Classic Poem

[SCENE IV.]

Enter Borachio warily and hastily over the Stage with a stone in eyther hand . Bor .

Such stones men use to raise a house upon
But with these stones I goe to ruine one.

Enter two Seruants drunke fighting with their torches.

D' AMVILLE , M ONIFERRERS , B ELFOREST , and L ANGUEBEAU S NUFFE Bel .

Passion o' me, you drunken knaues! You'l put
The lights out. D'am .
No, my Lord; th' are but in jest. 1 Ser .
Mine's out. D'am .
Then light it at his head, — that's light enough —
'Fore God, th' are out. You drunken Rascals, backe
And light 'em. Bel .
'Tis exceeding darke. D'am .
No matter;
I am acquainted with the way. Your hand.
Lets easily walke. I'll lead you till they come. Mont .
My soule's opprest with griefe. 'T lies heauie at
My heart. O my departed Sonne, ere long
I shall be with thee!

D' AMVILLE thrusts him downe into the grauell pit . D'am .

Marry, God forbid! Mont .
O, o, o! D'am .
Now all the hoste of heauen forbid! Knaues! Rogues! Bel .
Pray God he be not hurt. Hee's fall'n into the grauell-pit. D'am .
Brother! deare brother! Rascals! villaines! knaves!

Enter the Seruants with lights.

Eternall darknesse damne you! come away!
Goe round about into the grauell pit,
And helpe my Brother up. Why what a strange
Unlucky night is this! Is 't not, my Lord?
I thinke that Dogge that howl'd the newes of griefe,
That fatall Scrichowle usher'd on this mischiefe.

Enter with the murdered body. Lan .

Mischiefe indeed, my Lord. Your Brother's dead! Bel .
Hee's dead? Ser .
Hee's dead! D'am .
Dead be your tongues! Drop out
Mine eye-bals and let enuious Fortune play
At tennis with 'em. Haue I liu'd to this?
Malicious Nature, hadst thou borne me blinde,
Th'adst yet been something fauourable to me.
No breath? no motion? Prithee tell me, heauen,
Hast shut thine eye to winke at murther; or
Hast put this sable garment on to mourne
At 's death?
Not one poore sparke in the whole spatious skye
Of all that endlesse number would vouchsafe
To shine? — You vize-royes to the King of Nature,
Whose constellations gouerne mortall births,
Where is that fatall Planet rul'd at his
Natiuitie? that might ha' pleas'd to light him out,
As well as into the world, unlesse it be
Ashamed I haue beene the instrument
Of such a good man's cursed destinie. — Belf .

Passion transports you. Recollect your selfe.
Lament him not. Whether our deaths be good
Or bad, it is not death, but life that tryes.
Hee liu'd well; therefore, questionlesse, well dyes D'am .
I, 'tis an easie thing for him that has
No paine, to talke of patience. Doe you thinke
That Nature has no feeling? Belf .
Feeling? Yes.
But has she purpos'd any thing for nothing?
What good receiues this body by your griefe?
Whether is 't more unnaturall, not to grieue
For him you cannot help with it, or hurt
Your selfe with grieuing, and yet grieue in vaine? D'am .
Indeede, had hee beene taken from mee like
A piece o' dead flesh, I should neither ha' felt it
Nor grieued for 't. But come hether, pray look heere.
Behold the liuely tincture of his bloud!
Neither the Dropsie nor the Jaundies in 't,
But the true freshnesse of a sanguine red,
For all the fogge of this blacke murdrous night
Has mix'd with it. For any thing I know
Hee might ha' liu'd till doomesday, and ha' done
More good then either you or I. O Brother!
He was a man of such a natiue goodnesse,
As if Regeneration had beene given
Him in his mother's wombe. So harmiless
That rather then ha' trod upon a worme
Hee would ha' shun'd the way.
So deerely pittifull that ere the poore
Could aske his charity with dry eyes he gaue 'em
Reliefe wi' teares — with teares — yes, faith, with teares. Belf .

