SCENE II.

_A street._

_Enter_ SANDFIELD, PHILIP TWILIGHT, _and_ SAVOURWIT.

PHIL. If thou talk’st longer, I shall turn to marble, And death will stop my hearing. SAND. Horrible fortune! SAV. Nay, sir, our building is so far defac’d, There is no stuff left to raise up a hope. PHIL. O, with more patience could my flesh endure A score of wounds, and all their several searchings, Than this that thou hast told me! SAV. Would that Flemish ram Had ne’er come near our house! there’s no going home As long as he has a nest there, and his young one, A little Flanders egg new fledg’d: they gape For pork, and I shall be made meat for ’em. PHIL. ’Tis not the bare news of my mother’s life— May she live long and happy!—that afflicts me With half the violence that the latter draws; Though in that news I have my share of grief, As I had share of sin and a foul neglect; It is my love’s betraying, that’s the sting That strikes through flesh and spirit; and sense nor wit From thee, in whom I ne’er saw ebb till now, Nor comforts from a faithful friend can ease me; I’ll try the goodness of a third companion, What he’ll do for me. [_Drawing his sword._ SAND. Hold! why, friend—— SAV. Why, master, is this all your kindness, sir? offer to steal into another country, and ne’er take your leave on’s? troth, I take it unkindly at your hands, sir; but I’ll put it up for once. [_Sheathing_ PHILIP’S _sword_.] Faith, there was no conscience in this, sir; leave me here to endure all weathers, whilst you make your soul dance like a juggler’s egg upon the point of a rapier! By my troth, sir, you’re to blame in’t; you might have given us an inkling of your journey; perhaps others would as fain have gone as you. PHIL. Burns this clay-lamp of miserable life, When joy, the oil that feeds it, is dried up?

_Enter_ LADY TWILIGHT, BEVERIL, _and Servants_.

