LADY. Can you assure me, sir, Whether my father spake this, or some spirit Of evil-wishing, that has for a time Hir'd his voice of him to beguile me that way, Presuming on his power and my obedience? I'd gladly know, that I might frame an answer According to the speaker.
HEL. How now, baggage! Am I in question with thee? Does thy scorn cast So thick an ignorance before thine eyes, That I'm forgotten too? Who is't speaks to thee, But I, thy father?
_Enter_ GOVIANUS, _discharging a pistol_.
GOV. The more monstrous he! [HELVETIUS _falls_. Art down but with the bare voice of my fury? Up, ancient sinner! thou'rt but mock'd with death, I miss'd thee purposely, thank this dear creature. O, hadst thou been anything beside her father, I'd made a fearful reparation[461] on thee; I would have sent thy soul to a darker prison Than any made of clay, and thy dead body As a token to the lustful king thy master. Art thou struck down so soon with the short sound Of this small earthly instrument, and dost thou So little fear the eternal noise of hell? What's she? Does she not bear thy daughter's name? How stirs thy blood, sir? Is there a dead feeling Of all things fatherly and honest in thee? Say, thou couldst be content, for greatness' sake, To end the last act of thy life in pandrism, Must it needs follow that unmanly sin Can work upon the weakness of no woman But her, whose name and honour natural love Bids thee preserve more charily than eyesight, Health, or thy senses? Can promotion's thirst Make such a father? turn a grave old lord To a white-headed squire? make him so base To buy his honours with his daughter's soul And the perpetual shaming of his blood? Hast thou the leisure, thou forgetful man, To think upon advancement at these years? What wouldst thou do with greatness? dost thou hope To fray death with't? or hast thou that conceit, That honour will restore thy youth again? Thou art but mock'd, old fellow! 'tis not so; Thy hopes abuse thee, follow thine own business. And list not to the syren of the world. Alas! thou hadst more need kneel at an altar Than to a chair of state, And search thy conscience for thy sins of youth: That's work enough for age, it needs no greater. Thou'rt call'd within, thy very eyes look inward, To teach thy thoughts the way; and thy affections But miserable notes that conscience sings, That cannot truly pray for flattering kings.