FERNEZE

Why this is rare, is he not in the garden? See, call him? WHere should he be, trow? did you look in the armoury? No, why there? o who would keep such drones? Exeunt Sebast. and Baltha. How now, would you found him? No my Lord, I shall have shortly all my family Speak nought, but no my Lord, where is Christopher, Look how he stands, you sleep y knave, What is he not in the Garden? Your good Lord, o how this smells of fennell. Enter Sebast Baltha. You have be in the garden it appears, well, well. He is not, he is no where, is he? Signior. Patience? a Saint would lose his patience to be crossed, As I am with a sort of motly brains, See see, how Like a nest of Rooks they stand, Gaping on one another! now Diligence, what news bring you? Tut, tut, leave pleasing of my honour Diligence, you double with we, come. Whats that, you mutter sir? will you proceed? Yet more; Gods precious. What say you sir knave? What do you take exceptions at me then. Go to you are a Rascal, hold your tongue. Tempt not my patience. Nay see, away with him, pull his cloth over his ears. His name is Onion Signior, Signior Maximilian. Let me entreat you, you would not regard Any contempt flowing from such a spirit, So rude, so barbarous. Why he sues to have his fellow Onion pardoned, And you must grant it Signior. I Signior. I for then it rests, Oh Sir your welcome, Why God be thanked you are found at last. Signior Coloma truly you are welcome, I am glad to see you sir so well returned. Oh Francisco' you knew her what she was! I was she not! well weep not she is gone, Passions dulled eye can make two grieves of one, Whom death mark out, virtue, nor bluod can save, Princes, as beggars, all must feed the graven. Sir I could wish the number and valve of them more in respect of your deservings. But Signior Maximilian. I pay you a word in private. Signior, blame me not, For tending his security so much, He is mine only son, and that word only, Hath with his strong, and reprecussiue found, Stroke my heart cold, and given it a deep wound. Why have not you known it Maximilian? I had one other younger born then this, By twice so many how ers as would fill The circle of a year, his name Camillo, Whom in that black, and fearful night I lost, ('Tis now a nineteen years ago at least, And yet the memory of it fits as fresh Within my brain as it but yesterday) It was that night wherein the great Chamont, The general for France surprised Vicenza, Me thinks the horror of that clamorous shout His soldiers gave when they attained the wall, Yet tingles in mine ear, me thinks I see With what amazed looks, distracted thoughts, And minds confused, we, that were citizens, Confronted one another: every street Was filled with bitter self tormenting cries, And happy was that foot, that first could press, The flowery champagne, bordering on Verona Here I (employed about my deer wives safety) Whose soul is now in peace) lost my Camillo. Who sure was murdered by the barbarous Soldiers, Or else I should have herd—my heart is great. Sorrow is faint? and passion makes me sweat. Many? no Angelo. I do not think th'ast many, some fourteen I here thou hast, even of our worthiest dams, Of any note, in Milan: By'th the Mass that is't, here are their names to show Fourteen, or fifteen one. Good Angelo. You needs not be ashamed of any of them, They are gallants all. Nay stay sweet Angelo, I am disposed A little to be pleasant passed my coustome, He's gone? he's gone, I have disgraced him shrewdly, Daughters take heed of him, he's a wild youth, Look what he says to you believe him not, He will swear love to every one he sees. Francisco, give them council, good Francisco, I dare trust thee with both, but him with neither. Well go your ways away; how now Christopher, What news with you? A suit Christopher? what suit I prithee? I'll pardon all simplicity, Christopher, What is thy suit? What? is it touching love Christopher? Art thou disposed to marry, why 'tis well. No, no, Christopher, I know thee honest. Then I should wrong thee, thou hast ever been Honest and true, and will be still I know. I know it man. Who wouldst thou have I prithee? Rachel de pry? what the poor beggars daughter? She's a right handsome maid, how poor soever, And thou hast my consent, with all my heart. Do so Christofero thou shalt do well. 'Tis strange (she being so poor) he should affect her, But this is more strange that my self should love her. I spied her, lately, at her father's door, And if I did not see in her sweet face Gentry and nobleness, never trust me more: But this persuasion, fancy wrought in me, That fancy being created with her looks, For where love is he think his basest object Gentle and noble: I am far in love, And shall be forced to wrong my honest steward, For I must sue, and seek her for my self; How much my duty to my late dead wife, And my own deer renown so ere it sways, He to her father straight. Love hates delays. Here is the poor old man. Be not dismayed old man, I come to cheer you. He has forgotten me sure: what should this mean? He fears authority, and my want of wife Will take his daughter from him to defame her: He that hath nought on earth but one poor daughter, May take this ecstasy of care to keep her. Stand up good father, I call thee not father for thy age, But that I gladly wish to be thy son, In honoured marriage with thy beauteous daughter. Why father, this is nothing. Indeed it is not. Father, I'll hear no more, thou movest too much With thy too curious answer for thy daughter, That does deserve a thousand times as much, I'll be thy Son in law, and she shall wear Th'attire of Countesses. Rise I say: When I mock poorness, then heavens make me poor. You are right welcome sir. What, bring you me ill news? Ill news of my son? My deer and only son, I'll lay my soul, Ay me accursed, thought of his death does wound me, And the report of it will kill me quite. How then? That's enough, enough, I set my thoughts on love, on servile love, Forget my virtuous wife, feel not the dangers, The bans and wounds of mine own flesh and blood, And therein am a mad man: therein plagued, With the most joust affliction under heaven. Is Maximilian taken prisoner to? Is't possible, can Maximilian? Return, and view my face without my son, For whom he swore such care as for himself? Oh! in what tempests do my Fortune's sail, Still