Cyclopaedia of English Literature: A Selection of the Choicest Productions ...

Like lights about Astræa's throne,
You here must shine, and all be one,
In fervour and in flame;
That by your union she may grow,
And, you sustaining her, may know
The Age still by her name.

Who vows, against or heat or cold,
To spin your garments of her gold,

That want may touch you never;
And making garlands ev'ry hour,

To write your names in some new flower,
That you may live for ever.

Cho. To Jove, to Jove, be all the honour given, That thankful hearts can raise from earth to heaven.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT-JOHN FLETCHER.

The literary partnerships of the drama which we have had occasion to notice were generally brief and incidental, confined to a few scenes or a single play. In BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, we have the interesting spectacle of two young men of high genius, of good birth and connexions, living together for ten years, and writing in union a series of dramas, passionate, romantic, and comic, thus blending together their genius and their fame in indissoluble connexion. Shakspeare was undoubtedly the inspirer of these kindred spirits. They appeared when his

Fletcher.

genius was in its meridian splendour, and they were completely subdued by its overpowering influence. They reflected its leading characteristics, not as slavish copyists, but as men of high powers and attainments, proud of borrowing inspiration from a source which they could so well appreciate, and which was at once ennobling and inexhaustible. Francis Beaumont was the son of Judge Beaumont, a member of an ancient family settled at Grace Dieu, in Leicestershire. He was born in 1586, and educated at Cambridge. He became a student of the Inner Temple, probably to gratify his father, but does not seem to have prosecuted the study of the law. He was married to the daughter and co-heiress of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, by whom he had two daughters. He died before he had completed his thirtieth year, and was buried, March 9, 1615-6, at the entrance to t Benedict's chapel, Westminster Abbey. John Fletcher was the son of Dr Richard Fletcher, bishop

of Bristol, and afterwards of Worcester. He was born ten years before his friend, in 1576, and he survived him ten years, dying of the great plague in 1625, and was buried in St Mary Overy's church, Southwark, on the 19th of August.

The dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher are fiftytwo in number. The greater part of them were not printed till 1647, and hence it is impossible to assign the respective dates to each. Dryden mentions, that Philaster was the first play that brought them into esteem with the public, though they had written two or three before. It is improbable in plot, but interesting in character and situations. The jealousy of Philaster is forced and unnatural; the character of Euphrasia, disguised as Bellario, the page, is a copy from Viola, yet there is something peculiarly delicate in the following account of her hopeless attachment to Philaster:

My father oft would speak

Your worth and virtue; and, as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so prais'd; but yet all this
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost
As soon as found; till, sitting in my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought (but it was you), enter our gates.
My blood flew out, and back again as fast
As I had puff'd it forth and suck'd it in
Like breath. Then was I called away in haste
To entertain you. Never was a man
Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a sceptre raised
So high in thoughts as I you left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever. I did hear you talk,
Far above singing! After you were gone,

I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd
What stirr'd it so. Alas! I found it love;
Yet far from lust; for could I but have lived
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myself
In habit of a boy; and for I knew

My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you. And, understanding well
That when I made discovery of my sex,
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid

Could call together, never to be known,

Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seem'd, that I might ever
Abide with you: then sat I by the fount

Where first you took me up.

Philaster had previously described his finding the disguised maiden by the fount, and the description is highly poetical and picturesque :

Hunting the buck,

I found him sitting by a fountain-side,
Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself,
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me: But ever when he turn'd
His tender eyes upon them he would weep,
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story.
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did show
What every flower, as country people hold,

CYCLOPEDIA OF

Did signify; and how all, order'd thus,
Express'd his grief: and to my thoughts did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wish'd; so that methought I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertain❜d him
Who was as glad to follow.

