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WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 OR 
 
 LOVE'S DISGUISES. 
 
 A PLAY, IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'VIRGINIUS,' 'LOVE CHASE,' &C. 
 
 
 BOSTON: 
 H. P. NICHOLS & CO. 
 
 147 Washington Street. 
 

 TO 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, 
 
 THIS PLAY 
 
 IS 
 DEDICATED, 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 Lord Athunree . 
 
 Sir Valentine de Grey ..... 
 
 Sir William Sutton 
 
 Walsingham 
 
 Bradford 
 
 Felton . . 
 
 Monsieur de l'Epee 
 
 Clever 
 
 Lewson .....•• 
 Servant, (to Sir William Sutton) . 
 Servant, (to Sir Valentine) 
 Officer 
 
 Eustace Miss Taylor. 
 
 jJejjq Miss H. Faucit. 
 
 Eboly M^s. Serle. 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 covent garden, 1838. 
 Mr. Warde. 
 Anderson. 
 Bartley. 
 Macready. 
 Waldron. 
 Pritchard. 
 Tilbury. 
 Harley. 
 Diddear. 
 Holmes. 
 Collet. 
 C. J. Smith. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Anxious to promote, to the utmost of my humble ability, an hon- 
 orable and chivalrous speculation, this play was promised to my 
 friend, Mr. Macready, six months ago, and ought to have been 
 ready last February. Repeated attacks of severe indisposition pre- 
 vented me from completing it until my return to town, about the 
 middle of April. If it is favorably received, — to the indefatigable 
 and masterly superintendance, to the unstinting hberality, of the 
 present enthusiastic and enterprising Lessee of th^ Theatre Royal 
 Covent Garden, it will be indebted for no inconsiderable portion of 
 its success. 
 
 London, May 21st., 1838. 
 
 7^7 
 
WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — Sir William Sutton'' s House — An Ante-room lead' 
 ing to a Ball-room. — Music as of a Ball. — Dancers seen in the fur- 
 ther Apartment. — Visiters passing in and out. 
 
 Enter, from the Ball-room, Walsingham and Bradford. 
 
 Walsingham. Fair revels these Sir William Sutton holds. 
 And all in honour of the city maid ! 
 Sure the whole town is here, such swarms pass in 
 And out. Is it a match, as they report. 
 Betwixt the maid and brave Sir Valentine ? 
 
 Bradford. In prospect, Sir ; but yet I question much, 
 If in a year hence, nearer than to-day. 
 She of the spirit of conquest is possess'd 
 Incontinently ; victory but serves 
 To whet the last triumph. Strange so long 
 Lord Athunree did occupy her ; but 
 His station ceased, soon as Sir Valentine 
 Aspir'd to fill his place. A grief it is, 
 A maid with treasure past compare like hers, 
 Of gorgeous beauty, with a mine of wealth, 
 Should use her riches with such huswiPry, 
 As makes one pity her possession of them ! 
 
 Walsingham. Lo you, she dances, and, for partner, takes 
 Lord Athunree, and not Sir Valentine. 
 A novel measure that ! know you its name ? 
 
 Bradford. No — ay ! — a liberal measure ! — See ! — his hand 
 Doth hold possession of her waist ; while hers, 
 Nothing repelling, on his shoulder rests, 
 Permitting neighborhood so close, embrace 
 Were scarce in privilege a jot behind. 
 
 Walsingham. You know Lord Athunree ? — his character ? 
 
6 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 The limits of my acquaintance. 
 
 Bradford. No, Sir. 
 
 Wahingham. Sir, 
 He is a libertine. He hath been much 
 Abroad. That dance, I will be bound, is ware 
 Of his importing. Yes ; a libertine ! 
 A man of pleasure — in the animal 
 Ignoble sense of the term — that owns no curb 
 Of honor, generosity, or truth ; 
 Nor hath a single grace, except the nerve — 
 A contradiction which would make one question 
 That valor is of itself a thing to boast of — 
 To vouch the wrong he does, and stand by it I 
 
 Bradford. You say this feelingly. 
 
 Walsinghavi. Because I feel it. 
 I had a friend, whose heart could scarce lodge weal 
 Or woe, without the privity of mine — 
 A friend of quick affections — and a villain 
 Compassed the ruin of the maid he loved. 
 That villain was the lord who dances there. 
 They fought — thro' odds in skill, the honest arm 
 Was mastered by the foul ; but vengeance, tho' 
 'Tis baffled, is not lost ! Good morning, for 
 More than an hour or twin, 'tis past the turn 
 Of night. — Free thanks for your free converse with 
 A stranger. 
 
 Bradford. Sir, the like I render you : 
 But will you not delay some moments more ? 
 In spirit, yet the revels are but young ! 
 
 Walsingham. Sir, I am pall'd with them — and were I not, 
 That lord approaches, and the sight of him 
 Would put out keenest zest of joyance. 
 
 Bradford. Have with you then ; far as our road is one, 
 We'll go together. 
 
 Walsingham. Sir, right willingly ! [ They go mU. 
 
 Eiiter Lord Athunree and Felton. 
 
 Lord Athunree. 'Tis not for him, by sheer ef&ontery, 
 For two years I have held the foremost place 
 'Mongst swarms of lovers close besieging her ! 
 Made one and all to stand aloof, whene'er 
 I thought they press'd too near ! 
 
 Felton. I have marvel I'd oft 
 At your success. 
 
 Lord Athunree. Of blood-letting, you know, 
 In the high mode, I have as little fear, 
 As need of fear ; and would they come to that, 
 I soon convinced them, that I knew their art 
 Better than they did. 
 
 Felton. To sav the truth, the foil 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 7 
 
 Has stood you much in stead, when there was need 
 Of weapon of graver practice. — Found you ever 
 Your equal in the fence ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. Ay ; and my master ! 
 And therein do I tax my lucky stars, 
 That watch not o'er me now. He is here in the house, 
 That gentleman from travel late arrived. 
 Who, with the gloss of the fair countries which 
 He has been seeing, shines, and quite puts out 
 All light of homely worth. 
 
 Felton. Sir Valentine ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. The same. 
 That knight of France, tho' son of England. Ay, 
 And would be captain, too, to Venus, Sir ! 
 Would take the fortress, all who'd carry which, 
 I at impracticable distance still 
 Have kept — yet come no nearer than I was 
 To winning it, when first set down before it. 
 
 Felton. Fear'st thou surrender then to him ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. Humph ! Fear ? 
 That ' fear ' 's an ugly word ! ' Do I fear ? ' He is quick ! 
 His point and eye do go together ! Scarce 
 You are mark'd, you are hit ! his sword is part of him. 
 Grows to his hand. Sir, as his hand to his wrist ; 
 The very moment that your weapons touch, 
 He is here, and there, and in '.—his lounge, a shot 
 You see not till 'tis home ! We quarrell'd once, 
 And twice I felt him, ere a man could say 
 That he was well en garde— \)vX touches, yet 
 Forerunners sure of heavier payment — so 
 I gave the battle up ! — Yes, I do fear — 
 Save I have hit him, as I think I have. 
 Where useless lounge or parry ! 
 
 Felton. Hit him ! How ? 
 
 Lm-d Athunree. V the brain and heart, Sir, without damage of 
 The skin ! Thro' the eyes. Sir, that take hit and hit 
 And ne'er the worse, howe'er the practice tells 
 Within ! He is a man of sentiment ! 
 Sentiment, mark you ! that is, flesh and blood 
 r the summer cool as spring — or water. Sir, 
 At the boiling point without a bubble — or wood 
 Without ignition in the heart of fire ! 
 An ample span of forehead '.—Mark !— a full 
 And liquid eye — free nostrils — crimson lips. 
 Cushioning one another without stint 
 Of the velvet — and a chin could show a copse 
 Of beard— a man, Sir, with all these, and yet 
 With wishes innocent as thoughts of babes ! 
 A lie. Sir, on the face of it ! — yet such 
 He passes for unto himself— believes 
 
8 
 
 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Indeed he is, and doth of others judge 
 But thro' the colour of this self-delusion — 
 Particularly women. He would have them 
 Earth to himself — to all else, things of Heaven ! 
 Impassive to impression, as the air 
 Which man ne'er yet gave form or color to ! 
 Felton. Well? 
 
 Lord Athunree. I did dance with her just now. 
 Felton. Fair Hero ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. Yes ; I did dance with her a free 
 And liberal dance — the dance of contact, else 
 Forbid — abandoning to the free hand 
 The sacred waist ! while face to face, till breath 
 Doth kiss wnth breath, and eye embraceth eye. 
 Your transed coil relaxing, straight'ning, round 
 And round in wavy measure, you entwine 
 Circle with circle, till the swimming brain 
 And panting heart in swoony lapse give o'er ! 
 
 Felton. I know ; that foreign dance thou didst bring home. 
 JU)rd Athunree. The very same ; I taught it her, and first 
 Did dance with her to-night. 
 
 Felton, I had admir'd 
 To see you. 
 
 Lord Athunree. Had you not, I had admir'd 
 The card-room kept you. Give you joy — you won ! 
 But to the dance. The evening half was out 
 And still he held her ear. 
 Felton. Sir Valentine ! 
 
 Lord Athunree. Who else ? who else that seat pre-eminent 
 By her fair side had held in spite of me ? 
 I watch'd for my occasion, and it came ; 
 Some friend did crave a moment's audience ; ere 
 'Twas done, her waist was in my custody ; 
 Her white arm hanging from my shoulder, where 
 Her hand did freely couch. ' Your game goes well ! ' 
 I whisper'd her ; ' Flay boldly, and 'tis yours : 
 The measure this to set the outline off! 
 Give sway to thy rich figure ! Abandon thee 
 To the spirit of the dance ! Let it possess thee ! 
 Float thee as air were footing for thee ! stud 
 Thy cheeks with smiles of fire, and give thine eye 
 The lightning's dazzling play ! fix them on mine. 
 That each do feed the other's, like to tongues 
 With converse waking converse ! ' 
 
 Felton. Well ?— I see 
 Thy drift ! 
 
 Lord Athunree. Thou should'st have seen the issue on't — 
 While, like a pupil at a task he loves. 
 Whose aptitude with eager will outstrips 
 His master's bidding, she was twenty times 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 
 
 The thing I wished her ! How she rose and sank 
 With springy instep, while her yielding waist — 
 Well as her waving neck, her beauteous head — 
 Did show her fair and falling shoulders off! 
 A world she look'd and moved of passionate 
 Quick sense — of loveliness and joyousness — 
 And I, be sure, did show its reigning lord ! 
 Nor Avith the measure did dominion cease ; 
 But when her drooping lids, relaxed steps, 
 Disparted lips, and colour vanishing, 
 Gave note she must give o'er — her languid form, 
 Close girdled by my arm, her hand in mine, 
 Her cheek for pillow on my shoulder laid, 
 I led her to a couch, where courtesy 
 Of course admitted tendance ! 
 
 Felton. What of him ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. He is mad ! When he did turn, and note us first, 
 He looked as one who questioned his own eyes ; 
 Then stood awhile, no doubt admiring how 
 Step did keep time with step, and how we mov'd 
 In closest neighbourhood, disparting but 
 To meet — her arm, a link ne'er letting go ! 
 Then with a start of sudden fury went. 
 And cast him on a seat with folded arms, 
 And knitted brows scanning us, as he wish'd 
 His eyes could do the office of the lightning. 
 I car'd to mark no more — I saw the storm 
 I wish'd would come was on ; and knew 't would hold ! 
 
 Felton. And does it? 
 
 Lord Athunree. Yes ; thrice she advances made — 
 As women know to make, and not to seem, 
 Except to practis'd eyes — to draw his notice : — 
 Dropp'd her glove near him — wish'd she had a chair, 
 And one at his hand — complain'd of thirst, and just 
 A salver brought to him with wine — and all 
 In vain. Right in his eyes display'd her form 
 In attitude of tender languishment — 
 And to no more account than offerings 
 Of gems before an idol made of stone ! 
 But see ; we have danc'd out the night ; and day. 
 With fresh and flushy vigour, cometh on ; 
 You hear the rout breaks up. Attend him home, 
 Obtain his ear ; know nothing, but be sure 
 Of slightest opportunity he gives 
 For her disparagement to take advantage. 
 Here comes the Queen of the night, and all forlorn, 
 As she hagl lost her throne ! 
 
 Enter Hero leaning upon Emily. 
 
 Emily. What miss you, Hero, 
 
 2 
 
10 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 That thus you pause and turn : go on again, 
 And pause and turn again ? Fear'st any thing 
 Thou hast forgot ? 
 
 Hero. No ! I have danc'd too much 
 To-night. The night before it was the samel 
 No rest — all revels ! — Madness, with a frame 
 That is any thing but iron. [Turns to look back. 
 
 Emily. There again ! 
 I am sure there's something you do miss — What is it ? 
 
 Hero. My spirits only I Are not yours nigh wasted ? 
 
 [T7ir?is again. 
 
 lord Athunree. {Aside to Felton.) She waits for him — he saw 
 her home last night, 
 My life on't she must look for other squire. 
 
 Emily. Come. 
 
 Hero. Are they dancing yet ? 
 
 Emily. What do you hear, 
 To make you ask ? You're dreaming ! Saw you not 
 That the musicians left the room before us, 
 And scarce a dozen laggers did remain 
 Beside ourselves ? 
 
 Hero. I know not what I saw, 
 I am tired — heart-tir'd — too tir'd to move or rest— 
 A weariness, won't let me go or stay ! 
 
 Lord Athunree. He comes — accost him — ask him of the ball. 
 
 Enter Sir Valentine. 
 
 Felton. See I Sir Valentine the last of all 
 The revellers ? 
 
 Sir Valeyitine. You see him, Sir ; 'tis e'en Sir Valentine. 
 
 Felton. Lik'd you the ball to-night ? 
 
 Sir ValentiTie. Yes ! — No ! 
 
 Felton. What ! Lik'd it, and dislik'd it ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Yes ! 
 
 Felton. It was a very handsome ball. 
 
 Sir Vale7itine. It was. 
 
 Felton. What was amiss, then ? Was the music bad ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. The music far from bad ! Most excellent 
 
 Incomparably good — it were in place 
 
 In a concert room, — I find no fault with the music. 
 
 Felton. Are you not fond of dancing, then ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. I am — 
 Innocent pastime taken innocently 
 In honest mood I — but there are natures, Sir, 
 That should eschew it — which 'tis pernicious Vo — 
 As wine, that's mirth to some, to some is madness ! 
 I find no fault with dancing ! 'Tis an act 
 Sets beauty oflT, proportion, grace ; when these 
 Are too set off by modesty. For men, 
 And women more especially, of the vein 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. H 
 
 That's opposite, I'd have them lookers on — 
 
 For their own sakes first — next for the sake of those, 
 
 Who what they'd blush to do, do grieve to see 
 
 Enacted. 
 
 Felton. Was there any dance to-night 
 Offended you ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. N — o, Sir — I cannot say — 
 Perhaps there is no harm in any dance. 
 I am not sure — Some may give too much license — 
 Yet not so much, but e'en in such a case 
 By delicacy 'twill be carried off 
 Becomingly. I might perhaps object — 
 Yet where 's the thing that can defy objection? 
 But this I say, Sir, and I'll stand to it. 
 That modesty being to woman more 
 Than beauty — for, without, is beauty cheap — 
 That woman, who doth show her beauty off 
 Before her modesty, forgets herself. 
 And merits forfeit of that high respect 
 Which noble minds would bear her ! 
 
 Hero, {to Emily.) What lady, can you tell me, danc'd to-night 
 As lady should not dance ? 
 
 Emily. I do not know. 
 
 Hero, {to Felton.) Do you, Sir ? 
 
 Felton. No! 
 
 Hero, {to Lord Athunree.) My Lord, do you? 
 
 Lord Athunree. No Lady. 
 
 Hero. Perhaps some lady, whom the gentleman 
 Himself did dance with, and some other noted — 
 
 Sir Valentine. No lady. Madam, that did dance with me. 
 Who yields to me her hand shall ne'er forget 
 Herself — at least by my o'erstepping. She 
 Shall find I know the honor that she does me ; 
 See in the freedom of the frolic measure 
 My reverence for her sex attending her ; 
 And then be handed to her seat again. 
 For mine own credit sake if not for hers. 
 By all approv'd, as gracefully come off 
 In partnery of honest joyance ! 
 No lady. Madam, that did dance with me. 
 
 Lord Athunree. The plague repay him for the lesson he 
 So freely reads me — in her presence too ! 
 