Take up the Corps. For wisedom's sake let reason fortifie this weakenesse. D'am .
Why, what would you ha' mee doe? Foolish Nature
Will haue her course in spight o' wisedom. But
I haue e'en done. All these wordes were
But a great winde; and now this showre of teares
Has layd it, I am calme againe. You may
Set forward when you will. I'll follow you
Like one that must and would not. Lang .

Our opposition will but trouble him. Belf .

The griefe that melts to teares by itselfe is spent;
Passion resisted growes more violent.

Manet D' AMVILLE . Borachio ascends . D'am .

Here's a sweete Comedie. 'T begins with O
Dolentis and concludes with ha, ha, he! Bor .
Ha, ha, he! D'am .

O my eccho! I could stand
Reuerberating this sweete musicall ayre,
Of joy till I had perish'd my sound lungs
With violent laughter. Lonely Night-Rauen,
Th'ast seiz'd a carkasse. Bor .

Put him out on's paine.
I lay so fitly underneath the bancke,
From whence he fell, that ere his falt'ring tongue
Could utter double Oo, I knock'd out's braines
With this faire Rubie, and had another stone,
Just of this forme and bignesse, ready; that
I laid i' the broken skull upon the ground
For's pillow, against the which they thought he fell
And perish'd. D'am .
Upon this ground Ile build my Manour house;
And this shall be the chiefest corner stone. Bor .

'T has crowned the most judicious murder that
The braine of man was ere deliuer'd of. D'am .
I, Marke the plot. Not any circumstance
That stood within the reach of the designe
Of persons, dispositions, matter, time, or place
But by this braine of mine was made
An Instrumentall help; yet nothing from
Th' induction to th' accomplishment seem'd forc'd,
Or done o' purpose, but by accident. Bor .

First, my report that Charlemont was dead,
Though false, yet couer'd with a masque of truth. D'am .
I, and deliuer'd in as fit a time
When all our mindes so wholy were possess'd
With one affaire, that no man would suspect
A thought imploi'd for any second end. Bor .
Then the Precisian to be ready, when
Your brother spake of death, to moue his Will. D'am .
His businesse call'd him thither and it fell
Within his office unrequested to 't.
From him it came religiously, and sau'd
Our project from suspition which if I
Had mou'ed, had beene endanger'd. Bor .
Then your healths,
Though seeming but the ordinarie rites
And ceremonies due to festiuals — — D'am .
Yet us'd by me to make the seruants drunke, —
An instrument the plot could not haue miss'd.
'Twas easie to set drunkards by the eares
They'd nothing but their torches to fight with
And when those lights were out — — Bor .
Then darkenesse did
Protect the execution of the worke
Both from preuention and discouerie. D'am .
Here was a murther brauely carryed through
The eye of obseruation, unobseru'd. Bor .
And those that saw the passage of it made
The Instruments, yet knew not what they did. D'am .
That power of rule Philosophers ascribe
To him they call the Supreame of the starres
Making their influences gouernours
Of Sublunarie Creatures when themselves
Are senselesse of their operations.
What!
Dost start at thunder? Credit my beliefe
'Tis a meere effect of nature — an exhalation hot
And dry inuolued within a watrie vapour
I' the middle region of the ayre; whose coldnesse,
Congealing that thicke moysture to a cloud,
The angry exhalation, shut within
A prison of contrary qualitie,
Striues to be free and with the violent
Eruption through the grossenesse of that cloud,
Makes this noyse we heare. Bor .
'Tis a fearefull noyse. D'am .
'Tis a braue noyse, and meethinkes
Graces our accomplish'd project as
A peale of Ordnance does a triumph. It speakes
Encouragement. Now Nature showes thee how
It fauour'd our performance, to forbeare
This noyse when we set forth, because it should
Not terrifie my brother's going home,
Which would have dash'd our purpose, — to forbeare
This lightning in our passage least it should
Ha' warn'd him o' the pitfall.
Then propitious Nature winck'd
At our proceedings: now it doth expresse
How that forbearance fauour'd our successe. Bor .
You haue confirm'd mee. For it followes well.
That Nature, since her selfe decay doth hate,
Should fauour those that strengthen their estate. D'am .
Our next endeauour is, since on the false
Report that Charlemont is dead depends
The fabrique of the worke, to credit that
With all the countenance wee can. Bor .
Faith, Sir,
Euen let his own inheritance, whereof
Y'aue dispossess'd him, countenance the act.
Spare so much out of that to giue him a
Solempnitie of funerall. 'Twill quit
The cost, and make your apprehension of
His death appeare more confident and true. D'am .
I'll take thy counsell. Now farewell, blacke Night;
Thou beauteous Mistresse of a murderer.
To honour thee that hast accomplish'd all
I'll weare thy colours at his funeral

[SCENE V.]

