The Spanish Curate: A Comedy

Francis Beaumont

The Spanish Curate: A Comedy

Persons Represented in the Play

Don Henrique, an uxorious Lord, cruel to his Brother.

Don Jamie, younger Brother to Don Henrique.

Bartolus, a covetous Lawyer Husband to Amaranta.

Leandro, a Gentleman who wantonly loves the Lawyers Wife.

Angelo, } Three Gentlemen Friend[s]

Milanes,} to Leandro.

Arsenio,}

Ascanio, Son to Don Henrique.

Octavio, supposed Husband to Jacintha.

Lopez, the Spanish Curate.

Diego, his Sexton.

Assistant, which we call a Judge.

Algazeirs, whom we call Serjeants.

4 Parishioners.

Apparitor.

Singers.

Servants.

WOMEN.

Violante, supposed Wife to Don Henrique.

Jacintha, formerly contracted to Don Henrique.

Amaranta, Wife to Bartolus.

A Woman Moor, Servant to Amaranta. The Scene Spain.

The principal Actors were,

Joseph Taylor.  } {William Eglestone.

John Lowin.    } {Thomas Polard.

Nicholas Toolie.} {Robert Benfeild.

Actus primus. Scena prima

Enter Angelo, Milanes, and Arsenio.

Arsenio.

Leandro paid all.

Mil.

'Tis his usual custom,And requisite he should: he has now put offThe Funeral black, (your rich heir wears with joy,When he pretends to weep for his dead Father)Your gathering Sires, so long heap muck together,That their kind Sons, to rid them of their care,Wish them in Heaven; or if they take a tasteOf Purgatory by the way, it matters not,Provided they remove hence; what is befalnTo his Father, in the other world, I ask not;I am sure his prayer is heard: would I could use oneFor mine, in the same method.

Ars.

Fie upon thee.This is prophane.

Mil.

Good Doctor, do not school meFor a fault you are not free from: On my lifeWere all Heirs in Corduba, put to their Oaths,They would confess with me, 'tis a sound Tenet:I am sure Leandro do's.

Ars.

He is th'ownerOf a fair Estate.

Mil.

And fairly he deserves it,He's a Royal Fellow: yet observes a meanIn all his courses, careful too on whomHe showers his bounties: he that's liberalTo all alike, may do a good by chance,But never out of Judgment: This invitesThe prime men of the City to frequentAll places he resorts to, and are happyIn his sweet Converse.

Ars.

Don Jamie the BrotherTo the Grandee Don Henrique, appears much takenWith his behaviour.

Mil.

There is something more in't:He needs his Purse, and knows how to make use on't.'Tis now in fashion for your Don, that's poor,To vow all Leagues of friendship with a MerchantThat can supply his wants, and howsoe'reDon Jamie's noble born, his elder BrotherDon Henrique rich, and his Revenues long sinceEncreas'd by marrying with a wealthy HeirCall'd, Madam Vi[o]lante, he yet holdsA hard hand o're Jamie, allowing himA bare annuity only.

Ars.

Yet 'tis saidHe hath no child, and by the Laws of SpainIf he die without issue, Don JamieInherits his Estate.

Mil.

Why that's the reasonOf their so many jarrs: though the young LordBe sick of the elder Brother, and in reasonShould flatter, and observe him, he's of a natureToo bold and fierce, to stoop so, but bears up,Presuming on his hopes.

Ars.

What's the young LadThat all of 'em make so much of?

Mil.

'Tis a sweet one,And the best condition'd youth, I ever saw yet,So humble, and so affable, that he winsThe love of all that know him, and so modest,That (in despight of poverty) he would starveRather than ask a courtesie: He's the SonOf a poor cast-Captain, one Octavio;And She, that once was call'd th'fair Jacinta,Is happy in being his Mother: for his sake,

Enter Jamie, Leandro, and Ascanio.

(Though in their Fortunes faln) they are esteem'd of,And cherish'd by the best. O here they come.I now may spare his Character, but observe him,He'l justifie my report.

Jam.