 Hero. Wilt please you name the lady gave offence ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. 'Twere a presumptuous act for my poor tongue. 
 But if you know her you must know her beauty. 
 Wherein I ne'er met fair to liken to her. 
 And that more fittingly shall name her for me. 
 A noble stature, stopping there, where sex 
 Would have it reach, and bid it go no farther ; 
 A head of antique mould, magnificent 
 
12 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 As may consist with softness and with sweetness ; 
 
 Features, advertisements of thoughts and moods, 
 
 Wishes and fancies, such as it beseems 
 
 To lodge with chastity and tenderness 
 
 In sumptuous palace of rich loveliness ; 
 
 And limbs of mould and act therewith consorting, 
 
 Making a paragon of symmetry ! — 
 
 Gods, to such homeliness of use perverted, 
 
 As properties, to them were homeliness, 
 
 Should spurn to be apphed to ! 
 
 Emihj. Are you ill, 
 That you turn pale ? 
 
 Hero. Ill ! — What should make me ill ? 
 I could be angry were it worth my while, 
 At such disparagement of one, it seems 
 Is known to me. — But calumny is a thing 
 Defeats itself, and I should be despis'd 
 Did I pay heed to ! 
 
 Sir Vale?itine. Lady, you are right ; 
 It shall be calumny — it should be so ! 
 Vouchers so fair, should never be forsworn. 
 Alas for him, who is incredulous, 
 Yet would believe them rather far than doubt them ! 
 
 [Sir Valentine goes out, followed by Felton. 
 Hero. A most strange gentleman ! — an oddity ! 
 t took him for a man of sense, — didn't you ? 
 A fanciful and churlish gentleman ! 
 Looks sour because another man looks pleased ! 
 Lord Athunree, wilt see my carriage brought 
 Close to the door before I venture out, 
 If not to tax your gallantry too much ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. I fly to do it. [Goes out. 
 
 Hero. Let me weep a moment 
 Upon your neck.— There ! I am better now. 
 Are my eyes red ? 
 Emily. Not much. 
 Hero. I will appear 
 To have been laughing ! Laughter bringeth tears. 
 Most excellent ! — you should have kept it tho' 
 For another time ! I have not strength to laugh ! 
 As 'tis, I am so weak, I laugh and cry. 
 
 Re-enter Athunree. 
 
 Lord Athunree, your courtesy has lost you 
 A most facetious story ! 
 
 Lord Athunree. Tell it me. 
 
 Hero. Tell it you ! Tell it ! I am dead aheady 
 With hearing it, and must not hear't again, 
 Would I go home to-night ! A little plague. 
 To make me laugh, and know that I should cry, 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 13 
 
 For lack of very strength. — Come, let us go ! 
 
 A charming ball ! Fair night — most happy night ! 
 
 I'll find a time to make you cry with laughing. [To Emily. 
 
 A charming night — a very charming night ! [They go met. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A room m the House q/" Monsieur De l'Epee. 
 
 Enter, from an inner Room, Walsingham ajid Monsieur De 
 
 l'Epee. 
 
 De VEpee, Your progress answers to your practice, Sir ; 
 Cause have you none for discontent. Confess, 
 You play the foil with twice the ease you did 
 A month ago. Might I be credited, 
 Not only each new week, but even day, 
 Puts to the blush the former one, so fast 
 You catch the mystery of the fair art. 
 
 Walsingham. Yes ; but my fellow-pupil heads me still. 
 
 Be VEpee. His quickness is your master. 
 
 Walsingham. Yet, 'tis strange ! 
 With all my pains, I toil behind him still, 
 And he a very stripling ! 
 
 De VEpee. 'Tis not strength 
 That makes the odds, but art. To turn the foil 
 In practis'd hand, almost a wheaten straw 
 Hath stamina enough. The point deceived. 
 An infant's arm in distance lounges home ; 
 The art is strength, and length, and every thing. 
 
 Walsingham. To say the truth, it is a noble art, 
 On which agility and grace attend. 
 With proper manhood keeping company. 
 As on none other ; — making lightest ease 
 To champion force, and, as you say, bear off 
 The palm from it. In every act and state — 
 Salute, guard, parry, feint or pass — it hath 
 A bearing worthy of the eyes of kings 
 And their high consorts, when a practis'd hand 
 Like yours takes up the foil. 
 
 De VEpee. You flatter. Sir ! 
 
 Walsingham. By my proud honor, no ! But, to your pupil— 
 What is he ? 
 
 De VEpee. I know not. 
 
 Walsingham. He is very young. 
 
 De VEpee. Yes ; by his looks he has a teen or twain 
 
14 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 To count ; — tho' never scholar study plied 
 
 With manlier resolve and constancy. 
 
 It often moves my wonder, that so slight 
 
 And delicate a frame should undergo 
 
 What to robuster mould a thousand times 
 
 I have mark'd was weariness. Scarce lays he down 
 
 The foil, before he takes it up again, 
 
 Some parry, feint or lounge, unmastered yet, 
 
 To practise ; — which he does with zest so keen, 
 
 I have thought, at times, that in his fancy's eye 
 
 There stood before his point an enemy, 
 
 The actor of some unatoned wrong, 
 
 Whose heart each thrust was meant for. — A good morning ! 
 
 I am waited for. 
 
 Walsingham. Good morning to you, Sir. 
 
 [De l'Epee goes out. 
 A noble fellow that ! — a soldier who 
 A mighty captain followed, for the strides 
 With which he led to glory — nay, for them 
 Deserted not, when fortune back'd a world, 
 Marshall'd against her ofT-cast favorite ! 
 Talk you of scars ? — that Frenchman bears on crown, 
 Body and limb, his vouchers palpable, 
 For many a thicket he has struggled thro' 
 Of briery danger — wondering that he 
 Came off with even life, when right and left 
 His mates dropp'd thick beside him. A true man ! 
 His rations with his master gone — for he 
 Was honor's soldier, that ne'er changes sides — 
 He left his country for a foreign one. 
 To teach his gallant art, and earn a home. 
 I know him to be honest, generous, 
 High-soul'd, and modest ; every way a grace 
 To the fine, martial nation, whence he sprang I* 
 
 Eustace enters from hiner Room. 
 
 My fellow-pupil ! {Aside.) That was a shrewd guess 
 The Frenchman made. Are all these pains to pay 
 An enemy ? — then is his case my own. 
 Would I could gain his confidence ! but still, 
 Oft as I try he foils me with reserve 
 He shows to none beside ! One more attempt. — 
 So, fellow-pupil ! You have given o'er at last. 
 Eight well you fenc'd to-day ! you are weary ? 
 
 Eitstace. No. Good morning. Sir. 
 
 Walsingham. V faith, you ' Sir' not me ; 
 We have been mates too long, methinks, for term 
 
 * This is a portrait. My brothers of Glasgow know and honor the gallant 
 man who suggested it, and will judge how far it is a faithful one. At all 
 events it is not flattered. 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 15 
 
 So niggard, fellow-pupil ! — Walsingham 
 
 Is my name. I prithee, when thou next accost'st me, 
 
 Say, Walsingham. Is't not enough, your foil 
 
 Keeps me at distance — will not let me in — 
 
 Rebukes me, shames me — will you with your tongue 
 
 O'erbear me too ? Call me not ' Sir,' I pray, 
 
 But Walsingham. 
 
 Eustace. It were to make too free 
 For mere acquaintanceship. 
 
 Walsingham. Acquaintanceship ! 
 You have known me for a year. Friendship hath grown 
 In half that time. 
 
 Eustace. Friendship grows not by time. 
 
 Walsingham. In sooth 'twould seem so. Daily have we met 
 For good a year — nor yet have shaken hands. 
 Give me thy hand, and let us hence be friends ! 
 What! will you not? V faith, you should — you shall! 
 I'll take it in spite of you — yea, tho' you frown, 
 And call yourself my foe, which would be hard 
 To make a foe, striving to make a friend. 
 
 Eustace, {after a pause). I'll shake hands with you. 
 
 Walsingham. Ha ! — a hearty grasp ! 
 But take it not away so soon again, 
 Nor where you give your hand, refuse your eye. 
 Why don't you look at me ? 
 
 Eustace. Let go my hand ! 
 
 Walsingham. Such haste to take away — so frank to give ? 
 
 Eustace. Let go my hand ! — Well, you may keep it, Sir; 
 You cannot make it like its prison, nor. 
 When once 'tis free from't, enter it again. 
 
 Walsingham. Well — call me Walsingham, I'll let it go. 
 Why must I force you thus to be my friend ? 
 
 Eustace. Why should you ? Force made never yet a friend. 
 
 Walsingham. For kindness, then ! why would you hold me off? 
 A man repelled of Fortune ! See you not 
 I am not of the vein of those on whom 
 Her smiles she lavishes — nor do I think 
 With surfeit of such sweet you bought that cast 
 Of thoughtfulness, which, when I look upon you, 
 Like to my glass, shows me, methinks, myself! — 
 I am a man of honor and of heart. 
 Ah, too much heart! Come, call me Walsingham, 
 And then I'll let you go. 
 
 Eustace. Well — Walsingham ! 
 
 Walsingham. V faith, most kindly did you sound my name ; 
 Tongue never fell it yet more sweetly from, 
 Save one ! — Save one ! 
 
 Eustace. Farewell. 
 
 Walsingham. We'll walk together. 
 
 Eustace. Nay. 
 
f 
 
 16 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Walsingham. Will you have it so ? why have it so : 
 My love is not that sturdy beggar yet, 
 But spurning may suffice to stop its craving ! 
 Yet ere you leave me, hear me — and then go. 
 Methinks our fates in something are alike ! 
 To prove it so, or not, I'll tell thee mine, 
 Give thee my confidence — make thee indeed my friend 
 Now, once for all, what say you ? 
 
 Eitstace. Be it so. 
 
 Walsingham. Thy hand again then ! — Do we go together ? 
 
 Eustace. We do ! — Have with you ! 
 
 Walsingham. Now we are friends forever ! [ They go out. 
 
 SCENE II. — A room m Hero's Town House. 
 Eiiter Sir William and Emily. 
 
 Sir William. At sea again ! Blown ever from the port 
 We'd have her harbor in, by her wild fancies. 
 And far from land as ever ! I did hope 
 This suitor had been anchorage had held her. 
 
 Emily. And so did I ; she'll ne'er be held by suitor, 
 Long as there bows another — save it be 
 By a miracle. I say it, tho' I love her. 
 
 Sir William. And yet that lord hath held her. 
 
 Emily. So he hath, 
 By dint of mere audacity — some art 
 He owns makes other suitors quail, and she, 
 For vanity, hath still affected him. 
 As proud to have a vassal in a man 
 To whom his fellows bow. 
 
 Sir William. I am s^lad so sliofht 
 His power. I know him for a profligate, 
 With broken coflfers, to replenish which 
 He merely follows her. 
 
 Emily. His practice 'twas 
 Which to this issue led — on some account 
 I know not — nay, nor guess. He durst not treat 
 Sir Valentine with overbearing mien, 
 So took advantage of fair Hero's weakness. 
 To play upon't, expose, and with disgust 
 Surfeit the man he fear'd. 
 
 Sir William. And he succeeded ? 
 
 Emily. Ay, to the full, Sir, as I have possess'd you. 
 
 Sir William. I am sorry for it. He had begun to love her, 
 And would have made to her a worthy husband ; 
 Safe guardian to her wealth ; and one to make 
 A proud wife of a higher dame than she ! 
 It crossly hath fallen out. But she is piqued, 
 You say, at his desertion ? 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 17 
 
 Emily. Much, Sir !— Much ! 
 She wept, as I acquainted you. 
 
 Sir William. You did, 
 And matters see I there. Unfeigned tears — 
 And such were hers — from deep-laid fountains flow, 
 Abiding in the heart ! The argument 
 Which draws them thence, as deep must even go. 
 A curling lip I had not heeded — that 
 Were simple scorn — but they who weep for scorn 
 Do weep for something more. Sir Valentine 
 Hath not his peer in England ! Trust me, girl. 
 She's not so blind with folly, as not to see 
 His paramount desert. — Where is she ? 
 
 Emily. Lock'd 
 In her chamber with her milliner, — so says 
 Her maid. These three hours have I crav'd admission, 
 But all in vain ; she has not yet press'd pillow 
 Sufficient to repair her spirits from 
 The waste of yesternight. 
 
 Sir William. A wayward girl ! 
 New dresses, pleasures, lovers — all things new. 
 Except herself. Would that would change as well ! 
 Some mode she studies with her minister 
 
 Of novelty, will flog all former folly. {Knocking. 
 
 What sober knock is that ? — Such seldom cdls 
 At her fantastic door. Who knocks ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. A man. 
 Of formal habit and consorting speech. 
 Usher to one most young and fair ; a maid 
 Who seems to know no use for beauty, but 
 To mortify it with ungainly guise. 
 She asks to see the mistress of the house. 
 
 Sir William. Admit her ! — On what errand can she come ? 
 
 \Servant goes out^ and returris^ showiiig in Clever, followed by 
 
 Hero, both disguised as Quakers. 
 Who art thou ? 
 
 Clever. Man unto Ruth Mapleson, 
 Who with the woman of the house would speak. 
 
 Sir. William. The woman of the house ! 
 
 Emily. Ruth Mapleson ! 
 
 Hero. Friend, am I right ? This house of vanity 
 Is't the abode of that unfortunate 
 They call the city maid ? who to the use 
 Of one, perverts what Heaven did lavishly 
 Commit unto her, for the good of many ! 
 Is this her house ? — and if it is, I pray you 
 Acquaint her that a sister, pitying 
 Her helpless state of bhndness, ignorance 
 3 
 
18 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Omission and offence, hath come to her 
 To clear her vision, to inform her mind, 
 To teach her occupation, and from evil 
 To turn her steps aside. — Umph ! 
 
 Clever. Umph ! 
 Sir William. My breath 
 Is almost stopp'd with wonder ! 
 
 Emily. So is mine. 
 What can it mean ? 
 
 Sir William. Some poor fanatic 'tis, 
 Whose zeal hath warp'd her reason. 
 
 Hero. Sinful man ! 
 Thus is it with the children of the flesh ! 
 What argues wisdom they misconstrue madness f 
 Tho' through perverseness rather than conviction. 
 Tremble ! — Look down ! — Abase thee to the dust ! 
 Should 'st thou not blush at thy grey hairs, the vouchers 
 For thriftless years, for profitless experience ! 
 'Tis winter with thee — harvest-time is past — 
 What hast thou garner'd ? Chaff instead of grain ! 
 What doest thou with gauds like these, thy trappings ? 
 Why standest thou beneath this roof of pride. 
 That should'st be thinking of the charnel house 
 And the attire of its inhabitant ? 
 I know thee uncle to that maid of lightness. 
 That mistress of this house of emptiness. 
 And whom I come to chasten and to teach ! 
 Umph ! 
 
 Clever. Umph ! 
 
 Emily. Dear Sir ! who is't ? I grow uneasy ! 
 With strangeness yet familial ity 
 She strikes me, that consist not ! I do feel 
 As though an apparition stood before me, 
 And wish she were away ! 
 
 Sir William. And so^ do I ! 
 
 Hero, {to Emily). And thou, poor flesh and blood I—illusion 
 heirdom 
 0' the worm ! that think'st thyself all soundness, yet 
 Art all corruption ! Why abid'st thou in 
 The lazar-house ? Depart from it ! Pull off 
 Its dress, and don the clean and wholesome guise 
 Of plainness and humility — Umph ! 
 
 Clever. Umph ! 
 
 Sir William. This bold intrusion and address — 
 
 Hero. Peace, Satan ! 
 And yet, perhaps I wrong you ! Privily 
 You may condemn proud flero's fantasies ? 
 
 Sir William. I do. 
 
 Emily. And so do I. 
 
 Hero. do you so ? 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 19 
 
 Then are ye not, as I did reckon you, 
 
 O' the children of the Prince of Darkness ? 
 
 Sir William and Emily. No. 
 
 Hero. You see that she is very vain ? 
 
 Emily. We else were blind. 
 
 Sir William. Stone blind ! 
 
 Hero. Capricious ? 
 
 Emily. As many moods as there's hours in the day. 
 
 Sir William. Say minutes, rather ! 
 
 Hero. Fond of pleasure ? 
 
 Emily- Her constant occupation. 
 
 Sir William. 'Tis her m.eat 
 And drink ; rest, business, studies, prayers, and sleep ! 
 
 Hero. She hath no constancy in aught — 
 Lovers especially ? 
 
 Emily. She changes them 
 Too often. 
 
 Sir William. She doth use them as her dresses ! 
 Shew her a new one, she casts off the last, 
 How new soe'er put on. 
 
 Hero. I pity her. 
 
