Fifty comedies and tragedies written by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, Gentlemen ; all in one volume, published by the authors original copies, the songs to each play being added.

Scena prima.

Enter Rutilio, and Arnolda.

Rut.

WHY do you grieve thus still?

Arn.

'Twould melt a Marble, And tame a Savage man, to feel my fortune.

Rut.

What fortune? I have liv'd this thirty years, And run through all these follies you call fortunes, Yet never fixt on any good and constant, But what I made my self: why should I grieve then At that I may mould any way?

Arn.

You are wide still.

Rut.

You love a Gentlewoman, a young handsom woman, I have lov'd a thosand, not so few.

Arn.

You are dispos'd.

Rut.

You hope to Marry her; 'tis a lawful calling And prettily esteem'd of, but take heed then, Take heed dear Brother of a stranger fortune Than e're you felt yet; fortune my soe is a friend to it.

Arn.

'Tis true I love, dearly, and truly love, A noble, vertuous, and most beauteous Maid, And am belov'd again.

Rut.

That's too much o' Conscience, To love all these would run me out o' my wits.

Arn.

Prethee give ear, I am to Marry her.

Rut.

Dispatch it then, and I'le go call the Piper.

Arn.

But O the wicked Custom of this Country, The barbarous, most inhumane, damned Custom.

Rut.

'Tis true, to marry is a Custom l' the world; for look you Brother, Wou'd any man stand plucking for the Ace of Harts, With one pack of Cards all dayes on's life?

Arn.

You do not Or else you purpose not to understand me.

Rut.

Proceed, I will give ear.

Arn.

They have a Custom In this most beastly Country, out upon't.

Rut.

Let's hear it first.

Arn.

That when a Maid is contracted And ready for the tye o'th' Church, the Governour, He that commands in chief, must have her Maiden-head, Or Ransom it for mony at his pleasure.

Rut.

How might a man atchieve that place? a rare Custom! An admirable rare Custom: and none excepted?

Arn.

None, none.

Rut.

The ra••er still: how could I lay about me, In this ra••e Office? are they born to it, or chosen?

Arn.

Both equal damnable.

Rut.

Me thinks both excellent, Would I were the next heir.

Arn.

To this mad fortune Am I now come, my Marriage is proclaim'd, And nothing can redeem me from this mischief.

Rut.

She s very young.

Arn.

Yes.

Rut.

And fair I dare proclaim her, Else mine ••yes fail.

Arn.

Fa•••• as the ••nd unblasted.

Rut.

I cannot blame him then, if 'twere mine own case, I would not go an Ace less.

Arn.

••ye Rutilio, Why do you make your brothers misery Your sport and game?

Rut.

There is no pastime like it.

Arn.

I look'd for your advice, your timely Counsel, How to avoid this blow, not to be mockt at, And my afflictions jeer'd.

Rut.

I tell thee Arnoldo, An thou wert my Father, as thou art but my Brother, My younger Brother too, I must be merry. And where there is a wench yet can, a young wench, A handsome wench, and sooner a good turn too, An I were to be hang'd, thus must I handle it. But you shall see Sir, I can change this habit To do you any service; advise what you please, And see with what Devotion I'le attend it? But yet me thinks, I am taken with this Custom,

Enter Charino and Zenocia.

And could pretend to th' place.

Arn.

Draw off a little; Here comes my Mistress and her Father.

Rut.

A dainty wench! Wou'd I might farm his Custom.

Char.

My dear Daughter, Now to bethink your self of new advice Will be too late, late, this timeless sorrow, No price, not prayers, can infringe the fate Your beauty hath 〈…〉〈…〉 ••ou, my best Zenocia, Be rul'd by me, a Fa•••••••• care directs ye, Look on the Count, look chearfully and sweetly; What though he have th•• power to possess ye, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 pluck your Mai•••• ••onour, and then slight ye 〈…〉〈…〉 unresistible to enjoy you; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••••et Child, so much your youth and goodness, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••auty of your soul, and Saint-like Modesty, Have won upon his mild mind, so much charm'd him, That all power laid aside, what Law allows him, Or sudden fires, kindled from those bright eyes, He sues to be your servant, fairly, nobly For ever to be tyed your faithful Husband: Consider my best child.

