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Thy name's recorded in the book of life,
Mrs. Fra. How full my heart is, in mine eyes appears; What wants in words, I will supply in tears.
Fran. Come, take your coach, your stuff; all must along: Servants and all make ready, all be gone.
It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one.
CRANWELL, FRANKFORD, and NICHOLAS, a Servant.
Cran. Why do you search each room about your house, Now that you have dispatch'd your wife away? be left That ever was my wife's; I lov'd her dearly, And when I do but think of her unkindness,
Fran. O sir, to see that nothing may
My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid which torment,
I would not have a bodkin nor a cuff,
A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wire,
Nic. Here's her lute flung in a corner.
Fran. Her lute? Oh God! upon this instrument
Her fingers have ran quick division,
Swifter than that which now divides our hearts.
These frets have made me pleasant, that have now
(Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance)
Post with it after her; now nothing's left;
NICHOLAS Overtakes MRS. FRANKFORD on her journey, and delivers
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;
If you return unto your master, say
I dare not so presume; nor to my children:
I am disclaim'd in both, alas, I am.
O never teach them, when they come to speak,
To name the name of mother; chide their tongue
If they by chance light on that hated word;
Tell them 'tis naught, for when that word they name
So to my death-bed; for from this sad hour,
I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest.
But when my tears have wash'd my black soul white,
Mrs. FRANKFORD (dying). Sir FRANCIS ACTON (her brother). 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
Mal. Yes, Mrs. Frankford: divers gentlemen,
He gave to us his faith to follow us;
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?
Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek?
Is not my crime there? tell me, gentlemen.
Char. 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
Are turn'd to pity and compassionate grief.
I came to rate you, but my brawls, you see,
Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee.
MR. FRANKFORD enters.
Fran. Good-morrow, brother; morrow, gentlemen :
But he that made us, made us to his wo.
Mrs. Fra. And is he come? methinks that voice I know.
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. O! good man,
Pardon, O pardon me my fault so heinous is,
And, in mere pity of thy weak estate,
I'll wish to die with thee.
All. So do we all.
Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day,
When the great judge of heaven in scarlet sits,
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?
Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it.
Mrs. Fra. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven art free
[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 ENGLISH TRAVELLER. BY THOMAS HEYWOOD.
Young Geraldine comes home from his Travels, and finds his Playfellow, that should have been his Wife, married to old Wincott. The old Gentleman receives him hospitably, as a Friend of his Father's: takes delight to hear him tell of his Travels, and treats him in all respects like a second Father; his house being always open to him. Young Geraldine and the Wife agree not to wrong the old Gentleman.
Ger. We now are left alone.
Wife. Why, say we be; who should be jealous of us?