 Emily. She scarce deserves it. 
 
 Sir William. Pity is too good 
 For such a piece of waywardness, perverseness, 
 Pride, folly, fantasy, and emptiness ! 
 
 Hero. So then we are all of the same mind ? 
 
 Emily- Exactly. 
 
 Sir William. Not a pin's point difference ! 
 
 Hero. You would approve that I reform her then ? 
 
 Emily. Reform her ! could you do so ? Do so. 
 
 Sir William. Do ! 
 Do ! Make her anything but what she is. 
 
 Emily. Change cannot fail to better her. 
 
 Sir William. No change 
 Can make her w^orse ! — Reform her, pray ! 
 
 Hero. I will. 
 
 Sir William and Emily. When ? 
 
 Hero. When you take her for another thing 
 And find her just the same ! — Oh, uncle, fie ! 
 Fie, Emily! is this your loyalty? 
 
 Sir William. What means this metamorphosis ? 
 
 Hero. Defence 
 Of my sex's rights — assertion of my own ! 
 Instruction to that master-work, call'd man ! 
 Protest and re-establishment of due 
 Prerogative ! reduction of rebellion, 
 Compell'd from reared crest to bended knee ! 
 Pains, penalties, bonds, confiscations, deaths, 
 To follow thereupon ! 
 
20 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Sir William. Why, niece, what wind 
 Doth bring this sudden storm ? 
 
 Hero. Are you a man ? 
 
 Sir William. I trust I am ! 
 
 Hero. Then if you are, you know 
 The privileges of a single woman. 
 
 We have few, Heav'n help us ! when we change the state 
 Most rightly dubb'd of single blessedness ! 
 Is't not a single woman's right to rule ? 
 
 Sir William. It is. 
 
 Hero. To have her will her law ? 
 
 Sir William. It is. 
 
 Hero. To have as many tastes, moods, fits, as she likes ? 
 
 Sir William. It is. 
 
 Hero. To come, to go, to smile, to frown, 
 To please, to pain, to love, to hate, do aught 
 Without dispute ? 
 
 Sir William. It is. 
 
 Hero. Is't not enough, 
 You have leave to look upon her — listen to her — 
 Stand in her presence — wait upon her ? Must 
 Her 'havior, speech, be what you like, or what 
 It likes her sovereign self that they should be ? 
 
 Sir William. What likes her sovereign self! 
 
 Hero. You are a man ! 
 Would all your sex were like you ! Who are not, 
 Are not for me, believe me ! Look you, uncle ! 
 I'll make the saucy traitor feel my power, 
 Or I will break my heart ! He thinks me fair — 
 I thank him ! Well-proportioned — very much 
 Beholden to him ! Dignified and graceful — 
 A man of shrewd .perception ! very ! — send him 
 On expedition of discovery ! 
 
 Sir William. Whom mean you. Hero ? 
 
 Hero. Whom ? — Sir Valentine ! 
 He has made his bow ! Indeed a gracious one ! 
 A stately, courtly, condescending one ! 
 Ne'er may I courtsey, if he bow not lower ! 
 I'll bring him to his knees as a spoiled child 
 With uplift hands that asketh pardon, then 
 Command him up, and never see me more ! 
 
 Sir William. Why, how hath this befallen ? 
 
 Hero. I did not dance 
 To please him ! No, Sir ! He is a connoisseur 
 In dancing ! — hath a notion of his own 
 Of a step ! In carriage, attitude, has taste, 
 Dainty as palate of an epicure. 
 Which, if you hit not to a hair, disgust 
 Doth take the place of zest ! He is sick of me ! 
 My feet the frolic measure may indulge, 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 21 
 
 But not my heart — mine eye, my cheek, my lip, 
 
 Must not be cognizant of what 1 do — 
 
 As wood and marble could be brought to dance, 
 
 And look like wood and marble ! I shall teach him 
 
 Another style ! Come ! I have found you out ; 
 
 Will you compound for your sedition, 
 
 And help me ? Come ! how say you, little traitress ? 
 
 Emily. Content. 
 
 Hero. And you, most reverend rebellion ? 
 
 Sir William. Command me aught, that I can do in reason. 
 
 Hero. Can do in reason ? In what reason ? There 
 Are fifty kinds of reason ! There's a fool's reason, 
 And a wise man's reason, and a knave's reason, and 
 An honest man's reason, and an infant's reason, 
 And reason of a grandfather — but there's 
 A reason 'bove them all, and that alone 
 Can stand me now in stead — a woman's reason ! 
 Wilt thou be subject unto me in that ? 
 
 Sir William. I will. 
 But tell me whence this speech of solemn phrase ? 
 
 Hero. From one I knew and lov'd at school — a girl 
 Half, by the sect that practise it, brought up. 
 But she of thought and will therewith consorting. 
 The mistress likewise was — most veritable. 
 Her name was Helen Mowbray — by the arts 
 Of that same lord to whom I owe the coil 
 I would unwind me from, and whom, through whim, 
 Not liking, I have countenanc'd, 'tis said 
 She fell — but not in my beUef. How is this? 
 I am growing serious ! You will help me ? 
 
 Sir William. Yes. 
 
 Hero. That's my good Uncle ! That's a darling Uncle ! 
 There ne'er was kinder, nor more sensible ! 
 A good, dear, wise, obedient, docile Uncle ! 
 Give me a kiss ! Hence, Master Clever ! Do 
 What I directed you — Sir Valentine 
 Is not yet out. Invite him where I told you — 
 To the house at Greenwich. [Exit Clever. 
 
 Sir William. What dost thou intend ? 
 
 Hero. Order the carriage — no ; it must be one 
 They lend for hire : — and come along with me — 
 I'll tell you on the way. Emily I — Uncle ! 
 Look you ! [throws her glove dotvn) I'll have him, as my glove that 
 
 there. 
 At my feet doth lie, till I do pick him up ! 
 And I will pick him up — but in a way ! 
 There I — give it me again — 0, you dear Uncle, 
 To help my plot ! — do, what I wish ! — You ought 
 To be an uncle ! There's another kiss ! 
 And if I do not make him kiss the rod, 
 
22 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Fm ne'er a niece deserving such an uncle ! 
 
 Come ! come ! — I did not dance to please him ! Come. 
 
 [ They go out. 
 
 SCENE III.— Sir Valentine's Hmise. 
 
 Enter Sir Vaxentine. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Oh, pitiable case, so rich a stamp, 
 And yet the metal base ! For what high things 
 Did nature fashion her ! — whose rich intent 
 Had she but half fulfilled, no wealth, no state 
 That earth can furnish, for aggrandizement 
 Of craving and insatiate ambition, 
 Conferred on her, had given her half her due. 
 Far less its debtor made her ! Misery ! 
 To find the good we hop'd, the bane we hate ! 
 Hate ! — 0, perverse and doubtful course of love, 
 That in the goal it pants for, finds its grave ! 
 That reaches for a bliss, and clasps a pang ! 
 That now doth own a mine, and naught anon ! 
 
 beggary most poor, that from the lapse 
 Of dwindled riches grows ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. You are wanted. Sir — 
 Sir Valentine. Who wants me ? 
 Servant. One who brings an errand from 
 Sir William Sutton, and craves speech with you. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Admit him. [Servant goes out. 
 
 Enter Clever. 
 Well? 
 
 Clever. Are you the man they call 
 Sir Valentine de Grey ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. That man am I. 
 
 Clever. Then, being he, another man they call 
 Sir William Sutton, sends me here to pray 
 Thy company this afternoon, to meet 
 Some friends who dine with him at Greenwich. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Say, 
 
 1 cannot come. 
 
 Clever. Art thou engaged, friend ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. No. 
 
 Clever. Then thou speak'st not true. Thou canst come. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Say, 
 I will not come. 
 
 Clever. He bade me say to thee 
 Thou 7nust come. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Must come. 
 
 Clever. Yes ; so come along. 
 For he did charge me bring thee, and I said 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 23 
 
 I would ; and not to bring thee, were to break 
 My word, and make him angry. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Tell him, then, 
 I was not in. 
 
 Clever. I will not tell a lie. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Art thou his servant ? 
 
 Clever. No ; but man to one 
 That's niece unto him — that is, in the flesh — 
 Not in the spirit. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Wherefore? 
 
 Clever. Know'st thou him, 
 And know'st thou not he is a man of sin ? 
 Ruth Mapleson is of the faithful I 
 
 Sir Valentine. Who? 
 
 Clever. Ruth Mapleson. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I know no niece he hath, 
 Save one — fair Mistress Sutton. 
 
 Clever. Name her not — 
 Daughter of darkness. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Liar ! 
 
 Clever. Thou dost lie 
 To call me so. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Wretch ! 
 
 Clever. Thou dost lie again. 
 I am a godly and a happy man. 
 That waits upon Ruth Mapleson ; the niece 
 Of him they call Sir William Sutton ; and 
 Cousin to Hero Sutton, whom in naught 
 Doth Ruth resemble save her face and form, 
 Where she might pass for her, she is so like her. 
 
 Sir Valeiitine. So like her ! said'st thou, like her ? 
 
 Clever. Thou didst hear 
 I did ; so like her, 'twere a cunning eye 
 Could tell the one from the other. That's my hand ; 
 I tak 't away, and show it thee again ; 
 Is that another hand ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Knave, 'tis the same. 
 
 Clever. Miscall me not, friend ! Knave is not my name. 
 But Obadiah. Use me civilly. 
 That do instruct thee, who art ignorant. 
 Not more in likeness is that hand the same, 
 Than Hero Sutton is Ruth Mapleson 
 In feature, figure, face, complexion, all 
 That makes the outward woman — but within 
 Winter and summer are not less akin ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. How, knave ? 
 
 Clever. I told thee not to call me ' knave ;' 
 My name is Obadiah. 
 Sir Valentine. Obadiah 
 
24 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 I'll call thee then. How are these cousins as 
 Unlike as winter is to summer ? 
 
 Clever. Thus. — Is winter barren ? so is the maiden Hero ; is it 
 made up of fogs and rain ? so is the maiden Hero of vapors and 
 the spleen ; hath it much cloud, and little sun ? so hath the maiden 
 Hero great discontent, small content ; hath it long night, and brief 
 day ? so hath the maiden Hero lasting displeasure, short favor ; is 
 there any depending upon it ? no more is there upon the maiden 
 Hero ; do you wish it heartily away ? so would you be rid of the 
 maiden Hero. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I fear thou art a slanderer. 
 
 Clever. I see 
 Thou lack'st good manners, which is grievous, friend, 
 In one of thy degree. Thou callest names 
 As scavengers that quarrel in the streets 
 Most unbecomingly ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Well ; now proceed. 
 What of her cousin ? 
 
 Clever. Tho' a godly man. 
 Yet am I flesh and blood, and dost thou vex 
 My spirit, friend, by so misusing me. 
 I tell thee once again, my name is not 
 Liar, nor knave, nor slanderer, nor aught 
 But Obadiah. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Well — enough of that ; 
 Her cousin ? Come ! Her cousin ? 
 
 Clever. Tho' I am 
 A man of peace, I am a valiant man. 
 I combat not, but yet the elements 
 Of war are given me, friend ! I am full of them, 
 Save what is in me of the goodly thing 
 That mortifies the flesh, and keeps them in 
 Subjection ! Yea, I am a warlike man ! 
 Yea, verily, a very warlike man ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. I ask thy pardon. 
 
 Clever. I do grant it thee ; 
 Thou dost a proper thing ; and now shalt hear, 
 Wherein the maiden Ruth, who, outwardly, 
 Is to the maiden Hero what that maiden 
 Is to herself ; is, inwardly, reverse 
 As summer is to winter. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Prithee on ! 
 
 Clever. Is summer fertile ? is summer clear ? hath it little cloud, 
 much sun, long day and short night — and that more like day than 
 night ? is summer constant, and do you wish it never away ? so is 
 the maiden Ruth bounteous ; so is the maiden Ruth cheerful ; so 
 hath she twenty smiles for one frown ; lasting favor, brief dis- 
 pleasure, which you would almost take to be favor ; so is she 
 little liable to change ; so would you wish to have her ever with 
 you? 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 25 
 
 Sir Valenti7i€, Where dwells this cousin ? 
 
 Clever. In Greenwich, friend, whither thou goest ; not in the 
 same house with him that sends for thee— for light dwelleth not 
 with darkness— but in anotlier habitation, where her book.>^, and her 
 flowers, and her own sweet thoughts, which are fairer and wiser 
 than either, are her only companions. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I'll go with thee to Greenwich. Lead on ! 
 
 Clever. Hold,- friend ! — You must do all things soberly. 
 
 [They go out, Clever preceding, with extreme gravity, 
 
 END OF ACT H. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE l.—The Oictskirts of London. 
 Enter Eustace and Walsingham. 
 
 Eustace. Now for the confidence you promised me. 
 
 Walsingham. Canst thou not guess my story ? Look at me ! 
 Seem my years more than his you'd reckon in 
 Life's outset, when beneath our feet all's flowers, 
 Above our heads all sun ? Can'st not divine 
 What could alone o'ercast and wither thus ? 
 Nor only take away the adjuncts sweet 
 Of that fair prime of hope, but prospect leave 
 Of naught but cloud and barrenness ? • 
 
 Eustace. Ambition ? 
 
 Walsingham. No ; that's an after game. There's one we play 
 Before, o'er which the heart doth throb, as o'er 
 None other ! where we throw the die, whose turn 
 Nine times in ten's the oracle foretells 
 All chance to come ! which, if we play in earnest — 
 And light are they, who of that game make light — 
 We make ourselves for ever, or lose all. 
 Doubling the .value of our being, or 
 Reducing it to naught ! — a game, methinks, 
 Which you have play'd at — Love. — Am I not right ? 
 
 Eustace. You are. 
 
 Walsingham. You didn't win ? 
 
 Eustace, {hesitatingly.) I — didn't. 
 
 Walsingham. How ? 
 You speak as one that yet did neither lose — 
 Whose game not yet was out — a chance, altho' 
 With heavy odds against him. Mark me ; if 
 Thou hast rivals whom she entertains like thee, 
 With just so much of hope as doth suffice 
 To keep them suitors still, while each can say, 
 4 
 
26 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 She's mine, as well as t'other — give her up ! 
 
 Away with her ! Abandon her for ever ! 
 
 Thou woo'st what, if thou win'st — the tonofue is kind — 
 
 Not that doth give thee joy — but wish thee dead I 
 
 The keeper, not the owner, of a thing 
 
 Wherein is lock'd thy life, and thy life's gems — 
 
 Thy peace and honor dear ! 
 
 Eustace. Won such a maid 
 Thy love ? 
 
 Walsingham. Not such a maid ! No ; she did live 
 Forbid to all but me. The statue's ear 
 And eye, you'd think, as much perception had 
 Of wonder at the consummate chisel's skill. 
 As hers of praise from others' eyes and tongues. 
 But, oh ! at lightest glance or sound of mine, 
 How would the rich and fair-wrought marble glow ! 
 
 Etistace. Thou mourn'st her dead, then? 
 
 Wdsiiigham. Dead ? — Ay, dead I a corpse, 
 A mouldering corpse, that's with corruption hous'd 
 Which skill medicinal can ne'er restore 
 To its sv/eet life again ! — the which to weep 
 Is all that fondest eyes may look for now. 
 The life, alas ! of her fair honor's gone ! 
 
 Eustace. What I liv'd she but for thee, and gave she up 
 Her richest jewel to another ? 
 
 Walsingham. You 
 Shall hear my story. What in form she was, 
 I will not paint to you. — Each lover has. 
 You know, the fairest she — say, mine's a paragon 
 As much as thine — nay, of the very charm 
 That's crest of all, thou wilt but make a seat 
 To mount some plume of hers whom thou affect'st, 
 That shall transcend it far ! I know it — so 
 Forbear. Yet had you e'er set eyes upon her ! 
 Oh ! she did stand alone ! To truest hearts 
 The sight of her was wonderful estrangement, 
 Weaning them for a time from things, howe'er 
 Clung dotingly to before — that mistresses 
 Have sadden'd to see eyes, that blaz'd on them 
 Ere they were turn'd away, turn back again 
 Listless and icy cold ! Riches and rank, 
 Bestudded o'er and gilded, have look'd blank 
 To see themselves outshone, without a gem ! 
 Nay, very hostesses, whose only care 
 Was to behold their costly huswifry 
 Approv'd, have been discomfited to see 
 Their tables crown'd as ne'er they were before, 
 And she the only garnish of the board ! 
 
 Eustace. Thought you not others' eyes did see like yours? 
 
