SCENE I.—The Entrance to Sir FRANCIS ACTON’S House.
Enter Sir CHARLES MOUNTFORD, and SUSAN, both well dressed.
SUSAN.
Brother, why have you tricked me like a bride,
Bought me this gay attire, these ornaments?
Forget you our estate, our poverty?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Call me not brother, but imagine me
Some barbarous outlaw, or uncivil kern;[41]
For if thou shutt’st thy eye, and only hearest
The words that I shall utter, thou shalt judge me
Some staring ruffian, not thy brother Charles.
O sister!——
SUSAN.
O brother, what doth this strange language mean?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Dost love me, sister? wouldst thou see me live
A bankrupt beggar in the world’s disgrace,
And die indebted to my enemies?
Wouldst thou behold me stand like a huge beam
In the world’s eye, a bye-word and a scorn?
It lies in thee of these to acquit me free,
And all my debt I may out-strip by thee.
SUSAN.
By me! why, I have nothing, nothing left;
I owe even for the clothes upon my back;
I am not worth——
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
O sister, say not so;
It lies in you my downcast state to raise,
To make me stand on even points with the world.
Come, sister, you are rich; indeed you are;
And in your power you have, without delay,
Acton’s five hundred pound back to repay.
SUSAN.
Till now I had thought you had loved me. By my honour
(Which I have kept as spotless as the moon),
I ne’er was mistress of that single doit
Which I reserved not to supply your wants;
And do you think that I would hoard from you?
Now, by my hopes in Heaven, knew I the means
To buy you from the slavery of your debts
(Especially from Acton, whom I hate),
I would redeem it with my life or blood.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
I challenge it; and, kindred set apart,
Thus, ruffian-like, I lay siege to your heart.
What do I owe to Acton?
SUSAN.
Why some five hundred pounds; towards which, I swear,
In all the world I have not one denier.[42]
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
It will not prove so. Sister, now resolve[43] me:
What do you think (and speak your conscience)
Would Acton give, might he enjoy your bed?
SUSAN.
He would not shrink to spend a thousand pound,
To give the Mountfords’ name so deep a wound.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
A thousand pound! I but five hundred owe;
Grant him your bed, he’s paid with interest so.
SUSAN.
O brother!
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
O sister! only this one way,
With that rich jewel you my debts may pay.
In speaking this my cold heart shakes with shame;
Nor do I woo you in a brother’s name,
But in a stranger’s. Shall I die in debt
To Acton, my grand foe, and you still wear
The precious jewel that he holds so dear?
SUSAN.
My honour I esteem as dear and precious
As my redemption.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
I esteem you, sister,
As dear, for so dear prizing it.
SUSAN.
Will Charles
Have me cut off my hands, and send them Acton?
Rip up my breast, and with my bleeding heart
Present him as a token?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Neither, sister:
But hear me in my strange assertion.
Thy honour and my soul are equal in my regard;
Nor will thy brother Charles survive thy shame.
His kindness, like a burthen hath surcharged me,
And under his good deeds I stooping go,
Not with an upright soul. Had I remained
In prison still, there doubtless I had died:
Then, unto him that freed me from that prison,
Still do I owe this life. What moved my foe
To enfranchise me? ’Twas, sister, for your love.
With full five hundred pounds he bought your love,
And shall he not enjoy it? Shall the weight
Of all this heavy burthen lean on me,
And will not you bear part? You did partake
The joy of my release; will you not stand
In joint-bond bound to satisfy the debt?
Shall I be only charged?
SUSAN.
But that I know
These arguments come from an honoured mind,
As in your most extremity of need
Scorning to stand in debt to one you hate,—
Nay, rather would engage your unstained honour
Than to be held ingrate,—I should condemn you.
I see your resolution, and assent;
So Charles will have me, and I am content.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
For this I tricked you up.
SUSAN.
But here’s a knife,
To save mine honour, shall slice out my life.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Ay! know thou pleasest me a thousand times
More in that resolution than thy grant.—
Observe her love; to soothe it to my suit,
Her honour she will hazard, though not lose:
To bring me out of debt, her rigorous hand
Will pierce her heart. O wonder! that will choose,
Rather than stain her blood, her life to lose.—
Come, you sad sister to a woful brother,
This is the gate: I’ll bear him such a present,
Such an acquittance for the knight to seal,
As will amaze his senses, and surprise
With admiration all his fantasies.