The Maid's Tragedy, supposed to be written about the same time, is a drama of a powerful but unpleasing character. The purity of female virtue in Amintor and Aspatia, is well contrasted with the guilty boldness of Evadne; and the rough soldierlike bearing and manly feeling of Melantius, render the selfish sensuality of the king more hateful and disgusting. Unfortunately, there is much licentiousness in this fine play-whole scenes and dialogues are disfigured by this master vice of the theatre of Beaumont and Fletcher. Their dramas are 'a rank unweeded garden,' which grew only the more disorderly and vicious as it advanced to maturity. Fletcher must bear the chief blame of this defect, for he wrote longer than his associate, and is generally understood to have been the most copious and fertile composer. Before Beaumont's death, they had, in addition to Philaster,' and the Majd's Tragedy,' produced King and no King, Bonduca, The Laws of Candy (tragedies); and The Woman Hater, The Knight of the Burning Pestle, The Honest Man's Fortune, The Coxcomb, and The Captain (comedies). Fletcher afterwards produced three tragic dramas, and nine comedies, the best of which are, The Chances, The Spanish Curate, The Beggar's Bush, and Rule a Wife and Have a Wife. He also wrote an exquisite pastoral drama, The Faithful Shepherdess, which Milton followed pretty closely in the design, and partly in the language and imagery, of Comus. A higher though more doubtful honour has been assigned to the twin authors; for Shakspeare is said to have assisted them in the composition of one of their works, The Two Noble Kinsmen, and his name is joined with Fletcher's on the title page of the first edition. The bookseller's authority in such matters is of no weight; and it seems unlikely that our great poet, after the production of some of his best dramas, should enter into a partnership of this description. The Two Noble Kinsmen' is certainly not superior to some of the other plays of Beaumont and Fletcher.

The genius of Beaumont is said to have been more correct, and more strongly inclined to tragedy, than that of his friend. The later works of Fletcher are chiefly of a comic character. His plots are sometimes inartificial and loosely connected, but he is always lively and entertaining. There is a rapid succession of incidents, and the dialogue is witty, elegant, and amusing. Dryden considered that they understood and imitated the conversation of gentlenen much better than Shakspeare; and he states that their plays were, in his day, the most pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage; two of theirs being acted through the year, for one of Shakspeare's or Jonson's.' It was different some forty years previous to this. In 1627, the King's Company bribed the Master of the Revels with £5, to interfere in preventing the players of the theatre called the Red Bull, from performing the dramas of Shakspeare. One cause of the preference of Beaumont and Fletcher, may have been the license of their dramas, suited to the perverted taste of the court of Charles II., and the spirit of intrigue which they adopted from the Spanish stage, and naturalised on the English. We cannot deny,' remarks Hallam, 'that the depths of Shakspeare's mind were often unfathomable by an audience; the bow was drawn by a matchless hand, but the shaft went out of sight. All might listen to Fletcher's pleasing, though not

