free woman; your late husband’s to be married to-morrow.
MIS. W.-CAM. Married! to whom?
KNA. To a French hood, byrlakins,[956] as I understand;
great cheer prepared, and great guests invited; so far I
know.
MIS. W.-CAM. What a cursed wretch was I to pare my nails
to-day! a Friday too; I looked for some mischief.
KNA. Why, I did think this had accorded with your best
liking; you sought for him what he has sought for you, a
separation, and by divorce too.[957]
MIS. W.-CAM. I'll divorce ’em! is he to be married to a
French hood? I'll dress it the English fashion: ne’er a
coach to be had with six horses to strike fire i' the
streets as we go?
KNA. Will you go home then?
MIS. W.-CAM. Good cousin, help me to whet one of my
knives, while I sharp the other;[958] give me a sour
apple to set my teeth a’n edge; I would give five pound
for the paring of my nails again! have you e’er a
bird-spit i' the house? I'll dress one dish to the
wedding.
KNA. This violence hurts yourself the most.
MIS. W.-CAM. I care not who I hurt: O my heart, how it
beats a' both sides! Will you run with me for a wager
into Lombard Street now?
KNA. I'll walk with you, cousin, a sufficient pace; Sib
shall come softly after; I'll bring you thorough
Bearbinder Lane.
MIS. W.-CAM. Bearbinder Lane cannot hold me, I'll the
nearest way over St. Mildred’s church: if I meet any
French hoods by the way, I'll make black patches enow
for the rheum.
[_Exeunt._ MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET _and_
KNAVESBY.
MIS. KNA. So, ’tis to my wish. Master Knavesby,
Help to make peace abroad, here you’ll find wars;
I'll have a divorce too, with locks and bars. [_Exit._
SCENE III.
_A room in_ WATER-CAMLET’S _house_.
_Enter_ GEORGE _and_ MARGARITA.
GEO. Madam, but stay here a little, my master comes
instantly; I heard him say he did owe you a good turn,
and now’s the time to take it; I'll warrant you a sound
reward ere you go.
MAR. Ey tank u _de bon cœur, monsieur_.
_Enter_ WATER-CAMLET.
GEO. Look, he’s here already.—Now would a skilful
navigator take in his sails, for sure there is a storm
towards.[959] [_Aside, and exit._
W.-CAM.. O madam, I perceive in your countenance—
I am beholding[960] to you—all is peace?
MAR. All quiet, goor frendsheep; ey mooch a do, ey
strive wid him; give goor worda for you, no more speak a
de matra; all es undonne, u no more trobla.
_Enter behind_ MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET _and_ KNAVESBY.
W.-CAM. Look, there’s the price of a fair pair of
gloves,
And wear ’em for my sake. [_Gives money._
MIS. W.-CAM. O, O, O! my heart’s broke out of my ribs!
KNA. Nay, a little patience.
MAR. By tank u artely; shall no bestow en gloves, shall
put moosh more to dees, an bestow your shop: regarde
dees stofa, my petticote, u no soosh anodre; shall deal
wid u for moosh; take in your hand.
W.-CAM.. I see it, mistress, ’tis good stuff indeed, It
is a silk rash; I can pattern it.
MIS. W.-CAM. Shall he take up her coats before my face?
O beastly creature! [_Coming forward_] French hood,
French hood, I will make your hair grow thorough![961]
W.-CAM.. My wife return’d!—O, welcome home, sweet
Rachel!
MIS. W.-CAM. I forbid the banes,[962] lecher!—and,
strumpet, thou shalt bear children without noses!
MAR. O, _pardonnez-moi_; by my trat, ey mean u no hurta:
wat u meant by dees?
MIS. W.-CAM. I will have thine eyes out, and thy
bastards shall be as blind as puppies!
W.-CAM.. Sweet Rachel!—Good cousin, help to pacify.
MIS. W.-CAM. I forbid the banes, adulterer!
W.-CAM.. What means she by that, sir?
KNA. Good cousin, forbid your rage awhile; unless you
hear, by what sense will you receive satisfaction?
[_Restraining her._
MIS. W.-CAM. By my hands and my teeth, sir; give me
leave! will you bind me whiles mine enemy kills me?
W.-CAM.. Here all are your friends, sweet wife.
MIS. W.-CAM. Wilt have two wives? do, and be[963]
hanged, fornicator! I forbid the banes: give me the
French hood, I'll tread it under feet in a pair of
pantofles.[964]
MAR. Begar, shall save hood, head, and all; shall come
no more heer, ey warran u. [_Exit._
KNA. Sir, the truth is, report spoke it for truth
You were to-morrow to be marrièd.
MIS. W.-CAM. I forbid the banes!
W.-CAM. Mercy deliver me!
If my grave embrace me in the bed of death,
I would to church with willing ceremony;
But for my wedlock-fellow, here she is,
The first and last that e’er my thoughts look’d on.
KNA. Why, la, you, cousin, this was nought but error,
Or an assault of mischief.
W.-CAM.. Whose report was it?
KNA. Your man George’s, who invited me to the wedding.
W.-CAM.. George! and was he sober? good sir, call him.
_Enter_ GEORGE.
GEO. It needs not, sir, I am here already.
W.-CAM.. Did you report this, George?
GEO. Yes, sir, I did.
W.-CAM.. And wherefore did you so?
GEO. For a new suit that you promised me, sir, if I
could bring home my mistress; and I think she’s come,
with a mischief.
MIS. W.-CAM. Give me that villain’s ears!
GEO. I would give ear, if I could hear you talk wisely.
MIS. W.-CAM. Let me cut off his ears!
GEO. I shall hear worse of you hereafter then; limb for
limb, one of my ears for one of your tongues, and I'll
lay out for my master.
W.-CAM..’Twas knavery with a good purpose in it:
Sweet Rachel, this was even George’s meaning,
A second marriage ’twixt thyself and me;
And now I woo thee to’t; a quiet night
Will make the sun, like a fresh bridegroom, rise
And kiss the chaste cheek of the rosy morn;
Which we will imitate, and, like him, create
Fresh buds of love, fresh-spreading arms, fresh fruit,
Fresh wedding-robes, and George’s fresh new suit.
MIS. W.-CAM. This is fine stuff; have you much on’t to
sell?
GEO. A remnant of a yard.
W.-CAM. Come, come, all’s well.—
Sir, you must sup, instead of to-morrow’s dinner.
KNA. I follow you. [_Exeunt all except_ KNAVESBY.]—No,
’tis another way;
My lord’s reward calls me to better cheer,
Many good meals, a hundred marks a-year:
My wife’s transform’d a lady; tush, she’ll come
To her shape again: my lord rides the circuit;
If I ride along with him, what need I grutch?[965]
I can as easy sit, and speed as much. [_Exit._
ACT V. SCENE I.
_A street._
_Enter_ FRANKLIN _senior in mourning_, GEORGE
CRESSINGHAM, _and_ FRANKLIN _junior disguised as an
old Serving-man_.
G. CRES. Sir, your son’s death, which has apparell’d
you
In this darker wearing, is a loss wherein
I've ample share; he was my friend.
FRANK. SEN. He was my nearest
And dearest[966] enemy; and the perpetual
Fear of a worse end, had he continuèd
His former dissolute course[s], makes me weigh
His death the lighter.
G. CRES. Yet, sir, with your pardon,
If you value him every way as he deserv’d,
It will appear your scanting of his means,
And the lord Beaufort’s most unlordly breach
Of promise to him, made him fall upon
Some courses, to which his nature and mine own—
Made desperate likewise by the cruelty of
A mother-in-law—would else have been as strange
As insolent greatness is to distress’d virtue.
FRANK. SEN. Yes, I have heard of that too; your
defeat[967]
Made upon a mercer; I style’t modestly,
The law intends it plain cozenage.
G. CRES. ’Twas no less;
But my penitence and restitution may
Come fairly off from’t: it was no impeachment
To the glory won at Agincourt’s great battle,
That the achiever of it in his youth
Had been a purse-taker; this with all reverence
To the great example. Now to my business,
Wherein you’ve made such noble trial of
Your worth, that in a world so dull as this,
Where faith is almost grown to be a miracle,
I've found a friend so worthy as yourself,
To purchase all the land my father sold
At the persuasion of a riotous woman,
And charitable, to reserve it for his use
And the good of his three children; this, I say,
Is such a deed shall style you our preserver,
And owe the memory of your worth, and pay it
To all posterity.
FRANK. SEN. Sir, what I've done
Looks to the end of the good deed itself,
No other way i' the world.
G. CRES. But would you please,
Out of a friendly reprehension,
To make him sensible of the weighty wrong
He has done his children? yet I would not have’t
Too bitter, for he undergoes already
Such torment in a woman’s naughty pride,
Too harsh reproof would kill him.
FRANK. SEN. Leave you that
To my discretion: I have made myself
My son’s executor, and am come up
On purpose to collect his creditors;
And where I find his pennyworth conscionable,
I'll make them in part satisfaction.
_Enter_ GEORGE.
O, this fellow was born near me, and his trading here i'
the city may bring me to the knowledge of the men my son
ought[968] money to.
GEO. Your worship’s welcome to London; and I pray, how
do[969] all our good friends i' the country?
FRANK. SEN. They are well, George: how thou art shot up
since I saw thee! what, I think thou art almost out of
thy time?
GEO. I am out of my wits, sir; I have lived in a kind of
bedlam these four years; how can I be mine own man then?
FRANK. SEN. Why, what’s the matter?
GEO. I may turn soap-boiler, I have a loose body: I am
turned away from my master.
FRANK. SEN. How! turned away?
GEO. I am gone, sir, not in drink, and yet you may
behold my indentures [_shewing indenture_]. O the wicked
wit of woman! for the good turn I did bringing her home,
she ne’er left sucking my master’s breath, like a cat,
kissing him, I mean, till I was turned away.
FRANK. SEN. I have heard she’s a terrible woman.
GEO. Yes, and the miserablest! her sparing in
housekeeping has cost him somewhat—the Dagger-pies[970]
can testify: she has stood in’s light most miserably,
like your fasting days before red letters in the
almanac; saying the pinching of our bellies would be a
mean to make him wear scarlet the sooner. She had once
persuaded him to have bought spectacles for all his
servants, that they might have worn ’em dinner and
supper.
FRANK. SEN. To what purpose?
GEO. Marry, to have made our victuals seem bigger than
’t was: she shews from whence she came, that my
wind-colic can witness.
FRANK. SEN. Why, whence came she?
GEO. Marry, from a courtier, and an officer too, that
was up and down I know not how often.
FRANK. SEN. Had he any great place?
GEO. Yes, and a very high one, but he got little by it;
he was one that blew the organ in the court chapel; our
Puritans,[971] especially your Puritans in Scotland,
could ne’er away with[972] him.
FRANK. SEN. Is she one of the sect?
GEO. Faith, I think not, for I am certain she denies her
husband the supremacy.
FRANK. SEN. Well, George, your difference may be
reconciled. I am now to use your help in a business that
concerns me; here’s a note of men’s names here i' the
city unto whom my son ought[973] money, but I do not
know their dwelling.
GEO. [_taking note from_ FRANK. SEN.] Let me see, sir:
[_reads_] _Fifty pound ta’en up at use of Master
Waterthin the brewer._
FRANK. SEN. What’s he?
GEO. An obstinate fellow, and one that denied payment
of the groats till he lay by the heels for’t; I know
him: [_reads_] _Item, fourscore pair of provant
breeches,[974] a' the new fashion, to Pinchbuttock, a
hosier in Birchen Lane_, so much.
FRANK. SEN. What the devil did he with so many pair of
breeches?
FRANK. JUN. Supply a captain, sir; a friend of his went
over to the Palatinate.
GEO. [_reads_] _Item, to my tailor, master Weatherwise,
by St. Clement’s church._
G. CRES. Who should that be? it may be ’tis the new
prophet, the astrological tailor.
FRANK. JUN. No, no, no, sir, we have nothing to do with
him.
GEO. Well, I'll read no further; leave the note to my
discretion, do not fear but I'll inquire them all.
FRANK. SEN. Why, I thank thee, George.[975]—Sir, rest
assured I shall in all your business be faithful to you,
and at better leisure find time to imprint deeply in
your father the wrong he has done you.
G. CRES. You are worthy in all things.—
[_Exeunt._ FRANKLIN _senior_, FRANKLIN _junior_,
_and_ GEORGE.
(_Scene changes[976] to a room in_ SIR F. CRESSINGHAM’S
_house_.)
_Enter_ SAUNDER.
Is my father stirring?
SAUN. Yes, sir: my lady wonders you are thus chargeable
to your father, and will not direct yourself unto some
gainful study, may quit him of your dependance.
G. CRES. What study?
SAUN. Why, the law; that law that takes up most a' the
wits i' the kingdom, not for most good but most gain; or
divinity, I have heard you talk well, and I do not think
but you’d prove a singular fine churchman.
G. CRES. I should prove a plural better, if I could
attain to fine benefices.
SAUN. My lady, now she has money, is studying to do good
works; she talked last night what a goodly act it was of
a countess[977]—Northamptonshire breed belike, or
thereabouts—that to make Coventry a corporation, rode
through the city naked, and by daylight.
G. CRES. I do not think but you have ladies living would
discover as much in private, to advance but some member
of a corporation.
SAUN. Well, sir, your wit is still goring at my lady’s
projects: here’s your father.
_Enter_ SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM.
SIR F. CRES. Thou comest to chide me, hearing how like
a ward I am handled since the sale of my land.
G. CRES. No, sir, but to turn your eyes into your own
bosom.
SIR F. CRES. Why, I am become my wife’s pensioner; am
confined to a hundred mark[978] a-year, t' one suit, and
one man to attend me.
SAUN. And is not that enough for a private gentleman?
SIR F. CRES. Peace, sirrah, there is nothing but knave
speaks in thee:—and my two poor children must be put
forth to ’prentice!
G. CRES. Ha! to ’prentice? sir, I do not come to grieve
you, but to shew how wretched your estate was, that you
could not come to see order until foul disorder pointed
the way to’t;
So inconsiderate,[979] yet so fruitful still
Is dotage to beget its own destruction.
SIR F. CRES. Surely I am nothing, and desire[980] to be
so.—Pray thee, fellow, entreat her only to be quiet; I
have given her all my estate on that condition.
SAUN. Yes, sir, her coffers are well lin’d, believe
me.
SIR F. CRES. And yet she’s not contented: we observe
The moon is ne’er so pleasant and so clear
As when she’s at the full.
G. CRES. You did not use
My mother with this observance; you are like
The frogs, who, weary of their quiet king,
Consented to th' election of the stork,
Who in the end devour’d them.
SIR F. CRES. You may see
How apt man is to forfeit all his judgment
Upon the instant of his fall.
G. CRES. Look up, sir.
SIR F. CRES. O, my heart’s broke! weighty are injuries
That come from an enemy, but those are deadly
That come from a friend, for we see commonly
Those are ta’en most to heart. She comes.
G. CRES. What a terrible eye she darts on us!
_Enter_ LADY CRESSINGHAM.
SIR F. CRES. O, most natural for lightning to go before
the thunder.
L. CRES. What! are you in council? are ye levying
faction against us?
SIR F. CRES. Good friend——
L. CRES. Sir, sir, pray, come hither; there is winter in
your looks, a latter winter; do you complain to your
kindred? I'll make you fear extremely, to shew you have
any cause to fear.—Are the bonds sealed for the six
thousand pounds I put forth to use?
SAUN. Yes, madam.
L. CRES. The bonds were made in my uncle’s name?
SAUN. Yes.
L. CRES. ’Tis well.
SIR F. CRES. ’Tis strange though.
L. CRES. Nothing strange; you’ll think the allowance I
have put you to as strange, but your judgment cannot
reach the aim I have in’t: you were pricked last year to
be high sheriff, and what it would have cost you I
understand now; all this charge, and the other by the
sale of your land, and the money at my dispose, and your
pension so small, will settle you in quiet, make you
master of a retired life; and our great ones may think
you a politic man, and that you are aiming at some
strange business, having made all over.
SIR F. CRES. I must leave you: man is never truly awake
till he be dead!
[_Exeunt._ SIR F. CRESSINGHAM _and_ SAUNDER./
G. CRES. What a dream have you made of my father!
L. CRES. Let him be so, and keep the proper place of
dreams, his bed, until I raise him.
G. CRES. Raise him! not unlikely; ’tis you have ruined
him.
L. CRES. You do not come to quarrel?
G. CRES. No, certain, but to persuade you to a thing,
that, in the virtue of it, nobly carries its own
commendation, and you shall gain much honour by it,
which is the recompence of all virtuous actions,—to use
my father kindly.
