Chapter XXIV: Act II: Scene I

_A Room in_ LADY AGER’S _House_.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN AGER.

CAP. AGER. The son of a whore?
There is not such another murdering-piece[718]
In all the stock of calumny; it kills
At one report two reputations,
A mother’s and a son’s. If it were possible
That souls could fight after the bodies fell,
This were a quarrel for 'em; he should be one, indeed,
That never heard of heaven’s joys or hell’s torments,
To fight this out: I am too full of conscience,
Knowledge, and patience, to give justice to’t;
So careful of my eternity, which consists
Of upright actions, that unless I knew
It were a truth I stood for, any coward
Might make my breast his foot-pace: and who lives
That can assure the truth of his conception,
More than a mother’s carriage makes it hopeful?
And is’t not miserable valour then,
That man should hazard all upon things doubtful?
O, there’s the cruelty of my foe’s advantage!
Could but my soul resolve my cause were just,
Earth’s mountain nor sea’s surge should hide him from
me!
E'en to hell’s threshold would I follow him,
And see the slanderer in before I left him!
But as it is, it fears[719] me; and I never
Appear’d too conscionably just till now.
My good opinion of her life and virtues
Bids me go on, and fain would I be rul’d by’t;
But when my judgment tells me she’s but woman,
Whose frailty[720] let in death to all mankind,
My valour shrinks at that. Certain, she’s good;
There only wants but my assurance in’t,
And all things then were perfect: how I thirst for’t!
Here comes the only she that could resolve[721]—
But ’tis too vild[722] a question to demand indeed.

_Enter_ LADY AGER.

LADY AGER. Son, I’ve a suit to you.
CAP. AGER. That may do well.— [_Aside._
To me, good madam? you’re most sure to speed in’t,
Be’t i’ my power to grant it.
LADY AGER. ’Tis my love
Makes the request, that you would never part
From England more.
CAP. AGER. With all my heart ’tis granted!—
I’m sure I’m i’ the way never to part from’t.
[_Aside._
LADY AGER. Where left you your dear friend the
Colonel?
CAP. AGER. O, the dear Colonel,—I should meet him
soon.
LADY AGER. O fail him not then! he’s a gentleman
The fame and reputation of your time
Is much engag’d to.
CAP. AGER. Yes, and[723] you knew all, mother.
LADY AGER. I thought I’d known so much of his fair
goodness,
More could not have been look’d for.
CAP. AGER. O, yes, yes, madam,
And this his last exceeded all the rest.
LADY AGER. For gratitude’s sake, let me know this, I
prithee!
CAP. AGER. Then thus; and I desire your censure[724]
freely,
Whether it appear’d not a strange noble kindness in him.
LADY AGER. Trust me, I long to hear’t.
CAP. AGER. You know he’s hasty,—
That by the way.
LADY AGER. So are the best conditions;[725]
Your father was the like.
CAP. AGER. I begin now
To doubt me more: why am not I so too then?
Blood follows blood through forty generations,
And I’ve a slow-pac’d wrath—a shrewd dilemma!