TO 1649. profound or vigorous, language; his thoughts are noble, and tinged with the ideality of romance; his metaphors vivid, though sometimes too forced; he possesses the idiom of English without much pedantry, though in many passages he strains it beyond common use; his versification, though studiously are seldom arrested by striking beauties. Good lines irregular, is often rhythmical and sweet; yet we occur in every page, fine ones but rarely. We lay down the volume with a sense of admiration of what we have read, but little of it remains distinctly in the memory. Fletcher is not much quoted, and has not even afforded copious materials to those who cull the beauties of ancient lore.' His comic powers are certainly far superior to his tragic. Massinger impresses the reader more deeply, and has a moral beauty not possessed by Beaumont and Fletcher, but in comedy he falls infinitely below them. Though their characters are deficient in variety, their knowledge of stage-effect and contrivance, their fertility of invention, and the airy liveliness of their dialogue, give the charm of novelty and interest to their scenes. Mr Macaulay considers that the models which Fletcher had principally in his eye, even for his most serious and elevated compositions, were not Shakspeare's tragedies, but his comedies. 'It was these, with their idealised truth of character, their poetic beauty of imagery, their mixture of the grave with the playful in thought, their rapid yet skilful transitions from the tragic to the comic in feeling; it was these, the pictures in which Shakspeare had made his nearest approach to portraying actual life, and not those pieces in which he transports the imagination into his own vast and awful world of tragic action, and suffering, and emotion-that attracted Fletcher's fancy, and proved congenial to his cast of feeling.' This observation is strikingly just, applied to Shakspeare's mixed comedies or plays, like the Twelfth Night,' the 'Winter's Tale,' 'As You Like It,' &c. The rich and genial comedy of Falstaff, Shallow, and Slender, was not imitated by Fletcher. His Knight of the Burning Pestle' is an admirable burlesque of the false taste of the citizens of London for chivalrous and romantic adventures, without regard to situation or probability. On the whole, the dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher impress us with a high idea of their powers as poets and dramatists. The elevate them above Jonson, though they were desvast variety and luxuriance of their genius seem to titute of his regularity and solidity, and to place them on the borders of the 'magic circle' of Shakspeare. The confidence and buoyancy of youth are visible in their productions. They had not tasted of adversity, like Jonson or Massinger; and they had not the profoundly-meditative spirit of their great master, cognisant of all human feelings and sympathies; life was to them a scene of enjoyment and pleasure, and the exercise of their genius a source of refined delight and ambition. They were gentlemen who wrote for the stage, as gentlemen have rarely done before or since.

[Generosity of Cæsar.]

[Ptolemy, king of Egypt, having secured the head of Pompey,
Cæsar, as a means of gaining his favour. To them enter Cæsar,
comes with his friends Achoreus and Photinus to present it to
Antony, Dolabella, and Sceva.]

From kingly Ptolemy I bring this present,
Pho. Do not shun me, Cæsar.
The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour,
The goal and mark of high ambitious honour.
Before, thy victory had no name, Cæsar,
Thy travel and thy loss of blood, no recompense;
Thou dream'dst of being worthy, and of war,

And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers:
Here they take life; here they inherit honour,
Grow fix'd, and shoot up everlasting triumphs.
Take it, and look upon thy humble servant,
With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolemy,
That offers with this head, most mighty Cæsar,
What thou wouldst once have given for't, all Egypt.
Ach. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror,
Nor disesteem the benefit that meets thee,
Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer:
Yet, let me tell thee, most imperious Cæsar,
Though he oppos'd no strength of swords to win this,
Nor labour'd through no showers of darts and lances,
Yet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly,
An inward war: He was his grandsire's guest,
Friend to his father, and when he was expell'd
And beaten from this kingdom by strong hand,
And had none left him to restore his honour,
No hope to find a friend in such a misery,
Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune,
Strengthen'd, and cherish'd it, and set it right again:
This was a love to Cæsar.

Sce. Give me hate, gods!

Pho. This Cæsar may account a little wicked; But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, Had fall'n upon him, what it had been then;

If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way!

He was thy son-in-law; there to be tainted

Had been most terrible! Let the worst be render'd, We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent. Cæsar. Oh, Sceva, Sceva, see that head! See, captains,

The head of godlike Pompey!

Sce. He was basely ruin'd;

But let the gods be griev'd that suffer'd it.
And be you Cæsar.

Caesar. Oh thou conqueror,

Thou glory of the world once, now the pity;

Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ?
What poor fate follow'd thee and pluck'd thee on
To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ?
The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger,
That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness,
Nor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was?
That never heard thy name sung but in banquets,
And loose lascivious pleasures? to a boy,
That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness,
No study of thy life to know thy goodness!
And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend,
Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee,
In soft relenting tears? Hear me, great Pompey;
If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee !
Th' hast most unnobly robb'd me of my victory,
My love and mercy.

Ant. Oh, how brave these tears show!
How excellent is sorrow in an enemy!