SUSAN.
Before his unchaste thoughts shall seize on me,
’Tis here shall my imprisoned soul set free.
ENTER SIR FRANCIS ACTON AND
MALBY.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
How! Mountford with his sister, hand in hand!
What miracle’s afoot?
MALBY.
It is a sight
Begets in me much admiration.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Stand not amazed to see me thus attended:
Acton, I owe thee money, and being unable
To bring thee the full sum in ready coin,
Lo! for thy more assurance, here’s a pawn,—
My sister, my dear sister, whose chaste honour
I prize above a million: here, nay, take her;
She’s worth your money, man; do not forsake her.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
I would he were in earnest!
SUSAN.
Impute it not to my immodesty:
My brother being rich in nothing else
But in his interest that he hath in me,
According to his poverty hath brought you
Me, all his store; whom howsoe’er you prize
As forfeit to your hand, he values highly,
And would not sell, but to acquit your debt,
For any emperor’s ransom.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Stern heart, relent;
Thy former cruelty at length repent.
Was ever known, in any former age,
Such honourable wrested courtesy?
Lands, honours, life, and all the world forego,
Rather than stand engaged to such a foe. [Aside.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Acton, she is too poor to be thy bride,
And I too much opposed to be thy brother.
There, take her to thee: if thou hast the heart
To seize her as a rape, or lustful prey;
To blur our house, that never yet was stained;
To murder her that never meant thee harm;
To kill me now, whom once thou savedst from death,
Do them at once: on her all these rely,
And perish with her spotted chastity.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
You overcome me in your love, Sir Charles;
I cannot be so cruel to a lady
I love so dearly. Since you have not spared
To engage your reputation to the world,
Your sister’s honour, which you prize so dear,
Nay, all the comforts which you hold on earth,
To grow out of my debt, being your foe,
Your honoured thoughts, lo! thus I recompense:
Your metamorphosed foe receives your gift
In satisfaction of all former wrongs.
This jewel I will wear here in my heart;
And, where before I thought her for her wants
Too base to be my bride, to end all strife,
I seal you my dear brother, her my wife.
SUSAN.
You still exceed us: I will yield to fate,
And learn to love, where I till now did hate.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
With that enchantment you have charmed my soul,
And made me rich even in those very words:
I pay no debt, but am indebted more;
Rich in your love, I never can be poor.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
All’s mine is yours; we are alike in state,
Let’s knit in love what was opposed in hate.
Come! for our nuptials we will straight provide,
Blest only in our brother and fair bride.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—A Room in FRANKFORD’S House.
ENTER CRANWELL, FRANKFORD, AND
NICHOLAS.
CRANWELL.
Why do you search each room about your house,
Now that you have despatched your wife away?
FRANKFORD.
O sir, to see that nothing may be left
That ever was my wife’s. I loved her dearly,
And when I do but think of her unkindness,
My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid which torment,
I would not have a bodkin or a cuff,
A bracelet, necklace, or rebato[44] wire;
Nor any thing that ever was called hers,
Left me, by which I might remember her.
Seek round about.
NICHOLAS.
’Sblood, master! here’s her lute flung in a corner.
FRANKFORD.
Her lute! O God! upon this instrument
Her fingers have run quick division,
Sweeter than that which now divides our hearts.
These frets have made me pleasant, that have now
Frets of my heart-strings made. O Master Cranwell,
Oft hath she made this melancholy wood,
Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance,
Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain
To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung,
What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung!
Post with it after her. Now nothing’s left;
Of her and hers, I am at once bereft.
NICHOLAS.
I’ll ride and overtake her; do my message,
And come back again. [Exit.
CRANWELL.
Mean time, sir, if you please,
I’ll to Sir Francis Acton, and inform him
Of what hath passed betwixt you and his sister.
FRANKFORD.
Do as you please. How ill am I bested,
To be a widower ere my wife be dead!
[Exeunt.
Enter Mistress FRANKFORD, with JENKIN, CICELY, a Coachman, and three Carters.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Bid my coach stay: why should I ride in state,
Being hurled so low down by the hand of fate?
