Four PLAYS in One.

Frig. Prologues are bad Huishers before the wise; Why may not then an Huisher Prologize? Here's a fair sight, and were ye oftner seen Thus gather'd here, 'twould please our King and Queen Upon my conscience, ye are welcome all To Lisbon, and the Court of Portugal; Where your fair eyes shall feed on no worse sights Than preparations made for Kings delights. We wish to men content, the manliest treasure, And to the Women, their own wish'd for pleasure. [Flourish.

Em. Fair fountain of my life, from whose pure streams The propagation of two Kingdoms flowes, Never contention rise in eithers brest, But contestation whose love shall be best. Isab. Majestick Ocean, that with plenty feeds Me, thy poor tributary Rivolet, Sun of my beauty, that with radiant beams Dost gild, and dance upon these humble streams, Curst be my birth-hour, and my ending day, When back your love-floods I forget to pay: Or if this brest of mine, your crystall brook, Ever take other form in, other look But yours, or ere produce unto your grace A strange reflection, or anothers face, But be your love-book clasp'd, open'd to none But you, nor hold a storie, but your own; A water fix'd, that ebbs nor floods pursue, Frozen to all, onely dissolv'd to you. Em. O, who shall tel the sweetness of our love To future times, and not be thought to lye? I look through this hour like a perspective, And far off see millions of prosperous seeds, That our reciprocall affection breeds. Thus my white rib, close in my brest with me, Which nought shall tear hence, but mortalitie. Lords. Be Kingdoms blest in you, you blest in them. Frig. Whist, Seignior; my strong imagination shews me Love (me thinks) bathing in milk, and wine in her cheeks: O! how she clips him, like a plant of Ivie.

Poet Prologue. Low at your sacred feet our poor Muse layes Her, and her thunder-fearless virdant Bayes. Four severall Triumphs to your Princely eyes, Of Honor, Love, Death, and Time do rise From our approaching subject, which we move Towards you with fear, since that a sweeter Love, A brighter Honor, purer Chastitie March in your brests this day triumphantly, Then our weak Scenes can show: then how dare we Present like Apes and Zanies, things that be Exemplifi'd in you, but that we know, We ne'r crav'd grace, which you did not bestow?

Mar. What means proud Sophocles? Soph. To go even with Martius, And not to follow him like his Officer: I never waited yet on any man. Mar. Why poor Athenian Duke, thou art my slave, My blows have conquerd thee. Soph. Thy slave? proud Martius, Cato thy countrey-man (whose constancie, Of all the Romans, I did honor most) Rip'd himself twice to avoid slavery, Making himself his own Anatomie. But look thee Martius, not a vein runs here From head to foot, but Sophocles would unseame, and Like a spring garden shoot his scornfull blood Into their eyes, durst come to tread on him: As for thy blows, they did [not] conquer me: Seven Battailes have I met thee face to face, And given thee blow for blow, and wound for wound, And till thou taught'st me, knew not to retire; Thy sword was then as bold, thy arm as strong; Thy blows then Martius, cannot conquer me. Val. What is it then? Soph. Fortune. Val. Why, yet in that Thou art the worse man, and must follow him. Soph. Young Sir, you erre: If Fortune could be call'd Or his, or your's, or mine, in good or evill For any certain space, thou hadst spoke truth: But she but jests with man, and in mischance Abhors all constancie, flowting him still With some small touch of good, or seeming good Midst of his mischief: which vicissitude Makes him strait doff his armour, and his fence He had prepar'd before, to break her strokes. So from the very Zenith of her wheel, When she has dandled some choice favorite, Given him his boons in women, honor, wealth, And all the various delecacies of earth; That the fool scorns the gods in his excess, She whirls, and leaves him at th' Antipodes. Mar. Art sure we have taken him? Is this Sophocles? His fettred arms say no; his free soul, I. This Athens nurseth Arts, as well as Arms. Soph. Nor glory Martius, in this day of thine, 'Tis behind yesterday, but before to morrow: Who knows what Fortune then will do with thee? She never yet could make the better man, The better chance she has: the man that's best She still contends with, and doth favor least. Mar. Me thinks a graver thunder then the skies Breaks from his lips; I am amaz'd to hear, And Athens words, more then her swords doth fear. Soph. Martius, slave Sophocles, couldst thou acquire (And did thy Roman gods so love thy prayers, And solemn sacrifice, to grant thy suit) To gather all the valour of the Cæsars Thy Predecessors, and what is to come, And by their influence fling it on thee now, Thou couldst not make my mind go less, not pare With all their swords one virtue from my soul: How am I vassall'd then? Make such thy slaves, As dare not keep their goodness past their graves. Know General, we two are chances on The die of Fate; now thrown, thy six is up, And my poor one beneath thee, next th[y] throw May set me upmost, and cast thee below. Mar. Yet will I trie thee more: Calamitie Is mans true touchstone: Listen insolent Prince, That dar'st contemn the Master of thy life, Which I will force here 'fore thy City walls With barbarous crueltie, and call thy wife To see it, and then after send her— Soph. Ha, ha, ha. Mar. And then demolish Athens to the ground, Depopulate her, fright away her fame, And leave succession neither stone nor name. Soph. Ha, ha, ha. Mar. Dost thou deride me? Val. Kneel, ask Martius For mercy, Sophocles, and live happy still. Soph. Kneel, and ask mercie? (Roman) art a god? I never kneel'd, or begg'd of any else. Thou art a fool, and I will loose no more Instructions on thee: now I find thy eares [Solemn Musick.

Are foolish, like thy tongue. My Dorigen? Oh! must she see me bound? 1 Cap. There's the first sigh He breath'd since he was born, I think. 2 Cap. Forbear, All but the Lady his wife. Soph. How my heart chides The manacles of my hands, that let them not Embrace my Dorigen. Val. Turn but thy face. And ask thy life of Martius thus, and thou (With thy fair wife) shalt live; Athens shall stand, And all her priviledges augmented be. Soph. 'Twere better Athens perish'd, and my wife Which (Romans) I do know a worthie one, Then Sophocles should shrink of Sophocles, Commit profane Idolatry, by giving The reverence due to gods to thee blown man. Mar. Rough, stubborn Cynick. Soph. Thou art rougher far, And of a couser wale, fuller of pride, Less temperate to bear prosperity. Thou seest my meer neglect hath rais'd in thee A storm more boystrous then the Oceans, My virtue, Patience, makes thee vitious. Mar. Why, fair-ey'd Lady, do you kneel? Dor. Great Generall, Victorious, godlike Martius, your poor handmaid Kneels, for her husband will not, cannot: speaks Thus humbly, that he may not. Listen Roman, Thou whose advanced front doth speak thee Roman To every Nation, and whose deeds assure 't; Behold a Princess (whose declining head Like to a drooping lilly after storms Bowes to thy feet) and playing here the slave, To keep her husbands greatness unabated: All which doth make thy Conquest greater: For, If he be base in ought whom thou hast taken, Then Martius hath but taken a base prize. But if this Jewell hold lustre and value, Martius is richer then in that he hath won. O make him such a Captive, as thy self Unto another wouldst, great Captain, be; Till then, he is no prisoner fit for thee. Mar. Valerius, here is harmonie would have brought Old crabbed Saturn to sweet sleep, when Jove Did first incense him with Rebellion: Athens doth make women Philosophers, And sure their children chat the talk of gods. Val. Rise beauteous Dorigen. Dor. Not untill I know The Generals resolution. Val. One soft word From Sophocles would calm him into tears, Like gentle showres after tempestuous winds. Dor. To buy the world, he will not give a word, A look, a tear, a knee, 'gainst his own judgement, And the divine composure of his minde: All which I therefore doe, and here present This Victors wreathe, this rich Athenian sword, Trophies of Conqu[e]st, which, great Martius, wear, And be appeas'd: Let Sophocles still live. Mar. He would not live. Dor. He would not beg to live. When he shall so forget, then I begin To command, Martius; and when he kneels, Dorigen stands; when he lets fall a tear, I dry mine eyes, and scorn him. Mar. Scorn him now then, Here in the face of Athens, and thy friends. Self-will'd, stiff Sophocles, prepare to die, And by that sword thy Lady honor'd me, With which her self shall follow. Romans, Friends, Who dares but strike this stroke, shall part with me Half Athens, and my half of Victorie. Cap. By —— not we. Nic. Cor. We two will do it, Sir. Soph. Away, ye fish-fac'd Rascals. Val. Martius, To Eclipse this great Eclipse labours thy fame; Valerius thy Brother shall for once Turn Executioner: Give me the sword. Now Sophocles, I'll strike as suddenly As thou dar'st die. Soph. Thou canst not. And Valerius, 'Tis less dishonour to thee thus to kill me, Then bid me kneel to Martius: 'tis to murther The fame of living men, which great ones do; Their studies strangle, poyson makes away, The wretched hangman only ends the Play. Val. Art thou prepar'd? Soph. Yes. Val. Bid thy wife farewell. Soph. No, I will take no leave: My Dorigen, Yonder above, 'bout Ariadnes Crown My spirit shall hover for thee; prethee haste. Dor. Stay Sophocles, with this tie up my sight, Let not soft nature so transform[e]d be (And lose her gentle[r] sex'd humanitie) To make me see my Lord bleed. So, 'tis well: Never one object underneath the Sun Will I behold before my Sophocles. Farewell: now teach the Romans how to die. Mar. Dost know what 'tis to die? Soph. Thou dost not, Martius, And therefore not what 'tis to live; to die Is to begin to live: It is to end An old stale weary work, and to commence A newer and a better. 'Tis to leave Deceitfull knaves for the societie Of gods and goodness. Thou thy self must part At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, Triumphs, And prove thy fortitude, what then 'twill do. Val. But ar't not griev'd nor vex'd to leave life thus? Soph. Why should I grieve, or vex for being sent To them I ever lov'd best? now I'll kneel, But with my back toward thee; 'tis the last duty This trunk can doe the gods. Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius, Or Martius heart will leap out at his mouth. This is a man, a woman! Kiss thy Lord, And live with all the freedome you were wont. O Love! thou doubly hast afflicted me, With virtue, and with beauty. Treacherous heart, My hand shall cast thee quick into my urne, E're thou transgress this knot of pietie. Val. What ails my Brother? Soph. Martius, oh Martius! Thou now hast found a way to conquer me. Dor. O star of Rome, what gratitude can speak Fit words to follow such a deed as this? Mar. Doth Juno talk, or Dorigen? Val. You are observ'd. Mar. This admirable Duke (Valerius) With his disdain of Fortune, and of Death, Captiv'd himself, hath captivated me: And though my arm hath ta'ne his body here, His soul hath subjugated Martius soul: By Romulus, he is all soul, I think; He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot b[e] gyv'd; Then we have vanquish'd nothing; he is free, And Martius walks now in captivitie. Soph. How fares the noble Roman? Mar. Why? Dor. Your blood Is sunk down to your heart, and your bright eyes Have lost their splendor. Mar. Baser fires go out, When the Sun shines on 'em: I am not well, An Apoplectick fit I use to have After my heats in war carelesly coold. Soph. Martius shall rest in Athens with his friends, Till this distemper leave him: O! great Roman, See Sophocles doe that for thee, he could not Do for himself, weep. Martius, by the—— It grieves me that so brave a soul should suffer Under the bodies weak infirmitie. Sweet Lady, take him to thy loving charge, And let thy care be tender. Dor. Kingly Sir, I am your Nurse and servant. Mar. O deer Lady, My Mistris, nay my Deity; guide me heaven, Ten wreathes triumphant Martius will give, To change a Martius for a Sophocles: Can't not be done (Valerius) with this boot? Inseparable affection, ever thus Colleague with Athens Rome. Dor. Beat warlike tunes, Whilest Dorigen thus honors Martius brow With one victorious wreath more. Soph. And Sophocles Thus girds his Sword of conquest to his thigh, Which ne'r be drawn, but cut out Victorie. Lords. For ever be it thus. [Exeunt.

