The Spanish Curate: A Comedy. Beaumont Francis

me. The Land

      Our Father left to him alone rewards him,

      For being twelve months elder, let that be

      Forgotten, and let his Parasites remember

      One quality of worth or vertue in him

      That may authorize him, to be a censurer

      Of me, or my manners, and I will

      Acknowledge him for a Tutor, till then, never.

      Hen.

      From whom have you your means Sir?

      Jam.

      From the will

      Of my dead Father; I am sure I spend not

      Nor give't upon your purse.

      Hen.

      But will it hold out

      Without my help?

      Jam.

      I am sure it shall, I'le sink else,

      For sooner I will seek aid from a Whore,

      Than a courtesie from you.

      Hen.

      'Tis well; you are proud of

      Your new Exchequer, when you have cheated him

      And worn him to the quick, I may be found

      In the List of your acquaintance.

      Lean

      Pray you hold

      And give me leave (my Lord) to say thus much

      (And in mine own defence) I am no Gull

      To be wrought on by perswasion: nor no Coward

      To be beaten out of my means, but know to whom

      And why I give or lend, and will do nothing

      But what my reason warrants; you may be

      As sparing as you please, I must be bold

      To make use of my own, without your licence.

      Jam.

      'Pray thee let him alone, he is not worth thy anger.

      All that he do's (Leandro) is for my good,

      I think there's not a Gentleman of Spain,

      That has a better Steward, than I have of him.

      Hen.

      Your Steward Sir?

      Jam.

      Yes, and a provident one:

      Why, he knows I am given to large expence,

      And therefore lays up for me: could you believe else

      That he, that sixteen years hath worn the yoke

      Of barren wedlock, without hope of issue

      (His Coffers full, his Lands and Vineyards fruitful)

      Could be so sold to base and sordid thrift,

      As almost to deny himself, the means

      And necessaries of life? Alas, he knows

      The Laws of Spain appoint me for his Heir,

      That all must come to me, if I out-live him,

      Which sure I must do, by the course of Nature,

      And the assistance of good Mirth, and Sack,

      How ever you prove Melancholy.

      Hen.

      If I live,

      Thou dearly shalt repent this.

      Jam.

      When thou art dead,

      I am sure I shall not.

      Mil.

      Now they begin to burn

      Like oppos'd Meteors.

      Ars.

      Give them line, and way,

      My life for Don Jamie.

      Jam.

      Continue still

      The excellent Husband, and joyn Farm to Farm,

      Suffer no Lordship, that in a clear day

      Falls in the prospect of your covetous eye

      To be anothers; forget you are a Grandee;

      Take use upon use, and cut the throats of Heirs

      With cozening Mortgages: rack your poor Tenants,

      Till they look like so many Skeletons

      For want of Food; and when that Widows curses,

      The ruines of ancient Families, tears of Orphans

      Have hurried you to the Devil, ever remember

      All was rak'd up for me (your thankful Brother)

      That will dance merrily upon your Grave,

      And perhaps give a double Pistolet

      To some poor needy Frier, to say a Mass

      To keep your Ghost from walking.

      Hen.

      That the Law

      Should force me to endure this!

      Jam.

      Verily,

      When this shall come to pass (as sure it will)

      If you can find a loop-hole, though in Hell,

      To look on my behaviour, you shall see me

      Ransack your Iron Chests, and once again

      Pluto's flame-colour'd Daughter shall be free

      To domineer in Taverns, Masques, and Revels

      As she was us'd before she was your Captive.

      Me thinks the meer conceipt of it, should make you

      Go home sick, and distemper'd; if it do's,

      I'le send you a Doctor of mine own, and after

      Take order for your Funeral.

      Hen.

      You have said, Sir,

      I will not fight with words, but deeds to tame you,

      Rest confident I will, and thou shalt wish

      This day thou hadst been dumb.—

      [Exit.

      Mil.

      You have given him a heat,

      But with your own distemper.

      Jam.

      Not a whit,

      Now he is from mine eye, I can be merry,

      Forget the cause and him: all plagues go with him,

      Let's talk of something else: what news is stirring?

      Nothing to pass the time?

      Mil.

      'Faith it is said

      That the next Summer will determine much

      Of that we long have talk'd of, touching the Wars.

      Lean.

      What have we to