A seat like to my fortunes let me have;
Earth for my chair, and for my bed a grave.
JENKIN.
Comfort, good mistress; you have watered your coach with tears already: you have but two mile now to go to your manor. A man cannot say by my old master Frankford as he may say by me, that he wants manors;[45] for he hath three or four, of which this is one that we are going to now.
CICELY.
Good mistress, be of good cheer; sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you not: we all mourn to see you so sad.
CARTER.
Mistress, I spy one of my landlord’s men
Come riding post: ’tis like he brings some news.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Comes he from Master Frankford, he is welcome;
So are his news because they come from him.
ENTER
NICHOLAS.
NICHOLAS.
[Presenting lute.] There.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
I know the lute; oft have I sung to thee:
We both are out of tune, both out of time.
NICHOLAS.
Would that had been the worst instrument that e’er you played on. My master commends him to ye; there’s all he can find that was ever yours: he hath nothing left that ever you could lay claim to but his own heart, and he could afford you that. All that I have to deliver you is this: he prays you to forget him, and so he bids you farewell.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
I thank him: he is kind, and ever was.
All you that have true feeling of my grief,
That know my loss, and have relenting hearts,
Gird me about, and help me with your tears
To wash my spotted sins: my lute shall groan;
It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan.
ENTER
WENDOLL.
WENDOLL.[46]
Pursued with horror of a guilty soul,
And with the sharp scourge of repentance lashed,
I fly from my own shadow. O my stars!
What have my parents in their lives deserved,
That you should lay this penance on their son?
When I but think of Master Frankford’s love,
And lay it to my treason, or compare
My murdering him for his relieving me,
It strikes a terror like a lightning’s flash
To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the owl,
Ashamed of day, live in these shadowy woods,
Afraid of every leaf or murmuring blast,
Yet longing to receive some perfect knowledge
How he hath dealt with her. [Sees Mistress FRANKFORD.] O my sad fate!
Here, and so far from home, and thus attended!
O God! I have divorced the truest turtles
That ever lived together; and, being divided
In several places, make their several moan;
She in the fields laments, and he at home.
So poets write that Orpheus made the trees
And stones to dance to his melodious harp,
Meaning the rustic and the barbarous hinds,
That had no understanding part in them:
So she from these rude carters tears extracts,
Making their flinty hearts with grief to rise,
And draw down rivers from their rocky eyes.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
[To NICHOLAS.] If you return unto your master, say
(Though not from me; for I am all unworthy
To blast his name so with a strumpet’s tongue)
That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead:
Nay, you may say too, for my vow is passed,
Last night you saw me eat and drink my last.
This to your master you may say and swear;
For it is writ in Heaven, and decreed here.
NICHOLAS.
I’ll say you wept: I’ll swear you made me sad.
Why how now, eyes? what now? what’s here to do?
I’m gone, or I shall straight turn baby too.
WENDOLL.
I cannot weep, my heart is all on fire:
Curst be the fruits of my unchaste desire!
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Go, break this lute upon my coach’s wheel,
As the last music that I e’er shall make;
Not as my husband’s gift, but my farewell
To all earth’s joy; and so your master tell.
NICHOLAS.
If I can for crying.
WENDOLL.
Grief, have done,
Or like a madman I shall frantic run.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
You have beheld the wofullest wretch on earth;
A woman made of tears: would you had words
To express but what you see! My inward grief
No tongue can utter; yet unto your power
You may describe my sorrow, and disclose
To thy sad master my abundant woes.
NICHOLAS.
I’ll do your commendations.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Oh no:
I dare not so presume; nor to my children:
I am disclaimed in both; alas, I am.
Oh, never teach them, when they come to speak,
To name the name of mother; chide their tongue,
If they by chance light on that hated word;
Tell them ’tis naught; for, when that word they name,
Poor pretty souls! they harp on their own shame.
WENDOLL.
To recompense her wrongs, what canst thou do?
Thou hast made her husbandless and childless too.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
I have no more to say. Speak not for me;
Yet you may tell your master what you see.
NICHOLAS.
I’ll do’t. [Exit.
WENDOLL.
I’ll speak to her, and comfort her in grief.
