The tragedy of Thierry King of France, and his brother Theodoret As it was diuerse times acted at the Blacke-Friers by the Kings Maiesties Seruants.

Act. 1. Scoe. 1.

Enter Theodoret, Brunhalt, Bawdbor.

BRVNHALT.

TAxe me with these hot tainters?

Theodoret.

You are too sudaine; I doe but gently tell you what becomes you, And what may bend your honor! how these courses Of loose and lazie pleasures; not suspected But done and knowne, your minde that grants no limit And all your Actions followes, which loose people That see but through a mist of circumstance Dare tearme ambitious; all your wayes hide sores Opening in the end to nothing but vlcers. Your instruments like these may call the world And with a fearefull clamour, to examine Why, and to what wee gouerne. From example If not for vertues sake yee may be honest: There haue beene great ones, good ones, and 'tis necessary Because you are your selfe, and by your selfe

A selfe-peece from the touch of power and Iustice, You should commaund your selfe, you may imagine Which cozens all the world, but chiefly women. The name of greatnesse glorifies your actions And strong power like a pent-house, promises To shade you from opinion; take heede mother, And let vs all take heede, these most abuse vs The sinnes we doe, people behold through opticks, Which shewes vm ten times more then common vices, And often multiplyes vm: then what iustice Dare we inflict vpon the weake offenders When we are theeues our selues?

Brun,

This is, Martell, Studied and pend vnto you, whose base person I charge you by the loue you owe a mother And as you hope for blessings from her prayers, Neither to giue beliefe to, nor allowance. Next I tell you Sir, you from whom obedience Is so farre fled, that you dare taxe a mother; Nay further, brand her honour with your slanders, And breake into the treasures of her credit, Your easinesse is abused, your faith fraited With lyes, malitious lyes, your merchant mischiefe, He that neuer knew more trade then Tales, and tumbling Suspitious into honest harts; what you or hee, Or all the world dare lay vpon my worth, This for your poore opinions: I am shee, And so will beare my selfe, whose trueth and whitenesse Shall euer stand as far from these detections As you from dutie; get you better seruants, People of honest actions without ends, And whip these knaues away, they eate your fauours, And turne em vnto poysons: my knowne credite Whom all the Courts a this side Nile haue enuied, And happy shee could site mee, brought in question Now in my houres of age and reuerence,

VVhen rather superstition should be rendered, And by a Rush that one dayes warmth Hath shot vp to this swelling; giue me iustice, VVhich is his life.

Theod.

This is an impudence, And he must tell you, that till now mother Brought yee a sonnes obedience, and now breakes it Aboue the sufferance of a sonne.

Bawd.

Blesse vs! For I doe now begin to feele my selfe Turning into a halter, and the ladder Turning from me, one pulling at my legs too.

Theod.

These trueths are no mans tales, but all mens trobles, They are, though your strange greatnesse would out stare v'm: VVitnesse the daily Libels, almost Ballads In euery place, almost in euery Prouince, Are made vpon your lust, Tauerne discourses, Crowds cram'd with whisperes; Nay, the holy Temples Are not without your curses: Now you would blush, But your blacke tainted blood dare not appeare For feare I should fright that too.

Brun.

O yee gods!

Theod.

Doe not abuse their names: they see your actions, And your conceald sinnes, though you worke like Moles, Lyes leuell to their iustice.

Brun.

Art thou a sonne?

Theod.

The more my shame is of so bad a mother, And more your wretchednesse you let me bee so; But woman, for a mothers name hath left me Since you haue left your honour; mend these ruines, And build againe that broken fame, and fairely; Your most intemperate fiers haue burnt, and quickly VVithin these ten dayes take a Monasterie, A most strickt house, a house where none may whisper, VVhere no more light is knowne but what may make yee Beleeue there is a day where no hope dwels, Nor comfort but in teares

Brun.

O miserie!

Theod.

And there to cold repentance, and starud penance Tye your succeeding dayes; or curse me heauen If all your guilded knaues, brokers, and bedders, Euen he you built from nothing, strong Portalyde, Be not made ambling Geldings; all your maydes, If that name doe not shame vm, fed with spunges To sucke away their rancknesse; and your selfe Onely to emptie Pictures and dead Arras Offer your olde desires.

Brun.