L. CRES. Why, does he complain to you, sir?
G. CRES. Complain? why should a king complain for any
thing, but for his sins to heaven? the prerogative of
husband is like to his over his wife.
L. CRES. I'm full of business, sir, and will not mind
you.
G. CRES. I must not leave you thus; I tell you, mother,
’tis dangerous to a woman when her mind raises her to
such height, it makes her only capable of her own merit,
nothing of duty. O, ’twas a strange, unfortunate
o’erprizing your beauty, brought him, otherwise
discreet, into the fatal neglect of his poor children!
What will you give us of the late sum you received?
L. CRES. Not a penny; away, you are troublesome and
saucy.
G. CRES. You are too cruel: denials even from princes,
who may do what they list, should be supplied with a
gracious verbal usage, that, though they do not cure the
sore, they may abate the sense of’t: the wealth you seem
to command over is his, and he, I hope, will dispose
of’t to our use.
L. CRES. When he can command my will.
G. CRES. Have you made him so miserable, that he must
take a law from his wife?
L. CRES. Have you not had some lawyers forced to groan
under the burden?
G. CRES. O, but the greater the women, the more visible
are their vices!
L. CRES. So, sir,
You’ve been so bold: by all can bind an oath,
And I'll not break it, I'll not be the woman
To you hereafter you expected.
G. CRES. Be not;
Be not yourself, be not my father’s wife,
Be not my lady Cressingham, and then
I'll thus speak to you, but you must not answer
In your own person.
L. CRES. A fine puppet-play!
G. CRES. Good madam, please you, pity the distress of a
poor gentleman, that is undone by a cruel mother-in-law;
you do not know her, nor does she deserve the knowledge
of any good one, for she does not know herself; you
would sigh for her that e’er she took you[r] sex, if you
but heard her qualities.
L. CRES. This is a fine crotchet.
G. CRES. Envy and pride flow in her painted breasts, she
gives no other suck; all her attendants do not belong to
her husband; his money is hers, marry, his debts are his
own: she bears such sway, she will not suffer his
religion be his own, but what she please to turn it to.
L. CRES. And all this while I am the woman you libel
against.
G. CRES. I remember, ere the land was sold, you talked
of going to Ireland; but should you touch there, you
would die presently.
L. CRES. Why, man?
G. CRES. The country brooks no poison:[981] go,
You’ll find how difficult a thing it is
To make a settled or assur’d estate
Of things ill-gotten: when my father’s dead,
The curse of lust and riot follow you!
Marry some young gallant that may rifle you;
Yet add one blessing to your needy age,
That you may die full of repentance.
L. CRES. Ha, ha, ha!
G. CRES. O, she is lost to any kind of goodness!
[_Exeunt severally._
SCENE III.
_A room._[982]
_Enter_ LORD BEAUFORT _and_ KNAVESBY.
L. BEAU. Sirrah, begone! you’re base.
KNA. Base, my good lord?
’Tis a ground part in music, trebles, means,[983]
All is but fiddling:[984] your honour bore a part,
As my wife says, my lord.
L. BEAU. Your wife’s a strumpet!
KNA. Ah ha! is she so? I am glad to hear it;
Open confession, open payment;
The wager’s mine then, a hundred a-year, my lord;
I said so before, and stak’d my head against it:
Thus after darksome night the day is come, my lord.
L. BEAU. Hence, hide thy branded head; let no day see
thee,
Nor thou any but thy execution-day.
KNA. That’s the day after washing-day; once a-week
I see’t at home, my lord.
L. BEAU. Go home and see
Thy prostituted wife—for sure ’tis so—Now
folded in a boy’s adultery,
My page, on whom the hot-rein’d harlot doats:
This night he hath been her attendant; my house
He is fled from, and must no more return:
Go, and make haste, sir, lest your reward be lost
For want of looking to.
KNA. My reward lost?
Is there nothing due for what is past, my lord?
L. BEAU. Yes, pander, wittol,[985] macrio,[986] basest
of knaves,
Thou bolster-bawd to thine own infamy!
Go, I've no more about me at this time;
When I am better stor’d thou shalt have more,
Where’er I meet thee.
KNA. Pander, wittol, macrio, base knave, bolster-bawd!
here is but five mark toward a hundred
a-year; this is poor payment. If lords may be trusted
no better than thus, I will go home and cut my
wife’s nose off; I will turn over a new leaf, and
hang up the page; lastly, I will put on a large pair
of wet-leather boots, and drown myself; I will sink
at Queen-hive,[987] and rise again at Charing Cross,
contrary to the statute in _Edwardo primio_. [_Exit._
_Enter_ FRANKLIN _senior_, FRANKLIN _junior disguised as
before_, GEORGE, _and several Creditors_.
FRANK. SEN. Good health to your lordship!
L. BEAU. Master Franklin, I heard of your arrival, and
the cause of this your sad appearance.
FRANK. SEN. And ’tis no more than as your honour says,
indeed, appearance; it has more form than feeling
sorrow, sir, I must confess: there’s none of these
gentlemen, though aliens in blood, but have as large
cause of grief as I.
FIRST C. No, by your favour, sir, we are well satisfied;
there was in his life a greater hope, but less
assurance.
SEC. C. Sir, I wish all my debts of no better promise
to pay me thus; fifty in the hundred comes fairly
homewards.
FRANK. JUN. Considering hard bargains and dead
commodities, sir.
SEC. C. Thou sayest true, friend—and from a dead debtor,
too.
L. BEAU. And so you have compounded and agreed all your
son’s riotous debts?
FRANK. SEN. There’s behind but one cause of worse
condition; that done, he may sleep quietly.
FIRST C. Yes, sure, my lord, this gentleman is come a
wonder to us all, that so fairly, with half a loss,
could satisfy those debts were dead, even with his son,
and from whom we could have nothing claimed.
FRANK. SEN. I shewed my reason; I would have a good name
live after him, because he bore my name.
SEC. C. May his tongue perish first—and that will spoil
his trade—that first gives him a syllable of ill!
L. BEAU. Why, this is friendly.
_Enter_ WATER-CAMLET.
W.-CAM. My lord!
L. BEAU. Master Camlet! very welcome.
W.-CAM. Master Franklin, I take it: these gentlemen
I know well, good master Pennystone, master
Philip, master Cheyney: I am glad I shall take
my leave of so many of my good friends at once.
Your hand first, my lord—fare you well, sir—nay,
I must have all your hands to my pass.
[_Taking their hands._
GEO. Will you have mine too, sir?
W.-CAM.. Yes, thy two hands, George, and, I think, two
honest hands of a tradesman, George, as any between
Cornhill and Lombard Street.
GEO. Take heed what you say, sir, there’s Birchin Lane
between ’em.
L. BEAU. But what’s the cause of this, master Camlet?
W.-CAM.. I have the cause in handling now, my lord;
George, honest George, is the cause, yet no cause of
George’s; George is turned away one way, and I must go
another.
L. BEAU. And whither is your way, sir?
W.-CAM.. E'en to seek out a quiet life, my lord: I do
hear of a fine peaceable island.
L. BEAU. Why, ’tis the same you live in.
W.-CAM.. No; ’tis so fam’d,
But we th' inhabitants find it not so:
The place I speak of[988] has been kept with thunder,
With frightful lightnings, amazing noises;
But now, th' enchantment broke, ’tis the land of peace,
Where hogs and tobacco yield fair increase.
L. BEAU. This is a little wild, methinks.
W.-CAM.. Gentlemen, fare you well, I am for the Bermudas.
L. BEAU. Nay, good sir, stay: and is that your only
cause, the loss of George?
W.-CAM.. The loss of George, my lord? make you that no
cause? why, but examine, would it not break the stout
heart of a nobleman to lose his george,[989] much more
the tender bosom of a citizen?
L. BEAU. Fie, fie, I'm sorry your gravity should run
back to lightness thus: you go to the Bermothes![990]
FRANK. SEN. Better to Ireland, sir.
W.-CAM.. The land of Ire? that’s too near home; my wife
will be heard from Hellbree to Divelin.[991]
FRANK. SEN. Sir, I must of necessity a while detain you:
I must acquaint you with a benefit that’s coming towards
you; you were cheated of some goods of late—come, I'm a
cunning man, and will help you to the most part again,
or some reasonable satisfaction.
W.-CAM.. That’s another cause of my unquiet life, sir;
can you do that, I may chance stay another tide or two.
_Enter_ MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET.
My wife! I must speak more private with you—by forty
foot, pain of death, I dare not reach her! no words of
me, sweet gentlemen. [_Slips behind the arras._
GEO. I had need hide too. [_Follows_ W.-CAMLET.
MIS. W.-CAM. O, my lord, I have scarce tongue enough yet
to tell you—my husband, my husband’s gone from me! your
warrant, good my lord! I never had such need of your
warrant; my husband’s gone from me!
L. BEAU. Going he is, ’tis true, has ta’en his leave of
me and all these gentlemen, and ’tis your sharp tongue
that whips him forwards.
MIS. W.-CAM. A warrant, good my lord!
L. BEAU. You turn away his servants, such on whom his
estate depends, he says, who know his books, his debts,
his customers; the form and order of all his affairs you
make orderless—chiefly, his George you have banished
from him.
MIS. W.-CAM. My lord, I will call George again.
GEO. [_behind the arras_] Call George again!
L. BEAU. Why, hark you, how high-voiced you are, that
raise an echo from my cellarage, which we with modest
loudness cannot!
MIS. W.-CAM. My lord, do you think I speak too loud?
GEO. [_behind the arras_] Too loud!
L. BEAU. Why, hark, your own tongue answers you, and
reverberates your words into your teeth!
MIS. W.-CAM. I will speak lower all the days of my life;
I never found the fault in myself till now: your
warrant, good my lord, to stay my husband!
L. BEAU. Well, well, it shall o’ertake him ere he pass
Gravesend, provided that he meet his quietness at home,
else he’s gone again.
FRANK. SEN. And withal to call George again.
MIS. W.-CAM. I will call George again.
GEO. [_behind the arras_] Call George again!
L. BEAU. See, you are rais’d again, the echo tells
you!
MIS. W.-CAM. I did forget myself indeed, my lord; this
is my last fault: I will go make a silent inquiry after
George, I will whisper half a score porters in the ear,
that shall run softly up and down the city to seek him.
Be wi' ye, my lord- bye all, gentlemen. [_Exit._
L. BEAU. George, your way lies before you now [GEORGE
_comes from behind the arras_]; cross the street, and
come into her eyes; your master’s journey will be
stayed.
GEO. I'll warrant you bring it to better subjection yet.
[_Exit._
L. BEAU. These are fine flashes! [WATER-CAMLET _comes
from behind the arras_.]—How now, master Camlet?
W.-CAM.. I had one ear lent to youward, my lord,
And this o' th' other[992] side; both sounded sweetly:
I've whole recover’d my late losses, sir;
The one half paid, the other is forgiven.
L. BEAU. Then your journey is stayed?
W.-CAM. Alas, my lord, that was a trick of age!
For I had left never a trick of youth
Like it, to succour me.
_Enter_ SWEETBALL _with_ KNAVESBY.
L. BEAU. How now? what new object’s here?
SWEET. The next man we meet shall judge us.
KNA. Content, though he be but a common councilman.
L. BEAU. The one’s a knave, I could know him at twelve
score distance.
FRANK. SEN. And t’other’s a barber-surgeon, my lord.
KNA. I'll go no further; here is the honourable lord
that I know will grant my request. My lord—
SWEET. Peace; I will make it plain to his lordship. My
lord, a covenant by _jus jurandum_ is between us; he is
to suffocate my respiration by his _capistrum_, and I to
make incision so far as mortification by his jugulars.
L. BEAU. This is not altogether so plain neither, sir.
SWEET. I can speak no plainer, my lord, unless I wrong
mine art.
KNA. I can, my lord, I know some part of the law: I am
to take him in this place where I find him, and lead him
from hence to the place of execution, and there to hang
him till he dies; he in equal courtesy is to cut my
throat with his razor, and there’s an end of both on’s.
SWEET. There is the end, my lord, but we want the
beginning: I stand upon it to be strangled first, before
I touch either his _gula_ or _cervix_.
KNA. I am against it, for how shall I be sure to have my
throat cut after he’s hanged?
L. BEAU. Is this a condition betwixt you?
KNA. A firm covenant, signed and sealed by oath and
handfast, and wants nothing but agreement.
L. BEAU. A little pause: what might be the cause on
either part?
SWEET. My passions are grown to putrefaction, and my
griefs are gangrened; master Camlet has scarified me all
over, besides the loss of my new brush.
KNA. I am kept out of mine own castle, my wife keeps the
hold against me; your page, my lord, is her champion: I
summoned a parle[993] at the window, was answered with
defiance: they confess they have lain together, but what
they have done else, I know not.
L. BEAU. Thou canst have no wrong that deserves pity,
thou art thyself so bad.
KNA. I thank your honour for that; let me have my throat
cut then.
W.-CAM.. Sir, I can give you a better remedy than his
_capistrum_;—your ear a little.
_Enter_ MISTRESS KNAVESBY, _and_ MISTRESS GEORGE
CRESSINGHAM _in female attire_.
MIS. KNA. I come with a bold innocence to answer
The best and worst that can accuse me here.
L. BEAU. Your husband.
MIS. KNA. He’s the worst, I dare his worst.
KNA. Your page, your page.
MIS. KNA. We lay together in bed,
It is confess’d; you and your ends of law
Make[994] worser of’t, I did it for reward.
L. BEAU. I'll hear no more of this.—Come, gentlemen,
will you walk?
_Enter_ GEORGE CRESSINGHAM.
G. CRES. My lord, a little stay; you’ll see a sight
That neighbour amity will be much pleas’d with:
It is already come;[995] my father, sir.
_Enter_ SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM _in rich apparel_.
L. BEAU. There must be cause, certain, for this good
change.—
Sir, you are bravely[996] met;
This is the best I ever saw you at.[997]
SIR F. CRES. My lord, I am amazement to myself:
I slept in poverty, and am awake
Into this wonder: how I came[998] thus brave,
My dreams did not so much as tell me of;
I am of my kind son’s new making up;
It exceeds the pension much that yesternight
Allow’d me, and my pockets centupled;
But I'm my son’s child, sir, he knows of me
More than I do myself.
G. CRES. Sir, you yet have
But earnest of your happiness, a pinnace
Fore-riding a goodly vessel, by this near anchor,
Bulk’d like a castle, and with jewels fraught—
Joys above jewels, sir—from deck to keel:
Make way for the receipt; empty your bosom
Of all griefs and troubles; leave not a sigh
To beat her back again; she is so stor’d,
Y'had need have room enough to take her lading.
SIR F. CRES. If one commodity be wanting now,
All this is nothing.
G. CRES. Tush, that must out too:
There must be no remembrance, not the thought
That ever youth in woman did abuse you,
That e’er your children had a stepmother,
That you sold lands to please your punishment,
That you were circumscrib’d and taken in,
Abridg’d the large extendure of your grounds,
And put into the pin-fold that belong’d to’t,
That your son did cheat for want of maintenance;
That he did beg you shall remember only,
For I have begg’d off all these troubles from you.
L. BEAU. This was a good week’s labour.
G. CRES. Not an hour’s, my lord, but ’twas a happy
one.—
See, sir, a new day shines on you.
_Enter_ LADY CRESSINGHAM _in civil[999] habit_,
MARIA _and_ EDWARD _very gallant, and_
SAUNDER.
L. CRES. O sir,
Your son has robb’d me——
SIR F. CRES. Ha, that way I instructed!
G. CRES. Nay, hear her, sir.
L. CRES. Of my good purpose, sir;
He hath forc’d out of me what lay conceal’d,
Ripen’d my pity with his dews of duty:
Forgive me, sir, and but keep the number
Of every grief that I have pain’d you with,
I'll ten-fold pay with fresh obedience.
W.-CAM. O that my wife were here to learn this lesson!
L. CRES. Your state[1000] is not abated, what was yours
is still your own; and take the cause withal of my
harsh-seeming usage,—it was to reclaim faults in
yourself, the swift consumption of many large revenues,
gaming; that of not much less speed, burning up house
and land, not casual, but cunning fire, which, though it
keeps the chimney, and outward shews like hospitality,
is only devourer on’t, consuming chemistry,—there I have
made you a flat banquerout,[1001] all your stillatories
and labouring minerals are demolished—that part of hell
in your house is extinct;
Put out your desire with them, and then these feet
Shall level with my hands until you raise
My stoop’d humility to higher grace,
To warm these lips with love, and duty do
To every silver hair, each one shall be
A senator to my obedience.
SIR F. CRES. All this I knew[1002] before: whoe’er of
you
That had but one ill thought of this good woman,
You owe a knee to her, and she is merciful
If she forgive you.
_Re-enter_ GEORGE _and_ MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET.
