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I'm in Arrears yet unto your Grace.
A Widows entertainment Sir, you please to honour.
I wish the hours but short that brings the Night
you are to lose that Name in; And then, to what Length your own desires woo'd spin um: Widow, Madam? Ther's disconsonancy in the Name, me thinks: Claudilla Widow? Dutchesse, and still Widow (like a Cypresse cast or'e a bed of Lillies) darkens your other Titles; 'Tis a weed in your Garden, and will spoil the Youth and beauty it grows nigh: A word of Mortality, or a Memento Mori, to all Young Ladies: And a Passing Bell to Old ones: Indeed, it is a meer Privation; and all Widows are in the state of Out-lawes, till Married again.
Your Highness holds a merry opinion of us Poor Widows.
I say Virgins are the Ore; Widows the Gold try'd, and Refin'd.
A Fair young Lady and Widow, is A rich piece of Stuff Rumpled: An Old one's A blotting Paper: A Man shall never write any thing on, she sinks so. Dessandro? your Comment.
Friend, you are dull oth' sudden.
He is not well.
Not well, Sir?
Not well Madam.
Dull? Shall's to Tennis? I have sore Pissollets will pay your borrowed time, Dessandro.
Your Pardon Sir; I am unfit to wait on you; My life hangs in a Dew upon me; And I have drunk Poison.
Ha? A Physician with all speed; Dessandro?
Dear Sir?
Cleara? Lend me thy hand—So— I'm struck upon a Rock.—
He's dead; I shall not overtake him.
Look to the Lady.
He swells like a stopt Torrent, or a Teeming Cloud;
Have I no Servants there?—
What a sudden storm is fall'n?
How fares the Lady?
Madam?
As you are tender Natur'd, let no hand Close his eyes but mine: I am come back thus far to take my farewel on his cold Lip.
Sister, Let thy warm blood flow back: Thy Dessandro lives, my Girle.
Oh! may I not see him?
You shall.
Give me leave to make this opportunity happy on your hand: How? Not vouchsafe it?
What a Tyranny shot from her scornful eye? Where have I lost my self and her? There's a crosse, and Peevish Genius haunts my Hopes; A Black and envious Cloud; and I must get above it; Not kisse your hand? Is your blood surfeited? I'le quit this scorn: Indeed, I will, Coy Madam: Thou, that art Lord of my proud Horoscope; Great Soul of Mysteries; kindle my brain with thy immortal fires— That if I fall, my Name may Rise Divine, So Casar's Glory set, and so set Mine.—
Brave Canary; Intelligent Canary, that does refresh our weak and mortal bodies; I will have thee Canoniz'd Saint Canary, at my own Charge: And call my eldest Son Canary: Yet for a man to love thee at his own Cost is damnable, very Damnable, and I defie it— And Siss is the blithest Lasse in our Town For she sells Ale by the Pound and the Dozen; Ale? hang Ale.
By your Worships leave, I wou'd speak with
Seign'or Silliman, the Dutchesse Steward, an't like ye.
Wou'd you speak with Seignior Silliman, an't like ye?
Please God, and your Worship, an't like ye.
In what Language wou'd you speak with him—
Yes verily, I wou'd speak with him, an't like ye.
At what Posture?
Marry from a friend, an't like ye.
Very good, my friend: Didst ever say thy
Prayers in the Canary tongue?
My Prayers, an't like ye? Your Worship's dispos'd to be merry: I have a Wife and seven small Children, an't like ye, to wind, and turn, as they say, simple as your Worship sees me here, an't like ye.
Pox a Wives; I'le not give a Gazet for thy wife; she's tough, and too much Powder'd: Fetch me thy Daughter, thy youngest Daughter, Sirrah, If the Creature be a Virgin and desirable: Look ye! There's money to buy her Clean Linen: I'le have a Bath of rich Carnary, and Venus milk, where we will bath, and swim together, like so many Swans, and then be Call'd Seignior Jupiter Sillimano. But is she Mans meat? I have a tender Appetite, and can scarcely digest one in her Teens.
Do's your worship think I wou'd be a Judas, an't like ye? She's as neat a Girle, and as Tite at her businesse as the back of your hand, an't like ye: But Heaven blesse ye, and Cry ye mercy: If you be his Worship here's a Letter from the Lady De Prate, an't like ye.
