Fran. With me, from madam
Gent. If you be signor Francisco.
Fer. Slighted!—
I find my father was not dead till now.
Crowd not, you jealous thoughts, so thick into
My brain, lest you do tempt me to an act,
Will forfeit all again.
FERNANDO tells FELISARDA that his father is dead.
Fer. I have a story to deliver;
A tale, will make thee sad: but I must tell it.
There is one dead, that loved thee not.
That loved not me? this carries, sir, in nature
No killing sound': I shall be sad to know
I did deserve an enemy or he want
A charity at death.
Fer. Thy cruel enemy,
And my best friend, hath took eternal leave,
And's gone, to heaven, I hope: excuse my tears;
It is a tribute I must pay his memory;
For I did love my father.
Fel. Ha! your father!
Fer. Yes, Felisarda, he is gone, that in
The morning promised many years, but death
Hath in a few hours made him as stiff, as all
The winds and winter had thrown cold upon him,
And whisper'd him to marble.
FRANCISCO offers to restore FERNANDO his birthright. FERNANDO dares not take it.
Fer. My inheritance, wrought from me
By thy sly creeping to supplant my birth,
And cheat our father's easy soul, unworthily
Betraying to his anger, for thy lust
Of wealth, the love and promise of two hearts.
Poor Felisarda and Fernando now
Wither at soul, and robb'd by thee of that
1 Like the reply of Manoah in Samson Agonistes: "Sad, but not saddest, the desolation of a hostile city."
Should cherish virtue, like to rifled pilgrims
Met on the way, and having told their story,
And dropp'd their even tears for both their loss,
Wander from one another.
Fernando, but his passion (that obeys not
The counsel of his reason) would accuse me :
And if my father now, since spirits lose not
Intelligence, but more active when they have
Shook off their chains of flesh,) would leave his dwelli
And visit this coarse orb1 again; my innocence
Should dare the appeal, and make Fernando see
His empty accusations.
By wicked art, has confidence to dress
His action with simplicity and shapes,
To cheat our credulous natures: 'tis my
Thou durst do so much injury, Francisco,
As must provoke my justice to revenge,
Yet wear no sword.
Fran. I need no guard; I know
Thou darest not kill me.
Fer. Dare I not?
Fran. And name
Thy cause: 'tis thy suspicion, not Francisco,
Hath wrought thee high and passionate. To assure it;
dare violate, I dare possess you
With all my title to your land.
Car. How is that?
Fran. Let him receive it at his peril.
Fran. It was my father's act, not mine: he trembled
To hear his curse alive; what horror will
His conscience feel, when he shall spurn his dust,
And call the reverend shade from his blest seat
To this bad world again, to walk and fright him!
Fer. Can this be more than a dream?
Fran. (Gives him the will.) Sir, you may cancel it.
But think withal,
How you can answer him that's dead, when he
Shall charge your timorous soul for this contempt
1 Dirty planet.-Sterne.
To nature and religion; to break
His last bequest, and breath, that seal'd your blessings Car. These are fine fancies.
Fer. (Returns the will.) Here; and may it prosper,
Where my good father meant it: I am overcome
Forgive me, and enjoy it.
His father RAMIRES (supposed dead) appears above, with FELISARDA.
Ram. Fernando, stay.
Fer. Ha, my father and Felisarda:
Are they both dead?—I did not think
To find thee in this pale society
Of ghosts so soon.
Fel. I am alive, Fernando;
And Don Ramires still thy living father.
Fran. You may believe it, sir, I was of the council.
Car. Men thought you dead.
The knowledge of Francisco, and some few,
By this device to advance my younger son
To a marriage with Jacinta, sir, and try
Fernando's piety, and his mistress' virtue;
Which I have found worth him, and my acceptance.
With her I give thee what thy birth did challenge:
Receive thy Felisarda.
Fer. 'Tis a joy
So flowing, it drowns all my
My soul will not contain, I fear, but loose,
And leave me in this ecstasy.
THE LADY OF PLEASURE: A COMEDY,
BY JAMES SHIRLEY.
SIR THOMAS BORNEWELL expostulates with his Lady on her extravagance and love of pleasure.
BORNEWELL. ARETINA, his lady.
Are. I am angry with myself;
To be so miserably restrain'd in things,
Wherein it doth concern your love and honour
To see me satisfied.
Bor. In what, Aretina,
Dost thou accuse me? have I not obey'd
All thy desires, against mine own opinion;
Quitted the country, and removed the hope
Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship
We lived in: changed a calm and retired life
For this wild town, composed of noise and charge?
Are. What charge, more than is necessary
For a lady of my birth and education?
Bor. I am not ignorant how much nobility
Flows in your blood, your kinsmen great and powerful
In the state; but with this lose not your memory
Of being my wife: I shall be studious,
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth
All the best ornaments which become my
But would not flatter it, to ruin both,
And be the fable of the town, to teach
Other men wit by loss of mine, employ'd
To serve your vast expenses.
Are. Am I then
Brought in the balance ? so, sir.
Bor. Though you weigh
Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest;
And must take liberty to think,
you have
Obey'd no modest counsel to effect,
Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony;
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures,
Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's;
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery
Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate
Antic and novel;. vanities of tires,
Fourscore pound suppers for my lord your kinsman,
Banquets for the other lady, aunt, and cousins;
And perfumes, that exceed all; train of servants,
To stifle us at home, and show abroad
More motley than the French, or the Venetian,
About your coach, whose rude postilion
Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers
And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls,
And common cries pursue your ladyship
For hindering of their market.
Are. Have you done, sir?
Bor. I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe,
And prodigal embroideries, under which,
Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare
Not show their own complexions; your jewels,
Able to burn out the spectators' eyes,
And show like bonfires on you by the tapers:
Something might here be spared, with safety of
Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth
Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers.
I could urge something more.
Are. Pray, do. I like
Your homily of thrift.
Bor. I could wish, madam,
You would not game so much.
Are. A gamester, too!
Bor. But are not come to that repentance yet,
Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit;
You look not through the subtilty of cards,
And mysteries of dice, nor can you save
Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls,
And keep your family by the precious income;
Nor do I wish you should: my poorest servant
Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire
Purchased beneath my honour: you make play
Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex
Yourself and my estate by it.
Bor. Another game you have, which consumes more
Your fame than purse, your revels in the night,
Your meetings, call'd the ball, to which appear,
As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants
And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena
Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure:
'Tis but the family of Love, translated
Into more costly sin; there was a play on it;
And had the poet not been bribed to a modest
Expression of your antic gambols in it,
Some darks had been discover'd; and the deeds too;
In time he may repent, and make some blush,
To see the second part danced on the stage.
My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me
By any foul act; but the virtuous know,
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