L. BEAU. That shall be private penance, sir; we’ll all
joy in public with you.
GEO. On the conditions I tell you, not else.
MIS. W.-CAM. Sweet George, dear George, any conditions.
W.-CAM.. My wife!
FRANK. SEN. Peace; George is bringing her to conditions.
W.-CAM.. Good ones, good George!
GEO. You shall never talk your voice above the key sol,
sol, sol.
MIS. W.-CAM. Sol, sol, sol—ay, George.
GEO. Say, Welcome home, honest George, in that pitch.
MIS. W.-CAM. Welcome home, honest George!
GEO. Why, this is well now.
W.-CAM.. That’s well indeed, George.
GEO. _Rogue_ nor _rascal_ must never come out of your
mouth.
MIS. W.-CAM. They shall never come in, honest George.
GEO. Nor I will not have you call my master plain
_husband_, that’s too coarse; but as your gentlewomen in
the country use, and your parsons' wives in the town,—
’tis comely, and shall be customed in the city,—call him
_master_ Camlet at every word.
MIS. W.-CAM. At every word, honest George.
GEO. Look you, there he is, salute him then.
MIS. W.-CAM. Welcome home, good master Camlet!
W.-CAM.. Thanks, and a thousand,[1003] sweet—_wife_, I
may say, honest George?
GEO. Yes, sir, or _bird_, or _chuck_, or _heart’s-ease_,
or plain _Rachel_; but call her _Rac_ no more, so long
as she is quiet.
W.-CAM.. God-a-mercy, sha’t have thy new suit a' Sunday,
George.
MIS. W.-CAM. George shall have two new suits, master
Camlet.
W.-CAM.. God-a-mercy, i’faith, chuck.
SWEET. Master Camlet, you and I are friends, all even
betwixt us?
W.-CAM.. I do acquit thee, neighbour Sweetball.
SWEET. I will not be hanged then—Knavesby, do thy worst;
nor I will not cut thy throat.
KNA. I must do’t myself.
SWEET. If thou comest to my shop, and usurpest my chair
of maintenance, I will go as near as I can, but I will
not do’t.
G. CRES. No, ’tis I must cut Knavesby’s throat, for
slandering a modest gentlewoman and my wife, in shape of
your page, my lord; in her own I durst not place her so
near your lordship.
L. BEAU. No more of that, sir; if your ends have
acquired their own events, crown ’em with your own joy.
G. CRES. Down a' your knees, Knavesby, to your wife;
she’s too honest for you.
SWEET. Down, down, before you are hanged, 'twill be too
late afterwards, and long thou canst not ’scape it.
[KNAVESBY _kneels_.
MIS. KNA. You’ll play the pander no more, will you?
KNA. O, that’s an inch into my throat!
MIS. KNA. And let out your wife for hire?[1004]
KNA. O, sweet wife, go no deeper!
MIS. KNA. Dare any be bail for your better behaviour?
L. BEAU. Yes, yes, I dare; he will mend one day.
MIS. KNA. And be worse the next.
KNA. Hang me the third then; dear, merciful wife,
I will do any thing for a quiet life. [_Rises._
L. BEAU. All then is reconciled?
SWEET. Only my brush is lost, my dear new brush.
FRANK. SEN. I will help you to satisfaction for that
too, sir.
SWEET. O spermaceti! I feel it heal already.
FRANK. SEN. Gentlemen, I have fully satisfied my dead
son’s debts?
CREDITORS. All pleased, all paid, sir.
FRANK. SEN. Then once more here I bring him back to
life,
From my servant to my son: nay, wonder not,
I have not dealt by fallacy with any;
My son was dead; whoe’er outlives his virtues
Is a dead man; for when you hear of spirits
That walk in real bodies, to th' amaze
And cold astonishment of such as meet ’em,
And all would shun, those are men of vices,
Who nothing have but what is visible,
And so, by consequence, they have no souls;
But if the soul return, he lives again,
Created newly; such my son appears,
By my blessing rooted, growing by his tears.
CREDITORS. You have beguiled us honestly, sir.
FRANK. JUN. And you shall have your brush again.
SWEET. My basins shall all ring for joy.
L. BEAU. Why, this deserves a triumph,[1005] and my
cost
Shall begin a feast to it, to which I do
Invite you all; such happy reconcilements
Must not be past without a health of joy:
Discorded friends aton’d,[1006] men and their wives,
This hope proclaims your after quiet lives.
[_Exeunt omnes._
EPILOGUE.
I am sent t' inquire your censure,[1007] and to know
How you stand affected? whether we do owe
Our service to your favours, or must strike
Our sails, though full of hope, to your dislike?
Howe’er, be pleas’d to think we purpos’d well;
And from my fellows thus much I must tell,
Instruct us but in what we went astray,
And, to redeem it, we’ll take any way.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN.
_Women Beware Women. A Tragedy, By Tho. Middleton, Gent. London: Printed
for Humphrey Moseley, 1657_—is the second of _Two New Playes_,
originally published together in 8vo: see vol. iii. p. 553.
It has been reprinted in the 5th vol. of _A Continuation of Dodsley’s
Old Plays, 1816_.
“The Foundation of this Play,” says Langbaine, “is borrow’d from a
Romance called _Hyppolito and Isabella_, octavo.” _Acc. of Engl. Dram.
Poets_, p. 374.
UPON THE TRAGEDY OF MY FAMILIAR
ACQUAINTANCE, THO. MIDDLETON.
_Women beware Women_; ’tis a true text
Never to be forgot; drabs of state vext
Have plots, poisons, mischiefs that seldom miss,
To murder virtue with a venom-kiss.
Witness this worthy tragedy, exprest
By him that well deserv’d among the best
Of poets in his time: he knew the rage,
Madness of women cross’d, and for the stage
Fitted their humours; hell-bred malice, strife
Acted in state, presented to the life.
I that have seen’t can say, having just cause,
Never came tragedy off with more applause.
NATH. RICHARDS.[1008]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
_Duke of Florence._
_Lord Cardinal, brother to the duke._
FABRICIO, _father to Isabella_.
HIPPOLITO, _brother to Fabricio_.
GUARDIANO, _uncle to the Ward_.
_The Ward, a rich young heir._
LEANTIO, _a factor, husband to Bianca_.
SORDIDO, _servant to the Ward_.
_Cardinals, Knights, States of Florence, Citizens,
&c._
LIVIA, _sister to Fabricio and Hippolito_.
ISABELLA, _daughter to Fabricio_.
BIANCA,[1009] _wife to Leantio_.
_Mother to Leantio._
_Ladies._
Scene, FLORENCE.
WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN.
-------
ACT I. SCENE I.
_An outer room in the house of_ LEANTIO’S _Mother_.
_Enter_ LEANTIO, BIANCA, _and Mother_.
MOTH. Thy sight was never yet more precious to me;
Welcome, with all th' affection of a mother,
That comfort can express from natural love!
Since thy birth-joy—a mother’s chiefest gladness,
After sh’as undergone her curse of sorrows—
Thou wast not more dear to me than this hour
Presents thee to my heart: welcome again!
LEAN. ’Las, poor affectionate soul, how her joys speak
to me!
I have observ’d it often, and I know it is
The fortune commonly of knavish children
To have the loving’st mothers. [_Aside._
MOTH. What’s this gentlewoman?
LEAN. O, you have nam’d the most unvalu’dst[1010]
purchase
That youth of man had ever knowledge of!
As often as I look upon that treasure,
And know it to be mine—there lies the blessing—
It joys me that I ever was ordain’d
To have a being, and to live ’mongst men;
Which is a fearful living, and a poor one,
Let a man truly think on’t:
To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years
Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots;
Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers,
When even the very sheets they commit sin in
May prove, for aught they know, all their last garments.
O what a mark were there for women then!
But beauty, able to content a conqueror
Whom earth could scarce content, keeps me in compass:
I find no wish in me bent sinfully
To this man’s sister, or to that man’s wife;
In love’s name let ’em keep their honesties,
And cleave to their own husbands,—tis their duties:
Now when I go to church I can pray handsomely,
Nor come like gallants only to see faces,
As if lust went to market still on Sundays.
I must confess I'm guilty of one sin, mother,
More than I brought into the world with me,
But that I glory in; ’tis theft, but noble
As ever greatness yet shot up withal.
MOTH. How’s that?
LEAN. Never to be repented, mother,
Though sin be death; I had died, if I had not sinn’d;
And here’s my masterpiece; do you now behold her!
Look on her well, she’s mine; look on her better;
Now say if’t be not the best piece of theft
That ever was committed? and I've my pardon for’t,—
’Tis seal’d from heaven by marriage.
MOTH. Married to her!
LEAN. You must keep counsel, mother, I'm undone else;
If it be known, I've lost her; do but think now
What that loss is,—life’s but a trifle to’t.
From Venice, her consent and I have brought her
From parents great in wealth, more now in rage;
But let storms spend their furies; now we’ve got
A shelter o’er our quiet innocent loves,
We are contented: little money sh’as brought me;
View but her face, you may see all her dowry,
Save that which lies lock’d up in hidden virtues,
Like jewels kept in cabinets.
MOTH. You’re to blame,
If your obedience will give way to a check,
To wrong such a perfection.
LEAN. How?
MOTH. Such a creature,
To draw her from her fortune, which, no doubt,
At the full time might have prov’d rich and noble;
You know not what you’ve done; my life can give you
But little helps, and my death lesser hopes;
And hitherto your own means has but made shift
To keep you single, and that hardly too:
What ableness have you to do her right then
In maintenance fitting her birth and virtues?
Which every woman of necessity looks for,
And most to go above it, not confin’d
By their conditions, virtues, bloods, or births,
But flowing to affections, wills, and humours.
LEAN. Speak low, sweet mother; you’re able to spoil as
many
As come within the hearing; if it be not
Your fortune to mar all, I have much marvel.
I pray do not you teach her to rebel,
When she is in a good way to obedience;
To rise with other women in commotion
Against their husbands for six gowns a-year,
And so maintain their cause, when they’re once up,
In all things else that require cost enough.
They’re all of ’em a kind of spirits soon rais’d,
But not so soon laid, mother; as, for example,
A woman’s belly is got up in a trice,—
A simple charge ere’t be laid down again:
So ever in all their quarrels and their courses;
And I'm a proud man I hear nothing of ’em,
They’re very still, I thank my happiness,
And sound asleep, pray let not your tongue wake ’em:
If you can but rest quiet, she’s contented
With all conditions that my fortunes bring her to;
To keep close, as a wife that loves her husband;
To go after the rate of my ability,
Not the licentious swing of her own will,
Like some of her old school-fellows; she intends
To take out other works in a new sampler,
And frame the fashion of an honest love,
Which knows no wants, but, mocking poverty,
Brings forth more children, to make rich men wonder
At divine providence, that feeds mouths of infants,
And sends them none to feed, but stuffs their rooms
With fruitful bags, their beds with barren wombs.
Good mother, make not you things worse than they are
Out of your too much openness; pray take heed on’t,
Nor imitate the envy of old people,
That strive to mar good sport because they’re perfect:
I would have you more pitiful to youth,
Especially to your own flesh and blood.
I'll prove an excellent husband, here’s my hand,
Lay in provision, follow my business roundly,
And make you a grandmother in forty weeks.
Go, pray salute her, bid her welcome cheerfully.
MOTH. [_saluting_ BIANCA] Gentlewoman, thus much is a
debt of courtesy,
Which fashionable strangers pay each other
At a kind meeting: then there’s more than one
Due to the knowledge I have of your nearness;
I'm bold to come again, and now salute you
By the name of daughter, which may challenge more
Than ordinary respect.
LEAN. Why, this is well now,
And I think few mothers of threescore will mend it.
[_Aside._
MOTH. What I can bid you welcome to, is mean,
But make it all your own; we’re full of wants,
And cannot welcome worth.
LEAN. Now this is scurvy,
And spoke[1011] as if a woman lack’d her teeth;
These old folks talk of nothing but defects,
Because they grow so full of ’em themselves. [_Aside._
BIAN. Kind mother, there is nothing can be wanting
To her that does enjoy all her desires:
Heaven send a quiet peace with this man’s love,
And I'm as rich as virtue can be poor,
Which were enough after the rate of mind
To erect temples for content plac’d here.
I have forsook friends, fortunes, and my country,
And hourly I rejoice in’t. Here’s my friends,
And few is the good number.—Thy successes,
Howe’er they look, I will still name my fortunes;
Hopeful or spiteful, they shall all be welcome:
Who invites many guests has of all sorts,
As he that traffics much drinks of all fortunes,
Yet they must all be welcome, and us’d well.
I'll call this place the place of my birth now,
And rightly too, for here my love was born,
And that’s the birthday of a woman’s joys.
You have not bid me welcome since I came.
LEAN. That I did questionless.
BIAN. No, sure—how was’t?
I've quite forgot it.
LEAN. Thus. [_Kisses her._
BIAN. O, sir,’tis true,
Now I remember well; I've done thee wrong,
Pray take’t again, sir. [_Kisses him._
LEAN. How many of these wrongs
Could I put up in an hour, and turn up the glass
For twice as many more!
MOTH. Will’t please you to walk in, daughter?
BIAN. Thanks, sweet mother;
The voice of her that bare me is not more pleasing.
[_Exit with Mother._
LEAN. Though my own care and my rich master’s trust
Lay their commands both on my factorship,
This day and night I'll know no other business
But her and her dear welcome. ’Tis a bitterness
To think upon to-morrow! that I must leave
Her still to the sweet hopes of the week’s end;
That pleasure should be so restrain’d and curb’d
After the course of a rich work-master,
That never pays till Saturday night! marry,
It comes together in a round sum then,
And does more good, you’ll say. O fair-ey’d Florence,
Didst thou but know what a most matchless jewel
Thou now art mistress of, a pride would take thee,
Able to shoot destruction through the bloods
Of all thy youthful sons! but ’tis great policy
To keep choice treasures in obscurest places;
Should we shew thieves our wealth, ’twould make ’em
bolder;
Temptation is a devil will not stick
To fasten upon a saint; take heed of that:
The jewel is cas’d up from all men’s eyes;
Who could imagine now a gem were kept
Of that great value under this plain roof?
But how in times of absence? what assurance
Of this restraint then? Yes, yes, there’s one with her:
Old mothers know the world; and such as these,
When sons lock chests, are good to look to keys.
[_Exit._
SCENE II.
_A garden attached to_ FABRICIO’S _house_.
_Enter_ GUARDIANO, FABRICIO, _and_ LIVIA.
GUAR. What, has your daughter seen him yet? know you
that?
FAB. No matter, she shall love him.
GUAR. Nay, let’s have fair play;
He has been now my ward some fifteen year,
And ’tis my purpose, as time calls upon me,
By custom seconded and such moral virtues,
To tender him a wife. Now, sir, this wife
I'd fain elect out of a daughter of yours;
You see my meaning’s fair: if now this daughter
So tender’d,—let me come to your own phrase, sir,—
Should offer to refuse him, I were hansell’d.—
Thus am I fain to calculate all my words
For the meridian of a foolish old man,
To take his understanding. [_Aside._]—What do you
answer, sir?
FAB. I say still, she shall love him.
GUAR. Yet again?
And shall she have no reason for this love?
FAB. Why, do you think that women love with reason?
GUAR. I perceive fools are not at all hours foolish,
No more than wise men wise. [_Aside._
FAB. I had a wife,
She ran mad for me; she had no reason for’t,
For aught I could perceive.—What think you, lady sister?
GUAR. ’Twas a fit match that, being both out of their
wits;
A loving wife, it seem’d
She strove to come as near you as she could. [_Aside._
FAB. And if her daughter prove not mad for love too,
She takes not after her; nor after me,
If she prefer reason before my pleasure.—
You’re an experienc’d widow, lady sister,
I pray, let your opinion come amongst us.
LIV. I must offend you then, if truth will do’t,
And take my niece’s part, and call’t injustice
To force her love to one she never saw:
Maids should both see and like, all little enough;
If they love truly after that, ’tis well.
Counting the time, she takes one man till death;
That’s a hard task, I tell you; but one may
Inquire at three years' end amongst young wives,
And mark how the game goes.
FAB. Why, is not man
Tied to the same observance, lady sister,
And in one woman?
LIV. ’Tis enough for him;
Besides, he tastes of many sundry dishes
That we poor wretches never lay our lips to,
As obedience forsooth, subjection, duty, and such
kickshaws,
All of our making, but serv’d in to them;
And if we lick a finger then sometimes,
We’re not to blame, your best cooks [often] use it.
FAB. Thou’rt a sweet lady, sister, and a witty.
LIV. A witty! O the bud of commendation,
Fit for a girl of sixteen! I am blown, man;
I should be wise by this time; and, for instance,
I've buried my two husbands in good fashion,
And never mean more to marry.
