ATLAS. But being now you do, I fear you must go without it.
HAD. If I do, Atlas, be it so: I'll e'en go write this rhyme over my bed's head--
_Undone by folly; fortune, lend me more.
Canst thou, and wilt not? pox on such a whore!_
and so I'll set up my rest. But see, Atlas, here's a little of that that damns lawyers; take it in part of a further recompense.
ATLAS. No, pray keep it; I am conceited of your better fortunes, and therefore will stay out that expectation.
HAD. Why, if you will, you may; but the surmounting of my fortunes is as much to be doubted as he whose estate lies in the lottery--desperate.
ATLAS. But ne'er despair. 'Sfoot, why should not you live as well as a thousand others that wear change of taffata, whose means were never anything?
HAD. Yes, cheating, theft and panderising, or, maybe, flattery: I have maintained some of them myself. But come, hast aught to breakfast?
ATLAS. Yes, there's the fag-end of a leg of mutton.
HAD. There cannot be a sweeter dish; it has cost money the dressing.
ATLAS. At the barber's, you mean. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ ALBERT _solus_.
ALB. This is the green, and this the chamber-window: And see, the appointed light stands in the casement, The ladder of ropes set orderly; yet he That should ascend, slow in his haste, is not As yet come hither.
Were't any friend that lives but Carracus, I'd try the bliss which this fine time presents.
Appoint to carry hence so rare an heir, And be so slack! 'sfoot, it doth move my patience.
Would any man, that is not void of sense, Not have watch'd night by night for such a prize?
Her beauty's so attractive that, by heav'n, My heart half grants to do my friend a wrong.
Forego these thoughts; for,[372] Albert, be not slave To thy affection; do not falsify Thy faith to him, whose only friendship's worth A world of women. He is such a one, Thou canst not live without his good: A' is and was ever as thine own heart's blood.
[MARIA _beckons him in the window_.
'Sfoot, see, she beckons me for Carracus: Shall my base purity cause me neglect This present happiness? I will obtain it, Spite of my timorous conscience. I am in person, Habit, and all so like to Carracus, It may be acted, and ne'er call'd in question.
MARIA _calls_. Hist! Carracus, ascend: All is as clear as in our hearts we wish'd.
ALB. Nay, if I go not now, I might be gelded, i' faith!
[ALBERT _ascends; and, being on the top of the ladder, puts out the candle_.
MAR. O love, why do you so?
ALB. I heard the steps of some coming this way.
Did you not hear Albert pass by as yet?
MAR. [No;] nor any creature pass this way this hour.
ALB. Then he intends, just at the break of day, To lend his trusty help to our departure.
'Tis yet two hours' time thither, till when, let's rest.
For that our speedy flight will not yield any.
MAR. But I fear, We, possessing of each other's presence, Shall overslip the time. Will your friend call?
ALB. Just at the instant: fear not of his care.
MAR. Come then, dear Carracus, thou now shalt rest Upon that bed, where fancy oft hath thought thee; Which kindness until now I ne'er did grant thee, Nor would I now, but that thy loyal faith I have so often tried; even now Seeing thee come to that most honour'd end, Through all the dangers which black night presents, For to convey me hence and marry me.
ALB. If I do not do so, then hate me ever.
MAR. I do believe thee, and will hate thee never. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ CARRACUS.
How pleasing are the steps we lovers make, When in the paths of our content we pace, To meet our longings! What happiness it is For man to love! But O, what greater bliss To love and be belov'd! O, what one virtue E'er reign'd in me, that I should be enrich'd With all earth's good at once! I have a friend, Selected by the heavens as a gift To make me happy, whilst I live on earth: A man so rare of goodness, firm of faith, That earth's content must vanish in his death.
Then for my love and mistress of my soul, A maid of rich endowments, beautifi'd[373]
With all the virtues nature could bestow Upon mortality, who this happy night Will make me gainer of her heav'nly self.
And see, how suddenly I have attain'd To the abode of my desired wishes!
This is the green; how dark the night appears!
I cannot hear the tread of my true friend.
Albert! hist, Albert!--he's not come as yet, Nor is th' appointed light set in the window.
What, if I call Maria? it may be She fear'd to set a light, and only hark'neth To hear my steps; and yet I dare not call, Lest I betray myself, and that my voice, Thinking to enter in the ears of her, Be of some other heard: no, I will stay, Until the coming of my dear friend Albert.
But now think, Carracus, what the end will be Of this thou dost determine: thou art come Hither to rob a father of that wealth, That solely lengthens his now drooping years, His virtuous daughter, and all of that sex left, To make him happy in his aged days: The loss of her may cause him to despair, Transport his near-decaying sense to frenzy, Or to some such abhorred inconveniency, Whereto frail age is subject. I do too ill in this, And must not think, but that a father's plaint Will move the heavens to pour forth misery Upon the head of disobediency.
Yet reason tells us, parents are o'erseen, When with too strict a rein they do hold in Their child's affections, and control that love, Which the high pow'rs divine inspire them with, When in their shallowest judgments they may know, Affection cross'd brings misery and woe.
But whilst I run contemplating on this, I softly pace to my desired bliss.
I'll go into the next field, where my friend Told me the horses were in readiness. [_Exit._
ALBERT _descending from_ MARIA.
MARIA. But do not stay. What, if you find not Albert?
ALB. I'll then return alone to fetch you hence.
MARIA. If you should now deceive me, having gain'd What you men seek for----
ALB. Sooner I'll deceive My soul--and so, I fear, I have. [_Aside._
MARIA. At your first call, I will descend.
ALB. Till when this touch of lips be the true pledge Of Carracus' constant true devoted love.
MARIA. Be sure you stay not long; farewell; I cannot lend an ear to hear you part. [_Exit_ MARIA.
ALB. But you did lend a hand unto my entrance. [_He descends._ How have I wrong'd my friend, my faithful friend!
Robb'd him of what's more precious than his blood, His earthly heaven, the unspotted honour Of his soul-joying mistress! the fruition of whose bed I yet am warm of; whilst dear Carracus Wanders this cold night through th' unshelt'ring field, Seeking me, treacherous man; yet no man neither, Though in an outward show of such appearance, But am a devil indeed; for so this deed Of wronged love and friendship rightly makes me.
I may compare my friend to one that's sick, Who, lying on his deathbed, calls to him His dearest-thought friend, and bids him go To some rare-gifted man, that can restore His former health: this his friend sadly hears, And vows with protestations to fulfil His wish'd desires with his best performance; But then, no sooner seeing that the death Of his sick friend would add to him some gain, Goes not to seek a remedy to save, But, like a wretch, hies[374] him to dig his grave; As I have done for virtuous Carracus.
Yet, Albert, be not reasonless, to endanger What thou may'st yet secure; who can detect The crime of thy licentious appetite?-- I hear one's pace! 'tis surely Carracus.
_Enter_ CARRACUS.
CAR. Not find my friend! sure, some malignant planet Rules o'er this night, and, envying the content Which I in thought possess, debars me thus From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence Of a dear friend and love.