L. TWI. He has remov’d his house. BEV. So it seems, madam. L. TWI. I’ll ask that gentleman.—Pray, can you tell me, sir, Which is sir Oliver Twilight’s? PHIL. Few can better, gentlewoman; It is the next fair house your eye can fix on. L. TWI. I thank you, sir.—Go on. [_Exeunt Servants._]— He had a son About some ten years since. PHIL. That son still lives. L. TWI. I pray, how does he, sir? PHIL. Faith, much about my health,—that’s never worse.— [_Aside._ If you have any business to him, gentlewoman, I can cut short your journey to the house; I’m all that ever was of the same kind. L. TWI. [_embracing him_] O, my sweet son! never fell fresher joy Upon the heart of mother!—This is he, sir. BEV. My seven-years’ travel has e’en worn him out Of my remembrance. SAV. O, this gear’s worse and worse! [_Aside._ PHIL. I am so wonder-struck at your blest presence, That, through amaz’d joy, I neglect my duty. [_Kneels._ L. TWI. [raising him] Rise, and a thousand blessings spring up with thee! SAV. I would we had but one in the meantime; Let the rest grow at leisure. [_Aside._ L. TWI. But know you not this gentleman yet, son? PHIL. I take it’s master Beveril. BEV. My name’s Beveril, sir. PHIL. Right welcome to my bosom! [_Embracing him._ L. TWI. You’d not think, son, How much I am beholding[76] to this gentleman, As far as freedom; he laid out the ransom, Finding me so distress’d. PHIL. ’Twas worthily done, sir, And I shall ever rest your servant for’t. BEV. You quite forget your worth: ’twas my good hap, sir, To return home that way, after some travels; Where, finding your good mother so distress’d, I could not but in pity see her releas’d. PHIL. It was a noble charity, sir; heaven quit[77] you! SAV. It comes at last! [_Aside._ BEV. I left a sister here, New married when I last took leave of England. PHIL. O, mistress Low-water. BEV. Pray, sir, how does she? PHIL. So little comfort I can give you, sir, That I would fain excuse myself for silence. BEV. Why, what’s the worst, sir? PHIL. Wrongs have[78] made her poor. BEV. You strike my heart: alas, good gentlewoman! PHIL. Here’s a gentleman— You know him—master Sandfield— BEV. I crave pardon, sir. PHIL. He can resolve[79] you from her kinswoman. SAND. Welcome to England, madam! LADY TWI. Thanks, good sir. PHIL. Now there’s no way to ’scape, I’m compass’d round; My shame is like a prisoner set with halberds. SAV. Pish, master, master, ’tis young flood again, And you can take your time now; away, quick! PHIL. Push,[80] thou’st a swimming head. SAV. Will you but hear me? When did you lose your tide when I set forth with you? PHIL. That’s true. SAV. Regard me then, though you’ve no feeling; I would not hang by the thumbs with a good will. PHIL. I hang by th’ heart, sir, and would fain have ease. SAV. Then this or none: fly to your mother’s pity, For that’s the court must help you; you’re quite gone At common law, no counsellor can hear you; Confess your follies, and ask pardon for ’em; Tell her the state of all things, stand not nicely; The meat’s too hard To be minc’d now, she breeds young bones by this time; Deal plainly, heaven will bless thee; turn out all, And shake your pockets after it; beg, weep, Kneel, any thing, it will break no bones, man: Let her not rest, take breathing time, nor leave thee, Till thou hast got her help. PHIL. Lad, I conceive thee. SAV. About it, then; it requires haste—do’t well; There’s but a short street between us and hell. BEV. Ah, my poor sister! L. TWI. ’Las, good gentlewoman! My heart even weeps for her.—Ay, son, we’ll go now. PHIL. May I crave one word, madam? [_Staying_ LADY TWILIGHT.[81] L. TWI. With me, son? The more, the better welcome. SAV. Now, now, luck! I pray not often; the last prayer I made Was nine-year old last Bartholomew-tide; ’twould have been A jolly chopper and[82] ’t had liv’d till this time. L. TWI. Why do your words start back? are they afraid Of her that ever lov’d them? PHIL. I’ve a suit to you, madam. L. TWI. You’ve told me that already; pray, what is’t? If’t be so great, my present state refuse it, I shall be abler, then command and use it; Whate’er ’t be, let me have warning, to provide for’t. PHIL. [_kneels_] Provide forgiveness then, for that’s the want My conscience feels. O, my wild youth has led me Into unnatural wrongs against your freedom once! I spent the ransom which my father sent, To set my pleasures free, while you lay captive. SAV. He does it finely, faith. [_Aside._ L. TWI. And is this all now? You use me like a stranger; pray, stand up. PHIL. Rather fall flat; I shall deserve yet worse. L. TWI. [_raising_ PHILIP] Whate’er your faults are, esteem me still a friend, Or else you wrong me more in asking pardon Than when you did the wrong you ask’d it for; And since you have prepar’d me to forgive you, Pray, let me know for what; the first fault’s nothing. SAV. ’Tis a sweet lady every inch of her! [_Aside._ PHIL. Here comes the wrong then that drives home the rest: I saw a face at Antwerp that quite drew me From conscience and obedience; in that fray I lost my heart, I must needs lose my way; There went the ransom, to redeem my mind; ’Stead of the money, I brought over her; And to cast mists before my father’s eyes, Told him it was my sister, lost so long, And that yourself was dead: you see the wrong. L. TWI. This is but youthful still.—O, that word _sister_ Afflicts me when I think on’t!—I forgive thee As freely as thou didst it; for, alas, This may be call’d good dealing to[83] some parts That love and youth play[84] daily among sons. SAV. She helps our knavery well, that’s one good comfort. [_Aside._ PHIL. But such is the hard plight my state lives in, That ’twixt forgiveness I must sin again, And seek my help where I bestow’d my wrongs: O mother, pity once, though against reason, ’Cause I can merit none; though my wrongs grieve ye,[85] Yet let it be your glory to relieve me! L. TWI. Wherein have I given cause yet of mistrust, That you should doubt my succour and my love? Shew me but in what kind I may bestow ’em. PHIL. There came a Dutchman with report this day That you were living. L. TWI. Came he so lately? PHIL. Yes, madam; Which news so struck my father on the sudden, That he grows jealous[86] of my faith in both: These five hours have I kept me from his sight, And wish’d myself eternally so hid; And surely, had not your blest presence quicken’d The flame of life in me, all had gone out. Now, to confirm me to his trust again, And settle much aright in his opinion, Say but she is my sister, and all’s well. L. TWI. You ask devotion[87] like a bashful beggar, That pure need urges, and not lazy impudence; And to express how glad I am to pity you, My bounty shall flow over your demand; I will not only with a constant breath Approve[88] that, but excuse thee for my death. SAV. Why, here’s A woman made as a man would wish to have her! [_Aside._ PHIL. O, I am plac’d higher in happiness Than whence I fell before! SAV. We’re brave fellows once again, and[89] we can keep our own: Now hoffte toffte, our pipes play as loftily! [_Aside._ BEV. My sister fled! SAND. Both fled, that’s the news now: want must obey; Oppressions came so thick, they could not stay. BEV. Mean are my fortunes, yet, had I been nigh, Distress nor wrong should have made virtue fly. L. TWI. Spoke like a brother, worthy such a sister! BEV. Grief’s like a new wound, heat beguiles the sense, For I shall feel this smart more three days hence. Come, madam, sorrow’s rude, and forgets manners. [_Exeunt all except_ SAVOURWIT. SAV. Our knavery is for all the world like a shifting bankrupt; it breaks in one place, and sets up in another: he tries all trades, from a goldsmith to a tobacco-seller; we try all shifts, from an outlaw to a flatterer: he cozens the husband, and compounds with the widow; we cozen my master, and compound with my mistress: only here I turn o’ the right hand from him,— he is known to live like a rascal, when I am thought to live like a gentleman. [_Exit._