DUCHESS

My gracious Lord I pray be merciful, Although his trespass far exceed his years, Think him to be your own as I am yours, Call him not son in law: the law I fear Will fall too soon upon his name and him: Temper his fault with pity? Treason, treason. Who its that dares suspect, or this, or these? May not we deal our favours where we please? My Lord and husband. No pity yet? must I rise fruitless then, A wonder in a woman; are my knees, Of such low—mettle—that without Respect— Oh kept upon your Tongue, let it not slip, Death too soon steals out of a Lawyers lip, Be not so cruel-wise? The Law, Is grown more subtle then a woman should be. Oh what it is to have and old-coole Duke, To be as slack in tongue, as in performance. O! Pray be a bed my Lord. Live, and be in health. Wast ever known step-duchess was so mild, And calm as I? some now would plot his death, With easy Doctors, those lose living men, And make his withered Grace fallen to his Grave, And keep Church better? Some second wife would do this, and dispatch Her double loathed Lord at meat and sleep, Indeed it's true and old men twice a child, Mine cannot speak, one of his single words, Would quite have freed my youngest dearest son From death or durance, and have made him walk With a bold foot upon the thorny law, Whose Prickles should bow under him, but it's not, And therefore wedlock faith shall be forgotten, I'll kill him in his forehead, hate there feed, That wound is deepest though it never bleed: And here comes he whom my heart points unto, His bastard son, but my loves true-begot, Many a wealthy letter have I sent him, Swelled up with Jewels, and the timorous man Is yet but coldly kind, That Jewel's mine that quivers in his ear, Mocking his Masters chilnesse and vain fear, Ha spied me now. Upon my hand sir, troth I think youde fear, To kiss my hand too if my lip stood there, 'Tis a wonder, For ceremony ha made many fools, It is as easy way unto a Duchess, As to a Hatted-dame, (if her love answer) But that by timorous honours, pale respects, Idle degrees of fear, men make their ways Hard of themselves—what have you thought of me? Puh, upon my love I mean. Why th'art his son but falsely, 'Tis a hard question whither he begotten thee. Nay set you a horse back once, Yowl never light off. That's more the sign thou'art Great—but to our love. Let it stand firm both in thought and mind, That the Duke was thy Father, as no doubt then He bid fair fort, thy injury is the more, For had he cut thee a right Diamond, Thou hadst been next set in the Duke-dooms Ring, When his worn self Like Ages easy slave, Had dropped out of the Collet into the Grave; What wrong can equal this? canst thou be tame And think upon't. Who would not be revenged of such a father, Even in the worst way? I would thank that sin, That could most injury him, and be in league with it, O what a grief it's, that a man should live But once ith world, and then to live a Bastard, The curse a'the womb, the thief of Nature, Begotten against the seventh commandment, Half damned in the conception, by the justice Of that unbribed everlasting law. Would not this mad even patience, make blood rough? Who but and Eunuch would not sin? his bed By one false minute disinherited. Cold still: in vain then must a Duchess woo? Thence flew sweet comfort, earnest and farewell. Faith now old Duke; my vengeance shall reach high, I'll arm thy brow with woman's Heraldry. He called his Father villain; and me strumpet, A word that I abhor to file my lips with. Why there's no pleasure sweet but it is sinful. Push, come: it's the old Duke thy doubtful Father, The thought of him rubs heaven in thy way, But I protest by yonder waxed fire, Forget him, or isle poison him. Why now thou'rt sociable, lets in and feast, Lowdst Music found: pleasure is Banquets guest.