Oh! but her wound cannot be cured with words.
No matter though, I’ll do my best good-will
To work a cure on her whom I did kill.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
So, now unto my coach, then to my home,
So to my death-bed; for from this sad hour
I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste
Of any cates that may preserve my life:
I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest;
But when my tears have washed my black soul white,
Sweet Saviour, to Thy hands I yield my sprite.
WENDOLL.
O Mistress Frankford—
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Oh, for God’s sake fly!
The devil doth come to tempt me ere I die.
My coach! this fiend, that with an angel’s face
Conjured mine honour, till he sought my wrack,
In my repentant eyes seems ugly black.
[Exeunt all, except WENDOLL and JENKIN; the Carters whistling.
JENKIN.
What, my young master that fled in his shirt! How come you by your clothes again? You have made our house in a sweet pickle, ha’ ye not, think you? What, shall I serve you still, or cleave to the old house?
WENDOLL.
Hence, slave! away with thy unseasoned mirth!
Unless thou canst shed tears, and sigh, and howl,
Curse thy sad fortunes, and exclaim on fate,
Thou art not for my turn.
JENKIN.
Marry, an you will not, another will: farewell, and be hanged! Would you had never come to have kept this coil[47] within our doors; we shall ha’ you run away like a sprite again. [Exit.
WENDOLL.
She’s gone to death; I live to want and woe;
Her life, her sins, and all upon my head.
And I must now go wander, like a Cain,
In foreign countries and remoted climes,
Where the report of my ingratitude
Cannot be heard. I’ll over first to France,
And so to Germany and Italy;
Where when I have recovered, and by travel
Gotten those perfect tongues,[48] and that these rumours
May in their height abate, I will return:
And I divine (however now dejected)
My worth and parts being by some great man praised,
At my return I may in court be raised. [Exit.
ENTER SIR FRANCIS ACTON, SUSAN, SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD, CRANWELL, AND
MALBY.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Brother, and now my wife, I think these troubles
Fall on my head by justice of the Heavens,
For being so strict to you in your extremities:
But we are now atoned.[49] I would my sister
Could with like happiness o’ercome her griefs,
As we have ours.
SUSAN.
You tell us, Master Cranwell, wondrous things,
Touching the patience of that gentleman,
With what strange virtue he demeans his grief.
CRANWELL.
I told you what I was a witness of;
It was my fortune to lodge there that night.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
O that same villain Wendoll! ’twas his tongue
That did corrupt her; she was of herself
Chaste, and devoted well. Is this the house?
CRANWELL.
Yes, sir, I take it here your sister lies.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
My brother Frankford showed too mild a spirit
In the revenge of such a loathèd crime;
Less than he did, no man of spirit could do:
I am so far from blaming his revenge,
That I commend it. Had it been my case,
Their souls at once had from their breasts been freed:
Death to such deeds of shame is the due meed.
[They enter the house.
ENTER SIR FRANCIS ACTON, SUSAN, SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD, CRANWELL, AND MALBY; JENKIN AND CICELY FOLLOWING THEM.
JENKIN.
O my mistress, my mistress, my poor mistress.
CICELY.
Alas that ever I was born! what shall I do for my poor mistress?
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Why, what of her?
JENKIN.
O Lord, sir, she no sooner heard that her brother and his friends were come to see how she did, but she, for very shame of her guilty conscience, fell into such a swoon, that we had much ado to get life into her.
SUSAN.
Alas that she should bear so hard a fate!
Pity it is repentance comes too late.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Is she so weak in body?
JENKIN.
O sir, I can assure you there’s no hope of life in her, for she will take no sustenance: she hath plainly starved herself, and now she is as lean as a lath. She ever looks for the good hour. Many gentlemen and gentlewomen of the country are come to comfort her.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.—Mistress FRANKFORD’S Bedchamber.
MISTRESS FRANKFORD IN BED; ENTER SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD, SIR FRANCIS ACTON, MALBY, CRANWELL, AND
SUSAN.
MALBY.
How fare you, Mistress Frankford?
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Sick, sick, oh, sick. Give me some air, I pray you.
Tell me, oh, tell me where is Master Frankford?
Will not he deign to see me ere I die?
MALBY.
