Part 2 / Act 3 — SCENE III.
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A Room in Lady Ager’s House.
Enter Lady Ager, meeting a Servant.
Lady Ager. Now, sir, where is he? speak, why comes he not?
I sent you for him.—Bless this fellow’s senses!
What has he seen? a soul nine hours entranc’d,
Hovering 'twixt hell and heaven, could not wake ghastlier.
Not yet return an answer?—
Enter a second Servant.
What say you, sir?
Where is he?
Sec. Serv. Gone.
Lady Ager. What say’st thou?
Sec. Serv. He is gone, madam;
But, as we heard, unwillingly he went
As ever blood enforc’d.
Lady Ager. Went? whither went he?
Sec. Serv. Madam, I fear I ha’ said too much already.
Lady Ager. These men are both agreed.—Speak, whither went he?
Sec. Serv. Why, to—I would you’d think the rest yourself, madam.
Lady Ager. Meek patience bless me!
Sec. Serv. To the field.
First Serv. To fight, madam.
Lady Ager. To fight?
First Serv. There came two urging gentlemen,
That call’d themselves his seconds; both so powerful,
As ’tis reported, they prevail’d with him
With little labour.
503Lady Ager. O, he’s lost, he’s gone!
For all my pains, he’s gone! two meeting torrents
Are not so merciless as their two rages:
He never comes again. Wretched affection!
Have I belied my faith, injur’d my goodness,
Slander’d my honour for his preservation,
Having but only him, and yet no happier?
’Tis then a judgment plain; truth’s angry with me,
In that I would abuse her sacred whiteness
For any worldly temporal respect:
Forgive me then, thou glorious woman’s virtue,
Admir’d where’er thy habitation is,
Especially in us weak ones! O, forgive me,
For ’tis thy vengeance this! To belie truth,
Which is so hardly ours, with such pain purchas’d,
Fastings and prayers, continence and care,
Misery must needs ensue. Let him not die
In that unchaste belief of his false birth,
And my disgrace! whatever angel guides him,
May this request be with my tears obtain’d,
Let his soul know my honour is unstain’d!— [Aside.
Run, seek, away! if there be any hope,
Let me not lose him yet. [Exeunt servants.] When I think on him,
His dearness, and his worth, it earns[774] me more:
They that know riches tremble to be poor.
My passion is not every woman’s sorrow:
She must be truly honest feels my grief,
And only known to one; if such there be,
They know the sorrow that oppresseth me. [Exit
504