GUAR. No! why so, lady?
LIV. Because the third shall never bury me:
I think I'm more than witty. How think you, sir?'
FAB. I have paid often fees to a counsellor
Has had a weaker brain.
LIV. Then I must tell you
Your money was soon parted.
GUAR. Light her now, brother.[1012]
LIV. Where is my niece? let her be sent for straight,
If you have any hope ’twill prove a wedding;
’Tis fit, i’faith, she should have one sight of him,
And stop upon’t, and not be join’d in haste,
As if they went to stock a new-found land.
FAB. Look out her uncle, and you’re sure of her,
Those two are ne’er asunder; they’ve been heard
In argument at midnight; moonshine nights
Are noondays with them; they walk out their sleeps,
Or rather at those hours appear like those
That walk in ’em, for so they did to me.
Look you, I told you truth; they’re like a chain,—
Draw but one link, all follows.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ ISABELLA.
GUAR. O affinity,
What piece of excellent workmanship art thou!
’Tis work clean wrought, for there’s no lust but love
in’t,
And that abundantly; when in stranger things
There is no love at all but what lust brings.
FAB. On with your mask! for ’tis your part to see now,
And not be seen: go to, make use of your time;
See what you mean to like; nay, and I charge you,
Like what you see: do you hear me? there’s no dallying;
The gentleman’s almost twenty, and ’tis time
He were getting lawful heirs, and you a-breeding on ’em.
ISA. Good father——
FAB. Tell not me of tongues and rumours:
You’ll say the gentleman is somewhat simple;
The better for a husband, were you wise,
For those that marry fools live ladies' lives.
On with the mask! I'll hear no more: he’s rich;
The fool’s hid under bushels.
LIV. Not so hid neither
But here’s a foul great piece of him, methinks;
What will he be when he comes altogether?
_Enter the Ward with a trap-stick, and_ SORDIDO.
WARD. Beat him?
I beat him out o' the field with his own cat-stick,
Yet gave him the first hand.
SOR. O strange!
WARD. I did it;
Then he set jacks[1013] on me.
SOR. What, my lady’s tailor?
WARD. Ay, and I beat him too.
SOR. Nay, that’s no wonder,
He’s us’d to beating.
WARD. Nay, I tickled him
When I came once to my tippings.
SOR. Now you talk on ’em,
There was a poulterer’s wife made a great complaint
Of you last night to your guardianer, that you struck
A bump in her child’s head as big as an egg.
WARD. An egg may prove a chicken, then in time
The poulterer’s wife will get by’t: when I am
In game, I'm furious; came my mother’s eyes
In my way, I would not lose a fair end; no,
Were she alive, but with one tooth in her head,
I should venture the striking out of that:
I think of nobody when I'm in play,
I am so earnest. Coads me, my guardianer!
Prithee, lay up my cat and cat-stick[1014] safe.
SOR. Where, sir? i' the chimney-corner?
WARD. Chimney-corner!
SOR. Yes, sir; your cats are always safe i' the
chimney-corner,
Unless they burn their coats.
WARD. Marry, that I am afraid on!
SOR. Why, then, I will bestow your cat i' the gutter,
And there she’s safe, I'm sure.
WARD. If I but live
To keep a house, I'll make thee a great man,
If meat and drink can do’t. I can stoop gallantly,
And pitch out when I list; I'm dog at a hole:
I mar’l[1015] my guardianer does not seek a wife for me;
I protest I'll have a bout with the maids else,
Or contract myself at midnight to the larder-woman,
In presence of a fool or a sack-posset.
GUAR. Ward!
WARD. I feel myself after any exercise
Horribly prone: let me but ride, I'm lusty;
A cock-horse, straight, i’faith!
GUAR. Why, Ward, I say!
WARD. I'll forswear eating eggs in moonshine nights;
There’s ne’er a one I eat but turns into a cock
In four-and-twenty hours; if my hot blood
Be not took down in time, sure ’twill crow shortly.
GUAR. Do you hear, sir? follow me, I must new-school
you.
WARD. School me? I scorn that now, I am past
schooling:
I'm not so base to learn to write and read;
I was born to better fortunes in my cradle.
[_Exeunt._ GUARDIANO, _the Ward, and_ SORDIDO.
FAB. How do you like him, girl? this is your husband:
Like him, or like him not, wench, you shall have him,
And you shall love him.
LIV. O, soft there, brother! though you be a justice,
Your warrant cannot be serv’d out of your liberty;
You may compel, out of the power of father,
Things merely harsh to a maid’s flesh and blood;
But when you come to love, there the soil alters,
You’re in another country, where your laws
Are no more set by than the cacklings
Of geese in Rome’s great Capitol.
FAB. Marry him she shall then,
Let her agree upon love afterwards. [_Exit._
LIV. You speak now, brother, like an honest mortal
That walks upon th' earth with a staff; you were up
I' the clouds before; you would command love,
And so do most old folks that go without it.—
My best and dearest brother, I could dwell here;
There is not such another seat on earth,
Where all good parts better express themselves.
HIP. You’ll make me blush anon.
LIV. ’Tis but like saying grace before a feast then,
And that’s most comely; thou art all a feast,
And she that has thee a most happy guest.
Prithee, cheer up thy[1016] niece with special counsel.
[_Exit._
HIP. I would ’twere fit to speak to her what I would;
but
’Twas not a thing ordain’d, heaven has forbid it;
And ’tis most meet that I should rather perish
Than the decree divine receive least blemish.
Feed inward, you my sorrows, make no noise,
Consume me silent, let me be stark dead
Ere the world know I'm sick. You see my honesty;
If you befriend me, so. [_Aside._
ISA. Marry a fool!
Can there be greater misery to a woman
That means to keep her days true to her husband,
And know no other man? so virtue wills it.
Why, how can I obey and honour him,
But I must needs commit idolatry?
A fool is but the image of a man,
And that but ill made neither. O the heartbreakings
Of miserable maids, where love’s enforc’d!
The best condition is but bad enough;
When women have their choices, commonly
They do but buy their thraldoms, and bring great
portions
To men to keep ’em in subjection;
As if a fearful prisoner should bribe
The keeper to be good to him, yet lies in still,
And glad of a good usage, a good look sometimes.
Byrlady,[1017] no misery surmounts a woman’s;
Men buy their slaves, but women buy their masters;
Yet honesty and love make[1018] all this happy,
And, next to angels', the most bless’d estate.
That providence, that has made every poison
Good for some use, and sets four warring elements
At peace in man, can make a harmony
In things that are most strange to human reason.
O, but this marriage! [_Aside._]—What, are you sad too,
uncle?
Faith, then there’s a whole household down together:
Where shall I go to seek my comfort now,
When my best friend’s distress’d? what is’t afflicts
you, sir?
HIP. Faith, nothing but one grief, that will not leave
me,
And now ’tis welcome; every man has something
To bring him to his end, and this will serve,
Join’d with your father’s cruelty to you,—
That helps it forward.
ISA. O, be cheer’d, sweet uncle!
How long has ’t been upon you? I ne’er spied it;
What a dull sight have I! how long, I pray, sir?
HIP. Since I first saw you, niece, and left Bologna.
ISA. And could you deal so unkindly with my heart,
To keep it up so long hid from my pity?
Alas! how shall I trust your love hereafter?
Have we pass’d through so many arguments,
And miss’d of that still, the most needful one?
Walk’d[1019] out whole nights together in discourses,
And the main point forgot? we’re to blame both;
This is an obstinate, wilful forgetfulness,
And faulty on both parts: let’s lose no time now;
Begin, good uncle, you that feel ’t; what is it?
HIP. You of all creatures, niece, must never hear
on’t,
’Tis not a thing ordain’d for you to know.
ISA. Not I, sir? all my joys that word cuts off;
You made profession once you lov’d me best,
’Twas but profession.
HIP. Yes, I do’t too truly,
And fear I shall be chid for’t. Know the worst then;
I love thee dearlier than an uncle can.
ISA. Why, so you ever said, and I believ’d it.
HIP. So simple is the goodness of her thoughts,
They understand not yet th' unhallow’d language
Of a near sinner; I must yet be forc’d,
Though blushes be my venture, to come nearer.—
[_Aside._
As a man loves his wife, so love I thee.
ISA. What’s that?
Methought I heard ill news come toward me,
Which commonly we understand too soon,
Then over-quick at hearing; I'll prevent it,
Though my joys fare the harder, welcome it:
It shall ne’er come so near mine ear again.
Farewell all friendly solaces and discourses;
I'll learn to live without ye, for your dangers
Are greater than your comforts. What’s become
Of truth in love, if such we cannot trust,
When blood, that should be love, is mix’d with lust?
[_Exit._
HIP. The worst can be but death, and let it come;
He that lives joyless, every day’s his doom. [_Exit._
SCENE III.
_Street before the house of_ LEANTIO’S _Mother_.
_Enter_ LEANTIO.
LEAN. Methinks I'm even as dull now at departure,
As men observe great gallants the next day
After a revel;[1020] you shall see ’em look
Much of my fashion, if you mark ’em well.
’Tis even a second hell to part from pleasure
When man has got a smack on’t: as many holydays
Coming together make[1021] your poor heads idle
A great while after, and are said to stick
Fast in their fingers' ends,—even so does game
In a new-married couple; for the time
It spoils all thrift, and indeed lies a-bed
T' invent all the new ways for great expenses.
[BIANCA _and Mother appear above_.
See, and[1022] she be not got on purpose now
Into the window to look after me!
I've no power to go now, and[1022] I should be hang’d;
Farewell all business; I desire no more
Than I see yonder: let the goods at key
Look to themselves; why should I toil my youth out?
It is but begging two or three year sooner,
And stay with her continually: is’t a match?
O, fie, what a religion have I leap’d into!
Get out again, for shame! the man loves best
When his care’s most, that shews his zeal to love:
Fondness is but the idiot to[1023] affection,
That plays at hot-cockles with rich merchants' wives,
Good to make sport withal when the chest’s full,
And the long warehouse cracks. ’Tis time of day
For us to be more wise; ’tis early with us;
And if they lose the morning of their affairs,
They commonly lose the best part of the day:
Those that are wealthy, and have got enough,
’Tis after sunset with ’em; they may rest,
Grow fat with ease, banquet, and toy, and play,
When such as I enter the heat o' the day,
And I'll do’t cheerfully.
BIAN. I perceive, sir,
You’re not gone yet; I've good hope you’ll stay now.
LEAN. Farewell; I must not.
BIAN. Come, come, pray return;
To-morrow, adding but a little care more,
Will despatch all as well, believe me ’twill, sir.
LEAN. I could well wish myself where you would have
me;
But love that’s wanton must be rul’d awhile
By that that’s careful, or all goes to ruin:
As fitting is a government in love
As in a kingdom; where ’tis all mere lust,
’Tis like an insurrection in the people,
That, rais’d in self-will, wars against all reason;
But love that is respective for increase
Is like a good king, that keeps all in peace.
Once more, farewell.
BIAN. But this one night, I prithee!
LEAN. Alas, I'm in for twenty, if I stay,
And then for forty more! I've such luck to flesh,
I never bought a horse but he bore double.
If I stay any longer, I shall turn
An everlasting spendthrift: as you love
To be maintain’d well, do not call me again,
For then I shall not care which end goes forward.
Again, farewell to thee.
BIAN. Since it must, farewell too. [_Exit_ LEANTIO.
MOTH. Faith, daughter, you’re to blame; you take the
course
To make him an ill husband, troth you do;
And that disease is catching, I can tell you,
Ay, and soon taken by a young man’s blood,
And that with little urging. Nay, fie, see now,
What cause have you to weep? would I had no more,
That have liv’d threescore years! there were a cause,
And[1024] ’twere well thought on. Trust me, you’re to
blame;
His absence cannot last five days at utmost:
Why should those tears be fetch’d forth? cannot love
Be even as well express’d in a good look,
But it must see her face still in a fountain?
It shews like a country maid dressing her head
By a dish of water: come, ’tis an old custom
To weep for love.
_Enter several Boys, several Citizens, and an
Apprentice._
FIRST BOY. Now they come, now they come!
SEC. BOY. The duke!
THIRD BOY. The state[s]!
FIRST CIT. How near, boy?
FIRST BOY. I' the next street, sir, hard at hand.
FIRST CIT. You, sirrah, get a standing for your
mistress,
The best in all the city.
APPREN. I have’t for her, sir;
’Twas a thing I provided for her over-night,
’Tis ready at her pleasure.
FIRST CIT. Fetch her to’t then:
Away, sir! [_Exeunt Boys, Citizens, and Apprentice._
BIAN. What’s the meaning of this hurry?
Can you tell, mother?
MOTH. What a memory
Have I! I see by that years come upon me:
Why, ’tis a yearly custom and solemnity,
Religiously observ’d by the Duke and state[s],
To St. Mark’s temple, the fifteenth of April;
See, if my dull brains had not quite forgot it!
’Twas happily question’d of thee; I had gone down else,
Sat like a drone below, and never thought on’t.
I would not, to be ten years younger again,
That you had lost the sight: now you shall see
Our Duke, a goodly gentleman of his years.
BIAN. Is he old, then?
MOTH. About some fifty-five.
BIAN. That’s no great age in man; he’s then at best
For wisdom and for judgment.
MOTH. The lord Cardinal,
His noble brother—there’s a comely gentleman,
And greater in devotion than in blood.
BIAN. He’s worthy to be mark’d.
MOTH. You shall behold
All our chief states of Florence: you came fortunately
Against this solemn day.
BIAN. I hope so always. [_Music within._
MOTH. I hear ’em near us now: do you stand easily?
BIAN. Exceeding well, good mother.
MOTH. Take this stool.
BIAN. I need it not, I thank you.
MOTH. Use your will then.
_Enter six knights bare-headed, then two cardinals, then
the lord Cardinal, then the Duke; after him the states
of Florence by two and two, with variety of music and
song. They pass over the stage in great pomp, and
exeunt._
MOTH. How like you, daughter?
BIAN. ’Tis a noble state;
Methinks my soul could dwell upon the reverence
Of such a solemn and most worthy custom.
Did not the Duke look up? methought he saw us.
MOTH. That’s every one’s conceit that sees a duke;
If he look stedfastly, he looks straight at them,
When he, perhaps, good, careful gentleman,
Never minds any, but the look he casts
Is at his own intentions, and his object
Only the public good.
BIAN. Most likely so.
MOTH. Come, come, we’ll end this argument below.
[_Exeunt above._
ACT II. SCENE I.
_An apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house_.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ LIVIA.
LIV. A strange affection, brother! when I think on’t,
I wonder how thou cam’st by’t.
HIP. Even as easily
As man comes by destruction, which ofttimes
He wears in his own bosom.
LIV. Is the world
So populous in women, and creation
So prodigal in beauty, and so various,
Yet does love turn thy point to thine own blood?
’Tis somewhat too unkindly: must thy eye
Dwell evilly on the fairness of thy kindred,
And seek not where it should? it is confin’d
Now in a narrower prison than was made for’t;
It is allow’d a stranger; and where bounty
Is made the great man’s honour, ’tis ill husbandry
To spare, and servants shall have small thanks for’t;
So he heaven’s bounty seems to scorn and mock
That spares free means, and spends of his own stock.
HIP. Ne’er was man’s misery so soon summ’d[1025] up,
Counting how truly.
LIV. Nay, I love you so,
That I shall venture much to keep a change from you
So fearful as this grief will bring upon you;
Faith, it even kills me when I see you faint
Under a reprehension, and I'll leave it,
Though I know nothing can be better for you.
Prithee, sweet brother, let not passion waste
The goodness of thy time and of thy fortune:
Thou keep’st the treasure of that life I love
As dearly as mine own; and if you think
My former words too bitter, which were minister’d
By truth and zeal, ’tis but a hazarding
Of grace and virtue, and I can bring forth
As pleasant fruits as sensuality wishes
In all her teeming longings; this I can do.
HIP. O, nothing that can make my wishes perfect!
LIV. I would that love of yours were pawn’d to’t,
brother,
And as soon lost that way as I could win!
Sir, I could give as shrewd a lift to chastity
As any she that wears a tongue in Florence;
Sh’ad need be a good horsewoman, and sit fast,
Whom my strong argument could not fling at last.
Prithee, take courage, man; though I should counsel
Another to despair, yet I am pitiful
To thy afflictions, and will venture hard—
I will not name for what, it is not handsome;
Find you the proof, and praise me.
HIP. Then I fear me
I shall not praise you in haste.
LIV. This is the comfort,
You are not the first, brother, has attempted
Things more forbidden than this seems to be.
I'll minister all cordials now to you,
Because I'll cheer you up, sir.
HIP. I'm past hope.