My good Ascanio,Repair more often to me: above WomenThou ever shalt be welcome.

Asc.

My Lord your favoursMay quickly teach a raw untutour'd YouthTo be both rude and sawcy.

Lean.

You cannot beToo frequent where you are so much desir'd:And give me leave (dear friend) to be your RivalIn part of his affection; I will buy itAt any rate.

Jam.

Stood I but now possess'dOf what my future hope presages to me,I then would make it clear thou hadst a PatronThat would not say but do: yet as I am,Be mine, I'le not receive thee as a servant,But as my Son, (and though I want my self)No Page attending in the Court of SpainShall find a kinder master.

Asc.

I beseech youThat my refusal of so great an offerMay make no ill construction, 'tis not pride(That common vice is far from my condition)That makes you a denyal to receiveA favour I should sue for: nor the fashionWhich the Country follows, in which to be a servantIn those that groan beneath the heavy weightOf poverty, is held an argumentOf a base abject mind, I wish my yearsWere fit to do you service in a natureThat might become a Gentleman (give me leaveTo think my self one) My Father serv'd the KingAs a Captain in the field; and though his fortuneReturn'd him home a poor man, he was richIn Reputation, and wounds fairly taken.Nor am I by his ill success deterr'd,I rather feel a strong desire that sways meTo follow his profession, and if HeavenHath mark'd me out to be a man, how proud,In the service of my Country, should I be,To trail a Pike under your brave command!There, I would follow you as a guide to honour,Though all the horrours of the War made upTo stop my passage.

Jam.

Thou art a hopeful Boy,And it was bravely spoken: For this answer,I love thee more than ever.

Mil.

Pity such seedsOf promising courage should not grow and prosper.

Ang.

What ever his reputed Parents be,He hath a mind that speaks him right and noble.

Lean.

You make him blush; it needs not sweet Ascanio,We may hear praises when they are deserv'd,Our modesty unwounded. By my lifeI would add something to the building upSo fair a mind, and if till you are fitTo bear Arms in the Field, you'l spend some yearsIn Salamanca, I'le supply your studiesWith all conveniences.

Asc.

Your goodness (Signiors)And charitable favours overwhelm me.If I were of your blood, you could not beMore tender of me: what then can I pay(A poor Boy and a stranger) but a heartBound to your service? with what willingnessI would receive (good Sir) your noble offer,Heaven can bear witness for me: but alas,Should I embrace the means to raise my fortunes,I must destroy the lives of my poor Parents(To who[m] I ow my being) they in mePlace all their comforts, and (as if I wereThe light of their dim eyes) are so indulgentThey cannot brook one short dayes absence from me;And (what will hardly win belief) though young,I am their Steward and their Nurse: the bountiesWhich others bestow on me serves to sustain 'em,And to forsake them in their age, in meWere more than Murther.

Enter Henrique.

Aug.

This is a kind of beggingWould make a Broker charitable.

Mil.

Here, (sweet heart)I wish it were more.

Lean.

When this is spent,Seek for supply from me.

Jam.

Thy pietyFor ever be remembred: nay take all,Though 'twere my exhibition to a RoyalFor one whole year.

Asc.

High Heavens reward your goodness.

Hen.

So Sir, is this a slip of your own grafting,You are so prodigal?

Jam.

A slip Sir?

Hen.

Yes,A slip; or call it by the proper name,Your Bastard.

Jam.

You are foul-mouth'd; do not provoke me,I shall forget your Birth if you proceed,And use you, (as your manners do deserve) uncivilly.

Hen.

So brave! pray you give me hearing,Who am I Sir?

Jam.

My elder Brother: OneThat might have been born a fool, and so reputed,But that you had the luck to creep intoThe world a year before me.

Lean.

Be more temperate.

Jam.

I neither can nor will, unless I learn itBy his example: let him use his harshUnsavoury reprehensions upon thoseThat are his Hinds, and not on me. The LandOur Father left to him alone rewards him,For being twelve months elder, let that beForgotten, and let his Parasites rememberOne quality of worth or vertue in himThat may authorize him, to be a censurerOf me, or my manners, and I willAcknowledge him for a Tutor, till then, never.

