Classic Poem

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Room in sir John Belfare's House .

Enter BELFARE , and ISAAC his man; Servants pass
over the stage with provision .

Bel. Well done, my masters, you bestir yourselves; I see we shall feast to-morrow.
Ser. Your worship shall want no woodcocks at the wedding.
Isaac . Thou hast as many a thou canst carry, and thirteen to the last dozen.
Bel. Isaac.
Isaac . Sir.
Bel. Have you been careful to invite those friends you had direction for?
Isaac . Yes, sir; I have been a continual motion ever since I rose. I have not said my prayers to day.
Bel. We shall want no guests then.
Isaac . I have commanded most o'them.
Bel. How, sir?
Isaac . I have bid them, sir; there is two in my list will not fail to dine with you.
Bel. Who are they?
Isaac . Master Rawbone, the young usurer, —
Bel. Oh, he is reported a good trencher-man, he has a tall stomach; he shall be welcome.
Isaac . They say, he has made an Obligation to the devil; if ever he eat a good meal at his own charge, his soul is forfeit.
Bel. How does he live?
Isaac . Upon his money, sir.
Bel. He does not eat it?
Isaac . No, the devil choak him! it were a golden age if all the usurers in London should have no other diet: he has a thin-gut waits upon him, I think one of his bastards, begot upon a spider; I hope to live to see them both drawn through a ring.
Bel. Who is the other?
Isaac . The other may be known, too, the barrel of Heidelberg was the pattern of his belly; master Lodam, sir.
Bel. He is a great man, indeed.
Isaac . Something given to the waist, for he lives within no reasonable compass, I am sure.
Bel. They will be well met.
Isaac . But very ill match'd to draw a coach; yet at provender there will be scarce an oat between the lean jade and the fat gelding.
Bel. How lives he?
Isaac . Religiously, sir; for he that feeds well must by consequence live well: he holds none can be damn'd but lean men; for fat men, he says, must needs be saved by the faith of their body.

Enter BEAUFORD and captain LANDBY .

Bel. Master Beauford and captain Landby! — Isaac, call forth my daughter.
Beau. Sir John, I hope you make no stranger of me:
To-morrow I shall change my title for
Your son, soon as the holy rites shall make me
The happy husband to your daughter; in the mean time
It will become me wait on her.
Bel. I possess nothing but in trust for thee;
Gratiana makes all thine.
Capt. L . I shall presume to follow.
Bel. Your friendship, noble captain, to master Beauford, makes your person most welcome, had you no other merit; pray enter. — [ Exeunt Beauford and Landby .] — Heaven hath already crowned my gray hairs! I live to see my daughter married to a noble husband, the envy of our time, and exact pattern of a gentleman, as hopeful as the spring: I am grown proud, even in my age.

SCENE II.

The Street before Belfare's House .

Enter ISAAC , followed by MARWOOD .

Mar. Dost hear, sirrah?
Isaac . Ay, sirrah.
Mar. Is master Beauford within?
Isaac . No, sir.
Mar. I was inform'd he came hither; is he not here?
Isaac. Yes, sir.
Mar. Thou say'st he's not within.
Isaac . No, sir; but 'tis very like he will be tomorrow night, sir.
Mar. How is this?
Isaac . Would you have him within before he is married?
Mar. Witty groom! Prithee invite him forth; say here's a friend.
Isaac . Now you talk of inviting, I have two or three guests to invite yet; let me see.
Mar. Why dost not move?
Isaac . An you make much ado, I'll invite you: pray come to the wedding, to-morrow.

Re-enter BELFARE , BEAUFORD , and captain LANDBY .

Bel. 'Tis he.
Beau. You were my happy prospect from the window, coz, — you are a most welcome guest.
Bel. Master Marwood, you have been a great stranger to the city, or my house, for the coarse entertainment you received, hath been unworthy of your visit.
Mar. 'Twas much above my desert, sir: captain —
Capt. L. I congratulate your return.
Bel. Beauford, gentlemen, enter my house, and perfect your embraces there: I lead the way.
Beau. Pray follow.
Mar. Your pardon.
Capt. L. We know you have other habit,
You were not wont to affect ceremony.
Beau. How?
Capt. L. I do not like his present countenance, it does threaten somewhat; I would not prophesy.
Beau. Good captain,
Excuse my absence to our friends within;
I have affairs concern me with my kinsman,
Which done, we'll both return to wait on them.
Capt. L. I shall, sir.
Beau. Now proceed.
Mar. We are kinsmen.
Beau. More, we are friends.
Mar. And shall I doubt to speak to Beauford any thing
My love directs me to?
Beau. What needs this circumstance?
We were not wont to talk at such a distance:
You appear wild.
Mar. I have been wild indeed
In my ungovern'd youth, but have reclaim'd it;
And am so laden with the memory
Of former errors, that I desire to be
Confess'd.
Beau. Confess'd! I am no ghostly father.
Mar. But you must hear; you may absolve me, too.
Beau. If thou hast any discontentments,
Prithee take other time for their discourse
I am in expectation of marriage,
And would not interrupt my joys.
Mar. I must
Require your present hearing; it concerns
Us both, as near as fame or life.
Beau. Ha! what is it?
Mar. We shall have opportunity at your lodging;
The streets are populous, and full of noise.
So please you walk, I'll wait on you.
Beau. I am your servant.

