John Fletcher - The Spanish Curate: A Comedy стр 4.

The bad mans charity.
Oh that I could forget there were a Tye,
In me, upon him! or the relief I seek,
(If given) were bounty in him, and not debt,
Debt of a dear accompt!

Touch not that string,
'Twill but encrease your sorrow: and tame silence,
(The Balm of the oppressed) which hitherto
Hath eas'd your griev'd soul, and preserv'd your fame,
Must be your Surgeon still.

If the contagion
Of my misfortunes had not spread it self
Upon my Son Ascanio, though my wants
Were centupli'd upon my self, I could be patient:
But he is so good, I so miserable,
His pious care, his duty, and obedience,
And all that can be wish'd for from a Son,
Discharg'd to me, and I, barr'd of all means
To return any scruple of the debt
I owe him as a Mother, is a Torment,
Too painfull to be born.

I suffer with you,
In that; yet find in this assurance comfort,
High Heaven ordains (whose purposes cannot alter)

Children that pay obedience to their Parents,
Shall never beg their Bread.

Here comes our joy,
Where has my dearest been?

I have made, Mother,
A fortunate voyage and brought home rich prize,
In a few hours: the owners too contented,
From whom I took it. See here's Gold, good store too,
Nay, pray you take it.

Mens Charities are so cold,
That if I knew not, thou wert made of Goodness,
'Twould breed a jealousie in me by what means,
Thou cam'st by such a sum.

Were it ill got,
I am sure it could not be employed so well,
As to relieve your wants. Some noble friends,
(Rais'd by heavens mercy to me, not my merits)
Bestow'd it on me.

It were a sacriledge
To rob thee of their bounty, since they gave it
To thy use only.
Jac. Buy thee brave Cloathes with it
And fit thee for a fortune, and leave us
To our necessities; why do'st thou weep?

Out of my fear I have offended you;
For had I not, I am sure you are too kind,
Not to accept the offer of my service,
In which I am a gainer; I have heard
My tutor say, of all aereal fowl
The Stork's the Embleme of true pietie,
Because when age hath seiz'd upon her dam,
And made unfit for flight, the gratefull young one
Takes her upon his back, provides her food,
Repaying so her tender care of him,
E're he was fit to fly, by bearing her:
Shall I then that have reason and discourse
That tell me all I can doe is too little,
Be more unnatural than a silly bird?
Or feed or cloath my self superfluously,
And know, nay see you want? holy Saints keep me.

Can I be wretched,
And know my self the Mother to such Goodness?

Come let us drie our eyes, we'll have a feast,
Thanks to our little Steward.

And in him,
Believe that we are rich.

I am sure I am,
While I have power to comfort you, and serve you.

Is it my fault, Don Henrique, or my fate?
What's my offence? I came young to your bed,
I had a fruitfull Mother, and you met me
With equall ardour in your May of blood;
And why then am I barren?

'Tis not in Man
To yield a reason for the will of Heaven,
Which is inscrutable.

To what use serve
Full fortunes, and the meaner sort of blessings,
When that, which is the Crown of all our wishes,
The period of humane happiness,
One only Child that may possess what's ours,
Is cruelly deni'd us?

'Tis the curse
Of great Estates to want those Pledges, which
The poor are happy in: They in a Cottage,
With joy, behold the Models of their youth,
And as their Root decaies, those budding Branches
Sprout forth and flourish, to renew their age;
But this is the beginning, not the end
Of misery to me, that 'gainst my will
(Since Heaven denies us Issue of our own)
Must leave the fruit of all my care and travel
To an unthankfull Brother that insults
On my Calamity.

I will rather choose
A Bastard from the Hospital and adopt him,
And nourish him as mine own.

Such an evasion
(My Violante) is forbid to us;
Happy the Romane State, where it was lawfull,
(If our own Sons were vicious) to choose one
Out of a vertuous Stock, though of poor Parents,
And make him noble. But the laws of Spain,
(Intending to preserve all ancient Houses)
Prevent such free elections; with this, my Brother's
Too well acquainted, and this makes him bold to
Reign o're me, as a Master.

I will fire
The Portion I brought with me, e're he spend
A Royal of it: no Quirck left? no Quiddit
That may defeat him?

Were I but confirmed,
That you would take the means I use with patience,
As I must practise it with my dishonour,
I could lay level with the earth his hopes
That soar above the clouds with expectation
To see me in my grave.
Viol. Effect but this,
And our revenge shall be to us a Son
That shall inherit for us.

Do not repent
When 'tis too late.

I fear not what may fall
He dispossess'd that does usurp on all.

Can any thing but wonder?

Wonder on,
I am as ye see, and, what will follow, Gentlemen?

Why dost thou put on this form? what can this do?
Thou lookest most sillily.

Like a young Clerk,
A half pin'd-puppy that would write for a Royal.
Is this a commanding shape to win a beauty?
To what use, what occasion?

Peace, ye are fools,
More silly than my out-side seems, ye are ignorant;
They that pretend to wonders must weave cunningly.