 Waldngham. No ! no ! I saw they did — I felt they did — 
 
. OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 2T 
 
 Felt it thro' many a pang of doubt — but not 
 Thro' fear of her demerits, but my own ! 
 
 Eustace. Ne'er gave she cause to doubt ? 
 
 Walsingham. No ! 
 
 Eiistace. Still she faii'd ? 
 
 Walsingham. As life — when health, that is the heart of life, 
 Seems sound to the very core ! has ne'er given sign 
 Of flaw or speck — this moment in the bloom — 
 The next, is blasted ! 
 
 Eustace. What you do assert, 
 The more you do assert, the more I doubt ! 
 What ! truth to falsehood in a moment turn ? 
 Virtue to vice ? Love to estrangement ? Love ! 
 And in a woman ! Had she lov'd before ? 
 
 Walsingham. No ! 
 
 Eustace. Her first love, too ! But she was a child ? 
 
 Walsingham. No ! in the blush of bursting womanhood. 
 
 Eustace. And left thee for another ? No declining 
 Of that first passion ? Never seen to wane — 
 A little now — now more ? but all at once 
 Go out ! Impossible I You've been deceiv'd ! 
 Abused ! you have I my life, my soul upon it ! 
 
 Walsingham. They're costly pledges to be forfeited ; 
 Then risk them not I 
 
 Eustace. What canst thou set against them ? 
 
 Walsingham. Proofs ! facts ! 
 
 Eustace. Facts ! 
 
 Walsingham. Facts ! My cause thou wast engag'd in ? 
 How is't I find thee in another's listed ? 
 
 Eustace. What is the cause of her thou lov'st, but thine ? 
 
 Walsingham. Not if she's false. 
 
 Eustace. But if she's true 1 
 
 Walsingham. She's not ! 
 By truth, she's not ! 
 
 Eustace. By truth, she is ! — unless 
 Things, that do coincide much as the East 
 And West — high Heaven and the Abyss — noonday 
 And midnight — reason and madness — contraries 
 Confess'd and palpable — for so oppos'd, 
 I own, do your averments seem to me — 
 You prove are in accordance. 
 
 Walsingham. Listen, then ! 
 Who wins a prize, thou know'st wins envy too. 
 With such a prize thou wilt not wonder then 
 That many grudg'd my fortune ! 'Mong the rest 
 Was one — a satire on the saucy code 
 That makes the wreath of merit birth-right, when 
 No law can make the grace that wins it so. 
 This titled profligate alone, no check, 
 Reserve, rebulce, rejection, could divert 
 
28 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 From oppressing still his suit ; my arm had tried it, 
 But that she hung upon it, minding me 
 The Ufe I'd peril was the heart of hers ! 
 She did — and for enforcement show'd to me 
 Vouchers on vouchers — genuine sighs and tears ! 
 Art couldn't feign such — I'll do justice to her — 
 She then was true — as true as haggard since ! 
 Why weep'st thou ? 
 
 Eustace. Thou dost weep ; and tears draw tears, 
 When grief itself doth fail. 
 
 Walsinghajri. Then dry your eyes ; 
 You'll ne'er see mine again ! you think me lost 
 To honor ? 
 
 Eustace. No ! 
 
 Walsingham. What not to weep a wanton ? 
 
 Eustace. 0, not a wanton ! 
 
 Walsingham. How ! 
 
 Eustace. Not theii a wanton ! 
 
 Walsinghajn. Not then ! The Devil was once an angel — what 
 Of that ? He fell ! — who weeps him ? no one ! What 
 Tho' she was once a spirit of light, as he was. 
 When now she's black as he ? 
 
 Eustace. Nay ! 
 
 Walsingham. Doubt it not ! 
 To cavil at the right we feel to writhe 
 Is aggravation that adds wrong to wrong, 
 And drives before-o'erburthen'd patience mad ! 
 The sun did stare upon it I — 'twas not lewdness 
 Chamber'd — behind the curtain — 'twas i' the street, 
 Light as noonday could make it ! — without cloak ! 
 Hood ! veil ! — Now call it unquestionable ! Nothing 
 To mask the wanton ! — Oh ! for a thunderbolt, 
 To strike me then ! — From a noted, libell'd stew. 
 Led by the noble libertine — his trophy. 
 Worn on his arm in the gaze of every eye — 
 I saw her issue. 
 
 Eustace. Did she shun thee ? 
 
 Walsingham. No ! 
 
 Eustace. That was a proof of innocence. 
 
 Walsirigha^n. Of guilt ! 
 Rank ! rank ! — a sudden and entire infection, 
 A touch and rottenness ! as from the bite 
 Of a serpent, in an instant ruddy life 
 To black corruption grows ! Why should she shun me ? 
 She had her tale at hand ! 'Twas but to make 
 Her paramour her friend ; their assignation, 
 A freak of chance ; her reconcilement to 
 A man she loath'd before, a debt ; and for 
 That debt assign a cause equivalent ; 
 All which she did in a breath ! 'Twas clear. Sir ; clear ! 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 29 
 
 The truth spoke for itself ! Fact born of fact — 
 Nought out of place or disproportionate ! 
 As obviously that followed this; this that; 
 As this doth chime with this, and that with that ! 
 A thing one must believe ! From end to end, 
 A lie, Sir ! — He had sav'd her from a villain ! 
 The villain ! When appeal'd to, he did damn her ! 
 ' He fain would bear her out ! His life was hers ! — 
 ' His fortune — but upon a point of honor — 
 ' In question with a man of honor — not 
 ' That he denied her fair averments tho' — 
 ' He pray'd she would excuse him ! ' 
 
 Eustace. You believ'd him ! 
 Him you believ'd, that ne'er was true before ! 
 Her disbeliev'd, was ne'er before but true ! 
 
 Walsingham. She did admit it. 
 
 Eicstace. How ? 
 
 Walsingham. By damning silence ! 
 
 Eustace. Is't guilt alone, convicted, that keeps silence ? 
 Guilt — saucy guilt — that dares to break the law 
 Of God and man ! Remember you no case, 
 Where innocence accus'd hath all at once 
 Been stricken dumb ? — appall'd to undergo 
 The charge of sin, that never could endure 
 The thought of sin ? Appearances against her, 
 And witness for her none, but her own heart ? 
 Her very blood betraying her, deserting 
 Its post upon her cheek, whence, were it bold 
 As honest, 'fore a host 'twould ne'er give way! 
 Remember you no case like this ? or if 
 Your memory none records, is such a one 
 So much at odds with probability, 
 Your fancy cannot image it ? A woman, 
 Young, charily brought up, as vestal for 
 The fane ! Suppose a novice so sincere, 
 She lov'd and knew it not, till, by its signs, 
 Others more skill'd did find the passion out. 
 And tell her that she lov'd ! 
 
 Walsingham. Thou draw'st herself! 
 
 Eustace. And such a one, by accident or plot, 
 Sudden to stand in such predicament 
 As of her honor valid question founds — 
 In presence too of him whose value for 
 The gem doth make it doubly, trebly, dear — 
 And then, appealing to a villain's truth. 
 To find the tongue, should clear, but blurr'd her more ! — 
 Oh ! I would ask for signs of life as soon 
 From lips of stone, as look for words from hers ! 
 She couldn't speak ! Speak ? breathe ! she would be stunn'd 
 To utter lapse of every sense, except 
 
30 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 That at her heart, which told it at that time 
 It would be bliss to break ! Should she be true 
 At last — 
 
 Walsingham. No more of this! 
 Emtace. Have I not shaken — 
 Not much, but somewhat — say, a little — say, 
 A very little — your belief of her 
 Dishonor ? 
 
 Walsingham. Speak not of her. 
 Eustace. If she is pure. 
 Despite appearances, as first you thought her ; 
 Constant, despite desertion ; and despite 
 Wrongs, scornings, brandings, fond ; — it may be fonder — 
 For woman's love's a plant, I've often heard, 
 Which mocketh all that thrive in winter time. 
 Not only keeping green, but growing then. 
 
 Walsingham. You take, methinks, strange interest in her fate ! 
 Eustace. I have a friend, whose fate resembles hers — 
 Whose cause I'm sworn to right ! Besides, we're friends. 
 Thou art not happy. 
 Walsingham. No. 
 Eustace. I'd see thee so. 
 To have thee so, I'd wish thee in the wrong. 
 She's not forgotten — is she ? 
 
 Walsingham. Would she were ! 
 Emtace. Perhaps thou lov'st her still ? 
 Walsingham. To madness ! There's 
 My malady. I love her, not what she is, 
 But what she was. What's present — that's her swerving. 
 That's palpable, which you may see, touch, handle, 
 Define, weigh, prove by any test is real — 
 Feels but a phantasm, a conceit, a dream, 
 A horrible one ! — in contrast with what's past, 
 Her worth, her love, her constancy, that vanished 
 Or e'er you questioned them. 
 Eustace. Art sure of that ? 
 Come, come, thou'rt not, at least, thou'rt not quite sure. 
 Now did she stand before thee undismay'd, 
 Confiding in thy honor — say thy patience — 
 Say thy endurance — 
 
 Walsingham. If my eyes could look 
 The mandate of my soul, they would flash lightning on her, 
 To blast her where she stood ! What ails thee ? 
 
 Eustace. Nought — 
 What did I do ? How did I look ? What saw'st, 
 To ask ? Did I turn pale, or start, or what ? 
 Do I tremble ? Feel ! — I am past fear, grief, pain, 
 As death ! Give me thy arm, and come with me, 
 I'll shew thee what a piece of rock thou thought'st 
 Did quake. Thou a false woman, as thou think'st her, 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 31 
 
 Would'st revenge — I would revenge a woman wrong'd, 
 
 Bitterly wrong'd ; so wrong'd, that after her 
 
 None should complain of hardship ! Come and see, 
 
 Which holds his purpose most tenaciously. [They go out. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Chamber in Hero's House at Greenwich. 
 Enter Sir Valentine and Clever. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I tell thee, I must see her ! 
 
 Clever. Friend, thy face, 
 Albeit no modest one, thy deeds outdo 
 In forwardness ! I brought thee but to see 
 The maiden's house — and thou would'st enter it ! 
 Nor therewith rest content — but must have speech 
 With her that own'st it, and escheweth thee 
 As all ungodly things ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. And I will have it ! 
 So tell thyself — but gently say to her, 
 A stranger crave th audience. Mind — a stranger. 
 And do my bidding ; else I may forget 
 Thou art a man of peace, and, may be, beat thee. 
 Yea — beat thee — I repeat it ! and, I pray thee, 
 Make me not do't again. 
 
 Clever. I will submit — 
 'Ere I will use the argument o' th' flesh. 
 For that would hurt my spirit. Umph ! I am gone ! [Goes out. 
 
 Sir Valentine. So far, so well ! Admittance I have gain'd. 
 And now an audience wait — but doubtingly. 
 Her cousin ! — Then behoves me change my name, 
 Else, knowing me for Hero's suitor, she 
 Will spurn me. Yes ! I'll even call myself 
 Sir Launcelot de Vere. Can this be she ? 
 The knave hath mock'd me — and the world of hopes 
 That sudden rose to my imagining 
 Doth melt to nothing. — Stay ! — It forms again I 
 It grows to probability. — No vapor 
 That takes a passing form, is here and gone. 
 But a sincere and palpable creation ! 
 Another Hero is there — or I do see 
 The same !— Oh, likeness to beholding, e'en 
 Incredible ! that makes with wonderment 
 The vision waver, and the utterance fail ! 
 
 Enter Hero [disguised as before.) 
 
 Hero. Well ? What's your will ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Forgive me, lady, if, 
 With occupation of mine eyes, awhile 
 I did forget the office of my tongue 
 To give thee 'custom'd salutation. 
 Still would I gaze, nor speak ; art what thou seem'st ? 
 
32 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Hero. What seem I, friend ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Likeness — unlikeness ! A thing 
 Most different — and yet the very same ! 
 What I would give averment of most strong — 
 Again most strong deny ! The form of the bane, 
 With the sweet virtue of the antidote ! 
 The rose, was canker'd yesterday, to-day 
 Freshness and soundness to the very core ! 
 Oh beauty ! that doth know its proper pride, 
 And nothing deigns to ask to set it off 
 Except simpHcity, that offers nought. 
 Yet all that's due performs ! I have not liv'd 
 Till now ! — I have but dealt with shows of life, 
 Automatons, that do not know themselves, 
 But act from causes are no part of them ! 
 But here is nature's mechanism — mind 
 And soul — a body fitting them, informing 
 With motions of their own. 
 
 Hero. Friend, art thou mad? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Mad, lady ? 
 
 Hero. Rational, thou canst not be ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Not rational ? 
 
 Hero. If that — which much I doubt — 
 Certain not favor'd with the grace of truth. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Doubt'st thou I utter ought but truth ? 
 
 Hero. I doubt 
 Thy wits, thy wisdom, or thy truth. Not mad. 
 Thou art not wise — if wise, thou speak'st not truth. 
 And sooth to say, thy dress of vanity. 
 Thy looks of wildness, and thy air assur'd, 
 Where one who knew propriety would feel 
 Disturbance — this abrupt intrusion, which 
 Nor leave, nor introduction, nor acquaintance 
 Doth justify — approve thee void of truth, 
 Unwise, or mad ! — if none of these, a man 
 Of cloddish nature, base and ignorant ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Oh ! say not cloddish nature ! Say not base 
 Nor ignorant ! It is the dignity 
 Of man, that the bright stars do tempt his mind 
 To scan the empyrean where they sit, 
 Plac'd infinite beyond terrestrial reach, 
 And scan their uses and their essences, — 
 High argument of his affinity 
 To him that made them, and the immortal light 
 That shall outlast this filmy shadowy sphere 
 Whereon they look and smile ! 'Twas told to me 
 That thou wast perfect fair — I doubted that. 
 For I had found, methought, the paragon 
 Of beauty's wealth in woman ! then 'twas said 
 That thou wast wise — I wish'd thee that, for still, 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 33 
 
 Tho' oft at fault, in noble house I have lodg'd 
 
 Noble inhabitant ! 'twas said again 
 
 That thou wast good — then I believ'd thee wise, 
 
 For wisdom should bear goodness or no fruit I 
 
 And, good and wise, believ'd thee fairest too, 
 
 And coveted I Nor come I without leave — 
 
 Thy simple life, eschewing worldly forms. 
 
 Was pledge for leave ! Nor lack I introduction 
 
 That honest errand bring to vouch for me. 
 
 Nor, least of all, acquaintance — I have known thee 
 
 Since matur'd thought, my nature's fondest wish 
 
 Informing, told it loveliness of soul. 
 
 Yet more than body, doth belong to woman. 
 
 And, therewith when abiding, doth make up 
 
 The highest sum that earthly happiness 
 
 Amounts to — nearest what we hope in Heaven. 
 
 Hero. Friend, dost thou know thou talkest to a worm ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. A worm ? 
 
 Hero. A mite ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. A mite ? 
 
 Hero. Nor yet a mite — 
 A congregate of evils, whereunto 
 The worm and mite are strangers ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Evils ! 
 
 Hero. Know'st not 
 That beauty will take cold ? will have the tooth -ache ? 
 Will catch a fever ? — that its peachy cheek 
 Will canker in a night ? — that its sweet lips, 
 Palace of smiles, spasm doth compel to change 
 Their garish tenants for uncouth contortions ? 
 That its fair dress of pride — its velvet skin — 
 Humors will spot, discolor ? — that, in brief, 
 It is a thing in value vanishing 
 As fickle merchandise, which rates to-day 
 Enormously — the next, may go a begging? 
 And, worse than all, that its chief merit lies 
 In wishing, not possessing ? — coveted. 
 Of purchase measureless — obtain'd, worth nothing? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Thou mean'st the beauty that but meets the eye? 
 
 Hero. I mean the beauty thou alone dost see. 
 And prov'st thou only see'st. Why, what pains 
 Thou takest with a common piece of clay 
 To set it off! a fine account to turn 
 The bow of God to — meant for spiritual. 
 And not corporeal use — with divers tints 
 To clothe thy body ! besides lading it 
 With the mind's produce — gems and metals — proof 
 Far more without concerns thee than wiildn I 
 Oh ! that a nature of immortal reach 
 Should house its aspirations in a crib 
 5 
 
34 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Like this poor tiny world ! and, taught to look 
 
 Above the coronets of the fair stars, 
 
 Go proud with grains of dust and gossamer, 
 
 The property of things inferior to him, 
 
 As motes unto the sun ! But I forget — thy errand ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Love ! 
 