SCENE III.

A Room in justice Landby's House .

Enter justice LANDBY and MILLISCENT .

Just . L. Milliscent, where's my daughter?
Mil. In complement with master Rawbone, who is newly entered, sir.
Just. L. O, there's a piece of folly!
A thing made up of parchment; and his bonds
Are of more value than his soul and body,
Were any man the purchaser: only wise
In his hereditary trade of usury;
Understands nothing but a scrivener,
As if he were created for no use
But to grow rich with interest: to his ignorance
He has the gift of being impudent.
What will he grow to, if he live, that is
So young a monster?
Mil. With your favour, sir,
If you hold no better opinion of this citizen,
It puzzles me why you invite him to
Your house and entertainment, he pretending
Affection to your daughter: pardon me, sir,
If I seem bold.
Just. L. As some men, Milliscent,
Do suffer spiders in their chamber, while
They count them profitable vermin.
Mil. But he's most like to scatter poison, sir.
Your fame is precious; and your family,
Not mingling with corrupted streams, hath, like
An entire river, still maintain'd [its] current
Chaste and delightful.
Just. L. Shalt receive my bosom: —
I'll sooner match her with an Ethiop,
Than give consent she should disgrace our blood:
And herein I but try her strength of judgment
In giving him access; if she have lost
Remembrance of her birth, and generous thoughts
She suck'd from her dead mother, with my care
I'll strive to reinforce her native goodness,
Or quite divorce her from my blood: and, Milliscent,
I'll use your vigilance.
Mil. Sir, command.
Just. L. I will
Not urge how I receiv'd you first a stranger,
Nor the condition of your life with me,
Above the nature of a servant, to
Oblige your faith: I have observ'd thee honest.
Mil. You are full of noble thoughts.
Just. L. Though I suspect not
The obedience of my daughter, yet her youth
Is apt to err; let me employ your eye
Upon her still, and receive knowledge from you,
How she dispenseth favours; you shall bind
My love the stronger to you.
Mil. Sir, I
Shall be ambitious to deserve your favour
With all the duties of a servant: and,
I doubt not, but your daughter is so full
Of conscience, and care in the conformity
Of her desires to your will, I shall
Enrich my sight with observation,
And make my intelligence happy.

Enter CAMELION .

Just. L. How now! what's he?
Mil. 'Tis master Rawbone's squire.
Cam. Pray, is not my master's worship here?
Just. L. Your master's worship!
What's that? his spaniel?
Cam. No, sir, but a thing that does follow him.
Just. L. In what likeness?
I hope he does not converse with spirits?
Cam. He'll not entertain an angel but he will weigh him first; indeed I am all the spirits that belong to him.
Mil. So I think,
But none of his familiar.
Just. L. What's thy name?
Cam. Camelion.
Just. L. Good; didst ever eat?
Cam. Yes, once.
Just. L. And then thou caught'st a surfeit, thou couldst ne'er endure meat since: wer't ever christen'd?
Cam. Yes, twice; first, in my infancy, and the last time about a year ago, when I should have been 'prentice to an anabaptist.
Just. L. Does thy master love thee?
Cam. Yes, sir, an I would eat gold I might have it; but my stomach would better digest beef or mutton, if there be any such things in nature.
Mil. Here is his master, sir, and mistress Jane.

Enter Rawbone and JANE .

