Beaumont & Fletchers Works (1 of 10) – the Custom of the Country. Beaumont Francis

      No Fathers free-will, nor did I touch your person

      With any edge of spight; or strain your loves

      With any base, or hir'd perswasions;

      Witness these tears, how well I wisht your fortunes. [Exit.

      Zen. You cannot mean that,

      If you be a true Gentleman, you dare not,

      The Brother to this man, and one that loves him;

      I'le marry the Devil first.

      Arn. Pray let me ask you;

      And my dear Mistris, be not angry with me

      For what I shall propound, I am confident,

      No promise, nor no power, can force your love,

      I mean in way of marriage, never stir you,

      Nor to forget my faith, no state can wound you.

      But for this Custom, which this wretched country

      Hath wrought into a law, and must be satisfied;

      Where all the pleas of honour are but laught at,

      And modesty regarded as a may-game,

      What shall be here considered? power we have none,

      To make resistance, nor policie to cross it:

      'Tis held Religion too, to pay this duty.

      Arn. My noblest Mistris,

      Not that I wish it so, but say it were so,

      Say you did render up part of your honour,

      For whilst your will is clear, all cannot perish;

      Say for one night you entertain'd this monster,

      Should I esteem you worse, forc'd to this render?

      Your mind I know is pure, and full as beauteous;

      After this short eclipse, you would rise again,

      And shaking off that cloud, spread all your lustre.

      Zeno. Who made you witty, to undoe your self, Sir?

      Or are you loaden, with the love I bring you,

      And fain would fling that burthen on another?

      Am I grown common in your eyes Arnoldo?

      Old, or unworthy of your fellowship?

      D'ye think because a woman, I must err,

      And therefore rather wish that fall before-hand

      Coloured with Custom, not to be resisted?

      D'ye love as painters doe, only some pieces,

      Some certain handsome touches of your Mistris,

      And let the mind pass by you, unexamined?

      Be not abus'd; with what the maiden vessel

      Is seasoned first, you understand the proverb.

      Zeno. Should you lay by the least part of that love

      Y'ave sworn is mine, your youth and faith has given me,

      To entertain another, nay a fairer,

      And make the case thus desp'rate, she must dy else;

      D'ye think I would give way, or count this honest?

      Be not deceiv'd, these eyes should never see you more,

      This tongue forget to name you, and this heart

      Hate you, as if you were born, my full Antipathie.

      Empire and more imperious love, alone

      Rule, and admit no rivals: the purest springs

      When they are courted by lascivious land-floods,

      Their maiden pureness, and their coolness perish.

      And though they purge again to their first beauty,

      The sweetness of their taste is clean departed.

      I must have all or none; and am not worthy

      Longer the noble name of wife, Arnoldo,

      Than I can bring a whole heart pure and handsom.

      Arnol. I never shall deserve you: not to thank you;

      You are so heavenly good, no man can reach you:

      I am sorrie I spake so rashly, 'twas but to try you.

      Rut. An't come to that once,

      The Devil pick his bones, that dyes a coward,

      I'le jog along with you, here comes the Stallion,

      How smug he looks upon the imagination

      Of what he hopes to act! pox on your kidneys;

      How they begin to melt! how big he bears,

      Sure he will leap before us all: what a sweet company

      Of rogues and panders wait upon his lewdness!

      Plague of your chops, you ha' more handsome bitts,

      Than a hundred honester men, and more deserving.

      How the dogg leers.

      Rut. I'le watch you for that trick, baboon, I'le

      Smoke you: the rogue sweats, as if he had eaten

      Grains, he broyles, if I do come to the

      Basting of you.

      Arno. Your Lordship

      May happily speak this, to fright a stranger,

      But 'tis not in your honour, to perform it;

      The Custom of this place, if such there be,

      At best most damnable, may urge you to it,

      But if you be an honest man you hate it,

      How ever I will presently prepare

      To make her mine, and most undoubtedly

      Believe you are abus'd, this custome feign'd too,

      And what you now pretend, most fair and vertuous.

      Arn. By any means,

      I know she has pious thoughts enough to guard her:

      Besides,