This captain here, both to his friends and mine,
That only came to see fair valour righted,
A base submissive coward; so I leave him.
[_Offers to go away._
CAP. AGER. O, heaven has pitied my excessive
patience,
And sent me a cause! now I have a cause;
A coward I was never.—Come you back, sir!
COL. How?
CAP. AGER. You left a coward here.
COL. Yes, sir, with you.
CAP. AGER. ’Tis such base metal, sir, 'twill not be
taken;
It must home again with you.
SEC. FR. OF CAP. Should this be true now!
FIRST FR. OF CAP. Impossible! coward do more than
bastard?
COL. I prithee, mock me not, take heed you do not;
For if I draw once more, I shall grow terrible,
And rage will force me do what will grieve honour.
CAP. AGER. Ha, ha, ha!
COL. He smiles; dare it be he?—What think you,
gentlemen?
Your judgments, shall I not be cozen’d in him?
This cannot be the man: why, he was bookish,
Made an invective lately against fighting,
A thing, in troth, that mov’d a little with me,
Put up a fouler contumely far
Than thousand cowards came to, and grew thankful.
CAP. AGER. Blessed remembrance[756] in time of need!
I’d lost my honour else.
SEC. FR. OF CAP. Do you note his joy?
CAP. AGER. I never felt a more severe necessity;
Then came thy excellent pity. Not yet ready?
Have you such confidence in my just manhood,
That you dare so long trust me, and yet tempt me
Beyond the toleration of man’s virtue?
Why, would you be more cruel than your injury?
Do you first take pride to wrong me, and then think me
Not worth your fury? do not use me so;
I shall deceive you then. Sir, either draw,
And that not slightingly, but with the care
Of your best preservation, with that watchfulness
As you’d defend yourself from circular fire,
Your sin’s rage, or her lord—this will require it—
Or you’ll be too soon lost, for I’ve an anger
Has gather’d mighty strength against you, mighty:
Yet you shall find it honest to the last,
Noble and fair.
COL. I’ll venture’t once again;
And if’t be but as true as it is wondrous,
I shall have that I come for: your leave, gentlemen.
FIRST FR. OF CAP. If he should do’t indeed, and
deceive’s all now!
Stay, by this hand he offers—fights, i’faith!
[_Colonel and_ CAPTAIN AGER _fight_.
Fights, by this light he fights, sir!
SEC. FR. OF CAP. So methinks, sir.
FIRST FR. OF CAP. An absolute punto, hey?
SEC. FR. OF CAP. 'Twas a passado, sir.
FIRST FR. OF CAP. Why, let it pass, and[757] ’twas;
I’m sure ’twas somewhat.
What’s that now?
SEC. FR. OF CAP. That’s a punto.
FIRST FR. OF CAP. O, go to, then;
I knew ’twas not far off. What a world’s this!
Is coward a more stirring meat than bastard, my masters?
Put in more eggs, for shame, when you get children,
And make it true court-custard.—Ho, I honour thee!
’Tis right and fair; and he that breathes against it,
He breathes against the justice of a man,
And man to cut him off ’tis no injustice.
[_The Colonel falls._
Thanks, thanks for this most unexpected nobleness!
CAP. AGER. Truth never fails her servant, sir, nor
leaves him
With the day’s shame upon him.
FIRST FR. OF CAP. Thou’st redeem’d
Thy worth to the same height ’twas first esteem’d.[758]
[_Exit_ CAPTAIN AGER _with his Friends_.
FIRST FR. OF COL. Alas, how is it, sir? give us some
hope
Of your stay with us: let your spirit be seen
Above your fortune; the best fortitude
Has been of fate ill-friended: now force your empire,
And reign above your blood, spite of dejection;
Reduce[759] the monarchy of your abler mind,
Let not flesh straiten it.
COL. O, just heaven has found me,
And turn’d the stings[760] of my too hasty injuries
Into my own blood! I pursu’d my ruin,
And urg’d him past the patience of an angel:
Could man’s revenge extend beyond man’s life,
This would ha’ wak’d it. If this flame will light me
But till I see my sister, ’tis a kind one;
More I expect not from’t. Noble deserver!
Farewell, most valiant and most wrong’d of men;
Do but forgive me, and I’m victor then.
[_Exit, led off by his Friends._
SCENE II.
_A Room in the Physician’s House._
_Enter Physician_, JANE, ANNE, _and Dutch Nurse with a
Child_.
PHY. Sweet fro,[761] to your most indulgent care
Take this my heart’s joy; I must not tell you
The value of this jewel in my bosom.
NURSE. Dat you may vell, sir; der can niet forstoore
you.
PHY. Indeed I cannot tell you; you know, nurse,
These are above the quantity of price:
Where is the glory of the goodliest trees
But in the fruit and branches? the old stock
Must decay; and sprigs, scions such as these,
Must become new stocks, for[762] us to glory
In their fruitful issue; so we are made
Immortal one by other.
NURSE. You spreek a most lieben fader, and ich sall do
de best of tender nurses to dis infant, my pretty
frokin.
PHY. I know you will be loving: here, sweet friend;
[_Gives money._
Here’s earnest of a large sum of love and coin
To quit[763] your tender care.
JANE. I have some reason too
To purchase your dear care unto this infant.
[_Gives money._
NURSE. You be de witness of de baptim, dat is, as you
spreken, de godimother, ich vell forstoore it so.
JANE. Yes, I’m the bad mother,—if it be offence.
[_Aside._
ANNE. I must be a little kind too. [_Gives money._
NURSE. Much tanks to you all! dis child is much beloven;
and ich sall see much care over it.
PHY. Farewell.—Good sister, shew her the way forth.—
I shall often visit you, kind nurse.
NURSE. You sall be velcome.
[_Exeunt_ ANNE _and Nurse_.
JANE. O sir, what a friend have I found in you!
Where my poor power shall stay in the requital,
Yourself must from your fair condition[764]
Make up in mere acceptance of my will.
PHY. O, pray you, urge it not! we are not born
For ourselves only; self-love is a sin;
But in our loving donatives to others
Man’s virtue best consists: love all begets;
Without, all are adulterate and counterfeit.
JANE. Your boundless love I cannot satisfy
But with a mental memory of your virtues:
Yet let me not engage your cost withal;
Beseech you then take restitution
Of pains and bounty which you have disburs’d
For your poor debtor.
PHY. You will not offer it?
Do not esteem my love so mercenary
To be the hire of coin: sure, I shall think
You do not hold so worthily of me
As I wish to deserve.
JANE. No[765] recompense?
Then you will beggar me with too much credit:
Is’t[766] not sufficient you preserve my name,
Which I had forfeited to shame and scorn,
Cover my vices with a veil of love,
Defend and keep me from a father’s rage,
Whose love yet infinite, not knowing this,
Might, knowing, turn a hate as infinite;
Sure he would throw me ever from his blessings,
And cast his curses on me! Yes, further,
Your secrecy keeps me in the state of woman;
For else what husband would choose me his wife,
Knowing the honour of a bride were lost?
I cannot number half the good you do me
In the conceal’d retention of my sin;
Then make me not worse than I was before,
In my ingratitude, good sir.
PHY. Again?
I shall repent my love, if you’ll so call’t,
To be made such a hackney: give me coin?
I had as lief you gave me poison, lady,
For I have art and antidotes 'gainst that;
I might take that, but this I will refuse.
JANE. Will you then teach me how I may requite you
In some small quantity?
PHY. 'Twas that I look’d for.— [_Aside._
Yes, I will tell you, lady, a full quittance,
And how you may become my creditress.
JANE. I beseech you, do, sir!
PHY. Indeed I will, lady:
Not in coin, mistress; for silver, though white,
Yet it draws black lines; it shall not rule my palm,
There to mark forth his base corruption:
Pay me again in the same quality
That I to you tender’d,—that is, love for love.
Can you love me, lady? you have confess’d
My love to you.
JANE. Most amply.
PHY. Why, faith, then,
Pay me back that way.
JANE. How do you mean, sir?
PHY. Tush, our meanings are better understood
Than shifted to the tongue; it brings along
A little blabbing blood into our cheeks,
That shames us when we speak.
JANE. I understand you not.
PHY. Fie, you do; make not yourself ignorant
In what you know; you have ta’en forth the lesson
That I would read to you.
JANE. Sure then I need not
Read it again, sir.
PHY. Yes, it makes perfect:
You know the way unto Achilles’ spear;[767]
If that hurt you, I have the cure, you see.
JANE. Come, you’re a good man; I do perceive you,
You put a trial to me; I thank you;
You are my just confessor, and, believe me,
I’ll have no further penance for this sin.
Convert a year unto a lasting ever,
And call’t Apollo’s smile; ’twas once, then never.
PHY. Pray you, mistake me not; indeed I love you.
JANE. Indeed? what deed?
PHY. The deed that you have done.
JANE. I cannot believe you.
PHY. Believe the deed then!
JANE. Away, you are a blackamoor! you love me?
I hate you for your love! Are you the man
That in your painted outside seem’d so white?
O you’re a foul dissembling hypocrite!
You sav’d me from a thief, that yourself might rob me;
Skinn’d over a green wound to breed an ulcer:
Is this the practice of your physic-college?
PHY. Have you yet utter’d all your niceness[768]
forth?
If you have more, vent it; certes,[769] I think
Your first grant was not yielded with less pain;
If 'twere, you have your price, yield it again.
JANE. Pray you, tell me, sir,—I ask’d it before,—
Is it a practice amongst you physicians?
PHY. Tush, that’s a secret; we cast all waters;
Should I reveal, you would mistrust my counsel:
The lawyer and physician here agrees,[770]
To women-clients they give back their fees;
And is not that kindness?
JANE. This for thy love! [_Spits at him._
Out, outside of a man! thou cinnamon-tree,
That but thy bark hast nothing good about thee!
The unicorn is hunted for his horn,
The rest is left for carrion: thou false man,
Thou’st fish’d with silver hooks and golden baits;
But I’ll avoid all thy deceiving sleights.[771]
PHY. Do what you list, I will do something too;
Remember yet what I have done for you:
You have a good face now, but 'twill grow rugged;
Ere you grow old, old men will despise you:
Think on your grandame Helen, the fairest queen;
When in a new glass[772] she spied her old face,
She, smiling, wept to think upon the change:
Take your time; you’re craz’d, you’re an apple fall’n
From the tree; if you be kept long, you’ll rot.
Study your answer well: yet I love you;
If you refuse, I have a hand above [you]. [_Exit._
JANE. Poison thyself, thou foul empoisoner!
Of thine own practique drink the theory!
What a white devil have I met withal!
What shall I do?—what do? is it a question?
Nor shame, nor hate, nor fear, nor lust, nor force,
Now being too bad, shall ever make me worse.
_Re-enter_ ANNE.
What have we here? a second spirit?
ANNE. Mistress,
I am sent to you.
JANE. Is your message good?
ANNE. As you receive it:
My brother sent me, and you know he loves you.
JANE. I heard say so; but ’twas a false report.
ANNE. Pray, pardon me, I must do my message;
Who lives commanded must obey his keeper:
I must persuade you to this act of woman.
JANE. Woman? of strumpet!
ANNE. Indeed, of strumpet;
He takes you at advantage of your fall,
Seeing you down before.
JANE. Curse on his feign’d smiles!
ANNE. He’s my brother, mistress; and a curse on you,
If e’er you bless him with that cursed deed!
Hang him, poison him! he held out a rose,
To draw the yielding sense, which, come to hand,
He shifts, and gives a canker.[773]
JANE. You speak well yet.
ANNE. Ay, but, mistress, now I consider it,
Your reputation lies at his mercy,
Your fault dwells in his breast; say he throw’t out,
It will be known; how are you then undone!
Think on’t, your good name; and they’re not to be sold
In every market: a good name is dear,
And indeed more esteemed than our actions,
By which we should deserve it.
JANE. Ay me, most wretched!
ANNE. What? do you shrink at that?
Would you not wear one spot upon your face,
To keep your whole body from a leprosy,
Though it were undiscover’d ever? Hang him!
Fear him not: horseleeches suck out his corrupt blood!
Draw you none from him, 'less it be pure and good.
JANE. Do you speak your soul?
ANNE. By my soul do I!
JANE. Then yet I have a friend: but thus exhort me,
And I have still a column to support me.
ANNE. One fault
Heaven soon forgives, and ’tis on earth forgot;
The moon herself is not without one spot. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_A Room in_ LADY AGER’S _House_.
_Enter_ LADY AGER, _meeting a Servant_.
LADY AGER. Now, sir, where is he? speak, why comes he
not?
I sent you for him.—Bless this fellow’s senses!
What has he seen? a soul nine hours entranc’d,
Hovering 'twixt hell and heaven, could not wake
ghastlier.
Not yet return an answer?—
_Enter a second Servant._
What say you, sir?
Where is he?
SEC. SERV. Gone.
LADY AGER. What say’st thou?
SEC. SERV. He is gone, madam;
But, as we heard, unwillingly he went
As ever blood enforc’d.
LADY AGER. Went? whither went he?
SEC. SERV. Madam, I fear I ha’ said too much already.
LADY AGER. These men are both agreed.—Speak, whither
went he?
SEC. SERV. Why, to—I would you’d think the rest
yourself, madam.
LADY AGER. Meek patience bless me!
SEC. SERV. To the field.
FIRST SERV. To fight, madam.
LADY AGER. To fight?
FIRST SERV. There came two urging gentlemen,
That call’d themselves his seconds; both so powerful,
As ’tis reported, they prevail’d with him
With little labour.
LADY AGER. O, he’s lost, he’s gone!
For all my pains, he’s gone! two meeting torrents
Are not so merciless as their two rages:
He never comes again. Wretched affection!
Have I belied my faith, injur’d my goodness,
Slander’d my honour for his preservation,
Having but only him, and yet no happier?
’Tis then a judgment plain; truth’s angry with me,
In that I would abuse her sacred whiteness
For any worldly temporal respect:
Forgive me then, thou glorious woman’s virtue,
Admir’d where’er thy habitation is,
Especially in us weak ones! O, forgive me,
For ’tis thy vengeance this! To belie truth,
Which is so hardly ours, with such pain purchas’d,
Fastings and prayers, continence and care,
Misery must needs ensue. Let him not die
In that unchaste belief of his false birth,
And my disgrace! whatever angel guides him,
May this request be with my tears obtain’d,
Let his soul know my honour is unstain’d!— [_Aside._
Run, seek, away! if there be any hope,
Let me not lose him yet. [_Exeunt servants._] When I
think on him,
His dearness, and his worth, it earns[774] me more:
They that know riches tremble to be poor.
My passion is not every woman’s sorrow:
She must be truly honest feels my grief,
And only known to one; if such there be,
They know the sorrow that oppresseth me. [_Exit_
ACT IV. SCENE I.
_The Roaring-School._[775]
_Enter the Colonel’s Friend_,[776] CHOUGH, TRIMTRAM,
_Usher_, _and several Roarers_.
COL.’S FR. Truth, sir, I must needs blame you for a
truant, having but one lesson read to you, and neglect
so soon; fie, I must see you once a-day at least.
CHOUGH. Would I were whipt, tutor, if it were not 'long
of my man Trimtram here!
TRIM. Who, of me?
CHOUGH. Take’t upon thee, Trim; I’ll give thee five
shillings, as I am a gentleman.
TRIM. I’ll see you whipt first:—well, I will too.—Faith,
sir, I saw he was not perfect, and I was loath he should
come before to shame himself.
COL.’S FR. How? shame, sir? is it a shame for scholars
to learn? Sir, there are great scholars that are but
slenderly read in our profession: sir, first it must be
economical, then ecumenical: shame not to practise in
the house how to perform in the field: the nail that is
driven takes a little hold at the first stroke, but more
at the second, and more at the third, but when ’tis home
to the head, then ’tis firm.
CHOUGH. Faith, I have been driving it home to the head
this two days.
TRIM. I helped to hammer it in as well as I could too,
sir.
COL.’S FR. Well, sir, I will hear you rehearse anon:
meantime peruse the exemplary of my bills, and tell me
in what language I shall roar a lecture to you; or I’ll
read to you the mathematical science of roaring.
CHOUGH. Is it mathematical?
COL.’S FR. O, sir, do[777] not the winds roar, the sea
roar, the welkin[778] roar?—indeed most things do roar
by nature—and is not the knowledge of these things
mathematical?
CHOUGH. Pray proceed, sir.
COL.’S FR. [_reads_] _The names of the languages, the
Sclavonian, Parthamenian, Barmeothian, Tyburman,
Wappinganian, or the modern Londonian: any man or woman
that is desirous to roar in any of these languages, in a
week they shall be perfect if they will take pains;
so let 'em repair into Holborn to the sign of the
Cheat-Loaf._
CHOUGH. Now your bill speaks of that I was wondering a
good while at, your sign; the loaf looks very like
bread, i’faith, but why is it called the Cheat-Loaf?
