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_Wal_. Now. This very hour.
_Julia_. This very hour! O cruel, fatal haste!
_Wal_. "O cruel, fatal haste!" What meanest thou?
Have I done wrong to do thy bidding, then?
I have done no more. Thou wast an offcast bride, And wouldst be an affianced one--thou art so!
Thou'dst have the slight that marked thee out for scorn, Converted to a means of gracing thee-- It is so! If our wishes come too soon, What can make sure of welcome? In my zeal To win thee thine, thou know'st, at any time I'd play the steed, whose will to serve his lord, With his last breath gives his last bound for him!
Since only noon have I despatched what well Had kept a brace of clerks, and more, on foot-- And then, perhaps, had been to do again!-- Not finished sure, complete--the compact firm, As fate itself had sealed it!
_Julia_. Give you thanks!
Though 'twere my death! my death!
_Wal_. Thy death! indeed, For happiness like this, one well might die!
Take thy lord's letter! Well?
[Enter THOMAS, with a letter.]
_Thos_. This letter, sir, The gentleman that served Sir Thomas Clifford-- Or him that was Sir Thomas--gave to me For Mistress Julia.
_Julia_. Give it me!
[Throwing away the one she holds.]
_Wal_. [s.n.a.t.c.hing it.] For what?
Wouldst read it? He's a bankrupt! stripped of t.i.tle, House, chattels, lands, and all! A naked bankrupt, With neither purse, nor trust! Wouldst read his letter?
A beggar! Yea, a very beggar!--fasts, unless He dines on alms! How durst he send thee a letter!
A fellow cut on this hand, and on that; Bows and is cut again, and bows again!
Who pays you fifty smiles for half a one,-- And that given grudgingly! To you a letter!
I burst with choler! Thus I treat his letter!
[Tears and throws it on the ground.]
So! I was wrong to let him ruffle me; He is not worth the spending anger on!
I prithee, Master Modus, use despatch, And presently make ready for our ride.
You, Helen, to my Julia look--a change Of dresses will suffice. She must have new ones, Matches for her new state! Haste, friends. My Julia!
Why stand you poring there upon the ground?
Time flies. Your rise astounds you? Never heed-- You'll play my lady countess like a queen!
[They go out.]
ACT IV.
SCENE I.--A Room in the Earl of Rochdale's
[Eater HELEN.]
_Helen_. I'm weary wandering from room to room; A castle after all is but a house-- The dullest one when lacking company.
Were I at home, I could be company Unto myself. I see not Master Walter, He's ever with his ward. I see not her.
By Master Walter's will she bides alone.
My father stops in town. I can't see him.
My cousin makes his books his company.
I'll go to bed and sleep. No--I'll stay up And plague my cousin into making love!
For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect.
How dull he is that hath not sense to see What lies before him, and he'd like to find!
I'll change my treatment of him. Cross him, where Before I used to humour him. He comes, Poring upon a book. What's that you read?
[Enter MODUS.]
_Mod_. Latin, sweet cousin.
_Helen_. 'Tis a naughty tongue, I fear, and teaches men to lie.
_Mod_. To lie!
_Helen_. You study it. You call your cousin sweet, And treat her as you would a crab. As sour 'Twould seem you think her, as you covet her!
Why how the monster stares, and looks about!
You construe Latin, and can't construe that!
_Mod_. I never studied women.
_Helen_. No; nor men.
Else would you better know their ways: nor read In presence of a lady. [Strikes the book from his hand.]
_Mod_. Right you say, And well you served me, cousin, so to strike The volume from my hand. I own my fault; So please you--may I pick it up again?
I'll put it in my pocket!
_Helen_. Pick it up.
He fears me as I were his grandmother!
What is the book?
_Mod_. 'Tis Ovid's Art of Love.
_Helen_. That Ovid was a fool!
_Mod_. In what?
_Helen_. In that: To call that thing an art, which art is none.
_Mod_. And is not love an art?
_Helen_. Are you a fool, As well as Ovid? Love an art! No art But taketh time and pains to learn. Love comes With neither! Is't to h.o.a.rd such grain as that, You went to college? Better stay at home, And study homely English.
_Mod_. Nay, you know not The argument.
_Helen_. I don't? I know it better Than ever Ovid did! The face--the form-- The heart--the mind we fancy, cousin; that's The argument! Why, cousin, you know nothing.
