HIP. It’s very well: I thank you for this picture.

OR. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my

face drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt; sit

neither at the duke’s side, nor lie at his feet;

wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, no man I fear,

no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know

yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to

carry nothing away save a winding-sheet, but like a good

man, to leave Orlando behind me; I sowed leaves in my

youth, and I reap now books in my age; I fill this hand,

and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if

I prove a swan, and go singing to my nest, why, so! if a

crow, throw me out for carrion, and pick out mine eyes.

May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now, ha?

HIP. You may: would I were partner in your mirth!

OR. I have a little, have all things; I have nothing, I

have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why

should not I be in my jocundare?

HIP. Is your wife then departed?

OR. She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet

not from me—here, she’s here—but before me: when a knave

and a quean are married, they commonly walk like

sergeants together, but a good couple are seldom parted.

HIP. You had a daughter too, sir, had you not?

OR. O my lord, this old tree had one branch, and but one

branch, growing out of it! it was young, it was fair, it

was straight; I pruned it daily, drest it carefully,

kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun; yet for all

my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs; I

hewed it down; what’s become of it, I neither know nor

care.

HIP. Then can I tell you what’s become of it;

That branch is wither'

OR. So ’twas long ag

HIP. Her name, I think, was Bellafront: she’s dea

OR. Ha! dea

HIP. Yes; what of her was left, not worth the keeping,

Even in my sight was thrown into a grave.

OR. Dead? my last and best peace go with her! I see

Death’s a good trencherman; he can eat coarse homely

meat, as well as the daintiest.

HIP. Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely?

OR. O my lord, a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines!

all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out

of hell to be her props, that she may spread upon them;

and when she’s ripe, every slave has a pull at her; then

must she be prest: the young beautiful grape sets the

teeth of lust on edge; yet to taste that liquorish wine

is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead?

HIP. She’s turn’d to earth.

OR. Would she were turned to heaven! umh, is she dead? I

am glad the world has lost one of his idols: no

whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her

grave sleep all my shame and her own, and all my sorrows

and all her sins!

HIP. I’m glad you’re wax, not marble; you are made

Of man’s best temper; there are now good hopes

That all those[270] heaps of ice about your heart,

By which a father’s love was frozen up,

Are thaw’d in these sweet showers fetch’d from your

eyes:

We’re ne’er like angels till our passion dies.

She is not dead, but lives under worse fate;

I think she’s poor; and, more to clip her wings,

Her husband at this hour lies in the jail

For killing of a man. To save his blood,

Join all your force with mine; mine shall be shewn:

The getting of his life preserves your own.

OR. In my daughter, you will say: does she live then? I

am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is,

I have a handkercher to drink them up; soap can wash

them all out again. Is she poor?

HIP. Trust me, I think she is.

OR. Then she’s a right strumpet: I ne’er knew any of

their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no

water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have [too] many

vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors,

bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves,

do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher; she is the

gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the

pot, but for the sweet sucket[271] within it, her money,

her money.

HIP. I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom

Gives warmth to no such snakes. When did you see her?

OR. Not seventeen summers.

HIP. Is your hate so old?

OR. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till

she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bed-fellow.

HIP. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.

OR. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of

the world. I hate him for her; he taught her first to

taste poison: I hate her for herself, because she

refused my physic.

HIP. Nay, but, Friscobaldo——

OR. I detest her, I defy[272] both: she’s not mine,

she’s——

HIP. Hear her but speak.

OR. I love no mermaids; I’ll not be caught with a

quail-pipe.[273]

HIP. You’re now beyond all reason.

OR. I am then a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and

not dishonour my creation, than be a doting father, and,

like Time, be the destruction of mine own brood.

HIP. Is’t dotage to relieve your child, being poor?

OR. Is’t fit for an old man to keep a whore?

HIP. ’Tis charity too.

OR. ’Tis foolery: relieve her?

Were her cold limbs stretch’d out upon a bier,

I would not sell this dirt under my nails

To buy her an hour’s breath; nor give this hair,

Unless it were to choke he

HIP. Fare you well, for I’ll trouble you no more.

OR. And fare you well, sir. [_Exit_ HIPPOLITO.]—Go thy

ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches

for their honesty. 'Las, my girl, art thou poor? poverty

dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between

them; despair is one of hell’s catchpolls; and lest that

devil arrest her, I’ll to her, yet she shall not know

me; she shall drink of my wealth as beggars do of

running water, freely, yet never know from what

fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her

own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father

see his child starve? that were hard: the pelican[274]

does it, and shall not I? yes, I will victual the camp

for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave

there her husband will be hanged, I fear: I’ll keep his

neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not know how.

_Enter two Serving-men._

How now, knaves? whither wander you?

FIRST SER. To seek your worship.

OR. Stay; which of you has my purse? what money have you

about you?

SEC. SER. Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.

OR. Give it me [_takes purse_]; I think I have some gold

about me; yes, it’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and

get you home. Come, sir, though I never turned any man

out of doors, yet I’ll be so bold as to pull your coat

over your ears.

FIRST SER. What do you mean to do, sir?

[ORLANDO _puts on the coat of First Serving-man,

and gives him in exchange his cloak._

OR. Hold thy tongue, knave: take thou my cloak; I hope

I play not the paltry merchant in this bartering. Bid

the steward of my house sleep with open eyes in my

absence, and to look to all things: whatsoever I command

by letters to be done by you, see it done. So, does it

sit well?

SEC. SER. As if it were made for your worship.

OR. You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear

blue,[275] when your master is one of your fellows.

Away! do not see me.

BOTH SER. This is excellent. [_Exeunt Serving-men._

OR. I should put on a worse suit too; perhaps I will. My

vizard is on; now to this masque. Say I should shave off

this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter; well, I

will spoil a good face for once: my beard being off, how

should I look? even like

A winter cuckoo, or unfeather’d owl;

Yet better lose this hair than lose her soul. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_A Room in_ CANDIDO’S _House_: CANDIDO, _the Bride, and

Guests, discovered at dinner; Prentices waiting on

them_.

_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO.[276]

CAN. O gentlemen, so late? you’re very welcome:

Pray, sit down.

LOD. Carolo, didst e’er see such a nest of caps?[277]

AST. Methinks it’s a most civil and most comely sight.

LOD. What does he i’ th’ middle look like?

AST. Troth, like a spire-steeple in a country village

over-peering so many thatched houses.

LOD. It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many

bucklers without pikes:[278] they sit for all the world

like a pair of organs,[279] and he’s the tall great

roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.

AST. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

CAN. What’s that you laugh at, signors?

LOD. Troth, shall I tell you, and aloud I’ll tell it;

We laugh to see, yet laugh we not in scorn,

Amongst so many caps that long hat worn.

FIRST GUEST.[280] Mine is as tall a felt[281] as any is

this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the

block[282] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a

hair.

CAN. Indeed, you’re good observers; it shews strange:

But, gentlemen, I pray neither contemn

Nor yet deride a civil ornament;

I could build so much in the round cap’s praise,

That 'bove[283] this high roof I this flat would raise.

LOD. Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do’t.

CAN. So all these guests will pardon me, I’ll do’t.

GUESTS. With all our hearts.

CAN. Thus, then, in the cap’s honour.

To every sex and state both nature, time,

The country’s laws, yea, and the very clime,

Do allot distinct habits: the spruce courtier

Jets[284] up and down in silk; the warrior

Marches in buff; the clown plods on in gray:

But for these upper garments thus I say;

The seaman has his cap, par’d without brim;

The gallant’s head is feather’d, that fits him;

The soldier has his murrion;[285] women ha’ tires;

Beasts have their head-pieces, and men ha’ their

LOD. Procee

CAN. Each degree has his fashion; it’s fit then

One should be laid by for the citizen,

And that’s the cap which you see swells not high,

For caps are emblems of humility.

It is a citizen’s badge, and first was worn

By th’ Romans; for when any bondman’s turn[286]

Came to be made a freeman, thus ’twas said,

He to the cap was call’d, that is, was made

Of Rome a freeman, but was first close shorn;

And so a citizen’s hair is still short worn.

LOD. That close shaving made barbers a company, and now

every citizen uses it.

CAN. Of geometric figures the most rare

And perfect’st are the circle and the square:

The city and the school much build upon

These figures, for both love proportion.

The city-cap is round, the scholar’s square,

To shew that government and learning are

The perfect’st limbs i’ th’ body of a state;

For without them all’s disproportionate.

If the cap had no honour, this might rear it,

The reverend fathers of the law do wear it.

It’s light for summer, and in cold it sits

Close to the skull, a warm house for the wits;

It shews the whole face boldly, ’tis not made

As if a man to look out[287] were afraid;

Nor like a draper’s shop with broad dark shed,

For he’s no citizen that hides his head.

Flat caps as proper are to city-gowns,

As to armours helmets, or to kings their crowns.

Let then the city-cap by none be scorn’d,

Since with it princes’ heads have been adorn’d.

If more the round cap’s honour you would know,

How would this long gown with this steeple[288] shew?

ALL. Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly.

CAN. Pray, signor, pardon me, ’twas done in jest.

BRIDE. A cup of claret wine there!

FIRST P. Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride.

CAR. You ha’ well set out the cap, sir.

LOD. Nay, that’s flat.

CAN.[289] A health!

LOD. Since his cap’s round, that shall go round. Be

bare,

For in the cap’s praise all of you have share.

[_They uncover their heads, and drink. As First Prentice

offers the wine to the Bride, she hits him on the

lips, and breaks the glass._

The bride’s at cuff

CAN. O, peace, I pray thee; thus[290] far off I stand,

I spied the error of my servants.

She call’d for claret, and you fill’d out sack;

That cup give me, ’tis for an old man’s back,

And not for hers. Indeed, ’twas but mistaken;

Ask all these else.

ALL. No, faith, ’twas but mistaken.

FIRST P. Nay, she took it right enough.

CAN. Good Luke, reach her that glass of claret.—Here,

mistress bride, pledge me there.

BRIDE. Now I’ll none. [_Exit._

CAN. How now?

LOD. Look what your mistress ails.

FIRST P. Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,—

a scurvy trick.

CAN. I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there

Tells me she is not well.

GUESTS. Step to her, step to her.

LOD. A word with you; do ye hear? this wench, your new

wife, will take you down in your wedding-shoes, unless

you hang her up in her wedding-garters.

CAN. How? hang her in her garters?

LOD. Will you be a tame pigeon still? shall your back be

like a tortoise-shell, to let carts go over it, yet not

to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your

last puss had, and will scratch worse and mouse you

worse: look to’t.

CAN. What would you have me do, sir?

LOD. What would I have you do? swear, swagger, brawl,

fling; for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking

pusses enow already: you know that a woman was made of

the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked; the moral of

which is, that a man must, from his beginning, be

crooked to his wife. Be you like an orange to her; let

her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will

you be ruled by me?

CAN. In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just.

LOD. Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me?

CAN. I have the very same which myself wore.

LOD. I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and

within this two hours I’ll be your prentice. The hen

shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs.

CAN. It will be but some jest, sir?

LOD. Only a jest: farewell.—Come, Carolo.

[_Exeunt_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO.

GUESTS. We’ll take our leaves, sir, to

CAN. Pray, conceit not ill

Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight,

Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic,

And he tells me the disease call’d the mother[291]

Hangs on my wife; it is a vehement heaving

And beating of the stomach, and that swelling

Did with the pain thereof cramp up her arm,

That hit his lips and brake the glass: no harm,

It was no har

GUESTS. No, signor, none at al

CAN. The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance:

But, come, we’ll close this brawl up in some dance.

[_Exeunt._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ MATHEO’S _House_.

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _and_ MATHEO.

BEL. O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave,

And art alive again? O welcome, welcome!

MAT. Dost know me? my cloak, prithee, lay’t up. Yes,

faith, my winding-sheet was taken out of lavender, to be

stuck with rosemary:[292] I lacked but the knot here or

here; yet, if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry

mouth at the world like a plaice.[293] But, sweetest

villain, I am here now, and I will talk with thee soon.

BEL. And glad am I thou’rt here.

MAT. Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah, my little

plump rogue, I’ll bear up for all this, and fly high!

catso, catso![294]

BEL. Matheo——

MAT. What sayst, what sayst? O brave fresh air! a pox on

these grates, and gingling of keys, and rattling of

iron! I’ll bear up, I’ll fly high, wench, hang toss!

BEL. Matheo, prithee, make thy prison thy glass,

And in it view the wrinkles and the scars

By which thou wert disfigur’d; viewing them, mend them.

MAT. I’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good

roaring boys.[295]

BEL. Thou dost not hear me.

MAT. Yes, faith, do I.

BEL. Thou hast been in the hands of misery,

And ta’en strong physic; prithee, now be sound.

MAT. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern

looks now: O, when shall I bizle,[296] bizle?

BEL. Nay, see, thou’rt thirsty still for poison! come,

I will not have thee swagger.

MAT. Honest ape’s face!

BEL. ’Tis that sharpen’d an axe to cut thy throat.

Good love, I would not have thee sell thy substance

And time, worth all, in those damn’d shops of hell,

Those dicing-houses, that stand never well

But when they stand most ill: that four-squar’d sin

Has almost lodg’d us in the beggar’s inn.

Besides, to speak which even my soul does grieve,

A sort[297] of ravens have hung upon thy sleeve,

And fed upon thee:[298] good Mat, if you please,

Scorn to spread wing amongst so base as these;

By them thy fame is speckled; yet it shews

Clear amongst them, so crows are fair with crows.

Custom in sin gives sin a lovely dye;

Blackness in Moors is no deformity.

MAT. Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear,

as I hope [for] my soul, I will turn over a new leaf;

the prison, I confess, has bit me; the best man that

sails in such a ship may be lousy. [_Knocking within._

BEL. One knocks at door.

MAT. I’ll be the porter: they shall see a jail cannot

hold a brave spirit; I’ll fly high. [_Exit._

BEL. How wild is his behaviour! O, I fear

He’s spoil’d by prison! he’s half damn’d comes there.

But I must sit all storms: when a full sail

His fortunes spread, he lov’d me; being now poor,

I’ll beg for him, and no wife can do more.

_Re-enter_ MATHEO _with_ ORLANDO _disguised as a

serving-man_.

MAT. Come in, pray; would you speak with me, sir?

OR. Is your name signor Matheo?

MAT. My name is signor Matheo.

OR. Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir?

MAT. This gentlewoman is my wife, sir.

OR. The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both

your loves!—The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot

that. [_Aside._]—I’m an old man, sir, and am troubled

with a whoreson salt rheum, that I cannot hold my

water.—Gentlewoman, the last man I served was your

father.

BEL. My father? any tongue that sounds his name

Speaks music to me: welcome, good old man!

How does my father? lives he? has he health?

How does my father? I so much do shame him,

So much do wound him, that I scarce dare name him.

OR. I can speak no more. [_Aside._

MAT. How now, old lad? what, dost cry?

OR. The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well

seasoned, for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I

have a suit to you.

MAT. What is’t, my little white-pate?

OR. Troth, sir, I have a mind to serve your worship.

MAT. To serve me? troth, my friend, my fortunes are, as

a man may say——

OR. Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in

us, and go upon crutches, that covetousness does but

then lie in her cradle; ’tis not so with me. Lechery

loves to dwell in the fairest lodging, and covetousness

in the oldest buildings that are ready to fall: but my

white head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If a

serving-man at my years be not stored with biscuit

enough, that has sailed about the world, to serve him

the voyage out of his life, and to bring him east-home,

ill pity but all his days should be fasting days. I care

not so much for wages, for I have scraped a hand-full of

gold together; I have a little money, sir, which I would

put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it

more——

MAT. No, no, you say well, thou sayst well; but I must

tell you—how much is the money, sayst thou?

OR. About twenty pound, sir.

MAT. Twenty pound? let me see, that shall bring thee in,

after ten _per centum per annum_——

OR. No, no, no, sir, no, I cannot abide to have money

engender; fie upon this silver lechery, fie! if I may

have meat to my mouth, and rags to my back, and a

flock-bed to snort upon, when I die the longer liver

take all.

MAT. A good old boy, i’faith! If thou servest me, thou

shalt eat as I eat, drink as I drink, lie as I lie, and

ride as I ride.

OR. That’s if you have money to hire horses.

[_Aside._

MAT. Front, what dost thou think on’t? this good old lad

here shall serve me.

BEL. Alas, Matheo, wilt thou load a back

That is already broke?

MAT. Peace, pox on you, peace! there’s a trick in’t; I

fly high; it shall be so, Front, as I tell you.—Give me

thy hand, thou shalt serve me, i’faith; welcome: as for

your money——

OR. Nay, look you, sir, I have it here.

MAT. Pish, keep it thyself, man, and then thou’rt sure

’tis safe.

OR. Safe? and[299] 'twere ten thousand ducats, your

worship should be my cash-keeper; I have heard what your

worship is, an excellent dunghill cock to scatter all

abroad; but I’ll venture twenty pounds on’s head.

[_Gives money to_ MATHEO.

MAT. And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law,

signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once?

OR. I served him so long till he turned me out of doors.

MAT. It’s a notable chuff: I ha’ not seen him many a

day.

OR. No matter and you ne’er see him: it’s an arrant

grandee, a churl, and as damned a cut-throat——

BEL. Thou villain, curb thy tongue! thou art a Judas,

To sell thy master’s name to slander thus.