 Hero. 'Tis clear, thou'rt mad ! What ! love 
 Whom thou didst never see ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nay, pardon me. 
 And let thy patience lend me audience while 
 I show thee my credentials, on the faith 
 Of which I come. I have seen thee very oft — 
 
 Hero. Stark mad ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nay, rational — as rational 
 As reason in its sober'st, perfect mood — 
 Held converse with thee countless times. 
 
 Hero. Broke loose 
 From Bedlam ! 
 
 Sir Valentijie. Walk'd and sat with thee — 
 
 Hero. I trust 
 Thy keeper is at hand ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. He came with me. 
 
 Hero. Where is he ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Here, although thou see'st him not. 
 My keeper's Love. I have woo'd thee for a month ! 
 
 Hero. Hoa ! help ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Be not alarm'd. 
 
 Hero. Nay, touch me not ! 
 When didst thou break thy chains ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. 1 wear them yet ; 
 The subtle ones that self-same beauty forg'd, 
 Which now I look upon — most gorgeous dress, 
 But by another worn. 
 
 Hero. Oh ! you have lov'd 
 One that resembles me. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I have. 
 
 Hero. 'Tis not 
 A fit, then ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. No ; for fits are vanishing. 
 This is a mood like Nature's, lasts for life. 
 
 Enter Clever. 
 
 Clever. Why didst thou call ? I heard thy voice, in fear. 
 
 Hero. All's well, good Obadiah. 
 
 Clever. Is it so ? 
 Then I may go again. Young man, beware 
 Thou frighten'st not that maiden. We are meek, 
 And oflfer not offence, but meeting it. 
 As injury will make the worm rebel, 
 We turn, and we are strong — yea, very strong ! 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 35 
 
 Whose wrath, albeit, a pebble, hath avail 
 
 To smite a giant ! — therefore, tempt it not ! 
 
 Umph ! [Exit. 
 
 Hero. Thou hast known a maiden like me ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Yes ; 
 I have loved a maid, most like thee — most unlike ; 
 Without, as costly — but within, as poor 
 To thee, as penury to affluence. 
 
 Hero. And did'st thou love and woo her for a month. 
 And a defaulter thus ? 'Twas grievous lack 
 Of penetration. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nay, 'twas specious show 
 That vahd credit won. 
 
 Hero. Thou art a man 
 Like all thy worldly class, of shallow mind. 
 Thy heart is in thine eyes ; what pleaseth them 
 Is sure of that. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nay, I had then lov'd on. 
 
 Hero. What cur'd thy love ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. I saw her in a dance 
 Light nature show — 
 
 Hero. A dance ! Oh ! I have heard 
 Of such a thing. An idle pastime. What 
 But folly comes of folly ? Do you dance ? 
 
 Sir Vale?itine. I do. 
 
 Hero. What kind of a thing is it ? Come, show me ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. I pray you to excuse me. 
 
 Hero. Nay, but dance. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I pray you, ask me not. 
 
 Hero. Thou dancest badly? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nay, I have won some credit in the dance. 
 
 Hero. Then do the thing thou hast won credit by. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I cannot. 
 
 Hero. Friend, thou art asham'd to dance. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nay, not asham'd. 
 
 Hero. Then dance ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. 'Twere out of time 
 And place. 
 
 Hero. What, out of time and place, and to 
 A man of galfantr}% to do the thing 
 A lady wishes him ; and he the while 
 On sufferance in her presence ! I do see ! 
 Thou art in a grave mood, and, for a man to dance, 
 And look like Solomon, I must suppose 
 Were more offence to seriousness, than were 
 A cap and bell. Friend, it is very clear 
 Thou canst not dance, and look like a wise man — 
 Yet thou didst woo a lady, thou didst say. 
 And cast her off, because she did not dance 
 With gravity! 
 
36 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Sir Valentine. She danced with lightness more 
 Than lightest measure warranted. No thing 
 A modest woman does — say that it touches 
 The utmost verge of license — but that cincture, 
 Of better proof than zone of adamant, 
 Its holy and offence-repelling fires 
 Doth wave around her, that the libertine, 
 Unwon by honor, yet is tamed by awe ! 
 She danc'd to gladden eyes whose burning glances 
 Turn thoughts of honest men on flashing swords, 
 On flame at stains washed out alone by blood ! 
 The empire of her beauty giving prey 
 To parasites, who love for their own ends, 
 And by their homage shame ! 
 
 Hero. We have talked enough. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Your pardon ! Yet we have not talk'd at all; 
 The errand yet untold that brought nie here — 
 I would have leave to woo thee. 
 
 Hero. Thou ! a man 
 Of the vain world ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nay, of no world but thine. 
 
 Hero. Thou of my world ! How com'st thou by these gauds — 
 Lace, ribbons, tinsel, trinkets, slashes — not 
 To name that most egregious vanity 
 Thou mountest in thy cap, that the poor bird 
 It was purloin 'd from wore for use, not show ! 
 Rebuke and lesson to its wiser lord ! 
 There's not a portion of thee but bespeaks 
 Ransacking of the earth and sea — and all 
 To recommend thee unto eyes, whose owners, 
 Be they the homeliest, behold thy betters 
 In their own mirrors. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I will dress to please 
 The eyes of none but thee. 
 
 Hero. Thou should 'st be rich — 
 Too rich for modest happiness, and all 
 Beyond is but the name ! Riches are bars 
 Prevent us enter Heaven ; how then be doors 
 On earth to admit us unto aught of Heaven ? 
 How many hundreds brings thy rental in ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. As many as make up a thousand pounds 
 To welcome every quarter. 
 
 Hero. Poor young man 
 How I do pity thee ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. I will reduce 
 My revenue. 
 
 Hero. Canst thou reduce the wants 
 Thy revenue hath gender'd — foes to thee 
 Under the masques of friends ? 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 37 
 
 Sir ValeJitine. My every want 
 Is now summ'd up in one. 
 
 Hero. Hast thou a title ? 
 How art thou nam'd ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Sir Launcelot de Vere. 
 
 Hero. How would'st thou bear be called plain Launcelot? 
 Thou would'st not know thyself. We have no titles. 
 Names, being of themselves no part of us, 
 We only value as distinguishing 
 One from another. Stephen, Ephraim, 
 John, Obadiah, Solomon, suffice. 
 All adjuncts else, as Misters, Sirs, Earls, Dukes, 
 We do regard as superfluities. 
 Sir Valentine de Grey ! I neither like 
 Title nor Christian name. More proper far 
 W^ould Peter fit — or Mark, or John, or Luke, 
 Or Nicodemus — names of men of peace, 
 And sounding passing sweet. 
 
 Sir Valentine. The name is mine 
 Thou givest me. 
 
 Hero. So thou believest now ; 
 To-morrow, thou wilt be the former man. 
 Nor must I longer talk with thee ; for sweet ^ 
 
 I own the proflTer of thy duty comes, 
 Altho' by me received mistrustingly. 
 Persist not, friend, or I will wholly doubt 
 What half I would believe — which, if indeed 
 Thou mean'st — and, here, the frankness of a maid 
 Doth overshoot her coyness — thou canst prove 
 Hath matter weightier than airy words. 
 Farewell ! What shall I call thee ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Launcelot. 
 
 Hero. So soon forgot. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Mark, Obadiah, Job, 
 Peter, or — or — I lack the other names. 
 
 Hero. No matter ! These are grateful as the rest, 
 Nor 'mongst them Peter least ! What a sweet name 
 Is Peter !— I will call thee Peter, tho' 
 It be for the last time {sighs). Farewell, friend Peter. 
 Sir Valentine. Stay ! How may I call thee ? 
 
 Hero. Say, Ruth. 
 Sir Valentine. Farewell, 
 Fair Ruth ! 
 
 Hero. Fair Ruth ! So soon forgot agam ! 
 Friend Ruth, thou ought'st to say. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Friend Ruth, farewell! 
 And yet another word ! Have I thy leave 
 To come to thee again ? 
 
 Hero. That must depend 
 On how thou com'st. 
 
38 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Sir Valentine. Then sure I come again ! 
 Friend Ruth ! 
 
 Hero. Friend Peter? 
 
 Sir Valentine. May we not shake hands ? 
 
 Hero. That must depend on how thou shakest hands 
 
 Sir Valentine. Why, how should I shake hands ? 
 
 Hero. Why, soberly. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Then soberly, friend Ruth, shake hands with me. 
 
 Hero. There, that is long enough I 
 
 Sir Valentine. One more word yet — 
 Friend Ruth, may I not kiss thy hand ? 
 
 Hero. Friend Peter ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. I'll kiss it soberly — yea, soberly 
 Farewell — once more — farewell ! — One more. — It is 
 A banquet gathers appetite. 
 
 Enter Clever. 
 
 Clever. Young man, 
 What do'st thou ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nothing. 
 
 Clever. Yea, a thing doth vex 
 The spirit of the maiden, and to mine 
 Doth give disturbance — yea, a forward thing. 
 Abomination to the faithful — yea, 
 Abomination.— Go ! [Placing himself between them. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Farewell ! 
 
 Clever. Avaunt ! 
 Such things become not eyes like hers or mine 
 To look upon — Avoid ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Farewell ! I'll come 
 Again. 
 
 Hero. Then come with more discretion, friend. 
 
 Clever. Thou hear'st — avoid ! Remove thee hence ! Begone ! 
 Make not a crook, friend, of thy body — say 
 Farewell — do nothing more — and d^o ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Farewell ! 
 
 Hero. Farewell ! 
 
 END OF ACT m. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 SCENE I.— The Park. 
 
 Enter Lord Athunree and Felton. 
 
 Lord Athunree. I did appoint him to attend me here. 
 Behoves my door and he be strangers, lest 
 Our practices be trac'd. Want dogs him still, 
 
 4 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 39 
 
 And fits him for my purpose, by the threat 
 
 Of her pernicious tooth. Yet there's a weakness, 
 
 I would he had not. He doth love a child ; 
 
 Which shows his nature is not callous all ; 
 
 Whence do I oft times dread some start of ruth. 
 
 But finds he out fair Hero's close retreat, 
 
 The meagre knave shall fatten. Soft ! he's here — 
 
 Well, have you traced her ? 
 
 Enter Lewson. 
 
 Lewson. Yes ; she is at Greenwich, 
 Where I and mine do live and famish. 
 
 Lord Athitnree. Fool ! 
 Not to have guess'd as much, and know she hath 
 A villa there. Resides she by herself? 
 
 Leioson. She does. 
 
 Lord Athunree. Then is she mine. Canst thou obtain 
 Secret admission ? 
 
 Lewson. Easily, my Lord ; 
 Into her very chamber, which doth open 
 Into a garden. 
 
 Lord Athunree. It must be done to-night. 
 
 Lewson. Most strangely is she chang'd. 
 
 Lord Athunree. How? 
 
 Leicson. In her dress. 
 That's of the fashion of that formal sect, 
 Which at all worldly modes exception takes. 
 
 Lord Athunree. Indeed ! some plot's on foot, and doth concern 
 Her quarrel with Sir Valentine. To-night, 
 She gives me lodging. Stay — we must proceed 
 With such exactitude, the sun and dial ^ 
 
 Shall vary soon as we ! I'll write it down, [Writes. 
 
 'Sdeath I I must change a word ! I'll write it o'er 
 Again, that thou may'st have no scratch to hang 
 Excuse for failure on. There. Be observant 
 To the syllable. Away ! Thy greatest hire, 
 For former service, I will double for thee, 
 Succeed'st thou but in this. 
 
 Lewson. Misgive not. Sir ; 
 I ne'er before did fail you. But, so please you, 
 Some present prompt supply. My children starve ! 
 My wife, to find them half a meal a day, 
 Hath worn herself to skin and bone, and now 
 Can drag her limbs no more to forage for them. 
 Their pressing need relieve, and do with me 
 Whate'er thou wiU. 
 
 Lord Athunree. There ! 
 Lewson. All is noted here, 
 Behoveth me to heed ? 
 
 I? 
 
40 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Lord Athunree. No jot forgot. 
 I may rely upon thee ? 
 
 Lewson. As on one 
 Whose life is in thy hands. \Goes out. 
 
 Lord Athunree. The cards do turn. 
 
 Fdton. I pray you, what intend you? 
 
 Lord Athunree. He obtains 
 Admittance; I am on the watch, without; 
 She is alarm 'd ; I hear her cry for help ; 
 And to her rescue naturally come. 
 I enter how I can, and once within, 
 Shape as I may the rest — assured of this, 
 She will accept protection ; giving which, 
 I cast what color on the case I will, 
 Ensuring payment full. 
 
 Felton. Thou art the prince 
 Of plotters ! 
 
 Lord Athunree. Thou art no less royal there. 
 So hold we charge of one another's secrets. 
 Neither is like to break. 
 
 Enter Eustace and Walsingham. 
 
 Eustace. Lord Athunree, 
 I do accuse thee of a murder ! and 
 Do undertake to justify myself, 
 At the point of the sword. Heist thou the courage to 
 Abide the trial, whereunto I now 
 Demand of thee thou fixest time and place. 
 For thy defence ? I do repeat the charge 
 And challenge too — thou art a murderer ! 
 And I demand thou pay the penalty. 
 Which if I prove defaulter in exacting, 
 I am content to leaguer my own life. 
 For the third time, I charge thee with the deed ! 
 Of felony more capital accuse thee 
 Than ever caitiff on the scaffold paid 
 The forfeit of! A murder cowardly ! 
 Unparallel'd ! past human nature savage- 
 Wilt thou confront me ? Wilt thou ? Canst thou ? Dar'st thou ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. ^ Doubt'st thou my answer prompt as thy demand? 
 
 Eustace. Give it, and leave not room for question ! Where, 
 And when, shall we the mortal issue try ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. To-morrow !— Stay ! — that gentleman thy friend ? 
 
 Eustace. He is. 
 
 Lord Athunree. He passes then as voucher for thee. 
 Yet I'll prevent miscarriage in the thing 
 Thy heart so earnestly is bent upon, 
 To its deep cost, I fear. There ! time and place 
 You see are written down. 
 
 [ Writes on the back of the paper Jte had first ivritten upon. 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. <4ll 
 
 Eustace. For this I thank you, 
 That I may thoroughly be quits with you, 
 And all the payment on thy side be due. 
 
 Lord Athunree. Farewell ! Thou art young, but yet more rash 
 than young ! 
 
 Eustace. I am not rash, but by reflection act 
 As I do now, with hope my arm will prove 
 Staunch as my tongue. Thou art a murderer ! 
 
 [Lord Athunree and Felton go out. 
 
 Walsingham. My fellow-student ! Wonder hitherto 
 Hath tied my tongue ! Has he a wrong with thee 
 To settle too ? 
 
 Eustace. He has ! Let's see what time and place 
 He hath appointed ? Ha ! what's here ? 
 Oh, Providence is here ! {Aside.) A plot to ensnare, 
 In helpless ruin like to mine, the heart 
 In girlhood still was nearest to my own. 
 Then must I see thee, Hero ! Pride must now 
 Give way to love. Occasion calls me hence. 
 More urgent yet than that which brought me hither. 
 Nor must we go together. Question not ! 
 But, at our place of practice, give me meeting 
 An hour at least ere noon. 
 
 Walsingham. I shall not fail. [Goes out. 
 
 Eustace. Oh, what a case is mine, to wear the brand 
 I never merited ! — to be denounc'd 
 The child of guilt, that am the daughter free — 
 Except the primal all referring lapse — 
 Of innocence ! To be amerc'd of that 
 The loss of which might make offence a thing 
 To be commiserated more than blam'd 
 For nothing ! — So ! — Inconstant to him ! — So ! — 
 A wanton ! — So I — The framer of a lie ! — 
 He loves me still ! I pardon all for that ! 
 For that his tongue shall rail at me again — 
 Pronounce me faithless — liar — wanton — aught ! 
 Aught that I am not, for the blessed Am 
 That still assures him mine ! Oh, I do play 
 A novel part. A solitary maid. 
 Herself to vindicate her injur'd name ! 
 No father, brother, friend, to plead the cause 
 Of her wrongf'd honor, and her bafHed love ! 
 No champion left her but a woman's arm 
 Back'd by a woman's heart ! — yet, trusting these, 
 And to just Heaven appealing, resolute 
 For life or death to meet the mortal strife ! — 
 But where is Hero ? Does thy friend forget thee. 
 And thou in peril ? No ! She flies to save thee ! 
 
 6 [ Goes out. 
 
42 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Hero's House at Greenwich, 
 
 Enter Hero. 
 