LIV. Love, thou shalt see me do a strange cure then,
As e’er was wrought on a disease so mortal
And near akin to shame. When shall you see her?
HIP. Never in comfort more.
LIV. You’re so impatient too!
HIP. Will you believe? death, sh’as forsworn my
company,
And seal’d it with a blush.
LIV. So, I perceive
All lies upon my hands then; well, the more glory
When the work’s finish’d.
_Enter Servant._
How now, sir? the news?
SER. Madam, your niece, the virtuous Isabella,
Is lighted now to see you.
LIV. That’s great fortune;
Sir, your stars bless you.—Simple, lead[1026] her in.
[_Exit Servant._
HIP. What’s this to me?
LIV. Your absence, gentle brother;
I must bestir my wits for you.
HIP. Ay, to great purpose. [_Exit._
LIV. Beshrew you, would I lov’d you not so well!
I'll go to bed, and leave this deed undone:
I am the fondest where I once affect;
The carefull’st of their healths and of their ease,
forsooth,
That I look still but slenderly to mine own:
I take a course to pity him so much now,
That I've none left for modesty and myself.
This ’tis to grow so liberal: you’ve few sisters
That love their brothers' ease ’bove their own
honesties;
But if you question my affections,
That will be found my fault.
_Enter_ ISABELLA.
Niece, your love’s welcome.
Alas, what draws that paleness to thy cheeks?
This enforc’d marriage towards?[1027]
ISA. It helps, good aunt,
Amongst some other griefs; but those I'll keep
Lock’d up in modest silence, for they’re sorrows
Would shame the tongue more than they grieve the
thought.
LIV. Indeed, the Ward is simple.
ISA. Simple! that were well;
Why, one might make good shift with such a husband,
But he’s a fool entail’d, he halts downright in’t.
LIV. And knowing this, I hope ’tis at your choice
To take or refuse, niece.
ISA. You see it is not.
I loathe him more than beauty can hate death,
Or age her spiteful neighbour.
LIV. Let ’t appear then.
ISA. How can I, being born with that obedience
That must submit unto a father’s will?
If he command, I must of force consent.
LIV. Alas, poor soul! be not offended, prithee,
If I set by the name of niece awhile,
And bring in pity in a stranger fashion;
It lies here in this breast would cross this match.
ISA. How! cross it, aunt?
LIV. Ay, and give thee more liberty
Than thou hast reason yet to apprehend.
ISA. Sweet aunt, in goodness keep not hid from me
What may befriend my life!
LIV. Yes, yes, I must;
When I return to reputation,
And think upon the solemn vow I made
To your dead mother, my most loving sister;
As long as I've her memory ’twixt mine eyelids,
Look for no pity now.
ISA. Kind, sweet, dear aunt——
LIV. No, ’twas a secret I've took special care of,
Deliver’d by your mother on her deathbed,
That’s nine years now, and I'll not part from’t yet,
Though ne’er was fitter time, nor greater cause for’t.
ISA. As you desire the praises of a virgin——
LIV. Good sorrow, I would do thee any kindness
Not wronging secrecy or reputation.
ISA. Neither of which, as I have hope of
fruit[ful]ness,
Shall receive wrong from me.
LIV. Nay, ’twould be your own wrong
As much as any’s, should it come to that once.
ISA. I need no better means to work persuasion then.
LIV. Let it suffice, you may refuse this fool,
Or you may take him, as you see occasion
For your advantage; the best wits will do’t;
You’ve liberty enough in your own will,
You cannot be enforc’d; there grows the flower,
If you could pick it out, makes whole life sweet to you.
That which you call your father’s command’s nothing,
Then your obedience must needs be as little:
If you can make shift here to taste your happiness,
Or pick out aught that likes[1028] you, much good do
you;
You see your cheer, I'll make you no set dinner.
ISA. And, trust me, I may starve for all the good
I can find yet in this: sweet aunt, deal plainlier.
LIV. Say I should trust you now upon an oath,
And give you, in a secret, that would start you,
How am I sure of you in faith and silence?
ISA. Equal assurance may I find in mercy
As you for that in me!
LIV. It shall suffice:
Then know, however custom has made good,
For reputation’s sake, the names of niece
And aunt ’twixt you and I, we’re nothing less.
ISA. How’s that?
LIV. I told you I should start your blood:
You are no more allied to any of us,
Save what the courtesy of opinion casts
Upon your mother’s memory and your name,
Than the merest stranger is, or one begot
At Naples when the husband lies at Rome;
There’s so much odds betwixt us. Since your knowledge
Wish’d more instruction, and I have your oath
In pledge for silence, it makes me talk the freelier.
Did never the report of that fam’d Spaniard,
Marquis of Coria, since your time was ripe
For understanding, fill your ear with wonder?
ISA. Yes; what of him? I've heard his deeds of honour
Often related when we liv’d in Naples.
LIV. You heard the praises of your father then.
ISA. My father!
LIV. That was he; but all the business
So carefully and so discreetly carried,
That fame receiv’d no spot by’t, not a blemish;
Your mother was so wary to her end,
None knew it but her conscience and her friend,
Till penitent confession made it mine,
And now my pity yours, it had been long else;
And I hope care and love alike in you,
Made good by oath, will see it take no wrong now.
How weak his commands now whom you call father!
How vain all his enforcements, your obedience!
And what a largeness in your will and liberty,
To take, or to reject, or to do both!
For fools will serve to father wise men’s children:
All this you’ve time to think on. O my wench,
Nothing o’erthrows our sex but indiscretion!
We might do well else of a brittle people
As any under the great canopy:
I pray, forget not but to call me aunt still;
Take heed of that; it may be mark’d in time else:
But keep your thoughts to yourself, from all the world,
Kindred, or dearest friend; nay, I entreat you,
From him that all this while you have call’d uncle;
And though you love him dearly, as I know
His deserts claim as much even from a stranger,
Yet let not him know this, I prithee, do not;
As ever thou hast hope of second pity,
If thou shouldst stand in need on’t, do not do’t.
ISA. Believe my oath, I will not.
LIV. Why, well said.—
Who shews more craft t' undo a maidenhead,
I'll resign my part to her. [_Aside._
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
She’s thine own; go.
HIP. Alas, fair flattery cannot cure my sorrows!
[_Exit_ LIVIA.
ISA. Have I past so much time in ignorance,
And never had the means to know myself
Till this bless’d hour? thanks to her virtuous pity
That brought it now to light; would I had known it
But one day sooner! he had then receiv’d
In favours, what, poor gentleman, he took
In bitter words; a slight and harsh reward
For one of his deserts. [_Aside._
HIP. There seems to me now
More anger and distraction in her looks:
I'm gone; I'll not endure a second storm,
The memory of the first is not past yet. [_Aside._
ISA. Are you return’d, you comforts of my life,
In this man’s presence? I will keep you fast now,
And sooner part eternally from the world
Than my good joys in you. [_Aside._]—Prithee, forgive
me,
I did but chide in jest; the best loves use it
Sometimes, it sets an edge upon affection:
When we invite our best friends to a feast,
’Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before them;
There’s somewhat sharp and salt, both to whet appetite
And make ’em taste their wine well; so, methinks,
After a friendly, sharp, and savoury chiding,
A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape;
How think’st thou? does ’t not? [_Kisses him._
HIP. ’Tis so excellent,
I know not how to praise it, what to say to’t!
ISA. This marriage shall go forward.
HIP. With the Ward?
Are you in earnest?
ISA. ’Twould be ill for us else.
HIP. For us! how means she that? [_Aside._
ISA. Troth, I begin
To be so well, methinks, within this hour,
For all this match able to kill one’s heart,
Nothing can pull me down now; should my father
Provide a worse fool yet—which I should think
Were a hard thing to compass—I'd have him either;
The worse the better, none can come amiss now,
If he want wit enough; so discretion love me,
Desert and judgment, I've content sufficient.
She that comes once to be a housekeeper
Must not look every day to fare well, sir,
Like a young waiting-gentlewoman in service,
For she feeds commonly as her lady does,
No good bit passes her but she gets a taste on’t;
But when she comes to keep house for herself,
She’s glad of some choice cates then once a-week,
Or twice at most, and glad if she can get ’em;
So must affection learn to fare with thankfulness:
Pray, make your love no stranger, sir, that’s all,—
Though you be one yourself, and know not on’t,
And I have sworn you must not. [_Aside, and exit._
HIP. This is beyond me!
Never came joys so unexpectedly
To meet desires in man: how came she thus?
What has she done to her, can any tell?
’Tis beyond sorcery this, drugs, or love-powders;
Some art that has no name, sure; strange to me
Of all the wonders I e’er met withal
Throughout my ten years' travels; but I'm thankful
for’t.
This marriage now must of necessity forward;
It is the only veil wit can devise
To keep our acts hid from sin-piercing eyes. [_Exit._
SCENE II.
_Another apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house: a chess-board set
out_.
_Enter_ LIVIA _and_ GUARDIANO.
LIV. How, sir? a gentlewoman so young, so fair,
As you set forth, spied from the widow’s window?
GUAR. She.
LIV. Our Sunday-dinner woman?
GUAR. And Thursday-supper woman, the same still:
I know not how she came by her, but I'll swear
She’s the prime gallant for a face in Florence,
And no doubt other parts follow their leader.
The Duke himself first spied her at the window,
Then, in a rapture—as if admiration
Were poor when it were single—beckon’d me,
And pointed to the wonder warily,
As one that fear’d she would draw in her splendour
Too soon, if too much gaz’d at: I ne’er knew him
So infinitely taken with a woman;
Nor can I blame his appetite, or tax
His raptures of slight folly; she’s a creature
Able to draw a state from serious business,
And make it their best piece to do her service.
What course shall we devise? has spoke twice now.
LIV. Twice?
GUAR. ’Tis beyond your apprehension
How strangely that one look has catch’d his heart:
'Twould prove but too much worth in wealth and favour
To whose should work his peace.
LIV. And if I do’t not,
Or at least come as near it—if your art
Will take a little pains and second me—
As any wench in Florence of my standing,
I'll quite give o’er, and shut up shop in cunning.
GUAR. ’Tis for the Duke; and if I fail your purpose,
All means to come by riches or advancement
Miss me, and skip me over!
LIV. Let the old woman then
Be sent for with all speed, then I'll begin.
GUAR. A good conclusion follow, and a sweet one,
After this stale beginning with old ware!
Within there!
_Enter Servant._
SER. Sir, do you call?
GUAR. Come near, list hither. [_Whispers._
LIV. I long myself to see this absolute creature,
That wins the heart of love and praise so much.
GUAR. Go, sir, make haste.
LIV. Say I entreat her company:
Do you hear, sir?
SER. Yes, madam. [_Exit._
LIV. That brings her quickly.
GUAR. I would ’twere done! the Duke waits the good
hour,
And I wait the good fortune that may spring from’t.
I've had a lucky hand these fifteen year
At such court-passage,[1029] with three dice in a dish.—
_Enter_ FABRICIO.
Signor Fabricio!
FAB. O sir,
I bring an alteration in my mouth now.
GUAR. An alteration?—No wise speech, I hope;
He means not to talk wisely, does he, trow?[1030]—
rj [_Aside._
Good; what’s the change, I pray, sir?
FAB. A new change.
GUAR. Another yet? faith, there’s enough already.
FAB. My daughter loves him now.
GUAR. What, does she, sir?
FAB. Affects him beyond thought: who but the Ward,
forsooth;
No talk but of the Ward; she would have him
To choose ’bove all the men she ever saw:
My will goes not so fast as her consent now;
Her duty gets before my command still.
GUAR. Why, then, sir, if you’ll have me speak my
thoughts,
I smell ’twill be a match.
FAB. Ay, and a sweet young couple,
If I have any judgment.
GUAR. Faith, that’s little.— [_Aside._
Let her be sent to-morrow, before noon,
And handsomely trick’d up, for ’bout that time
I mean to bring her in, and tender her to him.
FAB. I warrant you for handsome; I will see
Her things laid ready, every one in order,
And have some part of her trick’d up to-night.
GUAR. Why, well said.
FAB. ’Twas a use her mother had;
When she was invited to an early wedding,
She’d dress her head o’er night, sponge up herself,
And give her neck three lathers.
GUAR. Ne’er a halter? [_Aside._
FAB. On with her chain of pearl, her ruby bracelets,
Lay ready all her tricks and jiggembobs.
GUAR. So must your daughter.
FAB. I'll about it straight, sir. [_Exit._
LIV. How he sweats in the foolish zeal of fatherhood,
After six ounces an hour, and seems
To toil as much as if his cares were wise ones!
GUAR. You’ve let his folly blood in the right vein,
lady.
LIV. And here comes his sweet son-in-law that shall
be;
They’re both allied in wit before the marriage;
What will they be hereafter, when they’re nearer!
Yet they can go no further than the fool;
There’s the world’s end in both of ’em.
_Enter the Ward and_ SORDIDO, _one with a shittlecock,
the other with a battledoor_.
GUAR. Now, young heir.
WARD. What’s the next business after shittlecock now?
GUAR. To-morrow you shall see the gentlewoman
Must be your wife.
WARD. There’s even another thing too,
Must be kept up with a pair of battledoors:
My wife! what can she do?
GUAR. Nay, that’s a question you should ask yourself,
Ward,
When you’re alone together.
WARD. That’s as I list;
A wife’s to be ask['d] any where, I hope;
I'll ask her in a congregation,
If I've a mind to’t, and so save a license.
My guardianer has no more wit than an herb-woman,
That sells away all her sweet herbs and nosegays,
And keeps a stinking breath for her own pottage.
SOR. Let me be at the choosing of your belov’d,
If you desire a woman of good parts.
WARD. Thou shalt, sweet Sordido.
SOR. I have a plaguy guess; let me alone to see what she
is: if I but look upon her—'way! I know all the faults
to a hair that you may refuse her for.
WARD. Dost thou? I prithee, let me hear ’em, Sordido.
SOR. Well, mark ’em then; I have ’em all in rhyme:
The wife your guardianer ought to tender
Should be pretty, straight, and slender;
Her hair not short, her foot not long,
Her hand not huge, nor too, too loud her tongue;
No pearl in eye,[1031] nor ruby in her nose,
No burn or cut but what the catalogue shews;
She must have teeth, and that no black ones,
And kiss most sweet when she does smack once;
Her skin must be both white and plump['d],
Her body straight, not hopper-rump’d,
Or wriggle sideways like a crab;
She must be neither slut nor drab,
Nor go too splay-foot with her shoes,
To make her smock lick up the dews;
And two things more, which I forgot to tell ye,
She neither must have bump in back nor belly:
These are the faults that will not make her pass.
WARD. And if I spy not these, I'm a rank ass.
SOR. Nay, more; by right, sir, you should see her
naked,
For that’s the ancient order.
WARD. See her naked?
That were good sport, i’faith: I'll have the books
turn’d o’er,
And if I find her naked on record,
She shall not have a rag on: but stay, stay;
How if she should desire to see me so too?
I were in a sweet case then; such a foul skin!
SOR. But you’ve a clean shirt, and that makes amends,
sir.
WARD. I will not see her naked for that trick though.
[_Exit._
SOR. Then take her with all faults with her clothes
on,
And they may hide a number with a bum-roll.[1032]
Faith, choosing of a wench in a huge farthingale
Is like the buying of ware under a great penthouse;
What with the deceit of one,
And the false light of th' other, mark my speeches,
He may have a diseas’d wench in’s bed,
And rotten stuff in’s breeches. [_Exit._
GUAR. It may take handsomely.[1033]
LIV. I see small hindrance.—
_Re-enter Servant, shewing in Mother._
How now? so soon return’d?
GUAR. She’s come.
LIV. That’s well.— [_Exit Servant._
Widow, come, come, I've a great quarrel to you;
Faith, I must chide you, that you must be sent for;
You make yourself so strange, never come at us,
And yet so near a neighbour, and so unkind;
Troth, you’re to blame; you cannot be more welcome
To any house in Florence, that I'll tell you.
MOTH. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, madam.
LIV. How can you be so strange then? I sit here
Sometime[s] whole days together without company,
When business draws this gentleman from home,
And should be happy in society
Which I so well affect as that of yours:
I know you’re alone too; why should not we,
Like two kind neighbours, then, supply the wants
Of one another, having tongue-discourse,
Experience in the world, and such kind helps
To laugh down time, and meet age merrily?[1034]
MOTH. Age, madam! you speak mirth; ’tis at my door,
But a long journey from your ladyship yet.
LIV. My faith, I'm nine and-thirty, every stroke,
wench;
And ’tis a general observation
'Mongst knights—wives or widows, we account ourselves
Then old, when young men’s eyes leave looking at’s;
’Tis a true rule amongst us, and ne’er fail’d yet
In any but in one, that I remember;
Indeed, she had a friend at nine-and-forty;
Marry, she paid well for him, and in th' end
He kept a quean or two with her own money,
That robb’d her of her plate and cut her throat.