MAT. Away, ass! he speaks but truth; thy father is a——

BEL. Gentleman.

MAT. And an old knave; there’s more deceit in him than

in sixteen pothecaries: it’s a devil; thou mayest beg,

starve, hang, damn; does he send thee so much as a

cheese?

OR. Or so much as a gammon of bacon? he’ll give it his

dogs first.

MAT. A jail,[300] a jail!

OR. A Jew, a Jew, sir!

MAT. A dog!

OR. An English mastiff, sir!

MAT. Pox rot out his old stinking garbage!

BEL. Art not asham’d to strike an absent man thus?

Art not asham’d to let this vild[301] dog bark,

And bite my father thus? I’ll not endure it.—

Out of my doors, base slave!

MAT. Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that

old rogue’s throat, for all you take his part thus.

OR. He shall live to see thee hanged first. [_Aside._

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

MAT. God’s-so, my lord, your lordship is most welcome!

I’m proud of this, my lor

HIP. Was bold to see you.

Is that your wife?

MAT. Yes, sir.

HIP. I’ll borrow her lip. [_Kisses_ BELLAFRONT.

MAT. With all my heart, my lord.

OR. Who’s this, I pray, sir?

MAT. My lord Hippolito. What’s thy name?

OR. Pacheco.

MAT. Pacheco? fine name: thou seest, Pacheco, I keep

company with no scoundrels nor base fellows.

HIP. Came not my footman to you?

BEL. Yes, my lord.

HIP. I sent by him a diamond and a letter;

Did you receive them?

BEL. Yes, my lord, I did.

HIP. Read you the letter?

BEL. O'er and o’er ’tis read.

HIP. And, faith, your answer?

BEL. Now the time’s not fit;

You see my husband’s her

HIP. I’ll now then leave you,

And choose mine hour: but, ere I part away,

Hark you, remember I must have no nay.—

Matheo, I will leave yo

MAT. A glass of win

HIP. Not now; I’ll visit you at other times.

You’re come off well, then?

MAT. Excellent well, I thank your lordship: I owe you my

life, my lord, and will pay my best blood in any service

of yours.

HIP. I’ll take no such dear payment. Hark you, Matheo;

I know the prison is a gulf; if money

Run low with you, my purse is yours, call for it.

MAT. Faith, my lord, I thank my stars they send me down

some; I cannot sink so long as these bladders hold.

HIP. I will not see your fortunes ebb; pray, try:

To starve in full barns were fond[302] modesty.

MAT. Open the door, sirrah.

HIP. Drink this;

And anon, I pray thee, give thy mistress this.

[_Gives to_ FRISCOBALDO, _who opens the door,

first money, then a purse, and exit_.

OR. O noble spirit! if no worse guests here dwell,

My blue coat[303] sits on my old shoulders well.

MAT. The only royal fellow! he’s bounteous as the

Indies. What’s that he said to thee, Bellafront?

BEL. Nothing.

MAT. I prithee, good girl——

BEL. Why, I tell you, nothing.

MAT. Nothing? it’s well: tricks! that I must be beholden

to a scald, hot-livered, goatish gallant, to stand with

my cap in my hand and vail bonnet, when I ha’ spread as

lofty sails as himself! would I had been hanged!

nothing?—Pacheco, brush my cloak.

OR. Where is’t, sir?

MAT. Come,[304] we’ll fly high.

Nothing? there is a whore still in thine eye. [_Exit._

OR. My twenty pounds fly[305] high. O wretched woman!

This varlet’s able to make Lucrece common. [_Aside._

How now, mistress? has my master dyed you into this sad

colour?

BEL. Fellow, begone, I pray thee; if thy tongue

Itch after talk so much, seek out thy master,

Thou’rt a fit instrument for him.

OR. Zounds, 1 hope he will not play upon me!

BEL. Play on thee? no, you two will fly together,

Because you’re roving arrows of one feather.

Would thou wouldst leave my house, thou ne’er shalt

please me!

Weave thy nets[306] ne’er so high,

Thou shalt be but a spider in mine eye.

Thou’rt rank with poison: poison temper’d well

Is food for health, but thy black tongue doth swell

With venom to hurt him that gave thee bread:

To wrong men absent is to spurn the dead;

And so did’st thou thy master and my father.

OR. You have small reason to take his part, for I

have heard him say five hundred times you were as

arrant a whore as ever stiffened tiffany neck-cloths

in water-starch upon a Saturday i’ th’ afternoon.

BEL. Let him say worse: when, for the earth’s offence,

Hot vengeance through the marble clouds is driven,

Is’t fit earth shoot again those darts at heaven?

OR. And so if your father call you whore, you’ll not

call him old knave.—Friscobaldo, she carries thy mind up

and down; she’s thine own flesh, blood, and bone.

[_Aside._]—Troth, mistress, to tell you true, the

fireworks that ran from me upon lines against my good

old master your father were but to try how my young

master your husband loved such squibs: but it’s well

known I love your father as myself: I’ll ride for him at

midnight, run for you by owl-light; I’ll die for him,

drudge for you; I’ll fly low, and I’ll fly high, as my

master says, to do you good, if you’ll forgive me.

BEL. I am not made of marble; I forgive thee.

OR. Nay, if you were made of marble, a good stone-cutter

might cut you. I hope the twenty pound I delivered to my

master is in a sure hand.

BEL. In a sure hand, I warrant thee, for spending.

OR. I see my young master is a madcap and a _bonus

socius_. I love him well, mistress; yet as well as I

love him, I’ll not play the knave with you: look you, I

could cheat you of this purse full of money; but I am an

old lad, and I scorn to cony-catch,[307] yet I ha’ been

dog at a cony in my time. [_Gives purse._

BEL. A purse? where hadst it?

OR. The gentleman that went away whispered in mine ear,

and charged me to give it you.

BEL. The lord Hippolito?

OR. Yes, if he be a lord, he gave it me.

BEL.’Tis all gold.

OR. ’Tis like so: it may be he thinks you want money,

and therefore bestows his alms bravely, like a lord.

BEL. He thinks a silver net can catch the poor:

Here’s bait to choke a nun, and turn her whore.

Wilt thou be honest to me?

OR. As your nails to your fingers, which I think never

deceived you.

BEL. Thou to this lord shalt go; commend me to him,

And tell him this: the town has held out long,

Because within ’twas rather true than strong;

To sell it now were base: say, ’tis no hold

Built of weak stuff, to be blown up with gold.

He shall believe thee by this token, or this;

If not, by this. [_Giving purse, ring, and letters._

OR. Is this all?

BEL. This is all.

OR. Mine own girl still! [_Aside._

BEL. A star may shoot, not fall. [_Exit._

OR. A star? nay, thou art more than the moon, for thou

hast neither changing quarters, nor a man standing in

thy circle with a bush of thorns. Is’t possible the lord

Hippolito, whose face is as civil as the outside of a

dedicatory book, should be a muttonmonger?[308] A poor

man has but one ewe, and this grandee sheep-biter leaves

whole flocks of fat wethers, whom he may knock down, to

devour this. I’ll trust neither lord nor butcher with

quick flesh for this trick; the cuckoo, I see now, sings

all the year, though every man cannot hear him; but I’ll

spoil his notes. Can neither love-letters, nor the

devil’s common pick-locks, gold, nor precious stones,

make my girl draw up her percullis?[309]

Hold out still, wench!

All are not bawds, I see now, that keep doors,

Nor all good wenches that are mark’d for whores.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Before_ CANDIDO’S _Shop_.

_Enter_ CANDIDO, _and_ LODOVICO _disguised as a

Prentice_.

LOD. Come, come, come, what do ye lack,[310] sir? what

do ye lack, sir? what is’t ye lack, sir? Is not my

worship well suited? did you ever see a gentleman better

disguised?

CAN. Never, believe me, signor.

LOD. Yes, but when he has been drunk.[311] There be

prentices would make mad gallants, for they would spend

all, and drink, and whore, and so forth; and I see we

gallants could make mad prentices. How does thy wife

like me?—nay, I must not be so saucy, then I spoil all—

pray you, how does my mistress like me?

CAN. Well; for she takes you for a very simple fellow.

LOD. And they that are taken for such are commonly the

arrantest knaves: but to our comedy, come.

CAN. I shall not act it: chide, you say, and fret,

And grow impatient! I shall never do’t.

LOD. ’Sblood, cannot you do as all the world does,

counterfeit?

CAN. Were I a painter that should live by drawing

Nothing but pictures of an angry man,

I should not earn my colours: I cannot do’t.

LOD. Remember you’re a linen-draper, and that if you

give your wife a yard, she’ll take an ell: give her not

therefore a quarter of your yard, not a nail.

CAN. Say I should turn to ice, and nip her love

Now ’tis but in the bud?[312]

LOD. Well, say she’s nipt.

CAN. It will so overcharge[313] her heart with grief,

That, like a cannon, when her sighs go off,

She in her duty either will recoil

Or break in pieces, and so die: her death

By my unkindness might be counted murder.

LOD. Die? never, never. I do not bid you beat her, nor

give her black eyes, nor pinch her sides; but cross her

humours. Are not bakers’ arms the scales of justice, yet

is not their bread light? and may not you, I pray,

bridle her with a sharp bit, yet ride her gently?

CAN. Well, I will try your pills:

Do you your faithful service, and be ready

Still at a pinch to help me in this part,

Or else I shall be out clean.

LOD. Come, come, I’ll prompt you.

CAN. I’ll call her forth now, shall I?

LOD. Do, do, bravely.

CAN. Luke, I pray, bid your mistress to come hither.

LOD. Luke, I pray,[314] bid your mistress to come

hither!

CAN. Sirrah, bid my wife come to me: why, when?[315]

FIRST P.[316] [_within_] Presently, sir, she comes.

LOD. La, you, there’s the echo! she comes.

_Enter Bride._

BRIDE. What is your pleasure with me?

CAN. Marry, wife,

I have intent; and, you see, this stripling here,

He bears good will and liking to my trade,

And means to deal in linen.

LOD. Yes indeed, sir, I would deal in linen, if my

mistress like me so well as I like her.

CAN. I hope to find him honest: pray, good wife,

Look that his bed and chamber be made ready.

BRIDE. You’re best to let him hire me for his maid:

I look to his bed! look to’t yourself.

CAN. Even so?

I swear to you a great oath——

LOD. Swear? cry zounds!

CAN. I will not,—go to, wife,—I will not——

LOD. That your great oath!

CAN. Swallow these gudgeons.

LOD. Well said!

BRIDE. Then fast, then you may choose.[317]

CAN. You know at table

What tricks you play’d, swagger’d, broke glasses, fie,

Fie, fie, fie! and now, before my prentice here,

You make an ass of me, thou—what shall I call thee?

BRIDE. Even what you will.

LOD. Call her arrant whore.

CAN. O fie, by no means! then she’ll call me cuckold.—

Sirrah, go look to th’ shop.—How does this shew?

LOD. Excellent well.—I’ll go look to the shop, sir.—Fine

cambrics, lawns; what do you lack?

[_Goes into the shop._[318]

CAN. A curst cow’s milk I ha’ drunk once before,

And ’twas so rank in taste, I’ll drink no more:

Wife, I’ll tame yo

BRIDE. You may, sir, if you can;

But at a wrestling I have seen a fellow

Limb’d like an ox thrown by a little ma

CAN. And so you’ll throw me?—Reach me, knaves, a yard!

LOD. A yard for my master!

LODOVICO _returns from the shop with a yard-wand, and

followed by Prentices_.

FIRST P. My master is grown valiant.

CAN. I’ll teach you fencing tricks.

PRENTICES. Rare, rare! a prize![319]

LOD. What will you do, sir?

CAN. Marry, my good prentice,

Nothing but breathe my wife.

BRIDE. Breathe me with your yard?

LOD. No, he’ll but measure you out, forsooth.

BRIDE. Since you’ll needs fence, handle your weapon

well,

For if you take a yard, I’ll take an ell.—

Reach me an ell!

LOD. An ell for my mistress! [_Brings an ell-wand from

the shop._]—Keep the laws of the noble science, sir,

and measure weapons with her: your yard is a plain

heathenish weapon; ’tis too short; she may give you a

handful, and yet you’ll not reach her.

CAN. Yet I ha’ the longer arm.—Come, fall to’t

roundly,

And spare not me, wife, for I’ll lay’t on soundly:

If o’er husbands their wives will needs be masters,

We men will have a law to win’t at wasters.[320]

LOD. ’Tis for the breeches, is’t not?

CAN. For the breeches.

BRIDE. Husband, I’m for you; I’ll not strike in jest.

CAN. Nor I.

BRIDE. But will you sign to one request?

CAN. What’s that?

BRIDE. Let me give the first blow.

CAN. The first blow, wife?—Shall I?[321]

LOD. Let her ha’t:

If she strike hard, in to her and break her pate!

CAN. A bargain: strike!

BRIDE. Then guard you from this blow,

For I play all at legs, but ’tis thus low. [_Kneels._

Behold, I’m such a cunning fencer grown,

I keep my ground, yet down I will be thrown

With the least blow you give me: I disdain

The wife that is her husband’s sovereign.

She that upon your pillow first did rest,

They say, the breeches wore, which I detest:

The tax which she impos’d on[322] you, I abate you;

If me you make your master, I shall hate you.

The world shall judge who offers fairest play;

You win the breeches, but I win the day.

CAN. Thou winn’st the day indeed. Give me thy hand;

I’ll challenge thee no more: my patient breast

Play’d thus the rebel only for a jest:

Here’s the rank rider that breaks colts; ’tis he

Can tame the mad folks and curst wives.[323]

BRIDE. Who? your man?

CAN. My man? my master, though his head be bare;

But he’s so courteous, he’ll put off his hair.

LOD. Nay, if your service be so hot a man cannot keep

his hair on, I’ll serve you no longer.[324]

BRIDE. Is this your schoolmaster?

LOD. Yes, faith, wench, I taught him to take thee down:

I hope thou canst take him down without teaching;

You ha’ got the conquest, and you both are friends.[325]

CAN. Bear witness else.

LOD. My prenticeship then ends.

CAN. For the good service you to me have done,

I give you all your years.

LOD. I thank you, master.

I’ll kiss my mistress now, that she may say,

My man was bound and free all in one day. [_Exeunt._

ACT III. SCENE I.

_An Apartment in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House_.

_Enter_ INFELICE, _and_ ORLANDO _disguised as a

Serving-man._

INF. From whom, sayst thou?

OR. From a poor gentlewoman, madam, whom I serve.

INF. And what’s your business?

OR. This, madam: my poor mistress has a waste piece of

ground, which is her own by inheritance, and left to her

by her mother; there’s a lord now that goes about, not

to take it clean from her, but to enclose it to himself,

and to join it to a piece of his lordship’s.

INF. What would she have me do in this?

OR. No more, madam, but what one woman should do for

another in such a case. My honourable lord your husband

would do any thing in her behalf, but she had rather put

herself into your hands, because you, a woman, may do

more with the duke your father.

INF. Where lies this land?

OR. Within a stone’s cast of this place: my mistress, I

think, would be content to let him enjoy it after her

decease, if that would serve his turn, so my master

would yield too; but she cannot abide to hear that the

lord should meddle with it in her lifetime.

INF. Is she then married? why stirs not her husband in

it?

OR. Her husband stirs in it underhand; but because the

other is a great rich man, my master is loath to be seen

in it too much.

INF. Let her in writing draw the cause at large,

And I will move the duke.

OR. ’Tis set down, madam, here in black and white

already. Work it so, madam, that she may keep her own

without disturbance, grievance, molestation, or meddling

of any other, and she bestows this purse of gold on your

ladyship.

INF. Old man, I’ll plead for her, but take no fees;

Give lawyers them, I swim not in that flood;

I’ll touch no gold till I have done her good.

OR. I would all proctors’ clerks were of your mind! I

should law more amongst them than I do then. Here,

madam, is the survey, not only of the manor itself, but

of the grange-house, with every meadow, pasture,

plough-land, cony-burrow, fish-pond, hedge, ditch, and

bush, that stands in it. [_Gives a letter._

INF. My husband’s name and hand and seal at arms

To a love-letter! where hadst thou this writing?

OR. From the foresaid party, madam, that would keep the

foresaid land out of the foresaid lord’s fingers.

INF. My lord turned ranger now!

OR. You’re a good huntress, lady; you ha’ found your

game already: your lord would fain be a ranger, but my

mistress requests you to let him run a course in your

own park; if you’ll not do’t for love, then do’t for

money; she has no white money, but there’s gold; or else

she prays you to ring him[326] by this token, and so you

shall be sure his nose will not be rooting other men’s

pastures.

[_Gives purse and ring._

INF. This very purse was woven with mine own hands;

This diamond, on that very night when he

Untied my virgin girdle, gave I him:

And must a common harlot share in mine?

Old man, to quit thy pains, take thou the gold.

OR. Not I, madam; old serving-men want no money.

INF. Cupid himself was sure his secretary;

These lines[327] are even the arrows Love let flies,

The very ink dropt out of Venus’ eyes.

OR. I do not think, madam, but he fetched off some poet

or other for those lines, for they are parlous[328]

hawks to fly at wenches.

INF. Here’s honied poison! to me he ne’er thus writ;

But lust can set a double edge on wit.