Nich. O gods of Rome, was Nichodemus born To hear these braveries from a poor provant? Yet when dogs bark, or when the asses bray, The lion laughs, not roars, but goes his way.

Nic. How long shall patience thus securely snore? Is it my fault, if these attractive eyes, This budding chin, or rosie-colour'd cheek, This comely body, and this waxen leg, Have drawn her into a fools paradise? By Cupids —— I do swear (no other) She's chaster far then Lucrece, her grand-mother; Pure as glass-window, ere the rider dash it, Whiter then Ladyes smock, when she did wash it: For well thou wotst (though now my hearts Commandress) I once was free, and she but the Camps Landress.

Corn. Was thy cheese mouldy, or thy peny-worths small? Was not thy Ale the mightiest of the earth in Malt, And thy stope fill'd like a tide: was not thy bed soft, and Thy Bacon fatter then a dropsie? Come, Sir. Nich. Mars then inspire me with the fencing skill Of our Tragedi[a]n Actors. Honor pricks; And Sutler, now I come with thwacks and thwicks. Grant us one crush, one pass, and now a high, Cavalto fall: Then up again, now down again, yet do no harm at all.

Mar. Pray leave me: you are Romans, honest men, Keep me not company, I am turn'd knave, Have lost my fame and nature. Athens, Athens, This Dorigen is thy Palladium: He that will sack thee, must betray her first, Whose words wound deeper than her husbands sword; Her eyes make captive still the Conqueror, And here they keep her only to that end. O subtill devil, what a golden ball Did tempt, when thou didst cast her in my way! Why, foolish Sophocles, broughtst thou not to field Thy Lady, that thou mightst have overcome? Martius had kneel'd, and yielded all his wreathes That hang like Jewels on the seven-fold hill, And bid Rome, send him out to fight with men, (For that she knew he durst) and not 'gainst Fate Or Deities, what mortal conquers them? Insatiate Julius, when his Victories Had run ore half the world, had he met her, There he had stopt the legend of his deeds, Laid by his Arms, been overcome himself, And let her vanquish th' other half. And fame Made beauteous Dorigen, the greater name. Shall I thus fall? I will not; no, my tears Cast on my heart, shall quench these lawless fires: He conquers best, conquers his lewd desires.

Dor. Great Sir, my Lord commands me visit you, And thinks your retir'd melancholy proceeds From some distast of worthless entertainment. Will't please you take your chamber? how d'ye do, Sir? Mar. Lost, lost again; the wild rage of my blood Doth Ocean-like oreflow the shallow shore Of my weak virtue: my desire's a vane, That the least breath from her turns every way. Dor. What says my Lord? Mar. Dismiss your women, pray, And I'll reveal my grief. Dor. Leave me. Mar. Long tales of love (whilst love it self Might be enjoyed) are languishing delays. There is a secret strange lies in my brest, I will partake wi' you, which much concerns Your Lord, your self, and me. Oh! Dor. Strange secrets, Sir, Should not be made so cheap to strangers: yet, If your strange secret do no lower lie Then in your brest, discover it. Mar. I will. Oh! can you not see it, Lady, in my sighs? Dor. Sighs none can paint, and therefore who can see? Mar. Scorn me not, Dorigen, with mocks: Alcides, That master'd monsters, was by beautie tam'd, Omphale smil'd his club out of his hand, And made him spin her smocks. O sweet, I love you, And I love Sophocles: I must enjoy you, And yet I would not injure him. Dor. Let go; You hurt me, Sir: fare well. Stay, is this Martius? I will not tell my Lord; he'll swear I lye. Doubt my fidelitie, before thy honor. How hast thou vex'd the gods, that they would let thee Thus violate friendship, hospitalitie, And all the bounds of sacred pietie? Sure thou but tri'st me out of love to him, And wouldst reject me, if I did consent. O Martius, Martius, wouldst thou in one minute, Blast all thy Laurels, which so many years Thou hast been purchasing with blood and sweat? Hath Dorigen never been written, read, Without the epithet of chast, chast Dorigen? And wouldst thou fall upon her chastitie, Like a black drop of ink, to blot it out? When men shall read the records of thy valour, Thy hitherto-brave virtue, and approach (Highly content yet) to this foul assault Included in this leaf, this ominous leaf, They shall throw down the Book, and read no more, Though the best deeds ensue, and all conclude, That ravell'd the whole story, whose sound heart (Which should have been) prov'd the most leprous part. Mar. O! thou confut'st divinely, and thy words Do fall like rods upon me; but they have Such silken lines, and silver hooks, that I Am faster snar'd: my love has ta'en such hold, That (like two wrestlers) though thou stronger be, And hast cast me, I hope to pull thee after. I must, or perish. Dor. Perish, Martius, then; For I here vow unto the gods, These rocks, These rocks we see so fix'd, shall be removed, Made champion field, ere I so impious prove, To stain my Lords bed with adulterous love.

Val. The gods protect fair Dorigen. Dor. Amen, From all you wolvish Romanes. [Exit. Val. Ha? what's this? Still, brother, in your moods? O th[e]n my doubts Are truths. Have at it: I must try a way To be resolv'd. Mar. How strangely dost thou look! what ailst thou? Val. What ailst thou? Mar. Why, I 'm mad. Val. Why, I [a]m madder. Martius, draw thy sword, And lop a villain from the earth; for if Thou wilt not, on some tree about this place I'll hang my self; Valerius shall not live To wound his brothers honor, stain his Countrey, And branded with ingratitude to all times. Mar. For what can all this be? Val. I [a]m in love. Mar. Why so am I. With whom? ha? Val. Dorigen. Mar. With Dorigen? how dost thou love her? speak.

