Beaumont Fletchers Works, vol 2 | Page 3

your own vertue too, in seeking rashly To violate that love Heaven has appointed, To wrest your Daughters thoughts, part that affection That both our hearts have tyed, and seek to give it.
_Rut._ To a wild fellow, that would weary her; A Cannibal, that feeds on the heads of Maids, Then flings their bones and bodies to the Devil, Would any man of discretion venture such a gristle, To the rude clawes of such a _Cat-a-mountain_? You had better tear her between two Oaks, a Town Bull Is a meer Stoick to this fellow, a grave Philosopher, And a Spanish Jennet, a most vertuous Gentleman.
_Arn._ Does this seem handsome Sir?
_Rut._ Though I confess Any man would desire to have her, and by any means, At any rate too, yet that this common Hangman, That hath whipt off the heads of a thousand maids already, That he should glean the Harvest, sticks in my stomach: This Rogue breaks young wenches to the Saddle, And teaches them to stumble ever after; That he should have her? for my Brother now That is a handsome young fellow; and well thought on, And will deal tenderly in the business; Or for my self that have a reputation, And have studied the conclusions of these causes, And know the perfect manage, I'le tell you old Sir, If I should call you wise Sir, I should bely you, This thing, you study to betray your child to, This Maiden-monger. When you have done your best, And think you have fixt her in the point of honour, Who do you think you have tyed her to? a Surgeon, I must confess an excellent dissector, One that has cut up more young tender Lamb-pies--
Char. What I spake Gentlemen, was meer compulsion, No Fathers free-will, nor did I touch your person With any edge of spight; or strain your loves With any base, or hir'd perswasions; Witness these tears, how well I wisht your fortunes. [_Exit._
Rut. There's some grace in thee yet, you are determined To marry this Count, Lady.
Zen. Marry him _Rutilio_?
Rut. Marry him, and lye with him I mean.
Zen. You cannot mean that, If you be a true Gentleman, you dare not, The Brother to this man, and one that loves him; I'le marry the Devil first.
Rut. A better choice And lay his horns by, a handsomer bed-fellow, A cooler o' my conscience.
Arn. Pray let me ask you; And my dear Mistris, be not angry with me For what I shall propound, I am confident, No promise, nor no power, can force your love, I mean in way of marriage, never stir you, Nor to forget my faith, no state can wound you. But for this Custom, which this wretched country Hath wrought into a law, and must be satisfied; Where all the pleas of honour are but laught at, And modesty regarded as a may-game, What shall be here considered? power we have none, To make resistance, nor policie to cross it: 'Tis held Religion too, to pay this duty.
Zeno. I'le dye an Atheist then.
Arn. My noblest Mistris, Not that I wish it so, but say it were so, Say you did render up part of your honour, For whilst your will is clear, all cannot perish; Say for one night you entertain'd this monster, Should I esteem you worse, forc'd to this render? Your mind I know is pure, and full as beauteous; After this short eclipse, you would rise again, And shaking off that cloud, spread all your lustre.
Zeno. Who made you witty, to undoe your self, Sir? Or are you loaden, with the love I bring you, And fain would fling that burthen on another? Am I grown common in your eyes _Arnoldo_? Old, or unworthy of your fellowship? D'ye think because a woman, I must err, And therefore rather wish that fall before-hand Coloured with Custom, not to be resisted? D'ye love as painters doe, only some pieces, Some certain handsome touches of your Mistris, And let the mind pass by you, unexamined? Be not abus'd; with what the maiden vessel Is seasoned first, you understand the proverb.
Rut. I am afraid, this thing will make me vertuous.
Zeno. Should you lay by the least part of that love Y'ave sworn is mine, your youth and faith has given me, To entertain another, nay a fairer, And make the case thus desp'rate, she must dy else; D'ye think I would give way, or count this honest? Be not deceiv'd, these eyes should never see you more, This tongue forget to name you, and this heart Hate you, as if you were born, my full Antipathie. Empire and more imperious love, alone Rule, and admit no rivals: the purest springs When they are courted by lascivious land-floods, Their maiden pureness, and their coolness perish. And