Beaumont Fletchers Works, vol 2 | Page 5

shall ne're have a child by you.
Clod. Why?
Zen. Because I must not think to marry you, I dare not Sir, the step
betwixt your honour, And my poor humble State.
Clod. I will descend to thee, And buoy thee up.
Zen. I'le sink to th' Center first. Why would your Lordship marry, and
confine that pleasure You ever have had freely cast upon you? Take
heed my Lord, this marrying is a mad matter, Lighter a pair of shackles
will hang on you, And quieter a quartane feaver find you. If you wed
me I must enjoy you only, Your eyes must be called home, your
thoughts in cages, To sing to no ears then but mine; your heart bound,
The custom, that your youth was ever nurst in, Must be forgot, I shall
forget my duty else, And how that will appear--
Clod. Wee'l talk of that more.
Zen. Besides I tell ye, I am naturally, As all young women are, that
shew like handsome, Exceeding proud, being commended, monstrous.
Of an unquiet temper, seldom pleas'd, Unless it be with infinite
observance, Which you were never bred to; once well angred, As every
cross in us, provokes that passion, And like a Sea, I roule, toss, and
chafe a week after. And then all mischief I can think upon, Abusing of
your bed the least and poorest, I tell you what you'le finde, and in these
fitts, This little beauty you are pleased to honour, Will be so chang'd, so
alter'd to an ugliness, To such a vizard, ten to one, I dye too, Take't then
upon my death you murder'd me.
Clod. Away, away fool, why dost thou proclame these To prevent that
in me, thou hast chosen in another?
Zen. Him I have chosen, I can rule and master, Temper to what I please,
you are a great one Of a strong will to bend, I dare not venture. Be wise
my Lord, and say you were well counsel'd, Take mony for my ransom,
and forget me, 'Twill be both safe, and noble for your honour, And

wheresoever my fortunes shall conduct me, So worthy mentions I shall
render of you, So vertuous and so fair.
Clod. You will not marrie me?
Zen. I do beseech your honour, be not angry At what I say, I cannot
love ye, dare not; But set a ransom, for the flowr you covet.
Clod. No mony, nor no prayers, shall redeem that, Not all the art you
have.
Zen. Set your own price Sir.
Clod. Goe to your wedding, never kneel to me, When that's done, you
are mine, I will enjoy you: Your tears do nothing, I will not lose my
custom To cast upon my self an Empires fortune.
Zen. My mind shall not pay this custom, cruel man. [Ex.
Clod. Your body will content me: I'le look for you. [Ex.
Enter Charino, _and servants in blacks. Covering the place with
blacks_.
Char. Strew all your withered flowers, your Autumn sweets By the hot
Sun ravisht of bud and beauty Thus round about her Bride-bed, hang
those blacks there The emblemes of her honour lost; all joy That leads
a Virgin to receive her lover, Keep from this place, all fellow-maids
that bless her, And blushing do unloose her Zone, keep from her: No
merry noise nor lusty songs be heard here, Nor full cups crown'd with
wine make the rooms giddy, This is no masque of mirth, but murdered
honour. Sing mournfully that sad Epithalamion I gave thee now: and
prethee let thy lute weep.
Song, Dance. Enter Rutilio.
Rut. How now, what livery's this? do you call this a wedding? This is
more like a funeral.

Char. It is one, And my poor Daughter going to her grave, To his most
loath'd embraces that gapes for her. Make the Earles bed readie, is the
marriage done Sir?
Rut. Yes they are knit; but must this slubberdegullion Have her
maiden-head now?
[Char.] There's no avoiding it.
Rut. And there's the scaffold where she must lose it.
[Char.] The bed Sir.
Rut. No way to wipe his mouldy chaps?
Char. That we know.
Rut. To any honest well-deserving fellow, And 'twere but to a merry
Cobbler, I could sit still now, I love the game so well; but that this
puckfist, This universal rutter--fare ye well Sir; And if you have any
good prayers, put 'em forward, There may be yet a remedie.
Char. I wish it, [Exit Rut. And all my best devotions offer to it.
Enter Clodio, and Guard.
Clod. Now is this tye dispatch'd?
Char. I think it be Sir.
Clod. And my bed ready?
Char. There you may quickly find Sir, Such a loath'd preparation.
Clod. Never grumble, Nor fling a discontent upon my