ADRASTA: OR, THE woman's spleen, And LOVES conquest.  
A Tragicomedy.  
Never Acted.  Horat. 
— Volet haec sub lace videri,  
judicis argutum quae non form dat acumen.  
LONDON, Printed for Richard Royston, and are to be sold at his Shop in Ivy-lane, next to the Exchequer Office.  
1635.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL And others His Friends and Musophilus: EUGENIUS wisheth Pierian love, benevolent aspect, and candid Censure.  
HAving long since (honoured Gentlemen, and friends) finished this Play, and fitted it for the Stage, I intended to have had there the Promethean fire of Action infused into it: being thereto encouraged by the general good liking and content, which many of you vouchsafed to receive in the hearing of it; which way it never yet miscarried, but still had all that the ear could give it: and with whom some prime wits of both the Universities, and those that were learned in this faculty (competent judges enough) have in their free and open Censures unanimously accorded. This I say was encouragement enough for me to prefer this little glow-worm (which I had, as yet, only fostered and kept warm with mine own breath) to the Stage, and to bring it into that Noble nursery of Action, where Dramatic Poems usually and rightly take their Degrees of applause from them that can best judge, the Spectators; that, as it had been before only demissa per aurem, it might be now at length Oculis subjecta fidelibus. But the Players, upon a slight and half view of it, refused to do it that right; The reason I well know not, unless perhaps it had not in it so much Witchcraft in Poëtry, as, now 'tis known, the Stage will bear. Be what will, it hath again been under the file since they saw it: and now by the earnest impulse of some particular friends, necessity concurring, myself also willing to avoid farther trouble and care for it, that it might not hinder the conception of things more worthy your care and sight; I was, unwillingly, forced to publish it to the World; where being freely exposed to all censures, I doubt not but many a dog-toothed Cynic will have a snap at it: But I know already they will not be worth my anger, and therefore should be loath to spend any part of my Title upon them; only I wish them to note this saying well: 
Another's work to reprehend  
How easy 'tis? how hard to mend?   
In the mean time I do submit it wholly to the learned judgements of you all (Gentlemen) for whose delight it was conceived and written; To you do I repair both for defence and candour: hoping that you will vindicate this harmless piece from the rash censures of malevolent and unskilful judges, whilst I take leave to say; 
— 
* Ambubaiarum Collegii Alumni.  Demetri teque Tigelli,  
Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare Cathedras.  What though it was never acted? I hold the deep and solid ear a more faithful messenger to the understanding, than the eye: Grave Auditors are still welcomer to the Muses, than light Spectators: such I mean as applaud only of toys and babbles (Poscentes Vestro multum diversa palato) are like Americans merely taken with bells, rattles, and Hobby-horses, not relishing the perfection of nature nor solid Art, though Industry labour to feed them with both at once. But this excuse is left for them: Invincible Ignorance satisfies before God and man. This hope remains to us, Non omnes eadem mirantur amantque What though it never took the Degree of the Stage? I presume you are all Learned (Gentlemen) and know better how to judge by the care, than by the eye, though both may exercise their functions here: As well a fool as a good Physician may come from Padua: & an Ass may graduate himself at Athens. Wherefore now (Gentlemen) if you be lovers of the Muses (and such I would have you all) I need not then doubt of your benevolent aspects, which will soon beget a candid censure. I make but one Musophilus of you all, to whom (as it were) Uno in multis, I dedicate my endeavours bestowed upon this Poem, hoping to find in you all, severally, that fundamental similitude and common Ration in your loves to Learning, by which you may easily retribute that recompense to these Labours, which the Stage denied  
Your true Honourer, JOHN JONES Eugen.   

The Actors names.  
prologue.  


Cosmo a Duke.  
Adrasta his Duchess.  
Lucilio their Son.  
Lady Julia a widow.  
Althaea her daughter.  
Antonio a Courtier and friend to Lucilio.  
Camilla the Lady Julia's women.  
Fioretta the Lady Julia's women.  
Rigazzo a Page to Lucilio.  
Alastor a villain but a Coward.  
Assassino a Blade or desperate fellow.  
Micale a Witch.  
Sarvia her daughter.  
Navarchus a Master of a Ship.  
One Mariner or Shipman.  
Mr Frailware a Grocer and Constable.  
Mistress Ambrosia Frailware his wife.  
Debora her maid.  
Mr Damasippus a lecherous Stoic.  
Mistress Abigail his wife.  
Damon two Shepherds.  
Arminio two Shepherds.  
Laurinda a Shepherdess.  
A messenger.    
epilogue.  
The Scene Florence.   
A little before the Prologue comes forth, enters one of the Actors and sits down on the Stage as a stranger, awhile after enters the Prologue and stumbles at his legs. Gent. 
HOw now Prologue! is your mind so much on your part, that you must run over men as you go?  Prol. 
The fault was yours sir, that would so carelessly sit in his way, that was to do his part by you; though we hope to run over some before we have ended; and yet without any Cynical observation, especially of the wise.  Gent. 
Why for juvenal's sake? what has thy new turned Poetry vented? will you rail? will you be satirical, and bite? and rub the City with salt?  Prol. 
Faith sir you must know, that the giddy looseness of vicious humours, does so rankle in most parts of our time's imposthumed gallantry, that 'tis a hard thing Satyram non scribere: and therefore we are desirous to lance it a little, and give the sore an issue, that vanity seeing the foulness of the matter which made it swell to such a seeming greatness, may loathe itself, and seek a cure for the disease.  Gent. 
Do you hear Prologue! your Author is a fool: is he desirous to buy Fame at such a rate, that he will smart for't? will not examples move him? can he not live private, but he must be meddling with Tigillinus? Did he never hear of the Proverb, that it's better railing at Hercules then at a Clown to his face? I prithee tell him of it, and let him know, 'tis better live still private and unknown, then have our smarts to every ear be blown.  Prol. 
Troth it is true sir, I'll put him in mind of it.  Gent. 
I prithee do, and tell him withal, that so choice an Audience desires not to glut their ears with others' infamy, nor ever wished their mirth should feed upon the rank distemperature of other men's vices; but come to behold a Scene merry and harmless, as free from sour invectives, as fulsome bawdry: as for those whose dull palates can relish nothing, unless it be sauced with the verjuice of a tart pen, be hostile enemies to their pishes and meawings, and scorn to beg or buy a reconciling; their defects make them desperate, and their envy cannot blast an unbeholding wit: to the candour of the rest, any mirth will be more pleasing than railing: some harmless and innocent humour, that may pass with allowance of the times, will be welcomer to them, and safer to you.  Prol. 
Sir in our author's name I thank you: and would you but please to speak with him yourself—  Gent. 
I will presently, and dissuade his intention, and yet I doubt not but to give sufficient contentation to his Auditors, whose patience I fear I have wronged by interrupting their Prologue. exit.  Prol. 
I should have opened the Argument of our Play, but stumbling on this stranger, makes me doubtful what we shall have— howsoever—  

Prologue.  
The self distrust that guides his bashful pen  
will him entreat your patience, and if then  
This slight work please you, time more purely spent  
Shall once more sweat to better your content:  
Lighter defects a serious Muse amends;  
And slight beginnings have some perfect ends.    

THE woman's spleen, AND LOVES conquest: A tragicomey.  

Actus 1.  