Zeno.

I have considered.

Char.

The blessedness that this breeds too, consider Besides your Fathers Honour, your own peace, The banishment for ever of this Custom, This base and barbarous use, for after once He has sound the happiness of holy Marriage, And what it is to grow up with one Beauty, How he will scorn and kick at such an heritage Left him by lust and lewd progenitors. All Virgins too, shall bless your name, shall Saint it, And like so many Pilgrims go to your shrine, When time has turn'd your beauty into ashes, Fill d with your pious memory.

Zeno.

Good Father Hide not that better Pill I loath to swallow In such sweet words.

Char.

The Count's a handsome Gentleman, And having him, y'are certain of a fortune, A high and noble fortune to attend you: Where if you fling your Love upon this stranger This young Arnoldo, not knowing from what place Or honourable strain of blood he is sprung, you venture All your own sweets, and my long cares to nothing, Nor are you certain of his saith; why may not that Wander as he does, every where?

Zen.

No more Sir; I must not hear, I dare not hear him wrong'd thus, Vertue is never wounded, but I suffer. 'Tis an ill Office in your age, a poor one, To judge thus weakly: and believe your self too, A weaker, to betray your innocent Daughter, To his intemp'rate, rude, and wild embraces, She hates as Heaven hates falshood.

Rut.

A good wench, She sticks close to you Sir,

Zeno.

His faith uncertain? The nobleness his vertue springs from, doubted? D'ye doubt it is day now? or when your body's perfect, Your stomach's well dispos'd, your pulse's temperate, D'ye doubt you are in health? I tell you Father, One hour of this mans goodness, this mans Nobleness Put in the Scale, against the Counts whole being, Forgive his lusts too, which are half his life, He could no more endure to hold weight with him; Arnoldo's very looks, are fair examples; His common and indifferent actions, Rules and strong ties of vertue: he has my first love, To him in sacred vow I have given this body, In him my mind inhabits.

Rut.

Good wench still.

Zeno.

And till he sting me off, as undeserving, Which I confess I am, of such a blessing, But would be loth to find it so—

Arn.

O never; Never my happy Mistress, never, never, When your poor servant lives but in your favour, One foot i'th' grave the other shall not linger. What sacrifice of thanks, what age of service, What danger, of more dreadful look than death, What willing Martyrdom to crown me constant May merit such a goodness, such a sweetness? A love so Nobly great, no power can ruine; Most blessed Maid go on, the Gods that gave this, This pure unspotted love, the Child of Heaven, In their own goodness, must preserve and save it, And raise you a reward beyond our recompence.

Zeno.

I ask but you, a pure Maid to possess, And then they have crown'd my wishes: If I fall then Go seek some better love, mine will debase you.

Rut.

A pretty innocent fool; well, Governour, Though I think well of your custom, and could wish my self For this night in your place, heartily wish it: Yet if you play not fair play and above board too, I have a foolish gin here, I say no more; I'le tell you what, and if your honours guts are not inchanted.

Arn.

I should now chide you Sir, for so declining The goodness and the grace you have ever shew'd me; And your own vertue too, in seeking rashly To violate that love Heaven has appointed, To wrest your Daughters thoughts, part that affection That both our hearts have tyed, and seek to give it

Rut.

To a wild fellow, that would weary her; A Cannibal, that feeds on the heads of Maids, Then flings their bones and bodies to the Devil, Would any man of discretion venture such a gristle, To the rude clawes of such a Cat-a-mountain? You had better tear her between two Oaks, a Town Bull Is a meer Stoick to this fellow, a grave Philosopher, And a Spanish Jennet, a most vertuous Gentleman.

