(SCENE 3.)

Enter Bonvill, Clarinna, Belizea and Grimes.

Bon. Come, you are wantons both: If I were absent, You would with as much willingness traduce My manners to them. What Idiots are wee men To tender our services to women Who deride us for our paines!

Cla. Why can you great wise men who esteeme us women But equall with our parrets or at best But a degree above them, prating creatures Devoid of reason, thinke that when we see A man whose teeth will scarce permitt his tongue To say,—(he is soe like December come A woing to the Spring, with all the ensignes Of youth and bravery as if he meant To dare his land-lord Death to single rapier)— We have not so much spleene as will engender A modest laughter at him?

Bel. Nay, theres his Nephew, Crackby, your sweet servant.

Clar. My Servant! I do admire that man's impudence, How he dare speake to any woman.

Bon. Why, is he not flesh and blood?

Clar. Yes, but I question whether it be mans or no. They talk of changlings: if there be such things I doubt not but hees one of them.

Bel. Fie,[65] Sister; 'tis a prettye gent, I know you love him.

Clar. You hitt it there, I faith,[66]—You know the man?

Bon. Yes, very well.

Clar. Have you then ever seene such another monster? He was begott surely in the wane of the moone, When Natures tooles were at laime Vulcans forge A sharpning, that she was forced to shake this lumpe together.

Bon. What man for heavens sake could your nicenes fancy?

Clar. Not you of all that ever I beheld.

Bel. And why, good wisdome?

Clar. Nay, do not scratch me because he is your choyse, forsooth.

Bel. Well, we shall see the goodly youth your curiositie has elected, when my brother returnes, I hope.

Clar. I hope soe, too; I marvill where this Cub is, He is not roaring here yet.

Enter Thorogood.

Bon. Frend, thou hast lost The absolu[t]st characters deliverd by this lady: Would thou hadst come a little sooner.

Tho. Ladies, I must desire your pardon for my friend: I have some busines will a while deprive him Your sweet companies.

Clar. Take him away; we are weary of him.

Bel. Sister, lets leave the gentlemen alone, And to our chambers. [_Exeunt Bel. and Clar.

Bon. Grimes, put to the doore and leave us.— Whats the matter? [Exit Grimes.

Tho. Freind, Ere I begin my story I would wish you Collect yourselfe, awake your sleeping Spiritts, Invoake your patience, all thats man about you To ayd your resolution; for I feare The newes I bring will like a palsie shake Your soules indifferenst temper.

Bon. Prethee, what is't which on the soddaine can Be thus disastrous? 'tis beyond my thoughts.

Tho. Nay, slight it not: the dismall ravens noate Or mandrakes screches, to a long-sick man Is not so ominous as the heareing of it Will be to you; 'twill like a frost congeale Your lively heate,—yet it must out, our frendship Forbids concealment.

Bon. Do not torture me; Ime resolute to heare it.

Tho. Your soe admired Mistress Who parted from you now, Belisea,—

Bon. You have don well before Your sad relation to repeat that sound; That holy name whose fervor does excite A fire within mee sacred as the flame The vestalls offer: see how it ascends As if it meant to combat with the sunn For heats priority! Ime arm'd gainst death, Could thy words blow it on me.

Tho. Here me, then: Your Mistress—

Bon. The Epitome of virtues, Who like the pretious reliques of a Saint Ought only to be seene, not touchd.

Tho. Yet heare me; Cease your immoderate prayses: I must tell you You doe adore an Idoll; her black Soule Is tainted as an Apple which the Sunn Has kist to putrifaction; she is (Her proper appelation sounds so foule I quake to speake it) a corrupted peice, A most lascivious prostitute.

Bon. Howes this? Speake it agen, that if the sacrilege Thou'st made gainst vertue be but yet sufficient To yeild thee dead, the iteration of it May damne thee past the reach of mearcye. Speake it, While thou hast utterance left; but I conceit A lie soe monstrous cannot chuse but choake The vocall powers, or like a canker rott Thy tung in the delivery.

Tho. Sir, your rage Cannot inforce a recantacion from me: I doe pronounce her light as is a leafe In withered Autumne shaken from the trees By the rude winds: noe specld serpent weares More spotts than her pide honor.

Bon. So, no more: Thy former words incenst me but to rage; These to a fury which noe sea of teares, Though shed by queenes or Orphants, shall extinguish; Nay, should my mother rise from her cold urne And weepe herself to death againe to save Thee from perdition, 't should not; were there placd Twixt thee and mee a host of blasing starrs, Thus I would through them to thee! [_Draw.

Tho_. Had I knowne Your passion would have vanquishd reason thus, You should have met your ruine unadvisd; Hugd your destruction; taken what the lust Of other men had left you. But the name And soule of friendship twixt us I had thought Would have retain'd this most unmanly rage Gainst me, for declaration of a truth By which you might be ransomed from the armes Of her adulterate honor.

