SCENE I.—A Room in Old WINCOTT’S House.
Enter Old WINCOTT and his
Wife.
WINCOTT.
And what’s this Delavil?
WIFE.
My apprehension
Can give him no more true expression,
Than that he first appears a gentleman,
And well conditioned.
WINCOTT.
That for outward show;
But what in him have you observèd else,
To make him better known?
WIFE.
I have not eyes
To search into the inward thoughts of men,
Nor ever was I studied in that art
To judge of men’s affection by the face;
But that which makes me best opinioned of him
Is that he’s the companion and the friend
Beloved of him whom you so much commend—
The noble Master Geraldine.
WINCOTT.
Thou hast spoke
That which not only crowns his true desert,
But now instates him in my better thoughts,
Making his worth unquestioned.
WIFE.
He pretends
Love to my sister Pru. I have observed him
Single her out to private conference.
WINCOTT.
But I could rather, for her own sake, wish
Young Geraldine would fix his thoughts that way,
And she towards him; in such affinity,
Trust me, I would not use a sparing hand.
WIFE.
But Love in these kinds should not be compelled,
Forced, nor persuaded; when it freely springs,
And of itself takes voluntary root,
It grows, it spreads, it ripens, and brings forth
Such an usurious crop of timely fruit
As crowns a plenteous autumn.
WINCOTT.
Such a harvest
I should not be the ungladdest man to see, [Enter
Clown.
Of all thy sister’s friends.—Now, whence come you?
CLOWN.
Who, I, sir? from a lodging of largess, a house of hospitality, and a palace of plenty; where there’s feeding like horses and drinking like fishes; where for pints, we’re served in pottles; and instead of pottle-pots, in pails; instead of silver tankards, we drink out of water-tankards; claret runs as freely as the cocks, and canary like the conduits of a coronation day; where there’s nothing but feeding and frolicking, carving in kissing, drinking and dancing, music and madding, fiddling and feasting.
WINCOTT.
And where, I pray thee, are all these revels kept?
CLOWN.
They may be rather called reaks[11] than revels; as I came along by the door I was called up amongst them—he-gallants and she-gallants. I no sooner looked out, but saw them out with their knives, slashing of shoulders, mangling of legs, and lanching[12] of loins, till there was scarce a whole limb left amongst them.
WINCOTT.
A fearful massacre!
CLOWN.
One was hacking to cut off a neck; this was mangling a breast; his knife slipped from the shoulder, and only cut off a wing; one was picking the brains out of a head, another was knuckle-deep in a belly; one was groping for a liver, another searching for the kidneys. I saw one pluck the soul[13] from the body—goose that she was to suffer’t!; another pricked into the breast with his own bill—woodcock to endure it!
WIFE.
How fell they out at first?
CLOWN.
I know not that, but it seems one had a stomach, and another had a stomach; but there was such biting and tearing with their teeths, that I am sure I saw some of their poor carcasses pay for’t.
WINCOTT.
Did they not send for surgeons?
CLOWN.
Alas, no! surgeons’ help was too late; there was no stitching up of those wounds, where limb was plucked from limb; nor any salve for those scars, which all the plaster of Paris cannot cure.
WINCOTT.
Where grew the quarrel first?
CLOWN.
It seems it was first broached in the kitchen, certain creatures being brought in thither by some of the house. The cook, being a choleric fellow, did so towse them and toss them, so pluck them and pull them, till he left them as naked as my nail; pinioned some of them like felons; cut the spurs from others off their heels; then down went his spits, some of them he ran in at the throat, and out at the backside: about went his basting-ladle, where he did so besauce them that many a shrewd[14] turn they had amongst them.
WIFE.
But, in all this, how did the women scape?
CLOWN.
They fared best, and did the least hurt that I saw, but for quietness-sake were forced to swallow what is not yet digested; yet every one had their share, and she that had least, I am sure, by this time hath her bellyful.
WINCOTT.
And where was all this havoc kept?
CLOWN.
Marry, sir, at your next neighbour’s, Young Master Lionel, where there is nothing but drinking out of dry-vats, and healthing in half-tubs; his guests are fed by the belly, and beggars served at his gate in baskets. He’s the adamant of this age, the daffodil of these days, the prince of prodigality, and the very Cæsar of all young citizens.
WINCOTT.
Belike, then, ’twas a massacre of meat,
Not as I apprehended?
