CANDIDO’S _Shop._
GEORGE _and the Prentices discovered: enter_ VIOLA.
VIO. Come, you put up your wares in good order here, do
you not, think you? one piece cast this way, another
that way! you had need have a patient master indeed.
GEO. Ay, I’ll be sworn, for we have a curst mistress.
[_Aside._
VIO. You mumble, do you? mumble? I would your master or
I could be a note more angry! for two patient folks in a
house spoil all the servants that ever shall come under
them.
FIRST P. You patient! ay, so is the devil when he is
horn-mad. [_Aside._
_Enter_ CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO, _and_ PIORATTO.
GEO. Gentlemen, what do you lack?
FIRST P. What is’t you buy?
SEC. P. See fine hollands, fine cambrics, fine
lawns.[46]
GEO. What is’t you lack?
SEC. P. What is’t you buy?
CAS. Where’s signor Candido, thy master?
GEO. Faith, signor, he’s a little negotiated; he’ll
appear presently.
CAS. Fellow, let’s see a lawn, a choice one, sirrah.
GEO. The best in all Milan, gentlemen, and this is the
piece. I can fit you, gentlemen, with fine callicoes too
for doublets; the only sweet fashion now, most delicate
and courtly, a meek gentle callico, cut upon two double
affable taffetas—ah, most neat, feat, and unmatchable!
FLU. A notable voluble-tongued villain!
PIO. I warrant this fellow was never begot without much
prating.
CAS. What, and is this she, sayest thou?
GEO. Ay, and the purest she that ever you fingered since
you were a gentleman: look how even she is; look how
clean she is, ha! as even as the brow of Cynthia, and as
clean as your sons and heirs when they ha’ spent all.
CAS. Pooh! thou talkest—pox on’t, ’tis rough.
GEO. How? is she rough? but if you bid pox on’t, sir,
'twill take away the roughness presently.
FLU. Ha, signor, has he fitted your French curse?
GEO. Look you, gentleman, here’s another; compare them,
I pray, _compara Virgilium cum Homero_, compare virgins
with harlots.
CAS. Pooh! I ha’ seen better, and, as you term them,
evener and cleaner.
GEO. You may see further for your mind, but trust me you
shall not find better for your body.
_Enter_ CANDIDO.
CAS. O, here he comes: let’s make as though we pass.
Come, come, we’ll try in some other shop.
CAN. How now? what’s the matter?
GEO. The gentlemen find fault with this lawn, fall out
with it, and without a cause too.
CAN. Without a cause?
And that makes you to let 'em pass away.—
Ah, may I crave a word with you, gentlemen?
FLU. He calls us.
CAS. Makes the better for the jest.
CAN. I pray come near. You’re very welcome, gallants;
Pray pardon my man’s rudeness, for I fear me
Has talk’d above a prentice with you. Lawns!
[_Shewing lawns._
Look you, kind gentlemen, this—no—ay, this;
Take this, upon my honest-dealing faith,
To be a true weave; not too hard, nor slack,
But e’en as far from falsehood as from black.
CAS. Well, how do you rate it?
CAN. Very conscionably; eighteen shillings a yard.
CAS. That’s too dear. How many yards does the whole
piece contain, think you?
CAN. Why, some seventeen yards, I think, or thereabouts.
How much would serve your turn, I pray?
CAS. Why, let me see—would it were better too!
CAN. Truth, ’tis the best in Milan, at few words.
CAS. Well, let me have then—a whole pennyworth.
CAN. Ha, ha! you’re a merry gentleman.
CAS. A penn’orth, I say.
CAN. Of lawn?
CAS. Of lawn? ay, of lawn; a penn’orth. ’Sblood, dost
not hear? a whole penn’orth: are you deaf?
CAN. Deaf? no, sir; but I must tell you,
Our wares do seldom meet such customers.
CAS. Nay, and[47] you and your lawns be so squeamish,
fare you well.
CAN. Pray stay; a word, pray, signor: for what purpose
is it, I beseech you?
CAS. ’Sblood, what’s that to you? I’ll have a
pennyworth.
CAN. A pennyworth! why you shall: I’ll serve you
presently.
SEC. P. ’Sfoot, a pennyworth, mistress!
VIO. A pennyworth! call you these gentlemen?
CAS. No, no; not there.
CAN. What then, kind gentleman?
What, at this corner here?
CAS. No, nor there neither;
I’ll have it just in the middle, or else not.
CAN. Just in the middle!—ha—you shall too: what,
Have you a single penny?
CAS. Yes, here’s one.
CAN. Lend it me, I pray.
FLU. An excellent followed jest!
VIO. What, will he spoil the lawn now?
CAN. Patience, good wife.
VIO. Ay, that patience makes a fool of you.—Gentlemen,
you might ha’ found some other citizen to have made a
kind gull on besides my husband.
CAN. Pray, gentlemen, take her to be a woman;
Do not regard her language.—O, kind soul,
Such words will drive away my customers.
VIO. Customers with a murrain! call you these customers?
CAN. Patience, good wife. [_Cuts the lawn._
VIO. Pax[48] a’ your patience!
GEO. ’Sfoot, mistress, I warrant these are some cheating
companions.[49]
CAN. Look you, gentleman, there’s your ware; I thank
you,
I have your money here; pray know my shop,
Pray let me have your custom.
VIO. Custom, quoth 'a?
CAN. Let me take more of your money.
VIO. You had need so.
PIO. Hark in thine ear; thou’st lost an hundred
ducats.
CAS. Well, well, I know’t: is’t possible that homo
Should be nor man nor woman? not once mov’d,
No, not at such an injury, not at all?
Sure he’s a pigeon, for he has no gall.
FLU. Come, come, you’re angry, though you smother it;
You’re vex’d, i’faith; confess.
CAN. Why, gentlemen,
Should you conceit me to be vex’d or mov’d?
He has my ware, I have his money for’t,
And that’s no argument I’m angry; no,
The best logician cannot prove me so.
FLU. O, but the hateful name of a penn’orth of lawn!
And then cut out i’ th’ middle of the piece!
Pah, I guess it by myself, ['t]would move a lamb,
Were he a linen-draper, 'twould, i’faith.
CAN. Well, give me leave to answer you for that:
We are set here to please all customers,
Their humours and their fancies; offend none:
We get by many, if we leese[50] by one.
May be his mind stood to no more than that;
A penn’orth serves him: and 'mongst trades ’tis found,
Deny a penn’orth, it may cross a pound.
O, he that means to thrive, with patient eye
Must please the devil, if he come to buy!
FLU. O wond’rous man, patient 'bove wrong or woe!
How blest were men, if women could be so!
CAN. And to express how well my breast is pleas’d
And satisfied in all—George, fill a beaker: [_Exit_
GEORGE.
I’ll drink unto that gentleman who lately
Bestow’d his money with me.
VIO. God’s my life,
We shall have all our gains drunk out in beakers,
To make amends for pennyworths of lawn!
_Re-enter_ GEORGE _with beaker._
CAN. Here, wife, begin you to the gentleman.
VIO. I begin to him! [_Spills the wine._
CAN. George, fill’t up again:
'Twas my fault, my hand shook. [_Exit_ GEORGE.
PIO. How strangely this doth show,
A patient man link’d with a waspish shrow![51]
FLU. A silver and gilt beaker! I’ve a trick
To work upon that beaker; sure 'twill fret him;
It cannot choose but vex him. [_Aside._]—Signor
Castruchio,
In pity to thee, I have a conceit
Will save thy hundred ducats yet; 'twill do’t,
And work him to impatience.
CAS. Sweet Fluello,
I should be bountiful to that conceit.
FLU. Well, ’tis enough.
_Re-enter_ GEORGE _with beaker._
CAN. Here, gentleman, to you;
I wish your custom; you’re exceeding welcome.
[_Drinks._
CAS. I pledge you,[52] signor Candido.—
[_Drinks._
Here you that must receive a hundred ducats.
PIO. I’ll pledge them deep, i’faith, Castruchio.—
Signor Fluello. [_Drinks._
FLU. Come, play’t off to me;
I am your last man.
CAN. George, supply the cup.
[_Exit_ GEORGE, _who returns with beaker filled._
FLU. So, so, good, honest George.—
Here, signor Candido, all this to you.
CAN. O, you must pardon me; I use it not.
FLU. Will you not pledge me then?
CAN. Yes, but not that:
Great love is shewn in little.
FLU. Blurt[53] on your sentences!
’Sfoot, you shall pledge me all.
CAN. Indeed I shall not.
FLU. Not pledge me? ’Sblood, I’ll carry away the
beaker then.
CAN. The beaker! O, that at your pleasure, sir.
FLU. Now, by this drink, I will. [_Drinks._
CAS. Pledge him; he’ll do’t else.
FLU. So: I ha’ done you right on my thumbnail.[54]
What, will you pledge me now?
CAN. You know me, sir,
I am not of that sin.
FLU. Why, then, farewell:
I’ll bear away the beaker, by this light.
CAN. That’s as you please; ’tis very good.
FLU. Nay, it doth please me; and, as you say, ’tis a
very good one: farewell, signor Candido.
PIO. Farewell, Candido.
CAN. You’re welcome, gentlemen.
CAS. Heart, not mov’d yet?
I think his patience is above our wit.
[_Exeunt_ CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO _carrying off
the beaker, and_ PIORATTO.
GEO. I told you before, mistress, they were all
cheaters.
VIO. Why, fool! why, husband! why, madman! I hope you
will not let 'em sneak away so with a silver and gilt
beaker, the best in the house too.—Go, fellows, make hue
and cry after them.
CAN. Pray, let your tongue lie still; all will be
well.—
Come hither, George; hie to the constable,
And in calm order wish[55] him to attach them;
Make no great stir, because they’re gentlemen,
And a thing partly done in merriment:
’Tis but a size above a jest, thou knowest;
Therefore pursue it mildly. Go, begone;
The constable’s hard by, bring him along;
Make haste again. [_Exit_ GEORGE.
VIO. O, you’re a goodly patient woodcock, are you not
now? See what your patience comes to! every one saddles
you, and rides you; you’ll be shortly the common
stone-horse of Milan: a woman’s well holped up with such
a meacock.[56] I had rather have a husband that would
swaddle[57] me thrice a-day, than such a one that will
be gulled twice in half an hour. O, I could burn all the
wares in my shop for anger!
CAN. Pray, wear a peaceful temper; be my wife,
That is, be patient; for a wife and husband
Share but one soul between them: this being known,
Why should not one soul then agree in one?
VIO. Hang your agreements! but if my beaker be gone——
[_Exit._
_Re-enter_ CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO, PIORATTO, _and_ GEORGE.
CAN. O, here they come.
GEO. The constable, sir, let 'em come along with me,
because there should be no wondering: he stays at door.
CAS. Constable, goodman Abra’m![58]
FLU. Now, signor Candido, ’sblood, why do you attach us?
CAS. ’Sheart, attach us!
CAN. Nay, swear not, gallants;
Your oaths may move your souls, but not move me:
You have a silver beaker of my wife’s.
FLU. You say not true; ’tis gilt.
CAN. Then you say true;
And being gilt, the guilt lies more on you.
CAS. I hope you’re not angry, sir.
CAN. Then you hope right;
For I’m not angry.
PIO. No, but a little mov’d.
CAN. I mov’d? ’twas you were mov’d, you were brought
hither.
CAS. But you, out of your anger and impatience,
Caus’d us to be attach’d.
CAN. Nay, you misplace it:
Out of my quiet sufferance I did that,
And not of any wrath. Had I shewn anger,
I should have then pursu’d you with the law,
And hunted you to shame; as many worldlings
Do build their anger upon feebler grounds;
The more’s the pity! many lose their lives
For scarce so much coin as will hide their palm;
Which is most cruel. Those have vexed spirits
That pursue lives. In this opinion rest,
The loss of millions could not move my breast.
FLU. Thou art a blest man, and with peace dost deal;
Such a meek spirit can bless a commonweal.
CAN. Gentlemen, now ’tis upon eating-time;
Pray, part not hence, but dine with me to-day.
CAS. I never heard a carter yet say nay
To such a motion: I’ll not be the first.
PIO. Nor I.
FLU. Nor I.
CAN. The constable shall bear you company—
George, call him in.—Let the world say what it can,
Nothing can drive me from a patient man.
[_Exeunt._
ACT II. SCENE I.
_A chamber in_ BELLAFRONT’S _house_.
_Enter_ ROGER _with a stool, cushion, looking-glass, and
chafing-dish:[59] those being set down, he pulls out
of his pocket a phial with white colour in it, and
two boxes, one with white, another with red paint;
he places all things in order, and a candle by them,
singing the ends of old ballads as he does it. At
last_ BELLAFRONT, _as he nibs his cheek with the
colours, whistles within._
ROG. Anon, forsooth.
BEL. [_within_] What are you playing the rogue about?
ROG. About you, forsooth; I’m drawing up a hole in your
white silk stocking.
BEL. Is my glass there? and my boxes of complexion?
ROG. Yes, forsooth; your boxes of complexion are here, I
think; yes, ’tis here; here’s your two complexions, and
if I had all the four complexions, I should ne’er set a
good face upon’t. Some men, I see, are born under
hard-favoured planets, as well as women. Zounds, I look
worse now than I did before! and it makes her face
glister most damnably. There’s knavery in daubing, I
hold my life; or else this is only female pomatum.
_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _not full ready,[60] without a gown;
she sits down; curls her hair[61] with her bodkin,
and colours her lips_.
BEL. Where’s my ruff and poker,[62] you block-head?
ROG. Your ruff, your poker, are engendering
together upon the cupboard of the court, or the
court-cupboard.[63]
BEL. Fetch 'em: is the pox in your hams, you can go no
faster?
[_Strikes him._
ROG. Would the pox were in your fingers, unless you
could leave flinging! catch—— [_Exit._
BEL. I’ll catch you, you dog, by and by: do you grumble?
_Cupid is a god as naked as my nail;_ [_Sings._
_I’ll whip him with a rod, if he my true love fail._
_Re-enter_ ROGER, _with ruff and poker._
ROG. There’s your ruff; shall I poke it?
BEL. Yes, honest Roger:—no, stay; prithee, good boy,
hold here.
[ROGER _holds the glass and candle._
[_Sings_] _Down, down, down, down, I fall down and
arise,—down,—I never shall arise._
ROG. Troth, mistress, then leave the trade, if you shall
never rise.
BEL. What trade, goodman Abra’m?[64]
ROG. Why, that of[65] down and arise, or the falling
trade.
BEL. I’ll fall with you by and by.
ROG. If you do, I know who shall smart for’t. Troth,
mistress, what do I look like now?
BEL. Like as you are; a panderly sixpenny rascal.
ROG. I may thank you for that: in faith, I look like an
old proverb, Hold the candle before the devil.
BEL. Ud’s life, I’ll stick my knife in your guts and[66]
you prate to me so! What? [_Sings._
_Well met, pug, the pearl of beauty, umh, umh.
How now, sir knave? you forget your duty, umh, umh.
Marry muff,[67] sir, are you grown so dainty? fa, la,
la, &c.
Is it you, sir? the worst of twenty, fa, la, la, leera,
la._
Pox on you, how dost thou hold my glass?
ROG. Why, as I hold your door, with my fingers.
BEL. Nay, pray thee, sweet honey Roger, hold up
handsomely.
[_Sings._[68]
_Pretty wantons warble, &c._
We shall ha’ guests to-day, I lay my little
maiden-head, my nose itches so.
ROG. I said so too last night, when our fleas twinged
me.
BEL. So, poke my ruff now. My gown, my gown! have I my
fall? where’s my fall,[69] Roger?
ROG. Your fall, forsooth, is behind.
[_Knocking within._
BEL. God’s my pittikins![70] some fool or other knocks.
ROG. Shall I open to the fool, mistress?
BEL. And all these baubles lying thus? away with it
quickly.—Ay, ay, knock and be damned, whosoever you be!—
So; give the fresh salmon line now; let him come ashore.
[_Exit_ ROGER.]—He shall serve for my breakfast, though
he go against my stomach.
_Enter_ FLUELLO, CASTRUCHIO, PIORATTO, _and_ ROGER.
FLU. Morrow, coz.
CAS. How does my sweet acquaintance?
PIO. Save thee, little marmoset;[71] how dost thou,
good, pretty rogue?
BEL. Well, Godamercy, good, pretty rascal.
FLU. Roger, some light, I prithee.
ROG. You shall, signor; for we that live here in this
vale of misery are as dark as hell. [_Exit._[72]
CAS. Good tobacco, Fluello?
FLU. Smell.
PIO. It may be tickling gear, for it plays with my nose
already.
_Re-enter_ ROGER _with candle._
ROG. Here’s another light angel,[73] signor.
BEL. What, you pied curtal,[74] what’s that you are
neighing?
ROG. I say, God send us the light of heaven, or some
more angels!
BEL. Go fetch some wine, and drink half of it.
ROG. I must fetch some wine, gentlemen, and drink half
of it.
FLU. Here, Roger.
