PLEBERIO

Wife, are you asleep? Do not you hear some noise, or stirring in your daughters withdrawing chamber? She does not hear you; I will call a little louder. Daughter Melibea? Who is that, that tramples up and down there, and makes that stirring to and from in your chamber? Sleep again (daughter) I thought it had been some thing else. Since (wife) me thinks you seem to Like well of this motion, it is not amiss, that we make it known to our daugh ter; we may do well to tell her how many do desire her, and what store of suitors would be willing to come unto her, to the end that she may the more willingly entertai e our desire, and make choice of him whom she liketh best. For in this particular, the Laws allow both men and women, though they be under paternal power, for to make their own choice. Come, let us go quickly; led the way; in afore; lift up the hangings; open this same window; set it wide open, that I may have light enough to take a full view of her. Why, how now daughter? What's the matter? What is your pain? Where lies it? What a strange thing is this? What faintness do I see? What weakness and feebleness? Look upon me, daughter! I am thy father: Speak unto me, for pities sake speak; and tell me the cause of your grief, that we may the sooner provide a remedy. Send not my grey hairs with sorrow to the graven; thou knowest I have no other good but thee; no other worldly happiness. Open thy gladsome eyes; look cheerfully upon me. What woe can equal mine, to see thee in such woeful plighted? Your mother, as soon as ever she but herd you were ill, fell presently into a swoon, and lies in that extremity, and in a man ner senseless, that she is not able to come and see thee. Be of good cheer, pluck up thy heart; and so raise up thy spirits, that thou mayest rise and go along with me to visit her. Tell me (sweet soul) the cause of thy sorrow. My deer daughter, the best beloved of thy aged fa there; for pities sake, let not this thy cruel torment, cause thee to despair of recovery, being carried away with the violence and in firmity of thy passion: for sorrow still assaulteth the weakest hearts, and conquers them most, that are most cowardly: if thou wilt but tell me thy grief, it shall presently be remedied; for neither physic nor Physicians, nor servants shall be wanting, for the recovery of thy health, whither it consist in herbs, in stones, or in words, or remain more secret in the bodies, and bowels of beasts. Do not then vex me any more; torment me no longer; force me not out of my wits; make me not mad, but tell me, good daughter, what, and where is your pain? Too too soon hast thou received this feeling and sense of elder years; youth should be a friend to pleasure and mirth, and and enemy unto care and sorrow. Rise then from hence, and let us go and take some fresher air along by the River side; come, and make merry with your mother; you shall see, that will ease and rid away your pain. Take heed what you do; do not wilfully cast away your self; for if you fly and shun mirth, there is not any thing in the world more contrary to your disease. Come, let us go and take Lucrecia with us. This (daughter) shall presently be done: I will go my self, and will it to be provided. Daughter Melibea, what make you there alone? what is it you would you have with me? shall I come up to you? Out alas! Ay me; (my most noble wife.) Our so lace is in the suds; our joy is turned into annoy; all our conceived Hope's are utterly lost; all our happiness is quite overthrown; let us now no longer desire to live. And because unexpected sorrows leave a greater impression of grief; and because they may bring thee the sooner to thy graven; as also, that I may not alone by my self bewail that heavy lose which belongs to us both; look out and behold her, whom thou broughtest forth, and I begotten, dashed and broken all to pieces. The cause I understood from her self, but laid open more at large, by this her sad and sorrowful servant. Help to lament these our latter days, which are now growing to and end. Oh ye good people, who come to behold my sorrows, and you Gentlemen, my loving friends, do you also assist to bewail my misery! Oh my daughter! and my only good! it were cruelty in me, that I should outlive thee. My threescore years were fit ter for the graven, then thy twenty; but the order of my dying was altered by that extremity of grief, which did hasten thy end. Oh ye my boary hairs, grown forth to no other end, save sorrow; it would better have suited with you, to have been buried in the earth, then with these golden tresses which lie here before me. Too too many are the days that I have yet to live; I will come plain and cry out against death; I will accuse him of delay; how long will he suffer me to remain here after thee! Let my life now leave me, since I must leave thy sweet company. Oh my deer wife, rise up from her, and if any life be left in thee, spend that little with me in tears and lamentations, in sobs, and in sighs; but in case thy soul rests