CLOWN.
Your gravity hath guessed aright: the chiefest that fell in this battle were wild fowl and tame fowl; pheasants were wounded instead of alfarez,[15] and capons for captains; anchoves stood for ancients, and caviare for corporals; dishes were assaulted instead of ditches, and rabbits were cut to pieces upon the rebellings;[16] some lost their legs, whilst other of their wings were forced to fly; the pioner undermined nothing but pie crust, and—
WINCOTT.
Enough, enough! your wit hath played too long
Upon our patience.—Wife, it grieves me much
Both for the young and old man: the one graces
His head with care, endures the parching heat
And biting cold, the terrors of the lands,
And fears at sea, in travel, only to gain
Some competent estate to leave his son;
Whiles all that merchandise, through gulfs, cross-tides,
Pirates, and storms, he brings so far, the other
Here shipwrecks in the harbour.
WIFE.
’Tis the care
Of fathers; and the weakness incident
To youth, that wants experience.
ENTER YOUNG GERALDINE, DELAVIL, AND PRUDENTILLA, LAUGHING.
CLOWN.
I was at the beginning of the battle; but here comes some, that it seems were at the rifling of the dead carcases; for by their mirth they have had part of the spoil.
WINCOTT.
You are pleasant, gentlemen; what, I entreat,
Might be the subject of your pleasant sport?
It promiseth some pleasure.
PRUDENTILLA.
If their recreation
Be, as I make no question, on truth grounded,
’Twill beget sudden laughter.
WIFE.
What’s the project?
DELAVIL.
Who shall relate it?
WINCOTT.
Master Geraldine,
If there be anything can please my ear
With pleasant sounds, your tongue must be the instrument
On which the string must strike.
DELAVIL.
Be it his, then.
PRUDENTILLA.
Nay, hear it, ’tis a good one.
WIFE.
We entreat you,
Possess[17] us o’ the novel.[18]
WINCOTT.
Speak, good sir.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
I shall, then, with a kind of barbarism,
Shadow a jest that asks a smoother tongue,
For in my poor discourse, I do protest,
It will but lose its lustre.
WIFE.
You are modest.
WINCOTT.
However, speak, I pray; for my sake do’t.
CLOWN.
This is like a hasty pudding, longer in eating than it was in making.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Then thus it was: this gentleman and I
Passed but just now by your next neighbour’s house,
Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel.
CLOWN.
Where I was to-night at supper.
WINCOTT.
An unthrift youth, his father now at sea.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Why, that’s the very subject upon which
It seems this jest is grounded; there this night
Was a great feast.
CLOWN.
Why, so I told you, sir.
WINCOTT.
Be thou still dumb; ’tis he that I would hear.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
In the height of their carousing, all their brains
Warmed with the heat of wine, discourse was offered
Of ships, and storms at sea;[19] when suddenly,
Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives
The room wherein they quaffed to be a pinnace,
Moving and floating; and the confused noise
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners;
That their unsteadfast footing did proceed
From rocking of the vessel: this conceived,
Each one begins to apprehend the danger,
And to look out for safety. “Fly,” saith one,
“Up to the main-top, and discover;” he
Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards,
And wills them, if they’ll save their ship and lives,
To cast their lading overboard; at this
All fall to work, and hoist into the street,
As to the sea, what next come to their hand—
Stools, tables, trestles, trenchers, bedsteads, cups,
Pots, plate, and glasses; here a fellow whistles,
They take him for the boatswain; one lies struggling
Upon the floor, as if he swum for life;
A third takes the bass-viol for the cockboat,
Sits in the belly on’t, labours and rows,
His oar the stick with which the fiddler played;
A fourth bestrides his fellows, thinking to scape
As did Arion on the dolphin’s back,
Still fumbling on a gittern.
CLOWN.
Excellent sport!
WINCOTT.
But what was the conclusion?
YOUNG GERALDINE.
The rude multitude,
Watching without, and gaping for the spoil
Cast from the windows, went by the ears about it;
The constable is called to atone[20] the broil,
Which done, and hearing such a noise within
Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds them
In this confusion. They adore his staff,
And think it Neptune’s trident, and that he
Comes with his Tritons (so they called his watch)
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves;
And at this point we left them.
CLOWN.
Come what will, I’ll steal out of doors, and see the end of it, that’s certain. [Exit.
WINCOTT.
