[SCENE 2.]
Enter Lord Momford, and Clarence. Clarence, Horatio.
Cla. Sing good Horatio, while I sigh, and write.
According to my master Platos minde,
The soule is musicke, and doth therefore joy
In accents musicall, which he that hates
With points of discord is together tyed,
And barkes at Reason, Consonant in sense.
Divine Eugenia, beares the ocular forme
Of musicke, and of Reason, and presents
The soule exempt from flesh in flesh inflam'd[31];
Who must not love her then, that loves his soule?
To her I write; my friend, the starre[32] of friends
Will needs have my strange lines greet her strange eies
And for her sake ile power my poore Soule forth
In floods of inke; but did not his kinde hand
Barre me with violent grace, I wood consume
In the white flames of her impassionate love,
Ere my harsh lipps shood vent the odorous blaze.
For I am desperate of all worldly joyes,
And there was never man so harsh to men.
When I am fullest of digested life
I seeme a livelesse Embrion to all,
Each day rackt up in night-like Funerall.
Sing, good Horatio, whilst I sigh, and write.
_Canto.
The Letter.
Suffer him to love that suffers not loving; my love
is without passion, and therefore free from alteration._
Prose is too harsh, and Verse is Poetry.
Why shood I write; then? merrit[33] clad in inke
Is but a mourner, and as good as naked.
I will not write, my friend shall speake for me.
Sing one stave more, my good Horatio.
Canto.
I must remember I know whom I love
A dame of learning, and of life exempt
From all the idle fancies of her Sex,
And this, that to an other dame wood seeme
Perplext and foulded in a rudelesse[34] vaile,
Will be more cleere then ballads to her eye.
Ile write, if but to satisfie my friend.
Your third staunce sweet Horatio, and no more.
Canto.
How vainele doe I offer my strange love?
I marry, and bid states, and entertaine
Ladies with tales, and jests, and Lords with newes,
And keepe a House to feast Acteons hounds
That eate their Master, and let idle guests
Draw me from serious search of things divine?
To bid them sit, and welcome, and take care
To sooth their pallats with choyce kitchin-stuff,
As all must doe that marry, and keepe House,
And then looke on the left side of my yoake
Or on the right perhaps, and see my wife
Drawe in a quite repugnant course from me,
Busied to starch her French purles, and her puffs,
When I am in my Anima reflexa.
Quid est faelicitas? quae origo rerum?
And make these beings that are knowne to be
The onely serious object of true men
Seeme shadowes, with substantiall stir she keeps
About her shadowes, which if husbands love
They must beleeve; and thus my other selfe
Brings me another body to dispose,
That have already much too much of one,
And must not looke for any Soule of her
To helpe to rule two bodies?
Mom. Fie for shame;
I never heard of such an antedame[35].
Doe women bring no helpe of soule to men?
Why, friend, they eyther are mens soules themselves,
Or the most witty Imitatrixes of them;
Or prettiest sweet apes of humaine Soules,
That ever Nature fram'd; as I will prove.
For first they be Substantiae lucidae,
And purer then mens bodies, like their soules,
Which mens harsh haires both of their brest and chinne
Occasioned by their grose and ruder heate
Plainely demonstrats: Then like soules they doe,
Movere corpora, for no power on Earth
Moves a mans body, as a woman does.
Then doe they Dare formas corpori,
Or adde faire formes to men, as their soules doe:
For but for women, who wood care for formes?
I vow I never wood wash face, nor hands,
Nor care how ragg'd, or slovenly I went,
Wer't not for women, who of all mens pompes
Are the true final causes: Then they make
Men in their Seedes immortall, like their soules,
That els wood perish in a spanne of time.
Oh! they be soule-like creatures, and my Neece
The soule of twenty rare soules stil'd in one.
Cla. That, that it is, my Lord, that makes me love.
Mom. Oh are ye come Sir, welcome to my Neece, As I may say, at midnight; gentle friend, What have you wrot I pray?
Cla. Strange stuffe my Lord.