CAS. No, let me send, prithee.
FLU. Hold, you canker-worm.
ROG. You shall send both, if you please, signors.
PIO. Stay, what’s best to drink a’ mornings?
ROG. Hippocras,[75] sir, for my mistress, if I fetch it,
is most dear to her.
FLU. Hippocras? there then, here’s a teston[76] for you,
you snake.
[_They give money._
ROG. Right, sir; here’s three shillings sixpence for a
pottle and a manchet.[77] [_Exit._
CAS. Here’s most Herculanean tobacco: ha’ some,
acquaintance?
BEL. Faugh, not I! makes your breath stink like the piss
of a fox. Acquaintance, where supped you last night?
CAS. At a place, sweet acquaintance, where your health
danced the canaries,[78] i’faith; you should ha’ been
there.
BEL. I there among your punks! marry faugh, hang’em;
scorn’t:[79] will you never leave sucking of eggs in
other folk’s hens’ nests?
CAS. Why, in good troth, if you’ll trust me,
acquaintance, there was not one hen at the board; ask
Fluello.
FLU. No, faith, coz, none but cocks; signor Malavella
drunk to thee.
BEL. O, a pure beagle; that horseleech there?
FLU. And the knight, sir Oliver Lollio, swore he would
bestow a taffeta petticoat on thee, but to break his
fast with thee.
BEL. With me? I’ll choke him then; hang him,
mole-catcher! it’s the dreamingest snotty-nose.
PIO. Well, many took that Lollio for a fool, but he’s a
subtle fool.
BEL. Ay, and he has fellows: of all filthy, dry-fisted
knights,[80] I cannot abide that he should touch me.
CAS. Why, wench? is he scabbed?
BEL. Hang him, he’ll not live to be so honest, nor to
the credit to have scabs about him; his betters
have 'em: but I hate to wear out any of his coarse
knighthood, because he’s made like an alderman’s
night-gown, faced all with cony[81] before, and within
nothing but fox: this sweet Oliver[82], will eat mutton
till he be ready to burst, but the lean-jawed slave will
not pay for the scraping of his trencher.
PIO. Plague him; set him beneath the salt,[83] and let
him not touch a bit till every one has had his full cut.
FLU. Lord Ello, the gentleman-usher, came into us too:
marry, ’twas in our cheese, for he had been to borrow
money for his lord of a citizen.
CAS. What an ass is that lord to borrow money of a
citizen!
BEL. Nay, God’s my pity, what an ass is that citizen to
lend money to[84] a lord!
_Enter_ MATHEO _and_ HIPPOLITO; HIPPOLITO, _saluting the
company as a stranger, walks of_.[85] ROGER _comes
in sadly behind them with a pottle-pot, and stands
aloof off._[86]
MAT. Save you, gallants. Signor Fluello, exceedingly
well met, as I may say.
FLU. Signor Matheo, exceedingly well met too, as I may
say.
MAT. And how fares my little pretty mistress?
BEL. E’en as my little pretty servant; sees three
court-dishes before her, and not one good bit in them.—
How now? why the devil standest thou so? art in a
trance?
ROG. Yes, forsooth.
BEL. Why dost not fill out their wine?
ROG. Forsooth,’tis filled out already: all the wine that
the signors have[87] bestowed upon you is cast away; a
porter ran a little[88] at me, and so faced me down that
I had not a drop.
BEL. I’m accursed to let such a withered artichoke-faced
rascal grow under my nose: now you look like an old
he-cat going to the gallows. I’ll be hanged if he ha’
not put up the money to cony-catch[89] us all.
ROG. No, truly, forsooth, ’tis not put up yet.
BEL. How many gentlemen hast thou served thus?
ROG. None but five hundred, besides prentices and
serving-men.
BEL. Dost think I’ll pocket it up at thy hands?
ROG. Yes, forsooth, I fear you will pocket it up.
BEL. Fie, fie, cut my lace, good servant; I shall
ha’ the mother[90] presently, I’m so vexed at this
horse-plumb.
FLU. Plague, not for a scald[91] pottle of wine!
MAT. Nay, sweet Bellafront, for a little pig’s wash!
CAS. Here, Roger, fetch more. [_Gives money to_ ROGER.]—
A mischance, i’faith, acquaintance.
BEL. Out of my sight, thou ungodly, puritanical
creature!
ROG. For the t’other pottle? yes, forsooth.
BEL. Spill that too. [_Exit_ ROGER.]—What gentleman[92]
is that, servant? your friend?
MAT. Gods so; a stool, a stool! If you love me,
mistress, entertain this gentleman respectively,[93] and
bid him welcome.
BEL. He’s very welcome.—Pray, sir, sit.
HIP. Thanks, lady.
FLU. Count Hippolito, is’t not? Cry you mercy, signor;
you walk here all this while, and we not heard you! Let
me bestow a stool upon you, beseech you; you are a
stranger here, we know the fashions a’ th’ house.
CAS. Please you be here, my lord? [_Offers tobacco._
HIP. No, good Castruchio.
FLU. You have abandoned the court, I see, my lord, since
the death of your mistress: well, she was a delicate
piece—Beseech you,[94] sweet, come, let us serve under
the colours of your acquaintance still for all that—
Please you to meet here at the[95] lodging of my coz, I
shall bestow a banquet upon you.
HIP. I never can deserve this kindness, sir. What may
this lady be whom you call coz?
FLU. Faith, sir, a poor gentlewoman, of passing good
carriage; one that has some suits in law, and lies here
in an attorney’s house.
HIP. Is she married?
FLU. Ha, as all your punks are; a captain’s wife or so:
never saw her before, my lord?
HIP. Never, trust me: a goodly creature!
FLU. By gad, when you know her as we do, you’ll
swear she is the prettiest, kindest, sweetest, most
bewitching, honest ape under the pole: a skin, your
satin is not more soft, nor lawn whiter.
HIP. Belike, then, she’s some sale courtesan.
FLU. Troth, as all your best faces are, a good wench.
HIP. Great pity that she’s a good wench.
MAT. Thou shalt ha’, i’faith, mistress.—How now,
signors? what, whispering?—Did not I lay a wager I
should take you, within seven days, in a house of
vanity?
HIP. You did; and I beshrew your heart, you’ve won.
MAT. How do you like my mistress?
HIP. Well, for such a mistress; better, if your mistress
be not your master—I must break manners, gentlemen; fare
you well.
MAT. ’Sfoot, you shall not leave us.
BEL. The gentleman likes not the taste of our company.
FLU. } Beseech you, stay.
CAS., _&c._ }
HIP. Trust me, my affairs beckon for me; pardon me.
MAT. Will you call for me half an hour hence here?
HIP. Perhaps I shall.
MAT. Perhaps? faugh! I know you can swear to me you
will.
HIP. Since you will press me, on my word, I will.
[_Exit._
BEL. What sullen picture is this, servant?
MAT. It’s count Hippolito, the brave count.
PIO. As gallant a spirit as any in Milan, you sweet Jew.
FLU. O, he’s a most essential gentleman, coz!
CAS. Did you never hear of count Hippolito,
acquaintance?[96]
BEL. Marry muff[97] a’ your counts, and[98] be no more
life in 'em.
MAT. He’s so malcontent, sirrah[99] Bellafront.—And[98]
you be honest gallants, let’s sup together, and have the
count with us:—thou shalt sit at the upper end, punk.
BEL. Punk? you soused gurnet![100]
MAT. King’s truce: come, I’ll bestow the supper to have
him but laugh.
CAS. He betrays his youth too grossly to that tyrant
melancholy.
MAT. All this is for a woman.
BEL. A woman? some whore! what sweet jewel is’t?
PIO. Would she heard you!
FLU. Troth, so would I.
CAS. And I, by heaven.
BEL. Nay, good servant, what woman?
MAT. Pah!
BEL. Prithee, tell me; a buss, and tell me: I warrant
he’s an honest fellow, if he take on thus for a wench:
good rogue, who?
MAT. By th’ lord, I will not, must not, faith,
mistress.—Is’t a match, sirs? this night at th’
Antelope; ay, for there’s best wine and good boys.
FLU. }
CAS. } It’s done; at th’ Antelope.
PIO. }
BEL. I cannot be there to-night.
MAT. Cannot? by th’ lord, you shall.
BEL. By the lady, I will not: shaall![101]
FLU. Why, then, put it off till Friday: wu’t come then,
coz?
BEL. Well.
_Re-enter_ ROGER.
MAT. You’re the waspishest ape!—Roger, put your
mistress in mind to sup with us on Friday next.—You’re
best come like a madwoman, without a band, in your
waistcoat,[102] and the linings of your kirtle outward,
like every common hackney that steals out at the back
gate of her sweet knight’s lodging.
BEL. Go, go, hang yourself!
CAS. It’s dinner-time, Matheo; shall’s hence?
MAT. }
FLU. } Yes, yes.—Farewell, wench.
PIO. }
BEL. Farewell, boys. [_Exeunt all except_ BELLAFRONT
_and_ ROGER.]—Roger, what wine sent they for?
ROG. Bastard wine;[103] for if it had been truly
begotten, it would not ha’ been ashamed to come in.
Here’s six shillings, to pay for nursing the bastard.
BEL. A company of rooks! O good, sweet Roger, run to the
poulter’s,[104] and buy me some fine larks!
ROG. No woodcocks?
BEL. Yes, faith, a couple, if they be not dear.
ROG. I’ll buy but one; there’s one[105] already here.
[_Exit._
_Re-enter_ HIPPOLITO.
HIP. Is the gentleman my friend departed, mistress?
BEL. His back is but new turn’d, sir.
HIP. Fare you well.
BEL. I can direct you to him.
HIP. Can you, pray?
BEL. If you please, stay, he’ll not be absent long.
HIP. I care not much.
BEL. Pray sit, forsooth.
HIP. I’m hot: [_Lays aside his sword._
If I[106] may use your room, I’ll rather walk.
BEL. At your best pleasure—Whew—some rubbers there!
HIP. Indeed, I’ll none, indeed I will not: thanks.
Pretty fine lodging. I perceive my friend
Is old in your acquaintance.
BEL. Troth, sir, he comes
As other gentlemen, to spend spare hours:
If yourself like our roof, such as it is,
Your own acquaintance may be as old as his.
HIP. Say I did like, what welcome should I find?
BEL. Such as my present fortunes can afford.
HIP. But would you let me play Matheo’s part?
BEL. What part?
HIP. Why, embrace you, dally with you, kiss:
Faith, tell me, will you leave him, and love me?
BEL. I am in bonds to no man, sir.
HIP. Why then
You’re free for any man; if any, me.
But I must tell you, lady, were you mine,
You should be all mine; I could brook no sharers;
I should be covetous, and sweep up all;
I should be pleasure’s usurer, faith, I should.
BEL. O fate!
HIP. Why sigh you, lady? may I know?
BEL. 'Thas never been my fortune yet to single
Out that one man whose love could fellow mine,
As I have ever wish’d it. O my stars!
Had I but met with one kind gentleman
That would have purchas’d sin alone to himself
For his own private use, although scarce proper,[107]
Indifferent handsome, meetly legg’d and thigh’d,
And my allowance reasonable, i’faith,
According to my body, by my troth,
I would have been as true unto his pleasures,
Yea and as loyal to his afternoons,
As ever a poor gentlewoman could be.
HIP. This were well now to one but newly fledg’d,
And scarce a day old in this subtle world;
'Twere pretty art, good bird-lime, cunning net.
But come, come, faith, confess; how many men
Have drunk this self-same protestation
From that red 'ticing lip?
BEL. Indeed, not any.
HIP. _Indeed_, and blush not?
BEL. No, in truth, not any.
HIP. Indeed? in truth?—how warily you swear!
’Tis well, if ill it be not; yet had I
The ruffian in me, and were drawn before you
But in light colours, I do know indeed,
You could not swear _indeed_, but thunder oaths
That should shake heaven, drown the harmonious spheres,
And pierce a soul that lov’d her maker’s honour
With horror and amazement.
BEL. Shall I swear?
Will you believe me then?
HIP. Worst then of all;
Our sins by custom seem at last but small.
Were I but o’er your threshold, a next man,
And after him a next, and then a fourth,
Should have this golden hook and lascivious bait
Thrown out to the full length. Why, let me tell you,
I ha’ seen letters sent from that white hand,
Tuning such music to Matheo’s ear.
BEL. Matheo? that’s true; but, believe it, I
No sooner had laid hold upon your presence,
But straight mine eye convey’d you to my heart.
HIP. O, you cannot feign with me! Why, I know, lady,
This is the common passion of you all,
To hook in a kind gentleman, and then
Abuse his coin, conveying it to your lover,
And in the end you shew him a French trick,
And so you leave him, that a coach may run
Between his legs for breadth.
BEL. O, by my soul,
Not I! therein I’ll prove an honest whore,
In being true to one, and to no more.
HIP. If any be dispos’d to trust your oath,
Let him; I’ll not be he: I know you feign
All that you speak; ay, for a mingled harlot
Is true in nothing but in being false.
What, shall I teach you how to loathe yourself,
And mildly too, not without sense or reason?
BEL. I am content; I would fain loathe myself,
If you not love me.
HIP. Then if your gracious blood
Be not all wasted, I shall assay to do’t:
Lend me your silence and attention.
You have no soul, that makes you weigh so light;
Heaven’s treasure bought it,
And half-a-crown hath sold it; for your body
Is like the common-shore, that still receives
All the town’s filth; the sin of many men
Is within you: and thus much I suppose,
That if all your committers stood in rank,
They’d make a lane, in which your shame might dwell,
And with their spaces reach from hence to hell.
Nay, shall I urge it more? there have[108] been known
As many by one harlot maim’d and dismember’d
As would ha’ stuff’d an hospital: this I might
Apply to you, and perhaps do you right.
O, you’re as base as any beast that bears!
Your body is e’en hir’d, and so are theirs:
For gold and sparkling jewels, if he can,
You’ll let a Jew get you with Christian;
Be he a Moor, a Tartar, though his face
Look uglier than [doth] a dead man’s skull;
Could the devil put on a human shape,
If his purse shake out crowns, up then he gets:
Whores will be rid to hell with golden bits:
So that you’re crueller than Turks, for they
Sell Christians only, you sell yourselves away.
Why, those that love you hate you, and will term you
Liquorish damnation; wish themselves half-sunk
After the sin is laid out, and e’en curse
Their fruitless riot; for what one begets,
Another poisons; lust and murder hit:
A tree being often shook, what fruit can knit?
BEL. O me unhappy!
HIP. I can vex you more:
A harlot is like Dunkirk, true to none;
Swallows both English, Spanish, fulsome Dutch,
Back[109]-door’d Italian, last of all, the French,
And he sticks to you, faith, gives you your diet,
Brings you acquainted first with monsieur doctor,
And then you know what follows.
BEL. Misery,
Rank, stinking, and most loathsome misery!
HIP. Methinks a toad is happier than a whore;
That with one poison swells, with thousands more
The other stocks her veins. Harlot? fie, fie!
You are the miserablest creatures breathing,
The very slaves of nature; mark me else:
You put on rich attires, others’ eyes wear them;
You eat but to supply your blood with sin;
And this strange curse e’en haunts you to your graves,
From fools you get, and spend it upon slaves:
Like bears and apes, you’re baited and shew tricks
For money; but your bawd the sweetness licks:
Indeed, you are their journeywomen, and do
All base and damn’d works they list set you to;
So that you ne’er are rich: for do but shew me,
In present memory or in ages past,
The fairest and most famous courtesan,
Whose flesh was dear’st; that rais’d the price of sin
And held it up; to whose intemperate bosom
Princes, earls, lords—the worst has been a knight,
The mean’st a gentleman—have offer’d up
Whole hecatombs of sighs, and rain’d in showers
Handfuls of gold; yet for all this, at last
Diseases suck’d her marrow; then grew so poor,
That she has begg’d e’en at a beggar’s door:
And (wherein heaven has a finger) when this idol
From coast to coast has leap’d on foreign shores,
And had more worship than th’ outlandish whores;
When several nations have gone over her;
When for each several city she has seen,
Her maidenhead has been new, and been sold dear,
Did live well there, and might have died unknown
And undefam’d; back comes she to her own,
And there both miserably lives and dies,
Scorn’d even of those that once ador’d her eyes;[110]
As if her fatal-circled life thus ran,—
Her pride should end there where it first began.
What, do you weep to hear your story read?
Nay, if you spoil your cheeks, I’ll read no more.
BEL. O yes,[111] I pray, proceed!
Indeed 'twill do me good to weep, indeed!
HIP. To give those tears a relish, this I add:
You’re like the Jews scatter’d, in no place certain;
Your days are tedious, your hours burdensome;
And were’t not for full suppers, midnight revels,
Dancing, wine, riotous meetings, which do drown
And bury quite in you all virtuous thoughts,
And on your eyelids hang so heavily
They have no power to look so high as heaven,
You’d sit and muse on nothing but despair,
Curse that devil lust that so burns up your blood,
And in ten thousand shivers break your glass
For his temptation. Say you taste delight,
To have a golden gull from rise to set
To mete[112] you in his hot luxurious[113] arms;
Yet your nights pay for all: I know you dream
Of warrants, whips, and beadles; and then start
At a door’s windy creak; think every weasel
To be a constable, and every rat
A long-tail’d officer. Are you now not slaves?
