Moth. Oh sons,

Forgive me, to myself I'll prove more true;
You that should honor me, I kneel to you.

Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter!
Hip. True, brother; how far beyond nature 'tis,
Though many mothers do it.

Vin. Nay, and you draw tears once, go you to bed.
Wet will make iron blush and change to red.
Brother it rains, 'twill spoil your dagger, house it.
Hip. 'Tis done.

Vin. I' faith 'tis a sweet shower, it does much good.
The fruitful grounds and meadows of her soul
Have been long dry; pour down, thou blessed dew.
Rise, mother; troth, this shower has made you higher.
Moth. O you heavens!

Take this infectious spot out of my soul;

I'll rince it in seven waters of mine eyes.
Make my tears salt enough to taste of grace.
To weep is to our sex naturally given;
But to weep truly, that's a gift from heaven.

Vin. Nay, I'll kiss you now. Kiss her, brother:
Let's marry her to our souls, wherein's no lust,
And honorably love her.

Hip. Let it be.

Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare, 'Tis good to cherish those poor few that are. O you of easy wax! do but imagine

Now the disease has left you, how leprously

That office would have cling'd unto your forehead!
All mothers that had any graceful hue,

Would have worn masks to hide their face at you.
It would have grown to this, at your foul name
Green-color'd maids would have turn'd red with shame.
Hip. And then our sister, full of hire and baseness—
Vin. There had been boiling lead again!

The duke's son's great concubine !

A drab of state, a cloth-o'-silver slut,

To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt!

Hip. To be great, miserable; to be rich, eternally wretched.
Vin. O common madness!

Ask but the thriving'st harlot in cold blood,
She'd give the world to make her honor good.
Perhaps you'll say, but only to the duke's son
In private; why, she first begins with one
Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore :
Break ice in one place, it will crack in more.
Moth. Most certainly applied.

Hip. O brother, you forget our business.

Vin. And well remember'd; joy's a subtil elf;
I think man's happiest when he forgets himself.
Farewell, once dry, now holy-water'd mead;
Our hearts wear feathers that before wore lead.
Moth. I'll give you this, that one I never knew
Plead better for, and 'gainst the devil than you.
Vin. You make me proud on 't.

Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister.
Vin. Ay, for the love of heaven, to that true maid.
Moth. With my best words.

Vin. Why that was motherly said.*

Castiza seems to consent to her Mother's wicked motion.

Cast. Now, mother, you have wrought with me so strongly,

That, what for my advancement, as to calm

The trouble of your tongue, I am content.

Moth. Content, to what?

Cast. To do as you have wish'd me:

To prostitute my breast to the duke's son,

And put myself to common usury.

* The reality and life of this Dialogue passes any scenical illusion I ever felt. I never read it but my ears tingle, and I feel a hot blush spread my cheeks, as if I were presently about to "proclaim" some such "malefactions" of myself, as the Brothers here rebuke in their unnatural parent; in words more keen and dagger-like than those which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only to "strike guilty creatures unto the soul," but to "appal " even those that are "free."

Moth. I hope you will not so.

Cast. Hope you I will not?

That's not the hope you look to be saved in.

Moth. Truth, but it is.

Cast. Do not deceive yourself.

I am as you, e'en out of marble wrought.

What would you now: are ye not pleas'd yet with me?
You shall not wish me to be more lascivious,

Than I intend to be.

Moth. Strike not me cold.

Cast. How often have you charg'd me on your blessing To be a cursed woman! when you knew

Your blessing had no force to make me lewd,
You laid your curse upon me; that did more:
The mother's curse is heavy; where that fights,
Sons set in storm and daughters lose their lights.
Moth. Good child, dear maid, if there be any spark
Of heavenly intellectual light within thee,
O let my breath revive it to a flame.

Put not all out with woman's wilful follies.

I am recover'd of that foul disease

That haunts too many mothers; kind, forgive me,
Make me not sick in health! if then

My words prevail'd, when they were wickedness,
How much more now, when they are just and good!
Cast. I wonder what you mean; are not you she,
For whose infect persuasions, I could scarce
Kneel out my prayers; and had much ado,

In three hours' reading, to untwist so much

Of the black serpent, as you wound about me!

Moth. "Tis unfruitful held, tedious, to repeat what's past. I'm now your present mother.

Cast. Pish, now 'tis too late.

Moth. Bethink again, thou know'st not what thou sayʼst. Cast. No! deny advancement! treasure! the duke's son! Moth. O see, I spoke those words, and now they poison me. What will the deed do then?

Advancement! true; as high as shame can pitch!

For treasure: who e'er knew a Harlot rich?

Or could build by the purchase of her sin

An hospital to keep their bastards in ?

The duke's son! oh; when women are young courtiers,
They are sure to be old beggars.

To know the miseries most harlots taste,

Thou'dst wish thyself unborn when thou'rt unchaste.

Cast. O mother, let me twine about your neck,

And kiss you till my soul melt on your lips;

I did but this to try you.

Moth. O speak truth.

Cast. Indeed I did not; for no tongue hath force

To alter me from honest:

If maidens would, men's words could have no power;

A virgin's honor is a crystal tower,

Which being weak is guarded with good spirits;

Until she basely yields, no ill inherits.

Moth. O happy child! faith, and thy birth, hath saved me,

'Mongst thousand daughters, happiest of all others;

Buy thou a glass for maids, and I for mothers.

Evil Report after Death.

What is it to have

A flattering false insculption on a tomb,

And in men's hearts reproach? the 'bowel'd corps
May be sear'd in, but (with free tongue I speak)

The faults of great men through their sear-clothes break.

Bastards.

Oh what a grief 'tis that a man should live

But once in the world, and then to live a Bastard?

The curse of the womb, the thief of nature,
Begot against the seventh commandment,
Half damn'd in the conception by the justice
Of that unbribed everlasting law.

Too nice respects in Courtship.
Ceremony has made many fools.

It is as easy way unto a duchess

As to a hatted dame, if her love answer:
But that by timorous honors, pale respects,
Idle degrees of fear, men make their ways
Hard of themselves.

THE DEVIL'S LAW CASE; OR, WHEN WOMEN GO TO LAW, THE DEVIL IS FULL OF BUSINESS. A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY JOHN WEBSTER.

Contarino challenges Ercole to fight him for the possession of Jolenta, whom they both love.

Con. Sir; my love to you has proclaim'd you one,
Whose word was still led by a noble thought,
And that thought follow'd by as fair a deed:
Deceive not that opinion: we were students
At Padua together, and have long

To the world's eye shown like friends.
Was it hearty on your part to me?

Erc. Unfained.

Con. You are false

To the good thought I held of you; and now,
Join the worst part of man to you, your malice,
To uphold that falsehood. Sacred innocence
Is fled your bosom. Signor, I must tell you;
To draw the picture of unkindness truly,
Is to express two that have dearly loved,
And fall'n at variance. 'Tis a wonder to me,
Knowing my interest in the fair Jolenta,

That you should love her.

Erc. Compare her beauty and my youth together, And you will find the fair effects of love

No miracle at all.

Con. Yes, it will prove

Prodigious to you: I must stay your voyage.
Erc. Your warrant must be mighty.

Con. 'Tis a seal