Bon. Yes, kind foole; Perswade an Indian who has newly div'd Into the ocean and obtaind a pearle, To cast it back againe; labour t'induce Turkes to contemne their Alcoron ere you strive To make me creditt my Belissia false. [Kneele. Forgive me, holy love, that I delay So long to scourge the more than heathnish wrongs Of this iniurious villaine, whome me thinks— Blow him hence to hell With his contagious slander! yet before Thou doest fall by me as, if heaven have not Lost all its care of Innocence, thou must doe, Tell me what Divell urgd thee to detract From virtue thus, for of thy selfe thou couldst not (Unlesse with thee shee hath bin vicious) know it Without some information: whoes the Author Of this prodigious calumnie?

Tho. Her mother.

Bon. Ha! her mother?

Tho. Yes, she; that certaine Oracle of truth, That pretious mine of honor, which before She would exhaust, or yeild your innocence A spoyle to vice, chose rather to declare Her daughter's folly; and with powerfull teares Besought me, by the love I bore to goodnes, Which in her estimation had a roome Higher than Nature, to reveale it to you And disingage you from her.

Bon. Soe, rest there, [Put up. Ere thou beest drawne were the whole sex reduced To one, left only to preserve earths store, In the defence of women; who,[67] but that The mothers virtues stands betweene heavens Justice Would for the daughters unexampled sinne Be by some soddaine Judgment swept from earth As creatures too infectious. Gentle freind, An humor, heavy as my soule was steep'd In Lethe, seases on me and I feare My passion will inforce me to transgresse Manhood; I would not have thee see me weepe; I prethee leave mee, solitude will suite Best with my anguish. [_Sitt downe.

Tho_. Your good Genius keepe you. [Exit.

[Enter Belisea.]

Bel. Why have you staid thus long? Young Crackby and his friend are newly up And have bin with us. My sister has had The modest bout with them: 'tis such a wench. Are you a sleepe? why doe you not looke up? What muse you on?

Bon. Faith, I was thinking where In the whole world to find an honest woman.

Bel. An excellent meditation! What doe you take me for, my Mother and my Sister?

Bon. You alway excepted; tis but melancholly; Prethee bestow a kisse upon me, love; Perchance that will expell it.

Bel. If your cure be wrought soe easily, pittie you should perish for want of physick. [Kiss him.

Bon. She kisses as sheed wont; were she unchast, Surely her breath would like a Stigian mist Or some contagious vapor blast me; but 'Tis sweet as Indian balme, and from her lips Distills[68] a moisture pretious as the Dew The amorous bounty of the wholesome morne Throwes on rose buds; her cheeks are fresh and pure As the chast ayre that circumscribes them, yet Theres that within her renders her as foule As the deformed'st Ethiope.

Bel. Whats the matter? Why do you staire so on me?

Bon. To admire That such a goodly building as this same Should have such vild stuff in itt.

Bel. What meanes this language?

Bon. Nothing, but only to informe you what You know to well alreadie: Belisia, you are —(I cannot call her whore)—a perjurd woman.

Bel. Defend me innocence! I scarce remember That ever I made oath and therefore wonder How I should breake on.

Bon. Have you not with imprecations beg'd Heavens vengeance if you ere lovd man but me?

Bel. And those same heavens are vouchers[69] I've kept my vowes with that strict purity That I have done my honor.

Bon. I believe thee; The divell sometimes speaks truth. Intemperate woman, Thoust made that name a terme convertible With fury, otherwise I should call thee soe, How durst thou with this impudence abuse My honest faith? did I appeare a guest So infinitly worthles that you thought The fragments of thy honour good enough To sate my appetite, what other men Had with unhallowd hands prophaind? O woman, Once I had lockd in thy deceiving brest A treasure wealthier then the Indies both Can in their glory boast, my faithfull heart, Which I do justly ravish back from it Since thou art turnd a strumpet.

Bel. Doe you thinke I am what you have term'd me?

Bon. Doe I thinke When I behold the wanton Sparrows change Their chirps to billing, they are chast? or see The Reeking Goate over the mountaine top Pursue his Female, yet conceit him free From wild concupiscence? I prithee tell me, Does not the genius of thy honor dead Haunt thee with apparitions like a goast Of one thou'dst murdrd? dost not often come To thy bed-side and like a fairy pinch Thy prostituted limbs, then laughing tell thee 'Tis in revenge for myriads of black tortures Thy lust inflicted on it?

Bel. Have you don? Give me a little leave then ere my greife Surround my reason. Witnes, gratious heaven, Who, were you not offended at some sinn I have unwittingly comitted, would Send sacred innocence it selfe to pleade How much 'tis iniurd in me, that with zeale Above the love of mothers I have tendred This misinformd man. Ile not aske the authors Of this report, I doe forgive them; may A happier fate direct you to some other May love you better; and my fate conferr On me with speed some sudden sepulcher. [Exit.

Bon. I shall grow childish, too; my passions strive For my dead love to keepe my greife alive.

[Exit.

Actus Secundus.