AURELIO

TO Is true indeed, our love is Like our life, There's no man blessed in either, till his end. And he whom Fate points to that happiness, A thousand passion mock his doubtful Hope's, Till Virtue that can never be extinct, Shall rise above their rage, and call down Hymen, Attended with as many several joys, To triumph in the circle of our brow. Near think of it; what though my father made me A stranger to his loins, and cut me off From my inheritance, because he thought me A rival in his love, that fatal love Whose jealousy prevailed so in a Woer, That it killed all affection in a father. These ill begotten thoughts he still maintained, And cherished to his death, whose perjod Of life, was the beginning of my mischief: For he gave all the land unto my brother. One less deserving, would I could report That he had any worth, his ill wrought mind, Too apt for the impression of all vice, As if he were to strive with his estate, And had no other Enemy, would make A conquest of his ruin. So negligent Of what his father wrongfully bereft me, That he spends all inryot, and so vainly, As if he meant to throw it after him, Only he has a foolish flashing wit, Too weak to sustain, or prevent his fallen, But no solidity of mind or judgement. And now imagines he can salve it up, By being stiled, A Fine Companion. Let that entitle him to all my right, While I secure in my imputed crime, Think thee a better portion; all my fault Was honesty, and true affection. Dear Valeria, Had fortune pleased to place me in that means My birth assured me, we had spent our life Lulled in the lap of peace, our days had run Smooth as the feet of time, free from all tumults. It may do so, but I Have not a fortune equal to your virtues, And to support the title of your worth. I love you better then to injure you. I will resign you to some richer heir, Whose heaps of wealth left by his greedy father, Untouched as is your goodness, may advance you, And make you happy, think on't, be not cruel To your own self. On how have I deserved that you should think So ill of me? you may divorce the lui, The Vine from her embraces, me you can not. Where is the care you wont to have of me? What is my fault? you can be well without me, And I shall please you best when I am absent. Nay my Valeria do not weep so soar, Thy grief adds more to mine, it is enough I partly from thee, my heart with drops of blood, Pays tribute to the Ocean of thy tears: This treasure of thine eyes, if spent for those, That lie unterr'd, wanting their funeral rites, And restless walk upon the Stygian strand, So long as fate has limited their curse, Would send them over to Elisium. One grain of that same grief which clogs her heart, Would lie in balance against the universe. The joy and happiness of all mankind, Are given to me in her, and she was born, Upbraid the world, and tell them they are false. Faith that fled to heaven, And truth, that after once men's hearts grew cold, Would go no longer naked, now again Are come to dwell with mortals. Here's a woman, In whose comparison all wealth is sordid. And since she proves so constant, fate it self Shall not be blamed for me that I for sooke her. Pray sir forbear, My wrongs do not permit you to abuse me. How ere I speed, comfort attend thee still, And so my best Valeria farewell. Come honest Fido, thy best love supplies, Partly of my hoped Fortune's. Thats true friendship, Misery cannot shake, which crowns thy merit. You could not do and office more deserving, Or grateful to my soul, then to bring tidings How my love fares, each syllable she spoke, Though by and echo I receive the voice, Is able to inspire new life into me. How do's she? is she well? and mindful of us: Speak it a thousand times; never did found Touch a more gladsome ear. the hast seen the treasury of my happiness. Speak, am I rich or no? And why should I be stayed from going to her? Why should a covetous eye watch over that wealth That is my right, I will go claim my endue, And justify the seizure. Why should parents, That can give to their children, neither minds, Nor yet affections, strive to govern both? It's not justice: yet where should I complain? Love has no bar to plead at, nor no laws To rule us by, nor Court to judge our cause. Is this one of his comrades? Prithee good Fido, go and baffull him: Put and affront upon him, if his valour Prompt him to make resistance, I'll step out And second thee. What is he gone? How he boar it out With impudence? Why mischief? We must pursue the project. Sup with him At any hand. Come. Fido, I am now advised upon a plot, If it succeed, shall crown my invention. Hang him Kastrill. I scorn to lose a thought on him; my brains Repine at his memory. 'Tis a new devise, The issue of extremity. 'Tis thus, I will turn a desperate Gamester in love, And venture all upon one cast. Come I'll do it. I'll send thee with a letter Unto my Mistress, that shall make her mad. I shall gain my desire. Not any of these. She shall seem mad but in appearance Fido; And with that feigned frenzy move a pity From all, that must impute it to her sufferings. No, this is not the main one, theres another Of greater consequence, and secrecy, For a found mind to bear, and 'tis a burden Worthy thy care and honesty: Think not I am so desperate and heady, to launch forth Into those dangerous Seas without a Pilot, And I have chosen thee for my Palinurus. 'Tis no matter, thou and I Will sink a Paean to loves victory. You much amaze me. Stay let me pause awhile; she is a woman, Whose age and form might tempt me to distrust her, But yet her manners forbid me to believe it. Oh do not wrong her, Good sir do not wrong her, it cannot be. I sought at first to make her mad in jest, But now I'll make her mad in earnest: yet 'Tis not good to be too credulous; a word sir. I must have better proofs then your bore word, To justify this accusation; Her virtue must not stumble at a straw. Oh I shall burst: Here is a sighed to make the Sun run backward; Good sir forgive me, that I pressed you so, Consider't as your own case: were you he, That put your confidence, your happiness, All in a woman's love, and found her false? I am not dumb, I have a care within me, Speaks to my troubled soul. Oh hear it then, and witness it for ever. When ere thou feest a woman, in whose brow, Are writ the characters of honesty, And calls the gods to justify her truth, Swear she's a Syren, and a Crocodile. Conclude her false, it is enough she vows, And speaks thee fair, the winds wait on her lips, Straight to disperse her oaths. There is not one of them, that is the same She would appear to be; they all are painted. They have a Fucus for their face, and other For their behaviour, their words, and actions. Give no faith to their brow: for in that green And flourishing field of seeming virtue, lurks A Snake of lust, in whose voluminous wreaths, Are folded up a thousand treacheries, Plots, Mischiefs, and dissimulations, That man never thought of. For in wickedness, The wit of woman was never yet found barren. Why there's the sum of all that I have spoke, The abstract of all falsehood. 