I will not curse you, Nor lay a prophesie vpon your pride, Though heauen might grant me both: vnthankefull, no, I nourishd yee, twas I, poore I groand for you, Twas I felt what you sufferd, I lamented When sicknesse or sad houres held back your sweetnes; Twas I payd for your sleepes, I watch your wakings: My dayly cares and feares, that rid, plaid, walkt, Discoursd, discouerd, fed and fashiond you To what you are, and am I thus rewarded?

Theod.

But that I know these teares I could dote on em. And knecle to catch vm as they fall, then knit vm Into an Armlet, euer to be honourd; But woman, they are dangerous drops, deceitfuil, Full of the weeper, anger, and ill nature.

Brun.

In my last houres despisd.

Theod.

That Text should tell, How vgly it becomes you to erre thus; Your flames are spent, nothing but smoake maintaines ye, And those your fauour and your bounty suffers Lye not with you, they doe but lay lust on you, And then imbrace you as they caught a palsie; Your power they may loue, and like spanish Iennetts Commit with such a gust.

Bawd.

I would take whipping, And pay a Fine now.

Exit Bawdber.

Theod.

But were yee once disgraced,

Or fallen in wealth, like leaues they would flie from you, And become browse for euery beast; you will'd me To stocke my selfe with better friends, and seruants; With what face dare you see mee, or any mankind, That keepe a race of such vnheard of relicks, Bawds, Leachers, Letchecs, femall fornications, And children in their rudiments to vices, Old men to shew examples: and lest Art Should loose her selfe in act, to call backe custome, Leaue these, and liue like

Niobe.

I told you how And when your eyes haue dropt away remembrance Of what you were. I am your sonne! performe it.

Brun.

Am I a woman, and no more power in me, To tie this Tyger vp, a soule to no end, Haue I got shame and lost my will; Brunhalt From this accursed houre, forget thou bor'st him, Or any part of thy blood gaue him liuing, Let him be to thee, an Antipathy, A thing thy nature sweates at, and turnes backward: Throw all the mischiefes on him that thy selfe Or women worse then thou art, haue inuented, And kill him drunke, or doubtfull.

Enter Bawdber, Protaldye, Lecure.

Baw.

Such a sweate, I neuer was in yet, clipt of my minstrells, My toyes to pricke vp wenches withall; vphold me, It runnes like snowballs through me.

Brun.

Now my varlets, My slaues, my running thoughts, my executions.

Baw.

Lord how shee lookes!

Brun.

Hell take yce all.

Baw.

Wee shall bee gelt.

Brun.

Your Mistresse, Your old and honord Mistresse, you tyr'd curtalls Suffers for your base sinnes; I must be cloyster'd, Mew'd vp to make me vertuous, who can helpe this, Now you stand still like Statues; come Protaldye,

One kisse before I perish, kisse me strongly, Another, and a third.

Lecure.

I feare not gelding As long as she holds this way.

Brun.

The young courser, That vnlickt lumpe of mine, will win thy Mistris, Must I be chast Protaldye?

Prot.

Thus and thus Lady:

Brun.

It shall be so, let him seeke fooles for Vestalls, Here is my cloister.

Lecure.

But what safety Madam Finde you in staying here?

Brun.

Thou hast hit my meaning, I will to Thierry sonne of my blessing, And there complaine me, tell my tale so subtilly That the cold stones shall sweat; and statues mourne, And thou shalt weepe Protaldie in my witnesse, And there forsweare.

Bawd.

Yes, any thing but gelding, I am not yet in quiet Noble Lady, Let it be done to night, for without doubt Tomorrow we are capons.

Brun.

Sleepe shall not sease me, Nor any foode befriend me but thy kisses. E're I forsake this desart, I liue honest? He may as well bid dead men walke, I humbled Or bent below my power? let night dogs teare me, And goblines ride me in my sleepe to Ielly, Ere I forsake my spheare.

Lecure.

This place you will.

Brun.

What's that to you, or any, Yee dosse, you powdered pigsbones, rubarbe glister? Must you know my designes, a colledge on you, The prouerbe makes but fooles:

Prota.

But Noble Lady.

Brun.

You a sawsie asse too, off I will not, If you but anger me, tell a sowgelder

Haue cut you all like colts, hold me and kisse me, For I am too much troubled make vp my treasure, And get me horses priuate, come about it.

Exeunt.