Philaster; Or, Love Lies a Bleeding. Beaumont Francis

my sake, (if a man may judge by looks,

                      And speech) would out-do story. I may see

                      A day to pay him for his loyalty.

      [Exit Phi.

      Enter Pharamond.

      Pha. Why should these Ladies stay so long? They must come this way; I know the Queen imployes 'em not, for the Reverend Mother sent me word they would all be for the Garden. If they should all prove honest now, I were in a fair taking; I was never so long without sport in my life, and in my conscience 'tis not my fault: Oh, for our Country Ladies! Here's one boulted, I'le hound at her.

      Enter Galatea.

      Gal. Your Grace!

      Pha. Shall I not be a trouble?

      Gal. Not to me Sir.

      Pha. Nay, nay, you are too quick; by this sweet hand.

      Gal. You'l be forsworn Sir, 'tis but an old glove. If you will talk at distance, I am for you: but good Prince, be not bawdy, nor do not brag; these two I bar, and then I think, I shall have sence enough to answer all the weighty Apothegmes your Royal blood shall manage.

      Pha. Dear Lady, can you love?

      Gal. Dear, Prince, how dear! I ne're cost you a Coach yet, nor put you to the dear repentance of a Banquet; here's no Scarlet Sir, to blush the sin out it was given for: This wyer mine own hair covers: and this face has been so far from being dear to any, that it ne're cost penny painting: And for the rest of my poor Wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves no hand behind it, to make the jealous Mercers wife curse our good doings.

      Pha. You mistake me Lady.

      Gal. Lord, I do so; would you or I could help it.

      Pha. Do Ladies of this Country use to give no more respect to men of my full being?

      Gal. Full being! I understand you not, unless your Grace means growing to fatness; and then your only remedy (upon my knowledge, Prince) is in a morning a Cup of neat White-wine brew'd with Carduus, then fast till supper, about eight you may eat; use exercise, and keep a Sparrow-hawk, you can shoot in a Tiller; but of all, your Grace must flie Phlebotomie, fresh Pork, Conger, and clarified Whay; They are all dullers of the vital spirits.

      Pha. Lady, you talk of nothing all this while.

      Gal. 'Tis very true Sir, I talk of you.

      Pha. This is a crafty wench, I like her wit well, 'twill be rare to stir up a leaden appetite, she's a Danae, and must be courted in a showr of gold. Madam, look here, all these and more, than—

      Gal. What have you there, my Lord? Gold? Now, as I live tis fair gold; you would have silver for it to play with the Pages; you could not have taken me in a worse time; But if you have present use my Lord, I'le send my man with silver and keep your gold for you.

      Pha. Lady, Lady.

      Gal. She's coming Sir behind, will take white mony. Yet for all this I'le match ye.

      [Exit Gal. behind the hangings.

      Pha. If there be two such more in this Kingdom, and near the Court, we may even hang up our Harps: ten such Camphire constitutions as this, would call the golden age again in question, and teach the old way for every ill fac't Husband to get his own Children, and what a mischief that will breed, let all consider.

      [ Enter Megra.

                      Here's another; if she be of the same last, the Devil

                      shall pluck her on. Many fair mornings, Lady.

      Meg. As many mornings bring as many dayes,

                      Fair, sweet, and hopeful to your Grace.

      Pha. She gives good words yet; Sure this wench is free.

                      If your more serious business do not call you,

                      Let me hold quarter with you, we'll take an hour

                      Out quickly.

      Meg. What would your Grace talk of?

      Pha. Of some such pretty subject as your self.

                      I'le go no further than your eye, or lip,

                      There's theme enough for one man for an age.

      Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips are yet even,

                      Smooth, young enough, ripe enough, red enough,

                      Or my glass wrongs me.

      Pha. O they are two twin'd Cherries died in blushes,

                      Which those fair suns above, with their bright beams

                      Reflect upon, and ripen: sweetest beauty,

                      Bow down those branches, that the longing taste,

                      Of the faint looker on, may meet those blessings,

                      And taste and live.

      Meg. O delicate sweet Prince;

                      She that hath snow enough about her heart,

                      To take the wanton spring of ten such lines off,

                      May be a Nun without probation.

                      Sir, you have in such neat poetry, gathered a kiss,

                      That if I had but five lines of that number,

                      Such pretty begging blanks, I should commend

                      Your fore-head, or your cheeks, and kiss you too.

      Pha. Do it in prose; you cannot miss it Madam.

      Meg. I shall, I shall.

      Pha. By my life you shall not.

                      I'le prompt you first: Can you do it now?

      Meg. Methinks 'tis easie, now I ha' don't before;

                      But yet I should stick at it.

      Pha. Stick till to morrow.

                      I'le ne'r part you sweetest. But we lose time,

                      Can you love me?

      Meg. Love you my Lord? How would you have me love you?

      Pha. I'le teach you in a short sentence, cause I will not load your memory, that is all; love me, and lie with me.

      Meg. Was it lie with you that you said? 'Tis impossible.

      Pha. Not to a willing mind, that