[_Aside._
LADY AGER. Well, as you were saying, sir——
CAP. AGER. Marry, thus, good madam:
There was in company a foul-mouth’d villain—
Stay, stay,
Who should I liken him to that you have seen?
He comes so near one that I would not match him with;
Faith, just a’ th’ Colonel’s pitch, he’s ne’er the worse
man;
Usurers have been compar’d to magistrates,
Extortioners to lawyers, and the like;
But they all prove ne’er the worse men for that.
LADY AGER. That’s bad enough; they need not.
CAP. AGER. This rude fellow,
A shame to all humanity or manners,
Breathes from the rottenness of his gall and malice
The foulest stain that ever man’s fame blemish’d;
Part of which fell upon your honour, madam,
Which heighten’d my affliction.
LADY AGER. Mine? my honour, sir?
CAP. AGER. The Colonel, soon enrag’d, as he’s all
touchwood,
Takes fire before me, makes the quarrel his,
Appoints the field; my wrath could not be heard,
His was so high-pitch’d, so gloriously mounted.
Now, what’s the friendly fear that fights within me,
Should his brave noble fury undertake
A cause that were unjust in our defence,
And so to lose him everlastingly
In that dark depth where all bad quarrels sink
Never to rise again, what pity 'twere
First to die here, and never to die there!
LADY AGER. Why, what’s the quarrel—speak, sir—that
should raise
Such fearful doubt, my honour bearing part on’t?
The words, whate’er they were.
CAP. AGER. Son of a whore!
LADY AGER. Thou liest! [_Strikes him._
And were my love ten thousand times more to thee,
Which is as much now as e’er mother’s was,
So thou should’st feel my anger. Dost thou call
That quarrel doubtful? where are all my merits?
Not one stand up to tell this man his error?
Thou might’st as well bring the sun’s truth in question
As thy birth or my honour!
CAP. AGER. Now blessings crown you for’t!
It is the joyfull’st blow that e’er flesh felt.
LADY AGER. Nay, stay, stay, sir; thou art not left so
soon;
This is no question to be slighted off,
And at your pleasure clos’d up fair again,
As though you’d never touch’d it: no, honour doubted
Is honour deeply wounded; and it rages
More than a common smart, being of thy making;
For thee to fear my truth, it kills my comfort:
Where should fame seek for her reward, when he
That is her own by the great tie of blood,
Is farthest off in bounty? O poor goodness!
That only pay’st thyself with thy own works,
For nothing else looks towards thee. Tell me, pray,
Which of my loving cares dost thou requite
With this vild[726] thought, which of my prayers or
wishes?
Many thou ow’st me for: this seven year hast thou known
me
A widow, only married to my vow;
That’s no small witness of my faith and love
To him that in life was thy honour’d father;
And live I now to know that good mistrusted?
CAP. AGER. No; 't shall appear that my belief is
cheerful,
For never was a mother’s reputation
Noblier defended: ’tis my joy and pride
I have a firm [faith] to bestow upon it.
LADY AGER. What’s that you said, sir?
CAP. AGER. 'Twere too bold and soon yet
To crave forgiveness of you; I’ll earn it first:
Dead or alive I know I shall enjoy it.
LADY AGER. What’s all this, sir?
CAP. AGER. My joy’s beyond expression!
I do but think how wretched I had been
Were this another’s quarrel, and not mine.
LADY AGER. Why, is it yours?
CAP. AGER. Mine? think me not so miserable,
Not to be mine; then were I worse than abject,
More to be loath’d than vileness or sin’s dunghill:
Nor did I fear your goodness, faithful madam,
But came with greedy joy to be confirm’d in’t,
To give the nobler onset. Then shines valour,
And admiration from her fix’d sphere draws,
When it comes burnish’d with a righteous cause;
Without which I’m ten fathoms under coward,
That now am ten degrees above a man,
Which is but one of virtue’s easiest wonders.
LADY AGER. But, pray, stay; all this while I
understood you.
The Colonel was the man.
CAP. AGER. Yes, he’s the man,
The man of injury, reproach, and slander,
Which I must turn into his soul again.
LADY AGER. The Colonel do’t? that’s strange!
CAP. AGER. The villain did it;
That’s not so strange:—your blessing and your leave.
LADY AGER. Come, come, you shall not go!
CAP. AGER. Not go? were death
Sent now to summon me to my eternity,
I’d put him off an hour; why, the whole world
Has not chains strong enough to bind me from’t:
The strongest is my reverence to you,
Which if you force upon me in this case,
I must be forc’d to break it.
LADY AGER. Stay, I say!
CAP. AGER. In any thing command me but in this, madam.
LADY AGER. 'Las, I shall lose him! [_Aside._]—
You will hear me first?
CAP. AGER. At my return I will.
LADY AGER. You’ll never hear me more, then.
CAP. AGER. How?
LADY AGER. Come back, I say!
You may well think there’s cause I call so often.
CAP. AGER. Ha, cause! what cause?
LADY AGER. So much, you must not go.
CAP. AGER. How?
LADY AGER. You must not go.
CAP. AGER. Must not? why?
LADY AGER. I know a reason for’t,
Which I could wish you’d yield to, and not know;
If not, it must come forth: faith, do not know,
And yet obey my will.
CAP. AGER. Why, I desire
To know no other than the cause I have,
Nor should you wish it, if you take your injury,
For one more great I know the world includes not.
LADY AGER. Yes, one that makes this nothing: yet be
rul’d,
And if you understand not, seek no further.
CAP. AGER. I must; for this is nothing.
LADY AGER. Then take all;
And if amongst it you receive that secret
That will offend you, though you condemn me,
Yet blame yourself a little; for, perhaps,
I would have made my reputation sound
Upon another’s hazard with less pity;
But upon yours I dare not.
CAP. AGER. How?
LADY AGER. I dare not:
'Twas your own seeking this.
CAP. AGER. If you mean evilly,
I cannot understand you; nor for all the riches
This life has, would I.
LADY AGER. Would you never might!
CAP. AGER. Why, your goodness, that I joy to fight
for.
LADY AGER. In that you neither right your joy nor me.
CAP. AGER. What an ill orator has virtue got here!
Why, shall I dare to think it a thing possible
That you were ever false?
LADY AGER. O, fearfully!
As much as you come to.
CAP. AGER. O silence, cover me!
I’ve felt a deadlier wound than man can give me.
False!
LADY AGER. I was betray’d to a most sinful hour
By a corrupted soul I put in trust once,
A kinswoman.
CAP. AGER. Where is she? let me pay her!
LADY AGER. O, dead long since!
CAP. AGER. Nay, then, sh’as all her wages.
False! do not say’t, for honour’s goodness, do not!
You never could be so. He I call’d father
Deserv’d you at your best, when youth and merit
Could boast at highest in you; y’had no grace
Or virtue that he match’d not, no delight
That you invented but he sent it crown’d
To your full-wishing soul.
LADY AGER. That heaps my guiltiness.
CAP. AGER. O, were you so unhappy to be false
Both to yourself and me? but to me chiefly.
What a day’s hope is here lost! and with it
The joys of a just cause! Had you but thought
On such a noble quarrel, you’d ha’ died
Ere you’d ha’ yielded; for the sin’s hate first,
Next for the shame of this hour’s cowardice.
Curst be the heat that lost me such a cause,
A work that I was made for! Quench, my spirit,
And out with honour’s flaming lights within thee!
Be dark and dead to all respects of manhood!
I never shall have use of valour more.
Put off your vow for shame! why should you hoard up
Such justice for a barren widowhood,
That was so injurious to the faith of wedlock?
[_Exit_ LADY AGER.
I should be dead, for all my life’s work’s ended;
I dare not fight a stroke now, nor engage
The noble resolution of my friends;