 Hero. My game the more I play successfully, 
 The less my eagerness to win it grows. 
 'Tis all but mine, and thought of victory 
 Sits at my heart so heavy, for defeat 
 To turn up now were respite to me ! respite ! 
 False gains are poor possessions, bringing not 
 Content — the touchstone of true happiness ! 
 And yet I punish him ! For what ? for right ? 
 Retaliation of offended wrong ! 
 Yet did he bear me beyond patience hard. 
 At once to throw off duty ! and my slave 
 To start up my dictator, that ne'er yet 
 Met bended brow of man — in presence too 
 Where vassal homage had awaited me ! 
 He should be made to bow ! and, once become 
 My thorough captive, spurns for spurning take ! 
 Yet doth he raise him, by those lofty thoughts 
 He breathes of zeal and honor for my sex, 
 While I do sink as coming short thereof! 
 With this regard I fail. I must see nought 
 Except my purpose — by the dread of loss 
 Yet to enhance my value in his eyes, 
 Propound my terms, and to the issue come 
 That shows him foil'd, and me the conqueror ! 
 
 Enter Clever. 
 
 Clever. Ma'am, he is come ! 
 
 Hero. Then show him in, and mind 
 What we arrang'd, touching those friends of mine 
 I am to summon from the other room. [Clever goes out. 
 
 How shall I struggle thro' the race, wherein 
 I gasp at setting out ? 
 
 Enter Clever, showing in Sir Valentine. 
 
 Clever. Here is the man 
 That wants to speak with thee — be careful, for 
 I like his habit better than his looks. 
 He minds me of some child of Satan, who 
 My spirit hath offended — watch him, Ruth, 
 And advertise me if he troubleth thee. [Goes oiit. 
 
 Hero. Thy business, friend ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. Dost thou not know it ? 
 
 Hero. Yea ! 
 If fits thy purpose, friend, thy habit, grave, 
 And goodly must it be — what is its shape ? 
 Instruction or admonishment, or what ? 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 43 
 
 Unfold thee. Be it righteous and discreet, 
 I'll hear it as an humble sister ought. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Dost thou not know me ? 
 
 Hero. Yea! that thou art one 
 Amongst the faithful — but I know not who 
 That one may be. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Not know me, sister Ruth ? 
 
 Hero. Oh ! is it you, friend Peter, come again 
 Into a new man chang'd ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. So chang'd for thee ! 
 My fortune I've reduced. Made o'er to thee 
 For purposes of heavenly charity ! 
 
 Hero. Made o'er thy fortune ? Could I this believe ? [Aside. 
 
 Sir Valentijie. My thousands, lady, have since yesterday 
 To hundreds dwindled, at thy will. If that 
 Contents thee not, but still I seem too rich. 
 Say but the word, the hundreds shrink to tens — 
 The tens to units — these again to nought, 
 That my fond love may win most rich reward. 
 
 Hero. I dream 'd not of such love ! [Aside. 
 
 Sir Valentine. My title gone. 
 
 Hero. Thy title gone ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Had it been costlier. 
 More readily it had been thrown away, 
 As to thy wish, whereto it gave offence, 
 A meeter sacrifice ! Plain gentleman 
 Is all they rate me now ; if that's too high, 
 I'll be plain yeoman, for thy gentle sake ; 
 If that, low hind ! aught, lady, aught ! to please 
 The wise desires are guardians to thy love ! 
 
 Hero. His title likewise gone! I have o'ershot 
 My mark ! I'll stop ! — Too late — I must go on — 
 Thy work not yet complete. Our sect, thou know'st, 
 Prohibits marriage, save amongst its own ; 
 To number thee with whom if thou inclin'st 
 To recommend thee, it behoves thee w^in 
 Some brother's, sister's, word — such are at hand — 
 Wilt thou submit thee to their scrutiny ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. At once. 
 
 Hero. But mind, whate'er they do remark, 
 Thou tak'st in silence — even in good part. 
 It will be scandal to me else, because 
 Of entertaining thee. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Thy bidding, law. [Hero rings. 
 
 Enter Clever. 
 
 Clever. Hath he misdone ? Am I to put him forth ? 
 Hero. No ; brother Ephraim I wish to see, 
 And with him sister Grace. 
 Clever. They saw the man 
 
44 WOMAN'S WIT. 
 
 Ascend the steps, and when he was let in. 
 
 They op'd the door themselves, and vanished ! 
 
 Thereto advis'd by his forbidding looks. 
 
 Friend Ruth, he's poison to thee. Yesterday 
 
 I lost much grace accompanying him 
 
 From London unto Greenwich, so he vex'd 
 
 My spirit by the lightness of his gait, 
 
 And mortified me, as he drew the eyes 
 
 Of flaunting damsels on him ! To reform him 
 
 Is hopeless, for the more I did admonish, 
 
 The more did he oflend, till, scandaliz'd 
 
 Beyond endurance e'en of my meek spirit, 
 
 I wavered between option to stand still 
 
 And let hirn on alone, or run and leave him. 
 
 Observe moreover he's a man of wraih, — 
 
 Look at him ! He could eat me up — yea, eat me 
 
 Like to a ravening lion a poor lamb ! 
 
 Ne'er judged I looks of man — if inwardly 
 
 He does not bite his lips ! Be sure he swears ! 
 
 Yea, he blasphemeth ! — Get him from thy doors ! 
 
 Eject him from them ! Into the highway with him ! 
 
 Heed not if night or day — in sun or rain — 
 
 Or lose thy place among the faithful, Ruth ! 
 
 Umph ! 
 
 Hero. See they do reject thee — yea, 
 They do reject thee ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Do not thou the same ! 
 Oh, let me talk to thee in my soul's speech — 
 List ! I have stak'd my life on winning thee ! 
 Not in my own breath, but in thine I live ! 
 My portion in the sun, the earth, and all 
 The affluence from their copartnery 
 Deriv'd, I have made o'er to thee, nor now 
 Except by thy vouchsafing can enjoy ! 
 Am I to live or die ? Nay, think before 
 Thou speak'st, and those fair thoughts to council call, 
 Yet richer than the sumptuous palace which 
 They make their proud sojourn ! So like to Heaven, 
 Hast not its ruth that makes us daily bless 
 Its governance ? Thou hast ! and as thou hast, 
 Let it beam down its influence on me, 
 And save thy worshipper ! Thou let'st me kneel — 
 Sure then — I sure I do not kneel in vain. 
 
 Hero. Rise up ! These proofs of honest passion quite 
 Confound me. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Hear me ! 0, the world ! the world, 
 That's made up of two hearts ! That is the sun 
 It moves around ! There is the verdure ! There 
 The flower I the fruit ! The spring and autumn field, 
 Which in the reaping grows ! the mine that, work'd, 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 45 
 
 Accumulates in riches — ever free 
 
 From influences of the changing stars, 
 
 Or aught, save that which sits above them higher 
 
 Than they above the globe ! — Come I make with me 
 
 E'en such a heavenly world. 
 
 Hero. Beseech thee, rise ! 
 
 Sir Yalenthie. In hope ? 
 
 Hero. In hope ! What did I say? 
 
 Sir Yaleiitine. Thou said'st — 
 Thou bad'st me rjse in hope. {Rises.) Thy heart is mov'd. 
 
 Hero. 'Tis touch'd. 
 
 Sir Valenti.Tic. And nothing more ? 
 
 Hero. Perhaps a little. 
 
 Sir Yolentiiie. How may I call that little ? what's its name — 
 If haply of the kind I'd have it be, 
 'Gainst all I've thrown away, and ten times more, 
 I'd set it — Lady, tell me, what's its name ? 
 Oh, deal magnanimously with me, nor 
 What 'tis not wrong to feel, when thou dost feel it. 
 Believe 'tis wrong to speak ! Frankly I could'st love me ? 
 
 Hero. Frankly, I could. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Once more be frank — and dost thou ? 
 
 Hero. Frankly, I do. 
 
 Sir Valentine. I said, ' once more be frank,' — 
 Yet must I say once more be frank again. 
 
 Hero. And if thou dost, I will be frank again. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Wilt take me for thy husband ? 
 
 Hero. There's my hand — 
 If no impediment forbids thee, clasp it. 
 
 Sir Valentine. None. 
 
 Hero. Soft — I'll do 't ! 'twill be a sweet revenge ! {Adie, 
 
 A thought doth strike me. Thou hast lov'd a damsel. 
 My likeness it should seem — and one knov/ I, 
 Who to the vision so resembles me, 
 As doth myself, myself ; nor can the ear 
 That hears us well determine which is which. 
 In pitch and tone our voices so are one. 
 The damsel thou afiectedst, may be she — 
 Her name is Hero Sutton. 
 
 Sir Valentine. 'Tis the same. 
 
 Hero. Another thousrht doth strike me. Is the name 
 Thou gav'st to me, thy real one ? Alas ! 
 Thy color mounteth ! It is clear ! Thou art 
 Sir Valentine de Grey? Alas! alas ! 
 Your leave to be alone. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Are you not well ? 
 
 Hero. Oh, yes ; I'm very well. Good e'en ! Quite well ! 
 Well as a woman can be when she finds. 
 Too late, she rashly gave her heart away, 
 
46 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 To one, whose value for the gift will be, 
 Soon as he proves 'tis his, to bid her keep it. 
 
 Sir Valentine. To bid her keep it ! 
 
 Hero. As Hero Sutton rues ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. She never gave 
 Her heart to me. 
 
 Hero. She did ! you know not when 
 A woman gives away her heart ! at times 
 She knows it not herself. Insensibly 
 It goes from her ! She thinks she hath it still — 
 If she reflects — while smoothly runs the course 
 Of wooing ; but if haply comes a check — 
 An irrecoverable — final one — 
 Aghast — forlorn — she stands, to find it lost, 
 And with it, all the world ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. No maid could love, 
 And act as she. 
 
 Hero. How did she act ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. I told thee. 
 She danc'd to please a libertine, and pain 
 A man of honor, who did w^orship her. 
 
 Hero. She danc'd to please no man but thee. Your eyes, 
 She thought upon her, did alone inspire her 
 In the measure. Thorough conquest of the heart, 
 She thought was all but hers, she hop'd to make ; 
 And so, with all her soul endeavoring, 
 Did lose it all, and with it all herself! 
 
 Sir Valentine. If she had told me this — 
 
 Hero. If she had told ! 
 When ? pray thee, where ? or how ? — didst name a place, 
 Or time, to hear her vindicate herself? 
 Didst even hint it to her ? In a breath, 
 You doubted, tried, condemn'd and sentenc'd ; nor 
 'Fore witnesses didst pity her to spare her ! 
 They should beware, who charges lay in love, 
 On solid grounds they make them ! for, there are hearts 
 So proudly fond, that, wrong them here, they'll break 
 Or ever they will stoop to right themselves. 
 Much such a one is hers ; and yet, with all 
 Her pride — for strong as that, more strong her love — 
 She trusts to win thee still. 
 
 Sir Valentine. She gave me up, without a sigh or word. 
 
 Hero. So had I given thee up, had I been she — 
 And I do love thee. 
 
 Sir Valentine. See me at thy feet. 
 
 Hero. I can't, with thought how thou hast knelt at hers 
 
 Sir Valentine. Nay, hear me, but in pity. 
 
 Hero. She in pity 
 Did hear thee ! Much it profited her ! — much ! 
 She now, it seems, may sue ! 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 47 
 
 Sir Valentine. I swear to thee 
 Eternal constancy ! 
 
 Hero. Thy witnesses, thy oaths to her ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Where are the smiles just now 
 Did beam upon me ? 
 
 Hero. Quenched by Hero's tears. 
 
 Sir Valejitine. By Hero's tears ! She never wept for me ! 
 
 Hero. She show'd thee not her tears ; but what of that ? 
 Her eyes might pour, and thou not see a drop. 
 I know they did so. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Let me hold thy hand. 
 
 Hero. Never, till her thou hast wrong'd thou offerest 
 To right. The world return too, thou would'st quit 
 It seems for me. Resume its habit ; hie 
 To Hero Sutton's, whom I will advise 
 To look for thee to-morrow eve. Repeat 
 What I have said to thee. If she denies 
 What I aver, be free to come to me. 
 And welcome too ! If she acknowledges, 
 The handiof her, whose heart thou hast purloin'd, 
 Behoves thee ask and take. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Yet hear me. 
 
 Hero. Nay ! 
 These are the terms on which we break or meet. 
 
 Sir Valentine. If she rejects me ? 
 
 Hero. Then will Ruth be thine. 
 
 Sir Valentine. If she accepts me ? 
 
 Hero. Then still thine — She dies ! 
 
 [ They go out severally. 
 
 SCENE III. — An Ante-Room leading into Hero's Chamber 
 in the same House. 
 
 Enter Liewson, from the Window. 
 
 Leivson. Safe ! Safe ! — all silent ! What has turn'd my feet 
 From flesh to lead ? My body, which to bear 
 Their function is, doth seem to drag them on. 
 I wont not thus to feel. Ferrying across 
 From Limehouse now, I sav'd a drowning man. 
 Twice had he sunk in sight of his young brood. 
 That with their dam kept fluttering on the shore. 
 How they did bless me ! while the standers by 
 Did echo them, and to inquirers say, 
 That ask'd who sav'd him, ' Yonder's the good man ! ' 
 And I afoot to do an evil act ! 
 Another should have sav'd him ! Let it pass ! 
 Is this her chamber ? No, her dressing-room. 
 Ay, here's her woman's gear. What holds this case ? 
 Her paint, I'll warrant — her cosmetics — aught 
 To give another skin ; they're ne'er content 
 
4S WOMAx\'S WIT, 
 
 With nature's ; patches, perfumes, dentifrice ! 
 
 A book ? — I'll wager one she durst not sL jw ! 
 
 A Bible ! Umph ! Strange reading that, methinks, 
 
 For a fine lady. Here's a leaf turn'd down ; 
 
 What says the place ? It seems to talk to me ! 
 
 I'll read no further ! So — what have we here? 
 
 Her letters ! Excellent ! Her letters ! — now 
 
 To see how they can look and talk the saint, 
 
 And play the sinner still. A hundred pounds, 
 
 Tbe first is an amour I — A wretch's prayer 
 
 For help — herself and children without food 
 
 For two whole days ! What, baggage ! beg ere rob ? 
 
 Wait for a thaw, and see thy little ones 
 
 Congeal to death i' the icy w^orld ! — with the thought 
 
 I have a feeling how the tiger's fangs 
 
 Rend for her cubs a meal ! — What alms didst hope 
 
 Her ladyship w^ould give ? — What would suffice 
 
 The dressing of her gown she wears a night 
 
 And casts aside for foul ! What's here — is this 
 
 Her answer — or the copy on't? Indeed ? 
 
 Ay, when she gives she gives ! She seems to think 
 
 That poverty, like plenty, is made up 
 
 Of flesh and blood. There's food for dam and whelps 
 
 For a whole wTek. The letter's to my wife ! 
 
 She din'd to-day — fall to't — fall to't — thy brood 
 
 May gorge them now ! Methinks I see them feed ! 
 
 Heaven bless her ! — What ! Heaven bless her, did I say ? 
 
 Then what do I here ? No more of this. 
 
 I've work to do, chimes not with thoughts like these. 
 
 No more on't. Footsteps ! — so — beast to thy lair. 
 
 [Conceals himself. 
 
 Enter Hero ; she goes to the window, and looks out. 
 
 Hero. Whether mine eye with a new spirit sees, 
 Or nature is grouTi lovelier, I know not ; 
 But ne'er, methinks, was sunset half so sweet ! 
 He's down, and yet his glory still appears, 
 Like to the memory of a well-spent life. 
 That's golden to the last, and when 'tis o'er, 
 Shines in the witnesses it leaves behind. 
 They say, a ruddy sunset a fair day ! 
 Oh ! may it be a day without a cloud. 
 Which of my fate doth see the clearing up ; 
 That I may quote it ever as a sign 
 Of sincere fortune, often as I say 
 Was ever day so briofht ! How calm is all — 
 How calm am I ! — Would every breast I knew 
 Did lodge a heart as tranquil. — There was one — 
 A most strange history ! Is she alive. 
 Or dead? (Eustace appears at the window.) Who's there? 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 49 
 
 Eustace {entering.) A friend! 
 
 Hero. Help ! 
 
 Eustace. Hush ! I come 
 For safety! 
 
 Hero. To thyself? 
 
 Eustace. To thee. Look here — 
 Lest I should miss thee, I prepar'd this scroll. 
 More brief 'twill tell my errand, than my tongue 
 Could do't. 
 
 Hero {reads.) Lord Athunree ! — This very night ! 
 My house beset — myself by force abstracted ! 
 
 Eustace. If thou hast kindred in the neighborhood, 
 Or friend thou canst rely upon, forthwith 
 Of thy immediate danger caution them 
 By hands you can confide in — for my pains, 
 I pray you pay me with the only audience 
 Of some poor moments, when I'll take my leave. 
 
