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Actus Secundus. Scena Prima

Enter Philaster and Bellario.

Phi. And thou shalt find her honourable boy,
                Full of regard unto thy tender youth,
                For thine own modesty; and for my sake,
                Apter to give, than thou wilt be to ask, I, or deserve.

Bell. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing;
                And only yet am something, by being yours;
                You trusted me unknown; and that which you are apt
                To conster a simple innocence in me,
                Perhaps, might have been craft; the cunning of a boy
                Hardened in lies and theft; yet ventur'd you,
                To part my miseries and me: for which,
                I never can expect to serve a Lady
                That bears more honour in her breast than you.

Phi. But boy, it will prefer thee; thou art young,
                And bearest a childish overflowing love
                To them that clap thy cheeks, and speak thee fair yet:
                But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions,
                Thou wilt remember best those careful friends
                That plac'd thee in the noblest way of life;
                She is a Princess I prefer thee to.

Bell. In that small time that I have seen the world,
                I never knew a man hasty to part
                With a servant he thought trusty; I remember
                My Father would prefer the boys he kept
                To greater men than he, but did it not,
                Till they were grown too sawcy for himself.

Phi. Why gentle boy, I find no fault at all in thy behaviour.

Bell. Sir, if I have made
                A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth;
                I shall be willing, if not apt to learn;
                Age and experience will adorn my mind
                With larger knowledge: And if I have done
                A wilful fault, think me not past all hope
                For once; what Master holds so strict a hand
                Over his boy, that he will part with him
                Without one warning? Let me be corrected
                To break my stubbornness if it be so,
                Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend.

Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay,
                That (trust me) I could weep to part with thee.
                Alas! I do not turn thee off; thou knowest
                It is my business that doth call thee hence,
                And when thou art with her thou dwel'st with me:
                Think so, and 'tis so; and when time is full,
                That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust,
                Laid on so weak a one, I will again
                With joy receive thee; as I live, I will;
                Nay weep not, gentle boy; 'Tis more than time
                Thou didst attend the Princess.

Bell. I am gone;
                But since I am to part with you my Lord,
                And none knows whether I shall live to do
                More service for you; take this little prayer;
                Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs.
                May sick men, if they have your wish, be well;
                And Heavens hate those you curse, though I be one.

[Exit.

Phi. The love of boyes unto their Lords is strange,
                I have read wonders of it; yet this boy
                For my sake, (if a man may judge by looks,
                And speech) would out-do story. I may see
                A day to pay him for his loyalty.

[Exit Phi.
Enter Pharamond.

Pha. Why should these Ladies stay so long? They must come this way; I know the Queen imployes 'em not, for the Reverend Mother sent me word they would all be for the Garden. If they should all prove honest now, I were in a fair taking; I was never so long without sport in my life, and in my conscience 'tis not my fault: Oh, for our Country Ladies! Here's one boulted, I'le hound at her.

Enter Galatea.

Gal. Your Grace!

Pha. Shall I not be a trouble?

Gal. Not to me Sir.
Pha. Nay, nay, you are too quick; by this sweet hand.

Gal. You'l be forsworn Sir, 'tis but an old glove. If you will talk at distance, I am for you: but good Prince, be not bawdy, nor do not brag; these two I bar, and then I think, I shall have sence enough to answer all the weighty Apothegmes your Royal blood shall manage.

Pha. Dear Lady, can you love?

Gal. Dear, Prince, how dear! I ne're cost you a Coach yet, nor put you to the dear repentance of a Banquet; here's no Scarlet Sir, to blush the sin out it was given for: This wyer mine own hair covers: and this face has been so far from being dear to any, that it ne're cost penny painting: And for the rest of my poor Wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves no hand behind it, to make the jealous Mercers wife curse our good doings.

Pha. You mistake me Lady.

Gal. Lord, I do so; would you or I could help it.

Pha. Do Ladies of this Country use to give no more respect to men of my full being?

Gal. Full being! I understand you not, unless your Grace means growing to fatness; and then your only remedy (upon my knowledge, Prince) is in a morning a Cup of neat White-wine brew'd with Carduus, then fast till supper, about eight you may eat; use exercise, and keep a Sparrow-hawk, you can shoot in a Tiller; but of all, your Grace must flie Phlebotomie, fresh Pork, Conger, and clarified Whay; They are all dullers of the vital spirits.