_Enter two Friends of_ CAPTAIN AGER.

That were more vild[727]—they’re here: kill me, my
shame!
I am not for the fellowship of honour. [_Aside._
FIRST FR. Captain! fie, come, sir! we’ve been seeking
for you
Very late to-day; this was not wont to be:
Your enemy’s i’ th’ field.
CAP. AGER. Truth enters cheerfully.
SEC. FR. Good faith, sir, you’ve a royal quarrel on’t.
CAP. AGER. Yes, in some other country, Spain or Italy,
It would be held so.
FIRST FR. How? and is’t not here so?
CAP. AGER. ’Tis not so contumeliously receiv’d
In these parts, and[728] you mark it.
FIRST FR. Not in these?
Why, prithee, what is more, or can be?
CAP. AGER. Yes;
That ordinary commotioner, the lie,
Is father of most quarrels in this climate,
And held here capital, and[728] you go to that.
SEC. FR. But, sir, I hope you will not go to that,
Or change your own for it: son of a whore!
Why, there’s the lie down to posterity,
The lie to birth, the lie to honesty.
Why would you cozen yourself so, and beguile
So brave a cause, manhood’s best masterpiece?
Do you e’er hope for one so brave again?
CAP. AGER. Consider then the man, [the] Colonel,
Exactly worthy, absolutely noble,
However spleen and rage abuses him;
And ’tis not well nor manly to pursue
A man’s infirmity.
FIRST FR. O miracle!
So hopeful, valiant, and complete a captain
Possess’d with a tame devil! Come out! thou spoilest
The most improv’d young soldier of seven kingdoms;
Made captain at nineteen; which was deserv’d
The year before, but honour comes behind still:
Come out, I say! This was not wont to be;
That spirit ne’er stood in need of provocation,
Nor shall it now: away, sir!
CAP. AGER. Urge me not.
FIRST FR. By manhood’s reverend honour, but we must!
CAP. AGER. I will not fight a stroke.
FIRST FR. O blasphemy
To sacred valour!
CAP. AGER. Lead me where you list.
FIRST FR. Pardon this traitorous slumber, clogg’d with
evils:
Give captains rather wives than such tame devils!
[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_A Room in_ RUSSELL’S _House_.

