Beaumont & Fletchers Works (1 of 10) – the Custom of the Country. Beaumont Francis

allows him,

      Or sudden fires, kindled from those bright eyes,

      He sues to be your servant, fairly, nobly

      For ever to be tyed your faithful Husband:

      Consider my best child.

      Zeno. I have considered.

      Char. The blessedness that this breeds too, consider

      Besides your Fathers Honour, your own peace,

      The banishment for ever of this Custom,

      This base and barbarous use, for after once

      He has found the happiness of holy Marriage,

      And what it is to grow up with one Beauty,

      How he will scorn and kick at such an heritage

      Left him by lust and lewd progenitors.

      All Virgins too, shall bless your name, shall Saint it,

      And like so many Pilgrims go to your shrine,

      When time has turn'd your beauty into ashes,

      Fill'd with your pious memory.

      Zeno. Good Father Hide not that bitter Pill I loath to swallow In such sweet words.

      Char. The Count's a handsome Gentleman,

      And having him, y'are certain of a fortune,

      A high and noble fortune to attend you:

      Where if you fling your Love upon this stranger

      This young Arnoldo, not knowing from what place

      Or honourable strain of blood he is sprung, you venture

      All your own sweets, and my long cares to nothing,

      Nor are you certain of his faith; why may not that

      Wander as he does, every where?

      Zen. No more Sir;

      I must not hear, I dare not hear him wrong'd thus,

      Vertue is never wounded, but I suffer.

      'Tis an ill Office in your age, a poor one,

      To judge thus weakly: and believe your self too,

      A weaker, to betray your innocent Daughter,

      To his intemp'rate, rude, and wild embraces,

      She hates as Heaven hates falshood.

      Rut. A good wench, She sticks close to you Sir.

      Zeno. His faith uncertain?

      The nobleness his vertue springs from, doubted?

      D'ye doubt it is day now? or when your body's perfect,

      Your stomach's well dispos'd, your pulse's temperate,

      D'ye doubt you are in health? I tell you Father,

      One hour of this mans goodness, this mans Nobleness

      Put in the Scale, against the Counts whole being,

      Forgive his lusts too, which are half his life,

      He could no more endure to hold weight with him;

      Arnoldo's very looks, are fair examples;

      His common and indifferent actions,

      Rules and strong ties of vertue: he has my first love,

      To him in sacred vow I have given this body,

      In him my mind inhabits.

      Rut. Good wench still.

      Zeno. And till he fling me off, as undeserving, Which I confess I am, of such a blessing, But would be loth to find it so—

      Arn. O never;

      Never my happy Mistress, never, never,

      When your poor servant lives but in your favour,

      One foot i'th' grave the other shall not linger.

      What sacrifice of thanks, what age of service,

      What danger, of more dreadful look than death,

      What willing Martyrdom to crown me constant

      May merit such a goodness, such a sweetness?

      A love so Nobly great, no power can ruine;

      Most blessed Maid go on, the Gods that gave this,

      This pure unspotted love, the Child of Heaven,

      In their own goodness, must preserve and save it,

      And raise you a reward beyond our recompence.

      Zeno. I ask but you, a pure Maid to possess, And then they have crown'd my wishes: If I fall then Go seek some better love, mine will debase you.

      Rut. A pretty innocent fool; well, Governour,

      Though I think well of your custom, and could wish my self

      For this night in your place, heartily wish it:

      Yet if you play not fair play and above board too,

      I have a foolish gin here, I say no more;

      I'le tell you what, and if your honours guts are not inchanted.

      Arn. I should now chide you Sir, for so declining

      The goodness and the grace you have ever shew'd me,

      And your own vertue too, in seeking rashly

      To violate that love Heaven has appointed,

      To wrest your Daughters thoughts, part that affection

      That both our hearts have tyed, and seek to give it.

      Rut. To a wild fellow, that would weary her;

      A Cannibal, that feeds on the heads of Maids,

      Then flings their bones and bodies to the Devil,

      Would any man of discretion venture such a gristle,

      To the rude clawes of such a Cat-a-mountain?

      You had better tear her between two Oaks, a Town Bull

      Is a meer Stoick to this fellow, a grave Philosopher,

      And a Spanish Jennet, a most vertuous Gentleman.

      Arn. Does this seem handsome Sir?

      Rut. Though I confess

      Any man would desire to have her, and by any means,

      At any rate too, yet that this common Hangman,

      That hath whipt off the heads of a thousand maids already,

      That he should glean the Harvest, sticks in my stomach:

      This Rogue breaks young wenches to the Saddle,

      And teaches them to stumble ever after;

      That he should have her? for my Brother now

      That is a handsome young fellow; and well thought on,

      And will deal tenderly in the business;

      Or for my self that have a reputation,

      And have studied the conclusions of these causes,

      And know the perfect manage, I'le tell you old Sir,

      If I should call you wise Sir, I should bely you,

      This thing, you study to betray your child to,

      This Maiden-monger. When you have done your best,

      And think you have fixt her in the point of honour,

      Who do you think you have tyed her to? a Surgeon,

      I must confess an excellent dissector,

      One that has cut up more young tender Lamb-pies—

      Char.