Arn.

Does this seem handsome Sir?

Rut.

Though I confess

Any man would desire to have her, and by any means, At any rate too, yet that this common Hangman, That hath whipt off the heads of a thousand maids already, That he should glean the Harvest, sticks in my stomach: This Rogue breaks young wenches to the Saddle, And teaches them to stumble ever after; That he should have her? for my Brother now That is a handsome young fellow; and well thought on, And will deal tenderly in the business; Or for my self that have a reputation, And have studied the conclusions of these causes, And know the perfect manage, I'le tell you old Sir, If I should call you wise Sir, I should bely you, This thing, you study to betray your child to, This Maiden-monger. When you have done your best, And think you have fixt her in the point of honour, Who do you think you have tyed her to? a Surgeon, I must confess an excellent dissector, One that has cut up more young tender Lamb-pies—

Char.

What I spake Gentlemen, was meer compulsion, No Fathers free-will, nor did I touch your person With any edge of spight; or strain your loves With any base, or hir'd perswasions; Witness these tears, how well I wisht your fortunes.

Exit.

Rut.

There's some grace in thee yet, you are determined To marry this Count, Lady.

Zen.

Marry him Rutilio?

Rut.

Marry him, and lye with him I mean.

Zen.

You cannot mean that, If you be a true Gentleman, you dare not, The Brother to this man, and one that loves him; I'le marry the Devil first.

Rut.

A better choice And lay his horns by, a handsomer bed-fellow, A cooler o' my conscience.

Arn.

Pray let me ask you; And my dear Mistris, be not angry with me For what I shall propound, I am confident, No promise, nor no power, can force your love, I mean in way of marriage, never stir you, Nor to forget my faith, no state can wound you. But for this Custom, which this wretched country Hath wrought into a law, and must be satisfied; Where all the pleas of honour are but laught at, And modesty regarded as a may-game, What shall be here considered? power we have none, To make resistance, nor policie to cross it: 'Tis held Religion too, to pay this duty.

Zeno.

I'le dye an Atheist then.

Arn.

My noblest Mistris, Not that I wish it so, but say it were so, Say you did render up part of your honour, For whilst your will is clear, all cannot perish; Say for one night you entertain'd this monster, Should I esteem you worse, forc'd to this render? Your mind I know is pure, and full as beauteous; After this short eclipse, you would rise again, And shaking off that cloud, spread all your lustre.

Zeno.

Who made you witty, to undoe your self, Sir? Or are you loaden, with the love I bring you, And fain would fling that burthen on another? Am I grown common in your eyes Arnoldo? Old, or unworthy of your fellowship? D'ye think because a woman, I must err, And therefore rather wish that fall before-hand Coloured with Custom, not to be resisted? D'ye love as painters doe, only some pieces, Some certain handsome touches of your Mistris, And let the mind pass by you, unexamined? Be not abus'd; with what the maiden vessel Is seasoned first, you understand the proverb.

Rut.

I am afraid, this thing will make me vertuous.

Zeno.

Should you lay by the least part of that love Y'ave sworn is mine, your youth and faith has given me, To entertain another, nay a fairer, And make the case thus desp'rate, she must dy else; D'ye think I would give way, or count this honest? Be not deceiv'd, these eyes should never see you more, This tongue forget to name you, and this heart Hate you, as if you were born, my full Antipathie. Empire and more imperious love, alone Rule, and admit no rivals: the purest springs When they are courted by lascivious land-floods, Their maiden pureness, and their coolness perish. And though they purge again to their first beauty, The sweetness of their taste is clean departed. I must have all or none; and am not worthy Longer the noble name of wife, Arnoldo, Than I can bring a whole heart pure and handsom.

Arnol.

I never shall deserve you: not to thank you; You are so heavenly good, no man can reach you: I am sorrie I spake so rashly, 't was but to try you.