'Tis a name, will Blister the tongue of fame, in her report Is drowned the memory of all wicked women. Once my Valeria, but now mine no more, (For they are perished that have lost their shame) Is fallen from virtue passed recovery. The golden Organs of her innocence Are broke, not to be solderd Oh no, my heart Is shut against all mirth. But my fate guides me to the contrary: For if my Mistress do not honest prove, She has put a perjod to my life and love. Come sir, now I have found you, not the power, And strength of fate, shall pull you from my vengeance. And though I know thy life too mean a ransom For the redeeming of the priceless lose Of her abused honour, Yet what Nature Enables thee to pay, I'll take in partly, And leave the execution of the rest Unto Hels justice. Look you: to unfold your heart sir with this sword, And read the falsehood that is written in it. Come I must know the truth, and reason too, If there be reason for a wicked act. The same. Still and ill conscience will betray it self, And sends forth many a scowling, fearful look, To descry danger; if he stand confident, And justify it to the face of terror, Then she is false. Is, and the cause of her distemperature Is the reproach you put upon her honour. Was it malice? That word has struck me both with joy and anger, Both in suspense, which should weight down the scale Of my deep burdened mind. What horrid baseness Durst so attempt to profane innocence? What is his hate, Whose love has proved so ominous? Thou hast done ill. And Like a foolish and young Exorcist, Hast conjured up a spirit of that fury, Thy art cannot allay. What's the offence that did provoke This imputation? Did she ever wrong you? Malign your wit? Disgrace you before your Mistress? Disparage your behaviour? Had she done so, Yet this revenge were disproportionate. You have given Almost a satisfaction. And I'll make use of your kind proffer sir. You speak honestly, I shall employ you; I know you have that credit with her father, You may advice him in a thing that reason Shall seem to second; bring but this to pass, You have made requital for all injuries. You are my Genius, My hope, my opportunity, my Fate; And in effecting this you cannot err, To make me happy, and recover her. Suspected, is she no otherwise? It came by love? Thus I prove it; What is ambition, and covetousness, Or luxury, or superstition, But madness in men? and these reign generally. Your Lawyer trots, and writes, as he were mad, His Client is madder then he; your Merchant that marries A fair wife, and leaves her at home, is mad: Your Courtier is mad to take up silks and velvets On ticket for his Mistress; and your Citizen Is mad to trust him. I have indeed. To satisfy your Ladyship, I will. Then I'll tell you. There was once and Astrologer brought mad before me, the circulations of the Heavens had turned his brains round, he had very strange fits, he would ever be staring, and gazing, and yet his eyes were so weak, they could not look up without a staff. I, and he would watch whole nights, there could not a star stir for him, he thought there was no hurt done, but they did it, and that made him look so narrowly to them. Only with two or three sentences out of Picus Mirandula, in confutation of the act; and as many out of Cor nelius Agrippa, for the vanity of it. The next was a Soldier, and he was very furious; but I quieted him, by getting his arrearages paid, and a Pen sion for his life. But the most dangerous of all was a Puritan Chand ler, and he ran mad with illuminations, he was very strange lie possessed, and talked idly, as if he had had a noise of Bells' in his head; he thought a man in a Surplesse to be the Ghost of Heresy, and was out of love with his own members, because they were called Organs. I and held very strange positions, for he counted Fa the to be as unlawful in the Church, as Plato did Poets in his Commonwealth, and thereupon grounded his conclusion for the lawfulness of whoredom; for he said that marriage, as it is now used, was the only ringleader of all mischief. Why Lady with certain pills of found doctrine, and they purged his ill humours. Then there was a Musician that run mad with Crochets, the fit was so violent upon him, that he would no thing but found perpetually. I served him as Hercules served his Master Linus, broke his Fiddle about his pate, and sent him away without ere a penny, and that brought his head in tune. Then there was a Huntsman that was very wood, he would nothing but hoop and hollow, and was wonder fully in love with and Echo. Why I served him in his own kind, he had a very handsome wench to his wife, and while he was playing the Cephalus abroad, and courting his Aura, I turned him into and Actaeon at home, set a fair pair of horns on his head, and made him a tame beast. I cured a poet too, and indeed, they are a generati on that are little better then mad at all times: I was feign to give him over, because himself, and others took such delight in his fury. I could not tell what to make of him, his disease was so pretty and conceited, and he was no sooner well, but he would presently fallen into a relapse. I could make relation of a thousand such, as Painters, Alchemists and the Like, but it would be tedious. No by no means, it'll spend her spirits too much. I'll take her home with me, and anoint her brows with a little Helleborum, and some other receipts that I'll give her, and I'll warrant you, I'll bring her safe too in three hours, and well recovered. Sir, I shall desire nothing but my pains for my satis faction. Lately the Doctor, but now your son Aurelio. No more sir, if we may obtain your favour for these, and think good sir what love may do; you have been young your self. And ordinary disease, and cure, in some things I am of and opinion that Stertinius The Stoic was, who held all the world mad.