Thanks, Master Geraldine, for this discourse;
In troth it hath much pleased me; but the night
Begins to grow fast on us: for your parts
You are all young, and you may sit up late;
My eyes begin to summon me to sleep,
And nothing’s more offensive unto age
Than to watch long and late. [Exit.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Now good rest with you!
DELAVIL.
What says fair Prudentilla? Maids and widows,
And we young bachelors, such as indeed
Are forced to lie in solitary beds,
And sleep without disturbance—we, methinks,
Should desire later hours than married wives,
That in their amorous arms hug their delights!
To often wakings subject, their more haste
May better be excused.
PRUDENTILLA.
How can you,
That are, as you confess, a single man,
Enter so far into these mystical secrets
Of marriage, which as yet you never proved?
DELAVIL.
There’s, lady, an instinct innate in man,
Which prompts us to the apprehensions
Of the uses we were born to; such we are
Aptest to learn, ambitious most to know,
Of which our chief is marriage.
PRUDENTILLA.
What you men
Most meditate, we women seldom dream of.
DELAVIL.
When dream maids most?
PRUDENTILLA.
When, think you?
DELAVIL.
When you lie upon your backs.
Come, come; your ear.
[EXEUNT DELAVIL AND
PRUDENTILLA.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
We now are left alone.
WIFE.
Why, say we be, who should be jealous of us?
This is not first of many hundred nights
That we two have been private: from the first
Of our acquaintance, when our tongues but clipped
Our mother’s-tongue, and could not speak it plain,
We knew each other; as in stature, so
Increased our sweet society; since your travel,
And my late marriage, through my husband’s love,
Midnight hath been as mid-day, and my bed-chamber
As free to you as your own father’s house,
And you as welcome to’t.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
I must confess
It is in you your noble courtesy,
In him a more than common confidence,
And in this age can scarce find precedent.
WIFE.
Most true; it is withal an argument
That both our virtues are so deep impressed
In his good thoughts, he knows we cannot err.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
A villain were he to deceive such trust,
Or, were there one, a much worse character.
WIFE.
And she no less, whom either beauty, youth,
Time, place, or opportunity could tempt
To injure such a husband.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
You deserve,
Even for his sake, to be for ever young;
And he, for yours, to have his youth renewed,
So mutual is your true conjugal love;
Yet, had the Fates so pleased—
WIFE.
I know your meaning.
It was once voiced that we two should have matched;
The world so thought, and many tongues so spake;
But Heaven hath now disposed us otherways;
And being as it is, (a thing in me
Which, I protest, was never wished nor sought),
Now done, I not repent it.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
In those times,
Of all the treasures of my hopes and love,
You were the exchequer, they were stored in you;
And, had not my unfortunate travel crossed them,
They had been here reserved still.
WIFE.
Troth, they had;
I should have been your trusty treasurer.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
However, let us love still, I entreat:
That, neighbourhood and breeding will allow;
So much the laws divine and human both
’Twixt brother and a sister will approve;
Heaven then forbid that they should limit us
Wish well to one another!
WIFE.
If they should not,
We might proclaim they were not charitable,
Which were a deadly sin but to conceive.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Will you resolve me one thing?
WIFE.
As to one
That in my bosom hath a second place,
Next my dear husband.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
That’s the thing I crave,
And only that—to have a place next him.
WIFE.
Presume on that already; but perhaps
You mean to stretch it further.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Only thus far:
Your husband’s old, to whom my soul doth wish
A Nestor’s age, so much he merits from me;
Yet if (as proof and Nature daily teach
Men cannot always live, especially
Such as are old and crazed) he be called hence,
Fairly, in full maturity of time,
And we two be reserved to after-life,
Will you confer your widowhood on me?
WIFE.
You ask the thing I was about to beg;
Your tongue hath spake mine own thoughts.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Vow to that.
WIFE.
As I hope mercy.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
’Tis enough; that word
Alone instates me happy. Now, so please you,
We will divide, you to your private chamber,
I to find out my friend.
WIFE.
Nay, Master Geraldine,
One ceremony rests yet unperformed:
My vow is past, your oath must next proceed;
And as you covet to be sure of me,
Of you I would be certain.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Make ye doubt?
WIFE.
