SCENE VIII.
Furbo, Bevilona, Trincalo.
Bev. Furbo, no more, unless thy words were charms
Of power to revive him. Antonio's dead;
He's dead, and in his death hath buried
All my delights: my ears are deaf to music
That sounds of pleasure. Sing, then, the dolfull'st notes
That e'er were set by melancholy: O Antonio!
Furbo sings this song.
Flow, streams of liquid salt from my sad eyes,
To celebrate his mournful exequies.
Antonio's dead; he's dead, and I remain
To draw my poor life in continual pain,
Till it have paid to his sad memory
Duty of love: O, then most willingly
Drown'd with my tears, as he with waves, I die.
Bev. Break thy sad strings, sad[323] instrument—O, strange, he's here!
Signior Antonio! my heart's sweet content!
My life and better portion of my soul!
Are you return'd, and safe? for whose sad death
I spent such streams of tears and gusts of sighs?
Or is't my love, that to my longing fancy
Frames your desired shape, and mocks my senses?
Trin. Whom do you talk withal, fair gentlewoman?
Bev. With my best friend, commander of my life,
My most belov'd Antonio.
Trin. With me!
What's your desire with me, sweet lady?
Bev. Sir, to command me, as you have done ever,
To what you please: for all my liberty
Lies in your service.
Trin. Now I smell the business.
This is some gentlewoman enamour'd
With him whose shape I bear. Fie, what an ass
Was I to strange myself, and lose the occasion
Of a good banquet and her company.
I'll mend it as I can. [Aside.] Madam, I did but jest,
To try if absence caus'd you to forget
A friend that lov'd you ever.
Bev. Forget Antonio,
Whose dear remembrance doth inform the soul
Of your poor servant, Bevilona! No,
No; had you died, it had not quench'd one spark
Of th' sweet affection which your love hath kindl'd
In this warm breast.
Trin. Madam, the waves had drown'd me,
But that your love held up my chin.
Bev. Will't please you
Enter, and rest yourself, refresh the weariness
Of your hard travel; I have good wine and fruits:
My husband's out of town; you shall command
My house, and all that's in't.
Trin. Why, are you married?
Bev. Have you forgot my husband, an angry roarer?
Trin. O, I remember him: but if he come?
Bev. Whence grows this fear? how come you so respectful?
You were not wont be numb'd with such a coldness.
Go in, sweet life, go in.
Trin. I remember while I liv'd in Barbary,
A pretty song the Moors sing to a gridiron:
Sweet, madam, by your favour, I'll sing to this.
Alcoch dolash, &c. Thus 'tis in English—
My heart in flames doth fry
Of thy beauty,
While I
Die.
Fie!
And why
Shouldst thou deny
Me thy sweet company?
My brains to tears do flow,
While all below
Doth glow.
O!
Foe,
If so,
How canst thou go
About to say me no?
This the Moors call two wings[324] upon a gridiron;
But it goes sweeter far o' th' iron instrument.
Ron. There's one within my kitchen, ready-strung: go in.
Trin. Sweet lady, pardon me, I'll follow you.
Happy Antonio in so rare a mistress!
But happier I, that in his place enjoy her:
I say still, there's no pleasure like transforming.