SCENE II.
Music. Enter with table-napkins, Count Frederick, Sir John Worldly, Nevill, Pendant, Sir Innocent Ninny, Lady Ninny, Sir Abraham. Servants with wine, plate, tobacco, and pipes.
Sir J. Wor. Sir, had you borne us company to church,
You had been the better welcome.
C. Fred. Faith, you had; I must needs say so too.
Pen. And I must needs say as my lord says.
Nev. Sir John, I thank you and my honour'd lord:
But I am sorry for this other news
Concerning Mistress Kate and my good friend.
Sir J. Wor. Tis certain true: he keeps his word well too!
He said he would come to dinner.
L. Nin. All we cannot get Mistress Katherine out of her chamber.
Sir J. Wor. O good old woman, she is top-shackled.
L. Nin. 'Tis pestilence sack and cruel claret: knight, stand to me, knight, I say: up, a cold stomach! give me my aqua-vitæ bottle.
Sir Inn. O Guiniver! as I am a justice of peace and quorum, 'twere a good deed to commit thee. Fie, fie, fie!
Abra. Why, alas! I cannot help this, and I should be hanged: she'll be as drunk as a porter. I'll tell you, my lord, I have seen her so be-piss the rushes, as she has danced at a wedding. Her belly and that aqua-vitæ bottle have almost undone my father. Well, I think in conscience she is not my natural-begotten mother.
Omnes. Ha, ha, ha!
Nev. Well said, my wise Sir Abraham.[34]
C. Fred. O, this music
And good wine is the soul of all the world.
Sir J. Wor. Come, will your lordship make one at primero,
Until your bride come forth?
Nev. You can play well, my lord.
C. Fred. Who, I?
Pen. Who? my lord? the only player at primero i' the court.
Abra. I'd rather play at bowls.
Pen. My lord's for you for that, too: the only bowler in London that is not a churchwarden.
Nev. Can he fence well, too, Master Pendant?
Pen. Who? my lord? the only fencer in Christendom. He'll hit you.
Abra. He shall not hit me, I assure you, now.
Nev. Is he good at the exercise of drinking, sir?
Pen. Who? my lord? the only drunkard i' th' world—drinker, I would say.
Abra. God-a-mercy for that.
Nev. I would he heard him.
Abra. I know a better whoremaster than he.
Nev. O fie! no: none so good as my lord.
Pen. Hardly, by'r Lady, hardly.
C. Fred. How now! who's this?
Enter Scudmore, like a servingman, with a letter.
Sir J. Wor. What would you?
Scud. I would speak with the Lady Bellafront from the young Lady Lucy.
Sir J. Wor. You had best send in your letter; she is withdrawn.
Scud. My lady gave me charge of the delivery,
And I must do't myself, or carry it back.
Sir J. Wor. A trusty servant. That way leads you to her.
C. Fred. This trust in servants is a jewel. Come,
Let us to bowls i' th' garden.
[Exeunt.
SCUD. Blessed fate!
[Scudmore passeth one door, and entereth the other, where Bellafront sits asleep in a chair, under a taffata canopy.
Scud. O thou, whose words and actions seem'd to me
As innocent as this smooth sleep which hath
Lock'd up thy powers! Would thou hadst slept, when first
Thou sent'st and profferedst me beauty and love!
I had been ignorant, then, of such a loss.
Happy's that wretch, in my opinion,
That never own'd scarce jewels or bright sums:
He can lose nothing but his constant wants;
But speakless is his plague, that once had store,
And from superfluous state falls to be poor.
Such is my hell-bred hap! could nature make
So fair a superficies to enclose
So false a heart? This is like gilded tombs,
Compacted of jet pillars, marble stones,
Which hide from 's stinking flesh and rotten bones.
Pallas so sat (methinks) in Hector's tent.
But time, so precious and so dangerous,
Why do I lose thee? Madam, my lady, madam.
Bel. Believe me, my dear friend, I was enforc'd.
Ha! I had a dream as strange as thou art, fellow.
How cam'st thou hither? what's thy business?
Scud. That letter, madam, tells you.
Bel. Letter? ha!
What, dost thou mock me? here is nothing writ.
Scud. Can you read anything, then, in this face?
Bel. O basilisk! remove thee from my sight,
Or thy heart's blood shall pay thy rash attempt!
Ho! who attends us there?
Scud. Stir not a foot,
And stop your clamorous acclamations,
Or, by the bitterness of my fresh wrongs,
I'll send your ladyship to the devil quick!
I know the hazard I do undergo,
And whatsoe'er after becomes of me,
I'll make you sure first. I am come to speak—
And speak I will freely—and to bring back
Your letters and such things you sent; and then
I'll ne'er see those deceiving eyes again.
Bel. O, I am sick of my corruption!
For God's sake, do not speak a word more to me.
