Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, Vol. 01 of 10: the Custom of the Country

Rut. What fortune? I have liv'd this thirty years, And run through all these follies you call fortunes, Yet never fixt on any good and constant, But what I made myself: why should I grieve then At that I may mould any way?

Arn. You are wide still.

Rut. You love a Gentlewoman, a young handsom woman, I have lov'd a thosand, not so few.

Arn. You are dispos'd.

Rut. You hope to Marry her; 'tis a lawful calling And prettily esteem'd of, but take heed then, Take heed dear Brother of a stranger fortune Than e're you felt yet; fortune my foe is a friend to it.

Arn. 'Tis true I love, dearly, and truly love, A noble, vertuous, and most beauteous Maid, And am belov'd again.

Rut. That's too much o' Conscience, To love all these would run me out o' my wits.

Arn. Prethee give ear, I am to Marry her.

Rut. Dispatch it then, and I'le go call the Piper.

Arn. But O the wicked Custom of this Country, The barbarous, most inhumane, damned Custom.

Rut. 'Tis true, to marry is a Custom I' the world; for look you Brother, Wou'd any man stand plucking for the Ace of Harts, With one pack of Cards all dayes on's life?

Arn. You do not Or else you purpose not to understand me.

Rut. Proceed, I will give ear.

Arn. They have a Custom In this most beastly Country, out upon't.

Rut. Let's hear it first.

Arn. That when a Maid is contracted And ready for the tye o'th' Church, the Governour, He that commands in chief, must have her Maiden-head, Or Ransom it for mony at his pleasure.

Rut. How might a man atchieve that place? a rare Custom! An admirable rare Custom: and none excepted?

Arn. None, none.

Rut. The rarer still: how could I lay about me, In this rare Office? are they born to it, or chosen?

Arn. Both equal damnable.

Rut. Me thinks both excellent, Would I were the next heir.

Arn. To this mad fortune Am I now come, my Marriage is proclaim'd, And nothing can redeem me from this mischief.

Rut. She's very young.

Arn. Yes.

Rut. And fair I dare proclaim her, Else mine eyes fail.

Arn. Fair as the bud unblasted.

Rut. I cannot blame him then, if 'twere mine own case, I would not go an Ace less.

Arn. Fye Rutilio, Why do you make your brothers misery Your sport and game?

Rut. There is no pastime like it.

Arn. I look'd for your advice, your timely Counsel, How to avoid this blow, not to be mockt at, And my afflictions jeer'd.

Rut. I tell thee Arnoldo, An thou wert my Father, as thou art but my Brother, My younger Brother too, I must be merry. And where there is a wench yet can, a young wench, A handsome wench, and sooner a good turn too, An I were to be hang'd, thus must I handle it. But you shall see Sir, I can change this habit To do you any service; advise what you please, And see with what Devotion I'le attend it? But yet me thinks, I am taken with this Custom,

[_Enter_ Charino and Zenocia.

And could pretend to th' place.

Arn. Draw off a little; Here comes my Mistress and her Father.

Rut. A dainty wench! Wou'd I might farm his Custom.

Char. My dear Daughter, Now to bethink your self of new advice Will be too late, later this timeless sorrow, No price, nor prayers, can infringe the fate Your beauty hath cast on yo[u], my best Zenocia, Be rul'd by me, a Fathers care directs ye, Look on the Count, look chearfully and sweetly; What though he have the power to possess ye, To pluck your Maiden honour, and then slight ye By Custom unresistible to enjoy you; Yet my sweet Child, so much your youth and goodness, The beauty of your soul, and Saint-like Modesty, Have won upon his mild mind, so much charm'd him, That all power laid aside, what Law allows him, Or sudden fires, kindled from those bright eyes, He sues to be your servant, fairly, nobly For ever to be tyed your faithful Husband: Consider my best child.

Zeno. I have considered.

Char. The blessedness that this breeds too, consider Besides your Fathers Honour, your own peace, The banishment for ever of this Custom, This base and barbarous use, for after once He has found the happiness of holy Marriage, And what it is to grow up with one Beauty, How he will scorn and kick at such an heritage Left him by lust and lewd progenitors. All Virgins too, shall bless your name, shall Saint it, And like so many Pilgrims go to your shrine, When time has turn'd your beauty into ashes, Fill'd with your pious memory.

Zeno. Good Father Hide not that bitter Pill I loath to swallow In such sweet words.

Char. The Count's a handsome Gentleman, And having him, y'are certain of a fortune, A high and noble fortune to attend you: Where if you fling your Love upon this stranger This young Arnoldo, not knowing from what place Or honourable strain of blood he is sprung, you venture All your own sweets, and my long cares to nothing, Nor are you certain of his faith; why may not that Wander as he does, every where?