Beaumont and Fletcher's Works. Volume 9. Beaumont Francis

      Nic. That goodness dwells above, and knows us innocent,

      Comfort our lives, and at his pleasure quit us.

      Sebast. Come Cousin, come; old time will end our story:

      But no time (if we end well) ends our glory.

      Ros. Use 'em with all the austerity that may be,

      They are our slaves; turn all those pitties,

      Those tender reluctations that should become your sex,

      To stern anger; and when ye look upon 'em,

      Look with those eyes that wept those bitter sorrows,

      Those cruelties ye suffer'd by their Rapines.

      Some five dayes hence that blessed hour comes

      Most happy to me, that knit this hand to my dear husbands,

      And both our hearts in mutual bands.

      That hour Ladies.

      Cla. What of that hour?

      Ros. Why, on that hour daughter,

      And in the height of all our celebrations,

      Our dear remembrances of that dear Man,

      And those that suffer'd with him, our fair kinsmen,

      Their lives shall fall a sacrifice to vengeance,

      Their lives that ruin'd his; 'tis a full justice.

      I will look glorious in their bloods;

      And the most Noble spirit of Sebastian,

      That perisht by the pride of these French Pirates,

      Shall smile in Heaven, and bless the hand that kill'd 'em.

      Look strictly all unto your prisoners;

      For he that makes a scape beyond my vengeance,

      Or entertains a hope by your fair usage;

      Take heed, I say, she that deceives my trust,

      Again take heed: her life, and that's but light neither;

      Her life in all the tortures my spirit can put on.

      All. We shall be careful.

      Ros. Do so.

      Cla. You are angry Mother, and ye are old too,

      Forgetting what men are: but we shall temper ye.

      How fare your prisoners, Ladies? in what formes

      Do they appear in their afflictions?

      Jul. Mine fare but poorly;

      For so I am commanded: 'tis none of their fault.

      Cla. Of what sort are they?

      Jul. They say they are Gentlemen.

      But they shew Mungrels.

      Cla. How do they suffer?

      Jul. Faith like boyes;

      They are fearful in all fortunes; when I smile

      They kneel, and beg to have that face continued;

      And like poor slaves, adore the ground I go on.

      When I frown, they hang their most dejected heads,

      Like fearful sheephounds; shew 'em a crust of bread

      They'll Saint me presently, and skip like Apes

      For a sup of Wine. I'll whip 'em like hackneys,

      Saddle 'em, ride 'em, do what I will with 'em.

      Cla. Tush, these are poor things.

      Have they names like Christians?

      Jul. Very fair names: Franvile, Lamure, and Morillat;

      And brag of great kindreds too. They offer very handsomely,

      But that I am a fool, and dare not venture.

      They are sound too o'my conscience,

      Or very near upon't.

      Cla. Fy, away fool.

      Jul. They tell me,

      If they might be brought before you,

      They would reveale things of strange consequence.

      Cla. Their base poor fears.

      Jul. I, that makes me hate 'em too;

      For if they were but manly to their sufferance,

      Sure I should strain a point or two.

      Cla. An hour hence I'll take a view of e'm,

      And hear their business. Are your Men thus too?

      Cro. Mine? No, gentle Madam, mine were not cast

      In such base molds; afflictions, tortures,

      Are names and natures of delight, to my men;

      All sorts of cruelties they meet like pleasures.

      I have but two; the one they call Du-pont,

      Tibalt