Chapter IV: Act IV: , Scene I

_A Street_.

_Enter_ ANSELM.

ANS. What frantic humour doth thus haunt my sense, Striving to breed destruction in my spirit? When I would sleep, the ghost of my sweet love Appears unto me in an angel's shape: When I'm awake, my fantasy presents, As in a glass, the shadow of my love: When I would speak, her name intrudes itself Into the perfect echoes of my speech: And though my thought beget some other word, Yet will my tongue speak nothing but her name. If I do meditate, it is on her; If dream of her, or if discourse of her, I think her ghost doth haunt me, as in times Of former darkness old wives' tales report.

_Enter_ FULLER.

Here comes my better genius, whose advice Directs me still in all my actions. How now, from whence come you?

FUL. Faith, from the street, in which, as I pass'd by, I met the modest Mistress Arthur's corpse, And after her as mourners, first her husband, Next Justice Reason, then old Master Arthur, Old Master Lusam, and young Lusam too, With many other kinsfolks, neighbours, friends, And others, that lament her funeral: Her body is by this laid in the vault.

ANS. And in that vault my body I will lay! I prythee, leave me: thither is my way.

FUL. I am sure you jest, you mean not as you say.

ANS. No, no, I'll but go to the church, and pray.

FUL. Nay, then we shall be troubled with your humour.

ANS. As ever thou didst love me, or as ever Thou didst delight in my society, By all the rights of friendship and of love, Let me entreat thy absence but one hour, And at the hour's end I will come to thee.

FUL. Nay, if you will be foolish, and past reason, I'll wash my hands, like Pilate, from thy folly, And suffer thee in these extremities. [_Exit_.

ANS. Now it is night, and the bright lamps of heaven Are half-burn'd out: now bright Adelbora Welcomes the cheerful day-star to the east, And harmless stillness hath possess'd the world: This is the church,--this hollow is the vault, Where the dead body of my saint remains, And this the coffin that enshrines her body, For her bright soul is now in paradise. My coming is with no intent of sin, Or to defile the body of the dead; But rather take my last farewell of her, Or languishing and dying by her side, My airy soul post after hers to heaven. [_Comes to_ MRS ARTHUR'S _tomb_. First, with this latest kiss I seal my love: Her lips are warm, and I am much deceiv'd, If that she stir not. O, this Golgotha, This place of dead men's bones is terrible, Presenting fearful apparitions! It is some spirit that in the coffin lies, And makes my hair start up on end with fear! Come to thyself, faint heart--she sits upright! O, I would hide me, but I know not where. Tush, if it be a spirit, 'tis a good spirit; For with her body living ill she knew not; And with her body dead ill cannot meddle.

MRS ART. Who am I? Or where am I?

ANS. O, she speaks, And by her language now I know she lives.

MRS ART. O, who can tell me where I am become? For in this darkness I have lost myself; I am not dead, for I have sense and life: How come I then in this coffin buried?

ANS. Anselm, be bold; she lives, and destiny Hath train'd thee hither to redeem her life.

MRS ART. Lives any 'mongst these dead? none but myself?

ANS. O yes, a man, whose heart till now was dead, Lives and survives at your return to life: Nay, start not; I am Anselm, one who long Hath doted on your fair perfection, And, loving you more than became me well, Was hither sent by some strange providence, To bring you from these hollow vaults below, To be a liver in the world again.

MRS ART. I understand you, and I thank the heavens, That sent you to revive me from this fear, And I embrace my safety with good-will.

_Enter_ AMINADAB _with two or three_ BOYS.

AMIN. _Mane citus lectum fuge, mollem discute somnum, Templa petas supplex, et venerate deum_. Shake off thy sleep, get up betimes, Go to the church and pray, And, never fear, God will thee hear, And keep thee all the day. Good counsel, boys; observe it, mark it well; This early rising, this _diluculo_ Is good both for your bodies and your minds: 'Tis not yet day; give me my tinder-box; Meantime, unloose your satchels and your books: Draw, draw, and take you to your lessons, boys.

1ST BOY. O Lord, master, what's that in the white sheet?

AMIN. In the white sheet, my boy? _Dic ubi_, where?

1ST BOY. _Vide_, master, _vide illic_, there.

AMIN. O, _Domine, Domine_, keep us from evil, A charm from flesh, the world, and the devil!

