MARIANA

How she winds her self Into his Soul! This is some allay To his hight passion. Thou dost mistake; they durst not Use the least word of scorn, although provoked, To any thing of mine. Go, get you home, And , servants, friends, and flatterers, number How many descents you are noble; Look to your wives too, The smooth-chined Courtiers are abroad. I can speak sometime. If to vex her, May be interpreted to do her Honour, She shall have many of they? I'll make use Of my short Reign: my Lord, now governs all: And she shall know, that her Idolater, My Brother, being not by, now to protect her, I am her equal. On her Birthday, We were forced to be merry: & now she's musty We must be sad, on pain of her displeasure; We will, we will. This is her private Chamber, Where Like and Hypocrite, not a true Turtle, She seems to mourn her absent Mate, her Servants Attending her Like Mutes: But I'll speak to her And in a high Key too, play any thing That's light and loud enough but to torment her, And we will have rare sport. Song. Marcelia above in black. May it please your greatness, We herd that your late Physic hath not worked, And that breed, Melancholy, as your Doctor tells us: To purge which, we that are born your Highness Vassals, And are to play the fools to do you service, Present you with a fit of mirth: what think you Of a new Antic? Being inteaded for so sweet a creature, Were she but pleased to grace it. The Mistress of all hearts; one smile I pray you On your poor servants, or a Fiddlers fee: Coming from those fair hands, though but a Ducat, We will inshrine it as a holy relic. Penned by her Chaplain. Note her now. What, of me? Pinetree. To you? I had rather be a Slave unto a More, Than know thee for my equal. Let her but remember The Issue in her Leg: And, howsoever, She seems, when she's made up: As she's her self, She stinks above ground. Oh that I could reach you, The little one you scorn so, with her nails, Would tear your painted Face, & scratch those Eyes out. Do but come down. That it were lawful To me to her with a Poigniard, and a Pistol; But these weak hands shall show my spleen Here, Giantess, here. Let her come on. I am out of breath; But we shall meet, we shall. And do you hear, Sir, Or right me on this Monster (she's three foot Too high for a Woman) or never look to have, A quiet hour with me. This is fine, i'faith. Oh base. Thou art a base Fellow, To take her partly. I marry was I, And will be one again. I'll rather live in any loathsome Dungeon, Than in a Paradise, at her intreaty: And, for you upstarted. No more, I mark it. What you have told me Graccho is believed, And I'll find time to stir in't. Would you were, To your dishonour, and since dotage makes you Wilfully blind, borrow of me my eyes, Or some partly of my spirit. Are you all flesh? A limb of patience only? No fire in you? But do your pleasure, here your Mother was Committed by your servant (for I scorn To call him husband) and my self your sister, If that you dare remember such a name, Mewed up to make the way open and free For the Adultress, I am unwilling To say a partly of Storza. Or is it treason For me that am a subject, to endeavour To save the honour of the Duke, and that He should not be a Wittal on record. For by postery it'll be believed As certainly as now it can be proved, Francisco the great Minion, that sways all, To meet the chased embraces of the Duchess, Hath leaped into her bed. The public fame, Their hourly private meetings, and even now When under a pretence of grief or anger, You are denied the joys endue to a husband, And made a stranger to her, at all times The door stands open to him. To a Dutchman This were enough, but to a right Italian, A hundred thousand witnesses. She has bewitched him. Is not this strange? It's now passed help. I will not go, I scorn to be a spot In her proud train. Others are as fair, I am sure as noble. I shall do, What may become the sister of a Prince, But will not stoop, beneath it.