Part 48 (1/2)

One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my ring to't.

They say 'tis very soveraigne; 'twas my wedding-ring, And I did vow never to part with it, But to my second husband.

_Ant._ You have parted with it now.

_Duch._ Yes, to helpe your eye-sight.

_Ant._ You have made me starke blind.

_Duch._ How?

_Ant._ There is a sawcy and ambitious divell Is dauncing in this circle.

_Duch._ Remoove him.

_Ant._ How?

_Duch._ There needs small conjuration, when your finger May doe it: thus, is it fit?

_Ant._ What sayd you? (_He kneeles._)

_Duch._ Sir, This goodly roofe of yours is too low built; I cannot stand upright in't, nor discourse, Without I raise it higher: raise yourselfe, Or if you please, my hand to help you: so.

_Ant._ Ambition, madam, is a great man's madnes, That is not kept in chaines and close-pentoomes, But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt With the wild noyce of pratling visitants, Which makes it lunatique, beyond all cure.

Conceive not I am so stupid but I ayme Whereto your favours tend: but he's a foole That (being a cold) would thrust his hands i' th' fire To warme them.

_Duch._ So, now the ground's broake, You may discover what a wealthy mine I make you lord of.

_Ant._ Oh my unworthiness!

_Duch._ You were ill to sell your selfe: This darkning of your worth is not like that Which trades-men use i' th' city; their false lightes Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you, If you will know where breathes a compleat man (I speake it without flattery), turne your eyes, And progresse through your selfe.

_Ant._ Were there nor heaven, nor h.e.l.l, I should be honest: I have long serv'd vertue, And nev'r tane wages of her.

_Duch._ Now she paies it.

The misery of us that are borne great, We are forc'd to woe, because none dare woe us: And as a tyrant doubles with his words, And fearefully equivocates, so we Are forc'd to expresse our violent pa.s.sions In ridles and in dreames, and leave the path Of simple vertue, which was never made To seeme the thing it is not. Goe, go brag You have left me heartlesse; mine is in your bosom: I hope 'twill multiply love there. You doe tremble: Make not your heart so dead a peece of flesh, To feare, more then to love me. Sir, be confident, What is't distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir; 'Tis not the figure cut in allablaster Kneeles at my husbands tombe. Awake, awake, man, I do here put off all vaine ceremony, And onely doe appeare to you a yong widow That claimes you for her husband, and like a widow, I use but halfe a blush in't.

_Ant._ Truth speake for me, I will remaine the constant sanctuary Of your good name.[55]

This is Browning's version:

_d.u.c.h.ess._ Say what you did through her, and she through you-- The praises of her beauty afterward!

Will you?

_Valence._ I dare not.

_Duch._ Dare not?

_Val._ She I love Suspects not such a love in me.

_Duch._ You jest.

_Val._ The lady is above me and away.

Not only the brave form, and the bright mind, And the great heart combine to press me low-- But all the world calls rank divides us.

_Duch._ Rank!