Edi. Wil't please you sit, sir? Rol. So you please sit by me. Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee, Ties up my tongue: pray speak to me. Edi. Of what, sir? Rol. Of any thing, any thing is excellent. Will you take my directions? speak of love then; Speak of thy fair self, Edith: and while thou speak'st, Let me thus languishing give up myself, wench. Edi. H'as a strange cunning tongue. Why do you sigh, sir? How masterly he turns himself to catch me. Rol. The way to paradise, my gentle maid, You weep extremely; strengthen me now, justice. Rol. Thoul't never love me, If I should tell thee; yet there's no way left But swimming thither in these tears. Edi. I stagger. Rol. Are they not drops of blood? Rol. They're for blood then, For guiltless blood; and they must drop, my Edith, Whose only sweetest sacrifice is softness, As I was smear'd in blood, do not thou hate me; In In Edi. He will fool me. Rol. Oh, with thine angel eyes behold and bless me : Of heaven we call for mercy and obtain it, To justice for our right on earth and have it, Edi. Now, heaven, thy help, or I am gone for ever, His tongue has turn'd me into melting pity. THIERRY AND THEODORET: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Thierry, King of France, being childless, is foretold by an Astrologer, that he shall have Children if he sacrifice the first Woman that he shall meet at sun-rise coming out of the Temple of Diana. He waits before the Temple, and the first Woman he sees proves to be his own Wife Ordella. THIERRY. MARTEL, a Nobleman. Mart. Your grace is early stirring. Whose happiness is laid up in an hour He knows comes stealing towards him? Oh Martel! Out-run her fears, can on that day she is married A power above these passions; this day France, And like an aged river, runs his head Into forgotten ways, again I ransom, And his fair course turn right. Mart. Happy woman, that dies to do these things. scorn'd me, Mothers of many children and blest fathers That see their issue like the stars unnumber'd, Their comfort more than them, shall in my praises Mart. The day wears, And those that have been offering early prayers, Thier. Stand and mark then. Mart. Is it the first must suffer? Thier. The first woman. Mart. What hand shall do it, sir? Thier. This hand, Martel: For who less dare presume to give the gods Mart. Would I were she, For such a way to die, aud such a blessing, Here comes a woman. Like his whose innocence the gods are pleas'd with, Ordel. She's more than dull, sir, less and worse than woman, That may inherit such an infinite As you propound, a greatness so near goodness, And brings a will to rob her. Thier. Tell me this then, Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found, For virtue's sake, and only for its self sake, Ordel. Many dead, sir, living I think as many. May from a woman's will receive a blessing, The king and kingdom, not a private safety; A general blessing, lady. Ordel. A general curse light on her heart denies it. Thier. Full of honour; And such examples as the former ages Were but dim shadows of and empty figures. Ordel. You strangely stir me, sir, and were my weakness In any other flesh but modest woman's, You should not ask more questions; may I do it? Above a moderate gladness; sir, you promise Thier. As ever time discover'd. Ordel. Let it be what it may then, what it dare, I have a mind will hazard it. Thier. But hark ye, What may that woman merit, makes this blessing? Ordel. Only her duty, sir. Thier. 'Tis terrible. Ordel. 'Tis so much the more noble. |