SCENE I.--_The Banqueting Room in_ BELFOREST'S _Mansion_.

_Night time. A Banquet set out. Music._

_Enter_ D'AMVILLE, BELFOREST, LEVIDULCIA, ROUSARD, CASTABELLA, LANGUEBEAU SNUFFE, _at one side. At the other side enter_ CATAPLASMA _and_ SOQUETTE, _ushered by_ FRESCO.

_Lev._ Mistress Cataplasma, I expected you an hour since.

_Cata._ Certain ladies at my house, madam, detained me; otherwise I had attended your ladyship sooner.

_Lev._ We are beholden to you for your company. My lord, I pray you bid these gentlewomen welcome; they're my invited friends.

_D'Am._ Gentlewomen, y'are welcome. Pray sit down.

_Lev._ Fresco, by my Lord D'Amville's leave, I prithee go into the buttery. Thou shalt find some o' my men there. If they bid thee not welcome they are very loggerheads.

_Fres._ If your loggerheads will not, your hogsheads shall, madam, if I get into the buttery. [_Exit._

_D'Am._ That fellow's disposition to mirth should be our present example. Let's be grave, and meditate when our affairs require our seriousness. 'Tis out of season to be heavily disposed.

_Lev._ We should be all wound up into the key of mirth.

_D'Am._ The music there!

_Bel._ Where's my Lord Montferrers? Tell him here's a room attends him.

_Enter_ MONTFERRERS.

_Mont._ Heaven given your marriage that I am deprived of, joy!

_D'Am._ My Lord Belforest, Castabella's health! [D'AMVILLE _drinks._ Set ope the cellar doors, and let this health Go freely round the house.--Another to Your son, my lord; to noble Charlemont-- He is a soldier--Let the instruments Of war congratulate his memory. [_Drums and trumpets._

_Enter a_ Servant.

_Ser._ My lord, here's one, i' the habit of a soldier, says he is newly returned from Ostend, and has some business of import to speak.

_D'Am._ Ostend! let him come in. My soul foretells He brings the news will make our music full. My brother's joy would do't, and here comes he Will raise it.

_Enter_ BORACHIO _disguised._

_Mont._ O my spirit, it does dissuade My tongue to question him, as if it knew His answer would displease.

_D'Am._ Soldier, what news? We heard a rumour of a blow you gave The enemy.[145]

_Bor._ 'Tis very true, my lord.

_Bel._ Canst thou relate it?

_Bor._ Yes.

_D'Am._ I prithee do.

_Bor._ The enemy, defeated of a fair Advantage by a flatt'ring stratagem, Plants all the artillery against the town; Whose thunder and lightning made our bulwarks shake, And threatened in that terrible report The storm wherewith they meant to second it. The assault was general. But, for the place That promised most advantage to be forced, The pride of all their army was drawn forth And equally divided into front And rear. They marched, and coming to a stand, Ready to pass our channel at an ebb, We advised it for our safest course, to draw Our sluices up and mak't impassable. Our governor opposed and suffered them To charge us home e'en to the rampier's foot. But when their front was forcing up our breach At push o' pike, then did his policy Let go the sluices, and tripped up the heels Of the whole body of their troop that stood Within the violent current of the stream. Their front, beleaguered 'twixt the water and The town, seeing the flood was grown too deep To promise them a safe retreat, exposed The force of all their spirits (like the last Expiring gasp of a strong-hearted man) Upon the hazard of one charge, but were Oppressed, and fell. The rest that could not swim Were only drowned; but those that thought to 'scape By swimming, were by murderers that flanked The level of the flood, both drowned and slain.

_D'Am._ Now, by my soul, soldier, a brave service.

_Mont._ O what became of my dear Charlemont?

_Bor._ Walking next day upon the fatal shore, Among the slaughtered bodies of their men Which the full-stomached sea had cast upon The sands, it was my unhappy chance to light Upon a face, whose favour[146] when it lived, My astonished mind informed me I had seen. He lay in's armour, as if that had been His coffin; and the weeping sea, like one Whose milder temper doth lament the death Of him whom in his rage he slew, runs up The shore, embraces him, kisses his cheek, Goes back again, and forces up the sands To bury him, and every time it parts Sheds tears upon him, till at last (as if It could no longer endure to see the man Whom it had slain, yet loth to leave him) with A kind of unresolved unwilling pace, Winding her waves one in another, like A man that folds his arms or wrings his hands For grief, ebbed from the body, and descends As if it would sink down into the earth, And hide itself for shame of such a deed.[147]

_D'Am._ And, soldier, who was this?

_Mont._ O Charlemont!

_Bor._ Your fear hath told you that, whereof my grief Was loth to be the messenger.

_Cast._ O God! [_Exit._

_D'Am._ Charlemont drowned! Why how could that be, since It was the adverse party that received The overthrow?

_Bor._ His forward spirit pressed into the front, And being engaged within the enemy When they retreated through the rising stream, I' the violent confusion of the throng Was overborne, and perished in the flood. And here's the sad remembrance of his life--the scarf, Which, for his sake, I will for ever wear.

_Mont._ Torment me not with witnesses of that Which I desire not to believe, yet must.

_D'Am._ Thou art a screech-owl and dost come i' the night To be the cursèd messenger of death. Away! depart my house, or, by my soul, You'll find me a more fatal enemy Than ever was Ostend. Begone; dispatch!

_Bor._ Sir, 'twas my love.

_D'Am._ Your love to vex my heart With that I hate? Hark, do you hear, you knave? O thou'rt a most delicate, sweet, eloquent villain! [_Aside._

_Bor._ Was't not well counterfeited? [_Aside._

_D'Am._ Rarely.--[_Aside._] Begone. I will not here reply.

_Bor._ Why then, farewell. I will not trouble you. [_Exit._

_D'Am._ So. The foundation's laid. Now by degrees [_Aside._ The work will rise and soon be perfected. O this uncertain state of mortal man!

_Bel._ What then? It is the inevitable fate Of all things underneath the moon.

_D'Am._ 'Tis true. Brother, for health's sake overcome your grief.

_Mont._ I cannot, sir. I am incapable Of comfort. My turn will be next. I feel Myself not well.

_D'Am._ You yield too much to grief.

_Lang._ All men are mortal. The hour of death is uncertain. Age makes sickness the more dangerous, and grief is subject to distraction. You know not how soon you may be deprived of the benefit of sense. In my understanding, therefore, You shall do well if you be sick to set Your state in present order. Make your will.

_D'Am._ I have my wish. Lights for my brother.

_Mont._ I'll withdraw a while, And crave the honest counsel of this man.

_Bel._ With all my heart. I pray attend him, sir. [_Exeunt_ MONTFERRERS _and_ SNUFFE. This next room, please your lordship.

_D'Am._ Where you will. [_Exeunt_ BELFOREST _and_ D'AMVILLE.

_Lev._ My daughter's gone. Come, son, Mistress Cataplasma, come, we'll up into her chamber. I'd fain see how she entertains the expectation of her husband's bedfellowship.

_Rou._ 'Faith, howsoever she entertains it, I Shall hardly please her; therefore let her rest.

_Lev._ Nay, please her hardly, and you please her best. [_Exeunt._