COL.’S FR. This house was sometimes a baker’s, sir, that
served the court, where the bread is called cheat.[779]
TRIM. Ay, ay, ’twas a baker that cheated the court with
bread.
COL.’S FR. Well, sir, choose your languages; and your
lectures shall be read, between my usher and myself, for
your better instruction, provided your conditions be
performed in the premises beforesaid.
CHOUGH. Look you, sir, there’s twenty pound in hand, and
twenty more I am to pay when I am allowed a sufficient
roarer. [_Gives money._
COL.’S FR. You speak in good earnest, sir?
CHOUGH. Yes, faith do I: Trimtram shall be my witness.
TRIM. Yes, indeed, sir, twenty pound is very good
earnest.
USH. Sir, one thing I must tell you belongs to my place:
you are the youngest scholar; and till another comes
under you, there is a certain garnish belongs to the
school; for in our practice we grow to a quarrel; then
there must be wine ready to make all friends, for that’s
the end of roaring, ’tis valiant, but harmless; and this
charge is yours.
CHOUGH. With all my heart, i’faith, and I like it the
better because no blood comes on it: who shall fetch?
FIRST ROAR.[780] I’ll be your spaniel, sir.
COL.’S FR. Bid Vapour bring some tobacco too.
CHOUGH. Do, and here’s money for’t.
USH. No, you shall not; let me see the money: so [_takes
the money_], I’ll keep it, and discharge him after the
combat. [_Exit First Roarer._] For your practice sake,
you and your man shall roar him out on’t—for indeed you
must pay your debts so, for that’s one of the main ends
of roaring—and when you have left him in a chafe, then
I’ll qualify the rascal.
CHOUGH. Content.—I’faith, Trim, we’ll roar the rusty
rascal out of his tobacco.
TRIM. Ay, and[781] he had the best craccus in London.
COL.’S FR. Observe, sir, we could now roar in the
Sclavonian language, but this practice hath been a
little sublime, some hairsbreadth or so above your
caput; I take it, for your use and understanding both,
it were fitter for you to taste the modern assault, only
the Londonian roar.
CHOUGH. I’faith, sir, that’s for my purpose, for I shall
use all my roaring here in London; in Cornwall we are
all for wrestling, and I do not mean to travel over sea
to roar there.
COL.’S FR. Observe then, sir;—but it were necessary you
took forth your tables[782] to note the most difficult
points for the better assistance of your memory.
CHOUGH. Nay, sir, my man and I keep two tables.
TRIM. Ay, sir, and as many trenchers, cats’ meat and
dogs’ meat enough.
COL.’S FR. Note, sir.—Dost thou confront my cyclops?
USH. With a Briarean brousted.
CHOUGH. Cyclops. [_Writes._
TRIM. Briarean. [_Writes._
COL.’S FR. I know thee and thy lineal pedigree.
USH. It is collateral, as Brutus and Posthumus.
TRIM. Brutus. [_Writes._
CHOUGH. Posthumus. [_Writes._
COL.’S FR. False as the face of Hecate! thy sister is a
——
USH. What is my sister, centaur?
COL.’S FR. I say thy sister is a bronstrops.[783]
USH. A bronstrops?
CHOUGH. Tutor, tutor, ere you go any further, tell me
the English of that; what is a bronstrops, pray?
COL.’S FR. A bronstrops is in English a hippocrene.
CHOUGH. A hippocrene; note it, Trim: I love to
understand the English as I go. [_Writes._
TRIM. What’s the English of hippocrene?
CHOUGH. Why, bronstrops.
USH. Thou dost obtrect[784] my flesh and blood.
COL.’S FR. Again I denounce, thy sister is a fructifer.
CHOUGH. What’s that, tutor?
COL.’S FR. That is in English a fucus[785] or a
minotaur.
CHOUGH. A minotaur. [_Writes._
TRIM.[786] A fucus. [_Writes._
USH. I say thy mother is a callicut, a panagron, a
duplar, and a sindicus.
COL.’S FR. Dislocate thy bladud![787]
USH. Bladud shall conjure, if his demons once appear.
_Re-enter First Roarer with wine, followed by_ VAPOUR
_with tobacco_.
COL.’S FR. Advance thy respondency.
CHOUGH. Nay, good gentlemen,[788] do not fall out.—A cup
of wine quickly, Trimtram!
USH. See, my steel hath a glister!
CHOUGH. Pray wipe him, and put him up again, good usher.
USH. Sir, at your request I pull down the flag of
defiance.
COL.’S FR. Give me a bowl of wine, my fury shall be
quenched: here, usher! [_Drinks._
USH. I pledge thee in good friendship. [_Drinks._
CHOUGH. I like the conclusion of roaring very well,
i’faith.
TRIM. It has an excellent conclusion indeed, if the wine
be good, always provided.
COL.’S FR. O, the wine must be always provided, be sure
of that.
USH. Else you spoil the conclusion, and that you know
crowns all.
CHOUGH. ’Tis much like wrestling, i’faith, for we shake
hands ere we begin; now that’s to avoid the law, for
then if he throw him a furlong into the ground, he
cannot recover himself upon him, because ’twas done in
cold friendship.
COL.’S FR. I believe you, sir.
CHOUGH. And then we drink afterwards, just in this
fashion: wrestling and roaring are as like as can be,
i’faith, even like long sword and half pike.
COL.’S FR. Nay, they are reciprocal, if you mark it, for
as there is a great roaring at wrestling, so there is a
kind of wrestling and contention at roaring.
CHOUGH. True, i’faith, for I have heard 'em roar from
the six windmills to Islington: those have been great
falls then.
COL.’S FR. Come now, a brief rehearsal of your other
day’s lesson, betwixt your man and you, and then for
to-day we break up school.
CHOUGH. Come, Trimtram.—If I be out, tutor, I’ll be bold
to look in my tables, because I doubt I am scarce
perfect.
COL.’S FR. Well, well, I will not see small faults.
CHOUGH. The wall!
TRIM. The wall of me? to thy kennel, spaniel!
CHOUGH. Wilt thou not yield precedency?
TRIM. To thee? I know thee and thy brood.
CHOUGH. Knowest thou my brood? I know thy brood too,
thou art a rook.
TRIM. The nearer akin to the choughs?[789]
CHOUGH. The rooks akin to the choughs?
COL.’S FR. Very well maintained!
CHOUGH. Dungcoer, thou liest!
TRIM. Lie? enucleate the kernel of thy scabbard.
CHOUGH. Now if I durst draw my sword, ’twere valiant,
i’faith.
COL.’S FR. Draw, draw, howsoever!
CHOUGH. Have some wine ready to make us friends, I pray
you.
TRIM. Chough, I will make thee fly and roar.
CHOUGH. I will roar if thou strikest me.
COL.’S FR. So, ’tis enough; now conclude in wine: I see
you will prove an excellent practitioner: wondrous well
performed on both sides!
CHOUGH. Here, Trimtram, I drink to thee. [_Drinks._
TRIM. I’ll pledge you in good friendship. [_Drinks._
_Enter Servant._
SERV. Is there not one master Chough here?
USH. This is the gentleman, sir.
SERV. My master, sir, your elected father-in-law,
desires speedily to speak with you.
CHOUGH. Friend, I will follow thee: I would thou hadst
come a little sooner! thou shouldst have seen roaring
sport, i’faith.
SERV. Sir, I’ll return that you are following.
CHOUGH. Do so [_exit Servant_].—I’ll tell thee, tutor, I
am to marry shortly; but I will defer it a while till I
can roar perfectly, that I may get the upper hand of my
wife on the wedding-day; 'tmust be done at first or
never.
COL.’S FR. 'Twill serve you to good use in that, sir.
CHOUGH. How likest thou this, whiffler?[790]
VAP. Very valiantly, i’faith, sir.
CHOUGH. Tush, thou shalt see more by and by.
VAP. I can stay no longer indeed, sir: who pays me for
my tobacco?
CHOUGH. How? pay for tobacco? away, ye sooty-mouthed
piper! you rusty piece of Martlemas bacon, away!
TRIM. Let me give him a mark[791] for’t.
CHOUGH. No, Trimtram, do not strike him; we’ll only roar
out a curse upon him.
TRIM. Well, do you begin then.
CHOUGH. May thy roll[792] rot, and thy pudding drop in
pieces, being sophisticated with filthy urine!
TRIM. May sergeants dwell on either side of thee, to
fright away thy twopenny customers!
CHOUGH. And for thy penny ones, let them suck thee dry!
TRIM. When thou art dead, mayest thou have no other
sheets to be buried in but mouldy tobacco-leaves!
CHOUGH. And no strawings to stick thy carcass but the
bitter stalks!
TRIM. Thy mourners all greasy tapsters!
CHOUGH. With foul tobacco-pipes in their hats, instead
of rotten rosemary;[793] and last of all, may my man and
I live to see all this performed, and to piss reeking
even upon thy grave!
TRIM. And last of all for me, let this epitaph be
remembered over thee:
_Here coldly now within is laid to rot
A man that yesterday was piping hot:
Some say he died by pudding, some by prick,
Others by roll and ball, some leaf; all stick
Fast in censure,[794] yet think it strange and rare,
He liv’d by smoke, yet died for want of air:
But then the surgeon said, when he beheld him,
It was the burning of his pipe that kill’d him._
CHOUGH. So, are you paid now, whiffler?
VAP. All this is but smoke out of a stinking pipe.
CHOUGH. So, so, pay him now, usher.
[VAPOUR _is paid by the Usher, and exit_.
COL.’S FR. Do not henceforth neglect your schooling,
master Chough.
CHOUGH. Call me rook, if I do, tutor.
TRIM. And me raven, though my name be Trimtram.
CHOUGH. Farewell, tutor.
TRIM. Farewell, usher.
[_Exeunt_ CHOUGH _and_ TRIMTRAM.
COL.’S FR. Thus when the drum’s unbrac’d, and trumpet[s]
cease,
Soldiers must get pay for to live in peace. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_A Chamber in the Colonel’s House._
_The Colonel discovered lying on a couch, several of his
friends watching him: as the Surgeon is going out,
the Colonel’s Sister enters._[795]
COL.’S SIST. O my most worthy brother, thy hard fate
’twas!—
Come hither, honest surgeon, and deal faithfully
With a distressed virgin: what hope is there?
SURG. Hope? chilis[796] was ’scap’d miraculously,
lady.
COL.’S SIST. What’s that, sir?
SURG. Cava vena: I care but little for his wound i’ th’
œsophag,[797] not thus much, trust me; but when they
come to diaphragma once, the small intestines, or the
spinal medul, or i’ th’ roots of the emunctories of the
noble parts, then straight I fear a syncope;[798] the
flanks retiring towards the back, the urine bloody, the
excrements purulent, and the dolour pricking or pungent.
COL.’S SIST. Alas, I’m ne’er the better for this answer!
SURG. Now I must tell you his principal dolour lies i’
th’ region of the liver, and there’s both inflammation
and tumefaction[799] feared; marry, I made him a
quadra[n]gular plumation, where I used sanguis draconis,
by my faith, with powders incarnative, which I tempered
with oil of hypericon, and other liquors mundificative.
COL.’S SIST. Pox a’ your mundies figatives! I would they
were all fired!
SURG. But I purpose, lady, to make another experiment
at next dressing with a sarcotic[800] medicament
made of iris of Florence; thus, mastic, calaphena,
opoponax,[801] sarcocolla[802]——
COL.’S SIST. Sacro-halter! what comfort is i’ this to a
poor gentlewoman? pray tell me in plain terms what you
think of him.
SURG. Marry, in plain terms I know not what to say to
him: the wound, I can assure you, inclines to paralism,
and I find his body cacochymic: being then in fear of
fever and inflammation, I nourish him altogether with
viands refrigerative, and give for potion the juice of
savicola dissolved with water cerefolium: I could do no
more, lady, if his best ginglymus[803] were dissevered.
[_Exit._
COL.’S SIST. What thankless pains does the tongue often
take
To make the whole man most ridiculous!
I come to him for comfort, and he tires me
Worse than my sorrow: what a precious good
May be deliver’d sweetly in few words!
And what a mount of nothing has he cast forth!
Alas, his strength decays! [_Aside._]—How cheer you,
sir,
My honour’d brother?
COL. In soul never better;
I feel an excellent health there, such a stoutness
My invisible enemies fly[804] me; seeing me arm’d
With penitence and forgiveness, they fall backward,
Whether through admiration, not imagining
There were such armoury in a soldier’s soul
As pardon and repentance, or through power
Of ghostly valour. But I have been lord
Of a more happy conquest in nine hours now
Than in nine years before.—O kind lieutenants,
This is the only war we should provide for!
Where he that forgives largest, and sighs strongest,
Is a tried soldier, a true man indeed,
And wins the best field, makes his own heart bleed.
Read the last part of that will, sir.
FIRST FR. OF COL. [_reads_][805] _I also require at the
hands of my most beloved sister, whom I make full
executrix, the disposure of my body in burial at Saint
Martin’s i’ th’ Field; and to cause to be distributed to
the poor of the same parish forty mark,[806] and to the
hospital of maimed soldiers a hundred: lastly, I give
and bequeath to my kind, dear, and virtuous sister the
full possession of my present estate in riches, whether
it be in lands, leases, money, goods, plate, jewels, or
what kind soever, upon this condition following, that
she forthwith tender both herself and all these
infeoffments to that noble captain, my late enemy,
captain Ager._
COL.’S SIST. How, sir?
COL. Read it again, sir; let her hear it plain.
COL.’S SIST. Pray, spare your pains, sir; ’tis too
plain already.—
Good sir, how do you? is your memory perfect?
This will makes question of you: I bestow’d
So much grief and compassion a’ your wound,
I never look’d into your senses’ epilepsy:
The sickness and infirmity of your judgment
Is to be doubted now more than your body’s.
Why, is your love no dearer to me, sir,
Than to dispose me so upon the man
Whose fury is your body’s present torment,
The author of your danger? one I hate
Beyond the bounds of malice. Do you not feel
His wrath upon you? I beseech you, sir,
Alter that cruel article!
COL. Cruel, sister?—
Forgive me, natural love, I must offend thee,
Speaking to this woman.—Am I content,
Having much kindred, yet to give thee all,
Because in thee I’d raise my means to goodness,
And canst thou prove so thankless to my bounty,
To grudge my soul her peace? is my intent
To leave her rich, whose only desire is
To send me poorer into the next world
Than ever usurer went, or politic statist?
Is it so burdensome for thee to love
Where I forgive? O, wretched is the man
That builds the last hopes of his saving comforts
Upon a woman’s charity! he’s most miserable:
If it were possible, her obstinate will
Will pull him down in his midway to heaven.
I’ve wrong’d that worthy man past recompense,
And in my anger robb’d him of fair fame;
And thou the fairest restitution art
My life could yield him: if I knew a fairer,
I’d set thee by and thy unwilling goodness,
And never make my sacred peace of thee;
But there’s the cruelty of a fate debarr’d,
Thou art the last, and all, and thou art hard!
COL.’S SIST. Let your griev’d heart hold better
thoughts of me;
I will not prove so, sir; but since you enforce it
With such a strength of passion, I’ll perform
What by your will you have enjoin’d me to,
Though the world never shew me joy again.
COL. O, this may be fair cunning for the time,
To put me off, knowing I hold not long;
And when I look to have my joys accomplish’d,
I shall find no such things; that were vild[807]
cozenage,
And not to be repented.
COL.’S SIST. By all the blessedness
Truth and a good life looks for, I will do’t, sir!
COL. Comforts reward you for’t whene’er you grieve!
I know if you dare swear, I may believe.
[_Exit Colonel’s Sister. Scene closes._
SCENE III.
_A Room in_ LADY AGER’S _House_.
_Enter_ CAPTAIN AGER.
CAP. AGER. No sooner have I entrance i’ this house now
But all my joy falls from me, which was wont
To be the sanctuary of my comforts:
Methought I lov’d it with a reverent gladness,
As holy men do consecrated temples
For the saint’s sake, which I believ’d my mother;
But prov’d a false faith since, a fearful heresy,
O, who’d erect th’ assurance of his joys
Upon a woman’s goodness! whose best virtue
Is to commit unseen, and highest secrecy
To hide but her own sin; there’s their perfection:
And if she be so good, which many fail of too,
When these are bad, how wondrous ill are they!
What comfort is’t to fight, win this day’s fame,
When all my after-days are lamps of shame?
_Enter_ LADY AGER.
LADY AGER. Blessings be firm to me! he’s come, ’tis
he!— [_Aside._
A surgeon speedily!
CAP. AGER. A surgeon? why, madam?
LADY AGER. Perhaps you’ll say ’tis but a little wound;
Good to prevent a danger:—quick, a surgeon!
CAP. AGER. Why, madam?
LADY AGER. Ay, ay, that’s all the fault of valiant
men,
They’ll not be known a’ their hurts till they’re past
help,
And then too late they wish for’t.