Rut.

You might have tryed a thousand women so, And 900, fourscore and 19 should ha' followed your counsel. Take heed o' clapping spurts to such free cattell.

Arn.

We must bethink us suddenly and constantly, And wisely too, we expect no common danger.

Zen.

Be most assur'd, I'le dye first.

Enter Clodio, and Guard.

Rut.

An't come to that once, The Devil pick his bones, that dyes a coward, I'le jog along with you, here comes the Stallion, How smug he looks upon the imagination Of what he hopes to act? pox on your kidneys; How they begin to melt? how big he bears, Sure he will leap before us all: what a sweet company Of rogues and panders wait upon his lewdness? Plague of your chops, you ha' more handsome bitts, Than a hundred honester men, and more deserving. How the dogg leers.

Clod.

You need not now be jealous, I speak at distance to your wise, but when the Priest has done, We shall grow nearer, and more familiar.

Rut.

I'le watch you for that trick, baboon, I'le Smoke you: the rogue sweats, as if he had eaten Grains, he broyles, if I do come to the Basting of you.

Arno.

Your Lordship May happily speak this, to fright a stranger, But 'tis not in your honour, to perform it; The Custom of this place, if such there be, At best most damnable, may urge you to it, But if you be an honest man you hate it, How ever I will presently prepare To make her mine, and most undoubtedly Believe you are abus'd, this custome feign'd too, And what you now pretend, most fair and vertuous.

Clod.

Go and believe, a good belief does well Sir; And you Sir, clear the place, but leave her here.

Arn.

Your Lordships pleasure.

Clod.

That anon Arnoldo, This is but talk.

Rut.

Shall we goe off?

Arn.

By any means, I know she has pious thoughts enough to guard her: Besides, here's nothing due to him till the tye be done, Nor dare he offer.

Rut.

Now do I long to worry him: Pray have a care to the main chance.

Exit. Ar. and Rut.

Zen.

Pray Sir, fear not

Clod.

Now, what say you to me?

Zen.

Sir it becomes The modestie, that maids are ever born with, To use few words.

Clod.

Do you see nothing in me? Nothing to catch your eyes, nothing of wonder The common mould of men, come short, and want in?

Do you read no future fortune for your self here? And what a happiness it may be to you, To have him honour you, all women aim at? To have him love you Lady, that man love you, The best, and the most beauteous have run mad for? Loo•• and be w••se, you have a favour offer'd you 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not every day propound to women; You are a prettie one; and though each hour I am glutted with the sacrifice of beautie, I may be brought, as you may handle it, To call so good a grace and liking on you. You understand, come kiss me, and be joyfull, I give you leave.

Zen.

Faith Sir, 'twill not shew handsome; Our ••••x is blushing, full of fear, unskil'd too In these alarms.

Clod.

Learn then and be perfect.

Zen.

I do beseech your honour pardon me, And take some skilfull one can hold you play, I am a fool.

Clod.

I tell thee maid I love thee, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that word make thee happie, so far love thee, That though I may enjoy thee without ceremony, I will descend so low, to marry thee, Me thinks I see the race that shall spring from us, Some Princes, some great Souldiers.

Zen.

I am afraid Your honour's couzen'd in this calculation; For certain, I shall ne're have a child by you.

Clod.

Why?

Zen.

Because I must not think to marry you, I dare not Sir, the step betwixt your honour, And my poor humble State.

Clod.

I will descend to thee, And buo•• thee up.

Zen.

I'le sink to th'Center first. Why would your Lordship marry, and confine that pleasure You ever have had freely cast upon you? Take heed my Lord, this marrying is a mad matter, Lighter a pair of shackles will hang on you, And quiet••r a qua••tane ••eaver find you. If you wed me I must enjoy you only, Your eyes must be called home, your thoughts in cages, To ••••ng to no ears then but mine; your heart bound, The custom, that your youth was ever nurst in, Must be forgot, I shall forget my duty else, And how that will appear

Clod.