Scena 1.  Enter Antonio and Rigazzo the Page. Page. 
SIgnior Antonio, pray how did you like the Mask we had here tonight, for my Lord Lucilio's been venuto?  Anto. 
Well of a wooden one, set forth by a Dancer and an Architect, as the fashion is.  Page. 
Alas Signior, there must be something to prolong and strengthen these devices, when Poets, in favour of the ignorant, are fain to leave 'em so short winded, and almost speechless.  Anto. 
So sir; But now tell me Rigazzo, what have you learned all this time you have been with your Lord at the University?  Page. 
More than I can reckon Signior, and yet I have the Art of memory to help me.  Anto. 
As what sir?  Page. 
I can name you all the Alehouses and Taverns in Athens, and most part of the Bawdy-houses; marry to know them all, only Night, that has been some scores of years acquainted with 'em, and the Devil that gathers their rents, could teach me: and indeed I was too young to be their scholar, else I might have been a better proficient in them too.  Anto. 
I think sir your time was spent in such studies.  Page. 
No, not all Signior, I can steal as desperately as a Pursuivant; fiddle the Geese, Ducks, Hens, Lambs, and Calves, five mile round by book; and cover the matter as smoothly as your Citizen does his perjury, and your Stoic his Lechery: for I had most sober Graduates for my Tutors in all.  Anto. 
'Twas pity your Rogueship had not proceeded Master of Art in the faculty of thieving.  Page. 
It's no matter Signior for thieves to proceed Masters of Art, when so many Masters of Art do proceed thieves, and that's the least conversion, you know Signior.  Anto. 
Are you so nimble at your Logic sir?  Page. 
As a hungry Scholar at a hen-roost.  Anto. 
Take heed you labour not yourself out o'breath, your learning's but short winded.  Page. 
Long enough to run with a Stoic, Signior. I may be able to read morality, get me some night-gear, and a red Nose, and then I am most illustriously complete.  Anto. 
Away, the Duke. Sound Cornets or oboes.  Enter Cosmo the Duke, Adrasta his Duchess, Lucilio their Son, Lady julia, Althaea, &c. Duke. 
Thus hath our cost and best invention sweat  
To seal your welcome from th' Athenean Schools:  
And trust me son, your thanks are much in debt  
Unto these Ladies, whose too prodigal loves  
Have searched for jewels, thus to do you grace.  Lucil. 
My Lord, I do acknowledge it a debt  
As to their loves: Only your Princely care  
To grace our new return hath so surpassed  
The former expectation we conceived,  
That I am forced now to confess I live  
A desperate bankrupt to your royal favours.  Duke. 
Your good deserts may soon requite our love,  
But tell us, How does learning flourish now  
In Athens?  Lucil. 
just as Virtue at the Court;  
For with the times affecting ignorance  
'T has banished true industrious labour thence;  
And vicious looseness finding none resist,  
Has so engrossed the most refined wits,  
And by the terrors of her sensual threats,  
Bred such deluding Crocodiles in their brains,  
That like the thirsty swift Egyptian dogs,  
They scarcely taste of those fair sevenfold streams,  
Into whose depth their industry should dive:  
And having only got a seeming face  
Of superficial knowledge, 'mongst the gross  
And beastlike sense-conceiving multitude,  
They most ambitiously seek and pursue  
Vulgar applause for their poor outside skill,  
"And by such mudwall stairs do often rise  
" Up to the top of abused dignities.  Duke. 
How can deserving virtue flourish then,  
If sacred learning be so slightly sought?  Lucil. 
As twin-born sisters, both do share alike  
Their equal portions in the world's esteem,  
For in those hallowed places, which a true  
And careful liberality did consecrate  
As pure religious shrines to god like Skill,  
Where Virtue richly invested with her best  
And precious ornaments, might give a full  
And glorious lustre like a noontide Sun;  
There ugly Vice, even in the basest forms,  
Climbing by steps of Art up to the height  
Of horror, standeth in a praecipiti,  
And thrust but one step farther, with her fall  
Will crush herself, and overwhelm the world.  Duke. 
To grieve at this, were in these senseless times  
To become monstrous; and to feel no grief,  
Were to be senseless with the times themselves.  Lucilio courts Althaea Aside Duch. 
Observe him good my Lord, and let your eye  
Be jealous now—  Duke. 
Have patience good Adrasta,  
We strive in vain to bandy with love's power  
And unresisted Charter of the gods,  
Which time and absence ne'er could violate.  Alth. 
— As is your soul. aside. Althaea to Lucilio.  Lucil. 
O be prodigious then!  
And in despite of custom let the world  
See that it's possible a woman's mind  
Can rest in one: you must be valiant too,  
And dare th'affrighting dangers that we meet,  
I fear we have swelling passages to wade,  
"For we must feel amidst a world of evils,  
" A woman's Spleen, worse than the worst of devils.  Duke. 
Now Lady julia let this confirm your welcome,  
And yours Althaea: trust me I could wish  
The season so disposed, since that our sons  
Happy and safe return has made us glad,  
That we might dedicate a longer time  
To harmless mirth: but now the night grows old,  
And we shall wrong your patience too too much.  Exeunt all but the Duchess and Lucilio. Duch. 
Must it be so? Have all those lavish signs  
Of undeserved favours heaped on you  
By your too careful father, and ourselves,  
Been spurs to your contempt? Or could the sweets  
Of our affection prodigally cast,  
Make you not relish what your duty owes?  
Else did you think because they always ran  
In such an unchecked current to your will,  
That no ingratitude could make the ebb?  
O impious times! wherein a parent's care,  
When she has combated the pangs of death  
To give her children life; stood all her time  
Like to a careful sentinel for their youth,  
And spent the nights in pensive watchfulness,  
(Forcing soft nature to forbear her rest)  
To plot their good; must all be frustrated?  
And by a child's proud will see all things crossed?  
Their Parents hopes, and their own fortunes lost?  
How hath our love to thee? our wishes toiled  
To build thy passage to a higher sphere,  
And by some noble match to raise thy House,  
And must thy base attempts look downward still?  
Mongrel our blood? and set a lasting scar  
Upon our progeny, by fixing thus  
Thy stubborn passions on base julia's child?  Luci. 
Madam, not to yield what Nature makes us owe,  
Were to be made less reasonable than beasts;  
And nothing's more against a generous mind,  
And freeborn spirit, than foul Ingratitude:  
Yet must your Grace remember that we take  
Nor all from Parents: the hand of heaven and Fate  
Does by the last infusion of the soul  
Give the rich form, and by a secret tract,  
And unavoided path, leads us to what  
Seems good to it; and though our minds be free  
In this impulse, we love by Destiny.  
I must confess I love; nor was the flame  
Of my affection, when it kindled first,  
Like to a paper fire, that with a blaze  
Of lust, begins and ends at once, and leaves  
Nought but black infamy behind: nor can  
The least dishonour stain our dukedom's title  
From her, whose Blood stands firm by long descents,  
Even in the heart of unbought nobleness,  
Whose Reputation's sound, Revenues fair,  
Beauty able to enrich a Dukedom, and deserts  
To be an Empress. Were then our fortunes raised  
By those high steps to which I should aspire  
To join with greatness, I must join with vice,  
"For they are oft observed to join their hands,  
" And he not stoops that stays where Virtue stands.  Duch. 
Has Athens taught you be an Orator?  
Degenerous boy, I'll cool your virtuous flame,  
And make thee rue the baseness of thy choice. Exit.  Lucil. 
How deep a conflict do my thoughts endure  
'Twixt Love and Duty! Wert not a mother's tongue  
That wronged thy worth Althaea, I would have torn it  
From out th'injurious throat in thy revenge,  
"And held it to their eyes, to let them see  
" How it had wronged itself by wronging thee. Exit.  Enter Mistress Frailware and the Page. Mistress Frail. 
By my troth I am glad to see thee well my little  
Gallow-clapper; how hast thou done this many a day? ha!  Page. 
Faith prettily well Mistress Fraileware, as a man of my profession might; I had all the chief trades in the City to help me do well.  Mistress Frail. 
What trades were they, thou wert too young for any occupation yet.  Page. 
Not above three years at most: but I earned something with working and waiting on my Lord, as Tankard-bearers, Labourers, and serving-men do: I stole and cozened, as Tailors, Shopkeepers and Cutpurses do; I let out my Lords books, and took money for the use of'em, as the later ends of gouty Merchants do: and yet for all this I was forced (as many of you Citizens are) to go many times to bed with a hungry conscience.  Mistress Frail. 
You'll never leave your crackery, but tell me prithee sirrah, is Athens a fine Town? What be these College, like? didst thou go to school there?  Page. 
O, an excellent place for a woman that will use trading: You shall have the Scholars lie at your sweet Frails night and day; they be forced to sweeten their disputations with Grocers reasons: and custom could not but make your husband one of the head men of the City presently.  Mistress Frail. 
Now by my troth I think it were a very good place for a stale shopkeepers wife of the City to set up in: o'my conscience, a woman of our occupation might thrive there.  Page. 
ay, and she were down never so low, the scholars would do it— and how does Master Damasippios the lecturing Stoic? When was he here?  Mistress Frail. 
Dost remember him? let me see— o'my honesty, I never saw him since his last moral Lecture against the sins of the flesh— yes heaven forgive me to swear, now I remember me, the same day my husband went a duck-hunting; and then he came hither, and brought me many good things: wilt thou go to him again sometimes for me? I'll give thee some figs and Tobacco.  Page. 
Yours to command; I'll smoke in your business then i'faith.  Mistress Frail. 
Prithee come to me when my husband is out of the shop. exit.  Page. 
Adieu the two desiring sins of the City. Avarice and Lechery: if I do not meet with your moral venery, would I might go lousy, and have but three pence to play with this month. Exit Page.  Enter duchess and Alastor. Duch. 
Come good Alastor! be but secret now,  
And I shall live endeared unto thy faith;  
The matter much imports us; and in case  
That my rewards should die with me, the State  
Will one day thank thee for't. I have his seal,  
His hand and style exactly counterfeit:  
Then hear thy charge; Thou must this evening haste  
Covertly to the Lady julia's house—  
But canst be secret?  Alast. 
As your own thoughts Madam,  
I can stick as close to any piece of villainy  
As a Punk to a farmer's son new gentilized;  
And when besides so many good angels tempt,  
They are enough— to make a woman keep counsel.  Duch. 
Well then; make means to speak there with Althaea,  
Tell her thou com'st from Lord Lucilio,  
Who in important business has employed thee;  
I know she'll take thy message privately:  
Deliver her this letter; seem that Lucilio  
Has none but thee on whom he can rely  
In this so dangerous an enterprise:  
She upon this willbe more free and open  
To the design: then mark her, good Alastor!  
Observe each word and gesture that she uses;  
If thou canst wring a look that may discover  
But a consenting thought, it will suffice:  
For when offending lives withstand our will,  
we must seem good, though we determine ill. exit.  Alast. 
Here's a villainous pitfall to stifle a poor wench in; who can be a beggar, now, that's not afraid to be damned? well, I can no more tell how to thrive without doing villainy, than greatness can without doing injury. Pretty piece of man's flesh I my heart will leap when I see thee come off the Rock like a magpie; and I shall wish, for thy sake, that nature had made women a little lighter, all of feathers, that they might have taken hurt by no manner of falling: but pity is a thing clean out of fashion, and the high way to irreparable Beggary; I'll none of it. exit.  Enter Lucilio, Antonio, Page. Anto. 
Nay good my Lord yield not yourself so much  
To these unseasoned Passions, that do sit  
Like midnight on your thoughts; methinks the air  
Of Athens should have purged these humours quite:  
In troth, my Lord, the world will condemn you,  Lucil. 
Of what Antonio?  Anto. 
Why of melancholy.  
Which some define is weakness in a Lord,  
And in a Lady pride or sullenness,  
But in a wise man 'tis flat foolery.  Lucil. 
Prithee forbear Antonio; let me in silence  
Vent out the cares that overwhelm my soul;  
Thou know'st how deep an angry mother's spleen  
Wounds the soft love that I am forced to bear  
To my Althaea's virtues. How can I choose  
But weep away my youth, when I remember  
The dreadful oppositions which my soul  
Hath formerly sustained for her; the cares  
That have outrun my years, and like to corrosives  
Have eat into my flesh, there seized upon  
All faculties of life, and spread their venom  
Through every vein and sinew of my heart?  Anto. 
'Tis your own fault, that thus will spend yourself  
In such extremes of passion, that increase  
The number of your griefs above your spirit;  
Faith 'tis unmanly done; call you this love?  Lucil. 
Antonio, thou mistak'st the name of love  
In thy Lucilio, if thou conceivest it dull  
And sprightless melancholy, whose corroding humour  
Feeds on the faint dejection of a mind  
That dares not meet an apprehensive thought  
Of least misfortune, but it basely yields:  
I have held up, thou knowest, against all plots  
A woman's wit could manage or invent,  
Or cause the Duke my father countenance  
To blow out the chaste flame of my affection,  
Have laid my breast open to envy's spite,  
And suffered even to banishment itself;  
If I may term't a banishment from her  
Who is all things to me, divine Althaea,  
Life, Country, fortune; all that this world calls happy.  Anto. 
Strange Symptoms of affection!  Lucilio, 
Say, Antonio,  
Was it not Banishment? that even when jove  
Had licenced us in heaven, and meant to send  
Hymen to earth in white and Priestly robes  
To join our hands, as Cupid had our hearts;  
Then to be taken hoodwinked from my hopes,  
And sent in haste from Court, just in the harvest  
Of my desires, to combat with the Arts,  
The air and clime of Athens, whilst the Sun  
Trebled his course to the Celestial Ram.  Anto. 
Yet know my Lord that your indulgent Parents  
Out of their Princely care intended it  
But as a course of Physic, to recover  
Your love-sick thoughts, hoping that Time & Absence,  
joined with the precepts of Philosophy  
Might purge you to a remissness of affection,  
And by degrees conquer this mouldy passion.  Lucil. 
All which supposed remedies dear friend,  
Set the disease a working, much less cure it:  
True love, Antonio, is immutable,  
A divine Charter of affection  
Confirmed in heaven, and can by no prescript  
Of Art or Nature ever be restrained.  
— Nullis amor est medicabilis herbis,  
— Nec prosunt Arts.  Anto. 
Yet since in vain you strive  
To bandy with a mother, methinks Love  
tired in the depth of woe, should call your Reason  
To a new choice fitting your Birth and Fortunes.  Lucil. 
Call woes to woes, I am resolved to try  
The worst of spleen: and since her virtuous thoughts  
Have deigned to meet affection, that on wings  
Of true born faith hath raised itself, to clasp  
With her deserts, the most austerest tempest  
Envy can shower upon our innocent loves,  
Shall ne'er disjoin us.  Anto 
I have done my Lord.  Lucil. 
Then prithee Antonio, let me in peace retire,  
I feel some strange events lie at my heart  
My thoughts cannot presage: I fear, my friend,  
I have but dreamed as yet, but now mine eyes  
Must wake to meet true solid miseries.  Exit. Lucilio. Anto. 
To see how strong love is, and the command  
It has o'er humane hearts! Poor Lord, I know  
Thy trueborn griefs are firm, and that chaste faith  
Never conceived to wave with floating likeness;  
Makes thee thus sink into the depth of sorrow.  Page. 
Nay, good Signior follow him, put him out of the humour, or else he will turn madman shortly.  Anto. 
Why sir?  Page. 
Because he that's first a Scholar, next in love, the year after, is either an arrant fool or a stark madman.  Anto. 
How came your knavery by such experience?  Page. 
As fools do by news, somebody told me so, and I believe it. But in good earnest I had forgot to tell my Lord of the message he sent me in.  Anto. 
Whither in the name of Mercury was that?  Page. 
To see how the Lady Donna Fiozza did.  Anto. 
Oh! how does her beauteous Ladyship?  Page. 
Sick, terrible sick.  Anto. 
Physick defend! prithee of what disease?  Page. 
Yesterday her Monkey had a fall off the side table, and ever since she has had a strange fit of an ague.  Anto. 
How does her Lord?  Page. 
Faith not well neither, and therefore he begins to be most sparingly virtuous.  Anto. 
The pox he does.  Page. 
On my fidelity you are the foul mouth'dst gallant that ever wore Cloves in's Gums: you say an Italian Count has the pox.  Anto. 
Your neater word good Galateo?  Page. 
By this light you Courtiers be the dullest creatures living; you learn nothing but flattery and begging. You must know sir in a Nobleman 'tis abusive; no; in him the Sarpigo; in a Knight the Grincomes; in a Gentleman the Neopolitan scab; and in a Servingman or Artificer the plain Pox: Just as your saying goes, that Noblemen be never drunk, but take a surfeit; Scholars be ill at ease; and poor men only they are drunk, yet all's but one disease: There's an old rhyme for you: adieu Signior, I must to my Lord.  Anto. 
Farewell hedge-pike. Exeunt.  Enter Althaea and Alastor. Alth. 
Did my Lord so far impart the business to yourself?  Alast. 
He did, and does intend to use my help alone in effecting of his project.  She gives him a letter and money. Alth. 
I prithee return him this answer, and be silent.  Alast. 
Sweet villainy, thou art the thrivingst trade under heaven. Exit.  Alth. 
Warm blood assist me! how has wonder seized  
The frozen passages that slowly guide  
My shivering spirits up to the seat of life!  
Murder the Duke! now innocence forbid,  
And let ourselves be as out loves, unstained.  
Tyrannous affection! can thy transforming power  
Enforce our passions thus beyond ourselves?  
Rob us of nature and the sense of man?  
Seize all our actions? force us to forget  
That we are children? and with love's finger blot  
Clean from our thoughts the piety we owe  
To them that gave us life? Carry us headlong  
To such a gulf of sin? where we must drown  
ourselves, our honour, and that secure content  
A guiltless conscience brings to innocence!  
Ah dear Lucilio! how are thy virtues dimmed  
In my best thoughts, that like a Crystal mirror  
Still held the shapes of thy deserving actions  
Unspottedly resembled! what spirit of night  
Has mixed itself with those untainted vows  
Thy never yet ambitious soul poured forth  
To attend our loves? Some Angel, dear Lucilio,  
Descend into thy fancy to persuade thee  
By all the bands Love, Duty, Nature, Heaven,  
Can bring to bind thee in a tender fear  
Of roughly breathing on the softest air  
That toucheth but his safety, to desist.  
From this unnatural act of parricide.  
Fatal experience speaks; and makes it good,  
They stand not firm that rise by steps of blood.  exit. Enter the Duke and duchess. Duke. 
Urge me no more: the white unspotted hand  
Of never treacherous justice, shall not blush  
By our imbruing it in bleeding innocence.  
Nor shall posterity in after times,  
Seeking examples of black tyranny.  
Find our names registered in the Catalogue  
Of those whose deeds have given wide infamy  
Life to attend their memory, and brand it  
With shame, more durable than brass or marble.  Duch. 
Yet good my Lord respect your falling State,  
Let not that watchful eye that never slept  
In careful pursuit of your people's good,  
As now regardless of your houses Honour,  
Be dazzled with imaginary fear  
Of mere supposed injustice. Shall foul mouthed rumor.  
Besprinkle our whole race with julia's blood,  
And follow it into posterity  
As a live witness of your loose neglect?  
Methinks those politic rules of government  
Which you have studied, should at last inform  
Your scrupulous conscience, making it to know,  
What oft doth seem injustice, is not so.  Duke. 
Can there be more than shedding guiltless blood?  Duch. 
They highly offend that let their Countries good.  Duke. 
They let no good, that never did deny it.  Duch. 
'Tis guilt to live whenas their deaths may buy it.  Duke. 
But 'tis not good that's bought at such a rate.  Duch. 
No price is great that makes Kings fortunate.  Duke. 
They be not fortunate that rise by vice.  Duch. 
Who stays till Virtue lifts will never rise;  
And therefore dearest Lord by those chaste vows  
Which first I brought unto your nuptial bed;  
By that attractive beauty which mine eyes  
Once gave your youthful thoughts to feed upon,  
Prevent this mischief, let the strumpet die,  
Whose baseness stains your ever princely blood,  
By sitting sole Commandress in the thoughts  
Of our degenerate son, the only hope  
Just heaven and nature now has left your Throne.  
Let not that god of fools, soft Conscience, then,  
That seldom finds a name 'mongst perfect Statesmen,  
Sway your experienced wisdom, but provide  
Your honour live, when all yourself have died.  Duke. 
Death to mine eyes, I must see thee kneel,  
Thy words have charmed my soul, benumbed my thoughts  
Against the stinging touch of sharp remorse;  
I will resolve her death, nor shall she live  
That stands 'twixt full content and thy desires.  
But how shall swift winged fame, my dear Adrasta,  
Be held from loud proclaiming our disgrace?  
Policy will's some seeming cause be had  
To make that good which justice knows for bad.  Duch. 
Leave that to me; I have procured from her  
A letter, whose points but changed transfer the sense,  
This in the public Sessions being read,  
And she acknowledging the hand and seal,  
Will be a most sufficient testimony  
Of traitorous attempts against your State  
And person, which the gross multitude  
Will never scan, but confidently, hold  
Her condemnation just.  Duke. 
we'll then give order  
For her attachment and imprisonment  
meanwhile yourself may with persuasive words  
Prepare Lucilio's mind to meet her death.  
So's justice wronged, and innocence must die, aside.  
When they withstand a woman's tyranny. exeunt.    

Actus 2.  