_Enter Physician and_ JANE.

PHY. Nay, mistress,[729] you must not be cover’d to me;
The patient must ope to the physician
All her dearest sorrows: art is blinded else,
And cannot shew her mystical effects.
JANE. Can art be so dim-sighted, learned sir?
I did not think her so incapacious.
You train me, as I guess, like a conjurer,
One of our fine[730] oraculous wizards,
Who, from the help of his examinant,
By the near guess of his suspicion,
Points[731] out the thief by the marks he tells him.
Have you no skill in physiognomy?
What colour, says your coat, is my disease?
I am unmarried, and it cannot be yellow;[732]
If it be maiden-green, you cannot miss it.
PHY. I cannot see that vacuum in your blood:
But, gentlewoman, if you love yourself,
Love my advice; be free and plain with me:
Where lies your grief?
JANE. Where lies my grief indeed?
I cannot tell the truth, where my grief lies,
But my joy is imprison’d.
PHY. This is mystical!
JANE. Lord, what plain questions you make problems of!
Your art is such a regular highway,
That put you out of it, and you are lost:
My heart’s imprison’d in my body, sir;
There is all my joy; and my sorrow too
Lies very near it.
PHY. They are bad adjuncts;
Your joy and grief, lying so near together,
Can propagate no happy issue: remove
The one, and let it be the worst—your grief—
If you’ll propose the best unto your joy.
JANE. Why, now comes your skill: what physic for it?
PHY. Now I have found you out; you are in love.
JANE. I think I am: what’s[733] your appliance now?
Can all your Paracelsian mixtures cure it?
'T must be a surgeon of the civil law,
I fear, that must cure me.
PHY. Gentlewoman,
If you knew well my heart, you would not be
So circular;[734] the very common name
Of physician might reprove your niceness;[735]
We are as secret as your confessors,
And as firm obliged; ’tis a fine like death
For us to blab.
JANE. I will trust you; yet, sir,
I’d rather do it by attorney to you;
I else have blushes that will stop my tongue:
Have you no friend so friendly as yourself,
Of mine own sex, to whom I might impart
My sorrows to you at the second hand?
PHY. Why, la, there I hit you! and be confirm’d
I’ll give you such a bosom-counsellor,
That your own tongue shall be sooner false to you.
Make yourself unready,[736] and be naked to her;
I’ll fetch her presently. [_Exit._
JANE. I must reveal;
My shame will else take tongue, and speak before me:
’Tis a necessity impulsive drives me.
O my hard fate, but my more hard father,
That father of my fate!—a father, said I?
What a strange paradox I run into!
I must accuse two fathers of my fate
And fault, a reciprocal generation:
The father of my fault would have repair’d
His faulty issue, but my fate’s father hinders it:
Then fate and fault, wherever I begin,
I must blame both, and yet ’twas love did sin.

_Re-enter Physician with_ ANNE.