Dol. Glory appears not greater than this goodness. Cæsar. Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids,

Built to outdare the sun, as you suppose,
Where your unworthy kings lie rak'd in ashes,
Are monuments fit for him? No; brood of Nilus,
Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven,
No pyramids set off his memories,

But the eternal substance of his greatness,
To which I leave him. Take the head away,
And, with the body, give it noble burial:
Your earth shall now be bless'd to hold a Roman,
Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance.
Sce. If thou be'st thus loving, I shall honour thee:
But great men may dissemble, 'tis held possible,
And be right glad of what they seem to weep for;
There are such kind of philosophers. Now do I wonder
How he would look if Pompey were alive again;
But how he'd set his face.

pense.

You're young and ignorant; that pleads your pardon;
And fear, it may be, more than hate, provok'd you.
Your ministers, I must think, wanted judgment,
And so they err'd: I'm bountiful to think this,
Believe me, most bountiful. Be you most thankful;
That bounty share amongst ye. If I knew what
To send you for a present, king of Egypt,

I mean a head of equal reputation,

And that you lov'd, tho' 'twere your brightest sister's (But her you hate), I would not be behind you. Ptol. Hear me, great Cæsar!

Cæsar. I have heard too much;

And study not with smooth shows to invade
My noble mind, as you have done my conquest:
You're poor and open. I must tell you roundly,
That man that could not recompense the benefits,
The great and bounteous services of Pompey,
Can never dote upon the name of Cæsar.
Though I had hated Pompey, and allow'd his ruin,
I gave you no commission to perform it.
Hasty to please in blood are seldom trusty;
And, but I stand environ'd with my victories,
My fortune never failing to befriend me,
My noble strengths, and friends about my person,
I durst not try you, nor expect a courtesy,
Above the pious love you show'd to Pompey.
You've found me merciful in arguing with ye;
Swords, hangmen, fires, destructions of all natures,
Demolishments of kingdoms, and whole ruins,
Are wont to be my orators. Turn to tears,
You wretched and poor reeds of sun-burnt Egypt,
And now you've found the nature of a conqueror,
That you cannot decline, with all your flatteries,
That where the day gives light, will be himself still;
Know how to meet his worth with humane courtesies!
Go, and embalm those bones of that great soldier,
Howl round about his pile, fling on your spices,
Make a Sabean bed, and place this phenix
Where the hot sun may emulate his virtues,
And draw another Pompey from his ashes
Divinely great, and fix him 'mongst the worthies!
Ptol. We will do all.

Cæsar. You've robb'd him of those tears
His kindred and his friends kept sacred for him,
The virgins of their funeral lamentations;
And that kind earth that thought to cover him
(His country's earth) will cry out 'gainst your cruelty,
And weep unto the ocean for revenge,

Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour ye!
My grief has stopt the rest! When Pompey liv'd,
He us'd you nobly; now he's dead, use him so. [Exit.

The False One.

My night, and all your hands have been employ'd
In giving me a spotless offering

To young Amintor's bed, as we are now
For you: pardon, Evadne; would my worth
Were great as yours, or that the king, or he,

Or both thought so; perhaps he found me worthless;
But till he did so, in these ears of mine
(These credulous ears) he pour'd the sweetest words
That art or love could frame.

Erad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam.
Asp. Would I could, then should I leave the cause.
Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew.
Erad. That's one of your sad songs, madam.
Asp. Believe me, 'tis a very pretty one.
Evad. How is it, madam?

Asp. Lay a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear,

Say I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth;

Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth!

Madam, good night; may no discontent
Grow 'twixt your love and you; but if there do,
Inquire of me, and I will guide your moan,
Teach you an artificial way to grieve,

To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord
No worse than I; but if you love so well,
Alas! you may displease him; so did I.
This is the last time you shall look on me:
Ladies, farewell; as soon as I am dead,
Come all and watch one night about my hearse;
Bring each a mournful story and a tear
To offer at it when I go to earth:
With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round,
Write on my brow my fortune, let my bier
Be borne by virgins that shall sing by course
The truth of maids and perjuries of men.
Evad. Alas! I pity thee.
Asp. Go and be happy in your lady's love;

[Amintor enters.