Mar. Thou shalt, thou daring Traitor. On all the confines I have rid my horse, Was there no other woman for thy choice But Dorigen? Why, villain, she is mine: She makes me pine thus, sullen, mad, and fool; 'T is I must have her, or I die. Val. O all ye gods, With mercy look on this declining rock Of valour, and of virtue; breed not up (From infancie) in honor, to full man, As you have done him, to destroy: here, strike; For I have onely search'd thy wound: dispatch; Far, far be such love from Valerius, So far he scorns to live to be call'd brother By him that dares own such folly and such vice. Mar. 'T is truth thou speak'st; but I do hate it: peace, If heaven will snatch my sword out of my hand, And put a rattle in it, what can I do? He that is destin'd to be odious In his old age, must undergo his fate.

Wife. Oh, oh, oh: How now man, are you satisfi'd?

Mar. These peasants mock me sure (Valerius) Forgive my dotage, see my ashes urn'd, And tell fair Dorigen, (she that but now Left me with this harsh vow, Sooner these rocks Should be remov'd, then she would yield) that I Was yet so loving, on her gift to die. Val. O Jupiter forbid it, Sir, and grant This my device may certifie thy mind: You are my brother, nor must perish thus: Be comforted: think you fair Dorigen Would yield your wishes, if these envious rocks By skill could be remov'd, or by fallacie She made believe so? Mar. Why, she could not chuse; The Athenians are religious in their vows, Above all nations. Val. Soft, down yonder hill The Lady comes this way, once more to trie her, If she persist in obstinacie: by my skill Learn'd from the old Caldean was my Tutor, Who train'd me in the Mathematicks, I will So dazle and delude her sight, that she Shall think this great impossibilitie Effected by some supernatural means. Be confident; this engine shall at least, Till the gods better order, still this brest. [Exit Valerius. Mar. O my best brother, go; and for reward, Chuse any part o'th' world, I'll give it thee. O little Rome, men say thou art a god; Thou mightst have got a fitter fool then I.

Dor. Art thou there, Basilisk? remove thine eyes, For I'm sick to death with thy infection. Mar. Yet, yet have mercy on me; save him, Lady, Whose single arm defends all Rome, whose mercie Hath sav'd thy husband's and thy life. Dor. To spoil Our fame and honors? no, my vow is fixt, And stands, as constant as these stones do, still. Mar. Then pitie me, ye gods; you onely may Move her, by tearing these firm stones a way.

Val. Martius rejoyce, Jove sends me from above, His Messenger, to cure thy desperate love; To shew rash vows c[a]nnot binde destinie: Lady, behold, the rocks transplanted be. Hard-hearted Dorigen, yield, lest for contempt, They fix thee here a rock, whence they 're exempt. Dor. What strange delusion's this? what Sorcery Affrights me with these apparitions? My colder Chastity's nigh turn'd to death. Hence, lewd Magician; dar'st thou make the gods Bawds to thy lust; will they do miracles To further evil? or do they love it now? Know, if they dare do so, I dare hate them, And will no longer serve 'em. Jupiter, Thy golden showr, nor thy snow-white Swan, Had I been Læda, or bright Danae, Had bought mine honor. Turn me into stone For being good, and blush when thou hast done. [Exit Dorigen.

Mar. O my Valerius, all yet will not do; Unless I could so draw mine honestie Down to the lees to be a ravisher; She calls me witch, and villain. Val. Patience, Sir, The gods will punish perjury. Let her breathe And ruminate on this strange sight. Time decays The strongest fairest buildings we can finde; But still Diana, fortifie her minde. [Exeunt.

Soph. Weep not bright Dorigen; for thou hast stood Constant and chaste (it seems 'gainst gods and men) When rocks and mountains were remov'd. These wonders Do stupifie my senses. Martius, This is inhumane: was thy sickness lust? Yet were this truth, why weeps she? Jealous soul, What dost thou thus suggest? Vows, Magick, Rocks? Fine tales, and tears. She ne'er complain'd before. I bade her visit him; she often did, Had many opportunities. Humh, 'tis naught: O! No way but this. Come, weep no more, I have ponder'd This miracle: the anger of the gods, Thy vow, my love to thee, and Martius: He must not perish, nor thou be forsworn, Lest worse fates follow us; Go, keep thy oath: For chaste, and whore, are words of equal length: But let not Martius know that I consent, O! I'm pull'd in pieces. Dor. I? say you so? I'll meet you in your path. O wretched men! With all your valour and your learning, bubbles. Forgive me, Sophocles. Yet why kneel I For pardon, having been but over-diligent, Like an obedient servant, antedating My Lords command? Sir, I have often, and already given This bosom up to his embraces, and Am proud that my dear Lord is pleas'd with it; Whose gentle honorable minde I see Participates even all, his wife and all, Unto his friend. You are sad, Sir. Martius loves me, And I love Martius with such ardencie, As never married couple could: I must Attend him now. My Lord, when you have need To use your own wife, pray Sir send for me; Till then, make use of your Philosophie. [Exit. Soph. Stay, Dorigen: O me, inquisitive fool! Thou that didst order this congested heap When it was Chaos, 'twixt thy spacious palms Forming it to this vast rotundie; Dissolve it now; shuffle the elements, That no one proper by it self may stand: Let the sea quench the sun, and in that instant The sun drink up the sea: day, ne'er come down, To light me to those deeds that must be done. [Exit.

Dor. Hail, General of Rome; from Sophocles That honors Martius, Dorigen presents Her self to be dishonour'd: do thy will; For Sophocles commands me to obey. Come, violate all rules of holiness, And rend the consecrated knot of love. Mar. Never, Valerius, was I blest till now: Behold the end of all my weary steps, The prize of all my Battels: leave us all; Leave us as quick as thought. Thus joy begin, In zealous love a minutes loss is sin. Val. Can Martius be so vile? or Dorigen? Dor. Stay, stay, and monster, keep thou further of; I thought thy brave soul would have much, much loath'd To have gone on still on such terms as this. See, thou ungrateful, since thy desperate lust Nothing can cure but death, I'll die for thee, Whilst my chaste name lives to posterity. Mar. Live, live, thou Angel of thy sex: forgive, Till by those golden tresses thou be'st snatch'd Alive to Heaven: for thy corruption's So little, that it cannot suffer death. Was ever such a woman? O my mirror! How perfectly thou shew'st me all my faults, Which now I hate, and when I next attempt thee, Let all the fires in the Zodiak Drop on this cursed head. All. O blest event! Dor. Rise like the sun again in all his glory, After a dark Eclipse. Mar. Never without a pardon.

Dor. Sir, you have forgiven your self. Soph. Behold their impudence: are my words just? Unthankful man, viper to Arms, and Rome Thy natural mother; have I warm'd thee here To corrode ev'n my heart? Martius, prepare To kill me, or be kill'd. Mar. Why Sophocles? Then prethee kill me; I deserve it highly; For I have both transgress'd 'gainst men, and gods; But am repentant now, and in best case To uncase my soul of this oppressing flesh; Which, though (Gods witness) nev'r was actually Injurious to thy wife and thee, yet 't was Her goodness that restrain'd and held me now: But take my life, dear friend, for my intent, Or else forgive it. Val. By the gods of Athens, These words are true, and all direct again. Soph. Pardon me, Dorigen. Mar. Forgive me, Sophocles, And Dorigen too, and every one that 's good. Dor. Rise, noble Roman, belov'd Sophocles, Take to thy brest thy friend. Mar. And to thy heart Thy matchless wife: Heaven has not stuff enough To make another such: for if it could, Martius would marry too. For thy blest sake (O thou infinitie of excellence) Henceforth in mens discourse Rome shall not take The wall of Athens, as 'tofore. But when In their fair honors we to speak do come, We'll say 'T was so in Athens, and in Rome.

Diana. Honor set ope thy gates, and with thee bring My servant and thy friend, fair Dorigen: Let her triumph, with her, her Lord, and friend, Who, though misled, still honor was their end. [Flourish.

Em. Here was a woman, Isabel. Isa. I, my Lord, But that she told a lye to vex her husband; Therein sh[e] fail'd. Em. She serv'd him well enough; He that was so much man, yet would be cast To jealousie for her integrity. This teacheth us, the passion of love Can fight with Soldiers, and with Scholars too. Isa. In Martius, clemencie and valour shown, In the other, courage and humanitie; And therefore in the Triumph they were usher'd By clemencie and valour. Em. Rightly observ'd, As she by chastitie and constancie; What hurt's now in a Play, against which some rail So vehemently? thou and I, my love, Make excellent use methinks: I learn to be A lawful lover void of jealousie, And thou a constant wife. Sweet Poetry's A flower, where men, like Bees and Spiders, may Bear poison, or else sweets and Wax away. Be venom-drawing Spiders they that will; I'll be the Bee, and suck the honey still. [Flourish.