O, you’ve damnation without pleasure for it!
Such is the state of harlots. To conclude:
When you are old, and can well paint no more,
You turn bawd, and are then worse than before.
Make use of this: farewell.
BEL. O, I pray, stay!
HIP. I[114] see Matheo comes not: time hath barr’d me:
Would all the harlots in the town had heard me!
[_Exit._
BEL. Stay yet a little longer! No? quite gone?
Curs’d be that minute—for it was no more,
So soon a maid is chang’d into a whore—
Wherein I first fell! be it for ever black!
Yet why should sweet Hippolito shun mine eyes?
For whose true love I would become pure-honest,
Hate the world’s mixtures and the smiles of gold.
Am I not fair? why should he fly me then?
Fair creatures are desir’d, not scorn’d of men.
How many gallants have drunk healths to me
Out of their dagger’d arms,[115] and thought them blest,
Enjoying but mine eyes at prodigal feasts!
And does Hippolito detest my love?
O sure their heedless lusts but flatter’d me!
I am not pleasing, beautiful, nor young:
Hippolito hath spied some ugly blemish,
Eclipsing all my beauties; I am foul:
Harlot? ay, that’s the spot that taints my soul.
What, has he left his weapon here behind him,
And gone forgetful? O fit instrument[116]
To let forth all the poison of my flesh!
Thy master hates me 'cause my blood hath rang’d;
But when ’tis forth, then he’ll believe I’m chang’d.
_As she is about to stab herself re-enter_ HIPPOLITO.
HIP. Mad woman, what art doing?
BEL. Either love me,
Or split my heart upon[117] thy rapier’s point.
Yet do not neither; for thou then destroy’st
That which I love thee for, thy virtues. Here, here;
[_Gives sword to_ HIPPOLITO.
Thou’rt crueller, and kill’st me with disdain:
To die so sheds no blood, yet ’tis worse pain.
[_Exit_ HIPPOLITO.
Not speak to me?[118] not bid farewell? a scorn?
Hated? this must not be; some means I’ll try.
Would all whores were as honest now as I! [_Exit._
ACT III. SCENE I.
CANDIDO’S _Shop_.
CANDIDO, VIOLA, GEORGE, _and two Prentices discovered_:
FUSTIGO _enters, walking by_.[119]
GEO. See, gentlemen, what you lack?[120] a fine
holland, a fine cambric: see what you buy.
FIRST P. Holland for shirts, cambric for bands; what
is’t you lack?
FUS. ’Sfoot, I lack 'em all; nay, more, I lack money to
buy 'em. Let me see, let me look again: mass, this is
the shop. [_Aside._]—What, coz, sweet coz! how dost,
i’faith, since last night after candle-light? we had
good sport, i’faith, had we not? and when shall’s laugh
again?
VIO. When you will, cousin.
FUS. Spoke like a kind Lacedemonian! I see yonder’s thy
husband.
VIO. Ay, there’s the sweet youth, God bless him!
FUS. And how is’t, cousin? and how, how is’t, thou
squall?[121]
VIO. Well, cousin: how fare you?
FUS. How fare I? troth, for sixpence a-meal, wench, as
well as heart can wish, with calves’ chaldrons[122] and
chitterlings; besides, I have a punk after supper, as
good as a roasted apple.
CAN. Are you my wife’s cousin?
FUS. I am, sir: what hast thou to do with that?
CAN. O, nothing, but you’re welcome.
FUS. The devil’s dung in thy teeth! I’ll be welcome
whether thou wilt or no, I.—What ring’s this, coz? very
pretty and fantastical, i’faith; let’s see it.
VIO. Pooh! nay, you wrench my finger.
FUS. I ha’ sworn I’ll ha’t, and I hope you will not let
my oaths be cracked in the ring,[123] will you? [_Seizes
the ring._]—I hope, sir, you are not malicholly[124] at
this, for all your great looks: are you angry?
CAN. Angry? not I, sir: nay, if she can part
So easily with her ring, ’tis with my heart.
GEO. Suffer this, sir, and suffer all: a whoreson gull
to——
CAN. Peace, George: when she has reap’d what I have
sown,
She’ll say one grain tastes better of her own
Than whole sheaves gather’d from another’s land:
Wit’s never good till bought at a dear hand.
GEO. But in the mean time she makes an ass of somebody.
SEC. P. See, see, see, sir, as you turn your back they
do nothing but kiss.
CAN. No matter, let 'em: when I touch her lip
I shall not feel his kisses,[125] no, nor miss
Any of her lip: no harm in kissing is.
Look to your business, pray, make up your wares.
FUS. Troth, coz, and well remembered; I would thou
wouldst give me five yards of lawn, to make my punk some
falling-bands[126] a’ the fashion; three falling one
upon another, for that’s the new edition now: she’s out
of linen horribly too; troth, sha’s never a good smock
to her back neither, but one that has a great many
patches in’t, and that I’m fain to wear myself for
want of shift too: prithee, put me into wholesome
napery,[127] and bestow some clean commodities upon us.
VIO. Reach me those cambrics and the lawns hither.
CAN. What to do, wife?
To lavish out my goods upon a fool?
FUS. Fool? ’Snails, eat the fool, or I’ll so batter your
crown that it shall scarce go for five shillings.
SEC. P. Do you hear, sir? you’re best be quiet, and say
a fool tells you so.
FUS. Nails, I think so, for thou tellest me.
CAN. Are you angry, sir, because I nam’d the fool?
Trust me, you are not wise, in mine own house
And to my face to play the antic thus:
If you’ll needs play the madman, choose a stage
Of lesser compass, where few eyes may note
Your action’s error; but if still you miss,
As here you do, for one clap, ten will hiss.
FUS. Zounds, cousin, he talks to me as if I were a
scurvy tragedian!
SEC. P. Sirrah George, I ha’ thought upon a device, how
to break his pate, beat him soundly, and ship him away.
GEO. Do’t.
SEC. P. I’ll go in, pass thorough the house, give some
of our fellow-prentices the watch-word when they shall
enter; then come and fetch my master in by a wile, and
place one in the hall to hold him in conference whilst
we cudgel the gull out of his coxcomb.
GEO. Do’t; away, do’t. [_Exit Second Prentice._
VIO. Must I call twice for these cambrics and lawns?
CAN. Nay, see, you anger her; George, prithee,
despatch.
FIRST P. Two of the choicest pieces are in the
warehouse, sir.
CAN. Go fetch them presently.
FUS. Ay, do; make haste, sirrah.
[_Exit First Prentice._
CAN. Why were you such a stranger all this while,
Being my wife’s cousin?
FUS. Stranger? no, sir, I’m a natural Milaner born.
CAN. I perceive still it is your natural guise
To mistake me: but you’re welcome, sir; I much
Wish your acquaintance.
FUS. My acquaintance? I scorn that, i’faith. I hope my
acquaintance goes in chains of gold three and fifty
times double:—you know who I mean, coz; the posts of his
gate are a-painting too.[128]
_Re-enter Second Prentice._
SEC. P. Signor Pandulfo the merchant desires conference
with you.
CAN. Signor Pandulfo? I’ll be with him straight.
Attend your mistress and the gentleman. [_Exit._
VIO. When do you shew those pieces?
FUS. Ay, when do you shew those pieces?
PRENTICES [_within_].[129] Presently, sir, presently;
we are but charging them.
FUS. Come, sirrah, you flat-cap,[130] where be these
whites?
_Re-enter First Prentice, with pieces._
GEO. Flat-cap? hark in your ear, sir; you’re a flat
fool, an ass, a gull, and I’ll thrum you:—do you see
this cambric, sir?
FUS. ’Sfoot, coz, a good jest; did you hear him? he told
me in my ear I was _a flat fool, an ass, a gull, and
I’ll thrum you:—do you see this cambric, sir?_
VIO. What, not my men, I hope?
FUS. No, not your men, but one of your men, i’faith.
FIRST P. I pray, sir, come hither: what say you to this?
here’s[131] an excellent good one.
FUS. Ay, marry, this likes[132] me well; cut me off some
half-score yards.
SEC. P. Let your whores cut; you’re an impudent coxcomb;
you get none, and yet I’ll thrum you:—a very good
cambric, sir.
FUS. Again, again, as God judge me! ’sfoot, coz, they
stand thrumming here with me all day, and yet I get
nothing.
FIRST P. A word, I pray, sir; you must not be angry;
prentices have hot bloods, young fellows—what say you to
this piece? look you, ’tis so delicate, so soft, so
even, so fine a thread, that a lady may wear it.
FUS. ’Sfoot, I think so; if a knight marry my punk, a
lady shall wear it: cut me off twenty yards; thou’rt an
honest lad.
FIRST P. Not without money, gull, and I’ll thrum you
too.
PRENTICES [_within_]. Gull, we’ll thrum you!
FUS. O lord, sister, did you not hear something cry
thrum? zounds, your men here make a plain ass of me.
VIO. What, to my face so impudent?
GEO. Ay, in a cause so honest; we’ll not suffer
Our master’s goods to vanish moneyless.
VIO. You will not suffer them!
SEC. P. No; and you may blush,
In going about to vex so mild a breast
As is our master’s.
VIO. Take away those pieces,
Cousin, I give them freely.
FUS. Mass, and I’ll take 'em as freely.
GEO., FIRST AND SEC. P., AND OTHER PRENTICES RUSHING IN.
We’ll make you lay 'em down again more freely.
[_They all attack_ FUSTIGO _with their clubs_.
VIO. Help, help! my brother will be murdered.
_Re-enter_ CANDIDO.
CAN. How now, what coil is here? forbear, I say!
[_Exeunt all the Prentices except the First and Second._
GEO. He calls us flat-caps, and abuses us.
CAN. Why, sirs, do such examples flow from me?
VIO. They’re of your keeping sir.—Alas, poor brother!
FUS. I’faith, they ha’ peppered me, sister; look, dost
not spin? call you these prentices? I’ll ne’er play at
cards more when clubs is trump: I have a goodly coxcomb,
sister, have I not?
CAN. Sister, and brother? brother to my wife?
FUS. If you have any skill in heraldry, you may soon
know that; break but her pate, and you shall see her
blood and mine is all one.
CAN. A surgeon! run, a surgeon! [_Exit First
Prentice._]—Why then wore you
That forged name of cousin?
FUS. Because it’s a common thing to call coz[133] and
ningle[134] now-a-days all the world over.
CAN. Cousin!
A name of much deceit, folly, and sin;
For under that common, abused word,
Many an honest-temper’d citizen
Is made a monster, and his wife train’d out
To foul adulterous action, full of fraud:
I may well call that word a city’s bawd.
FUS. Troth, brother, my sister would needs ha’ me take
upon me to gull your patience a little; but it has made
double gules[135] on my coxcomb.
VIO. What, playing the woman? blabbing now, you fool?
CAN. O, my wife did but exercise a jest
Upon your wit.
FUS. ’Sfoot, my wit bleeds for’t, methinks.
CAN. Then let this warning more of sense afford;
The name of cousin is a bloody word.
FUS. I’ll ne’er call coz again whilst I live, to have
such a coil about it: this should be a coronation-day,
for my head runs claret lustily.
[_Exit._
CAN. Go, wish[136] the surgeon to have great respect—
[_Exit Second Prentice._
_Enter an Officer._
How now, my friend? what, do they sit to-day?
OFF. Yes, sir; they expect you at the senate-house.
CAN. I thank your pains; I’ll not be last man there.—
[_Exit Officer._
My gown, George; go, my gown. [_Exit_ GEORGE.]—A happy
land,
Where grave men meet each cause to understand;
Whose consciences are not cut out in bribes
To gull the poor man’s right; but in even scales
Peize[137] rich and poor, without corruption’s veils.—
_Re-enter_ GEORGE.
Come, where’s the gown?
GEO. I cannot find the key, sir.
CAN. Request it of your mistress.
VIO. Come not to me for any key;
I’ll not be troubled to deliver it.
CAN. Good wife, kind wife, it is a needful trouble;
But for my gown.
VIO. Moths swallow down your gown!
You set my teeth on[138] edge with talking on’t.
CAN. Nay, prithee, sweet,—I cannot meet without it;
I should have a great fine set on my head.
VIO. Set on your coxcomb; tush, fine me no fines!
CAN. Believe me, sweet, none greets the senate-house
Without his robe of reverence,—that’s his gown.
VIO. Well, then, you’re like to cross that custom
once;
You get nor key nor gown; and so depart.—
This trick will vex him sure, and fret his heart.
[_Aside, and exit._
CAN. Stay, let me see, I must have some device,—
My cloak’s too short; fie, fie, no cloak will do’t;
It must be something fashion’d like a gown,
With my arms out.—O, George, come hither, George;
I prithee, lend me thine advice.
GEO. Troth, sir,
Were’t any but you, they would break open chest.
CAN. O no! break open chest? that’s a thief’s office;
Therein you counsel me against my blood;
'Twould shew impatience that: any meek means
I would be glad to embrace. Mass, I have got it:
Go, step up, fetch me down one of the carpets,[139]
The saddest-colour’d carpet, honest George;
Cut thou a hole i’ th’ middle for my neck,
Two for mine arms. Nay, prithee, look not strange.
GEO. I hope you do not think, sir, as you mean.
CAN. Prithee, about it quickly, the hour chides me:
Warily, George, softly; take heed of eyes.
[_Exit_ GEORGE.
Out of two evils he’s accounted wise
That can pick out the least: the fine impos’d
For an ungowned senator is about
Forty cruzadoes,[140] the carpet not 'bove four.
Thus have I chosen the lesser evil yet,
Preserv’d my patience, foil’d her desperate wit.
_Re-enter_ GEORGE _with carpet_.
GEO. Here, sir, here’s the carpet.
CAN. O, well done, George! we’ll cut it just i’ th’
midst.
[_They cut the carpet._
’Tis very well; I thank thee: help it on.
GEO. It must come over your head, sir, like a wench’s
petticoat.
[_Helping to put it on._
CAN. Thou’rt in the right, good George; it must
indeed.
Fetch me a nightcap, for I’ll gird it close,
As if my health were queasy; 'twill shew well
For a rude, careless nightgown; will’t not, think’st?
GEO. Indifferent well, sir, for a nightgown, being girt
and plaited.
CAN. Ay, and a nightcap on my head.
GEO. That’s true, sir; I’ll run and fetch one, and a
staff. [_Exit._
CAN. For thus they cannot choose but conster[141] it:
One that is out of health takes no delight,
Wears his apparel without appetite,
And puts on heedless raiment without form.—
_Re-enter_ GEORGE _with nightcap and staff_.
So, so, [_puts on the nightcap_] kind George; be secret
now; and, prithee,
Do not laugh at me till I’m out of sight.
GEO. I laugh? not I, sir.
CAN. Now to the senate-house.
Methinks I’d rather wear, without a frown,
A patient carpet than an angry gown. [_Exit._
GEO. Now looks my master just like one of our carpet
knights,[142] only he’s somewhat the honester of the
two.
_Re-enter_ VIOLA.
VIO. What, is your master gone?
GEO. Yes, forsooth, his back is but new turned.
VIO. And in his cloak? did he not vex and swear?
GEO. [_aside_] No; but he’ll make you swear anon.—No,
indeed, he went away like a lamb.
VIO. Key, sink to hell! still patient, patient still?
I am with child[143] to vex him. Prithee, George,
If e’er thou look’st for favour at my hands,
Uphold one jest for me.
GEO. Against my master?
VIO. ’Tis a mere jest, in faith: say, wilt thou do’t?
GEO. Well, what is’t?
VIO. Here, take this key; thou know’st where all
things lie;
Put on thy master’s best apparel, gown,
Chain, cap, ruff, every thing; be like himself;
And, 'gainst his coming home, walk in the shop;
Feign the same carriage and his patient look:
'Twill breed but a jest, thou know’st: speak, wilt thou?
GEO. 'Twill wrong my master’s patience.
VIO. Prithee, George——
GEO. Well, if you’ll save me harmless, and put me under
covert barn,[144] I am content to please you, provided
it may breed no wrong against him.
VIO. No wrong at all: here, take the key, be gone.
If any vex him, this; if not this, none. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_An outer Apartment in_ BELLAFRONT’S _House_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS FINGERLOCK _and_ ROGER.
MIS. F. O Roger, Roger, where’s your mistress, where’s
your mistress? there’s the finest, neatest gentleman at
my house, but newly come over: O where is she, where is
she, where is she?
ROG. My mistress is abroad, but not amongst 'em: my
mistress is not the whore now that you take her for.
MIS. F. How? is she not a whore? do you go about to take
away her good name, Roger? you are a fine pander indeed!
