Collaborative play writing/Cardenio/Cardenio/Act 1

Act 1. Scene I. The ducal palace

Enter the duke of Osuna and Rodrigo

Rodrigo. My gracious father, this unwonted strain

Visits my heart with sadness.

Osuna. Why, my son?

Making my death familiar to my tongue

Digs not my grave one jot before the date.

I've worn the garland of my honours long,

And would not leave it withered to thy brow,

But flourishing and green; worthy the man,

Who, with my dukedoms, heirs my better glories.

Rodrigo. This praise, which is my pride, spreads me with blushes.

Osuna. Think not, that I can flatter thee, my Rodrigo;

Or let the scale of love o'er-poize my judgment.

Like a fair glass of retrospection, thou

Reflect'st the virtues of my early youth,

Making my old blood mend its pace with transport:

While fond Fernando, thy irregular brother,

Sets the large credit of his name at stake,

A truant to my wishes, and his birth.

His taints of wildness hurt our nicer honour,

And call for swift reclaim.

Rodrigo. I trust, my brother

Will, by the vantage of his cooler wisdom,

E'er-while redeem the hot escapes of youth,

And court opinion with a golden conduct.

Osuna. Be thou a prophet in that kind suggestion!

But I, by fears weighing his unweighed course,

Interpret for the future from the past.

And strange misgivings, why he hath of late

By importunity, and strained petition,

Wrested our leave of absence from the court,

Awake suspicion. Thou art inward with him;

And, haply, from the bosomed trust can'st shape

Some formal cause to qualify my doubts.

Rodrigo. Why he hath pressed this absence, sir, I know not;

But have his letters of a modern date,

Wherein by Cardenio, good Camillo's son

(Who, as he says, shall follow hard upon;

And whom I with the growing hour expect)

He doth sollicit the return of gold

To purchase certain horse, that like him well.

This Cardenio he encountered first in France,

And lovingly commends him to my favour;

Wishing, I would detain him some few days,

To know the value of his well-placed trust.

Osuna. O, do it, Rodrigo; and assay to mould him

An honest spy upon thy brother's riots.

Make us acquainted when the youth arrives;

We'll see this Cardenio, and he shall from us

Receive the secret loan his friend requires.

Bring him to court.

Exeunt Osuna and Rodrigo

Act 1. Scene 2. Prospect of a village at a distance

Enter Camillo with a letter

Camillo. How comes the duke to take such notice of my son, that he must needs have him in court, and I must send him upon the view of his letter. Horsemanship! What horsemanship has Cardenio? I think, he can no more but gallop a hackney, unless he practised riding in France. It may be, he did so; for he was there a good continuance. But I have not heard him speak much of his horsemanship. That's no matter: if he be not a good horseman, all's one in such a case, he must bear. Princes are absolute; they may do what they will in anything, save what they cannot do.

Enter Cardenio

O, come on, sir; read this paper: no more ado, but read it:  it must not be answered by my hand, nor yours, but, in gross, by your person; your sole person. Read aloud.

Cardenio. 'Please you, to let me first o'erlook it, sir.

Camillo. I was this other day in a spleen against your new suits: I do now think, some fate was the taylour that hath fitted them: for, this hour, they are for the palace of the duke. - Your father's house is too dusty.

Cardenio. (aside

Hem!- to court? Which is the better, to serve a mistress, or a duke? I am sued to be his slave, and I sue to be Luscinda's.

Camillo. You shall find your horsemanship much praised there. Are you so good a horseman?

Cardenio. I have been,

E'er now, commended for my seat, or mocked.

Camillo. Take one commendation with another, every third's a mock.--Affect not therefore to be praised. Here's a deal of command and entreaty mixt; there's no denying; you must go, peremptorily he inforces that.

Cardenio. (aside

What fortune soever my going shall encounter, cannot be good fortune; What I part withal unseasons any other goodness.

Camillo. You must needs go; he rather conjures, than importunes.

Cardenio. (aside

No moving of my love-suit to him now?