Cupid. Stay, clouds, ye rack too fast: bright Phœbus see, Honor has triumph'd with fair Chastity: Give Love now leave, in purity to shew Unchaste affe[ct]ions flie not from his bowe. Produce the sweet example of your youth. Whilst I provide a Triumph for your Truth. [Flourish.

Viol. Why does my Gerr[a]rd grieve? Ger. O my sweet Mistris, 'Tis not life (which by our Milain law My fact hath forfeited) makes me thus pensive; That I would lose to save the little finger Of this your noble burthen, from least hurt, Because your blood is in't. But since your love Made poor incompatible me the parent, (Being we are not married) your dear blood Falls under the same cruel penalty; And can Heaven think fit ye die for me? For Heavens sake say I ravisht you, I'll swear it, To keep your life, and repute unstain'd. Viol. O Gerrard, th' art my life and faculties: And if I lose thee, I'll not keep mine own; The thought of whom, sweetens all miseries. Wouldst have me murder thee beyond thy death? Unjustly scandal thee with ravishment? It was so far from rape, that Heaven doth know, If ever the first Lovers, ere they fell, Knew simply in the state of innocence, Such was this act, this, that doth ask no blush. Ger. O! but my rarest Violanta, when My Lord Randulpho brother to you[r] father, Shall understand this, how will he exclaim, That my poor Aunt, and me, which his free alms Hath nurs'd, since Millain by the Duke of Mantua (Who now usurps it) was surpriz'd? that time My father and my mother were both slain, With my Aunts husband, as she says, their states Despoil'd and seiz'd; 'tis past my memory, But thus she told me: onely thus I know, Since I could understand, your honor'd Uncle Hath given me all the liberal education, That his own son might look for, had he one; Now will he say, Dost thou requite me thus? O! the thought kills me. Viol. Gentle, gentle Gerrard, Be cheer'd, and hope the best. My mother, father, And uncle love me most indulgently, Being the onely branch of all their stocks: But neither they, nor he thou wouldst not grieve With this unwelcom news, shall ever hear Violanta's tongue reveal, much less accuse Gerrard to be the father of his own; I'll rather silent die, that thou maist live To see thy little of-spring grow and thrive.

Dor. Mistris, away, your Lord and father seeks you; I'll convey Gerrard out at the back door; He has found a husband for you, and insults In his invention, little thinking you Have made your own choice, and possest him too. Viol. A husband? 't mus[t] be Gerrard, or my death. Fare well; be onely true unto thy self, And know Heavens goodness shall prevented be, Ere worthiest Gerrard suffer harm for me. Ger. Fare well, my life and soul. Aunt, to your counsel I flee for aid. O unexpressible love! thou art An undigested heap of mixt extremes, Whose pangs are wakings, and whose pleasures dreams. [Exeunt.

Ben. My Angelina, never didst thou yet So please me, as in this consent; and yet Thou hast pleas'd me well, I swear, old wench: ha, ha. Ferdinand, she's thine own; thou'st have her, boy, Ask thy good Lady else. Ferd. Whom shall I have, Sir? Ben. Whom d' ye think, ifaith? Angel. Ghess. Ferd. Noble Madam, I may hope (prompted by shallow merit) Through your profound grace, for your chamber-maid. Ben. How 's that? how 's that?

Ben.] Her chamber-pot, my Lord. You modest ass, Thou never shew'dst thy self an ass till now. 'Fore Heaven I am angrie with thee. Sirha, sirha, This whitmeat spirit's not yours, legitimate, Advance your hope, and 't please you: ghess again. Ang. And let your thoughts flee higher: aim them right; Sir, you may hit, you have the fairest white. Ferd. If I may be so bold then, my good Lord, Your favour doth encourage me to aspire To catch my Ladyes Gentlewoman. Ben. Where? Where would you catch her? Do you know my daughter Violanta, Sir? Ang. Well said: no more about the bush. Ferd. My good Lord, I have gaz'd on Violanta, and the stars, Whose Heavenly influence I admir'd, not knew, Nor ever was so sinful to believe I might attain 't. Ben. Now you are an ass again; For if thou ne'er attain'st, 't is onely long Of that faint heart of thine, which never did it. She is your Lords heir, mine, Benvoglio's heir, My brothers too, Randulpho's; her descent Not behinde any of the Millanois. And Ferdinand, although thy parentage Be unknown, thou know'st that I have bred thee up From five yeers old, and (do not blush to hear it) Have found thy wisdom, trust, and fair success So full in all my affa[ir]s, that I am fitter To call thee Master, then thou me thy Lord. Thou canst not be but sprung of gentlest blood; Thy minde shines thorow thee, like the radiant sun, Although thy body be a beauteous cloud. Come, seriously this is no flatterie, And well thou know'st it, though thy modest blood Rise like the morning in thy cheek to hear 't. Sir, I can speak in earnest: Vertuous service, So meritorious, Ferdinand, as yours, (Yet bashful still, and silent?) should extract A fuller price then impudence exact: And this is now the wages it must have; My daughter is thy wife, my wealth thy slave. Ferd. Good Madam pinch; I sleep: does my Lord mock, And you assist? Custom's inverted quite; For old men now adays do flout the young. Ben. Fetch Violanta. As I intend this Religiously, let my soul finde joy or pain. [Exit Angelina. Ferd. My honor'd Lord and Master, if I hold That worth could merit such felicitie, You bred it in me, and first purchas'd it; It is your own: and what productions In all my faculties my soul begets, Your very mark is on: you need not add Rewards to him, that is in [d]ebt to you: You sav'd my life, Sir, in the Massacre; There you begot me new, since foster'd me. O! can I serve to[o] much, or pray for you? Alas, 'tis slender paiment to your bountie. Your daughter is a paradice, and I Unworthie to be set there; you may chuse The royalst seeds of Milain. Ben. Prethee peace, Thy goodness makes me weep; I am resolv'd: I am no Lord o' th' time, to tie my blood To sordid muck; I have enough: my name, My [s]tate and honors I will store in thee, Whose wisdom will rule well, keep and increase: A knave or fool, that could confer the like, Would bate each hour, diminish every day. Thou art her price-lot th[e]n, drawn out by fate; An honest wise man is a Princes mate. Ferd. Sir, Heaven and you have over-charg'd my brest With grace beyond my continence; I shall burst: The blessing you have given me (witness Saints) I would not change for Millain. But, my Lord, Is she prepar'd? Ben. What needs Preparative, Where such a Cordial is prescrib'd as thou? Thy person and thy virtues in one scale, Shall poize hers, with her beautie and her wealth; If not, I add my will unto thy weight; Thy mother's with her now. Son, take my keys, And let this prepar[a]tion for this Marriage, (This welcome Marriage) long determin'd here, Be quick, and gorgeous.—Gerrard.

Ger. My good Lord, My Lord, your brother craves your conference Instantly, on affairs of high import. Ben. Why, what news? Ger. The Tyrant, my good Lord, Is sick to death of his old Apoplexie, Whereon the States advise, that Letters-missive Be straight dispatcht to all the neighbour-Countreys, And Schedules too divulg'd on every post, To enquire the lost Duke forth: their purpose is To re-instate him. Ben. 'Tis a pious deed. Ferdinand, to my daughter: this delay (Though to so good a purpose) angers me; But I'll recover it. Be secret, son. Go woo with truth and expedition. [Exit. Ferd. O my unsounded joy! how fares my Gerrard, My noble twin-friend? fie, thy l[oo]k is heavie, Sullen, and sowre; blanch it: didst thou know My cause of joy, thou 'ldst never sorrow more, I know thou lov'st me so, How dost thou? Ger. Well, Too well: my fraught of health my sickness is; In life, I am dead; by living dying still. Ferd. What sublunary mischief can predominate A wise man thus? or doth thy friendship play (In this antipathous extreme) with mine, Lest gladness suffocate me? I, I, I do feel My spirit's turn'd to fire, my blood to air, And I am like a purifi'd essence Tri'd from all drossie parts. Ger. Were 't but my life, The loss were sacrific'd; but virtue Must for me be slain, and innocence made dust. Ferd. Fare well good Gerrard. Ger. Dearest friend, stay. Ferd. Sad thoughts are no companions for me now, Much less sad words: thy bosom bindes some secret, Which do not trust me with; for mine retains Another, which I must conceal from thee. Ger. I would reveal it: 't is a heavie tale: Canst thou be true, and secret still? Ferd. Why, friend? If you continue true unto your self, I have no means of falshood. Lock this door; Come, yet your prisoner's sure. Ger. Stay, Ferdinand. Ferd. What is this trouble? Love? Why, thou art capable of any woman. Doth want oppress thee? I will lighten thee: Hast thou offended law? My Lord and thine, And I, will save thy life. Does servitude Upbraid thy freedom, that she suffers it? Have patience but three days, and I will make thee Thy Lords companion. Can a friend do more? Ger. Lend me the means. How can this be? Ferd. First let this Cabinet keep your pawn, and I will trust: Yet for the form of satisfaction, Take this my Oath to boot. By my presum'd Gentrie, and sacred known Christianitie, I'll die, ere I reveal thy trust. Ger. Then hear it. Your Lords fair daughter Violanta is My betrothed wife, goes great with childe by me; And by this deed both made a pr[e]y to Law. How may I save her life? advise me, friend. Ferd. What did he say? Gerrard, whose voice was that? O death unto my heart, bane to my soul! My wealth is vanish'd like the rich mans store: In one poor minute all my daintie fare But jugling dishes; my fat hope, despair. Ger. Is this so odious? where's your mirth? Ferd. Why thou Hast robb'd me of it. Gerrard, draw thy sword; And if thou lov'st my Mistris chastitie, Defend it, else I'll cut it from thy heart, Thy theevish heart that stole it, and restore 't, Do miracles to gain her. Ger. Was she thine? Ferd. Never, but in my wish, and her fathers vow, Which now he left with me, on such sure terms; He call'd me son, and will'd me to provide My Wedding-preparation. Ger. Strange. Ferd. Come, let's Kill one another quickly. Ger. Ferdinand, my love is old to her, thine new begot: I have not wrong'd thee; think upon thine Oath. Ferd. It manacles me, Gerrard, else this hand Should bear thee to the Law. Fare well for ever: Since friendship is so fatal, never more Will I have friend: thou hast put so sure a plea, That all my weal's litigious made by thee. Ger. I did no crime to you. His love transports him; And yet I mourn, that cruel destinie Should make us two thus one anothers cross: We have lov'd since boys; for the same time cast him On Lord Benvoglio, that my Aunt and I Were succour'd by Randulpho: men have call'd us The parallels of Millain; and some said We were not much unlike. O Heaven divert, That we should (ever since that time) be breeding Mutual destruction.