Scena 1.  Enter Mistress Frailware and Mistress Abigail. Mistress Frail. 
I'll ensure you 'tis true Mistress Abigail, my Husband was called from my side at midnight by the Duke's Pursuivant at Arms, commanded to bring his weapon ready with him, because they would reprehend my Lady julia's daughter in her bed; nay, I am served so many times in the year; and if it were not for a little honour we have by being the Constable's wife of the Parish, or leave to build a new pew in the Lecture house, or meeting at the Quest-house sometimes; we had better never be in authority, than have so many hewings and cryings, such pasportings; that the whole year while our Husbands be Magistrates, we be very widows, for any feeling we have of them; and if we had not their company in the day sometimes, we should e'en forget we were married: 'tis too true Mistress Abigail: but you have a happy turn.  Mistress Abig. 
Indeed Mistress Frailware our Husbands should not be troubled with common business; and Master Damasippus does meditate and practise his Principles by my side till nine o'clock many times. But I pray, what did you hear was the cause of my Lady julia's daughter's contamination?  Mistress Frail. 
O, why she was in love with my young Lord Lucilio, and would have, God bless us, stabbed the Duke with a panado, and then be married where the Duchess would or no.  Mistress Abig. 
Now jove forfend it! How desperate be these princock Gentlewomen when they be in love! they'll venture upon any weapons: I marvel themselves be not afraid of stabbing: I warrant you she'll to the Rock for it.  Mistress Frail. 
I cannot tell that; but a Friend I have in the Court was here before break of day and told me all.  Mistress Abig. 
Lord Mistress Frailware have you any friends in the Court?  Mistress Frail. 
I these seven years, Mistress Abigail, have I had friends there, and acquaintance too, I thank my beauty, three years before I was married. I'll tell you Mistress Abigail, these Courtiers be the finest, sweetest smelling Gentlemen that be; they will have some friends in the City now and then, for variety's sake, but they'll pick and choose: and for mine own part I'll ensure you, that before I was married, of a brown-wench, mark what I say, to speak of a brown-wench, I was as sweet a creature as lived. There was a Nobleman here in Florence— ay, there was a Knight too that would eat but little meat except— however it was my hap to fell figs in the City; I'll ensure you that my flesh was so tender, that if a fellow with a strong breath had kissed me, all my lips would have blistered. I wore my silk Stockings then, and my Bodkins of beaten Gold, I thank my own wit, and had Velvet Cloaks, and Velvet Coloches come to see me.  Mistress Abig. 
Doubtless you were one of the happiest living, to have such blessings: I would to heavens my husband, or I, might have an Office under these Courtiers, that I might have friends at Court too.  Mistress Frail. 
I'll ensure you Mistress Abigail, many of 'em be able to do a woman a good pleasure sometimes; and yet there be some again that promise more than all their strength can perform too, when they be put to it; for alas, Courtiers do for so many, that they cannot do for all: for mine own part, I have tried 'em, and tried 'em again; and some of 'em have stood to me very sufficiently and friendly, when I have come to see the Masking and bearbaiting there.  Mistress Abig. 
God's my pity, is there bearbaiting at Court? do the Ladies love bearbaiting?  Mistress Frail. 
O, abomination: they'll so shift for corners and places to be at it, that their waiting gentlewomen can seldom come to the pastime. And how does your good husband Master Damasippus?  Mistress Abig. 
In good deed la not well: he has been ill at ease ever since tother night.  Mistress Fra. 
Ah sweet man! he does so labour, and labour to fill us with morality, that he's e'en tired out in the City amongst us.  Enter Master Frailware and his man with halberds. Master Frail. 
Fie upon't: how heavy this authority sits upon us! ever since midnight in the Duke's business! but it stands us upon it; 'tis for the credit of the City: we must do more than one bare Office, or we cannot be good subjects. Here take in my weapon. Exit man.  Mistress Frail. 
I'faith 'tis a fine time o'day to come home at: Gods my precious, do you think to leave me so still? from twelve o'clock till I rise I must he alone dreaming, and dreaming, sometimes that you are dead; sometimes that I am with child, and a lust for a thing that I cannot have; sometimes again that you have fall'n down the Stairs, and broke your back; and such fearful dreams that I cannot rest an hour, because I can do nothing but dream.  Master Frail. 
O, good wife! we be for this year Magistrates Officers of place, men of employment, the upholders of the City, the eyes of the Commonwealth: and therefore when matters of State call, we must come with wisdom, and with severity answer our Vocation.  Mistress Frail. 
Focation me no Vocation: for as true as I am married, if you put me in such frights by going away, and leaving me in the dark, I'll get me a bedfellow shall stick closer to me, so I will; cannot you have a Deputy as well as an Alderman? I hope you are in authority too.  Mistress Abig. 
O patience dear Mistress Frailware! patience with your Spouse: my husband told me that patience was one of the ten moral virtues.  Mistress Frail. 
I Mistress Abigail, if a woman had such a husband as you have, that were able to put patience into a woman; she might easily be content and have mortal virtues enough too.  Master Frail. 
Nay prithee Duck be quiet: when the Sessions are past we shall have more leisure; meanwhile let's in, and drink this fury over in a cup of Canary. Come Mistress Abigail.  Exeunt. Enter Lucilio with a bag, as if apparel were in it. Antonio. Lucil. 
Let it suffice Antonio that thy friend  
Entreats thy silence; nor let thy curious love  
Question our farther projects; leave to inquire  
Till time and rumour shall disclose the Plot  
Of my intentions, whose unexpected end  
Shall stand beyond preventions murdering sight,  
And turn the edge of spleen upon itself:  
Thus much I will impart unto thy faith;  
What fits thee not to know, leave to desire.  Anto. 
My Lord impute it not to curiousness  
That I have urged your patience to unfold  
What you intend; for by the hallowed name  
Of zealous friendship, which my heart retains  
Engraved by your deserts, 'tis only love  
That makes me thus seem jealous of your good  
However would your Grace but try my faith  
By making it a partner in your ills,  
Till having passed these storms, and been approved  
Inviolably firm, it may deserve  
The name of friend to which't has long aspired,  Lucil. 
Nay, now thou complement'st and dost afflict  
The tender love thy faith hath bred in me.  
I tell thee friend I must not trust the air  
'Twixt thee and me; the nights concealing shades  
Shall never hear't disclosed: not that I fear  
Thy friendly silence; but the barren plot  
Of my invention, will admit but me  
Into the doubtful scene; I must alone  
Finish the Act my hopeless love began.  
O my Antonio! could my sorrows pour  
Into thy breast but half what I conceive,  
What could the spleen of potent envy add  
To the vast heaps of mischief, that do lie  
Upon my groveling fortunes, now cast down  
Beneath the base of misery and grief?  
When I must stand like to a senseless marble  
Frozen into a stone with strong respect  
Of filial duty, and see Althaea die,  
Thrown down by my ambitious love, that aimed  
At her transcendent virtues. This wounds my heart,  
And puts a fire to the cold melancholy  
That hath so long possessed my chillied spirits,  
And bids them seek revenge, that when fraud thinks  
To seize upon the neck of innocence,  
The repercussive flame that will result  
From their abhorred deeds, shall singe their wings,  
And make them fall as low as were their actions,  
Where they shall lie and view the ugly shapes  
Of all those mischiefs that attend oppression.  
But now conceal me friend, and be no more  
Inquisitive of the particulars,  
Report will soon divulge the scope of all.  
If absence cause inquiry after me.  
Let fall some speeches that I am withdrawn  
To a retired privateness awhile,  
Until Althaea's Tragedy be o'er,  
Not able to affront my ruined hopes.  
Nor stand Spectator at her guiltless death.  
So fare thee well, and if we never meet  
Remember that I lived and died thy friend.  Anto. 
Do not torment my soul, but let me share  
Those passages of danger, that oppose  
Their hideous jaws against your innocent hopes;  
For at no greater rate man sells his breath,  
Then with a friend to buy a faithful death.  Luci. 
Thy words Antonio cannot add an Atom  
To the full love that's harboured in my breast  
Of thy true real worth: then be content.  
And leave me, for 'tis impossible that more  
Than my unhappy self can be contained  
Or have an Action within the narrow limits  
Of my designs.  Anto. 
Then thus I take my leave  
With as much feeling pain, as if my soul  
Were by some violence shot from out my bowels,  
Farewell my Lord, my vows and wishes guard you  
From awkward Fate, whilst I twixt hope and fear  
Attend the issue of these strange attempts.  Exit Antonio. Lucil. 
So now Lucillo arm thyself for death,  
That from thy blood she may regain a life  
And freedom, whom thy weak affection sold  
To undeserved slaughter and black infamy.  
Immoved powers! we must not ask you why  
And yet methinks I could expostulate  
The reason of this mixture in the frame  
Of all our Universe! why every perfect good  
Is girt with such a multitude of ills?  
Not the most sacred and puissant Throne  
Of divine justice (whose Majestic form  
Bears a resemblance of that Power Supreme  
That equal Kings and Slaves, by giving each  
Deserved vengeance for their actions  
Can stand secure, but all the brood of hell,  
Bribes, Respects, Envy, and whate'er perverts  
The strictest line of virtuous equity,  
Will press up to the judgement Seat, and there  
Transform the beauteous picture of the Godhead  
Into the hateful shapes of tyranny,  
Of blood and murder— But I forget myself,  
And like en angry woman, chide the Heavens,  
When I should do. Fortune and stealth assist  
My just adventures; and a friendly sleep  
Seize all the eyes and ears that would pursue  
Our harmless Stratagems. This is the window,  
If my directions fail not, that does imprison her,  
Whom Virtue, Nature, and the mild aspect  
Of all the Constellations sweat to make  
A freeborn Empress—  He throws a stone up to the window; Althaea looks out. Alth. 
whose's that?  Lucil. 
Lucilio.  Alth. 
O my dear Lord!  Lucil. 
How fares my Althaea?  Alth. 
As one that lives but in the arms of death,  
And like a frost-killed worm is half revived  
By your fair presence, whose desired sight  
Makes a warm blood post through my trembling veins  
To tell my heart this news, that ere I die  
I once shall speak to you: But I must chide  
Your Grace my Lord, that would so stain your love  
With foulest spots of blood.  Lucil. 
Blood to their souls that thought it, for by  
The ne'er appalled heart of innocence,  
The newborn babes first smiles were ne'er more chaste  
Than was my breast from thoughts of murder. O Althaea!  
What will a woman loath, that's all possessed  
With wrath, and has the killing voice of justice  
Tuned to pronounce her merciless revenge?  
The sword by her steeled conscience edged to slaughter,  
And undefended lives to work upon?  Alth. 
It was your seal and hand that did persuade  
Me to the murder, but myself returned  
Dissuasive arguments to beat you from't.  Lucil. 
It was my seal, which by my mother's charge  
'Tis thought the Page stole out, without suspect,  
As I conceive, of mischief; all the rest  
Was merely counterfeit. But be advised,  
And I will choke the hungry throat of Treason,  
That gapes for blood, with such a working pill,  
As it shall loathe to swallow, and vomit up  
Their bloody plots in sick repentance.  Alth. 
No my dearest Lord, let me in contentment die,  
Since you are innocent, and in my Tomb  
Bury your danger, that have thus long sat  
A heavy burden to your happiness.  Lucil. 
Long mayst thou live until the gods, Althaea,  
Shall summon thee from hence to make a star,  
And grant Commission to the winged Post  
Of heaven, to steal away thy soul in sleep:  
That Divine mould was not ordained to suffer  
A painful shipwreck in thy life's departure.  Alth. 
'Twill sweeten much the bitter'st throes of death  
When I shall think my labouring soul does work  
For my Lucilio's rest: then let my guiltless Ghost  
Securely pass up to the fields of peace,  
For I am weary and would gladly die.  Lucil. 
Urge it no more, the very sound of death  
Wished to thy innocence, comes like a clap  
Of armed thunder to mine ears, and thou  
Shalt live, though I should search the utmost tortures  
Tyranny did ere invent, to find a death  
Might ransom thee: and therefore if thy love  
Does yet respect lucîlios's constancy,  
Resolve and second me: Dispute no more,  
But make some means to let me down a line,  
That I may fasten this disguise unto it.  She lets down a line, to which he fastens the disguise, 
There draw it up, and put it on with speed,  
Suspicions eye dogs every step I tread.  She draws up the bag, and while she is clothing. 
How strong is sad affliction on my State!  
When I must steal a death, and think me blessed if none  
Do interrupt my passage to destruction.  
Oh that the paths of Fate so strange and envious  
Should lead us into life, and through a Maze  
Of chances, bring us to such unpassable periods,  
That we must leap the banks, and give our breath  
To shun the ills that do encounter us.  
Come, have you yet dispatched?  Alth. 
I have my Lord; but what of this?  Lucil. 
Then once more lend your line.  Having again let down the Line, she draws up a Ladder of Cords. 
Fasten those Hooks to your window, and come down.  she fastens the Hooks above, he below: And then coming down he receives her. 
A more troublesome descent then from the Rock,  
But your fall gentler. So: Now fly Althaea,  
And live as happy as my unhappy love  
Had made thee miserable: time may be  
More friendly to thee, and beget some means  
That thou mayst one day sit amidst thy friends—  
Nay, do not weep Althaea; thou shalt see  
This will work both our freedoms; and if I die,  
My silent Ghost shall in the pleasingst forms  
At midnoon days come oft to visit thee.  
Farewell— They kiss, and he offers to go up.  Alth. 
What means your Grace?  Lucil. 
To outrun treachery, and win a Goal  
That shall enrich my name, make envy swell,  
And drown herself in overflowing Gall.  Alth. 
I'll meet the ugliest shapes that ever Death  
Appeared to Nature in, before I'll leave  
Your Grace exposed to danger for my life.  Lucil. 
No more, for I have vowed what I intend,  
And if thou dost withstand it, to make this hour  
The last of breathing to me: therefore be gone;  
I'll lie at Stake myself, that you may steer  
No interrupted course; and since the law  
Gives Virgins leave to plead and die concealed,  
I with this Scarf here will be your Attorney:  
Hasten your flight, least mischief find you slow,  
we shall both fare the better. At the Parks end  
By a Fount that riseth from the Chalky Bank,  
Camilla stays with your Viaticum:  
she'll be thy partner in thy banishment.  
Once more farewell; and, if I die, for ever.  Alth. 
And if you die I shall not long outlive you.  He goes up into the window. 
In what a sad dilemma stands my soul  
In this divulsion between love and danger!  
Yet bless mine eyes once more with sight of you.  Lucil. 
Farewell Althaea.  Alth. 
Dearest Lord farewell.  Lucil. 
Again farewell Althaea! all the favours  
Of Guardian Angels, and mildest influences  
Propitious Heaven retains, wait on thy sufferings. Exeunt.  Enter Alastor and another Servant setting the Bar, and laying Cushions. Alast. 
Come dispatch, the Duke's at hand.  Serv. 
I wonder he sits himself in judgement today.  Alast. 
The matter in question is great.  Serv. 
Many think the poor Gentlewoman is innocent.  Alast. 
They be fools to say so.  Serv. 
Why, is't a folly to speak what they think?  Alast. 
ay, as very a folly as to be virtuous indeed: Dost imagine 'twill gain any thing but hate?  Serv. 
Yet many dare pawn their lives that she is guiltless.  Alast. 
None but such as were predestined never to be great; they be tender conscienced dunces: they never learned Esop's Fables.  Serv. 
Why for that?  Alast. 
Dost not remember the tale of the Lion that banished all horned beasts from Court?  Serv. 
That was a mad Lion i'faith—  Alast. 
That then the Fox went away as banished too, because if the Lion should say his pricked ears were Horns, what then?  Serv. 
But she was thought ever virtuous and modest.  Alast. 
she would not have been guilty so soon else: shall a swaggering wench that will take Tobacco eight and forty times in four and twenty hours; talk bawdy as familiar as an Oyster wife; retain seven servants with good backs, and a weak husband to keep Dogs from door; have no privilege above suspected virtue?  Serv. 
Faith I remember when I went to School, my Master used to tell us a Verse or two out of a Poet— & hic damnatus inani— judicio: I ha'forgot the Poets name, but I remembered the Verse by another, where he instructs creatures of our faculty.  Alast. 
Why what does he teach us?  Serv. 
Nay nothing but tells us only, that if we will thrive by service, we must be either close Panders, palpable flatterers, or cozening Villains.  Alast. 
A good servingman's Tutor was that Poet I warrant him.  Exeunt. Enter the Duke at one door, with Antonio, Page, and other Attendants. At the other door Lucilio in Althaea's apparel, his face covered with a Scarf, brought in by a Pursuivant at Arms, Frailware and others with Holbeards, as a Prisoner to the Bar. Damasippus. Attend. 
Give back there, and let the prisoner stand forth.  Duke. 
How did we think, that when the storms of war  
Were with our danger, care, and cost expelled  
From out these confines, and the warmth of peace  
Turned like a Spring to shine within your bounds,  
We should have sat secure? Or after all  
Those toils, that spent our strength, dried up our blood,  
Hastened the hand of time to seize our hairs,  
Before his date, and only in pursuit  
Of your (loved people) safety and content;  
Our own now fainting weariness of age  
Should taste that freedom which our labours bought  
In plenteous fullness for the poorest swain?  
And we have closed the Evening of our age  
Within a fearless slumber? But how weak  
Are all the hopes that wretched Princes fain!  
When in the calm of peace, while we suppose  
Our perils banished, and ourselves ingirt  
With such impenetrable love, as we  
Embrace our people with, then stand our lives  
Exposed to thickest dangers, which concealed  
Do strike the deeper, and are warded less.  
Such is the misery that follows State,  
That when we want abroad, we find at home  
Foes to besiege our lives. The discontent  
Of some aggrieved spirits, that think we stand  
'Twixt their desires and them; and which is worse,  
The idle passions of unbridled youth,  
Rather than miss those hopes inflamed lust  
Has fired within their thoughts, will overturn  
Whole States, and climb up to their aimed ends  
By our heaped slaughters: Yet I least had thought  
Such Tragic Acts had known a woman's breast,  
Nor if I could, Althaea, would your life  
(Strong to retort suspicion) once permit  
Our least mistrust to stain your virtuous name:  
And had we not by heaven's appointment found  
Under your hand and seal the firmest proofs  
Of tempting our own blood to parricide;  
Suspicions strongest proofs had ne'er induced  
Our never lightly credulous belief  
To harbour your dislike? But should we now  
Neglect our safety, and our Countries good,  
When all the Providence of Fate conspires  
To bring those treacherous practises to light,  
Which Heaven abhors; we should contemn the Heavens,  
Abuse that form of justice we sustain,  
And stand as guilty of those wasteful ruins  
Our cruel mildness gives your actions scope  
To call upon your Country and ourselves.  
We therefore by the Laws denounce you guilty  
Of Treason 'gainst our person and the State.  Lucil. 
Were it for life my Lord I stood to speak,  
I scarce would give the breath that I must spend  
To save that life: But since your Grace does know  
A woman's prejudice has doomed our death,  
For my name's life I'll speak, and not for mine;  
If infamy might die when we do die,  
I would be silent: for know my gracious Lord.  
I scorn to beg a life, but come all armed  
In such a complete innocence, as dares  
Meet angry injustice in the jaws of death.  
And without trembling stand his violence.  
But that these Acts of blood, these horrid crimes  
Of parricide, of lust, and hellish sin,  
Which will outlive our Tombs, and make our names  
Come hateful to posterities Records.  
Should have a birth within a virgin's breast  
That never yet was conscious of a wish,  
'Gainst your desired safety; I must take leave  
To tell your Grace, that it was merely feigned  
By the bloody hand of Envy, to cut off  
That sacred band of love the Heavens have knit  
'Twixt your son's heart and my chaste innocence.  
Nor do I tax your justice for my death,  
But do impute it most to his fond love,  
That by protests of virtue and desire,  
Drew my believing soul to his affects;  
For when my fears urged these ensuing ills,  
His uncontained affection breaking forth  
In signs of extreme passion, so consumed  
My powers, that had my thoughts been cold as Snow,  
His zeal poured out in such inflaming vows  
Would melt them.  Duke. 
We must check your impudence,  
That swells beyond the bounds we did expect  
Your modesty should have observed: you wrong  
Our son, and in our son ourselves; know you  
This hand and seal?  Lucil. 
I do my honoured Lord,  
Yet were that Hand and Seal never found guilty  
Of conceived wrong 'gainst or your Son or you.  Duke. 
'Twill speak itself, call it to witness then.  
One reads the Letter.  
MY Lord the attempt is dangerous and foul, therefore desist not; to enjoy the sweets our present Nuptials would being could I endure your hand stained with such an Action. More when we meet: fear not; but— Heaven and Fate will second virtue. Be still yourself, and I will rest  
Yours more than mine. ALTHAEA.  Duke. 
Had you a privilege to shroud the blush  
Your conscious guilt casts 'gainst the eyes of Heaven  
As from our sight you do conceal the Die  
That writes your Acts in shame upon your Cheeks,  
You might deny these proofs, and swear them feigned;  
But that all-seeing power that notes the wild  
And secretest passages of man's conceit,  
Detesting those foul crimes of lust and blood,  
Reveals your Acts. Stand therefore, and from the Seat  
Of justice hear your doom; since your ambitious hopes  
Soared up, and by our Blood did mean to climb  
Into that Seat which Nature and our right  
Had given to us: be therefore from the Rock  
Thrown with your hopes, that your example teach  
How low they fall, that climb above their reach.  
And you Antonio we charge to see  
The execution speedily performed. Exit cumsuis.  Manent Lucilio, Antonio, Page, Damasippus. Lucil. 
As sweet as cooling dew comes to the breast  
Of scorched Autumn, so Death's slumber falls  
On oppressed innocence. And good Antonio,  
Since 'tis your charge to see us dead, let me  
Entreat this favour that my body be  
Speedily interred: and pray you tell the Duke  
That I request his Grace not grieve too much  
Hereafter, for what I willingly now sought,  
And he against his will made me to find.  
Then that I may have a little space in private  
To bid the world farewell; and this is all  
A dying Virgin begs, and for your friend  
Lucilio's sake you must not now deny it.  Anto. 
Wonder of women! could my attempts but yield  
Half what my heart conceives, these limbs should die,  
As many several deaths as they contain  
Conduits of life, to make your innocence live,  
For your Lucilio's sake, whose woes will swell  
Poor Lord, like to a wind-driven Ocean,  
When he shall hear you dead, and bear him down  
To some disastrous end.  Lucil. 
You are deceived,  
Dear friend; Lucilio's woes end with my life.  
Nor will a thought of grief, a tear or sigh  
Trouble his peaceful sleeps when I am dead.  
But I shall strain your patience too far, and give  
The Duke a cause to blame your too much favour.  Exeunt. The Page pulls Damasippus back to speak with him. Dam. 
My little least of any thing, thou parcel of man, what's the news with thee?  Page. 
News from the Fortunate Lands Master Damasippus: The very Elysium of your delight, and delicious Nectar of pleasure; Mistress Ambrosia Frailware commands half herself to your learned conceits, and the rest to the heat of your inferior Moralities.  Dam. 
O the odoriferous flower of Florence! How does she?  Page. 
In able strength and strong appetite: and earnestly entreats this evening your presence at Supper: her Husband will be forced by Oath business to be absent; and therefore you must feed her with the fruits of your company, and you shall be fed with the strength of confirming meats that edify.  Dam. 
Thy reward shall overtake thee: I will first accompany this Lady to her death, and prepare and strengthen her according to morality, and then I will be ready to give all moral comfort to the sweet desires of our dear Paramour. Exit.  Page. 
I'll meet your moral comfort with such a Physical counterbuff, that I'll spoil your tilting for that night i'faith.  Exit.   

