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

      Amint. Are ye alive still?

      Alb. Yes sweet.

      Tib. Help him off Lady;

      And wrap him warm in your arms,

      Here's something that's comfortable; off with him handsomely,

      I'll come to ye straight; but vex these rascals a little.

      Fran. Oh, I am hungry, and hurt, and I am weary.

      Tib. Here's a Pestle of a Portigue, Sir;

      'Tis excellent meat, with sour sauce;

      And here's two Chains, suppose 'em Sausages;

      Then there wants Mustard;

      But the fearful Surgeon will supply ye presently:

      Lam. Oh for that Surgeon, I shall die else.

      Tib. Faith there he lies in the same pickle too.

      Surg. My Salves, and all my Instruments are lost;

      And I am hurt and starv'd;

      Good Sir, seek for some herbs.

      Tib. Here's Herb-graceless, will that serve?

      Gentlemen will ye go to supper?

      All. Where's the meat?

      Tib. Where's the meat? what a Veal voice is there?

      Fran. Would we had it Sir, or any thing else.

      Tib. I would now cut your throat you dog,

      But that I wo'not doe you such a courtesie;

      To take you from the benefit of starving,

      Oh! what a comfort will your worship have some three days hence!

      Ye things beneath pitty, Famine shall be your harbinger;

      You must not look for Down-beds here,

      Nor Hangings; though I could wish ye strong ones;

      Yet there be many lightsome cool Star-chambers,

      Open to every sweet air, I'll assure ye,

      Ready provided for ye, and so I'll leave ye;

      Your first course is serv'd, expect the second.

      Fran. A vengeance on these Jewels.

      Lam. Oh! this cursed Gold.

      Alb.

      Alas dear soul ye faint.

      Amint. You speak the language

      Which I should use to you, heaven knows, my weakness

      Is not for what I suffer in my self,

      But to imagine what you endure, and to what fate

      Your cruel Stars reserve ye.

      Alb. Do not add to my afflictions

      By your tender pitties; sure we have chang'd Sexes;

      You bear calamity with a fortitude

      Would become a man; I like a weak girl, suffer.

      Amint. Oh, but your wounds,

      How fearfully they gape! and every one

      To me is a Sepulchre: if I lov'd truly,

      (Wise men affirm, that true love can [doe] wonders,)

      These bath'd in my warm tears, would soon be cur'd,

      And leave no orifice behind; pray give me leave

      To play the Surgeon, and bind 'em up;

      The raw air rankles 'em.

      Alb. Sweet, we want means.

      Amint. Love can supply all wants.

      Alb. What have ye done Sweet?

      Oh sacriledge to beauty: there's no hair

      Of these pure locks, by which the greatest King

      Would not be gladly bound, and love his Fetters.

      Amint. Oh Albert, I offer this sacrifice of service

      To the Altar of your staid temperance, and still adore it,

      When with a violent hand you made me yours,

      I curs'd the doer: but now I consider,

      How long I was in your power: and with what honor;

      You entertain'd me, it being seldom seen,

      That youth, and heat of bloud, could e'r prescribe

      Laws to it self; your goodness is the Lethe,

      In which I drown your injuries, and now live

      Truly to serve ye: how do you Sir?

      Receive you the least ease from my service?

      If you do, I am largely recompenc'd.

      Alb. You good Angels,

      That are ingag'd, when mans ability fails,

      To reward goodness: look upon this Lady

      Though hunger gripes my croaking entrails,

      Yet when I kiss these Rubies, methinks

      I'm at a Banquet, a refreshing Banquet;

      Speak my bless'd one, art not hungry?

      Amint. Indeed I could eat, to bear you company.

      Alb. Blush unkind nature,

      If thou hast power: or being to hear

      Thy self, and by such innocence accus'd;

      Must print a thousand kinds of shame, upon

      Thy various face: canst thou supply a drunkard,

      And with a prodigal hand reach choice of Wines,

      Till he cast up thy blessings? or a glutton,

      That robs the Elements, to sooth his palat,

      And only eats to beget appetite,

      Not to be satisfied? and suffer here

      A Virgin which the Saints would make their guest,

      To pine for hunger? ha, if my sence [Horns within.

      Deceive me not, these Notes take Being

      From the breath of men; confirm me my Aminta;

      Again, this way the gentle wind conveys it to us,

      Hear you nothing?

      Amint. Yes, it seems free hunters Musick.

      Alb. Still 'tis louder; and I remember the Portugals

      Inform'd us, they had often heard