Enter L EUIDULCIA into her chamber mann'd by F RESCO Leu .

Th'art welcome into my chamber, Fresco. Prithee shut the dore. — Nay, thou mistakest me. Come in and shut it. Fres .

'Tis somewhat late, Madame Leu .

No matter. I haue somewhat to say to thee. What, is not thy mistresse towards a husband yet? Fres .

Faith, Madame, shee has suitors, but they will not suite her, me thinkes. They will not come off lustily it seemes. Leu .

They will not come on lustily, thou wouldst say. Fres .

I meane, Madame, they are not rich enough. Leu .
But I, Fresco, they are not bold enough. Thy Mistresse is of a liuely attractiue blood, Fresco, and in truth she is of my mind for that. A poore spirit is poorer than a poore purse. Giue me a fellow that brings not onely temptation with him, but has the actiuitie of wit and audacitie of spirit to apply euery word and gesture of a woman's speech and behauiour to his owne desire, and make her beleeue shee's the suitor her selfe. Neuer giue backe till he has made her yeeld to it. Fres .
Indeede among our equals, Madame; but otherwise we shall be put horribly out o' countenance. Leu .

Thou art deceiu'd, Fresco. Ladyes are as courteous as Yeomen's wiues, and me thinkes they should be more gentle. Hot diet and soft ease makes 'em, like waxe alwaies kept warme, more easie to take impression. — Prithee untie my shooe — What, art thou shamefac'd too? Goe roundly to worke, man. My legge is not goutie: 'twill endure the feeling I warrant thee. Come hither, Fresco; thine ear. S'daintie, I mistooke the place, I miss'd thine eare and hit thy lip. Fres .

Your Ladiship has made me blush. Leu .

That showes th'art full o' lustie bloud and thou knowest not how to use it. Let mee see thy hand. Thou shouldst not be shamefac'd by thy hand, Fresco. Here's a brawny flesh and a hairy skinne, both signes of an able body. I doe not like these flegmaticke, smooth-skinn'd, soft-flesh'd fellowes. They are like candied suckets when they begin to perish, which I would alwayes emptie my closet of, and giue 'em my chamber-maid — I haue some skill in Palmestry: by this line that stands directly against mee thou shouldst be neare a good fortune, Fresco, if thou hadst the grace to entertaine it. Fres .

O what is that, Madame, I pray? Leu .

No lesse then the loue of a faire Lady, if thou dost not lose her with faint-heartednesse. Fres .

A Lady, Madame? Alas, a Lady is a great thing: I cannot compasse her. Leu .

No? Why I am a Lady. Am I so great I cannot be compassed? Claspe my waist, and try. Fres .

I could finde i' my heart, Madame —

S EBASTIAN knockes within . Leu .

'Uds body, my Husband! Faint-hearted foole! I thinke thou wert begotten betweene the Northpole and the the congeal'd passage. Now, like an ambitious Coward that betrayes himselfe with fearefull delay, you must suffer for the treason you neuer committed. Goe, hide thy selfe behind yond arrras instantly.

[F RESCO hides-himselfe ] Enter S EBASTIAN .

Sebastian! What doe you here so late? Seba .

Nothing yet, but I hope I shall. — Kisses her . Leu .

Y'are very bold. Seba .

And you very valiant, for you met mee at full Carriere. Leu .

You come to ha' me moue your father's reconciliation. I'll write a word or two i' your behalfe. Seba .

A word or two, Madame? That you doe for mee will not be contain'd in lesse then the compasse of two sheetes. But in plaine termes shall wee take the opportunitie of priuatenesse? Leu .

What to doe? Seba .

To dance the beginning of the world after the English manner. Leu .

