SCENE III.--_A Country Road_.

_Enter_ Mistress Frankford, _with_ Jenkin, Cicely, _a_ Coachman, _and three_ Carters.

Mistress Frankford. Bid my coach stay: why should I ride in state, Being hurled so low down by the hand of fate? A seat like to my fortunes let me have; Earth for my chair, and for my bed a grave.

Jenkin. Comfort, good mistress; you have watered your coach with tears already: you have but two mile now to go to your manor. A man cannot say by my old master Frankford as he may say by me, that he wants manors;[1.45] for he hath three or four, of which this is one that we are going to now.

Cicely. Good mistress, be of good cheer; sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you not: we all mourn to see you so sad.

Carter. Mistress, I spy one of my landlord’s men Come riding post: ’tis like he brings some news.

Mistress Frankford. Comes he from Master Frankford, he is welcome; So are his news because they come from him.

_Enter_ Nicholas.

Nicholas. [_Presenting lute_.] There.

Mistress Frankford. I know the lute; oft have I sung to thee: We both are out of tune, both out of time.

Nicholas. Would that had been the worst instrument that e’er you played on. My master commends him to ye; there’s all he can find that was ever yours: he hath nothing left that ever you could lay claim to but his own heart, and he could afford you that. All that I have to deliver you is this: he prays you to forget him, and so he bids you farewell.

Mistress Frankford. I thank him: he is kind, and ever was. All you that have true feeling of my grief, That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, Gird me about, and help me with your tears To wash my spotted sins: my lute shall groan; It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan.

_Enter_ Wendoll.

Wendoll.[1.46] Pursued with horror of a guilty soul, And with the sharp scourge of repentance lashed, I fly from my own shadow. O my stars! What have my parents in their lives deserved, That you should lay this penance on their son? When I but think of Master Frankford’s love, And lay it to my treason, or compare My murdering him for his relieving me, It strikes a terror like a lightning’s flash To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the owl, Ashamed of day, live in these shadowy woods, Afraid of every leaf or murmuring blast, Yet longing to receive some perfect knowledge How he hath dealt with her. [_Sees_ Mistress Frankford.] O my sad fate! Here, and so far from home, and thus attended! O God! I have divorced the truest turtles That ever lived together; and, being divided In several places, make their several moan; She in the fields laments, and he at home. So poets write that Orpheus made the trees And stones to dance to his melodious harp, Meaning the rustic and the barbarous hinds, That had no understanding part in them: So she from these rude carters tears extracts, Making their flinty hearts with grief to rise, And draw down rivers from their rocky eyes.

Mistress Frankford. [_To_ Nicholas.] If you return unto your master, say (Though not from me; for I am all unworthy To blast his name so with a strumpet’s tongue) That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead: Nay, you may say too, for my vow is passed, Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. This to your master you may say and swear; For it is writ in Heaven, and decreed here.

Nicholas. I’ll say you wept: I’ll swear you made me sad. Why how now, eyes? what now? what’s here to do? I’m gone, or I shall straight turn baby too.

Wendoll. I cannot weep, my heart is all on fire: Curst be the fruits of my unchaste desire!

Mistress Frankford. Go, break this lute upon my coach’s wheel, As the last music that I e’er shall make; Not as my husband’s gift, but my farewell To all earth’s joy; and so your master tell.

Nicholas. If I can for crying.

Wendoll. Grief, have done, Or like a madman I shall frantic run.

Mistress Frankford. You have beheld the wofullest wretch on earth; A woman made of tears: would you had words To express but what you see! My inward grief No tongue can utter; yet unto your power You may describe my sorrow, and disclose To thy sad master my abundant woes.

Nicholas. I’ll do your commendations.

Mistress Frankford. Oh no: I dare not so presume; nor to my children: I am disclaimed in both; alas, I am. Oh, never teach them, when they come to speak, To name the name of mother; chide their tongue, If they by chance light on that hated word; Tell them ’tis naught; for, when that word they name, Poor pretty souls! they harp on their own shame.

Wendoll. To recompense her wrongs, what canst thou do? Thou hast made her husbandless and childless too.

Mistress Frankford. I have no more to say. Speak not for me; Yet you may tell your master what you see.

Nicholas. I’ll do’t. [_Exit_.

Wendoll. I’ll speak to her, and comfort her in grief. Oh! but her wound cannot be cured with words. No matter though, I’ll do my best good-will To work a cure on her whom I did kill.

Mistress Frankford. So, now unto my coach, then to my home, So to my death-bed; for from this sad hour I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste Of any cates that may preserve my life: I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest; But when my tears have washed my black soul white, Sweet Saviour, to Thy hands I yield my sprite.

Wendoll. O Mistress Frankford--

Mistress Frankford. Oh, for God’s sake fly! The devil doth come to tempt me ere I die. My coach! this fiend, that with an angel’s face Conjured mine honour, till he sought my wrack, In my repentant eyes seems ugly black.

[_Exeunt all, except_ Wendoll _and_ Jenkin; _the_ Carters _whistling_.

Jenkin. What, my young master that fled in his shirt! How come you by your clothes again? You have made our house in a sweet pickle, ha’ ye not, think you? What, shall I serve you still, or cleave to the old house?

Wendoll. Hence, slave! away with thy unseasoned mirth! Unless thou canst shed tears, and sigh, and howl, Curse thy sad fortunes, and exclaim on fate, Thou art not for my turn.

Jenkin. Marry, an you will not, another will: farewell, and be hanged! Would you had never come to have kept this coil[1.47] within our doors; we shall ha’ you run away like a sprite again. [_Exit_.

Wendoll. She’s gone to death; I live to want and woe; Her life, her sins, and all upon my head. And I must now go wander, like a Cain, In foreign countries and remoted climes, Where the report of my ingratitude Cannot be heard. I’ll over first to France, And so to Germany and Italy; Where when I have recovered, and by travel Gotten those perfect tongues,[1.48] and that these rumours May in their height abate, I will return: And I divine (however now dejected) My worth and parts being by some great man praised, At my return I may in court be raised. [_Exit_.