OR. Nay, that’s true, madam; a wench will whet any

thing, if it be not too dull.

INF. Oaths, promises, preferments, jewels, gold,

What snares should break, if all these cannot hold?

What creature is thy mistress?

OR. One of those creatures that are contrary to man—a

woman.

INF. What manner of woman?

OR. A little tiny woman, lower than your ladyship by

head and shoulders, but as mad a wench as ever unlaced a

petticoat: these things should I indeed have delivered

to my lord your husband.

INF. They are deliver’d better: why should she

Send back these things?

OR. 'Ware, 'ware! there’s knavery.

INF. Strumpets, like cheating gamesters, will not win

At first; these are but baits to draw him in.

How might I learn his hunting hours?

OR. The Irish footman can tell you all his hunting

hours, the park he hunts in, the doe he would strike;

that Irish shackatory[329] beats the bush for him, and

knows all; he brought that letter and that ring; he is

the carrier.

INF. Know’st thou what other gifts have pass’d between

them?

OR. Little saint Patrick knows all.

INF. Him I’ll examine presently.

OR. Not whilst I am here, sweet madam.

INF. Be gone, then, and what lies in me command.

[_Exit_ ORLANDO.

Come hither, sirrah!

_Enter_ BRYAN.

How much cost those satins

And cloth of silver which my husband sent by you

To a low gentlewoman yonder?

BRY. Faat satins? faat silvers? faat low gentlefolks?

dow pratest dow knowest not what, i’faat, la.

INF. She there to whom you carried letters.

BRY. By dis hand and bod dow saist true, if I did so, O

how? I know not a letter a’ de book, i’faat, la.

INF. Did your lord never send you with a ring, sir,

Set with a diamond?

BRY. Never, sa crees sa’ me, never! he may run[330] at a

towsand rings, i’faat, and I never hold his stirrup till

he leap into de saddle. By saint Patrick, madam, I never

touch my lord’s diamond, nor ever had to do, i’faat, la,

with any of his precious stones.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

INF. Are you so close, you bawd, you pandering slave?

[_Strikes him._

HIP. How now? why, Infelice, what’s your quarrel?

INF. Out of my sight, base varlet! get thee gone.

HIP. Away, you rogue!

BRY. Slawne loot, fare de well, fare de well. _Ah

marragh frofat boddah breen!_ [_Exit._

HIP. What, grown a fighter? prithee, what’s the

matter?

INF. If you’ll needs know, it was about the clock:

How works the day, my lord, pray, by your watch?

HIP. Lest you cuff me, I’ll tell you presently;

I am near two.

INF. How, two? I’m scarce at one.

HIP. One of us then goes false.

INF. Then sure ’tis you;

Mine goes by heaven’s dial, the sun, and it goes true.

HIP. I think indeed mine runs somewhat too fast.

INF. Set it to mine at one then.

HIP. One? ’tis past:

’Tis past one by the sun.

INF. Faith, then, belike

Neither your clock nor mine does truly strike;

And since it is uncertain which goes true,

Better be false at one than false at two.

HIP. You’re very pleasant, madam.

INF. Yet not merry.

HIP. Why, Infelice, what should make you sad?

INF. Nothing, my lord, but my false watch: pray, tell

me,—

You see my clock or yours is out of frame,

Must we upon the workman lay the blame,

Or on ourselves[331] that keep them?

HIP. Faith, on both:

He may by knavery spoil them, we by sloth.

But why talk you all riddle thus? I read

Strange comments in those margins of your looks:

Your cheeks of late are, like bad-printed books,

So dimly character’d, I scarce can spell

One line of love in them: sure all’s not well.

INF. All is not well indeed, my dearest lord:

Lock up thy gates of hearing, that no sound

Of what I speak may enter.

HIP. What means this?

INF. Or if my own tongue must myself betray,

Count it a dream, or turn thine eyes away,

And think me not thy wife. [_Kneels._

HIP. Why do you kneel?

INF. Earth is sin’s cushion: when the sick soul feels

Herself growing poor, then she turns beggar, cries

And kneels for help. Hippolito—for husband

I dare not call thee—I have stol’n that jewel

Of my chaste honour, which was only thine,

And given it to a slave.

HIP. Ha?

INF. On thy pillow

Adultery and lust have slept: thy groom

Hath climb’d the unlawful tree, and pluck’d the sweets;

A villain hath usurp’d a husband’s sheets.

HIP. ’Sdeath, who?—a cuckold!—who?

INF. This Irish footman.

HIP. Worse than damnation! a wild kern,[332] a frog,

A dog whom I’ll scarce spurn! Long’d you for sham[r]ock?

Were it my father’s father, heart, I’ll kill him,

Although I take him on his death-bed gasping

'Twixt heaven and hell! a shag-hair’d[333] cur! Bold

strumpet,

Why hang’st thou on me? think’st I’ll be a bawd

To a whore, because she’s noble?

INF. I beg but this,

Set not my shame out to the world’s broad eye,

Yet let thy vengeance, like my fault, soar high,

So it be in darken’d clouds.

HIP. Darken’d? my horns

Cannot be darken’d, nor shall my revenge.

A harlot to my slave? the act is base,

Common, but foul; so shall not thy disgrace.[334]

Could not I feed your appetite? O women,

You were created angels, pure and fair,

But since the first fell, tempting devils you are!

You should be men’s bliss, but you prove their rods:

Were there no women, men might live like gods.

You ha’ been too much down already; rise,

Get from my sight, and henceforth shun my bed;

I’ll with no strumpet’s breath be poisoned.

As for your Irish lubrican,[335] that spirit

Whom by preposterous charms thy lust hath rais’d

In a wrong circle, him I’ll damn more black

Than any tyrant’s soul.

INF. Hippolito!

HIP. Tell me, didst thou bait hooks[336] to draw him

to thee,

Or did he bewitch thee?

INF. The slave did woo me.

HIP. Two-wooes[337] in that screech-owl’s language! O,

who’d trust

Your cork-heel’d sex? I think, to sate your lust,

You’d love a horse, a bear, a croaking toad,

So your hot itching veins might have their bound.

Then the wild Irish dart[338] was thrown? come, how?

The manner of this fight?

INF. 'Twas thus: he gave me this battery first—O, I

Mistake—believe me, all this in beaten gold;

Yet I held out, but at length thus[339] was charm’d.

[_Gives letter, purse, and ring._

What, change your diamond, wench? the act is base,

Common, but foul; so shall not your disgrace.

Could not I feed your appetite? O men,

You were created angels, pure and fair,

But since the first fell, worse than devils you are!

You should our shields be, but you prove our rods:

Were there no men, women might live like gods.

Guilty, my lord?

HIP. Yes, guilty, my good lady.

INF. Nay, you may laugh, but henceforth shun my bed;

With no whore’s leavings I’ll be poisoned. [_Exit._

HIP. O'erreach’d so finely? ’tis the very diamond

And letter which I sent: this villany

Some spider closely weaves, whose poison’d bulk[340]

I must let forth. Who’s there without?

SER. [_within_] My lord calls.

HIP. Send me the footman.

SER. [_within_] Call the footman to my lord.—Bryan,

Bryan!

HIP. It can be no man else. That Irish Judas,

Bred in a country where no venom prospers[341]

But in the nation’s blood, hath thus betray’d me.—

_Re-enter_ BRYAN.

Slave, get you from your service!

BRY. Faat meanest thou by this now?

HIP. Question me not, nor tempt my fury, villain:

Couldst thou turn all the mountains in the land

To hills of gold, and give[342] me, here thou stay’st

not.

BRY. I’faat, I care not.

HIP. Prate not, but get thee gone; I shall send else.

BRY. Ay, do, predee; I had rather have thee make a

scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings

in my poor belly, den to be a false knave to dee,

i’faat; I will never see dine own sweet face more. _A

marvhid deer a gra_, fare dee well, fare dee well; I

will go steal cows again in Ireland. [_Exit._

HIP. He’s damn’d that rais’d this whirlwind, which

hath blown

Into her eyes this jealousy; yet I’ll on,

I’ll on, stood arm’d devils staring in my face:

To be pursu’d in flight quickens the race.

Shall my blood-streams by a wife’s lust be barr’d?

Fond[343] woman, no; iron grows by strokes more hard:

Lawless desires are seas scorning all bounds,

Or sulphur which, being ramm’d up, more confounds;

Struggling with madmen madness nothing tames,

Winds wrestling with great fires incense the flames.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A Room in_ MATHEO’S _House_.

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT, _and_ ORLANDO _disguised as a

Serving-man_.

BEL. How now, what ails your master?

OR. Has taken a younger brother’s purge, forsooth, and

that works with him.

BEL. Where is his cloak and rapier?

OR. He has given up his cloak, and his rapier is bound

to the peace: if you look a little higher, you may see

that another hath entered into hatband for him too. Six

and four have put him into this sweat.

BEL. Where’s all his money?

OR. ’Tis put over by exchange: his doublet was going to

be translated, but for me: if any man would ha’ lent but

half a ducat on his beard, the hair of it had stuft a

pair of breeches[344] by this time; I had but one poor

penny, and that I was glad to niggle out and buy a

holly-wand to grace him thorough the street; as hap was,

his boots were on, and then[345] I dusted, to make

people think he had been riding, and I had run by him.

BEL. O me!

_Enter_ MATHEO.

How does my sweet Matheo?

MAT. O rogue, of what devilish stuff are these dice

made of? of the parings of the devil’s corns of his

toes, that they run thus damnably?

BEL. I prithee, vex not.

MAT. If any handicraft’s-man was ever suffered to keep

shop in hell, it will be a dice-maker; he’s able to undo

more souls than the devil: I played with mine own dice,

yet lost. Ha’ you any money?

BEL. 'Las, I ha’ none!

MAT. Must have money, must have some; must have a cloak,

and rapier, and things: will you go set your lime-twigs,

and get me some birds, some money?

BEL. What lime-twigs should I set?

MAT. You will not, then? must have cash and pictures: do

ye hear, frailty, shall I walk in a Plymouth cloak,[346]

that’s to say, like a rogue, in my hose[347] and

doublet, and a crab-tree cudgel in my hand, and you swim

in your satins? must have money; come.

[_Taking off her gown._

OR. Is’t bed-time, master, that you undo my mistress?

BEL. Undo me? yes, yes, at these riflings I

Have been too often.

MAT. Help to flay, Pacheco.

OR. Flaying call you it?

MAT. I’ll pawn you, by th’ Lord, to your very eyebrows!

BEL. With all my heart; since heaven will have me

poor,

As good be drown’d at sea as drown’d at shore.

OR. Why, hear you, sir? i’faith, do not make away her

gown.

MAT. O, it’s summer, it’s summer; your only fashion for

a woman now is to be light, to be light.

OR. Why, pray, sir, employ some of that money you have

of mine.

MAT. Thine? I’ll starve first, I’ll beg first; when I

touch a penny of that, let these fingers’ ends rot.

OR. So they may, for that’s past touching. I saw my

twenty pounds fly high. [_Aside._

MAT. Knowest thou never a damned broker about the city?

OR. Damned broker? yes, five hundred.

MAT. The gown stood me in above twenty ducats; borrow

ten of it: cannot live without silver.

OR. I’ll make what I can of’t, sir, I’ll be your

broker,—

But not your damn’d broker: O thou scurvy knave!

What makes a wife turn whore but such a slave?

[_Aside, and exit with_ BELLAFRONT’S _gown_.

MAT. How now, little chick, what ailest? weeping for a

handful of tailor’s shreds? pox on them! are there not

silks enow at mercer’s?

BEL. I care not for gay feathers, I.

MAT. What dost care for, then? why dost grieve?

BEL. Why do I grieve? a thousand sorrow’s strike

At one poor heart, and yet it lives. Matheo,

Thou art a gamester; prithee, throw at all,

Set all upon one cast. We kneel and pray,

And struggle for life, yet must be cast away:

Meet misery quickly then, split all,[348] sell all;

And when thou’st sold all, spend it; but, I beseech

thee,

Build not thy mind on me to coin thee more:

To get it, wouldst thou have me play the whore?

MAT. 'Twas your profession before I married you.

BEL. Umh? ’twas indeed: if all men should be branded

For sins long since laid up, who could be sav’d?

The quarter-day’s at hand; how will you do

To pay the rent, Matheo?

MAT. Why, do as all of our occupation do against

quarter-days; break up house, remove, shift your

lodgings: pox a’ your quarters!

_Enter_ LODOVICO.

LOD. Where’s this gallant?

MAT. Signor Lodovico? how does my little Mirror of

Knighthood?[349] this is kindly done, i’faith; welcome,

by my troth.

LOD. And how dost, frolic?—Save you, fair lady.—

Thou lookest smug and bravely, noble Mat.

MAT. Drink and feed, laugh and lie warm.

LOD. Is this thy wife?

MAT. A poor gentlewoman, sir, whom I make use of a’

nights.

LOD. Pay custom to your lips, sweet lady.

[_Kisses her._

MAT. Borrow some shells[350] of him—some wine,

sweetheart.

LOD. I’ll send for’t then, i’faith.

MAT. You send for’t?—Some wine, I prithee.

BEL. I ha’ no money.

MAT. ’Sblood, nor I.—What wine love you, signor?

LOD. Here, or I’ll not stay, I protest: trouble the

gentlewoman too much? [_Gives money to_ BELLAFRONT, _who

goes out_.] And what news flies abroad, Matheo?

MAT. Troth, none. O signor, we ha’ been merry in our

days.

LOD. And no doubt shall agen:[351]

The divine powers never shoot darts at men

Mortal, to kill them.

MAT. You say true.

LOD. Why should we grieve at want? say the world made

thee

Her minion, that thy head lay in her lap,

And that she danc’d thee on her wanton knee,

She could but give thee a whole world, that’s all,

And that all’s nothing; the world’s greatest part

Cannot fill up one corner of thy heart.

Say the three corners were all fill’d, alas,

Of what art thou possess’d? a thin-blown glass,

Such as by boys is puff’d into the air.

Were twenty kingdoms thine, thou’dst live in care;

Thou couldst not sleep the better, nor live longer,

Nor merrier be, nor healthfuller, nor stronger.

If, then, thou want’st, thus make that want thy

pleasure;

No man wants all things, nor has all in measure.

MAT. I am the most wretched fellow! sure some

left-handed priest christened me, I am so unlucky; I am

never out of one puddle or another; still falling.

_Re-enter_ BELLAFRONT _with wine_.

Fill out wine to my little finger. With my heart,

i’faith. [_Drinks._

LOD. Thanks, good Matheo. To your own sweet self.

[_Drinks._

_Re-enter_ ORLANDO.

OR. All the brokers’ hearts, sir, are made of flint: I

can, with all my knocking, strike but six sparks of fire

out of them: here’s six ducats, if you’ll take them.

MAT. Give me them [_taking money_]: an evil conscience

gnaw them all! moths and plagues hang upon their lousy

wardrobes!

LOD. Is this your man, Matheo?

MAT. An old[352] serving-man.

OR. You may give me t’other half too, sir; that’s the

beggar.

LOD. What hast there? gold?

MAT. A sort[353] of rascals are in my debt God knows

what, and they feed me with bits, with crums, a pox

choke them!

LOD. A word, Matheo; be not angry with me;

Believe it, that I know the touch of time,

And can part copper, though’t be gilded o’er,

From the true gold: the sails which thou dost spread

Would shew well if they were not borrowed.

The sound of thy low fortunes drew me hither:

I give myself unto thee, prithee, use me;

I will bestow on you a suit of satin,

And all things else to fit a gentleman,

Because I love you.

MAT. Thanks, good, noble knight!

LOD. Call on me when you please: till then, farewell.

[_Exit._

MAT. Hast angled? hast cut up this fresh salmon?

BEL. Wouldst have me be so base?

MAT. It’s base to steal, it’s base to be a whore:

Thou’lt be more base; I’ll make thee keep a door.[354]

[_Exit._

OR. I hope he will not sneak away with all the money,

will he?

BEL. Thou seest he does.

OR. Nay, then, it’s well. I set my brains upon an

upright last; though my wits be old, yet they are like a

withered pippin, wholesome. Look you, mistress, I told

him I had but six ducats of the knave broker, but I had

eight, and kept these two for you.

BEL. Thou shouldst have given him all.

OR. What, to fly high?

BEL. Like waves, my misery drives on misery. [_Exit._

OR. Sell his wife’s clothes from her back! does any

poulterer’s wife pull chickens alive? He riots all

abroad, wants all at home; he dices, whores, swaggers,

swears, cheats, borrows, pawns: I’ll give him hook and

line a little more for all this:

Yet sure i’ th’ end he’ll delude all my hopes,

And shew me a French trick danc’d on the ropes.

[_Exit._

SCENE III.

_Before_ CANDIDO’S _Shop_: CANDIDO _and his Bride

discovered in the shop_.

_Enter_ LODOVICO _and_ CAROLO _on one side_, BOTS _and_

MISTRESS HORSELEECH _on the other_.

LOD. Hist, hist, lieutenant Bots! how dost, man?

CAR. Whither are you ambling, madam Horseleech?

MIS. H. About worldly profit, sir: how do your worships?

BOTS. We want tools, gentlemen, to furnish the trade;

they wear out day and night, they wear out till no

mettle be left in their back. We hear of two or three

new wenches are come up with a carrier, and your old

goshawk here is flying at them.