Ger. The effect, the effect. Dor. Marry no way, but one with you. Ger. Why welcom. Shall she scape? Dor. Nay, she has made her scape already. Ger. Why, is she gone? Dor. The scape of her virginitie, I mean. You men are as dull, you can conceive nothing; You think it is enough to beget. Ger. I; but surely, Dorothea, that scap'd not; Her maiden-head suffer'd. Dor. And you were the Executioner. Ger. But what's the event? lord, how thou starv'st me, Doll!

Ger. Oh beam of comfort, take! go, tell my Lady I pray for her as I walk: my joys so flow, That what I speak or do, I do not know. [Exeunt.

Ben. He's dead, you say then. Rand. Certainly: and to hear The people now dissect him now he's gone, Makes my ears burn, that lov'd him not: such Libels, Such Elegies and Epigrams they have made, More odious than he was. Brother, great men Had need to live by love, meting their deeds With virtues rule; sound, with the weight of judgement, Their privat'st action: for though while they live Their power and policie masque their villanies, Their bribes, their lust, pride, and ambition, And make a many slaves to worship 'em, That are their flatterers, and their bawds in these: These very slaves shall, when these great beasts dye, Publish their bowels to the vulgar eye. Ben. 'Fore Heaven 'tis true. But is Rinaldo (brother) our good Duke, heard of living? Rand. Living, Sir, and will be shortly with the Senate: has Been close conceal'd at Mantua, and reliev'd: But what's become of his? no tidings yet? But brother, till our good Duke shall arrive, Carry this news, here. Where's your Ferdinand? Ben. Oh busie, Sir, about this marriage: And yet my Girl o'th' suddain is fall'n sick: You'll see her e'r you go? Rand. Yes; well I love her; And yet I wish I had another daughter To gratifie my Gerrard, who (by ——) Is all the glory of my family, But has too much worth to [l]ive so obscure; I'll have him Secretary of Estate Upon the Dukes return: for credit me, The value of that Gentleman's not known; His strong abilities are fit to guide The whole Republique: he hath Learning, youth, Valour, discretion, honesty of a Saint; His Aunt is wondrous good too.

Ben. You have spoke The very character of Ferdinand: One is the others mirror. How now, Daughter? Rand. How fares my Neece? Viol. A little better, Uncle, then I was, I thank you. Rand. Brother, a meer cold. Angel. It was a cold and heat, I think: but Heaven be thanked We have broken that away. Ben. And yet, Violanta, You'll lie alone still, and you see what's got. Dor. Sure, Sir, when this was got, she had a bed-fellow. Rand. What has her chollick left her in her belly? Dor. 'T has left her, but she has had a sore fit. Rand. I, that same Collick and Stone's inherent to us O' th' womans side: our Mothers had them both. Dor. So has she had, Sir. How these old fornicators talk! she had more Need of Mace-Ale, and Rhenish-wine Caudles, heaven knows, Then your aged Discipline. Ben. Say?

Ang. She will have the man; and on recovery Will wholly be dispos'd by you. Ben. That's my wench: How now? what change is this? why Ferdinand, Are these your Robes of joy should be indu'd? Doth Hymen wear black? I did send for you To have my honorable Brother witness The Contract I will make 'twixt you and her. Put off all doubt; she loves ye? what d' ye say? Rand. Speak man, Why look you so distractedly? Ferd. There are your keys, [Sir:] I'll no Contract[s, I] Divinest V[i]olanta, I will serve you Thus on my knees, and pray for you: Juno, Lucina fer opem. My inequality ascends no higher: I dare not marry you. Ben. How's this? Ferd. Good night, I have a friend has almost made me mad: I weep sometimes, and instantly can laugh: Nay, I do dance, and sing, and suddenly Roar like a storm. Strange tricks these, are they not? And wherefore all this? Shall I tell you? no, Thorow mine ears, my heart a plague hath caught, And I have vow'd to keep it close, not shew My grief to any; for it has no cure. On, wandring steps, to some remote place move: I'll keep my vow, though I have lost my Love. [Exit. Ben. 'Fore heaven, distracted for her! fare you well: I'll watch his steps; for I no joy shall find, Till I have found his cause, and calm'd his mind. [Exit. [Rand.] He's overcome with joy. Ang[e]l. 'Tis very strange. Rand. Well, Sister, I must leave you; the time's busie. Violanta, chear you up; and I pray Heaven Restore each to their love, and health again. [Exit. Viol. Amen, Great Uncle. Mother, what a chance Unluckily is added to my woe, In this young Gentleman! Ang[e]l. True, Violanta: It grieves me much. Doll, go you instantly, And find out Gerrard; tell him his friends hap, And let him use best means to comfort him; But as his life preserve this secret still. Viol. Mother, I'ld not offend you: might not Gerrard Steal in, and see me in the evening? Angel. Well, Bid him do so. Viol. Heavens blessing o' your heart. Do ye not call Child-bearing, Travel, Mother? Angel. Yes. Viol. It well may be, The bare-foot traveller That's born a Prince, and walks his pilgrimage, Whose tender feet kiss the remorseless stones Only, ne'er felt a travel like to it. Alas, dear Mother, you groan'd thus for me, And yet how disobedient have I been! Angel. Peace, Violanta, thou hast always been Gentle and good. Viol. Gerrard is better, Mother: Oh if you knew the implicite innocency Dwells in his brest, you'ld love him like your Prayers. I see no reason but my Father might Be told the truth, being pleas'd for Ferdinand To wooe himself: and Gerard ever was His full comparative: my Uncle loves him, As he loves Ferdinand. Angel. No, not for the world, Since his intent is cross'd: lov'd Ferdinand Thus ruin'd, and a child got out of wedlock: His madness would pursue ye both to death. Viol. As you please (mother:) I am now, methinks, Even in the land of ease; I'll sleep. Angel. Draw in The bed nearer the fire: silken rest, Tie all thy cares up. [Exeunt.

Ferd. Oh blessed solitude! here my grief[s] may speak; And sorrow, I will argue with thee now: Nothing will keep me company: the flowers Die at my moan; the gliding silver streams Hasten to flee my lamentations; The air rolls from 'em; and the Golden Sun Is smother'd pale as Phœbe with my sighs: Only the earth is kind, that stays. Then earth, To thee will I complain. Why do the Heavens Impose upon me Love, what I can ne'er enjoy? Before fruition was impossible, I did not thirst it. Gerrard, she is thine, Seal'd and deliver'd; but 'twas ill to stain Her virgin state, e'r ye were married. Poor Infant, what's become of thee? thou know'st not The woe thy parents brought thee t[o]. Dear earth, Bury this close in thy sterility; Be barren to this seed, let it not grow; For if it do, 'twill bud no Violet Nor Gillyflower, but wild Brier, or rank Rue, Unsavory and hurtful. Ben. Ferdinand, Thy steel hath digg'd the Earth, thy words my Heart. Ferd. Oh! I have violated faith, betraid My friend and innocency. Ben. Desperate youth, Violate not thy soul too: I have showers For thee, young man; but Gerrard flames for thee. Was thy base pen made to dash out mine honor, And prostitute my Daughter? Bastard, whore, Come, turn thy femal tears into revenge, Which I will quench my thirst with, e'r I see Daughter, or Wife, or branded Family. By —— both dye: and for amends, Ferd'nando be my heir. I'll to my brother, First tell him all, then to the Duke for justice: This morning he's receiv'd. Mountains nor Seas Shall bar my flight to vengeance: the foul stain Printed on me, thy bloud shall rinse again. [Exit. Ferd. I have transgress'd all goodness, witlesly Rais'd mine own curs[es] from posterity: I'll follow, to redress in what I may; If not, your heir can dye as well as they. [Exit.