Camillo. Great fortunes have grown out of less grounds.

Cardenio. (aside

What may her father think of me, who expects to be sollicited this very night?

Camillo. Those scattered pieces of virtue, which are in him, the court will solder together, varnish, and rectify.

Cardenio. (aside

He will surely think I deal too slightly, or unmannerly, or foolishly, indeed; nay, dishonestly; to bear him in hand with my father's consent, who yet hath not been touched with so much as a request to it.

Camillo. Well, sir, have you read it over?

Cardenio. Yes, sir.

Camillo. And considered it?

Cardenio. As I can.

Camillo. If you are courted by good fortune, you must go.

Cardenio. So it please you, sir.

Camillo. By any means, and tomorrow: Is it not there the limit of his request?

Cardenio. It is, sir.

Camillo. I must bethink me of some necessaries, without which you might be unfurnished: And my supplies shall at all convenience follow You. Come to my closet by and by. I would there speak with you.

Exit Camillo

Cardenio. I do not see that fervour in the maid,

Which youth and love should kindle. She consents,

As 'twere to feed without an appetite;

Tells me, she is content; and plays the coy one,

Like those that subtly make their words their ward,

Keeping address at distance. This affection

Is such a feigned one, as will break untouched;

Die frosty, e'er it can be thawed; while mine,

Like to a clime beneath Hyperion's eye,

Burns with one constant heat. I'll strait go to her;

Pray her to regard my honour: but she greets me.-

Enter Luscinda

See, how her beauty doth inrich the place!

O, add the music of thy charming tongue,

Sweet as the lark that wakens up the morn,

And make me think it paradise indeed.

I was about to seek thee, Luscinda,

And chide thy coldness, love.

Luscinda. What says your father?

Cardenio. I have not moved him yet.

Luscinda. Then do not, Cardenio.

Cardenio. Not move him? Was it not your own command,

That his consent should ratify our loves?

Luscinda. Perhaps it was: but now I've changed my mind.

You purchase at too dear a rate, that puts you

To woo me and your father, too. Besides,

As he, perchance, may say, you shall not have me;

You, who are so obedient, must discharge me

Out of your fancy. Then, you know, 'twill prove

My shame and sorrow, meeting such repulse,

To wear the willow in my prime of youth.

Cardenio. Oh! do not rack me with these ill-placed doubts;

Nor think, though age has in my father's breast

Put out love's flame, he therefore has not eyes,

Or is in judgment blind. You wrong your beauties,

Venus will frown if you disprize her gifts,

That have a face would make a frozen hermit

Leap from his cell, and burn his beads to kiss it;

Eyes, that are nothing but continual births

Of new desires in those that view their beams.

You cannot have a cause to doubt.

Luscinda. Why, Cardenio?

When you that dare not chuse without your father,

And, where you love, you dare not vouch it; must not,

Though you have eyes, see with 'em- can I, think you,

Somewhat, perhaps, infected with your suit,

Sit down content to say, you would, but dare not?

Cardenio. Urge not suspicions of what cannot be;

You deal unkindly; misbecomingly,

I'm loth to say: For all that waits on you,

Is graced, and graces. - No impediment

Shall bar my wishes, but such grave delays

As reason presses patience with; which blunt not,

But rather whet our loves. Be patient, sweet.

Luscinda. Patient! What else? My flames are in the flint.

Haply, to lose a husband I may weep;

Never, to get one: when I cry for bondage,

Let freedom quit me.

Cardenio. From what a spirit comes this?

I now perceive too plain, you care not for me.

Duke, I obey thy summons, be its tenour

Whate'er it will: If war, I come thy souldier:

Or if to waste my silken hours at court,

The slave of fashion, I with willing soul

Embrace the lazy banishment for life;

Since Luscinda has pronounced my doom.

Luscinda. What do you mean? Why talk you of the duke?

Wherefore of war, or court, or banishment?

Cardenio. How this new note is grown of me, I know not;

But the duke writes for me. Coming to move

My father in our business, I did find him

Reading this letter; whose contents require

My instant service, and repair to court.

