SCENE II.—Carter’s House.
Reading edition
Enter Carter, Warbeck, and Somerton.
Car. How now, gentlemen! cloudy? I know, Master Warbeck, you are in a fog about my daughter’s marriage.
War. And can you blame me, sir?
Car. Nor you me justly. Wedding and hanging are tied up both in a proverb; and destiny is the juggler that unties the knot. My hope is, you are reserved to a richer fortune than my poor daughter.
War. However, your promise—
Car. Is a kind of debt, I confess it.
War. Which honest men should pay.
Car. Yet some gentlemen break in that point now and then, by your leave, sir.
Som. I confess thou hast had a little wrong in the wench; but patience is the only salve to cure it. Since Thorney has won the wench, he has most reason to wear her.
War. Love in this kind admits no reason to wear her.
Car. Then Love’s a fool, and what wise man will take exception?
Som. Come, frolic, Ned: were every man master of his own fortune, Fate might pick straws, and Destiny go a-wool-gathering.
War. You hold yours in a string, though: ’tis well; but if there be any equity, look thou to meet the like usage ere long.
Som. In my love to her sister Katherine? Indeed, they are a pair of arrows drawn out of one quiver, and should fly at an even length; if she do run after her sister.—
War. Look for the same mercy at my hands as I have received at thine.
Som. She’ll keep a surer compass; I have too strong a confidence to mistrust her.
War. And that confidence is a wind that has blown many a married man ashore at Cuckold’s Haven, I can tell you; I wish yours more prosperous though.
Car. Whate’er your wish, I’ll master my promise to him.
War. Yes, as you did to me.
Car. No more of that, if you love me: but for the more assurance, the next offered occasion shall consummate the marriage; and that once sealed—
Som. Leave the manage of the rest to my care. But see, the bridegroom and bride come; the new pair of Sheffield knives, fitted both to one sheath.
War. The sheath might have been better fitted, if somebody had their due; but—
Car. No harsh language, if thou lovest me. Frank Thorney has done—
War. No more than I, or thou, or any man, things so standing, would have attempted.
Enter Frank Thorney and Susan.
Som. Good-morrow, Master Bridegroom.
War. Come, give thee joy: mayst thou live long and happy In thy fair choice!
Frank. I thank ye, gentlemen; kind Master Warbeck, I find you loving.
War. Thorney, that creature,—much good do thee with her!— Virtue and beauty hold fair mixture in her; She’s rich, no doubt, in both: yet were she fairer, Thou art right worthy of her. Love her, Thorney; ’Tis nobleness in thee, in her but duty. The match is fair and equal; the success I leave to censure. Farewell, Mistress Bride! Till now elected, thy old scorn deride. [Exit.
Som. Good Master Thorney—
Car. Nay, you shall not part till you see the barrels run a-tilt, gentlemen. [Exit with Somerton.
Sus. Why change you your face, sweetheart?
Frank. Who, I? for nothing.
Sus. Dear, say not so; a spirit of your constancy Cannot endure this change for nothing. I have observed strange variations in you.
Frank. In me?
Sus. In you, sir. Awake, you seem to dream, and in your sleep You utter sudden and distracted accents, Like one at enmity with peace. Dear loving husband, If I May dare to challenge any interest in you, Give me the reason fully; you may trust My breast as safely as your own.
Frank. With what? You half amaze me; prithee—
Sus. Come, you shall not, Indeed you shall not, shut me from partaking The least dislike that grieves you; I’m all yours.
Frank. And I all thine.
Sus. You are not, if you keep The least grief from me: but I find the cause; It grew from me.
Frank. From you?
Sus. From some distaste In me or my behaviour: you’re not kind In the concealment. ’Las, sir, I am young, Silly and plain; more, strange to those contents A wife should offer: say but in what I fail, I’ll study satisfaction.
Frank. Come; in nothing.