ROG. I tell you, madonna Fingerlock, I am not sad for
nothing; I ha’ not eaten one good meal this three and
thirty days: I had wont to get sixteen pence by fetching
a pottle of hippocras;[145] but now those days are past:
we had as good doings, madonna Fingerlock, she within
doors, and I without, as any poor young couple in Milan.
MIS. F. God’s my life, and is she changed now?
ROG. I ha’ lost by her squeamishness more than would
have builded twelve bawdy-houses.
MIS. F. And had she no time to turn honest but now? what
a vile woman is this! twenty pound a-night, I’ll be
sworn, Roger, in good gold and no silver: why, here was
a time! if she should ha’ picked out a time, it could
not be better: gold enough stirring; choice of men,
choice of hair, choice of beards, choice of legs, and
choice of every, every, every thing: it cannot sink into
my head that she should be such an ass; Roger, I never
believe it.
ROG. Here she comes now.
_Enter_ BELLAFRONT.
MIS. F. O sweet madonna, on with your loose gown,[146]
your felt,[147] and your feather! there’s the sweetest,
properest,[148] gallantest gentleman at my house; he
smells all of musk and ambergrise, his pocket full of
crowns, flame-coloured doublet, red satin hose,[149]
carnation silk stockings, and a leg and a body,—O!
BEL. Hence thou, our sex’s monster, poisonous bawd,
Lust’s factor and damnation’s orator,
Gossip of hell! Were all the harlots’ sins,
Which the whole world contains, number’d together,
Thine far exceeds them all: of all the creatures
That ever were created, thou art basest.
What serpent would beguile thee of thy office?
It is detestable; for thou livest
Upon the dregs of harlots, guard’st the door
Whilst couples go to dancing. O coarse devil!
Thou art the bastard’s curse, thou brand’st his birth;
The lecher’s French disease, for thou dry-suck’st him;
The harlot’s poison, and thine own confusion.
MIS. F. Marry come up, with a pox! have you nobody to
rail against but your bawd now?
BEL. And you, knave pander, kinsman to a bawd!
ROG. You and I, madonna, are cousins.
BEL. Of the same blood and making, near allied;
Thou that [art] slave to sixpence, base-metall’d
villain!
ROG. Sixpence? nay, that’s not so; I never took under
two shillings fourpence: I hope I know my fee.
BEL. I know not against which most to inveigh,
For both of you are damn’d so equally.
Thou never spar’st for oaths, swear’st any thing,
As if thy soul were made of shoe-leather:
_God damn me, gentleman, if she be within_!
When in the next room she’s found dallying.
ROG. If it be my vocation to swear, every man in his
vocation: I hope my betters swear, and damn themselves;
and why should not I?
BEL. Roger, you cheat kind gentlemen.
ROG. The more gulls they.
BEL. Slave, I cashier thee.
MIS. F. And[150] you do cashier him, he shall be
entertained.
ROG. Shall I? then blurt[151] a’ your service!
BEL. As hell would have it, entertain’d by you!
I dare the devil himself to match those two. [_Exit._
MIS. F. Marry gup, are you grown so holy, so pure, so
honest, with a pox?
ROG. Scurvy, honest punk! But stay, madonna, how must
our agreement be now? for, you know, I am to have all
the comings-in at the hall-door, and you at the
chamber-door.
MIS. F. True, Roger, except my vails.
ROG. Vails? what vails?
MIS. F. Why as thus: if a couple come in a coach, and
light to lie down a little, then, Roger, that’s my fee,
and you may walk abroad, for the coachman himself is
their pander.
ROG. Is 'a so? in truth, I have almost forgot, for want
of exercise. But how if I fetch this citizen’s wife to
that gull, and that madonna to that gallant, how then?
MIS. F. Why then, Roger, you are to have sixpence a
lane; so many lanes, so many sixpences.
ROG. Is’t so? then I see we two shall agree, and live
together.
MIS. F. Ay, Roger, so long as there be any taverns and
bawdy-houses in Milan.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_A Chamber in_ BELLAFRONT’S _House_.
BELLAFRONT discovered sitting, with a lute; pen, ink,
and paper on a table before her.
BEL. _The courtier’s flattering jewels,_ [_Sings._
_Temptation’s only fuels,
The lawyer’s ill-got moneys,
That suck up poor bees’ honeys,
The citizen’s son’s riot,
The gallant[’s] costly diet,
Silks and velvets, pearls and ambers,
Shall not draw me to their chambers.
Silks and velvets, &c._ [_She writes._
O ’tis in vain to write! it will not please.
Ink on this paper would ha’ but presented
The foul black spots that stick upon my soul,
And rather made[152] me loathsomer, than wrought
My love’s impression in Hippolito’s thought:
No, I must turn the chaste leaves of my breast,
And pick out some sweet means to breed my rest.
Hippolito, believe me, I will be
As true unto thy heart as thy heart to thee,
And hate all men, their gifts and company!
_Enter_ MATHEO, CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO, _and_ PIORATTO.
MAT. You, goody punk, _subaudi_ cockatrice,[153] O
you’re a sweet whore of your promise, are you not, think
you? how well you came to supper to us last night! mew,
a whore, and break her word! nay, you may blush and hold
down your head at it well enough: ’sfoot, ask these
gallants if we stayed not till we were as hungry as
sergeants.
FLU. Ay, and their yeomen too.
CAS. Nay, faith, acquaintance, let me tell you, you
forgat yourself too much: we had excellent cheer, rare
vintage, and were drunk after supper.
PIO. And when we were in our woodcocks, sweet rogue, a
brace of gulls, dwelling here in the city, came in and
paid all the shot.
MAT. Pox on her! let her alone.
BEL. O, I pray, do, if you be gentlemen!
I pray, depart the house: beshrew the door
For being so easily entreated! faith,
I lent but little ear unto your talk;
My mind was busied otherwise, in troth,
And so your words did unregarded pass:
Let this suffice,—I am not as I was.
FLU. I am not what I was? no, I’ll be sworn thou art
not; for thou wert honest at five, and now thou’rt a
punk at fifteen; thou wert yesterday a simple whore, and
now thou’rt a cunning, cony-catching[154] baggage
to-day.
BEL. I’ll say I’m worse; I pray, forsake me then:
I do desire you leave me, gentlemen,
And leave yourselves: O be not what you are,
Spendthrifts of soul and body!
Let me persuade you to forsake all harlots,
Worse than the deadliest poisons; they are worse,
For o’er their souls hangs an eternal curse.
In being slaves to slaves, their labours perish;
They’re seldom blest with fruit, for ere it blossoms
Many a worm confounds it;
They have no issue but foul ugly ones,
That run along with them e’en to their graves,
For, ’stead of children, they breed rank diseases;
And all you gallants can bestow on them
Is that French infant, which ne’er acts, but speaks.
What shallow son and heir, then, foolish gallant[s],
Would waste all his inheritance to purchase
A filthy, loath’d disease, and pawn his body
To a dry evil? that usury’s worst of all,
When th’ interest will eat out the principal.
MAT. ’Sfoot, she gulls 'em the best! this is always her
fashion when she would be rid of any company that she
cares not for, to enjoy mine alone.
[_Aside._
FLU. What’s here? instructions, admonitions, and
caveats? come out, you scabbard of vengeance!
MAT. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they fist,[155] you
shall not spurn my punk, I can tell you: my blood is
vexed.
FLU. Pox a’ your blood! make it a quarrel.
MAT. You’re a slave! will that serve turn?
PIO.[156] ’Sblood, hold, hold!
CAS. Matheo, Fluello, for shame, put up!
MAT. Spurn my sweet varlet?
BEL. O how many thus,
Mov’d with a little folly, have let out
Their souls in brothel-houses! fell down and died
Just at their harlot’s foot, as 'twere in pride!
FLU. Matheo, we shall meet.
MAT. Ay, ay; any where saving at church; pray, take heed
we meet not there.
FLU. Adieu, damnation!
CAS. Cockatrice, farewell!
PIO. There’s more deceit in women than in hell.
[_Exeunt_ CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO, _and_ PIORATTO.
MAT. Ha, ha, thou dost gull 'em so rarely, so naturally!
if I did not think thou hadst been in earnest! thou art
a sweet rogue for’t, i’faith.
BEL. Why are not you gone too, signor Matheo?
I pray, depart my house: you may believe me;
In troth, I have no part of harlot in me.
MAT. How’s this?
BEL. Indeed, I love you not, but hate you worse
Than any man, because you were the first
Gave money for my soul: you brake the ice,
Which after turn’d a puddle; I was led
By your temptation to be miserable.
I pray, seek out some other that will fall,
Or rather, I pray, seek out none at all.
MAT. Is’t possible to be impossible—an honest whore? I
have heard many honest wenches turn strumpets with a wet
finger:[157] but for a harlot to turn honest is one of
Hercules’ labours; it was more easy for him in one night
to make fifty queans, than to make one of them honest
again in fifty years. Come, I hope thou dost but jest.
BEL. ’Tis time to leave off jesting; I had almost
Jested away salvation: I shall love you,
If you will soon forsake me.
MAT. God be wi’ thee![158]
BEL. O, tempt no more women! shun their weighty curse!
Women at best are bad, make them not worse.
You gladly seek our sex’s overthrow,
But not to raise our states. For all your wrongs,
Will you vouchsafe me but due recompense,
To marry with me?
MAT. How, marry with a punk, a cockatrice, a harlot?
marry, foh; I’ll be burnt thorough the nose first.
BEL. Why, la, these are your oaths! you love to undo
us,
To put heaven from us, whilst our best hours waste;
You love to make us lewd, but never chaste.
MAT. I’ll hear no more of this, this ground upon,
Thou’rt damn’d for altering thy religion. [_Exit._
BEL. Thy lust and sin speak so much: go thou, my ruin,
The first fall my soul took! By my example,
I hope few maidens now will put their heads
Under men’s girdles: who least trusts is most wise:
Men’s oaths do cast a mist before our eyes.
My best of wit be ready! now I go
By some device to greet Hippolito. [_Exit._
ACT IV. SCENE I.
_A Chamber in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House_.
_Enter a Servant._
SER. So, this is Monday morning; and now must I to my
huswifery. [_Sets out a table, and places on it a skull,
a picture of_ INFELICE, _a book, and a taper_.] Would I
had been created a shoemaker! for all the gentle craft
are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then
to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me
into a student; for here’s my book, here my desk, here
my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so
that this dull drowzy first day of the week makes me
half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a
sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office
is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look
you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as
ever my back’s turned, will be naught together.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
HIP. Are all the window’s shut?
SER. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath
stood in three reigns.
HIP. Thou art a faithful servant, and observ’st
The calendar both of my solemn vows
And ceremonious sorrow. Get thee gone:
I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound
Of any woman’s voice pierce through that door.
SER. If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them. What
will your lordship have to breakfast?
HIP. Sighs.
SER. What to dinner?
HIP. Tears.
SER. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of
wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?
HIP. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy
of a woman.
SER. Indeed, that’s harder to come by than ever was
Ostend.[159]
HIP. Prithee, away.
SER. I’ll make away myself presently, which few servants
will do for their lords, but rather help to make them
away.—Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something
out of it. [_Aside, and exit._
HIP. [_taking up_ INFELICE’S _picture_.] My Infelice’s
face, her brow, her eye,
The dimple on her cheek! and such sweet skill
Hath from the cunning workman’s pencil flown,
These lips look fresh and lively as her own,
Seeming to move and speak. 'Las, now I see
The reason why fond[160] women love to buy
Adulterate complexion! here ’tis read;
False colours last after the true be dead:
Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,
Of all the music set upon her tongue,
Of all that was past woman’s excellence
In her white bosom, look, a painted board
Circumscribes all! earth can no bliss afford,
Nothing of her, but this: this cannot speak;
It has no lap for me to rest upon,
No lip worth tasting; here the worms will feed,
As in her coffin: hence then, idle art!
True love’s best pictur’d in a true-love’s heart:
Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead;
So that thou liv’st twice, twice art buried:
Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What’s here?
[_Takes up the skull._
Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy’s:
'Las, say it were, I need not fear him now!
For all his braves, his contumelious breath,
His frowns, though dagger-pointed, all his plot[s],
Though ne’er so mischievous, his Italian pills,
His quarrels, and that common fence, his law,
See, see, they’re all eaten out! here’s not left one:
How clean they’re pick’d away to the bare bone!
How mad are mortals, then, to rear great names
On tops of swelling houses! or to wear out
Their fingers’ ends in dirt, to scrape up gold!
Not caring, so that sumpter-horse the back
Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse,
Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul:
Yet, after all, their gayness looks thus foul.
What fools are men to build a garish tomb,
Only to save the carcass whilst it rots,
To maintain’t long in stinking, make good carrion,
But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound!
For good deeds keep men sweet long above ground.
And must all come to this? fools, wise, all hither?
Must all heads thus at last be laid together?
Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman,
After this fashion, not like this; these colours,
In time, kissing but air will be kiss’d off;
But here’s a fellow, that which he lays on
Till doomsday alters not complexion:
Death’s the best painter then: they that draw shapes,
And live by wicked faces, are but God’s apes;
They come but near the life, and there they stay:
This fellow draws life too; his art is fuller,
The pictures which he makes are without colour.
_Re-enter Servant._
SER. Here’s a person would speak with you, sir.
HIP. Hah!
SER. A parson,[161] sir, would speak with you.
HIP. Vicar?
SER. Vicar! no, sir, has too good a face to be a vicar
yet; a youth, a very youth.
HIP. What youth? of man or woman? lock the doors.
SER. If it be a woman, marrow-bones and potato-pies[162]
keep me from[163] meddling with her, for the thing has
got the breeches! ’tis a male varlet[164] sure, my lord,
for a woman’s tailor ne’er measured him.
HIP. Let him give thee his message, and be gone.
SER. He says he’s signor Matheo’s man; but I know he
lies.
HIP. How dost thou know it?
SER. 'Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think,
sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing.
HIP. Send him, and keep the door. [_Exit Servant._
_Fata[165] si liceat mihi_ [_Reads._
_Fingere arbitrio meo,
Temperem zephyro levi
Vela_—
I’d sail, were I to choose, not in the ocean;
Cedars are shaken when shrubs do feel no bruise—
_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _dressed as a page, with a letter_.
How, from Matheo?
BEL. Yes, my lord.
HIP. Art sick?
BEL. Not all in health, my lord.
HIP. Keep off.
BEL. I do.—
Hard fate when women are compell’d to woo! [_Aside._
HIP. This paper does speak nothing.
BEL. Yes, my lord,
Matter of life it speaks, and therefore writ
In hidden character: to me instruction
My master gives, and, 'less you please to stay
Till you both meet, I can the text display.
HIP. Do so; read out.
BEL. I am already out:
Look on my face, and read the strangest story!
HIP. What, villain, ho!
_Re-enter Servant._
SER. Call you, my lord?
HIP. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil!
SER. Lord bless us, where? he’s not cloven, my lord,
that I can see; besides, the devil goes more like a
gentleman than a page: good my lord, _buon coraggio_!
HIP. Thou hast let in a woman in man’s shape,
And thou art damned for’t.
SER. Not damn’d, I hope,
For putting in a woman to a lord.
HIP. Fetch me my rapier—do not; I shall kill thee.
Purge this infected chamber of that plague
That runs upon me thus; slave, thrust her hence.
SER. Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her
hence without help!—Come, mermaid, you must to sea
again.
BEL. Hear me but speak, my words shall be all music;
Hear me but speak. [_Knocking within._
HIP. Another beats the door;
T'other she-devil! look.
SER. Why, then, hell’s broke loose.
HIP. Hence; guard the chamber; let no more come on;
[_Exit Servant._
One woman serves for man’s damnation.—
Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate
The chastest and most sanctimonious vow
That e’er was enter’d in the court of heaven!
I was, on meditation’s spotless wings,[166]
Upon my journey thither: like a storm
Thou beats my ripen’d cogitations
Flat to the ground; and like a thief dost stand,
To steal devotion from the holy land.
BEL. If woman were thy mother—if thy heart
Be not all marble, or if’t marble be,
Let my tears soften it, to pity me—
I do beseech thee, do not thus with scorn
Destroy a woman!
HIP. Woman, I beseech thee,
Get thee some other suit, this fits thee not;
I would not grant it to a kneeling queen.
I cannot love thee, nor I must not: see
[_Points to_ INFELICE’S _picture_.
The copy of that obligation,
Where my soul’s bound in heavy penalties.
BEL. She’s dead, you told me; she’ll let fall her
suit.
HIP. My vows to her fled after her to heaven:
Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou might’st behold her
Watching upon yon battlements of stars,
How I observe them. Should I break my bond,
This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips
Call me most perjur’d villain. Let it suffice,
I ha’ set thee in the path: is’t not a sign
I love thee, when with one so most most dear
I’ll have thee fellow?[167] all are fellows there.
BEL. Be greater than a king; save not a body,
But from eternal shipwreck keep a soul:
If not, and that again sin’s path I tread,
The grief be mine, the guilt fall on thy head!