Luscinda. Now I perceive the birth of these delays;

Why Luscinda was not worth your suit.

Repair to court? Ay, there you shall, perhaps,

(Rather, past doubt) behold some choicer beauty,

Rich in her charms, trained to the arts of soothing,

Shall prompt you to a spirit of hardiness,

To say, So please you, father, I have chosen

This mistress for my own.-

Cardenio. Still you mistake me:

Ever your servant I profess myself;

And will not blot me with a change, for all

That sea and land inherit.

Luscinda. But when go you?

Cardenio. Tomorrow, love; so runs the duke's command;

Stinting our farewell-kisses, cutting off

The forms of parting, and the interchange

Of thousand precious vows, with haste too rude.

Lovers have things of moment to debate,

More than a prince, or dreaming statesman, know:

Such ceremonies wait on Cupid's throne.

Why heaved that sigh?

Luscinda. O Cardenio, let me whisper

What, but for parting, I should blush to tell thee:

My heart beats thick with fears, lest the gay scene,

The splendors of a court, should from thy breast

Banish my image, kill my interest in thee,

And I be left, the scoff of maids, to drop

A widow's tear for thy departed faith.

Cardenio. O let assurance, strong as words can bind,

Tell thy pleased soul, I will be wond'rous faithful;

True, as the sun is to his race of light,

As shade to darkness, as desire to beauty:

And when I swerve, let wretchedness o'ertake me,

Great as e'er falshood met, or change can merit.

Luscinda. Enough. I'm satisfied: and will remain

Yours, with a firm and untired constancy.

Make not your absence long: old men are wavering;

And swayed by int'rest more than promise giv'n.

Should some fresh offer start, when you're away,

I may be prest to something, which must put

My faith, or my obedience, to the rack.

Cardenio. Fear not, but I with swiftest wing of time

Will labour my return. And in my absence,

My noble friend, and now our honoured guest,

The Lord Fernando, will in my behalf

Hang at your father's ear, and with kind hints,

Poured from a friendly tongue, secure my claim;

And play the lover for thy absent Cardenio.

Luscinda. Is there no instance of a friend turned false?

Take heed of that: no love by proxy, Cardenio.

My father.

Enter Bernardo

Bernardo. What, Cardenio, in public? This wooing is too urgent. Is your father yet moved in the suit, who must be the prime unfolder of this business?

Cardenio. I have not yet, indeed, at full possessed

My father, whom it is my service follows;

But only that I have a wife in chase.

Bernardo. Chase! Let chase alone: No matter for that.- You may halt after her, whom you profess to pursue, and catch her too; marry, not unless your father let you slip.- Briefly, I desire you (for she tells me, my instructions shall be both eyes and feet to her) no farther to insist in your requiring, till, as I have formerly said, Camillo make known to me, that his good liking goes along with us; which but once breathed, all is done; till when, the business has no life, and cannot find a beginning.

Cardenio. Sir, I will know his mind, e'er I taste sleep:

At morn, you shall be learned in his desire.

I take my leave.- O virtuous Luscinda,

Repose, sweet as thy beauties, seal thy eyes;

Once more, adieu. I have thy promise, love;

Remember, and be faithful.

Exit Cardenio

Bernardo. His father is as unsettled, as he is wayward, in his disposition. If I thought young Cardenio's temper were not mended by the metal of his mother, I should be something crazy in giving my consent to this match. And, to tell you true, if my eyes might be the directors to your mind, I could in this town look upon twenty men of more delicate choice. I speak not This altogether to unbend your affections to him: But the meaning of what I say is, that you set such price upon yourself to him, as many, and much his betters, would buy you at; (and reckon those virtues in you at the rate of their scarcity) to which if he come not up, you remain for a better mart.

Luscinda. My obedience, sir, is chained to your advice.

Bernardo. 'Tis well said, and wisely. I fear, your lover is a little folly-tainted; which, shortly after it proves so, you will repent.