CAP. AGER. Will you hear me?
LADY AGER. ’Tis no disparagement to confess a wound;
I’m glad, sir, ’tis no worse:—a surgeon quickly!
CAP. AGER. Madam——
LADY AGER. Come, come, sir, a wound’s honourable,
And never shames the wearer.
CAP. AGER. By the justice
I owe to honour, I came off untouch’d!
LADY AGER. I’d rather believe that.
CAP. AGER. You believe truth so.
LADY AGER. My tears prevail then. Welcome, welcome,
sir,
As peace and mercy to one new departed!
Why would you go though, and deceive me so,
When my abundant love took all the course
That might be to prevent it? I did that
For my affection’s sake—goodness forgive me for’t!—
That were my own life’s safety put upon’t,
I’d rather die than do’t. Think how you us’d me then;
And yet would you go and hazard yourself too!
'Twas but unkindly done.
CAP. AGER. What’s all this, madam?
LADY AGER. See, then, how rash you were and short in
wisdom!
Why, wrong my faith I did, slander’d my constancy,
Belied my truth; that which few mothers will,
Or fewer can, I did, out of true fear
And loving care, only to keep thee here.
CAP. AGER. I doubt I’m too quick of apprehension now.
And that’s a general fault when we hear joyfully,
With the desire of longing for’t: I ask it,
Why, were you never false?
LADY AGER. May death come to me
Before repentance then!
CAP. AGER. I heard it plain sure—
Not false at all?
LADY AGER. By the reward of truth,
I never knew that deed that claims the name on’t!
CAP. AGER. May, then, that glorious reward you swore
by
Be never-failing to you! all the blessings
That you have given me, since obedient custom
Taught me to kneel and ask 'em, are not valuable
With this immaculate blessing of your truth:
This is the palm to victory,
The crown for all deserts past and to come:
Let 'em be numberless; they are rewarded,
Already they’re rewarded. Bless this frame,
I feel it much too weak to bear the joy on’t.
[_Kneels._
LADY AGER. Rise, sir.
CAP. AGER. O, pardon me!
I cannot honour you too much, too long.
I kneel not only to a mother now,
But to a woman that was never false:
Ye’re dear, and ye’re good too; I think a’ that:
What reverence does she merit! ’tis fit such
Should be distinguish’d from the prostrate sex;
And what distinction properer can be shewn,
Than honour done to her that keeps her own?
LADY AGER. Come, sir, I’ll have you rise.
CAP. AGER. To do a deed, then, [_Rises._
That shall for ever raise me. O my glory,
Why, this, this is the quarrel that I look’d for!
The other[808] but a shift to hold time play.
You sacred ministers of preservation,
For heaven’s sake send him life,
And with it mighty health, and such a strength
May equal but the cause! I wish no foul things:
If life but glow in him, he shall know instantly
That I’m resolv’d to call him to account for’t.
LADY AGER. Why, hark you, sir——
CAP. AGER. I bind you by your honour, madam,
You speak no hindrance to’s; take heed, you ought not.
LADY AGER. What an unhappiness have I in goodness!
’Tis ever my desire to intend well,
But have no fortunate way in’t. For all this
Deserve I yet no better of you
But to be griev’d again? Are you not well
With honest gain of fame, with safety purchas’d?
Will you needs tempt a ruin that avoids you? [_Exit._
CAP. AGER. No, you’ve prevail’d: things of this nature
sprung,
When they use action must use little tongue.—
_Enter Servant._
Now, sir, the news?
SER. Sir, there’s a gentlewoman
Desires some conference with you.
CAP. AGER. How, with me?
A gentlewoman? what is she?
SER. Her attendant
Deliver’d her to be the Colonel’s sister.
CAP. AGER. O, for a storm then! [_Exit Servant_] 'las,
poor, virtuous gentlewoman,
I will endure her violence with much pity!
She comes to ease her heart, good, noble soul;
’Tis e’en a charity to release the burden;
Were not that remedy ordain’d for women,
Their hearts would never hold three years together:
And here she comes; I never mark’d so much of her;
_Enter Colonel’s Sister._
That face can be the mistress of no anger
But I might very well endure a month, methinks.—
I am the man; speak, lady; I’ll stand fair.
COL.’S SIST. And I’m enjoin’d by vow to fall thus low,
[_Kneels._
And from the dying hand of a repentant
Offer, for expiation of wrongs done you,
Myself, and with myself all that was his,
Which upon that condition was made mine,
Being his soul’s wish to depart absolute man,
In life a soldier, death a Christian.
CAP. AGER. O, heaven has touch’d him nobly! how it
shames
My virtue’s slow perfection! Rise, dear brightness—
I forget manners too—up, matchless sweetness!
COL.’S SIST. I must not, sir; there is not in my vow
That liberty; I must be receiv’d first,
Or all denied; if either, I am free.
CAP. AGER. He must be without soul should deny thee;
And with that reverence I receive the gift
As it was sent me. [_Raises her._] Worthy Colonel,
Has such a conquering way i’ th’ blest things!
Who ever overcomes, he only wins. [_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.
_A Street: a noise of “hem” within._[809]
_Enter_ CAPTAIN ALBO, MEG, _and_ PRISS.
MEG. Hark of these hard-hearted bloodhounds! these
butchers are e’en as merciless as their dogs; they knock
down a woman’s fame e’en as it walks the streets by 'em.
PRISS. And the captain here that should defend us walks
by like John of the apple-loft.
CAP. ALBO. What for interjections, Priss, _hem_, _evax_,
_vah_?[810] let the carnifexes[811] scour their throats!
thou knowest there is a curse hangs over their bloody
heads; this year there shall be more butchers’ pricks
burnt than of all trades besides.
MEG. I do wonder how thou camest to be a captain.
CAP. ALBO. As thou camest to be a bawd, Meg, and Priss
to be a whore; every one by their deserts.
MEG. Bawd and whore? out, you unprofitable rascal! hast
not thou been at the new play yet, to teach thee better
manners? truly they say they are the finest players, and
good speakers of gentlewomen of our quality; bawd and
whore are[812] not mentioned amongst 'em, but the
handsomest narrow-mouthed names they have for us, that
some of them may serve as well for a lady as for one of
our occupation.
PRISS. Prithee, patroness, let’s go see a piece of that
play; if we shall have good words for our money, ’tis as
much as we can deserve, i’faith.
MEG. I doubt ’tis too late now; but another time,
servant.
CAP. ALBO. Let’s go now, sweet face; I am acquainted
with one of the pantomimics; the bulchins[813] will use
the Irish captain with respect, and you two shall be
boxed amongst the better sort.
PRISS. Sirrah captain Albo, I doubt you are but
white-livered; look that you defend us valiantly, you
know your penance else.—Patroness, you remember how you
used him once?
MEG. Ay, servant, and I shall never forget it till I use
him so again.—Do you remember, captain?
CAP. ALBO. Mum, Meg; I will not hear on’t now.
MEG. How I and my Amazons stript you as naked as an
Indian——
CAP. ALBO. Why, Meg——
MEG. And then how I bound you to the good behaviour in
the open fields——
PRISS. And then you strowed oats upon his hoppers——
CAP. ALBO. Prithee, sweet face——
PRISS. And then brought your ducks to nibble upon him.—
You remember?
CAP. ALBO. O, the remembrance tortures me again! no
more, good sweet face.
MEG. Well, lead on, sir; but hark a little.
_Enter_ CHOUGH _and_ TRIMTRAM.
CHOUGH. Didst thou bargain for the bladders with the
butcher, Trim?
TRIM. Ay, sir, I have 'em here; I’ll practise to swim
too, sir, and then I may roar with the water at London
Bridge: he that roars by land and by water both is the
perfect roarer.
CHOUGH. Well, I’ll venture to swim too: if my
father-in-law gives me a good dowry with his daughter, I
shall hold up my head well enough.
TRIM. Peace, sir; here’s practice for our roaring,
here’s a centaur and two hippocrenes.
CHOUGH. Offer the jostle, Trim.
[TRIMTRAM _jostles_ CAPTAIN ALBO.
CAP. ALBO. Ha! what meanest thou by that?
TRIM. I mean to confront thee, cyclops.
CHOUGH. I’ll tell thee what 'a means—is this thy sister?
CAP. ALBO. How then, sir?
CHOUGH. Why, then, I say she is a bronstrops; and this
is a fucus.[814]
PRISS. No, indeed, sir; we are both fucusses.
CAP. ALBO. Art thou military? art thou a soldier?
CHOUGH. A soldier? no, I scorn to be so poor; I am a
roarer.
CAP. ALBO. A roarer?
TRIM. Ay, sir, two roarers.
CAP. ALBO. Know, then, my fresh-water friends, that I am
a captain.
CHOUGH. What, and have but two to serve under you?
CAP. ALBO. I am now retiring the field.
TRIM. You may see that by his bag and baggage.
CHOUGH. Deliver up thy panagron to me.
TRIM. And give me thy sindicus.
CAP. ALBO. Deliver?
MEG. I pray you, captain, be contented; the gentlemen
seem to give us very good words.
CHOUGH. Good words? ay, if you could understand 'em; the
words cost twenty pound.
MEG. What is your pleasure, gentlemen?
CHOUGH. I would enucleate my fructifer.
PRISS. What says he, patroness?
MEG. He would enoculate: I understand the gentleman very
pithily.
CAP. ALBO. Speak, are you gentle or plebeian? can you
give arms?
CHOUGH. Arms? ay, sir; you shall feel our arms
presently.
TRIM. ’Sault you the women; I’ll pepper him till he
stinks again: I perceive what countryman he is; let me
alone with him.
CAP. ALBO. Darest thou charge a captain?
TRIM. Yes, and discharge upon him too.
CAP. ALBO. Foh, ’tis poison to my country, the slave
has eaten pippins! O, shoot no more! turn both thy
broadsides rather than thy poop; ’tis foul play; my
country breeds no poison.[815] I yield; the great O
Toole[816] shall yield on these conditions.
CHOUGH. I have given one of 'em a fair fall, Trim.
TRIM. Then thus far we bring home conquest.—
Follow me, captain; the cyclops doth command.
CHOUGH. Follow me, tweaks,[817] the centaur doth
command.
MEG. Any thing, sweet gentlemen: will’t please you to
lead to the tavern, where we’ll make all friends?
TRIM. Why, now you come to the conclusion.
CHOUGH. Stay, Trim; I have heard your tweaks are like
your mermaids, they have sweet voices to entice the
passengers: let’s have a song, and then we’ll set 'em at
liberty.
TRIM. In the commendation of roaring, not else, sir.
CHOUGH. Ay, in the commendation of roaring.
MEG. The best we can, gentlemen.
[_Sings_, PRISS _joining in chorus_.
_Then here thou shalt resign
Both captain and commander;
That name was never thine,
But apple-squire[818] and pander;
And henceforth will me grant,
In pillage or in monies,
In clothing or provant,[819]
Whate’er we get by conies:
With a hone, a hone, a hone,
No cheaters nor decoys
Shall have a share, but alone
The bravest roaring boys._
_Whate’er we get by gulls
Of country or of city,
Old fat-caps[820] or young heirs,
Or lawyers’ clerks so witty;
By sailors newly landed,
To put in for fresh waters;
By wandering gander-mooners,[821]
Or muffled late night-walkers.
With a hone, &c._
_Whate’er we get by strangers,
The Scotch, the Dutch, or Irish,
Or, to come nearer home,
By masters of the parish;
It is concluded thus,
By all and every wench,
To take of all their coins,
And pay 'em back in French.
With a hone, &c._
CHOUGH. Melodious minotaur!
TRIM. Harmonious hippocrene!
CHOUGH. Sweet-breasted[822] bronstrops!
TRIM. Most tunable tweak!
CHOUGH. Delicious duplar!
TRIM. Putrefactious panagron!
CHOUGH. Calumnious calicut!
TRIM. And most singular sindicus!
MEG. We shall never be able to deserve these good words
at your hands, gentlemen.
CAP. ALBO. Shake golls[823] with the captain; he shall
be thy valiant friend.
CHOUGH. Not yet, captain; we must make an end of our
roaring first.
TRIM. We’ll serve 'em as we did the tobacco-man, lay a
curse upon 'em; marry, we’ll lay it on gently, because
they have used us so kindly, and then we’ll shake
golls[823] together.
PRISS. As gently as you can, sweet gentlemen.
CHOUGH. For thee, O pander, mayst thou trudge till the
damned soles of thy boots fleet into dirt, but never
rise into air!
TRIM. Next, mayst thou fleet so long from place to
place, till thou be’st kicked out of Fleet Street!
CHOUGH. As thou hast lived by bad flesh, so rotten
mutton be thy bane!
TRIM. When thou art dead, may twenty whores follow thee,
that thou may st go a squire[824] to thy grave!
CAP. ALBO. Enough for me, sweet faces; let me sleep in
my grave.
CHOUGH. For thee, old sindicus, may I see thee[825] ride
in a caroch with two wheels, and drawn with one horse!
TRIM. Ten beadles running by, instead of footmen!
CHOUGH. With every one a whip, ’stead of an Irish
dart![826]
TRIM. Forty barbers’ basins[827] sounding before,
instead of trumpets!
MEG. This will be comely indeed, sweet gentlemen
roarers.
TRIM. Thy ruff starched yellow[828] with rotten eggs!
CHOUGH. And mayst thou then be drawn from Holborn to
Hounslow Heath!
TRIM. And then be burnt to Colebrook, for destroying of
Maidenhead!
MEG. I will study to deserve this kindness at your
hands, gentlemen.
CHOUGH. Now for thee, little fucus; mayst thou first
serve out thy time as a tweak, and then become a
bronstrops,[829] as she is!
TRIM. Mayst thou have a reasonable good spring, for thou
art like to have many dangerous foul falls!
CHOUGH. Mayst thou have two ruffs torn in one week!
TRIM. May spiders only weave thy cobweb-lawn!
CHOUGH. Mayst thou set up in Rogue-lane—
TRIM. Live till thou stinkest in Garden-alleys—
CHOUGH. And die sweetly in Tower-ditch!
PRISS. I thank you for that, good sir roarer.
CHOUGH. Come, shall we go now, Trim? my father-in-law
stays for me all this while.
TRIM. Nay, I’ll serve 'em as we did the tobacco-man;
I’ll bury 'em altogether, and give 'em an epitaph.
CHOUGH. All together, Trim? why, then, the epitaph will
be accessary to the sin.
TRIM. Alas, he has kept the door all his life-time! for
pity, let ’em lie together in their graves.[830]
CAP. ALBO. E'en as thou wilt, Trim, and I thank you too,
sir.
TRIM. _He that the reason would know, let him hark,
Why these three[831] were buried near Marybone Park;
These three were a pander, a bawd, and a whore,
That suck’d many dry to the bones before.
Will you know how they liv’d? here’t may be read;
The Low Countries did ever find 'em bread;
They liv’d by Flushing, by Sluys, and the Groyne,
Sicken’d in France, and died under the Line.
Three letters at last commended 'em hither,
But the hangman broke one in putting together:
P was the first, who cries out for a pardon,
O craves his book, yet could not read such a hard one,
An X was the last, which in conjunction
Was broke by Brandon;[832] and here’s the conclusion:
By three trees, three letters, these three, pander,
bawd, whore,
Now stink below ground, stunk long above before._
CHOUGH. So, now we have done with you; remember roaring
boys.
TRIM. Farewell, centaur!
CHOUGH. Farewell, bronstrops!
TRIM. Farewell, fucus!
[_Exeunt_ CHOUGH _and_ TRIMTRAM.
CAP. ALBO. Well, Meg, I will learn to roar, and
still maintain the name of captain over these
lancepresadoes.[833]
MEG. If thou dost not, mayst thou be buried under the
roaring curse! [_Exeunt._
ACT V. SCENE I.
_A Room in_ RUSSELL’S _House_.
_Enter Physician, and_ JANE _dressed as a bride_.
PHY. Will you be obstinate?
JANE. Torment me not,
Thou lingering executioner to death,
Greatest disease to nature, that striv’st by art
To make men long a-dying! your practice is
Upon men’s bodies; as men pull roses
For their own relish, but to kill the flower,
So you maintain your lives by others’ deaths:
What eat you then but[834] carrion?
PHY. Fie, bitterness!
Ye’d need to candy o’er your tongue a little,
Your words will hardly be digested else.
JANE. You can give yourself a vomit to return 'em,
If they offend your stomach.
PHY. Hear my vow;
You are[835] to be married to-day——
JANE. A second torment,
Worse than the first, 'cause unavoidable!
I would I could as soon annihilate
My father’s will in that as forbid thy lust!
PHY. If you then tender an unwilling hand,
Meet it with revenge, marry a cuckold.
JANE. If thou wilt marry me, I’ll make that vow,
And give my body for satisfaction
To him that should enjoy me for his wife.