Mom. Indeed the way to believe is to love [Hee reads and comments. And the right way to love is to believe. This I will carry now with pen, and incke, For her to use in answere; see, sweet friend, She shall not stay to call, but while the steele Of her affection is made softe and hott, Ile strike, and take occasion by the brow. Blest is the wooing thats not long a dooing. [Exit.
Cla. Had ever man so true, and noble friend?
Or wood men thinke this sharpe worlds freezing Aire
To all true honour and iuduciall love,
Wood suffer such a florishing pyne in both
To overlooke the boxe-trees of this time?
When the learn'd minde hath by impulsion wrought
Her eyes cleere fire into a knowing flame;
No elementall smoke can darken it,
Nor Northren coldnesse nyppe her Daphnean Flower.
O sacred friendship, thanks to thy kinde power,
That being retir'd from all the faithlesse World,
Appear'st to me in my unworldly friend,
And for thine own sake let his noble minde,
By moving presedent to all his kinde,
(Like just Deucalion) of Earths stony bones
Repaire the World with humaine bloud and flesh,
And dying vertue with new life refresh.
[Exit.
Actvs Qvartvs.
Enter Tales, Kingcob, Eugenia, Hippolyta, Penelope, Winnifred.
King. Tis time to leave your Chests, Ladies; tis too studious an exercise after Dinner.
Tal. Why is it cal'd Chests?
Hip. Because they leane upon their Chests that play at it.
Tal. I wood have it cald the strife of wits, for tis a game so witty, that with strife for maisterie, we hunt it eagerly.
Eug. Specially where the wit of the Goosecaps are in chase my Lord.
Tal. I am a Goosecappe by the mothers side, Madam; at least my mother was a Goosecappe.
Pene. And you were her white[36] sonne, I warrant my Lord.
Tal. I was the youngest, Lady, and therefore must bee her white sonne, yee know; the youngest of ten I was.
Hip. And the wisest of Fifteene.
Tal. And sweet Lady will yee cast a kinde eye now upon my Cosin, Sir Gyles Goosecappe.
Pene. Pardon my Lord, I have never a spare eye to cast away, I assure ye.
Tal. I wonder you shood count it cast away, Ladie, uppon him; doe you remember those fewe of his good parts I rehearst to you.
Pene. Verie perfectly, my Lord; amongst which one of them was, that he is the best Sempster of any woman in England: pray lets see some of his worke?
Hip. Sweet Lord, lets see him sowe a little.
Tal. You shall, a mine honour, Lady.
Eug. Hees a goodly greate Knight indeed; and a little needle in his hand will become him prettelie.
King. From the Spanish Pike to the Spanish Needle, he shall play with any Knight in England, Ladie.
Eug. But not è converso, from the Spanish needle to the Spanish Pike.
King. I thinke he be too wise for that indeed, Madam, for he has twenty Miles length in land lies togeather, and he wood bee loath to bring it all to the length of a Pike.
Hip. But no man commends my blount Servant sir Cut. Rudesby, methinks.
King. Hee is a kinde Gentleman, Ladie, though hee bee blunt, and is of this humour, the more you presume upon him without Ceremonie, the more he loves you; if he know you thinke him kinde once, and will say nothing but still use him, you may melt him into any kindnesse you will; he is right like a woman, and had rather, you shood bluntlie take the greatest favour you can of him, then shamefastly intreat it.
Eug. He saies well to you Hippolita.
Hip. I, Madam, but they saie, he will beat one in jest, and byte in kindenesse, and teare ones ruffes in Courtshippe.
King. Some that he makes sport withall perhappes, but none that he respects, I assure ye.
Hip. And what's his living sir Cutbeard?
King. Some two thousand a yeere, Ladie.
Hip. I pray doe not tell him that I ask't, for I stand not upon living.
King. O good Ladie, who can live without living?
Enter Momford.
Mom. Still heere, Lordings? good companions yfaith; I see you come not for vittles.