Raw. How now, Camelion! hast dined?
Cam. Yes, sir: I had a delicate fresh air to dinner.
Raw. And yet thou look'st as thou hadst eat nothing this se'nnight! here, provide me a capon, and half a dozen of pigeons to supper. — And when will your worship come home, and taste my hospitality?
Just. L. When you please, sir.
Raw. Yet, now I think on't, I must feed more sparingly.
Jane. More liberally, in my opinion.
Raw. Would not any body in the world think so? did you ever see two such ear-wigs as my man and I? do we not look alike?
Jane. I think the picture of either of your faces in a ring, with a memento mori , would be as sufficient a mortification, as lying with an anatomy.
Raw. The reason why we are so lean and consumed, is nothing but eating too much. — Camelion, now I think on't, let the pigeons alone, the capon will be enough for thee and I.
Cam. The rump will last us a se'nnight.
Raw. I'll tell you, forsooth; I have brought myself so low with a great diet, that I must be temperate, or the doctor says there's no way but one with me.
Cam. That's not the way of all flesh, I am sure.
Raw. It is a shame to say what we eat every day.
Jane. I think so.
Cam. By this hand, if it would bear an oath, we have had nothing this two days but half a lark; which, by a mischance, the cat had kill'd too, the cage being open: I will provide my belly another master.
Just. L. Now I'll interrupt them. — Master Rawbone!
Raw. I hope your worship will reprieve my boldness; 'tis out of love to your daughter.
Just. L. Sir, I have a business to you; a friend of mine, upon some necessity, would take up a hundred pounds.
Raw. I'll pawn some ounces to pleasure him.
Just. L. It is more friendly said than I expected.
Raw. So he bring me good security, some three, or four, or five sufficient and able citizens, for mortality's sake, I'll lend it him.
Just. L. Will you not take an honest man's word?
Raw. Few words to the wise: I will take any man's word to owe me a hundred pound, but not a lord's to pay me fifty.
Just. L. Well: 'tis a courtesy.
Raw. He shall pay nothing to me but lawful consideration from time to time, beside the charges of the ensealing, because he is your friend.
Just. L. This is extremity; can you require more?
Raw. More! what's eight in the hundred to me? my scrivener knows I have taken forty and fifty in the hundred ( viis et modis ) of my own kinsmen, when they were in necessity.
Just. L. I apprehend the favour. —

Enter ISAAC .

How now, Isaac?
Isaac . My master commends his love to you, sir, and does desire your presence, together with your daughter and nephew, at the arraignment of my young mistress, to-morrow.
Just. L. How, knave?
Isaac . She is to be married, or arraign'd, i' the morning, and at night to suffer execution, and lose her head.
Just. L. Return our thanks, and say we'll wait upon the bride. — Jane!
Isaac. Dear master Rawbone, I do beseech you be at these sessions.
Raw. Thou didst invite me before.
Isaac . I know it; but our cook has a great mind that sentence should likewise pass upon the roast, the boil'd, and the baked; and he fears, unless you be a commissioner, the meat will hardly be condemned to-morrow, so that I can never often enough desire your stomach to remember; you will come?
Raw. Dost think I will not keep my word?
Isaac . Alas! we have nothing but good cheer to entertain you; I beseech you, sir, howsoever, to feast with us, though you go away after dinner.
Raw. There's my hand.
Isaac . I thank you.
Raw. Is master Justice gone, and mistress Jane, too? Follow me, Camelion, I'll take my leave when I come again.
Mil. Isaac!
Isaac . My little wit, thou wilt come with thy master to-morrow; I'll reserve a bottle of wine to warm thy sconce.
Mil. I cannot promise.
Isaac . If I durst stay three minutes, I would venture a cup with thee in the buttery; but 'tis a busy time at home. — Farewell, Milliscent.
Mil. Marriage! as much joy wait upon the bride, As the remembrance of it brings me sorrow;
A woman has undone me; when I die,
A coffin will enclose this misery.

SCENE IV.

Beauford's Lodgings.

Enter BEAUFORD and MARWOOD .

