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 VIII.

Enter Leontius.

Leo.

There's no way now to get in: all the light stopt too; ••or can I hear a sound of him, pray Heaven ••e use no violence: I think he has more Soul, ••tronger, and I hope nobler: would I could but see once ••his beauty he groans under, or come to know ••ut any circumstance. What noise is that there? 〈◊〉〈◊〉 think I heard him groan: here are some coming; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 woman too, I'le stand aloof, and view 'em.

Enter Menippus, Celia, Lords.

Cel.

Well, some of ye have been to blame in this point, ••ut I forgive ye: The King might have pickt out too ••ome fitter woman to have tri'd his valour.

Men.

'Twas all to the best meant, Lady.

Cel.

I must think so, ••or how to mend it now: he's here you tell me?

Men.

He's Madam, and the joy to see you only Will draw him out.

Leo.

I know that womans tongue, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 think I have seen her face too: I'le goe nearer: If this be she, he has some cause of sorrow: 'Tis the same face; the same, most excellent woman.

Cel.

This should be Lord Leontius: I remember him.

Leo.

Lady, I think ye know me.

Cel.

Speak soft, good Souldier: I do, and know ye worthy, know ye noble; Know not me yet openly, as you love me; But let me see ye again, I'le satisfie ye: I am wondrous glad to see those eyes.

Leo.

You have charged me.

Cel.

You shall know where I am.

Leo.

I will not off yet: She goes to knock at's door: This must be she The fellow told me of: right glad I am on't, He will bolt now for certain.

Cel.

Are ye within Sir? I'le trouble you no more: I thank your courtesie, Pray leave me now.

All. Me.

We rest your humble servants.

Ex. Me. &c.

Cel.

So now my jives are off: pray Heaven he be here! Master, my royal Sir: do you hear who calls ye? Love, my Demetrius.

Leo.

These are pretty quail-pipes, The Cock will Crow anon.

Cel.

Can ye be drowsie, When I call at your Window?

Leo.

I hear him stirring: Now he comes wondring out.

Enter Demetrius.

Dem.

'Tis Celias sound sure: The sweetness of that tongue draws all hearts to it; There stands the shape too.

Leu.

How he stares upon her?

Dem.

Ha? do mine eyes abuse me? 'Tis she, the living Celia: your hand Lady?

Cel.

What should this mean?

Dem.

The very self same Celia.

Cel.

How do ye Sir?

Dem.

Only turn'd brave. I heard you were dead my dear one, compleat, She is wondrous brave, a wondrous gallant Courtier.

Cel.

How he surveyes me round? here has been foul play.

Dem.

How came she thus?

Cel.

It was a kind of death Sir, I suffered in your absence, mew'd up here, And kept conceal'd I know not how.

Dem.

'Tis likely: How came you hither Celia? wondrous gallant: Did my Father send for ye?

Cel.

So they told me Sir, And on command too.

Dem.

I hope you were obedient?

Cel.

I was so ever.

Dem.

And ye were bravely us'd?

Cel.

I wanted nothing: My maiden-head to a mote i'th' Sun, he's jealous: I must now play the knave with him, though I dye for't, 'Tis in my nature.

Dem.

Her very eyes are alter'd: Jewels, and rich ones too, I never saw yet — And what were those came for ye?

Cel.

Monstrous jealous: Have I liv'd at the rate of these scorn'd questions? They seem'd of good sort, Gentlemen.

Dem.

Kind men?

Cel.

They were wondrous kind: I was much beholding to 'em; There was one Menippus Sir.

Dem.

Ha?

Cel.

One Menippus, A notable merry Lord, and a good companion.

Dem.

And one Charinthus too?

Cel.

Yes, there was such a one.

Dem.

And Timon?

Cel.

'Tis most true.

Dem.

And thou most treacherous: My Fathers bawds by—they never miss course; And were these daily with ye?

Cel.

Every hour Sir.

Dem.

And was there not a Lady, a fat Lady?

Cel.

O yes; a notable good wench.

Dem.

The Devil fetch her.

Cel.

'Tis ev'n the merriest wench —

Dem.

Did she keep with ye too?

Cel.

She was all in all, my bed-fellow, eat with me, Brought me acquainted.

Dem.

You are well know here then?

C••l.

There is no living here a stranger I think.

Dem.

How came ye by this brave gown?

Cel.

This is a poor one: Alas, I have twenty ficher: do you see these jewels? Why, they are the poorest things, to those are sent me, And sent me hourly too.

Dem.

Is there no modestie? No faith in this fair Sex?

Leo.

What will this prove too? For yet with all my wits, I understand not.

Dem.

Come hither; thou art dead indeed, lost, tainted; All that I left thee fair, and innocent, Sweet as thy youth, and carrying comfort in't; All that I hoped for vertuous, is fled from thee, Turn'd back, and bankrupt.