PHY. Go to; I’ll mar your marriage.
JANE. Do; plague me so:
I’ll rather bear the brand of all that’s past,
In capital characters upon my brow,
Than think to be thy whore or marry him.
PHY. I will defame thee ever——
JANE. Spare me not.
PHY. I will produce thy bastard,
Bring thee to public penance——
JANE. No matter, I care not;
I shall then have a clean sheet; I’ll wear twenty,
Rather than one defil’d with thee.
PHY. Look for revenge!
JANE. Pursue it fully then.—Out of his hate
I shall escape,[836] I hope, a loathed fate.
[_Aside, and exit._
PHY. Am I rejected, all my baits nibbled off,
And not the fish caught? I’ll trouble the whole stream,
And choke it in the mud: since hooks not take,
I’ll throw in nets that shall or kill or break.
_Enter_ TRIMTRAM _with rosemary_.[837]
This is the bridegroom’s man.—Hark, sir, a word.
TRIM. ’Tis a busy day, sir, nor I need no physic;
You see I scour about my business.
PHY. Pray you, a word, sir: your master is to be married
to-day?
TRIM. Else all this rosemary’s lost.
PHY. I would speak with your master, sir.
TRIM. My master, sir, is to be married this morning, and
cannot be within while[838] soon at night.
PHY. If you will do your master the best service
That e’er you did him; if he shall not curse
Your negligence hereafter slacking it;
If he shall bless me for the dearest friend
That ever his acquaintance met withal;
Let me speak with him ere he go to church.
TRIM. A right physician! you would have none go to the
church nor churchyard till you send them thither: well,
if death do not spare you yourselves, he deals hardly
with you, for you are better benefactors and send more
to him than all diseases besides.
CHOUGH [_within_]. What, Trimtram, Trimtram!
TRIM. I come, sir.—Hark you, you may hear him! he’s upon
the spur, and would fain mount the saddle of matrimony;
but, if I can, I’ll persuade him to come to you.
PHY. Pray you, do, sir. [_Exit_ TRIMTRAM.]—I’ll teach
all peevish niceness[839]
To beware the strong advantage of revenge.
_Enter_ CHOUGH.
CHOUGH. Who’s that would speak with me?
PHY. None but a friend, sir; I would speak with you.
CHOUGH. Why, sir, and I dare speak with any man under
the universe. Can you roar, sir?
PHY. No, in faith, sir;
I come to tell you mildly for your good,
If you please to hear me: you are upon marriage?
CHOUGH. No, sir; I am towards it, but not upon it yet.
PHY. Do you know what you do?
CHOUGH. Yes, sir, I have practised what to do before
now; I would be ashamed to be married else: I have seen
a bronstrops in my time, and a hippocrene, and a tweak
too.
PHY. Take fair heed, sir; the wife that you would marry
Is not fit for you.
CHOUGH. Why, sir, have you tried her?
PHY. Not I, believe it, sir; but believe withal
She has been tried.
CHOUGH. Why, sir, is she a fructifer or a fucus?
PHY. All that I speak, sir, is in love to you:
Your bride, that may be, has not that portion
That a bride should have.
CHOUGH. Why, sir, she has a thousand and a better penny.
PHY. I do not speak of rubbish, dross, and ore,
But the refinèd metal, honour, sir.
CHOUGH. What she wants in honour shall be made
up in worship, sir; money will purchase both.
PHY. To be plain with you, she’s naught.
CHOUGH. If thou canst not roar, thou’rt a dead man! my
bride naught? [_Drawing his sword._
PHY. Sir, I do not fear you that way; what I speak
[_Drawing his sword._
My life shall maintain; I say she is naught.
CHOUGH. Dost thou not fear me?
PHY. Indeed I do not, sir.
CHOUGH. I’ll never draw upon thee while I live for that
trick; put up and speak freely.
PHY. Your intended bride is a whore; that’s freely, sir.
CHOUGH. Yes, faith, a whore’s free enough, and[840] she
hath a conscience: is she a whore? foot, I warrant she
has the pox then.
PHY. Worse, the plague; ’tis more incurable.
CHOUGH. A plaguy whore? a pox on her, I’ll none of
her!
PHY. Mine accusation shall have firm evidence;
I will produce an unavoided witness,
A bastard of her bearing.
CHOUGH. A bastard? ’snails, there’s great suspicion
she’s a whore then! I’ll wrestle a fall with her father
for putting this trick upon me, as I am a gentleman.
PHY. Good sir, mistake me not; I do not speak
To break the contract of united hearts;
I will not pull that curse upon my head,
To separate the husband and the wife;
But this, in love, I thought fit to reveal,
As the due office betwixt man and man,
That you might not be ignorant of your ills.
Consider now of my premonishment
As yourself shall please.
CHOUGH. I’ll burn all the rosemary to sweeten the house,
for, in my conscience, ’tis infected: has she drunk
bastard?[841] if she would piss me wine-vinegar now nine
times a-day, I’d never have her, and I thank you too.
_Re-enter_ TRIMTRAM.
TRIM. Come, will you come away, sir? they have all
rosemary, and stay for you to lead the way.
CHOUGH. I’ll not be married to-day, Trimtram: hast e’er
an almanac about thee? this is the nineteenth of August,
look what day of the month ’tis.
TRIM. ’Tis tenty-nine[842] indeed, sir.
[_Looks in an almanac._
CHOUGH. What’s the word?[843] what says Bretnor?[844]
TRIM. The word is, sir, _There’s a hole in her coat_.
CHOUGH. I thought so; the physician agrees with him;
I’ll not marry to-day.
TRIM. I pray you, sir; there will be charges for new
rosemary else; this will be withered by to-morrow.
CHOUGH. Make a bonfire on’t, to sweeten Rosemary-lane:
prithee, Trim, entreat my father-in-law that might have
been, to come and speak with me.
TRIM. The bride cries already and looks t’other way;
and[845] you be so backward too, we shall have a fine
arseward wedding on’t. [_Exit._
CHOUGH. You’ll stand to your words, sir?
PHY. I’ll not fly the house, sir; When you have need,
call me to evidence.
CHOUGH. If you’ll prove she has borne a bastard, I’ll
stand to’t she’s a whore. [_Exit Physician._
_Enter_ RUSSELL _and_ TRIMTRAM.
RUS. Why, how now, son? what causeth these delays?
All stay for your leading.
CHOUGH. Came I from the Mount[846] to be confronted?
RUS. How’s that, sir?
CHOUGH. Canst thou roar, old man?
RUS. Roar? how mean you, sir?
CHOUGH. Why, then, I’ll tell thee plainly, thy daughter
is a bronstrops.
RUS. A bronstrops? what’s that, sir?
TRIM. Sir, if she be so, she is a hippocrene.
CHOUGH. Nay, worse, she is a fructifer.
TRIM. Nay, then, she is a fucus, a minotaur, and a
tweak.
RUS. Pray you, speak to my understanding, sir.
CHOUGH. If thou wilt have it in plain terms, she is a
callicut and a panagron.
TRIM. Nay, then, she is a duplar and a sindicus.
RUS. Good sir, speak English to me.
CHOUGH. All this is Cornish to thee; I say thy daughter
has drunk bastard[847] in her time.
RUS. Bastard? you do not mean to make her a whore?
CHOUGH. Yes, but I do, if she make a fool of me; I’ll
ne’er make her my wife till she have her maidenhead
again.
RUS. A whore? I do defy this calumny.
CHOUGH. Dost thou? I defy thee then.
TRIM. Do you, sir? then I defy thee too: fight with us
both at once in this quarrel, if thou darest!
CHOUGH. I could have had a whore at Plymouth.
TRIM. Ay, or at Pe’ryn.[848]
CHOUGH. Ay, or under the Mount.
TRIM. Or as you came, at Ivel.[849]
CHOUGH. Or at Wookey-Hole[850] in Somersetshire.
TRIM. Or at the Hanging-stones in Wiltshire.
CHOUGH. Or at Maidenhead in Berkshire: and did I come in
by Maidenhead, to go out by Staines? O, that man, woman,
or child, would wrestle with me for a pound of patience!
RUS. Some thief has put in poison at your ears,
To steal the good name of my child from me;
Or if it be a malice of your own,
Be sure I will enforce a proof from you.
CHOUGH. He’s a goose and a woodcock that says I will not
prove any word that I speak.
TRIM. Ay, either goose or woodcock; he shall, sir, with
any man.
CHOUGH. Phy-si-ci-an! mauz avez physician![851]
RUS. Is he the author?
_Re-enter Physician._
PHY. Sir, with much sorrow for your sorrow’s sake,
I must deliver this most certain truth;
Your daughter is an honour-stainèd bride,
Indeed she is the mother to a child
Before the lawful wife unto a husband.
CHOUGH. La, that’s worse than I told thee; I said she
had borne a bastard, and he says she was the mother on’t
too.
RUS. I’m yet an infidel against all this,
And will believe the sun is made of brass,
The stars of amber——
CHOUGH. And the moon of a Holland cheese.
RUS. Rather than this impossibility.
O, here she comes.
_Re-enter_ JANE _with_ ANNE.
Nay come, daughter, stand at the bar of shame;
Either now quit thyself, or kill me ever:
Your marriage-day is spoil’d, if all be true.
JANE. A happy misery! who’s my accuser?
PHY. I am, that knows it true I speak.
CHOUGH. Yes, and I’m his witness.
TRIM. And I.
CHOUGH. And I again.
TRIM. And I again too; there’s four, that’s enough I
hope.
RUS. How can you witness, sir, that nothing know
But what you have receiv’d from his report?
CHOUGH. Must we not believe our physicians? pray you,
think I know as much as every fool does.
TRIM. Let me be Trimtram, I pray you too, sir.
JANE. Sir, if this bad man have laid a blemish
On my white name, he is a most false one,
Defaming me for the just denial
Of his foul lust.—Nay, now you shall be known, sir.
ANNE. Sir, I’m his sister, and do better know him
Than all of you: give not too much belief
To his wild words; he’s oftentimes mad, sir.
PHY. I thank you, good sister!
ANNE. Are you not mad
To do this office? fie upon your malice!
PHY. I’ll presently produce both nurse and child,
Whose very eyes shall call her mother before it speaks.
[_Exit._
CHOUGH. Ha, ha, ha, ha! by my troth, I’d spend a
shilling on that condition to hear that: I think in my
conscience I shall take the physician in a lie; if the
child call her mother before it can speak, I’ll never
wrestle while I live again.
TRIM. It must be a she child if it do, sir; and those
speak the soonest of any living creatures, they say.
CHOUGH. Baw, waw! a dog will bark a month sooner; he’s a
very puppy else.
RUS. Come, tell truth 'twixt ourselves; here’s none
but friends:
One spot a father’s love will soon wipe off;
The truth, and the[reb]y try my love abundant;
I’ll cover it with all the care I have,
And yet, perhaps, make up a marriage-day.
JANE. Then it’s true, sir, I have a[852] child.
RUS. Hast thou?
Well, wipe thine eyes; I’m a grandfather then.
If all bastards were banish’d, the city would be thin
In the thickest term-time. Well, now let me alone,
I’ll try my wits for thee.—Richard, Francis, Andrew!
None of my knaves within?
_Enter Servant._
SER. Here’s one of 'em, sir: the guests come in apace.
RUS. Do they, Dick? let 'em have wine and sugar;[853]
we’ll be for 'em presently; but hark, Dick.
[_Whispers Servant._
CHOUGH. I long to hear this child speak, i’faith, Trim;
I would this foolish physician would come once.
TRIM. If it calls her mother, I hope it shall never call
you father.
CHOUGH. No; and[854] it do, I’ll whip it, i’faith, and
give thee leave to whip me.
RUS. Run on thy best legs, Dick.
SER. I’ll be here in a twinkling, sir. [_Exit._
_Re-enter Physician, with Dutch Nurse and child._
PHY. Now, gentlemen, believe your eyes, if not
My tongue.—Do not you call this your child?
CHOUGH. Phew, that’s not the point! you promised us the
child should call her mother; if it does this month,
I’ll ne’er go to the roaring-school again.
RUS. Whose child is this, nurse?
NURSE. Dis gentleman’s, so he to me readen.
[_Points to the physician._
CHOUGH. ’Snails, she’s the physician’s bronstrops, Trim!
TRIM. His fucus, his very tweak, i’faith.
CHOUGH. A glister in his teeth! let him take her, with a
purgation to him!
RUS. ’Tis as your sister said, you are stark mad, sir,
This much confirms it; you have defamèd
Mine honest daughter; I’ll have you punish’d for’t,
Besides the civil penance of your sin,
And keeping of your bastard.
PHY. This is fine!
All your wit and wealth must not thus carry it.
RUS. Sir Chough, a word with you.
CHOUGH. I’ll not have her, i’faith, sir; if Trimtram
will have her, and[855] he will, let him.
TRIM. Who, I, sir? I scorn it: if you’ll have her, I’ll
have her too; I’ll do as you do, and no otherwise.
RUS. I do not mean’t to either; this only, sir,
That whatsoe’er you’ve seen, you would be silent;
Hinder not my child of another husband,
Though you forsake her.
CHOUGH. I’ll not speak a word, i’faith.
RUS. As you are a gentleman?
CHOUGH. By these basket-hilts, as I am a youth, a
gentleman, a roarer.
RUS. Charm[856] your man, I beseech you, too.
CHOUGH. I warrant you, sir, he shall do nothing but what
I do before him.
RUS. I shall most dearly thank you.—
_Re-enter Servant with_ FITZALLEN.
Welcome, son-in-law! this was beyond your hope:
We old men have pretty conceits sometimes;
Your wedding-day’s prepar’d, and this is it;
How think you of it?
FITZ. As of the joyfullest
That ever welcom’d me! you shew yourself now
A pattern to all kind fathers.—My sweetest Jane!
RUS. Your captivity I meant but as sauce
Unto your wedding-dinner; now I’m sure
’Tis far more welcome in this short restraint
Than had it freely come.
FITZ. A thousandfold.
JANE. I like this well. [_Aside._
CHOUGH. I have not the heart to see this gentleman
gulled so; I will reveal; I make it mine own case; ’tis
a foul case.
TRIM. Remember you have sworn by your hilts.
CHOUGH. I’ll break my hilts rather than conceal: I have
a trick; do thou follow me; I will reveal it, and yet
not speak it neither.
TRIM. ’Tis my duty to follow you, sir.
CHOUGH. [_sings_] _Take heed in time, O man, unto thy
head!_
TRIM. [_sings_] _All is not gold that glistereth in
bed._
RUS. Why, sir,—why, sir!
CHOUGH. [_sings_] _Look to’t, I say, thy bride is a
bronstrops._
TRIM. [_sings_] _And knows the thing that men wear in
their slops._
FITZ. How’s this, sir?
CHOUGH. [_sings_] _A hippocrene, a tweak, for and[857]
a fucus._
TRIM. [_sings_] _Let not fond love with foretops so
rebuke us!_
RUS. Good sir——
CHOUGH. [_sings_] _Behold a baby of this maid’s
begetting._
TRIM. [_sings_] _A deed of darkness after the
sunsetting._
RUS. Your oath, sir!
CHOUGH. [_sings_] _I swear and sing thy bride has
taken physic._
TRIM. [_sings_] _This was the doctor cur’d her of that
phthisic._
CHOUGH. [_sings_] _If you’ll believe me, I will say no
more._
TRIM. [_sings_] _Thy bride’s a tweak, as we do say
that roar._
CHOUGH. Bear witness, gentlemen, I have not spoke a
word; my hilts are whole still.
FITZ. This is a sweet epithalamium
Unto the marriage-bed, a musical,
Harmonious Iö! Sir, you have wrong’d me,
And basely wrong’d me! was this your cunning fetch,
To fetch me out of prison, for ever to marry me
Unto a strumpet?
RUS. None of those words, good sir;
’Tis but a fault, and ’tis a sweet one too.
Come, sir, your means is short; lengthen your fortunes
With a fair proffer: I’ll put a thousand pieces
Into the scale, to help her to weigh it up,
Above the first dowry.
FITZ. Ha? you say well;
Shame may be bought out at a dear rate;
A thousand pieces added to her dowry!
RUS. There’s five hundred of 'em to make the bargain;
[_Gives money._
I’ve worthy guests coming, and would not delude ’em;
Say, speak like a son to me.
FITZ. Your blessing, sir;
We are both yours:—witness, gentlemen,
These must be made up a thousand pieces,
Added to a first thousand for her dowry,
To father that child.
PHY. O, is it out now?
CHOUGH. For t’other thousand I’ll do’t myself yet.
TRIM. Or I, if my master will.
FITZ. The bargain’s made, sir; I have the tender
And possession both, and will keep my purchase.
CHOUGH. Take her e’en to you with all her moveables;
I’ll wear my bachelor’s buttons still.
TRIM. So will I, i’faith; they are the best flowers in
any man’s garden, next to heart’s-ease.