Hen.

From whom have you your means Sir?

Jam.

From the willOf my dead Father; I am sure I spend notNor give't upon your purse.

Hen.

But will it hold outWithout my help?

Jam.

I am sure it shall, I'le sink else,For sooner I will seek aid from a Whore,Than a courtesie from you.

Hen.

'Tis well; you are proud ofYour new Exchequer, when you have cheated himAnd worn him to the quick, I may be foundIn the List of your acquaintance.

Lean

Pray you holdAnd give me leave (my Lord) to say thus much(And in mine own defence) I am no GullTo be wrought on by perswasion: nor no CowardTo be beaten out of my means, but know to whomAnd why I give or lend, and will do nothingBut what my reason warrants; you may beAs sparing as you please, I must be boldTo make use of my own, without your licence.

Jam.

'Pray thee let him alone, he is not worth thy anger.All that he do's (Leandro) is for my good,I think there's not a Gentleman of Spain,That has a better Steward, than I have of him.

Hen.

Your Steward Sir?

Jam.

Yes, and a provident one:Why, he knows I am given to large expence,And therefore lays up for me: could you believe elseThat he, that sixteen years hath worn the yokeOf barren wedlock, without hope of issue(His Coffers full, his Lands and Vineyards fruitful)Could be so sold to base and sordid thrift,As almost to deny himself, the meansAnd necessaries of life? Alas, he knowsThe Laws of Spain appoint me for his Heir,That all must come to me, if I out-live him,Which sure I must do, by the course of Nature,And the assistance of good Mirth, and Sack,How ever you prove Melancholy.

Hen.

If I live,Thou dearly shalt repent this.

Jam.

When thou art dead,I am sure I shall not.

Mil.

Now they begin to burnLike oppos'd Meteors.

Ars.

Give them line, and way,My life for Don Jamie.

Jam.

Continue stillThe excellent Husband, and joyn Farm to Farm,Suffer no Lordship, that in a clear dayFalls in the prospect of your covetous eyeTo be anothers; forget you are a Grandee;Take use upon use, and cut the throats of HeirsWith cozening Mortgages: rack your poor Tenants,Till they look like so many SkeletonsFor want of Food; and when that Widows curses,The ruines of ancient Families, tears of OrphansHave hurried you to the Devil, ever rememberAll was rak'd up for me (your thankful Brother)That will dance merrily upon your Grave,And perhaps give a double PistoletTo some poor needy Frier, to say a MassTo keep your Ghost from walking.

Hen.

That the LawShould force me to endure this!

Jam.

Verily,When this shall come to pass (as sure it will)If you can find a loop-hole, though in Hell,To look on my behaviour, you shall see meRansack your Iron Chests, and once againPluto's flame-colour'd Daughter shall be freeTo domineer in Taverns, Masques, and RevelsAs she was us'd before she was your Captive.Me thinks the meer conceipt of it, should make youGo home sick, and distemper'd; if it do's,I'le send you a Doctor of mine own, and afterTake order for your Funeral.

Hen.

You have said, Sir,I will not fight with words, but deeds to tame you,Rest confident I will, and thou shalt wishThis day thou hadst been dumb.—

[Exit.

Mil.

You have given him a heat,But with your own distemper.

Jam.

Not a whit,Now he is from mine eye, I can be merry,Forget the cause and him: all plagues go with him,Let's talk of something else: what news is stirring?Nothing to pass the time?

Mil.

'Faith it is saidThat the next Summer will determine muchOf that we long have talk'd of, touching the Wars.

Lean.

What have we to do with them? Let us discourseOf what concerns our selves. 'Tis now in fashionTo have your Gallants set down in a Tavern,What the Arch-Dukes purpose is the next spring, and whatDefence my Lords (the States) prepare: what courseThe Emperour takes against the encroaching Turk,And whether his Moony-standards are design'dFor Persia or Polonia: and all thisThe wiser sort of State-Worms seem to knowBetter than their own affairs: this is discourseFit for the Council it concerns; we are young,And if that I might give the Theme, 'twere betterTo talk of handsome Women.