now with hers; if out of very grief, thou hast left this life, why wouldst thou lay this heavy burden on me? why let me remain here alone, and have no body to help me in the unsheathing of my sorrows? In this, ye women have a great advantage of us that are men; for some violent grief can make you go out of the world without any pain; or at least cast you into a swoon, which is some ease to your sorrows. Oh the hard heart of a father, why dost thou not burst with grief? why do not your heartstrings crack in sunder, to see thy self bereaved of thy be loved heir? For whom didst thou built these Turrets? For whom God I honours? For whom planted trees? For whom built ships? Oh hardhearted earth, why dost thou bear me any longer? Where shall my disconsolate old age find any resting place? Oh variable fortune, and full of change, thou Ministresse, and high Stewardesse of all temporal happiness; Why didst thou not execute thy cruel anger upon me? Why didst thou not overwhelm him with thy mutable waves, who professes himself to be thy subject? Why didst thou not rob me of my patrimony? Why didst thou not set fire on my house? Why didst thou not lay waste mine inheritance? Why didst thou not strip me of my great revenues? What is't I would not thou shouldst have done, so as thou hadst left me that flourishing young plant, over which thou oughtest not to have had such power? Thou mightest, Oh fortune (fluctuant, and fluent as thou art) have given me a sorrowful youth, and a mirthful age; neither have therein perverted order. Better could I have born thy blow, better endured thy persecutions, in that my more strong, and Oaky age, then in this my weak and feeble declining. Oh life fulfilled with grief, and accompanied with nought but misery! Oh world, world! much have men spoken of thee, much have men writ concerning thy deceits; and much have I herd my self: And mine own woe full experience is able to say something of thee, as one who have been in the unfortunate fair, and have often bought and sold with thee, but never had any thing that succeeded happily with me. As one who many a time heretofore, even to this present hour, have silen ced thy false properties, and all because I would not purchase thy displeasure, and pull thy hatred upon me: and that thou shouldst not untimely pluck this flower from me, which this day thou hast cropped by the mightiness of thy power. And therefore now will I go without fear, Like one that hath nothing to loose; or as one to whom thy company is now odious and troublesome; or Like a poor traveller, who fearless of thieves, goes singing on his way. I thought in my more tender years, that both thou and thy actions were governed by order, and ruled by reason: But now I see thou art Pro and Con; there is no certainty in thy calms: thou seemest now unto me to be a Labyrinth of errors; a fearful wilderness; and habitation of wild Beasts; a Dance full of changes; a Fen full of mire, and dirt; a Country full of thorns; a steep and craggy mountain, a field full of stones; a meadow full of Snakes and Sir pents; a pleasant garden to look to, but without any fruit; a fountain of cares, a river of tears, a sea of Misery's; trouble with out profit; a sweet poison, a vain hope, a false joy, and a true sor row. Oh thou false world! thou dost cast before us the baits of thy best delights, and when we have swallowed them, they seeming sa uoury unto us, then dost thou show us the hook that must choke us. Nor can we avoid it, because together with us, thou dost cap tiuate our wills: Thou promisest mountains, but performest Molehills: and then thou dost cast us off, that we may not put thee in mind of making good thy vain promises. We run thorough the spacious fields of thy rank vices, retchless y, and with a lose rein; and then dost thou discover thy ambushes unto us, when thou seest there is no way forus to retreat. Many have forsaken thee, fearing thy sudden forsaking of them. And well may they style themselves happy, when they shall see, how well thou hast rewar dead this poor heavy sorrowful old man, for his long service. Thou dost put out our eyes, and then to make us amends, thou anointest the place with oil: thou breakest our head, and givest us a plaster; after thou hast done us a great deal of harm, thou givest us a poor cold comfort; thou dost hurt unto all, that no man may boast, that others have not their crosses as well as we; telling them, that it is some ease to the miserable, to have companions in their misery. But I alas, disconsolate old man stand all alone. I am singular in my sorrows; I am grieved, and have no equal companion of my grief. No men misfortune is Like unto mine; though I revolve in my troubled memory, persons both present and passed, I cannot instance in the Like. If I shall seek to comfort my self with the severity and patience of Paulus Aemilius, who having lost two sons in seven days, boar this brunt of fortune with so undaunted a courage, that the people of Room had rather need to be comforted by him, then he by