Part 12 (1/2)

BLUFF. By the immortal thunder of great guns, 'tis false--he sucks not vital air who dares affirm it to this face. [_Looks big_.]

SIR JO. To that face I grant you, Captain. No, no, I grant you--not to that face, by the Lord Harry. If you had put on your fighting face before, you had done his business--he durst as soon have kissed you, as kicked you to your face. But a man can no more help what's done behind his back than what's said--Come, we'll think no more of what's past.

BLUFF. I'll call a council of war within to consider of my revenge to come.

SCENE X.

HEARTWELL, SILVIA. _Silvia's apartment_.

SONG.

As Amoret and Thyrsis lay Melting the hours in gentle play, Joining faces, mingling kisses, And exchanging harmless blisses: He trembling cried, with eager haste, O let me feed as well as taste, I die, if I'm not wholly blest.

[_After the song a dance of antics_.]

SILV. Indeed it is very fine. I could look upon 'em all day.

HEART. Well has this prevailed for me, and will you look upon me?

SILV. If you could sing and dance so, I should love to look upon you too.

HEART. Why, 'twas I sung and danced; I gave music to the voice, and life to their measures. Look you here, Silvia, [_pulling out a purse and c.h.i.n.king it_] here are songs and dances, poetry and music--hark! how sweetly one guinea rhymes to another--and how they dance to the music of their own c.h.i.n.k. This buys all t'other--and this thou shalt have; this, and all that I am worth, for the purchase of thy love. Say, is it mine then, ha? Speak, Syren--Oons, why do I look on her! Yet I must. Speak, dear angel, devil, saint, witch; do not rack me with suspense.

SILV. Nay, don't stare at me so. You make me blush--I cannot look.

HEART. O manhood, where art thou? What am I come to? A woman's toy, at these years! Death, a bearded baby for a girl to dandle. O dotage, dotage! That ever that n.o.ble pa.s.sion, l.u.s.t, should ebb to this degree.

No reflux of vigorous blood: but milky love supplies the empty channels; and prompts me to the softness of a child--a mere infant and would suck.

Can you love me, Silvia? Speak.

SILV. I dare not speak until I believe you, and indeed I'm afraid to believe you yet.

HEART. Death, how her innocence torments and pleases me! Lying, child, is indeed the art of love, and men are generally masters in it: but I'm so newly entered, you cannot distrust me of any skill in the treacherous mystery. Now, by my soul, I cannot lie, though it were to serve a friend or gain a mistress.

SILV. Must you lie, then, if you say you love me?

HEART. No, no, dear ignorance, thou beauteous changeling--I tell thee I do love thee, and tell it for a truth, a naked truth, which I'm ashamed to discover.

SILV. But love, they say, is a tender thing, that will smooth frowns, and make calm an angry face; will soften a rugged temper, and make ill- humoured people good. You look ready to fright one, and talk as if your pa.s.sion were not love, but anger.

HEART. 'Tis both; for I am angry with myself when I am pleased with you.

And a pox upon me for loving thee so well--yet I must on. 'Tis a bearded arrow, and will more easily be thrust forward than drawn back.

SILV. Indeed, if I were well a.s.sured you loved; but how can I be well a.s.sured?

HEART. Take the symptoms--and ask all the tyrants of thy s.e.x if their fools are not known by this party-coloured livery. I am melancholic when thou art absent; look like an a.s.s when thou art present; wake for thee when I should sleep; and even dream of thee when I am awake; sigh much, drink little, eat less, court solitude, am grown very entertaining to myself, and (as I am informed) very troublesome to everybody else. If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable. Nay, yet a more certain sign than all this, I give thee my money.

SILV. Ay, but that is no sign; for they say, gentlemen will give money to any naughty woman to come to bed to them. O Gemini, I hope you don't mean so--for I won't be a wh.o.r.e.