Coo. What a goodly swing I shall give the gallows? yet
I think too, this may be done, and yet we may be rewarded,
not with a rope, but with a royal master: and yet we may
be hang’d too.
Yeo. Say it were done; who is it done for? is it not for Rollo?
And for his right?
Coo. And yet we may be hang’d too.
But. Or say he take it, say we be discover’d?
[Yeo.] Is not the same man bound still to protect us?
Are we not his?
But. Sure, he will never fail us.
Coo. If he do, friends, we shall find that will hold us.
And yet me thinks, this prologue to our purpose,
These crowns should promise more: ’tis easily done,
As easie as a man would roast an egge,
If that be all; for look you, Gentlemen,
Here stand my broths, my finger slips a little,
Down drops a dose, I stir him with my ladle,
And there’s a dish for a Duke: Olla Podrida.
Here stands a bak’d meat, he wants a little seasoning,
A foolish mistake; my Spice-box, Gentlemen,
And put in some of this, the matter’s ended;
Dredge you a dish of plovers, there’s the Art on’t.
Yeo. Or as I fill my wine.
Coo. ’Tis very true, Sir,
Blessing it with your hand, thus quick and neatly first, ’tis past
And done once, ’tis as easie
For him to thank us for it, and reward us.
Pan. But ’tis a damn’d sin.
Coo. O, never fear that.
The fire’s my play-fellow, and now I am resolv’d, boyes.
But. Why then, have with you.
Yeo. The same for me.
Pan. For me too.
Coo. And now no more our worships, but our Lordships.
Pan. Not this year, on my knowledge, I’le unlord you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter Servant, and Sewer.
Ser. Perfume the room round, and prepare the table,
Gentlemen officers, wait in your places.
Sew. Make room there,
Room for the Dukes meat. Gentlemen, be bare there,
Clear all the entrance: Guard, put by those gapers,
And Gentlemen-ushers, see the gallery clear,
The Dukes are coming on.
Hoboys, a banquet.
Enter Sophia, between Rollo, and Otto, Aubry,
Latorch, Gis[b]ert, Baldwin, Attendants,
Hamond, Matilda, Edith.
Ser. ’Tis certainly inform’d.
Ot. Reward the fellow, and look you mainly to it.
Ser. My life for yours, Sir.
Soph. Now am I straight, my Lords, and young again,
My long since blasted hopes shoot out in blossomes,
The fruits of everlasting love appearing;
Oh! my blest boys, the honour of my years,
Of all my cares, the bounteous fair rewarders.
Oh! let me thus imbrace you, thus for ever
Within a Mothers love lock up your friendships:
And my sweet sons, once more with mutual twinings,
As one chaste bed begot you, make one body:
Blessings from heaven in thousand showrs fall on you.
Aub. Oh! womans goodness never to be equall’d,
May the most sinfull creatures of thy sex
But kneeling at thy monument, rise saints.
Soph. Sit down my worthy sons; my Lords, your places.
I, now me thinks the table’s nobly furnisht;
Now the meat nourishes; the wine gives spirit;
And all the room stuck with a general pleasure,
Shews like the peacefull boughs of happiness.
Aub. Long may it last, and from a heart fill’d with it
Full as my cup; I give it round, my Lords.
Bald. And may that stubborn heart be drunk with sorrow
Refuses it; men dying now should take it,
And by the vertue of this ceremony
Shake off their miseries, and sleep in peace.
Rol. You are sad, my noble Brother.
Ot. No, indeed, Sir.
Soph. No sadness my son this day.
Rol. Pray you eat,
Something is here you have lov’d; taste of this dish,
It will prepare your stomach.
Ot. Thank you brother: I am not now dispos’d to eat.
Rol. Or that,
You put us out of heart man, come, these bak’t meats
Were ever your best dyet.
Ot. None, I thank you.
Soph. Are you well, noble child?
Ot. Yes, gracious Mother.
Rol. Give him a cup of wine, then, pledge the health,
Drink it to me, I’le give it to my Mother.
Soph. Do, my best child.
Ot. I must not, my best Mother,
Indeed I dare not: for of late, my body
Has been much weakned by excess of dyet;
The promise of a feaver hanging on me,
And even now ready, if not by abstinence —
Rol. And will you keep it in this general freedom;
A little health preferr’d before our friendship?
Ot. I pray you excuse me, Sir.
Rol. Excuse your self Sir,
Come ’tis your fear, and not your favour Brother,
And you have done me a most worthy kindness
My Royal Mother, and you noble Lords;
Here, for it now concerns me to speak boldly;
What faith can be expected from his vows,
From his dissembling smiles, what fruit of friendship
From all his dull embraces, what blest issue,
When he shall brand me here for base suspicion?
He takes me for a poysoner.
Sop. Gods defend it son.
Rol. For a foul knave, a villain, and so fears me.
Ot. I could say something too.
Sop. You must not so Sir,
Without your great forgetfulness of vertue;
This is your Brother, and your honour’d Brother.
