A Select Collection of Old English Plays
Chapter 8 : EVAD. E'en what you please, your tyranny can't bear A shape so bad to make Eva

EVAD. E'en what you please, your tyranny can't bear A shape so bad to make Evadne fear: Strong innocence shall guard my afflicted soul, Whose constancy shall tyranny control.

[_Exeunt. A noise within, crying Rescue, rescue! Enter_ ANTONIO _and Guard; to them_ GIOVANNO _and_ TAILORS, _and rescue him, and beat them off_.

_Enter an_ OFFICER, _meeting_ MACHIAVEL.

OFF. A troop of tailors by force have ta'en Antonio from us, and have borne him (spite Of the best resistance we could make) unto some Secret place; we cannot find him.

MACH. Screech-owl, dost know what thou hast said?

Death! find him, or you die! O my cross stars!

He must not live to torture our vex'd sense, But die; though he'd no fault but innocence.

[_Exit._

_Enter_ GIOVANNO, ANTONIO, _and the_ OLD TAILOR.

GIO. Can this kindness merit your love?

Do I deserve your sister?

ANT. My sister! worthy tailor, 'tis a gift lies not in me to give: ask something else, 'tis thine, although it be gained with the quite extinguis.h.i.+ng of this--this breath you gave me.

GIO. Have not I----

ANT. Speak no further; I confess you have been all unto me, life and being; I breathe but with your licence: will no price buy out your interest in me but her love? I tell thee, tailor, I have blood runs in me, Spain cannot match for greatness next her kings. Yet, to requite thy love, I'll call thee friend; be thou Antonio's friend--a favour n.o.bles have thirsted for: will this requite thee?

GIO. Sir, this may, but----

ANT. My sister, thou wouldst say, most worthy tailor; she's not mine to give; honour spake in my dying father: 'tis a sentence that's registered here in Antonio's heart--I must not wed her but to one in blood calls honour father. Prythee, be my friend; forget I have a sister; in love I'll be more than a brother, though not to mingle blood.

GIO. May I not call her mistress?

ANT. As a servant, far from the thoughts of wedlock.

GIO. I'm yours, friend: I am proud on't; you shall find That, though a tailor, I've an honest mind.

Pray, master, help my lord unto a suit; his life Lies at your mercy.

1ST TAI. I'll warrant you.

ANT. But for thy men.

1ST TAI. O, they are proud in that they rescu'd you, And my blood of honour; since you are pleas'd To grace the now declining trade of tailors By being shrouded in their homely clothes, And deck a shop-board with your n.o.ble person; The taunting scorns the foul-mouth'd world can throw Upon our needful calling shall be answered: They injure honour, since your honour is a n.o.ble pract.i.tioner in our mystery.

GIO. Cheer up, Antonio, take him in.

The rest will make him merry; I'd go try The temper of a sword upon some s.h.i.+eld That guards a foe. Pray for my good success.

[_Exit._

1ST TAI. Come, come, my lord, leave melancholy To hired slaves, that murther at a price: Yours was----

ANT. No more: flatter not [so] my sin.

1ST TAI. You are too strict a convert.i.te; let's in.

[_Exit._

_After a confused noise within, enter_ RAYMOND, LEONIS, GILBERTI, _hastily_.

RAY. What means this capering echo?

Or whence did this so lively counterfeit Of thunder break out [in] to liberty?

GIL. 'Tis from the city.

RAY. It cannot be their voice should outroar Jove; Our army, like a basilisk, has struck Death through their eyes; our number, like a wind, Broke from the icy prison of the north, Has froze the portals to their s.h.i.+vering hearts; They scarce have breath enough to speak't They live.

[_A shout within._

GIL. 'Tis certainly from thence.

LEO. Y' are deceived, poor Spaniards! Fear Has chang'd their elevated gait to a dejection: They're planet-struck.

RAY. 'Tis from our jocund fleet, my genius prompts me; They have already plough'd th' unruly seas, And with their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, proof 'gainst the battering Waves, dash'd the big billows into angry froth, And, spite of the contentious foul-mouth'd G.o.ds Of sea and wind, have reach'd the city frontiers, And [have] begirt her navigable skirts.

Again! 'tis so.

[_Again within._

GIL. My creed's another way; I have no faith but to the city.

_Alarum._ _Enter a_ SOLDIER _b.l.o.o.d.y_.

LEO. Here's one: Now we shall know. Ha! he appears Like one compos'd of horror.

RAY. What speaks thy troubled front?

LEO. Speak, crimson meteor.

RAY. Speak, prodigy, or on my sword thou fall'st.

SOL. The bold Spaniards, setting aside all cold acknowledgment of any odds, or notice of the number our army is made proud with, sends from their walls more lightning than great Jove affrights the trembling world with, when the air is turn'd to mutiny.

RAY. Villain, thou liest; 'twere madness to believe thee. Foolish Spain may, like those giants that heap hill on hill, mountain on mountain, to pluck Jove from heaven, who with a hand of vengeance flung 'em down beneath the centre, and those cloud-contemning mounts heav'd by the strength of their ambitious arms, became their monuments; so Spain's rash folly from this arm of mine shall find their graves amongst the rubbish of their ruin'd cities.

_Enter a second_ SOLDIER.

What, another! thy hasty news?

2D MESS. The daring enemies have through their gates made a victorious sally: all our troops have jointly, like the dust before the wind, made a dishonoured flight. Hark!

[_Alarum within._]

The conquering foe makes. .h.i.therward.