Pucel. Decrepit Miser, base ignoble Wretch, I am am descended of a gentler blood. Thou art no Father, nor no Friend of mine

Shep. Out, out: My Lords, and please you, 'tis not so I did beget her, all the Parish knowes: Her Mother liueth yet, can testifie She was the first fruite of my Bach'ler-ship

War. Gracelesse, wilt thou deny thy Parentage? Yorke. This argues what her kinde of life hath beene, Wicked and vile, and so her death concludes

Shep. Fye Ione, that thou wilt be so obstacle: God knowes, thou art a collop of my flesh, And for thy sake haue I shed many a teare: Deny me not, I prythee, gentle Ione

Pucell. Pezant auant. You haue suborn'd this man Of purpose, to obscure my Noble birth

Shep. 'Tis true, I gaue a Noble to the Priest, The morne that I was wedded to her mother. Kneele downe and take my blessing, good my Gyrle. Wilt thou not stoope? Now cursed be the time Of thy natiuitie: I would the Milke Thy mother gaue thee when thou suck'st her brest, Had bin a little Rats-bane for thy sake. Or else, when thou didst keepe my Lambes a-field, I wish some rauenous Wolfe had eaten thee. Doest thou deny thy Father, cursed Drab? O burne her, burne her, hanging is too good. Enter.

Yorke. Take her away, for she hath liu'd too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities

Puc. First let me tell you whom you haue condemn'd; Not me, begotten of a Shepheard Swaine, But issued from the Progeny of Kings. Vertuous and Holy, chosen from aboue, By inspiration of Celestiall Grace, To worke exceeding myracles on earth. I neuer had to do with wicked Spirits. But you that are polluted with your lustes, Stain'd with the guiltlesse blood of Innocents, Corrupt and tainted with a thousand Vices: Because you want the grace that others haue, You iudge it straight a thing impossible To compasse Wonders, but by helpe of diuels. No misconceyued, Ione of Aire hath beene A Virgin from her tender infancie, Chaste, and immaculate in very thought, Whose Maiden-blood thus rigorously effus'd, Will cry for Vengeance, at the Gates of Heauen

Yorke. I, I: away with her to execution

War. And hearke ye sirs: because she is a Maide, Spare for no Faggots, let there be enow: Place barrelles of pitch vpon the fatall stake, That so her torture may be shortned

Puc. Will nothing turne your vnrelenting hearts? Then Ione discouer thine infirmity, That warranteth by Law, to be thy priuiledge. I am with childe ye bloody Homicides: Murther not then the Fruite within my Wombe, Although ye hale me to a violent death

Yor. Now heauen forfend, the holy Maid with child? War. The greatest miracle that ere ye wrought. Is all your strict precisenesse come to this? Yorke. She and the Dolphin haue bin iugling, I did imagine what would be her refuge

War. Well go too, we'll haue no Bastards liue, Especially since Charles must Father it

Puc. You are deceyu'd, my childe is none of his, It was Alanson that inioy'd my loue

Yorke. Alanson that notorious Macheuile? It dyes, and if it had a thousand liues

Puc. Oh giue me leaue, I haue deluded you, 'Twas neyther Charles, nor yet the Duke I nam'd, But Reignier King of Naples that preuayl'd

War. A married man, that's most intollerable

Yor. Why here's a Gyrle: I think she knowes not wel (There were so many) whom she may accuse

War. It's signe she hath beene liberall and free

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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