Wee'l talk of that more.

Zen.

Besides I tell ye, I am naturally, As all young women are, that shew like handsome, Exceeding proud, being commended, monstrous. Of an unquiet temper, seldom pleas'd, Unless it be with infinite observance, Which you were never bred to; once well angred, As every cross in us, provokes that passion, And like a Sea, I ••oule, toss, and chase a week after. And then all mischief I can think upon, Abusing of your bed the least and poorest, I tell you what you're finde, and in these fitts, This little beauty you are pleased to honour, Will be so chang'd, so alter'd to an ugliness, To such a vizard, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 one, I dye too, Take 't then upon my death you murder'd me.

Clod.

Away, away fool, why dost thou proclame these To prevent that in me, thou hast chosen in another?

Zen.

Him I have chosen, I can rule and master, Temp r to what I please, you me a great one Of ••••••ong will to 〈◊〉〈◊〉, I ••are not venture. B•• wife my ••••••d, and say you were well counsel'd, 〈…〉〈…〉, and forget me, 'Twill b•• both 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and noble for your honour, And 〈…〉〈…〉 fortunes shall conduct me, So 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••••••ions I shall render of you, So vert••••us and so 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

Clod.

You will not marrie me?

Zen.

I do beseech your honour, be not angry At what I say, I cannot love ye, dare not; But set a ransom, for the flowr you covet.

Clod.

No mony, nor no prayers, shall redeem that, Not all the art you have.

Zen.

Set your own price Sir.

Clod.

Goe to your wedding, never kneel to me, When that's done, you are mine, I will enjoy you: Your tears do nothing, I will not lose my custom To cast upon my self an Empires fortune.

Ex••

Zen.

My mind shall not pay this custom, cruel man.

Clod.

Your body will content me: I'le look for you.

E••

Enter Charino, and servants in blacks. Covering the place with blacks.

Char.

Strew all your withered flowers, your Autum•• sweets By the hot Sun ravisht of bud and beauty Thus round about her Bride-bed, hang those blacks there The emblemes of her honour lost; all joy That leads a Virgin to receive her lover, Keep from this place, all fellow maids that bless her, And blushing do unloose her Zone, keep from her: No merry noise nor lusty songs be heard here, Nor full cups crown'd with wine make the rooms giddy; This is no masque of mirth, but murdered honour. Sing mournfully that sad Epithalamion I gave thee now: and prethee let thy lute weep.

Song, Dance. Enter Rutilio.

Rut.

How now, what livery's this? do you call this a wedding? This is more like a funeral.

Char.

It is one, And my poor Daughter going to her grave, To his most loath'd embraces that gapes for her. Make the Earles bed readie, is the marriage done Sir?

Rut.

Yes they are knit; but must this slubberdegullion Have her maiden-head now?

Arn.

There's no avoiding it?

Rut.

And there's the scaffold where she must lose it.

Arn.

The bed Sir.

Rut.

No way to wipe his mouldy chaps?

Char.

That we know.

Rut.

To any honest well-deserving fellow, And 'twere but to a merry Cobler, I could sit still now, I love the game so well; but that this pucksist, This universal rutter—fare ye well Sir; And if you have any good prayers, put'em forward, There may be yet a remedie.

Char.

I wish it,

Exit Rut.

And all my best devotions offer to it.

Enter Clodio, and Guard.

Clod.

Now is this tye dispatch'd?

Char.

I think it be Sir.

Clod.

And my bed ready?

wi••••

Char.

There you may quickly find Sir, Such a loath'd preparation.

Clod.

Never grumble, Nor fling a discontent upon my pleasure, It must and shall be done: give me some wine, And fill it till it leap upon my lips: Here's to the foolish maidenhead you wot of, The toy I must take pains for.

Char.