[_Exeunt_.

MRS ART. O, tell me not my husband was ingrate, Or that he did attempt to poison me, Or that he laid me here, and I was dead; These are no means at all to win my love.

ANS. Sweet mistress, he bequeath'd you to the earth; You promis'd him to be his wife till death, And you have kept your promise: but now, since The world, your husband, and your friends suppose That you are dead, grant me but one request, And I will swear never to solicit more Your sacred thoughts to my dishonest love.

MRS ART. So your demand may be no prejudice To my chaste name, no wrong unto my husband, No suit that may concern my wedlock's breach, I yield unto it; but To pass the bounds of modesty and chastity, Sooner[19] will I bequeath myself again Unto this grave, and never part from hence, Than taint my soul with black impurity.

ANS. Take here my hand and faithful heart to gage. That I will never tempt you more to sin: This my request is--since your husband dotes Upon a lewd, lascivious courtesan-- Since he hath broke the bonds of your chaste bed, And, like a murd'rer, sent you to your grave, Do but go with me to my mother's house; There shall you live in secret for a space, Only to see the end of such lewd lust, And know the difference of a chaste wife's bed, And one whose life is in all looseness led.

MRS ART. Your mother is a virtuous matron held: Her counsel, conference, and company May much avail me; there a space I'll stay, Upon condition, as you said before, You never will move your unchaste suit more.

ANS. My faith is pawn'd. O, never had chaste wife A husband of so lewd and unchaste life!

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE II.

_A Room in Mistress Mary's House_.

_Enter_ MISTRESS MARY, MISTRESS SPLAY, _and_ BRABO.

BRA. Mistress, I long have serv'd you, even since These bristled hairs upon my grave-like chin Were all unborn; when I first came to you, These infant feathers of these ravens' wings Were not once begun.

MRS SPLAY. No, indeed, they were not.

BRA. Now in my two moustachios for a need, (Wanting a rope) I well could hang myself; I prythee, mistress, for all my long service, For all the love that I have borne thee long, Do me this favour now, to marry me.

_Enter_ YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR.

MRS MA. Marry, come up, you blockhead! you great ass! What! wouldst thou have me marry with a devil! But peace, no more; here comes the silly fool, That we so long have set our lime-twigs for; Begone, and leave me to entangle him.

[_Exeunt_ MISTRESS SPLAY _and_ BRABO.

Y. ART. What, Mistress Mary?

MRS MA. O good Master Arthur, Where have you been this week, this month, this year? This year, said I? where have you been this age? Unto a lover ev'ry minute seems Time out of mind: How should I think you love me, That can endure to stay so long from me?

Y. ART. I' faith, sweetheart, I saw thee yesternight.

MRS MA. Ay, true, you did, but since you saw me not; At twelve o'clock you parted from my house, And now 'tis morning, and new-strucken seven; Seven hours thou stay'd'st from me; why didst thou so? They are my seven years' 'prenticeship of woe.

Y. ART. I prythee, be patient; I had some occasion That did enforce me from thee yesternight.

MRS MA. Ay, you are soon enforc'd; fool that I am, To dote on one that nought respecteth me! 'Tis but my fortune, I am born to bear it, And ev'ry one shall have their destiny.

Y. ART. Nay, weep not, wench; thou wound'st me with thy tears.

MRS MA. I am a fool, and so you make me too; These tears were better kept than spent in waste On one that neither tenders them nor me. What remedy? but if I chance to die, Or to miscarry with that I go withal, I'll take my death that thou art cause thereof; You told me that, when your wife was dead, You would forsake all others, and take me.

Y. ART. I told thee so, and I will keep my word, And for that end I came thus early to thee; I have procur'd a licence, and this night We will be married in a lawless[20] church.

MRS. MA. These news revive me, and do somewhat ease The thought that was new-gotten to my heart. But shall it be to-night?

Y. ART. Ay, wench, to-night. A se'nnight and odd days, since my wife died, Is past already, and her timeless death Is but a nine-days' talk; come, go with me, And it shall be despatched presently.

MRS. MA. Nay, then, I see thou lov'st me; and I find By this last motion thou art grown more kind.

Y. ART. My love and kindness, like my age, shall grow, And with the time increase; and thou shalt see The older I grow, the kinder I will be.

MRS. MA, Ay, so I hope it will; but, as for mine, That with my age shall day by day decline. [_Aside_. Come, shall we go?