Why not after the French or Italian? Seba .

Fie! They dance it preposterously; backward! Leu .

Are you so actiue to dance? Seba .

I can shake my heeles. Leu .

Y'are well made for't. Seba .

Measure me from top to toe you shall not finde mee differ much from the true standard of proportion. Leu .

I thinke I am accurs'd, Sebastian. There's one at the doore has beaten opportunitie away from us. In briefe, I loue thee, and it shall not be long before I giue thee a testimony of it. To saue thee now from suspition doe no more but draw thy Rapier, chafe thy selfe, and when hee comes in, rush by without taking notice of him. Onely seeme to be angry, and let me alone for the rest.

Enter B ELFOREST . Seba .

Now by the hand of Mercurie.

Exit S EBASTIAN . Bel .

What's the matter, Wife? Leu .

Ooh, Ooh, Husband! Bel .

Prithee what ail'st thou, woman? Leu .

O feele my pulse. It beates, I warrant you. Be patient a little, sweete Husband: tarry but till my breath come to me againe and I'll satisfie you. Bel .

What ailes Sebastian? He lookes so distractedly. Leu .

The poore Gentleman's almost out on's wits I thinke. You remember the displeasure his Father tooke against him about the liberty of speech he us'd euen now, when your daughter went to be marryed? Bel .

Yes. What of that? Leu .

'T has craz'd him sure. He met a poore man i' the street euen now. Upon what quarrell I know not, but he pursued him so violently that if my house had not beene his rescue he had surely kild him. Bel .

What a strange desperate young man is that! Leu .

Nay, husband, he grew so in rage, when hee saw the man was conueyed from him, that he was ready euen to haue drawne his naked weapon upon mee. And had not your knocking at the doore preuented him, surely he'd done something to mee. Bel .

Where's the man? Leu .

Alas, here! I warrant you the poore fearefull soule is scarce come to himselfe againe yet — If the foole haue any wit he will apprehend mee. [ Aside .] — Doe you heare, sir? You may be bold to come forth: the Fury that haunted you is gone.

F RESCO peepes fearefully forth from behinde the Arras . Fres .

Are you sure hee is gone? Bel .

Hee's gone, hee's gone I warrant thee Fres .

I would I were gone too. H's shooke mee almost into a dead palsie. Bel .

How fell the difference betweene you? Fres .

I would I were out at the backe doore. Bel .

Th'art safe enough. Prithee tell 's the falling out. Fres .

Yes, Sir, when I haue recouered my spirits. My memorie is almost frighted from mee. — Oh, so, so, so! — Why Sir, as I came along the streete, Sir — this same Gentleman came stumbling after mee and trod o' my heele. — I cryed O. Doe you cry, sirrah? saies hee. Let mee see your heele; if it be not hurt Ile make you cry for something. So he claps my head betweene his legges and pulles off my shooe. I hauing shifted no sockes in a sennight, the Gentleman cryed foh! and said my feete were base and cowardly feete, they stunke for feare. Then hee knock'd my shooe about my pate, and I cryed O once more. In the meane time comes a shag-hair'd dogge by, and rubbes against his shinnes. The Gentleman tooke the dog in shagge-haire to be some Watch-man in a rugge gowne, and swore hee would hang mee up at the next doore with my lanthorne in my hand, that passengers might see their way as they went, without rubbing against Gentlemen's shinnes. So, for want of a Cord, hee tooke his owne garters off, and as hee was going to make a nooze, I watch'd my time and ranne away. And as I ranne, indeed I bid him hang himselfe in his owne garters. So hee, in choler, pursued mee hither, as you see. Bel .

Why, this sauours of distraction. Leu .

Of meere distraction. Fres .

Howsoeuer it sauours I am sure it smels like a lye. Bel .

Thou maist goe forth at the backe doore, honest fellow; the way is priuate and safe. Fres .

So it had neede, for your fore-doore here is both common and dangerous.

Exit B ELFOREST . Leu .

Good night, honest Fresco. Fres .

Good night, Madame. If you get mee kissing o' Ladies againe! — Leu .

This fals out handsomely.
But yet the matter does not well succeed,
Till I haue brought it to the very deede.