to nature & should one day be A-weary of it; like to Innes we take Our houses up, having but here a place Of Lodging not of dwelling:—but of honour You give me my assurance, for in such A time of thicke confusions I much feare That might be hazarded. And who knowes what The soldier that hath no lawe but that Of cruelty and rapine, when like a Bird Of prey his Tallents are possessd of one So weake as I am—

Hen. He that durst offend Thee with a sillable or but fright that bloud Out of thy Cheekes to seeke another place, Not daring to be seene there where it now Is of itselfe sufficient to ravish A mortall that with just eyes can looke on it, Had better be a divell. But a haire, The poorest part of thee & in this excellent Because 'tis thine, should any dare to ravish From these his soft companions, which the wind Would be for ever proud to play withall, H'had better dig his mothers coffin up And with his teeth eate what the wormes have left.

Ele. I know you will defend me.

Hen. Will defend thee! Have I a life, a soule that in thy service I would not wish expird! I doe but borrow My selfe from thee.

Ele. Rather you put to Interest And, for that principall you have credited To Eleonora her heart is paid backe As the iust Usury.

Hen. You undoe me, sweet, With too much love; if ere I marry thee I feare thou'lt kill me.

Ele. How?

Hen. With tendring me too much, my Eleonora; For in my conscience thou'lt extreamely love me, And extreames often kill.

Ele. There can be no extreme of love[21], sir.

Hen. Yes, but there may; and some say Jealousy Runs from the Sea, a rivolet but deducted From the mayne Channell.

Ele. This is a new language.

Hen. Have you not heard men have been killd with Joy? Our griefe doth but contract the heart, & gladnesse Dilate the same; and soo too much of eyther Is hott i'th' fourth degree.

Ele. Sir, your discourse Is stuff of severall pieces and knitts not With that you usd but now: if we can practize A vertuous love there's no hurt to exceed in't. —What doe you, Sir?

Hen. Looke on thee.

Ele. Why doe you eye me soe? this is not usuall. Are you well?

Hen. Well, never better.

Ele. Pray heaven it bode me no unhappinesse! How doth my father?

Hen. He's very well, too; feare not.

Ele. Still I read in your eyes—

Hen. What Babyes[22], prety one? Thy owne face, naught else; I receive that way all this beauty into My heart, and 'tis perhaps come backe to looke Out at the window. Come, Ile winke againe, It shall not trouble you:—hence my trayterous thoughts.

Ele. Indeed you are not well.

Hen. Indeed I am not; all's not well within me. Why should I be a villaine? Eleonora Doe not looke on me; turne those eyes away, They would betray thee to thy sorrow; or Lett me by parting carry along with me That which to know undoes thee.

Ele. Are you not hurt?

Hen. Yes.

Ele. Good heaven defend! I have a soveraigne Balme. [Exit.

Hen. Vanish, you ugly shapes, & with her presence Quitt your sharp stings! into what monstrous creature Feele I myself a-growing! yet I cannot Force backe the streame, it comes so fast upon me; I cannot.

Enter Eleonora.

Ele. Here, good Henrico, let me see your wound.

Hen. No, I am well againe; thankes, my best love. Come, let us walke and talke; I had a fancy, But 'tis no matter:—Buzzano!

Enter Buzzano.

Buz. Did you call?

Hen. Yes, the Balme here—

Buz. What shall I doe with it?

Hen. Lay it up safe; 'tis good for a greene wound But mines a blacke one:—and d'you heare, sirra, Draw up the bridge, give entrance unto none.

Buz. All my fellowes are abroad, sir; there's nobody at home but I.

Hen. No matter, let none enter; were my father Brought with a whirlwind backe, he finds all shutt Till I have done.

Buz. Well, sir;—madam, all this is that you should not b' afraid: you now see what a kind man he is,—he will suffer none to enter but himselfe. [Exit.

Ele. If all this proceed out of your care of me, how much am I bound to acknowledge you. Sir, methinkes you minde me not.

Hen. Yes, I doe nothing else but thinke of thee, & of my father, too, Don Pedro.

Ele. Ha! I hope he's well.

Hen. I wish he were returned, my Eleonora, for both our sakes.

Ele. The same wish I, sir.

Hen. That then our Joys, which now like flowers nippd With frost, hang downe the head as if the stalkes Could not sustaine the toppes, they droope to much;— At his returne th'art mine.

Ele. I am yours now In holyest Contract.