Luscinda. Sir, I confess, I approve him of all the men I know; but that approbation is nothing, till seasoned by your consent.

Bernardo. We shall hear soon what his father will do, and so proceed accordingly. I have no great heart to the business, neither will I with any violence oppose it. But leave it to that power which rules in these conjunctions, and there's an end. Come, haste we homeward, girl.

Exeunt Bernardo and Luscinda

Act 1. Scene 3. Before Violante's house

Enter Fernando and Giraldo

Fernando. Bear the lights close: where is the music, sirs?

Giraldo. Coming, my lord.

Fernando. Let 'em not come too near. This maid,

For whom my sighs ride on the night's chill vapour,

Is born most humbly, tho' she be as fair

As nature's richest mould and skill can make her,

Mended with strong imagination.

But what of that? Th'obscureness of her birth

Cannot eclipse the lustre of her eyes,

Which make her all one light.- Strike up,

But touch the strings with a religious softness;

Teach sound to languish through the night's dull ear,

Till melancholy start from her lazy couch,

And carelessness grow convert to attention.

(Giraldo plays music

She drives me into wonder, when I sometimes

Hear her discourse; the court, whereof report,

And guess alone inform her, she will rave at,

As if she there sev'n reigns had slandered time.

Then, when she reasons on her country state,

Health, virtue, plainness, and simplicity,

On beauties true in ttitle, scorning art,

Freedom as well to do, as think, what's good;

My heart grows sick of birth and empty rank,

And I become a villager in wish.

Play on; she sleeps too sound.- Be still, and vanish.

Exit Giraldo

A gleam of day breaks sudden from her window:

O taper, graced by that midnight hand!

Enter Violante above at her window

Violante. Who is't, that wooes at this late hour? What are you?

Fernando. One, who for your dear sake-

Violante. Watches the starless night!

My Lord Fernando, or my ear deceives me.

You've had my answer, and 'tis more than strange

You'll combat these repulses. Good my lord,

Be friend to your own health; and give me leave,

Securing my poor fame, nothing to pity

What pangs you swear you suffer. 'Tis impossible

To plant your choice affections in my shade,

At least, for them to grow there.

Fernando. Why, Violante?

Violante. Alas! Sir, there are reasons numberless

To bar your aims. Be warned to hours more wholesome;

For, these you watch in vain. I have read stories,

(I fear, too true ones) how young lords, like you,

Have thus besung mean windows, rhymed their sufferings

Ev'n to th'abuse of things divine, set up

Plain girls, like me, the idols of their worship,

Then left them to bewail their easy faith,

And stand the world's contempt.

Fernando. Your memory,

Too faithful to the wrongs of few lost maids,

Makes fear too general.

Violante. Let us be homely,

And let us too be chaste, doing you lords no wrong;

But crediting your oaths with such a spirit,

As you profess them: so no party trusted

Shall make a losing bargain. Home, my lord,

What you can say, is most unseasonable; what sing,

Most absonant and harsh. Nay, your perfume,

Which I smell hither, cheers not my sense

Like our field-violet's breath.

Fernando. Why this dismission

Does more invite my staying.

Violante. Men of your temper

Make ev'ry thing their bramble. But I wrong

That which I am preserving, my maid's name,

To hold so long discourse. Your virtues guide you

T'effect some nobler purpose!

Exit Violante

Fernando. Stay, bright maid!

Come back, and leave me with a fairer hope.

She's gone.- Who am I, that am thus contemned?

The second son to a prince?- Yes, well, what then?

Why, your great birth forbids you to descend

To a low alliance: here's is the self-same stuff,

Whereof we dukes are made; but clay more pure!

And take away my title, which is acquired

Not by my self, but thrown by fortune on me,

Or by the merit of some ancestour

Of singular quality, she doth inherit

Deserts t'outweigh me.- I must stoop to gain her,

Throw all my gay comparisons aside,

And turn my proud additions out of service,

Rather than keep them to become my masters.

The dignities we wear, are gifts of pride,

And laughed at by the wise, as mere outside.

Exit Fernando