'Tis Pity She's a Whore/Act II Scene V
[SCENA QUINTA—Friar Bonaventura's cell.]
Enter Fryar and Giovanni.
Fryar. Peace, thou hast told a tale whose every wordThreatens eternall slaughter to the soule:I'me sorry I have heard it; would mine earesHad beene one minute deafe, before the houre5That thou cam'st to mee! O young man castaway,By the relligious number[1] of mine order,I day and night have wak't my aged eyesAbove thy strength, to weepe on thy[2] behalfe;But Heaven is angry, and be thou resolv'd10Thou art a man remark't to tast a mischiefe.Looke for't; though it come late, it will come sure. Giovanni. Father, in this you are uncharitable;What I have done I'le prove both fit and good.It is a principall, which you have taught15When I was yet your scholler, that the f[r]ame[3]And composition of the minde doth followThe frame and composition of body[4]:So, where the bodies furniture is beauty, The mindes must needs be vertue; which allowed,20Vertue it selfe is reason but refin'd,And love the quintessence of that: this provesMy sisters beauty being rarely faireIs rarely vertuous; chiefely in her love,And chiefely in that love, her love to me.25If hers to me, then so is mine to her;Since in like causes are effects alike. Fry. O ignorance in knowledge! Long agoe,How often have I warn'd thee this before!Indeede, if we were sure there were no deity,30Nor heaven nor hell, then to be lead aloneBy natures light—as were philosophersOf elder times—might instance some defence.But 'tis not so; then, madman, thou wilt findeThat nature is in heavens positions blind.35 Gio. Your age o're rules you; had you youth like mine,You'd make her love your heaven, and her divine. Fry. Nay, then I see th' art too farre sold to hell:It lies not in the compasse of my prayersTo call thee backe; yet let me counsell thee:40Perswade thy sister to some marriage. Gio. Marriage! why, that's to dambe her; that's to proveHer greedy of variety of lust. Fry. O fearefull! if thou wilt not, give me leaveTo shrive her, lest shee should dye un-absolv'd.45 Fio. At your best leasure, father: then shee'le tell youHow dearely shee doth prize my matchlesse love;Then you will know what pitty 'twere we twoShould have beene sundred from each others armes.View well her face, and in that little round50You may observe a world of variety[5];For colour, lips; for sweet perfumes, her breath;For jewels, eyes; for threds of purest gold,Hayre; for delicious choyce of flowers, cheekes;Wonder in every portion of that throne.55Heare her but speake, and you will sweare the sphæresMake musicke to the cittizens in heaven.But, father, what is else for pleasure fram'd,Least I offend your eares, shall goe un-nam'd. Fry. The more I heare, I pitty thee the more,60That one so excellent should give those partsAll to a second death. What I can doeIs but to pray; and yet I could advise thee,Wouldst thou be rul'd. Gio.In what? Fry.Why, leave her yet: The throne of mercy is above your trespasse;Yet time is left you both—65 Gio.To embrace each other.Else let all time be strucke quite out of number:She is like mee, and I like her, resolv'd. Fry. No more! I'le visit her; this grieves me most,Things being thus, a paire of soules are lost.Exeunt.