Rol. If he please so.
Sop. One noble Father, with as noble thoughts,
Begot your minds and bodies: one care rockt you,
And one truth to you both was ever sacred;
Now fye my Otto, whither flyes your goodness?
Because the right hand has the power of cutting,
Shall the left presently cry out ’tis maimed?
They are one my child, one power, and one performance,
And joyn’d together thus, one love, one body.
Aub. I do beseech your grace, take to your thoughts
More certain counsellors than doubts or fears,
They strangle nature, and disperse themselves
(If once believ’d) into such foggs and errours
That the bright truth her self can never sever:
Your Brother is a royal Gentleman
Full of himself, honour, and honesty,
And take heed Sir, how nature bent to goodness,
(So streight a Cedar to himself) uprightness
Be wrested from his true use, prove not dangerous.
Rol. Nay my good Brother knows I am too patient.
Lat. Why should your grace think him a poysoner?
Has he no more respect to piety?
And but he has by oath ty’d up his fury
Who durst but think that thought?
Aub. Away thou firebrand.
Lat. If men of his sort, of his power, and place
The eldest son in honour to this Dukedom.
Bald. For shame contain thy tongue, thy poysonous to[n]gue
That with her burning venome will infect all,
And once more blow a wilde fire through the Dukedom.
Gis. Latorch, if thou be’st honest, or a man,
Contain thy self.
Aub. Go to, no more, by Heaven
You’le find y’have plai’d the fool else, not a word more.
Sop. Prethee sweet son.
Rol. Let him alone sweet Mother, and my Lords
To make you understand how much I honour
This sacred peace, and next my innocence,
And to avoid all further difference
Discourse may draw on to a way of danger
I quit my place, and take my leave for this night,
Wishing a general joy may dwell among you.
Aub. Shall we wait on your grace?
Rol. I dare not break you. Latorch. [Ex. Rol and Lat.
Ot. Oh Mother that your tenderness had eyes,
Discerning eyes, what would this man appear then?
The tale of Synon when he took upon him
To ruine Troy; with what a cloud of cunning
He hid his heart, nothing appearing outwards,
But came like innocence, and dropping pity,
Sighs that would sink a Navie, and had tales
Able to take the ears «rf Saints, belief too,
And what did all these? blew the fire to Ilium.
His crafty art (but more refin’d by study)
My Brother has put on: oh I could tell you
But for the reverence I bear to nature,
Things that would make your honest blood run backward.
Sop. You dare tell me?
Ot. Yes, in your private closet
Where I will presently attend you; rise
I am a little troubled, but ‘twill off.
Sop. Is this the joy I look’d for?
Ot. All will mend,
Be not disturb’d dear Mother, I’le not fail you.
[Ex. Sop and Otto.
Bald. I do not like this.
Aub. That is still in our powers,
But how to make it so that we may like it.
Bald. Beyond us ever; Latorch me thought was busie,
That fellow, if not lookt to narrowly, will do a suddain
Aub. Hell look to him ‘(mischief.
For if there may be a Devil above all, yet
That Rogue will make him; keep you up this night,
And so will I, for much I fear a danger.
Bald. I will, and in my watches use my prayers.
[Exeunt.
Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
Enter Sophia, Otto, Matillda, Edith.
Ot. You wonder Madam, that for all the shews
My Brother Rollo makes of hearty love
And free possession of the Dukedom ‘twixt us;
I notwithstanding should stand still suspicious,
As if beneath those veils, he did convey
Intents and practices of hate, and treason?
Sop. It breeds indeed my wonder.
Ot. Which makes mine,
Since it is so safe and broad a beaten way,
Beneath the name of friendship to betray.
Sop. Though in remote and further off affections,
These falsehoods are so common, yet in him
They cannot so force nature.
Ot. The more near
The bands of truth bind, the more oft they sever,
Being better cloaks to cover falsehood over.
Sop. It cannot be, that fruits the tree so blasting
Can grow in nature; take heed gentle Son
Lest some suborn’d suggester of these treasons,
Believ’d in him by you, provok’d the rather
His tender envies, to such foul attempts;
Or that your too much love to rule alone
Breed not in him this jealous passion;
There is not any ill we might not bear
Were not our good held at a price too dear.
Ot. So apt is treachery to be excused,
That innocence is still aloud abused,
The fate of vertue even her friends perverts,
To plead for vice oft times against their hearts,
Heavens blessing is her curse, which she must bear
That she may never love.
Sop. Alas, my son, nor fate, nor heaven it self,
Can or would wrest my whole care of your good
To any least secureness in your ill:
What I urge issues from my curious fear;
Lest you should make your means to scape your snare.
Doubt of sincereness is the only mean
Not to incense it, but corrupt it clean.