Beau. You prepare me for some wonder.
Mar. I do.
And ere I come to the period of my story,
Your understanding will admire.
Beau. Teach my soul the way.
Mar. I am not, coz, i' the number of those friends
Come to congratulate your present marriage.
Beau. Ha!
Mar. I am no flatterer: the blood you carry
Doth warm my veins [,too]; yet could nature be
Forgetful, and remove itself, the love
I owe your merit, doth oblige me to
Relation of a truth, which else would fire
My bosom with concealment. I am come to
Divide your soul, [to] ravish all your pleasures,
Poison the very air maintains your breathing. —
You must not marry.
Beau. Must not? though as I
Am mortal, I may be compell'd within
A pair of minutes to turn ashes, yet
My soul, already bridegroom to her virtue,
Shall laugh at death that would unmarry us,
And call her mine eternally.
Mar. Death is
A mockery to that divorce I bring;
Come, you must not love her.
Beau. Did I hope thou couldst
Give me a reason, I would ask one.
Mar. Do not;
It will too soon arrive, and make you curse
Your knowledge: could you exchange your temper for
An angel's, at the hearing of this reason
'Twould make you passionate, and turn man again.
Beau. Can there be reason for a sin so great,
As changing my affection from Gratiana?
Name it, and teach me how to be a monster,
For I must lose humanity; oh, Marwood!
Thou lead'st me into a wilderness; she is —
Mar. False, sinful; a black soul she has.
Beau. Thou hast a hell about thee, and thy language
Speaks thee a devil, that, to blast her innocence,
Dost belch these vapours [forth]: to say thou liest,
Were to admit, thou hast but made in this
A human error, when thy sin hath aim'd
The fall of goodness. Gratiana false?
The snow shall turn a salamander first,
And dwell in fire; the air retreat, and leave
An emptiness in nature; angels be
Corrupt, and, brib'd by mortals, sell their charity.
Her innocence is such, that wert thou, Marwood,
For this offence condemn'd to lodge in flames,
It would for ever cure thy burning fever,
If with thy sorrow thou procure her shed
One tear upon thee; now, thou art lost for ever;
And arm'd thus, though with a thousand furies guarded,
I reach thy heart.
Mar. Stay, Beauford;
Since you dare be so confident of her chastity,
Hear me conclude: I bring no idle fable
Patch'd up between suspicion, and report
Of scandalous tongues; my ears were no assurance
To convince me without my eyes.
Beau. What horror!
Be more particular.
Mar. I did prophesy
That it would come to this; for I have had
A tedious struggling with my nature, but
The name of friend o'erbalanced the exception:
Forgive me, ladies, that my love to man
Hath power to make me guilty of such language,
As, with it, must betray a woman's honour.
Beau. You torture me; be brief.
Mar. Then, though it carry shame to the reporter,
Forgive me, Heaven, and witness an unwelcome
Truth.
Beau. Stay, I am too hasty for the knowledge
Of something thou prepar'st for my destruction.
May I not think what 'tis, and kill myself?
Or, at least, by degrees, with apprehending
Some strange thing done, infect my fancy with
Opinion first, and so dispose myself
To death?
I cannot; when I think of Gratiana,
I entertain a heaven: the worst, I'll hear it.
Mar. It will enlarge itself too soon; receive it: —
I have enjoy'd her.
Beau. Whom?
Mar. Gratiana, sinfully; before your love
Made her and you acquainted.
Beau. Ha! thou hast kept
Thy word; thou cam'st to poison all my comfort.
Mar. Your friendship I have preferr'd
To my own fame; and but to save you from
A lasting shipwreck, noble Beauford, think
It should have rotted here: She that will part
With virgin honour, ne'er should wed the heart.
Beau. Was ever woman good, and Gratiana
Vicious? Lost to honour? At the instant
When I expected all my harvest ripe,
The golden summer tempting me to reap
The well-grown ears, comes an impetuous storm,
Destroys an age's hope in a short minute,
And let's me live the copy of man's frailty:
Surely, some one of all the female sex
Engross'd the virtues, and, fled hence to heaven,
Left woman-kind dissemblers.
Mar. Sir, make use
Of reason; 'tis a knowledge should rejoice you,
Since it does teach you to preserve yourself.
Beau. Enjoy'd Gratiana sinfully! 'tis a sound
Able to kill with horror; it infects
The very air; I see it like a mist
Dwell round about. That I could uncreate
Myself, or be forgotten, no remembrance
That ever I lov'd woman! I have no genius
Left to instruct me — it grows late: — within! —
Wait on my kinsman to his chamber,
I shall desire your rest; pray give me leave
To think a little.
Mar. Cousin, I repent
I have been so open-breasted, since you make
This severe use on't, and afflict your mind
With womanish sorrow; I have but caution'd you
Against a danger, out of my true friendship:
Prosper me, goodness, as my ends are noble. —
Good night, collect yourself, and be a man.
Beau. And why may not a kinsman be a villain?
Perhaps he loves Gratiana; and envying
My happiness, doth now traduce her chastity.
To find this out, time will allow but narrow
Limits: his last words bad me be a man.
A man! yes, I have my soul; 't does not become
A manly resolution to be tame thus,
And give up the opinion of his mistress
For one man's accusation. — Ha! i' the morning?
Proper. Yes, Marwood, I will be a man'. —
His sword shall either make [me] past the sense
Of this affliction, or mine enforce
A truth from him: if thou be'st wrong'd, Gratiana,
I'll die thy martyr; but if false, in this
I gain to die, not live a sacrifice.