'Tis Pity She's a Whore/Act I Scene I
'Tis Pitty Shee's a Whoore
[ACTUS PRIMUS. SCENA PRIMA.
Friar Bonaventura's cell.]
Enter Fryar and Giovanni.
Fryar. Dispute no more in this; for know, young man,These are no schoole-points; nice philosophyMay tolerate unlikely arguments,But heaven admits no jest; wits that presum'd5On wit too much,—by striving how to proveThere was no God,—with foolish grounds of artDiscover'd first the neerest way to hell,And fild the world with develish atheisme:Such questions, youth, are fond; for[1] better 'tis10To blesse the sunne then reason why it shines;Yet hee thou talk'st of is above the sun.No more; I may not heare it. Giovanni.Gentle father,To you I have unclasp't my burthened soule,Empty'd the store-house of my thoughts and heart, 15Made my selfe poore of secrets; have not leftAnother word untold, which hath not spokeAll what I ever durst or thinke or know;And yet is here the comfort I shall have,Must I not doe what all men else may,—love? Fry. Yes, you may love, faire sonne.20 Gio.Must I not praiseThat beauty which, if fram'd a new, the godsWould make a god of, if they had it there,And kneele to it, as I doe kneele to them? Fry. Why, foolish madman,— Gio.Shall a peevish sound,25A customary forme, from man to man,Of brother and of sister, be a barreTwixt my perpetuall happinesse and mee?Say that we had one father, say one wombe—Curse to my joyes—gave both us life and birth;30Are wee not therefore each to other boundSo much the more by nature, by the linksOf blood, of reason,—nay, if you will hav't,—Even of religion, to be ever one,One soule, one flesh, one love, one heart, one all?35 Fry. Have done, unhappy youth, for thou art lost. Gio. Shall, then, for that I am her brother borne,My joyes be ever banisht from her bed? No, father; in your eyes I see the changeOf pitty and compassion; from your age,40As from a sacred oracle, distillsThe life of counsell: tell mee, holy man,What cure shall give me ease in these extreames. Fry. Repentance, sonne, and sorrow for this sinne:For thou hast mov'd a Majesty above45With thy un-raunged almost blasphemy. Gio. O, doe not speake of that, deare confessor! Fry. Art thou, my sonne, that miracle of witWho once, within these three moneths, wert esteem'dA wonder of thine age throughout Bononia?50How did the University applaudThy goverment, behaviour, learning, speech,Sweetnesse, and all that could make up a man!I was proud of my tutellage, and choseRather to leave my bookes then part with thee;55I did so: but the fruites of all my hopesAre lost in thee, as thou art in thy self.O, Giovanni! hast thou left the schoolesOf knowledge to converse with lust and death?For death waites on thy lust. Looke through the world,60And thou shalt see a thousand faces shineMore glorious then this idoll thou ador'st: Leave her, and take thy choyce, 'tis much lesse sinne;Though in such games as those, they lose that winne. Gio. It were more ease to stop the ocean65From floates and ebbs then to disswade my vowes. Fry. Then I have done, and in thy wilfull flamesAlready see thy ruine; heaven is just,Yet heare my counsell. Gio.As a voyce of life. Fry. Hye to thy fathers house, there locke thee fast70Alone within thy chamber, then fall downeOn both thy knees, and grovell on the ground:Cry to thy heart, wash every word thou utter'stIn teares,—and if't bee possible,—of blood:Begge heaven to cleanse the leprosie of lust75That rots thy soule, acknowledge what thou art,A wretch, a worme, a nothing: weepe, sigh, prayThree times a day and three times every night:For seven dayes space doe this; then if thou find'stNo change in thy desires, returne to me:80I'le thinke on remedy. Pray for thy selfeAt home, whil'st I pray for thee here. Away!My blessing with thee. Wee have neede to pray! Gio. All this I'le doe, to free mee from the rodOf vengeance; else I'le sweare my fate's my god.Exeunt.
- ↑ 9 for. G-D, far.