[To Amintor.

And to that destiny have patiently

Laid up my hour to come.

Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite,

Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country?
Where are our friends and kindreds? never more
Must we behold those comforts, never see
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour,
Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,
Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst them,
And as an east wind leave them all behind us
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,
Outstript the people's praises, won the garlands
Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, never

Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses
Like proud seas under us, our good swords now
(Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore)
Ravish'd our sides, like age, must run to rust,
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us;
These hands shall never draw them out like lightning
To blast whole armies more!

Arc. No, Palamon,

Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are,
And here the graces of our youths must wither
Like a too timely spring; here age must find us,
And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried;
The sweet embraces of a loving wife
Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand Cupids,
Shall never clasp our necks, no issue know us,
No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see,
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,

Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.'
The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments,
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune,
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done
To youth and nature. This is all our world:
We shall know nothing here but one another;
Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes.
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it :
Summer shall come, and with her all delights,
But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.

Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds That shook the aged forest with their echoes, No more now must we halloo, no more shake Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, Struck with our well-steel'd darts. All valiant uses (The food and nourishment of noble minds) In us two here shall perish: we shall die (Which is the curse of honour) lastly Children of grief and ignorance.

Arc. Yet, cousin,

Even from the bottom of these miseries,
From all that fortune can inflict upon us,

I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings,
If the gods please to hold here; a brave patience,
And the enjoying of our griefs together.
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish
If I think this our prison !

Pal. Certainly

'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes
Were twinn'd together; 'tis most true, two souls

Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer
The gall of hazard, so they grow together,
Will never sink; they must not; say they could,
A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done.
Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place
That all men hate so much?

Pal. How, gentle cousin ?

Arc. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary,
To keep us from corruption of worse men!
We are young, and yet desire the ways of honour,
That liberty and common conversation,
The poison of pure spirits, might (like women)
Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing

Can be, but our imaginations

May make it ours? And here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another;

We are one another's wife, ever begetting

New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaint.

ance;

We are, in one another, families;

I am your heir, and you are mine. This place
Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor
Dare take this from us; here, with a little patience,
We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us;
The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas
Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty,

A wife might part us lawfully, or business;
Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men
Crave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin,
Where you should never know it, and so perish
Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,
Or prayers to the gods: a thousand chances,
Were we from hence, would sever us.

Pal. You have made me

(I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wanton With my captivity: what a misery

It is to live abroad, and everywhere!

'Tis like a beast, methinks! I find the court here,

I'm sure, a more content; and all those pleasures,
That woo the wills of men to vanity,

I see through now; and am sufficient
To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow,
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.
What had we been, old in the court of Creon,
Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance
The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,
Had not the loving gods found this place for us,
We had died, as they do, ill old men, unwept,
And had their epitaphs, the people's curses.

The Two Noble Kinsmen.

[Disinterestedness of Biancha.] [From the Fair Maid of the Inn."]

Enter CESARIO and a SERVANT.

Cesa. Let any friend have entrance.
Serv. Sir, a' shall.

Cesa. Any; I except none.

Serv. We know your mind, sir.

Cesa. Grieve me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Is this all?

Bian. This all?

Cesa. Thou art sorry for❜t,

I warrant thee; alas, good soul, Biancha!

That which thou call'st misfortune is my happiness; My happiness, Biancha!

Bian. If you love me,

It may prove mine too.

Cesa. May it? I will love thee,

My good, good maid, if that can make thee happy, Better and better love thee.

