A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Xiv Part 4

GIO. 'Tis so, I'll further; I love her, madam, With as rich a flame as anchorites Do saints they offer prayers unto.

I hug her memory as I would embrace The breath of Jove when it p.r.o.nounced me Happy, or prophet that should speak my After-life great, even with adoration deified.

EVAD. My life, like to a bubble i' th' air, Dissolv'd by some uncharitable wind, Denies my body warmth: your breath Has made me nothing.

[_She faints._

GIO. Rather let me lose all external being.

Madam, good madam.

EVAD. You say you love her.

GIO. Madam, I do.

Can any love the beauty of a stone, Set by some curious artist in a ring, But he must attribute some [virtue] to The file that adds unto the l.u.s.tre?

You appear like to a gem, cut by the Steady hand of careful nature into such Beauteous tablets, that dull art, Famous in skilful flattery, is become A novice in what fame proclaim'd him doctor; He can't express one spark of your great l.u.s.tre.

Madam, those beauties that, but studied on By their admirers, are deifi'd, serve But as spots to make your red and white Envi'd of cloister'd saints.

EVAD. Have I, ungrateful man, like to the sun, That from the heavens sends down his Cherishing beams on some religious plant, That with a bow, the worship of the Thankful, pays the preserver of his life And growth: but thou, unthankful man, In scorn of me, to love a calendar of many Years.[17]

GIO. Madam, upon my knees, a superst.i.tious rite, The Heathens us'd to pay their G.o.ds, I offer up A life, that until now ne'er knew a price-- Made dear because you love it.

EVAD. Arise; It is a ceremony due unto none but heaven.

GIO. Here I'll take root, and grow into my grave, Unless, dear G.o.ddess, you forget to be Cruel to him adores you with a zeal, Equal to that of hermits.

EVAD. I believe you, and thus exchange a devout vow Humbly upon my knees, that, though the Thunder of my brother's rage should force divorce, Yet in my soul to love you; witness all The wing'd inhabitants of the highest heaven!

GIO. If sudden lightning, such as vengeful Jove Clears the infectious air with, threaten'd to scorch My daring soul to cinders, if I Did love you, lady, I would love you, spite Of the dogged fates or any power those curs'd Hags set to oppose me.

_To them enter_ NURSE.

EVAD. Be thyself again.

NUR. Madam, your brother.

EVAD. Fie! you have done it ill; our brother, say you?

Pray you, take it home and mend it.

GIO. Madam, it shall be done; I take my leave.

Love, I am made thy envy; I am he This vot'ress prays unto, as unto thee: Tailors are more than men; and here's the odds: They make fine ladies: ladies make them G.o.ds: And so they are not men, but far above them.

This makes the tailors proud; then ladies love them.

[_Exit._

ANTONIO _meets him_.

ANT. What's he that pa.s.s'd?

EVAD. My tailor.

ANT. There's something in his face I (sure) should know.

But, sister, to your beads; pray for distress'd Seville; Whilst I mount some watchtower, To o'erlook our enemies: religion's laws Command me fight for my lov'd country's cause.

[_Exit._

EVAD. Love bids me pray, and on his altars make A sacrifice for my lov'd tailor's sake.

[_Exit._

_Alarum._ _Enter_ RAYMOND, PHILIPPA, LEONIS, GILBERTI, _and_ FIRENZO.

RAY. Stand.

LEO. Stand.

GIL. Stand.

FIR. Give the word through the army, stand there.

WITHIN. Stand, stand, stand, stand, ho!

RAY. Bid the drum cease, whilst we embrace our love: Come, my Philippa, like the twins of war, Lac'd in our steelly corselets, we're become The envy of those brain-begotten G.o.ds Mouldy antiquity lifted to heaven; Thus we exchange our breath.

[_Kiss._

PHIL. My honour'd lord, Duty commands, I pay it back again.

'Twill waste me into smoke else.

Can my body retain that breath that would Consume an army dress'd in a rougher habit?

Pray, deliver (come, I'm a gentle thief) The breath you stole.

[_He kisses her._

RAY. Restore back mine. [_She kisses him._] So, go, pitch our tent, we'll Have a combat i' th' field of love with thee Philippa, ere we meet the foe: thou art A friendly enemy. How say you, lords?

Does not my love appear Like to the issue of the brain of Jove, Governess of arms and arts, Minerva!

Or a selected beauty from a troop of Amazons?

LORDS. She is a mine of valour.

PHIL. Lords, spare your praises till, like Bradamant, The mirror of our s.e.x, I make the foe Of France and us crouch like a whelp, Awed by the heaving of his master's hand; My heart runs through my arm, and when I deal A blow, it sinks a soul.

My sword flies nimbler than the bolts of Jove, And wounds as deep. Spain, thy proud host shall feel Death has bequeath'd his office to my steel.

RAY. Come on, brave lords; upon your general's word, Philippa loves no parley like the sword.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ GIOVANNO, OLD TAILOR, VERMIN, _and two more_.

GIO. Come, bullies, come; we must forsake the use of nimble shears, and now betake us to our Spanish needles, stiletto blades, and prove the proverb lies, lies in his throat: one tailor can erect sixteen, nay more, of upstart gentlemen, known by their clothes, and leave enough materials in h.e.l.l to d.a.m.n a broker.

O. TAI. We must to the wars, my boys.