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Live free as I do: she that loves

my

lord, Curst be the wife that hates her!

THE RECONCILEMENT OF MR. ROGER, THE CURATE,

AND ABIGAIL.

FROM THE SCORNFUL LADY, SCENE I. ACT IV.

Abig. See how scornfully he passes by me,
With what an equipage canonical,
As though he had broken the heart of Bellarmine,
Or added something to the singing brethren;
*Tis scorn, I know it, and deserve it, Master Roger.

Rog. Fair gentlewoman, my name is Roger.
Abig. Then, gentle Roger-
Rog. Ungentle Abigail

Abig. Why, Master Roger, will you set your wit To a weak woman's ?

Rog. You are weak, indeed;
For so the poet sings.

Abig. I do confess
My weakness, sweet Sir Roger.

Rog. Good, my lady's
Gentlewoman, or my good lady's gentlewoman,
(This trope is lost to you now) leave your prating,
You have a season of your first mother in you,
And, surely, had the devil been in love,
He had been abused too. Go, Dalilah,
You make men fools, and wear fig-breeehes.

Abig. Well, well, hard-hearted man, you may

dilate
Upon the weak infirmities of woman,
These are fit texts : but once there was a time
Would I had never seen those

eyes,
those

eyes, Those orient eyes !

Rog. Ay, they were pearls once with you.
Abig. Saving your presence, sir, so they are still.
Rog. Nay, nay, I do beseech you, leave your

cogging;
What they are, they are
They serve me without spectacles--I thank 'em.

Abig. Oh, will you kill me?

Rog. I do not think I can ;
You're like a copyhold with nine lives in't.

Abig. You were wont to wear a Christian fear

about you,

For your own worship's sake,

Rog. I was a Christian fool, then. Do you remember what a dance

you

led me, How I grew qualm'd in love, and was a dunce; Could not expound but once a quarter, and then

was out too
And then, out of the stir you put me in,
I pray'd for my own royal issue. You do
Remember all this.

Abig. Oh, be as then you were.

Rog. I thank you for it. Surely I will be wiser, Abigail, And, as the Ethnic poet sings,

I will not lose my oil and labour too.
You're for the worshipful, I take it, Abigail.

Abig. Oh, take it so, and then I am for thee.
Rog. I like these symptoms well, and this humbling

also,
They are symptoms of contrition, as a father saith.
If I should fall into my fit again,
Would you not shake me into a quotidian coxcomb,
Would you not use me scurvily again,
And give me possets with purging comfits in them?
I tell thee, gentlewoman, thou hast been harder to me
Than a long chapter with a pedigree.

Abig. Oh, curate, cure me;
I will love thee better, dearer, longer;
I will do any thing-betray the secrets
Of the main household to thy reformation;
My lady shall look lovingly on thy learning :
And when due time shall point thee for a parson,
I will convert thy eggs to penny custards,
And thy tithe goose shall graze and multiply.

Rog. I am mollified,
As well shall testify this faithful kiss.
But have a great care, Mistress Abigail,
How you depress the spirit any more,
With your rebukes, and mocks, for certainly
The edge of such a folly cuts itself.

Abig. Oh, Sir, you've pierc'd me thorough! Here

I vow

A recantation to those malicious faults
I ever did against you. Never more

and say

Will I despise your learning; never more
Pin cards and

cony
tails

upon your cassock;
Never again reproach your reverend nightcap,
And call it by the mangy name of murrion;
Never your“ reverend person more,
You look like one of Baal's priests i’ the hanging;
Never again, when you say grace, laugh at you,
Nor put you out at pray’rs; never cramp you more
With the great book of Martyrs; nor, when you ride,
Get soap and thistles for you-No, my Roger,
These faults shall be corrected and amended,
As by the tenor of my tears appears.

JULIO TANTALIZED BY BUSTOPHA ABOUT THE

FATE OF HIS NEPHEW ANTONIO.

THE MAID OF THE MILL, ACT IV. SCENE II,

7

Julio. My mind's unquiet; while Antonio
My nephew's abroad, my heart's not at home;
Only my fears stay with me bad company,
But I cannot shift 'em off. This hatred
Betwixt the house of Bellides and us
Is not fair war-'tis civil, but uncivil ;
We are noar neighbours, were of love as near,
Till a cross misconstruction ('twas no more
In conscience,) put us so far asunder.
I would 'twere reconciled; it has lasted
Too many sunsets : if grace' might moderate,

Man should not lose so many days of peace
To satisfy the anger of one minute.
I could repent it heartily. I sent
The knave to attend my Antonio too,
Yet he returns no comfort to me neither.

Enter BUSTOPHA.
Bust. No, I must not.
Jul. Ha! he is come.

Bust. I must not:
'Twill break his heart to hear it.

Jul. How! there's bad tidings. I must obscure and hear it: he'll not tell it For breaking of my heart. It's half split already.

Bust. I have spied him. Now to knock down a don With a lie silly, harmless lie : 'twill be Valiantly done, and nobly, perhaps.

Jul. I cannot hear him now.

Bust. Oh, the bloody days that we live in!
The envious, malicious, deadly days
That we draw breath in.

Jul. Now I hear too loud.
Bust. The children that never shall be born may

rue,
For men that are slain now, might have lived
To have got children that might have curs'd
Their fathers.

Jul. Oh, my posterity is ruin'd.
Bust. Oh, sweet Antonio!
Jul. O dear Antonio !

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