Pha. Lady, you talk of nothing all this while.

Gal. 'Tis very true Sir, I talk of you.

Pha. This is a crafty wench, I like her wit well, 'twill be rare to stir up a leaden appetite, she's a Danae, and must be courted in a showr of gold. Madam, look here, all these and more, than—

Gal. What have you there, my Lord? Gold? Now, as I live tis fair gold; you would have silver for it to play with the Pages; you could not have taken me in a worse time; But if you have present use my Lord, I'le send my man with silver and keep your gold for you.

Pha. Lady, Lady.

Gal. She's coming Sir behind, will take white mony. Yet for all this I'le match ye.

[Exit Gal. behind the hangings.

Pha. If there be two such more in this Kingdom, and near the Court, we may even hang up our Harps: ten such Camphire constitutions as this, would call the golden age again in question, and teach the old way for every ill fac't Husband to get his own Children, and what a mischief that will breed, let all consider.

[ Enter Megra.

                Here's another; if she be of the same last, the Devil
                shall pluck her on. Many fair mornings, Lady.

Meg. As many mornings bring as many dayes,
                Fair, sweet, and hopeful to your Grace.

Pha. She gives good words yet; Sure this wench is free.
                If your more serious business do not call you,
                Let me hold quarter with you, we'll take an hour
                Out quickly.

Meg. What would your Grace talk of?

Pha. Of some such pretty subject as your self.
                I'le go no further than your eye, or lip,
                There's theme enough for one man for an age.

Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips are yet even,
                Smooth, young enough, ripe enough, red enough,
                Or my glass wrongs me.

Pha. O they are two twin'd Cherries died in blushes,
                Which those fair suns above, with their bright beams
                Reflect upon, and ripen: sweetest beauty,
                Bow down those branches, that the longing taste,
                Of the faint looker on, may meet those blessings,
                And taste and live.

Meg. O delicate sweet Prince;
                She that hath snow enough about her heart,
                To take the wanton spring of ten such lines off,
                May be a Nun without probation.
                Sir, you have in such neat poetry, gathered a kiss,
                That if I had but five lines of that number,
                Such pretty begging blanks, I should commend
                Your fore-head, or your cheeks, and kiss you too.

Pha. Do it in prose; you cannot miss it Madam.

Meg. I shall, I shall.

Pha. By my life you shall not.
                I'le prompt you first: Can you do it now?

Meg. Methinks 'tis easie, now I ha' don't before;
                But yet I should stick at it.

Pha. Stick till to morrow.
                I'le ne'r part you sweetest. But we lose time,
                Can you love me?

Meg. Love you my Lord? How would you have me love you?

Pha. I'le teach you in a short sentence, cause I will not load your memory, that is all; love me, and lie with me.

Meg. Was it lie with you that you said? 'Tis impossible.

Pha. Not to a willing mind, that will endeavour; if I do not teach you to do it as easily in one night, as you'l go to bed, I'le lose my Royal blood for't.

Meg. Why Prince, you have a Lady of your own, that yet wants teaching.

Pha. I'le sooner teach a Mare the old measures, than teach her any thing belonging to the function; she's afraid to lie with her self, if she have but any masculine imaginations about her; I know when we are married, I must ravish her.

Meg. By my honour, that's a foul fault indeed, but time and your good help will wear it out Sir.

Pha. And for any other I see, excepting your dear self, dearest Lady, I had rather be Sir _Tim _the Schoolmaster, and leap a Dairy-maid.

Meg. Has your Grace seen the Court-star Galatea?

Pha. Out upon her; she's as cold of her favour as an apoplex: she sail'd by but now.

Meg. And how do you hold her wit Sir?

Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of all the Guard cannot hold it, if they were tied to it, she would blow 'em out of the Kingdom, they talk of Jupiter, he's but a squib cracker to her: Look well about you, and you may find a tongue-bolt. But speak sweet Lady, shall I be freely welcome?

Meg. Whither?

Pha. To your bed; if you mistrust my faith, you do me the unnoblest wrong.

Meg. I dare not Prince, I dare not.

