A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Viii Part 80

BEL. Yea, but, my lord, he'll never finish it.

MOR. How canst thou tell? What countryman art thou?

BEL. I am by birth, my lord, a Spaniard born, And by descent came of a n.o.ble house; Though, for the love I bare[437] to secret arts, I never car'd to seek for vain estate, Yet by my skill I have increas'd my wealth.

My name Castiliano, and my birth No baser than the best blood of Castile.

Hearing your daughter's strange infirmity, Join'd with such matchless beauty and rare virtue, I cross'd the seas on purpose for her good.

DUN. Fond man, presuming on thy weaker skill, That think'st by art to overrule the heavens!

Thou know'st not what it is thou undertak'st.

No, no, my lord, your daughter must be cur'd By fasting, prayer, and religious works; Myself for her will sing a solemn ma.s.s, And give her three sips of the holy chalice; And turn my beads with aves and with creeds: And thus, my lord, your daughter must be help'd.

CAS. 'Zounds, what a prating keeps the bald-pate friar!

My lord, my lord, here's church-work for an age?

Tus.h.!.+ I will cure her in a minute's s.p.a.ce, That she shall speak as plain as you or I.

[DUNSTAN' _harp sounds on the wall_.

FOR. Hark, hark, my lord! the holy abbot's harp Sounds by itself so hanging on the wall!

DUN. Unhallowed man, that scorn'st the sacred rede,[438]

Hark how the testimony of my truth Sounds heavenly music with an angel's hand, To testify Dunstan's integrity, And prove thy active boast of no effect.

CAS. Tush, sir, that music was to welcome me!

The harp hath got another master now; I warrant you, 'twill never tune you more.

DUN. Who should be master of my harp but I?

CAS. Try, then, what service it will do for you.

[_He tries to play, but cannot_.

DUN. Thou art some sorcerer or necromancer, Who by thy spells dost hold these holy strings.

CAS. Cannot your holiness unbind the bonds?

Then, I perceive, my skill is most of force.

You see, my lord, the abbot is but weak; I am the man must do your daughter good.

MOR. What wilt thou ask for to work thy cure?

CAS. That without which I will not do the cure: Herself to be my wife, for which intent I came from Spain. Then, if she shall be mine, Say so, or keep her else for ever dumb.

MOR. The Earl of Kent, mine honourable friend, Hath to my daughter been a suitor long, And much it would displease both her and him To be prevented of their wished love.

Ask what thou wilt beside, and I will grant it.

CAS. Alas, my lord! what should the crazy earl Do with so young a virgin as your daughter?

I dare stand to her choice 'twixt him and me.

LACY. And I will p.a.w.n mine earldom with my love, And lose them both, if I lose Honorea.

CAS. A match, my lords! We'll stand unto the choice.

MOR. I am contented, if the earl be pleased.

LACY. I were not worthy of her, did I doubt.

CAS. Then there it goes. Fetch me a bowl of wine: This is the match, my lord, before I work-- If she refuse the earl, she must be mine.

MOR. It is.

[_One brings him a cup of wine: he strains the juice of the herb into it_.

CAS. Now shall your lords.h.i.+ps see a Spaniard's skill, Who from the plains of new America[439]

Can find out sacred simples of esteem To bind and unbind nature's strongest powers.

This herb, which mortal men have seldom found, Can I with ease procure me, when I list, And by this juice shall Honorea speak.

Here, lady, drink the freedom of thy heart, And may it teach thee long to call me love!

[_She drinks_.

Now, lovely Honorea, thou art free, Let thy celestial voice make choice of me.

HON. Base alien! mercenary fugitive!

Presumptuous Spaniard! that with shameless pride Dar'st ask an English lady for thy wife, I scorn my slave should honour thee so much: And, for myself, I like myself the worse, That thou dar'st hope the gaining of my love.

Go, get thee gone, the shame of my esteem, And seek some drudge that may be like thyself!

But as for you, good Earl of Kent, Methinks your lords.h.i.+p, being of these years, Should be past dreaming of a second wife.

Fie, fie, my lord! 'tis l.u.s.t in doting age: I will not patronise so foul a sin.

An old man dote on youth? 'tis monstrous.

Go home, go home, and rest your weary head!

'Twere pity such a brow should learn to bud.

And lastly unto you, my lord and father, Your love to me is too much overseen, That in your care and counsel should devise To tie your daughter's choice to two such grooms.

You may elect for me, but I'll dispose, And fit myself far better than both those; And so I will conclude; you[r], as you please.

[_Exit_ HONOREA _in a chafe_.

AKER. Call you this making of a woman speak?

I think they all wish she were dumb again.

CAS. How now, my lord? what, are you in a muse?

LACY. I would to G.o.d her tongue were tied again.

CAS. Ay, marry, sir, but that's another thing, The devil cannot tie a woman's tongue:[440]

I would the friar could do that with his beads.

But 'tis no matter: you, my lord, have promis'd, If she refuse the earl, she should be mine.

MOR. Win her, and wear her, man, with all my heart!

CAS. O, I'll haunt her till I make her stoop.

Come, come, my lord, this was to try her voice; Let's in and court her; one of us shall speed.

AKER. Happy man[441] be his dole that misseth her, say I.