A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Xi Part 126

PHIL. Heyday!

What, in love, Clerimont? I lay my life 'tis so; Thou couldst not praise her with such pa.s.sion else.

CLER. I know not; I slept well enough last night: But if thou saw'st her once, I would not give A farthing for thy life; I tell thee, Philocles, One sight of her would make thee cry, _ah me!_ Sigh, and look pale: methinks I do imagine How like an idolatrous lover thou wouldst look Through the eyelids; know n.o.body.

PHIL. 'Tis very well.

But how did your wors.h.i.+p 'scape? You have seen her?

CLER. True, but I have an antidote, and I can teach it thee.

PHIL. When I have need on't, I'll desire it.

CLER. And 'twill be worth thy learning, when thou shalt see the tyranny of that same scurvy boy, and what fools he makes of us. Shall I describe the beast?

PHIL. What beast?

CLER. A lover.

PHIL. Do.

CLER. Then, to be brief, I will pa.s.s over the opinion of your ancient fathers, as likewise those strange loves spoken of in the authentic histories of chivalry, Amadis de Gaul, Parismus, the Knight of the Sun, or the witty knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, where those brave men, whom neither enchantments, giants, windmills, nor flocks of sheep, could vanquish, are made the trophies of triumphing love.

PHIL. Prythee, come to the matter.

CLER. Neither will I mention the complaints of Sir Guy for the fair Felice, nor the travels of Parismus for the love of the beauteous Laurana; nor, lastly, the most sad penance of the ingenious knight Don Quixote upon the mountains of Sierra Morena,[418] moved by the unjust disdain of the lady Dulcina del Toboso. As for our modern authors, I will not so much as name them; no, not that excellent treatise of Tully's love, written by the master of art.[419]

PHIL. I would thou wouldst pa.s.s over this pa.s.sing over of authors, and speak thine own judgment.

CLER. Why, then, to be brief, I think a lover looks like an a.s.s.

PHIL. I can describe him better than so myself. He looks like a man that had sitten up at cards all night, or a stale drunkard wakened in the midst of his sleep.

CLER. But, Philocles, I would not have thee see this lady; she has a bewitching look.

PHIL. How darest thou venture, man? What strange medicine hast thou found? Ovid ne'er taught it thee. I doubt I guess thy remedy for love: go to a bawdy-house or so, is it not?

CLER. Faith, and that's a good way, I can tell you; we younger brothers are beholden to it. Alas! we must not fall in love, and choose whom we like best; we have no jointures for them, as you blessed heirs can have.

PHIL. Well, I have found you, sir. And prythee, tell me how gettest thou wenches?

CLER. Why, I can want no panders. I lie in the constable's house.

PHIL. And there you may wh.o.r.e by authority.

But, Clerimont, I doubt this paragon That thou so praisest is some ill-favoured wench Whom thou wouldst have me laugh'd at for commending.

CLER. Believe it, I spoke in earnest: trust your eyes: I'll show you her.

PHIL. How canst thou do it?

Thou know'st this lady's father is to mine A deadly enemy; nor is his house Open to any of our kindred.

CLER. That's no matter: My lodging's the next door to this lord's house, And my back-window looks into his garden; There every morning fair Leucothoe (For so I hear her nam'd) walking alone To please her senses, makes Aurora blush, To see one brighter than herself appear.

PHIL. Well, I will see her then. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ FRANKLIN, FRANCISCO, _and_ LUCE _gravida_.[420]

FRANC. Yet for her sake be advis'd better, sir.

FRANK. Impudent rascal! canst look me i' th' face, And know how thou hast wronged me? Thou Hast dishonour'd my daughter--made a wh.o.r.e of her.

FRANC. Gentle sir, The wrong my love has made to your fair daughter 'Tis now too late to wish undone again: But, if you please, it may be yet clos'd up Without dishonour: I wi

FRANK. Impudent rascal! canst look me i' th' face, And know how thou hast wronged me? Thou Hast dishonour'd my daughter--made a wh.o.r.e of her.

FRANC. Gentle sir, The wrong my love has made to your fair daughter 'Tis now too late to wish undone again: But, if you please, it may be yet clos'd up Without dishonour: I will marry her.

FRANK. Marry her! she has a hot catch of that.

Marry a beggar!

What jointure canst thou make her?

FRANC. Sir, I am poor, I must confess; Fortune has bless'd you better: but I swear By all things that can bind, 'twas not your wealth Was the foundation of my true-built love; It was her single uncompounded self-- Herself without addition--that I lov'd, Which shall for ever in my sight outweigh All other women's fortunes and themselves; And were I great, as great as I could wish Myself for her advancement, no such bar As fortune's inequality should stand Betwixt our loves.

LUCE. Good father, hear me.

FRANK. Dost thou not blush to call me father, strumpet?

I'll make thee an example.

LUCE. But hear me, sir; my shame will be your own.

FRANK. No more, I say. Francisco, leave my house; I charge you, come not here.

FRANC. I must obey, and will. Dear Luce, be constant.

LUCE. Till death. [_Exit_ FRANCISCO.

FRANK. Here's a fine wedding towards! The bridegroom, when he comes for his bride, shall find her great with child by another man! Pa.s.sion-a-me, minion, how have you hid it so long?

LUCE. Fearing your anger, sir, I strove to hide it.

FRANK. Hide it one day more, then, or be d.a.m.ned. Hide it till Shallow be married to thee, and then let him do his worst.

LUCE. Sir, I should too much wrong him.

FRANK. Wrong him! there be great ladies have done the like; 'tis no news to see a bride with child.

LUCE. Good sir.

FRANK. Then be wise; lay the child to him: he's a rich man, t'other's a beggar.