A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Vii Part 36

SEGASTO. Come, sir, your mind is all upon your belly.

You have forgotten what I did bid you do.

CLOWN. Faith, I know nothing, but you bad me go to breakfast.

SEGASTO. Was that all?

CLOWN. Faith, I have forgotten it, the very scent of the meat made me forget[177] it quite.

SEGASTO. You have forgotten the errand I bid you do?

CLOWN. What arrant? an arrant knave or an arrant wh.o.r.e?

SEGASTO. Why, thou knave, did I not bid thee banish the shepherd?

CLOWN. O, the shepherd's b.a.s.t.a.r.d?

SEGASTO. I tell thee, the shepherd's banishment.

CLOWN. I tell you, the shepherd's b.a.s.t.a.r.d shall be well kept; I'll look to it myself. But I pray you, come away to dinner.

SEGASTO. Then you will not tell me whether you have banished him, or no?

CLOWN. Why, I cannot say _banishment_, and you would give me a thousand pounds to say so.

SEGASTO. Why, you wh.o.r.eson slave, have you forgotten that I sent you and another to drive away the shepherd.

CLOWN. What an a.s.s are you; here's a stir indeed, here's message, arrant, banishment, and I cannot tell what.

SEGASTO. I pray you, sir, shall I know whether you have drove him away.

CLOWN. Faith, I think I have; and you will not believe me, ask my staff.

SEGASTO. Why, can thy staff tell?

CLOWN. Why, he was with me too.

SEGASTO. Then happy I, that have obtain'd my will.

CLOWN. And happier I, if you would go to dinner.

SEGASTO. Come, sirrah, follow me.

CLOWN. I warrant you, I will not lose an inch of you now you are going to dinner, I promise you. I thought [it] seven year, before I could get him away. [_Aside.]

[Exeunt.

Enter_ AMADINE _sola_

AMADINE. G.o.d grant my long delay procures no harm, Nor this my tarrying frustrate my pretence.

My Mucedorus surely stays for me, And thinks me over long. At length I come, My present promise to perform.

Ah, what a thing is firm, unfeigned love!

What is it which true love dares not attempt?

My father he may make, but I must match; Segasto loves; but Amadine must like, Where likes her best; compulsion is a thrall.

No, no, the hearty choice is all in all, The shepherd's virtue Amadine esteems.

But what, methinks my shepherd is not come; I muse at that, the hour is sure at hand.

Well, here I'll rest, till Mucedorus come.

[_She sits her down.

Enter_ BREMO, _looking about; hastily [he] taketh hold of her_.

BREMO. A happy prey! now, Bremo, feed on flesh: Dainties, Bremo, dainties, thy hungry paunch to fill: Now glut thy greedy guts with lukewarm blood.

Come, fight with me; I long to see thee dead.

AMADINE. How can she fight, that weapons cannot wield?

BREMO. What, canst not fight? Then lie thou down and die.

AMADINE. What, must I die?

BREMO. What needs these words? I thirst to suck thy blood.

AMADINE. Yet pity me, and let me live awhile.

BREMO. No pity I; I'll feed upon thy flesh, I'll tear thy body piecemeal joint from joint.

AMADINE. Ah, how I want my shepherd's company!

BREMO. I'll crush thy bones betwixt two oaken trees.

AMADINE. Haste, shepherd, haste, or else thou com'st too late.

BREMO. I'll suck the sweetness from thy marrow bones.

AMADINE. Ah, spare, ah, spare to shed my guiltless blood!

BREMO. With this my bat will I beat out Thy brains. Down, down, I say: Prostrate thyself upon the ground.

AMADINE. Then, Mucedorus, farewell, my hoped joys, farewell!

Yea, farewell life, and welcome present death. [_She kneels_.

To thee, O G.o.d, I yield my dying ghost.

BREMO. Now, Bremo, play thy part.

How now, what sudden chance is this?

My limbs do tremble, and my sinews shake; My unweak'ned arms have lost their former force.

Ah, Bremo, Bremo! what a foil hast thou, That yet at no time ever wast afraid To dare the greatest G.o.ds to fight with thee, [_He strikes_.

And now want strength for one down-driving blow?

Ah, how my courage fails, when I should strike!

Some new-come spirit abiding in my breast, Say'th, _Spare her, Bremo; spare her, do not kill_.

Shall I[178] spare her, which never spared any?

To it, Bremo, to it; essay[179] again.