LOD. And, faith, what flesh have you at home?

MIS. H. Ordinary dishes; by my troth, sweet men, there’s

few good i’ th’ city: I am as well furnished as any,

and, though I say it, as well customed.

BOTS. We have meats of all sorts of dressing; we have

stewed meat for your Frenchman,[355] pretty light

picking meat for your Italian, and that which is rotten

roasted for Don Spaniardo.

LOD. A pox on’t!

BOTS. We have poulterer’s ware for your sweet bloods, as

dove, chicken, duck, teal, woodcock, and so forth; and

butcher’s meat for the citizen, yet muttons[356] fall

very bad this year.

LOD. Stay; is not that my patient linen-draper yonder,

and my fine young smug mistress his wife?

CAR. Sirrah[357] grannam, I’ll give thee for thy fee

twenty crowns, if thou canst but procure me the wearing

of yon velvet cap.

MIS. H. You’d wear another thing besides the cap: you’re

a wag.

BOTS. Twenty crowns? we’ll share, and I’ll be your pully

to draw her on.

LOD. Do’t presently; we’ll ha’ some sport.

MIS. H. Wheel you about, sweet men: do you see? I’ll

cheapen wares of the man, whilst Bots is doing with his

wife.

LOD. To’t: if we come into the shop, to do you grace,

we’ll call you madam.

BOTS. Pox a’ your old face! give it the badge of all

scurvy faces, a mask.

[_Mistress_ HORSELEECH _puts on a mask_.

CAN. What is’t you lack,[358] gentlewoman? cambric, or

lawns, or fine hollands? pray draw near, I can sell you

a pennyworth.

BOTS. Some cambric for my old lady.

CAN. Cambric? you shall, the purest thread in Milan.

CAR.[359] Save you, signor Candido.

LOD. How does my noble master? how my fair mistress?

CAN. My worshipful good servant.—View it well,

For ’tis both fine and even. [_Shews cambric._

CAR. Cry you mercy, madam; though masked, I thought it

should be you by your man.—Pray, signor, shew her the

best, for she commonly deals for good ware.

CAN. Then this shall fit her.—This is for your

ladyship.

BOTS. A word, I pray; there is a waiting gentlewoman of

my lady’s, her name is Ruyna, says she’s your kinswoman,

and that you should be one of her aunts.

BRIDE. One of her aunts? troth, sir, I know her not.

BOTS. If it please you to bestow the poor labour of your

legs at any time, I will be your convoy thither.

BRIDE. I am a snail, sir, seldom leave my house;

If’t please her to visit me, she shall be welcome.

BOTS. Do you hear? the naked troth is, my lady hath a

young knight, her son, who loves you; you’re made, if

you lay hold upon’t: this jewel he sends you.

[_Offers jewel._

BRIDE. Sir, I return his love and jewel with scorn;

Let go my hand, or I shall call my husband.

You are an arrant knave. [_Exit._

LOD. What, will she do?

BOTS. Do? they shall all do, if Bots sets upon them

once: she was as if she had professed the trade,

squeamish at first; at last I shewed her this jewel,

said a knight sent it her.

LOD. Is’t gold and right stones?

BOTS. Copper, copper, I go a-fishing with these baits.

She nibbled,[360] but would not swallow the hook,

because the conger-head her husband was by: but she bids

the gentleman name any afternoon and she’ll meet him at

her garden-house,[361] which I know.

LOD. Is this no lie, now?

BOTS. Damn me if——

LOD. O, prithee, stay there.

BOTS. The twenty crowns, sir.

LOD. Before he has his work done? but, on my knightly

word, he shall pay’t thee.

_Enter_ ASTOLFO, BERALDO, FONTINELL, _and_ BRYAN.

AST. I thought thou hadst been gone into thine own

country.

BRY. No, faat, la, I cannot go dis four or tree days.

BER. Look thee, yonder’s the shop, and that’s the man

himself.

FON. Thou shalt but cheapen, and do as we told thee, to

put a jest upon him to abuse his patience.

BRY. I’faat, I doubt my pate shall be knocked: but, sa

crees sa’ me, for your shakes I will run to any

linen-draper in hell: come, predee.

AST. }

BER. } Save you, gallants.

FON. }

LOD. } O, well met!

CAR. }

CAN. You’ll give no more, you say? I cannot take it.

MIS. H. Truly I’ll give no more.

CAN. It must not fetch it.

What would you have, sweet gentlemen?

AST. Nay, here’s the customer.

[_Exeunt_ BOTS _and_ MISTRESS HORSELEECH.

LOD. The garden-house, you say? we’ll bolt[362] out

your roguery.

CAN. I will but lay these parcels by; my men

Are all at custom-house unloading wares;

If cambric you would deal in, there’s the best,

All Milan cannot sample it. [_Shews cambric._

LOD. Do you hear? one, two, three,—’sfoot, there

came in four gallants! sure your wife is slipt up;

and the fourth man, I hold my life, is grafting your

warden-tree.[363]

CAN. Ha, ha, ha! you gentlemen are full of jest.

If she be up, she’s gone some wares to shew;

I have above as good wares as below.

LOD. Have you so? nay, then——

CAN. Now, gentlemen, is’t cambrics?

BRY. I predee, now, let me have de best wa[u]res.

CAN. What’s that he says, pray, gentlemen? u LOD. Marry,

he says we are like to have the best wars.

CAN. The best wars? all are bad, yet wars do good,

And, like to surgeons, let sick kingdoms blood.

BRY. Faat a devil pratest tow so? a pox on dee! I

predee, let me see some hollen to make linen shirts, for

fear my body be lousy.

CAN. Indeed I understand no word he speaks.

CAR. Marry, he says, that at the siege in Holland

There was much bawdry us’d among the soldiers,

Though they were lousy.

CAN. It may be so, that’s likely; true indeed;

In every garden, sir, does grow that weed.

BRY. Pox on de gardens, and de weeds, and de fool’s cap

dere, and de clouts! hear, doest make a hobby-horse of

me? [_Tearing the cambric._

ALL. O, fie! he has torn the[364] cambric.

CAN. ’Tis no matter.

AST. It frets me to the soul.

CAN. So does’t not me:

My customers do oft for remnants call;

These are two remnants now, no loss at all.

But let me tell you, were my servants here,

It would ha’ cost more. Thank you, gentlemen;

I use you well, pray know my shop agen.[365]

ALL. Ha, ha, ha! come, come, let’s go, let’s go.

[_Exeunt._

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ MATHEO’S _House_.

_Enter_ MATHEO _brave[366] and_ BELLAFRONT.

MAT. How am I suited, Front? am I not gallant, ha?

BEL. Yes, sir, you are suited well.

MAT. Exceeding passing well, and to the time.

BEL. The tailor has played his part with you.

MAT. And I have played a gentleman’s part with my

tailor, for I owe him for the making of it.

BEL. And why did you so, sir?

MAT. To keep the fashion: it’s your only fashion now of

your best rank of gallants to make their tailors wait

for their money; neither were it wisdom indeed to pay

them upon the first edition of a new suit; for commonly

the suit is owing for when the linings are worn out, and

there’s no reason then that the tailor should be paid

before the mercer.

BEL. Is this the suit the knight bestow’d upon you?

MAT. This is the suit, and I need not shame to wear it,

for better men than I would be glad to have suits

bestowed on them. It’s a generous fellow; but, pox on

him, we whose pericranions are the very limbecks and

stillatories of good wit, and fly high, must drive

liquor out of stale gaping oysters—shallow knight, poor

squire Tinacheo! I’ll make a wild Cataian of forty

such:[367] hang him! he’s an ass, he’s always sober.

BEL. This is your fault to wound your friends still.

MAT. No, faith, Front, Lodovico is a noble Slavonian:

it’s more rare to see him in a woman’s company than for

a Spaniard to go into England and to challenge the

English fencers there. [_Knocking within._] One knocks;

see. [_Exit_ BELLAFRONT.]—_La, fa, sol, la, fa, la_—

[_sings_]—rustle in silks and satins! there’s music in

this, and a taffeta petticoat, it make[s] both fly high,

catso![368]

_Re-enter_ BELLAFRONT _with_ ORLANDO _in his own dress,

and four Servants_.

BEL. Matheo, ’tis my father.

MAT. Ha! father? it’s no matter, he finds no tattered

prodigals here.

OR. Is not the door good enough to hold your blue

coats?[369] away, knaves. Wear not your clothes

thread-bare at knees for me; beg heaven’s blessing, not

mine. [_Exeunt Servants._]—O, cry your worship mercy,

sir: was somewhat bold to talk to this gentlewoman your

wife here.

MAT. A poor gentlewoman, sir.

OR. Stand not, sir, bare to me: I ha’ read oft

That serpents who creep low belch ranker poison

Than[370] winged dragons do, that fly aloft.

MAT. If it offend you, sir, ’tis for my pleasure.

OR. Your pleasure be’t, sir. Umh, is this your palace?

BEL. Yes, and our kingdom, for ’tis our content.

OR. It’s a very poor kingdom, then; what, are all your

subjects gone a sheep-shearing? not a maid? not a man?

not so much as a cat? You keep a good house belike, just

like one of your profession, every room with bare walls,

and a half-headed bed to vault upon, as all your

bawdy-houses are. Pray, who are your upholsters? O, the

spiders, I see, they bestow hangings upon you.

MAT. Bawdy-house? zounds! sir——

BEL. O sweet Matheo, peace!—Upon my knees [_Kneels._

I do beseech you, sir, not to arraign me

For sins which heaven, I hope, long since hath pardon’d!

Those flames, like lightning-flashes, are so spent,

The heat no more remains than where ships went,

Or where birds cut the air, the print remains.

MAT. Pox on him! kneel to a dog?

BEL. She that’s a whore

Lives gallant,[371] fares well, is not, like me, poor:

I ha’ now as small acquaintance with that sin

As if I had never known’t, that never bin.[372]

OR. No acquaintance with it? what maintains thee then?

how dost live then? has thy husband any lands, any rents

coming in, any stock going, any ploughs jogging, any

ships sailing? hast thou any wares to turn, so much as

to get a single penny by?

Yes,[373] thou hast ware to sell,

Knaves are thy chapmen, and thy shop is hell.

MAT. Do you hear, sir?——

OR. So, sir, I do hear, sir, more of you than you dream

I do.

MAT. You fly a little too high, sir.

OR. Why, sir, too high?

MAT. I ha’ suffered your tongue, like a bard

cater-tray,[374] to run all this while, and ha’ not

stopt it.

OR. Well, sir, you talk like a gamester.

MAT. If you come to bark at her because she’s a poor

rogue, look you, here’s a fine path, sir, and there,

there[’s] the door.

BEL. Matheo!

MAT. Your blue coats[375] stay for you, sir. I love a

good honest roaring boy,[376] and so——

OR. That’s the devil.

MAT. Sir, sir, I’ll ha’ no Joves in my house to thunder

avaunt: she shall live and be maintained, when you, like

a keg of musty sturgeon, shall stink; where? in your

coffin—how? be a musty fellow, and lousy.

OR. I know she shall be maintained, but how? she like a

quean, thou like a knave; she like a whore, thou like a

thief.

MAT. Thief? zounds! thief?

BEL. Good, dearest Mat!—Father!——

MAT. Pox on you both! I’ll not be braved: new satin

scorns to be put down with bare bawdy velvet. Thief?

OR. Ay, thief; thou’rt a murderer, a cheater, a

whoremonger, a pot-hunter, a borrower, a beggar—

BEL. Dear father——

MAT. An old ass, a dog, a churl, a chuff, an usurer, a

villain, a moth, a mangy mule with an old velvet

footcloth[377] on his back, sir.

BEL. O me!

OR. Varlet, for this I’ll hang thee.

MAT. Ha, ha, alas!

OR. Thou keepest a man of mine here under my nose——

MAT. Under thy beard.

OR. As arrant a smell-smock, for an old

muttonmonger,[378] as thyself——

MAT. No, as yourself.

OR. As arrant a purse-taker as ever cried, Stand! yet a

good fellow,[379] I confess, and valiant; but he’ll

bring thee to th’ gallows: you both have robbed of late

two poor country pedlars.

MAT. How’s this, how’s this? dost thou fly high? rob

pedlars?—Bear witness, Front—Rob pedlars? my man and I a

thief?

BEL. O sir, no more!

OR. Ay, knave, two pedlars; hue and cry is up, warrants

are out, and I shall see thee climb a ladder.

MAT. And come down again as well as a bricklayer or a

tiler.—How the vengeance knows he this? [_Aside._]—If

I be hanged, I’ll tell the people I married old

Friscobaldo’s daughter; I’ll frisco you and your old

carcass.

OR. Tell what thou canst: if I stay here longer, I shall

be hanged too for being in thy company; therefore, as I

found you, I leave you——

MAT. Kneel, and get money of him.

OR. A knave and a quean, a thief and a strumpet, a

couple of beggars, a brace of baggages.

MAT. Hang upon him—Ay, ay, sir, fare you well; we are

so—Follow close—We are beggars—in satin—to him.

BEL. Is this your comfort, when so many years

You ha’ left me frozen to death?

OR. Freeze still, starve still!

BEL. Yes, so I shall; I must, I must and will.

If, as you say, I’m poor, relieve me then,

Let me not sell my body to base men.

You call me strumpet; heaven knows I am none;

Your cruelty may drive me to be one:

Let not that sin be yours; let not the shame

Of common whore live longer than my name.

That cunning bawd, Necessity, night and day

Plots to undo me; drive that hag away,

Lest being at lowest ebb, as now I am,

I sink for ever.

OR. Lowest ebb! what ebb?

BEL. So poor, that, though to tell it be my shame,

I am not worth a dish to hold my meat;

I am yet poorer, I want bread to eat.

OR. It’s not seen by your cheeks.

MAT. I think she has read an homily to tickle to the old

rogue. [_Aside._

OR. Want bread? there’s satin; bake that.

MAT. ’Sblood, make pasties of my clothes?

OR. A fair new cloak, stew that; an excellent gilt

rapier——

MAT. Will you eat that, sir?

OR. I could feast ten good fellows with those

hangers.[380]

MAT. The pox, you shall!

OR. I shall not, till thou begg’st, think thou art

poor;

And when thou begg’st, I’ll feed thee at my door,

As I feed dogs, with bones: till then beg, borrow,

Pawn, steal, and hang; turn bawd when thou’rt no whore.—

My heart-strings sure would crack were they strain’d

more. [_Aside, and exit._

MAT. This is your father, your damned—confusion light

upon all the generation of you! he can come bragging

hither with four white herrings at’s tail in blue

coats,[381] without roes in their bellies, but I may

starve ere he give me so much as a cob.[382]

BEL. What tell you me of this? alas!

MAT. Go, trot after your dad; do you capitulate; I’ll

pawn not for you, I’ll not steal to be hanged for such

an hypocritical, close, common harlot: away, you dog!

Brave, i’faith! udsfoot, give me some meat.

BEL. Yes, sir. [_Exit._

MAT. Goodman slave, my man too, is galloped to the devil

a’ t’other[383] side: Pacheco, I’ll checo you! Is this

your dad’s day? England, they say, is the only hell for

horses, and only paradise for women; pray, get you to

that paradise, because you’re called an Honest Whore;

there they live none but honest whores, with a pox:

marry, here in our city all [y]our sex are but footcloth

nags;[384] the master no sooner lights but the man leaps

into the saddle.

_Re-enter_ BELLAFRONT _with meat and drink_.

BEL. Will you sit down, I pray, sir?

MAT. [_sitting down_] I could tear, by th’ Lord, his

flesh, and eat his midriff in salt, as I eat this!—must

I choke?[385]—my father Friscobaldo, I shall make a

pitiful hog-louse of you, Orlando, if you fall once into

my fingers.—Here’s the savourest meat! I ha’ got a

stomach with chafing.—What rogue should tell him of

those two pedlars? a plague choke him and gnaw him to

the bare bones!—Come, fill.

BEL. Thou sweat’st with very anger: good sweet, vex

not,

'Las, ’tis no fault of mine!

MAT. Where didst buy this mutton? I never felt better

ribs.

BEL. A neighbour sent it me.

_Re-enter_ ORLANDO _disguised as a serving-man_.

MAT. Ha, neighbour? foh, my mouth stinks!—You whore, do

you beg victuals for me? is this satin doublet to be

bombasted[386] with broken meat?

[_Takes up a stool._

OR. What will you do, sir?

MAT. Beat out the brains of a beggarly——

OR. Beat out an ass’s head of your own.—Away, mistress!

[_Exit_ BELLAFRONT.]—Zounds, do but touch one hair of

her, and I’ll so quilt your cap with old iron, that your

coxcomb shall ache the worse these seven years for’t:

does she look like a roasted rabbit, that you must have

the head for the brains?

MAT. Ha, ha! go out of my doors, you rogue; away, four

marks;[387] trudge.

OR. Four marks? no, sir; my twenty pound that you ha’

made fly high, and I am gone.

MAT. Must I be fed with chippings? you’re best get

a clapdish,[388] and say you’re proctor to some

spittle-house: where hast thou been, Pacheco? come

hither, my little turkey-cock.

OR. I cannot abide, sir, to see a woman wronged, not I.

MAT. Sirrah, here was my father-in-law to-day.