Viol. Gerrard not come? nor Dorothy return'd? What averse star rul'd my Nativity? The time to night has been as dilatory As languishing Consumptions. But till now I never durst say, my Gerrard was unkind. Heaven grant all things go well; and nothing does, If he be ill, which I much fear: my dreams Have been portentous. I did think I saw My Love araid for battel with a beast, A hideous Monster, arm'd with teeth and claws, Grinning, and venemous, that sought to make Both us a prey: on's tail wa[s] lash'd in bloud Law: and his forehead I did plainly see Held Characters that spell'd Authority. This rent my slumbers; and my fearful soul Ran searching up and down my dismaid breast, To find a Port t'escape. Good faith, I am cold; But Gerrard's love is colder: here I'll sit, And think my self away.

Ferd. The peace of Love Attend the sweet Violanta: Read, For the sad news I bring, I do not know; Only I am sworn to give you that, and this. Viol. Is it from G[e]rrard? gentle Ferdinand, How glad am I to see you thus well restor'd! In troth he never wrong'd you in his life, Nor I, but always held fair thoughts of you, Knew not my Fathers meaning, till of late; Could never have known it soon enough: for Sir, Gerrard's, and my affection began In infancy: My Uncle brought him oft In long coats hither; you were such another; The little boy would kiss me, being a child, And say, he lov'd me; give me all his toys, Bracelets, Rings, Sweet-meats, all his Rosie-smiles: I then would stand, and stare upon his eyes, Play with his locks, and swear I lov'd him too; For sure, methought, he was a little Love, He woo'd so prettily in innocence, That then he warm'd my fancy; for I felt A glimmering beam of Love kindle my bloud, Both which, time since hath made a flame and floud. Fer. Oh gentle innocent! methinks it talks Like a child still, whose white simplicity Never arriv'd at sin. Forgive me, Lady, I have destroy'd Gerrard, and thee; rebell'd Against Heavens Ordinance; dis-pair'd two Doves, Made 'em sit mourning; slaughter'd Love, and cleft The heart of all integrity. This breast Was trusted with the secret of your vow By Gerrard, and reveal'd it to your Father. Viol. Hah! Ferd. Read, and curse me. Viol. Neither: I will never Nor Write, nor Read again. Ferd. My pennance be it. Reads. Your Labyrinth is found, your Lust proclaim'd. Viol. Lust? Humh: My Mother sure felt none, when I was got. Fer. I and the Law implacably offend[e]d. Gerrard's imprison'd, and to dye. Viol. Oh Heaven! Ferd. And you to suffe[r] with reproach and scoffs A publick execution; I have sent you An Antidote 'gainst shame, poison; by him You have most wrong'd: give him your penitent tears. Viol. Humh: 'tis not truth. Ferd. Drink, and farewel for ever: And though thy whoredom blemish thy whol[e] line, Prevent the Hangmans stroke, and die like mine. Viol. Oh woe is me for Gerrard: I have brought Confusion on the noblest Gentleman That ever truly lov'd. But we shall meet Where our condemners shall not, and enjoy A more refin'd affection than here; No Law, nor Father hinders marriage there 'Twixt souls Divinely affi'd, as (sure) ours were: There we will multiply, and generate joyes Like fruitful Parents. Luckless Ferdinand, Where's the good old Gentlewoman, my Husbands Aunt? Ferd. Thrust from you Uncle [t]o all poverty. Viol. Alas the pi[t]y: reach me, Sir, the cup; I'll say my prayers, and take my Fathers Physick. Ferd. Oh villain that I was, I had forgot To spill the rest, and am unable now To stir to hinder her. Viol. What ail you, Sir? Ferd. Your Father is a monster, I a villain, This tongue has kill'd you, pardon, Violant[a], Oh pardon, Gerrard; and for sacrifice, Accept my life, to expiate my fault. I have drunk up the poison. Viol. Thou art not so Uncharitable: a better fellow far, Thou'st left me halfe. Sure death is now a-dry, And calls for more bloud still to quench his thirst. I pledge thee Ferdinand, to Gerrards health: Dear Gerrard, poor Aunt, and unfortunate friend, Ay me, that Love should breed true Lovers end. Fer. Stay Madam, stay; help hoa, for Heavens sake help; Improvident man, that good I did intend For satisfaction, saving of her life, My equal cruel Stars made me forget.

Ang. What spectacle of death assaults me? oh! Viol. M[y] dearest Mother, I am dead, I leave Father, and friends, and life, to follow Love. Good Mother, love my Child, that did no ill. Fie, how men lie, that say, death is a pain: Or has he chang'd his nature? like soft sleep He seizes me. Your blessing. Last, I crave, That I may rest by Gerrard in his grave. Ferd. There lay me too: oh! noble Mistriss, I Have caus'd all this; and therefore justly dye. That key will open all. Ang. Oh viperous Father! For Heavens sake, bear 'em in: run for Physitians, And Medicines quickly: Heaven, thou shalt not have her Yet; 'tis too soon: Alas, I have no more, And taking her away, thou rob'st the poor. [Exeunt. Flourish.

Duke. The Law, as greedy as your red desire Benvoglio, hath cast this man: 'Tis pity So many excellent parts are swallow'd up In one foul wave. Is Violanta sent for? Our Justice must not lop a branch, and let The body grow still. Ben. Sir, she will be here Alive or dead, I am sure. [G]er. How chearfully my countenance comments death! That which makes men seem horrid, I will wear Like to an Ornament. Oh Violanta! Might my life only satisfie the Law, How jocundly my soul would enter Heaven! Why shouldst thou dye? thou wither'st in thy bud, As I have seen a Rose, e'er it was blown. I do beseech your Grace, the Statute may (In this case made) be read: not that I hope T'extenuate my offence or penalty, But to see whether it lay hold on her. And since my death is more exemplary Than just, this publick Reading will advise Caution to others. Duke. Read it. Ran. Brother, does not Your soul groan under this severity?

Ger. This Statute has more cruelty than sense: I see no ray of Mercy. Must the Lady Suffer death too? suppose she were inforc'd, By some confederates born away, and ravish'd; Is she not guiltless? Duke. Yes, if it be prov'd. Ger. This case is so: I ravish'd Violanta. State. Who ever knew a Rape produce a child? Ben. Pish, these are idle. Will your grace command The Executioner proceed? Duke. Your Office. Ger. Farewell to thy inticing vanity, Thou round gilt box, that dost deceive man's eye: The wise man knows, when open thou art broke, The treasure thou includ'st, is dust and smoke, Even thus, I cast thee by. My Lords, the Law Is but the great mans mule, he rides on it, And tramples poorer men under his feet; Yet when they come to knock at yon bright Gate, Ones Rags shall enter, 'fore the others State. Peace to ye all: here, sirrah, strike: this hand Hath Violanta kiss'd a thousand times; It smells sweet ever since: this was the hand Plighted my faith to her: do not think thou canst Cut that in sunder with my hand. My Lord, As free from speck as this arm is, my heart Is of foul Lust, and every vein glides here As full of truth. Why does thy hand shake so? 'Tis mine must be cut off, and that is firm; For it was ever constant.

Cor. Hold; your Sentence Unjustly is pronounced, my Lord: this blow Cuts your hand off; for his is none of yours: But Violanta's given in Holy marriage Before she was delivered, consummated With the free Will of her Mother, by her Confessor, In Lord Benvoglio's house. Ger. Alas good Aunt, That helps us nothing; else I had reveal'd it. Duke. What woman's this? Ben. A base confederate In this proceeding, kept of alms long time By him; who now expos'd to misery, Talks thus distractedly. Attach her, Guard. Ran. Your cruelty (brother) will have end. Cor. You'd best Let them attach my tongue. Duke. Good woman, peace: For were this truth, it doth not help thy Nephew; The Law's infring'd by their disparity, That forfeits both their lives. Cor. Sir, with your pardon, Had your Grace ever children? Duke. Thou hast put A question, whose sharp point toucheth my heart: I had two little Sons, twins, who were both (With my good Dutchess) slain, as I did hear; At that time when my Dukedom was surpriz'd. Cor. I have heard many say (my gracious Lord) That I was wondrous like her. All. Ha? Duke. By all mans joy, it is Cornelia, My dearest wife. Cor. To ratifie me her, Come down, Alphonso, one of those two twins, And take thy Fathers blessing: thou hast broke No Law, thy birth being above thy wives: Ascanio is the other, nam'd Fernando, Who by remote means, to my Lord Benvoglio I got preferr'd; and in poor habits clad, (You fled, and th' innovation laid again) I wrought my self into Randulpho's service, With my eldest boy; yet never durst reveal What they and I were, no, not to themselves, Until the Tyrants death. Duke. My joy has fill'd me Like a full-winded sail: I cannot speak. Ger. Fetch Violanta and my brother. Ben. Run, Run like a spout, you rogue: a —— o' poison, That little whore I trusted, will betray me. Stay, hangman, I have work for you; there's Gold; Cut off my head, or hang me presently.

