A Select Collection of Old English Plays - LightNovelsOnl.com
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MACH. The crown's enjoyment can yield no content Without the presence of my Auristella.
ANT. Crown's enjoyment!
O villain!
MACH. Why stir you not? fetch me some skilful man, My kingdom shall reward him; if his art Chain her departing soul unto her flesh But for a day, till she be crown'd a queen: Fly, bring him unto this walk.
ANT. Stay, Most honoured count--now for a forged link Of flattery to chain me to his love.
[_Aside._
Having with studious care gone o'er the art Folly terms magic, which more sublime souls Skill'd i' the stars know is above that mischief, I find you're born to be 'bove vulgar greatness, Even to a throne: but stay, let's fetch this lady.
MACH. All greatness without her is slavery.
ANT. Use modest violence.
AUR. O!
ANT. Stand wider, give her air.
MACH. G.o.d-like physician, I and all that's mine, Will at thy feet offer a sacrifice.
ANT. Forfend it, goodness; I--nay all, Ere many hours [do] make the now young day A type of sparkling youth, shall on their knees Pray for your highness.
MACH. Look up, my Auristella, and be great; Rise with the sun, but never to decline.
AUR. What have you done?
MACH. Wak'd thee to be a queen.
AUR. A queen! O, don't dissemble; you have robb'd me Of greater pleasure than the fancied bliss Elysium owns: O, for a pleasure real, that Would appear in all unto my dream: that I may Frown, and then kill: smile, and create again.
Were there a h.e.l.l, as doating age would have, To fright from lawless courses heedless youth: For such a short-liv'd happiness as that I would be lost unto eternity.
MACH. The day grows old in hours: Come, Auristella, to the capital; The greybeard senate shall on humble knees Pay a religious sacrifice of praise Unto thy demi-deity: the stars Have in a general senate made thee queen Of this our world. Great master of thy art, Confirm my love.
ANT. Madam----
MACH. Nay, hear him, love; Believe me, he's a man that may Be secretary to the G.o.ds; he is alone In art; 'twere sin to name a second: all are Dunces to him.
ANT. How easy is the faith of the ambitious!
[_Aside._
MACH. Follow me to the council.
[_Exit._
AUR. Are you the man my husband speaks so high of?
Are you skill'd i' the stars?
ANT. Yes, madam.
AUR. Your habit says, or you abuse the custom,[35]
You're a physician?
ANT. Madam, I'm both.[36]
AUR. And d'ye find no let that stops my rising?
ANT. Not any.
AUR. Away, your skill is dull--dull to derision.
There is a star fix'd i' the heaven of greatness, That sparkles with a rich and fresher light Than our sick and defective taper.
ANT. It may be so the horoscope is troubled.
AUR. Confusion take your horoscope and you!
Can you with all your art advise my fears, How to confound this constellation?
ANT. Death, how she conjures!
[_Aside._
Madam, I must search into the planets.
AUR. Planet me no planets; be a physician, And from your study of industrious poisons Fetch me your best-experienc'd speedy one, And bring it to me straight: what 'tis to do, Like unresolved riddles, [is] hid from you.
[_Exit._
ANT. Planet, said I? upon my life, no planet Is so swift as her never-resting evil-- That is her tongue: well, I'll not question What the poison is for; if for herself, The common hangman's eas'd the labour Of a blow; for if she live, her head Must certain off; the poison I'll go get, And give it her, then to the king: If Sebastiano's Frenchified disguise Purchase the like discovery, our eyes Will be too scanty; we had need to be All eye to watch such haughty villany.
[_Exit._
_Enter_ GIOVANNO _and_ PHILIPPA.
GIO. Begare, madam, me make de gowne so brave; O, de hole vorle[37] be me patron; me ha vorke for le grand d.u.c.h.es le Shevere, le royne de Francia, Spagna, de Angleter, and all d'
fine madamosels.
PHIL. Nay, monsieur, to deprive desert of praise is unknown language; troth, I use it not; nay, it is very well.
GIO. Be me trot, a, madam, me ner do ill, de English man do ill, de Spanere do, de Duch, de all do ill but your Franchman, and, begare, he do incomparable brave.
PHIL. Y' are too proud on't.
GIO. Begare, me no proud i de vorle, me speak be me trot de trut, ang me no lie: metra, madam, begare, you have de find bode a de vorle, O de fine brave big ting me have ever measure, me waire fit it so pat.[38]
_Enter_ RAYMOND.
PHIL. Welcome, my lord!
