  THE HONEST WHORE. IN TWO PARTS. Part the First. decoration Between the publication of the first, and of the second, parts of The Honest Whore, a quarter of a century passed. The first part appeared in 1604, having the sub-title “With the Humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife.” In 1630 followed the second part, in which the sub-title is further expanded:—“With the Humours of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife: the Honest Whore, persuaded by strong arguments to turne Courtesan again: her brave refuting those Arguments.—And lastly, the Comical Passages of an Italian Bridewell, where the scene ends.” Both title-pages give Dekker’s name alone as author, although from a passage in Henslow’s Diary, we learn that Middleton collaborated with him in the play. It is impossible now to decide exactly what Middleton’s share was, but it was certainly not inconsiderable. Mr. Bullen points out, in his introduction to Middleton’s works, the close resemblance between the scene where Bellafront prepares for her visitors, and the first scene in the 3rd Act of Middleton’s Michaelmas Term; but this play did not appear until three years after the first part of Dekker’s. Still the fact of Middleton’s repeating the scene, goes to show that he had some special share in it, and certain other scenes in the first part are somewhat reminiscent of his style, as those in Acts I. and III., indicated by Mr. Bullen, where the gallants try to irritate Candido. The second part contains nothing that I should be inclined to allot to Middleton, agreeing in this with Mr. Swinburne, who remarks that it “seems so thoroughly of one piece and pattern, so apparently the result of one man’s invention and composition, that without more positive evidence I should hesitate to assign a share in it to any colleague of the poet under whose name it first decoration “There is in the second part of The Honest Whore, where Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her profession, a simple picture of honour and shame, contrasted without violence, and expressed without immodesty, which is worth all the strong lines against the harlot’s profession, with which both parts of this play are offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be suspected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective fondness. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, which in his unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a moralist will serve him, a little turned, to expose the enormity of those appetites in other men.”—C. Lamb: Specimens of English Dramatic Poets. decoration DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.Gasparo Trebazzi, Duke of Milan. Hippolito, a Count. Castruchio. Sinezi. Pioratto. Fluello. Matheo. Benedict, a Doctor. Anselmo, a Friar. Fustigo, Brother of Viola. Candido, a Linen-draper. George, his Servant. First Prentice. Second Prentice. Crambo. Poh. Roger, Servant of Bellafront. Porter, Sweeper. Madmen, Servants, &c. Infelice, Daughter of the Duke. Bellafront, a Harlot. Viola, Wife of Candido. Mistress Fingerlock, a Bawd. SCENE—Milan and the Neighbourhood. decoration decoration THE HONEST WHORE. ACT THE FIRST.SCENE I.—A Street in Milan.Enter at one side a Funeral (a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheon and garlands hanging on the sides), attended by Gasparo Trebazzi, Duke of Milan, Castruchio, Sinezi, Pioratto, Fluello, and others. At the other side enter Hippolito, and Matheo labouring to hold him back. Duke. Behold, yon comet shows his head again! Twice hath he thus at cross-turns thrown on us Prodigious The waters of our eyes. See, he’s turned wild:— Go on, in God’s name. Cas., Sin. On afore there, ho! Duke. Kinsmen and friends, take from your manly sides From doing violence to the innocent dead. Hip. I prithee, dear Matheo—— Matheo. Come you’re mad! Hip. I do arrest thee, murderer! Set down. Villains, set down that sorrow, ’tis all mine. Duke. I do beseech you all, for my blood’s sake Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath Join in confederacy with your weapons’ points; If he proceed to vex us, let your swords Seek out his bowels: funeral grief loathes words. Cas., Sin. Set on. Hip. Set down the body! Mat. O my lord! You’re wrong! i’th’ open street? you see she’s dead. Hip. I know she is not dead. Duke. Frantic young man, Wilt thou believe these gentlemen?—Pray speak— Thou dost abuse my child, and mock’st the tears That here are shed for her: if to behold Those roses withered, that set out her cheeks: That pair of stars that gave her body light, Darkened and dim for ever; all those rivers That fed her veins with warm and crimson streams Frozen and dried up: if these be signs of death, Then is she dead. Thou unreligious youth, Art not ashamed to empty all these eyes Of funeral tears, a debt due to the dead, As mirth is to the living? Sham’st thou not To have them stare on thee? hark, thou art cursed Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak. Hip. My lord—— Duke. What would’st thou have? Is she not dead? Hip. Oh, you ha’ killed her by your cruelty! Du. Admit I had, thou kill’st her now again; And art more savage than a barbarous Moor. Hip. Let me but kiss her pale and bloodless lip. Duke. O