Sus. I know I do; knew I as well in what, You should not long be sullen. Prithee, love, If I have been immodest or too bold, Speak’t in a frown; if peevishly too nice, Show’t in a smile: thy liking is the glass By which I’ll habit my behaviour.
Frank. Wherefore dost weep now?
Sus. You, sweet, have the power To make me passionate as an April-day; Now smile, then weep; now pale, then crimson red: You are the powerful moon of my blood’s sea, To make it ebb or flow into my face, As your looks change.
Frank. Change thy conceit, I prithee; Thou art all perfection: Diana herself Swells in thy thoughts and moderates thy beauty. Within thy left eye amorous Cupid sits, Feathering love-shafts, whose golden heads he dipped In[430] thy chaste breast; in the other lies Blushing Adonis scarfed in modesties; And still as wanton Cupid blows love-fires, Adonis quenches out unchaste desires; And from these two I briefly do imply A perfect emblem of thy modesty. Then, prithee, dear, maintain no more dispute, For when thou speak’st, it’s fit all tongues be mute.
Sus. Come, come, these golden strings of flattery Shall not tie up my speech, sir; I must know The ground of your disturbance.
Frank. Then look here; For here, here is the fen in which this hydra Of discontent grows rank.
Sus. Heaven shield it! where?
Frank. In mine own bosom, here the cause has root; The poisoned leeches twist about my heart, And will, I hope, confound me.
Sus. You speak riddles.
Frank. Take’t plainly, then: ’twas told me by a woman Known and approved in palmistry, I should have two wives.
Sus. Two wives? sir, I take it Exceeding likely; but let not conceit hurt you: You’re afraid to bury me?
Frank. No, no, my Winnifred.
Sus. How say you? Winnifred! you forget me.
Frank. No, I forget myself!—Susan.
Sus. In what?
Frank. Talking of wives, I pretend Winnifred, A maid that at my mother’s waited on me Before thyself.
Sus. I hope, sir, she may live To take my place: but why should all this move you?
Frank. The poor girl!—[Aside.] she has’t before thee, And that’s the fiend torments me.
Sus. Yet why should this Raise mutiny within you? such presages Prove often false: or say it should be true?
Frank. That I should have another wife?
Sus. Yes, many; If they be good, the better.
Frank. Never any Equal to thee in goodness.
Sus. Sir, I could wish I were much better for you; Yet if I knew your fate Ordained you for another, I could wish— So well I love you and your hopeful pleasure— Me in my grave, and my poor virtues added To my successor.
Frank. Prithee, prithee, talk not Of deaths or graves; thou art so rare a goodness As Death would rather put itself to death Than murder thee: but we, as all things else, Are mutable and changing.
Sus. Yet you still move In your first sphere of discontent. Sweet, chase Those clouds of sorrow, and shine clearly on me.
Frank. At my return I will.
Sus. Return! ah me! Will you, then, leave me?
Frank. For a time I must: But how? As birds their young, or loving bees Their hives, to fetch home richer dainties.
Sus. Leave me! Now has my fear met its effect. You shall not; Cost it my life, you shall not.
Frank. Why? your reason?
Sus. Like to the lapwing have you all this while With your false love deluded me, pretending Counterfeit senses for your discontent; And now at last it is by chance stole from you.
Frank. What? what by chance?
Sus. Your pre-appointed meeting Of single combat with young Warbeck.
Frank. Ha!
Sus. Even so: dissemble not; ’tis too apparent: Then in his look I read it:—deny it not, I see’t apparent; cost it my undoing, And unto that my life, I will not leave you.
Frank. Not until when?
Sus. Till he and you be friends. Was this your cunning?—and then flam me off With an old witch, two wives, and Winnifred! You’re not so kind, indeed, as I imagined.
Frank. [Aside.] And you are more fond by far than I expected.— It is a virtue that attends thy kind— But of our business within: and by this kiss, I’ll anger thee no more; ’troth, chuck, I will not.
Sus. You shall have no just cause.
Frank. Dear Sue, I shall not. [Exeunt.
