To all earth's joy; and so your master tell. Nic. I'll do your commendations. 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 (Poor pretty souls!) they harp on their own shame. But when my tears have wash'd my black soul white, Sweet Saviour, to thy hands I yield my sprite. SIR MRS FRANKFORD (dying). SIR FRANCIS ACTON, her brother. 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, O tell me, where is Mr Frankford. Mrs Fra. You have half revived me with the pleasing news: Raise me a little higher in my bed. Blush I not, brother Acton? blush I not, Sir Charles? Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek? Is not my crime there? tell me, gentlemen. Chas. Alas! good mistress, sickness hath not left you Blood in your face enough to make you blush. Mrs Fra. Then sickness, like a friend, my fault would hide. Is 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 MR FRANKFORD enters. Fran. Good-morrow, brother; morrow, gentlemen : On a more fair and more contented ground: 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 griped 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. O! good man, That kneel I cannot : but on my heart's knees Fran. As freely from the low depth of my soul And, in mere pity of thy weak estate, All. So do we all. Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day, When the great judge of Heaven in scarlet sits, Unite our souls. Char. Then comfort, mistress Frankford; You see your husband hath forgiven your fall; Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul. Susan. How is it with you? Acton. How d' ye feel yourself? Mrs Fra. Not of this world. Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest. 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.] THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE, A COMEDY: BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 1607. CRIPPLE offers to fit FRANK GOLDING with ready-made love epistles. Frank. Of thy own writing? Crip. My own, I assure you, Sir. Frank. Faith, thou hast robb'd some sonnet-book or other, And now wouldst make me think they are thy own. Crip. Why, think'st thou that I cannot write a letter, As pretty, pleasing, and pathetical, Frank. I think thou canst not. Crip. Yea, I'll swear I cannot. Yet, sirrah, I could coney-catch the world, Make myself famous for a sudden wit, Frank. I prithee, how? Crip. Why thus-There liv'd a poet in this town But rolls, and scrolls, and bundles of cast wit, Crip. I could do more; for I could make inquiry In the next room with a calf's head and brimstone, What I have filch'd from them. This I could do. |