ENTER LORENZO DI PAZZI SENIOR, MUSCO.
LOR. SE. Now trust me, here's a goodly day toward.
Musco, call up my son Lorenzo; bid him rise; tell him,
I have some business to employ him in.
MUS. I will, sir, presently.
LOR. SE. But hear you, sirrah;
If he be at study disturb him not.
MUS. Very good, sir. [EXIT MUSCO.]
LOR. SE. How happy would I estimate myself,
Could I by any means retire my son,
From one vain course of study he affects!
He is a scholar (if a man may trust
The liberal voice of double-tongued report)
Of dear account, in all our "Academies."
Yet this position must not breed in me
A fast opinion that he cannot err.
Myself was once a "student," and indeed
Fed with the self-same humour he is now,
Dreaming on nought but idle "Poetry";
But since, Experience hath awaked my spirits,
[ENTER STEPHANO]
And reason taught them, how to comprehend
The sovereign use of study. What, cousin Stephano!
What news with you, that you are here so early?
STEP. Nothing: but e'en come to see how you do, uncle.
LOR. SE. That's kindly done; you are welcome, cousin.
STEP. Ay, I know that sir, I would not have come else: how doth
my cousin, uncle?
LOR. SE. Oh, well, well, go in and see; I doubt he's scarce
stirring yet.
STEP. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me an he have e'er a book
of the sciences of hawking and hunting? I would fain borrow it.
LOR. SE. Why, I hope you will not a hawking now, will you?
STEP. No, wusse; but I'll practise against next year; I have
bought me a hawk, and bells and all; I lack nothing but a book to
keep it by.
LOR. SE. Oh, most ridiculous.
STEP. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle, why, you know, an a
man have not skill in hawking and hunting now-a-days, I'll not give
a rush for him; he is for no gentleman's company, and (by God's
will) I scorn it, ay, so I do, to be a consort for every
hum-drum; hang them scroyles, there's nothing in them in the
world, what do you talk on it? a gentleman must shew himself like
a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be not angry, I know what I have to
do, I trow, I am no novice.
LOR. SE. Go to, you are a prodigal, and self-willed fool.
Nay, never look at me, it's I that speak,
Take't as you will, I'll not flatter you.
What? have you not means enow to waste
That which your friends have left you, but you must
Go cast away your money on a Buzzard,
And know not how to keep it when you have done?
Oh, it's brave, this will make you a gentleman,
Well, cousin, well, I see you are e'en past hope
Of all reclaim; ay, so, now you are told on it, you
look another way.
STEP. What would you have me do, trow?
LOR. What would I have you do? marry,
Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive,
That I would have you do, and not to spend
Your crowns on every one that humours you:
I would not have you to intrude yourself
In every gentleman's society,
Till their affections or your own dessert,
Do worthily invite you to the place.
For he that's so respectless in his courses,
Oft sells his reputation vile and cheap.
Let not your carriage and behaviour taste
Of affectation, lest while you pretend
To make a blaze of gentry to the world
A little puff of scorn extinguish it,
And you be left like an unsavoury snuff,
Whose property is only to offend.
Cousin, lay by such superficial forms,
And entertain a perfect real substance;
Stand not so much on your gentility,
But moderate your expenses (now at first)
As you may keep the same proportion still:
Bear a low sail. Soft, who's this comes here?
[ENTER A SERVANT.]
SER. Gentlemen, God save you.
STEP. Welcome, good friend; we do not stand much upon our
gentility, yet I can assure you mine uncle is a man of a thousand
pound land a year; he hath but one son in the world; I am his next
heir, as simple as I stand here, if my cousin die. I have a fair
living of mine own too beside.
SER. In good time, sir.
STEP. In good time, sir! you do not flout me, do you?
SER. Not I, sir.
STEP. An you should, here be them can perceive it, and that
quickly too. Go to; and they can give it again soundly, an need be.
SER. Why, sir, let this satisfy you. Good faith, I had no such
intent.
STEP. By God, an I thought you had, sir, I would talk with you.
SER. So you may, sir, and at your pleasure.
STEP. And so I would, sir, an you were out of mine uncle's ground,
I can tell you.
LOR. SE. Why, how now, cousin, will this ne'er be left?
STEP. Whoreson, base fellow, by God's lid, an 'twere not for
shame, I would --
LOR. SE. What would you do? you peremptory ass,
An you'll not be quiet, get you hence.
You see, the gentleman contains himself
In modest limits, giving no reply
To your unseason'd rude comparatives;
Yet you'll demean yourself without respect
Either of duty or humanity.
Go, get you in: 'fore God, I am asham'd
[EXIT STEP.]
Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me.
SER. I pray you, sir, is this Pazzi house?
LOR. SE. Yes, marry is it, sir.
