Philaster; Or, Love Lies a Bleeding. Beaumont Francis

I know when we are married, I must ravish her.

      Meg. By my honour, that's a foul fault indeed, but time and your good help will wear it out Sir.

      Pha. And for any other I see, excepting your dear self, dearest Lady, I had rather be Sir _Tim _the Schoolmaster, and leap a Dairy-maid.

      Meg. Has your Grace seen the Court-star Galatea?

      Pha. Out upon her; she's as cold of her favour as an apoplex: she sail'd by but now.

      Meg. And how do you hold her wit Sir?

      Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of all the Guard cannot hold it, if they were tied to it, she would blow 'em out of the Kingdom, they talk of Jupiter, he's but a squib cracker to her: Look well about you, and you may find a tongue-bolt. But speak sweet Lady, shall I be freely welcome?

      Meg. Whither?

      Pha. To your bed; if you mistrust my faith, you do me the unnoblest wrong.

      Meg. I dare not Prince, I dare not.

      Pha. Make your own conditions, my purse shall seal 'em, and what you dare imagine you can want, I'le furnish you withal: give two hours to your thoughts every morning about it. Come, I know you are bashful, speak in my ear, will you be mine? keep this, and with it me: soon I will visit you.

      Meg. My Lord, my Chamber's most unsafe, but when 'tis night I'le find some means to slip into your lodging: till when—

      Pha. Till when, this, and my heart go with thee.

      [Ex. several ways.

      _Enter _Galatea from behind the hangings.

      Gal. Oh thou pernicious Petticoat Prince, are these your vertues? Well, if I do not lay a train to blow your sport up, I am no woman; and Lady Towsabel I'le fit you for't.

      [Exit Gal.

      _Enter _Arethusa and a Lady.

      Are. Where's the boy?

      La. Within Madam.

      Are. Gave you him gold to buy him cloaths?

      La. I did.

      Are. And has he don't?

      La. Yes Madam.

      Are. 'Tis a pretty sad talking lad, is it not? Askt you his name?

      La. No Madam.

      [ _Enter _Galatea.

      Are. O you are welcome, what good news?

      Gal. As good as any one can tell your Grace, That saies she hath done that you would have wish'd.

      Are. Hast thou discovered?

      Gal. I have strained a point of modesty for you.

      Are. I prethee how?

      Gal. In listning after bawdery; I see, let a Lady live never so modestly, she shall be sure to find a lawful time, to harken after bawdery; your Prince, brave Pharamond, was so hot on't.

      Are. With whom?

      Gal. Why, with the Lady I suspect: I can tell the time and place.

      Are. O when, and where?

      Gal. To night, his Lodging.

      Are. Run thy self into the presence, mingle there again

                      With other Ladies, leave the rest to me:

                      If destiny (to whom we dare not say,

                      Why thou didst this) have not decreed it so

                      In lasting leaves (whose smallest Characters

                      Were never altered:) yet, this match shall break.

                      Where's the boy?

      La. Here Madam.

      [ _Enter _Bellario.

      Are. Sir, you are sad to change your service, is't not so?

      Bell. Madam, I have not chang'd; I wait on you,

                      To do him service.

      Are. Thou disclaim'st in me;

                      Tell me thy name.

      Bell. Bellario.

      Are. Thou canst sing, and play?

      Bell. If grief will give me leave, Madam, I can.

      Are. Alas! what kind of grief can thy years know?

                      Hadst thou a curst master, when thou went'st to School?

                      Thou art not capable of other grief;

                      Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be,

                      When no [b]reath troubles them: believe me boy,

                      Care seeks out wrinkled brows, and hollow eyes,

                      And builds himself caves to abide in them.

                      Come Sir, tell me truly, does your Lord love me?

      Bell. Love Madam? I know not what it is.

      Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love?

                      Thou art deceiv'd boy; does he speak of me

                      As if he wish'd me well?

      Bell. If it be love,

                      To forget all respect of his own friends,

                      In thinking of your face; if it be love

                      To sit cross arm'd and sigh away the day,

                      Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud

                      And hastily, as men i'the streets do fire:

                      If it be love to weep himself away,

                      When he but hears of any Lady dead,

                      Or kill'd, because it might have been your chance;

                      If when he goes to rest (which will not be)

                      'Twixt every prayer he saies, to name you once

                      As others drop a bead, be to be in love;

                      Then Madam, I dare swear he loves you.

      Are. O y'are a cunning boy, and taught to lie,

                      For