OR. Pish, then you’re full of crowns.

MAT. Hang him! he would ha’ thrust crowns upon me to

have fallen in again, but I scorn cast clothes, or any

man’s gold.

OR. But mine. [_Aside._]—How did he brook that, sir?

MAT. O, swore like a dozen of drunken tinkers: at last

growing foul in words, he and four of his men drew upon

me, sir.

OR. In your house? would I had been by!

MAT. I made no more ado, but fell to my old lock, and so

thrashed my blue coats[389] and old crab-tree-face my

father-in-law, and then walked like a lion in my grate.

OR. O noble master!

MAT. Sirrah, he could tell me of the robbing the two

pedlars, and that warrants are out for us both.

OR. Good sir, I like not those crackers.

MAT. Crackhalter, wu’t set thy foot to mine?

OR. How, sir? at drinking?

MAT. We’ll pull that old crow my father; rob thy master:

I know the house, thou the servants; the purchase[390]

is rich, the plot to get it easy: the dog will not part

from a bone.

OR. Pluck’t out of his throat then; I’ll snarl for one,

if this[391] can bite.

MAT. Say no more, say no more, old Cole;[392] meet me

anon at the sign of the Shipwreck.

OR. Yes, sir.

MAT. And dost hear, man?—the Shipwreck. [_Exit._

OR. Thou’rt at the shipwreck now, and like a swimmer

Bold but unexpert with those waves dost play,

Whose dalliance, whorelike, is to cast thee away.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ BELLAFRONT.

And here’s another vessel, better fraught,

But as ill mann’d; her sinking will be wrought,

If rescue come not: like a man of war

I’ll therefore bravely out; somewhat I’ll do,

And either save them both, or perish too. [_Exit._

HIP. ’Tis my fate to be bewitched by those eyes.

BEL. Fate? your folly:

Why should my face thus mad you? 'las, those colours

Are wound up long ago which beauty spread!

The flowers that once grew here are withered.

You turn’d my black soul white, made it look new,

And should I sin, it ne’er should be with you.

HIP. Your hand; I’ll offer you fair play: when first

We met i’ th’ lists together, you remember

You were a common rebel; with one parley

I won you to come in.

BEL. You did.

HIP. I’ll try

If now I can beat down this chastity

With the same ordnance; will you yield this fort,

If with the power of argument now, as then,

I get of you the conquest; as before

I turn’d you honest, now to turn you whore

By force of strong persuasion?

BEL. If you can,

I yield.

HIP. The alarum’s struck up: I’m your man.

BEL. A woman gives defiance.

HIP. Sit. [_They seat themselves._

BEL. Begin:

’Tis a brave battle to encounter sin.

HIP. You men that are to fight in the same war

To which I’m prest, and plead at the same bar,

To win a woman, if you’d have me speed,

Send all your wishes!

BEL. No doubt you’re heard: proceed.

HIP. To be a harlot, that you stand upon,

The very name’s a charm to make you one.

Harlot[ta] was a dame of so divine

And ravishing touch,[393] that she was concubine

To an English king:[394] her sweet, bewitching eye

Did the king’s heart-strings in such love-knots tie,

That even the coyest was proud when she could hear

Men say, Behold, another Harlot there!

And, after her, all women that were fair

Were harlots call’d, as to this day some are:

Besides, her dalliance she so well does mix,

That she’s in Latin call’d the _meretrix_.

Thus for the name: for the profession this;

Who lives in bondage lives lac’d; the chief bliss

This world below can yield is liberty;

And who than whores with looser wings dare fly?

As Juno’s proud bird spreads the fairest tail,

So does a strumpet hoist the loftiest sail:

She’s no man’s slave; men are her slaves; her eye

Moves not on wheels screw’d up with jealousy:

She, hors’d or coach’d, does merry journeys make,

Free as the sun in his gilt zodiac;

As bravely does she shine, as fast she’s driven,

But stays not long in any house of heaven,

But shifts from sign to sign her amorous prizes,

More rich being when she’s down than when she rises.

In brief, gentlemen haunt them, soldiers fight for them,

Few men but know them, few or none abhor them.

Thus for sport’ sake speak I, as to a woman,

Whom, as the worst ground, I would turn to common;

But you I would enclose for mine own bed.

BEL. So should a husband be dishonoured.

HIP. Dishonour’d? not a whit: to fall to one

Besides your husband is to fall to none,

For one no number is.

BEL. Faith, should you take

One in your bed, would you that reckoning make?

’Tis time you sound retreat.

HIP. Say, have I won?

Is the day ours?

BEL. The battle’s but half done,

None but yourself have yet sounded alarms;

Let us strike too, else you dishonour arms.

HIP. If you can win the day, the glory’s yours.

BEL. To prove a woman should not be a whore,

When she was made she had one man, and no more;

Yet she was tied to laws then, for even than[395]

’Tis said she was not made for men, but man.

Anon, t’ increase earth’s brood, the law was varied,

Men should take many wives; and though they married

According to that act, yet ’tis not known

But that those wives were only tied to one.

New parliaments were since; for now one woman

Is shar’d between three hundred, nay, she’s common,

Common as spotted leopards, whom for sport

Men hunt to get the flesh, but care not for’t:

So spread they nets of gold, and tune their calls,

To enchant silly women to take falls;

Swearing they’re angels, which that they may win,

They’ll hire the devil to come with false dice in.

O Sirens’ subtle tunes! yourselves you flatter,

And our weak sex betray: so men love water;

It serves to wash their hands, but, being once foul,

The water down is pour’d, cast out of doors,

And even of such base use do men make whores.

A harlot, like a hen, more sweetness reaps

To pick men one by one up than in heaps:

Yet all feeds but confounding. Say you should taste me,

I serve but for the time, and when the day

Of war is done, am cashier’d out of pay:

If like lame soldiers I could beg, that’s all,

And there’s lust’s rendezvous, an hospital.

Who then would be a man’s slave, a man’s woman?

She’s half-starv’d the first day that feeds in common.

HIP. You should not feed so, but with me alone.

BEL. If I drink poison by stealth, is’t not all one?

Is’t not rank poison still with you alone?

Nay, say you spied a courtesan, whose soft side

To touch you’d sell your birthright, for one kiss

Be rack’d; she’s won, you’re sated: what follows this?

O, then you curse that bawd that tol’d you in,

The night; you curse your lust, you loathe the sin,

You loathe her very sight, and ere the day

Arise, you rise glad when you’re stol’n away.

Even then when you are drunk with all her sweets,

There’s no true pleasure in a strumpet’s sheets.

Women, whom lust so prostitutes to sale,

Like dancers upon ropes, once seen, are stale.

HIP. If all the threads of harlots’ lives are spun

So coarse as you would make them, tell me why

You so long lov’d the trade?

BEL. If all the threads

Of harlots’ lives be fine as you would make them,

Why do not you persuade your wife turn whore,

And all dames else to fall before that sin?

Like an ill husband, though I knew the same

To be my undoing, follow’d I that game.

O, when the work of lust had earn’d my bread,

To taste it how I trembled, lest each bit,

Ere it went down, should choke me chewing it!

My bed seem’d like a cabin hung in hell,

The bawd hell’s porter, and the liquorish wine

The pander fetch’d was like an easy fine,

For which, methought, I leas’d away my soul;

And oftentimes even in my quaffing bowl

Thus said I to myself, I am a whore,

And have drunk down thus much confusion more.

HIP. It is a common rule, and ’tis most true,

Two of one trade ne’er love; no more do you:

Why are you sharp 'gainst that you once profest?

BEL. Why dote you on that which you did once detest?

I cannot, seeing she’s woven of such bad stuff,

Set colours on a harlot base enough.

Nothing did make me, when I lov’d them best,

To loathe them more than this; when in the street

A fair young modest damsel I did meet,

She seem’d to all a dove, when I pass’d by,

And I to all a raven; every eye

That follow’d her, went with a bashful glance;

At me each bold and jeering countenance

Darted forth scorn; to her, as if she had been

Some tower unvanquish’d, would they [bonnet] vail;

'Gainst me swoln rumour hoisted every sail;

She, crown’d with reverend praises, passed by them;

I, though with face mask’d, could not ’scape the hem;

For, as if heaven had set strange marks on whores

Because they should be pointing-stocks to man,

Drest up in civilest shape a courtesan

Let her walk saint-like, noteless, and unknown,

Yet she’s betray’d by some trick of her own.

Were harlots therefore wise, they’d be sold dear;

For men account them good but for one year,

And then, like almanacs whose dates are gone,

They are thrown by, and no more look’d upon.

Who’ll therefore backward fall, who will launch forth

In seas so foul, for ventures no more worth?

Lust’s voyage hath, if not this course, this cross,

Buy ne’er so cheap, your ware comes home with loss.

What, shall I sound retreat? the battle’s done:

Let the world judge which of us two have won.

HIP. I!

BEL. You? nay, then, as cowards do in fight,

What by blows cannot, shall be sav’d by flight.

[_Exit._

HIP. Fly to earth’s fixed centre; to the caves

Of everlasting horror I’ll pursue thee,

Though loaden with sins, even to hell’s brazen doors:

Thus wisest men turn fools, doting on whores. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace._

_Enter the_ DUKE, LODOVICO, _and_ ORLANDO _disguised

as a Serving-man: after them_ INFELICE, CAROLO,

ASTOLFO, BERALDO, _and_ FONTINELL.

OR. I beseech your grace, though your eye be so

piercing as under a poor blue coat[396] to cull out an

honest father from an old serving-man, yet, good my

lord, discover not the plot to any, but only this

gentleman that is now to be an actor in our ensuing

comedy.

DUKE. Thou hast thy wish, Orlando, pass unknown;

Sforza[397] shall only go along with thee,

To see that warrant serv’d upon thy son.

LOD. To attach him upon felony for two pedlars, is’t not

so?

OR. Right, my noble knight: those pedlars were two

knaves of mine; he fleeced the men before, and now he

purposes to flay the master. He will rob me; his teeth

water to be nibbling at my gold; but this shall hang him

by th’ gills till I pull him on shore.

DUKE. Away; ply you the business.

OR. Thanks to your grace: but, my good lord, for my

daughter,——

DUKE. You know what I have said.

OR. And remember what I have sworn: she’s more honest,

on my soul, than one of the Turk’s wenches, watched by a

hundred eunuchs.

LOD. So she had need, for the Turks make them whores.

OR. He’s a Turk that makes any woman a whore; he’s no

true Christian I’m sure.—I commit [her to] your grace.

DUKE. Infelice.

INF. Here, sir.

LOD. Signor Friscobaldo——

OR. Frisking again? Pacheco.

LOD. Uds so, Pacheco; we’ll have some sport with this

warrant: ’tis to apprehend all suspected persons in the

house: besides, there’s one Bots a pander, and one madam

Horseleech a bawd, that have abused my friend; those two

conies will we ferret into the pursenet.[398]

OR. Let me alone for dabbing them o’ th’ neck: come,

come.

LOD. Do ye hear, gallants? meet me anon at Matheo’s.

CAR. }

AST., _&c._ } Enough.

[_Exeunt_ LODOVICO _and_ ORLANDO.

DUKE. th’ old fellow sings that note thou didst

before,

Only his tunes are, that she is no whore,

But that she sent his letters and his gifts

Out of a noble triumph o’er his lust,

To shew she trampled his assaults in dust.

INF. ’Tis a good honest servant, that old man.

DUKE. I doubt no less.

INF. And it may be my husband,

Because when once this woman was unmask’d,

He levell’d all her thoughts, and made them fit,

Now he’d mar all again, to try his wit.

DUKE. It may be so too, for to turn a harlot

Honest, it must be by strong antidotes;

’Tis rare, as to see panthers change their spots:

And when she’s once a star fix’d and shines bright,

Though 'twere impiety then to dim her light,

Because we see such tapers seldom burn,

Yet ’tis the pride and glory of some men

To change her to a blazing star agen,[399]

And it may be Hippolito does no more.—

It cannot be but you’re acquainted all

With that same madness of our son-in-law,

That dotes so on a courtesan.

ALL. Yes, my lord.

CAR. All the city thinks he’s a whoremonger.

AST. Yet I warrant he’ll swear no man marks him.

BER. ’Tis like so; for when a man goes a wenching, is as

if he had a strong stinking breath, every one smells him

out, yet he feels it not, though it be ranker than the

sweat of sixteen bearwarders.

DUKE. I doubt then you have all those stinking

breaths;

You might be all smelt out.

CAR. Troth, my lord, I think we are all as you ha’ been

in your youth when you went a-maying; we all love to

hear the cuckoo sing upon other men’s trees.

DUKE. It’s well yet you confess;—but, girl, thy bed

Shall not be parted with a courtesan:—

’Tis strange,

No frown of mine, no frown of the poor lady,

My abus’d child, his wife, no care of fame,

Of honour, heaven, or hell, no, not that name

Of common strumpet, can affright, or woo him

To abandon her; the harlot does undo him;

She has bewitch’d him, robb’d him of his shape,

Turn’d him into a beast, his reason’s lost;

You see he looks wild, does he not?

CAR. I ha’ noted

New moons in’s face, my lord, all full of change.

DUKE. He’s no more like unto Hippolito

Than dead men are to living; never sleeps,

Or if he do, it’s dreams; and in those dreams

His arms work, and then cries, Sweet—what’s her name?

What’s the drab’s name?

AST. In troth, my lord, I know not;

I know no drabs, not I.

DUKE. O, Bellafront——

And catching her fast, cries, My Bellafront!

CAR. A drench that’s able to kill a horse cannot kill

this disease of smock-smelling, my lord, if it have once

eaten deep.

DUKE. I’ll try all physic, and this medicine first:

I have directed warrants strong and peremptory

To purge our city Milan, and to cure

The outward parts, the suburbs, for the attaching

Of all those women who, like gold, want weight:

Cities, like ships, should have no idle freight.

CAR. No, my lord, and light wenches are no idle freight:

but what’s your grace’s reach in this?

DUKE. This, Carolo. If she whom my son dotes on

Be in that muster-book[400] enroll’d, he’ll shame

Ever t’ approach one of such noted name.

CAR. But say she be not?

DUKE. Yet on harlots’ heads

New laws shall fall so heavy, and such blows shall

Give to those that haunt them, that Hippolito,

If not for fear of law, for love to her,

If he love truly, shall her bed forbear.

CAR. Attach all the light heels i’ th’ city, and clap

'em up? why, my lord, you dive into a well unsearchable:

all the whores within the walls, and without the walls?

I would not be he should meddle with them for ten such

dukedoms; the army that you speak on is able to fill all

the prisons within this city, and to leave not a

drinking room in any tavern besides.

DUKE. Those only shall be caught that are of note;

Harlots in each street flow:

The fish being thus i’ th’ net, ourself will sit,

And with eye most severe dispose of it.—

Come, girl. [_Exeunt Duke and_ INFELICE.

CAR. Arraign the poor whore[s]!

AST. I’ll not miss that sessions.

FON. Nor I.

BER. Nor I, though I hold up my hand there myself.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Room in_ MATHEO’S _House_.

_Enter_ MATHEO, LODOVICO, _and_ ORLANDO _disguised as a

Serving-man_.

MAT. Let who will come, my noble chevalier, I can but

play the kind host, and bid 'em welcome.

LOD. We’ll trouble your house, Matheo, but as Dutchmen

do in taverns; drink, be merry, and be gone.

OR. Indeed, if you be right Dutchmen, if you fall to

drinking, you must be gone.

MAT. The worst is, my wife is not at home; but we’ll fly

high, my generous knight, for all that: there’s no music

when a woman is in the consort.[401]

OR. No, for she’s like a pair of virginals,[402] always

with jacks at her tail.

_Enter_ ASTOLFO, CAROLO, BERALDO, _and_ FONTINELL.

LOD. See, the covey is sprung.

AST. } Save you, gallants.

CAR., _&c._ }

MAT. Happily encountered, sweet bloods.

LOD. Gentlemen, you all know signor Candido the

linen-draper, he that’s more patient than a brown baker

upon the day when he heats his oven, and has forty

scolds about him.

AST. } Yes, we know him all: what of him?

CAR., _&c._ }

LOD. Would it not be a good fit of mirth to make a piece

of English cloth of him, and to stretch him on the

tenters till the threads of his own natural humour

crack, by making him drink healths, tobacco,[403] dance,

sing bawdy songs, or to run any bias according as we

think good to cast him?

CAR. 'Twere a morris-dance worth the seeing.

AST. But the old fox is so crafty, we shall hardly hunt

[him] out of his den.

MAT. To that train I ha’ given fire already; and the

hook to draw him hither is to see certain pieces of lawn

which I told him I have to sell, and indeed have such.—

Fetch them down, Pacheco.

OR. Yes, sir, I’m your water-spaniel, and will fetch any

thing—but I’ll fetch one dish of meat anon shall turn

your stomach, and that’s a constable.

[_Aside, and exit._

_Enter_ BOTS, _ushering in_ MISTRESS HORSELEECH.

AST. }

BER. } How now? how now?

FON. }

CAR. What galley-foist[404] is this?

LOD. Peace; two dishes of stewed prunes,[405] a bawd and

a pander.—My worthy lieutenant Bots, why, now I see

thou’rt a man of thy word; welcome.—Welcome, mistress

Horseleech.—Pray, gentlemen, salute this reverend

matron.

