OLD BATEMAN

Boot, boot, boot, thou art malapert, false, proud, A wretched miscreant, and dissembler, He shall enjoy her, she's his lawful wife Thy hand enstated hers, though falsely now Thou plaist the counterfeit. Tell me Boot. Does not his birth, and breeding equal hers, Are not my revenues correspondent To equal thine; his purity of blood Runs in as sweet a stream, and natural heat As thine, or hers; his exterior parts May parallel hers, or any others In a true harmony of lawful love. Wast not thine own motion, didst not give way, And intercourse to their privacies? Didst thou not make me draw conveyances Did not th'assurance of thy Lands seem proball, Boot, Boot thou shall not carry it thus I'll make thee know theirs justice to be had If thou denyst it. hang thee hang thee miser! 'Tis thy base thoughts forges these false conceits, And but for thy daughter, I'de, i'de, i'de. Art thou so built on her fidelity Take heed boy; women by kind are fickle, Absence in lovers brings strange events Lovers that hourly kiss find endue regard But those that absent are oft loose reward. I doubt not of her firmness, but 'tis common And absent lover thrives not with a woman. 'Tis good counsel boy, and worth observance But thou darest trust her. Go on then in thy intended purpose Noble sir Jarvis whose man thou art, I know will furnish thee. Well Boot time may make us friends. He's at your service. I've missed my boy out of his bed to night Heavens grant that he be well, for in his eyes Sad discontentment sits! till yesterday I never saw him so propense to sorrow. Nor deeply touched with distemperature, When I began to tell him of his mistress Which I in violence of words branded With damned perjury; as Heaven knows She has consumed her goodness; then would he Fit by, and sighs, and with salt tears trilling Down his cheeks, entreat me not to name her, Curse her I must not I then would he steal to bed, As full of mournful sorrows as a sinner. 'Tis almost morn and I suspect him here Hovering about this house! oft would he say He wooed her underneath a Plume-Tree, And underneath that Tree he vowed to fit, And tell his sorrows to the gummy boughs Though she disdained to here them? protect me! Good Angels guard me, what heavy sighed is this That Like a sullen sadness reaves my sense, Prove false mine eyes that this may prove untrue? Better you never had seen then to see this. Leave your slimy cisterns, and drop out; 'Tis he, 'tis he, would I could tell a lie The falsest one that ever was told by man That this might prove untrue; but 'tis in vain To dark the Sun, or wrestle against the truth Murderers look out, i'll rouse the thunderer, To rouse you from your sleeps! false fiend come out, And see a deed, the day will be ashamed of Caused by your perjuries. Look this way monster see thou adultress Behold the miserablest Map of woe That ever father mourned for; my poor boy Hardhearted fate that brought thee to this end, Hated Vipers they that were the causers, Cursed be thy ground, and cursed be all trees That brings forth such a bortive fruit as this. Laughest thou Crocodile? Are Misery's lamented with contempts? The books of fate are not so closely shut, But they may open, and record the scorns Dwelling in every Region of thy face? A fixed decree may be set down for thine, And thou mayest Swanlike sing a Funeral O'de, Who then shall laugh at thee? Such dire becomings mayest thou never want, Thou that Wertenberg once the Jewel of these eyes, Look here, and see the ruins of pale death. How soon a Gorgeous Palace is sunk down; Though he has surfeited upon this piece He has not taken the colour of his cheek, Nature contests with death, and will outdo him; Canst not thou spare one tear to balm him in, Nor lend a sighs as sorry for his fallen? If not to day i'll come again to morrow, So thou wilt shed two tears, and one poor sighs, Then gentle Charon will assign him wafftage; Thy griefs are violent, and work within 'Tis a fowl sign of and unpersant heart When as the eyes cannot impart a tear. Since none of you will weep, i'll weep alone Till Niobe Like my tears convert to stone. Worse then the worst that ever could be named. Pygmalion doted on the piece he made, So do not I upon thy portraiture. I do but hang thy fair resemblance here To tell me of my immortality. How sensible young Cedars are o'th wind, When as the aged Oak affronts all storms It's death, and nature's fault, for the Diamond, Of blooming youth, despise decaying age. He might have taken thee el'ce, and left thee boy. I will not curse thee, was my boys request Such deeds as these sink not in oblivion, The justness of my cause I leave to Heaven. Mayest thou live mother of many children, And may they prosper better then did mine. Come poor boy these arms have born thee oft I'll have thy picture hung up in my Chamber, And when I want thee, I will weep to that Death's Leaden Plummets draw thine eielids down, Since none will sing sad obsequies but I, I'll call the Linnet, Redbreast, and the Throsle, The Nightingale shall bear the burden two For she is exsquisite in tragic notes, Weel have a Funeral hymn, and over thy hearse, This woman's perjuiries i'll pen in verse.