PHY. Look you, mistress, here’s your closet; put in
What you please, you ever keep the key of it.
JANE. Let me speak private, sir.
PHY. With all my heart;
I will be more than mine ears’ length from you.
[_Retires._
JANE. You hold some endear’d place with this
gentleman?
ANNE. He is my brother, forsooth, I his creature;
He does command me any lawful office,
Either in act or counsel.
JANE. I must not doubt you;
Your brother has protested secrecy,
And strengthen’d me in you: I must lay ope
A guilty sorrow to you; I’m with child.
’Tis no black swan I shew you; these spots stick
Upon the face of many go for maids:
I that had face enough to do the deed,
Cannot want tongue to speak it; but ’tis to you,
Whom I accept my helper.
ANNE. Mistress, ’tis lock’d
Within a castle that’s invincible:
It is too late to wish it were undone.
JANE. I’ve scarce a wish within myself so strong,
For, understand me, ’tis not all so ill
As you may yet conceit it: this deed was done
When heaven had witness to the jugal[737] knot;
Only the barren ceremony wants,
Which by an adverse father is abridg’d.
ANNE. Would my pity could help you!
JANE. Your counsel may.
My father yet shoots widest from my sorrow,
And, with a care indulgent, seeing me chang’d
From what I was, sends for your good brother
To find my grief, and practise remedy:
You know it, give it him; but if a fourth
Be added to this counsel, I will say
Ye’re worse than you can call me at the worst,
At this advantage of my reputation.
ANNE. I will revive a reputation
That women long have[738] lost; I will keep counsel:
I’ll only now oblige my teeth to you,
And they shall bite the blabber, if it offer
To breathe on an offending syllable.
JANE. I trust you; go, whisper.[739] Here comes my
father.

_Enter_ RUSSELL, CHOUGH, _and_ TRIMTRAM.

RUS. Sir, you are welcome, more, and most welcome,
All the degrees of welcome; thrice welcome, sir!
CHOUGH. Is this your daughter, sir?
RUS. Mine only joy, sir.
CHOUGH. I’ll shew her the Cornish hug,[740] sir
[_embraces her_].—I have kissed you now, sweetheart,
and I never do any kindness to my friends but I
use to hit 'em in the teeth with it presently.
TRIM. My name is Trimtram, forsooth; look,
what my master does, I use to do the like.
[_Attempts to kiss_ ANNE.
ANNE. You are deceived, sir; I am not this
gentlewoman’s servant, to make your courtesy
equal.
CHOUGH. You do not know me, mistress?
JANE. No indeed.—I doubt I shall learn too soon.
[_Aside._
CHOUGH. My name is Chough, a Cornish gentleman;[741]
my man’s mine own countryman too, i’faith:
I warrant you took us for some of the small
islanders.
JANE. I did indeed, between the Scotch and Irish.
CHOUGH. Red-shanks?[742] I thought so, by my truth:
no, truly,
We are right Cornish diamonds.
TRIM. Yes, we cut
Out quarrels[743] and break glasses where we go.
PHY. If it be hidden from her father, yet
His ignorance understands well his knowledge,
For this I guess to be some rich coxcomb
He’d put upon his daughter.
ANNE. That’s plainly so.
PHY. Then only she’s beholding[744] to our help
For the close delivery of her burden,
Else all’s overthrown.
ANNE. And, pray, be faithful in that, sir.
PHY. Tush, we physicians are the truest
Alchemists, that from the ore and dross of sin
Can new distil a maidenhead again.
RUS. How do you like her, sir?
CHOUGH. Troth, I do like her, sir, in the way of
comparison, to any thing that a man would desire; I am
as high as the Mount[745] in love with her already, and
that’s as far as I can go by land; but I hope to go
further by water with her one day.
RUS. I tell you, sir, she has lost some colour
By wrestling with a peevish sickness now of late.
CHOUGH. Wrestle? nay, and[746] she love wrestling, I’ll
teach her a trick to overthrow any peevish sickness in
London, whate’er it be.
RUS. Well, she had a rich beauty, though I say’t;
Nor is it lost; a little thing repairs it.
CHOUGH. She shall command the best thing that I have
In Middlesex, i’faith.
RUS. Well, sir, talk with her;
Give her a relish of your good liking to her;
You shall have time and free
Access to finish what you now begin.
JANE. What means my father? my love’s unjust
restraint,
My shame, were it published, both together
Could not afflict me like this odious fool:
Now I see why he hated my Fitzallen. [_Aside._
CHOUGH. Sweet lady, your father says you are a wrestler:
if you love that sport, I love you the better: i’faith,
I love it as well as I love my meat after supper; ’tis
indeed meat, drink, and cloth to me.
JANE. Methinks it should tear your clothes, sir.
CHOUGH. Not a rag, i’faith.—Trimtram, hold my cloak.
[_Gives his cloak to_ TRIMTRAM.]—I’ll wrestle a fall
with you now; I’ll shew you a trick that you never saw
in your life.
JANE. O, good sir, forbear! I am no wrestler.
PHY. Good sir, take heed, you’ll hurt the gentlewoman.
CHOUGH. I will not catch beneath the waist, believe
it;
I know fair play.
JANE. ’Tis no woman’s exercise in London, sir.
CHOUGH. I’ll ne’er believe that: the hug and the lock
between man and woman, with a fair fall, is as sweet an
exercise for the body as you’ll desire in a summer’s
evening.
PHY. Sir, the gentlewoman is not well.
CHOUGH. It may be you are a physician, sir?
PHY. ’Tis so, sir.
CHOUGH. I say, then, and I’ll stand to’t, three ounces
of wrestling with two hips, a yard of a green gown put
together in the inturn, is as good a medicine for the
green sickness as ever breathed.
TRIM. Come, sir, take your cloak again; I see here will
be ne’er a match. [_Returns cloak._
JANE. A match?
I had rather be match’d from a musket’s mouth,
And shot unto my death. [_Aside._
CHOUGH. I’ll wrestle with any man for a good supper.
TRIM. Ay, marry, sir, I’ll take your part there, catch
that catch may.
PHY. Sir, she is willing to’t: there at my house
She shall be private, and near to my attendance:
I know you’ll[747] not mistrust my faithful care;
I shall return her soon and perfectly.
RUS. Take your charge, sir.—Go with this gentleman,
Jane;
But, prithee, look well this way ere thou go’st;
’Tis a rich simplicity of great estate,
A thing that will be rul’d, and thou shalt rule;
Consider of your sex’s general aim,
That domination is a woman’s heaven.
JANE. I’ll think on’t, sir.
RUS. My daughter is retiring, sir.
CHOUGH. I will part at Dartmouth with her, sir. [_Kisses
her._]—O that thou didst but love wrestling! I would
give any man three foils on that condition!
TRIM. There’s three sorts of men that would thank you
for 'em, either cutlers, fencers, or players.
RUS. Sir, as I began I end,—wondrous welcome!
[_Exeunt all except_ CHOUGH _and_ TRIMTRAM.