Bian. Without breach, then,

Of modesty, I come to claim the interest
Your protestations, both by vows and letters,
Have made me owner of: from the first hour

I saw you, I confess I wish'd I had been,

Or not so much below your rank and greatness,
Or not so much above those humble flames
That should have warm'd my bosom with a temperate
Equality of desires in equal fortunes.

Still, as you utter'd language of affection,
I courted time to pass more slowly on,

That I might turn more fool to lend attention
To what I durst not credit, nor yet hope for;
Yet still as more I heard, I wish'd to hear more.
Cesa. Didst thou in troth, wench?
Bian. Willingly betray'd

Myself to hopeless bondage.

Cesa. A good girl!

I thought I should not miss, whate'er thy answer was. Bian. But as I am a maid, sir, (and i3 faith [Erit. believe me, may So dearly I respected both your fame for I am a maid),

Cesa. Pleasures admit no bounds. I'm pitch'd so high,
To such a growth of full prosperities,
That to conceal my fortunes were an injury

To gratefulness, and those more liberal favours
By whom my glories prosper. He that flows
In gracious and swoln tides of blest abundance,
Yet will be ignorant of his own fortunes,
Deserves to live contemn'd, and die forgotten:
The harvest of my hopes is now already
Ripen'd and gather'd; I can fatten youth
With choice of plenty, and supplies of comforts;
My fate springs in my own hand, and I'll use it.
Enter two SERVANTS, and BIANCHA.

1st. Serv. 'Tis my place.

2d. Serv. Yours? Here, fair one; I'll acquaint My lord.

1st. Serv. He's here; go to him boldly.

2d. Serv. Please you

To let him understand how readily

I waited on your errand!

1st. Serv. Saucy fellow!

You must excuse his breeding.

Cesa. What's the matter?

Biancha? my Biancha?—To your offices!

[Exeunt Serv.

This visit, sweet, from thee, my pretty dear,
By how much more 'twas unexpected, comes

So much the more timely: witness this free welcome,
Whate'er occasion led thee !

Bian. You may guess, sir;

Yet, indeed, 'tis a rare one.
Cesa. Prithee, speak it,

My honest virtuous maid.

Bian. Sir, I have heard

Of your misfortunes; and I cannot tell you
Whether I have more cause of joy or sadness,
To know they are a truth.

Cesa. What truth, Biancha?
Misfortunes?-how ?-wherein ?

Bian. You are disclaim'd

For being the lord Alberto's son, and publicly
Acknowledg'd of as mean a birth as mine is:
It cannot choose but grieve you.

You

And quality, that I would first have perish'd
In my sick thoughts, than ere have given consent
To have undone your fortunes, by inviting
A marriage with so mean a one as I am:

I should have died sure, and no creature known
The sickness that had kill'd me.

Cesa. Pretty heart!

Good soul, alas, alas!

Bian. Now since I know

There is no difference 'twixt your birth and mine, Not much 'twixt our estates (if any be,

The advantage is on my side), I come willingly To tender you the first-fruits of my heart,

And am content t' accept you for my husband, Now when you are at lowest.

Cesa. For a husband?

Speak sadly; dost thou mean so?

Bian. In good deed, sir,

"Tis pure love makes this proffer.

Cesa. I believe thee.

What counsel urg'd thee on? tell me; thy father! My worshipful smug host? Was't not he, wench? Or mother hostess? ha?

Bian. D' you mock my parentage?

I do not scorn yours: mean folks are as worthy
To be well spoken of, if they deserve well,

As some whose only fame lies in their blood.
Oh, you're a proud poor man! all your oaths falsehood,
Your vows deceit, your letters forged and wicked!
Cesa. Thoud'st be my wife, I dare swear.

Bian. Had your heart,

Your hand, and tongue, been twins, you had reputed This courtesy a benefit.

Cesa. Simplicity,

How prettily thou mov'st me! Why, Biancha, Report has cozen'd thee; I am not fallen

From my expected honours or possessions,

Though from the hope of birthright.

Bian. Are you not?

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