The Lady De Prate (mark me Sirrah) is a Noble Lady; we say so.—
I never knew what Bondage was till now, I fear the Gilded Hart you sent me was inchanted—(oh—oh) I long to see you— —(hum—hum) therefore let me have the happinesse to know the Place and Time—(even so) as you love her that blushes to write this—
Yes, yes, I'le Inchant ye: I'le Time and Place ye: Surely, there's something more about me, then I can perceive: Grant that I may bear my Fate discreetly: I never knew what Bondage was—
till now: Well; 'Tis Heavens Goodnesse: For what am I silly wretch, to such a Lady as she that writes so pitifully unto me: It wou'd over-come e'en a heart
of Flint: Good Gentlewoman— As you love her that blushes to write this—
hum—yes, yes; she knows I love her: It will work—I can't contain my good nature.—
Here he is, and stands like a Map of sundry Countries.
One wou'd take him for some forraign beast, and that Fellow to shew him; how the Gander Ruffles and Prunes himself, as if he would tread the Goose by him?
'Tis a pure Goat.
And will clamber a Pyramide in sent of's Female.
The Wenches sware he kisses like a Giant still, and will ride his heats as Cleanly, as a dieted Gelding: Let's fall in: Seignior Silliman! My best wishes kisse your hand.
Continue me worthy the Title of your Servant Sir.
I am very glad to see you well, and hope you are in good health, and sound Gentlemen.
And when shall's draw Cutts again for a Wench, Seignior, hah?
Your pleasure to say so.
The Slave's rose drunk, o' my life.
Please you to take Notice of my worthy Friend here.
Your Admirer, Sir.
Slave to your Sedan, Sir.
God blesse the good Dutchess, and all that love the King, I say Gentlemen, an't like ye.
Pray Sir, what News abroad, or at Court?
News, quoth a? Indeed Sir, the truth is, I am a
Shooemaker by my Trade; My Name is Latchet; And I work to some Ladies in the House here, though I say't my self; And yet the Times were never harder, nor Leather dearer.
This winter will make amends; you shall have horse hides cheap; horse hides, dog cheap.
Cheap? quoth a; Why Sir, I'le tell you (for you look like a very honest Gentleman) I am put to finde a Pike my self; and must, the Parish swears, or lose all the Shooes in my Shop.
'Tis very brave: Why you look like a Champion And have a Face, the Parish may Confide in.
Fide? quoth a; Sir; be Judge your self, if ever you knew the like: I have been at the Trade this forty years, off and on: and those Childrens shooes I have sold for six pence, or a groat, upon some occasion, we now sell for twelve pence, as they say.
Then the misery is, you get the mo••e.
More? quoth a; Pray Sir a word? you are a Courtier, if I may be so bold: They say we must all be fain to shut up shop, and mortgage our Wives to the Souldiers: D' ye hear any such talk, Sir?
Some buzzing: but the blades will not accept'um without special articles, and a stock of money, and plate to keep the babies they shall beget valiant.
Valiant? quoth a; Truly Sir, I'le tell ye, on the truth of a poor man: My Lady De Prates foot is but of the sixes; and yet we pay five Pistols A Dicker.
My Ladies foot but oth' sixes? you lye Sirrah; By Saint Hugh, there's never a Lady ith' Land has a Prettier Foot and Leg, if you ha not spoil'd um with your Calves skin, Sirrah.
Why? the sixes is a good han'som size for a Lady.
Lady? quoth a; my life for hers, there's few Ladies ith' Court goes more upright: Nor payes better, I'le say that.
You say that? Foh; I scorn to wear an inch of leather thy Nasty flesh shall handle.
Oh, your worthy friend, Signior; and an elder in's parish; A Pike-man too, for the Republique: Come, come, A shall be Shoomaker to us all: Canst trust?
Trust? quoth a; My Name's Latchet, Sir, I serv'd Eleven years to my Vocation, before I could be free: and have drank many a good bowl of Beerith' Dutchesses Cellar, since that.
I like a man can answer so punctually to a thing,
Thing? quoth a; It is our Trade, Sir.
Spoke like the Warden of the Company.
I am at extremity of wonder.
The story may deserve it Lady, when you shall Cast your thoughts upon the Man it Treats on, the Circumstances, and progresse of my Love: Nay, it may raise your Anger bigher than your wonder, and work the modest pantings of your breast into a Hectique Rage: I saw this tempest gather'd in a Cloud dismal and black, ready to break its wombe in stormes upon me: And I have cast my Soul on every Frown and horror you can arm your passion with: I have held conflict with the wilder Guilt and tremblings of my blood to rescue it: But Heaven, and my angry Fate, has thrown me groveling at your feet: And I want soul to break the Charm.