Leo.

By'r Lady, this cuts shrewdly.

Dem.

Thou art dead, for ever dead; sins surfeit slew thee; The ambition of those wanton eyes betrai'd thee; Go from me, grave of honour; go thou foul one, Thou glory of thy sin; go thou despis'd one, And where there is no vertue, nor no virgin; Where Chastity was never known, nor heard of; Where nothing reigns but impious lust, and looser faces. Go thither, child of bloud, and sing my doating.

Cel.

You do not speak this seriously I hope Sir; I did but jest with you.

Dem.

Look not upon me, There is more hell in those eyes, than hell harbours; And when they flame, more torments.

Cel.

Dare ye trust me? You durst once even with all you had: your love Sir? By this fair light I am honest.

Dem.

Thou subtle Circe, Cast not upon the maiden light eclipses: Curse not the day.

Cel.

Come, come, you shall not do this: How fain you would seem angry now, to fright me; You are not in the field among your Enemies; Come, I must cool this courage.

Dem.

Out thou impudence, Thou ulcer of thy Sex; when I first saw thee, I drew into mine eyes mine own destruction, I pull'd into my heart that sudden poyson, That now consumes my dear content to cinders: I am not now Demetrius, thou hast chang'd me; Thou, woman, with thy thousand wiles hast chang'd me; Thou Serpent with thy angel-eyes hast slain me; And where, before I touch'd on this fair ruine, I was a man, and reason made, and mov'd me, Now one great lump of grief, I grow and wander.

Cel.

And as you are noble, do you think I did this?

Dem.

Put all the Devils wings on, and flie from me.

Cel.

I will go from ye, never more to see ye: I will she from ye, as a plague hangs o're me; And through the progress of my life hereafter; Where ever I shall find a fool, a false man, One that ne're knew the worth of polish'd vertue; A base suspecter of a virgins honour, A child that flings away the wealth he cri'd for, Him will I call Demetrius: that fool Demetrius, That mad man a Demetrius; and that false man, The Prince of broken faiths, even Prince Demetrius. You think now, I should cry, and kneel down to ye, Petition for my peace; let those that feel here The weight of evil, wait for such a favour, I am above your hate, as far above it, In all the actions of an innocent life, As the pure Stars are from the muddy meteors, Cry when you know your folly: howl and curse then, Beat that unmanly breast, that holds a false heart When ye shall come to know, whom ye have slung from ye

Dem.

Pray ye stay a little.

Cel.

Not your hopes can alter me, Then let a thousand black thoughts muster in ye, And with those enter in a thousand doatings; Those eyes be never shut, but drop to nothing: My innocence for ever haunt and fright ye: Those arms together grow in folds; that tongue, That bold bad tongue that barks out these disgraces. When you shall come to know how nobly vertuous I have preserv'd my life, rot, rot within ye.

Dem.

What shall I doe?

Cel.

Live a lost man for ever. Go ask your Fathers conscience what I suffered, And through what seas of hazards I sayl'd through: Mine honour still advanced in spight of tempests, Then take your leave of love; and confess freely, You were never worthy of this heart that serv'd ye, And so farewel ungratefull —

E••••t

Dem.

Is she gone?

Leo.

I'le follow her, and will find out this matter.—

Ex••••

Enter Antigonus, and Lords.

Ant.

Are ye pleas'd now? have you got your hearts g•••• Have I restor'd ye that?

Dem.

Sir even for Heaven sake, And sacred truth sake, tell me how ye sound her.

Ant.

I will, and in few words. Before I tri'd her, 'Tis true, I thought her most unfit your fellowship, And fear'd her too: which fear begot that story I told ye first: but since, like gold I toucht her.

Dem.

And how dear Sir?

Ant.

Heavens holy light's not purer: The constancy and goodness of all women That ever liv'd, to win the names of worthy, This noble Maid has doubled in her: honour, All promises of wealth, all art to win her, And by all tongues imploy'd, wrought as much on her As one may doe upon the Sun at noon day By lighting Candles up: her shape is heavenly, And to that heavenly shape her thoughts are angels.

Dem.

Why did you tell me Sir?

Ant.

'Tis true, I err'd in't: But since I made a full proof of her vertue, I find a King too poor a servant for her. Love her, and honour her; in all observe her. She must be something more than time yet tells her: And certain I believe him best, enjoyes her: I would not lose the hope of such a Daughter, To adde another Empire to my honour.—

Exit.

Dem.

O wretched state! to what end shall I turn me? And where begins my penance? now, what service Will win her love again? my death must doe it: And if that sacrifice can purge my follies, Be pleas'd, O mightie Love, I dye thy servant—

Exit