Tal. Vittles, my Lord? I hope wee have vittles at home.
Mom. I, but, sweet Lord, there is a principle in the Polititians physicke: Eat not[37] your meat upon other mens trenchers, and beware of surfets of your owne coste. Manie good companions cannot abide to eate meate at home, ye know. And how faires my noble Neece now, and her faire Ladie Feeres[38]?
Eug. What winde blowes you hether, troe?
Mom. Harke you, Madam, the sweet gale of one Clarences breath, with this his paper sayle blowes me hether.
Eug. Aye me still, in that humour? beshrewe my heart, if I take anie Papers from him.
Mom. Kinde bosome doe thou take it then.
Eug. Nay then never trust me.
Mom. Let it fall then or cast it away, you were best, that every body may discover your love suits, doe; theres somebody neare, you note it.—And how have you spent the time since Dinner, nobles?
King. At chests, my Lord.
Mom. Read it, Neece.
Eug. Heere, beare it backe, I pray.
Mom. I beare you on my backe to heare you. And how play the Ladies, sir Cuthberd? what men doe they play best withall, with Knights or rookes?
Tal. With Knights, my Lord.
Mom. T'is pitty their boord is no broader, and that some men called guls are not added to their game.
King. Why, my Lo? it needs not, they make the Knights guls.
Mom. That's pretty, sir Cuthbert.—You have begon I know, Neece; forth I command you.
Eug. O yare a sweet uncle.
Mom. I have brought here a little Greeke, to helpe mee out withall, and shees so coy of her learning forsooth, she makes it strange.—Lords and Ladies, I invite you all to supper to night, and you shall not deny me.
All. We will attend your Lordshippe.
Tal. Come Ladies let's into the gallery a little.
[Exeunt.
Mom. And now what saies mine owne deare Neece yfaith?
Eug. What shood she say to the backside of a paper?
Mom. Come, come, I know you have byn a' the belly side.
Eug. Now was there ever Lord so prodigall Of his owne honour'd bloud, and dignity?
Mom. Away with these same horse-faire allegations; will you answer the letter?
Eug. Gods my life, you goe like a cunning spokesman, answer uncle; what, doe you thinke me desperate of a husband?
Mom. Not so, Neece; but carelesse of your poore Vncle.
Eug. I will not write, that's certaine.
Mom. What, wil you have my friend and I perish? doe you thirst our blouds?
Eug. O yare in a mighty danger, noe doubt on't.
Mom. If you have our blouds, beware our ghosts, I can tell ye; come, will ye write?
Eug. I will not write yfaith.
Mom. Yfaith dame, then I must be your secretary, I see; heres the letter, come, doe you dictate, and ile write.
Eug. If you write no otherwise then I dictate, it will scarce prove a kinde answer, I beleeve.
Mom. But you will be advis'de, I trust. Secretaries are of counsell with their Countesses; thus it begins: Suffer him to love, that suffers not loving. What answere you to that?
Eug. He loves extreamely that suffers not in love.
Mom. He answers you for that presently, his love is without passion, and therefore free from alteration, for Pati you know is in alterationem labi; he loves you in his soule, he tels you, wherein there is no passion. Saie dame what answer you?
Eug. Nay if I answere anie thing—
Mom. Why? very well, ile answer for you.
Eug. You answere? shall I set my hand to your answere?
Mom. I, by my faith shall ye.
Eug. By my faith, but you shall answere as I wood have you then.
Mom. Alwaies put in with advice of your secretary, Neece, come, what answere you?
Eug. Since you needes will have my Answere, Ile answere briefely to the first, and last part of his letter.
Mom. Doe so, Neece; and leave the midst for himselfe a gods name: what is your answeare?
Eug. I cannot but suffer you to love, if you doe love.
Mom. Why very good, there it is,—and will requite your love; say you so? [He writes, and she dictates.
Eug. Beshrowe my lipps then, my Lord.
Mom. Beshrowe my fingers but you shall; what, you may promise to requite his love, and yet not promise him marriage, I hope; well,— and will requite your love.
