Volume Xi Part 56 (1/2)

STAINES. What weapon?

SPEND. Single rapier.

STAINES. The time?

SPEND. To-morrow.

STAINES. The hour?

SPEND. 'Twixt nine and ten.

STAINES. 'Tis good; I shall expect you. Farewell.

SPEND. Farewell, sir. [_Exeunt omnes._

_Enter_ WILL RASH, LONGFIELD, _and_ JOYCE.

W. RASH. Why, I commend thee, girl; thou speak'st as thou think'st. Thy tongue and thy heart are relatives; and thou wert not my sister, I should at this time fall in love with thee.

JOYCE. You should not need, for, and you were not my brother, I should fall in love with you, for I love a proper man with my heart, and so does all the s.e.x of us, let my sister dissemble never so much. I am out of charity with these nice and squeamish tricks. We were born for men, and men for us; and we must together.

W. RASH. This same plain-dealing is a jewel in thee.

JOYCE. And let me enjoy that jewel, for I love plain-dealing with my heart.

W. RASH. Th' art a good wench, i' faith. I should never be ashamed to call thee sister, though thou shouldst marry a broom-man. But your lover, methinks, is over-tedious.

_Enter_ GERALDINE.

JOYCE. No, look ye, sir; could you wish a man to come better upon his cue?[183] Let us withdraw.

W. RASH. Close, close, for the prosecution of the plot, wench. See, he prepares.

JOYCE. Silence.

GERA. The sun is yet wrapp'd in Aurora's arms, And, lull'd with her delight, forgets us[184] creatures.

Awake, thou G.o.d of heat, I call thee up, and task[185] thee for thy slowness.

Point all thy beams through yonder flaring gla.s.s, And raise a beauty brighter than thyself. [_Music._ Musicians, give each instrument a tongue, To breathe sweet music in the ears of her To whom I send it as a messenger.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _aloft_.

GERT. Sir, your music is so good, that I must say I like it: but the bringer so ill-welcome, that I could be content to lose it. If you played for money, there 'tis; if for love, here's none; if for goodwill, I thank you, and, when you will, you may be gone.

GERA. Leave me not entranc'd; sing not my death; Thy voice is able to make satyrs tame, And call rough winds to her obedience.

GERT. Sir, sir, our ears itch not for flattery.

Here you besiege my window, and[186] I dare not Put forth myself to take the gentle air, But you are in the fields, and volley out Your woes, your plaints, your loves, your injuries.

GERA. Since you have heard, and know them, give redress; True beauty never yet was merciless.

GERT. Sir, rest thus satisfied; my mind was never woman, never altered; nor shall it now begin: so fare you well.

[_Exit_ GERTRUDE.