Beaumont Fletchers Works, vol 2 | Page 2

advise what you please, And see with what Devotion I'le attend it? But yet me thinks, I am taken with this Custom,
[Enter Charino and Zenocia.
And could pretend to th' place.
_Arn._ Draw off a little; Here comes my Mistress and her Father.
_Rut._ A dainty wench! Wou'd I might farm his Custom.
_Char._ My dear Daughter, Now to bethink your self of new advice Will be too late, later this timeless sorrow, No price, nor prayers, can infringe the fate Your beauty hath cast on yo[u], my best Zenocia, Be rul'd by me, a Fathers care directs ye, Look on the Count, look chearfully and sweetly; What though he have the power to possess ye, To pluck your Maiden honour, and then slight ye By Custom unresistible to enjoy you; Yet my sweet Child, so much your youth and goodness, The beauty of your soul, and Saint-like Modesty, Have won upon his mild mind, so much charm'd him, That all power laid aside, what Law allows him, Or sudden fires, kindled from those bright eyes, He sues to be your servant, fairly, nobly For ever to be tyed your faithful Husband: Consider my best child.
_Zeno._ I have considered.
_Char._ The blessedness that this breeds too, consider Besides your Fathers Honour, your own peace, The banishment for ever of this Custom, This base and barbarous use, for after once He has found the happiness of holy Marriage, And what it is to grow up with one Beauty, How he will scorn and kick at such an heritage Left him by lust and lewd progenitors. All Virgins too, shall bless your name, shall Saint it, And like so many Pilgrims go to your shrine, When time has turn'd your beauty into ashes, Fill'd with your pious memory.
_Zeno._ Good Father Hide not that bitter Pill I loath to swallow In such sweet words.
_Char._ The Count's a handsome Gentleman, And having him, y'are certain of a fortune, A high and noble fortune to attend you: Where if you fling your Love upon this stranger This young Arnoldo, not knowing from what place Or honourable strain of blood he is sprung, you venture All your own sweets, and my long cares to nothing, Nor are you certain of his faith; why may not that Wander as he does, every where?
_Zen._ No more Sir; I must not hear, I dare not hear him wrong'd thus, Vertue is never wounded, but I suffer. 'Tis an ill Office in your age, a poor one, To judge thus weakly: and believe your self too, A weaker, to betray your innocent Daughter, To his intemp'rate, rude, and wild embraces, She hates as Heaven hates falshood.
_Rut._ A good wench, She sticks close to you Sir.
_Zeno._ His faith uncertain? The nobleness his vertue springs from, doubted? D'ye doubt it is day now? or when your body's perfect, Your stomach's well dispos'd, your pulse's temperate, D'ye doubt you are in health? I tell you Father, One hour of this mans goodness, this mans Nobleness Put in the Scale, against the Counts whole being, Forgive his lusts too, which are half his life, He could no more endure to hold weight with him; _Arnoldo's_ very looks, are fair examples; His common and indifferent actions, Rules and strong ties of vertue: he has my first love, To him in sacred vow I have given this body, In him my mind inhabits.
_Rut._ Good wench still.
_Zeno._ And till he fling me off, as undeserving, Which I confess I am, of such a blessing, But would be loth to find it so--
_Arn._ O never; Never my happy Mistress, never, never, When your poor servant lives but in your favour, One foot i'th' grave the other shall not linger. What sacrifice of thanks, what age of service, What danger, of more dreadful look than death, What willing Martyrdom to crown me constant May merit such a goodness, such a sweetness? A love so Nobly great, no power can ruine; Most blessed Maid go on, the Gods that gave this, This pure unspotted love, the Child of Heaven, In their own goodness, must preserve and save it, And raise you a reward beyond our recompence.
_Zeno._ I ask but you, a pure Maid to possess, And then they have crown'd my wishes: If I fall then Go seek some better love, mine will debase you.
_Rut._ A pretty innocent fool; well, Governour, Though I think well of your custom, and could wish my self For this night in your place, heartily wish it: Yet if you play not fair play and above board too, I have a foolish gin here, I say no more; I'le tell you what, and if your honours guts are not inchanted.
_Arn._ I should now chide you Sir, for so declining The goodness and the grace you have ever shew'd me, And