Mil.

And that's one,Almost as general.

Ars.

Yet none agreeWho are the fairest.

Lean.

Some prefer the French,For their conceited Dressings: some the plumpItalian Bona-Robas, some the StateThat ours observe; and I have heard one swear,(A merry friend of mine) that once in London,He did enjoy the company of a Gamester,(A common Gamester too) that in one nightMet him th' Italian, French, and Spanish wayes,And ended in the Dutch; for to cool her self,She kiss'd him drunk in the morning.

Fam.

We may spareThe travel of our tongues in forraign Nations,When in Corduba, if you dare give creditTo my report (for I have seen her, Gallants)There lives a Woman (of a mean birth too,And meanly match'd) whose all-excelling FormDisdains comparison with any SheThat puts in for a fair one, and though you borrowFrom every Country of the Earth the bestOf those perfections, which the Climat yieldsTo help to make her up, if put in Ballance,This will weigh down the Scale.

Lean.

You talk of wonders.

Jam.

She is indeed a wonder, and so kept,And, as the world deserv'd not to beholdWhat curious Nature made without a pattern,Whose Copy she hath lost too, she's shut up,Sequestred from the world.

Lean.

Who is the ownerOf such a Jem? I am fire'd.

Jam.

One Bartolus,A wrangling Advocate.

Ars.

A knave on Record.

Mil.

I am sure he cheated me of the best partOf my Estate.

Jam.

Some Business calls me hence,(And of importance) which denies me leisureTo give you his full character: In few words(Though rich) he's covetous beyond expression,And to encrease his heap, will dare the Devil,And all the plagues of darkness: and to theseSo jealous, as if you would parallelOld Argus to him, you must multiplyHis Eyes an hundred times: of these none sleep.He that would charm the heaviest lid, must hireA better Mercurie, than Jove made use of:Bless your selves from the thought of him and her,For 'twill be labour lost: So farewel Signiors.—

[Exit.

Ars.

Leandro? in a dream? wake man for shame.

Mil.

Trained into a fools paradise with a taleOf an imagin'd Form.

Lea.

Jamie is noble,And with a forg'd Tale would not wrong his Friend,Nor am I so much fir'd with lust as Envie,That such a churl as Bartolus should reapSo sweet a harvest, half my State to anyTo help me to a share.

Ars.

Tush do not hope forImpossibilities.

Lea.

I must enjoy her,And my prophetique love tells me I shall,Lend me but your assistance.

Ars.

Give it o're.

Mil.

I would not have thee fool'd.Lea. I have strange EnginesFashioning here: and Bartolus on the Anvil,Disswade me not, but help me.

Mil.

Take your fortune,If you come off well, praise your wit; if not,Expect to be the subject of our Laughter.

[Exeunt.

SCENA II

Enter Octavio, and Jacinta.

Jac.

You met Don Henrique?

Oct.

Yes.

Jac.

What comfort bring you?Speak cheerfully: how did my letter workOn his hard temper? I am sure I wrote itSo feelingly, and with the pen of sorrow,That it must force Compunction.

Oct.

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.

Jac.

Is there a JusticeOr thunder (my Octavio) and heNot sunk unto the center?

Oct.

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.

Jac.

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!

Oct.

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

Jac.

If the contagionOf my misfortunes had not spread it selfUpon my Son Ascanio, though my wantsWere 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 meansTo return any scruple of the debtI owe him as a Mother, is a Torment,Too painfull to be born.

Oct.

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

Enter Ascanio.

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

Jac.

Here comes our joy,Where has my dearest been?

Asc.

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.

Jac.

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.

Asc.

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.

Oct.

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

Asc.

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 heardMy tutor say, of all aereal fowlThe Stork's the Embleme of true pietie,Because when age hath seiz'd upon her dam,And made unfit for flight, the gratefull young oneTakes 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 discourseThat 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.

Jac.

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

Oct.

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

Jac.

And in him,Believe that we are rich.

Asc.

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

[Exeunt.

