Arn. Are you there, madam? Now

You may feast on my miseries. My coldness

In answering your affections, or hardness,

(Give it what name you please,) you are revenged
For now you may perceive our thread of life [of;
Was spun together, and the poor Arnoldo
Made only to enjoy the best Zenocia,
And not to serve the use of any other;
And, in that, she may equal; my lord Clodio
Had long since else enjoy'd her: Nor could I
Have been so blind as not to see your great
And many excellencies, far, far beyond
Or my deservings, or my hopes. We are now
Going our latest journey, and together:
Our only comfort we desire-pray give it !—
Your charity to our ashes-such we must be-
And not to curse our memories.

To strive with destiny; here my dotage ends! Look up, Zenocia! Health in me speaks to you; She gives him to you, that, by divers ways,

So long has kept him from you! And repent not That you were once my servant; for which, health, [And] in recompence of what I made you suffer, The hundred thousand crowns the city owes me, Shall be your dower.

Man. 'Tis a magnificent gift,

Had it been timely given.

Hip. It is, believe it.

Retire a while, till you shall find occasion;

And bring me word when they arrive.
All. We shall, madam.

Gui. Only stay you to entertain.
1 Serv. I am ready.

[Exeunt Servants.

Gui. I wonder at the bold and practis'd malice Men ever have o' foot against our honours; That nothing we can do, never so virtuous, No shape put on so pious (no, not think What a good is, be that good ne'er so noble Never so laden with admir'd example)

But still we end in lust; our aims, our actions, Nay, even our charities, with lust are branded! Why should this stranger else, this wretched stranger,

Whose life I sav'd-at what dear price sticks here yet

Why should he hope? He was not here an hour; And certainly in that time, I may swear it,

I

gave him no loose look; I had no reason! Unless my tears were flames, my curses courtships, The killing of my son a kindness to me,Why should he send to me, or with what safety, (Examining the ruin he had wrought me) Though at that time my pious pity fenc'd him, And my word fix'd? I am troubled, strongly troubled.

How do I look, sir, in this handsome trim?
Methinks I am wondrous brave.

Dua. You're very decent.

Rut. These by themselves, without more helps

of nature,

Would set a woman hard: I know 'em all,

And where their first aims light. I'll lay my head

on't,

I'll take her eye, as soon as she looks on me; And if I come to speak once, woe be to her! I have her in a nooze, she cannot 'scape me; I have their several lasts.

Dua. You are thoroughly studied.
But tell me, sir, being unacquainted with her,
As you confess you are-

Rut. That's not an hour's work;

I'll make a nun forget her beads in two hours. Dua. She being set in years, next; none of those lustres

Appearing in her eye that warm the fancy;
Nor nothing in her face but handsome ruins

Rut. I love old stories: Those live believ'd, authentic,

When twenty of your modern faces are called in,
For new opinion, paintings, and corruptions;
Give me an old confirm'd face. Besides, she saved

now,

since my [son fell,

Gui. [Aside.] How happy am I
He fell not by a base unnoble hand!
As that still troubled me. How far more happy
Shall my revenge be, since the sacrifice

I offer to his grave, shall be both worthy
A son's untimely loss, and a mother's sorrow!

Rut. Sir, I am made, believe it; she is mine own:

I told you what a spell I carried with me.
All this time does she spend in contemplation
Of that unmatch'd delight-I shall be thankful to
you;

And if you please to know my house, to use it,
To take it for your own-

Gui. Who waits without there?

You come, besotted, to your own destruction;
I sent not for you. What honour can you add to me,
That brake that staff of honour my age lean'd on?
That robb'd me of that right made me a mother?
Hear me, thou wretched man, hear me with terror,
And let thine own bold folly shake thy soul!
Hear me pronounce thy death, that now hangs
o'er thee,

Thou desperate fool! Who bade thee seek this ruin?
What mad unmanly fate made thee discover
Thy cursed face to me again? Was't not enough
To have the fair protection of my house,
When misery and justice close pursued thee?
When thine own bloody sword cried out against
thee,

Hatch'd in the life of him? Yet I forgave thee;
My hospitable word, even when I saw
The goodliest branch of all my blood lopp'd from
Did I not seal still to thee?
[me,

If ever, in this wretched life thou hast left me,
Short and unfortunate, I saw thee again,

Or came but to the knowledge where thou wandredst

To call my vow back, and pursue with vengeance, With all the miseries a mother suffers ?

Rut. I was born to be hang'd; there's no avoiding it.

Gui. And dar'st thou with this impudence appear here,

Walk like the winding-sheet my son was put in,
Stained with those wounds?

Dua. I am happy now again.
Happy the hour I fell, to find a mother
So pious, good, and excellent in sorrows!

Enter a Servant.

Serv. The governor's come in. Gui. Oh, let him enter.

[Apart.

Rut. I have fool'd myself a fair thread! Of all my fortunes,

This strikes me most; not that I fear to perish, But that this unmannerly boldness has brought me

to it.

Enter MANUEL, CLODIO, and CHARINO.

Man. Are these fit preparations for a wedding,

I came prepar'd a guest.

Gui. Oh, give me justice!

