Scene II A Room in Old Wincott’s House
Enter Wincott, his Wife, the two Lionels, Owner, Delavil, Prudentilla, Reignald, and Rioter.
Wincott.
You’ve entertained me with a strange discourse
Of your man’s knavish wit; but I rejoice
That in your safe return all ends so well.
Most welcome you, and you, and indeed all;
To whom I am bound, that at so short a warning,
Thus friendly, you will deign to visit me.
Old Lionel.
It seems my absence hath begot some sport;
Thank my kind servant here.
Reignald.
Not so much worth, sir.
Old Lionel.
But, though their riots tripped at my estate,
They have not quite o’erthrown it.
Enter Old and Young Geraldine.
Wincott.
But see, gentlemen,
These whom we most expected come at length.
This I proclaim the master of the feast,
In which, to express the bounty of my love,
I’ll show myself no niggard.
Young Geraldine.
Your choice favours
I still taste in abundance.
Wife.
Methinks it would not misbecome me, sir,
To chide your absence, that have made yourself
To us so long a stranger.
[Young Geraldine turns sadly away.
Young Geraldine.
Pardon me, sir,
That have not yet, since your return from sea,
Voted56 the least fit opportunity
To entertain you with a kind salute.
Old Lionel.
Most kindly, sir, I thank you.
Delavil.
Methinks, friend,
You should expect green rushes57 to be strowed
After such discontinuance.
Young Geraldine.
Mistress Prue,
I have not seen you long, but greet you thus:
May you be lady of a better husband
Than I expect a wife!
Wincott.
I like that greeting.
Nay, enter, gentlemen; dinner perhaps
Is not yet ready, but the time we stay,
We’ll find some fresh discourse to spend away.
[Exeunt all but Delavil.
Delavil.
Not speak to me, nor once vouchsafe an answer,
But slight me with a poor and base neglect!
No, nor so much as cast an eye on her,
Or least regard, though in a seeming show
She courted a reply! ’Twixt him and her,
Nay, him and me, this was not wont to be;
If she have brain to apprehend as much
As I have done, she’ll quickly find it out.—
[Re-enter Young Geraldine and Wife.]
Now, as I live, as our affections meet,
So our conceits, and she hath singled him
To some such purpose. I’ll retire myself,
Not interrupt their conference. [Exit.
Wife.
You are sad, sir.
Young Geraldine.
I know no cause.
Wife.
Then can I show you some.
Who could be otherways, to leave a father
So careful, and each way so provident?
To leave so many and such worthy friends?
To abandon your own country? These are some;
Nor do I think you can be much the merrier
For my sake.
Young Geraldine.
Now your tongue speaks oracles;
For all the rest are nothing: ’tis for you—
Only for you I cannot.
Wife.
So I thought;
Why, then, have you been all this while so strange?
Why will you travel, suing a divorce
Betwixt us of a love inseparable;
For here shall I be left as desolate
Unto a frozen, almost widowed bed,
Warmed only in that future stored in you;
For who can in your absence comfort me?
Young Geraldine.
[Aside.] Shall my oppressèd sufferance yet break forth
Into impatience, or endure her more?
Wife.
But since by no persuasion, no entreats,
Your settled obstinacy can be swayed,
Though you seem desperate of your own dear life,
Have care of mine, for it exists in you.
Oh, sir, should you miscarry I were lost,
Lost and forsaken! Then, by our past vows,
And by this hand once given me, by these tears
Which are but springs begetting greater floods,
I do beseech thee, my dear Geraldine,
Look to thy safety, and preserve thy health;
Have care into what company you fall;
Travel not late, and cross no dangerous seas;
For till Heavens bless me in thy safe return,
How will this poor heart suffer!
Young Geraldine.
[Aside.] I had thought
Long since the sirens had been all destroyed;
But one of them I find survives in her:
She almost makes me question what I know,
A heretic unto my own belief:—
O thou mankind’s seducer!
Wife.
What, no answer!
Young Geraldine.
Yes, thou hast spoke to me in showers; I will
Reply in thunder: thou adulteress,
That hast more poison in thee than the serpent
Who was the first that did corrupt thy sex,
The devil!
Wife.
To whom speaks the man?
Young Geraldine.
To thee,
Falsest of all that ever man termed fair.
Hath impudence so steeled thy smooth soft skin,
It cannot blush? Or sin so obdured thy heart,
It doth not quake and tremble? Search thy conscience;
There thou shalt find a thousand clamorous tongues
To speak as loud as mine doth.
Wife.
Save from yours,
I hear no noise at all.
Young Geraldine.
I’ll play the doctor
To open thy deaf ears. Monday the ninth
Of the last month—canst thou remember that,
That night more black in thy abhorrèd sin
Than in the gloomy darkness?—that the time.
Wife.
Monday!
Young Geraldine.
Wouldst thou the place know?—thy polluted chamber,
So often witness of my sinless vows.
Wouldst thou the person?—one not worthy name,
Yet, to torment thy guilty soul the more,
I’ll tell him thee—that monster Delavil.
Wouldst thou your bawd know?—midnight, that the hour.
The very words thou spake?—“Now what would Geraldine
Say, if he saw us here?”—to which was answered,
“Tush, he’s a coxcomb, fit to be so fooled!”
No blush! What, no faint fever on thee yet!
How hath thy black sins changed thee! Thou Medusa!
Those hairs that late appeared like golden wires
Now crawl with snakes and adders. Thou art ugly.
Wife.
And yet my glass, till now, ne’er told me so.
Who gave you this intelligence?
Young Geraldine.
