D'Am. Doctor, behold two patients in whose cure
Thy skill may purchase an eternal fame.
If thou'st any reading in Hippocrates,
Galen, or Avicen; if herbs, or drugs,
Or minerals have any power to save,
Now let thy practice and their sovereign use
Raise thee to wealth and honour.
Doct. If any root of life remains within 'em
Capable of physic, fear 'em not, my lord.
Rous. O—oh!
D'Am. His gasping sighs are like the falling noise
Of some great building when the groundwork breaks.
On these two pillars stood the stately frame
And architecture of my lofty house.
An earthquake shakes 'em. The foundation shrinks.
Dear Nature, in whose honour I have raised
A work of glory to posterity,
O bury not the pride of that great action
Under the fall and mine of itself.
Doct. My lord, these bodies are deprived of all
The radical ability of Nature.
The heat of life is utterly extinguished.
Nothing remains within the power of man
That can restore them.
D'Am. Take this gold, extract
The spirit of it, and inspire new life
Into their bodies.
Doct. Nothing can, my lord.
D'Am. You ha' not yet examined the true state
And constitution of their bodies. Sure
You ha' not. I'll reserve their waters till
The morning. Questionless, their urines will
Inform you better.
Doct. Ha, ha, ha!
D'Am. Dost laugh,
Thou villain? Must my wisdom that has been
The object of men's admiration now
Become the subject of thy laughter?
Rou. O—oh! [Dies.
All. He's dead.
D'Am. O there expires the date
Of my posterity! Can nature be
So simple or malicious to destroy
The reputation of her proper memory?
She cannot. Sure there is some power above
Her that controls her force.
Doct. A power above
Nature? Doubt you that, my lord? Consider but
Whence man receives his body and his form.
Not from corruption like some worms and flies,
But only from the generation of
A man. For Nature never did bring forth
A man without a man; nor could the first
Man, being but the passive subject, not
The active mover, be the maker of
Himself. So of necessity there must
Be a superior power to Nature.
D'Am. Now to myself I am ridiculous.
Nature, thou art a traitor to my soul.
Thou hast abused my trust. I will complain
To a superior court to right my wrong.
I'll prove thee a forger of false assurances.
In yon Star Chamber thou shalt answer it.
Withdraw the bodies. O the sense of death
Begins to trouble my distracted soul. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—A Hall of justice. A scaffold at one end.
Enter Judges and Officers.
1st Judge. Bring forth the malefactors to the bar.
Enter Cataplasma, Soquette, and Fresco.
Are you the gentlewoman in whose house
The murders were committed?
Cata. Yes, my lord.
1st Judge. That worthy attribute of gentry which
Your habit draws from ignorant respect
Your name deserves not, nor yourself the name
Of woman, since you are the poison that
Infects the honour of all womanhood.
Cata. My lord, I am a gentlewoman; yet
I must confess my poverty compels
My life to a condition lower than
My birth or breeding.
2nd Judge. Tush, we know your birth.
1st Judge. But, under colour to profess the sale
Of tires and toys for gentlewomen's pride,
You draw a frequentation of men's wives
To your licentious house, and there abuse
Their husbands.—
Fres. Good my lord, her rent is great.
The good gentlewoman has no other thing
To live by but her lodgings. So she's forced
To let her fore-rooms out to others, and
Herself contented to lie backwards.
2nd Judge. So.
1st Judge. Here is no evidence accuses you
For accessories to the murder, yet
Since from the spring of lust, which you preserved
And nourished, ran the effusion of that blood,
Your punishment shall come as near to death
As life can bear it. Law cannot inflict
Too much severity upon the cause
Of such abhorred effects.
2nd Judge. Receive your sentence.
Your goods (since they were gotten by that means
Which brings diseases) shall be turned to the use
Of hospitals. You carted through the streets
According to the common shame of strumpets,
Your bodies whipped, till with the loss of blood
You faint under the hand of punishment.
Then that the necessary force of want
May not provoke you to your former life,
You shall be set to painful labour, whose
Penurious gains shall only give you food
To hold up Nature, mortify your flesh,
And make you fit for a repentant end.
All. O good my lord!
1st Judge. No more. Away with 'em. [Exeunt Cataplasma, Soquette, and Fresco.
Enter Languebeau Snuffe.
2nd Judge. Now, Monsieur Snuffe! A man of your profession
Found in a place of such impiety!