Volume Xi Part 14 (2/2)
NEV. Time is as weak for that, as he is old.
Take comfort, and attend this counsel, friend: This match is neither sacred nor [is] sure; Close fate annihilates what opinion makes, And since she is resolved this night to die, If you do not redeem her, give the means, Or her blood (credit me) will spring heavier griefs.
Sorer and stranger, in thy oppressed heart, Than her false love before. Besides, 'tis you, My Scudmore, that are false, if you will not Consent to let her make vows good, which were But in a possibility to be broke.
This her repentance casts her vice quite off, And if you leave her now, you take it on.
Nay, you incur a b.l.o.o.d.y mortal sin: You do become an actual murderer.
If you neglect her, she will kill herself This night by poison, knife, or other means.
G.o.d gives you power to cross her desperate will, And if you save not, where you may, you kill.
SCUD. Why, can my n.o.ble and wise friend think still That what a woman says her heart doth mean?
Can you believe that she will kill herself?
'Tis a full hour, since she spake the word, And G.o.d forbid, that any woman's mind Should not be chang'd and chang'd in a long hour.
She is by this time in her lordly arms, And, like pleas'd Juno clasp'd by Jupiter, Forgets the plaints of poor mortality: Such state, such pride, as poets show her in, Incens'd with Jove's loose 'scapes upon the earth, She cast on me at our encountering.
As cold and heavy as a rock of ice, In her love to me, which while I there stay'd, My bitter and hot words resolv'd[46] a little: Just as the sun doth ice I soften'd her,
And made her drown her fault in her own tears.
But think you she holds this flexible vein?
No, I'm remov'd, and she's congeal'd again.
NEV. How well does Scudmore speak ill for himself!
Wit's a disease that fit employment wants; Therefore we see those happiest in best parts, And fortunes under-born unto their merits,[47]
Grow to a sullen envy, hate, and scorn Of their superiors; and at last, like winds, Break forth into rebellious civil wars Or private treasons: none so apt for these As melancholy wits, fetter'd with need.
How free's the rustic swain from these a.s.saults!
He never feels a pa.s.sion all his life, But when he cannot sleep, or hunger gripes; And though he want reason, wit, art--nay, sense, Is not so senseless to capitulate, And ask G.o.d why he made not him as great As that same foolish lord or that rich knave?
His brain with nothing does negotiate, But his hard husbandry, which makes him live.
But have we worthy gifts, as judgment, learning, Ingenious sharpness (which wise G.o.d indeed Doth seldom give out of His equal hand, But join'd with poverty, to make it even With riches, which he clogs with ignorance), We vent our blessing in profane conceits, Foul bawdry, or strong arguments against Ourselves,[48] and stark blindly hold it best Rather to lose a soul than lose a jest.
SCUD. Ill terms my friend this wit in any man; For that, but season'd with discretion, Holds him in awe of all these blemishes Frees him of envy, doth philosophise His spirit, that he makes no difference 'Twixt man and man, 'twixt fortunes high and low, But as the thicker they with virtues grow.
Freedom and bondage wit can make all one; So 'twould by being left and being lov'd, If I had any of it temper'd so.
But you have spoke all this, condemning me For having wit to speak against myself, But I'll be rul'd by you in all.
NEV. Then thus.
To-night by promise I do give a masque, As to congratulate the bridal day, In which the Count, Pendant, and the wise knight Will be most worthy dancers: sir, you shall Learn but my part, which I will teach you too, As nimbly as the usher did teach me, And follow my further directions.
Though I, i' th' morn, were [no][49] prodigious wight, I'll give thee Bellafront in thine arms to-night.
SCUD. I am your property, my enginer.[50]
Prosper your purposes! s.h.i.+ne, thou eye of heaven.
And make thy lowering morn a smiling even! [_Exeunt._
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