CRANWEL, FRANKFORD, and NICHOLAS, a Servant. house, Cran. Why do you search each room about your Fran. O sir, to see that nothing may be left Nic. Here's her lute flung in a corner. Fran. Her lute? Oh God! upon this instrument Swifter than that which now divides our hearts. (Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance) Of her and her's I am at once bereft. NICHOLAS overtakes Mrs. FRANKFORD on her journey, and delivers the Lute. Mrs. Fra. I know the lute; oft have I sung to thee: We both are out of tune, both out of time. Nic. My master commends him unto ye; There's all he can find that was ever yours. He prays you to forget him, and so he bids you farewell, Mrs. Fra. I thank him, he is kind, and ever was. All you that have true feeling of my grief, That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, Gird me about; and help me with your tears To wash my spotted sins: my lute shall groan; It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. If you return unto your master, say, (Tho' not from me, for I am unworthy To blast his name so with a strumpet's tongue) Mrs. Fra. O no: I dare not so presume; nor to my children: O never teach them, when they come to speak, Tell them 'tis naught, for when that word they name Mrs. FRANKFORD (dying). (her brother). Sir FRANCIS ACTON Sir CHARLES MOUNTFORD. Mr. MALBY, and other of her husband's friends. Mal. How fare you, mrs. Frankford? Mrs. Fra. Sick, sick, o sick: give me some air. I pray Tell me, oh tell me, where is mr. Frankford. Mal. Yes, mrs. Frankford: divers gentlemen And sure he will be here immediately. Mrs. Fra. You have half reviv'd me with the pleasing news: Raise me a little higher in my bed. Blush I not, brother Acton? blush I not, sir Charles? Char. Alas! good mistress, sickness hath not left you Blood in your face enough to make blush. you Is Mrs. Fra. Then sickness like a friend my fault would hide. my husband come? my soul but tarries His arrival, then I am fit for heaven. Acton. I came to chide you, but my words of hate Are turn'd to pity and compassionate grief. I came to rate you, but my brawls, you see, Mr. FRANKFORD enters. Fran. Good-morrow, brother; morrow, gentlemen: God, that hath laid this cross upon our heads, Might (had he pleas'd) have made our cause of meeting On a more fair and more contented ground: But he that made us, made us to this woe. Mrs. Fra. And is he come? methinks that voice I know. Fran. How do you, woman? Mrs. Fra. Well, mr. Frankford, well; but shall be better I hope within this hour. Will you vouchsafe (Out of your grace, and your humanity) To take a spotted strumpet by the hand? Fran. This hand once held my heart in faster bonds Than now 'tis grip'd by me. God pardon them That made us first break hold. Mrs. Fra. Amen, amen. Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I'm now bound, And once more beg your pardon. Oh! good man, Pardon, O pardon me: my fault so heinous is, That if you in this world forgive it not, I pardon thee; I will shed tears for thee; And, in mere pity of thy weak estate, All. So do we all. Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day, Char. Then comfort, mistress Frankford; Acton. How d'ye feel yourself? Mrs. Fra. Not of this world. Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. My wife, the mother to my pretty babes; Both those lost names I do restore thee back, Mrs. Fra. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven art free Once more. Thy wife dies thus embracing thee. [Heywood is a sort of prose Shakspeare. His scenes are to the full as natural and affecting. But we miss the Poet, that which in Shakspeare always appears out and above the surface of the nature. Heywood's characters, his Country Gentlemen, &c. are exactly what we see (but of the best kind of what we see) in life. Shakspeare makes us believe, while we are among his lovely creations, that they are nothing but what we are familiar with, as in dreams new things seem old: but we awake, and sigh for the difference.] |