Actus 3.  

Scena 1.  Enter Antonio, Lucilio following, and by him Damasippus at going to the Rock, the executioner, Frailware and others with Holbeards. Damasippus. 
ANd as I told you sweet Lady, make your reconcilement with the world, that you be not hindered from your death: if you owe any thing, you must forgive and forget it, that you may die according to morality.  Lucil. 
I thank your labour Master Damasippus,  
I hope my peace with heaven and earth's confirmed,  
And you shall need trouble yourself no farther.  
But you Antonio, whose deserving trust  
Must be a witness of the latest gasp  
Our fainting soul shall draw, tell to the world  
How undivided was the tender love  
Betwixt Althaea and Lucilio's life:  
And let me vow't into thy full belief,  
That the soft Air fanned with the cooling breath  
Of a mild summer's Evening from the West  
Was not less murderous than Althaea's wish—  
Nay weep not man, we cannot weep ourselves,  
We do entreat this death to end our woes,  
Not to increase them. Farewell Antonio;  
And if in after times you hear our friends  
Sigh for our hapless death, bid them desist;  
We did but quench the thirst envy had chased us into.  
— Come honest friend  
Discharge your Office, for sorrow begins to fit  
Heavy upon our heart that fain would rest.  The Executioner with one more leads him up to the Rock, where he begins to bind his hands, first asking him forgiveness. Execut. 
Madam, forgive me your death.  Lucil. 
Which here I do  
As freely as I wish my wearied Ghost  
May find a fearless passage through the strange  
And uncouth shades that leads our souls to Rest  Enter the Lady julia running with her hair dishevelled. julia. 
Where shall I run to meet, that, which beheld  
Kills with a deadlier wound then do the eyes  
Or coldest poison of a Basilisk.  She sees them on the Rock. 
Althaea stay— and let thy wretched Parent  
Take the last farewell of her dying child.  she runs up to them. 
Ah why did Nature make my unhappy womb  
Fruitful by thee, and yet reserve mine age  
To outlive the extremities of grief, and see  
Thy dismal end by an untimely death?  
Was I reserved for this? Or were the crimes  
Of our black guilt so horrid in the eyes  
Of Heaven, that nothing but the fatal scourge  
Of severe justice in the woefull'st form  
Could expiate our sin? How were I blessed  
If the first instant that imparted life  
To thy scarce featured self (joy to my womb)  
Had been the last in which we both had breathed!  Lucil. 
Madam! do not afflict yourself, nor let your cares  
Live from our death; Althaea cannot die,  
But with her innocence does buy a life  
That shall extend her worth beyond the reach  
Of Time and Envy. Therefore as you respect  
Your daughters peaceful happiness, take truce  
With sorrow but till we be dead, and Heaven  
That still protects the innocent, will show  
How just it is in plaguing those that strive  
By treacherous plots to oppress innocent lives.  julia. 
Canst thou persuade the Ocean in a storm  
To leave her swelling? Or a Bullet shot  
To stop its passage? No Althaea! no!  
The lightest Arrow is not more powerful sent  
Unto his Mark than we are thrown to death.  
Therefore farewell, I'll haste to meet thee there,  
Where no injustice nor oppressing tyranny  
Shall sever our embraces; and let this kiss  
Seal up that vow upon thy dying lips—  She offers to kiss Lucilio, and putting by his Scarf he is known. 
What's here? has sorrow so transformed thy shape?  
Or dulled the wonted vigour of my sight,  
That it sees nothing right proportioned?  Lucil. 
Madam conceal me for Althaea's love,  
Who lives, but banished only for a while;  
And let me die that she may freely live;  julia. 
My Lord Lucilio, do you mock my woes?  
O where's Althaea? have you murdered her?  
And come to upbraid the miseries we feel?  
Is 't not enough that I must lose that stay  
On which my aged widowhood relied;  
But you must jest at anguish? Is not our blood  
Enough to satisfy the thirst of Treason,  
But you must swallow more? I'll not conceal  
Your murdering plots, but lay these Actions open  
To the wide world's eyes; and leave the rest,  
In hope that Heaven, who doth your treacheries view,  
As you have dealt, so they may deal with you.  she throws off his Scarf. Exit julia. Lucilio offers to throw himself off the Rock. Serv. 
What means my Lord?  Lucil. 
To die as I am doomed,  
Therefore let me go.  Serv. 
Antonio, lend your help  
To save the Prince, whom you have brought to death.  Anto. 
My heart! force him to live, or by the Seat  
Of justice, you shall die as many deaths  
As you have Arteries.  Lucil. 
Then we must live to see those griefs alive  
Which death would end, and life will but revive.  Anto. 
Post to the Duke before, and let him know  
The strangeness of the accident.  Exit Servant, Frailware and Page. Lucil. 
Antonio: know that I ever held thy faith till now  
True to thy friend, and thought thou wouldst assist  
His misery, which thou hadst richly done  
If I had died.  Anto. 
O honoured Lord, be these  
Your harmless attempts that you concealed  
With such a nice reservedness from your friend?  
Come good my Lord, let us repair to Court  
That now stands wondering at this strange report.  Exeunt. Enter Page and Frailware. Page. 
My Head's in labour with a jest Master Constable, and I have a warrant to your authority to see me well delivered on't.  Frail. 
I can drink Sack, and talk bawdy for a need, if it come within the compass of my Office.  Page. 
Why there be two ingredients then to the composition of a Midwife, and if you'll be ruled in the Action, we shall laugh and lie down, and have an excellent banquet at the delivery.  Frail. 
Gi'me thy warrant then, and I'll serve it as greedily as a beggarly undersheriff does an Action of slander: But what is't? what is't boy?  Page. 
Faith sir, the common danger that haunts men of your place, fills Theatres, and gives many of your Landless Gallants their gilt Spurs, and their feathers.  Frail. 
unshale it, unshale it,  Page. 
Why Sir, in sober City Italian, that man of little wit, less learning, and no honesty M. Damasippus the Stoic means this Evening with pure morality to—  Frail. 
What sir?  Page. 
Cuckold you sir.  Frail 
Body o'me! that emblem of hypocrisy; he looks as cold and mortified as a Capon of a week's killing.  Page. 
Hang him Lobster, he's as hot as a cock-sparrow, and as irreligious as as a Low-Country Lombard: he's good for nothing but that which men keep old Stallions for: he would have done rarely well after Deucalion's flood, or five hundred of 'em now for the new plantation— But i'faith I would be revenged on him.  Frail. 
Revenged? I'll give up my shop to be revenged on him, turn Summer to plague him with Citations—  Page. 
And then out-bribe him, that he shall find no mercy i'th' bum-court.  Frail. 
Or else I will be stern in my authority, set him in the Stocks, and set the Stocks at mine own door—  Page. 
Or else I would hire some jew to make him factious, And then get him banished to Amsterdam to saw Brazill.  Frail. 
Or hire a Witch to take away his Instrument of lust, and then he'll hang himself in his own girdle.  Page. 
Or get somebody to promise him some Books and a new Gown to deny the plurality of the gods, then inform against him, and go drunk to see him burned.  Frail. 
Else I'll get him Carted, and lie with his wife the while.  Page. 
ay, and send him word of it when he is i'th' Cart.  Frail. 
Some dreadful vengeance or other my offended Authority shall take on him. I protest I never mistrusted it.  Page. 
Alas no; I knew you were a true Cuckold innocent.  Frail. 
A Cuckold innocent: what's that?  Page. 
One of the eight Tribes into which your livery is divided— Nay, nay, nay sober Master Constable, be not dejected; let not your head sink before it has full lading: for look you, I'll show you the dignity of your estate: your Cuckoldhood sir is more worshipful than the best of all the four and twenty Companies; Because in some ages you have had some of the best of all those Companies Fellows of the Livery. Secondly, you have had all states and ranks belonging to it. Sulla, Domitian and Claudius, great Emperors of the world, never cared to be free of the Goldsmiths or merchant-taylors' Hall, yet they were huge Cuckolds. Thirdly, you have your wit in choosing approved, which must of necessity show you to have been wise men, and therefore most commonly you are in Offices. Fourthly you have sometimes better men to be your followers than yourself, for they be glad to follow and come after, where you have been before. Fiftly, you have others to work for the propagation of your name, while you be idle, and reap the fruits of their labours. And lastly, it makes your way to heaven Master Constable, infallible for if you die quickly, you die an innocent— But let me be your Pilot, and if I do not learn you a course to pay this Puffin, this all Priapus, this Goat rampant in's own kind, let my wit be for ever cracked.  Frail. 
If thou couldst do it in some bitter manner.  Page. 
Trust me not else— for look you Sir, if it were a Courtier of a good perfume, and rich Garter; or a Gallant of the new fashion, with fresh insides; nay, an 'twere a barren Alderman that would visit his Wench secretly, and were in the way to authority, why, 'twere something tolerable. But to be horned by a Sir, that's no Knight, one that will lie as fast as an Almanac-maker, a thred-bare-grogran-worsted-lack-Latin! 'tis insufferable.  Frail. 
O 'tis, I know 'tis.  Page. 
Your only revenging remedy, then, is prevention in the same kind, which you shall most dexterously achieve me duce, id esh, si ego dux fuero, little Master Constable.  Frai. 
How sweet boy, how?  Page. 
Do you but invite Mistress Abigail to Supper this evening, who knows nothing of her husbands being there, and leave the rest to my providence.  Frail. 
I'll do it Boy i'faith, I will, I will indeed Boy.  Page. 
About it then, I'll meet you at your coming back and give directions for the rest. Exeunt  Enter the Duchess disguised, and Mycale a Witch Mical. 
Your Grace hath been exceeding patient  
To undergo these pains, and come to us.  Duch. 
Good Micale I was unfortunate  
I had not known thy skill and used it sooner;  
For since heaven's power denies me just revenge  
And means, to work my will, I'll search the depth  
Of hell's darkest Angels, but I will dissolve  
That firm linked band of love: and to that end  
Shrouded in this disguise I came to thee  
That thou mayst let some nimble spirit slip  
From out the powerful Circle after her;  
And with thy spells pursue her unto death.  Mical. 
Madam, It shall be speedily performed  
Please you a while retire into this room  
And wait the ceremonious hour, while we  
Prepare us for the sacrifice, and provide  
Those powerful ingredients which we use  
In the confection of our charms,  Duch. 
I will. Exit duchess.  

Song.  

Mic. Sarvia! Sar. Mother! Mic. Take thy flight  
While the Moon affords thee light,  
While the dogstar shines downright  
On the powerful Aconite,  
And the Herbs appear in sight.   

Sar. Away and wash your body white  
In the spring, and cleanse you quite,  
For I'll soon the Shepherd fright,  
And bring home to mend the right  
A female Lamb as black as night.   

Mic. Haste then, quick return thee home.  
Do not tho forget the stone  
In the Toad, nor serpent's bone,  
Nor the Mandrake though he groan,  
Pull him up, he is our own.   

