Five nevv playes, viz. The English moor, or the mock-marriage. The love-sick court, or the ambitious politique: Covent Garden weeded. The nevv academy, or the nevv exchange. The queen and concubine. / By Richard Brome.

ACT 2. SCENE 3.

Dionysia. Rafe.

Dio.

Thou tell'st me things, that truth never came near.

Ra.

Tis perfect truth: you may believe it. Lady.

Dio.

Maintain't but in one fillable more, Ile tear Thy mischievious tongue out.

Ra.

Fit reward for Tell-troths. But that's not the reward you promis'd me

For watching of your brothers actions; You said forsooth (if't please you to remember) That you would love me for it.

Dio.

Arrogant Rascal. I bad thee bring account of what he did Against his enemy; and thou reportst. He took his enemies danger on himself, And help't to rescue him whose bloody father Kild ours. Can truth or common reason claim A part in this report? My brother doe't! Or draw a sword to help Theophilus.

Ra.

Tis not for any spight I ow my Master, But for my itch at her that I do this. I am strangely taken. Such brave spirited women Have cherish'd strong back'd servingmen ere now.

Dio.

Why dost not get thee from my sight, false fellow?

Ra.

Ile be believed first. Therefore pray have patience To peruse that.

gives her a paper.

Dio.

My brothers charecter! Theophilus sisters name—The brighter Lucy So often written? nothing but her name— But change of attributes—one serves not twice. Blessed, divine, Illustrious, all perfection; And (so heaven bless me) powerful in one place. The worst thing I read yet, heap of all vertues— Bright shining, and all these ascrib'd to Lucy. O I could curse thee now for being so just Would thou had'st belied him still.

Ra.

I nere belied him, I.

Dio.

O mischief of affection! Monstrous! horrid. It shall not pass so quietly. Nay stay.

Ra.

Shee'l cut my throat I fear.

Dio.

Thou art a faithful servant.

Ra.

It may do yet: To you I am sweet Lady, and to my master In true construction: he is his friend I think

That finds his follies out to have them cur'd, Which you have onely the true spirit to do.

Dio.

How I do love thee now!

Ra.

And your love Mistress, (Brave sprightly Mistress) is the steeple top Or rather Weathercock o'top of that To which aspires my lifes ambition.

Dio.

How didst thou get this paper.

Ra.

Amongst many Of his rare twelve-moneths melancholy works, That lie in's study. Mistress tis apparent His melancholy all this while has been More for her Love, then for his fathers death.

Dio.

Thou hast my love for ever.

Ra.

Some small token In earnest of it. Mistress, would be felt,

He offers to kiss her, she strikes him.

Dio.

Take that in earnest then.

Ra.

It is a sure one. And the most feeling pledge she could have given: For she is a virago. And I have read That your viragoes use to strike all those They mean to lie with: And from thence tis taken That your brave active women are call'd strikers.

Dio.

Set me that chair.

Ra.

The warm touch of my flesh Already works in her. I shall be set To better work immediately. I am prevented. A way and be not seen. Be sure I love thee.

Enter Arthur.

Ra.

A ha! This clinches. Another time I'm, sure on'c.

Exit.

Ar.

Sister! where are you? How now! not well or

(She sits.

Dio.

Sick brother—sick at heart, oh—(sleepy.

Ar.

Passion of heart! where are our servants now To run for doctors? ho—

Dio.

Pray stay and hear me. Her's no work for them. They'l find a master here Too powerful for the strength of all their knowledge.

Ar.

What at thy heart?

Dio.

Yes, brother, at my heart. Too scornful to be dispossest by them.

Ar.

What may that proud grief be? good sister name it.

Dio.

It grieves me more to name it, then to suffer't. Since I have endur'd the worst on't, and prov'd constant To sufferance and silence, twere a weakness Now to betray a sorrow, by a name, More fit to be severely felt then known.

Ar.

Indeed I'le know it.

Dio.

Rather let me die, Then so afflict your understanding, Sir.

Ar.

It shall not afflict me.

Dio.

I know you'l chide me for't.

Ar.

Indeed you wrong me now. Can I chide you?

Dio.

If you be true and honest you must do't, And hartily.

Ar.

You tax me nearly there.

Dio.

And that's the physick must help me or nothing:

Ar.

With grief I go about to cure a grief then. Now speak it boldly, Sister.

Dio.

Noble Physitian—It is—

Ar.

It is! what is it? If you love me, speak.

Dio.

Tis—love and I beseech thee spare me not.

Ar.

Alas dear sister, canst thou think that love Deserves a chiding in a gentle breast?

Dio.

Do you pitty me already. O faint man That tremblest but at opening of a wound! What hope is there of thee to search and dress it? But I am in thy hands, and forc'd to try thee. I love—Theophilus—

Ar.

Ha!

Dio.

Theophilus, brother; His son that slew our father. Ther's a love! O more then time 'twere look'd, for fear it festers.

Ar.

S••e has put me to't indeed. What must I do?

She has a violent spirit; so has he; And though I wish most seriously the match, Whereby to work mine own with his fair Sister, The danger yet, in the negotiation May quite destroy my course; spoyle all my hopes. Ile therefore put her off on't if I can.

Dio.

Can you be tender now?

Ar.

What! To undo you? I love you not so slightly. Pardon me. A rough hand must be us'd: For here's a wound Must not be gently touch'd; you perish then, Under a Brothers pitty. Pray sit quiet; For you must suffer all.

Dio.

I'le strive to do it.

Ar.

To love the Son of him that slew your Father! To say it shews unlovingness of nature; Forgetfulness in blood, were all but shallow To the great depth of danger your fault stands in. It rather justifies the act it self, And commends that down to posterity By your blood-cherishing embraces. Children, Born of your body, will, instead of tears, By your example, offer a thankful joy To the sad memory of their Gransiers slaughter. Quite contrary! How fearful 'tis to think on't! What may the world say too? There goes a daughter, Whose strange desire leap'd from her Fathers ruine; Death gave her to the Bride-groom; and the marriage Knit fast and cemented with blood. O Sister—

Dio.

O Brother.

Ar.

How! Well? And so quickly cur'd?

Dio.

Dissembler; foul dissembler.

Ar.

This is plain.

Dio.

Th'hast play'd with fire; and like a cunning fel∣low Bit in thy pain o'purpose to deceive Anothers tender touch. I know thy heart weeps

For what't has spoke against. Thou that darst love The daughter of that Feind that slew thy father, And plead against thy cause! unfeeling man, Can not thy own words melt thee? To that end I wrought and rais'd'em: 'T was to win thy health, That I was sick; I play'd thy disease to thee, That thou mightst see the loath'd complection on't, Far truer in another then ones self. And, if thou canst, after all this, tread wickedly, Thou art a Rebel to all natural love, And filial duty; dead to all just councel: And every word thou mock'dst with vehemence Will rise a wounded father in thy conscience, To scourge thy Judgement. There's thy Saint crost out, And all thy memory with her. I'le nere trust

She tears & throws the paper to him.

Revenge again with thee (so false is man∣hood) But take it now into mine own powerfully, And see what I can do with my life's hazard; Your purpose shall nere thrive. There I'le make sure work.

Exit.

Ar.

How wise and cunning is a womans malice; I never was so cozened.

Exit.