MOTH. She had her punishment in this world, madam,
And a fair warning to all other women
That they live chaste at fifty.
LIV. Ay, or never, wench.
Come, now I have thy company, I'll not part with’t
Till after supper.
MOTH. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam.
LIV. I swear you shall stay supper; we’ve no
strangers, woman,
None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman
And the young heir his ward; you know our company.
MOTH. Some other time I'll make bold with you, madam.
GUAR. Nay, pray stay, widow.
LIV. Faith, she shall not go:
Do you think I'll be forsworn?
MOTH. ’Tis a great while
Till supper-time; I'll take my leave then now, madam,
And come again i' th' evening, since your ladyship
Will have it so.
LIV. I' th' evening? by my troth, wench,
I'll keep you while I have you: you’ve great business,
sure,
To sit alone at home; I wonder strangely
What pleasure you take in’t; were’t to me now,
I should be ever at one neighbour’s house
Or other all day long: having no charge,
Or none to chide you, if you go or stay,
Who may live merrier, ay, or more at heart’s ease?
Come, we’ll to chess or draughts; there are an hundred
tricks
To drive out time till supper, never fear’t, wench.
MOTH. I'll but make one step home, and return
straight, madam.
LIV. Come, I'll not trust you; you use more excuses
To your kind friends than ever I knew any.
What business can you have, if you be sure
You’ve lock’d the doors? and, that being all you have,
I know you’re careful on’t. One afternoon
So much to spend here! say I should entreat you now
To lie a night or two, or a week, with me,
Or leave your own house for a month together;
It were a kindness that long neighbourhood
And friendship might well hope to prevail in;
Would you deny such a request? i’faith,
Speak truth, and freely.
MOTH. I were then uncivil, madam.
LIV. Go to then; set your men; we’ll have whole nights
Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench.
[LIVIA _and Mother sit down to the chess-board_.
MOTH. As good now tell her then, for she will know’t;
I've always found her a most friendly lady. [_Aside._
LIV. Why, widow, where’s your mind?
MOTH. Troth, even at home, madam:
To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman
Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable,
Especially to young bloods.
LIV. Another excuse!
MOTH. No; as I hope for health, madam, that’s a truth:
Please you to send and see.
LIV. What gentlewoman? pish!
MOTH. Wife to my son, indeed; but not known, madam,
To any but yourself.
LIV. Now I beshrew you;
Could you be so unkind to her and me,
To come and not bring her? faith, ’tis not friendly.
MOTH. I fear’d to be too bold.
LIV. Too bold! O, what’s become
Of the true hearty love was wont to be
'Mongst neighbours in old time!
MOTH. And she’s a stranger, madam.
LIV. The more should be her welcome: when is courtesy
In better practice than when ’tis employ’d
In entertaining strangers? I could chide, i’faith:
Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman! alone too!
Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go.
MOTH. Please you, command one of your servants, madam.
LIV. Within there!
_Re-enter Servant._
SR. Madam.
LIV. Attend the gentlewoman.[1035]
MOTH. It must be carried wondrous privately
From my son’s knowledge, he’ll break out in storms
else.—
Hark you, sir.
[_Whispers the Servant, who then goes out._
LIV. [_to_ GUAR.] Now comes in the heat of your part.
GUAR. True, I know’t, lady; and if I be out,
May the Duke banish me from all employments,
Wanton or serious!
LIV. So, have you sent, widow?
MOTH. Yes, madam, he’s almost at home by this.
LIV. And, faith, let me entreat you that henceforward
All such unkind faults may be swept from friendship,
Which does but dim the lustre; and think thus much,
It is a wrong to me, that have ability
To bid friends welcome, when you keep ’em from me;
You cannot set greater dishonour near me;
For bounty is the credit and the glory
Of those that have enough. I see you’re sorry,
And the good ’mends is made by’t.
_Re-enter Servant, shewing in_ BIANCA.
MOTH. Here she is, madam. [_Exit Servant._
BIAN. I wonder how she comes to send for me now.
[_Aside._
LIV. Gentlewoman, you’re most welcome, trust me, you
are,
As courtesy can make one, or respect
Due to the presence of you.
BIAN. I give you thanks, lady.
LIV. I heard you were alone, and ’t had appear’d
An ill condition[1036] in me, though I knew you not,
Nor ever saw you—yet humanity
Thinks every case her own—t' have kept your company
Here from you, and left you all solitary:
I rather ventur’d upon boldness then,
As the least fault, and wish’d your presence here;
A thing most happily motion’d of that gentleman,
Whom I request you, for his care and pity,
To honour and reward with your acquaintance;
A gentleman that ladies' rights stands for,
That’s his profession.
BIAN. ’Tis a noble one,
And honours my acquaintance.
GUAR. All my intentions
Are servants to such mistresses.
BIAN. ’Tis your modesty,
It seems, that makes your deserts speak so low, sir.
LIV. Come, widow.—Look you, lady, here’s our business;
[_Pointing to the chess-board._
Are we not well employ’d, think you? an old quarrel
Between us, that will ne’er be at an end.
BIAN. No? and, methinks, there’s men enough to part
you, lady.
LIV. Ho, but they set us on, let us come off
As well as we can, poor souls; men care no farther.
I pray, sit down, forsooth, if you’ve the patience
To look upon two weak and tedious gamesters.
GUAR. Faith, madam, set these by till evening,
You’ll have enough on’t then; the gentlewoman,
Being a stranger, would take more delight
To see your rooms and pictures.
LIV. Marry, good sir,
And well remember’d; I beseech you, shew ’em her,
That will beguile time well; pray heartily, do, sir,
I'll do as much for you: here, take these keys;
[_Gives keys to_ GUARDIANO.
Shew her the monument too, and that’s a thing
Every one sees not; you can witness that, widow.
MOTH. And that’s worth sight indeed, madam.
BIAN. Kind lady,
I fear I came to be a trouble to you.
LIV. O, nothing less, forsooth!
BIAN. And to this courteous gentleman,
That wears a kindness in his breast so noble
And bounteous to the welcome of a stranger.
GUAR. If you but give acceptance to my service,
You do the greatest grace and honour to me
That courtesy can merit.
BIAN. I were to blame else,
And out of fashion much. I pray you, lead, sir.
LIV. After a game or two, we’re for you, gentlefolks.
GUAR. We wish no better seconds in society
Than your discourses, madam, and your partner’s there.
MOTH. I thank your praise; I listen’d to you, sir,
Though, when you spoke, there came a paltry rook
Full in my way, and chokes up all my game.
[_Exeunt._ GUARDIANO _and_ BIANCA.
LIV. Alas, poor widow, I shall be too hard for thee!
MOTH. You’re cunning at the game, I'll be sworn,
madam.
LIV. It will be found so, ere I give you over.—
[_Aside._
She that can place her man well——
MOTH. As you do, madam.
LIV. As I shall, wench, can never lose her game:
Nay, nay, the black king’s mine.
MOTH. Cry you mercy, madam!
LIV. And this my queen.
MOTH. I see’t now.
LIV. Here’s a duke[1037]
Will strike a sure stroke for the game anon;
Your pawn cannot come back to relieve itself.
MOTH. I know that, madam.
LIV. You play well the whilst:
How she belies her skill! I hold two ducats,
I give you check and mate to your white king,
Simplicity itself, your saintish king there.
MOTH. Well, ere now, lady,
I've seen the fall of subtlety; jest on.
LIV. Ay, but simplicity receives two for one.
MOTH. What remedy but patience!
_Enter_ GUARDIANO _and_ BIANCA _above_.[1038]
BIAN. Trust me, sir,
Mine eye ne’er met with fairer ornaments.
GUAR. Nay, livelier, I'm persuaded, neither Florence
Nor Venice can produce.
BIAN. Sir, my opinion
Takes your part highly.
GUAR. There’s a better piece
Yet than all these.
BIAN. Not possible, sir!
GUAR. Believe it,
You’ll say so when you see’t: turn but your eye now,
You’re upon’t presently.
[_Draws a curtain,[1039] and discovers the Duke;
then exit._
BIAN. O sir!
DUKE. He’s gone, beauty:
Pish, look not after him; he’s but a vapour,
That, when the sun appears, is seen no more.
BIAN. O, treachery to honour!
DUKE. Prithee, tremble not;
I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting
Under a loving hand that makes much on’t:
Why art so fearful? as I'm friend to brightness,
There’s nothing but respect and honour near thee:
You know me, you have seen me; here’s a heart
Can witness I have seen thee.
BIAN. The more’s my danger.
DUKE. The more’s thy happiness. Pish, strive not,
sweet;
This strength were excellent employ’d in love now,
But here[1040] ’tis spent amiss: strive not to seek
Thy liberty, and keep me still in prison;
I'faith, you shall not out till I'm releas’d now;
We’ll be both freed together, or stay still by’t,
So is captivity pleasant.
BIAN. O my lord!
DUKE. I am not here in vain; have but the leisure
To think on that, and thou’lt be soon resolv’d:
The lifting of thy voice is but like one
That does exalt his enemy, who, proving high,
Lays all the plots to confound him that rais’d him.
Take warning, I beseech thee; thou seem’st to me
A creature so compos’d of gentleness,
And delicate meekness—such as bless the faces
Of figures that are drawn for goddesses,
And make[1041] art proud to look upon her work—
I should be sorry the least force should lay
An unkind touch upon thee.
BIAN. O my extremity!
My lord, what seek you?
DUKE. Love.
BIAN. ’Tis gone already;
I have a husband.
DUKE. That’s a single comfort;
Take a friend to him.
BIAN. That’s a double mischief,
Or else there’s no religion.
DUKE. Do not tremble
At fears of thine own making.
BIAN. Nor, great lord,
Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin,
Because they fear not you; me they must fright—
Then am I best in health: should thunder speak,
And none regard it, it had lost the name,
And were as good be still. I'm not like those
That take their soundest sleeps in greatest tempests;
Then wake I most, the weather fearfullest,
And call for strength to virtue.
DUKE. Sure, I think
Thou know’st the way to please me: I affect
A passionate pleading ’bove an easy yielding;
But never pitied any,—they deserve none,—
That will not pity me. I can command,
Think upon that; yet if thou truly knewest
The infinite pleasure my affection takes
In gentle, fair entreatings, when love’s businesses
Are carried courteously ’twixt heart and heart,
You’d make more haste to please me.
BIAN. Why should you seek, sir,
To take away that you can never give?
DUKE. But I give better in exchange,—wealth, honour;
She that is fortunate in a duke’s favour
'Lights on a tree that bears all women’s wishes:
If your own mother saw you pluck fruit there,
She would commend your wit, and praise the time
Of your nativity; take hold of glory.
Do not I know you’ve cast away your life
Upon necessities, means merely doubtful
To keep you in indifferent health and fashion—
A thing I heard too lately, and soon pitied—
And can you be so much your beauty’s enemy,
To kiss away a month or two in wedlock,
And weep whole years in wants for ever after?
Come, play the wise wench, and provide for ever;
Let storms come when they list, they find thee
shelter’d.
Should any doubt arise, let nothing trouble thee;
Put trust in our love for the managing
Of all to thy heart’s peace: we’ll walk together,
And shew a thankful joy for both our fortunes.
[_Exeunt Duke and_ BIANCA _above_.
LIV. Did not I say my duke would fetch you o’er,
widow?
MOTH. I think you spoke in earnest when you said it,
madam.
LIV. And my black king makes all the haste he can too.
MOTH. Well, madam, we may meet with him in time yet.
LIV. I've given thee blind mate twice.
MOTH. You may see, madam,
My eyes begin to fail.
LIV. I'll swear they do, wench.
_Re-enter_ GUARDIANO.
GUAR. I can but smile as often as I think on’t:
How prettily the poor fool was beguil’d!
How unexpectedly! it’s a witty age;
Never were finer snares for women’s honesties
Than are devis’d in these days; no spider’s web
Made of a daintier thread than are now practis’d
To catch love’s flesh-fly by the silver wing:
Yet, to prepare her stomach by degrees
To Cupid’s feast, because I saw ’twas queasy,
I shew’d her naked pictures by the way,
A bit to stay the appetite. Well, advancement,
I venture hard to find thee; if thou com’st
With a greater title set upon thy crest,
I'll take that first cross patiently, and wait
Until some other comes greater than that;
I'll endure all. [_Aside._
LIV. The game’s even at the best now: you may see,
widow,
How all things draw to an end.
MOTH. Even so do I, madam.
LIV. I pray, take some of your neighbours along with
you.
MOTH. They must be those are almost twice your years
then,
If they be chose fit matches for my time, madam.
LIV. Has not my duke bestirr’d himself?
MOTH. Yes, faith, madam;
Has done me all the mischief in this game.
LIV. Has shew’d himself in’s kind.
MOTH. In’s kind, call you it?
I may swear that.
LIV. Yes, faith, and keep your oath.
GUAR. Hark, list! there’s somebody coming down: ’tis
she.
[_Aside._
_Re-enter_ BIANCA.
BIAN. Now bless me from a blasting! I saw that now,
Fearful for any woman’s eye to look on;
Infectious mists and mildews hang at’s eyes,
The weather of a doomsday dwells upon him:
Yet since mine honour’s leprous, why[1042] should I
Preserve that fair that caus’d the leprosy?
Come, poison all at once. [_Aside._]—Thou in whose
baseness
The bane of virtue broods, I'm bound in soul
Eternally to curse thy smooth-brow’d treachery,
That wore the fair veil of a friendly welcome,
And I a stranger; think upon’t, ’tis worth it;
Murders pil’d up upon a guilty spirit,
At his last breath will not lie heavier
Than this betraying act upon thy conscience:
Beware of offering the first-fruits to sin;
His weight is deadly who commits with strumpets,
After they’ve been abas’d, and made for use;
If they offend to the death, as wise men know,
How much more they, then, that first make ’em so!
I give thee that to feed on. I'm made bold now,
I thank thy treachery; sin and I'm acquainted,
No couple greater; and I'm like that great one,
Who, making politic use of a base villain,
He likes the treason well, but hates the traitor;
So I hate thee, slave!
GUAR. Well, so the Duke love me,
I fare not much amiss then; two great feasts
Do seldom come together in one day,
We must not look for ’em.
BIAN. What, at it still, mother?
MOTH. You see we sit by’t: are you so soon return’d?
LIV. So lively and so cheerful! a good sign that.
[_Aside._
MOTH. You have not seen all since, sure?
BIAN. That have I, mother,
The monument and all: I'm so beholding[1043]
To this kind, honest, courteous gentleman,
You’d little think it, mother; shew’d me all,
Had me from place to place so fashionably;
The kindness of some people, how ’t exceeds!
Faith, I've seen that I little thought to see
I' the morning when I rose.
MOTH. Nay, so I told you
Before you saw’t, it would prove worth your sight.—
I give you great thanks for my daughter, sir,
And all your kindness towards her.
GUAR. O, good widow,
Much good may['t] do her!—forty weeks hence, i’faith.
[_Aside._
_Re-enter Servant._
LIV. Now, sir?
SER. May’t please you, madam, to walk in;
Supper’s upon the table.
LIV. Yes, we come.— [_Exit Servant._
Will’t please you, gentlewoman?
BIAN. Thanks, virtuous lady.—
You’re a damn’d bawd. [_Aside to_ LIVIA.]—I'll follow
you, forsooth;
Pray, take my mother in;—an old ass go with you!—
[_Aside._
This gentleman and I vow not to part.
LIV. Then get you both before.
BIAN. There lies his art. [_Exeunt._ BIANCA _and_
GUARDIANO.
LIV. Widow, I'll follow you. [_Exit Mother._] Is’t so?
_damn’d bawd!_
Are you so bitter? ’tis but want of use:
Her tender modesty is sea-sick a little,
Being not accustom’d to the breaking billow
Of woman’s wavering faith blown with temptations:
’Tis but a qualm of honour, ’twill away;
A little bitter for the time, but lasts not:
Sin tastes at the first draught like wormwood-water,
But drunk again, ’tis nectar ever after. [_Exit._
ACT III. SCENE I.
_A room in the house of_ LEANTIO’S _Mother_.
_Enter Mother._
MOTH. I would my son would either keep at home,
Or I were in my grave!
She was but one day abroad, but ever since
She’s grown so cutted,[1044] there’s no speaking to her:
Whether the sight of great cheer at my lady’s,
And such mean fare at home, work discontent in her,
I know not; but I'm sure she’s strangely alter’d.