FITZ. This is as welcome as the other, sir,
And both as the best bliss that e’er on earth
I shall enjoy. Sir, this is mine own child;
You could not have found out a fitter father;
Nor is it basely bred, as you imagine,
For we were wedded by the hand of heaven
Ere this work was begun.
CHOUGH. At Pancridge,[858] I’ll lay my life on’t.
TRIM. I’ll lay my life on’t too, ’twas there.
FITZ. Somewhere it was, sir.
RUS. Was’t so, i’faith, son?
JANE. And that I must have reveal’d to you, sir,
Ere I had gone to church with this fair groom;
But, thank this gentleman, he prevented[859] me.—
I am much bound unto your malice, sir.
PHY. I am asham’d.
JANE. Shame to amendment then.
RUS. Now get you together for a couple of cunning
ones!
But, son, a word; the latter thousand pieces
Is now more than bargain.
FITZ. No, by my faith, sir,
Here’s witness enough on it; it must serve
To pay my fees, imprisonment is costly.
CHOUGH. By my troth, the old man has gulled himself
finely! Well, sir, I’ll bid myself a guest, though not a
groom; I’ll dine, and dance, and roar at the wedding for
all this.
TRIM. So will I, sir, if my master does.
RUS. Well, sir, you’re welcome: but now, no more words
on’t
Till we be set at dinner, for there will mirth
Be the most useful for digestion:
See, my best guests are coming.
_Enter_ LADY AGER, _Colonel’s Sister_, CAPTAIN AGER,
_his two Friends, and Surgeon_.
CAP. AGER. Recover’d, sayst thou?
SURG. May I be excluded quite out of Surgeons’ Hall
else! marry, I must tell you the wound was fain to be
twice corroded;’twas a plain gastrolophe,[860] and a
deep one; but I closed the lips on’t with bandages and
sutures[861] which is a kind[862] conjunction of the
parts separated against the course of nature.
CAP. AGER. Well, sir, he is well.
SURG. I feared him, I assure you, captain; before the
suture in the belly, it grew almost to a convulsion, and
there was like to be a bloody issue from the hollow
vessels of the kidneys.
CAP. AGER. There’s that, to thank thy news and thy art
together.
[_Gives him money._
SURG. And if your worship at any time stand in need of
incision, if it be your fortune to light into my hands,
I’ll give you the best.
CAP. AGER. Uncle, the noble Colonel’s recover’d.
RUS. Recover’d?
Then honour is not dead in all parts, coz.
_Enter Colonel and two Friends._
FIRST FR. OF CAP. Behold him yonder, sir.
CAP. AGER. My much unworthiness
Is now found out; thou’st not a face to fit it.
FIRST FR. OF COL. Sir, yonder’s captain Ager.
COL. O lieutenant,
The wrong I’ve done his fame puts me to silence;
Shame so confounds me, that I dare not see him.
CAP. AGER. I never knew how poor my deserts were
Till he appear’d; no way to give requital!
Here shame me lastingly, do’t with his own:
Return this to him; tell him I have riches
In that abundance in his sister’s love,
These come but to oppress me, and confound
All my deservings everlastingly;
I never shall requite my wealth in her, say.
[_Giving will to his friend, who delivers it to
the Colonel._
How soon from virtue and an honour’d spirit
May man receive what he may never merit!
COL. This comes most happily, to express me better;
For since this will was made, there fell to me
The manor of Fitzdale; give him that too;
[_Returning will with other papers._
He’s like to have charge,
There’s fair hope of my sister’s fruitfulness:
For me, I never mean to change my mistress,
And war is able to maintain her servant.
FIRST FR. OF CAP. Read there; a fair increase, sir, by
my faith;
He hath sent it back, sir, with new additions.
CAP. AGER. How miserable he makes me! this enforces me
To break through all the passages of shame,
And headlong fall——
COL. Into my arms, dear worthy!
CAP. AGER. You have a goodness
Has put me past my answers; you may speak
What you please now, I must be silent ever.
COL. This day has shewn me joy’s unvalu’d[863]
treasure;
I would not change this brotherhood with a monarch;
Into which blest alliance sacred heaven
Has plac’d my kinsman, and given him his ends:
Fair be that quarrel makes such happy friends!
[_Exeunt omnes._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MORE DISSEMBLERS
BESIDES
WOMEN.
_More Dissemblers Besides Women. A Comedy, By Tho. Middleton, Gent. London.
Printed for Humphrey Moseley_, 1657, forms part of a volume, the general
title of which is _Two New Playes_.
{ _More Dissemblers_ _Viz_ { _besides Women._ { _Women beware_ {
_Women._
_Written by Tho. Middleton, Gent. London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley and
are to be sold at his Shop at the Prince’s Arms in St Pauls Churchyard._
1657. 8vo. To this volume is prefixed the following address
“TO THE READER.
“When these amongst others of Mr. Thomas Middleton’s excellent poems came
to my hands, I was not a little confident but that his name would prove as
great an inducement for thee to read as me to print them; since those
issues of his brain that have already seen the sun have by their worth
gained themselves a free entertainment amongst all that are ingenious: and
I am most certain that these will no way lessen his reputation nor hinder
his admission to any noble and recreative spirits. All that I require at
thy hands is to continue the author in his deserved esteem, and to accept
of my endeavours which have ever been to please thee.
Farewell.”
Another play by Middleton, printed in the same year and
ᚴfor the same bookseller—_No_ {_Wit_ } _like a Woman’s_—
{_Help_}
is generally found appended to the volume just described.
The present drama has been reprinted in the 4th vol. of _A Continuation of
Dodsley’s Old Plays_, 1816.
That _More Dissemblers besides Women_ was produced a considerable time
previous to the year 1623, we learn from the following entry by Sir Henry
Herbert (Chalmers’s _Suppl. Apol._ p. 215);
“17 October [1623] For the King’s Company, _An Old Play, called, More
Dissemblers besides Women_: allowed by Sir George Bucke; and being free
from alterations was allowed by me, for a new play, called _The Devil of
Dowgate, or Usury put to use_. Written by Fletcher.”
Immediately preceding act i. of the old ed. are the words “The First Part;”
which would seem to imply that a Second Part had been written, or perhaps
only designed.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
_Lord Cardinal of Milan._
LACTANTIO, _his nephew_.
ANDRUGIO, _general of Milan_.
_Father to Aurelia._
_Governor of the fort._
DONDOLO, _servant to Lactantio_.
CROTCHET, _a singing-master_.
SINQUAPACE, _a dancing-master_.
NICHOLAO, _his usher_.
_Captain of the Gipsies._
_Lords, Gipsies, Servants, and Guards._
_Duchess of Milan._
CELIA, _her waiting-woman_. AURELIA.
_Page, Lactantio’s mistress in disguise._
Scene, MILAN and the neighbourhood.
MORE DISSEMBLERS
BESIDES
WOMEN.
------------------
ACT I. SCENE I.
_A Street._
_Enter_ LACTANTIO, AURELIA, _and Servant_.
_Song within._
_To be chaste is woman’s glory,
’Tis her fame and honour’s story:
Here sits she in funeral weeds,
Only bright in virtuous deeds;
Come and read her life and praise,
That singing weeps, and sighing plays._
LAC. Welcome, soul’s music! I’ve been listening here
To melancholy strains from the duchess’ lodgings;
That strange great widow, that has vow’d so stiffly
Ne’er to know love’s heat in a second husband:
And she has kept the fort most valiantly,
To th’ wonder of her sex, this seven year’s day,
And that’s no sorry trial. A month’s constancy
Is held a virtue in a city-widow;
And are they excell’d by so much more i’ th’ court?
My faith, a rare example for our wives!
Heaven’s blessing of[864] her heart for it! poor soul,
She had need have somewhat to comfort her.
What wouldst thou do, faith, now,
If I were dead, suppose I were thy husband,
As shortly I will be, and that’s as good?
Speak freely, and[865] thou lov’st me.
AUR. Alas, sir,
I should not have the leisure to make vows;
For dying presently, I should be dead
Before you were laid out!
LAC. Now fie upon thee for a hasty dier!
Wouldst thou not see me buried?
AUR. Talk not on’t, sir,
These many years, unless you take delight
To see me swoon, or make a ghost of me.
LAC. Alas, poor soul! I’ll kiss thee into colour:
Canst thou paint pale so quickly? I perceive then
Thou’dst go beyond the duchess in her vow,
Thou’dst die indeed. What’s he?
AUR. Be settled, sir;
Spend neither doubt nor fear upon that fellow:
Health cannot be more trusty to man’s life
Than he to my necessities in love.
LAC. I take him of thy word, and praise his face,
Though he look scurvily; I’ll think hereafter
That honesty may walk with fire in’s nose,
As well as brave desert in broken clothes:
But for thy further safety, I’ve provided
A shape, that at first sight will start thy modesty,
And make thee blush perhaps, but 'twill away
After a qualm or two. Virginity
Has been put often to those shifts before thee
Upon extremities; a little boldness
Cannot be call’d immodesty, especially
When there’s no means without it for our safeties.
Thou know’st my uncle, the lord cardinal,
Wears so severe an eye, so strict and holy,
It not endures the sight of womankind
About his lodgings:
Hardly a matron of fourscore’s admitted;
Though she be worn to gums, she comes not there
To mumble matins; all his admiration
Is plac’d upon the duchess; he likes her,
Because she keeps her vow and likes not any;
So does he love that man above his book
That loves no woman: for my fortune’s sake then,
For I am like to be his only heir,
I must dissemble, and appear as fair
To his opinion as the brow of piety;
As void of all impureness as an altar:
Thine ear [_whispers_]; that, and we’re safe.
AUR. You make me blush, sir.
LAC. ’Tis but a star shot from a beauteous cheek,
It blazes beauty’s bounty, and hurts nothing.
AUR. The power of love commands me.
LAC. I shall wither
In comforts, till I see thee. [_Exeunt severally._
SCENE II.
_The Cardinal’s Closet._
_Enter Cardinal and Lords._
CAR. My lords, I’ve work for you: when you have hours
Free from the cares of state, bestow your eyes
Upon those abstracts of the duchess’ virtues,
My study’s ornaments. I make her constancy
The holy mistress of my contemplation;
Whole volumes have I writ in zealous praise
Of her eternal vow: I have no power
To suffer virtue to go thinly clad.
I that have ever been in youth an old man
To pleasures and to women, and could never
Love, but pity 'em,
And all their momentary frantic follies,
Here I stand up in admiration,
And bow to the chaste health of our great duchess,
Kissing her constant name. O my fair lords,
When we find grace confirm’d, especially
In a creature that’s so doubtful as a woman,
We’re spirit-ravish’d; men of our probation
Feel the sphere’s music playing in their souls.
So long, unto th’ eternising of her sex,
Sh’as kept her vow so strictly, and as chaste
As everlasting life is kept for virtue,
Even from the sight of men; to make her oath
As uncorrupt as th’ honour of a virgin,
That must be strict in thought, or else that title,
Like one of frailty’s ruins, shrinks to dust:
No longer she’s a virgin than she’s just.
FIRST LORD. Chaste, sir? the truth and justice of her
vow
To her deceas’d lord’s able to make poor
Man’s treasury of praises. But, methinks,
She that has no temptation set before her,
Her virtue has no conquest: then would her constancy
Shine in the brightest goodness of her glory,
If she would give admittance, see and be seen,
And yet resist, and conquer: there were argument
For angels; 'twould outreach the life of praise
Set in mortality’s shortness. I speak this
Not for religion, but for love of her,
Whom I wish less religious, and more loving:
But I fear she’s too constant, that’s her fault;
But ’tis so rare, few of her sex are took with’t,
And that makes some amends.
CAR. You’ve put my zeal into a way, my lord,
I shall not be at peace till I make perfect:
I’ll make her victory harder; ’tis my crown
When I bring grace to great’st perfection;
And I dare trust that daughter with a world,
None but her vow and she. I know she wears
A constancy will not deceive my praises,
A faith so noble; she that once knows heaven
Need put in no security for her truth;
I dare believe her. Face,[866] use all the art,
Temptation, witcheries, slights,[867] and subtleties,
You temporal lords and all your means can practice——
SEC. LORD. My lord, not any we.
CAR. Her resolute goodness
Shall as a rock stand firm, and send the sin
That beat[s] against it
Into the bosom of the owners weeping.
THIRD LORD. We wish[868] her virtues so.
CAR. O, give me pardon!
I’ve lost myself in her upon my friends.
Your charitable censures[869] I beseech:
So dear her white fame is to my soul’s love,
’Tis an affliction but to hear it question’d;
She’s my religious triumph:
If you desire a belief rightly to her,
Think she can never waver, then you’re sure:
She has a fixed heart, it cannot err;
He kills my hopes of woman that doubts her.
FIRST LORD. No more, my lord, ’tis fix’d.
CAR. Believe my judgment;
I never praise in vain, nor ever spent
Opinion idly, or lost hopes of any
Where I once plac’d it; welcome as my joys,
Now you all part believers of her virtue!
LORDS. We are the same most firmly.
CAR. Good opinion
In others reward you and all your actions!
[_Exeunt Lords._
Who’s near us?
_Enter Servant._
SER. My lord?
CAR. Call our nephew. [_Exit Servant._]—There’s a work
too
That for blood’s sake I labour to make perfect,
And it comes on with joy. He’s but a youth,
To speak of years, yet I dare venture him
To old men’s goodnesses and gravities
For his strict manners, and win glory by him;
And for the chasteness of his continence,
Which is a rare grace in the spring of man,
He does excel the youth of all our time;
Which gift of his, more than affinity,
Draws my affection in great plenty to him:
The company of a woman’s as fearful to him
As death to guilty men; I’ve seen him blush
When but a maid was nam’d: I’m proud of him,
Heaven be not angry for’t! he’s near of kin
In disposition to me. I shall do much for him
In life-time, but in death I shall do all;
There he will find my love: he’s yet too young
In years to rise in state, but his good parts
Will bring him in the sooner. Here he comes.
_Enter_ LACTANTIO _with a book_.
What, at thy meditation? half in heaven?
LAC. The better half, my lord, my mind’s there still;
And when the heart’s above, the body walks here
But like an idle serving-man below,
Gaping and waiting for his master’s coming.
CAR. What man in age could bring forth graver
thoughts?
LAC. He that lives fourscore years is but like one
That stays here for a friend; when death comes, then
Away he goes, and is ne’er seen agen.[870]
I wonder at the young men of our days,
That they can doat on pleasure, or what ’tis
They give that title to, unless in mockage:
There’s nothing I can find upon the earth
Worthy the name of pleasure, unless 't be
To laugh at folly, which indeed good charity
Should rather pity; but of all the frenzies
That follow flesh and blood, O reverend uncle,
The most ridiculous is to fawn on women;
There’s no excuse for that; ’tis such a madness,
There is no cure set down for’t; no physician
Ever spent hour about it, for they guess’d
'Twas all in vain when they first lov’d themselves,
And never since durst practise; cry _Hei mihi_,[871]
That’s all the help they’ve for’t. I had rather meet
A witch far north, than a fine fool in love,
The sight would less afflict me: but for modesty,
And your grave presence that learns men respect,
I should fall foul in words upon fond[872] man,
That can forget his excellence and honour,
His serious meditations, being the end
Of his creation to learn well to die,
And live a prisoner to a woman’s eye:
Can there be greater thraldom, greater folly?
CAR. In making him my heir, I make good works,
And they give wealth a blessing; where,[873] on the
contrary,
What curses does he heap upon his soul
That leaves his riches to a riotous young man,
To be consum’d on surfeits, pride, and harlots!
Peace be upon that spirit, whose life provides
A quiet rest for mine! [_Aside._
_Enter Page._[874]
LAC. How now? the news?
PAGE. A letter, sir [_gives letter to_ LACTANTIO],
brought by a gentleman
That lately came from Rome.
LAC. That’s she; she’s come;
I fear not to admit her in his presence,
There is the like already: I’m writ chaste
In my grave uncle’s thoughts, and honest meanings
Think all men’s like their own. [_Aside._]—Thou look’st
so pale!
What ail’st thou here a’ late?
PAGE. I doubt I’ve cause, sir.
LAC. Why, what’s the news?
PAGE. I fear, sir, I’m with child.
LAC. With child? peace, peace; speak low.
PAGE. 'Twill prove, I fear, so.
LAC. Beshrew my heart for that!—Desire the gentleman
To walk a turn or two.
CAR. What gentleman?
LAC. One lately come from Rome, my lord, in credit
With Lord Vincentio; so the letter speaks him.
CAR. Admit him, my kind boy. [_Exit Page._]—The
prettiest servant
That ever man was bless’d with! ’tis so meek,
So good and gentle; ’twas the best alm’s-deed
That e’er you did to keep him: I’ve oft took him
Weeping alone, poor boy, at the remembrance
Of his lost friends, which, as he says, the sea
Swallow’d, with all their substance.
