A field in the country
Enter Shamont.
SHAMONT
This is a beautiful life now, privacy
The sweetness and the benefit of essence.
I see there is no man but may make his paradise,
And it is nothing but his love and dotage
Upon the world’s foul joys that keeps him out on’t,
For he that lives retir’d in mind and spirit
Is still in paradise, and has his innocence,
Partly allow’d for his companion too,
As much as stands with justice. Here no eyes
Shoot their sharp pointed scorns upon my shame;
They know no terms of reputation here,
No punctual limits, or precise dimensions:
Plain downright honesty is all the beauty
And elegancy of life found amongst shepherds,
For knowing nothing nicely or desiring it
Quits many a vexation from the mind,
With which our quainter knowledge does abuse us.
The name of envy is a stranger here,
That dries men’s bloods abroad, robs health and rest;
Why, here’s no such fury thought on, no, nor falsehood,
That brotherly disease, fellow-like devil,
That plays within our bosom and betrays us.
Enter First Gentleman [La Nove].
[LA NOVE]
Oh, are you here?
SHAMONT
La Nove, ’tis strange to see thee.
[LA NOVE]
I ha’ rid one horse to death to find you out, sir.
SHAMONT
I am not to be found of any man
That saw my shame, nor seen long.
[LA NOVE]
Good, your attention:
You ought to be seen now and found out, sir,
If ever you desire before your ending
To perform one good office, nay, a dear one;
Man’s time can hardly match it.
SHAMONT
Be’t as precious
As reputation, if it come from court
I will not hear on’t.
[LA NOVE]
You must hear of this, sir.
SHAMONT
Must?
[LA NOVE]
You shall hear it.
SHAMONT
I love thee, that thou’lt die.
[LA NOVE]
‘Twere nobler in me
Than in you living: you will live a murderer
If you deny this office.
SHAMONT
Ev’n to death, sir.
[LA NOVE]
Why, then you’ll kill your brother.
SHAMONT
How!
[LA NOVE]
Your brother, sir:
Bear witness, heaven, this man destroys his brother
When he may save him, his least breath may save him.
Can there be wilfuller destruction?
He was forc’d to take a most unmanly wrong,
Above the suff’ring virtue of a soldier,
Has kill’d his injurer, a work of honour,
For which, unless you save him, he dies speedily.
My conscience is discharg’d; I’m but a friend:
A brother should go forward where I end.
Exit.
SHAMONT
Dies?
Say he be naught, that’s nothing to my goodness,
Which ought to shine through use, or else it loses
The glorious name ’tis known by: he’s my brother;
Yet peace is above blood. Let him go, ay.
But where’s the nobleness of affection then?
That must be car’d for too, or I’m imperfect:
The same blood that stood up in wrath against him
Now in his misery runs all to pity.
I’d rather die than speak one syllable
To save myself, but living as I am,
There’s no avoiding on’t: the world’s humanity
Expects it hourly from me. Curse of fortune,
I took my leave so well too. Let him die,
’Tis but a brother lost; so pleasingly
And swiftly I came off, ‘twere more than irksomeness
To tread that path again, and I shall never
Depart so handsomely. But then where’s posterity?
The consummation of our house and name?
I’m torn in pieces betwixt love and shame.
Exit.