Ran. This is your rashness, brother. Duke. Oh joy, thou wert too great to last; This was a cruel turning to our hopes, Unnatural Father: poor Ascanio. Ger. Oh mother! let me be Gerrard again, And follow Violanta. Cor. Oh my Son— Duke. Your lives yet, bloudy men shall answer this. Dor. I must not see 'em longer grieve. My Lord, Be comforted; let sadness generally Forsake each eye and bosom; they both live: For poison, I infus'd meer Opium; Holding compulsive perjury less sin Than such a loathed murther would have bin. All. Oh blessed Ma[iden]. Dor. Musick, gently creep Into their ears, and fright hence lazy sleep. Morpheus, command thy servant sleep In leaden chains no longer keep This Prince and Lady: Rise, wake, rise, And round about convey your eyes: Rise Prince, go greet thy Father and thy Mother; Rise thou, t'imbrace thy Husband and thy Brother. Duke Cor. Son, Daughter. Ferd. Father, Mother, Brother. Ger. Wife. Viol. Are we not all in Heaven? Ger. Faith, very near it. Ferd. How can this be? Duke. Hear it. Dor. If I had serv'd you right, I should have seen Your old pate off, e'r I had reveald. Ben. Oh wench! Oh honest wench! if my wife die, I'll marry thee: There's my reward. Ferd. 'Tis true. Duke. 'Tis very strange. Ger. Why kneel you honest Master? Ferd. My good Lord. Ger. Dear Mother. Duke. Rise, rise, all are friends: I owe ye for all their boards: And wench, take thou the man Whose life thou sav'dst; less cannot pay the merit. How shall I part my kiss? I cannot: Let One generally therefore joyn our cheeks. A pen of Iron, and a leaf of Brass, To keep this Story to Eternity: And a Promethean Wit. Oh sacred Love, Nor chance, nor death can thy firm truth remove. [Exeunt. King. Now Isabella. [Flourish. Isab. This can true Love do. I joy they all so happily are pleas'd: The Ladies and the Brothers must triumph. King. They do: For Cupid scorns but t' have his triumph too. [Flourish.

Love, and the strength of fair affection (Most royal Sir) what long seem'd lost, have won Their perfect ends, and crown'd those constant hearts With lasting Triumph, whose most virtuous parts, Worthy desires, and love, shall never end. Now turn we round the Scæne, and (Great Sir) lend A sad and serious eye to this of Death, This black and dismal Triumph; where man's breath, Desert, and guilty bloud ascend the Stage, And view the Tyrant, ruind in his rage. [Exit.

Gab. No, good my Lord, I am not now to find Your long neglect of me; All those affections You came first clad in to my love, like Summer, Lusty and full of life: all those desires That like the painted Spring bloom'd round about ye, Giving the happy promise of an Harvest, How have I seen drop off, and fall forgotten! With the least lustre of anothers beauty, How oft (forgetful Lord) have I been blast[e]d! Was I so eas'ly won? or did this body Yield to your false embraces with less labour Then if you had carried some strong Town? Lav. Good Gabriella. Gab. Could all your subtilties and sighs betray me. The vows ye shook me with, the tears ye drown'd me, Till I came fairly off with honor'd Marriage? Oh fie, my Lord. Lav. Prethee good Gabriella. Gab. Would I had never known ye, nor your honors, They are stuck too full of griefs: oh happy women, That plant your Love in equal honest bosoms, Whose sweet desires like Roses set together, Make one another happy in their blushes, Growing and dying without sense of greatness, To which I am a slave! [and] that blest Sacrament That daily makes millions of happy mothers, link'd me To this man's Lust alone, there left me. I dare not say I am his wife, 'tis dangerous: His Love, I cannot say: alas, how many? Lav. You grow too warm; pray [ye be] content, you best know, The times necessity, and how our marriage Being so much unequal to mine honor, While the Duke lives, I standing high in favour; And whilst I keep that safe, next to the Dukedom, Must not be known, without my utter ruine. Have patience for a while, and do but dream wench, The glory of a Dutchess. How she tires me! How dull and leaden is my appetite To that stale beauty now! oh, I could curse And crucifie my self for childish doating Upon a face that feeds not with fresh Figures Every fresh hour: she is now a surfet to me.

Who's that? Gentille? I charge ye, no acquaintance You nor your Maid with him, nor no discourse Till times are riper. Gent. Fie, my Noble Lord, Can you be now a stranger to the Court, When your most virtuous Bride, the beauteous Hellena Stands ready like a Star to gild your happiness, When Hymens lusty fires are now a lighting, And all the Flower of Anjou? Lav. Some few trifles, For matter of adornment, have a little Made me so slow, Gentille, which now in readiness, I am for Court immediately. Gent. Take heed, Sir, This is no time for trifling, nor she no Lady To be now entertain'd with toys: 'twill cost ye— Lav. Y'are an old Cock, Gentille. Gent. By your Lordships favour. Lav. Prethee away; 'twill lose time. Gent. Oh my Lord, Pardon me that by all means. Lav. We have business A-foot man, of more moment. Gent. Then my manners? I know none, nor I seek none. Lav. Take to morrow. Gent. Even now, by your Lordships leave. Excellent Beauty. My service here I ever dedicate, In honor of my best friend, your dead Father, To you his living virtue, and wish heartily, That firm affection that made us two happy, May take as deep undying root, and flourish Betwixt my Daughter Casta, and your goodness, Who shall be still your servant. Gab. I much thank ye. Lav. —— [o'] this dreaming puppy. Will ye go, Sir? Gent. A little more, Good Lord. Lav. Not now, by—— Come, I must use ye. Gent. Goodness dwell still with you. [Exeunt Gentill and Laval. Gab. The sight of this old Gentleman, Maria, Pulls to my mine eyes again the living Picture Of Perolot his virtuous Son, my first Love, That dy'd at Orleance. Mar. You have felt both fortunes, And in extreams, poor Lady; for young Perolot, Being every way unable to maintain you, Durst not make known his love to Friend or Father: My Lord Lavall, being powerful, and you poor, Will not acknowledge you. Gab. No more: Let's in wench: There let my Lute speak my Laments, they have t[ir]ed me. [Exeunt.

1 Court. I grant, the Duke is wondrous provident In his now planting for succession, I know his care as honourable in the choice too. Marines fair virtuous daughter; but what's all this? To what end excellent arrives this travel, When he that bears the main roof is so rotten? 2 Court. You have hit it now indeed: For if Fame lye not He is untemperate. 1 Court. You express him poorly, Too gentle Sir: the most deboist and barbarous; Believe it, the most void of all humanity, Howe'r his cunning, cloak it to his Uncle, And those his pride depends upon. [2] Court. I have heard too, Given excessively to drink. 1 Court. Most certain, And in that drink most dangerous: I speak these things To one I know loves truth, and dares not wrong her. 2 Court. You may speak on. 1 Court. Uncertain as the Sea, Sir, Proud and deceitful as his sins Great Master; His appetite to Women (for there he carries His main Sail spread) so boundles, and abominably, That but to have her name by that tongue spoken, Poisons the virtue of the purest Virgin. 2 Cour. I am sorry for young Gabriella then, A Maid reputed, ever of fair carriage, For he has been noted visiting. 1 Court. She is gone then, Or any else, that promises, or power, Gifts, or his guilful vows can work upon, But these are but poor parcels. 2 Court. 'Tis great pity. 1 Court. Nor want these sins a chief Saint to befriend 'em, The Devil follows him; and for a truth, Sir, Appears in visible figure often to him, At which time he's possest with sudden trances, Cold deadly sweats, and griping of the conscience, Tormented strangely, as they say. 2 Court. Heaven turn him: This marriage-day mayst thou well curse, fair Hellen. But let's go view the ceremony. 1 Court. I'll walk with you. [Exeunt.