MIS. H. Thanks to all your worships.

LOD. I bade a drawer send in wine too: did none come

along with thee, grannam, but the lieutenant?

MIS. H. None came along with me but Bots, if it like

your worship.

BOTS. Who the pox should come along with you but Bots?

_Enter two Vintners with wine._

AST. }

CAR., _&c._ } O brave! march fair.

LOD. Are you come? that’s well.

MAT. Here’s ordnance able to sack a city.[406]

LOD. Come, repeat, read this inventory.

FIRST V. _Imprimis_, a pottle of Greek wine, a pottle of

Peter-sameene,[407] a pottle of Charnico,[408] and a

pottle of Leatica.[409]

LOD. You’re paid?

SEC. V. Yes, sir. [_Exeunt Vintners._

MAT. So shall some of us be anon, I fear.

BOTS. Here’s a hot day towards:[410] but, zounds, this

is the life out of which a soldier sucks sweetness! when

this artillery goes off roundly, some must drop to the

ground; cannon, demi-cannon, saker, and basilisk.[411]

LOD. Give fire, lieutenant.

BOTS. So, so, must I venture first upon the breach? To

you all, gallants; Bots sets upon you all.

[_Drinks._

AST. } It’s hard, Bots, if we pepper not you,

CAR., _&c._[412] } as well as you pepper us.

_Enter_ CANDIDO.

LOD. My noble linen-draper!—Some wine!—welcome, old

lad!

MAT. You’re welcome, signor.

CAN. These lawns, sir?

MAT. Presently; my man is gone for them. We ha’ rigged a

fleet, you see, here, to sail about the world.

CAN. A dangerous voyage, sailing in such ships.

BOTS. There’s no casting overboard yet.

LOD. Because you are an old lady, I will have you be

acquainted with this grave citizen; pray, bestow your

lips upon him, and bid him welcome.

MIS. H. Any citizen shall be most welcome to me.—I have

used to buy ware at your shop.

CAN. It may be so, good madam.

MIS. H. Your prentices know my dealings well. I trust

your good wife be in good case: if it please you, bear

her a token from my lips, by word of mouth.

[_Kisses him._

CAN. I pray, no more; forsooth, ’tis very well;

Indeed I love no sweetmeats.—Sh’as a breath

Stinks worse than fifty polecats. [_Aside._]—Sir, a

word;

Is she a lady?

LOD. A woman of a good house and an ancient; she’s a

bawd.

CAN. A bawd?—Sir, I’ll steal hence, and see your lawns

Some other time.

MAT. Steal out of such company? Pacheco, my man, is but

gone for 'em.—Lieutenant Bots, drink to this worthy old

fellow, and teach him to fly high.

LOD. } Swagger, and make him do’t

AST., _&c._ } on his knees.

CAN. How, Bots? now, bless me, what do I with Bots?

No wine, in sooth, no wine, good master Bots.

BOTS. Grey-beard, goat’s-pizzle, ’tis a health: have

this in your guts, or this there [_touching his sword_]:

I will sing a bawdy song, sir, because your verjuice

face is melancholy, to make liquor go down glib. Will

you fall on your marrow-bones, and pledge this health?

’tis to my mistress, a whore.

CAN. Here’s ratsbane upon ratsbane.—Master Bots,

I pray, sir, pardon me: you are a soldier,

Press me not to this service; I am old,

And shoot not in such pot-guns.

BOTS. Cap,[413] I’ll teach you.

CAN. To drink healths is to drink sickness.—Gentlemen,

Pray rescue me.

BOTS. Zounds, who dare?

LOD. }

AST., _&c._ }

CAN. I ha’ reckonings to cast up, good master Bots.

BOTS. This will make you cast 'em up better.

LOD. Why does your hand shake so?

CAN. The palsy, signors, danceth in my blood.

BOTS. Pipe with a pox, sir, then, or I’ll make your

blood dance——

CAN. Hold, hold, good master Bots, I drink.

[_Kneels._[414]

LOD. }

AST., _&c._ } To whom?

CAN. To the old countess there. [_Drinks._

MIS. H. To me, old boy?—This is he that never drunk

wine!—Once again to’t.

CAN. With much ado the poison is got down,

Though I can scarce get up; never before

Drank I a whore’s health, nor will never more.

_Re-enter_ ORLANDO _with lawns_.

MAT. Hast been at gallows?

OR. Yes, sir, for I make account to suffer to-day.

MAT. Look, signor; here’s the commodity.

CAN. Your price?

MAT. Thus.[415]

CAN. No, too dear: thus.

MAT. No? O fie, you must fly higher: yet take 'em home;

trifles shall not make us quarrel; we’ll agree, you

shall have them, and a pennyworth; I’ll fetch money at

your shop.

CAN. Be it so, good signor; send me going.

MAT. Going?—A deep bowl of wine for signor Candido!

OR. He would be going.

CAN. I’ll rather stay than go so: stop your bowl.

_Enter Constable and Billmen._[416]

LOD. How now?

BOTS. Is’t Shrove Tuesday,[417] that these ghosts walk?

MAT. What’s your business, sir?

CON. From the duke: you are the man we look for, signor;

I have warrant here from the duke to apprehend you upon

felony for robbing two pedlars: I charge you i’ th’

duke’s name go quickly.

MAT. Is the wind turned? well: this is that old wolf my

father-in-law.—Seek out your mistress, sirrah.

OR. Yes, sir.—As shafts by piecing are made strong,

So shall thy life be straighten’d by this wrong.

[_Aside, and exit._

LOD. } In troth, we are sorry.

AST., _&c._ }

MAT. Brave men must be crost; pish, it’s but fortune’s

dice roving against me.—Come, sir, pray use me like a

gentleman; let me not be carried through the streets

like a pageant.

CON. If these gentlemen please, you shall go along with

them.

LOD. } Be’t so: come.

AST., _&c._ }

CON. What are you, sir?

BOTS. I, sir? sometimes a figure, sometimes a cipher, as

the state has occasion to cast up her accounts: I’m a

soldier.

CON. Your name is Bots, is’t not?

BOTS. Bots is my name; Bots is known to this company.

CON. I know you are, sir.—What’s she?

BOTS. A gentlewoman, my mother.

CON. Take 'em both along.

BOTS. Me, sir?[418]

BILL. And, sir.

CON. If he swagger, raise the street.

BOTS. Gentlemen, gentlemen, whither will you drag us?

LOD. To the garden-house. Bots, are we even with you?

CON. To Bridewell with 'em.

BOTS. You will answer this.

CON. Better than a challenge; I’ve warrant for my

work, sir.

LOD. We’ll go before.

CON. Pray, do.—

[_Exeunt_ MATHEO _with_ LOD., AST., CAR., BER.

_and_ FONT.; BOTS _and_ MIS. H. _with Billmen_.

Who, signor Candido? a citizen

Of your degree consorted thus, and revelling

In such a house?

CAN. Why, sir, what house, I pray?

CON. Lewd, and defam’d.

CAN. Is’t so? thanks, sir: I’m gone.

CON. What have you there?

CAN. Lawns which I bought, sir, of the gentleman

That keeps the house.

CON. And I have warrant here

To search for such stoln ware: these lawns are stoln.

CAN. Indeed!

CON. So he’s the thief, you the receiver:

I’m sorry for this chance, I must commit you.

CAN. Me, sir? for what?

CON. These goods are found upon you,

And you must answer’t.

CAN. Must I so?

CON. Most certain.

CAN. I’ll send for bail.

CON. I dare not: yet, because

You are a citizen of worth, you shall not

Be made a pointing stock, but without guard

Pass only with myself.

CAN. To Bridewell too?

CON. No remedy.

CAN. Yes, patience: being not mad,

They had me once to Bedlam: now I’m drawn

To Bridewell, loving no whores.

CON. You will buy lawn! [_Exeunt._

ACT V. SCENE I.

_A Street._

_Enter on one side_ HIPPOLITO, _on the other_ LODOVICO,

ASTOLFO, CAROLO, BERALDO, _and_ FONTINELL.

LOD. Yonder’s the lord Hippolito; by any means leave

him and me together; now will I turn him to a madman.

AST. } Save you, my lord.

CAR., _&c._ }

[_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO _and_ LODOVICO.

LOD. I ha’ strange news to tell you.

HIP. What are they?

LOD. Your mare’s i’ th’ pound.

HIP. How’s this?

LOD. Your nightingale is in a lime-bush.

HIP. Ha!

LOD. Your puritanical Honest Whore sits in a blue

gown.[419]

HIP. Blue gown?

LOD. She’ll chalk out your way to her now; she beats

chalk.

HIP. Where? who dares——

LOD. Do you know the brick-house of castigation, by the

river-side that runs by Milan? the school where they

pronounce no letter well but O?

HIP. I know it not.

LOD. Any man that has borne office of constable, or any

woman[420] that has fallen from a horse-load to a

cart-load, or like an old hen that has had none but

rotten eggs in her nest, can direct you to her: there

you shall see your punk amongst her back-friends,

There you may have her at your will,

For there she beats chalk, or grinds in the mill,[421]

With a whip, deedle, deedle, deedle, deedle.

Ah, little monkey!

HIP. What rogue durst serve that warrant, knowing I

lov’d her?

LOD. Some worshipful rascal, I lay my life.

HIP. I’ll beat the lodgings down about their ears

That are her keepers.

LOD. So you may bring an old house over her head.

HIP. I’ll to her,

I’ll to her, stood arm’d fiends to guard the doors!

[_Exit._

LOD. O me, what monsters are men made by whores!

If this false fire do kindle him, there’s one faggot

More to the bonfire. Now to my Bridewell-birds;

What song will they sing? [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_An Apartment in Bridewell._

_Enter_ DUKE, INFELICE, CAROLO, ASTOLFO, BERALDO,

FONTINELL, _and several Masters of Bridewell_.

DUKE. Your Bridewell?[422] that the name? for beauty,

strength,

Capacity and form of ancient building,

Besides the river’s neighbourhood, few houses

Wherein we keep our court can better it.

FIRST MAS. Hither from foreign courts have princes

come,

And with our duke did acts of state commence;

Here that great cardinal had first audience,

The grave Campayne; that duke dead, his son,

That famous prince, gave free possession

Of this his palace to the citizens,

To be the poor man’s warehouse, and endow’d it

With lands to th’ value of seven hundred mark[s],[423]

With all the bedding and the furniture, once proper,

As the lands then were, to an hospital

Belonging to a duke of Savoy. Thus

Fortune can toss the world; a prince’s court

Is thus a prison now.

DUKE. ’Tis fortune’s sport:

These changes common are; the wheel of fate

Turns kingdoms up, till they fall desolate.

But how are these seven hundred marks by th’ year

Employ’d in this your workhouse?

FIRST MAS. War and peace

Feed both upon those lands: when the iron doors

Of war[424] burst open, from this house are sent

Men furnish’d in all martial complement.

The moon hath through her bow scarce drawn to th’ head,

Like to twelve silver arrows, all the months,

Since sixteen hundred soldiers went aboard.

Here providence and charity play such parts,

The house is like a very school of arts;

For when our soldiers, like ships driven from sea,

With ribs all broken and with tatter’d sides,

Cast anchor here again, their ragged backs

How often do we cover! that, like men,

They may be sent to their own homes agen.[425]

All here are but one swarm of bees, and strive

To bring with wearied thighs honey to the hive.

The sturdy beggar and the lazy lown

Gets here hard hands or lac’d correction.

The vagabond grows staid, and learns t’ obey;

The drone is beaten well, and sent away.

As other prisons are, some for the thief,

Some by which undone credit gets relief

From bridled debtors, others for the poor;

So this is for the bawd, the rogue, and whore.

CAR. An excellent team of horse!

FIRST MAS. Nor is it seen

That the whip draws blood here, to cool the spleen

Of any rugged bencher, nor does offence

Feel smart on[426] spiteful or rash evidence;

But pregnant testimony forth must stand

Ere justice leave them in the beadle’s hand.

As iron, on the anvil are they laid,

Not to take blows alone, but to be made

And fashion’d to some charitable use.

DUKE. Thus wholesom’st laws spring from the worst

abuse.

_Enter_ ORLANDO _disguised as a Serving-man, and_[427]

BELLAFRONT.

BEL. Let mercy touch your heart-strings, gracious lord,

That it may sound like music in the ear

Of a man desperate, being i’ th’ hands of law!

DUKE. His name?

BEL. Matheo.

DUKE. For a robbery?

Where is he?[428]

BEL. In this house.

DUKE. Fetch you him hither.—

[_Exeunt Second Master and_ BELLAFRONT.

Is this the party?

OR. This is the hen, my lord, that the cock with the

lordly comb, your son-in-law, would crow over and tread.

DUKE. Are your two servants ready?

OR. My two pedlars are packed together, my good lord.

DUKE. ’Tis well: this day in judgment shall be spent:

Vice, like a wound lanc’d, mends by punishment.

INF. Let me be gone, my lord, or stand unseen;

’Tis rare when a judge strikes, and that none die,

And ’tis unfit then women should be by.

FIRST MAS. We’ll place you, lady, in some private

room.

INF. Pray do so.

[_Exit with First Master, who presently returns._

OR. Thus nice dames swear, it is unfit their eyes

Should view men carv’d up for anatomies,[429]

Yet they’ll see all, so they may stand unseen:

Many women sure will sin behind a screen.

_Enter_ LODOVICO.

LOD. Your son, the lord Hippolito, is enter’d.

DUKE. Tell him we wish his presence. A word,

Sforza;[430]

On what wings flew he hither?

LOD. These; I told him his lark whom he loved was a

Bridewell-bird; he’s mad that this cage should hold her,

and is come to let her out.

DUKE. ’Tis excellent: away, go call him hither.

[_Exit_ LODOVICO.

_Re-enter on one side Second Master and_ BELLAFRONT,

_with_ MATHEO _and Constable; on the other_,

LODOVICO _with_ HIPPOLITO. ORLANDO _goes out and

returns with two of his servants disguised as

pedlars_.

DUKE. You are to us a stranger, worthy lord;

’Tis strange to see you here.

HIP. It is most fit,

That where the sun goes, atomies[431] follow it.

DUKE. Atomies neither shape nor honour bear:

Be you yourself, a sunbeam to shine clear.—

Is this the gentleman? stand forth and hear

Your accusation.

MAT. I’ll hear none; I fly high in that: rather than

kites shall seize upon me, and pick out mine eyes to my

face, I’ll strike my talons thorough mine own heart

first, and spit my blood in theirs. I am here for

shriving those two fools of their sinful pack: when

those jackdaws have cawed over me, then must I cry

guilty, or not guilty; the law has work enough already,

and therefore I’ll put no work of mine into his hands;

the hangman shall ha’t first: I did pluck those ganders,

did rob them.

DUKE. ’Tis well done to confess.

MAT. Confess and be hanged, and then I fly high,—is’t

not so? that for that; a gallows is the worst rub that a

good bowler can meet with; I stumbled against such a

post, else this night I had played the part of a true

son in these days, undone my father-in-law; with him

would I ha’ run at leap-frog, and come over his gold,

though I had broke his neck for’t: but the poor

salmon-trout is now in the net.

HIP. And now the law must teach you to fly high.

MAT. Right, my lord, and then may you fly low; no more

words:—a mouse, mum, you are stopt.

BEL. Be good to my poor husband, dear my lords!

MAT. Ass!

Why shouldst thou pray them to be good to me,

When no man here is good to one another?

DUKE. Did any hand work in this theft but yours?

MAT. O yes, my lord, yes: the hangman has never one son

at a birth, his children always come by couples: though

I cannot give the old dog my father a bone to gnaw, the

daughter shall be sure of a choke-pear. Yes, my lord,

there was one more that fiddled my fine pedlars, and

that was my wife.

BEL. Alas, I?

OR. O everlasting, supernatural, superlative villain!

[_Aside._]

DUKE, } Your wife Matheo?

LOD., _&c._ }

HIP. Sure it cannot be.

MAT. O, sir, you love no quarters of mutton that hang

up, you love none but whole mutton. She set the robbery,

I performed it; she spurred me on, I galloped away.

OR. My lords——

BEL. My lords—fellow, give me speech—if my poor life

May ransom thine, I yield it to the law.

Thou hurt’st thy soul, yet wip’st off no offence,

By casting blots upon my innocence:

Let not these spare me, but tell truth: no, see

Who slips his neck out of the misery,

Though not out of the mischief: let thy servant,

That shar’d in this base act, accuse me here:

Why should my husband perish, he go clear?

OR. A good child, hang thine own father! [_Aside._

DUKE. Old fellow, was thy hand in too?

OR. My hand was in the pie, my lord, I confess it: my

mistress, I see, will bring me to the gallows, and so

leave me; but I’ll not leave her so: I had rather hang

in a woman’s company than in a man’s; because if we

should go to hell together, I should scarce be letten

in, for all the devils are afraid to have any women come

amongst them; as I am true thief, she neither consented

to this felony nor knew of it.

DUKE. What fury prompts thee on to kill thy wife?

MAT. It’s my humour, sir; ’tis a foolish bagpipe that I

make myself merry with: why should I eat hemp-seed at

the hangman’s thirteenpence-halfpenny ordinary, and have

this whore laugh at me as I swing, as I totter?

DUKE. Is she a whore?

MAT. A sixpenny mutton pasty[432] for any to cut up.