I'll ne’er keep daughter-in-law i' th' house with me
Again,if I had an hundred: when read I of any
That agreed long together, but she and her mother
Fell out in the first quarter? nay, sometime
A grudging of[1045] a scolding the first week,
byrlady![1046]
So takes the new disease, methinks, in my house:
I'm weary of my part; there’s nothing likes[1047] her;
I know not how to please her here a' late:
And here she comes.
_Enter_ BIANCA.
BIAN. This is the strangest house
For all defects as ever gentlewoman
Made shift withal to pass away her love in:
Why is there not a cushion-cloth of drawn-work,
Or some fair cut-work pinn’d up in my bed-chamber,
A silver and gilt casting-bottle[1048] hung by’t?—
Nay, since I am content to be so kind to you,
To spare you for a silver basin and ewer,
Which one of my fashion looks for of duty;
She’s never offer’d under where she sleeps.
MOTH. She talks of things here my whole state’s not
worth.
BIAN. Never a green silk quilt is there i' th' house,
mother,
To cast upon my bed?
MOTH. No, by troth, is there,
Nor orange-tawny neither.
BIAN. Here’s a house
For a young gentlewoman to be got with child in!
MOTH. Yes, simple though you make it, there has been
three
Got in a year in’t, since you move me to’t,
And all as sweet-fac’d children and as lovely
As you’ll be mother of: I will not spare you:
What, cannot children be begot, think you,
Without gilt casting-bottles? yes, and as sweet ones:
The miller’s daughter brings forth as white boys[1049]
As she that bathes herself with milk and bean-flour:
’Tis an old saying, One may keep good cheer
In a mean house; so may true love affect
After the rate of princes in a cottage.
BIAN. Troth, you speak wondrous well for your old
house here;
'Twill shortly fall down at your feet to thank you,
Or stoop, when you go to bed, like a good child,
To ask you blessing. Must I live in want
Because my fortune match’d me with your son?
Wives do not give away themselves to husbands
To the end to be quite cast away; they look
To be the better us’d and tender’d rather,
Highlier respected, and maintain’d the richer;
They’re well rewarded else for the free gift
Of their whole life to a husband! I ask less now
Than what I had at home when I was a maid,
And at my father’s house; kept short of that
Which a wife knows she must have, nay, and will—
Will, mother, if she be not a fool born;
And report went of me, that I could wrangle
For what I wanted when I was two hours old;
And, by that copy, this land still I hold:
You hear me, mother. [_Exit._
MOTH. Ay, too plain, methinks;
And were I somewhat deafer when you spake,
'Twere ne’er a whit the worse for my quietness.
’Tis the most sudden’st, strangest alteration,
And the most subtlest, that e’er wit at threescore
Was puzzled to find out: I know no cause for’t; but
She’s no more like the gentlewoman at first,
Than I'm like her that never lay with man yet,—
And she’s a very young thing, where’er she be.
When she first lighted here, I told her then
How mean she should find all things; she was pleas’d,
forsooth,
None better: I laid open all defects to her,
She was contented still; but the devil’s in her,
Nothing contents her now. To-night my son
Promis’d to be at home; would he were come once,
For I am weary of my charge, and life too!
She’d be serv’d all in silver, by her good will,
By night and day; she hates the name of pewterer
More than sick men the noise, or diseas’d bones
That quake at fall o' th' hammer, seeming to have
A fellow-feeling with’t at every blow.
What course shall I think on? she frets me so!
[_Exit._
_Enter_ LEANTIO.
LEAN. How near am I now to a happiness
That earth exceeds not! not another like it:
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal’d comforts of a man
Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house:
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch-side.
When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet,
Sparkling in beauty and destruction too,
Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight
Her beautified body to a goodly temple
That’s built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting;
And so, by little and little, I shrink back again,
And quench desire with a cool meditation;
And I'm as well, methinks. Now for a welcome
Able to draw men’s envies upon man;
A kiss now, that will hang upon my lip
As sweet as morning-dew upon a rose,
And full as long; after a five-days' fast
She’ll be so greedy now, and cling about me,
I take care how I shall be rid of her:
And here’t begins.
_Re-enter_ BIANCA _and Mother_.
BIAN. O sir, you’re welcome home!
MOTH. O, is he come? I'm glad on’t.
LEAN. Is that all?
Why, this is[1050] dreadful now as sudden death
To some rich man, that flatters all his sins
With promise of repentance when he’s old,
And dies in the midway before he comes to’t.—
[_Aside._
Sure you’re not well, Bianca; how dost, prithee?
BIAN. I have been better than I am at this time.
LEAN. Alas, I thought so!
BIAN. Nay, I've been worse too
Than now you see me, sir.
LEAN. I'm glad thou mend’st yet,
I feel my heart mend too: how came it to thee?
Has any thing dislik’d[1051] thee in my absence?
BIAN. No, certain; I have had the best content
That Florence can afford.
LEAN. Thou mak’st the best on’t.—
Speak, mother; what’s the cause? you must needs know.
MOTH. Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;
Unless it be the same gave Lucifer
A tumbling cast,—that’s pride.
BIAN. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind;
I'd have some pleasant lodging i' th' high street, sir;
Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better:
’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman
To stand in a bay-window and see gallants.
LEAN. Now I've another temper, a mere stranger
To that of yours, it seems; I should delight
To see none but yourself.
BIAN. I praise not that;
Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish:
I would not have a husband of that proneness
To kiss me before company for a world;
Beside, ’tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,
Be it the best that ever heart affected;
Nay, were’t yourself, whose love had power, you know,
To bring me from my friends, I'd not stand thus
And gaze upon you always, troth, I could not, sir;
As good be blind and have no use of sight,
As look on one thing still: what’s the eye’s treasure
But change of objects? you are learnèd, sir,
And know I speak not ill: ’tis[1052] full as virtuous
For woman’s eye to look on several men,
As for her heart, sir, to be fix’d on one.
LEAN. Now thou com’st home to me; a kiss for that
word.
BIAN. No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;
’Tis but a toy, we’ll not so much as mind it;
Let’s talk of other business, and forget it.
What news now of the pirates? any stirring?
Prithee, discourse a little.
MOTH. I'm glad he’s here yet,
To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously
If I had told ’em first. [_Aside._
LEAN. Speak, what’s the humour, sweet,
You make your lip so strange? this was not wont.
BIAN. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife,
Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,
And be still billing? ’tis the idlest fondness
That ever was invented, and ’tis pity
It’s grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen;
There’s many a disease kiss’d in a year by’t,
And a French cur[t]sy made to’t: alas, sir!
Think of the world, how we shall live; grow serious;
We have been married a whole fortnight now.
LEAN. How? a whole fortnight! why, is that so long?
BIAN. ’Tis time to leave off dalliance; ’tis a
doctrine
Of your own teaching, if you be remember’d;
And I was bound to obey it.
MOTH. Here’s one fits him;
This was well catch’d, i’faith, son; like a fellow
That rids another country of a plague,
And brings it home with him to his own house.
[_Aside._—_Knocking within._
Who knocks?
LEAN. Who’s there now?—Withdraw you, Bianca;
Thou art a gem no stranger’s eye must see,
Howe’er thou['rt] pleas’d now to look dull on me.—
[_Exit_ BIANCA.
_Enter Messenger._
You’re welcome, sir; to whom your business, pray?
MESS. To one I see not here now.
LEAN. Who should that be, sir?
MESS. A young gentlewoman I was sent to.
LEAN. A young gentlewoman?
MESS. Ay, sir, about sixteen: why look you wildly,
sir?
LEAN. At your strange error; you’ve mistook the house,
sir;
There’s none such here, I assure you.
MESS. I assure you too
The man that sent me cannot be mistook.
LEAN. Why, who is’t sent you, sir?
MESS. The Duke.
LEAN. The Duke?
MESS. Yes; he entreats her company at a banquet
At lady Livia’s house.
LEAN. Troth, shall I tell you, sir,
It is the most erroneous business
That e’er your honest pains was abus’d with;
I pray, forgive me if I smile a little,
I cannot choose, i’faith, sir, at an error
So comical as this,—I mean no harm though:
His grace has been most wondrous ill inform’d;
Pray, so return it, sir. What should her name be?
MESS. That I shall tell you straight too—Bianca
Capello.[1053]
LEAN. How, sir? Bianca? what do you call th' other?
MESS. Capello. Sir, it seems you know no such then?
LEAN. Who should this be? I never heard o' the name.
MESS. Then ’tis a sure mistake.
LEAN. What if you inquir’d
In the next street, sir? I saw gallants there
In the new houses that are built of late;
Ten to one there you find her.
MESS. Nay, no matter;
I will return the mistake, and seek no further.
LEAN. Use your own will and pleasure, sir, you’re
welcome.
[_Exit Messenger._
What shall I think of first?—Come forth, Bianca!
_Re-enter_ BIANCA.
Thou art betray’d, I fear me.
BIAN. Betray’d! how, sir?
LEAN. The Duke knows thee.
BIAN. Knows me! how know you that, sir?
LEAN. Has got thy name.
BIAN. Ay, and my good name too,
That’s worse o' the twain. [_Aside._
LEAN. How comes this work about?
BIAN. How should the Duke know me? can you guess,
mother?
MOTH. Not I, with all my wits; sure we kept house
close.
LEAN. Kept close! not all the locks in Italy
Can keep you women so; you have been gadding,
And ventur’d out at twilight to the court-green yonder,
And met the gallant bowlers coming home;
Without your masks too, both of you, I'll be hang’d
else:
Thou hast been seen, Bianca, by some stranger;
Never excuse it.
BIAN. I'll not seek the way, sir;
Do you think you’ve married me to mew me up,
Not to be seen? what would you make of me?
LEAN. A good wife, nothing else.
BIAN. Why, so are some
That are seen every day, else the devil take ’em.
LEAN. No more, then; I believe all virtuous in thee,
Without an argument; ’twas but thy hard chance
To be seen somewhere, there lies all the mischief:
But I've devis’d a riddance.
MOTH. Now I can tell you, son,
The time and place.
LEAN. When? where?
MOTH. What wits have I!
When you last took your leave, if you remember,
You left us both at window.
LEAN. Right, I know that.
MOTH. And not the third part of an hour after,
The Duke pass’d by, in a great solemnity,
To St. Mark’s temple, and, to my apprehension,
He look’d up twice to the window.
LEAN. O, there quicken’d
The mischief of this hour!
BIAN. If you call’t mischief,
It is a thing I fear I am conceiv’d with. [_Aside._
LEAN. Look’d he up twice, and could you take no
warning?
MOTH. Why, once may do as much harm, son, as a
thousand;
Do not you know one spark has fir’d an house
As well as a whole furnace?
LEAN. My heart flames for’t:
Yet let’s be wise, and keep all smother’d closely;
I have bethought a means: is the door fast?
MOTH. I lock’d it myself after him.
LEAN. You know, mother,
At the end of the dark parlour there’s a place
So artificially contriv’d for a conveyance,
No search could ever find it; when my father
Kept in for manslaughter, it was his sanctuary;
There will I lock my life’s best treasure up,
Bianca.
BIAN. Would you keep me closer yet?
Have you the conscience? you’re best e’en choke me up,
sir:
You make me fearful of your health and wits,
You cleave to such wild courses; what’s the matter?
LEAN. Why, are you so insensible of your danger
To ask that now? the Duke himself has sent for you
To lady Livia’s to a banquet, forsooth.
BIAN. Now I beshrew you heartily, has he so!
And you the man would never yet vouchsafe
To tell me on’t till now? you shew your loyalty
And honesty at once; and so farewell, sir.
LEAN. Bianca, whither now?
BIAN. Why, to the Duke, sir;
You say he sent for me.
LEAN. But thou dost not mean
To go, I hope.
BIAN. No? I shall prove unmannerly,
Rude, and uncivil, mad, and imitate you!—
Come, mother, come, follow his humour no longer;
We shall be all executed for treason shortly.
MOTH. Not I, i’faith; I'll first obey the Duke,
And taste of a good banquet; I'm of thy mind:
I'll step but up and fetch two handkerchiefs
To pocket up some sweetmeats, and o’ertake thee.
[_Exit._
BIAN. Why, here’s an old wench would trot into a bawd
now
For some dry sucket,[1054] or a colt in
march-pane.[1055] [_Aside, and exit._
LEAN. O thou, the ripe time of man’s misery, wedlock,
When all his thoughts, like overladen trees,
Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in
jealousies!
O, that’s a fruit that ripens hastily,
After ’tis knit to marriage! it begins,
As soon as the sun shines upon the bride,
A little to shew colour. Blessèd powers,
Whence comes this alteration? the distractions,
The fears and doubts it brings, are numberless;
And yet the cause I know not. What a peace
Has he that never marries! if he knew
The benefit he enjoy’d, or had the fortune
To come and speak with me, he should know then
Th' infinite wealth he had, and discern rightly
The greatness of his treasure by my loss:
Nay, what a quietness has he ’bove mine
That wears his youth out in a strumpet’s arms,
And never spends more care upon a woman
Than at the time of lust; but walks away;
And if he find her dead at his return,
His pity is soon done,—he breaks a sigh
In many parts, and gives her but a piece on’t:
But all the fears, shames, jealousies, costs and
troubles,
And still renew’d cares of a marriage-bed,
Live in the issue, when the wife is dead.
_Re-enter Messenger._
MESS. A good perfection to your thoughts!
LEAN. The news, sir?
MESS. Though you were pleas’d of late to pin an error
on me,
You must not shift another in your stead too:
The Duke has sent me for you.
LEAN. How! for me, sir?—
I see then ’tis my theft; we’re both betray’d:
Well, I'm not the first has stol’n away a maid;
My countrymen have us’d it. [_Aside._]—I'll along with
you, sir. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_An apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house_:[1056] _a banquet set
out_.
_Enter_ GUARDIANO _and the Ward_.
GUAR. Take you especial note of such a gentlewoman,
She’s here on purpose; I've invited her,
Her father, and her uncle, to this banquet;
Mark her behaviour well, it does concern you;
And what her good parts are, as far as time
And place can modestly require a knowledge of,
Shall be laid open to your understanding.
You know I'm both your guardian and your uncle;
My care of you is double, ward and nephew,
And I'll express it here.
WARD. Faith, I should know her
Now by her mark among a thousand women;
A little pretty deft[1057] and tidy thing, you say?
GUAR. Right.
WARD. With a lusty sprouting sprig in her hair?
GUAR. Thou goest the right way still; take one mark
more,—
Thou shalt ne’er find her hand out of her uncle’s,
Or else his out of hers, if she be near him;
The love of kindred never yet stuck closer
Than theirs to one another; he that weds her,
Marries her uncle’s heart too.
WARD. Say you so, sir?
Then I'll be ask’d i' the church to both of them.
[_Cornets within._
GUAR. Fall back; here comes the Duke.
WARD. He brings a gentlewoman,
I should fall forward rather.
_Enter the Duke leading in_ BIANCA, FABRICIO, HIPPOLITO,
LIVIA, _Mother_, ISABELLA, _Gentlemen_, _and
Attendants_.
DUKE. Come, Bianca,
Of purpose sent into the world to shew
Perfection once in woman; I'll believe
Henceforward they have every one a soul too,
'Gainst all the uncourteous opinions
That man’s uncivil rudeness ever held of ’em:
Glory of Florence, light into mine arms!
BIAN. Yon comes a grudging man will chide you, sir;
_Enter_ LEANTIO.
The storm is now in’s heart, and would get nearer,
And fall here, if it durst; it pours down yonder.
DUKE. If that be he, the weather shall soon clear;
List, and I'll tell thee how. [_Whispers_ BIANCA.
LEAN. A kissing too!
I see ’tis plain lust now, adultery ’bolden’d;
What will it prove anon, when ’tis stuff’d full
Of wine and sweetmeats,[1058] being so impudent fasting?
[_Aside._
DUKE. We’ve heard of your good parts, sir, which we
honour
With our embrace and love.—Is not the captainship
Of Rouans'[1059] citadel, since the late deceas’d,
Suppli[ed] by any yet?
GENTLEMAN. By none, my lord.
DUKE. Take it, the place is yours then; and as
faithfulness
And desert grows, our favour shall grow with’t:
[LEANTIO _kneels_.
Rise now, the captain of our fort at Rouans.
LEAN. [_rising_] The service of whole life give your
grace thanks!
DUKE. Come, sit, Bianca.
[_Duke_, BIANCA, _&c. seat themselves_.
LEAN. This is some good yet,
And more than e’er I look’d for; a fine bit
To stay a cuckold’s stomach: all preferment
That springs from sin and lust it shoots up quickly,
As gardeners' crops do in the rotten’st grounds;
So is all means rais’d from base prostitution
Even like a salad growing upon a dunghill.
