Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny
I think was never practised till this hour.
Duch. Indeed I thank him; nothing but noise and folly
Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason
And silence make me stark mad; sit down,
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy.
O, 'twill increase your melancholy.
Duch. Thou art deceived.
To hear of greater grief would lessen mine.
This is a prison?
Yes: but thou shalt live
To shake this durance off.
Duch. Thou art a fool.
The robin-redbreast and the nightingale
Never live long in cages.
Car. Pray, dry your eyes.
What think you of, madamı?
Duch. Of nothing:
When I muse thus, I sleep.
Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open ?
Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another
In the other world?
Yes, out of question.
Duch. O that it were possible we might
But hold some two days' conference with the dead!
From them I should learn somewhat I am sure
I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle;
I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow.
The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,
The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad;
I am acquainted with sad misery,
As the tann'd galley slave is with his oar;
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custom makes it easy.
100. James Shirley. 1594-1666. (Manual, p. 174.)
FROM THE LADY OF PLEASURE.
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..
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 fortune;
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 subpœna
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,
"Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the
Suspicions of our shame.
Are. Have you concluded
Your lecture?
Bor. I have done; and howsoever
My language may appear to you, it carries
No other than my fair and just intent
To your delights, without curb to their modest
And noble freedom.
Are. I'll not be so tedious
In my reply, but, without art or elegance,
Assure you I keep still my first opinion;
And though you veil your avaricious meaning
With handsome names of modesty and thrift,
I find you would intrench and wound the liberty
I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged
By example; while my judgment thought them fit,
You ought not to oppose; but when the practice
And tract of every honourable lady
Authorize me, I take it great injustice
To have my pleasures circumscribed and taught me.
THE SO-CALLED METAPHYSICAL POETS.
101. George Wither. 1588-1667. (Manual, p. 176.)
THE STEDFAST SHEPHERD.
Hence away, thou Siren, leave me,
Pish! unclasp these wanton arms;
Sugar'd wounds can ne'er deceive me,
(Though thou prove a thousand charms).
Fie, fie, forbear;
No common snare
Can ever my affection chain :
Thy painted baits,
And poor deceits,
Are all bestowed on me in vain.
102. Francis Quarles. 1592-1644. (Manual, p. 176.) O THAT THOU WOULDST HIDE ME IN THE GRAVE, THAT THOU WOULDST KEEP ME IN SECRET UNTIL THY WRATH BE PAST.
Ah! whither shall I fly? what path untrod
Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?
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