No doubt; but Love’s still jealous, and in that
To be excused; you then shall swear by Heaven,
And as in all your future acts you hope
To thrive and prosper; as the day may yield
Comfort, or the night rest; as you would keep
Entire the honour of your father’s house,
And free your name from scandal and reproach;
By all the goodness that you hope to enjoy,
Or ill to shun—
YOUNG GERALDINE.
You charge me deeply, lady.
WIFE.
Till that day come, you shall reserve yourself
A single man; converse nor company
With any woman, contract nor combine
With maid or widow; which expected hour,
As I do wish not haste, so when it happens
It shall not come unwelcome. You hear all;
Vow this.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
By all that you have said, I swear,
And by this kiss confirm.
WIFE.
You’re now my brother;
But then, my second husband.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Before Old LIONEL’S House.
Enter, from the House, Young LIONEL, RIOTER, BLANDA, SCAPHA, two Gallants, and two Wenches, as newly waked from sleep.
YOUNG LIONEL.
We had a stormy night on’t.
BLANDA.
The wine still works,
And, with the little rest they have took to-night,
They are scarce come to themselves.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Now ’tis a calm,
Thanks to those gentle sea-gods, that have brought us
To this safe harbour: can you tell their names?
SCAPHA.
He with the painted staff I heard you call Neptune.
YOUNG LIONEL.
The dreadful god of seas,
Upon whose back ne’er stuck March fleas.
1ST GALLANT.
One with the bill[21] keeps Neptune’s porpoises,
So Ovid says in’s Metamorphoses.
2ND GALLANT.
A third the learned poets write on,
And, as they say, his name is Triton.
YOUNG LIONEL.
These are the marine gods, to whom my father
In his long voyage prays to; cannot they,
That brought us to our haven, bury him
In their abyss? For if he safe arrive,
I, with these sailors, sirens, and what not,
Am sure here to be shipwrecked.
1ST WENCH.
[To RIOTER]. Stand up stiff.
RIOTER.
But that the ship so totters—I shall fall.
1ST WENCH.
If thou fall, I’ll fall with thee.
RIOTER.
Now I sink,
And, as I dive and drown, thus by degrees
I’ll pluck thee to the bottom.
[They fall.
ENTER
REIGNALD.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Amain for England! See, see,
The Spaniard now strikes sail.
REIGNALD.
So must you all.
1ST GALLANT.
Whence is your ship—from the Bermoothes?[22]
REIGNALD.
Worse, I think from Hell:
We are all lost, split, shipwrecked, and undone.
This place is a mere quicksands.
2ND GALLANT.
So we feared.
REIGNALD.
Where’s my young master?
YOUNG LIONEL.
Here, man; speak, the news?
REIGNALD.
The news is, I, and you—
YOUNG LIONEL.
What?
REIGNALD.
She, and all these—
BLANDA.
I!
REIGNALD.
We, and all ours, are in one turbulent sea
Of fear, despair, disaster, and mischance
Swallowed. Your father, sir—
YOUNG LIONEL.
Why, what of him?
REIGNALD.
He is—
Oh I want breath.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Where?
REIGNALD.
Landed, and at hand.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Upon what coast? Who saw him?
REIGNALD.
I—these eyes.
YOUNG LIONEL.
O Heaven! what shall I do then?
REIGNALD.
Ask ye me
What shall become of you, that have not yet
Had time of study to dispose myself?
I say again, I was upon the quay,
I saw him land, and this way bend his course.
What drunkard’s this, that can outsleep a storm
Which threatens all our ruins? Wake him.
BLANDA.
Ho, Rioter, awake!
RIOTER.
Yes, I am ’wake;
How dry hath this salt-water made me! Boy,
Give me the other glass.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Arise, I say:
My father’s come from sea.
RIOTER.
If he be come,
Bid him be gone again.
REIGNALD.
Can you trifle
At such a time, when your inventions, brains,
Wits, plots, devices, stratagems, and all
Should be at one in action? Each of you
That love your safeties, lend your helping hands,
Women and all, to take this drunkard hence,
And to bestow him elsewhere.
BLANDA.
Lift, for Heaven’s sake.
[They carry RIOTER in.
REIGNALD.
But what am I the nearer, were all these
Conveyed to sundry places and unseen?
The stain of our disorders still remains,
Of which the house will witness, and the old man
Must find it when he enters; and for these
[Re-enter Young LIONEL and others.]
I am here left to answer.—What, is he gone?
YOUNG LIONEL.
But whither? But into the selfsame house
That harbours him; my father’s, where we all
Attend from him surprisal.
