  Enter Albert in the woods. How full of sweet content had this life been, If it had been embraced but before My burthenous conscience was so fraught with sin! But now my griefs o'ersway that happiness. O, that some lecher or accurs'd betrayer Of sacred friendship might but here arrive, And read the lines repentant on each tree That I have carv'd t' express my misery! My admonitions now would sure convert The sinful'st creature; I could tell them now, How idly vain those humans spend their lives That daily grieve, not for offences pass'd, But to enjoy some wanton's company; Which when obtain'd, what is it but a blot, Which their whole life's repentance scarce can clear? I could now tell to friend-betraying man, How black a sin is hateful treachery, How heavy on their wretched souls 'twill sit, How heavy and affrighted will their end Seem to approach them, as if then they knew The full beginning of their endless woe Were then appointed; which astonishment, O blest repentance, keep me Albert from! And suffer not despair to overwhelm, And make a shipwreck of my heavy soul. Enter Maria, like a page. Who's here? a page? what black disastrous fate Can be so cruel to his pleasing youth? Maria. So now, Maria, here thou must forego What nature lent thee to repay to death! Famine, I thank thee, I have found thee kindest; Thou sett'st a period to my misery. [Faints. Alb. It is Maria, that fair innocent, Whom my abhorred lust hath brought to this; I'll go for sustenance: and, O ye powers! If ever true repentance wan acceptance, O, show it Albert now, and let him save This [Exit Albert. Maria. Sure, something spake, or else my feebled sense Hath lost the use of its due property; Which is more likely, than that in this place The voice of human creature should be heard. This is far distant from the paths of men: Nothing breathes here but wild and ravening beasts, With airy monsters, whose shadowing wings do seem Which I live dreadless of, and every hour Strive to meet death, who still unkind avoids me: But that now gentle famine doth begin For to give end to my calamities. See, here is carv'd upon this tree's smooth bark Lines knit in verse, a chance far unexpected! Assist me, breath, a little to unfold What they include. The Writing. I that have writ these lines am one, whose sin Is more than grievous; for know, that I have been A breaker of my faith with one, whose breast Was all compos'd of truth: but I digress'd, And fled th' embrace Clasping to falsehood, did a villain prove; As thus shall be express'd. My worthy friend Lov'd a fair beauty, who did condescend In dearest affection to his virtuous will; He then a night appointed to fulfil Hymen's bless'd rites, and to convey away His love's fair person, to which peerless prey I was acquainted made, and when the hour Of her escape drew on, then lust did pour Enraged appetite through all my veins, And base desires in me let loose the reins To my licentious will: and that black night, When my friend should have had his chaste delight, I feign'd his presence, and (by her thought him), For which most heinous crime upon each tree I write this story, that men's eyes may see None but a damn'd one would have done like me. Is Albert then become so penitent, As in these deserts to deplore his facts, Which his unfeign'd repentance seems to clear? How good man is when he laments his ill! Who would not pardon now that man's misdeeds, Whose griefs bewail them thus? could I now live, I would remit thy fault with Carracus: But death no longer will afford reprieve Of my abundant woes: wrong'd Carracus, farewell; Live, and forgive thy wrongs, for the repentance Of him that caused them so deserves from thee; And since my eyes do witness Albert's grief, I pardon Albert, in my wrongs the chief. Enter Albert, like a hermit. Alb. How! pardon me? O sound angelical! But see, she faints. O heavens! now show your power, That these distilled waters, made in grief, May add some comfort to affliction: Look up, fair youth, and see a remedy. Mar. O, who disturbs me? I was hand in hand, Walking with death unto the house of rest. Alb. Let death walk by himself; if he want company, There's many thousands, boy, whose aged years Have ta'en a surfeit of earth's vanities; They will go with him when he please to call. Do drink, my boy; thy pleasing, tender youth Cannot deserve to die; no, it is for us, Whose years are laden by our often sins, Singing the last part of our bless'd repentance, Death ought to claim; for when a' snatcheth youth, It shows him but a tyrant; but when age, Then is he just, and not compos'd of rage. How fares my lad? Mar. Like one embracing death with all his parts, Reaching at life but with one little finger; His mind so firmly knit unto the first, That unto him the latter seems to be, What may be pointed at, but not possess'd. Alb. O, but thou shalt possess it. If thou didst fear thy death but as I do, Thou wouldst take pity: though not of thyself, Yet of my aged years. Trust me, my boy, Thou'st struck such deep compassion in my breast, That all the moisture which prolongs my life Will from my eyes gush forth, if now thou leav'st me. Mar. But can we live here in this desert wood? If not, I'll die, for other places seem Like tortures to my griefs. May I live here? Alb. Ay, thou shalt live with me, and I will tell thee Such strange occurrents of my fore-pass'd life, That all thy young-sprung griefs shall seem but sparks To the great fire of my calamities. Mar. Then I'll live only with you for to hear, If any human woes can be like mine. Yet, since my being in this darksome desert, I have read on trees most lamentable stories. Alb. 