Ot. I rest as far from wrong of sincereness,
As he flyes from the practice, trust me Madam,
I know by their confessions, he suborn’d,
What I should eat, drink, touch, or only have scented,
This evening feast was poysoned, but I fear
This open violence more, that treacherous oddes
Which he in his insatiate thirst of rule
Is like to execute.
Sop. Believe it Son,
If still his stomach be so foul to feed
On such gross objects, and that thirst to rule
The state alone be yet unquench’d in him,
Poysons and such close treasons ask more time
Than can suffice his fiery spirits hast:
And were there in him such desire to hide
So false a practice, there would likewise rest
Conscience and fear in him of open force,
And therefore close nor open you need fear.
Mat. Good Madam, stand not so inclin’d to trust
What proves his tendrest thoughts to doubt it just,
Who knows not the unbounded flood and sea,
In which my Brother Rollo’s appetites
Alter and rage with every puffe and breath?
His swelling blood exhales, and therefore hear,
What gives my temperate Brother cause to use
His readiest circumspection, and consult
For remedy against all his wicked purposes;
If he arm, arm, if he strew mines of treason,
Meet him with countermines, it is justice still
(For goodness sake) t’encounter ill with ill.
Sop. Avert from us such justice, equal heaven,
And all such cause of justice.
Ot. Past all doubt
(For all the sacred privilege of night)
This is no time for us to sleep or rest in;
Who knows not all things holy are prevented
With ends of all impietie, all but
Lust, gain, ambition.
Enter Rollo, armed, and Latorch.
Rol. Perish all the world
E’re I but lose one foot of possible Empire,
Be slights and colour us’d by slaves and wretches,
I am exempt by birth from both these curbs,
And since above them in all justice, since
I sit above in power, where power is given,
Is all the right suppos’d of Earth and Heaven.
Lat. Prove both Sir, see the traytor.
Ot. He comes arm’d, see Mother, now your confidence.
Sop. What rage affects this monster?
Rol. Give me way or perish.
Sop. Make thy way viper, if thou thus affect it.
Ot. This is a treason like thee.
Rol. Let her go.
Sop. Embrace me, wear me as thy shield, my Son;
And through my breast let his rude weapon run,
To thy lives innocence.
Ot. Play not two parts,
Treacher and coward both; but yield a sword,
And let thy arming thee be odds enough
Against my naked bosom.
Rol. Loose his hold.
Mat. Forbear base murtherer.
Rol. Forsake our Mother.
Sop. Mother, dost thou name me, and put’st off nature thus?
Rol. Forsake her tray tour,
Or by the spouse of nature through hers
This
leads unto thy heart.
Ot. Hold.
Sop. Hold me still.
Ot. For twenty hearts and lives I will not hazard
One drop of blood in yours.
Sop. Oh thou art lost then.
Ot. Protect my innocence, Heaven.
Sop. Call out murther.
Mat. Be murthered all, but save him.
Ed. Murther, murther.
Rol. Cannot I reach you yet?
Ot. No, fiend.
Rol. Latorch, rescue, I’me down.
Lat. Up then, your sword cools Sir,
Ply it i’th’ flame, and work your ends out.
Rol. Ha, have at [you] there Sir.
Enter Aubrey.
Aub. Author of prodigies, what sights are these?
Ot. Oh give me a weapon, Aubrey.
Sop. Oh part ’em, part ’em.
Aub. For Heavens sake no more.
Ot. No more resist his fury, no rage can
Add to his mischief done. [Dyes.
Sop. Take spirit my Otto,
Heaven will not see thee dye thus. ‘(goodness.
Mat. He is dead, and nothing lives but death of every
Sop. Oh he hath slain his Brother, curse him heaven.
Rol. Curse and be cursed, it is the fruit of cursing,
Latorch, take off here, bring too, of that blood
To colour o’re my shirt, then raise the Court
And give it out how he attempted us
In our bed naked: shall the name of Brother
Forbid us to inlarge our state and powers?
Or place affects of blood above our reason?
That tells us all things good against another,
Are good in the same line against a Brother. [Exit.
Enter Gisbert, Baldwin.
Gis. What affairs inform these out-cries?
Aub. See and grieve.
Gis. Prince Otto slain!
Bal. Oh execrable slaughter!
What hand hath author’d it?
Aub. Your Scholars, Baldwin.
Bald. Unjustly urg’d, Lord Aubrey, as if I,
For being his Schoolmaster, must own this doctrine,
You are his Counsellours, did you advise him
To this foul parricide?
Gis. If rule affect this licence, who would live
To worse, than dye in force of his obedience?
Bal. Heavens cold and lingring spirit to punish sin,
And humane blood so fiery to commit it,
One so outgoes the other, it will never
Be turn’d to fit obedience.
Aub. Burst it then
With his full swing given, where it brooks no bound,
Complaints of it are vain; and all that rests
To be our refuge (since our powers are strengthless)
Is to conform our wills to suffer freely,
What with our murmurs we can never master;
Ladys, be pleased with what heavens pleasure suffers,
Erect your princely countenances and spirits,
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 223