Sar. I'll steal beside (let me alone)  
The great black Cat from jumping Joan,  
And make the Nurse and Mother moan  
When their fatlings throat is shown:  
Mic. Haste then, quick return thee home.    Enter Lucilio and Antonio. Lucil. 
Where be we now Antonio! is not this life  
On the far side of death, and sinks beyond  
A non existens? Hadst thou not made thy friend  
Blessed in thy faith, if thou hadst yielded way  
To my desires, and I had clearly leapt  
From the main top of mischief, and fall'n short  
Of these calamities? Oh the gross oversight  
Of our mistaking nature, that is so base  
To buy a draught of air with seas of ills!  
Or think we benefit a friend, when we  
Do turn his hourglass to make life run;  
Though every minute hails down misfortune thick  
As it doth Sand into the empty receptacle.  Anto. 
Nay, give me leave to tell your Grace my Lord,  
This strong desire of death, that hath possessed  
Your will thus far, does not express the signs  
Of that true valour your spirit seems to bear;  
For 'tis not courage, when the darts of chance  
Are thrown against our State, to turn our backs,  
And basely run to death; as if the hand  
Of Heaven and Nature had lent nothing else  
To oppose against mishap, but loss of life,  
Which is to fly and not to conquer it.  
For know it were true valours part, my Lord,  
That when the hand of chance had crushed our States,  
Ruined all that our fairest hopes had built,  
And thrown't in heaps of desolation;  
Then by those ruins for our thoughts to climb  
Up, till they dared blind fortune to the face,  
And urged her anger to increase those heaps,  
That we might rise with them, and make her know  
we were above, and all her power below.  
Why this my Lord would prove us men indeed.  
But when affliction thunders o'er our Roof,  
To hide our heads, and run into our graves  
Shows us no men, but makes us fortune's slaves.  Lucil. 
Antonio, thou wouldst turn Philosopher  
To do thy friend a kindness; but 'tis not words  
Our business asks, we must have action now.  
Thou seest my father's anger for this freeing  
Althaea from her death, swells like a tide  
Half flown, that labours 'gainst an adverse wind,  
And does command us leave the Court awhile,  
And pass for Greece (as if our travail could  
Be Bawd unto the chastity of faith  
That's vowed to virtue) when my long wearied mind,  
Already's toiling in a pilgrimage  
Up to the shrine of Nature's rich perfections:  
Therefore Antonio thou must take the shape  
Of all (save misery) that I contain:  
And for I know my father's jealousy  
Will entertain all rumours that are left  
Where ere my name pass; thou must be Lucilio:  
And so my name travail alone with thee  
It will suffice; for fame doth sometimes gull  
The best intelligence. Then shape thy course  
Farthest from Athens, to those parts of Greece  
Where I am least known.  Anton. 
Pardon me my Lord  
If I consent not: for should your safety call  
To leap the Tyrrhene Cliffs into the main,  
Stand in the face of a fired Canon,  
Or hale a sleeping Lion from the way  
Where you must pass, my love would force me run  
Against the edge of danger for your life.  
But this is only a pretended show  
To win our absence, that none may interrupt  
Your torrent of impatience, that posts  
Like melted Snow from off the Apennine  
Down to destruction.  Luci. 
Thou art curious still  
With our intentions, and mistak'st me much.  
believe't Antonio if I might have died  
When the vast flood of spleen was at the full,  
And thought to overflow whole worlds of love:  
When Envy stood a tiptoe to catch hold,  
And pull down innocence to trample on't,  
And sweet Revenge was at her on to speak  
From my bruised bones; then death had been a heaven:  
But now my head's turned brass, & speaks times past,  
And hardened is against the worst of ills,  
Though every frown my angry mother gives  
Should come like hammers 'gainst my forehead,  Anton. 
May I believe't my Lord,  Lucil. 
By Heaven I will,  
And so resolve: yet for thy farther trust,  
I will be open to thee; my meaning is  
To put off name and habit for a while,  
Till I have found Althaea, and knit that knot  
Which hell itself shall never violate;  
And therefore carry rumour still with thee,  
That it may have no leisure to descry  
What I embrace. Farewell Antonio!  
And prithee let this evening be the last  
Of thy delay: Heaven will be my friend,  
And send content, or give my woes an end.  Exit Lucilio. Anton. 
Soft, I'll not leave you to go seek that end: your name shall travail, but I'll not carry it. Though you have vowed not to procure your death; you are in love— manet.  Enter Alastor and Assassino quarrelling. Alast. 
'sfoot Sir, your speeches be peremptory.  Assas. 
Why Sir, I said it, and I say it again, that the Duke's Son was a fool, and a madman, to venture his life for ere a woman's love in Italy.  Alast. 
I yield Sir, 'twas a mad part to venture a painful death for a woman, when a woman will venture nothing, but she'll have pleasure at one end of it, for the life of a man; yet the Duke's Son was not a madman for it.  Assas. 
I say he was.  Alast. 
I say you lie — Assassino gives him a blow;  
'sfoot Sir, you will not strike me?  Assass. 
Yes, and whip thee with Birch i'the Nose.  Exit stalking. Anton. 
Bravely performed Alastor, 'tis politicly done, be noble and do not strike.  Alast. 
Why sir, this is not mine own sword.  Anton. 
And therefore thou hadst no authority to use it: Come I have other business for thee, that shall gain thee gold.  Alast. 
I thank you sir, for indeed I had a suit to you before.  Anton. 
It is the better trade of the two by half: I know thou canst beg valiantly: but to the business. Thou know'st my Lord Lucilio goes away in disgrace twixt banishment and travail: he is not well, and therefore would stay behind a while unknown: only thou must go before and put on his name, that the world may take notice of his passage, and hold rumour busy, till he comes privately and overtakes thee— But come to my lodging, where I'll dispose of farther particulars, and furnish thee with apparel and crowns for thy journey.  Alast. 
I attend you sir. exeunt.  A Table set forth covered with a cloth. Enter Mistress Frailware. Mistress Frail. 
Why Debora I say! why Debora.  Debor. 
Anon forsooth.— within.  Mistress Frail. 
Come bring away the Napkins quickly, and make ready here, (these heavy Arsed wenches are so slow) and do you hear, bid one of the Boys fetch me a Pint of Oligant, bull's Blood, and a quart of Canary; and look that the white Broth with Eringoes and Marrow be not overboiled; I know M. Damasippus loves it well.  Enter Damasippus. Damas. 
joy and peace of mind be to my dear Pupil, let me give thee a moral kiss.  Mistress Frai. 
In pure morality M. Damasippus, you are most heartily welcome— Would this wench would come away that we had Supper once.  Damas. 
That word hath eternised thee my sweet Ambrosia; and thy name is written in Elysium among jove's paramours: Wherefore let the beloved of jove feast and banquet according to morality.  Enter Debora with Supper. Mistress Frail. 
You are so full of learned sayings still: I have studied too a great while, would I could read once.  Dam. 
Soul of the world! thou shalt be illuminated without reading, for I will infuse knowledge into thee, and thou shalt be replete.  Mistress Fra. 
Can you do so M. Damasippus?  Dam. 
I can my Summum bonum: and thou shalt have the mandragora for thy fecundity; and I will free thee from the vicious note of sterility.  Mistress Fra. 
O the blessings of these Philosophers! Come sweet M. Damasippus, sit, and let's sup quickly.  Dam. 
Content.  Enter Debora running. Debor. 
O Mistress! my Master and Mistress Abigail are coming up the street together.  Dam. 
Thunder from heaven confound 'em, and the fire of Aetna consume their steps.  Mistress Fra. 
Charitable M. Damasippus, get in here till I can shift 'em— so, 'tis well, She hides him.  Enter Master Frailware and Mistress Abigail. Master Fra. 
Good Mistress Abigail, I was sure before he was not here. How now wife! at high Supper! and Wine! and junkets! and knacks! and all alone! this feast would have beseemed thy friends and Neighbours, the worshipful of the Parish, our fellow Magistrates: but I thank thee for't, I have a stomach now as sharp— as if I would eat for anger. I would not for a pound I were to beguile any one of his Supper tonight, Come sit Mistress Abigail.  Abig. 
Mistress Frailware will you sit by your husband?  Mistress Fra. 
No forsooth, my stomach does so wamble: when Supper was dressing methought I could eat such a deal; and now the sight of— the meat does so fill me: I pray Husband bring Mistress Abigal into my Chamber, I think I shall be very ill.  Master Frail. 
By and by duck, we follow thee— so, sit as close to me now as mine Office, and here's a health in Canary to the formal Cuckold thy Husband.  Abi. 
Fie M. Frailware that you'll have such a fearful word in your mouth.  Master Frail. 
Hang him, he's a Goat, and thou hast, and shalt make him deserve it.  Abigail. 
I must confess he has a stinking breath indeed; & that I have traversed the paths of good-fellowship for your sake.  Master Fra. 
ay, and wilt do still, though thy Husband heard thee say so.  Abig. 
I and will do it though my husband heard me.  M. Fra. 
Why now thou speak'st like a sister of the Lecture, and according to morality.  Abig. 
Nay I have been forward enough to you M. Frailware, ever since my first marriage: for in good earnest I did marry M. Damasippus, only because I saw the philosopher's wives go with the first of the Parish, and so forth— but my heart—  M. Fra. 
Let the City have it wench, and let my fine pure formal piece of Stoicity wear out six grogran Elbows with pleading moralities, and counterfeit railing against the sins of the flesh; spend all he can flatter from women to play the Epicure; and then make ragged Lectures and exercises in Cellars and Gravel Pits for a collection of seven pence, ere thou giv'st him so much as a good wish.  Abig. 
Nay so he shall; for truly he is grown a very Pharaoh, a hard-hearted Myrmidon to me of late.  M. Fra. 
A ficus for him whoreson Crab; he plays the Goat rampant abroad I hear.  Ab. 
It e'en makes me many times wish him in his grave, that he might sleep and I were free.  M. Fra. 
Thou art free now my sweet Ab: come, gi'me a threave of kisses— who would live tied to such a Bull of Bason.  Enter Page disguised like a Fiddler. Page. 
Will please you have any Music?  M. Fra. 
Music! most opportunely welcome; we'll make a night on't now: strike up Tigellius.  Abig. 
Away with him profane Tavern-Leech.  Master Fra. 
Nay prithee Mistress Abigail have patience.  Abig. 
I will not hear it.  Master Fra. 
By this kiss you must— play on sirrah— Music is a noble Science.  Ab. 
Well this fit would cost me an exercise if my Husband knew it: but I can endure any thing for your sake sweet M. Frailware.  Master Fra. 
God a mercy—  Damasippus moves under him 
What an earthquake! more Devils i'the Vault? are you fired, and will blow us up? who have we here?  Page. 
The veriest Cuckold of a dozen.  Master Fra, 
Neighbour Damasippus! now by my authority welcome into the Livery: we'll have a company shortly.  Abig. 
O, my husband! I will go to an exercise presently, that the gods may appease your wrath. exit.  Master Fra. 
I see our wives will bring us to all the venerable degrees of the City, before they have done.  Dam. 
Frailware, I will curse thee from the Temple of Diana; and thou shalt be excarnified by dogs.  Master Fra. 
We are Actaeon's both: let us knock heads.  Page. 
Step before him and shut the door, I have a plot against his Beard. ha ha ha— exeunt.  Enter duchess and Micale. Duch. 
Now tell us Micale  
What Sacrifice was that held you so long,  
And would not admit our presence?  Mic. 
Madam, I must disclose more than the secrecy  
Of our ruled Discipline will well permit,  
If I reveal each Act particular,  
And form that that dread Sacrifice includes.  
But what I may without the prejudice  
Of our strict and inviolable Canons,  
Your Grace shall know, Just at the depth of night,  
(Which time is Ceremonious) I went down  
To a clear Fountain, where I bathed and cleansed me  
From head to foot? Then took a female Lamb  
Black as the night, and digging first a hole  
That might receive the sacrificed blood,  
I opened all the Veins that traversed  
The neck, until I left the carcase dry:  
Then with a hallowed Knife I separate  
The head, and splatted it. That done, I heaped  
A pile of consecrated fire, whereon  
Now burns the body of the Holocaust.  
Then took I Infants fat, and lukewarm blood  
Drawn from its throat, mingled with Viper Wine,  
And distilled Hemlock, with the Mandrake's root,  
Nightshade, Moonwort, and dreadful Aconite,  
Which to the flame I poured with Milk and Honey,  
A holy banquet to great Hecate  
Whom we invoke; and leave the sacred fire.  
Soon as our backs are turned, we hear a noise  
In hideous shapes, that would affright and shake  
The constantest force of Nature's best Male courage:  
Yet must we not look back whence they proceed,  
For then all's frustrate; but as the fire consumes  
The offerings imposed, the groanings cease,  
And then appear the Spirits which we implore,  
And which will ne'er appear unless first pleased  
With some oblation.  Duch. 
How do you point the forms which they assume?  Mic. 
Each hath his private Charm, peculiar for the shape which pleaseth most, and is least fearful.  Enter Sarvia with a looking-glass. Sar. 
Mother the noise is done,  
The flames grow pale and dim, and in dark shows  
Speak the approaching horror which they feel.  Mic. 
Be gone and leave us then— Now Madam sit,  Takes the glass. 
And in this glass behold what Magic feature  
There riseth from the earth to do you service.  she sets the Duchess so that the Spirit may rise behind them both looking in the glass together. The first Spirit riseth from under the Stage, (so of the rest) and softly passing along, goes out. Duch. 
What Spirit is this?  Mic. 
This is a common spirit of much practice; it goes in the form of a young Gentlewoman worn out of service, and keeps her residence in the Suburbs, till she has ingrossed all the diseases of the City, which she delivers by whole sale to her customers: From sixteen to four and twenty; she is for none but Beaver Hats, Gold Lace, and Taffety Linings: Before thirty she falls to Roaring Boys, Sharks, serving-men and Artificers: from thence to Porters and scavengers; till freed by all degrees, she becomes a Nurse of the Trade by five and forty; then many times a six penny Witch, and so back again to an everlasting Devil.  The second Spirit riseth. Duch. 
What is this?  Mic. 
This is a Spirit Madam that takes many times the habit of an old Gentlewoman, gets into ladies' familiarities, & teaches the tempers of Complexion; the composition of meats that strengthen and provoke luxury: the use of quelque choses and Dildo's: has Aretine at her finger's ends. 'Twas she that first invented double Locks, and a suit of Keys to every Office: She exalted the horn of the Buttery, & made the Silver Bole neglect the company of the black jack: and preferred a Bill against eating Breakfasts and sitting up late, to the prejudice of Tallow-Chandlers. In fine, she sets Families together by the ears, and flattering herself into great men's expenses, becomes the bane of Hospitality.  Duch. 
'Tis a familiar Spirit, methinks I could be acquainted with her— But who is this?  The third Spirit. Mic. 
O this is a Devil of many shapes, and indeed Madam seldom at leisure, that we can have any use of him. He fawns him into services of place, and persuades men, otherwise morally civil, from the chaste Sheets of their beautiful and virtuous marriages: becomes an Intelligencer, and panders them to Milkmaids, Kitchen-wenches, and Oyster-wives. He refuses no deed that heaven abhors, and Hell trembles at, so his Lord sin with him. He is a very chained slave to his Master's vices, and leaves him in nothing but Actions of honour and virtue. another time he is a concealed Druggist or Apothecary, puts on the name of a great traveler, poisons at an hour, and is in great request.  Duch. 
Speak to him good Micale, and let him know our business.  Mic. 
Stay than thou Spirit of night, and by the power  
The chief commander of your shades hath lent,  
I do adjure thee tell where lives Althaea?  The Spirit whispers Micale behind. 
He tells me Madam, in the Mountains far from hence.  Duch. 
But how shall we procure her death?  He whispers Micale as before. Mic. 
By poison! gi'mee something then that kills  
Past Cure, and speedily— it is sufficient.  He gives her a Viol and exit. 
I have a nimble Spirit at command  
That by an ointment which we do apply  
To parts of our marked bodies, is at hand,  
Who posts us through the regions of the air,  
When oft we meet at solemn festivals,  
Or do admit a novice to the oath  
Of our abstruse and powerful discipline:  
Leave it to us, and ere to morrow's Sun  
Touch but three Points of West beyond Mid-noon,  
myself will see Althaea dead.  Duch. 
Thanks gentle Micale, for thou hast eased me much,  
I'll not forget thy pains, nor leave thy skill  
Without regard, for we have much to know.  Mic. 
'Tis a curious age Madam, and we are full  
Of business now, so many come to know  
Who shall survive, their Husbands or themselves;  
And then how long; whom they shall marry next:  
What place and opportunity must meet  
To raise their titles; with a million more  
Of women's questions— But the day begins  
To look upon us.  Duch. 
I must hasten then  
lest some misfortune do discover me:  
Farewell Micale, hell prosper our design.  Mic. 
Fear it not Madam, I will not sleep nor eat,  
Till by Althaea's death I jointly free  
Your Son and House from Cupid's Tyranny. exeunt.    

Actus 4.  