I beseech your Lordship Load not a Fathers love.

Clod.

Pledge it Charino, Or by my life I'le make thee pledge thy last, And be sure she be a maid, a perfect Virgin, (I will not have my expectation dull'd) Or your old pate goes off. I am hot and fiery, And my bloud beats alarms through my body, And fancie high. You of my guard retire, And let me hear no noise about the lodging

But musick and sweet ayres, now fetch your Daughter, And bid the coy wench put on all her beauties, All her enticements, out-blush damask Roses, And dim the breaking East with her bright Crystals. I am all on fire, away.

Char.

And I am frozen.

Exit.

Enter Zenocia with Bow and Quiver, an Arrow bent, Arnoldo and Rutilio after her, arm'd.

Zen.

Come fearless on.

Rut.

Nay an I budge from thee Beat me with durty sticks.

Clod.

What Masque is this? What pretty fancy to provoke me high? The beauteous Huntress, fairer far, and sweeter; Diana shewes an Ethiop to this beauty Protected by two Virgin Knights.

Rut.

That's a lye, A loud one, if you knew as much as I do, The Guard's dispers'd.

Arn.

Fortune I hope invites us.

Clod.

I can no longer hold, she pulls my heart from me.

Zen.

Stand, and stand fixt, move not a foot, nor speak not, For if thou doest, upon this point thy death fits. Thou miserable, base, and sordid lecher, Thou scum of noble blood, repent and speedily, Repent thy thousand thefts, from helpless Virgins, Their innocence betrayed to thy embraces.

Arn.

The base dishonour, that thou doest to strangers, In glorying to abuse the Laws of Marriage, Thy Infamy thou hast flung upon thy Country, In nourishing this black and barbarous Custom.

Clod.

My Guard.

Arn.

One word more, and thou diest.

Rut.

One syllable That tends to any thing, but I beseech you, And as y'are Gentlemen tender my case, And I'le thrust my Javeling down thy throat. Thou Dog-whelp, thou, pox upon thee, what Should I call thee, Pompion, Thou kiss my Lady? thou scour her Chamber-pot: Thou have a Maiden-head? a mottly Coat, You great blind fool, farewel and be hang'd to ye, Lose no time Lady.

Arn.

Pray take your pleasure Sir, And so we'l take our leaves.

Zen.

We are determined, Dye, before yield.

Arn.

Honour, and a fair grave.

Zen.

Before a lustful Bed, so for our fortunes.

Rut.

Du cat awhee, good Count, cry, prethee cry, O what a wench hast thou lost? cry you great booby.

Exe.

Enter Charino.

Clod.

And is she gone then, am I dishonoured thus, Cozened and baffl'd? my Guard there, no man answer? My Guard I say, sirrah you knew of this plot; Where are my Guard? I'le have your life you villain, You politick old Thief.

Char.

Heaven send her far enough,

Enter Guard.

And let me pay the ransom.

Guard.

Did your honour call us?

Clod.

Post every way, and presently recover The two strange Gentlemen, and the fair Lady.

Guard.

This day was Married Sir?

Clod.

The same.

Guard.

We saw 'em Making with all main speed to th'Port.

Cod.

Away villains.

Exit Guard.

Recover her, or I shall dye; deal truly, Didst not thou know?

Char.

By all that's good I did not. If your honour mean their slight, to say I grieve for that, Will be to lye; you may handle me as you please.

Clod.

Be sure, with all the cruelty, with all the rigor, For thou hast rob'd me villain of a treasure.

Enter Guard.

How now?

Guard.

They're all aboard, a Bark rode ready for 'em, And now are under Sail, and past recovery.

Clod.

Rig me a Ship with all the speed that may be, I will not lose her: thou her most false Father, Shalt go along; and if I miss her, hear me, A whole day will I study to destroy thee.

Char.

I shall be joyful of it; and so you'l find me.

Exeunt omnes.