Steph. So, sir!

Your pity will not quit your pains, I fear me.

I shall find that bird (I think) to be that churlish wretch
Your father, that now has taken

Shelter here in Ludgate.

Go to, sir! urge me not,

You'd best, I have given you warning, fawn not on him,

Nor come not near him if you'll have my love.

Rob. 'Las! sir! that lamb

Were most unnatural that should hate the dam.

Steph. Lamb me no lambs, sir!

Rob. Good uncle! 'las! you know, when you lay here,
I succour'd you so let me now help him.

Steph. Yes! as he did me;

To laugh and triumph at my misery.

You freed me with his gold, but 'gainst his will:

For him I might have rotted, and lain still.

So shall he now.

Rob. Alack the day!

Steph. If him thou pity, 'tis thine own decay.

Fos. Bread! bread! some charitable man remember the poor prisoners! Bread! for the tender mercy, one penny!

Rob. O listen, uncle, that's my poor father's voice.

Steph. There let him howl! Get you gone, and come not near him.

Rob. O my soul,

What tortures dost thou feel! earth ne'er shall find

A son so true, yet forced to be unkind.

ROBERT disobeys his Uncle's injunctions, and again visits his Father.

FOSTER. WIFE. ROBert.

Fos. Ha! what art thou? Call for the keeper there,

And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up!

Wife. O, 'tis your son.

Fos. I know him not.

I am no king, unless of scorn and woe :

Why kneel'st thou then? why dost thou mock me so?

Rob. O my dear father! hither am I come,

Not like a threatening storm to increase your wrack,
For I would take all sorrows from your back,

To lay them all on my own.

Fos. Rise, mischief! rise; away, and get thee gone! Rob. O, if I be thus hateful to your eye,

I will depart, and wish I soon may die ; Yet let your blessing, sir! but fall on me. Fos. My heart still hates thee.

Wife. Sweet husband!

Fos. Get you both gone!

That misery takes some rest that dwells alone.
Away, thou villain!

Rob. Heaven can tell;

Ache but your finger, I to make it well

Would cut my hand off.

Fos. Hang thee! hang thee!

Wife. Husband!

Fos. Destruction meet thee! Turn the key there, ho!
Rob. Good sir! I'm gone, I will not stay to grieve you.

O, knew you, for your woes what pains I feel,
You would not scorn me so. See sir! to cool
Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got
Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot
To lay it down with reverence at your feet;
No comfort in the world to me is sweet,
Whilst thus you live in moan.

Fos. Stay!

Rob. Good truth, sir! I'll have none of it back,
Could but one penny of it save my life.

Wife. Yet stay, and hear him! O, unnatural strife
In a hard father's bosom !

Fos. I see mine error now: O, can there grow

A rose upon a bramble? did there e'er flow
Poison and health together in one tide?
I'm born a man: reason may step aside,
And lead a father's love out of the way:

Forgive me, my good boy! I went astray;

Look! on my knees I beg it

not for joy,

Thou bring'st this golden rubbish, which I spurn :
But glad in this, the heavens mine eye-balls turn,
And fix them right to look upon that face,
Where love remains with pity, duty, grace.
O, my dear wronged boy!

Rob. Gladness o'erwhelms

My heart with joy: I can not speak.
Wife. Crosses of this foolish world

Did never grieve my heart with torments more
Than it is now grown light

With joy and comfort of this happy sight.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

1570 ?-1649-50.

A CHALLEnge for bEAUTY.

PETROCELLA, a fair Spanish lady, loves MONTFERRERS, an English sea captain, who is captive to VALLADAURA, a noble Spaniard.—VALLADAURA loves the lady; and employs MONTFERRERS to be the messenger of his love to her.

PETROCELLA. MONTFERRers.

Pet. What art thou in thy country?

Mont. There, a man.

Pet. What here?

Mont. No better than you see; a slave.

Pet. Whose?

Mont. His that hath redeem'd me.

Pet. Valladaura's?

Mont. Yes, I proclaim't; I that was once mine own,
Am now become his creature.

Pet. I perceive,

Your coming is to make me think you noble, Would you persuade me deem your friend a god: For only such make men. Are you a gentleman? Mont. Not here; for I am all dejectedness,

Captive to fortune, and a slave to want;

I can not call these clothes I wear mine own;
I do not eat but at another's cost;

This air I breathe is borrow'd; ne'er was man
So poor and abject. I have not so much
In all this universe as a thing to leave,
Or a country I can freely boast is mine.
My essence and my being is another's.
What should I say? I am not anything;
And I possess as little.

Pet. Tell me that?

Come, come, I know you to be no such man.
You are a soldier valiant and renown'd;

Your carriage tried by land, and proved at sea;
Of which I have heard such full expression,
No contradiction can persuade me less;
And in this faith I am constant.

Mont. A mere worm,

Trod on by every fate!

Pet. Raised by your merit

To be a common argument through Spain,
And speech at princes' tables, for your worth,—
Your presence when you please to expose't abroad
Attracts all eyes, and draws them after you;
And those that understand you, call their friends,
And pointing through the street say, This is he,
This is that brave and noble Englishman,
Whom soldiers strive to make their precedent,
And other men their wonder.

Mont. This your scorn

Makes me appear more abject to myself,

Than all diseases I have tasted yet

Had power to asperse upon me; and yet, lady!
I could say something, durst I.

Pet. Speak't at once.

Mont. And yet

Pet. Nay, but we'll admit no pause.

Mont. I know not how my phrase may relish you,
And loath I were to offend; even in what's past
I must confess I was too bold. Farewell!
I shall no more distaste you.

Pet. Sir! you do not;

I do proclaim you do not. Stay, I charge you!
Or, as you say you have been fortune's scorn,
So ever prove to woman.

Mont. You charge deeply,

And yet now I bethink me

Pet. As you are a soldier,

An Englishman, have hope to be redeem'd
From this your scorned bondage you sustain,
Have comfort in your mother and fair sister,
Renown so blazed in the ears of Spain,
Hope to rebreathe that air you tasted first,
So tell me-

Mont. What?

Pet. Your apprehension catch'd,

And almost was in sheaf

Mont. Lady! I shall.

Pet. And in a word!

Mont. I will.

Pet. Pronounce it then!

Mont. I love you.

Pet. Ha ha! ha!

Mont. Still it is my misery

Thus to be mock'd in all things.

Pet. Pretty, faith.

Mont. I look'd thus to be laugh'd at; my estate

And fortunes, I confess, deserve no less;
That made me so unwilling to denounce
Mine own derisions; but alas! I find
No nation, sex, complexion, birth, degree,
But jest at want, and mock at misery.