A Select Collection of Old English Plays Part 9

RAY. Run to my tent, fetch my Philippa, slave. Why movest thou not?

2D MESS. The enemy's upon us.

RAY. Shall I send thy coward soul down the vaults of horror? Fly, villain, or thou diest!

[_Strikes him._

_Alarum._ _Enter_ MACHIAVEL, ALERZO, FULGENTIO, PANDOLPHO, _with_ PHILIPPA _prisoner_, GIOVANNO _with_ TAILOR.

MACH. Let one post to my castle, and conduct My lady; tell her I have a prisoner would become Proud in her forc'd captivity, to wait Upon her beauty: fly, let not the tardy clouds outsail thee.

PHIL. Canst thou, proud man, think that Philippa's heart Is humbled with her fortunes? No, didst thou Bring all the rough tortures From the world's childhood to this hour invented, And on my resolute body, proof against pain, Practis'd Sicilian tyranny, my giant thoughts Should, like a cloud of wind-contemning smoke, Mingle with heaven: And not a look so base as to be pitied Shall give you cause of triumph.

ALER. 'Fore heaven, a fiery girl.

FUL. A masculine spirit.

PAN. An Amazon.

RAY. See, my Philippa, her rich colour's fled, and like that soul The furrow-fronted fates have made an anvil To forge diseases on, she's lost herself With her fled beauty; yet, pale as she stands, She adds more glory to our churlish foe, Than bashful t.i.tan to the eastern world.

Spaniards, she is a conquest; Rome, When her two-neck'd eagles aw'd the world, Would have swum through her[22] own blood to purchase: Nor must you enjoy that gem the superst.i.tious G.o.ds Would quarrel for, but through my heart.

Courage, brave friends, they're valiant that can fly I' th' mouth of danger; 'tis they win, though die.

GIO. This Moor speaks truth, Wrapp'd in a voice of thunder.

RAY. Speak, my Philippa, what untutor'd slave Durst lay a rugged hand upon thy softness?

PHIL. 'Twas the epitome of Hercules: No big Colossus, yet for strength far bigger: A little person, great with matchless valour.

RAY. What pains thou takest to praise Thine enemy!

PHIL. 'Twere sin to rob him that has wasted so his blood for praise: this n.o.ble soldier, he 'twas made me captive; nor can he boast 'twas in an easy combat; for my good sword, now ravish'd from mine arm, forc'd crimson drops that, like a gory sweat, buried his manly body in oblivion: those that were skill'd in his effigies, as drunk with Lethe, had forgot 'twas he; till by the drawing of the rueful curtain, they saw in him their error.

RAY. A common soldier, owner of a strength worthy Such praise? Dares he cope with the French general single?

PHIL. My lord, you must strike quick and sure.

RAY. Why pause you? my Philippa must not stay Captivity's infection.

MACH. We have the day.

RAY. Not till you conquer me: which if my arm Be not by witchcraft robb'd of his late strength, Shall spin your labour to an ample length.

MACH. Upon him, then.

GIO. Odds is dishonourable combat: my lads, Lets one to one; I am for the Moor.

ALER. Thee!

FUL. Tailor, you are too saucy.

GIO. Saucy?

ALER. Untutor'd groom, mechanic slave!

GIO. You have protection by the governor's presence, Else, my plum'd estridges,[23] 'tis not your feathers, More weighty than your beads, should stop My vengeance, but I'd text my wrong In b.l.o.o.d.y characters upon your pamper'd flesh.

FUL. You would?

GIO. By heaven, I would!

FUL. You'd be advis'd, and render up your life A sacrifice to patience.

GIO. Musk-cat, I'd make your civet worship stink First in your perfumed buff.

ALER. Phlegmatic slave!

GIO. Bloodless commanders.

FUL. } PAN. } How?

ALER. }

GIO. So.

FUL. } PAN. } Let's reward his boldness.

ALER. }

[_They fall upon_ GIOVANNO.

MACH. Whence this rashness?

RAY. Bless'd occasion! let's on 'em.

[_The French whisper. The French fly upon 'em: they turn to their Guard, and beat 'em off._

ACT III., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ MACHIAVEL, FULGENTIO, PANDOLPHO, ALERZO, GIOVANNO, _with_ RAYMOND _prisoner, and the rest of the_ TAILORS.

ALL THE TAI. A tailor, a tailor, a tailor!

GIO. Raymond, y' are now my prisoner: Blind chance has favour'd, where your thoughts Had hope she meant to ruin From our discord, which Heaven has made victorious, You meant to strike a harmony should glad you.

ALER. 'Tis not to be borne: a tailor!