OR. Ah, toad, toad, toad! [_Aside._

MAT. A barber’s cittern[433] for every serving-man to

play upon: that lord your son knows it.

HIP. I, sir? am I her bawd then?

MAT. No, sir, but she’s your whore then.

OR. Yea, spider, dost catch at great flies? [_Aside._

HIP. My whore?

MAT. I cannot talk, sir, and tell of your rems, and your

rees, and your whirligigs and devices,—but, my lord, I

found 'em like sparrows in one nest, billing together,

and bulling of me: I took 'em in bed, was ready to kill

him, was up to stab her——

HIP. Close thy rank jaws;—pardon me, I am vex’d,—

Thou art a villain, a malicious devil!

Deep as the place where thou art lost, thou liest!

Since I am thus far got into this storm,

I’ll through, and thou shalt see I’ll through untouch’d,

When thou shalt perish in it.

_Re-enter_ INFELICE.

INF. ’Tis my cue

To enter now.—Room, let my prize be play’d![434]

I ha’ lurk’d in clouds, yet heard what all have said:

What jury more can prove sh’as wrong’d my bed

Than her own husband? she must be punished;

I challenge law, my lord; letters, and gold,

And jewels from my lord that woman took.

HIP. Against that black-mouth’d devil, 'gainst letters

and gold,

And 'gainst a jealous wife, I do uphold

Thus far her reputation; I could sooner

Shake th’ Appenine, and crumble rocks to dust,

Than, though Jove’s shower rain’d down, tempt her to

lust.

BEL. What shall I say?

OR. [_throwing off his disguise_] Say thou art not a

whore, and that’s more than fifteen women amongst five

hundred dare swear without lying: this shalt thou say—

no, let me say’t for thee—thy husband’s a knave, this

lord’s an honest man; thou art no punk, this lady’s a

right lady; Pacheco is a thief as his master is, but old

Orlando is as true a man as thy father is.—I ha’ seen

you fly high, sir, and I ha’ seen you fly low, sir; and

to keep you from the gallows, sir, a blue coat have I

worn, and a thief did I turn; mine own men are the

pedlars: my twenty pound did fly high, sir, your wife’s

gown did fly low, sir: whither fly you now, sir? you ha’

scaped the gallows, to the devil you fly next, sir.—Am I

right, my liege?

DUKE. Your father has the true physician play’d.

MAT. And I am now his patient.

HIP. And be so still:

’Tis a good sign when our cheeks blush at ill.

CON. The linen-draper, signor Candido,

He whom the city terms the patient man,

Is likewise here for buying of those lawns

The pedlars lost.

INF. Alas, good Candido!

DUKE. Fetch him [_exit Constable_]: and when these

payments up are cast,

Weigh out your light gold, but let’s have them last.

_Enter_ CANDIDO _with Constable, who presently goes

out_.

In Bridewell, Candido?

CAN. Yes, my good lord.

DUKE. What make you here?

CAN. My lord, what make you here?

DUKE. I’m here to save right, and to drive wrong

hence.

CAN. And I to bear wrong here with patience.

DUKE. You ha’ bought stoln goods.

CAN. So they do say, my lord;

Yet bought I them upon a gentleman’s word;

And I imagine now, as I thought then,

That there be thieves, but no thieves gentlemen.

HIP. Your credit’s crack’d being here.

CAN. No more than gold

Being crack’d, which does his estimation hold.

I was in Bedlam once, but was I mad?

They made me pledge whores’ healths, but am I bad

Because I’m with bad people?

DUKE. Well, stand by:

If you take wrong, we’ll cure the injury.

_Re-enter Constable, after him_ BOTS, _then two Beadles,

one with hemp, the other with a beetle_.[435]

Stay, stay: what’s he? a prisoner?

CON. Yes, my lord.

HIP. He seems a soldier.

BOTS. I am what I seem, sir, one of fortune’s bastards,

a soldier and a gentleman, and am brought in here with

master constable’s band of billmen,[436] because

they face me down that I live, like those that keep

bowling-alleys, by the sins of the people, in being a

squire of the body.[437]

HIP. O, an apple-squire.[438]

BOTS. Yes, sir, that degree of scurvy squires, and that

I am maintained by the best part that is commonly in a

woman, by the worst players of those parts; but I am

known to all this company.

LOD. My lord, ’tis true, we all know him, ’tis

lieutenant Bots.

DUKE. Bots?—And where ha’ you served, Bots?

BOTS. In most of your hottest services in the Low

Countries: at the Groyne I was wounded in this thigh,

and halted upon’t, but ’tis now sound; in Cleveland I

missed but little having the bridge of my nose broken

down with two great stones as I was scaling a fort: I

ha’ been tried, sir, too, in Guelderland, and scaped

hardly there from being blown up at a breach; I was

fired, and lay i’ th’ surgeon’s hands for’t till the

fall of the leaf following.

HIP. All this may be, and yet you no soldier.

BOTS. No soldier, sir? I hope these are services that

your proudest commanders do venture upon, and never come

off sometimes.

DUKE. Well, sir, because you say you are a soldier,

I’ll use you like a gentleman.—Make room there,

Plant him amongst you; we shall have anon

Strange hawks fly here before us: if none light

On you, you shall with freedom take your flight;

But if you prove a bird of baser wing,

We’ll use you like such birds, here you shall sing.

BOTS. I wish to be tried at no other weapon.

DUKE. Why is he furnish’d with those implements?

FIRST MAS. The pander is more dangerous to a state

Than is the common thief; and though our laws

Lie heavier on the thief, yet, that the pander

May know the hangman’s ruff should fit him too,

Therefore he’s set to beat hemp.

DUKE. This does savour

Of justice; basest slaves to basest labour.

Now, pray, set open hell, and let us see

The she-devils that are here.

INF. Methinks this place

Should make even Lais honest.

FIRST MAS. Some it turns good;

But as some men, whose hands are once in blood,

Do in a pride spill more, so some going hence,

Are, by being here, lost in more impudence.

Let it not to them, when they come, appear

That any one does as their judge sit here,

But that as gentlemen you come to see,

And then perhaps their tongues will walk more free.

DUKE. Let them be marshall’d in.

[_Exeunt First and Second Masters, Constable,

and Beadles._

Be cover’d all,

Fellows, now to make the scene more comical.

CAR. Will not you be smelt out, Bots?

BOTS. No; your bravest whores have the worst noses.

_Re-enter First and Second Masters and Constable,

then_ DOROTHEA TARGET, _brave;[439] after her two

Beadles, the one with a wheel, the other with a

blue gown_.[440]

LOD. Are not you a bride, forsooth?

DOR. Say ye?

CAR. He would know if these be not your bride-men.

DOR. Vuh, yes, sir; and look ye, do you see? the

bride-laces that I give at my wedding will serve to tie

rosemary[441] to both your coffins when you come from

hanging,—scab!

OR. Fie, punk! fie, fie, fie!

DOR. Out, you stale, stinking head of garlic, foh, at my

heels!

OR. My head’s cloven.

HIP. O, let the gentlewoman alone, she’s going to

shrift.

AST. Nay, to do penance.

CAR. Ay, ay; go, punk, go to the Cross and be whipt.

DOR. Marry mew, marry muff,[442] marry hang you, goodman

dog! whipt? do ye take me for a base spittle[443] whore?

In troth, gentlemen, you wear the clothes of gentlemen,

but you carry not the minds of gentlemen, to abuse a

gentlewoman of my fashion.

LOD. Fashion? pox a’ your fashions! art not a whore?

DOR. Goodman slave!

DUKE. O fie, abuse her not; let us two talk.—

What mought[444] I call your name, pray?

DOR. I’m not ashamed of my name, sir; my name is

mistress Doll Target, a western gentlewoman.

LOD. Her target against any pike in Milan!

DUKE. Why is this wheel borne after her?

FIRST MAS. She must spin.

DOR. A coarse thread it shall be, as all threads are.

AST. If you spin, then you’ll earn money here too?

DOR. I had rather get half-a-crown abroad than ten

crowns here.

OR. Abroad? I think so.

INF. Dost thou not weep now thou art here?

DOR. Say ye? weep? yes, forsooth, as you did when you

lost your maidenhead; do you not hear how I weep?

[_Sings._

LOD. Farewell, Doll!

DOR. Farewell, dog! [_Exit with Beadles._

DUKE. Past shame, past penitence! Why is that blue

gown?

FIRST MAS. Being stript out of her wanton loose

attire,

That garment she puts on, base to the eye,

Only to clothe her in humility.

DUKE. Are all the rest like this?

FIRST MAS. No, my good lord;

You see this drab swells with a wanton rein,

The next that enters has a different strain.

DUKE. Variety is good; let’s see the rest.

[_Exeunt First and Second Masters and Constable._

BOTS. Your grace sees I’m sound yet, and no bullets hit

me.

DUKE. Come off so, and ’tis well.

LOD. } Here’s the second mess.

AST., _&c._ }

_Re-enter First and Second Masters and Constable;

then_ PENELOPE WHOREHOUND, _dressed like a

citizen’s wife; after her two Beadles, one with a

blue gown, another with chalk[445] and a mallet_.

PEN. I ha’ worn many a costly gown, but I was never

thus guarded[446] with blue coats and beadles and

constables and——

CAR. Alas, fair mistress, spoil not thus your eyes!

PEN. O sweet sir, I fear the spoiling of other places

about me that are dearer than my eyes! If you be

gentlemen, if you be men, or ever came of a woman, pity

my case! stand to me, stick to me, good sir, you are an

old man!

OR. Hang not on me, I prithee; old trees bear no such

fruit.

PEN. Will you bail me, gentlemen?

LOD. Bail thee? art in for debt?

PEN. No; God[447] is my judge, sir, I am in for no

debts; I paid my tailor for this gown the last five

shillings a-week that was behind yesterday.

DUKE. What is your name, I pray?

PEN. Penelope Whorehound, I come of the Whorehounds.—How

does lieutenant Bots?

LOD. } Aha, Bots!

AST., _&c._ }

BOTS. A very honest woman, as I’m a soldier,—a pox Bots

ye!

PEN. I was never in this pickle before; and yet, if I go

amongst citizens’ wives, they jeer at me; if I go among

the loose-bodied gowns,[448] they cry a pox on me,

because I go civilly attired, and swear their trade was

a good trade till such as I am took it out of their

hands. Good lieutenant Bots, speak to these captains to

bail me.

FIRST MAS. Begging for bail still? you are a trim

gossip.

Go give her the blue gown; set her to her chare.[449]

Work, huswife, for your bread; away!

PEN. Out, you dog!—a pox on you all!—women are born

to curse thee—but I shall live to see twenty such

flat-caps[450] shaking dice for a pennyworth of

pippins—out, you blue-eyed rogue!

[_Exit with Beadles._

LOD. } Ha, ha, ha!

AST., _&c._ }

DUKE. Even now she wept and pray’d; now does she curse?

FIRST MAS. Seeing me; if still sh’ad stay’d, this had

been worse.

HIP. Was she ever here before?

FIRST MAS. Five times at least; And thus if men come to

her have her eyes Wrung and wept out her bail.

LOD. } Bots, you know her!

AST., _&c._ }

BOTS. Is there any gentleman here that knows not a

whore, and is he a hair the worse for that?

DUKE. Is she a city-dame, she’s so attir’d?

FIRST MAS. No, my good lord, that’s only but the veil

To her loose body; I have seen her here

In gayer masking suits: as several sauces

Give one dish several tastes, so change of habits

In whores is a bewitching art; to-day

She’s all in colours to besot gallants, then

In modest black to catch the citizen;

And this from their examination’s drawn.

Now shall you see a monster both in shape

And nature quite from these, that sheds no tear,

Nor yet is nice, ’tis a plain ramping bear;

Many such whales are cast upon this shore.

DUKE, } Let’s see her.

LOD., _&c._ }

FIRST MAS. Then behold a swaggering whore.

[_Exeunt First and Second Masters and Constable._

OR. Keep your ground, Bots.

BOTS. I do but traverse to spy advantage how to arm

myself.

_Re-enter First and Second Masters and Constable, after

them a Beadle beating a basin,[451] then_ CATHERINA

BOUNTINALL _with_ MISTRESS HORSELEECH, _after them

another Beadle with a blue head guarded[452] with

yellow_.

CATH. Sirrah, when I cry hold your hands, hold, you

rogue-catcher, hold.—Bawd, are the French chilblains in

your heels, that you can come no faster? are not you,

bawd, a whore’s ancient,[453] and must not I follow my

colours?

MIS. H. O mistress Catherine, you do me wrong to accuse

me here as you do, before the right worshipful! I am

known for a motherly honest woman, and no bawd.

CATH. Marry, foh, honest? burnt at fourteen, seven times

whipt, six times carted, nine times ducked, searched by

some hundred and fifty constables, and yet you are

honest! honest mistress Horseleech! is this world a

world to keep bawds and whores honest? how many times

hast thou given gentlemen a quart of wine in a gallon

pot? how many twelve-penny fees, nay, two-shillings

fees, nay, when any ambassadors ha’ been here, how many

half-crown fees hast thou taken? how many carriers hast

thou bribed for country wenches? how often have I rinced

your lungs in _aqua vitæ_?[454] and yet you are honest!

DUKE. And what were you the whilst?

CATH. Marry, hang you, master slave, who made you an

examiner?

LOD. Well said! belike this devil spares no man.

CATH. What art thou, prithee?

BOTS. Nay, what art thou, prithee?

CATH. A whore: art thou a thief?

BOTS. A thief? no, I defy[455] the calling; I am a

soldier, have borne arms in the field, been in many a

hot skirmish, yet come off sound.

CATH. Sound, with a pox to ye, ye abominable rogue! you

a soldier! you in skirmishes! where? amongst pottle-pots

in a bawdy-house?—Look, look here, you madam Wormeaten,

do not you know him?

MIS. H. Lieutenant Bots, where have ye been this many a

day?

BOTS. Old bawd, do not discredit me, seem not to know

me.

MIS. H. Not to know ye, master Bots? as long as I have

breath I cannot forget thy sweet face.

DUKE. Why, do you know him? he says he is a soldier.

CATH. He a soldier? a pander, a dog that will lick up

sixpence. Do ye hear, you master swine’s-snout, how long

is’t since you held the door for me, and cried, To’t

again, nobody comes! ye rogue you?

LOD. } Ha, ha, ha! you’re smelt out again, Bots.

AST., _&c._ }

BOTS. Pox ruin her nose for’t! and[456] I be not

revenged for this—um, ye bitch!

LOD. D'ye hear ye, madam? why does your ladyship swagger

thus? you’re very brave,[457] methinks.

CATH. Not at your cost, master cod’s-head. Is any man

here blear-eyed to see me brave?

AST. Yes, I am; because good clothes upon a whore’s back

is like fair painting upon a rotten wall.

CATH. Marry muff,[458] master whoremaster! you come upon

me with sentences.

BER. By this light has small sense for’t.

LOD. O fie, fie, do not vex her! and yet methinks a

creature of more scurvy conditions should not know what

a good petticoat were.

CATH. Marry, come out, you’re so busy about my

petticoat, you’ll creep up to my placket,[459] and[460]

ye could but attain the honour: but and[460] the

outsides offend your rogueships, look o’ the lining,

’tis silk.

DUKE. Is’t silk ’tis lined with, then?

CATH. Silk? ay, silk, master slave; you would be glad to

wipe your nose with the skirt on’t. This ’tis to come

among a company of cod’s-heads, that know not how to use

a gentlewoman!

DUKE. Tell her the duke is here.

FIRST MAS. Be modest, Kate, the duke is here.

CATH. If the devil were here, I care not.—Set forward,

ye rogues, and give attendance according to your places!

let bawds and whores be sad, for I’ll sing and[460] the

devil were a-dying.

[_Exit with_ MISTRESS HORSELEECH _and Beadles_.

DUKE. Why before her does the basin ring?

FIRST MAS. It is an emblem of their revelling.

The whips we use let[461] forth their wanton blood,

Making them calm; and, more to calm their pride,

Instead of coaches they in carts do ride.

Will your grace see more of this bad ware?

DUKE. No, shut up shop, we’ll now break up the fair:

Yet ere we part—you, sir, that take upon ye

The name of soldier, that true name of worth,

Which action, not vain boasting, best sets forth,

To let you know how far a soldier’s name

Stands from your title, and to let you see

Soldiers must not be wrong’d where princes be,

This be your sentence.

LOD. } Defend yourself, Bots!

AST., _&c._ }

DUKE. First, all the private sufferance that the house

Inflicts upon offenders, you, as the basest,

Shall undergo it double; after which

You shall be whipt, sir, round about the city,

Then banish’d from the land.

BOTS. Beseech your grace!

DUKE. Away with him, see’t done.

[_Exit_ BOTS _with Constable_.

Panders and whores

Are city-plagues, which being kept alive,

Nothing that looks like goodness e’er can thrive.—

Now, good Orlando, what say you to your bad son-in-law?

OR. Marry, this, my lord; he is my son-in-law, and in

law will I be his father, for if law can pepper him, he

shall be so parboiled, that he shall stink no more i’

th’ nose of the commonwealth.

BEL. Be yet more kind and merciful, good father!

