ACT II., SCENE I.

_Enter +Sanmartino+, +Captain+, +Soldier+, and +Browfildora+._

+Capt.+ Come on, you Atlases of Arragon: You by whose powers the Castilian cloud Was forc'd to vanish. We have ferk'd Florentio In the right arm; made the enamour'd Don Retire to doleful tent.

+San.+ We sallied bravely.

+Capt.+ Thou didst i' th' sally fight like lightning, Conde; Let the air play with thy plume, most puissant peer. No Conde Sanmartino now, but Conde St George, that Cappadocian man-at-arms. Thou hast done wonders, wonders big with story, Fit to be sung in lofty epic strain; For writing which the poet shall behold, That which creates a Conde, gold; gold which Shall make him wanton with some suburb muse, And Hippocrene flow with Canary billow. Th' art high in feat of arms.

+San.+ Captain, I think I did my part.

+Capt.+ Base is the wight that thinks:[275] Let Condes small in spirit drink harsh sherry, Then quarrel with promoting knights, and fine for't: Thou art in mettle mighty, tough as steel, As Bilboa or Toledo steel. Fight on, Let acres sink, and bank of money melt; Forsake thy lady's lap, and sleep with us Upon the bed of honour, the chill earth. 'Tis that will make thee held a potent peer, 'Mong men o' th' pike, of buff, and bandolier.

+San.+ Thou speak'st brave language, captain.

+Capt.+ I'll maintain 'Tis Arragonian, Conde.

+Brow.+ Captain Cedar, Though in thy language lofty, give a shrub Leave to salute thee. Sure, we two are near In blood and great attempt. Don Hercules Was, as I read in Chaldean chronicle, Our common ancestor; Don Hercules, Who rifled nymph on top of Apennine.

+Capt.+ Small imp, avaunt!

+Brow.+ Stout sturdy oak, that grows So high in field of Mars, O, let no tempest Shake thee from hence! And now I have with labour Attain'd thy language, I'll thy truchman[276] be. Interpret for thee to those smaller souls, Who wonder when they understand not: souls Whom courtiers' gaudy outside captivates And plume of coronel.

+Capt.+ I must expire, Not talk to fish. Seest thou that man of match? Though small in stature, mighty he's in soul, And rich in gifts of mind, though poor in robes: Reward, like Philip's heir, his daring arm, Which fetch'd thee off from danger. Once again, Most doughty Don, adieu.

+Brow.+ Great Don Saltpetre, I am the servant of thy fam'd caliver.

+San.+ These are strong lines. Now, friend, art thou o' th' garrison?

+Sol.+ If't please your lordship.

+San.+ It doth not please me, It is indifferent: I care not what thou art. Art thou extremely poor?

+Sol.+ If't please your lordship.

+San.+ No, not that neither. Why should I malign So far thy fortune as to wish thee poor? 'Twere safer for my purse if thou wert rich; Then all reward were base.

+Sol.+ If't please your lordship.

+San.+ O, no more prologue! Prythee, the first scene: To the business, man.

+Sol.+ Then I must tell your lordship, I scorn that wealth makes you thus wanton, and That wit which fools you. Did the royal favour Shine but on you, without enlarging warmth To any other, I in this torn outside Should laugh at you, if insolent.

+San.+ This is saucy.

+Sol.+ I tell thee, petulant lord, I'll cut thy throat, Unless thou learn more honour.

+San.+ What shall I do?

_Enter +Floriana+ and +Cleantha+._

But see Cleantha! Not to be made Grandee, Would I she should discover me in parley With such coarse clothes. There, fellow, take that gold, And let me see thy face no more. Away!

+Sol.+ There 'tis again. I will not owe one hour

[_Throws back the money._

Of mirth to such a bounty: I can starve At easier rate, than live beholden to The boast of any giver. Lord! I scorn Thee, and that gold which first created thee. [_Exit +Soldier+._

+Flo.+ That soldier seem'd to carry anger in His look, my lord.

+San.+ What should his anger move me?

+Cle.+ O no, my lord: the world speaks wonders of Your mighty puissance.

+Flo.+ 'Tis my joy y'are safe. But why adventured you into this quarrel?[277]

+Cle.+ The queen will hardly thank your valour, since They of Castile profess'd themselves her soldiers.