SER. I should enquire for a gentleman here, one Signior Lorenzo di
Pazzi; do you know any such, sir, I pray you?
LOR. SE. Yes, sir; or else I should forget myself.
SER. I cry you mercy, sir, I was requested by a gentleman of
Florence (having some occasion to ride this way) to deliver you
this letter.
LOR. SE. To me, sir? What do you mean? I pray you remember your
court'sy.
"To his dear and most selected friend, Signior Lorenzo di
Pazzi."
What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?
Nay, pray you be covered.
SER. Signior Prospero.
LOR. SE. Signior Prospero? A young gentleman of the family of
Strozzi, is he not?
SER. Ay, sir, the same: Signior Thorello, the rich Florentine
merchant married his sister.
[ENTER MUSCO.]
LOR. SE. You say very true. -- Musco.
MUS. Sir.
LOR. SE. Make this gentleman drink here.
I pray you go in, sir, an't please you.
[EXEUNT.]
Now (without doubt) this letter's to my son.
Well, all is one: I'll be so bold as read it,
Be it but for the style's sake, and the phrase;
Both which (I do presume) are excellent,
And greatly varied from the vulgar form,
If Prospero's invention gave them life.
How now! what stuff is here?
"Sir Lorenzo,
I muse we cannot see thee at Florence: 'Sblood, I doubt,
Apollo hath got thee to be his Ingle, that thou comest
not abroad, to visit thine old friends: well, take heed
of him; he may do somewhat for his household servants, or
so; But for his Retainers, I am sure, I have known some
of them, that have followed him, three, four, five years
together, scorning the world with their bare heels, and
at length been glad for a shift (though no clean shift)
to lie a whole winter, in half a sheet cursing Charles'
wain, and the rest of the stars intolerably. But (quis
contra diuos?) well; Sir, sweet villain, come and see me;
but spend one minute in my company, and 'tis enough: I
think I have a world of good jests for thee: oh, sir, I
can shew thee two of the most perfect, rare and absolute
true Gulls, that ever thou saw'st, if thou wilt come.
'Sblood, invent some famous memorable lie, or other,
to flap thy Father in the mouth withal: thou hast been
father of a thousand, in thy days, thou could'st be no
Poet else: any scurvy roguish excuse will serve; say
thou com'st but to fetch wool for thine Ink-horn. And
then, too, thy Father will say thy wits are a wool-
gathering. But it's no matter; the worse, the better.
Anything is good enough for the old man. Sir, how if thy
Father should see this now? what would he think of me?
Well, (how ever I write to thee) I reverence him in my
soul, for the general good all Florence delivers of him.
Lorenzo, I conjure thee (by what, let me see) by the depth
of our love, by all the strange sights we have seen in
our days, (ay, or nights either), to come to me to
Florence this day. Go to, you shall come, and let your
Muses go spin for once. If thou wilt not, 's hart, what's
your god's name? Apollo? Ay, Apollo. If this melancholy
rogue (Lorenzo here) do not come, grant, that he do turn
Fool presently, and never hereafter be able to make a good
jest, or a blank verse, but live in more penury of wit
and invention, than either the Hall-Beadle, or Poet
Nuntius."
Well, it is the strangest letter that ever I read.
Is this the man, my son so oft hath praised
To be the happiest, and most precious wit
That ever was familiar with Art?
Now, by our Lady's blessed son, I swear,
I rather think him most unfortunate
In the possession of such holy gifts,
Being the master of so loose a spirit.
Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ
With so profane a pen unto his friend?
The modest paper e'en looks pale for grief,
To feel her virgin-cheek defiled and stained
With such a black and criminal inscription.
Well, I had thought my son could not have strayed
So far from judgment as to mart himself
Thus cheaply in the open trade of scorn
To jeering folly and fantastic humour.
But now I see opinion is a fool,
And hath abused my senses. -- Musco.
[ENTER MUSCO.]
MUS. Sir.
LOR. SE. What, is the fellow gone that brought this letter?
MUS. Yes sir, a pretty while since.
LOR. SE. And where's Lorenzo?
MUS. In his chamber, sir.
LOR. SE. He spake not with the fellow, did he?
MUS. No, sir, he saw him not.
LOR. SE. Then, Musco, take this letter, and deliver it unto
Lorenzo: but, sirrah, on your life take you no knowledge I have
opened it.
MUS. O Lord, sir, that were a jest indeed.
[EXIT MUS.]
LOR. SE. I am resolv'd I will not cross his journey,
Nor will I practise any violent means
To stay the hot and lusty course of youth.
For youth restrained straight grows impatient,
And, in condition, like an eager dog,
Who, ne'er so little from his game withheld,
Turns head and leaps up at his master's throat.
Therefore I'll study, by some milder drift,
To call my son unto a happier shrift.
[EXIT.]