Pha. Make your own conditions, my purse shall seal 'em, and what you dare imagine you can want, I'le furnish you withal: give two hours to your thoughts every morning about it. Come, I know you are bashful, speak in my ear, will you be mine? keep this, and with it me: soon I will visit you.

Meg. My Lord, my Chamber's most unsafe, but when 'tis night I'le find some means to slip into your lodging: till when—

Pha. Till when, this, and my heart go with thee.

[Ex. several ways.
_Enter _Galatea from behind the hangings.

Gal. Oh thou pernicious Petticoat Prince, are these your vertues? Well, if I do not lay a train to blow your sport up, I am no woman; and Lady Towsabel I'le fit you for't.

[Exit Gal.
_Enter _Arethusa and a Lady.

Are. Where's the boy?

La. Within Madam.

Are. Gave you him gold to buy him cloaths?

La. I did.

Are. And has he don't?

La. Yes Madam.

Are. 'Tis a pretty sad talking lad, is it not? Askt you his name?

La. No Madam.

[ _Enter _Galatea.

Are. O you are welcome, what good news?

Gal. As good as any one can tell your Grace, That saies she hath done that you would have wish'd.

Are. Hast thou discovered?

Gal. I have strained a point of modesty for you.

Are. I prethee how?

Gal. In listning after bawdery; I see, let a Lady live never so modestly, she shall be sure to find a lawful time, to harken after bawdery; your Prince, brave Pharamond, was so hot on't.

Are. With whom?

Gal. Why, with the Lady I suspect: I can tell the time and place.

Are. O when, and where?

Gal. To night, his Lodging.

Are. Run thy self into the presence, mingle there again
                With other Ladies, leave the rest to me:
                If destiny (to whom we dare not say,
                Why thou didst this) have not decreed it so
                In lasting leaves (whose smallest Characters
                Were never altered:) yet, this match shall break.
                Where's the boy?

La. Here Madam.

[ _Enter _Bellario.

Are. Sir, you are sad to change your service, is't not so?

Bell. Madam, I have not chang'd; I wait on you,
                To do him service.

Are. Thou disclaim'st in me;
                Tell me thy name.

Bell. Bellario.

Are. Thou canst sing, and play?

Bell. If grief will give me leave, Madam, I can.

Are. Alas! what kind of grief can thy years know?
                Hadst thou a curst master, when thou went'st to School?
                Thou art not capable of other grief;
                Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be,
                When no [b]reath troubles them: believe me boy,
                Care seeks out wrinkled brows, and hollow eyes,
                And builds himself caves to abide in them.
                Come Sir, tell me truly, does your Lord love me?

Bell. Love Madam? I know not what it is.

Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love?
                Thou art deceiv'd boy; does he speak of me
                As if he wish'd me well?

Bell. If it be love,
                To forget all respect of his own friends,
                In thinking of your face; if it be love
                To sit cross arm'd and sigh away the day,
                Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud
                And hastily, as men i'the streets do fire:
                If it be love to weep himself away,
                When he but hears of any Lady dead,
                Or kill'd, because it might have been your chance;
                If when he goes to rest (which will not be)
                'Twixt every prayer he saies, to name you once
                As others drop a bead, be to be in love;
                Then Madam, I dare swear he loves you.

Are. O y'are a cunning boy, and taught to lie,
                For your Lords credit; but thou knowest, a lie,
                That bears this sound, is welcomer to me,
                Than any truth that saies he loves me not.
                Lead the way Boy: Do you attend me too;
                'Tis thy Lords business hasts me thus; Away.

[Exeunt.
_Enter _Dion, Cleremont, Thrasilin, Megra _and _Galatea.

Di. Come Ladies, shall we talk a round? As men Do walk a mile, women should take an hour After supper: 'Tis their exercise.

Gal. Tis late.

Meg. 'Tis all
My eyes will do to lead me to my bed.

Gal. I fear they are so heavy, you'l scarce find
The way to your lodging with 'em to night.

[ Enter Pharamond.

Thra. The Prince.

Pha. Not a bed Ladies? y'are good sitters up; What think you of a pleasant dream to last Till morning?

Meg. I should choose, my Lord, a pleasing wake before it.

[_Enter _Arethusa _and _Bellario.

Are. 'Tis well my Lord y'are courting of Ladies. Is't not late Gentlemen?

Cle. Yes Madam.