REIGNALD.
I will make
That prison of your fears your sanctuary;
Go, get you in together.
YOUNG LIONEL.
To this house?
REIGNALD.
Your father’s, with your sweetheart, these and all;
Nay, no more words, but do it.
BLANDA.
That were to
Betray us to his fury.
REIGNALD.
I have’t here
To bail you hence at pleasure; and in the interim
I’ll make this supposed gaol, to you as safe
From the injured old man’s just-incensèd spleen,
As were you now together i’ the Low-Countries,
Virginia, or i’ the Indies.
BLANDA.
Present fear
Bids us to yield unto the faint belief
Of the least hopèd safety.
REIGNALD.
Will you in?
ALL.
By thee we will be counselled.
REIGNALD.
Shut them fast.
YOUNG LIONEL.
And thou and I to leave them?
REIGNALD.
No such thing;
For you shall bear your sweetheart company,
And help to cheer the rest.
YOUNG LIONEL.
And so thou meanest to escape alone?
REIGNALD.
Rather without,
I’ll stand a champion for you all within.
Will you be swayed? One thing in any case
I must advise: the gates bolted and locked,
See that ’mongst you no living voice be heard;
No, not so much as but a dog to howl,
Or cat to mew—all silence, that I charge;
As if this were a mere forsaken house,
And none did there inhabit.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Nothing else?
REIGNALD.
And, though the old man thunder at the gates
As if he meant to ruin what he had reared,
None on their lives to answer.
YOUNG LIONEL.
’Tis my charge:
Remains there nothing else?
REIGNALD.
Only the key;
For I must play the gaoler for your durance,[23]
To be the Mercury in your release.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Me, and my hope, I in this key deliver
To thy safe trust.
REIGNALD.
When you are fast you are safe,
And with this turn ’tis done.
[Exeunt all except REIGNALD who locks the door.]
What fools are these,
To trust their ruined fortunes to his hands
That hath betrayed his own, and make themselves
Prisoner to one deserves to lie for all,
As being cause of all! And yet something prompts me—
I’ll stand it at all dangers; and, to recompense
The many wrongs unto the young man done,
Now, if I can doubly delude the old—
My brain, about it, then. All’s hushed within;
The noise that shall be, I must make without,
And he that, part for gain and part for wit,
So far hath travelled, strive to fool at home:
Which to effect, art must with knavery join,
And smooth dissembling meet with impudence.
I’ll do my best, and howsoe’er it prove,
My praise or shame, ’tis but a servant’s love. [Retires.
Enter Old LIONEL, with Watermen, and two Servants with burdens and caskets.
OLD LIONEL.
Discharge these honest sailors that have brought
Our chests ashore, and pray them have a care
Those merchandise be safe we left aboard.
As Heaven hath blessed us with a fortunate voyage,
In which we bring home riches with our healths,
So let not us prove niggards in our store;
See them paid well, and to their full content.
1ST
SERVANT.
I shall, sir.
OLD LIONEL.
Then return: these special things,
And of most value, we’ll not trust aboard;
Methinks they are not safe till they see home,
And there repose, where we will rest ourselves,
And bid farewell to travel; for I vow
After this hour no more to trust the seas,
Nor throw me to such danger.
REIGNALD.
I could wish
You had took your leave o’ the land too. [Aside.
OLD LIONEL.
And now it much rejoiceth me to think
What a most sudden welcome I shall bring
Both to my friends and private family.
REIGNALD.
Oh, but how much more welcome had he been
That had brought certain tidings of thy death! [Aside.
OLD LIONEL.
But soft, what’s this? my own gates shut upon me,
And bar their master entrance! Who’s within there?
How, no man speak! are all asleep or dead,
That no soul stirs to open? [Knocks loudly.
REIGNALD.
What madman’s that who, weary of his life,
Dares once lay hand on these accursèd gates?
OLD LIONEL.
Who’s that? my servant Reignald!
REIGNALD.
My old master!
Most glad I am to see you; are you well, sir?
OLD LIONEL.
Thou seest I am.
REIGNALD.
But are you sure you are?
Feel you no change about you? Pray you stand off.
OLD LIONEL.
What strange and unexpected greeting’s this,
That thus a man may knock at his own gates,
Beat with his hands and feet, and call thus loud,
And no man give him entrance?
REIGNALD.
Said you, sir—
Did your hand touch that hammer?
