Further than penitent tears have power to quench. Gen. I would see some of them.

Wife. You behold them now

(If you look on me with charitable eyes),
Tinctur'd in blood, blood issuing from the heart.
Sir, I am sorry; when I look towards heaven,
I beg a gracious pardon; when on you,
Methinks your native goodness should not be
Less pitiful than they: 'gainst both I have err'd ;
From both I beg atonement.

Gen. May I presume 't ?

Wife. I kneel to both your mercies.

Gen. Knowest thou what a witch is?
Wife. Alas! none better,

Ör, after mature recollection, can be
More sad to think on 't.

Gen. Tell me, are those tears

As full of true-hearted penitence,
As mine of sorrow to behold what state,
What desperate state, th' art fallen in ?
Wife. Sir, they are.

Gen. Rise, and as I do, so Heaven pardon me ;
We all offend, but from such falling off,
Defend us! Well, I do remember, wife,
When I first took thee, 'twas for good and bad;
O, change thy bad to good, that I may keep thee,
As then we pass'd our faiths, till death us sever.
O woman, thou had'st need to weep thyself
Into a fountain, such a penitent spring
As may have power to quench invisible flames,
In which my eyes shall aid; too little all.1

Frank Hospitality.

Gentlemen, welcome, 'tis a word I use;

From me expect no further compliment :

1 Compare this with a story in the Arabian Nights, where a man discovers his wife to be a goul.

Nor do I name it often at one meeting;
Once spoke, to those that understand me best,
And know I always purpose as I speak,
Hath ever yet sufficed: so let it you;
Nor do I love that common phrase of guests,
As we make bold, or, we are troublesome,
We take you unprovided, and the like;
I know you understanding gentlemen,
And knowing me, cannot persuade yourselves
With me you
shall be troublesome or bold,-

Nor shall you find,

am sorry

Being set to meat, that I 'll excuse your fare,
Or say I
it falls out so poor;
And had I known your coming we'd have had
Such things and such, nor blame my cook, to say
This dish or that hath not been sauced with care:
Words, fitting best a common hostess' mouth,
When there's perhaps some just cause of dislike,
But not the table of a gentleman.

FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM
THE SAME.

A Household Bewitched.

My uncle's late become the sole discourse
Of all the country; for of a man reputed
For his discretion and known gravity,
As master of a govern'd family,

A House (as if the ridge were fix'd below,
And groundsills lifted up to make the roof,)
All now 's turn'd topsy-turvy,

In such a retrograde and preposterous way
As seldom hath been heard of; I think never.

The good man in all obedience kneels unto his son;
He with an austere brow commands his father,

The wife presumes not in the daughter's sight
Without a prepared curtsy. The girl, she
Expects it as a duty; chides her mother,

Who quakes and trembles at each word she speaks ;
And what's as strange, the maid—she domineers
O'er her young mistress, who is aw'd by her.
The son, to whom the father creeps and bends,
Stands in as much fear of the groom his man.
All in such rare disorder, that in some
As it breeds pity, and in others wonder,
So in the most part laughter. It is thought
This comes by Witchcraft.

FORTUNE BY LAND AND SEA.
BY T. HEYWOOD AND W. ROWLEY, 1655.

Old FOREST forbids his Son to sup with some riotous gallants; who goes notwithstanding, and is slain.

SCENE. A Tavern.

RAINSWORTH, FOSTER, GOODWIN. To them enters FRANK FOREST.

Rain. Now, Frank, how stole you from your father's arms?

You have been schooled, no doubt: fie, fie upon 't.
Ere I would live in such base servitude

To an old greybeard, 'sfoot, I'd hang myself.
A man cannot be merry and drink drunk,
But he must be control'd by gravity.

Frank. O pardon him! you know he is my father,
And what he doth is but paternal love.
Though I be wild, I am not so past reason
His person to despise, though I his counsel

Cannot severely follow. Rain. 'Sfoot, he's a fool. Frank. A fool! y're aFost. Nay, gentlemen

Frank. Yet I restrain my tongue,

Hoping you speak out of some spleenful rashness,
And no delib'rate malice; and it may be
You are sorry that a word so unreverent,
To wrong so good an aged gentleman,
Should pass you unawares.

Rain. Sorry, sir boy! you will not take exceptions? Frank. Not against you with willingness, whom I have loved so long. Yet you might think me a most dutiless and ungracious son, to give smooth countenance unto my father's wrong. Come, I dare swear 'twas not your malice and I take it so.

Let's frame some other talk. Hear, gentle

men

Rain. But hear me, boy! it seems, sir, you are

angry

Frank. Not thoroughly yet—

Rain. Then what would anger

Frank. Nothing from you.

thee?

Rain. Of all things under heaven

What wouldst thou loathest have me do?

Frank. I would

Not have you wrong my reverent father, and

I hope you will not.

Rain. Thy father 's an old dotard.

Frank. I would not brook this at a monarch's hand,

Much less at thine.

Rain. Ay, boy! then take you that.

Frank. Oh! I am slain.

Good. Sweet coz, what have you done!

[They fight.

Shift for

[Exeunt.

;

Enter Two Drawers.

1st Dr. Stay the gentlemen; they have killed a man. Oh, sweet Mr Francis! One run to his father's. 2nd Dr. Hark, hark! I hear his father's voice below. Ten to one he is come to fetch him home

to supper and now he may carry him home to his grave.

Enter the HOST, OLD FOREST, and SUSAN his daughter. Host. You must take comfort, sir.

For. Is he dead, is he dead, girl?

Sus. Oh, dead, sir: Frank is dead.

For. Alas, alas! my boy! I have not the heart
To look upon his wide and gaping wounds.
Pray tell me, sir, does this appear to you
Fearful and pitiful-to you that are

A stranger to my dead boy?

Host. How can it otherwise?

For. Oh, me, most wretched of all wretched men ! If to a stranger his warm bleeding wounds Appear so grisly and so lamentable,

How will they seem to me, who am his father? Will they not hale my eyebrows from their rounds, And with an everlasting blindness strike them? Sus. O, sir, look here!

For. Dost long to have me blind?

Then I'll behold them, since I know thy mind. Oh, me! Is this my son that doth so senseless lie, And swims in blood? my soul with his shall fly Unto the land of rest. Behold I crave,

Being kill'd with grief, we both may have one

grave.

Sus. Alas, my father's dead too! gentle sir,

Help to retire his spirits, over-travailed

With age and sorrow.

Host. Mr Forest!