As ever you will leave a virtuous name,
Do justice, justice, sir!

Man. You need not ask it;

I am bound to it.

Gui. Justice upon this man,
That kill'd my son!

Man. Do you confess the act?
Rut. Yes, sir.

[lady?

Clod. Rutilio ?

Cha. 'Tis the same.

Clod. How fell he thus ?

Here will be sorrow for the good Arnoldo!
Man. Take heed, sir, what you say.
Rut. I have weigh'd it well;

I am the man! Nor is it life I start at ;
Only I am unhappy I am poor,

Poor in expence of lives; there I am wretched,
That I've not two lives lent me for this sacrifice;
One for her son, another for her sorrow!-

Excellent lady, now rejoice again;

For though I cannot think you're pleas'd in blood, Nor with that greedy thirst pursue your vengeance; (The tenderness, even in those tears, denies that) Yet let the world believe you lov'd Duarte ! The unmatch'd courtesies you have done my miseries,

Without this forfeit to the law, would charge me To tender you this life, and proud 'twould please

Rut. I'll ask it for you;

I'll follow it myself, against myself.

Sir, 'tis most fit I die; dispatch it quickly :
The monstrous burden of that grief she labours with
Will kill her else; then blood on blood lies on me!
Had I a thousand lives, I'd give 'em all,
Before I'd draw one tear more from that virtue.

Gui. Be not too cruel, sir-and yet his bold sword

But his life cannot restore that-he's a man too Of a fair promise-but, alas! my son's dead!— If I have justice, must it kill him?

Man. Yes.

Gui. If I have not, it kills me.-Strong and goodly:

Why should he perish too?

Man. It lies in your power;

You only may accuse him, or may quit him.
Clod. Be there no other witnesses ?

Gui. Not any.

And, if I save him, will not the world proclaim,
I have forgot a son, to save a murderer?
And yet he looks not like one; he looks manly.
Clod. Pity, so brave a gentleman should perish!
She cannot be so hard, so cruel-hearted.

Gui. Will you pronounce?-Yet, stay a little,
Rut. Rid yourself, lady, of this misery, [sir.
And let me go: I do but breed more tempests,
With which you are already too much shaken.
Gui. Do, now pronounce! I will not hear.
Dua. You shall not!
[Discovering himself.
Yet turn and see, good madam.
Man. Do not wonder:

'Tis he restor'd again, thank the good doctor. Pray, do not stand amaz'd; it is Duarte,

He's well, is safe again.

Gui. Oh, my sweet son!

I will not press my wonder now with questions.Sir, I am sorry for that cruelty

I urg'd against you.

Rut. Madam, it was but justice.

Dua. 'Tis true, the doctor heal'd this body again; But this man heal'd my soul, made my mind perfect:

The good sharp lessons his sword read to me, Sav'd me for which, if lov'd me, you dear mother, Honour and love this man.

Make good, what with the hazard of her life
She undertook, the evening will set clear,
After a stormy day.

Enter HIPPOLYTA and LEOPOLD, leading ARNOLDO, and
ZENOCIA, with ZABULON and Sulpitia.

Char. Here comes the lady.

Clod. With fair Zenocia, health with life again Restored unto her.

Zen. The gift of her goodness.

Rut. Let us embrace; I am of your order too, And though I once despair'd of women, now

I find they relish much of scorpions ;

For both have stings, and both can hurt and cure But what have been your fortunes ?

Arn. We'll defer

Our story, and, at time more fit, relate it.
Now all that reverence virtue, and in that
Zenocia's constancy and perfect love,

Or for her sake Arnoldo's, join with us
In th' honour of this lady.

Char. She deserves it.

[too.

House of LEWIS.

Enter LEWIS, ANGELLINA, and SYLVIA.

Lew. Nay, I must walk you further.

Ang. I am tired, sir,

And ne'er shall foot it home.

Lew. 'Tis for your health;

The want of exercise takes from your beauties,

And sloth dries up your sweetness. That you are
My only daughter, and my heir, is granted;

And you in thankfulness must needs acknowledge
You ever find me an indulgent father,
And open-handed.

Ang. Nor can you tax me, sir,

I hope, for want of duty to deserve

These favours from you.

Lew. No, my Angellina,

I love and cherish thy obedience to me,

Which my care to advance thee shall confirm.
All that I aim at is, to win thee from

The practice of an idle foolish state,

(Though in the service of themselves) a blemish To their fair fortunes.

Ang. Make me understand, sir,

What 'tis you point at.

Lew. At the custom, how

Virgins of wealthy families waste their youth :

After a long sleep, when you wake, your woman

Presents your breakfast, then you sleep again,

Then rise, and being trimm'd up by others' hands,

You are led to dinner, and that ended, either

To cards or to your couch (as if you were

Born without motion,) after this to supper,

And then to bed: And so your life runs round

Without variety, or action, daughter.

Syl. Here's a learn'd lecture! Lew. From this idleness, Diseases, both in body and in mind,

Grow strong upon you; where a stirring nature, With wholesome exercise, guards both from danger. I'd have thee rise with the sun, walk, dance, or

hunt,