Are. Wait you there. [_Exit _Arethusa.

Meg. She's jealous, as I live; look you my Lord,
                The Princess has a Hilas, an Adonis.

Pha. His form is Angel-like.

Meg. Why this is he, must, when you are wed,
                Sit by your pillow, like young Apollo, with
                His hand and voice, binding your thoughts in sleep;
                The Princess does provide him for you, and for her self.

Pha. I find no musick in these boys.

Meg. Nor I.
                They can do little, and that small they do,
                They have not wit to hide.

Di. Serves he the Princess?

Thra. Yes.

Di. 'Tis a sweet boy, how brave she keeps him!

Pha. Ladies all good rest; I mean to kill a Buck
                To morrow morning, ere y'ave done your dreams.

Meg. All happiness attend your Grace, Gentlemen good rest,
                Come shall we to bed?

Gal. Yes, all good night.

[Ex. Gal. _and _Meg.

Di. May your dreams be true to you;
                What shall we do Gallants? 'Tis late, the King
                Is up still, see, he comes, a Guard along
                With him.

[_Enter _King, Arethusa _and _Guard.

King. Look your intelligence be true.

Are. Upon my life it is: and I do hope,
                Your Highness will not tye me to a man,
                That in the heat of wooing throws me off,
                And takes another.

Di. What should this mean?

King. If it be true, That Lady had been better have embrac'd Cureless Diseases; get you to your rest,

[Ex. Are. _and _Bel.

                You shall be righted: Gentlemen draw near,
                We shall imploy you: Is young Pharamond
                Come to his lodging?

Di. I saw him enter there.

King. Haste some of you, and cunningly discover,
                If Megra be in her lodging.

Cle. Sir,
                She parted hence but now with other Ladies.

King. If she be there, we shall not need to make
                A vain discovery of our suspicion.
                You gods I see, that who unrighteously
                Holds wealth or state from others, shall be curst,
                In that, which meaner men are blest withall:
                Ages to come shall know no male of him
                Left to inherit, and his name shall be
                Blotted from earth; If he have any child,
                It shall be crossly matched: the gods themselves
                Shall sow wild strife betwixt her Lord and her,
                Yet, if it be your wills, forgive the sin
                I have committed, let it not fall
                Upon this understanding child of mine,
                She has not broke your Laws; but how can I,
                Look to be heard of gods, that must be just,
                Praying upon the ground I hold by wrong?

[ _Enter _Dion.

Di. Sir, I have asked, and her women swear she is within, but they I think are bawds; I told 'em I must speak with her: they laught, and said their Lady lay speechless. I said, my business was important; they said their Lady was about it: I grew hot, and cryed my business was a matter that concern'd life and death; they answered, so was sleeping, at which their Lady was; I urg'd again, she had scarce time to be so since last I saw her; they smil'd again, and seem'd to instruct me, that sleeping was nothing but lying down and winking: Answers more direct I could not get: in short Sir, I think she is not there.

King. 'Tis then no time to dally: you o'th' Guard,
                Wait at the back door of the Princes lodging,
                And see that none pass thence upon your lives.
                Knock Gentlemen: knock loud: louder yet:
                What, has their pleasure taken off their hearing?
                I'le break your meditations: knock again:
                Not yet? I do not think he sleeps, having this
                Larum by him; once more, Pharamond, Prince.

[Pharamond above.

Pha. What sawcy groom knocks at this dead of night? Where be our waiters? By my vexed soul, He meets his death, that meets me, for this boldness.

K. Prince, you wrong your thoughts, we are your friends, Come down.

Pha. The King?

King. The same Sir, come down,
                We have cause of present Counsel with you.

Pha. If your Grace please to use me, I'le attend you
                To your Chamber.
                                                          [Pha. below.

King. No, 'tis too late Prince, I'le make bold with yours.

Pha. I have some private reasons to my self,
                Makes me unmannerly, and say you cannot;
                Nay, press not forward Gentlemen, he must come
                Through my life, that comes here.

King. Sir be resolv'd, I must and will come. Enter.

Pha. I will not be dishonour'd;
                He that enters, enters upon his death;
                Sir, 'tis a sign you make no stranger of me,
                To bring these Renegados to my Chamber,
                At these unseason'd hours.