Scena 1.  Enter Althaea and Camilla disguised like shepherdess. Althaea. 
THe day grows hot, and with the climing Sun  
That mounts to th'height of noon, our cares do fly  
Drawn on by fear and grief, to deep despair.  
let's rest under this shade until the singeing Ray a little hath withdrawn itself.  Cam. 
And gladly too, for I am as weary of travel, as I am of a Shepherd's life.  Alth. 
I Camilla, the desire of being public is the disease of our Sex: we think the country's free breathing spaciousness a prison, where the loss of liberty is the want of company. But if there were one of us, whose contents were not without her, she would shun that common concourse of eyes, as she does the opinion of deformity; and perceive that the best perfection had no greater enemy than public aspects.  Cam. 
This is forced now, and savours not of your temper and woman's seasoning, to hold Paradoxes against nature, and opinions opposite to our own feelings. 'Sprecious Madam, if Nature framed us to please, how can we please where's none to be pleased but Beasts and Birds, whose apprehension was ne'er made capable of proportion, and therefore regard it not.  Althaea. 
And therefore condemn us of unnaturalness, that when beauty was equally shared twixt them and us, they respect it as it is; whilst we, blinded by reasonable sense, conceive it the richest gift Heaven could give, study it above the soul, and equal to life, though it merely touch our outsides, as clothes do.  Cam. 
Nay dear Mistress, let's talk a little now like ourselves like women; and tell me whether an excellent Quality forced from operation, or a rare piece of work held from sight, be not a wrong to the Author, as well as the thing? O they were foully deceived that sought perfection in a Nunnery!  Alth. 
That's the error of our ambition, that while we take our aim at admiration, by publicness and common flattery, we miss that repute among the wisest, which our beauties not prostituted would infallibly merit; because every thing, though less perfect, yet less common, is more admired, as we see in the Sun and a Comet.  Cam. 
You are Bookish still: and I'll stand to it yet, there's no woman but loves them both: and therefore being natural to our Sex, why should it be termed unnaturalness in us, to cherish beauty, or wish the perfection of civil men's amiable society, when that ever begets love, and love is ever seconded with flattery. I like a Wench that's pure mettle, and spirit, and the very foul of her kind; that when a Lord wantons her, will forsake her home, give off her father and competent means to the poor of the Parish; stick to the City, like a Prodigal to the Counter, that cannot be drawn out by all the friends, he has; lives clearly by her wits, yet reasonable honest too and all to be flattered.  Alth. 
Such Camilla be the disgrace of their Sex: whose appetites change with variety; and taint the general name of women with the vicious note of inconstancy.  Camill. 
That's the folly of men, to term inconstancy vicious in us, for were they not so prone to wrong us, they would ne'er expect it, but know that to be too constant to them, were to be too disloyal to ourselves, which I hope ne'er came nigh a woman's wit.  Alth, 
Yet it is the perfection of virtue to lose by the exercise.  Cam. 
By the pleasures of change, I swear this constancy is a mortal sin, and not a virtue in any of us.  Alth. 
A sin! and mortal!  Cam. 
A sin, and most mortal, because most against nature, and brings many of us to lead Apes in Hell. To lose the sweets of youth, the very Nectar of Nature, and frustrate the end of our Creation; can this be less than a mortal sin?  Alth. 
'Tis a work of merit, and they be Saints worthy to have their names written upon the Altar of Chastity. 'Tis beloved of Heaven, and sometimes fortunately rewarded here.  Cam. 
As for example—  Alth. 
myself you mean.  Camill. 
I am no Divine, spite of the time I must speak my thoughts.  Alth. 
Why then 'tis ay,  Althaea. 
Why then 'tis you: would any woman breathing, that had her 5 senses, and no red head, no blue lips nor raw Nose, no desperate fortunes, nor cracked reputation, but walked upright in the face of the world, and in the April of her age, so devote herself to one, that she must undergo these miseries, when by renouncing him, she may underlie so many commodities? To turn Savage here, and hold conference with none but hills and sheep, when she might have variety of fashions, wits, and breathes to Court her at home. I protest I would love over a whole Playhouse of Gallants first.  Alth, 
I could be angry with thee Camilla, for I'll first be treacherous to my own soul, ere buy content or kingdoms with perfidiousness.  Cam. 
God reward you, for man will never.  Alth. 
Virtue is rich, and rewards itself: and if my wrongs merit Lucilio's safety, Heaven redouble 'em.  Enter Micale like a Shepherdess with a Bottle and a Bag. Mic. 
Now Micale thou hast the sight of them,  
And art already spied; cast out the bait.  Alth. 
What is she? Sure some voluntary occasion has driven her this way.  Cam. 
'Tis some Chameleon perhaps, that lives upon the breath of news, and comes to intelligence us here.  Mic. 
What, no salute! methinks the furious heat  
Should make 'em soon inquisitive to know  
What I came laden with into these Mountains,  
Which yield no other juice but Crystal Springs:  
I have a liquour here to quench their thirst,  
Physic to purge them from their loving humours,  
And that aspiring mind that does invest  
Althaea's hopes within a Duchess style.  She sits down and plucks out her Viands. Cam. 
Faith Mistress my stomach takes this for an invitation, I have a great appetite to be acquainted with the honest Shepherdess, for I am dry at heart, though my teeth water.  Alth. 
Yet be not impudent, invite not thyself.  Cam. 
Why no, I shall do as custom and fashion forces us in wooing, forbear and be coy, look to be invited and prayed, when we be ready to starve: I'll to her & dine, that's past resolving— Come will you go?  Alth. 
Not I.  Cam. 
Your reason?  Alth. 
Because I have none to go.  Cam. 
Nor I to stay— Shepherdess proface: I think your feast be neither gluttonous nor miserable, that thus you make it in the sight of heaven.  Mic. 
'Tis the country's privilege fair Shepherdess to shun both: will't please you sit and eat?  Cam. 
Your kindness makes me presume, yet I fear to be over bold.  Mic. 
Command and try, these Hill-Inhabitants dissemble not.  Cam. 
I have a melancholy friend here by, whom discontent makes scarce sociable: yet perhaps company & your Bottle would infuse a little spirit, and make a Sunshine on her thoughts.  Mic. 
You are too blame if you left her then, soleness feeds melancholy: please you we go and sit with her?  Cam. 
That were to trouble your kindness.  Mic. 
Nay you mistake me then, methinks Shepherds should not know these Court compliments, more than that does the country's honesty.  They rise and go to Althaea. Cam. 
Come, rouse yourself, and meet a banquet that comes freely to you.  Alth. 
I cannot eat.  Mic. 
Why then you cannot live.  Alth. 
And therefore I cannot eat, because I cannot live.  Mic. 
Yet strengthen Nature, and outlive sorrow.  Alth. 
'Twere Tytius' plague, to renew strength for grief to feed on.  Mic. 
And to let sorrow keep you fasting were to starve with Tantalus.  Alth. 
A hard choice for me the while.  Cam. 
Virtuous constancy; thou art beloved of Heaven, and fortunately rewarded.  Alth. 
Peace good Echo.  Mic. 
Come Nymph, you must be jovial, these love griefs avail you nothing: men perhaps laugh at 'em.  Cam. 
Why true: here's a health and wisdom to you  Alth. 
Both to yourself, I am not sick.  Mic. 
Pledge her fair Nymph.  Cam. 
See what a company of religious fools we maids be, to sigh and hang the head for ere a rough-hewn-stubble cheek on 'em all, when a Crab-faced Cynic, that has neither land nor handsomeness, will scoff at affection, and say he knows four Wenches, who if they were stamped and strained, so, that he might draw out the virtue of one, the beauty of another, the witty good nature of a third, and the Portion of a fourth; he could make a reasonable good Wife for ere a younger brother in the land.  Mic. 
By Pan but such a wife would right well fit a Worshipful Heir.  Cam. 
Nay that were pity faith, than fools should trouble two houses. Come will you take your liquour?  Alth 
good Spirit leave thy tempting: my heart grows cold and pants, as if it did presage some fatal ill stood nigh me.  Mic. 
These be the dreams of love: here take a draught, and waken imagination, fancy is strong with you.  Alth. 
I think so too; pray heaven it be no more.  Mic. 
Great Brimo, shall our labour be frustrate!  
I'll frame a lie shall make her hang herself  
For grief, since poison fails— yet taste a little,  
The City yields no better Cordial to banish fears.  Alth. 
I cannot drink— were you in the City late?  Mic. 
I was, and saw a heavy spectacle,  
The Duke's sole Heir, who taking the disguise  
Of a condemned Lady, that stood tainted  
Of Treason, was thrown down from off the Rock,  
And, by the privilege of Law that gives  
Our Virgins leave to plead and die concealed,  
Until his Funeral, was still unknown.  
Since when, the Duke to satisfy the wrath  
His ignorance had bred by such a loss  
Unto the State, has burnt the guiltless mother  
Of that young Lady, persecutes her Kin,  
Razed their ancient House, and vows the death  
Of her, who yet is fled, and none knows where.  Alth. 
Oh— She sownes.  Mic. 
Are you poisoned with a lie?— What ails you Lass?  
What fainting?  Alth. 
I am not well; good Shepherdess  
Leave us a while; I thank thee for her meat,  
But the Sauce comes worse than poison to my breast.  Mic. 
Then fare you well: I am sorry to have been the Messinger of that afflicts you— and kills not presently, aside.  
Although I hope this lie proves to thy heart,  
Poison more rank than ere was used by Art.  exit Micale. Alth. 
O we have lived too long Camilla, and  
outslept the hour in which we should have died,  
Plagues, guilt and mischief have overtaken us,  
Because we slacked, and would not quit the world  
To rest in pure white Tombs of innocence,  Cam. 
I fear some of us shall recompense our sloth too soon, for I am wondrous ill.  Alth. 
Poor wench, these news have wounded thee.  Cam. 
Not to dissemble, no: but from the Wine  
I tasted of the Bottle, went a cold  
Through every vein, that settling at my heart,  
Shuts up the passages of life, and fills  
The Organs of my powers with such a frost  
As kills the spirits that should harbour it.  Alth. 
Does Hell conspire with envy then to persecute  
Our misery? and sent some fiend to take  
That shape, that ne'er till now did shroud so foul a sin.  Cam. 
My soul grows faint and weary of her house,  
And Death claims right in all my Vital parts:  
Help me Althaea! help me Mistress!  
Or bury me at least, and close mine eyes,  
Death is the best— Camilla dies.  Alth. 
Of all life's miseries. She rubs her to get life.  
Dead— stark dead—  
It is not much I ask the Angry heavens,  
Lend but my wits to die, I crave no more:  
Or if you have a further punishment  
Reserved, be mild, and hurl it quickly on me  
With its full weight— Poor wench, I have no tools  
To break the earth, nor means to bury thee:  
Thou hast not killed a Mother, nor a Prince,  
Nor been the ruin of thy Family;  
Is't such a guilt to bear me company,  
That thou must die, and want what Homicides,  
And Malefactors find?— a grave! Here take  
This Scarf, Lucilio was wont to wear it;  
Tell him thou hast it for thy shroud, and I  
Am gone to meet him, and have only begged  
A truce with fatal mischief, whilst I hie,  
That where he died, there I may likewise die.  
Poor soul farewell. exit.  Enter Damon and Arminio two Shepherds. Laurinda a Shepherdess with green Strewings. Dam. 
Come, hands to work, it is the Festival  
Of our Silvanus, we must round entrench  
The place fittest for dancing.  Laur. 
And strew the banks  
On which the Summer Lord and Lady sit  
To see the sports, with these rich spoils of May.  Arm. 
Our Shepherds will be frolic then, and lose  
No Ceremony of their ancient mirth.  Dam. 
I like 'em well: the curious preciseness  
And all-pretended gravities of those  
That sought these ancient harmless sports to banish,  
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.  Armin. 
I do believe you: 'tis the exercise  
Of such, only to seem, and to be thought,  
What they are not, holy. They keep the feast  
Of our great Pan, with more than needful strictness,  
And take upon 'em to be great oath-haters,  
When all is but dissembling, and their Devotions  
Like Witches charms, disguised with seeming good  
To bear out wickedness.  Dam. 
Then they have reason, for they that live by shows must paint fair.  Lau. 
Alas, what's here? a Shepherdess asleep!  Dam. 
Sweet benefit of our life, to whom a Turf gives a more secure sleep, than a Palace doth a Monarch.  Laur. 
But this is death, not sleep.  Arm. 
Why then she's absolutely blessed: Nature has given her an acquittance from the reckonings of fortune and misery.  Laur. 
We must in charity bury her.  Dam. 
To your Tools then, we can do no less: though it be scarce in fashion now to be charitable. They dig the Grave.  Laur. 
Fashion is a traveler, and Shepherd's cannot follow it.  Arm. 
I Laurinda, it travels into all Nations the world o'er.  Laur. 
And therefore should go round.  Dam. 
And therefore does go round, blindfold, like a Mill-Horse, who thinks he goes forward, yet keeps his course circular. But now Laurinda what further Ceremony can you devise for this Funeral? poor hapless corpse!  Laur. 
To mourn for we know not whom, and when peradventure death was the beginning of her happiness, were to abuse ourselves, and be sorry she could be no longer miserable.  she strews on her. 
I'll strew my flowers on her Virgin Hearse,  
And rob another Meadow for the sports,  
The place affords no other Ceremony.  Arm. 
Yes, we must have a Country Song for her farewell from the earth, and welcome to the earth.  Laur. 
I'll do my best, though it be unseasonable to sing at burials.  Dam. 
Poor Wench, even in the flower of her age! although I knew thee not, yet for thy memory I'll change with thee—  He takes the Scarf from her face, and covers it with a cloth. 
Your hand Arminio.  They take her up and bury her. 