HIP. Stay, and take physic for it; read this book;
Ask counsel of this head, what’s to be done;
He’ll strike it dead, that ’tis damnation
If you turn Turk again.[168] O do it not!
Though[169] heaven can not allure you to do well,
From doing ill let hell fright you: and learn this,
The soul whose bosom lust did never touch
Is God’s fair bride, and maidens’ souls are such:
The soul that, leaving chastity’s white shore,
Swims in hot sensual streams, is the devil’s whore.—
_Re-enter Servant with letter._
How now? who comes?
SER. No more knaves,[170] my lord, that wear smocks:
here’s a letter from doctor Benedict; I would not enter
his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he
should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry,
they are half witches.[171]—’Slid, you are a sweet youth
to wear a codpiece,[172] and have no pins to stick
upon’t!
HIP. I’ll meet the doctor, tell him: yet to-night
I cannot; but at morrow rising sun
I will not fail. [_Exit Servant._]—Go, woman; fare thee
well. [_Exit._
BEL. The lowest fall can be but into hell.
It does not move him; I must therefore fly
From this undoing city, and with tears
Wash off all anger from my father’s brow:
He cannot sure but joy seeing me new born.
A woman honest first, and then turn whore,
Is, as with me, common to thousands more;
But from a strumpet to turn chaste, that sound
Has oft been heard, that woman hardly found. [_Exit._
SCENE II.
_A Street._
_Enter_ FUSTIGO, CRAMBO, _and_ POH.[173]
FUS. Hold up your hands, gentlemen: here’s one, two,
three [_giving money_]—nay, I warrant they are sound
pistols,[174] and without flaws; I had them of my
sister, and I know she uses to put [up] nothing that’s
cracked—three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and nine:
by this hand, bring me but a piece of his blood, and you
shall have nine more. I’ll lurk in a tavern not far off,
and provide supper to close up the end of the tragedy.
The linen-draper’s, remember. Stand to’t, I beseech you,
and play your parts perfectly.
CRAM. Look you, signor, ’tis not your gold that we
weigh——
FUS. Nay, nay, weigh it, and spare not; if it lack one
grain of corn, I’ll give you a bushel of wheat to make
it up.
CRAM. But by your favour, signor, which of the servants
is it? because we’ll punish justly.
FUS. Marry, ’tis the head man; you shall taste him by
his tongue; a pretty, tall, prating fellow, with a
Tuscalonian beard.
POH. Tuscalonian? very good.
FUS. Cod’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a
gentleman; my coxcomb was dry-beaten, as if my hair had
been hemp.
CRAM. We’ll dry-beat some of them.
FUS. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried murder
out very manfully: I have her consent, in a manner, to
have him peppered, else I’ll not do’t to win more than
ten cheaters do at a rifling:[175] break but his pate or
so, only his mazer,[176] because I’ll have his head in a
cloth as well as mine; he’s a linen-draper, and may take
enough. I could enter mine action of battery against
him, but we may 'haps be both dead and rotten before the
lawyers would end it.
CRAM. No more to do but ensconce yourself i’ th’ tavern;
provide no great cheer, a[177] couple of capons, some
pheasants, plovers, an orangado pie, or so: but how
bloody soe’er the day be, sally you not forth.
FUS. No, no; nay, if I stir, somebody shall stink; I’ll
not budge; I’ll lie like a dog in a manger.
CRAM. Well, well, to the tavern; let not our supper be
raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful.
FUS. That’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst after; blood
for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head,
plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call
your names? because I’ll leave word, if any such come to
the bar.
CRAM. My name is corporal Crambo.
POH. And mine, lieutenant Poh.
CRAM. Poh is as tall[178] a man as ever opened oyster: I
would not be the devil to meet Poh: farewell.
FUS. Nor I, by this light, if Poh be such a Poh.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
CANDIDO’S _Shop_.
_Enter_ VIOLA _and two Prentices_.
VIO. What’s a’ clock now?
SEC. P. ’Tis almost twelve.
VIO. That’s well;
The senate will leave wording presently:
But is George ready?
SEC. P. Yes, forsooth, he’s furbish’d.
VIO. Now as you ever hope to win my favour,
Throw both your duties and respects on him
With the like awe as if he were your master:
Let not your looks betray it with a smile
Or jeering glance to any customer;
Keep a true settled countenance, and beware
You laugh not, whatsoe’er you hear or see.
SEC. P. I warrant you, mistress, let us alone for
keeping our countenance; for, if I list, there’s never a
fool in all Milan shall make me laugh, let him play the
fool never so like an ass, whether it be the fat
court-fool or the lean city-fool.
VIO. Enough then; call down George.
SEC. P. I hear him coming.
VIO. Be ready with your legs[179] then, let me see
How courtesy would become him.—
_Enter_ GEORGE _in_ CANDIDO’S _apparel_.
Gallantly!
Beshrew my blood, a proper seemly man,
Of a choice carriage, walks with a good port!
GEO. I thank you, mistress; my back’s broad enough, now
my master’s gown’s on.
VIO. Sure I should think it were the least of sin
To mistake the master, and to let him in.
GEO. 'Twere a good Comedy of Errors[180] that,
i’faith.
SEC. P. Whist, whist! my master.
VIO. You all know your tasks.—
_Enter_ CANDIDO,[181] _dressed as before in the carpet:
he stares at_ GEORGE, _and exit_.'
God’s my life, what’s that he has got upon’s back? who
can tell?
GEO. That can I, but I will not.
VIO. Girt about him like a madman! what, has he lost his
cloak too? This is the maddest fashion that e’er I saw.
What said he, George, when he passed by thee?
GEO. Troth, mistress, nothing; not so much as a bee, he
did not hum; not so much as a bawd, he did not hem; not
so much as a cuckold, he did not ha; neither hum, hem,
nor ha; only stared me in the face, past along, and made
haste in, as if my looks had worked with him to give him
a stool.
VIO. Sure he’s vex’d now, this trick has mov’d his
spleen;
He’s anger’d now, because he utter’d nothing,
And wordless wrath breaks out more violent.
May be he’ll strive for place when he comes down,
But if thou lov’st me, George, afford him none.
GEO. Nay, let me alone to play my master’s prize,[182]
as long as my mistress warrants me: I’m sure I have his
best clothes on, and I scorn to give place to any that
is inferior in apparel to me; that’s an axiom, a
principle, and is observed as much as the fashion: let
that persuade you then, that I’ll shoulder with him for
the upper hand in the shop as long as this chain will
maintain it.
VIO. Spoke with the spirit of a master, though with the
tongue of a prentice!—
_Re-enter_ CANDIDO _dressed as a prentice_.
Why, how now, madman? what, in your tricksi-coats?
CAN. O peace, good mistress!—
_Enter_ CRAMBO _and_ POH.[183]
See, what you lack?[184] what is’t you buy? pure
callicoes, fine hollands, choice cambrics, neat lawns:
see, what you buy? pray, come near, my master will use
you well, he can afford you a pennyworth.
VIO. Ay, that he can, out of a whole piece of lawn,
i’faith.
CAN. Pray, see your choice here, gentlemen.
VIO. O fine fool! what, a madman? a patient madman? who
ever heard of the like! well, sir, I’ll fit you and your
humour presently: what, cross-points? I’ll untie 'em all
in a trice; I’ll vex you, faith.—Boy, take your cloak;
quick, come. [_Exit with First Prentice._
CAN. Be cover’d,[185] George; this chain and welted
gown[186]
Bare to this coat? then the world’s upside down.
GEO. Umh, umh, hum.
CRAM. That’s the shop,[187] and there’s the fellow.
POH. Ay, but the master is walking in there.
CRAM. No matter; we’ll in.
POH. ’Sblood, dost long to lie in limbo?
CRAM. And[188] limbo be in hell, I care not.
CAN. Look you, gentlemen, your choice: cambrics?
CRAM. No, sir, some shirting.
CAN. You shall.
CRAM. Have you none of this striped canvass for
doublets?
CAN. None striped, sir, but plain.
SEC. P. I think there be one piece striped within.
GEO. Step, sirrah, and fetch it; hum, hum, hum.
[_Exit Sec. Prentice,[189] and returns with the piece._
CAN. Look you, gentlemen,
I’ll make but one spreading; here’s a piece of cloth,
Fine, yet shall wear like iron, ’tis without fault;
Take this upon my word, ’tis without fault.
CRAM. Then ’tis better than you, sirrah.
CAN. Ay, and a number more. O that each soul
Were but as spotless as this innocent white,
And had as few breaks in it!
CRAM. 'Twould have some then:
There was a fray here last day in this shop.
CAN. There was indeed a little flea-biting.
POH. A gentleman had his pate broke; call you that but a
flea-biting?
CAN. He had so.
CRAM. Zounds, do you stand in’t? [_Strikes_ CANDIDO.
GEO. ’Sfoot, clubs, clubs![190] prentices, down with
'em!—
_Enter several Prentices with clubs, who disarm_
CRAMBO _and_ POH.
Ah, you rogues, strike a citizen in’s shop!
CAN. None of you stir, I pray; forbear, good George.
CRAM. I beseech you, sir; we mistook our marks; deliver
us our weapons.
GEO. Your head bleeds, sir; cry, clubs!
CAN. I say you shall not; pray, be patient;
Give them their weapons.—Sirs, you’re best be gone;
I tell you, here are boys more tough than bears:
Hence, lest more fists do walk about your ears.
CRAM. } We thank you, sir.
POH. }
[_Exeunt._
CAN. You shall not follow them;
Let them alone, pray: this did me no harm;
Troth, I was cold, and the blow made me warm;
I thank 'em for’t: besides, I had decreed
To have a vein prick’d, I did mean to bleed,
So that there’s money sav’d: they’re honest men;
Pray, use 'em well when they appear agen.[191]
GEO. Yes, sir, we’ll use 'em like honest men.
CAN. Ay, well said, George, like honest men, though
they
Be arrant knaves; for that’s the phrase[192] of the
city.
Help to lay up these wares.
_Re-enter_ VIOLA _and First Prentice, with Officers_.
VIO. Yonder he stands.
FIRST OFF. What, in a prentice-coat?
VIO. Ay, ay; mad, mad: pray, take heed.
CAN. How now?
What news with them? what make they with my wife?
Officers? is she attach’d?—Look to your wares.
VIO. He talks to himself: O, he’s much gone indeed!
FIRST OFF. Pray, pluck up a good heart, be not so
fearful.—
Sirs, hark, we’ll gather to him by degrees.
VIO. Ay, ay, by degrees, I pray. O me, what makes he
with the lawn in his hand? he’ll tear all the ware in my
shop.
FIRST OFF. Fear not, we’ll catch him on a sudden.
VIO. O, you had need do so: pray, take heed of your
warrant.
FIRST OFF. I warrant, mistress.—Now, signor Candido.
CAN. Now, sir, what news with you, sir?
VIO. What news with you? he says: O, he’s far gone!
FIRST OFF. I pray, fear nothing; let’s alone with
him.—
Signor, you look not like yourself, methinks—
Steal you a’ t’other side—you’re chang’d, you’re
alter’d.
CAN. Chang’d, sir? why, true, sir. Is change strange?
’tis not
The fashion unless it alter: monarchs turn
To beggars, beggars creep into the nests
Of princes, masters serve their prentices,
Ladies their serving-men, men turn to women.
FIRST OFF. And women turn to men.
CAN. Ay, and women turn to men, you say true; ha, ha! a
mad world, a mad world! [_Officers seize_ CANDIDO.
FIRST OFF. Have we caught you, sir?
CAN. Caught me? well, well, you have caught me.
VIO. He laughs in your faces.
GEO. A rescue, prentices! my master’s catch-poll’d.
FIRST OFF. I charge you, keep the peace, or have your
legs
Garter’d with irons! we have from the duke
A warrant strong enough for what we do.
CAN. I pray, rest quiet; I desire no rescue.
VIO. La, he desires no rescue; 'las, poor heart,
He talks against himself!
CAN. Well, what’s the matter?
FIRST OFF. Look to that arm; [_Officers bind_
CANDIDO.
Pray, make sure work, double the cord.
CAN. Why, why!—VIO. Look how his head goes! should he
get but loose,
O, 'twere as much as all our lives were worth!
FIRST OFF. Fear not, we’ll make all sure for our own
safety.
CAN. Are you at leisure now? well, what’s the matter?
Why do I enter into bonds thus, ha?
FIRST OFF. Because you’re mad, put fear upon your
wife.
VIO. O ay; I went in danger of my life every minute.
CAN. What, am I mad, say you, and I not know it?
FIRST OFF. That proves you mad, because you
know it not.
VIO. Pray, talk as little to him as you can;
You see he’s too far spent.
CAN. Bound with strong cord!
A sister’s[193] thread, i’faith, had been enough
To lead me any where.—Wife, do you long?
You are mad too, or else you do me wrong.
GEO. But are you mad indeed, master?
CAN. My wife says so,
And what she says, George, is all truth, you know.—
And whither now? to Bethlem Monastery?
Ha, whither?
FIRST OFF. Faith, e’en to the madmen’s pound.
CAN. a’ God’s name! still I feel my patience sound.
[_Exeunt Officers with_ CANDIDO.
GEO. Come, we’ll see whither he goes: if the master be
mad, we are his servants, and must follow his steps;
we’ll be mad-caps too.—Farewell, mistress; you shall
have us all in Bedlam.
[_Exeunt_ GEORGE _and Prentices_.
VIO. I think I ha’ fitted now you and your clothes.
If this move not his patience, nothing can;
I’ll swear then I’ve a saint, and not a man. [_Exit._
SCENE IV.
_Grounds near the Duke’s Palace._
_Enter_ DUKE, BENEDICT, FLUELLO, CASTRUCHIO, _and_
PIORATTO.
DUKE. Give us a little leave.—
[_Exeunt_ FLUELLO, CASTRUCHIO, _and_ PIORATTO.
Doctor, your news.
BEN. I sent for him, my lord: at last he came,
And did receive all speech that went from me
As gilded pills made to prolong his health:
My credit with him wrought it; for some men
Swallow even empty hooks, like fools that fear
No drowning where ’tis deepest, 'cause ’tis clear.
In th’ end we sat and eat: a health I drank
To Infelice’s sweet departed soul;
This train I knew would take.
DUKE. 'Twas excellent.
BEN. He fell with such devotion on his knees,
To pledge the same——
DUKE. Fond, superstitious fool!
BEN. That had he been inflam’d with zeal of prayer
He could not pour’t out with more reverence.
About my neck he hung, wept on my cheek,
Kiss’d it, and swore he would adore my lips,
Because they brought forth Infelice’s name.
DUKE. Ha, ha! alack, alack!
BEN. The cup he lifts up high, and thus he said,
Here, noble maid!—drinks, and was poisoned.
DUKE. And died?
BEN. And died, my lord.
DUKE. Thou in that word
Hast piec’d mine aged hours out with more years
Than thou hast taken from Hippolito.
A noble youth he was; but lesser branches,
Hindering the greater’s growth, must be lopt off,
And feed the fire. Doctor, we’re now all thine,
And use us so; be bold.
BEN. Thanks, gracious lord!—
My honour’d lord——
DUKE. Hum.
BEN. I do beseech your grace to bury deep
This bloody act of mine.
DUKE. Nay, nay, for that,
Doctor, look you to’t, me it shall not move;
They’re curs’d that ill do, not that ill do love.
BEN. You throw an angry forehead on my face;
But be you pleas’d backward thus far[194] to look,
That for your good this evil I undertook——
DUKE. Ay, ay, we conster[195] so.
BEN. And only for your love.
DUKE. Confess’d; ’tis true.
BEN. Nor let it stand against me as a bar,
To thrust me from your presence; nor believe,
As princes have quick thoughts, that now my finger
Being dipt in blood, I will not spare the hand,
But that for gold—as what can gold not do?—
I may be hir’d to work the like on you.
DUKE. Which to prevent——
BEN. ’Tis from my heart as far——
DUKE. No matter, doctor: 'cause I’ll fearless sleep,
And that you shall stand clear of that suspicion,
I banish thee for ever from my court.
This principle is old, but true as fate,
Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate.
[_Exit._
BEN. Is’t so? Nay, then, duke, your stale principle
With one as stale the doctor thus shall quit,—
He falls himself that digs another’s pit.—
_Enter Servant._
How now? where is he? will he meet me?
SER. Meet you, sir? he might have met with three fencers
in this time, and have received less hurt than by
meeting one doctor of physic. Why, sir, has walked under
the old Abbey-wall yonder this hour, till he’s more cold
than a citizen’s country-house in Janivere.[196] You may
smell him behind, sir: la, you, yonder he comes.
BEN. Leave me.
SER. I’ th’ lurch, if you will. [_Exit._
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
BEN. O my most noble friend!
HIP. Few but yourself
Could have entic’d me thus to trust the air
With my close sighs. You sent[197] for me; what news?
BEN. Come, you must doff this black; dye that pale
cheek
Into his own colour; go, attire yourself
Fresh as a bridegroom when he meets his bride.