LAC. ’Tis a truth, sir,
Has cost the poor boy many a feeling tear,
And me some too, for company: in such pity
I always spend my part. Here comes the gentleman.
_Enter_ AURELIA _disguised as a man_.
CAR. Welcome to Milan, sir: how is the health
Of Lord Vincentio?
AUR. May it please your grace,
I left it well and happy, and I hope
The same bless’d fortune keeps it.
CAR. I hear you’re near him.
AUR. One of his chamber, my lord.
LAC. I’d ne’er wish one of her condition nearer
Than to be one of mine. [_Aside._
CAR. Your news is pleasing:
Whilst you remain in Milan, I request you
To know the welcome of no house but ours.
AUR. Thanks to your grace.
CAR. I’ll leave you to confer;
I’ll to the duchess, and labour her perfection.
[_Exit._
LAC. Then thus begins our conference: I arrest thee
In Cupid’s name; deliver up your weapon,
[_Takes her sword._
It is not for your wearing, Venus knows it:
Here’s a fit thing indeed! nay, hangers[875] and all;
Away with 'em, out upon 'em! things of trouble,
And out of use with you. Now you’re my prisoner;
And till you swear you love me, all and only,
You part not from mine arms.
AUR. I swear it willingly.
LAC. And that you do renounce the general’s love,
That heretofore laid claim to you.
AUR. My heart bids me,
You need not teach me that; my eye ne’er knew
A perfect choice till it stood bless’d with you.
There’s yet a rival whom you little dream of,
Tax me with him, and I’ll swear too I hate him;
I’ll thrust 'em both together in one oath,
And send 'em to some pair of waiting-women,
To solder up their credits.
LAC. Prithee, what’s he?
Another yet? for laughter’ sake, discover him.
AUR. The governor of the fort.
LAC. That old dried neat’s tongue!
AUR. A gentleman after my father’s relish.
_Enter_ AURELIA’S _Father and Governor_.
FATH. By your kind favours, gentlemen.
AUR. O, my father!
We’re both betray’d.
LAC. Peace; you may prove too fearful.—
To whom your business, sir?
FATH. To the lord cardinal,
If it would please yourself, or that young gentleman,
To grace me with admittance.
LAC. I will see, sir;
The gentleman’s a stranger, new come o’er;
He understands you not.—
_Loff tro veen, tantumbro, hoff tufftee locumber shaw._
AUR. _Quisquimken, sapadlaman, fool-urchin old astrata._
FATH. Nay, and[876] that be the language, we can speak
it too:
_Strumpettikin, bold harlottum, queaninisma,
whore-mongeria!_
Shame to thy sex, and sorrow to thy father!
Is this a shape for reputation
And modesty to masque in? Thou too cunning
For credulous goodness,
Did not a reverent respect and honour,
That’s due unto the sanctimonious peace
Of this lord’s house, restrain my voice and anger,
And teach it soft humility, I would lift
Both your disgraces to the height of grief
That you have rais’d in me; but to shame you
I will not cast a blemish upon virtue:
Call that your happiness, and the dearest too
That such a bold attempt could ever boast of.
We’ll see if a strong fort can hold you now.—
Take her, sir, to you.
GOV. How have I deserv’d
The strangeness of this hour?
FATH. Talk not so tamely.—
For you, sir, thank the reverence of this place,
Or your hypocrisy I’d put out of grace,
I had, i’faith; if ever I can fit you,
Expect to hear from me.
[_Exeunt Father, Governor, and_ AURELIA.
LAC. I thank you, sir;
The cough o’ th’ lungs requite you! I could curse him
Into diseases by whole dozens now;
But one’s enough to beggar him, if he light
Upon a wise physician. ’Tis a labour
To keep those little wits I have about me.
Still did I dream that villain would betray her:
I’ll never trust slave with a parboil’d nose again.
I must devise some trick t’ excuse her absence
Now to my uncle too; there is no mischief
But brings one villan[y] or other still
Even close at heels on’t. I am pain’d at heart;
If ever there were hope of me to die
For love, ’tis now; I never felt such gripings:
If I can ’scape this climacterical year,
Women ne’er trust me, though you hear me swear.
Kept with him in the fort? why, there’s no hope
Of ever meeting now, my way’s not thither;
Love bless us with some means to get together,
And I’ll pay all the old reckonings. [_Exit._
SCENE III.
_Street before the Duchess’s House._
_Enter on a balcony[877] Duchess and_ CELIA.
DUCH. What a contented rest rewards my mind
For faithfulness! I give it constancy,
And it returns me peace. How happily
Might woman live, methinks, confin’d within
The knowledge of one husband!
What comes of more rather proclaims desire
Prince of affections than religious love,
Brings frailty and our weakness into question
'Mongst our male enemies, makes widows’ tears
Rather the cup of laughter than of pity:
What credit can our sorrows have with men,
When in some months’ space they turn light agen,[878]
Feast, dance, and go in colours? If my vow
Were yet to make, I would not sleep without it,
Or make a faith as perfect to myself
In resolution, as a vow would come to,
And do as much right so to constancy
As strictness could require; for ’tis our goodness
And not our strength that does it. I am arm’d now
'Gainst all deserts in man, be’t valour, wisdom,
Courtesy, comeliness, nay, truth itself,
Which seldom keeps him company. I commend
The virtues highly, as I do an instrument
When the case hangs by th’ wall; but man himself
Never comes near my heart.
_Enter Cardinal above._
CAR. The blessing of perfection to your thoughts, lady!
For I’m resolv’d[879] they’re good ones.
DUCH. Honour of greatness,
Friend to my vow, and father to my fame,
Welcome as peace to temples!
CAR. I bring war.
DUCH. How, sir?
CAR. A harder fight: if now you conquer,
You crown my praises double.
DUCH. What’s your aim, sir?
CAR. T’ astonish sin and all her tempting evils,
And make your goodness shine more glorious.
When your fair noble vow shew’d you the way
To excellence in virtue, to keep back
The fears that might discourage you at first,
Pitying your strength, it shew’d you not the worst:
’Tis not enough for tapers to burn bright,
But to be seen, so to lend others light,
Yet not impair themselves, their flame as pure
As when it shin’d in secret; so, t’ abide
Temptations is the soul’s flame truly tried.
I’ve an ambition, but a virtuous one;
I’d have nothing want to your perfection.
DUCH. Is there a doubt found yet? is it so hard
For woman to recover, with all diligence,
And a true fasting faith from sensual pleasure,
What many of her sex have[880] so long lost?
Can you believe that any sight of man,
Held he the worth of millions in one spirit,
Had power to alter me?
CAR. No; there’s my hope,
My credit, and my triumph.
DUCH. I’ll no more
Keep strictly private, since the glory on’t
Is but a virtue question’d; I’ll come forth
And shew myself to all; the world shall witness,
That, like the sun, my constancy can look
On earth’s corruptions, and shine clear itself.
CAR. Hold conquest now, and I have all my wishes.
[_Cornets, and a shout within._
DUCH. The meaning of that sudden shout, my lord?
CAR. Signor Andrugio, general of the field,
Successful in his fortunes, is arriv’d,
And met by all the gallant hopes of Milan,
Welcom’d with laurel-wreaths and hymns of praises:
Vouchsafe but you to give him the first grace, madam,
Of your so long-hid presence, he has then
All honours that can bless victorious man.
DUCH. You shall prevail, grave sir.
[_Exit Cardinal above._
_Enter_ ANDRUGIO, _attended by the nobility, senators,
and masquers_.
_Song._
_Laurel is a victor’s due,
I give it you,
I give it you;
Thy name with praise,
Thy brow with bays
We circle round:
All men rejoice
With cheerful voice,
To see thee like a conqueror crown’d._
[_A Cupid descending, sings_:
_I am a little conqueror too;
For wreaths of bays
There’s arms of cross,[881]
And that’s my due:
I give the flaming heart,
It is my crest;
And by the mother’s side,
The weeping eye,
The sighing breast.
It is not power in you, fair beauties;
If I command love, ’tis your duties._ [_Ascends._
[_During the preceding songs_ ANDRUGIO _peruses
a letter delivered to him by a Lord: the
masque then closes with the following_
_Song._
_Welcome, welcome, son of fame,
Honour triumphs in thy name!_ [_Exeunt all except
Lord._
LORD. Alas, poor gentleman! I brought him news
That like a cloud spread over all his glories:
When he miss’d her whom his eye greedily sought for,
His welcome seem’d so poor, he took no joy in’t;
But when he found her by her father forc’d
To the old governor’s love, and kept so strictly,
A coldness strook his heart. There is no state
So firmly happy but feels envy’s might.
I know Lactantio, nephew to the cardinal,
Hates him as deeply as a rich man death;
And yet his welcome shew’d as fair and friendly
As his that wore the truest love to him;
When in his wishes he could drink his blood,
And make his heart the sweetness of his food. [_Exit._
CELIA. Madam! madam!
DUCH. Beshrew thy heart, dost thou not see me busy?
You shew your manners!
CELIA. In the name of goodness,
What ails my lady?
DUCH. I confess I’m mortal;
There’s no defending on’t; ’tis cruel flattery
To make a lady believe otherwise.
Is not this flesh? can you drive heat from fire?
So may you love from this; for love and death
Are brothers in this kingdom, only death
Comes by the mother’s side, and that’s the surest.
That general is wondrous fortunate,
Has won another field since, and a victory
That credits all the rest; he may more boast on’t
Than of a thousand conquests. I am lost,
Utterly lost! where are my women now?
Alas, what help’s in them, what strength have they?
I call to a weak guard when I call them;
In rescuing me they’d be themselves o’ercome:
When I, that profess’d war, am overthrown,
What hope’s in them, then, that ne’er stirr’d from home?
My faith is gone for ever;
My reputation with the cardinal,
My fame, my praise, my liberty, my peace,
Chang’d for a restless passion: O hard spite,
To lose my seven years’ victory at one sight!
[_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.
LACTANTIO’S _lodging in the Cardinal’s mansion_.
_Enter_ DONDOLO, _and Page[882] carrying a shirt_.
PAGE. I prithee, Dondolo, take this shirt and air it a
little against my master rises; I had rather do any
thing than do’t, i’faith. DON. O monstrous, horrible,
terrible, intolerable! are not you big enough to air a
shirt? were it a smock now, you liquorish page, you’d be
hanged ere you’d part from’t. If thou dost not prove as
arrant a smell-smock as any the town affords in a
term-time, I’ll lose my judgment in wenching.
PAGE. Pish; here, Dondolo, prithee, take it.
DON. It’s no more but up and ride with you then! all
my generation were beadles and officers, and do you
think I’m so easily entreated? you shall find a harder
piece of work, boy, than you imagine, to get any thing
from my hands; I will not disgenerate so much from the
nature of my kindred; you must bribe me one way or
other, if you look to have any thing done, or else you
may do’t yourself: ’twas just my father’s humour when
he bore office. You know my mind, page; the song! the
song! I must either have the song you sung to my
master last night when he went to bed, or I’ll not do
a stitch of service for you from one week’s end to the
other. As I am a gentleman, you shall brush cloaks,
make clean spurs, nay, pull off strait boots, although
in the tugging you chance to fall and hazard the
breaking of your little buttocks; I’ll take no more
pity of your marrow-bones than a butcher’s dog of a
rump of beef; nay, ka me, ka thee;[883] if you will
ease the melancholy of my mind with singing, I will
deliver you from the calamity of boots-haling.
PAGE. Alas, you know I cannot sing!
DON. Take heed; you may speak at such an hour that your
voice may be clean taken away from you: I have known
many a good gentlewoman say so much as you say now, and
have presently gone to bed and lay speechless: ’tis not
good to jest, as old Chaucer was wont to say, that broad
famous English poet. Cannot you sing, say you? O that a
boy should so keep cut with[884] his mother, and be
given to dissembling!
PAGE. Faith, to your knowledge in’t, ill may seem well;
But as I hope in comforts, I’ve no skill.
DON. A pox of skill! give me plain simple cunning: why
should not singing be as well got without skill as the
getting of children? You shall have the arrantest fool
do as much there as the wisest coxcomb of 'em all, let
'em have all the help of doctors put to 'em, both
the directions of physicians, and the erections of
pothecaries; you shall have a plain hobnailed country
fellow, marrying some dairy-wench, tumble out two of a
year, and sometimes three, byrlady,[885] as the crop
falls out; and your nice paling physicking gentlefolks
some one in nine years, and hardly then a whole one as
it should be; the wanting of some apricock or something
loses a member on him, or quite spoils it. Come, will
you sing, that I may warm the shirt? by this light, he
shall put it on cold for me else.
PAGE. A song or two I learnt with hearing gentlewomen
practise themselves.
DON. Come, you are so modest now, ’tis pity that
thou wast ever bred to be thrust through a pair of
canions;[887] thou wouldst have made a pretty foolish
waiting-woman but for one thing. Wilt sing?
PAGE. As well as I can, Dondolo.
DON. Give me the shirt then, I’ll warm’t as well[’s] I
can too.
Why, look, you whoreson coxcomb, this is a smock!
PAGE. No, ’tis my master’s shirt.
DON. Why, that’s true too;
Who knows not that? why, ’tis the fashion, fool;
All your young gallants[888] here of late wear smocks,
Those without beards especially.
PAGE. Why, what’s the reason, sir?
DON. Marry, very great reason in’t: a young gallant
lying a-bed with his wench, if the constable should
chance to come up and search, being both in smocks,
they’d be taken for sisters, and I hope a constable dare
go no further; and as for the knowing of their heads,
that’s well enough too, for I know many young gentlemen
wear longer hair than their mistresses.
PAGE. ’Tis a hot world the whilst.
DON. Nay, that’s most certain; and a most witty age of a
bald one, for all languages; you’ve many daughters so
well brought up, they speak French naturally at fifteen,
and they are turned to the Spanish and Italian half a
year after.
PAGE. That’s like learning the grammar first, and the
accidence after, they go backward so.
DON. The fitter for th’ Italian: thou’st no wit, boy;
Hadst had a tutor, he’d have taught thee that.
Come, come, that I may be gone, boy!
PAGE [_sings_].
_Cupid is Venus’[889] only joy,
But he is a wanton boy,
A very, very wanton boy;
He shoots at ladies’ naked breasts,
He is the cause of most men’s crests,
I mean upon the forehead,
Invisible, but horrid;_
_Of the short velvet mask he was deviser,
That wives may kiss, the husbands ne’er the wiser;
'Twas he first thought upon the way
To keep a lady’s lips in play._
DON. O rich, ravishing, rare, and enticing! Well, go
thy ways for as sweet a breasted page[890] as ever lay
at his master’s feet in a truckle-bed.
PAGE. You’ll hie you in straight, Dondolo?
DON. I’ll not miss you. [_Exit Page._
This smockified shirt, or shirted smock,
I will go toast. Let me see what’s a’clock:
I must to th’ castle straight to see his love,
Either by hook or crook: my master storming
Sent me last night, but I’ll be gone this morning.
[_Exit._
ACT II. SCENE I.
_An Apartment in the House of the Duchess._
_Enter_ DUCHESS _and_ CELIA.
DUCH. Seek out the lightest colours can be got,
The youthfull’st dressings; tawny is too sad,
I am not thirty yet; I’ve wrong’d my time
To go so long in black, like a petitioner:
See that the powder that I use about me
Be rich in cassia.
CELIA. Here’s a sudden change! [_Aside._
DUCH. O, I’m undone in faith! Stay, art thou certain
Lactantio, nephew to the cardinal, was present
In the late entertainment of the general?
CELIA. Upon my reputation with your excellence,
These eyes beheld him: he came foremost, madam;
'Twas he in black and yellow.
DUCH. Nay, ’tis no matter, either for himself
Or for the affectation of his colours,
So you be sure he was there.
CELIA. As sure as sight
Can discern man from man, madam.
DUCH. It suffices. [_Exit_ CELIA.
O, an ill cause had need of many helps,
Much art, and many friends, ay, and those mighty,
Or else it sets in shame! A faith once lost
Requires great cunning ere’t be entertain’d
Into the breast of a belief again;
There’s no condition so unfortunate,
Poor, miserable, to any creature given,
As hers that breaks in vow; she breaks with heaven.
_Enter Cardinal._
CAR. Increase of health and a redoubled courage
To chastity’s great soldier! what, so sad, madam?—
The memory of her seven-years-deceas’d lord
Springs yet into her eyes as fresh and full
As at the seventh hour after his departure:
What a perpetual fountain is her virtue!— [_Aside._
Too much t’ afflict yourself with ancient sorrow
Is not so strictly for your strength requir’d;
Your vow is charge enough, believe me ’tis, madam,
You need no weightier task.
DUCH. Religious sir,
You heard the last words of my dying lord.
CAR. Which I shall ne’er forget.
DUCH. May I entreat
Your goodness but to speak 'em over to me,
As near as memory can befriend your utterance,
That I may think awhile I stand in presence
Of my departing husband.