SONG.  
Laur. Die, die, ah die!  
we all must die:  
'Tis fate's decree,  
Then ask not why.  
When we were framed the Fates consultedly  
Did make this law, That all things borne should die.  
Yet Nature strove  
And did deny  
We should be slaves  
To Destiny:  
At which they heap  
Such misery  
That Nature's self  
Did wish to die:  
And thanked their goodness that they would foresee  
To end our cares with such a mild Decree.  
— Farewell and sleep for ever.   Enter Antonio disguised. Ant. 
'Tis too late, I have missed him, and all my labour's lost. Speed you shepherds and your work.  Armin. 
Sir, you are welcome, but our sad work is sped already, and so are they for whom we work.  Ant. 
Why is it sad then if both be sure of speeding?  Arm. 
Because Sir the best speed our labour can have, is the sad end of their life for whom we work. We have buried the dead.  Anton. 
'Tis well that Charity is not run the Country then. But whom have you buried?  Armin. 
One doubtless as unfortunate as unknown, a stranger sure in these parts, and as she seemed, a maid: further particulars we know not: but pitying she should want a burial, as we came by and saw her dead, we gave her that which earth denies to no misfortune, a poor grave.  Dam. 
And took from off her face this Scarf, blessed with the last kiss her dying lips could give.  Anton. 
O my apprehensive soul!  He catches the Scarf. Dam. 
What mean you Sir? do you know it?  Anton. 
I too too well. Poor Lord that wontest to wear  
this Relic, which is now left for an Index  
To turn thee to thy woes. Good Shepherd  
Grant me thus much and bestow it on me.  Dam. 
Faith Sir since I perceive you long for it, you shall prevail: and if she were of your acquaintance, keep it as a monument of her untimely death. So fare you well Sir.  Exeunt Shepherds. Anton. 
Too timeless death that killed two hearts in one!  
And now Lucilio, where ere thou liv'st,  
Here we may jointly finish both our labours,  
Since here lies buried all thy hopes and fears.  
Too virtuous maid Althaea! could the earth  
Yield thee no better place to enshrine thee in:  
Yet can its baseness never dim thy name,  
That shall be sung into posterity  
By a whole race of Virgins, and thy Fame  
Shall be a Tomb more durable to thee  
Then Brass or Marble. So farewell Althaea!  
I'll straight return this news to thy sad mother,  
That she may give with some solemnities  
Thy unhappy death its latest exequies. exit.  Enter Lucilio disguised like a Country man. Lucil. 
Slave to affliction, that must still pursue  
The shadows of my hopes, clasping the winds  
To feed the hunger of my discontent,  
And set aloft by greatness, stand exposed  
To every clap of Fortune's thundering,  
Still banished from the sight of sweet content  
That sits below me. Had my birth but been  
As free from height as from ambition:  
I might have slept under a silent roof,  
And eat securely of a Country Feast,  
Bound to no Ceremonious paths of State,  
Nor forced to torture mine affections,  
Or chain them till they starve to some deformed  
Remedy of love, and change our lives content  
For a bare title, that forsooth must come  
To edge a line of words, and make our names swell  
To fill th'ambitious thirst of greedy age—  
How easily could I forget myself  
By looking still upon thee, honest habit!  
And could I find her, whom the tyranny  
Of love hath made me seek, I would not tread  
So many weary steps back for a Dukedom. exit.  Enter Page disguised as before, and Master Frailware. Page. 
Now Master Constable, how like you this project? Do I not draw all things to the life?  Frail. 
Excellent Boy! for a searching brain thou mightst have made a head-borough.  Page. 
What an ambidextrous shaver have I got to do the feat?  Fra, 
Can he draw teeth I wonder?  Page. 
ay, who doubts it? 'tis the semi-sphere of his Profession: why do you ask?  Frail. 
because I would have this hateful Stoics two rows of teeth drawn, for trespassing at my Table.  Page. 
You'll save nothing by that, for the want of teeth will make him come the oftener to your wife's White-broth, her Marrow, and Eringoes, who will likewise cram him up with Potatoes, Oysters, metamorphized Mushrooms, and such like self-swallowing provocatives, that will run down his throat as glibbie, as your pills of Butter, and make as much haste into his Belly, as they will make out again into hers.  Frail. 
How thou dost charge my head with scruples!  Page. 
No; the way to destroy all fundamental reference between him and your wife hereafter, and to spoil him for ever giving fresh sap unto your horns, let his offensive member be now lopped off, before the Sun enters the Ram.  Frail. 
And what then Boy?  Page. 
Why when we have reduced him to this impotent state, we will straight divest him, and truss him up naked in a Wheelbarrow, and send him home in the posture of an innocent, with his hands cleaving to the outsides of his knees, and his nose between his two Thumbs.  Fra. 
Content; and we'll go pawn his clothes the while, and be drunk with the money.  Page. 
Stay, this is a little two Tragical, now I think on't: we'll spare his wife's night-piece for her sake, till the next conjunction— Damasippus cries out within .Hark— our Checkerman has him by the Poll already: now Master Constable stand close to your revenge, dissemble a fear a while, we shall be summoned straight. They step aside.  Enter one disguised like a Devil Barber pulling forth Damasippus by the Beard. Bar. 
Come out you unpolled Stoic, 'tis time you had the courtesy of my Razor.  Dam. 
Good sir, I need it not.  Bar. 
I'll force it on you sir: as I am Pluto's Barber in Ordinary I will trim you, come, I long to do it, therefore sit down, and make your Beard ready for dissection— we must have help I see; Constable come hither, come I say, and fear not, but do your Office, force him to fit, if your Authority be strong enough: you trembling slave come help.  Page. 
I come, I come sir.  Frail. 
Damasippus I command you to sit in the devil's name.  They set him in a Chair. Bar. 
So, hold him there. Now Damasippus before my mortal Razor seize your moral Beard, what can you say to save it?  Dam. 
Oh sir, it is an Ornament and special gravity belonging to our Sect.  Barb. 
Impossible that hair should argue wit; I rather think it does eclipse a good disputative face, and makes you look more like a Travelling Greek, than an Italian Stoic.  Dam. 
Yet for Antiquity-sake spare me these hairs that never yet were cut.  Barb. 
How! Nunquam tondenti Barba cadebat?  Damas. 
Never since 'twas a Beard sir, it is yet tipped with the Down, the relics of my youth, and in a primitive state.  Barb. 
Why then sir the antiquity of this your primitive Beard shows you to have been a rank enemy to our Profession.  Dam. 
Why sir, I kept it for that end that Nature gave it, as a garment to clothe the face of age in winter.  Bar. 
Yet know Damasippus, though it keep your face lukewarm, then; it breeds a frost in your Liver, devours the radical humour of your body, and endangers you to a Consumption: But in Summer, especially the dog-days, such a Dung-mix of hair, and vast foregrowed Beard as this, were enough to keep your Chin sweating, nine days together, and turn every hair of these to Snakes.  Page. 
Most devilishly argued.  Barb. 
Now Saturn, Vertumnus, and the god of Sheep-shear guide my hand— He cuts off his Beard.  Dam. 
Oh, oh—  Barb. 
Hold, I have almost done.  Page. 
Shave him close.  Fra. 
And wash him too in Lethe-water, that he may forget his way to my house.  Barb. 
So, let him rise.  Frail. 
Why this was quickly done.  Page. 
And valiantly suffered.  Barb. 
Now Damasippus, in hope that you'll hereafter be a reformed man, I'll be no more a Devil.  Page. 
Nor Fiddler I.  Fra. 
Would I could cast my head too.  Dam. 
O you damned Villains! have you betrayed me thus to shame and horror!  Bar. 
Be not angry Damasippus: now the Antependium of your face is off, you have a more Sibylline aspect a great deal.  Page. 
True, he looks now just like a Goose returned out of an enchanted hole without her feathers.  Dam. 
Just Nemesis inspire me with revenge  
That these unlectured miscreants may drink  
Of the like Cup.  Frailw. 
we have already Damasippus, our wives have mingled it.  Page. 
And you have both tasted of the horn of abundance—  Bar. 
That your heads may be exalted like a brace of Bucks—  Frail. 
According to morality virtuous Damasippus.  exeunt. Enter Lady julia weeping, and Assassino: she brings the Scarf Antonio carried out. Iul. 
Thou art dearly welcome good Assassino:  
Now cease to wonder why I sent for thee;  
I had a daughter once, Assassino,  
A comfort to mine age, life to my veins,  
A living Image of her father's virtues,  
Fair, modest, and which is half monstrous  
In these polluted times, inwardly chaste:  
I do remember such a one I had.  Ass. 
And have still Madam, for rumour says she lives.  Iul. 
No, no, poor Girl, rumour has oft belied her.  
Seest thou this Scarf?  Assas. 
I Madam, what of that?  Iul. 
And dost not see the letters writ in blood,  
That tell me she is dead, murdered, and on  
The Mountains buried in obscure contempt?  Assas. 
Madam not I,  Iul. 
Why no, I thought as much.  
But look Assassino, if thou hadst felt  
The gripes of woe that have through pierced my soul,  
Seen an appalling sight would make thee tremble,  
Or through the spectacles of love didst view  
A loss as dear as heaven, thou wouldst discern  
These bloody Characters, and meet her pale Ghost  
In every slumber, begging with silent shows  
And deep fetched groans a mother's slow revenge.  Assas. 
Good Madam, I am sorry for it—  Iul. 
Then to recount the wrongs, the infamy  
Heaped on her youth, when by most treacherous plots  
She was attaint of murder, and became  
The mark for every vulgar tongue to spit  
Slander and treason on her fair report;  
And last her undeserved imprisonment—  Assas. 
By heavens 'twas a foul abuse; what were't best to do?  Iul. 
And now to force her fly her dearest Country,  
Friends, hopes, contents, 'twixt opposite love and hate,  
To live in obscure exile, poor, forlorn,  
Suspicious still of death, and flying that,  
To wade each hour deep into misery,  
To meet another death before her, and sink  
Under the double hand of murder, not  
Into a Tomb, but a poor Mountain grave,  
No rites nor obsequies at her interment,  
Buried without a tear, unpitied, unrespected.  Assas. 
'Fore Heaven Madam I would revenge it.  Jul. 
My soul Assassino labours for revenge;  
Yet I'm a woman, and can sprinkle them  
But with a few salt tears, and curse, and pray,  
Which is a weak foundation for my revenge  
To climb and overlook them.  Assa. 
You have friends: call in the enemy, & mutiny.  Iul. 
That's full of hazard, for a peace being sworn,  
The enterprise may make them happier,  
Us still more miserable: But if my grief  
Were armed with such a hand, as would overturn  
The frame of all those hopes for which they sweat,  
And spurn that in the dust, which they would raise  
With hateful deeds, up to the point of state:  
That I might see them grieve, and wail the loss  
Which now afflicts my careful widowhood,  
Know what it were to lose a child, sole comfort  
Of their declining years, and send their aged  
corses to the grave, hopeless of issue.  Assas. 
To make away the Prince; 'tis that you mean,  Iul. 
Thou art within me already?  
And mark Assassino how easy 'tis,  
Since time, occasion, travail, and his soleness,  
thyself not known, gives advantageous means  
To second thine attempt: do but resolve  
And Fate will straight resolve to second thee  
In such a righteous and just revenge.  Assas. 
Madam the enterprise is dangerous,  
And though I have a daring spirit that bids  
Me undertake the deep'st attempts of blood  
For your revenge, and in so just a quarrel,  
Yet must you think the danger I shall pass  
Cannot but highly merit recompense.  Jul. 
Vowed; & propose the sum; my House, my Purse,  
My Means, and whatsoe'er is mine is thine:  
Be bold and faithful, I'll ever hold thee dear,  
Call thee our house's Champion, and the hand  
Of heaven's justice marked to punish sin,  
And plague the guilty thoughts of tyranny.  Ass. 
But Madam the report of his passage is so obscure,  
That I can hardly learn which way he took.  Iul. 
I have dogged the rumour of his journey, and can  
Exactly inform thee, come take directions,  
And gold to furnish thee.  Assas. 
Then I resolved;  
And he shall die.  Iul. 
Now thou dost pour fresh youth  
Upon my hairs, newly revivest my soul,  
Puttest spirits to my heart dried up with sighs,  
And mak'st fresh blood traverse my empty veins,  
For the sweetest heaven the spleens of women find  
Is full revenge to our aggrieved mind.  Exeunt. Enter Alastor solus, in rich apparel, disguised for the Prince. Alast. 
It's strange I hear not from the Prince, nor Antonio, who promised to meet me here, where I have now stayed three days in expectance, and had the wind been fair, must have passed for Greece— 'Fore Heaven it's a gallant thing to be a Lord, if but in name, you shall be so applauded in every vanity, scurrile jest, and impious action: A Satin Thersites that stalks among the Peasants like the Stork that jupiter sent among the frogs, will so bend and bow to your little Toe, fawn and protest your excellencies; Si been ructavit— Sirectum minxit— I would I had the faith that some have, I would never be unlorded again. 'Fore Heaven I must begin to fawn, and get myself created: This service done for the Prince is a good step to it.  Enter a Captain of a Ship. 
Now Captain, the wind's unconstant still, everywhere save where to steed us.  Cap. 
Womanish my Lord, womanish.  Alast. 
Indeed their levity has gotten them now that Simile appropriated.  Cap. 
But they showed other Cards before they won it, too.  Alast. 
Nay, that's enough i'faith.  Cap. 
Yet they had more.  Alast. 
As what!  Cap. 
Why their tongues, which fill houses, as the bustling of Winds do Climates: they overturn Families, and States, as winds do Trees, Towers, Ships. And for your diversity of winds you have your diversity of women: for your whirlwinds that clasp and carry a thing in the air, till it fall dashed to pieces; you have of your Females that will clasp and bear you, till at your next fall you will think one piece will scarce hang by another. For your freezing winds, you have them that will breed such a frost in your bones, that change of weather will make 'em as rotten as the ground after a sudden thaw: And for your blitting and burning winds, you have of them too, that will blast and scorch most ambidextrous. Only the difference is, that there be but sixteen points in the Card, where the wind can be unprofitable to a man: but a woman has for the most part, the whole compass of her Card unprofitable, which contains two and thirty points at least.  Alast. 
Then the Grammarians methinks did ill to make Ventus of the Masculine Gender.  Cap. 
The Grammarians my Lord were mere Scholars, & mere Scholars be mere fools, and mere fools are easily deceived in matter of Gendering.  Alast. 
Impossible sir, they couple Genders by Book.  Capt. 
Right my Lord: so they all study rider's Dictionary, and therefore become excellent Horsemen.  Enter Navarchus a Master of a Ship. Navar. 
News from Court to your Grace; a stiff robustious Letter-Carrier makes much inquiry where he may be delivered of some matters he has been in travail withal.  Alast. 
Cozenage and dissimulation help me, it's impossible to scape discovering. 'sfoot I must walk stately, look scornfully, talk simply, and be Noble at all points now. But it falls out something fortunately to be in the Evening: let him have entrance.  Enter Assassino disguised. Assas. 
Health to your Grace.  Alast. 
As much to them that bring it: how fare our friends at Court?  Assa. 
As wanting no part of welfare but your wished presence.  Alast. 
Have you ought to impart that concerns us?  Assas. 
I have my Lord, and must have private conference with your Grace.  Alast. 
Attend us then on the Litto, where I'll presently meet you, and take this soft Evening breath.  Assas. 
Heaven, Air, Place, Time, and all will fit thy death.  Exit Assas. Alast. 
By jove methinks I begin to be my Craftes-Master and Lord it handsomely. If it were as easy for a Villain to be a Lord, as a Lord to be a villain, I would write noble instantly: get me a Herald for seven shillings, or a frown to forswear himself, and draw my Pedigree as deep as Romulus. Captain, as the wind serves, either on the Litto, or at my Lodging. exit.  Capt. 
we will attend your Grace.  Nav. 
'Tis strange that such a personage should thus obscurely travel.  Capt. 
Tush Navarchus, our commonwealth is among fishes, and our policy with the winds, and therefore no marvel if courtier's tricks savour not on our palates.  Navar. 
Yet fearing disgrace above damnation, and loving a popular esteem more than heaven; methinks obscurity should fright 'em.  Capt. 
Faith no; for you shall have a Courtier of the first Velvet head, when the tide runs low, and in a place unknown, will familiarly turn you to his old trade, accoutre his palfrey most neatly, and thank obscurity for drowning the unfit honour he had lately slipped on and off.  Navar. 
'Tis a disease indeed they have, to feel no touch of future honour, nor taste any thing more than what lies before 'em.  Capt. 
Tut, they be wise in that, for their conception being precipitate, and their births rash, they knew their glories birth would be like the flies I have seen by a River in Egypt, that begin to live in the morning, are at full age by noon, and die before Sun set: and therefore their honour feeds like moths upon apparel, and objects merely present— flashes— flashes.  Navar. 
But such an imputation cannot stain his honour, whose grain taken in the die of a Duke's blood, stands immaculate spite of all fortunes.  Capt. 
'Tis true, and therefore peradventure parsimony invites him to this obscurity, for I'll assure you, that to be miserable, and not fight, are grown to be two right honourable qualities,—  Enter a Shipman. Shipm. 
Captain, you stand talking here of a Cock and a Bull, while our rich fare is gone another way.  Capt. 
Who? my Lord the Prince?  Shipm. 
I your Lord the Prince.  Navar. 
Which way, for profits sake?  Shipm. 
That way that many Lords do for profits sake: downwards, downwards.  Cap. 
Prithee speak not in enigmas; be understood.  Shipm. 
In plain Dagger terms the Prince is slain.  Navar. 
'sfoot 'tis sharp news.  Capt. 
By whom?  Shipm. 
Why, that swart Rutter that brought the message from Court, delivered it in such keen terms, that it went to his heart: & when he had done, tumbled him off the Litto into the water to catch Whitings. But two Merchants spying it, raised the people and took him, and now the Governor is gone a fishing after the Body.  Cap. 
This amazes me, done so suddenly.  Shipm. 
Death's a quick Carver when he comes in that shape.  Navar. 
Who set him on says he?  Shipm. 
Some valiant Squire or other, who is yet unknown, nor will the Governor urge the knowledge, but sends him back to Court, that the Duke may take notice of all.  Cap. 
Come, let's to the the Litto, and set our helps to find the Body.  Both. 
Content. Exeunt    

Actus 4.  

Scena 1.  Enter the Duke and a Messinger. Duke. 
But have you found the body?  Mess. 
we have my Lord  
With long laborious search, it was three Tides  
Locked in the arms of Neptune, who at length  
Enforced by main constraint resigned it up,  
But all the face so mangled and deformed,  
That but his clothes, nought could have made it known,  
The which embalmed we straight closed up in Lead,  
And with the murderer brought it to your Grace,  
That after his due exequies performed,  
You might quench sorrow in revenge, and draw  
His blood, whose hand hath spilled best part of yours.  Duke. 
Thou art deceived, good friend, 'twas not his hand,  
But the just hand of Heaven that whips my sins,  
And through my Veins powers out the innocent blood  
Which I had spilled before; the hand that holds  
The equal Balance to discern the weight  
'Twixt PRINCE's justice and their tyranny,  
Measures their blessings and their plagues, alike,  
To their fair virtues or black infamies,  
And makes the horrid acts of murderous minds  
But instruments of plague to punish guilt;  
And pay us in the coin with which we hoped  
To buy our gluttonous surfeits. Such is the state  
Of PRINCE's privilege, that we may run  
Into the depth of sin, and uncontrolled  
Pull vengeance on our heads, while the smooth hand  
Of pestilent flattery claps us on the back,  
And gives us edge to villainy, till they see  
Misery and desolation close us round;  
Then they fly back, and gaze, as on a place  
Stricken with furious thunder in a storm:  
When every vulgar hand has laws, and fear  
Of prying authority to hold him back,  
And friendly enemies to upbraid him with  
His faults, and keep him in the bounds of mercy,  
Only our height bereaves us of these helps,  
And we are soothed in vices, till we run  
Beyond the reach of grace, and stand within  
The shot of heaviest vengeance, which seldom comes  
Short of our merits— O my son! my son!  
I shall grow mad with grief: my frighted conscience  
Opens the Book, where I do view my sins,  
And feel the furies with their wounding whips  
Lashing my guilty soul to penitence.  Mess. 
I was unhappy  
To be the messenger of this ill news. exeunt.  Enter Lucilio disguised as before, meeting at the other door Fioretta, her hair down, strewing the way with green herbs and flowers. Luci. 
Who's this? Fioretta the Lady julia's woman? My heart! what means her habit?  Fioretta sings this following to some mournful tune. 