SCENA III

Enter Henrique, and Violante.

Viol.

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 meWith equall ardour in your May of blood;And why then am I barren?

Hen.

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

Viol.

To what use serveFull 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?

Hen.

'Tis the curseOf great Estates to want those Pledges, whichThe poor are happy in: They in a Cottage,With joy, behold the Models of their youth,And as their Root decaies, those budding BranchesSprout forth and flourish, to renew their age;But this is the beginning, not the endOf misery to me, that 'gainst my will(Since Heaven denies us Issue of our own)Must leave the fruit of all my care and travelTo an unthankfull Brother that insultsOn my Calamity.

Viol.

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

Hen.

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 oneOut 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'sToo well acquainted, and this makes him bold toReign o're me, as a Master.

Viol.

I will fireThe Portion I brought with me, e're he spendA Royal of it: no Quirck left? no QuidditThat may defeat him?

Hen.

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 hopesThat soar above the clouds with expectationTo see me in my grave.Viol. Effect but this,And our revenge shall be to us a SonThat shall inherit for us.

Hen.

Do not repentWhen 'tis too late.

Viol.

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

[Exeunt.

Actus Secundus. Scena prima

Enter Leandro, (with a letter writ out) Milanes, and Arsenio.

Mil.

Can any thing but wonder?

Lea.

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

Ars.

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

Mil.

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?

Lean.

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

Ars.

What manner of access can this get? or if gottenWhat credit in her eyes?

Lean.

Will ye but leave me?

Mil.

Me thinks a young man and a handsom Gentleman(But sure thou art lunatick) me thinks a brave manThat would catch cunningly the beams of beauty,And so distribute 'em unto his comfort,Should like himself appear, young, high, and buxom,And in the brightest form.

Lean.

Ye are cozen'd (Gentlemen)Neither do I believe this, nor will follow it,Thus as I am, I will begin my voyage.When you love, lanch it out in silks and velvets,I'le love in Serge, and will outgo your Sattins.To get upon my great horse and appearThe sign of such a man, and trot my measures,Or fiddle out whole frosty nights (my friends)Under the window, while my teeth keep tune,I hold no handsomness. Let me get in,There trot and fiddle where I may have fair play.

Ars.

But how get in?

Lean.

Leave that to me, your patience,I have some toyes here that I dare well trust to:I have smelt a Vicar out, they call him Lopez.You are ne're the nearer now.

Mil.

We do confess it.

Lea.

Weak simple men, this Vicar to this LawyerIs the most inward Damon.

Ars.

What can this do?

Mil.

We know the fellow, and he dwells there.

Lean.

So.

Ars.

A poor, thin thief: he help? he? hang the Vicar,Can reading of an – prefer thee?Thou art dead-sick in love, and hee'l pray for thee.

Lean.

Have patience (Gentlemen) I say this Vicar,This thing I say is all one with the Close Bartolus(For so they call the Lawyer) or his natureWhich I have studied by relation:And make no doubt I shall hit handsomly,Will I work cunningly, and home: understand me.

Enter Lopez, and Diego.

Next I pray leave me, leave me to my fortuneDifficilia pulchra, that's my Motto (Gentlemen)I'le win this Diamond from the rock and wear her,Or—

Mil.

Peace, the Vicar: send ye a full sail, Sir.

Ars.

There's your Confessor, but what shall be your penance?

Lean.

A fools head if I fail, and so forsake me.You shall hear from me daily.

Mil.

We will be ready.

[Exeunt Mil. Ars.

Lop.

Thin world indeed!

Lean.

I'le let him breath and mark him:No man would think a stranger as I amShould reap any great commodity from his pigbelly.

Lop.

Poor stirring for poor Vicars.

Diego.

And poor Sextons.

Lop.

We pray and pray, but to no purpose,Those that enjoy our lands, choak our Devotions.Our poor thin stipends make us arrant dunces.

Diego.

If you live miserably, how shall we do (Master)That are fed only with the sound of prayers?We rise and ring the Bells to get good stomachs,And must be fain to eat the ropes with reverence.

Lop.