Yes, Mistress Frankford: divers gentlemen,
Your loving neighbours, with that just request
Have moved, and told him of your weak estate:
Who, though with much ado to get belief,
Examining of the general circumstance,
Seeing your sorrow and your penitence,
And hearing therewithal the great desire
You have to see him ere you left the world,
He gave to us his faith to follow us,
And sure he will be here immediately.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
You have half revived me with those pleasing news:
Raise me a little higher in my bed.
Blush I not, brother Acton? Blush I not, Sir Charles?
Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek?
Is not my crime there? tell me, gentlemen.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Alas! good mistress, sickness hath not left you
Blood in your face enough to make you blush.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Then sickness, like a friend, my fault would hide.
Is my husband come? My soul but tarries
His arrive, then I am fit for Heaven.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
I came to chide you; but my words of hate
Are turned to pity and compassionate grief.
I came to rate you; but my brawls, you see,
Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee.
Here’s Master Frankford now.
ENTER
FRANKFORD.
FRANKFORD.
Good-morrow, brother; morrow, gentlemen:
God, that hath laid this cross upon our heads,
Might (had He pleased) have made our cause of meeting
On a more fair and more contented ground;
But He that made us, made us to this woe.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
And is he come? Methinks that voice I know.
FRANKFORD.
How do you, woman?
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Well, Master Frankford, well; but shall be better,
I hope, within this hour. Will you vouchsafe,
Out of your grace and your humanity,
To take a spotted strumpet by the hand?
FRANKFORD.
This hand once held my heart in faster bonds
Than now ’tis gripped by me. God pardon them
That made us first break hold!
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Amen, amen.
Out of my zeal to Heaven, whither I’m now bound,
I was so impudent to wish you here;
And once more beg your pardon. O good man,
And father to my children, pardon me,
Pardon, oh, pardon me! My fault so heinous is,
That if you in this world forgive it not,
Heaven will not clear it in the world to come.
Faintness hath so usurped upon my knees
That kneel I cannot, but on my heart’s knees
My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet
To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, oh, pardon me!
FRANKFORD.
As freely, from the low depth of my soul,
As my Redeemer hath forgiven His death,
I pardon thee. I will shed tears for thee, pray with thee;
And, in mere pity of thy weak estate,
I’ll wish to die with thee.
ALL.
So do we all.
NICHOLAS.
So will not I;
I’ll sigh and sob, but, by my faith, not die.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
O Master Frankford, all the near alliance
I lose by her shall be supplied in thee:
You are my brother by the nearest way;
Her kindred hath fallen off, but yours doth stay.
FRANKFORD.
Even as I hope for pardon at that day
When the great Judge of Heaven in scarlet sits,
So be thou pardoned. Though thy rash offence
Divorced our bodies, thy repentant tears
Unite our souls.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Then comfort, Mistress Frankford;
You see your husband hath forgiven your fall;
Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul.
SUSAN.
How is it with you?
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
How do ye feel yourself?
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Not of this world.
FRANKFORD.
I see you are not, and I weep to see it.
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes!
Both those lost names I do restore thee back,
And with this kiss I wed thee once again:
Though thou art wounded in thy honoured name,
And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest,
Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest.
MISTRESS
FRANKFORD.
Pardoned on earth, soul, thou in Heaven art free.
Once more:[50] thy wife dies thus embracing thee. [Dies.
FRANKFORD.
New married, and new widowed. Oh! she’s dead,
And a cold grave must be her nuptial bed.
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD.
Sir, be of good comfort; and your heavy sorrow
Part equally amongst us: storms divided
Abate their force, and with less rage are guided.
CRANWELL.
Do, Master Frankford: he that hath least part
Will find enough to drown one troubled heart.
SIR FRANCIS ACTON.
Peace with thee, Nan. Brothers, and gentlemen,
All we that can plead interest in her grief,
Bestow upon her body funeral tears.
Brother, had you with threats and usage bad
Punished her sin, the grief of her offence
Had not with such true sorrow touched her heart.
FRANKFORD.
I see it had not: therefore on her grave
Will I bestow this funeral epitaph,
Which on her marble tomb shall be engraved.
In golden letters shall these words be filled,[51]
“Here lies she whom her husband’s kindness killed.”