Come Lovers bring your cares,  
Bring sigh-perfumed sweets,  
Bedew the grave with tears,  
Where death and virtue meets:  
Sigh for the hapless hour  
That knit two hearts in one,  
And only gave love power  
To die when 'twas begun.   Lucil. 
Saving your mirth fair Lady, what preparation's this?  Fior. 
a Bridal sir; true love and greatness be divorced, and now they be both going to be married to misfortune.  Lucil. 
'Twas a marriage long since, myself was at the wedding: But be a little plainer, & tell me who it is to be married?  Fior. 
Indeed Sir, Beauty, Virtue, and too much faith for a woman, are going to the cold arms of a sullen Churl, one that consumes ere he lets go: yet he is better than your other husbands are; he forsakes them not, leaves them not in misery, he woos them not with flatteries, and poisons with unkindness: he never swears, and lies, but continues faithful till Doomsday. Who be you?  Lucil. 
A stranger in your City, a poor Husbandman.  Fior. 
A poor Husband? than thou art a poor dissembler, a poor murderer: O you husbands kill more than scurvy Physicians, or a plaguy Summer. But art a stranger?  Lucil. 
A very stranger here.  Fior. 
Why that's all one, thou canst not be a stranger to her fame, if thou hast lived but a month in the world. Poor innocent Althaea makes her last marriage, and I am one of her Bridemaids.  Lucil. 
To whom for loves sake?  Fior. 
To her grave for love's sake, an honest Husband: 'tis better than the Duke's son, that sent her from the City, to die in the Mountains? Ah 'twas unkindly done, not to go nor send after her! yet poor Lord he is killed, dead too now, and has met her Hearse here—  
So those two souls that ne'er were borne to have  
A Nuptial Bed, have found a Nuptial Grave.  
Beauty and Virtue strove  
Who should adorn her most,  
Till faith conspired with love,  
And all their labours crossed.  Lucil. 
Antonio killed! Althaea buried!  
Then thou hast lived Lucilio to behold  
The height of mischief, and the worst of chance,  
And thou mayst dare thy angry Stars to inflict  
whate'er they can effect, that's worse than this.  
Murdered thy friends! ruined their ancient names!  
Hateful to thy Parents, loathsome to thyself!  
O 'tis high time to die, and I do wrong  
Althaea's constancy to breathe an hour  
After I know she has prevented me.  
Methinks I hear love chide my backwardness.  
And tell me how unworthy I am grown,  
To have two friends so firmly virtuous,  
Constant and loyal, and outlive them both,  
Yea be their Murderer, and stand alive  
Spectator at their funeral, as I would bid  
The rest weep on, whilst I give aim to tears,  
And mark who grieves most deep at my foul actions.  Lucilio stands aside. Enter at one door the Corpse of the Duke's supposed Son, borne by Mourners, and following it the Duke and duchess, with others, in mourning robes. At the other door, the Hearse for Althaea, with the Scarf which Antonio brought from the Shepherds, laid a cross it, and borne by four maids in black, with their hair disheveled, and Garlands of dead Myrtle, or other leaves, on their heads, her Mother with some Mourners following. Torches before both, and meeting they stay. Duke. 
So then, let Fortune make a period here,  
Since we are met just in the midst of woe,  
And stand upon the Centre of mishap.  
Whence we may see the full circumference  
Of all that Sphere, that bounds the power of Fate.  
Come Madam we will mix our tears a while,  
Dropping them jointly on the Marble Tombs  
Of our dead Issue, till the stones receive  
Large Characters of grief, carved by the drops  
That ceaseless flow from our too late laments.  Iul. 
Great Lord, if woes with woes may be compared,  
Or to the measure of our cause of grief  
we might in sad contention drop our tears,  
Shower for your drop, Pound for your dram of woe  
My breast and eyes would yield, which now are grown  
A boundless harbour for the depth of care.  
For though we meet in this, that both have lost  
The dearest treasures of desired life,  
Yet hath your Grace a partner in distress  
A comfort to the residue of your years,  
And therefore hope that Heaven may yet restore  
This ruin of your House. Besides you have  
The body of your son, on whose dead corpse  
You may bestow your tears, and honour him  
With fitting place and Royal exequies:  
When Heaven hath shut those comforts from my heart,  
Left me a widow to sustain the weight  
Of all this burden, and no partner else  
To bring mine aged hairs unto the grave  
But still repining grief: and am denied  
The ashes of my child, on whose cold Hearse  
Mine eyes might pay those tributary tears  
Which her misfortune, and my woes exact,  
And only can embrace an empty shrine.  
Yet my good Lord, I oft forget my cares  
To grieve at yours, and wish Althaea's death  
Might have sufficed the anger of the Fates,  
Without Lucilio's blood, whose guiltless fall  
Hath struck a sadness through th'appalled looks  
Of all your subjects, made them stand amazed,  
And wonder there should live upon the earth  
Envy enough to blast such graceful hopes.  Duke. 
Let me be open Madam to your love,  
'Tis but the doom of justice I sustain;  
I know I wronged your daughter's innocence,  
And only know it now, for plagues make known  
That, oft, for sin, which once we thought was none.  Iul. 
No my good Lord, she was not innocent,  
In that she bounded not her loosest thoughts  
Within our element but would admit  
The dangerous fires, of ambitious love  
Into her Virgin breast, that's safeliest knit  
Where all proportion justly equal it.  Duch. 
Wrong not her worth good Madam, the power of death  
Is weak to stain her name, and we were blessed.  
If such perfection, joined unto our Blood,  
Had with our son succeeded in the Throne  
Of this unhappy and dejected State.  
Believe me Madam I did ever love  
Althaea's Virtues, and was inly glad  
When by that Stratagem my son had freed  
Her innocence (as I protest I thought)  
And wished her scape as safe from that injustice  
As could my heart desire.  Iul. 
Alas good Madam, I have felt your Grace  
Still loving to my daughter's poor deserts,  
And nothing did increase my sorrows more  
Than that I wanted means how to requite  
Your grace's love.  Duke. 
Come, we forget ourselves in Ceremonies,  
And waste the time, whose every instant yields  
Scarce space enough for that large task of grief  
Sorrow exacts each instant from our hearts,  
Good Madam we will consecrate one Tomb  
To both their Memories; and since in life  
Their hearts were so united by love's hand,  
In death their Graves shall join: so will ourselves  
Bequeath the remnant of our days from hence,  
You to sad cares, and we to penitence.  Exeunt the torchbearers and both courses joining; the Duke, duchess, L. julia, &c. following. Lucil. 
You to sad cares, and we to penitence—  
Why then you'll feed upon the bitter fruits  
Of your ambition, and by experience find,  
Virtue, not Honour is heaven unto the mind.  
Dear Father, I conceive your grief, as true  
As is my love, and feel methinks a sting,  
That spurs me onward to prevent the plagues  
My loss will bring upon your hoary age,  
And makes me think I hear the frequent voice  
Of potent Nature whisper to mine ear  
The duty that I owe, and bids me meet  
Those mischiefs quickly, by discovering me:  
But the persuasion's weak when I must owe  
More than a duty, or all Nature's self  
To the chaste merits of Althaea's love,  
Who was the first I murdered; then the name  
Of holy friendship, which my request abused  
In loved Antonio, whom I murdered next:  
My debt's above a life, which though I give,  
My ghost must be a slave to pay the rest,  
And their deserts stand yet unsatisfied.  
But o ye Spirits of truth! whose constant faiths  
Merit perhaps to hear these last laments  
My dying soul powers forth; be pleased to take  
The poor oblation of a loathsome life,  
Which I as gladly vow unto your loves,  
As misery would turn itself to bliss.  
And since I was a murderer to your worths,  
I'll choose that death that murderers do pass;  
And thou hadst lived Antonio, if thy love  
Had not before withheld me from the fall,  
And saving only me hath murdered all. exit.  Enter Antonio and Lady julia. Anton. 
Madam,  
My love to you and to that virtuous Lord  
Could do no less: I do assure your Ladyship  
The murderer has confessed, in hope of life,  
The circumstances, means, and opportunity  
Which you so fitly urged, and hath incensed  
The Duke so violently against yourself,  
That he has vowed your death, & doth intend  
A sharp revenge to all your family.  
And but I know Lucilio yet does live,  
Believe me Madam I should hate the fact,  
And be the first should feed my thirsty eyes  
With their best blood, that spilt least part of his.  Iul. 
Alas Antonio, what would you have me do,  
When I beheld my daughter murdered thus  
'Twixt love and hate, and I no means of help  
To take revenge, or comfort to my grief?  Anto. 
Well Madam let's not stand to expostulate  
The cause; the act was foul, and (but the hand  
Of Heaven turned it from him 'gainst whom you meant it)  
Hateful, and worthy of the deep'st revenge.  
Your way is now to shun the furious wrath  
The Duke's inflamed with, and for a while  
Lie close in some disguise, till the lost Prince  
Make his return, who doubtless will ere long  
Give notice to myself where he remains:  
And for your farther assurance Lady, I'll take  
Some strange attire with you, and we will both  
Be present at the Execution.  
Where you shall hear perhaps the latest words  
The murderer will speak against yourself,  
And in the presence of the Duke avouch  
Your guiltiness.  Iul. 
Thanks good Antonio, There the gift is free,  
When 'tis bestowed on deepest misery. Exeunt.  Enter Althaea in her shepherdess's apparel over her own, which she putting off lays aside. Alth. 
Lie there thou gentle weed, that hast prolonged  
A weary life, thou whose dissembling shape  
Has helped me reach the place which drew that life  
As an attractive Loadstone to its end.  
Some friendly Passenger will for this reward  
Bestow perhaps a burial on my corpse;  
And be my death as freely exempt from sight.  
As is my grief, that never innocent eyes  
May be infected with those fumes of guilt  
My latest gasp breathes forth, reserved till now  
To be unfortunate in all save this,  
That I shall sacrifice my dearest blood  
Upon that Altar where Lucilio died,  
And let one air receive our joined spirits  
And sacrifices to faith's Deity.  She goes up the Rock quickly, and standing ready. 
And witness now you zealous thoughts of love,  
Witness the vows my affection held so dear,  Enter Lucilio in his own habit, and walks a turn. 
My soul comes unconstrained to you dear Lord,  
And parts as freely from a gladsome heart,  
As ere it wished to enjoy the lively sight  
Of your desired presence— She spies him as below.  
— Awake my fancy, do mine eyes conspire  
To aggravate my grief, or does the strong  
Imagination of my loss present the shape  
Of his dead person to my troubled sense?  Lucil. 
What strange confused passions 'gin to raise  
A stormy combat twixt my mind and death!  
Though safely now arrived within the Port  
Where for exchange of breath I shall regain  
The long desired presence of her soul  
That hovers in expectation of my coming.  Alth. 
Methinks I sleep, that, thus illusive shows  
Do mock my apprehension: or is't decreed  
That even in death I must endure affliction?  
And die in height of woe? How like his pace,  
His gesture, shape, and countenance! true constant spirit!  
(That wouldst not be unless thou mightst be true)  
Did not my greedy sight distract my thoughts  
To feed upon thy shadow, and make me forget  
My business next in hand: I should have flown  
To be a shadow, and have walked with dead  
Lucilio— As hearing somewhere the voice of his name.  Lucil. 
Lucilio! was it my fond conceit? or else (my self Standing betwixt the bounds of life and death)  
Her ghost, that looks each minute for my approach,  
Thinks my stay long, and calls upon my name?  
I come Althaea, swift as break the winds  
From out the Eolian Caves, give me but space  
To take my flight from off that—  He looks up to the Rock, and seeing her stand a while amazed. 
Bright Angel! Goddess! whatsoe'er thou art  
That haste assumed that shape to adorn thy state,  
And give a better lustre to thy Deity;  
Do not delude my woes, nor make my death  
More miserable than myself have done.  Alth, 
It does invite me speak, and with his silent looks  
Seems to entreat a word, yet my faint heart  
Throbbing with fear, denies to second speech.  Lucil. 
Be what thou wilt; I know no spirit of night  
Durst to attempt that form, that ne'er was made  
But to invest a soul more fair and pure  
Than are the Spheres. Ghost! Angel! Goddess! Nymph!  
Speak, deign a word to tell me what thou art,  
That thus appearest in such a glorious shape  
To intercept my death? Art thou an Angel  
That thus wouldst show the world what they have lost  
By seeing her heavenly form? Or art thou else  
Some spirit of Diviner excellence  
That hast put on that shadow, thine own nature  
To beautify? Or does Althaea's ghost  
Come thus to meet and chide my slothfulness?  
Or has thy worth chaste Nymph, deserved to scape  
The hand of death, and made thy perfect self  
All soul, immortal, and an unmixed spirit,  
That those rich virtues which great nature heaped  
In thy creation, might by envious death  
ne'er be dissolved, nor the cold senseless earth  
Embrace and taint thy pure delicious beauty,  
For which the Stars grew envious to the world?  
whate'er thou art, if thou hast sense of grief  
But correspondent to the shape thou bear'st,  
Add not more torment to the depth of woe  
That does accompany my death, and urge  
No more the sight and memory of her  
Whom I have wronged; envy has left me nought  
But life to yield in satisfaction,  
Which here I come to tender as thy due:  
Or if thou doubtst the payment, and didst come  
To take a view how willingly I died;  
Then be my witness that the chased Stag  
Flies not more swiftly to the cooling streams  
Then I to death—  He runs up to the Rock, where both meeting, show passions of fear. Alth. 
Stay.  Lucil. 
Speak.  Alth. 
O stay dear love!  Lucil. 
Speak, speak thou heavenly spirit,  
And tell me since thyself art made Divine,  
What makes thee come in confines of the wretched,  
And mix thyself with us whose earthly loads  
Detain us yet in life and misery?  Alth. 
Why, I do live.  Lucil. 
I know thou dost, thou wert not framed to die,  
Nor at thy birth, when Heaven and Nature joined  
To give thee those rich Dowries thou enjoyest,  
Did they intend to make such excellence  
Mortal and subject to the stroke of death.  
But where deficient Nature could extend  
Her force no farther to preserve thy life,  
Heaven would supply the want, and turn thy state  
To immortality, yet why shouldst thou,  
When I have seen thy Funerals performed,  
Come to afflict me, and augment my grief?  Alth. 
Sweet love, if you do live, as fear and hope  
'Twixt adverse passions make me doubtful yet,  
Know that I live as when we parted last,  
Nor ere was yet interred.  Lucil. 
No, no, the earth grew feeling of her loss,  
And grieving to be robbed of such a gem,  
Refused to shut that treasure in her womb  
Where foul corruption must have tainted it:  
Or did my fortunes yet beyond thy death  
Pursue thee farther, and bereaving first  
Thy innocent life, in some forsaken wood  
Leave thee unburied, and thy restless ghost  
Comes now to seek a Sepulchre of me?  Alth. 
Great Lord, recall yourself, and give me leave  
To speak what will resolve this doubtful maze  
In which your senses wander, and can find  
No passage out. Since I last left your Grace  
Travelling in that disguise, I lost indeed  
Camilla, poor Companion of my cares:  
But hearing that yourself in shape of me  
Was by your Father's doom thrown off this Rock,  
Knowing my sufferance guilty of your death,  
I came to end my life where you had died,  
And expiate the murder with my blood  
Where 'twas committed on your guiltless self,  
Reserved by Heavens mild hand to this blessed hour  
Wherein our innocent loves might once more meet  
In spite of envy.  Lucil. 
Lives my Althaea then?  
Then live Althaea still! But speak no more  
Lest the vast Tide of joy o'erwhelm my soul,  
And kill as quick as grief: Or my sad heart  
Unable to sustain this burden of wonder,  
Sink and yield vanquished. I have much to ask,  
But let it rest: yet tell me how thou faredst  
In this long banishment?— stay, who comes yonder?  
Now the wind's turned, and fortunes lavish hand  
Powers down content beyond expectation.  Enter Duke and duchess with Officers bringing Assassino to execution, after them the L. julia and Antonio both disguised. Duke. 
Come thou inhuman murderer of my son,  
Traitor unto thy country's state and safety,  
And now before the stroke of justice seize  
Thy hateful life, resolve the wondering world  
Why the slight motives of a woman's words  
Should win thee to so foul and horrid crimes?  Assas. 
What I have said yourself are witness to,  
Nor needs it be renewed; nor can I add  
One word or syllable to make it more.  Duke. 
Then let the Execution proceed,  
That we may do this latest Exequy  
To his wronged ghost, which is to see his blood  
Revenged with blood of those that murdered him,  
As we have vowed to do, and not to leave  
These weeds of sorrow, till we have consumed  
The race and name of them that did conspire  
In this abhorred Action: And would it might  
Suffice the injuries we did his life,  
Thus to revenge his too untimely death;  
And from that height—  He sees them on the Rock, and stands amazed. 
Am I awake, or dream I? Is it my fancy  
Breeds this delusive show in my weak brain?  
Or do their souls come to condemn our guilt,  
More conscious of their death, than whom we have brought  
To die for it? See, do thy dazzled eyes  
Perceive that object which myself beholds:  
Or is't some shadow that abuses me?  
And none but me?  Duch. 
My son my Lord, my son!  
More known by's ghost, then if his living form  
Had met mine eyes: o speak to him my Lord!  Duke. 
If thou be'st such as is thy semblance,  
By all that duty that thy life did owe  
Unto a Parent; by the Bands once due,  
Of Love and Nature, that unites the souls  
Of children and their careful nourishers,  
I do adjure thee tell, why in this midst  
Of day you come thus to renew our grief?  
What has there wanted to your Funerals,  
When we have wept us dry, and spent our tears  
More thick than winter showers upon your Hearse?  
Done all the Rites and Exequies were due  
To your interring? And have vowed revenge  
To all that did conspire in that foul Act  
Of thy too guiltless murder  Lucil. 
Know that we are returned  
From out those Seats of Bliss where we were placed  
By your unjust proceedings, to make known  
That what you did was 'gainst the will of Fate.  
For see, what you denied upon the earth,  
The power of Heaven does grant, and has confirmed  
Our long-born loves with an Eternal peace:  
Where our two souls in sweetest union knit,  
Enjoy their Nuptials out of Envies reach.  
Yet know there are some punishments reserved  
For the vile Treasons practised in pursuit  
Of our unmerited wrongs; and that their sin  
Is marked for plagues, that seek by force to break  
The League that Love and Faith do jointly knit.  Duke. 
Then let 'em fall, we are prepared for woes  
Though shot as thick as Hail from out the Clouds,  
Our guilt is greater than those punishments,  
Or all our future plagues can expiate.  The Duke and duchess both kneel. 
Yet on our bended knees thus low to earth  
As we did both conspire in that foul plot  
We here entreat your pardons, and withal  
Wish the offended Heavens would be appeased  
With Vows and Orisons; and would your ghosts  
Forget those injuries we did your loves  
And rest in peace with us, and with the world.  Lucil. 
Father we will, but should we live again,  
You would not yet relent, and yield our loves  
The sufferance you see the Heavens have done.  Duke. 
By Heavens I would; nor should the potentest hand  
Of earth resist your present Nuptials.  Lucil. 
Then we'll be ghosts no more, but ever sue  
For your mild sufferance of our happiness.  Come down, both kneel. Duke. 
Wonder and amazement do not oppress me!  Duch. 
O we are blessed beyond desert!  Alth. 
Yet is my joy but small amidst your many,  
Since you have burnt my innocent Mother,  
And razed our Family.  Iul. 
No my dear daughter, see I safely live  
ne'er blessed till now, and now overjoy with bliss,  Lucil. 
Then joys would be complete had I not lost  
By thy vile murderous hand so dear a friend.  Anton. 
Your friend still lives, and never felt his life  
Sweet till this instant, when I may behold  
These joys combined.  Duke. 
Why then there nothing wants  
But celebration of your Nuptials,  
Which we will do with greater signs of joy,  
Than we had grief in your supposed Funerals.  
But whose death is this murderer guilty of?  Ant. 
Only Alastor's, a fellow as wicked as himself.  Duke. 
We give him then his life, but banish him  
From our Dominions: and for this strange event  
We will expect a farther leisure  
To hear the whole discovery of the chance,  
And leave the rest to mirth, that shall command  
In all our Feasts, and whom we'll Crown as King,  
To be chief Lord in all our Banqueting.  Exeunt omnes. Omnia vincit amor; & nos cedamus amori.    

 

   

The Epilogue.  
judging Spectators all, for this we know,  
That either you are such, or should be so,  
Now to your censures lowly as his mind  
Our Author all submits, and hopes to find  
In such a fair assembly no such eyes  
As scout at Theatres, and come like flies  
To taint the innocentest labours with their tongues,  
Raising their richest gains from others wrongs:  
If such an envious Canker hap to lurk  
Here, and hath only sat to tax the work  
With curious scanning; let that envy know  
He scorns his censure only, and can show  
'Gainst all such laboured hisses, Perseus' Shield,  
In such a fearless Pen as ne'er shall yield,  
Till his cold merits do his worth bewray,  
Or make himself a mewing Statua.  
Nor is he of those self-admiring Apes  
That think none's features fair, whose birth escapes  
Their labouring brains; he hears and sees, and knows,  
And yields all reverence to the worth of those  
Whom solid Art extols, and unto such  
He humbly veils his Scene, that for the touch  
Of unaffecting censures hither came;  
He sought your mirth more than a poet's name.  
FINIS.