Alb. Sooner I'll deceive
My soul-and so I fear I have.
Mar. At your first call I will descend.
Alb. Till when, this touch of lips be the true pledge Of Carracus' constant true devoted love.
Mar. Be sure you stay not long; farewell.
I cannot lend an ear to hear you part.
Alb. But you did lend a hand unto my entrance.
[He descends, Alb. (solus) How have I wrong'd my friend, my faithful friend!
Robb'd him of what's more precious than his blood,
His earthly heaven, the unspotted honour
Of his soul-joying mistress! the fruition of whose bed
I yet am warm of; whilst dear Carracus
Wanders this cold night through the unshel'tring field
Seeking me treach'rous man, yet no man neither,
Though in an outward show of such appearance,
But am a dev'l indeed, for so this deed
Of wronged love and friendship rightly makes me.
I may compare my friend to one that's sick,
Who, lying on his death-bed, calls to him.
His dearest-thought friend, and bids him go
To some rare-gifted man that can restore
His former health; this his friend sadly hears,
And vows with protestations to fulfil
His wish'd desires with his best performance;
But then no sooner seeing that the death
Of his sick friend would add to him some gain,
Goes not to seek a remedy to save,
But like a wretch hides him to dig his grave;
As I have done for virtuous Carracus.
Yet, Albert, be not reasonless to indanger
What thou mayst yet secure. Who can detect
The crime of thy licentious appetite?
I hear one's pace; 'tis surely Carracus.
Car. Not find my friend! sure some malignant planet
Rules o'er this night, and envying the content
Which I in thought possess, debars me thus
From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence
Of a dear friend and love.
Alb. Tis wronged Carracus by Albert's baseness:
I have no power now to reveal myself.
Car. The horses stand at the appointed place,
And night's dark coverture makes firm our safety.
My friend is surely fall'n into a slumber
On some bank hereabouts; I will call him.
Friend, Albert, Albert.
Alb. Whate'er you are that call, you know
Car. Aye, and thy heart, dear friend.
[Maria appears above. Mar. My Carracus, are you so soon return'd? I see, you'll keep your promise.
Car. Who would not do so, having past it thee,
Cannot be fram'd of ought but treachery.
Fairest, descend, that by our hence departing
may make firm the bliss of our content.
Mar. Is your friend Albert with you?
Alb. Yes, and your servant, honour'd Lady.
Mar. Hold me from falling, Carracus.
Car. Come fair Maria, the troubles of this night
Are as fore-runners to ensuing pleasures.
And, noble friend, although now Carracus
Seems, in the gaining of this beauteous prize,
To keep from you so much of his lov'd treasure,
Which ought not to be mixed; yet his heart
Shall so far strive in your wish'd happiness,
That if the loss and ruin of itself
Can but avail your good
Alb. O friend, no more; come, you are slow in haste. Friendship ought never be discuss'd in words,
Till all her deeds be finish'd. Who, looking in a book, And reads but some part of it only, cannot judge What praise the whole deserves, because his knowledge Is grounded but on part-as thine, friend, is,
Ignorant of that black mischief I have done thee. [aside.
Albert, after the marriage of Carracus, struck with remorse for the injury he has done to his friend, knocks at Carracus's door, but cannot summon resolution to see him, or to do more than enquire after his welfare.
Alb. Conscience, thou horror unto wicked men,
When wilt thou cease thy all-afflicting wrath,
And set my soul free from the labyrinth
Of thy tormenting terror? O but it fits not!
Should I desire redress, or wish for comfort,
That have committed an act so inhuman,
Able to fill Shame's spacious chronicle?
Who but a damn'd one could have done like me?
Robb'd my dear friend in a short moment's time
Of his love's high-priz'd gem of chastity:
That which so many years himself hath staid for.
How often hath he, as he lay in bed,
Sweetly discours'd to me of his Maria!
And with what pleasing passions did he suffer
Love's gentle war-siege: then he would relate
How he first came unto her fair eyes' view;
How long it was e'er she could brook affection;
And then how constant she did still abide.
I then at this would joy, as if my breast
Had sympathiz'd in equal happiness
With my true friend, But now, when joy should be,
Who but a damn'd one would have done like me?
He hath been married now at least a month;
In all which time I have not once beheld him.
This is his house.
I'll call to know his health, but will not see him ;
My
looks would then betray me, for, should he ask
My cause of seeming sadness or the like,
I could not but reveal, and so pour on
Worse unto ill, which breeds confusion.
Alb. Is the master of the house within?
Serv. Yes, marry, is he, sir: would you speak with
Alb. My business is not so troublesome : Is he in health with his late espoused wife? Serv. Both are exceeding well, sir.
Alb. I am truely glad on't: farewell, good friend. Serv. I pray you, let's crave your name, sir; I else have anger.
Alb. You may say, one Albert, riding by this way, only inquired their health.
Serv. I will acquaint so much.
Alb. How like a poisonous doctor have I come
To enquire their welfare, knowing that myself
Have giv❜n the potion of their ne'er-recovery;
For which I will afflict myself with torture ever.
And since the earth yields not a remedy
Able to salve the sores my lust hath made,
I'll now take farewell of society,
And the abode of men, to entertain a life
Fitting my fellowship in desart woods,
Where beasts like me consort;
there may
Far off from wronging virtuous Carracus.
There's no Maria, that shall satisfy
My hateful lust: the trees shall shelter
This wretched trunk of mine, upon whose barks
I will engrave the story of my sin.
And there this short breath of mortality
I'll finish up in that repentant state,
Where not the allurements of earth's vanities
Can e'er o'ertake me: there's no baits for lust,
No friend to ruin; I shall then be free
From practising the art of treachery.
Thither then, steps, where such content abides,
Where penitency not disturb'd may grieve,
Where on each tree and springing plant I'll carve
This heavy motto of my misery,
Who but a damn'd one could have done like me?
LINGUA; A COMEDY, BY ANTHONY BREWER.
The ancient Hebrew, clad with mysteries;
The learned Greek, rich in fit epithets,
Blest in the lovely marriage of pure words;
The Chaldee wise, the Arabian physical,
The Roman eloquent, and Tuscan grave,
The braving Spanish, and the smooth-tongued French-
Tragedy and Comedy.
-fellows both, both twins, but so unlike
As birth to death, wedding to funeral:
For this that rears himself in buskins quaint,
Is pleasant at the first, proud in the midst,
Stately in all, and bitter death at end.
That in the pumps doth frown at first acquaintance,
Trouble the midst, but in the end concludes
Closing up all with a sweet catastrophe.
This grave and sad, distain'd with brinish tears;
That light and quick, with wrinkled laughter painted:
This deals with nobles, kings, and emperors,
Full of great fears, great hopes, great enterprizes;
This other trades with men of mean condition,
His projects smail, small hopes, and dangers little :
This gorgeous, broider'd with rich sentences;
That fair, and purfled round with merriments.
Both vice detect, and virtue beautify,
By being death's mirror, and life's looking-glass.
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