'Tis true indeed, there's one within these woods That on each tree he passes by he carves Such doleful lines for his rash follies pass'd, That whoso reads them, and not drown'd in tears, Must have a heart fram'd forth of adamant. Mar. And can you help me to the sight of him? Alb. Ay, when thou wilt; he'll often come to me, And at my cave sit a whole winter's night, Recounting of his stories. I tell thee, boy, Had he offended more than did that man, Who stole the fire from heaven, his contrition Would appease all the gods, and quite revert Their wrath to mercy. But come, my pretty boy, We'll to my cave, and after some repose Relate the sequel of each other's woes. [Exeunt. Enter Carracus. Car. What a way have I come, yet I know not Whither: the air's so cold this winter season, I'm sure a fool—would any but an ass Leave a warm-matted chamber and a bed, To run thus in the cold? and (which is more) To seek a woman—a slight thing call'd woman? Creatures, which curious nature fram'd, as I suppose, For rent-receivers to her treasury. And why I think so now, I'll give you instance; Most men do know that nature's self hath made them Most profitable members; then if so, By often trading in the commonwealth They needs must be enrich'd; why, very good! To whom ought beauty then repay this gain, Which she by nature's gift hath profited, But unto nature? why, all this I grant. For I will style them thus, scorning their leave, Those that for nature do much rent receive. This is a wood, sure; and, as I have read, In woods are echoes which will answer men To every question which they do propound. Echo. Echo. Echo. Car. O, are you there? have at ye then, i' faith. Echo, canst tell me whether men or women Are for the most part damn'd? Echo. Most part damn'd. Car. O, Echo, now tell me, if amongst a thousand women There be one chaste or none? Echo. None. Car. Why, so I think; better and better still. Now farther: Echo, in the world of men, Is there one faithful to his friend, or no? Echo. No. Car. Thou speak'st most true, for I have found it so. Who said thou wast a woman, Echo, lies; Thou couldst not then answer so much of truth. Was my Maria false by her own desire, Or was't against her will? Echo. Against her will. Car. Troth, it may be so; but canst thou tell, Whether she be dead or not? Echo. Not. Car. Not dead! Echo. Not dead. Car. Then without question she doth surely live. But I do trouble thee too much; therefore, Good speak-truth, farewell. Echo. Farewell. Car. How quick it answers! O, that councillors Would thus resolve men's doubts without a fee! How many country clients then might rest Free from undoing! no plodding pleader then Would purchase great possessions with his tongue. Were I some demigod, or had that power, I would straight make this echo here a judge: He'd spend his judgment in the open court, As now to me, without being once solicited In his private chamber; 'tis not bribes could win Him to o'ersway men's right, nor could he be Led to damnation for a little pelf; He would not harbour malice in his heart, Or envious hatred, base despite, or grudge, But be an upright, just, and equal judge. But now imagine that I should confront Treacherous Albert, who hath rais'd my front! But I fear this idle prate hath made me Quite forget my cinque pace. [He danceth. Enter Albert. Alb. I heard the echo answer unto one, From off this ground; and see, I have descri'd him: O heavens! it's Carracus, whose reason's seat Is now usurp'd by madness and distraction; Which I, the author of confusion, Have planted here by my accursed deeds. Car. O, are you come, sir! I was sending The tavern-boy for you; I have been practising Here, and can do none of my lofty tricks. Alb. Good sir, if any spark do yet remain Of your consumed reason, let me strive—— Car. To blow it out? troth, I most kindly thank you, Here's friendship to the life. But, Father Wheybeard, Why should you think me void of reason's fire, My youthful days being in the height of knowledge? I must confess your old years gain experience; But that so much o'errul'd by dotage, That what you think experience shall effect, Short memory destroys. What say you now, sir? Am I mad now, that can answer thus To all interrogatories? Alb. But though your words do savour, sir, of judgment, Yet when they derogate from the due observance Of fitting times, they ought to be respected No more than if a man should tell a tale Of feigned mirth in midst of extreme sorrows. Car. How did you know My sorrows, sir? what though I have lost a wife, Must I be therefore griev'd? am I not happy To be so freed of a continual trouble? Had many a man such fortune as I, In what a heaven would they think themselves, Being releas'd of all those threat'ning clouds, Sit, ever menacing tempestuous storms? But yet I needs must tell you, old December, My wife was clear of this; within her brow She had not a wrinkle nor a storming frown: But, like a smooth well-polish'd ivory, It seem'd so pleasant to the looker-on: She was so kind, of nature so gentle, That if she'd done a fault, she'd straight go die for't: Was not she then