them; yet cannot this satisfy me, for he had two more re maining that were his adopted sons. What companion then will they allot me of my misery? Pericles, that brave Athenian Captain? or valiant Xenophon? Tush, they lost sons indeed, but their sons died out of their sighed, having lost their lives abroad in foreign Countries, far from home; so that it was not much for the one, not to change countenanee, but to take it cheerfully: nor for the other to answer the messenger, who brought him the ill tidings of his sons death's, that he should receive no punishment, because him self had received no grief; for all this is far differing from mine; less canst thou say (thou world replenished with evil) that Anaxa goras, and I, were alike in our lose; that we were equal in our griefs: and that I should say of my dead daughter, as he did of his only son, when he said; Being that I was mortal, I knew, that he whom I had begotten was to die. For my Melibea, willingly, and out of her own election, killed her self before mine eyes, enforced thereunto through the extreme passion of her love, so great was her torment; whereas his son was slain in battle, in a joust and lawful war. Oh incomparable lose; Oh most wretched and sor rowfull old man that I am! who the more I seek after comfort, the less reason do I find for my comfort; for much more miserable do I find my misfortune, and do not so much grieve at her death, as I do lament the manner of her death. Now shall I loose together with thee (most unhappy daughter) those fears, which were day lie wont to affright me. Only thy death is that which makes me secure of all suspicions and jealousy's. What shall I do, when I shall come into thy chamber, and thy withdrawing room, and shall find it solitary and empty? What shall I do, when as I shall call thee, and thou shalt not answer me? Who is he that can supply that want which thou hast caused? Who can stop up that great breach in my heart which thou hast made? Never any man did loose that which I have lost this day. Though in some sort, that great fortitude of Lamb bas de Auria, Duke of Genoa, seems to suit with my present estate and condition, who seeing his son was wounded to death, took him and threw him with his own arms forth of the ship into the sea. But such kind of death's as these, though they take away life, yet they give reputation; and many times, men are enforced to undergo such actions, for to comply with their honour, and get themselves fame and renown. But what did enforce my daughter to die, but only the strong force of love? What remedy now, (thou flattering world) wilt thou afford my wearisome age? How wouldst thou have me to rely upon thee, I knowing thy falsehoods, thy begins, thy snares, and thy nets, wherein thou intrap'st and takest our weak and feeble wills? Tell me, what hast thou done with my daughter? where hast thou bestowed her? who shall accompany my disaccompanied habitation? who shall cherish me in mine old age? who with gentle usage shall cocker my decaying years? Oh Love, Love, I did not think thou hadst had the power to kill thy subjects! I was wounded by thee in my youth: did pass thorough the amid of thy flames. Why didst thou let me escape? Was it that thou mightest pay me home (for my flying from thee then) in mine old age? I had well thought, that I had been freed from thy snares, when I once be gan to grow towards forty; and when I rested contented with my wedded consort, and when I saw I had that fruit, which this day thou hast cut down, I did not dream that thou wouldst in the chil dren have taken vengeance of the parents; and I know not whither thou woundest with the sword, or burnest with fire. Thou leavest our clothes whole, and yet most cruelly woundest our hearts; thou makest that which is foul, to seem fair and beautiful unto us. Who gave thee so great a power? who gave thee that name which so ill befitteth thee? If thou Wertenberg Love, thou wouldst love thy sir vaunts; and if thou didst love them, thou wouldst not punish them as thou dost. If to be thy fellow, were to live merrily, so many would not kill themselves, as my daughter now hath, & infinite of us. What end have thy servants and their Ministers had? as also that false Bawd, Celestina, who died by the hands of the faithfullest company ons, that ever she lighted upon in her life, for their true performance in this thy venomous & empoisoned service? They lost their heads; Calisto, he brake his neck; and my daughter, to imitate him, submit ted her self to the selfsame death. And of all this thou wast the cause; they gave thee a sweet name; but thy deeds are exceeding sour: thou dost not give equal rewards; and that Law is unjust, which is not equal alike unto all. Thy voice promises pleasure, but thy actions proclaim pain; happy are they who have not known thee, or knowing thee, have not cared for thee. Some led with, I know not what error, have not stickt to call thee a God; But I would have such fools as these to consider with themselves, it savours not of