I'm like a thing that never was yet heard of,
Half merry and half mad; much like a fellow
That eats his meat with a good appetite,
And wears a plague-sore that would fright a country;
Or rather, like the barren,[1060] harden’d ass,
That feeds on thistles till he bleeds again;
And such is the condition of my misery. [_Aside._
LIV. Is that your son, widow?
MOTH. Yes; did your ladyship
Never know that till now?
LIV. No, trust me, did I,—
Nor ever truly felt the power of love
And pity to a man, till now I knew him.
I have enough to buy me my desires,
And yet to spare, that’s one good comfort. [_Aside._]—
Hark you,
Pray, let me speak with you, sir, before you go.
LEAN. With me, lady? you shall, I'm at your service.—
What will she say now, trow?[1061] more goodness yet?
[_Aside._
WARD. I see her now, I'm sure; the ape’s so little,
I shall scarce feel her; I have seen almost
As tall as she sold in the fair for tenpence:
See how she simpers it, as if marmalade
Would not melt in her mouth! she might have the
kindness, i’faith,
To send me a gilded bull from her own trencher,
A ram, a goat, or somewhat to be nibbling:
These women, when they come to sweet things once,
They forget all their friends, they grow so greedy,
Nay, oftentimes their husbands.
DUKE. Here’s a health now, gallants,
To the best beauty at this day in Florence.
BIAN. Whoe’er she be, she shall not go unpledg’d, sir.
DUKE. Nay, you’re excus’d for this.
BIAN. Who, I, my lord?
DUKE. Yes, by the law of Bacchus; plead your benefit,
You are not bound to pledge your own health, lady.
BIAN. That’s a good way, my lord, to keep me dry.
DUKE. Nay, then, I'll not offend Venus so much,
Let Bacchus seek his ’mends in another court;
Here’s to thyself, Bianca. [_Duke and others drink._
BIAN. Nothing comes
More welcome to that name than your grace.
LEAN. So, so;
Here stands the poor thief now that stole the treasure,
And he’s not thought on. Ours is near kin now
To a twin misery born into the world;
First the hard-conscienc’d worldling, he hoards wealth
up,
Then comes the next, and he feasts all upon’t;
One’s damn’d for getting, th' other for spending on’t.
O equal justice, thou hast met my sin
With a full weight! I'm rightly now opprest,
All her friends' heavy hearts lie in my breast.
[_Aside._
DUKE. Methinks there is no spirit ’mongst us,
gallants,
But what divinely sparkles from the eyes
Of bright Bianca; we sat all in darkness
But for that splendour. Who was’t told us lately
Of a match-making right, a marriage-tender?
GUAR. ’Twas I, my lord.
DUKE. ’Twas you indeed. Where is she?
GUAR. This is the gentlewoman.
FAB. My lord, my daughter.
DUKE. Why, here’s some stirring yet.
FAB. She’s a dear child to me.
DUKE. That must needs be, you say she is your
daughter.
FAB. Nay, my good lord, dear to my purse, I mean,
Beside my person, I ne’er reckon’d that.
Sh’as the full qualities of a gentlewoman;
I've brought her up to music, dancing, what not,
That may commend her sex, and stir her husband.
DUKE. And which is he now?
GUAR. This young heir, my lord.
DUKE. What is he brought up to?
HIP. To cat and trap.[1062] [_Aside._
GUAR. My lord, he’s a great ward, wealthy, but simple;
His parts consist in acres.
DUKE. O, wise-acres.
GUAR. You’ve spoke him in a word, sir.
BIAN. ’Las, poor gentlewoman!
She’s ill-bestead, unless sh’as dealt the wiselier,
And laid in more provision for her youth;
Fools will not keep in summer.
LEAN. No, nor such wives
From whores in winter. [_Aside._
DUKE. Yea, the voice too, sir?
FAB. Ay, and a sweet breast[1063] too, my lord, I
hope,
Or I have cast away my money wisely;
She took her pricksong[1064] earlier, my lord,
Than any of her kindred ever did;
A rare child, though I say’t: but I'd not have
The baggage hear so much, ’twould make her swell
straight,
And maids of all things must not be puff’d up.
DUKE. Let’s turn us to a better banquet, then;
For music bids the soul of[1065] man to a feast,
And that’s indeed a noble entertainment,
Worthy Bianca’s self: you shall perceive, beauty,
Our Florentine damsels are not brought up idly.
BIAN. They’re wiser of themselves it seems, my lord,
And can take gifts when goodness offers ’em.
LEAN. True, and damnation has taught you that wisdom;
[_Music._
You can take gifts too. O, that music mocks me!
[_Aside._
LIV. I am as dumb to any language now
But love’s, as one that never learn’d to speak.
I am not yet so old but he may think of me;
My own fault, I've been idle a long time;
But I'll begin the week, and paint to-morrow,
So follow my true labour day by day;
I never thriv’d so well as when I us’d it. [_Aside._
ISA. [_sings_]
_What harder chance can fall to woman,
Who was born to cleave to some man,
Than to bestow her time, youth, beauty,
Life’s observance, honour, duty,
On a thing for no use good
But to make physic work, or blood
Force fresh in an old lady’s cheek?
She that would be
Mother of fools, let her compound with me._
WARD. Here’s a tune indeed! pish,
I had rather hear one ballad sung i' the nose now
Of the lamentable drowning of fat sheep and oxen,
Than all these simpering tunes play’d upon cat’s-guts,
And sung by little kitlings. [_Aside._
FAB. How like you her breast now, my lord?
BIAN. Her breast?
He talks as if his daughter had given suck
Before she were married, as her betters have;
The next he praises sure will be her nipples.
[_Aside._[1066]
DUKE. Methinks now such a voice to such a husband
Is like a jewel of unvalu’d[1067] worth
Hung at a fool’s ear. [_Aside to_ BIANCA.
FAB. May it please your grace
To give her leave to shew another quality?
DUKE. Marry, as many good ones as you will, sir;
The more the better welcome.
LEAN. But the less
The better practis’d: that soul’s black indeed
That cannot commend virtue; but who keeps it?
Th' extortioner will say to a sick beggar,
Heaven comfort thee! though he give none himself;
This good is common. [_Aside._
FAB. Will it please you now, sir,
To entreat your Ward to take her by the hand,
And lead her in a dance before the Duke?
GUAR. That will I, sir; ’tis needful.—Hark you,
nephew.
[_Whispers Ward._
FAB. Nay, you shall see, young heir, what you’ve for
your money,
Without fraud or imposture.
WARD. Dance with her?
Not I, sweet guardianer, do not urge my heart to’t,
’Tis clean against my blood; dance with a stranger?
Let who s' will do’t, I'll not begin first with her.
HIP. No, fear’t not, fool; sh’as took a better order.
[_Aside._
GUAR. Why, who shall take her then?
WARD. Some other gentleman:
Look, there’s her uncle, a fine-timber’d reveller,
Perhaps he knows the manner of her dancing too;
I'll have him do’t before me—I've sworn, guardianer—
Then may I learn the better.
GUAR. Thou’lt be an ass still!
WARD. Ay, all that, uncle, shall not fool me out:
Pish, I stick closer to myself than so.
GUAR. I must entreat you, sir, to take your niece
And dance with her; my Ward’s a little wilful,
He’d have you shew him the way.
HIP. Me, sir? he shall
Command it at all hours; pray, tell him so.
GUAR. I thank you for him; he has not wit himself,
sir.
HIP. Come, my life’s peace.—I've a strange office on’t
here:
’Tis some man’s luck to keep the joys he likes
Conceal’d for his own bosom, but my fortune
To set ’em out now for another’s liking;
Like the mad misery of necessitous man,
That parts from his good horse with many praises,
And goes on foot himself: need must be obey’d
In every action; it mars man and maid. [_Aside._
[_Music._ HIPPOLITO _and_ ISABELLA _dance,
making obeisance to the Duke, and to each
other, both before and after the dance_.
DUKE. Signor Fabricio, you’re a happy father;
Your cares and pains are fortunate you see,
Your cost bears noble fruits.—Hippolito, thanks.
FAB. Here’s some amends for all my charges yet;
She wins both prick and praise[1068] where’er she comes.
DUKE. How lik’st, Bianca?
BIAN. All things well, my lord,
But this poor gentlewoman’s fortune, that’s the worst.
DUKE. There is no doubt, Bianca, she’ll find leisure
To make that good enough; he’s rich and simple.
BIAN. She has the better hope o' th' upper hand,
indeed,
Which women strive for most.
GUAR. Do’t when I bid you, sir.
WARD. I'll venture but a hornpipe with her,
guardianer,
Or some such married man’s dance.
GUAR. Well, venture something, sir.
WARD. I have rhyme for what I do.
GUAR. But little reason, I think.
WARD. Plain men dance the measures,[1069] the
sinquapace,[1070] the gay;
Cuckolds dance the hornpipe, and farmers dance the
hay;[1071]
Your soldiers dance the round,[1072] and maidens that
grow big;
You[r] drunkards, the canaries;[1073] you[r] whore and
bawd, the jig.
Here’s your eight kind of dancers; he that finds
The ninth let him pay the minstrels.
DUKE. O, here he appears once in his own person;
I thought he would have married her by attorney,
And lain with her so too.
BIAN. Nay, my kind lord,
There’s very seldom any found so foolish
To give away his part there.
LEAN. Bitter scoff!
Yet I must do’t: with what a cruel pride
The glory of her sin strikes by my afflictions!
[_Aside._
[_The Ward and_ ISABELLA _dance_; _he
ridiculously imitating_ HIPPOLITO.
DUKE. This thing will make shift, sirs, to make a
husband,
For aught I see in him.—How think’st, Bianca?
BIAN. Faith, an ill-favour’d shift, my lord, methinks;
If he would take some voyage when he’s married,
Dangerous, or long enough, and scarce be seen
Once in nine year together, a wife then
Might make indifferent shift to be content with him.
DUKE. A kiss [_kisses her_]; that wit deserves to be
made much on.—
Come, our caroch!
GUAR. Stands ready for your grace.
DUKE. My thanks to all your loves.—Come, fair Bianca,
We have took special care of you, and provided
Your lodging near us now.
BIAN. Your love is great, my lord.
DUKE. Once more, our thanks to all.
OMNES. All blest honours guard you!
[_Cornets flourishing, exeunt all but_ LEANTIO
_and_ LIVIA.
LEAN. O hast thou left me then, Bianca, utterly?
Bianca, now I miss thee! O, return,
And save the faith of woman! I ne’er felt
The loss of thee till now; ’tis an affliction
Of greater weight than youth was made to bear;
As if a punishment of after-life
Were faln upon man here, so new it is
To flesh and blood, so strange, so insupportable;
A torment even mistook, as if a body
Whose death were drowning, must needs therefore suffer
it
In scalding oil. [_Aside._
LIV. Sweet sir——
LEAN. As long as mine eye saw thee,
I half enjoy’d thee. [_Aside._
LIV. Sir——
LEAN. Canst thou forget
The dear pains my love took? how it has watch’d
Whole nights together, in all weathers, for thee,
Yet stood in heart more merry than the tempest
That sung about mine ears,—like dangerous flatterers,
That can set all their mischief to sweet tunes,—
And then receiv’d thee, from thy father’s window,
Into these arms at midnight; when we embrac’d
As if we had been statues only made for’t,
To shew art’s life, so silent were our comforts,
And kiss’d as if our lips had grown together?
[_Aside._
LIV. This makes me madder to enjoy him now.
[_Aside._
LEAN. Canst thou forget all this, and better joys
That we met after this, which then new kisses
Took pride to praise? [_Aside._
LIV. I shall grow madder yet. [_Aside._]—Sir—
LEAN. This cannot be but of some close bawd’s
working.— [_Aside._
Cry mercy, lady! what would you say to me?
My sorrow makes me so unmannerly,
So comfort bless me, I had quite forgot you.
LIV. Nothing, but even, in pity to that passion,[1074]
Would give your grief good counsel.
LEAN. Marry, and welcome, lady;
It never could come better.
LIV. Then first, sir,
To make away all your good thoughts at once of her,
Know most assuredly she is a strumpet.
LEAN. Ha! _most assuredly?_ speak not a thing
So vild[1075] so certainly, leave it more doubtful.
LIV. Then I must leave all truth, and spare my
knowledge
A sin which I too lately found and wept for.
LEAN. Found you it?
LIV. Ay, with wet eyes.
LEAN. O perjurious friendship!
LIV. You miss’d your fortunes when you met with her,
sir.
Young gentlemen that only love for beauty,
They love not wisely; such a marriage rather
Proves the destruction of affection;
It brings on want, and want’s the key of whoredom.
I think y’had small means with her?
LEAN. O, not any, lady.
LIV. Alas, poor gentleman! what meant’st thou, sir,
Quite to undo thyself with thine own kind heart?
Thou art too good and pitiful to woman:
Marry, sir, thank thy stars for this blest fortune,
That rids the summer of thy youth so well
From many beggars, that had lain a-sunning
In thy beams only else, till thou hadst wasted
The whole days of thy life in heat and labour.
What would you say now to a creature found
As pitiful to you, and, as it were,
Even sent on purpose from the whole sex general,
To requite all that kindness you have shewn to’t?
LEAN. What’s that, madam?
LIV. Nay, a gentlewoman, and one able
To reward good things, ay, and bears a conscience to’t:
Couldst thou love such a one, that, blow all fortunes,
Would never see thee want?
Nay, more, maintain thee to thine enemy’s envy,
And shalt not spend a care for’t, stir a thought,
Nor break a sleep? unless love’s music wak’d thee,
No storm of fortune should: look upon me,
And know that woman.
LEAN. O my life’s wealth, Bianca!
LIV. Still with her name? will nothing wear it out?
[_Aside._
That deep sigh went but for a strumpet, sir.
LEAN. It can go for no other that loves me.
LIV. He’s vex’d in mind: I came too soon to him;
Where’s my discretion now, my skill, my judgment?
I'm cunning in all arts but my own love.
’Tis as unseasonable to tempt him now
So soon, as [for] a widow to be courted
Following her husband’s corse, or to make bargain
By the grave-side, and take a young man there:
Her strange departure stands like a hearse[1076] yet
Before his eyes, which time will take down shortly.
[_Aside, and exit._
LEAN. Is she my wife till death, yet no more mine?
That’s a hard measure: then what’s marriage good for?
Methinks, by right I should not now be living,
And then ’twere all well. What a happiness
Had I been made of, had I never seen her!
For nothing makes man’s loss grievous to him
But knowledge of the worth of what he loses;
For what he never had, he never misses.
She’s gone for ever, utterly; there is
As much redemption of a soul from hell,
As a fair woman’s body from his palace.
Why should my love last longer than her truth?
What is there good in woman to be lov’d,
When only that which makes her so has left her?
I cannot love her now, but I must like
Her sin and my own shame too, and be guilty
Of law’s breach with her, and mine own abusing;
All which were monstrous: then my safest course,
For health of mind and body, is to turn
My heart and hate her, most extremely hate her;
I have no other way: those virtuous powers,
Which were chaste witnesses of both our troths,
Can witness she breaks first. And I'm rewarded
With captainship o' the fort; a place of credit,
I must confess, but poor; my factorship
Shall not exchange means with’t: he that died last in’t,
He was no drunkard, yet he died a beggar
For all his thrift: besides, the place not fits me;
It suits my resolution, not my breeding.
_Re-enter_ LIVIA.
LIV. I've tried all ways I can, and have not power
To keep from sight of him. [_Aside._]—How are you now,
sir?
LEAN. I feel a better ease, madam.
LIV. Thanks to blessedness!
You will do well, I warrant you, fear’t not, sir,
Join but your own good will to’t: he’s not wise
That loves his pain or sickness, or grows fond
Of a disease whose property is to vex him,
And spitefully drink his blood up: out upon’t, sir!
Youth knows no greater loss. I pray, let’s walk, sir;
You never saw the beauty of my house yet,
Nor how abundantly fortune has blest me
In worldly treasure; trust me, I've enough, sir,
To make my friend a rich man in my life,
A great man at my death; yourself will say so.
If you want any thing, and spare to speak,
Troth, I'll condemn you for a wilful man, sir.
LEAN. Why, sure,
This can be but the flattery of some dream.
LIV. Now, by this kiss, my love, my soul, and riches,
’Tis all true substance! [_Kisses him._
Come, you shall see my wealth; take what you list;
The gallanter you go, the more you please me:
I will allow you too your page and footman,
Your race-horses, or any various pleasure
Exercis’d youth delights in; but to me
Only, sir, wear your heart of constant stuff;
Do but you love enough, I'll give enough.
LEAN. Troth, then, I'll love enough, and take enough.
LIV. Then we are both pleas’d enough. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_A room in_ FABRICIO’S _house_.
_Enter on one side_ GUARDIANO _and_ ISABELLA, _on the
other the Ward and_ SORDIDO.