a rare one? What, weep'st thou, aged Nestor? Take comfort, man! Troy was ordain'd by fate To yield to us, which we will ruinate. Alb. Good sir, walk with me but where you [may] see The shadowing elms, within whose circling round There is a holy spring about encompass'd By dandling sycamores and violets, Whose waters cure all human maladies. Few drops thereof, being sprinkl'd on your temples, Revives your fading memory, and restores Your senses lost unto their perfect being. Car. Is it clear water, sir, and very fresh? For I am thirsty, [which] gives it a better relish Than a cup of dead wine with flies in't? Alb. Most pleasant to the taste; pray, will you go? Car. Faster than you, I believe, sir. [Exeunt. Enter Maria. Mar. I am walk'd forth from my preserver's cave, To search about these woods, only to see The penitent Albert, whose repentant mind Each tree expresseth. O, that some power divine Would hither send my virtuous Carracus! See how his distress'd friend repents the wrong, Which his rash folly, most unfortunate, Acted 'gainst him and me; which I forgive A hundred times a day, for that more often My eyes are witness to his sad complaints. How the good hermit seems to share his moans, Which in the daytime he deplores 'mongst trees, And in the night his cave is fill'd with sighs; No other bed doth his weak limbs support Than the cold earth; no other harmony To rock his cares asleep but blustering winds, Or some swift current, headlong rushing down From a high mountain's top, pouring his force Into the ocean's gulf, where being swallow'd, Seems to bewail his fall with hideous words: No other sustentation to suffice, What nature claims, but raw, unsavoury roots With troubled waters, where untamed beasts Do bathe themselves. Enter Satyrs, dance, et exeunt. Ah me! what things are these? What pretty harmless things they seem to be! As if delight had nowhere made abode, But in their nimble sport. Enter Albert [and Carracus.] Yonder's the courteous hermit, and with him Albert, it seems. O, see, 'tis Carracus! Joy, do not now confound me! Car. Thanks unto heavens and thee, thou holy man, I have attain'd what doth adorn man's being, That precious gem of reason, by which solely We are discern'd from rude and brutish beasts, How to repay this more than earthly kindness Lies not within my power, but in his, That hath indu'd thee with celestial gifts, To whom I'll pray, he may bestow on thee What thou deserv'st, bless'd immortality. Alb. Which unto you befall, thereof most worthy. But, virtuous sir, what I will now request From your true generous nature is, that you would Be pleas'd to pardon that repentant wight, Whose sinful story upon yon tree's bark Yourself did read, for that you say, to you Those wrongs were done. Car. Indeed they were, and to a dear wife lost; Yet I forgive him, as I wish the heavens May pardon me. Mar. So doth Maria too. [She discovers herself. Car. Lives my Maria, then? what gracious planet Gave thee safe conduct to these desert woods? Mar. My late mishap (repented now by all, And therefore pardon'd) compell'd me to fly, Where I had perished for want of food, Had not this courteous man awak'd my sense, In which death's self had partly interest. Car. Alas, Maria! I am so far indebted To him already for the late recovery of My own weakness, that 'tis impossible For us to attribute sufficient thanks For such abundant good. Alb. I rather ought to thank the heaven's Creator That he vouchsaf'd me such especial grace, In doing so small a good; which could I hourly Bestow on all, yet could I not assuage The swelling rancour of my fore-pass'd crimes. Car. O sir, despair not; for your course of life Doth move compassion and pure clemency In the all-ruling judge, whose powerful mercy O'ersways his justice, and extends itself To all repentant minds. He's happier far That sins, and can repent him of his sin, Than the self-justifier, who doth surmise By his own works to gain salvation; Seeming to reach at heaven, he clasps damnation. You then are happy, and our penitent friend, To whose wish'd presence please you now to bring us, That in our gladsome arms we may enfold His much-esteemed person, and forgive The injuries of his rash follies pass'd. Alb. Then see false Albert prostrate at your feet, [He discovers himself. Desiring justice for his heinous ill. Car. Is it you? Albert's self that hath preserv'd us? O bless'd bewailer of thy misery! Maria. And wofull'st liver in calamity! Car. From which, right worthy friend, 'tis now high time You be releas'd; come then, you shall with us. Our first and chiefest welcome, my Maria, We shall receive at your good father's house; Who, as I do remember, in my frenzy Sent a kind letter, which desir'd our presence. Alb. So please you, virtuous pair, Albert will stay, And spend the remnant of this wearisome life In these dark woods. Car. Then you neglect the comforts heav'n doth send To your abode on earth. If you stay here, Your life may end in torture by the cruelty Of some wild ravenous beasts; but if 'mongst men, Will much avail to crown your soul with bliss. Alb. Lov'd Carracus, I have found in thy converse Comfort so bless'd, that nothing now but death Shall cause a separation in our being. Maria. Which heaven confirm! Car. Thus by the breach of faith our friendship's knit In stronger bonds of love. Alb. Heaven so continue it! [Exeunt. |
|