+San.+ The queen must pardon courage; men who are Of daring spirit, so they may but fight, Examine not the cause.

+Flo.+ She doth expect us. [_Exit._

+Cle.+ I will attend her here, for here she gives Decastro audience. I must not lose This lord yet, it so near concerns my mirth.

+San.+ Madam, I wonder with what confidence You, after such an injury, dare endanger Discourse with me.

+Cle.+ I injure you, my lord, Whose favour I have courted with more zeal Than well my sex can warrant; triumph not Too much upon my weakness, 'cause you have Got victory o'er my heart; take not delight To make my grief your sport.

+San.+ Be witty still, And keep me for a trophy of your pride. I hope to see that beauty at an ebb; Where will be then your overflow of servants? You'll then repent your pride.

+Cle.+ O never, never; If you'll particularise your vows to me-- You, who to th' title of the courtly lord Have added that of valiant; and beshrew me, She's no good housewife of her fame that wants A daring servant.

+San.+ This perhaps may work. [_Aside._

+Cle.+ If she live single, he preserves her name, And scarce admits a whisper that the jealous May construe points at her; and if she marry, He awes the husband, if by chance or weakness She have offended.

+San.+ This cannot be fiction. [_Aside._

+Cle.+ Then, if she use but civil compliment To a courtier bachelor, he straight bespeaks The licence and the favours, and calls in Some wit into his counsel for the poesy; While I feel no temptation to such folly But with a married lord.

+San.+ How, gentle madam?

+Cle.+ Our walks are privileg'd, our whispers safe, No fear of laying contracts to my charge, Nor much of scandal: and if there be cause, Who is so fond a gamester of his life, As merely out of spleen to stake it? But, My lord, I now suspect you constru'd ill That language I used to your lady, when I told her of your love: but I presume You were not so dull-sighted as in that Not to discern the best disguise for love.

+San.+ What a suspicious ass was I! How captious! I ne'er mistrusted my own wit before. Mischief, how dull was I!

+Cle.+ Pray turn your face Away. Now know, when worth and valour are Led on by love, to win my favour. But-- The queen!

_Enter +Queen+, +Decastro+, +Ossuna+, +Floriana+, &c._

+San.+ Divine Cleantha! Noblest lady!

+Dec.+ Ossuna, let me beg thy care: though we Bravely repuls'd the enemy, they seem To threaten a new assault.

+Oss.+ Command your servant.

+Dec.+ Bear then a vigilant eye, and by your scouts Learn if they any new attempt prepare. [_Exit +Ossuna+._ May't please your majesty, command these many Ears from your presence.

+Queen.+ Good my lord, you who Have power to guide your queen, may make our presence Or full or empty, as you please.

+Dec.+ Then with Your licence, madam, they may all withdraw.

+Queen.+ Not with our licence. If your usurped greatness Will banish all attendance from our person, I must remain alone; but not a man Stir hence with our good liking.

+Dec.+ If your will (Averse from sober counsel) would submit To safe advice----

+Queen.+ You have instructed it To more obedience than I guess my birth Did e'er intend. But pray, my lord, teach me To know my fault, and I will find amendment, If not repentance, for it.

+Dec.+ Then, great madam, I must acquaint you that the supreme law Of princes is the people's safety, which You have infring'd, and drawn thereby into The inward parts of this great state a most Contagious fever.

+Queen.+ Pray, no metaphor.

+Dec.+ You have invited war to interrupt, With its rude noise, the music of our peace: A foreign enemy gathers the fruit The sweat and labour of your subjects planted: In the cool shadow of the vine we prun'd He wantonly lies down, and roughly bids The owner press the grape, that with the juice His blood may swell up to lascivious heats.

+Queen.+ My lord, I answer not th' effects of war; But I must pay Castile all thankful service For his fair charity.

+Dec.+ Do you then, madam, Reckon on mischief as a charity?

+Queen.+ Yes, such a mischief as is merciful, And I a queen oppress'd. But how dares he, Whose duty ought with reverence obey, And not dispute the counsels of his princess, Question my actions? Whence, my lord, springs this Ill-tutor'd privilege?

+Dec.+ From the zeal I owe The honour of our nation, over which Kings rule but at the courtesy of time.

