Atheist's Tragedie, The - Act 3, Scene 3
Enter C HARLEMONT in prison . Charl .
I graunt thee, Heauen, thy goodnesse doth command
Our punishments, but yet no further then
The measure of our sinnes. How should they else
Be iust? Or how should that good purpose of
Thy Justice take effect by bounding men
Within the confines of humanitie,
When our afflictions doe exceede our crimes?
Then they doe rather teach the barb'rous world.
Examples that extend her cruelties
Beyond their owne dimentions, and instruct
Our actions to be much more barbarous.
O my afflicted soule! How torment swells
Thy apprehension with prophane conceipt,
Against the sacred justice of my God!
Our owne constructions are the authors of
Our miserie. We neuer measure our
Conditions but with Men aboue us in
Estate. So while our Spirits labour to
Be higher then our fortunes, th' are more base.
Since all those attributes which make men seeme
Superiour to us, are Man's subjects and
Were made to serue him. The repining Man
Is of a seruile spirit to deiect
The value of himselfe below their estimation.
Enter S EBASTIAN with the Keeper . Seba .
Here. Take my sword. — How now, my wilde Swag'rer? Y'are tame enough now, are you not? The penurie of a prison is like a soft consumption. 'Twill humble the pride o' your mortalitie, and arme your soule in compleate patience to endure the weight of affliction without feeling it. What, hast no musicke in thee? Th' hast trebles and bases enough. Treble injurie and base usage. But trebles and bases make Poore musick without meanes. Thou want'st Meanes, dost? What? Dost droope? art deiected? Charl .
No, Sir. I haue a heart aboue the reach
Of thy most violent maliciousnesse;
A fortitude in scorne of thy contempt
(Since Fate is pleas'd to haue me suffer it)
That can beare more then thou has power t' inflict.
I was a Baron. That thy Father has
Depriu'd me of. In stead of that I am
Created King. I'ue lost a Signiorie
That was confin'd within a piece of earth,
A Wart upon the body of the world,
But now I am an Emp'rour of a world,
This little world of Man. My passions are
My Subiects, and I can command them laugh,
Whilst thou dost tickle 'em to death with miserie. Seba .
'Tis brauely spoken and I loue thee for 't. Thou liest here for a thousand crownes. Here are a thousand to redeeme thee. Not for the ransome o' my life thou gau'st mee, — That I value not at one crowne — 'Tis none o' my deed. Thanke my Father for 't. 'Tis his goodnesse. Yet hee lookes not for thankes. For he does it under hand, out of a reseru'd disposition to doe thee good without ostentation. — Out o' great heart you'l refuse 't now; will you? Charl .
No. Since I must submit my selfe to Fate
I neuer will neglect the offer of
One benefit, but entertaine them as
Her fauours and th' inductions to some end
Of better fortune. As whose instrument,
I thanke thy courtesie. Seba .
Well, come along.
I graunt thee, Heauen, thy goodnesse doth command
Our punishments, but yet no further then
The measure of our sinnes. How should they else
Be iust? Or how should that good purpose of
Thy Justice take effect by bounding men
Within the confines of humanitie,
When our afflictions doe exceede our crimes?
Then they doe rather teach the barb'rous world.
Examples that extend her cruelties
Beyond their owne dimentions, and instruct
Our actions to be much more barbarous.
O my afflicted soule! How torment swells
Thy apprehension with prophane conceipt,
Against the sacred justice of my God!
Our owne constructions are the authors of
Our miserie. We neuer measure our
Conditions but with Men aboue us in
Estate. So while our Spirits labour to
Be higher then our fortunes, th' are more base.
Since all those attributes which make men seeme
Superiour to us, are Man's subjects and
Were made to serue him. The repining Man
Is of a seruile spirit to deiect
The value of himselfe below their estimation.
Enter S EBASTIAN with the Keeper . Seba .
Here. Take my sword. — How now, my wilde Swag'rer? Y'are tame enough now, are you not? The penurie of a prison is like a soft consumption. 'Twill humble the pride o' your mortalitie, and arme your soule in compleate patience to endure the weight of affliction without feeling it. What, hast no musicke in thee? Th' hast trebles and bases enough. Treble injurie and base usage. But trebles and bases make Poore musick without meanes. Thou want'st Meanes, dost? What? Dost droope? art deiected? Charl .
No, Sir. I haue a heart aboue the reach
Of thy most violent maliciousnesse;
A fortitude in scorne of thy contempt
(Since Fate is pleas'd to haue me suffer it)
That can beare more then thou has power t' inflict.
I was a Baron. That thy Father has
Depriu'd me of. In stead of that I am
Created King. I'ue lost a Signiorie
That was confin'd within a piece of earth,
A Wart upon the body of the world,
But now I am an Emp'rour of a world,
This little world of Man. My passions are
My Subiects, and I can command them laugh,
Whilst thou dost tickle 'em to death with miserie. Seba .
'Tis brauely spoken and I loue thee for 't. Thou liest here for a thousand crownes. Here are a thousand to redeeme thee. Not for the ransome o' my life thou gau'st mee, — That I value not at one crowne — 'Tis none o' my deed. Thanke my Father for 't. 'Tis his goodnesse. Yet hee lookes not for thankes. For he does it under hand, out of a reseru'd disposition to doe thee good without ostentation. — Out o' great heart you'l refuse 't now; will you? Charl .
No. Since I must submit my selfe to Fate
I neuer will neglect the offer of
One benefit, but entertaine them as
Her fauours and th' inductions to some end
Of better fortune. As whose instrument,
I thanke thy courtesie. Seba .
Well, come along.
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