The duke has done much treason to thy love;
’Tis now revealed, ’tis now to be reveng’d:
Be merry, honour’d friend! thy lady lives.
HIP. What lady?
BEN. Infelice; she’s reviv’d:
Reviv’d? alack, death never had the heart
To take breath from her!
HIP. Umh, I thank you, sir:
Physic prolongs life when it cannot save;
This helps not my hopes, mine are in their grave:
You do some wrong to mock me.
BEN. By that love
Which I have ever borne you, what I speak
Is truth; the maiden lives: that funeral,
Duke’s tears, the mourning, was all counterfeit;
A sleepy draught cozen’d the world and you:
I was his minister; and then chamber’d up,
To stop discovery.
HIP. O treacherous duke!
BEN. He cannot hope so certainly for bliss
As he believes that I have poison’d you.
He woo’d me to’t; I yielded, and confirm’d him
In his most bloody thoughts.
HIP. A very devil!
BEN. Her did he closely coach to Bergamo;
And thither——
HIP. Will I ride: stood Bergamo
In the low countries of black hell, I’ll to her.
BEN. You shall to her, but not to Bergamo.
How passion makes you fly beyond yourself!
Much of that weary journey I ha’ cut off;
For she by letters hath intelligence
Of your supposed death, her own interment,
And all those plots which that false duke her father
Has wrought against you; and she’ll meet you—
HIP. O, when?
BEN. Nay, see, how covetous are your desires!
Early to-morrow morn.
HIP. O where, good father?
BEN. At Bethlem Monastery. Are you pleas’d now?
HIP. At Bethlem Monastery? the place well fits;
It is the school where those that lose their wits
Practise again to get them. I am sick
Of that disease; all love is lunatic.
BEN. We’ll steal away this night in some disguise.
Father Anselmo, a most reverend friar,
Expects our coming; before whom we’ll lay
Reasons so strong, that he shall yield in bands[198]
Of holy wedlock to tie both your hands.
HIP. This is such happiness,
That to believe it, ’tis impossible.
BEN. Let all your joys then die in misbelief;
I will reveal no more.
HIP. O yes, good father!
I am so well acquainted with despair,
I know not how to hope; I believe all.
BEN. We’ll hence this night: much must be done, much
said;
But if the doctor fail not in his charms,
Your lady shall ere morning fill these arms.
HIP. Heavenly physician! far thy fame shall spread,
That mak’st two lovers speak when they be dead.
[_Exeunt._
ACT V. SCENE I.
_A Hall in the Duke’s Palace._
_Enter_ VIOLA _with a petition, and_ GEORGE.
VIO. O watch, good George, watch which way the duke
comes!
GEO. Here comes one of the butterflies; ask him.
_Enter_ PIORATTO.
VIO. Pray, sir, comes the duke this way?
PIO. He’s upon coming, mistress.
VIO. I thank you, sir. [_Exit_ PIORATTO.]—George, are
there many mad folks where thy master lies?
GEO. O yes, of all countries some; but especially mad
Greeks,[199] they swarm. Troth, mistress, the world is
altered with you; you had not wont to stand thus with a
paper, humbly complaining: but you’re well enough
served. Provender pricked you, as it does many of our
city wives besides.
VIO. Dost think, George, we shall get him forth?
GEO. Truly, mistress, I cannot tell; I think you’ll
hardly get him forth. Why,’tis strange! ’sfoot, I have
known many women that have had mad rascals to their
husbands, whom they would belabour by all means possible
to keep 'em in their right wits; but of a woman to long
to turn a tame man into a madman, why, the devil himself
was never used so by his dam.
VIO. How does he talk, George? ha, good George, tell me.
GEO. Why, you’re best go see.
VIO. Alas, I am afraid!
GEO. Afraid? you had more need be ashamed; he may rather
be afraid of you.
VIO. But, George, he’s not stark mad, is he? he does not
rave? he’s not horn-mad, George, is he?
GEO. Nay, I know not that; but he talks like a justice
of peace of a thousand matters, and to no purpose.
VIO. I’ll to the monastery. I shall be mad till 1 enjoy
him; I shall be sick till I see him; yet when I do see
him, I shall weep out mine eyes.
GEO. I’d fain see a woman weep out her eyes; that’s as
true as to say a man’s cloak burns when it hangs in the
water. I know you’ll weep, mistress; but what says the
painted cloth?[200]
_Trust not a woman when she cries,
For she’ll pump water from her eyes
With a wet finger[201], and in faster showers
Than April when he rains down flowers._
VIO. Ay, but, George, that painted cloth is worthy to be
hanged up for lying: all women have not tears at will,
unless they have good cause.
GEO. Ay, but, mistress, how easily will they find a
cause! and as one of our cheese-trenchers[202] says,
very learnedly,
_As out of wormwood bees suck honey,
As from poor clients lawyers firk money,
As parsley from a roasted cony,
So, though the day be ne’er so sunny,
If wives will have it rain, down then it drives;
The calmest husbands make the stormiest wives._
VIO. Tame,[203] George; but I ha’ done storming now.
GEO. Why, that’s well done: good mistress, throw aside
this fashion of your humour; be not so fantastical in
wearing it; storm no more, long no more: this longing
has made you come short of many a good thing that you
might have had from my master. Here comes the duke.
_Enter Duke_, FLUELLO, PIORATTO, _and_ SINEZI.
VIO. O, I beseech you, pardon my offence,
In that I durst abuse your grace’s warrant!
Deliver forth my husband, good my lord.
DUKE. Who is her husband?
FLU. Candido, my lord.
DUKE. Where is he?
VIO. He’s among the lunatics.
He was a man made up without a gall;
Nothing could move him, nothing could convert
His meek blood into fury; yet, like a monster,
I often beat at the most constant rock
Of his unshaken patience, and did long
To vex him.
DUKE. Did you so?
VIO. And for that purpose
Had warrant from your grace to carry him
To Bethlem Monastery, whence they will not free him
Without your grace’s hand, that sent him in.
DUKE. You have long’d fair; ’tis you are mad, I fear;
It’s fit to fetch him thence, and keep you there.
If he be mad, why would you have him forth?
GEO. And[204] please your grace, he’s not stark mad,
but only talks like a young gentleman, somewhat
fantastically; that’s all: there’s a thousand about
your court, city, and country, madder than he.
DUKE. Provide a warrant, you shall have our hand.
GEO. Here’s a warrant ready drawn, my lord.
DUKE.[205] Get pen and ink, get pen and ink.
[_Exit_ GEORGE.
_Enter_ CASTRUCHIO.
CAS. Where is my lord the duke?
DUKE. How now? more madmen?
CAS. I have strange news, my lord.
DUKE. Of what? of whom?
CAS. Of Infelice and a marriage.
DUKE. Ha! where? with whom?
CAS. Hippolito.
_Re-enter_ GEORGE _with pen and ink_.
GEO. Here, my lord.
DUKE. Hence with that woman! void the room!
FLU. Away! the duke’s vexed.
GEO. Whoop! come, mistress, the duke’s mad too.
[_Exeunt_ VIOLA _and_ GEORGE.
DUKE. Who told me that Hippolito was dead?
CAS. He that can make any man dead, the doctor. But, my
lord, he’s as full of life as wildfire, and as quick:
Hippolito, the doctor, and one more, rid hence this
evening; the inn at which they light is Bethlem
Monastery; Infelice comes from Bergamo, and meets them
there. Hippolito is mad, for he means this day to be
married: the afternoon is the hour, and friar Anselmo is
the knitter.
DUKE. From Bergamo! is’t possible? it cannot be,
It cannot be.
CAS. I will not swear, my lord;
But this intelligence I took from one
Whose brains work[206] in the plot.
DUKE. What’s he?
CAS. Matheo.
FLU. Matheo knows all.
PIO. He’s Hippolito’s bosom.
DUKE. How far stands Bethlem hence?
CAS. } Six or seven miles.
FLU., _&c._[207] }
DUKE. Is’t so?[208] not married till the afternoon?
Stay, stay, let’s work out some prevention. How?
This is most strange; can none but madmen serve
To dress their wedding-dinner? All of you
Get presently to horse, disguise yourselves
Like country gentlemen,
Or riding citizens, or so; and take
Each man a several path, but let us meet
At Bethlem Monastery, some space of time
Being spent between the arrival each of other,
As if we came to see the lunatics.
To horse; away! be secret, on your lives:
Love must be punish’d that unjustly thrives.
[_Exeunt all except_ FLUELLO.
FLU. Be secret, on your lives? Castruchio,
You’re but a scurvy spaniel. Honest lord!
Good lady! zounds, their love is just, ’tis good;
And I’ll prevent you, though I swim in blood.
[_Exit._
SCENE II.
_An Apartment in Bethlem Monastery._
_Enter_ ANSELMO, HIPPOLITO, MATHEO, _and_ INFELICE.
HIP. Nay, nay, resolve,[209] good father, or deny.
AN. You press me to an act both full of danger
And full of happiness; for I behold
Your father’s frowns, his threats, nay, perhaps death
To him that dare do this: yet, noble lord,
Such comfortable beams break through these clouds
By this blest marriage, that, your honour’d word
Being pawn’d in my defence, I will tie fast
The holy wedding knot.
HIP. Tush, fear not the duke.
AN. O son,
Wisely to fear is to be free from fear.
HIP. You have our words, and you shall have our lives,
To guard you safe from all ensuing danger.
MAT. Ay, ay, chop 'em up and away.
AN. Stay: when is’t fit for me, safest for you,
To entertain this business?
HIP. Not till the evening.
AN. Be’t so: there is a chapel stands hard by,
Upon the west end of the abbey-wall;
Thither convey yourselves; and when the sun
Hath turn’d his back upon this upper world,
I’ll marry you; that done, no thundering voice
Can break the sacred bond: yet, lady, here
You are most safe.
INF. Father, your love’s most dear.
MAT. Ay, well said; lock us into some little room by
ourselves, that we may be mad for an hour or two.
HIP. O good Matheo, no! let’s make no noise.
MAT. How? no noise? do you know where you are? ’sfoot,
amongst all the madcaps in Milan; so that to throw the
house out at window will be the better, and no man will
suspect that we lurk here to steal mutton.[210] The more
sober we are, the more scurvy ’tis; and though the friar
tell us that here we are safest, I’m not of his mind;
for if those lay here that had lost their money, none
would ever look after them: but here are none but those
that have lost their wits; so that if hue and cry be
made, hither they’ll come; and my reason is, because
none goes to be married till he be stark mad.
HIP. Muffle yourselves; yonder’s Fluello.
_Enter_ FLUELLO.
MAT. Zounds!
FLU. O my lord, these cloaks are not for this rain! the
tempest is too great: I come sweating to tell you of it,
that you may get out of it.
MAT. Why, what’s the matter?
FLU. What’s the matter! you have mattered it fair: the
duke’s at hand.
ALL. The duke!
FLU. The very duke.
HIP. Then all our plots
Are turn’d upon our heads, and we’re blown up
With our own underminings. ’Sfoot, how comes he?
What villain durst betray our being here?
FLU. Castruchio; Castruchio told the duke, and Matheo
here told Castruchio.
HIP. Would you betray me to Castruchio?
MAT. ’Sfoot, he damned himself to the pit of hell if he
spake on’t again.
HIP. So did you swear to me; so were you damn’d.
MAT. Pox on 'em, and there be no faith in men, if a man
shall not believe oaths. He took bread and salt,[211] by
this light, that he would never open his lips.
HIP. O God, O God!
AN. Son, be not desperate,
Have patience; you shall trip your enemy down
By his own slights.[212]—How far is the duke hence?
FLU. He’s but new set out: Castruchio, Pioratto, and
Sinezi, come along with him; you have time enough yet to
prevent[213] them, if you have but courage.
AN. You shall steal secretly into the chapel,
And presently be married. If the duke
Abide here still, spite of ten thousand eyes
You shall ’scape hence like friars.
HIP. O blest disguise![214] O happy man!
AN. Talk not of happiness, till your closed hand
Have her by th’ forehead like the lock of time.
Be nor too slow nor hasty, now you climb
Up to the tower of bliss; only be wary
And patient, that’s all. If you like my plot,
Build and despatch; if not, farewell, then not.
HIP. O yes, we do applaud it! we’ll dispute
No longer, but will hence and execute.
Fluello, you’ll stay here; let us be gone.
The ground that frighted[215] lovers tread upon
Is stuck with thorns.
AN. Come, then, away: ’tis meet,
To escape those thorns, to put on winged feet.
[_Exeunt_ ANSELMO, HIPPOLITO, _and_ INFELICE.
MAT. No words, pray,[216] Fluello, for’t stands us
upon.
FLU. O sir, let that be your lesson! [_Exit_ MATHEO.
Alas, poor lovers! on what hopes and fears
Men toss themselves for women! when she’s got,
The best has in her that which pleaseth not.
_Enter the_ DUKE, CASTRUCHIO, PIORATTO, _and_ SINEZI,
_from different sides, muffled_.
DUKE. Who’s there?
CAS. My lord!
DUKE. Peace, send that lord away;
A lordship will spoil all: let’s be all fellows.
What’s he?
CAS. Fluello; or else Sinezi, by his little legs.
FLU. }
PIO. } All friends, all friends.
SIN. }
DUKE. What? met upon the very point of time!
Is this the place?
PIO. This is the place, my lord.
DUKE. Dream you on lordships? come, no more lords,
pray.
You have not seen these lovers yet?
ALL. Not yet.
DUKE. Castruchio, art thou sure this wedding feat
Is not till afternoon?
CAS. So ’tis given out, my lord.
DUKE. Nay, nay, ’tis like; thieves must observe their
hours;
Lovers watch minutes like astronomers.
How shall the interim hours by us be spent?
FLU. Let’s all go see the madmen.
CAS. }
PIO. } Mass, content.
SIN. }
_Enter a Sweeper._[217]
DUKE. O, here comes one; question him, question him.
FLU. How now, honest fellow? dost thou belong to the
house?
SWEEP. Yes, forsooth, I am one of the implements; I
sweep the madmen’s rooms, and fetch straw for 'em, and
buy chains to tie 'em, and rods to whip 'em. I was a mad
wag myself here once; but I thank father Anselmo, he
lashed me into my right mind again.
DUKE. Anselmo is the friar must marry them;
Question him where he is.
CAS. And where is father Anselmo now?
SWEEP. Marry, he’s gone but e’en now.
DUKE. Ay, well done.—Tell me, whither is he gone?
SWEEP. Why, to God a’mighty.
FLU. Ha, ha! this fellow is a fool, talks idly.
PIO. Sirrah, are all the mad folks in Milan brought
hither?
SWEEP. How, all? there’s a wise question indeed! why, if
all the mad folks in Milan should come hither, there
would not be left ten men in the city.
DUKE. Few gentlemen or courtiers here, ha?
SWEEP. O yes, abundance, abundance! lands no sooner fall
into their hands but straight they run out a’ their
wits: citizens’ sons and heirs are free of the house by
their fathers’ copy: farmers’ sons come hither like
geese, in flocks; and when they ha’ sold all their
corn-fields, here they sit and pick the straws.
SIN. Methinks you should have women here as well as men.
SWEEP. O ay, a plague on 'em, there’s no ho with
them;[218] they are madder than March-hares.
FLU. Are there no lawyers here amongst you?
SWEEP. O no, not one; never any lawyer: we dare not let
a lawyer come in, for he’ll make 'em mad faster than we
can recover 'em.
DUKE. And how long is’t ere you recover any of these?
SWEEP. Why, according to the quantity of the moon
that’s got into 'em. An alderman’s son will be mad a
great while, a very great while, especially if his
friends left him well; a whore will hardly come to her
wits again; a puritan, there’s no hope of him, unless
he may pull down the steeple, and hang himself i’ th’
bell-ropes.
FLU. I perceive all sorts of fish come to your net.
SWEEP. Yes, in truth, we have blocks[219] for all heads;
we have good store of wild oats here: for the courtier
is mad at the citizen, the citizen is mad at the
countryman,[220] the shoemaker is mad at the cobbler,
the cobbler at the carman, the punk is mad that the
merchant’s wife is no whore, the merchant’s wife is mad
that the punk is so common a whore. God’s-so, here’s
father Anselmo! pray, say nothing that I tell tales out
of the school. [_Exit._
_Re-enter_ ANSELMO _and Servants_.
ALL. God bless you, father!
AN. Thank you, gentlemen.
CAS. Pray, may we see some of those wretched souls
That here are in your keeping?
AN. Yes, you shall;
But, gentlemen, I must disarm you then:
There are of madmen, as there are of tame,
All humour’d not alike: we have here some
So apish and fantastic, play with a feather;
And, though 'twould grieve a soul to see God’s image
So blemish’d and defac’d, yet do they act
Such antic and such pretty lunacies,
That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile:
Others again we have like hungry lions,
Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies;
And these have oftentimes from strangers’ sides
Snatch’d rapiers suddenly, and done much harm;
Whom if you’ll see, you must be weaponless.
