A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Xi Part 119

CAR. To blow it out? troth, I most kindly thank you, Here's friendship to the life. But, Father Wheybeard, Why should you think me void of reason's fire, My youthful days being in the height of knowledge?

I must confess your old years gain experience; But that so much o'errul'd by dotage, That what you think experience shall effect, Short memory destroys. What say you now, sir?

Am I mad now, that can answer thus To all interrogatories?

ALB. But though your words do savour, sir, of judgment, Yet when they derogate from the due observance Of fitting times, they ought to be respected No more than if a man should tell a tale Of feigned mirth in midst of extreme sorrows.

CAR. How did you know My sorrows, sir? what though I have lost a wife, Must I be therefore griev'd? am I not happy To be so freed of a continual trouble?

Had many a man such fortune as I, In what a heaven would they think themselves, Being releas'd of all those threat'ning clouds, Which in the angry skies call'd women's brows Sit, ever menacing tempestuous storms?

But yet I needs must tell you, old December, My wife was clear of this; within her brow She had not a wrinkle nor a storming frown: But, like a smooth well-polish'd ivory, It seem'd so pleasant to the looker-on: She was so kind, of nature so gentle, That if she'd done a fault, she'd straight go die for't: Was not she then a rare one?

What, weep'st thou, aged Nestor?

Take comfort, man! Troy was ordain'd by fate To yield to us, which we will ruinate.

ALB. Good sir, walk with me but where you [may] see The shadowing elms, within whose circling round There is a holy spring about encompa.s.s'd By dandling sycamores and violets, Whose waters cure all human maladies.

Few drops thereof, being sprinkl'd on your temples, Revives your fading memory, and restores Your senses lost unto their perfect being.

CAR. Is it clear water, sir, and very fresh?

For I am thirsty, [which] gives it a better relish Than a cup of dead wine with flies in't?

ALB. Most pleasant to the taste; pray, will you go?

CAR. Faster than you, I believe, sir. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MARIA.

MAR. I am walk'd forth from my preserver's cave, To search about these woods, only to see The penitent Albert, whose repentant mind Each tree expresseth. O, that some power divine Would hither send my virtuous Carracus!

Not for my own content, but that he might See how his distress'd friend repents the wrong, Which his rash folly, most unfortunate, Acted 'gainst him and me; which I forgive A hundred times a day, for that more often My eyes are witness to his sad complaints.

How the good hermit seems to share his moans, Which in the daytime he deplores 'mongst trees, And in the night his cave is fill'd with sighs; No other bed doth his weak limbs support Than the cold earth; no other harmony To rock his cares asleep but bl.u.s.tering winds, Or some swift current, headlong rushing down From a high mountain's top, pouring his force Into the ocean's gulf, where being swallow'd, Seems to bewail his fall with hideous words: No other sustentation to suffice, What nature claims, but raw, unsavoury roots With troubled waters, where untamed beasts Do bathe themselves.

_Enter Satyrs, dance, et exeunt._

Ah me! what things are these?

What pretty harmless things they seem to be!

As if delight had nowhere made abode, But in their nimble sport.

_Enter_ ALBERT [_and_ CARRACUS.]

Yonder's the courteous hermit, and with him Albert, it seems. O, see, 'tis Carracus!

Joy, do not now confound me!

CAR. Thanks unto heavens and thee, thou holy man, I have attain'd what doth adorn man's being, That precious gem of reason, by which solely We are discern'd from rude and brutish beasts, No other difference being 'twixt us and them.

How to repay this more than earthly kindness Lies not within my power, but in his, That hath indu'd thee with celestial gifts, To whom I'll pray, he may bestow on thee What thou deserv'st, bless'd immortality.

ALB. Which unto you befall, thereof most worthy.

But, virtuous sir, what I will now request From your true generous nature is, that you would Be pleas'd to pardon that repentant wight, Whose sinful story upon yon tree's bark Yourself did read, for that you say, to you Those wrongs were done.

CAR. Indeed they were, and to a dear wife lost; Yet I forgive him, as I wish the heavens May pardon me.

MAR. So doth Maria too. [_She discovers herself._

CAR. Lives my Maria, then? what gracious planet Gave thee safe conduct to these desert woods?

MAR. My late mishap (repented now by all, And therefore pardon'd) compell'd me to fly, Where I had perished for want of food, Had not this courteous man awak'd my sense, In which death's self had partly interest.

CAR. Alas, Maria! I am so far indebted To him already for the late recovery of My own weakness, that 'tis impossible For us to attribute sufficient thanks For such abundant good.

ALB. I rather ought to thank the heaven's Creator That he vouchsaf'd me such especial grace, In doing so small a good; which could I hourly Bestow on all, yet could I not a.s.suage The swelling rancour of my fore-pa.s.s'd crimes.

CAR. O sir, despair not; for your course of life (Were your sins far more odious than they be) Doth move compa.s.sion and pure clemency In the all-ruling judge, whose powerful mercy O'ersways his justice, and extends itself To all repentant minds. He's happier far That sins, and can repent him of his sin, Than the self-justifier, who doth surmise By his own works to gain salvation; Seeming to reach at heaven, he clasps d.a.m.nation.

You then are happy, and our penitent friend, To whose wish'd presence please you now to bring us, That in our gladsome arms we may enfold His much-esteemed person, and forgive The injuries of his rash follies pa.s.s'd.

ALB. Then see false Albert prostrate at your feet, [_He discovers himself._ Desiring justice for his heinous ill.

CAR. Is it you? Albert's self that hath preserv'd us?

O bless'd bewailer of thy misery!

MARIA. And wofull'st liver in calamity!

CAR. From which, right worthy friend, 'tis now high time You be releas'd; come then, you shall with us.

Our first and chiefest welcome, my Maria, We shall receive at your good father's house; Who, as I do remember, in my frenzy Sent a kind letter, which desir'd our presence.

ALB. So please you, virtuous pair, Albert will stay, And spend the remnant of this wearisome life In these dark woods.

CAR. Then you neglect the comforts heav'n doth send To your abode on earth. If you stay here, Your life may end in torture by the cruelty Of some wild ravenous beasts; but if 'mongst men, When you depart, the faithful prayers of many Will much avail to crown your soul with bliss.

ALB. Lov'd Carracus, I have found in thy converse Comfort so bless'd, that nothing now but death Shall cause a separation in our being.

MARIA. Which heaven confirm!

CAR. Thus by the breach of faith our friendship's knit In stronger bonds of love.

ALB. Heaven so continue it! [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[387] The 4 reads _His_.

[388] The 4 has it literally thus--

"To _taste_ a _vale_ of death _in_ wicked livers,"

which Mr Reed altered to _cast a veil_, &c; but ought we not rather to read--

"To _cast_ a _veil_ of death _on_ wicked livers."

--_Collier._

[389] [Old copy, _them brats_.]