Lorenzo. Away! I will no more

Look pearl in mud. Oh sly hypocrisy! Durst ye
But now die for me? Good Heaven! die for me!
The greatest act of pain, and dare not buy me
With a poor minute's pleasure?

Abstemia. No, sir, I dare not: there is little pain in death;

But a great death in every little pleasure.

fought,

I had rather, trust me, bear your death with honour,
Than buy your life with baseness. As I am expos'd
To th' greatest battery beauty ever
Oh blame me not if I be covetous
To come off with greatest honour.
To let you live, I kill your name, and give

If I do this

My soul a wound; I crush her from sweet grace,
And change her angel's to a fury's face.

Try me no more then; but, if you must bleed, boast,
To preserve honour, life is nobly lost.

Lorenzo. Thou wealth worth more than kingdoms !
I am now

Confirm'd past all suspicion, thou art far

Sweeter in thy sincere truth, than a sacrifice

Deck'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds,
That blow off from the coast, and cheer the sailor
With the sweet savour of their spices, want
The delight flows in thee. Look here, look here,
Oh man of wild desires! We will die the martyrs
Of marriage; and, 'stead of the loose ditties
With which they stab sweet modesty, and ingender
Desires in the hot-room, thy noble story

Shall, laurel-like, crown honest ears with glory.

20

L. 159.

the Indian winds, &c.] So Milton, in Paradise Lost, B. 4.

As when to them who sail

Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past "Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow "Sabean odors from the spicy shore

"Of Araby the blest: with such delay

"Well pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league "Chear'd with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles."

Antonio. Murder, murder, murder!

Enter the three DUKES, with LORDS.

Milan. Ha! who cries murder?

Philippo. As y'are a gentleman, now be tru、 to me. Abstemia. Sir!

Venice. Sister!

Verona. My shame! art thou there?

Venice. Oh sister, can it be

A prince's blood should stain that white hand?
Ambo. Hear us.

Antonio. No, no, no, hear me : 'twas I cry'd murder; Because I have found them both stain'd with the deed They would have throttled me.

Lorenzo. Hear us: by all

Milan. Upon your lives be silent. Speak on, sir: Had they both hands in our son's blood?

Antonio. Two hands apiece, sir.

I have sifted it: they both have kill'd the prince;
But this is the chief murderer.

audience;

Please you give me

Ye shall wonder at the manner how they kill'd him.
Milan. Silence!

Antonio. He came first to this woman, and (truth's truth)

He would have lain with her.

Milan. Her own confession.

Antonio. Nay, good your grace.

Milan. We are silent.

Antonio. Coming to seize upon her, with the first blow She struck his base intent so brave a buffet,

That there it bled to death. She said, his horse

Would teach him better manners: there he died once. Verona. What does this fellow talk?

Abstemia. I understand him.

Antonio. He met her next i' th' wood, where he was

found dead:

Then he came noblier up to her, and told her,

Marriage was his intent; but she as nobly (Belike to let him know she was married)

Told him, in an intelligible denial,

A chaste wife's truth shin'd through the greatest trial: There the prince died again.

Lodovico. There's twice; beware the third time.

Antonio. The third time, he came here to them both

in prison,

Brought a pistol with him, would have forc'd her again;
But had ye seen how fairly then she slew him,
You would have shot applauses from your eyes:
Oh she came up so bravely to that prince,
Hot potent Lust, (for she slew no prince else)
With such a valiant discipline she destroy'd
That debosh'd" prince, Bad Desire; and then, by him
So bravely too fetch'd off, that (to conclude)
Betwixt them they this wonder did contrive,

They kill'd the prince, but kept your son alive.

Milan. Antonio!

Omnes. The prince!

[Discovers himself.

Venice. Come home, my sister, to my heart.
Verona. And now Lorenzo is again my belov'd kins-

man.

Antonio. Oh, sir, here dwells virtue epitomiz❜d, Even to an abstract, and yet that so large

"Twill swell a book in folio.

Lodovico. She swells beyond my wife then:

A pocket-book, bound in decimo sexto,

Will hold her virtues, and as much spare paper
As will furnish five tobacco-shops.

left

Milan. But here's the wonder; who is it was slain

In your apparel ?

Philippo. I will give them all the slip. [Offers to go.
Antonio. Here's a gentleman of Ferrara-

Philippo. As you are noble

Antonio. That saw them fight: it was the slave was
slain, sir,

I took before Palermo: he that kill'd him,
Took him but for a gentleman his equal;

21 Debosh'd.] See Mr. Steevens's note on Tempest, A. 3. S. 2.

And, as this eye-witness says, he in my apparel
Did kick the t'other first.

Philippo. Nay, upon my life, sir,

He in your apparel gave the first kick: I saw them fight,
And I dare swear the t'other honest gentleman
Little thought he had slain any thing like the prince;
For I heard him swear, but half an hour before,

He never saw your grace.

Milan. Then he kill'd him fairly?
Philippo. Upon my life, my lord.

Venice. T'other had but his merit then who dies, And seeks his death, seldom wets others' eyes.

Antonio. Let this persuade you I believe you noble ; I have kept my word with you.

Philippo. You have out-done me, sir,

In this brave exercise of honour: but let me,
In mine own person, thank you.

Omnes. Philippo!

Philippo. Unwittingly I did an ill (as 't happen'd) To a good end: that slave I for you kill'd Wanted but time to kill you: read that paper, Which I found with him, I thinking by accident You had intercepted it. We all have happily Been well deceiv'd; you are noble, just, and true; My hate was at your cloaths, my heart at you.

Verona. An accident more strange hath seldom happen'd.

Lorenzo. Philippo, my best friend, 'twixt shame and love,

Here let me lay thee now for ever.

Abstemia. Heaven

Hath now plain'd all our rough woes smooth and even.
Milan. At court, large relation in apt form
Shall tender past proceedings; but to distinguish
(Excellent lady !) your unparallel'd praises
From those but seem, let this serve: bad women
Are nature's clouds, eclipsing her fair shine;
The good, all-gracious, saint-like, and divine.

[Exeunt omnes.

345

EDITION.

The City Night-Cap: or, Crede quod habes, et habes. a Tragi-comedy. By Robert Davenport. As it was acted with great applause, by Her Majesties Servants, at the Phoenix in Drury-lane. London: Printed by Ja. Cottrel, for Samuel Speed, at the signe of the Printing-Press, in St. Paul's Church-yard. 1661. 4to.