The Spanish Curate: A Comedy. Beaumont Francis

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      I must enjoy her,

      And my prophetique love tells me I shall,

      Lend me but your assistance.

      Give it o're.

      I would not have thee fool'd.

      Lea. I have strange Engines

      Fashioning here: and Bartolus on the Anvil,

      Disswade me not, but help me.

      Take your fortune,

      If you come off well, praise your wit; if not,

      Expect to be the subject of our Laughter.

      You met Don Henrique?

      Yes.

      What comfort bring you?

      Speak cheerfully: how did my letter work

      On his hard temper? I am sure I wrote it

      So feelingly, and with the pen of sorrow,

      That it must force Compunction.

      You are cozen'd;

      Can you with one hand prop a falling Tower?

      Or with the other stop the raging main,

      When it breaks in on the usurped shore?

      Or any thing that is impossible?

      And then conclude that there is some way left,

      To move him to compassion.

      Is there a Justice

      Or thunder (my Octavio) and he

      Not sunk unto the center?

      Good Jacinta,

      With your long practised patience bear afflictions,

      And by provoking call not on Heavens anger,

      He did not only scorn to read your letter,

      But (most inhumane as he is) he cursed you,

      Cursed you most bitterly.

      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:

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