CAR. What’s your meaning
In this, most virtuous madam?
DUCH. ’Tis a courtesy
I stand in need of, sir, at this time specially;
Urge it no further yet; as it proves to me,
You shall hear from me; only I desire it
Effectually from you, sir, that’s my request.
CAR. I wonder, yet I’ll spare to question farther.—
[_Aside._
You shall have your desire.
DUCH. I thank you, sir;
A blessing come along with’t!
CAR. _You see, my lords, what all earth’s glory is,
Rightly defin’d in me, uncertain breath;
A dream of threescore years to the long sleeper,
To most not half the time: beware ambition;
Heaven is not reach’d with pride, but with submission.
And you, lord cardinal, labour to perfect
Good purposes begun; be what you seem,
Stedfast and uncorrupt; your actions noble,
Your goodness simple, without gain[891] or art,
And not in vesture holier than in heart.
But ’tis a pain, more than the pangs of death,
To think that we must part, fellow[892] of life,
Thou richness of my joys, kind and dear princess;
Death had no sting but for our separation;
It would come more calm than an evening’s peace
That brings on rest to labours: thou’rt so precious,
I should depart in everlasting envy
Unto the man that ever should enjoy thee:
O, a new torment strikes his force into me
When I but think on’t! I am rack’d and torn;
Pity me in thy virtues._
DUCH. _My lov’d lord,
Let you[r]confirm’d opinion of my life,
My love, my faithful love, seal an assurance
Of quiet to your spirit, that no forgetfulness
Can cast a sleep so deadly on my senses,
To draw my affections to a second liking._
CAR. _'T has ever been the[893] promise, and the
spring
Of my great love to thee. For once to marry
Is honourable in woman, and her ignorance
Stands for a virtue, coming new and fresh;
But second marriage shews desires in flesh;
Thence lust, and heat, and common custom grows;
But she’s part virgin who but one man knows.
I here expect a work of thy great faith
At my last parting; I can crave no more,
And with thy vow I rest myself for ever;
My soul and it shall fly to heaven together:
Seal to my spirit that quiet satisfaction,
And I go hence in peace._
DUCH. _Then here I vow never_——
CAR. Why, madam!
DUCH. I can go no further.
CAR. What,
Have you forgot your vow?
DUCH. I have, too certainly.
CAR. Your vow? that cannot be; it follows now
Just where I left.
DUCH. My frailty gets before it;
Nothing prevails but ill.
CAR. What ail you, madam?
DUCH. Sir, I’m in love.
CAR. O, all you powers of chastity,
Look to this woman! let her not faint now,
For honour of yourselves! If she be lost,
I know not where to seek my hope in woman.
Madam, O madam!
DUCH. My desires are sicken’d
Beyond recovery of good counsel, sir.
CAR. What mischief ow’d a malice to the sex,
To work this spiteful ill! better the man
Had never known creation, than to live
th’ unlucky ruin of so fair a temple.
Yet think upon your vow, revive in faith;
Those are eternal things: what are all pleasures,
Flatteries of men, and follies upon earth,
To your most excellent goodness? O she’s dead,
Stark cold to any virtuous claim within her!
What now is heat is sin’s. Have I approv’d
Your constancy for this, call’d your faith noble,
Writ volumes of your victories and virtues?
I have undone my judgment, lost my praises,
Blemish’d the truth of my opinion.
Give me the man, that I may pour him out
To all contempt and curses.
DUCH. The man’s innocent,
Full of desert and grace; his name Lactantio.
CAR. How?
DUCH. Your nephew.
CAR. My nephew?
DUCH. Beshrew the sight of him! he lives not, sir,
That could have conquer’d me, himself excepted.
CAR. He that I lov’d so dearly, does he wear
Such killing poison in his eye to sanctity?
He has undone himself for ever by’t;
Has lost a friend of me, and a more sure one.
Farewell all natural pity! though my affection
Could hardly spare him from my sight an hour,
I’ll lose him now eternally, and strive
To live without him; he shall straight to Rome.
DUCH. Not if you love my health or life, my lord.
CAR. This day he shall set forth.
DUCH. Despatch me rather.
CAR. I’ll send him far enough.
DUCH. Send me to death first.
CAR. No basilisk, that strikes dead pure affection
With venomous eye, lives under my protection. [_Exit._
DUCH. Now my condition’s worse than e’er ’twas yet;
My cunning takes not with him; has broke through
The net that with all art was set for him,
And left the snarer here herself entangled
With her own toils. O, what are we poor souls,
When our dissembling fails us? surely creatures
As full of want as any nation can be,
That scarce have food to keep bare life about 'em.
Had this but took effect, what a fair way
Had I made for my love to th’ general,
And cut off all suspect, all reprehension!
My hopes are kill’d i’ th’ blossom. [_Exit._
SCENE III.
_The Cardinal’s closet._
_Enter Cardinal._
CAR. Let me think upon’t;
Set holy anger by awhile. There’s time
Allow’d for natural argument: ’tis she
That loves my nephew; she that loves, loves first;
What cause have I to lay a blame on him then?
He’s in no fault in this: say ’twas his fortune,
At the free entertainment of the general,
'Mongst others the deserts and hopes of Milan,
To come into her sight, where’s the offence yet?
What sin was that in him? Man’s sight and presence
Are free to public view: she might as well
Have fix’d her heart’s love then upon some other;
I would’t had lighted any where but there!
Yet I may err to wish’t, since it appears
The hand of heaven, that only pick’d him out
To reward virtue in him by this fortune;
And through affection I’m half conquer’d now;
I love his good as dearly as her vow,
Yet there my credit lives in works and praises:
I never found a harder fight within me,
Since zeal first taught me war; say I should labour
To quench this love, and so quench life and all,
As by all likelihood it would prove her death,
For it must needs be granted she affects him
As dearly as the power of love can force,
Since her vow awes her not, that was her saint;
What right could that be to religion,
To be her end, and dispossess my kinsman?
No, I will bear in pity to her heart,
The rest commend to fortune and my art. [_Exit._
SCENE IV.
_An apartment in the Castle._
_Enter_ AURELIA’S _Father_, _Governor_, AURELIA, _and_
ANDRUGIO _disguised_.
GOV. I like him passing well.
FATH. He’s a tall fellow.
AND. A couple of tall[894] wits. [_Aside._]—I’ve seen
some service, sir.
GOV. Nay, so it seems by thy discourse, good fellow.
AND. Good fellow?[895] calls me thief familiarly.—
[_Aside._
I could shew many marks of resolution,
But modesty could wish 'em rather hidden:
I fetch’d home three-and-twenty wounds together
In one set battle, where I was defeated
At the same time of the third part of my nose;
But meeting with a skilful surgeon,
Took order for my snuffling.
GOV. And a nose
Well heal’d is counted a good cure in these days;
It saves many a man’s honesty, which else
Is quickly drawn into suspicion.
This night shall bring you acquainted with your charge;
In the meantime you and your valour’s welcome:
Would w’had more store of you, although they come
With fewer marks about 'em!
FATH. So wish I, sir. [_Exeunt Father and Governor._
AND. I was about to call her, and she stays
Of her own gift, as if she knew my mind;
Certain she knows me not, not possible. [_Aside._
AUR. What if I left my token and my letter
With this strange fellow, so to be convey’d
Without suspicion to Lactantio’s servant?
Not so, I’ll trust no freshman with such secrets;
His ignorance may mistake, and give’t to one
That may belong to th’ general, for I know
He sets some spies about me; but all he gets
Shall not be worth his pains. I would Lactantio
Would seek some means to free me from this place;
’Tis prisonment enough to be a maid,
But to be mew’d up too, that case is hard,
As if a toy were kept by a double guard.
[_Aside, and going._
AND. Away she steals again, not minding me:
'Twas not at me she offer’d. [_Aside._]—Hark you,
gentlewoman.
AUR. With me, sir?
AND. I could call you by your name,
But gentle’s the best attribute to woman.
AUR. Andrugio? O, as welcome to my lips
As morning-dew to roses! my first love!
AND. Why, have you more then?
AUR. What a word was there!
More than thyself what woman could desire,
If reason had a part of her creation?
For loving you, you see, sir, I’m a prisoner,
There’s all the cause they have against me, sir;
A happy persecution I so count on’t:
If any thing be done to me for your sake,
’Tis pleasing to me.
AND. Are you not abus’d,
Either through force or by your own consent?
Hold you your honour perfect and unstain’d?
Are you the same still that at my departure
My honest thoughts maintain’d you to my heart?
AUR. The same most just.
AND. Swear’t.
AUR. By my hope of fruitfulness,
Love, and agreement, the three joys of marriage!
AND. I am confirm’d; and in requital on’t,
Ere long expect your freedom.
AUR. O, you flatter me!
It is a wrong to make a wretch too happy,
So suddenly upon affliction;
Beshrew me, if I be not sick upon’t!
’Tis like a surfeit after a great feast:
My freedom, said you?
AND. Does’t o’ercome you so?
AUR. Temptation never overcame a sinner
More pleasingly than this sweet news my heart:
Here’s secret joy can witness, I am proud on’t.
AND. Violence I will not use; I come a friend;
'Twere madness to force that which wit can end.
AUR. Most virtuously deliver’d!
AND. Thou’rt in raptures.
AUR. My love, my love!
AND. Most virtuously deliver’d!
Spoke like the sister of a puritan midwife!
Will you embrace the means that I have thought on
With all the speed you can?
AUR. Sir, any thing;
You cannot name 't too dangerous or too homely.
AND. Fie, [fie], you overact your happiness;
You drive slight things to wonders.
AUR. Blame me not, sir;
You know not my affection.
AND. Will you hear me?
There are a sect of pilfering juggling people
The vulgar tongue call gipsies.
AUR. True, the same, sir;
I saw the like this morning. Say no more, sir;
I apprehend you fully.
AND. What, you do not?
AUR. No? hark you, sir. [_Whispers._
AND. Now by this light ’tis true!
Sure if you prove as quick as your conceit,[896]
You’ll be an excellent breeder.
AUR. I should do reason by the mother’s side, sir,
If fortune do her part in a good getter.
AND. That’s not to do now, sweet, the man stands near
thee.
AUR. Long may he stand most fortunately, sir,
Whom her kind goodness has appointed for me.
AND. A while I’ll take my leave t’ avoid suspicion.
AUR. I do commend your course: good sir, forget me
not.
AND. All comforts sooner.
AUR. Liberty is sweet, sir.
AND. I know there’s nothing sweeter, next to love,
But health itself, which is the prince of life.
AUR. Your knowledge raise you, sir!
AND. Farewell till evening. [_Exit._
AUR. And after that, farewell, sweet sir, for ever.
A good kind gentleman to serve our turn with,
But not for lasting; I have chose a stuff
Will wear out two of him, and one finer too:
I like not him that has two mistresses,
War and his sweetheart; he can ne’er please both:
And war’s a soaker, she’s no friend to us;
Turns a man home sometimes to his mistress
Some forty ounces poorer than he went;
All his discourse out of the Book of Surgery,
Cere-cloth and salve, and lies you all in tents,[897]
Like your camp-vict’lers: out upon’t! I smile
To think how I have fitted him with an office:
His love takes pains to bring our loves together,
Much like your man that labours to get treasure,
To keep his wife high for another’s pleasure. [_Exit._
ACT III. SCENE I.
LACTANTIO’S _lodgings in the Cardinal’s mansion_.
_Enter_ LACTANTIO _and Page_.[898]
PAGE. Think of your shame and mine.
LAC. I prithee, peace:
Thou art th’ unfortunat’st piece of taking business
That ever man repented when day peep’d;
I’ll ne’er keep such a piece of touchwood again,
And[899] I were rid of thee once. Well fare those
That never sham’d their master! I’ve had such,
And I may live to see the time again;
I do not doubt on’t.
PAGE. If my too much kindness
Receive your anger only for reward,
The harder is my fortune: I must tell you, sir,
To stir your care up to prevention,
(Misfortunes must be told as well as blessings,)
When I left all my friends in Mantua,
For your love’s sake alone, then, with strange oaths,
You promis’d present marriage.
LAC. With strange oaths, quoth 'a?
They’re not so strange to me; I’ve sworn the same things
I’m sure forty times over, not so little;
I may be perfect in 'em, for my standing.
PAGE. You see ’tis high time now, sir.
LAC. Yes, yes, yes,
Marriage is nothing with you; a toy[900] till death.
If I should marry all those I have promis’d,
'Twould make one vicar hoarse ere he could despatch us.—
I must devise some shift when she grows big,
Those masculine hose[901] will shortly prove too little:
What if she were convey’d to nurse’s house?
A good sure old wench; and she’d love the child well,
Because she suckled the father: no ill course,
By my mortality; I may hit worse.— [_Aside._
_Enter_ DONDOLO.
Now, Dondolo, the news?
DON. The news?
LAC. How does she?
DON. Soft, soft, sir; you think ’tis nothing to get
news
Out o’ th’ castle: I was there.
LAC. Well, sir.
DON. As you know,
A merry fellow may pass any where.
LAC. So, sir.
DON. Never in better fooling in my life.
LAC. What’s this to th’ purpose?
DON. Nay, ’twas nothing to th’ purpose, that’s
certain.
LAC. How wretched this slave makes me! Didst not see
her?
DON. I saw her.
LAC. Well, what said she then?
DON. Not a word, sir.
LAC. How, not a word?
DON. Proves her the better maid,
For virgins should be seen more than they’re heard.
LAC. Exceeding good, sir; you are no sweet
villain![902]
DON. No, faith, sir, for you keep me in foul linen.
LAC. Turn’d scurvy rhymer, are you?
DON. Not scurvy neither,
Though I be somewhat itchy in the profession:
If you could hear me out with patience, I know
Her mind as well as if I were in her belly.
LAC. Thou saidst even now she never spake a word.
DON. But she gave certain signs, and that’s as good.
LAC. Canst thou conceive by signs?
DON. O, passing well, sir,
Even from an infant! did you ne’er know that?
I was the happiest child in all our country;
I was born of a dumb woman.
LAC. How?
DON. Stark dumb, sir.
My father had a rare bargain of her, a rich pennyworth;
There would have been but too much money given for her:
A justice of peace was about her; but my father,
Being then constable, carried her before him.
LAC. Well, since we’re enter’d into these dumb shows,
What were the signs she gave you?
DON. Many and good, sir.
_Imprimis_, she first gap’d, but that I guess’d
Was done for want of air, 'cause she’s kept close;
But had she been abroad and gap’d as much,
'T had been another case: then cast she up
Her pretty eye and wink’d; the word methought was then,
Come not till twitterlight:[903]
Next, thus her fingers went, as who should say,
I’d fain have a hole broke to ’scape away:
Then look’d upon her watch, and twice she nodded,
As who should say, the hour will come, sweetheart,
That I shall make two noddies of my keepers.
LAC. A third of thee. Is this your mother-tongue?
My hopes are much the wiser for this language:
There’s no such curse in love to[904] an arrant ass!
DON. O yes, sir, yes, an arrant whore’s far worse.
You never lin[905]
Railing on me from one week’s end to another;
But you can keep a little tit-mouse page there,
That’s good for nothing but to carry toothpicks,
Put up your pipe or so, that’s all he’s good for:
He cannot make him ready[906] as he should do;
I am fain to truss his points[907] every morning;
Yet the proud, scornful ape, when all the lodgings
Were taken up with strangers th’ other night,
He would not suffer me to come to bed to him,
But kick’d, and prick’d, and pinch’d me like an
urchin;[908]
There’s no good quality in him: o’ my conscience,
I think he scarce knows how to stride a horse;
I saw him with a little hunting nag
But thus high t’other day, and he was fain
To lead him to a high rail, and get up like a
butter-wench:
There’s no good fellowship in this dandiprat,[909]
This dive-dapper,[910] as is in other pages;
They’d go a-swimming with me familiarly
I’ th’ heat of summer, and clap what-you-call-'ems;
But I could never get that little monkey yet
To put off his breeches:
A tender, puling, nice, chitty-fac’d squall[911] ’tis.
LAC. Is this the good you do me? his love’s wretched,
And most distress’d, that must make use of fools.
DON. Fool to my face still! that’s unreasonable;
I will be a knave one day for this trick,
Or’t shall cost me a fall, though it be from a gibbet;
It has been many a proper man’s last leap.
Nay, sure I’ll be quite out of the precincts
Of a fool if I live but two days to an end;
I will turn gipsy presently,
And that’s the highway to the daintiest knave
That ever mother’s son took journey to.
O those dear gipsies!
They live the merriest lives, eat sweet stoln hens,
Pluck’d over pales or hedges by a twitch;
They’re ne’er without a plump and lovely goose,
Or beautiful sow-pig;
Those things I saw with mine own eyes to-day:
They call those vanities and trifling pilfries;
But if a privy search were made amongst 'em,
They should find other manner of ware about 'em,
Cups, rings, and silver spoons, byrlady![912] bracelets,
Pearl necklaces, and chains of gold sometimes:
They are the wittiest thieves! I’ll stay no longer,
But even go look what I can steal now presently,
And so begin to bring myself acquainted with 'em.
