John Fletcher - The Spanish Curate - A Comedy

We may spare
The travel of our tongues in forraign Nations,
When in Corduba , if you dare give credit
To my report (for I have seen her, Gallants)
There lives a Woman (of a mean birth too,
And meanly match'd) whose all-excelling Form
Disdains comparison with any She
That puts in for a fair one, and though you borrow
From every Country of the Earth the best
Of those perfections, which the Climat yields
To help to make her up, if put in Ballance,
This will weigh down the Scale.

You talk of wonders.

She is indeed a wonder, and so kept,
And, as the world deserv'd not to behold
What curious Nature made without a pattern,
Whose Copy she hath lost too, she's shut up,
Sequestred from the world.

Who is the owner
Of such a Jem? I am fire'd.

One Bartolus ,
A wrangling Advocate.

A knave on Record.

I am sure he cheated me of the best part
Of my Estate.

Some Business calls me hence,
(And of importance) which denies me leisure
To give you his full character: In few words
(Though rich) he's covetous beyond expression,
And to encrease his heap, will dare the Devil,
And all the plagues of darkness: and to these
So jealous, as if you would parallel
Old Argus to him, you must multiply
His Eyes an hundred times: of these none sleep.
He that would charm the heaviest lid, must hire
A better Mercurie , than Jove made use of:
Bless your selves from the thought of him and her,
For 'twill be labour lost: So farewel Signiors.—

Leandro ? in a dream? wake man for shame.

Trained into a fools paradise with a tale
Of an imagin'd Form.

Jamie is noble,
And with a forg'd Tale would not wrong his Friend,
Nor am I so much fir'd with lust as Envie,
That such a churl as Bartolus should reap
So sweet a harvest, half my State to any
To help me to a share.

Tush do not hope for
Impossibilities.

I must enjoy her,
And my prophetique love tells me I shall,
Lend me but your assistance.

Give it o're.

I would not have thee fool'd.
Lea . I have strange Engines
Fashioning here: and Bartolus on the Anvil,
Disswade me not, but help me.

Take your fortune,
If you come off well, praise your wit; if not,
Expect to be the subject of our Laughter.

You met Don Henrique ?

Yes.

What comfort bring you?
Speak cheerfully: how did my letter work
On his hard temper? I am sure I wrote it
So feelingly, and with the pen of sorrow,
That it must force Compunction.

You are cozen'd;
Can you with one hand prop a falling Tower?
Or with the other stop the raging main,
When it breaks in on the usurped shore?
Or any thing that is impossible?
And then conclude that there is some way left,
To move him to compassion.

Is there a Justice
Or thunder (my Octavio ) and he
Not sunk unto the center?

Good Jacinta ,
With your long practised patience bear afflictions,
And by provoking call not on Heavens anger,
He did not only scorn to read your letter,
But (most inhumane as he is) he cursed you,
Cursed you most bitterly.

The bad mans charity.
Oh that I could forget there were a Tye,
In me, upon him! or the relief I seek,
(If given) were bounty in him, and not debt,
Debt of a dear accompt!

Touch not that string,
'Twill but encrease your sorrow: and tame silence,
(The Balm of the oppressed) which hitherto
Hath eas'd your griev'd soul, and preserv'd your fame,
Must be your Surgeon still.

If the contagion
Of my misfortunes had not spread it self
Upon my Son Ascanio , though my wants
Were centupli'd upon my self, I could be patient:
But he is so good, I so miserable,
His pious care, his duty, and obedience,
And all that can be wish'd for from a Son,
Discharg'd to me, and I, barr'd of all means
To return any scruple of the debt
I owe him as a Mother, is a Torment,
Too painfull to be born.

I suffer with you,
In that; yet find in this assurance comfort,
High Heaven ordains (whose purposes cannot alter)

Children that pay obedience to their Parents,
Shall never beg their Bread.

Here comes our joy,
Where has my dearest been?

I have made, Mother,
A fortunate voyage and brought home rich prize,
In a few hours: the owners too contented,
From whom I took it. See here's Gold, good store too,
Nay, pray you take it.

Mens Charities are so cold,
That if I knew not, thou wert made of Goodness,
'Twould breed a jealousie in me by what means,
Thou cam'st by such a sum.

Were it ill got,
I am sure it could not be employed so well,
As to relieve your wants. Some noble friends,
(Rais'd by heavens mercy to me, not my merits)
Bestow'd it on me.

It were a sacriledge
To rob thee of their bounty, since they gave it
To thy use only.
Jac . Buy thee brave Cloathes with it
And fit thee for a fortune, and leave us
To our necessities; why do'st thou weep?

Out of my fear I have offended you;
For had I not, I am sure you are too kind,
Not to accept the offer of my service,
In which I am a gainer; I have heard
My tutor say, of all aereal fowl
The Stork's the Embleme of true pietie,
Because when age hath seiz'd upon her dam,
And made unfit for flight, the gratefull young one
Takes her upon his back, provides her food,
Repaying so her tender care of him,
E're he was fit to fly, by bearing her:
Shall I then that have reason and discourse
That tell me all I can doe is too little,
Be more unnatural than a silly bird?
Or feed or cloath my self superfluously,
And know, nay see you want? holy Saints keep me.

Can I be wretched,
And know my self the Mother to such Goodness?

Come let us drie our eyes, we'll have a feast,
Thanks to our little Steward.

And in him,
Believe that we are rich.

I am sure I am,
While I have power to comfort you, and serve you.