TRIM. What, will you go to school to-day? you are
entered, you know, and your quarterage runs on.
CHOUGH. What, to the roaring school?[748] pox on’t, ’tis
such a damnable noise, I shall never attain it neither.
I do wonder they have never a wrestling school; that
were worth twenty of your fencing or dancing schools.
TRIM. Well, you must learn to roar here in London;
you’ll never proceed in the reputation of gallantry
else.
CHOUGH. How long has roaring been an exercise, thinkest
thou, Trimtram?
TRIM. Ever since guns came up; the first was your
roaring Meg.[749]
CHOUGH. Meg? then ’twas a woman was the first roarer?
TRIM. Ay, a fire of her touch-hole, that cost many a
proper man’s life since that time; and then the lions,
they learnt it from the guns, living so near 'em;[750]
then it was heard to the Bankside, and the bears[751]
they began to roar; then the boys got it, and so ever
since there have been a company of roaring boys.
CHOUGH. And how long will it last, thinkest thou?
TRIM. As long as the water runs under London Bridge, or
watermen [ply] at Westminster stairs.
CHOUGH. Well, I will begin to roar too, since it is in
fashion. O Corineus, this was not in thy time! I should
have heard on’t by the tradition of mine ancestors—for
I’m sure there were Choughs in thy days—if it had been
so: when Hercules and thou[752] wert on the Olympic
Mount together, then was wrestling in request.
TRIM. Ay, and that Mount is now the Mount in Cornwall:
Corineus brought it thither under one of his arms, they
say.
CHOUGH. O Corineus, my predecessor, that I had but lived
in those days to see thee wrestle! on that condition I
had died seven year ago.
TRIM. Nay, it should have been a dozen at least,
i’faith, on that condition.
[_Exeunt._