OR. Dost thou beg for him, thou precious man’s meat,

thou? has he not beaten thee, kicked thee, trod on thee?

and dost thou fawn on him like his spaniel? has he not

pawned thee to thy petticoat, sold thee to thy smock,

made ye leap at a crust? yet would’st have me save him?

BEL. O yes, good sir! women shall learn of me

To love their husbands in greatest misery;

Then shew him pity, or you wreck myself.

OR. Have ye eaten pigeons, that you’re so kind-hearted

to your mate? Nay, you’re a couple of wild bears, I’ll

have ye both baited at one stake: but as for this

knave,—the gallows is thy due, and the gallows thou

shalt have; I’ll have justice of the duke, the law

shall have thy life.—What, dost thou hold him? let go

his hand: if thou dost not forsake him, a father’s

everlasting blessing fall upon both your heads! Away,

go, kiss out of my sight; play thou the whore no more,

nor thou the thief again, my house shall be thine, my

meat shall be thine, and so shall my wine, but my

money shall be mine, and yet when I die, so thou dost

not fly high, take all;

Yet, good Matheo, mend.[462]

Thus for joy weeps Orlando, and doth end.

DUKE. Then hear, Matheo: all[463] your woes are stay’d

By your good father-in-law; all your ills

Are clear purg’d from you by his working pills.—

Come, signor Candido, these green young wits,

We see by circumstance, this plot have[464] laid,

Still to provoke thy patience, which they find

A wall of brass; no armour’s like the mind:

Thou’st taught the city patience; now our court

Shall be thy sphere, where from thy good report,

Rumours this truth unto the world shall sing,

A patient man’s a pattern for a king.

[_Exeunt omnes._

`

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE WITCH.

_A Tragi-Coomodie, called The Witch; Long since acted by His Ma^{ties}

Servants at the Black-Friers. Written by Tho. Middleton._

The MS., from which this drama is now given, forms part of Malone’s

Collection in the Bodleian Library, Oxford. In 1778 a small impression of

_The Witch_ was printed by Isaac Reed, for distribution among his friends:

it was intended to exhibit the original text _verbatim et literatim_; but

from a collation which was obligingly made for me by the Rev. Stephen Reay,

I find that it is not without some errors and omissions.

On the disputed question, whether this drama was composed before or after

the appearance of Shakespeare’s _Macbeth_, see the Account of Middleton and

his writings.

Some of the incidents in _The Witch_ were suggested by the following

passage of Machiavel’s _Florentine History_. “Their [the Lombards’] kingdom

descending upon Alboinus a bold and warlike man, they passed the Danube,

and encountering Comundus King of the Lepides then possessed of Pannonia,

overthrew and slew him. Amongst the captives Alboinus finds Rosamund the

daughter of Comundus, and taking her to wife becomes Lord of Pannonia; but

out of a brutish fierceness in his nature, he makes a drinking cup of

Comundus’s skull, and out of it used to carouse in memory of that victory.

Invited now by Narsetes, with whom he had been in league during the Gothick

war, he leaves Pannonia to the Huns, who, as we have said, were after the

death of Attila returned into their own Countrey, and comes into Italy,

which finding so strangely divided, he in an instant possesses himself of

Pavia, Milan, Verona, Vicenza, all Tuscany, and the greatest part of

Flaminia, at this day called Romania. So that by these great and sudden

victories judging himself already Conquerour of Italy, he makes a solemn

feast at Verona, and in the heat of wine growing merry, causes Comundus’s

skull to be filled full of wine, and would needs have it presented to Queen

Rosamund, who sate at table over against him, telling her so loud that all

might hear, that in such a time of mirth he would have her drink with her

father; those words were as so many darts in the poor ladies bosome, and

consulting with revenge, she bethought her self, how Almachildis a noble

Lombard, young and valiant, courted one of the Ladies of her bed-chamber;

with her she contrives that she should promise Almachildis the kindness of

admitting him by night to her chamber; and Almachildis according to her

assignation being received into a dark room, lyes with the Queen, whilest

he thought he lay with the Lady, who after the fact discovers herself,

offering to his choice either the killing of Alboinus and enjoying her and

the Crown, or the being made his sacrifice for defiling his bed.

Almachildis consents to kill Alboinus; but they seeing afterwards their

designs of seizing the kingdom prove unsuccessful, nay rather fearing to be

put to death by the Lombards (such love bore they to Alboinus) they fled

with all the Royal Treasure to Longinus at Ravenna,” &c. _English

translation_, 1674, pp. 17, 18.

See also _Histoires Tragiques_ de Belleforest, 1616, t. iv. Hist. lxxiii.

TO THE

TRULY WORTHY AND GENEROUSLY AFFECTED

THOMAS HOLMES, ESQUIRE.

NOBLE SIR,

As a true testimony of my ready inclination to your service, I have,

merely upon a taste of your desire, recovered[465] into my hands, though

not without much difficulty, this ignorantly ill-fated labour of mine.

Witches are, _ipso facto_, by the law condemned, and that only, I think,

hath made her lie so long in an imprisoned obscurity. For your sake alone

she hath thus far conjured herself abroad, and bears no other charms about

her but what may tend to your recreation, nor no other spell but to possess

you with a belief, that as she, so he that first taught her to enchant,

will always be

Your devoted

THO. MIDDLETON.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

_Duke._

_Lord Governor of Ravenna._

SEBASTIAN, _contracted to Isabella_.

FERNANDO, _his friend_.

ANTONIO, _husband to Isabella_.

ABERZANES, } _gentlemen_.

ALMACHILDES, }

GASPARO, }

HERMIO, } _servants to Antonio_.

FIRESTONE, _Hecate’s son_.

_Servants, &c._

_Duchess._

ISABELLA, _wife to Antonio, and niece to the governor_.

FRANCISCA, _sister to Antonio_.

AMORETTA, _the duchess’s woman_.

FLORIDA, _a courtesan_.

HECATE, _the chief witch_.

STADLIN, }

HOPPO, } _witches_.

_Other Witches, &c._

Scene, RAVENNA and its neighbourhood.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE WITCH.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_An Apartment in the House of the Lord Governor: a

banquet set out._

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ FERNANDO.

SEB. My three years spent in war has now undone

My peace for ever.

FER. Good, be patient, sir.

SEB. She is my wife by contract before heaven

And all the angels, sir.

FER. I do believe you;

But where’s the remedy now? you see she’s gone,

Another has possession.

SEB. There’s the torment!

FER. This day, being the first of your return,

Unluckily proves the first too of her fastening.

Her uncle, sir, the governor of Ravenna,

Holding a good opinion of the bridegroom,

As he’s fair-spoken, sir, and wondrous mild——

SEB. There goes the devil in a sheep-skin!

FER. With all speed

Clapp’d it up suddenly: I cannot think, sure,

That the maid over-loves him; though being married,

Perhaps, for her own credit, now she intends

Performance of an honest, duteous wife.

SEB. Sir, I’ve a world of business: question nothing;

You will but lose your labour; ’tis not fit

For any, hardly mine own secrecy,

To know what I intend. I take my leave, sir.

I find such strange employments in myself,

That unless death pity me and lay me down,

I shall not sleep these seven years; that’s the least,

sir.

[_Exit._

FER. That sorrow’s dangerous can abide no counsel;

’Tis like a wound past cure: wrongs done to love

Strike the heart deeply; none can truly judge on’t

But the poor sensible sufferer whom it racks

With unbelieved pains, which men in health,

That enjoy love, not possibly can act,

Nay, not so much as think. In troth, I pity him:

His sighs drink life-blood in this time of feasting.

A banquet towards[466] too! not yet hath riot

Play’d out her last scene? at such entertainments still

Forgetfulness obeys, and surfeit governs:

Here’s marriage sweetly honour’d in gorg’d stomachs

And overflowing cups!

_Enter_ GASPARO _and Servant_.

GAS. Where is she, sirrah?

SER. Not far off.

GAS. Prithee, where? go fetch her hither:

I’ll rid him away straight.— [_Exit Servant._

The duke’s[467] now

risen, sir.

FER. I am a joyful man to hear it, sir,

It seems has drunk the less; though I think he

That has the least has certainly enough. [_Exit._

GAS. I have observ’d this fellow: all the feast-time

He hath not pledg’d one cup, but look’d most wickedly

Upon good Malaga; flies to the black-jack still,

And sticks to small drink like a water-rat.

O, here she comes:

_Enter_ FLORIDA.

Alas, the poor whore weeps!

’Tis not for grace now, all the world must judge;

It is for spleen and madness 'gainst this marriage:

I do but think how she could beat the vicar now,

Scratch the man horribly that gave the woman,

The woman worst of all, if she durst do it. [_Aside._

Why, how now, mistress? this weeping needs not; for

though

My master marry for his reputation,

He means to keep you too.

FLO. How, sir?

GAS. He doth indeed;

He swore’t to me last night. Are you so simple,

And have been five years traded, as to think

One woman would serve him? fie, not an empress!

Why, he’ll be sick o’ th’ wife within ten nights,

Or never trust my judgment.

FLO. Will he, think’st thou?

GAS. Will he!

FLO. I find thee still so comfortable,

Beshrew my heart, if I know[468] how to miss thee:

They talk of gentlemen, perfumers, and such things;

Give me the kindness of the master’s man

In my distress, say I.

GAS. ’Tis your great love, forsooth.

Please you withdraw yourself to yond private parlour;

I’ll send you venison, custard, parsnip-pie;

For banqueting stuff, as suckets,[469] jellies, sirups,

I will bring in myself.

FLO. I’ll take 'em kindly, sir. [_Exit._

GAS. Sh’as your grand strumpet’s complement to a

tittle.

’Tis a fair building: it had need; it has

Just at this time some one and twenty inmates;

But half of 'em are young merchants, they’ll depart

shortly;

They take but rooms for summer, and away they

When’t grows foul weather: marry, then come the

termers,[470]

And commonly they’re well-booted for all seasons.

But peace, no word; the guests are coming in.

[_Retires._

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES _and_ AMORETTA.

ALM. The fates have bless’d me; have I met you

privately?

AM. Why, sir, why, Almachildes!——

ALM. Not a kiss?

AM. I’ll call aloud, i’faith.

ALM. I’ll stop your mouth.

AM. Upon my love to reputation,

I’ll tell the duchess once more.

ALM. ’Tis the way

To make her laugh a little.

AM. She’ll not think

That you dare use a maid of honour thus.

ALM. Amsterdam[471] swallow thee for a puritan,

And Geneva cast thee up again! like she that sunk[472]

At Charing Cross, and rose again at Queenhithe!

AM. Ay, these are the silly fruits of the sweet vine,

sir. [_Retires._

ALM. Sweet venery be with thee, and I at the tail

Of my wish! I am a little headstrong, and so

Are most of the company. I will to the witches.

They say they have charms[473] and tricks to make

A wench fall backwards, and lead a man herself

To a country-house,[474] some mile out of the town,

Like a fire-drake. There be such whoreson kind girls

And such bawdy witches; and I’ll try conclusions.[475]

_Enter Duke, Duchess, Lord Governor_, ANTONIO, ISABELLA,

_and_ FRANCISCA.

DUKE. A banquet[476] yet! why surely, my lord governor,

Bacchus could ne’er boast of a day till now,

To spread his power, and make his glory known.

DUCH. Sir, you’ve done nobly; though in modesty

You keep it from us, know, we understand so much,

All this day’s cost ’tis your great love bestows,

In honour of the bride, your virtuous neice.

GOV. In love to goodness and your presence, madam;

So understood, ’tis rightly.

DUKE. Now will I

Have a strange health after all these.

GOV. What’s that, my lord?

DUKE. A health in a strange cup; and 't shall go

round.

GOV. Your grace need not doubt that, sir, having seen

So many pledg’d already: this fair company

Cannot shrink now for one, so it end there.

DUKE. It shall, for all ends here: here’s a full

period.

[_Produces a skull set as a cup._

GOV. A skull, my lord?

DUKE. Call it a soldier’s cup, man:

Fie, how you fright the women! I have sworn

It shall go round, excepting only you, sir,

For your late sickness, and the bride herself,

Whose health it is.

ISA. Marry, I thank heaven for that!

DUKE. Our duchess, I know, will pledge us, though the

cup

Was once her father’s head, which, as a trophy,

We’ll keep till death in memory of that conquest.

He was the greatest foe our steel e’er strook at,

And he was bravely slain: then took we thee

Into our bosom’s love: thou mad’st the peace

For all thy country, thou, that beauty, did.

We’re dearer than a father, are we not?

DUCH. Yes, sir, by much.

DUKE. And we shall find that straight.

ANT. That’s an ill bride-cup for a marriage-day,

I do not like the face on’t.

GOV. Good my lord,

The duchess looks pale: let her not pledge you there.

DUKE. Pale?

DUCH. Sir, not I.

DUKE. See how your lordship fails now;

The rose not fresher, nor the sun at rising

More comfortably pleasing.

DUCH. Sir, to you,

The lord of this day’s honour. [_Drinks._

ANT. All first moving

From your grace, madam, and the duke’s great favour,

Since it must. [_Drinks._

FRAN. This the worst fright that could come

To a conceal’d great belly! I’m with child;

And this will bring it out, or make me come

Some seven weeks sooner than we maidens reckon.

[_Aside._

DUCH. Did ever cruel barbarous art match this?

Twice have[477] his surfeits brought my father’s memory

Thus spitefully and scornfully to mine eyes;

And I’ll endure’t no more; ’tis in my heart since:

I’ll be reveng’d as far as death can lead one.

[_Aside._

ALM. Am I the last man, then? I may deserve

To be first one day. [_Drinks._

GOV. Sir, it has gone round now.

DUKE. The round?[478] an excellent way to train up

soldiers!

Where’s bride and bridegroom?

ANT. At your happy service.

DUKE. A boy to-night, at least; I charge you look

to’t,

Or I’ll renounce you for industrious subjects.

ANT. Your grace speaks like a worthy and tried

soldier.

GAS. And you’ll do well for one that ne’er toss’d

pike, sir. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_The abode of_ HECATE.

_Enter_ HECATE.[479]

HEC. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin and Pidgen, Liard and

Robin! white spirits, black spirits, grey spirits,

red spirits! devil-toad, devil-ram, devil-cat, and

devil-dam! why, Hoppo and Stadlin,[480] Hellwain[481]

and Puckle![482]

STAD. [_within_] Here, sweating at the vessel.

HEC. Boil it well.

HOP. [_within_] It gallops now.

HEC. Are the flames blue enough?

Or shall I use a little seething more?

STAD. [_within_] The nips of fairies[483] upon maids’

white hips

Are not more perfect azure.

HEC. Tend it carefully.

Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish,

That I may fall to work upon these serpents,

And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour:

Why, when?[484]

_Enter_ STADLIN _with a dish_.

STAD. Here’s Stadlin and the dish.

HEC. There, take this unbaptised brat;[485]

[_Giving the dead body of a child._

Boil it well; preserve the fat:

You know ’tis precious to transfer

Our 'nointed flesh into the air,

In moonlight nights, on steeple-tops,

Mountains, and pine-trees, that like pricks or stops

Seem to our height; high towers and roofs of princes

Like wrinkles in the earth; whole provinces

Appear to our sight then even leek[486]

A russet mole upon some lady’s cheek.

When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing,

Dance, kiss, and coll,[487] use every thing:

What young man can we wish to pleasure us,

But we enjoy him in an incubus?

Thou know’st it, Stadlin?

STAD. Usually that’s done.

HEC. Last night thou got’st the mayor of

Whelplie’s[488] son;

I knew him by his black cloak lin’d with yellow;

I think thou’st spoil’d the youth, he’s but seventeen:

I’ll have him the next mounting. Away, in:

Go, feed the vessel for the second hour.

STAD. Where be the magical herbs?

HEC. They’re down his throat;[489]

His mouth cramm’d full, his ears and nostrils stuff’d.

I thrust in eleoselinum lately,

Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot—

You may see that, he looks so b[l]ack i’ th’ mouth—

Then sium, acorum vulgare too,

Pentaphyllon,[490] the blood of a flitter-mouse,[491]

Solanum somnificum et oleum.

STAD. Then there’s all, Hecate.

HEC. Is the heart of wax

Stuck full of magic needles?

STAD. ’Tis done, Hecate.

HEC. And is the farmer’s picture and his wife’s

Laid down to th’ fire yet?

STAD. They’re a-roasting both too.

HEC. Good [_exit_ STADLIN]; then their marrows are

a-melting subtly,

And three months’ sickness sucks up life in 'em.

They denied me often flour, barm, and milk,

Goose-grease and tar, when I ne’er hurt their

churnings,[492]

Their brew-locks, nor their batches, nor forespoke

Any of their breedings. Now I’ll be meet[493] with 'em:

Seven of their young pigs I’ve bewitch’d already,

Of the last litter;

Nine ducklings, thirteen goslings, and a hog,

Fell lame last Sunday after even-song too;

And mark how their sheep prosper, or what sup

Each milch-kine gives to th’ pail: I’ll send these

snakes

Shall milk 'em all

Beforehand; the dew-skirted[494] dairy-wenches

Shall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing;

I’ll mar their sillabubs and swathy feastings[495]

Under cows’ bellies with the parish-youths.

Where’s Firestone, our son Firestone?

_Enter_ FIRESTONE.

FIRE. Here am I, mother.

HEC. Take in this brazen dish full of dear ware:

[_Gives dish._