 Hero {to herself.) I need not fear him ! On his o'ercast brow 
 'Tis grief, not guilt, that lowers. — A minute's patience, 
 I shall rejoin you. [Goes out. 
 
 Eustace. Thou art happy, Hero, 
 And she that loves thee, weeps — but not that thou 
 Art happy. Thy fair fortune is the likeness 
 Of what was once my own ! It is a face 
 Keminds me of a valued friend that's gone, 
 And which I bless, the while it makes me weep ! 
 
 Hero {re-entering.) What you advis'd I've done — and now your 
 pleasure ? 
 
 Eustace. Have I your leave, I'll sit. I've used some haste — 
 Am somewhat out of breath — I thank you ! So ! 
 Pray you be seated, too. You've had your share 
 Of friends ? — your 'havior of the winning kind, 
 That goodness sweetens ! — you are frank — you love 
 Another's weal more than you envy it — 
 And such a one makes friends. — 'Mongst those you'ye found 
 You surely some do miss, else was your fate 
 Past earthly blessing happy ? 
 
 Hero. I've lost friends. 
 
 Eustace. By — death ? 
 
 Hero. By death. 
 
 Eustace. And any by misfortune ? 
 
 Hero. Misfortune ! — No, not any. 
 
 Eustace {rising.) What! — not one? 
 Good night ! 
 
 Hero. What mean you ? Do you take me for 
 A season friend, no stauncher than the bird 
 The sun doth tell his time to come and go, 
 And's with us when 'tis summer ? — 0, you wrong me ! 
 What ! — I to love, as doth that summer bird 
 The land he makes his gay sojourning in, 
 7 
 
50 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 My friend, because 'tis leaf and blossom time ! 
 Indeed you wrong me ! — Knew I at this moment 
 A cheek I lov'd, was beggar'd of its smiles — 
 Not one left to it — I swear to thee the next — 
 If back'd my power my will — before the next, 
 My own should be its neighbor. — Oh ! how much 
 You wrong me ! 
 
 Emtace. Glad I am I've done thee wrong — 
 In sooth, I am — and yet I wrong'd thee not — 
 I only miss'd thy meaning ! Hadst not a friend 
 Misfortune lost thee ? — not that thou shunn'dst her. 
 But that her heavy and most slranq-e nffliction 
 To thee and all her sex forbade her access ? 
 
 Hero. A friend ? a sister ! What a fate was hers ! 
 Of all I valued, she the being was 
 I least could measure worth with. Of all grace, 
 The pattern was she — person, features, mind, 
 Heart, every thing, as nature had essay'd 
 To frame a work which none might find a flaw in ! 
 And yet, 'tis said, she fell — and if she did. 
 Let none be sure they'll stand ! She couldn't fall ! 
 There's such a thing as purity on earth. 
 And if she fell, there could be no such thing ! 
 She didn't fall I — no ! no ! — I knew her, or 
 I never knew myself! Virtue with her 
 Was not a lesson we must con before 
 'Tis learn'd by heart ; it was a portion of her, 
 Much as her stature, feature, limb or shape, 
 Which, saving nature's, hand did never give. 
 She has been outrag'd, slandered — aught — but lost I 
 She could not fall — she did not — could not fall 1 
 What ails thee ? 
 
 Eustace. He that sets a banquet down 
 To famish'd lips, serves poison and not meat, 
 For, ten to one, the greedy guest doth die. 
 Yet doth he bless the host, as I bless thee, 
 That spread'st for me this feast ! 
 
 Hero. This feast ! What feast ? 
 Move not thy lips thus impotently, or 
 I'll think thou diest indeed ! What feast do'st mean ? 
 Is't one the heart makes ? 'Tis thine eyes do talk 
 Language 'twould tax a hundred tongues to spaak ! 
 In wonder's name, who art thou ? Say thou'rt not 
 What thou dost seem, I'll tell thee who thou art ! 
 Could I not do't ?— Could I not ?— Helen ?— What ? 
 Well? Am I right? If ever thou didst lodge 
 A treasure in this breast, ne'er fear to claim it! 
 'Tis safe — whole — whole — demand it — take it — come- 
 *Tis thine as e'er it was I — Well ? 
 
 Eustace {speaking as Helen.) Hero ! 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 51 
 
 Hero. Nay, 
 I'll bring it to thee, then! That's right — weep on! 
 My sweet ! my dear ! my poor ! my wrong'd one — yes, 
 Wrong'd — wrong'd — I say't again ! Thou need'st not speak, 
 Thou hast not strength — thou'lt sleep with me to-night ? — 
 To-morrow for thy story. 
 
 Helen. Nay, to-night. 
 I'm more myself again ! — Let it be so — 
 Sit down awhile. How hast thou been, my Hero ? 
 
 Hero. Well, sweet, most well. 
 
 Heleji. Now by the love 
 Thou bear'st me, interrupt me not, but hear 
 My story out. Thou hast been told, that from 
 A roof which shelters aught but innocence, 
 In company with one, whom innocence 
 That would be safe should shun, i' the face of day, 
 Thy friend was seen to issue. Thither by 
 A forged tale of misery alone 
 She was decoyed — exposed to outrage there — 
 Rescued by him — by him conducted thence — 
 Met in the street ere well her foot had left 
 The threshold — countenance refused her tale 
 By him that sole could vouch its truth — by him 
 Her tale discredited, whose credence was 
 Life ! happiness ! all but honor ! In a word. 
 Her virtue blasted, that had ne'er known blight — 
 Denounced as canker'd — rotten — that was sound 
 As thy own, Hero — ay, as thy own ! 
 
 Hero. I know't. 
 
 Helen. You know't ? Alas, you know it not— you think it- 
 Think it in the teeth of damning fact. It is 
 Your love — your charity. An alms — an alms — 
 Is all that friend so kind as even thou, 
 Can render now to me— yet, I'll be righted ! 
 But fare-thee-well — 'tis late ! 
 
 Hero. You'll stay with me ? 
 
 Helen. What ! let me press thy pure sheets. Hero, with 
 A tainted name ? How I have wrong'd thee ! — vvouldst 
 Believe't? I once came to thy door — but there 
 I stopp'd. I was not wont to ask for leave 
 To enter it, and I must ask for't now ! 
 
 I left thy door again — the certainty W 
 
 To see it never ope' thy friend preferr'd 
 To but the chance to see it shut upon her. 
 
 Hero. To but the chance to see it shut upon thee ! 
 What warrant ever gave I for such chance ? 
 Oh ! had it wider, freer ope'd than e'er, 
 It only had anticipated what 
 Its mistress' arms had done — what now they do ! 
 You shall not leave— nay, in sooth you shall not ! 
 
53 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Helen. In this attire, think, should I here be seen— 
 Hero. I'll think of nought, but that thou here art now, 
 
 But that thou here shalt stay. Thou canst be gone 
 
 At dawn. Thou know'st a thousand things I have 
 
 To ask of thee — how we shall meet again — 
 
 Where I shall find thee — what thy projects are — 
 
 Deny me not, I pray thee ! 'Twill but make 
 
 The greater beggar of me — Come ! you can, 
 
 You must — you will — this is my chamber — come ! [ They go out. 
 
 Lewson. [Entering in disorder.) 
 
 Lewson. I cannot do't ! Heaven's on the watch against it ! 
 'Tis said it guards the good, and if it does. 
 Its spirits sure are here — they are ! — or why 
 This fearful awe come over me ? I feel 
 As eyes were on me, that I cannot see — 
 Above me lips that speak but are unheard — 
 And hands that have a thousand thousand times 
 The power of flesh and blood, yet lack the bulk 
 Of air ! Heaven will not have it be — it sets 
 Before mine eyes the fruit of what I've done — 
 To warn me back from what I've come to do 
 That hapless maiden owes her injur'd name 
 To me ! I was the instrument to ruin her ! 
 To fix on her the wanton's brand, that ne'er 
 In thought it seems did know the wanton's stain — 
 To damn in this world, what i' the next is blest ! 
 Oh ! heavy sin — Go, sin no more ! How's this ? 
 Go, sin no more ! So said the book to me. 
 Then Heaven doth care for sinners, it should seem ! 
 A blessed book ! I'll go and sin no more ! 
 The chime. It lacks a quarter of an hour. 
 The very clock doth watch me. Was't the hour, 
 They'd have me in their fearful toils again ! 
 Away ! away ! speed feet, while ye are free, 
 Softly and swift — the minutes fly ! away ! {Exit. 
 
 END OF ACT IV. 
 
 ^ ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— Hero's Town House. 
 
 Enter Sir William Sutton and Emily. 
 
 Sir William. What ? Helen Mowbray come to life again ? 
 
 Emily. 'Tis even so ; and metaraorphos'd as 
 You ne'er would dream. But pray you, use despatch. 
 On the reverse of this she gave your niece, 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. /53 
 
 And which unthinkingly no doubt was given 
 To her, 'tis clear some mortal work's on hand — 
 For here are time, and place, and weapon nam'd, 
 Upon the part of base Lord Athunree. 
 There yet is time ! Prevent it, while you may ! 
 
 Sir William {rings the bell.) Hark, Sir! "^Take charge of this, 
 and have it strais^ht 
 Put mto execution by the chief 
 O' the city officers — look to it well ! 
 And now, what means this full assembly call'd 
 Of friends and relatives to feast with Hero? 
 
 Emily. I must not tell — but guess. 
 
 Sir William. I cannot guess 
 The shapes particular of women's fancies, 
 Especially in one of Hero's vein. 
 Retains she her disguise ? 
 
 Emily. No ; casts it off — 
 And with it, habit more a part of her. 
 She is changed beyond belief. 
 
 Sir William. Not my belief, 
 When I do see it. 
 
 Emily. I must hie to her. 
 And set her mind at rest on this affair, 
 Touching her friend, which chance reveal'd to her, 
 In time, I trust, the issue to prevent. 
 You have given order they be hither brought ? 
 
 Sir William. I have. Where's Hero ? 
 
 Emily. In the library, 
 In earnest converse still with that strange man, 
 Who prayed an audience with her, and, I think, 
 Brought news that has surpris'd her. Dinner time 
 Will see an end, and clearing up of all. [ They go out severally. . 
 
 SCENE II.— The outskirts of London. 
 Enter Walsingham and Helen {still in the disguise of Eustace.) 
 
 Walsingham. Not yet arriv'd ! 
 
 Helen. 'Tis 'fore the time. 
 
 Walsingham. How feel you ? 
 
 Helen. Collected, and myself. 
 
 Walsingham. You look so. Clear 
 Your 'havior, as this day of trial only 
 The ordinary mate of yesterday. 
 You'll win ! 
 
 Helen. I shall ! — I am resolv'd to win. 
 
 Walsingham. Show me thy sword. 
 
 Helen. I cannot draw it, but 
 My life must follow. 
 
 Walsingham. How ? 
 
54 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Helen. It is my heart — 
 This which I wear, is nothing. Call it steel, 
 'Tis steel ! — a straw, it even is a straw ! 
 Its stamina not lodging in itself, 
 But in the use that's made on't. 
 
 Walsingham. This is calm, 
 Upon the eve of combat. 
 
 Helen. Walsingham, 
 There is a kind of nature that clears up 
 The instant it confronts a trying thing. 
 In common evils, hesitates and fears ; 
 In ills of moment, shows sedate resolve. 
 
 Walsingham. Why, that is woman's proper contradiction. 
 
 Helen. It passes for't ; but sometimes 'bides in man, 
 Not therein less of his high caste deserving, 
 Tho' so resembling woman ! Think'st not so ? 
 
 Walsingham. Assuredly. 
 
 Helen. You see this mood is mine, 
 Nor was I on my guard to let it out — 
 'Twill lose me credit with you. Best have pass'd 
 For Sir Redoubtable any day o' the year ! 
 You more had thought of me. 
 
 Walsingham. No ! 
 
 Helen. You say I am calm ? 
 I am so — that is, as to the issue of 
 This mortal meeting, for 'tis mortal ! — but 
 I have a trouble, and — wilt thou believe me ? 
 'Tis touching thee ! — It grieves me, Walsingham, 
 To leave thee an abused man behind me I 
 What thou didst tell me I have ponder'd well, 
 And thereon founded arguments, methinks, 
 More solid than I urged on you before. 
 
 They are here — your poor friend's legacy to you ! [^Gives a paper. 
 Stop ! — you're about to speak — don't speak as yet. 
 If I should fall, you pledge your gentle word. 
 My body you will have direct convey'd 
 
 Unto the lady's I have herein nam'd, [ Gives another paper. 
 
 Deliver'd to her custod}^ — her own? 
 Nor until then, one fast'ning, fold, loop, thread 
 O' the vesture, thou wilt suffer be disturb'd — 
 No, not to search, or probe, or staunch a wound, 
 Or settle if indeed alive or dead. 
 Or any thing ! To this, thou pledgest thee ? 
 
 Walsingham. Dear boy, I do ! 
 
 Helen. Another thing — 
 
 Walsingha?n. AVhat is't ? 
 Thou pausest, as in doubt I'll grant it thee. 
 Whate'er it be, I'll swear to do it. 
 
 Helen. Ha ! 
 Then thou dost set my heart indeed at rest ! 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 55 
 
 Mind, thou hast sworn to do't. Revenge me not ! 
 That comprehendeth all ! Don't speak again, 
 Till I have done, quite done. Thou lovest me ? 
 
 Walsingham. I do. 
 
 Helen. How much ? 
 
 Walsingham. As never man before ! 
 
 Hele?i. Speak not of love gone by, but present love. 
 With those thou lovest now, how rates thy love ? 
 
 Walsingham. As first ! 
 
 Helen. As first of all ? 
 
 Walsingham. Of all ! 
 
 Helen. All friends ? 
 Not one before me ? 
 
 Walsiiigham. No ! 
 
 Helen. Not one ? 
 
 Walsingham. Not one ! 
 
 Helen. And all love told ? 
 
 Walsingham. All love, but love itself. 
 
 Helen. Shake hands ! — Well say good bye before they come, 
 Lest there arrive occasion, and no time ! 
 Good bye ! — Oh, happy women, that are friends ! 
 They may embrace — men cannot do so. 
 
 Walsingham. Yes, 
 When they are brothers. 
 
 Helen. Feel'st thou as my brother ? 
 I feel as I were thine. 
 
 Walsingham. My boy ! my boy ! [Embracing Helen. 
 
 Heaven! — but thou faint'st ! 
 
 Helen. No ! — Are they coming ? — Heaven 
 Reward thee, for thy precious love of me ! 
 They are at hand — G ood bye ! 
 
 Walsingham. Show me thy sword ! 
 'Tis somewhat longer, I believe, than mine 
 And I would try the depth of yonder stream, 
 In case we need to wade it. 
 
 [Goes out, and returns without the sword. 
 It has slipp'd. 
 
 And gone down to the bottom ! — Boy, your quarrel's mine : 
 Jo humor thee, did I consent to play 
 The second to thee. Stand aside, with broad 
 And lusty breast and sinewy arm, and see 
 Thy stripling form the deadly point oppose 
 In the athletic villain's practis'd hand. 
 Instead of grasping thee with loving force, 
 Like to a doting father his boy-son, 
 Or elder brother his dear younger one, 
 Taking thy place, and swinging thee away ! 
 No, boy ! Before thy young veins part a drop 
 Of their life's streams, my channel shall run dry ! 
 
 Helen. Is this fair, Walsingham ? 
 
56 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Walsingham. Yet, hear me on ! 
 I find I could not live without thee ; so 
 Guarding thy life, I but protect my own. 
 That's fair — that's rational — that's sound in nature ! 
 Want'st further reason ? — I will give it thee — 
 Thou art like her ! 
 
 Helen. Whom ? 
 