King. Why do you
                Chafe your self so? you are not wrong'd, nor shall be;
                Onely I'le search your lodging, for some cause
                To our self known: Enter I say.

Pha. I say no.
                                                        [Meg. Above.

Meg. Let 'em enter Prince,
                Let 'em enter, I am up, and ready; I know their business,
                'Tis the poor breaking of a Ladies honour,
                They hunt so hotly after; let 'em enjoy it.
                You have your business Gentlemen, I lay here.
                O my Lord the King, this is not noble in you
                To make publick the weakness of a Woman.

King. Come down.

Meg. I dare my Lord; your whootings and your clamors,
                Your private whispers, and your broad fleerings,
                Can no more vex my soul, than this base carriage;
                But I have vengeance yet in store for some,
                Shall in the most contempt you can have of me,
                Be joy and nourishment.

King. Will you come down?

Meg. Yes, to laugh at your worst: but I shall wrong you, If my skill fail me not.

King. Sir, I must dearly chide you for this looseness, You have wrong'd a worthy Lady; but no more, Conduct him to my lodging, and to bed.

Cle. Get him another wench, and you bring him to bed in deed.

Di. 'Tis strange a man cannot ride a Stagg
                Or two, to breath himself, without a warrant:
                If this geer hold, that lodgings be search'd thus,
                Pray heaven we may lie with our own wives in safety,
                That they be not by some trick of State mistaken.

[ Enter with Megra.

King. Now Lady of honour, where's your honour now?
                No man can fit your palat, but the Prince.
                Thou most ill shrowded rottenness; thou piece
                Made by a Painter and a Pothecary;
                Thou troubled sea of lust; thou wilderness,
                Inhabited by wild thoughts; thou swoln cloud
                Of Infection; them ripe Mine of all Diseases;
                Thou all Sin, all Hell, and last, all Devils, tell me,
                Had you none to pull on with your courtesies,
                But he that must be mine, and wrong my Daughter?
                By all the gods, all these, and all the Pages,
                And all the Court shall hoot thee through the Court,
                Fling rotten Oranges, make ribald Rimes,
                And sear thy name with Candles upon walls:
                Do you laugh Lady Venus?

Meg. Faith Sir, you must pardon me;
                I cannot chuse but laugh to see you merry.
                If you do this, O King; nay, if you dare do it;
                By all these gods you swore by, and as many
                More of my own; I will have fellows, and such
                Fellows in it, as shall make noble mirth;
                The Princess, your dear Daughter, shall stand by me
                On walls, and sung in ballads, any thing:
                Urge me no more, I know her, and her haunts,
                Her layes, leaps, and outlayes, and will discover all;
                Nay will dishonour her. I know the boy
                She keeps, a handsome boy; about eighteen:
                Know what she does with him, where, and when.
                Come Sir, you put me to a womans madness,
                The glory of a fury; and if I do not
                Do it to the height?

King. What boy is this she raves at?

Meg. Alas! good minded Prince, you know not these things?
                I am loth to reveal 'em. Keep this fault
                As you would keep your health from the hot air
                Of the corrupted people, or by heaven,
                I will not fall alone: what I have known,
                Shall be as publick as a print: all tongues
                Shall speak it as they do the language they
                Are born in, as free and commonly; I'le set it
                Like a prodigious star for all to gaze at,
                And so high and glowing, that other Kingdoms far
                and Forreign
                Shall read it there, nay travel with it, till they find
                No tongue to make it more, nor no more people;
                And then behold the fall of your fair Princess.

King. Has she a boy?

Cle. So please your Grace I have seen a boy wait
                On her, a fair boy.

King. Go get you to your quarter:
                For this time I'le study to forget you.

Meg. Do you study to forget me, and I'le study
                To forget you.

[Ex. King, Meg. and Guard.

Cle. Why here's a Male spirit for Hercules, if ever there be nine worthies of women, this wench shall ride astride, and be their Captain.

Di. Sure she hath a garrison of Devils in her tongue, she uttereth such balls of wild-fire. She has so netled the King, that all the Doctors in the Country will scarce cure him. That boy was a strange found out antidote to cure her infection: that boy, that Princess boy: that brave, chast, vertuous Ladies boy: and a fair boy, a well spoken boy: All these considered, can make nothing else—but there I leave you Gentlemen.