+Queen.+ You are too bold; and I must tell your pride, It swells to insolence: for, were your nature Not hood-wink'd by your interest, you would praise The virtue of his courage, who took arms To an injur'd lady's rescue.

+Dec.+ 'Twas ambition, Greedy to make advantage of that breach Between you and your people, arm'd Castile. Unpitied else you might have wept away The hours of your restraint.

+Queen.+ Poor erring man! Could thy arts raise a tempest blacker yet, Such as would fright thyself, it could not for One moment cloud the splendour of my soul, Misfortune may benight the wicked; she, Who knows no guilt, can sink beneath no fear.

+Dec.+ Your majesty mistakes the humble aim Of my address. I come not to disturb Th' harmonious calm your soul enjoys: may pleasure Live there enthron'd, till you yourself shall woo Death to enlarge it! May felicities, Great as th' ideas of philosophy, Wait still on your delight! May fate conspire To make you rich and envied!

+Queen.+ Pray, my lord, Explain the riddle. By the cadence of Your language, I could guess you have intents Far gentler than your actions.

+Dec.+ If your care, Great madam, would convey into your heart The story of my love: my love, a flame----

+Queen.+ Leave off this history of love and flame, And honestly confess your fears, my lord, Lest Castile should correct you.

+Dec.+ Correct me! No, madam, I have forc'd them t' a retreat, And given my fine young general cause to wish He had not left his amorous attempts On ladies to assault our city.

+Queen.+ But he is not wounded?

+Dec.+ Not to death, perhaps; But certainly w' have open'd him a vein, Will cure the fever of his blood.

+Queen.+ O, stay!

+Dec.+ Torment! And doth she weep? I might have fall'n Down from some murdering precipice to dust, And miss'd the mercy of one tear, though it Would have redeem'd me back to life again. Accurs'd be that felicity that must Depend on woman's passion. [_Aside._

+Queen.+ [_Solil._] Florentio! If in my quarrel thou too suddenly Art lost i' th' shades of death, O, let me find The holy vault where thy pale earth must lie, There will I grow and wither.

+Dec.+ This is strange! My heart swells much too big to be kept in. [_Aside._

+Queen.+ [_Solil._] But if that providence, which rules the world, Hath, to preserve the stock of virtue, kept Thee yet alive----

+Dec.+ And what, if yet alive? Pray, recollect your reason, and consider My long and faithful service to your crown; The fame of my progenitors, and that Devotion the whole kingdom bears me. How Hath nature punish'd me, that, bringing all The strength of argument to force your judgment, I cannot move your love?

+Queen.+ My lord, you plead With so much arrogance, and tell a story So gallant for yourself, as if I were Exposed a prize to the cunning'st orator.

+Dec.+ No, madam, humbler far than the tann'd slave Tied to th' oar, I here throw down myself [_Kneels._ And all my victories. Dispose of me To death; for what hath life merits esteem? What tie, alas! can I have to the world, Since you disdain my love?

+Flo.+ Will you permit The general kneel so long?

+Queen.+ Fear not, Floriana; My lord knows how to rise, though I should strive To hinder it.

+Dec.+ Here, statue-like, I'll fix For ever, till your pity (for your love I must despair) enforce a life within me.

_Alarum, and enter +Ossuna+._

+Oss.+ O my lord! To arms, to arms! The enemy, encouraged By a strange leader, wheel'd about the town, And desperately surpris'd the careless guard. One gate's already theirs.

+Dec.+ Have I your licence?

+Queen.+ To augment your own command, and keep me still An humble captive.

+Dec.+ Madam, your disdain Distracts me more than all th' assaults of fortune!

[_Exeunt all but the +Queen+, +Floriana+, and +Cleantha+._

+Queen.+ My fate, O, whither dost thou lead me? Why Is my youth destin'd to the storms of war? What is my crime, you heavenly Powers, that it Must challenge blood for expiation?

+Cle.+ Madam!

+Queen.+ Fortune! O cruel! for, which side soe'er Is lost, I suffer; either in my people Or slaughter of my friends. No victory Can now come welcome: the best chance of war Makes me howe'er a mourner.