[_Aside, and exit._
LAC. Nothing I fear so much, as in this time
Of my dull absence, her first love, the general,
Will wind himself into her affection
By secret gifts and letters; there’s the mischief!
I have no enemy like him; though my policy
Dissembled him a welcome, no man’s hate
Can stick more close unto a loath’d disease
Than mine to him.
_Enter Cardinal._
CAR. What ails this pretty boy to weep so often?—
Tell me the cause, child;—how his eyes stand full!—
Beshrew you, nephew, you’re too bitter to him!
He is so soft, th’ unkindness of a word
Melts him into a woman.—'Las, poor boy,
Thou shalt not serve him longer; 'twere great pity
That thou shouldst wait upon an angry master:
I’ve promis’d thee to one will make much of thee,
And hold thy weak youth in most dear respect.
PAGE. O, I beseech your grace that I may serve
No master else!
CAR. Thou shalt not: mine’s a mistress,
The greatest mistress in all Milan, boy,
The duchess’ self.
PAGE. Nor her, nor any.
CAR. Cease, boy!
Thou know’st not thine own happiness, through
fondness,[913]
And therefore must be learnt: go, dry thine eyes.
PAGE. This rather is the way to make 'em moister.
[_Aside, and exit._
CAR. Now, nephew! nephew!
LAC. O, you’ve snatch’d my spirit, sir,
From the divinest meditation
That ever made soul happy!
CAR. I’m afraid
I shall have as much toil to bring him on now,
As I had pains to keep her off from him. [_Aside._
I’ve thought it fit, nephew, considering
The present barrenness of our name and house,
The only famine of succeeding honour,
To move the ripeness of your time to marriage.
LAC. How, sir, to marriage?
CAR. Yes, to a fruitful life:
We must not all be strict; so generation
Would lose her right: thou’rt young; ’tis my desire
To see thee bestow’d happily in my lifetime.
LAC. Does your grace well remember who I am,
When you speak this?
CAR. Yes, very perfectly;
You’re a young man, full in the grace of life,
And made to do love credit; proper, handsome,
And for affection pregnant.
LAC. I beseech you, sir,
Take off your praises rather than bestow 'em
Upon so frail a use. Alas, you know, sir,
I know not what love is, or what you speak of!
If woman be amongst it, I shall swoon;
Take her away, for contemplation’s sake:
Most serious uncle, name no such thing to me.
CAR. Come, come, you’re fond:[914]
Prove but so strict and obstinate in age,
And you are well to pass. There’s honest love
Allow’d you now for recreation;
The years will come when all delights must leave you,
Stick close to virtue then; in the meantime
There’s honourable joys to keep youth company;
And if death take you there, dying no adulterer,
You’re out of his eternal reach; defy him.
List hither; come to me, and with great thankfulness
Welcome thy fortunes; ’tis the duchess loves thee!
LAC. The duchess?
CAR. Doats on thee; will die for thee,
Unless she may enjoy thee.
LAC. She must die then.
CAR. How?
LAC. 'Las, do you think she ever means to do’t, sir?
I’ll sooner believe all a woman speaks
Than that she’ll die for love: she has a vow, my lord,
That will keep life in her.
CAR. Believe me, then,
That should have bounteous interest in thy faith,
She’s thine, and not her vow’s.
LAC. The more my sorrow,
My toil, and my destruction.— My blood dances![915]
[_Aside._
CAR. And though that bashful maiden virtue in thee,
That never held familiar league with woman,
Binds fast all pity to her heart that loves thee,
Let me prevail, my counsel stands up to thee,
Embrace it as the fulness of thy fortunes,
As if all blessings upon earth were clos’d
Within one happiness, for such another
Whole life could never meet with: go and present
Your service and your love; but, on your hopes,
Do it religiously. What need I doubt him
Whom chastity locks up?
LAC. O envy,
Hadst thou no other means to come by virtue
But by such treachery? the duchess’ love!
Thou wouldst be sure to aim it high enough,
Thou knew’st full well ’twas no prevailing else.—
[_Aside._
Sir, what your will commands, mine shall fulfil;
I’ll teach my heart in all t’ obey your will.
CAR. A thing you shall not lose by. Here come the
lords:
_Enter Lords._
Go, follow you the course that I advis’d you;
The comfort of thy presence is expected:
Away with speed to court; she languishes
For one dear sight of thee: for life’s sake, haste;
You lose my favour if you let her perish.
LAC. And art thou come, brave fortune, the reward
Of neat'[st] hypocrisy that ever book’d it,[916]
Or turn’d up transitory white o’ th’ eye
After the feminine rapture? Duchess and I
Were a fit match, can be denied of no man;
The best dissembler lights on the best woman;
'Twere sin to part us. [_Aside, and exit._
CAR. You lights of state, truth’s friends,
much-honour’d lords,
Faithful admirers of our duchess’ virtues,
And firm believers, it appears as plain
As knowledge to the eyes of industry,
That neither private motion, which holds counsel
Often with woman’s frailty and her blood,
Nor public sight, the lightning of temptations,
Which from the eye strikes sparks into the bosom,
And sets whole hearts on fire, hath power to raise
A heat in her 'bove that which feeds chaste life,
And gives that cherishing means; she’s the same still,
And seems so seriously employ’d in soul,
As if she could not 'tend to cast an eye
Upon deserts so low as those in man.
It merits famous memory I confess;
Yet many times when I behold her youth,
And think upon the lost hopes of posterity,
Succession, and the royal fruits of beauty,
All by the rashness of one vow made desperate,
It goes so near my heart, I feel it painful,
And wakes me into pity oftentimes,
When others sleep unmov’d.
FIRST LORD. I speak it faithfully,
For ’tis poor fame to boast of a disease,
Your grace has not endur’d that pain alone,
'T has been a grief of mine; but where’s the remedy?
CAR. True, there your lordship spake enough in little:
There’s nothing to be hop’d for but repulses;
She’s not to seek[917] for armour against love
That has bid battle to his powers so long;
He that should try her now had need come strong,
And with more force than his own arguments,
Or he may part disgrac’d, being put to flight;
That soldier’s tough has been in seven years’ fight.
Her vow’s invincible; for you must grant this,
If those desires, train’d up in flesh and blood
To war continually 'gainst good intents,
Prove all too weak for her, having advantage
Both of her sex and her unskilfulness
At a spiritual weapon, wanting knowledge
To manage resolution, and yet win,
What force can a poor argument bring in?
The books that I have publish’d in her praise
Commend her constancy, and that’s fame-worthy;
But if you read me o’er with eyes of enemies,
You cannot justly and with honour tax me
That I dissuade her life from marriage there:
Now heaven and fruitfulness forbid, not I!
She may be constant there, and the hard war
Of chastity is held a virtuous strife,
As rare in marriage as in single life;
Nay, by some writers rarer; hear their reasons,
And you’ll approve 'em fairly. She that’s single,
Either in maid or widow, oftentimes
The fear of shame, more than the fear of heaven,
Keeps chaste and constant; when the tempest comes,
She knows she has no shelter for her sin,
It must endure the weathers of all censure;
Nothing but sea and air that poor bark feels:
When she in wedlock is like a safe vessel
That lies at anchor; come what weathers can,
She has her harbour; at her great unlading,
Much may be stoln, and little waste;[918] the master
Thinks himself rich enough with what he has,
And holds content by that. How think you now, lords?
If she that might offend safe does not err,
What’s chaste in others is most rare in her.
SEC. LORD. What wisdom but approves it?
FIRST LORD. But, my lord,
This should be told to her it concerns most;
Pity such good things should be spoke and lost.
CAR. That were the way to lose 'em utterly;
You quite forget her vow: yet, now I think on’t,
What is that vow? ’twas but a thing enforc’d,
Was it not, lords?
FIRST LORD. Merely compell’d indeed.
CAR. Only to please the duke; and forcèd virtue
Fails in her merit, there’s no crown prepar’d for’t.
What have we done, my lords? I fear we’ve sinn’d
In too much strictness to uphold her in’t,
In cherishing her will; for woman’s goodness
Takes counsel of that first, and then determines;
She cannot truly be call’d constant now,
If she persèver, rather obstinate,
The vow appearing forcèd, as it proves,
Tried by our purer thoughts; the grace and triumph
Of all her victories are but idle glories,
She wilful, and we enemies to succession.
I will not take rest till I tell her soul
As freely as I talk to those I keep.
LORDS. And we’ll all second you, my lord.
CAR. Agreed:
We’ll knit such knots of arguments so fast,
All wit in her shall not undo in haste.
SEC. LORD. Nay, sure, I think all we shall be too hard
for her,
Else she’s a huge wild creature.
FIRST LORD. If we win,
And she yield marriage, then will I strike in.
[_Aside._
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_An apartment in the house of the Duchess._
_Enter Duchess and_ CELIA.
DUCH. Thou tell’st me happy things, if they be certain,
To bring my wishes about wondrous strangely;
Lactantio, nephew to the cardinal,
The general’s secret enemy?
CELIA. Most true, madam;
I had it from a gentleman, my kinsman,
That knows the best part of Lactantio’s bosom.
DUCH. It happens passing fortunately to save
Employment in another; he will 'come now
A necessary property; he may thank
The need and use we have of him for his welcome.
[_Knocking within._
Now, who’s that knocks?
CELIA [_after going out and re-entering_.] Madam, ’tis
he, with speed:
I thought he had brought his horse to th’ chamber-door,
He made such haste and noise.
DUCH. Admit him, prithee,
And have a care your heart be true and secret.
CELIA. Take life away from’t when it fails you, madam.
DUCH. Enough; I know thee wise.— [_Exit_ CELIA.
He comes with haste indeed.
_Enter_ LACTANTIO.
Are you come now, sir?
You should have stay’d yet longer, and have found me
Dead, to requite your haste.
LAC. Love bless you better, madam!
DUCH. Must I bid welcome to the man undoes me,
The cause of my vow’s breach, my honour’s enemy;
One that does all the mischief to my fame,
And mocks my seven years’ conquest with his name?
This is a force of love was never felt;
But I’ll not grudge at fortune, I will take
Captivity cheerfully: here, seize upon me,
And if thy heart can be so pitiless
To chain me up for ever in those arms,
I’ll take it mildly, ay, and thank my stars,
For we’re all subject to the chance of wars.
LAC. We are so; yet take comfort, vanquish’d duchess,
I’ll use you like an honourable prisoner,
You shall be [well] entreated; day shall be
Free for all sports to you, the night for me;
That’s all I challenge, all the rest is thine;
And for your fare 't shall be no worse than mine.
DUCH. Nay, then, I’m heartily pleasant, and as merry
As one that owes no malice, and that’s well, sir:
You cannot say so much for your part, can you?
LAC. Faith, all that I owe is to one man, madam,
And so can few men say: marry, that malice
Wears no dead flesh about it, ’tis a stinger.
DUCH. What is he that shall dare to be your enemy,
Having our friendship, if he be a servant
And subject to our law?
LAC. Yes, trust me, madam,
Of a vild[919] fellow I hold him a true subject;
There’s many arrant knaves that are good subjects,
Some for their living’s sakes, some for their lives,
That will unseen eat men, and drink their wives.
DUCH. They are as much in fault that know such people,
And yet conceal 'em from the whips of justice.
For love’s sake give me in your foe betimes,
Before he vex you further; I will order him
To your heart’s wishes, load him with disgraces,
That your revenge shall rather pity him
Than wish more weight upon him.
LAC. Say you so, madam?—
Here’s a bless’d hour, that feeds both love and hate;
Then take thy time, brave malice. [_Aside._]—Virtuous
princess,
The only enemy that my vengeance points to
Lives in Andrugio.
DUCH. What, the general?
LAC. That’s the man, madam.
DUCH. Are you serious, sir?
LAC. As at my prayers.
DUCH. We meet happily then
In both our wishes; he’s the only man
My will has had a longing to disgrace,
For divers capital contempts; my memory
Shall call 'em all together now; nay, sir,
I’ll bring his faith in war now into question,
And his late conference with the enemy.
LAC. Byrlady[920] a shrewd business and a dangerous!
Signor, your neck’s a-cracking.
DUCH. Stay, stay, sir;
Take pen and ink.
LAC. Here’s both, and paper, madam.
DUCH. I’ll take him in a fine trap.
LAC. That were excellent.
DUCH. A letter so writ would abuse him strangely.
LAC. Good madam, let me understand your mind,
And then take you no care for his abusing;
I serve for nothing else. I can write fast and fair,
Most true orthography, and observe my stops.
DUCH. Stay, stay awhile;
You do not know his hand.
LAC. A bastard Roman,
Much like mine own; I could go near it, madam.
DUCH. Marry, and shall.
LAC. We were once great together,
And writ Spanish epistles one to another,
To exercise the language.
DUCH. Did you so?
It shall be a bold letter of temptation,
With his name to’t, as writ and sent to me.
LAC. Can be no better, lady; stick there, madam,
And ne’er seek further.
DUCH. Begin thus: _Fair duchess_, say;
We must use flattery if we imitate man,
'Twill ne’er be thought his pen else.
LAC. _Most fair duchess._ [_Writing._
DUCH. What need you have put in _most_? yet since ’tis
in,
Let 't even go on; few women would find fault with’t;
We all love to be best, but seldom mend:
Go on, sir.
LAC. _Most fair duchess!_ here’s an admiration-point.
[_Writing._
DUCH. _The report of your vow shall not fear me_——
LAC. _Fear me_; two stops at fear me. [_Writing._
DUCH. _I know you’re but a woman_——
LAC. _But a woman_; a comma at woman. [_Writing._
DUCH. _And what a woman is, a wise man knows._
LAC. _Wise man knows_; a full prick there.
[_Writing._
DUCH. _Perhaps my condition[921], may seem blunt to
you_——
LAC. _Blunt to you_; a comma here again. [_Writing._
DUCH. _But no man’s love can be more sharp set_——
LAC. _Sharp set_; there a colon, for colon[922] is sharp
set oftentimes. _Writing._
DUCH. _And I know desires in both sexes have skill at
that weapon._
LAC. _Skill at that weapon_; a full prick here at
weapon. [_Writing._
DUCH. So, that will be enough; subscribe it thus now,
_One that vows service to your affections; signor such
a one._
LAC. _Signor Andrugio, G._; that stands for general.
[_Writing._
DUCH. And you shall stand for goose-cap. [_Aside._]—
Give me that: [_Taking letter._
Betake you to your business speedily, sir;
We give you full authority from our person,
In right of reputation, truth, and honour,
To take a strong guard, and attach his body;
That done, to bring him presently before us;
Then we know what to do.
LAC. My hate finds wings;
Man’s spirit flies swift to all revengeful things.
[_Aside, and exit._
DUCH. Why, here’s the happiness of my desires;
The means safe, unsuspected, far from thought;
His state is like the world’s condition right,
Greedy of gain, either by fraud or stealth;
And whilst one toils, another gets the wealth.
[_Exit._
ACT IV. SCENE I.
_The rendezvous of the Gipsies,[923] near Milan._
_Enter_ ANDRUGIO.
AND. Now, fortune, shew thyself the friend of love,
Make her way plain and safe; cast all their eyes
That guard the castle
Into a thicker blindness than thine own,
Darker than ignorance or idolatry,
That in that shape my love may pass unknown,
And by her freedom set my comforts free.
This is the place appointed for our meeting,
Yet comes she [not]; I’m covetous of her sight;
That gipsy-habit alters her so far
From knowledge, that our purpose cannot err;
She might have been here now by this time largely,
And much to spare: I would not miss her now
In this plight for the loss of a year’s joy.
She’s ignorant of this house, nor knows she where
Or which way to bestow herself through fear.
_Enter_ LACTANTIO _with a Guard_.
LAC. Close with him, gentlemen.—In the duchess’ name
We do attach your body.
AND. How, my body?
What means this rudeness?
LAC. You add to your offences,
Calling that rudeness that is fair command,
Immaculate justice, and the duchess’ pleasure.
AND. Signor Lactantio! O, are you the speaker?
LAC. I am what I am made.
AND. Shew me my crime.
LAC. I fear you’ll have too many shewn you, sir.
AND. The father of untruths possesses thy spirit,
As he commands thy tongue: I defy fear
But in my love, it only settles there.
LAC. Bring him along.
AND. Let law’s severest brow
Bend at my deeds, my innocence shall rise
A shame to thee and all my enemies.
LAC. You’re much the happier man.
AND. O, my hard crosses!
Grant me the third part of one hour’s stay.
LAC. Sir, not a minute.
AND. O, she’s lost!
LAC. Away! [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ AURELIA _disguised as a Gipsy_.