Hen. That's the ground we build on: Faith, since allready the foundation's layd, Let's work upon't. Y'are mine, you say, allready— Mine by all tearmes of Law, & nothing wanting But the possession: let's not then expect Th'uncertainety of a returne from France, But be all one ymediately.

Ele. I understand you not.

Hen. Since y'are a Tree reservd for me what now Should hinder me from climbing? All your apples I know are ripe allready; 'tis not stealth, I shall rob nobody.

Ele. You'le not be a divell?

Hen. No, I will but play the man with you: why, you know 'tis nothing.

Ele. Will you enforce mine honour? oh, Henrico, Where have you left your goodnesse? sure you cannot Be so ignoble, if you thinke me worthy To be your wife at least, to turne Eleonora Into a whore.

Hen. Pish! some hungry Landlords would have rent before The Quarter day,—I doe no more: by faire meanes Yield up your fort; the Tenement is mine owne And I must dwell in't.

Ele. My feares pointed wrong: You are no enemy, no wolfe; it was A villaine I disturbed: oh, make me not Find in your presence that destruction My thoughts were so affrighted with.

Hen. We shall have such adoe now!

Ele. Your fathers house will prove no castle to mee If you at home doe wound mee. 'Twas an Angell Spoke in you lately not my Cheeke should bee Made pale with feare. Lay not a lasting blush On my white name:—No haire should perish here Was vowed even now:—Oh let not a blacke deed, And by my sworne preserver, be my death My ever living death. Henrico, call To mind your holy vowes; thinke on our parents, Ourselves, our honest names; doe not kill all With such a murthering piece. You are not long T'expect, with the consent of men and angells, That which to take now from me will be losse A losse of heaven to thee. Oh, do not pawne it For a poore minutes sin.

Hen. If't be a worke, madam, of so short time, Pray let me beg a minutes privacy; 'Twill be soone done.

Ele. Yes, but the horrour of So foule a deed shall never: there's layd up Eternity of wrath in hell for lust: Oh, 'tis the devill's exercise! Henrico, You are a man, a man whom I have layd up Nearest my heart: in you 'twill be a sin To threaten heaven & dare that Justice throw Downe Thunder at you. Come, I know you doe But try my vertue, whether I be proofe Against anothers Battery: for these teares—

Hen. Nay, then I see you needs will try my strength: My bloud's on fire, I boyle with expectation To meete the pleasure and I will. [He forces her in.

Ele. Helpe, helpe!

Enter Buzzano.

Buz. Helpe? what nightingale was that? did one cry out for helpe? there's no Christian soule in the house but they two & my selfe; and 'twas not mine, I know by the smallnes of the voice; twas some woman cryde out, & therefore can be none but my young Lady,—it was she as sure as I am hungry; he's with her. But why, having one man did she cry out for more? oh, our Spanish ovens are not heated with one Bavyn.[23] Well, I must say nothing; my young Cocke has bene treading. Ile tread softly & see what they doe:—but, see!

Enter Henrico & Eleonora, loose haired and weeping.

Hen. What doe you looke after?

Buz. Why, sir, I looke after a voyce that appeard to me even now, crying "helpe,"—a very small one.

Hen. If what thou seest or heard'st be ever muttered by thee Though in thy sleep, villaine, Ile pistol thee.

Buz. Hum, it will not be safe to dreame of a knave shortly. Are you so good at a gun? if you use this too often your birding piece will scarce carry a yard levell.

Hen. Come, dresse your hayre up & be wise at last: No more, I have done.

Buz. So I thinke in my conscience,—he hath done with her.

Hen. If you can be so simple to proclaime it, I can be impudent.

Ele. Yet dar'st thou live? & doe I live to see Myselfe the shame of weomen? have I not Wept teares enough to drowne me? then let fire Enthrone it selfe within me & beget Prodigious Cometts, that with flaming haires May threaten danger to thee!

Hen. Nay, nay, nay, if you be so hott Ile brave you: like wine that's burnt you must be set light by, & then you'le come to a temper. [Exit.

Ele. Oh, helpe me out of hell!

Buz. Sh'has bene at Barleybreake.[24]—Madam I must say nothing: —there is a Pistol and so forth:—but if you have occasion to use me, try mee; if I doe not prove an honester man to you then my Master, would my Cod piece point were broake. I know what I know, and yet Ile tell no tales;—but if ever I come to speake once—I say nothing.

Ele. Oh that I could not breath! how can I have A Joy in life whose honour's in the Grave!

[Exeunt.