+Cle.+ Madam, you Have lost your virtue, which so often vow'd A clear aspèct, what cloud soever darken'd Your present glory.

+Queen.+ I had [such] thoughts, Cleantha; But they are vanish'd. What shall we invent To take off fear and trouble from this hour? Poor Floriana, thou art trembling now With thought of wounds and death, to which the courage Of thy fierce husband, like a headstrong jade, May run away with him. But clear thy sorrows: If he fall in this quarrel, thou shalt have Thy choice 'mong the Castilian lords; and (give My judgment faith) there be brave men among them.

+Flo.+ Madam, I have vowed my life to a cloister, Should I survive my lord.

+Queen.+ And thou art fearful Thou shalt be forc'd to make thy promise good! Alas, poor soul! enclosure and coarse diet, Much discipline and early prayer, will ill Agree with thy complexion. There's Cleantha, She hath a heart so wean'd from vanity, To her a nunnery would be a palace.

+Cle.+ Yes, if your majesty were abbess, madam: But cloister up the fine young lords with us, And ring us up each midnight to a masque, Instead of matins, and I stand prepar'd To be profess'd without probation. [_Drum beats._

+Flo.+ Hark! what noise is that?

+Queen.+ 'Tis that of death and mischief. My griefs! but I'll dissemble them [_Aside._]--Yet why, Cleantha, being the sole beauteous idol Of all the superstitious youth at court, Remain'st thou yet unmarried?

+Cle.+ Madam, I Have many servants, but not one so valiant, As dares attempt to marry me.

+Queen.+ There's not a wit, but under some feign'd name Implores thy beauty: sleep cannot close up Thy eyes, but the sad world benighted is, Or else their sonnets are apocryphal: And when thou wak'st, the lark salutes the day, Breaking from the bright east of thy fair eyes. And if 'mong thy admirers there be some Poor drossy brain, who cannot rhyme thy praise, He wooes in sorry prose.

_Enter +Servant+._

+Ser.+ Half of the city Already is possess'd by th' enemy! Our soldiers fly from the assailants, who With moderation use their victory. So far from drawing blood, th' abstain from spoil.

+Queen.+ My comforts now grow charitable. This Is the first dawning of some happier fortune. [_Aside._

+Flo.+ Where did you leave my lord?

+Ser.+ Retiring hither.

+Queen.+ And your good nature will in time, Cleantha, Believe all flattery for truth.

+Cle.+ In time I shall not: but for the present, madam, give Leave to my youth to think I may be prais'd, And merit it. Hereafter, when I shall Owe art my beauty, I shall grow perhaps Suspicious there's small faith in poetry.

+Queen.+ Can'st thou think of hereafter? Poor Cleantha! Hereafter is that time th' art bound to pray Against: hereafter is that enemy That without mercy will destroy thy face; And what's a lady then?

+Cle.+ A wretched thing! A very wretched thing! So scorn'd and poor, 'Twill scarce deserve man's pity; and I'm sure No arms can e'er relieve it.

+Queen.+ Floriana, You yield too much to fear: misfortune brings Sorrow enough; 'tis envy[278] to ourselves T' augment it by prediction.

_Enter +Sanmartino+._

+Cle.+ See, your lord!

+San.+ Fly, madam, fly! The army of Castile, Conducted by an unknown leader, masters The town. Decastro, yielding up his fate To the prevailing enemy, is fled.

+Cle.+ And shall the queen fly from her friends, my lord?

+San.+ You have reason, madam. I begin to find Which way the gale of favour now will blow. I will address to the most fortunate. [_Exit +Sanmartino+._

+Queen.+ Some music, there! my thoughts grow full of trouble. I'll re-collect them.

+Cle.+ May it please you, madam, To hear a song presented me this morning?

+Queen.+ Play anything.

SONG.[279]

_Not the Phœnix in his death, Nor those banks, where violets grow, And Arabian winds still blow, Yield a perfume like her breath. But O! marriage makes the spell: And 'tis poison, if I smell._

_The twin-beauties of the skies (When the half-sunk sailors haste To rend sail, and cut their mast), Shine not welcome as her eyes. But those beams, than storms more black, If they point at me, I wrack._

_Then, for fear of such a fire, Which kills worse than the long night Which benumbs the Muscovite, I must from my life retire. But, O no! For, if her eye Warm me not, I freeze and die._

_During the song [the +Queen+ falls into a slumber, and] enter +Ascanio+, +Lerma+, +Sanmartino+, &c._

+Asc.+ Cease the uncivil murmur of the drum! Nothing sound now, but gentle; such as may not Disturb her quiet ear. Are you sure, Lerma, Th' obedient soldier hath put up his sword?