wracked with winds more foul and contrary, Then any Northern guest, or Southern flaw? That ever yet enforced the sea to gape, And swallow the poor Merchants traffic up? First in Vieenza, lost I my first son; Next here in Milan my most deer loved Lady: And now my Paulo, prisoner to the French, Which last being printed with my other griefs, Does make so huge a volume, that my breast Cannot contain them. But this is my love I must make love to Rachel, heaven hath thrown, This vengeance on me most deservedly: Were it for nought but wronging of my steward. I will prepare his ransom: gracious heaven Grant his imprisonment may be his worst, Honoured and soldierlike imprisonment, And that he be not manacled and made A drudge to his proud foe. And here I vow, Never to dream of seeme-les amorous toys, Nor aim at other joy on earth, But the fruition of my only son. Speak not so loud Pacue. Oh that may be, for when I lost my son, This was but young it seems. He had indeed, well, speak no more of him. Honoured Chamont reach me your valiant hand, I could have wished some happier accident Had made the way unto this mutual knowledge, Which either of us now must take of other, But sure it is the pleasure of our fates, That we should thus be wracked on Fortune's wheel, Let us prepare with steeled patience To tread on torment, and with minds confirmed Welcome the worst of envy. I, and it would be with more speed effected, If he would undertake it. Away, I'll hear no more, Never was man so palpably abuld, My son so basely marted; and my self Am made the subject of your mirth and scorn. I will persist, and unto thee I speak. Thou. Maximilian thou hast injured me. The true Chamount set free, and one left here Of no descent, clad barely in his name. Sirrah boy come hither, and be sure, you speak the simple truth: Mounsieur Gasper, on what occasion did they change their names, what was their policy, or their pretext. Tut tut, be silent. So will not I. By heaven I will not, I will stop mine ears, My senses loath the Saviour of thy breath. 'Tis poison to me, I say I will not hear. What shall I know, 'tis you have injured me, What will you make? make me acknowledge it. Fetch forth that Gasper, that lewd counterfeit. I'll make him to your face approve your wrongs. Come on false substance, shadow to Chamont: Had you none else to work upon but me, Was I your fittest project? well confess, What you intended by this secret plot. And by whose policy it was contrived, Speak truth, and be entreated courteously, But double with me, and resolve to prove The extremest rigor that I can inflict. 'Tis well, proceed then. Then Maximilian took you for Chamount. 'Tis false, ignoble wretch, It but a complot to betray my son. Lie? Return? I when? when will Chamount return? Heel come to fetch you, will he? I 'tis Like, you'd have me think so, that's your policy. No, no, young gallant, your device is stale, You cannot feed me with so vain a hope. Oh impudent derision? open scorn? Intolerable wrong? is't not enough? That you have played upon me all this while; But still to mock me, still to jest at me? Fellows, away with him, thou ill-bred slave, That sets no difference betwixt a noble spirit, And thy own slavish humour, do not think But isle take worthy vengeance on thee, wretch? Nay, thou shalt want no torture, so resolve, bring him away. Tut Maximilian, for your honoured self, I am persuaded, but no words shall turn The edge of purposed vengeance on that wretch, Come, bring him forth to execution. I'll hang him for my son, he shall not escape, Had he and hundred lives: Tell me vile slave, Thinkest thou I love my son? is he my flesh? Is he my blood, my life? and shall all these be tortured for thy sake, and not revenged? truss up the villain. Dishonourable? Max imillian? It is dishonourable in Chamount, the day of his prefixed return is passed, and he shall pay fort. Oh resolute and peremptory wretch! I'll hear no more, I say he shall not live, My self will do it. Stay, what form is this Stands betwixt him and me, and holds my hand. What miracle is this? 'tis my own fancy, Carves this impression in me, my soft nature, That ever hath retained such foolish pity, Of the most abject creatures misery, That it abhors it, what a child am I To have a child? Ay me, my son, my son. My son, Christopher, thinkest it possible, I ever shall behold his face again. Now they have young Chamount? Christopher? Surely they never will restore my son. Oh my son, my son. Hear me Christopher. Oh God that we should let Chamount escape. It cannot be but he is handled the most cruelly, That ever any noble prisoner was. Oh thou base wretch, isle drag thee through the streets. And as a monster, make thee wondered at, how now. How, my son returned? Oh Maximilian, Francisco, daughters? bid him enter here. Dost thou not mock me? Oh my deer Paulo welcome. Oh worthy gentlemen, I am a shamed That my extreme affection to my son, Should give my honour so uncured a main, But my first son, being in Vicenza lost. Oh the same night, wherein your noble father took the town. 'Tis now well nigh upon the twentieth year. I cannot tell, between the years of three and sour, I take it. Oh happy revelation? o blessed hour? o my Camillo. Oh my boy? forgive thy father's late austerity: Why whats the matter Jaques. How Jaques is not Rachel then thy daughter. Come leave your pardons, and directly say. What villain is the same that hath usurped, The honoured name and person of Chamount: Some body bid the beggar cease his noise. I cannot well remember his attire, But I have often herd his mother say: He had about his neck a tablet, Given to him by the Emperor Sigismund. His Godfather, with this inscription, Under the figure of a silver Globe: En minimo, mundus. Camillo Lord Chamount. Why I'll tell you Signior, Heel bandy with me word for word, nay more, Put me to silence, strike me perfect dumb; And so amaze me, that oftentimes I know not, Whither to check or cherish his presumption: Therefore good Signior. Go to, my merry daughter, o these looks, Agree well with your habit, do they not? Close with my daughters gentlemen? well done, 'Tis Like your selves: nay lusty Angelo, Let not my presence make you bauke your sport, I will not break a minute of discourse Betwixt you and one of your fair Mistress's. My most noble Lord? I do beseech your Lordship.