SCENE I.--_A Room in_ Sir Charles Mountford’s _House_.

_Enter_ Sir Charles Mountford _and_ Susan.

Sir Charles Mountford. Sister, you see we are driven to hard shift To keep this poor house we have left unsold; I am now enforced to follow husbandry, And you to milk; and do we not live well? Well, I thank God.

Susan. O brother, here’s a change, Since old Sir Charles died, in our father’s house!

Sir Charles Mountford. All things on earth thus change, some up, some down; Content’s a kingdom, and I wear that crown.

_Enter_ Shafton _with a_ Serjeant.

Shafton. Good morrow, morrow, Sir Charles: what, with your sister, Plying your husbandry?--Serjeant, stand off.-- You have a pretty house here, and a garden, And goodly ground about it. Since it lies So near a lordship that I lately bought, I would fain buy it of you. I will give you----

Sir Charles Mountford. O, pardon me: this house successively Hath ’longed to me and my progenitors Three hundred years. My great-great-grandfather, He in whom first our gentle style began, Dwelt here; and in this ground, increased this mole-hill Unto that mountain which my father left me. Where he the first of all our house began, I now the last will end, and keep this house, This virgin title, never yet deflowered By any unthrift of the Mountfords’ line. In brief, I will not sell it for more gold Than you could hide or pave the ground withal.

Shafton. Ha, ha! a proud mind and a beggar’s purse! Where’s my three hundred pounds, besides the use? I have brought it to an execution By course of law: what, is my moneys ready?

Sir Charles Mountford. An execution, sir, and never tell me You put my bond in suit! you deal extremely.

Shafton. Sell me the land, and I’ll acquit you straight.

Sir Charles Mountford. Alas, alas! ’tis all trouble hath left me To cherish me and my poor sister’s life. If this were sold, our names should then be quite Razed from the bed-roll[1.21] of gentility. You see what hard shift we have made to keep it Allied still to our own name. This palm, you see, Labour hath glowed within: her silver brow, That never tasted a rough winter’s blast Without a mask or fan, doth with a grace Defy cold winter, and his storms outface.

Susan. Sir, we feed sparing, and we labour hard, We lie uneasy, to reserve to us And our succession this small plot of ground.

Sir Charles Mountford. I have so bent my thoughts to husbandry, That I protest I scarcely can remember What a new fashion is; how silk or satin Feels in my hand: why, pride is grown to us A mere, mere stranger. I have quite forgot The names of all that ever waited on me; I cannot name ye any of my hounds, Once from whose echoing mouths I heard all music That e’er my heart desired. What should I say? To keep this place I have changed myself away.

Shafton. [_To the_ Serjeant.] Arrest him at my suit. Actions and actions Shall keep thee in perpetual bondage fast: Nay, more, I’ll sue thee by a late appeal, And call thy former life in question. The keeper is my friend, thou shalt have irons, And usage such as I’ll deny to dogs: Away with him!

Sir Charles Mountford. [_To_ Susan.] You are too timorous: But trouble is my master, And I will serve him truly.--My kind sister, Thy tears are of no force to mollify This flinty man. Go to my father’s brother, My kinsmen and allies; entreat them for me, To ransom me from this injurious man, That seeks my ruin.

Shafton. Come, irons, irons! come away; I’ll see thee lodged far from the sight of day.

[_Exeunt_ Shafton _and_ Serjeant _with_ Sir Charles.

Susan. My heart’s so hardened with the frost of grief, Death cannot pierce it through. Tyrant too fell! So lead the fiends condemnèd souls to hell.

_Enter_ Sir Francis Acton _and_ Malby.

Sir Francis Acton. Again to prison! Malby, hast thou seen A poor slave better tortured? Shall we hear The music of his voice cry from the grate,[1.22] “Meat for the Lord’s sake”? No, no, yet I am not Throughly revenged. They say he hath a pretty wench Unto his sister: shall I, in mercy-sake To him and to his kindred, bribe the fool To shame herself by lewd dishonest lust? I’ll proffer largely; but, the deed being done, I’ll smile to see her base confusion.

Malby. Methinks, Sir Francis, you are full revenged For greater wrongs than he can proffer you. See where the poor sad gentlewoman stands.

Sir Francis Acton. Ha, ha! now will I flout her poverty, Deride her fortunes, scoff her base estate; My very soul the name of Mountford hates. But stay, my heart! oh, what a look did fly To strike my soul through with thy piercing eye! I am enchanted; all my spirits are fled, And with one glance my envious spleen struck dead.

Susan. Acton! that seeks our blood. [_Runs away_.

Sir Francis Acton. O chaste and fair!

Malby. Sir Francis, why, Sir Francis, zounds! in a trance? Sir Francis, what cheer, man? Come, come, how is’t?

Sir Francis Acton. Was she not fair? Or else this judging eye Cannot distinguish beauty.

Malby. She was fair.

Sir Francis Acton. She was an angel in a mortal’s shape, And ne’er descended from old Mountford’s line. But soft, soft, let me call my wits together. A poor, poor wench, to my great adversary Sister, whose very souls denounce stern war, One against other. How now, Frank? turned fool Or madman, whether? But no; master of My perfect senses and directest wits. Then why should I be in this violent humour Of passion and of love; and with a person So different every way, and so opposed In all contractions, and still-warring actions? Fie, fie; how I dispute against my soul! Come, come; I’ll gain her, or in her fair quest Purchase my soul free and immortal rest.

[_Exeunt_.