TIMANDRA

With your will. But turbulent spirits raised beyond themselves With case, are not so soon laid: they oft prove Dangerous to him that called them up. Punctually I will discharge my partly. Exit Timandra. Enter Poliphron. They are at our gates, my heart! affrights & horrors Increase each minute: No way left to save us; No flattering hope to comfort us, or means By miracle to redeem us from base lust, And lawless rapine. Are there Gods, yet suffer Such innocent sweetness to be made the spoil Of brutish appetite? Or, since they decree To ruin Nature's masterpiece (of which they have not left one pattern) must they choose, To set their tyranny of, slaves to pollute The spring of chastity, and poison it With their most loathed embraces? and of those He that should offer up his life to guard it? Marullo, cursed Marullo, your own Bondman Purchased to serve you, and fed by your favours. Nay, start not; it is he, he the grand Captain Cleora starts, Of these libidinous beasts, that have not left One cruel act undone, that Barbarous conquest, Yet ever practised in a captive City. He doting on your beauty, and to have fellows In his foul sin, hath raised these mutinous slaves, Who have begun the game by violent Rapes, Upon the Wives and Daughters of their Lords: And he to quench the fire of his base lust, By force comes to enjoy you: do not wring Cleora wrings her hands. Your innocent hands, it's bootless; use the means That may preserve you. It's no crime to break A vow, when you are forced to it; show your face, And with the majesty of commanding beauty, Strike dead his lose affections; if that fail, Give liberty to your tongue, and use entreaties, There cannot be a breast of flesh, and blood, Or heart so made of flint, but must receive Impression from your words; or eyes so stern, But from the clear reflection of your tears Must melt, and bear them company: will you not Do these good offices to your self? poor I then, Can only weep your fortune; here he comes. Speak gently, Her fears may kill her else. If you are, Hold forth your right hand. Cleora holds forth her right hand. See, she bows Her head in sign of thankfulness. See, she kneels And seems to call upon the gods to pay The debt she owes your virtue. To perform which As a sure pledge of friendship, she vouchsafes you Her fair right hand. Makes a low curtsy, as she goes off. You have redeemed The forfeit of your fault, with such a ransom Of honourable Actium, as my Sister Must of necessity confess her sufferings Weighed down by your fair merits; and when she views you Like a triumphant Conqueror, carried through The Streets of Syracyse, the glad people Pressing to meet you, and the Senators Contending who shall heap most honours on you; The Oxen crowned with Garlands led before you Appointed for the Sacrifice; and the Altars Smoking with thankful Incense to the gods: The Soldiers chanting loud hymns to your praise: The windows filled with Matrons, and with Virgins, Throwing upon your head, as you pass by, The choicest Flowers; and silently invoking The Queen of Love, with their particular vows, To be thought worthy of you; can Cleora, (Though, in the glass of selflove, she behold Her best deserts) but with all joy acknowledge, What she endured, was but a noble trial You made of her affection? and her anger Rising from your too amorous ears, soon drenched In Lethe, and forgotten. Yes, Sir, and as often As I speak of you, lends attentive ear To all that I deliver; nor seems tired, Though I dwell long on the relation of Your sufferings for her, heaping praise on praise, On your unequaled temperance, and command, You hold over your affections. With all care. As I guess With a seeming kind of joy, but yet appears not Transported, or proud of his happy fortune. But when I tell her of the certain ruin, You must encounter with at their arrival In Syracyse, and that death with torments Must fallen upon you, which you yet repent not; Esteeming it a glorious martyrdom, And a reward of pure, unspotted love, Preserved in the white robe of Innocence: Though she were in your power, and still spurred on By insolent lust; you rather chosen to suffer The fruit untasted, for whose glad possession, You have called on the fury of your Lord, Then that she should be grieved, or tainted in Her Reputation. She expressed All signs of sorrow, (which) her vow observed, Could witness a grieved heart. At the first hearing She fell upon her face, rend her fair hair, Her hands held up to heaven, and vented sighs, In which she silently seemed to complain, Of heavens injustice. I'll not be wanting, but still strive to serve you. You must not think, What might have been, but what must now be practiced, And suddenly resolve. Make haste, one knocks, Exit Pisander. Enter Leosthenes. Jove turn all to the best: you are welcome Sir. Alas, Sir, We have so long fed on the bred of sorrow, Drinking the bitter water of afflictions, Made loathsome to, by our continued fears, Comfort's a stranger to us. How mean you, fell, Sir? I understand you not. Pray you do not bring, Sir, In the chymeraes of your jealous fears, New monsters to affright us. You are unworthy To know she is preserved, preserved untainted. Sorrow (but ill bestowed) hath only made A rape upon her comforts, in your absence. Come forth, deer Madam. Leads in Cleora. Free her from her oath, Her self can best deliver it. Takes off the Scarf. Stop his mouth: Exit Guard with Pisander. Load him with Irons too. I have met, Madam, And object of such cruelty, as would force A Savage to compassion. It seems, my Lord your brother's; For he's a looker on: and it takes from Honoured Leosthenes to suffer it, For his respect to you, whose name in vain The grieved wretch loudly calls on. So, it works. Though hitherto I have ran a desperate course To serve my brother's purposes, now it's fit, Enter Leosthenes & Timagoras. I study mine own ends. They come. Assist me In these my undertakings, loves great Patron, As my intents are honest. This argues for me. I knew, 'twould take. Pardon me, fair Cleora. Though I appear a traitress, which thou wilt do In pity of my woes, when I make known My lawful claim, and only seek mine own. Exit. You are unmannered Grooms, Enter Timandra To pry into my Ladies private lodgings; There's no Marulloe's, there. Enter Diphilus With Pisander. Dragged to prison With more then barbarous violence, spurned and spit on By the insulting officers, his hands Pynion'd behind his back: loaded with fetters; Yet, with a Saintlike patience, he still offers His face to their rude buffets. Now I must Timandra steps out distractedly. Make in, or all is lost. As you are noble, Have pity, or love piety. O! Take it then in as many sighs, as words My Lady. No sooner herd, Marullo was imprisoned, but she fell Into a deadly swoon. Brought again to life, But with much labour; she awhile stood silent, Yet in that interim vented sighs, as if They laboured from the prison of her flesh, To give her grieved soul freedom. On the sudden Transported on the wings of rage, and sorrow, She flew out of the house, and unattended Entered the common prison. There you may find her, And if you love her, as a Sister — Or you respect her safety, as a lover, Procure Marullos liberty. Shee'll run mad else, Or do some violent act upon her self. My Lord her Father, sensible of her sufferings. Labours to gain his freedom, No more, Sir, I entreat you; I perceive True sorrow in his looks, and a consent To make me reparation in mine honour, And then I am most happy. Beyond belief; To me, that see her hourly, it seems a fable. By signs I guess at her commands, and serve they With silence, such her pleasure is, made known By holding her fair hand thus; she eats little, Sleeps less, as I imagine; once a day I lead her to this Gallery, where she walks Some half a dozen turns, and having offered To her absent Saint a sacrifice of sighs, She points back to her prison. This goes to my Lady. Men pity beasts of rapine, if overmatched, Though baited for their pleasure: but these monsters upon a man, that can make no resistance, Are sensllesse in their tyranny. Let it be granted, Marullo is a slave, he's still a man; A capital offender, yet in justice Not to be tortured, till the Judge pronounce His punishment. What will you do? That will bring fuel To the jealous fires, which burn too hight already In Lord Leosthenes.