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THE LADY OF PLEASVRE.

A COMEDIE,

As it was Acted by her Majesties
Servants, at the private
House in _Drury_ Lane.

Written by _James Shirly_.






[Illustration]

_LONDON_,
Printed by _Tho. Cates_, for _Andrew Crooke_,
and _William Cooke_.
1637.




Persons of the Comedy.

_Lord._
_Sir Thomas Bornewell._
_Sir William Sentlove._
_Mr. Alex. Kickshaw._
_Mr. John Littleworth._
_Mr. Hairecut._
_Mr. Fredericke._
Steward to the Lady _Aretina_.
Steward to the Lady _Celestina_.
_Secretary._
_Servants, &c._

_Aretina_, Sir _Thomas Bornwells_ Lady.
_Celestina_, a young Widow.
_Isabella._
_Mariana._
_Madam Decoy._

Scene the Strand.




[Illustration]


TO
THE RIGHT HONORABLE
RICHARD LORD
LOVELACE _of_ Hurley.

My Lord,

I _Cannot want encouragement to present a Poeme to your Lordship,
while you possesse so noble a breast, in which so many seedes of
honour, to the example and glory of your Name obtain'd, before your
yeares a happy maturity. This Comedy fortunate in the Scene, and
one that may challenge a place in the first forme of the Authors
compositions, most humbly addresseth it selfe to your honour, if it
meete your_ _gracious acceptance, and that you repent not to be a
Patron, your Lordshipps will onely crownes the imagination, and for
ever by this favour oblige_,

My Lord
_The most humble Services_
_of your Honourer_,
IAMES SHIRLY.




The Lady of Pleasure.


_The First Act._


_Enter_ Aretina _and her Steward_.

_Stew._ Be patient Madam, you may have your pleasure.

_Are._ Tis that I came to towne for, I wo'd not
Endure againe the countrey conversation,
To be the Lady of sixe shires I the men
So neare the Primitive making, they retaine
A sence of nothing but the earth, their braines
And barren heads standing as much in want
Of plowing as their ground, to heare a fellow
Make himselfe merry and his horse with whisteling
Sellingers round, to observe with what solemnitie
They keepe their Wakes, and throw for pewter Candlestickes,
How they become the Morris, whith whose bells
They ring all into Whitson Ales, and sweate,
Through twenty Scarffes and Napkins, till the Hobbyhorse
Tire, and the maide Marrian dissolv'd to a gelly,
Be kept for spoone meate.

_Ste._ These with your pardon are no Argument
To make the country life appeare so hatefull,
At least to your particular, who enjoy'd
A blessing in that calme; would you be pleasd
To thinke so, and the pleasure of a kingdome,
While your owne will commanded what should move
Delight, your husbands love and power joyned
To give your life more harmony, you liv'd there,
Secure and innocent, beloved of all,
Praisd for your hospitality, and praid for,
You might be envied, but malice knew
Not where you dwelt, I wo'd not prophecy
But leave to your owne apprehension
What may succeede your change.

_Are._ You doe imagine,
No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted,
London past all defence, your Master should
Doe well to send you backe into the countrie,
With title of Superintendent Baylie.

_Ste._ How Madam.

_Are._ Even so sir.

_Ste._ I am a Gentleman though now your servant.

_Are._ A country-gentleman,
By your affection to converse with stuble,
His tenants will advance your wit, and plumpe it so
With beefe and bag-pudding.

_Ste._ You may say your pleasure,
It becomes not me dispute.

_Are._ Complaine to the Lord of the soyle your master.

_Ste._ Y'are a woman of an ungovern'd passion, and I pitty you.

_Enter Sir Thomas Bornwell._

_Bor._ How how? Whats the matter?

_Ste._ Nothing Sir.

_Bor._ Angry sweeteheart?

_Are._ I am angry with my selfe,
To be so miserably restrained in things,
Wherein it doth concern your love and honour
To see me satisfied.

_Bor._ In what _Aretina_?
Dost thou accuse me