 Walsingham. Boy, hast thou read my soul — 
 Have I turn'd o'er its every page to thee — 
 Love, hate, hope, doubt, possession, loss, bliss, pain, 
 Contentment, and despair — and in each one 
 Shown thee one all-pervading cause enwrit, 
 For nothing ? Whom could I compare thee to, 
 But her — the heroine of my sad story ? 
 Whom much thou dost resemble ! Hast thou never 
 Remark'd me gazing in abstraction on thee, 
 As tho', upon perusal of thy face, 
 While seem'd mine eye intent, my soul did pore 
 Upon some other thing? — I have done it oft — 
 Will do it once again ! Your eyes are hers. 
 In form and hue, but sunk ; a darkness too. 
 Not heavy, yet enough to make a cloud, 
 Sits — not disparagingly tho' — 'neath thine; 
 Hers were two starry brilliants, set in pearl ! 
 The outline of the nose is quite the same. 
 But that of thine is sharper- — 'tis thy sex. 
 The mouth is very like — oh, very like ! 
 But there's a touch — a somewhat deep one too — 
 Of pensiveness. The cast of hers was sweetness, 
 Enlocking full content. The cheek is not 
 At all alike ! — 'tis high ; and lank below ; 
 And sallow — not a dimple in't — all contrast 
 To the rich flower 'd and velvet lawn of hers. 
 But tho' thou art not she entire — thou art 
 Enough of her, to make me love thee, boy ! 
 With such a brother-love, as brother never, 
 I dare be bound, for brother felt before ! 
 I spoke not of thy hair — it is a wood 
 Run wild compar'd to hers, and thrice as deep 
 I' the shade — Yet, you are very like her ! — quite 
 Enough, to make me pour my heart's blood out, 
 As water, for thy sake ! — They are at hand ! 
 
 Helen. Then let me be at least thy sword-bearer ; 
 And when thou need'st the steel, I'll keep the sheath, 
 Which in thy motions would embarrass thee. 
 
 Walsingham. Take it, and thank thee ! 
 
 Enter Lord Athunree and Felton. 
 
 Ij)rd Athunree. We are late for you, Sirs ; 
 But not, I think, for time. 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 57 
 
 Walsingham. You are in time. 
 
 Helen. Draw off, till, with his second, I arrange 
 Preliminaries — which I know are wont, 
 In questions of this kind. What we decide, 
 I will possess you of; and then proceed. 
 Sir, let us speak. You know me, principal. 
 My place, my second would perforce usurp. 
 Permit him not, as you're a gentleman ! 
 You see he is unarm'd — your rapier draw. 
 When I draw this, and force him stand aloof. 
 You promise this ? 
 
 Felton. I do! (Aside.) It keeps the odds 
 Upon our side ! 
 
 Helen (drawing.) Lord Athunree, I am ready ! 
 
 Felton (drawing, and opposing Walsingham.) 
 Stand back, Sir ! at your peril ! 
 
 Walsingham. Ha ! — the boy 
 Has baffled, and outwitted me ! [Advances. 
 
 Felton. Stand back ! 
 I bar all interruption to the game 
 We are summon'd here to play. 
 
 Walsi7igham. A coward act, 
 To draw upon a naked man ! 
 
 Felton. My lord ! 
 Why draw you not, and he his weapon out ? 
 Proceed, my lord, at once. 
 
 Lord Athunree. Before I do, 
 I ask, and I must learn, in name of whom 
 The urchin has arraign'd, and challeng'd me. 
 I fight not, till I know upon what cause. 
 
 Helen. The cause of Helen Mowbray ! 
 
 Walsingham. Drop your hand, 
 And let me pass ! — or sure as that's a sword, 
 My heart is on your point ! 
 
 Lord Athunree. Spite of thyself. 
 Another minute grant I thee to live. 
 I will not draw, until I know thy name. 
 
 Helen. Mowbray ! 
 
 Jj)rd Athunree. Her brother? 
 
 Helen. Any thing you please, 
 Caitiff without a parallel in crime ! 
 
 Walsingham. A brother ! — Hold ! Lord Athunree ! Look, Sir, 
 A moment give I thee, to take thy choice 
 'Twixt murdering me, or suffering me to pass ! 
 Heaven I do I care for life ! 
 
 [Rushes upon Felton, and wrests the sword from him. 
 At the same moment, Officers and Servants enter. 
 
 First Offijcer. Hold ! Stop !— Proceed 
 At your peril ! you are all our prisoners. Sirs ; 
 8 
 
(58 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Sir William Sutton's warrant makes you so, 
 Which here I show to you. Surrender, then, 
 And to his niece's bear us company. 
 
 {They all go out; Walsingham and Helen last, who 
 stop a little behind the rest. 
 Walsingham. Thou half hast kill'd me, boy ! How could'st 
 thou do so ? 
 Or keep from one, who lov'd thee as I do, 
 A secret like to this ? Her brother — so ! 
 Her brother ! — I shall love thee better still — 
 And better yet — and yet not half so well ! 
 
 [ They follmv. 
 
 SCENE m.— The Street. 
 
 Enter Sir Valentine. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Spite of my failing heart, thus far I've come 
 With love to urge me, love to waive me back. 
 My duty tender'd, fortune made or lost — 
 Not tender'd, absolutely lost — no chance 
 Permitted me to win ! 'Tis Hero's form 
 With the fair essence — match for thing so fair — 
 To Hero's form without ! It is a whole, 
 Past calculation rich, against a part, 
 And that the poorest — yet consummate rich. 
 And I must play for both, or neither Avin ! 
 Or winning one, the other quite forego ! 
 It cannot be she loves me ! Hero love me ! 
 A prideful pleasure kindles at the thought — 
 But comes the gentle Ruth, and puts it out 
 With genial brightness of bland nature, as 
 The sun a Httle fire. sun most fair, 
 I richer were ne'er to have known thy light 
 Than knowing it to lose it. Ne'er did mxan 
 Draw lots with chances more oppos'd than mine. 
 A little moment I am made or lost. 
 Lost past retrieving — past addition made ! 
 Then must I, like a desperate gamester, on ! 
 Throw fear of loss aside — tho' loss of all — 
 And think of nothing but the chance of gain 
 That makes me rich for life !— past affluence ! [Goes out. 
 
 SCENE LAST.— il Room in Hero's House. 
 
 Sir William Sutton seated in the ccw^re— Walslngham, Helen, 
 Lord Athunree, Felton, Officers, ^c. 
 
 Sir William. Lord Athunree, charg'd with intent thou stand'st 
 To break the peace of our right sovereign lord 
 The king. What answer'st thou, or dost refuse 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 59 
 
 To plead ? — Is this thy hand ? — Wik answer that ? 
 Whose'er it is, it is a villain's, lord ! 
 For the same writer that arrang'd a fray- 
 Did plan a felony — in danger put 
 A lady's jewelry, so rich to her — 
 Not all the caskets of the proudest line 
 Of noble dames, pour'd out into one heap, 
 Could make a blaze to match it ! 
 
 Lord Athunree {aside.) Curse my haste 
 For such remissness, on the back to write 
 Of the instructions first I pencill'd down 
 To give the caitiff wretch — whose guess'd miscarriage 
 Is now accounted for ! 
 
 Sir William. Lord Athunree, 
 How say you ? 
 
 Lord Athunree. For the combat you have marr'd, 
 My silence or denial naught avails. 
 You found me in the act. The challenger 
 You need to seek elsewhere. — I am not he. 
 
 Walsingham. Sir William, he says right. — He challeng'd not, 
 But he such provocation gave, as makes 
 The challenger more the challeng'd. — He did stain 
 A lady's credit, bringing it to naught. 
 Or causing it to pass for nothing more ; 
 Which trespass capital her brother here, 
 In form a stripling, but in mind a man. 
 Indeed demanded reparation for. 
 Which to exact, my arm essay'd, but fail'd — 
 For I had woo'd, and won, and, as I thought, 
 Alone engag'd the maid. Sir William, try, 
 If from that sacred seat of justice, voice 
 Of solemn adjuration can avail 
 To bring the truth to light — first, if the maid 
 Did fall indeed — the knowledge he thereof 
 Alone possessing — 
 
 Sir William. No, Sir ; not alone I — 
 The maid did never fall ! 
 
 Walsingham. Did never fall ? 
 O, ponder what you say ! — Not rashly — O, 
 Not rashly raise a wretch from the abyss 
 Into the light, to cast him in again 
 On darkness heaving darkness! Now I faint 
 With the day-flood that seems to burst upon me ! 
 I say, ' that seems,' for such transition mocks 
 The doting of belief! — or heard I right ? 
 Or knew'st thou what thou saidst ? or, knowing it, 
 Knew'st thou didst speak on grounds of solid footing 
 Something akin to rock ? — It should be rock 
 Itself, to bear the fabric thou dost raise 
 
60 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Against the sea of doubts that surges on it ! 
 
 O, did she never fall ? Did love itself 
 
 Take sides with hate to do her hateful wrong ? 
 
 To blast her — to abandon her — and leave 
 
 A prey to haggard fortune — death or madness ? 
 
 Sir William. Collect thyself, and further audience lend, 
 Or bid me hold my tongue. The maiden lives. 
 
 Walsingham. Lives ? Lives ? Is innocent, perhaps, and loves ! 
 does she ? 
 
 Sir William. Yes. 
 
 Walsingham. Thou seem'st to know what makes 
 My all, or naught of being ! Innocent, 
 And lives and loves ? 
 
 Lord Athu7iree. First prove her innocent. 
 
 Sir William. He cannot ! what of that ? — Another can ! 
 
 Lard Athunree. Produce that other. 
 
 [Sir William beckons — Lewson enters. 
 
 Leivson. Here he is. 
 
 Lord Athunree. Betrayed ! 
 
 Walsingham. He hath confess'd — take notice all I The lips 
 That blurr'd fair Helen's name hath ope'd themselves. 
 To damn themselves, and do the maiden right I 
 
 Sir William. No need confession from that riven wretch ! 
 To that abhorred house thou saw'st her quit, 
 A letter, as from one she knew and lov'd, 
 In mortal strait entic'd her. There, assailed 
 With show of violence from this same man. 
 That lord premeditated succor brought her. 
 The whole his foul contrivance ! You may leave ! 
 You are known ! — What penahy the law awards 
 For such default, be sure shall be exacted ! 
 
 Lord Athunree. I do defy you — scorn you ! Do your worst ! 
 
 [Goes out. 
 [Helen swooning, is caught by Walsingham. 
 
 Sir William. Look to thy mistress, Walsingham. 
 
 Walsingham. Where is she ? — 
 I nothing see except this fainting boy, 
 Whom help me to restore. 
 
 Sir William. To wake him up, 
 Breathe in his ear the name thou lovest most ! 
 Throw back those ebon clusters thoroughly, 
 And consciousness will start upon thee straight, 
 Thou never dream'dst of, and thou shah confess 
 That love, howe'er it hath a jealous eye, 
 Hath not a piercing one. 
 
 Walsingham. Herself! — my own ! 
 My sweet ! — my idolis'd !— my innocent 
 Helen ! — her eye-lids quiver— Helen ! Helen ! 
 They ope ! Dost thou not know me, love ? Heaven, 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 61 
 
 Die not away again ! My soul's true life ! 
 Helen — my gentle one ! My patient one ! 
 My faithful one, unwarp'd by rudest strain ! 
 My loving one ! — More loving — yes, I say it 
 That love thee best — more loving yet than lov'd ! 
 Look at me ! Answer me ! This semblance but 
 Of death, is death itself to me ! 'Tis I — 
 'Tis Walsingham ! — 'Tis I — repentingly, 
 Humbly, imploring thee to speak to him, 
 To look upon him — pity him ! — forgive him ! 
 
 Helen. I love thee, Walsingham. Have all thou ask'st 
 In that one little word ! \_They retire. Sir Valentine enters. 
 
 Sir William. Sir Valentine ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. The same, Sir William Sutton. 
 
 Sir William. You are welcome. 
 
 Sir Valentine. In strait where things like life and death depend, 
 Suspense is but the rack — I'll know my fate ! 
 Sir William Sutton, I am come to crave 
 An audience of your niece. 
 
 Sir William. Apprise my niece 
 Sir Valentine de Grey would speak with her. 
 
 Sir Valentine. At thought of sight of that proud form again, 
 Old motions in me stir — but only stir. 
 Come other thoughts — they are at once at rest ! 
 
 [Hero enters., most magnificently attired. 
 
 what a tower of grace and loveliness. 
 And stateliness, and absolute command. 
 
 She bursts upon mine eyes ! Were't tenanted 
 As I would have it ! 
 
 Hero. Well, Sir Valentine ! 
 Your will ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. I come a promise to redeem, 
 Thou'lt think most strange, as I do, that did make it. 
 A suit I have, the gain or loss of which 
 Depends on thee, although to thee not pleaded ! 
 Shall I be pardon'd who, against my will, 
 Past sufferance presume ? 
 
 Hero. Not mine ! Say on. 
 
 Sir Valentine. It is the voice of Ruth ! I wonder not 
 At that — but breathing Ruth's benignity ! 
 
 Hero. Shall I entreat thee say thy wish ? 
 
 Sir Valentine. More bland 
 The accents yet ! Can Ruth have told me right. 
 And does she love me ? 
 
 Hero. It doth pain me. Sir, 
 To mark such hesitation, when, to have, 
 You only have to ask ; and, asking, do 
 A pleasure — giving leave to pleasure you. 
 
 Sir Valentine {aside). No strain hath love, if this of other mood. 
 
 1 win her, and am lost ! O gain to lose ! 
 
62 WOMAN'S WIT, 
 
 Sir William. My niece awaits your question. 
 
 Hero. Uncle, peace. 
 Give him his time — the measure on't his will ! 
 To look for pleasure is itself a pleasure. 
 But half they feast who to a feast sit down 
 The moment it is named. Say, that he wait 
 An hour, why then, so much I banquet more, 
 And yet fall to with relish. 
 
 Sir Valentine. O such words 
 To fall from Hero's lips a month before ! 
 Come certainty, whate'er along with it ! 
 Dost thou affect me ? 
 
 Hero. Yes, Sir Valentine. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Wilt take me for thy husband ? 
 
 Hero. Yes, again. 
 
 Sir Valentine. Good bye, sweet Ruth ! 
 
 Hero. Strange welcome this ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Good bye 
 To sweet content of modest happiness ! 
 Lady, my title's gone ! 
 
 Hero. For that receive 
 More hearty welcome than thou gav'st to me. 
 
 Sir Valentine. My fortune dwindled. 
 
 Hero. As it sinks you rise. 
 For that receive more hearty welcome yet. 
 
 Sir Valentine. My tastes are altered. 
 
 Hero. Tell me what their kind, 
 They shall be mine — whate'er thy taste, rank, state, 
 My state, my rank, my tastes, shall be the same ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Then must we w^ed. O for that plumed tiar, 
 The simple hood I — that costly lace, the coif 
 Close pinn'd and modest clear ! — that gorgeous dress, 
 The gown embroider'd with humility ! 
 
 Hero. They are donn'd at thy command, and these cast off. 
 
 Sir Valentine. And canst thou, too, the vesture of the mind 
 That made thee cherish these, cast off? 
 
 Hero. I can I 
 Hard things which love cannot for love perform. 
 
 .Sir Valentine. Such bounty should enrich. Alas ! for me. 
 Who, spite of all its granting, must be poor. 
 
 Clever, {entering.) Friend Ruth, the dinner waits. — Friend Peter 
 here ! 
 And to the world, like thee, gone back again ! 
 Then change of gear for me ! Bold serving man, 
 Who would be other than his betters are ! 
 No more, friend Obadiah — know me hence 
 For Master Clever, name and nature one ! 
 
 Sir Valentine. Have I but dreamt 'tis night, and is it day ? 
 A masque is it I have been acting in, 
 
OR LOVE'S DISGUISES. 63 
 
 And know it not ? Canst thou be both, yet one ? 
 Is Ruth but Hero — Hero even Ruth ? 
 Then welcome Hero for the sake of Ruth, 
 And Ruth more welcome yet for Hero's sake ! 
 And is it so ? — or does the fable end 
 In cold return to dull reality ? 
 
 Hero. No ; in reality that's born of it 
 And is its fairer likeness ! — real grown 
 What first was only seeming. I have become 
 The part, I lately play'd ; the thing I was 
 Before, have ceas'd to be ! Such virtue hath 
 The only show of virtue ! For which change 
 Thy noble nature do I thank, altho' 
 Perhaps with more than prudent jealousy 
 Exacting ; and precipitate, where patience 
 Might well have counsell'd pause. With Hero's form 
 Take Ruth's contentment and humility — 
 Their dress, whate'er your love would have it be ! 
 But here is one unchang'd, nor needing change, [To Helen. 
 
 Except where seeming goes for next to naught ! 
 My Helen ! thou art happy now ! 
 
 Hele7i. I am ! 
 
 Walsingham, And I, that scarce deserve my happiness 
 But what shall make me misbeliever hence ? 
 How could I doubt thee ! Strong appearances 
 By stronger vouchers back'd, it was, that made me. 
 But that detected now — and these explain'd — 
 Thy virtue rises like a pyramid 
 I wonder aught could hide I — A life of trust 
 Shall for a season of misgiving pay thee ! 
 Yet more I have to say — of that anon — 
 For guests are here you thought not of before, 
 On whom your feast that waits for us depends — 
 Marr'd, if disrelish'd, — made, if they're content ! 
 
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