The Scornful Lady HTML version

Act IV
Enter Abigal sola.
Abigal. Alas poor Gentlewoman, to what a misery hath Age brought thee: to what a
scurvy Fortune! Thou that hast been a Companion for Noblemen, and at the worst of
those times for Gentlemen: now like a broken Servingman, must beg for favour to those,
that would have crawl'd like Pilgrims to my Chamber but for an Apparition of me. You
that be coming on, make much of fifteen, and so till five and twenty: use your time with
reverence, that your profits may arise: it will not tarry with you, Ecce signum: here was a
face, but time that like a surfeit eats our youth, plague of his iron teeth, and draw 'em
for't, has been a little bolder here than welcome: and now to say the truth, I am fit for no
man. Old men i'th' house of fifty, call me Granum; and when they are drunk, e'ne then,
when Jone and my Lady are all one, not one will do me reason. My little Levite hath
forsaken me, his silver sound of Cittern quite abolish[t], [h]is doleful hymns under my
Chamber window, digested into tedious learning: well fool, you leapt a Haddock when
you left him: he's a clean man, and a good edifier, and twenty nobles is his state de claro,
besides his pigs in posse. To this good Homilist I have been ever stubborn, which God
forgive me for, and mend my manners: and Love, if ever thou hadst care of forty, of such
a piece of lape ground, hear my prayer, and fire his zeal so far forth that my faults in this
renued impression of my love may shew corrected to our gentle reader.
Enter Roger.
See how negligently he passes by me: with what an Equipage Canonical, as though he
had broken the heart of Bellarmine, or added something to the singing Brethren. 'Tis
scorn, I know it, and deserve it, Mr. Roger.
Rog. Fair Gentlewoman, my name is Roger.
Abig. Then gentle Roger?
Rog. Ungentle Abigal.
Abig. Why M'r Roger will you set your wit to a weak womans?
Rog. You are weak indeed: for so the Poet sings.
Abig. I do confess my weakness, sweet Sir Roger.
Rog. Good my Ladies Gentlewoman, or my good Ladies Gentlewoman (this trope is lost
to you now) leave your prating, you have a season of your first mother in ye: and surely
had the Devil been in love, he had been abused too: go Dalilah, you make men fools, and
wear Fig-breeches.