Mar. I hear 'em come. Gab. Would I might never hear more. Mar. I told you still: but you were so incredulous. See, there they kiss. Gab. Adders be your embraces. The poison of a rotten heart, oh Hellen! Blast thee as I have been; just such a flattery, With that same cunning face, that smile upon't, Oh mark it Marie, mark it seriously, That Master smile caught me. Mar. There's the old Duke, and Marine her Father. Gab. Oh! Mar. There Longaville— The Ladies now. Gab. Oh, [I] am murder'd, Marie. Beast, most inconstant beast. Mar. There. Gab. There I am not; No more I am not there: Hear me, oh Heaven! And all you powers of Justice bow down to me; But you of pity dye. I am abus'd, She that depended on your Providence, She is abus'd: your honor is abus'd. That noble piece ye made, and call'd it man, Is turn'd to Devil: all the world's abus'd: Give me a womans Will, provok'd to mischief, A two-edg'd heart; my suffering thoughts to wild-fires, And my embraces to a timeless grave turn. Mar. Here I'll step in, for 'tis an act of merit. Gab. I am too big to utter more. Mar. Take time then. [Exeunt.

Gent. This solitary life at home undoes thee, Obscures thy beauty first, which should prefer thee; Next fills thee full of sad thoughts, which thy years Must not arrive at yet, they choak thy sweetness; Follow the time, my Girl, and it will bring thee Even to the fellowship of the noblest women, Hellen her self, to whom I would prefer thee, And under whom this poor and private carriage, Which I am only able yet to reach at, Being cast off, and all thy sweets at lustre, Will take thee as a fair friend, and prefer thee. Casta. Good Sir, be not so cruel as to seek To kill that sweet content y'have bred me to: Have I not here enough to thank Heaven for? The free air uncorrupted with new flattery. The water that I touch, unbrib'd with odours To make me sweet to others: the pure fire Not smothered up, and choak'd with lustful incense To make my bloud sweat; but burning clear and high, Tells me my mind must flame up so to Heaven. What should I do at Court, wear rich apparel? Methinks these are as warm: And for your state, Sir, Wealthy enough; Is it you would have me proud, And like a Pageant, stuck up for amazements? Teach not your child to tread that path, for fear (Sir) Your dry bones after death, groan in your grave The miseries that follow. Gent. Excellent Casta. Casta. When shall I pray again? (a Courtier) Or when I do, to what God? what new body And new face must I make me, with new manners? For I must be no more my self. Whose Mistriss Must I be first? with whose sin-offering season'd? And when I am grown so great and glorious With prostitution of my burning beauties, That great Lords kneel, and Princes beg for favours, Do you think I'll be your Daughter, a poor Gentlemans, Or know you for my father?

Gent. My best Casta. Oh my most virtuous child! Heaven reigns within thee; Take thine own choice, sweet child, and live a Saint still. The Lord Lavall, stand by wench. Lav. Gabriella, She cannot, nor she dares not make it known, My greatness crushes her, when e'er she offers: Why should I fear her then? Gent. Come, let's pass on wench. Lav. Gentille, come hither: who's that Gentlewoman? Gent. A child of mine, Sir, who observing custome, Is going to the Monastery to her Prayers. Lav. A fair one, a most sweet one; fitter far To beautifie a Court, than make a Votarist. Go on, fair Beauty, and in your Orizons Remember me: will ye, fair sweet? Casta. Most humbly. [Exeunt. Lav. An admirable Beauty: how it fires me!

But she's too full of grace, and I too wicked. I feel my wonted fit: Defend me, goodness. Oh! it grows colder still, and stiffer on me, My hair stands up, my sinews shake and shrink; Help me good Heaven, and good thoughts dwell within me. Oh get thee gone, thou evil evil spirit, Haunt me no more, I charge thee. Spir. Yes Lavall: Thou art my vassal, and the slave to mischief, I blast thee with new sin: pursue thy pleasure; Casta is rare and sweet, a blowing Beauty; Set thy desires a fire, and never quench 'em Till thou enjoy'st her; make her all thy Heaven, And all thy joy, for she is all true happiness: Thou art powerful, use command; if that prevail not, Force her: I'll be thy friend. Lav. Oh help me, help me. Spir. Her virtue, like a spell, sinks me to darkness. [Exit.

Gent. He's here still. How is't, noble Lord? me thinks, Sir, You look a little wildly. Is it that way? Is't her you stare on so? I have spy'd your fire, Sir, Bu[t] dare not stay the flaming. Come. Lav. Sweet [c]reature, Excellent Beauty, do me but the happiness To be your humblest servant. Oh fair eyes, Oh blessed, Blessed Sweetness, Divine Virgin! Casta. Oh good my Lord, retire into your honor: You're spoken good and virtuous, plac'd [at] Helme To govern others from mischances: from example Of such fair Chronicles as great ones are, We do, or sure we should direct our lives. I know y'are full of worth, a school of virtue Daily instructing us that live below ye, I make no doubt, dwells there. Lav. I cannot answer, She has struck me dumb with wonder. Casta. Goodness guide ye. [Exeunt. Lav. She's gone, and with her all [l]ight, and has left me Dark as my black desires. Oh devil lust, How dost thou hug my bloud, and whisper to me, There is no day again, no time, no living, Without this lusty Beauty break upon me! Let me collect my self, I strive like billows, Beaten against a rock, and fall a fool still. I must enjoy her, and I will: from this hour My thoughts, and all my bus'ness shall be nothing.

My eating, and my sleeping, but her beauty, And how to work it. Mar. Health to my Lord Lavall. Nay good Sir, do not turn with such displeasure; I come not to afflict your new born pleasures; My honour'd Mistriss, neither let that vex ye, For nothing is intended, but safe to you. Lav. What of your Mistriss? I am full of bus'ness. Mar. I will be short, my Lord; she, loving Lady, Considering the unequal tie between ye, And how your ruine with the Duke lay on it, As also the most noble match now made, By me sends back all links of marriage, All Holy Vows, and Rights of Ceremony, All promises, oaths, tears, and all such pawns You left in hostage: only her love she cannot, For that still follows ye, but not to hurt ye; And still beholds ye Sir, but not to shame ye: In recompence of which, this is her suit, Sir, Her poor and last petition, but to grant her, When weary nights have cloyed ye up with kisses, (As such must come) the honor of a Mistriss, The honor but to let her see those eyes, (Those eyes she doats on, more than gods do goodness) And but to kiss you only: with this prayer, (a prayer only to awake your pity) And on her knees she made it, that this night You'ld bless her with your company at supper. Lav. I like this well, and now I think on't better, I'll make a present use from this occasion. Mar. Nay, good my Lord, be not so cruel to her Because she has been yours. Lav. And to mine own end A rare way I will work. Mar. Can love for ever, The Love of her (my Lord) so perish in ye? As ye desire in your desires to prosper. What gallant under Heaven, but Anjou's Heir then Can brag so fair a Wife, and sweet a Mistriss? Good noble Lord. Lav. Ye mis-apply me, Mary, Nor do I want true pity to your Lady: Pity and love tell me, too much I have wrong'd her To dare to see her more: yet if her sweetness Can entertain a Mediation, And it must be a great one that can cure me; My love again, as far as honor bids me, My service and my self— Mar. That's nobly spoken. Lav. Shall hourly see her; want shall never know her; Nor where she has bestow'd her love, repent her. Mar. Now whither drives he? Lav. I have heard Maria, That no two women in the world more lov'd, Then thy good Mistriss, and Gentille's fair Daughter. Mar. What may this mean? you have heard a truth, my Lord: But since the secret Love betwixt you two, My Mistriss durst not entertain such friendship; Casta is quick, and of a piercing judgement, And quickly will find out a flaw. Lav. Hold Marie: Shrink not, 'tis good gold, wench: prepare a Banquet, And get that Casta thither; for she's a creature So full of forcible Divine perswasion, And so unwearied ever with good offic[e], And she shall cure my ill cause to my Mistriss, And make all errors up. Mar. I'll doe my best, Sir: But she's too fearful, coy, and scrupulous, To leave her Fathers house so late; and bashful At any mans appearance, that I fear, Sir; 'Twill prove impossible. Lav. There's more gold, Marie, And fain thy Mistriss wondrous sick to death, wench. Mar. I have ye in the wind now, and I'll pay ye. Lav. She cannot chuse but come; 'tis charity, The chief of her profession: undertake this, And I am there at night; if not, I leave ye. Mar. I will not loose this offer, though it fall out Clean cross to that we cast, I'll undertake it, I will, my Lord; she shall be there. Lav. By ——? Mar. By —— she shall. Lav. Let it be something late then. For being seen, now force or favour wins her. My spirits are grown dull, strong wine, and store, Shall set 'em up again, and make me fit To draw home at the enterprize I aim at. [Exit. Ma. Go thy wa[ies] false Lord, if thou hold'st, thou pay'st The price of all thy lusts. Thou shalt be there Thou modest Maid, if I have any working, And yet thy honor safe; for which this thief I know has set this meeting: but I'll watch him.