OLD LIONEL.
Why, whose else?
REIGNALD.
But are you sure you touched it?
OLD LIONEL.
How else, I prithee,
Could I have made this noise?
REIGNALD.
You touched it then?
OLD LIONEL.
I tell thee yet I did.
REIGNALD.
Oh, for the love I bear you—
O me most miserable! you, for your own sake,
Of all alive most wretched!—did you touch it?
OLD LIONEL.
Why, say I did?
REIGNALD.
You have then a sin committed,
No sacrifice can expiate, to the dead;
But yet I hope you did not.
OLD LIONEL.
’Tis past hope;
The deed is done, and I repent it not.
REIGNALD.
You and all yours will do’t. In this one rashness,
You have undone us all: pray be not desperate,
But first thank Heaven that you have escaped thus well.
Come from the gate—yet further, further yet—
And tempt your fate no more; command your servants
Give off and come no nearer; they are ignorant,
And do not know the danger, therefore pity
That they should perish in’t. ’Tis full seven months
Since any of your house durst once set foot
Over that threshold.
OLD LIONEL.
Prithee speak the cause?
REIGNALD.
First look about; beware that no man hear;
Command these to remove.
OLD LIONEL.
Begone.—[Exeunt Servants and Watermen].—Now speak.
REIGNALD.
Oh, sir, this house is grown prodigious,[24]
Fatal, disastrous unto you and yours.
OLD LIONEL.
What fatal? what disastrous?
REIGNALD.
Some host, that hath been owner of this house,
In it his guest hath slain; and we suspect
’Twas he of whom you bought it.
OLD LIONEL.
How came this
Discovered to you first?
REIGNALD.
I’ll tell you, sir;
But further from the gate. Your son one night
Supped late abroad, I within—oh, that night
I never shall forget! Being safe got home,
I saw him in his chamber laid to rest;
And after went to mine, and, being drowsy,
Forgot by chance to put the candle out:
Being dead asleep, your son, affrighted, calls
So loud that I soon wakened, brought in light,
And found him almost drowned in fearful sweat;
Amazed to see’t, I did demand the cause,
Who told me that this murdered ghost appeared,
His body gashed, and all o’er-stuck with wounds,
And spake to him as follows.
OLD LIONEL.
Oh, proceed;
’Tis that I long to hear.
REIGNALD.
“I am,” quoth he,
“A transmarine by birth, who came well stored
With gold and jewels to this fatal house,
Where, seeking safety, I encountered death:
The covetous merchant, landlord of this rent,
To whom I gave my life and wealth in charge,
Freely to enjoy the one, robbed me of both:
Here was my body buried, here my ghost
Must ever walk, till that have Christian right;
Till when, my habitation must be here.
Then fly, young man; remove thy family,
And seek some safer dwelling; for my death
This mansion is accursed; ’tis my possession,
Bought at the dear rate of my life and blood:
None enter here, that aims at his own good.”
And with this charge he vanished.
OLD LIONEL.
O my fear!
Whither wilt thou transport me?
REIGNALD.
I entreat
Keep further from the gate, and fly.
OLD LIONEL.
Fly whither?
Why dost not thou fly too?
REIGNALD.
What need I fear?
The ghost and I am friends.
OLD LIONEL.
But Reignald——
REIGNALD. [Turning round.]
Tush!
I nothing have deserved, nor aught transgressed:
I came not near the gate.
OLD LIONEL.
To whom was that thou spakest?
REIGNALD.
Was’t you, sir, named me?
Now as I live, I thought the dead man called,
To inquire for him that thundered at the gate
Which he so dearly paid for. Are you mad,
To stand a foreseen danger?
OLD LIONEL.
What shall I do?
REIGNALD.
Cover your head and fly, lest, looking back,
You spy your own confusion.
OLD LIONEL.
Why dost thou not fly too?
REIGNALD.
I tell you, sir,
The ghost and I am friends.
OLD LIONEL.
Why didst thou quake then?
REIGNALD.
In fear lest some mischance may fall on you,
That have the dead offended; for my part,
The ghost and I am friends. Why fly you not,
Since here you are not safe?
OLD LIONEL.
Some blest powers guard me!
REIGNALD.
Nay, sir,
I’ll not forsake you.—[Exit Old LIONEL.]—I have got the start;
But ere the goal, ’twill ask both brain and art. [Exit.