Wendoll.[1.46] Pursued with horror of a guilty soul, And with the sharp scourge of repentance lashed, I fly from my own shadow. O my stars! What have my parents in their lives deserved, That you should lay this penance on their son? When I but think of Master Frankford’s love, And lay it to my treason, or compare My murdering him for his relieving me, It strikes a terror like a lightning’s flash To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the owl, Ashamed of day, live in these shadowy woods, Afraid of every leaf or murmuring blast, Yet longing to receive some perfect knowledge How he hath dealt with her. [_Sees_ Mistress Frankford.] O my sad fate! Here, and so far from home, and thus attended! O God! I have divorced the truest turtles That ever lived together; and, being divided In several places, make their several moan; She in the fields laments, and he at home. So poets write that Orpheus made the trees And stones to dance to his melodious harp, Meaning the rustic and the barbarous hinds, That had no understanding part in them: So she from these rude carters tears extracts, Making their flinty hearts with grief to rise, And draw down rivers from their rocky eyes. Mistress Frankford. [_To_ Nicholas.] If you return unto your master, say (Though not from me; for I am all unworthy To blast his name so with a strumpet’s tongue) That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead: Nay, you may say too, for my vow is passed, Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. This to your master you may say and swear; For it is writ in Heaven, and decreed here. Nicholas. I’ll say you wept: I’ll swear you made me sad. Why how now, eyes? what now? what’s here to do? I’m gone, or I shall straight turn baby too. Wendoll. I cannot weep, my heart is all on fire: Curst be the fruits of my unchaste desire! Mistress Frankford. Go, break this lute upon my coach’s wheel, As the last music that I e’er shall make; Not as my husband’s gift, but my farewell To all earth’s joy; and so your master tell. Nicholas. If I can for crying. Wendoll. Grief, have done, Or like a madman I shall frantic run. Mistress Frankford. You have beheld the wofullest wretch on earth; A woman made of tears: would you had words To express but what you see! My inward grief No tongue can utter; yet unto your power You may describe my sorrow, and disclose To thy sad master my abundant woes. Nicholas. I’ll do your commendations. Mistress Frankford. Oh no: I dare not so presume; nor to my children: I am disclaimed in both; alas, I am. Oh, never teach them, when they come to speak, To name the name of mother; chide their tongue, If they by chance light on that hated word; Tell them ’tis naught; for, when that word they name, Poor pretty souls! they harp on their own shame.