+Ler.+ The citizen and soldier gratulate Each other, as divided friends new meeting: Nor is there execution done, but in pursuit Of th' enemy without the walls.

+Asc.+ 'Tis very well. My lord, is that your queen?

+San.+ It is the queen, sir.

+Asc.+ Temper'd like the orbs Which, while we mortals weary life in battle, Move with perpetual harmony. No fear Eclipseth the bright lustre of her cheek, While we, who (infants) were swath'd up in steel, And in our cradle lull'd asleep by th' cannon, Grow pale at danger.

+San.+ I'll acquaint her, sir, That you attend here.

+Asc.+ Not for a diamond Big as our Apennine. She's heavenly fair; And, had not nature plac'd her in a throne, Her beauty yet bears so much majesty, It would have forc'd the world to throw itself A captive at her feet. [_The +Queen+ wakes._] But see, she moves! I feel a flame within me, which doth burn Too near my heart; and 'tis the first that ever Did scorch me there.

+San.+ Madam, here's that brave soldier Which reinforc'd the army of Castile: His name as yet unknown.

+Asc.+ And must be so. Nor did I merit name before this hour In which I serve your majesty. Enjoy The fortune of my sword, your liberty; And, since your rebel subjects have denied Obedience, here receive it from us strangers.

+Queen.+ I know not, sir, to whom I owe the debt, But find how much I stand oblig'd.

+Asc.+ You owe it To your own virtue, madam, and that care Heaven had to keep part of itself on earth Unruin'd. When I saw the soldier fly, Sent hither from Castile to force your rescue, Their general hurt almost to death, I urg'd Them with the memory of their former deeds, Deeds famed in war; and so far had my voice (Speaking your name) power to confirm their spirits, That they return'd with a brave fury, and Yield you up now your humbled[280] Arragon.

+Queen.+ My ignorance doth still perplex me more: And to owe thanks, yet not to know to whom, Nor how to express a gratitude, will cloud The glory of your victory, and make Me miserable however.

+Asc.+ I must penance My blood with absence, for it boils too high. [_Aside._ When we have order'd your affairs, my name Shall take an honour from your knowledge, madam.

+Queen.+ You have corrected me. Sir, we'll expect The hour yourself shall name, when we may serve.

+Asc.+ I'm conquer'd in my victory! But I'll try A new assault, and overcome or die. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[275] A sort of parody on the exclamation of Pistol in "Henry V.," act ii. sc. 1--

"Base is the slave that pays!"

Mr Steevens, in a note on the passage, points out a similar expression in Heywood's "Fair Maid of the West."--_Collier._

[276] _i.e._, Thine interpreter. _Trucheman_, Fr. See Cotgrave.--_Steevens._

The word is not very common in our old writers, but it is found [in two or three plays printed in the present series, and] in a passage quoted in "England's Parnassus," 1600, [from Greene's "Menaphone," 1589]--

"Seld speaketh love, but sighes his secret paines; Teares are his _truch-men_; words do make him tremble."

Again, in Whetstone's "Heptameron," 1582: "For he that is the _Troucheman_ of a stranger's tongue may well declare his meaning, but yet shall marre the grace of his tale."--_Collier._

[In "England's Parnasaus," 1600, is the following line from James I.'s "Essayes of a Prentise," 1584--

"Dame Nature's trunchmen, heavens interprets true;"

and Park, in his reprint of the book, not knowing the meaning of _trouchman_, supposed _trunchman_ to be misprinted for _trenchman_.]

[277] This question, by an error of the press, Dodsley and Reed both allowed to be given to Florentio.--_Collier._

[278] [Spite, hatred.]

[279] In the old folio, 1640, this song, and another song in act iv., are, as was not unusual at the time, appended at the conclusion of the play. They are here inserted in their right places.--_Collier._

[280] [Old copy, _your own humbled_.]