Only He
That, pitying such an innocency as mine
Should by two such delinquents be betrayed,—
He brought me to that place by miracle,
And made me an ear-witness of all this.
Wife.
I am undone!
Young Geraldine.
But think what thou hast lost
To forfeit me! I, notwithstanding these,
(So fixèd was my love and unalterable,)
I kept this from thy husband, nay, all ears,
With thy transgressions smothering mine own wrongs,
In hope of thy repentance.
Wife.
Which begins
Thus low upon my knees—
Young Geraldine.
Tush! bow to Heaven,
Which thou hast most offended; I, alas!
Save in such scarce unheard-of treachery,
Most sinful, like thyself. Wherein, oh, wherein
Hath my unspotted and unbounded love
Deserved the least of these? Sworn to be made a stale
For term of life, and all this for my goodness!
Die, and die soon; acquit me of my oath,
But prithee die repentant. Farewell ever:
’Tis thou, and only thou, hast banished me
Both from my friends and country.
Wife.
Oh, I am lost! [Sinks down.
Re-enter Delavil, meeting Young Geraldine going out.
Delavil.
Why, how now, what’s the business?
Young Geraldine.
Go, take her up, whom thou hast oft thrown down.
Villain! [Exit.
Delavil.
That was no language from a friend,
It had too harsh an accent. But how’s this?
My mistress thus low cast upon the earth,
Grovelling and breathless! Mistress, lady, sweet—
Wife.
Oh, tell me if thy name be Geraldine:
Thy very looks will kill me!
Delavil.
View me well;
I am no such man; see, I am Delavil.
Wife.
Thou’rt then a devil, that presents before me
My horrid sins, persuades me to despair,
When he, like a good angel sent from Heaven,
Besought me of repentance. Swell, sick heart,
Even till thou burst the ribs that bound thee in!
So, there’s one string cracked. Flow, and flow high,
Even till thy blood distil out of mine eyes,
To witness my great sorrow.
Delavil.
Faint again!
Some help within there! No attendant near?
Thus to expire! In this I am more wretched
Than all the sweet fruition of her love
Before could make me happy.
Re-enter Wincott, Old Geraldine, Young Geraldine, the two Lionels, Ricott, Owner, Prudentilla, and Reignald; also enter Clown.
Wincott.
What was he
Clamoured so loud, to mingle with our mirth
This terror and affright?
Delavil.
See, sir, your wife
In these my arms expiring.
Wincott.
How!
Prudentilla.
My sister!
Wincott.
Support her, and by all means possible
Provide for her dear safety.
Old Geraldine.
See, she recovers.
Wincott.
Woman, look up.
Wife.
Oh, sir, your pardon!
Convey me to my chamber; I am sick,
Sick even to death. Away, thou sycophant,
Out of my sight! I have, besides thyself,
Too many sins about me.
Clown.
My sweet mistress!
[Prudentilla and Clown lead Wife off.
Delavil.
The storm is coming; I must provide for harbour. [Exit.
Old Lionel.
What strange and sudden alteration’s this!
How quickly is this clear day overcast!
But such and so uncertain are all things
That dwell beneath the moon.
Young Lionel.
A woman’s qualm,
Frailties that are inherent to her sex—
Soon sick, and soon recovered.
Wincott.
If she misfare,
I am a man more wretched in her loss
Than had I forfeited life and estate;
She was so good a creature.
Old Geraldine.
I the like
Suffered, when I my wife brought to her grave;
So you, when you were first a widower:
Come, arm yourself with patience.
Ricott.
These are casualties
That are not new, but common.
Reignald.
Burying of wives!—
As stale as shifting shirts, or for some servants
To flout and gull their masters.
Owner.
Best to send
And see how her fit holds her.
Re-enter Prudentilla and Clown.
Prudentilla.
Sir, my sister
In these few lines commends her last to you,
For she is now no more. What’s therein writ,
Save Heaven and you, none knows: this she desired
You would take view of, and with these words expired.
Wincott.
Dead!
Young Geraldine.
She hath made me then a free release
Of all the debts I owed her.
Wincott.
[Aside, reading.] “My fear58 is beyond pardon. Delavil
Hath played the villain; but for Geraldine,
He hath been each way noble; love him still.
My peace already I have made with Heaven;
Oh, be not you at war with me! my honour
Is in your hands to punish, or preserve;
I am now confessed, and only Geraldine
Hath wrought on me this unexpected good.
The ink I write with, I wish had been my blood,
To witness my repentance.”—Delavil!
Where’s he? go seek him out.
Clown.
I shall, I shall, sir. [Exit.
Wincott.
The wills of dead folk should be still obeyed:
However false to me, I’ll not reveal’t;
Where Heaven forgives, I pardon.—Gentlemen,
I know you all commiserate my loss;
I little thought this feast should have been turned
Into a funeral.—[Re-enter Clown.] What’s the news of him?
Clown.
He went presently59 to the stable, put the saddle upon his horse, put his foot into the stirrup, clapped his spurs into his sides, and away he’s galloped, as if he were to ride a race for a wager.
Wincott.
All our ill lucks go with him! Farewell he!
But all my best of wishes wait on you, [To Young Geraldine.
As my chief friend! This meeting, that was made
Only to take of you a parting leave,
Shall now be made a marriage of our love,
Which none save only death shall separate.
Young Geraldine.
It calls me from all travel, and from henceforth
With my country I am friends.
Wincott.
The lands that I have left,
You lend me for the short space of my life;
As soon as Heaven calls me, they call you lord.—
First feast, and after mourn; we’ll, like some gallants
That bury thrifty fathers, think’t no sin
To wear blacks without, but other thoughts within.
[Exeunt.