This is a strange Mystery, to betray my virtue with your own, and I shall sin to hear it.
If pity be a sin, lock up those beauties from the view of men, or they will damn all the eyes that look upon you.
Has your blood lost all the virtue it should inherit? And think you by this treacherous siege to take my Honour in? Let me shun you, or you will talk me Leperous.
Do Madam—
Tear up the wounds your eyes have made— Ile keep them bleeding Sacrifices to your Cruelty; And when cold death has cast his gloomy shade o're this dust, perhaps you may bestow one gentle sigh to hallow it; when you shall know The height of my desires was but to dye worthy of your pardon, without the ambition of a bolder thought; And still had scorch'd, and smother'd here without a Tongue, only to beg your mercy to my Grave.
Play not your self into a shame will rust your brightest worths, and hide your Dust in Curses, and black Fame: I now shall think your valour Flatter'd, that can sink it to such effeminate and Love sick Crafts for our stale Women to mollifie the Usher with. Dessandro has a Fame, high and active as the voice it Flies on: And could you wander from your religious self in such a Dream as this? Cleara's virtue has an Interest neer your heart should wake you to your first man again.
Cleara still is here in the first Sculpture of her virtues, and I their honourer.
No more!— My grief and shame are passionate to find so much bad man, got neer your heart, and shew this sick Complexion in your honour, more tainted then the Face of your Imposture— you have plaid the excellent counterfeit, and your skill does make you proud, you cannot blush.—
She's gone;— A Star shot from her eye, and lightned through my blood: I must provide for Thunder, and thy Revenge De Flame, as horrid as thought can shape it.
Sir?
Proud Love? I'll meet thee with burning sighes and bleeding Turtles at thy shrine.
This is too bold a hazzard for your health, which yet sits wan and troubled on your Cheek.
Madam?
Indeed I'll chide ye.
Oh, Cry ye mercy;—some retired meditations.
I shall observe 'um, Let me but leave you with the Joy to know I stand not in the hazzard of that Frown.
We'll kisse next time.
Sir?
Or never.
Ha? de'e know me?
So well, me thinks we should not part so soon: our hearts have been more ceremonious, and hung in panting sighs upon our Lips to bid adieu: one kisse must now summe up all, and seal their General Release: I know Cleara more constant to her virtue, and brave mind, then to ask heaven idle questions—'Tis Fate, not Will—
So— I feel thy Marble hand lye here: 'Tis cold and heavy: how my poor heart throbs under it, and struggles to find Air? Not one kind sigh lend thee a gale for yonder haven?—It's gone— Quite vanisht—beshrew me, it was a most horrible apparition, I wou'd not see it again in such a cruel look for all my hopes; yet it held me gently by the hand, and left a warm farewell there, as my Dessandro us'd: As my Dessandro? said I? oh! how fain my hopes would mock my apprehension; and that my sorrow? I'le woe thy pity with my Groans kind earth, and lay my throbbing breast to thine until I am dissolv'd into a Spring, whose Murmures shall eternally repeat this Minutes story.
Ha?—
drown'd in her own Tears? Sister? Cleara?
I had a gentle slumber; and all the world (me thought) was in •• midnight Calm.
Dear Girl. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 up those sad eyes & my cold doubts. Prethee tell me, is our Dessandro dead?
Heaven defend.
Not? what then in all the volumes of black destiny and nature, can throw you into this posture?— Unkind Cleara; why dost dissemble it? I see him breathlesse on thy Cheek, and lost.
Lost for ever.
My fears did prompt me so; For ever?— there's horrour and amazement in the thought: See Cleara; my eyes can over-take thee: Gone at so short a farewel friend? Death, thou art the murderer of all our joyes and hopes.
Sir, Dessandro's well; very well; we parted even but now.
What?
Oh Brother? I have lost a jewell that he gave me and I shall vex my eyes out.
Beshrew this serious folly: you have vext my blood into a sullen fit.
You shall not chide me— Tell me? didst ever in thy life meet with a Grief that made thy poor heart sick, and did divide thy sleeps and hours into groans and sighs?
Never; thank my indifferent Fate.
Nor in the Legend of some Injur'd Maid that made thine eye to pause, and with a Tear bedew it.
I cannot untie Ridled knots, Cleara.
Come; I'le but dry mine eyes, and tell you a story that shall deserve a groan.—