Scene III A Room in Old Wincott’s House
Table and stools set out, lights, a banquet,42 wine. Enter Old Wincott.
Wincott.
I wonder whence this strangeness should proceed,
Or wherein I, or any of my house,
Should be the occasion of the least distaste:
Now, as I wish him well, it troubles me;
But now the time grows on from his own mouth
To be resolved, and I hope satisfied.
[Enter Clown and Young Geraldine.]
Sir, as I live, of all my friends, to me
Most wishedly you are welcome: take that chair,
I this: nay, I entreat, no compliment.—
Attend; fill wine.
Clown.
Till the mouths of the bottles yawn directly upon the floor, and the bottoms turn their tails up to the ceiling; whilst there’s any blood in their bellies I’ll not leave them.
Wincott.
I first salute you thus.
Young Geraldine.
It could not come
From one whom I more honour; sir, I thank you.
Clown.
Nay, since my master begun it, I’ll see’t go round to all three.
Wincott.
Now give us leave.
Clown.
Talk you by yourselves, whilst I find something to say to this:43 I have a tale to tell him shall make his stony heart relent. [Exit.
Young Geraldine.
Now, first, sir, your attention I entreat:
Next, your belief that what I speak is just,
Maugre all contradiction.
Wincott.
Both are granted.
Young Geraldine.
Then I proceed; with due acknowledgment
Of all your more than many courtesies:
You’ve been my second father, and your wife
My noble and chaste mistress; all your servants
At my command; and this your bounteous table
As free and common as my father’s house:
Neither ’gainst any, or the least of these,
Can I commence just quarrel.
Wincott.
What might then be
The cause of this constraint, in thus absenting
Yourself from such as love you?
Young Geraldine.
Out of many,
I will propose some few: the care I have
Of your as yet unblemishèd renown,
The untouched honour of your virtuous wife,
And (which I value least, yet dearly too)
My own fair reputation.
Wincott.
How can these
In any way be questioned?
Young Geraldine.
Oh, dear sir,
Bad tongues have been too busy with us all;
Of which I never yet had time to think,
But with sad thoughts and griefs unspeakable.
It hath been whispered by some wicked ones,
But loudly thundered in my father’s ears,
By some that have maligned our happiness,
(Heaven, if it can brook slander, pardon them!)
That this my customary coming hither
Hath been to base and sordid purposes:
To wrong your bed, injure her chastity,
And be mine own undoer, which, how false!
Wincott.
As Heaven is true, I know’t.
Young Geraldine.
Now, this calumny
Arriving first unto my father’s ears,
His easy nature was induced to think
That these things might perhaps be possible:
I answered him as I would do to Heaven,
And cleared myself in his suspicious thoughts
As truly as the high all-knowing Judge
Shall of these stains acquit me, which are merely
Aspersions and untruths. The good old man,
Possessed with my sincerity, and yet careful
Of your renown, her honour, and my fame,
To stop the worst that scandal could inflict,
And to prevent false rumours, charges me,
The cause removed, to take away the effect;
Which only could be to forbear your house—
And this upon his blessing. You hear all.
Wincott.
And I of all acquit you: this your absence,
With which my love most cavilled, orators44
In your behalf. Had such things passed betwixt you,
Not threats nor chidings could have driven you hence.
It pleads in your behalf, and speaks in hers,
And arms me with a double confidence,
Both of your friendship and her loyalty:
I am happy in you both, and only doubtful
Which of you two doth most impart my love.
You shall not hence to-night.
Young Geraldine.
Pray, pardon, sir.
Wincott.
You are in your lodging.
Young Geraldine.
But my father’s charge?
Wincott.
My conjuration shall dispense with that.
You may be up as early as you please,
But hence to-night you shall not.
Young Geraldine.
You are powerful.
Wincott.
This night, of purpose, I have parted beds,
Feigning myself not well, to give you meeting;
Nor can be aught suspected by my wife,
I have kept all so private: now ’tis late,
I’ll steal up to my rest. But, howsoever,
Let’s not be strange in our writing; that way daily
We may confer without the least suspect,
In spite of all such base calumnious tongues.
So now good-night, sweet friend. [Exit.
Young Geraldine.
May He that made you
So just and good still guard you!—Not to bed;
So I perhaps might oversleep myself,
And then my tardy waking might betray me
To the more early household; thus as I am,
I’ll rest me on this pallet.—But in vain:
I find no sleep can fasten on mine eyes,
There are in this disturbèd brain of mine
So many mutinous fancies. This to me
Will be a tedious night; how shall I spend it?
No book that I can spy? no company?
A little let me recollect myself.
Oh, what more wishèd company can I find,
Suiting the apt occasion, time, and place,
Than the sweet contemplation of her beauty;
And the fruition too, time may produce,
Of what is yet lent out? ’Tis a sweet lady,
And every way accomplished: hath mere accident
Brought me thus near, and I not visit her?
Should it arrive her ear, perhaps might breed
Our lasting separation; for, ’twixt lovers,
No quarrels to unkindness.45 Sweet opportunity
Offers prevention, and invites me to’t:
The house is known to me, the stairs and rooms;
The way into her chamber frequently
Trodden by me at midnight, and all hours:
How joyful to her would a meeting be,
So strange and unexpected—shadowed too
Beneath the veil of night! I am resolved
To give her visitation in that place
Where we have passed deep vows—her bed-chamber:
My fiery love this darkness makes seem bright,
And this the path that leads to my delight,
[Goes in at one door, and comes out at another.]46
And this the gate unto’t.—I’ll listen first,
Before too rudely I disturb her rest
And gentle breathing. Ha! she’s sure awake,
For in the bed two whisper, and their voices
Appear to me unequal;—one a woman’s—
And hers! The other should be no maid’s tongue,
It bears too big a tone. And hark, they laugh—
Damnation! But list further; t’other sounds
Like—’tis the same false perjured Delavil, traitor
To friend and goodness. Unchaste, impious woman,
False to all faith and true conjugal love;
There’s met a serpent and a crocodile,
A Sinon and a Circe. Oh, to what
May I compare you?——Out, my sword!
I’ll act a noble execution
On two unmatched for sordid villainy—
I left it in my chamber, and thank Heaven
That I did so! it hath prevented me
From playing a base hangman. Sin securely,
Whilst I, although for many yet less faults,
Strive hourly to repent me! I once loved her,
And was to him entire. Although I pardon,
Heaven will find time to punish: I’ll not stretch
My just revenge so far as once by blabbing
To make your brazen impudence to blush—
Damn on—revenge too great; and, to suppress
Your souls yet lower, without hope to rise,
Heap Ossa upon Pelion. You have made me
To hate my very country, because here bred
Near two such monsters. First I’ll leave this house,
And then my father’s; next I’ll take my leave,
Both of this clime and nation, travel till
Age snow upon this head. My passions now
Are unexpressible; I’ll end them thus:
Ill man, bad woman, your unheard-of treachery
This unjust censure on a just man give,—
To seek out place where no two such can live. [Exit.