Eug. Nay good my Lord, hold your hand, for ile be sworne, ile not set my hand too't.
Mom. Well hold off your hand, good Madam, till it shood come on, Ile be ready for it anon, I warrent ye. Now forth,—my love is without passion, and therefore free from alteration: what answere you to that Madam?
Eug. Even this, my Lord: your love, being mentall, needs no bodily Requitall.
Mom. I am content with that, and here it is;—but in hart.
Eug. What but in hart?
Mom. Hold off your hand yet I say;—I doe embrace, and repay it.
Eug. You may write, uncle, but if you get my hand to it—
Mom. Alas Neece, this is nothing, ist anything to a bodily marriage, to say you love a man in soule, if your harts agree, and your bodies meet not? simple marriage rites, now let us foorth: he is in the way to felicity, and desires your hand.
Eug. My hand shall alwaies signe the way to felicity.
Mom. Very good; may not any woman say this now. Conclude now, sweet Neece.
Eug. And so God prosper your journey.
Mom. Charitably concluded, though farre short of that love I wood have showen to any friend of yours, Neece, I sweare to you. Your hand now, and let this little stay his appetite.
Eug. Read what you have writ my Lord.
Mom. What needs that, Madam? you remember it, I am sure.
Eug. Well if it want sense in the Composition, let my secretary be blam'd for't; thers my hand.
Mom. Thanks, gentle Neece; now ile reade it.
Eug. Why now, more then before I pray?
Mom. That you shall see straite.—I cannot but suffer you to love if you doe love, and will requite your love.
Eug. Remember that requitall was of your owne putting in, but it shall be after my fashion, I warrant ye.
Mom. Interrupt me no more.—Your love being mentall needs no bodily requitall, but in hart I embrace, and repay it; my hand shall alwaies signe the way to felicity, and my selfe knit with you in the bands of marriage ever walke with you, in it, and so God prosper our journey: Eugenia.
Eug. Gods me life, tis not thus I hope.
Mom. By my life but it is, Neece.
Eug. By my life but tis none of my deed then.
Mom. Doe you use to set your hand to that which is not your deed; your hand is at it, Neece, and if there be any law in England, you shall performe it too.
Eug. Why? this is plaine dishonoured deceit. Does all your truest kindnes end in law?
Mom. Have patience Neece, for what so ere I say,
Onely the lawes of faith, and thy free love
Shall joyne my friend and thee, or naught at all.
By my friends love, and by this kisse it shall.
Eug. Why, thus did false Acontius snare Cydippe.
Mom. Indeed, deere love, his wile was something like, And then tis no unheard of treachery, That was enacted in a goddes Eye: Acontius worthy love feard not Diana Before whom he contriv'd this sweet deceite.
Eug. Well there you have my hand, but ile be sworne I never did thing so against my will.
Mom. T'will prove the better, Madam, doubt it not.
And to allay the billows of your bloud,
Rais'd with my motion bold and opposite,
Deere Neece, suppe with me, and refresh your spirites:
I have invited your companions,
With the two guests that din'd with you to daie,
And will send for the old Lord Furnifall,
The Captaine, and his mates, and (tho at night)
We will be merry as the morning Larke.
Eug. No, no my Lord, you will have Clarence there.
Mom. Alas poore Gentleman, I must tell you now,
He's extreame sicke, and was so when he writt,
Tho he did charge me not to tell you so;
And for the World he cannot come abroade.
Eug. Is this the man that without passion loves?
Mom. I doe not tell you he is sicke with love;
Or if he be, tis wilfull passion.
Which he doth choose to suffer for your sake,
And cood restraine his sufferance with a thought,
Vppon my life, he will not trouble you;
And therefore, worthy Neece, faile not to come.
Eug. I will on that condition.
Mom. Tis perform'd.
For were my friend well, and cood comfort me,
I wood not now intreate your company,
But one of you I must have, or I die:
Oh such a friend is worth a monarchy.
[Exeunt.