Scud. Not speak? yes, woman, I will roar aloud:
Call thee the falsest fair that ever breath'd;
Tell thee, that in this marriage thou hast drown'd
All virtue left to credit thy weak sex,
Which being (as 'twere) committed to thy trust,
Thou traitorously hast betray'd it thus!
Did I entice, or ever send thee gifts,
To allure thee to reflect a beam on me?
Nay, didst not thou thyself send and invent,
Past human wit, our means of intercourse?
Why dost thou then prove base unto thyself,
Perjur'd and impious? know, the good thou hast lost
In my opinion, doth outvalue far
The airy honours thou art married to.
Bel. O, peace! for you speak sharpness to my soul,
More torturous than hell's plagues to the damn'd.
For love's sake, hear me speak!
Scud. For love's sake? no:
Love is my surfeit, and is turn'd in me
To a disease.
Bel. Tyrant! my knees shall beg,
Till they get liberty for my tongue to speak,
Drown'd, almost, in the rivers of mine eyes.
Scud. What canst thou say? art thou not married?
Bel. Alas! I was enforc'd; first by the threats
Of a severe father, that in his hand
Did gripe my fortunes: next to that, the fame
Of your neglect and liberal-talking tongue,
Which bred my honour an eternal wrong.
Scud. Pish! these are painted causes. Till this morn
He liv'd not in this land, that durst accuse
My integrity of such an ignorance.
But take your letters here, your paper vows,
Your picture and your bracelets; and if ever
I build again upon a woman's faith,
May sense forsake me! I will sooner trust
Dice or a reconciled enemy: O God!
What an internal joy my heart has felt,
Sitting at one of these same idle plays,
When I have seen a maid's inconstancy
Presented to the life! how my glad eyes
Have stole about me, fearing lest my looks
Should tell the company convented there
The mistress that I had free of such faults.
Bel. O, still retain her so! dear Scudmore, hear me.
Scud. Retain thee so? it is impossible!
Art thou not married? 'tis impossible!
O no! I do despise thee, and will fly
As far on earth as to the Antipodes,
And by some learn'd magician, whose deep art
Can know thy residence on this hemisphere,
There I'll be plac'd, my feet just against thine,
To express the opposite nature, which our hearts
Must henceforth hold.
Bel. O, rather shoot me, friend,
Than let me hear thee speak such bitterness!
O, pity me! redeem me from the hell,
That in this marriage I am like to feel!
I'll rather fly to barren wildernesses,
And suffer all wants with thee, Scudmore, than
Live with all plenty in this husband's arms.
Thou shalt perceive I am not such a woman,
That is transported with vain dignities.
O, thy dear words have knock'd at my heart's gates,
And enter'd. They have pluck'd the devil's vizard
(That did deform this face, and blind my soul)
Off, and thy Bellafront presents herself,
Lav'd in a bath of contrite virginal tears:
Cloth'd in the original beauty that was thine!
Now, for thy love to God, count this not done:
Let time go back, and be as when before it,
Or from thy memory rase it for ever!
Scud. Ha, ha! heart! was there ever such strange creatures fram'd?
Why dost thou speak such foolish, senseless things?
Can thy forsaking him redeem thy fault?
No, I will never mend an ill with worse.
Why, thy example will make women false,
When they shall hear it, that before were true;
For after ill examples we do fly,
But must be vow'd to deeds of piety.
O woman, woman, woman, woman, woman!
The cause of future and original sin,
How happy (had you not) should we have been!
False, where you kiss, but murdering in your ire;
Love all can woo, know all men you desire:
Ungrateful, yet most impudent to crave,
Torturous as hell, insatiate as the grave:
Lustful as monkeys, grinning in your ease,
Whom if we make not idols, we ne'er please:
More vainly proud than fools, as ignorant;
Baser than parasites: witches that enchant
And make us senseless, to think death or life
Is yours to give, when only our belief
Doth make you able to deceive us so:
Begot by drunkards to breed sin and woe;
As many foul diseases hide your veins,
As there are mischiefs coin'd in your quick brains:
Not quick in wit, fit to perform least good,
But to subvert whole states, shed seas of blood:
Twice as deceitful as are crocodiles,
For you betray both ways, with tears and smiles.
Yet questionless there are as good, as bad.
Hence! let me go.
Bel. Hear me, and thou shalt go.
I do confess I do deserve all this,
Have wounded all the faith my sex doth owe,
But will recover it, or pay my life.
Strive not to go, for you shall hear me first.
I charge thee, Scudmore, thou hard-hearted man,
Upon my knees—
[Kneels.]
Thou most implacable man, since penitence
And satisfaction too gets not thy pardon,
I charge thee use some means to set me free,
[Rises again.]
Before the revels of this night have end.
Prevent my entering to this marriage-bed;
Or by the memory of Lucretia's knife,
Ere morn I'll die a virgin, though a wife.
[Exit.
Scud. Pish! do: the world will have one mischief less.
[Exit.