Y. ART. With thee to the world's end, Whose beauty most admire, and all commend.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III.

_The Street near the House of Anselm's Mother_.

_Enter_ ANSELM _and_ FULLER.

ANS. 'Tis true, as I relate the circumstance, And she is with my mother safe at home; But yet, for all the hate I can allege Against her husband, nor for all the love That on my own part I can urge her to, Will she be won to gratify my love.

FUL. All things are full of ambiguity, And I admire this wond'rous accident. But, Anselm, Arthur's about a new wife, _a bona roba_; How will she take it when she hears this news?

ANS. I think, even as a virtuous maiden should; It may be that report may, from thy mouth, Beget some pity from her flinty heart, And I will urge her with it presently.

FUL. Unless report be false, they are link'd already; They are fast as words can tie them: I will tell thee How I, by chance, did meet him the last night:-- One said to me this Arthur did intend To have a wife, and presently to marry. Amidst the street, I met him as my friend, And to his love a present he did carry; It was some ring, some stomacher, or toy; I spake to him, and bad God give him joy. God give me joy, quoth he; of what, I pray? Marry, quoth I, your wedding that is toward. 'Tis false, quoth he, and would have gone his way. Come, come, quoth I, so near it and so froward: I urg'd him hard by our familiar loves, Pray'd him withal not to forget my gloves. Then he began:--Your kindness hath been great, Your courtesy great, and your love not common; Yet so much favour pray let me entreat, To be excus'd from marrying any woman. I knew the wench that is become his bride, And smil'd to think how deeply he had lied; For first he swore he did not court a maid; A wife he could not, she was elsewhere tied; And as for such as widows were, he said, And deeply swore none such should be his bride: Widow, nor wife, nor maid--I ask'd no more, Knowing he was betroth'd unto a whore.

ANS. Is it not Mistress Mary that you mean? She that did dine with us at Arthur's house?

_Enter_ MISTRESS ARTHUR.

FUL. The same, the same:--here comes the gentlewoman; O Mistress Arthur, I am of your counsel: Welcome from death to life!

ANS. Mistress, this gentleman hath news to tell ye, And as you like of it, so think of me.

FUL. Your husband hath already got a wife; A huffing wench, i' faith, whose ruffling silks Make with their motion music unto love, And you are quite forgotten.

ANS. I have sworn To move this my unchaste demand no more. [_Aside_.]

FUL. When doth your colour change? When do your eyes Sparkle with fire to revenge these wrongs? When doth your tongue break into rage and wrath, Against that scum of manhood, your vile husband?' He first misus'd you.

ANS. And yet can you love him?

FUL. He left your chaste bed, to defile the bed Of sacred marriage with a courtesan.

ANS. Yet can you love him?

FUL. And, not content with this, Abus'd your honest name with sland'rous words, And fill'd your hush'd house with unquietness.

ANS. And can you love him yet?

FUL. Nay, did he not With his rude fingers dash you on the face, And double-dye your coral lips with blood? Hath he not torn those gold wires from your head, Wherewith Apollo would have strung his harp, And kept them to play music to the gods? Hath he not beat you, and with his rude fists Upon that crimson temperature of your cheeks Laid a lead colour with his boist'rous blows?

ANS. And can you love him yet?

FUL. Then did he not, Either by poison or some other plot, Send you to death where, by his providence, God hath preserved you by that wond'rous miracle? Nay, after death, hath he not scandalis'd Your place with an immodest courtesan?

ANS. And can you love him yet?

MRS ART. And yet, and yet, And still, and ever whilst I breathe this air: Nay, after death, my unsubstantial soul, Like a good angel, shall attend on him, And keep him from all harm. But is he married? much good do his heart! Pray God, she may content him better far Than I have done; long may they live in peace, Till I disturb their solace; but because I fear some mischief doth hang o'er his head, I'll weep my eyes dry with my present care, And for their healths make hoarse my tongue with prayer. [_Exit_.

FUL. Art sure she is a woman? if she be, She is create of nature's purity.

ANS. O yes, I too well know she is a woman; Henceforth my virtue shall my love withstand, And of my striving thoughts get th'upper hand.

FUL. Then, thus resolv'd, I straight will drink to thee A health thus deep, to drown thy melancholy.

[_Exeunt_.