ALL. With all our hearts. [_Giving their weapons
to_ ANSELMO.
AN. Here, take these weapons in.— [_Exit Servant
with weapons._
Stand off a little, pray; so, so, ’tis well.
I’ll shew you here a man that was sometimes
A very grave and wealthy citizen;
Has serv’d a prenticeship to this misfortune,
Been here seven years, and dwelt in Bergamo.
DUKE. How fell he from his wits?
AN. By loss at sea.
I’ll stand aside, question him you alone;
For if he spy me, he’ll not speak a word,
Unless he’s throughly vex’d.
_Opens a door and then retires: enter First Madman wrapt
in a net._[221]
FLU. Alas, poor soul!
CAS. A very old man.
DUKE. God speed, father!
FIRST MAD. God speed the plough! thou shalt not speed
me.
PIO. We see you, old man, for all you dance in a net.
FIRST MAD. True, but thou wilt dance in a halter, and I
shall not see thee.
AN. O, do not vex him, pray!
CAS. Are you a fisherman, father?
FIRST MAD. No, I’m neither fish nor flesh.
FLU. What do you with that net, then?
FIRST MAD. Dost not see, fool, there’s a fresh salmon
in’t? If you step one foot further, you’ll be over
shoes, for you see I’m over head and ears[222] in the
salt water: and if you fall into this whirlpool where I
am, you’re drowned, you’re a drowned rat!—I am fishing
here for five ships, but I cannot have a good draught,
for my net breaks still, and breaks; but I’ll break some
of your necks, and[223] I catch you in my clutches.
Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay: where’s the wind, where’s
the wind, where’s the wind, where’s the wind? Out, you
gulls, you goosecaps, you gudgeon-eaters! do you look
for the wind in the heavens? ha, ha, ha, ha! no, no!
look there, look there, look there! the wind is always
at that door: hark, how it blows! puff, puff, puff!
ALL. Ha, ha, ha!
FIRST MAD. Do you laugh at God’s creatures? do you mock
old age, you rogues? is this grey beard and head
counterfeit, that you cry ha, ha, ha?—Sirrah, art not
thou my eldest son?
PIO. Yes indeed, father.
FIRST MAD. Then thou’rt a fool; for my eldest son had a
polt foot,[224] crooked legs, a verjuice face, and a
pear-coloured[225] beard: I made him a scholar, and he
made himself a fool.—Sirrah, thou there! hold out thy
hand.
DUKE. My hand? well, here ’tis.
FIRST MAD. Look, look, look, look! has he not long nails
and short hair?
FLU. Yes, monstrous short hair and abominable long
nails.
FIRST MAD. Ten-penny nails, are they not?
FLU. Yes, ten-penny nails.
FIRST MAD. Such nails had my second boy.—Kneel down,
thou varlet, and ask thy father’s blessing. Such nails
had my middlemost son, and I made him a promoter;[226]
and he scraped, and scraped, and scraped, till he got
the devil and all: but he scraped thus, and thus, and
thus, and it went under his legs, till at length a
company of kites, taking him for carrion, swept up all,
all, all, all, all, all, all. If you love your lives,
look to yourselves! see, see, see, see, the Turk’s
galleys are fighting with my ships! bounce go[227] the
guns! O—O, cry the men! rumble, rumble go the waters!
alas, there, ’tis sunk, ’tis sunk! I am undone, I am
undone! you are the damned pirates have undone me, you
are, by th’ lord, you are, you are!—stop 'em—you are!
AN. Why, how now, sirrah? must I fall to tame you?
FIRST MAD. Tame me? no; I’ll be madder than a roasted
cat. See, see, I am burnt with gunpowder! these are our
close fights!
AN. I’ll whip you, if you grow unruly thus.
FIRST MAD. Whip me? out, you toad! whip me? what justice
is this, to whip me because I’m a beggar? Alas, I am a
poor man, a very poor man! I am starved, and have had no
meat, by this light, ever since the great flood; I am a
poor man.
AN. Well, well, be quiet, and you shall have meat.
FIRST MAD. Ay, ay, pray, do; for, look you, here be my
guts; these are my ribs, you may look through my ribs;
see how my guts come out! these are my red guts, my very
guts, O, O!
AN. Take him in there.
_Servants remove First Madman._
FLU. } A very piteous sight.
PIO., _&c._ }
CAS. Father, I see you have a busy charge.
AN. They must be us’d like children; pleas’d with
toys,
And anon whipt for their unruliness.
I’ll shew you now a pair quite different
From him that’s gone; he was all words; and these,
Unless you urge 'em, seldom spend their speech,
But save their tongues.
_Opens another door, from which enter Second and Third
Madmen._
La, you; this hithermost
Fell from the happy quietness of mind
About a maiden that he lov’d, and died:
He follow’d her to church, being full of tears,
And as her body went into the ground,
He fell stark mad. That is a married man,
Was jealous of a fair, but, as some say,
A very virtuous wife; and that spoil’d him.
THIRD MAD. All these are whoremongers, and lay with my
wife: whore, whore, whore, whore, whore!
FLU. Observe him.
THIRD MAD. Gaffer shoemaker, you pulled on my wife’s
pumps, and then crept into her pantofles:[228] lie
there, lie there!—This was her tailor. You cut out her
loose-bodied gown, and put in a yard more than I allowed
her: lie there, by the shoemaker.—O master doctor, are
you here? you gave me a purgation, and then crept into
my wife’s chamber to feel her pulses; and you said, and
she said, and her maid said, that they went pit-a-pat,
pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat: doctor, I’ll put you anon into my
wife’s urinal.—Heigh, come aloft, Jack![229] This was
her schoolmaster, and taught her to play upon the
virginals;[230] and still his jacks leapt up, up. You
pricked her out nothing but bawdy lessons; but I’ll
prick you all! fiddler—doctor—tailor—shoemaker,—
shoemaker—fiddler—doctor—tailor!—so! lie with my wife
again, now!
CAS. See how he notes the other now he feeds.
THIRD MAD. Give me some porridge.
SEC. MAD. I’ll give thee none.
THIRD MAD. Give me some porridge.
SEC. MAD. I’ll not give thee a bit.
THIRD MAD. Give me that flap-dragon.[231]
SEC. MAD. I’ll not give thee a spoonful: thou liest,
it’s no dragon; ’tis a parrot that I bought for my
sweetheart, and I’ll keep it.
THIRD MAD. Here’s an almond for parrot.[232]
SEC. MAD. Hang thyself!
THIRD MAD. Here’s a rope for parrot.[233]
SEC. MAD. Eat it, for I’ll eat this.
THIRD MAD. I’ll shoot at thee, and[234] thou’t give me
none.
SEC. MAD. Wu’t thou?
THIRD MAD. I’ll run a tilt at thee, and thou’t give me
none.
SEC. MAD. Wu’t thou? do, and thou darest.
THIRD MAD. Bounce!
SEC. MAD. O—O, I am slain! murder, murder, murder! I am
slain; my brains are beaten out.
AN. How now, you villains!—Bring me whips—I’ll whip
you.
SEC. MAD. I am dead! I am slain! ring out the bell, for
I am dead.
DUKE. How will you do now, sirrah? you ha’ kill’d him.
THIRD MAD. I’ll answer’t at sessions. He was eating of
almond-butter, and I longed for’t: the child had never
been delivered out of my belly, if I had not killed him.
I’ll answer’t at sessions, so my wife may be burnt i’
th’ hand too.
AN. Take 'em in both; bury him, for he’s dead.
SEC. MAD. Ay, indeed, I am dead; put me, I pray, into a
good pit-hole.
THIRD MAD. I’ll answer’t at sessions.
[_Servants remove Second and Third Madmen._
_Enter_ BELLAFRONT.
AN. How now, huswife? whither gad you?
BEL. A nutting, forsooth.—How do you, gaffer?—how do
you, gaffer?—there’s a French curtsey for you too.
FLU. ’Tis Bellafront!
PIO. ’Tis the punk, by th’ lord!
DUKE. Father, what’s she, I pray?
AN. As yet I know not:
She came in but[235] this day; talks little idly,
And therefore has the freedom of the house.
BEL. Do not you know me?—nor you?—nor you?—nor you?
ALL. No, indeed.
BEL. Then you are an ass—and you are an ass—and you are
an ass; for I know you.
AN. Why, what are they? come, tell me, what are they?
BEL. They’re fish-wives: will you buy any gudgeons?
God’s-santy,[236] yonder come friars! I know them too.—
_Re-enter_ HIPPOLITO, MATHEO, _and_ INFELICE, _disguised
as friars_.
How do you, friar?
AN. Nay, nay, away; you must not trouble friars.—
The duke is here, speak nothing.
BEL. Nay, indeed, you shall not go; we’ll run at
barley-break[237] first, and you shall be in hell.
MAT. My punk turn’d mad whore, as all her fellows are!
HIP. Speak nothing; but steal hence when you spy time.
AN. I’ll lock you up, if you’re unruly: fie!
BEL. Fie? marry, foh! they shall not go, indeed, till I
ha’ told 'em their fortunes.
DUKE. Good father, give her leave.
BEL. Ay, pray, good father, and I’ll give you my
blessing.
AN. Well, then, be brief; but if you’re thus unruly,
I’ll have you lock’d up fast.
PIO. Come, to their fortunes.
BEL. Let me see; one, two, three, and four. I’ll begin
with the little friar[238] first. Here’s a fine hand
indeed! I never saw friar have such a dainty hand:
here’s a hand for a lady! Here’s your fortune:
You love a friar better than a nun;
Yet long you’ll love no friar nor no friar’s son.
Bow a little:
The line of life is out; yet, I’m afraid,
For all you’re holy, you’ll not die a maid.
God give you joy!—
Now to you, friar Tuck.[239]
MAT. God send me good luck!
BEL. You love one, and one loves you;
You’re a false knave, and she’s a Jew.
Here is a dial that false ever goes——
MAT. O, your wit drops.
BEL. Troth, so does your nose.—
Nay, let’s shake hands with you too; pray, open:
here’s a fine hand!
Ho, friar, ho! God be here!
So he had need; you’ll keep good cheer.
Here’s a free table,[240] but a frozen breast,
For you’ll starve those that love you best;
Yet you’ve good fortune, for if I’m no liar,
Then you’re no friar, nor you, nor you, no friar.
Haha, haha! [_Discovers them._
DUKE. Are holy habits cloaks for villany?
Draw all your weapons!
HIP. Do; draw all your weapons!
DUKE. Where are your weapons? draw!
CAS. } The friar has gull’d us of ’em.
PIO., _&c._ }
MAT. O rare trick!
You ha’ learnt one mad point of arithmetic.
HIP. Why swells your spleen so high? against what
bosom
Would you your weapons draw? her’s? ’tis your
daughter’s;
Mine? ’tis your son’s.
DUKE. Son?
MAT. Son, by yonder sun!
HIP. You cannot shed blood here but ’tis your own;
To spill your own blood were damnation.
Lay smooth that wrinkled brow, and I will throw
Myself beneath your feet:
Let it be rugged still and flinted o’er,
What can come forth but sparkles, that will burn
Yourself and us? She’s mine; my claim’s most good;
She’s mine by marriage, though she’s yours by blood.
AN. [_kneeling_] I have a hand,[241] dear lord, deep
in this act,
For I foresaw this storm, yet willingly
Put forth to meet it. Oft have I seen a father
Washing the wounds of his dear son in tears,
A son to curse the sword that struck his father,
Both slain i’ th’ quarrel of your families.
Those scars are now ta’en off; and I beseech you
To seal our pardon! All was to this end,
To turn the ancient hates of your two houses
To fresh green friendship, that your loves might look
Like the spring’s forehead, comfortably sweet,
And your vex’d souls in peaceful union meet.
Their blood will now be yours, yours will be theirs,
And happiness shall crown your silver hairs.
FLU. You see, my lord, there’s now no remedy.
CAS. } Beseech your lordship!
PIO., _&c._ }
DUKE. You beseech fair; you have me in place fit
To bridle me.—Rise, friar; you may be glad
You can make mad men tame, and tame men mad.
Since fate hath conquer’d, I must rest content;
To strive now would but add new punishment.
I yield unto your happiness; be blest;
Our families shall henceforth breathe in rest.
ALL. O happy change!
DUKE. Yours now is my content;[242]
I throw upon your joys my full consent.
BEL. Am not I a good girl for finding the friar in
the well? God’s-so, you are a brave man! will not
you buy me some sugar-plumbs, because I am so good a
fortune-teller?
DUKE. Would thou hadst wit, thou pretty soul, to ask,
As I have will to give!
BEL. Pretty soul? a pretty soul is better than a pretty
body.—Do not you know my pretty soul? I know you: is not
your name Matheo?
MAT. Yes, lamb.
BEL. Baa, lamb! there you lie, for I am mutton.[243]—
Look, fine man! he was mad for me once, and I was mad
for him once, and he was mad for her once; and were you
never mad? yes, I warrant. I had a fine jewel once, a
very fine jewel, and that naughty man stole it away from
me,—a very fine jewel.
DUKE. What jewel, pretty maid?
BEL. Maid? nay, that’s a lie. O, ’twas a very rich
jewel, called a maidenhead! and had not you it, leerer?
MAT. Out, you mad ass, away!
DUKE. Had he thy maidenhead?
He shall make thee amends, and marry thee.
BEL. Shall he? O brave Arthur of Bradley then![244]
DUKE. And if he bear the mind of a gentleman,
I know he will.
MAT. I think I rifled her of some such paltry jewel.
DUKE. Did you? then marry her; you see the wrong
Has led her spirits into a lunacy.
MAT. How? marry her, my lord? ’sfoot, marry a mad woman!
let a man get the tamest wife he can come by, she’ll be
mad enough afterward, do what he can.
DUKE. Nay, then, father Anselmo here shall do his best
To bring her to her wits: and will you then?
MAT. I cannot tell: I may choose.
DUKE. Nay, then, law shall compel: I tell you, sir,
So much her hard fate moves me, you should not breathe
Under this air, unless you married her.
MAT. Well, then, when her wits stand in their right
place, I’ll marry her.
BEL. I thank your grace.—Matheo, thou art mine.
I am not mad, but put on this disguise
Only for you, my lord; for you can tell
Much wonder of me: but you are gone; farewell.
Matheo, thou didst first turn my soul black,
Now make it white again. I do protest,
I’m pure as fire now, chaste as Cynthia’s breast.
HIP. I durst be sworn, Matheo, she’s indeed.
MAT. Cony-catch’d![245] gull’d! must I sail in your
fly-boat
Because I help’d to rear your mainmast first?
Plague ’found[246] you for’t! ’Tis well;
The cuckold’s stamp goes current in all nations;
Some men have horns given them at their creations;
If I be one of those, why, so, it’s better
To take a common wench, and make her good,
Than one that simpers, and at first will scarce
Be tempted forth over the threshold door,
Yet in one se’nnight, zounds, turns arrant whore.
Come, wench, thou shalt be mine; give me thy golls,[247]
We’ll talk of legs hereafter.—See, my lord!
God give us joy!
ALL. God give you joy!
_Enter_ VIOLA _and_ GEORGE.
GEO. Come, mistress, we are in Bedlam now; mass, and
see, we come in pudding-time, for here’s the duke.
VIO. My husband, good my lord!
DUKE. Have I thy husband?
CAS. It’s Candido, my lord; he’s here among the
lunatics.—Father Anselmo, pray, fetch him forth. [_Exit_
ANSELMO.]—This mad woman is his wife; and though she
were not with child, yet did she long most spitefully to
have her husband mad; and because she would be sure he
should turn Jew, she placed him here in Bethlem. Yonder
he comes!
_Re-enter_ ANSELMO _with_ CANDIDO.
DUKE. Come hither, signor: are you mad?
CAN. You are not mad.
DUKE. Why, I know that.
CAN. Then may you know I am not mad, that know
You are not mad, and that you are the duke.
None is mad here but one.—How do you, wife?
What do you long for now?—Pardon, my lord;
She had lost her child’s nose else: I did cut out
Pennyworths of lawn, the lawn was yet mine own;
A carpet was my[248] gown, yet ’twas mine own;
I wore my man’s coat, yet the cloth mine own;
Had a crack’d crown, the crown was yet mine own:
She says for this I’m mad: were her words true,
I should be mad indeed. O foolish skill![249]
Is patience madness? I’ll be a madman still.
VIO. Forgive me, and I’ll vex your spirit no more.
[_Kneels._
DUKE. Come, come, we’ll have you friends; join hearts,
join hands.
CAN. See, my lord,[250] we are even.—
Nay, rise; for ill deeds kneel unto none but heaven.
DUKE. Signor, methinks patience has laid on you
Such heavy weight, that you should loathe it——
CAN. Loathe it?
DUKE. For he whose breast is tender, blood so cool
That no wrongs heat it, is a patient fool:
What comfort do you find in being so calm?
CAN. That which green wounds receive from sovereign
balm.
Patience, my lord! why, ’tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues ’tis nearest kin to heaven;
It makes men look like gods. The best of men
That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,
The first true gentleman that ever breath’d.