a Deity, to murder or destroy those that serve and follow him. Oh thou enemy to all reason! To those that serve thee least, thou givest thy greatest rewards, until thou hast brought them at last into this thy troublesome dance. Thou art and enemy to thy friends, and a friend to thy enemies; and all this is, because thou dost not govern thy self according to order & reason. They paint thee blind, poor, and young; they put a Bow into thy hand, wherein thou drawest, and shootest at random; but more blind are they that serve thee. For they never taste or see the unsavoury & distasteful recompense, which they receive by thy service; thy fire is of hight burning lightning, which scorches unto death, yet leaves no impression or print of any wound at all. The sticks which thy flames consume, are the souls and lives of humane creatures, which are so infinite, and so number less, that it scarce accurreth unto me, with whom I should first be gin, not only of Christians, but of Gentiles & of Jews; and all foe ooth in requital of their good services. What shall I speak of that Macias of our times; and how by loving, he came to his end? Of whose sad and wofu l death, thou wast the sole cause. What service did Paris do thee? What Helena? What Clytemnestra? What Aegisthus? All the world knows how it went with them. How well likewise didst thou requite Sapho, Ariadne, and Leander, and many other beside, whom I willingly silence, because I have enough to do in the repetition of mine own misery? I complain me of the world, because I was bred up in it; for had not the world given me life, I had not therein be God Melibea; not being begotten, she had not been born; not being born, I had not loved her; and not loving her, I should not have mourned, as now I do, in this my latter and uncomfortable old age! Oh my good companion! Oh my bruised daughter, bruised even all to pieces! Why wouldst thou not suffer me to divert thy death? why wouldst thou not take pity of thy kind and loving mother? why didst thou show thy self so cruel against thy aged father? why hast thou left me thus in sorrow? why hast thou left me comfortless, and all alone, in hac lachrimarum valle, in this veil of tears, and sha dow of death? My wife, and friend Alisa; time (me thinks) slips (as they say) from between our hands; and our days do glide away Like water down a River There is not any thing that flies so swift, as the life of man: Death still follows us, and hedges us in on every side; whereunto we our selves now draw nigh. We are now (according to the course of nature) to be shortly under his ban ner; this we may plainly perceive, if we will but he hold our e quals, our brothers and our kinsfolk round about us; the graven hath devoured them all; they are all brought to their last home. And since we are uncertain when we shall be called hence, see king such certain and infallible signs of our short abided, it beho veth us (as I is in the Proverb) to lay our beard a soaking, when we see our neighbours shaving off, and to fear, left that which be fell them yesterday, may befall us to morrow. Let us therefore pre pare our selves, and pack up our farthels, for to go this enforced ourney which cannot be avoided. Let not that cruel and doleful sounding trumpet of death, summon us away on the sudden and unprovided. Let us prepare our selves, and set them in order whi lest we have time, for it is better to prevent, then to be prevented; let us conf rre our substance on our sweet successor; let us couple our only daughter to a husband, such a one as may suit with our e ta e, that we may go quietly and contentedly out of this world. The which with much diligence and carefulness, we ought from henceforth to endeavour and put in execution: and what we have at other times commenced in this matter, we ought now to consume mate it. I would not by our negligence have our daughter in Guar dians hands; I Like not she should be a Ward; she is not fit for mar riage, and therefore much better for her to be in a house of her own, then in ours: by which means we shall free her from the tongues of the vulgar; for there is no virtue so absolute & so perfect, which hath not her detracting and foulmouthed slanderers; ney there is there any thing, whereby a Virgins good name is kept more pure and unsported, then by a mature and timely marriage. Who in all this City will refuse our Alliance? who will not be glad to enjoy such a Jewel, in whom those four principal things concur, which are demanded and desired in marriage? The first, Discretion, Honesty and Virginity. The second, Beauty. The third, Noble birth and Parentage. The last, Riches. With all these nature hath endowed her. Whatsoever they shall require of us, they shall find it to be ull and perfect. What would you, Lucrecia. What means this exceeding haste, and with so great importu nity, and troubledness of mind? What ails my daughter? What sudden sickness hath seized on her, that I cannot have the leisure to put on my clothes? nay, scarce so much time as to rise?