The stock of patience, then, cannot be poor;
All it desires it has; what monarch more?
It is the greatest enemy to law
That can be; for it doth embrace all wrongs,
And so chains up lawyers’ and women’s tongues:
’Tis the perpetual prisoner’s liberty,
His walks and orchards: ’tis the bond-slave’s freedom,
And makes him seem proud of each iron chain,
As though he wore it more for state than pain:
It is the beggars’ music, and thus sings,
Although their bodies beg, their souls are kings:
O my dread liege! it is the sap of bliss,
Rears us aloft, makes men and angels kiss:
And, last of all, to end a household strife,
It is the honey 'gainst a waspish wife.
DUKE. Thou giv’st it lively colours: who dare say
He’s mad whose words march in so good array?
'Twere sin all women should such husbands have,
For every man must then be his wife’s slave:
Come, therefore, you shall teach our court to shine;
So calm a spirit is worth a golden mine.
Wives with meek husbands that to vex them long,
In Bedlam must they dwell, else dwell they wrong.
[_Exeunt omnes._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE HONEST WHORE.
(PART SECOND.)
_The Second Part of the Honest Whore, With the Humors of the Patient Man,
the Impatient Wife: the Honest Whore, perswaded by strong Arguments to
turne Curtizan againe: her braue refuting those Arguments. And lastly, the
Comicall Passages of an Italian Bridewell, where the Scæne ends. Written by
Thomas Dekker. London, Printed by Elizabeth All-de, for Nathaniel Butter,
An. Dom. 1630._ 4to.
No earlier impression than that of 1630 is known to exist. It has been
reprinted in the second and third editions of Dodsley’s _Old Plays_, vol.
iii.; and, as there given, is perhaps the most wretchedly edited drama in
the English language.
It was licensed by Sir George Bucke, 29th April, 1608: see Chalmers’s
_Suppl. Apol._ p. 202 (where it is by mistake called “the _convicted_,”
instead of the “converted Courtisan, or Honest Whore”). As Middleton
certainly wrote a portion of the First Part of this play (see p. 3 of the
present vol.), there is every reason to believe that he was concerned in
the composition of the Second Part.
Because the title-page makes no mention of its having been represented on
the stage, Langbaine very unnecessarily concludes that it was never acted.
“The passage,” he continues, “between the Patient Man and his Impatient
Wife’s going to fight for the Breeches, with the happy Event, is exprest by
S^r. John Harrington in Verse. See his Epigrams at the end of _Orlando
Furioso_, Book 1. Epigr. 16.” _Acc. of Engl. Dram. Poets_, p. 122. The
epigram in question is as follows:
“OF A HOUSEHOLD FRAY FRIENDLY ENDED.
A man and wife stroue earst who should be masters,
And hauing chang’d between them houshold speeches,
The man in wrath brought forth a paire of wasters,[251]
And swore those 2 should proue who ware the breeches.
She that could breake his head yet giue him plasters,
Accepts the challenge, yet withall beseeches
That shee (as weakest) then might strike the first,
And let him ward, and after doe his worst.
He swore that should be so, as God should blesse him,
And close he laid him to the sured locke.
Shee flourishing as though she would not misse him,
Laid downe her cudgell, and with witty mocke
She told him for his kindnes she would kisse him
That now was sworne to giue her neuer knock:
You sware, said she, I should the first blow giue,
And I sweare I’le neuer strike you while I liue.
Ah flattring slut, said he, thou dar’st not fight!
I am no larke, quoth she, man doe not dare me,[252]
Let me point time and place, as ’tis my right
By law of challenge, and then neuer spare me.
Agreed, said he. Then rest (quoth she) to night;
To-morrow, at Cuckolds hauen, I’le prepare me.
Peace, wife, said he, wee’le cease all rage and rancor,
Ere in that Harbor I will ride at Ancor.”
“Although Harington’s Epigrams,” says the last editor of Dodsley’s _Old
Plays_, “were not printed in an entire state until 1618 (see Ritson’s
_Bibl. Poet._ 236), yet many of them were written when their author (who
died in 1612) was a very young man. It seems probable that the incident was
founded upon the epigram; for though Sir John Harington borrowed from the
Latin and Italian, he most likely would not steal from an English play,
especially when it appears that his originality had been attacked.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
GASPARO TREBAZZI, _duke of Milan_.
HIPPOLITO, _a count, husband to Infelice_.
ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO,[253] _father to Bellafront_.
MATHEO, _husband to Bellafront_.
CANDIDO, _a linen-draper_.
LODOVICO SFORZA.
BERALDO.
CAROLO.
FONTINELL.
ASTOLFO.
ANTONIO GEORGIO, _a poor scholar_.
BRYAN, _an Irish footman_.
BOTS, _a pander_.
_Masters of Bridewell, Prentices, Servants, &c._
INFELICE, _wife to Hippolito_.
BELLAFRONT, _wife to Matheo_.
CANDIDO’S _Bride_.
MISTRESS HORSELEECH, _a bawd_.
DOROTHEA TARGET, }
PENELOPE WHOREHOUND, } _harlots_.
CATHERINA BOUNTINALL, }
Scene, MILAN.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE SECOND PART
OF
THE HONEST WHORE.
ACT I. SCENE I.
_A Hall in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House._
4
LOD. Good day, gallants.
ALL. Good morrow, sweet Lodovico.
LOD. How dost thou, Carolo?
CAR. Faith, as physicians do in a plague; see the world
sick, and am well myself.
FON. Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.
LOD. O, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle[254]
Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns
as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring
yet?
AST. Yes; he will not be horsed this hour, sure.
BER. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at
court.
CAR. O, we shall ride switch and spur: would we were
there once!
_Enter_ BRYAN.
LOD. How now, is thy lord ready?
BRY. No, so crees sa’ me; my lady will have some little
ting in her pelly first.
CAR. O, then they’ll to breakfast.
LOD. Footman, does my lord ride i’ th’ coach with my
lady, or on horseback?
BRY. No, foot, la, my lady will have me lord sheet wid
her; my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady
sheet in de toder side. [_Exit._
LOD. My lady sheet in de toder side! did you ever hear a
rascal talk so like a pagan? is’t not strange that a
fellow of his star should be seen here so long in Italy,
yet speak so from a Christian?
_Enter_ ANTONIO _with a book_.
AST. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange? why, the
nation have running heads.[255]
LOD. Nay, Carolo, this is more strange; I ha’ been in
France, there’s few of them; marry, England they count a
warm chimney-corner, and there they swarm like crickets
to the crevice of a brew-house; but, sir, in England I
have noted one thing.
AST. } What’s that, what’s that
BER., _&c._[256] } of England?
LOD. Marry this, sir;—what’s he yonder?
BER. A poor fellow would speak with my lord.
LOD. In England, sir—troth I ever laugh when I think
on’t, to see a whole nation should be marked i’ th’
forehead, as a man may say, with one iron—why, sir,
there all costermongers[257] are Irishmen.
CAR. O, that’s to shew their antiquity, as coming from
Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the
mother.
AST. } Good, good! ha, ha!
BER., _&c._ }
LOD. Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers
likewise be Irishmen? answer that now; come, your wit.
CAR. Faith, that’s soon answered; for saint
Patrick,[258] you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the
fire, and his countrymen could do nothing if they cannot
sweep the chimneys.
AST. } Good again!
BER., _&c._ }
LOD. Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow,
especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and
others,[259] and the knaves are very faithful where they
love; by my faith, very proper men many of them, and as
active as the clouds,—whirr, hah!
AST. } Are they so?
BER., _&c._ }
LOD. And stout, exceeding stout; why, I warrant this
precious wild villain, if he were put to’t, would fight
more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.[260]
AST. The women, they say, are very fair.
LOD. No, no; our country bona-robas,[261] O, are the
sugarest delicious rogues!
AST. O look, he has a feeling of them!
LOD. Not I, I protest: there’s a saying when they
commend nations; it goes, the Irishman for his hand,
[the] Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the
Dutchman for [a] beard.
FON. I’faith, they may make swabbers[262] of them.
LOD. The Spaniard—let me see—for a little foot, I take
it; the Frenchman,—what a pox hath he? and so of the
rest. Are they at breakfast yet? come, walk.
AST. This Lodovico is a notable-tongued fellow.
FON. Discourses well.
BER. And a very honest gentleman.
AST. O, he’s well valued by my lord.
_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _with a petition_.
FON. How now, how now, what’s she?
BER. Let’s make towards her.
BEL. Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come forth?
AST. Would you speak with my lord?
LOD. How now, what’s this? a nurse’s bill? hath any here
got thee with child, and now will not keep it?
BEL. No, sir, my business is unto my lord.
LOD. He’s about his own wife[’s] now; he’ll hardly
despatch two causes in a morning.
AST. No matter what he says, fair lady; he’s a knight,
there’s no hold to be taken at his words.
FON. My lord will pass this way presently.
BER. A pretty, plump rogue.
AST. A good lusty, bouncing baggage.
BER. Do you know her?
LOD. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my
table-book[263] once; I know not of what cut her die is
now, but she has been more common than tobacco: this is
she that had the name of the Honest Whore.
AST. } Is this she?
BER., _&c._ }
LOD. This is the blackamoor that by washing was turned
white; this is the birding-piece new scoured; this is
she that, if any of her religion can be saved, was saved
by my lord Hippolito.
AST. She has been a goodly creature.
LOD. She has been! that’s the epitaph of all whores. I’m
well acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband;
lord, what fortunes that man has overreached! She knows
not me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know
her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon,
suffered strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women
are like medlars, no sooner ripe but rotten:
A woman last was made, but is spent first;
Yet man is oft prov’d in performance worst.
AST. } My lord is come.
BER., _&c_. }
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO, INFELICE, _and two Waiting-women_.
HIP. We ha’ wasted half this morning.—Morrow, Lodovico.
LOD. Morrow, madam.
HIP. Let’s away to horse.
LOD. } Ay, ay, to horse, to horse.
AST., _&c._ }
BEL. I do beseech your lordship, let your eye
Read o’er this wretched paper!
HIP. I’m in haste;
Pray thee, good woman, take some apter time.
INF. Good woman, do.
BEL. O 'las, it does concern
A poor man’s life!
HIP. Life, sweetheart?—Seat yourself;
I’ll but read this and come.
LOD. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam?
if they be not yellow,[264] change them; that paper is a
letter from some wench to your husband.
INF. O sir, that cannot make me jealous.
[_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO, BELLAFRONT, _and_ ANTONIO.
HIP. Your business, sir, to me?
AN. Yes, my good lord.
HIP. Presently, sir.—Are you Matheo’s wife?
BEL. That most unfortunate woman.
HIP. I am sorry
These storms are fallen on him; I love Matheo,
And any good shall do him; he and I
Have seal’d two bonds of friendship, which are strong
In me, however fortune does him wrong.
He speaks here he’s condemn’d: is’t so?
BEL. Too true.
HIP. What was he whom he kill’d? O, his name’s here,
_Old Giacomo, son to the Florentine_;
Giacomo, a dog, that, to meet profit,
Would to the very eyelids wade in blood
Of his own children. Tell Matheo,
The duke my father hardly shall deny
His signèd pardon; it was fair fight, yes,
If rumour’s tongue go true; so writes he here.
To-morrow morning I return from court;
Pray be you here then.—I’ll have done, sir, straight.—
But in troth say, are you Matheo’s wife?
You have forgot me.
BEL. No, my lord.
HIP. Your turner,
That made you smooth to run an even bias;
You know I lov’d you when your very soul
Was full of discord: art not a good wench still?
BEL. Umh,—when I had lost my way to heaven, you shew’d
it;
I was new born that day.
_Re-enter_ LODOVICO.
LOD. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have not
left your wench yet? when you get in once, you never
have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and
send her packing; come.
HIP. Ride softly on before, I’ll overtake you.
LOD. Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before
without ye.
HIP. Prithee, good Lodovico——
LOD. My lord, pray hasten.
HIP. I come.— [_Exit_ LODOVICO.
To-morrow let me see you; fare you well;
Commend me to Matheo. Pray, one word more;
Does not your father live about the court?
BEL. I think he does; but such rude spots of shame
Stick on my cheek, that he scarce knows my name.
HIP. Orlando Friscobaldo is’t not?
BEL. Yes, my lord.
HIP. What does he for you?
BEL. All he should: when children
From duty start, parents from love may swerve:
He nothing does, for nothing I deserve.
HIP. Shall I join him unto you, and restore you
To wonted grace?
BEL. It is impossible.
HIP. It shall be put to trial: fare you well.
[_Exit_ BELLAFRONT.
The face I would not look on![265] sure then ’twas rare,
When, in despite of grief, ’tis still thus fair.—
Now, sir, your business with me.
AN. I am bold
T’ express my love and duty to your lordship
In these few leaves.
HIP. A book?
AN. Yes, my good lord.
HIP. Are you a scholar?
AN. Yes, my lord, a poor one.
HIP. Sir, you honour me;
Kings may be scholars’ patrons: but, faith, tell me
To how many hands besides hath this bird flown?
How many partners share with me?
AN. Not one,
In troth, not one: your name I held more dear;
I’m not, my lord, of that low character.
HIP. Your name, I pray?
AN. Antonio Georgio.
HIP. Of Milan?
AN. Yes, my lord.
HIP. I’ll borrow leave
To read you o’er, and then we’ll talk: till then
Drink up this gold, good wits should love good wine;
[_Gives money._
This of your loves, the earnest that of mine.—
_Re-enter_ BRYAN.
How now, sir, where’s your lady? not gone yet?
BRY. I fart di lady is run away from dee a mighty deal
of ground; she sent me back for dine own sweet face; I
pray dee come, my lord, away; wu’t tow go now?
HIP. Is the coach gone? saddle my horse, the sorrel.
BRY. A pox a’ de horse’s nose! he is a lousy rascally
fellow: when I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts
rumbled, di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest an
Irishman cannot abide a fart: but I have saddled de
hobby-horse; di fine hobby is ready; I pray dee, my good
sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil
before dee?
HIP. Well, sir.—I pray let’s see you, master scholar.
[_Exit_ ANTONIO.
BRY. Come, I pray dee; wu’t come, sweet face? go.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace._
_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, ASTOLFO, _and_ BERALDO.
LOD. Godso, gentlemen, what do we forget?
CAR. }
AST. } What?
BER. }
LOD. Are not we all enjoined as this day—Thursday, is’t
not?—ay, as that day to be at the linen-draper’s house
at dinner?
CAR. Signor Candido, the patient man.
AST. Afore Jove, true; upon this day he’s married.
BER. I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before,
he dares venture again to come about the eaves amongst
bees.
LOD. O, ’tis rare sucking a sweet honeycomb! Pray heaven
his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up
to call for her dance! the poor fiddlers’ instruments
would crack for it: she’d tickle them. At any hand,
let’s try what mettle is in his new bride: if there be
none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble
citizen; I pity he should marry again: I’ll walk along,
for it is a good old fellow.
CAR. I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow
twenty thousand ducats that could but have the face to
beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Milan might be
bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is.
LOD. O, fie upon’t! 'twould undo all us that are
courtiers; we should have no ho[266] with the wenches
then.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
CAR. }
AST. } My lord’s come.
BER. }
HIP. How now, what news?
CAR. }
AST. } None.
BER. }
LOD. Your lady is with the duke her father.
HIP. And we’ll to them both presently.—
_Enter_ ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO.
Who’s that?
Car. }
Ast. } Signor Friscobaldo.
Ber. }
HIP. Friscobaldo? O, pray call him, and leave me; we two
have business.
CAR. Ho, signor! signor Friscobaldo! the lord Hippolito.
[_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO _and_ FRISCOBALDO.
OR. My noble lord, my lord Hippolito! the duke’s son!
his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your
honoured lordship? does your nobility remember so poor a
gentleman as signor Orlando Friscobaldo, old mad
Orlando?
HIP. O sir,[267] our friends, they ought to be unto us
as our jewels, as dearly valued being locked up and
unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see,
Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood; for all
Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still.
OR. Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down
and stript bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again?
though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart
be like the blade, green?
HIP. Scarce can I read the stories on your brow
Which age hath writ there; you look youthful still.
OR. I eat snakes,[268] my lord, I eat snakes: my
heart shall never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I
can cry hem with a clear voice.
HIP. You are the happier man, sir.
OR. Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture
of a happy man: I was turning leaves over this morning,
and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I
have it in the right colours, I’ll bestow it on your
lordship.
HIP. I stay for it.
OR. He that[269] makes gold his wife, but not his
whore,
He that at noon-day walks by a prison-door,
He that i’ th’ sun is neither beam nor mote,
He that’s not mad after a petticoat,
He for whom poor men’s curses dig no grave,
He that is neither lord’s nor lawyer’s slave,
He that makes this his sea and that his shore,
He that in’s coffin is richer than before,
He that counts youth his sword and age his staff,
He whose right hand carves his own epitaph,
He that upon his death-bed is a swan,
And dead no crow,—he is a happy man.