fie, fie, fie. Hip. Or if not touch her, let me look on her. Mat. As you regard your honour—— Hip. Honour? smoke! Mat. Or if you loved her living, spare her now. Duke. Ay, well done, sir, you play the gentleman— Steal hence;—’tis nobly done;—away;—I’ll join My force to yours, to stop this violent torment— Pass on. [Exeunt with hearse, all except the Duke, Hippolito and Matheo. Hip. Matheo, thou dost wound me more. Mat. I give you physic, noble friend, not wounds. Duke. O, well said, well done, a true gentleman! Alack, I know the sea of lovers’ rage Comes rushing with so strong a tide, it beats And bears down all respects of life, of honour, Of friends, of foes! Forget her, gallant youth. Hip. Forget her? Duke. Nay, nay, be but patient; For why death’s hand hath sued a strict divorce ’Twixt her and thee: what’s beauty but a corse? What but fair sand-dust are earth’s purest forms? Queen’s bodies are but trunks to put in worms. Mat. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [Exit Duke.] S’blood, the jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. [Aside]. My Lord Hippolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner? Hip. Where is the body? Mat. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be wormed. Hip. I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn: I’ll see how my love looks. [Matheo holds him back. Mat. How your love looks? worse than a scare-crow. Wrestle not with me: the great fellow gives the fall for a ducat. Hip. I shall forget myself. Mat. Pray, do so, leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their noses by nothing but twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much mettle in him, as is in a cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vexed thing: he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards: you’ll bleed three pottles of Alicant, Hip. What day is to-day, Matheo? Mat. Yea marry, this is an easy question: why to-day is—let me see—Thursday. Hip. Oh! Thursday. Mat. Here’s a coil for a dead commodity. ’Sfoot, women when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands. Hip. She died on Monday then. Mat. And that’s the most villanous day of all the week to die in: and she was well, and eat a mess of water-gruel on Monday morning. Hip. Ay? it cannot be, Such a bright taper should burn out so soon. Mat. O yes, my lord. So soon? why, I ha’ known them, that at dinner have been as well, and had so much health, that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock have been found dead drunk. Hip. On Thursday buried! and on Monday died! Quick haste, byrlady; That now must feast with her, were even bespoke, And solemnly invited like strange guests. Mat. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and, like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding. Hip. Curst be that day for ever that robbed her Of breath, and me, of bliss! henceforth let it stand Within the wizard’s book (the calendar) Marked with a marginal finger, to be chosen By thieves, by villains, and black murderers, As the best day for them to labour in. If henceforth this adulterous bawdy world Be got with child with treason, sacrilege, Atheism, rapes, treacherous friendship, perjury, Slander (the beggar’s sin), lies (sin of fools), Or any other damned impieties, On Monday let ’em be deliverÈd: I swear to thee, Matheo, by my soul, Hereafter weekly on that day I’ll glue Mine eye-lids down, because they shall not gaze On any female cheek. And being locked up In my close chamber, there I’ll meditate On nothing but my Infelice’s end, Or on a dead man’s skull draw out mine own. Mat. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad: but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench. Hip. If ever, whilst frail blood through my veins run, On woman’s beams I throw affection, Save her that’s dead: or that I loosely fly To th’ shore of any other wafting eye, Let me not prosper, Heaven! I will be true, Even to her dust and ashes: could her tomb Stand whilst I lived, so long that it might rot, That should fall down, but she be ne’er forgot. Mat. If you have this strange monster, honesty, in decoration SCENE II.—Another Street.Enter Fustigo in some fantastic Sea-suit, meeting a Porter. Fus. How now, porter, will she come? Por. If I may trust a woman, sir, she will come. Fus. There’s for thy pains [Gives money]. Godamercy, if ever I stand in need of a wench that will come with a wet finger, Por. No matter if I had, sir, better men than porters are bawds. Fus. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But, porter, art sure thou went’st into a true house? Por. I think so, for I met with no thieves. Fus. Nay, but art sure it was my sister, Viola. Por. I am sure, by all superscriptions, it was the party you ciphered. Fus. Not very tall? Por. Nor very low; a middling woman. Fus. ’Twas she, ’faith, ’twas she, a pretty plump cheek, like mine? Por. At a blush a little, very much like you. Fus. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kicked up her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage, marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There’s a little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay [Gives money]; farewell, honest porter. Por. I am in your debt, sir; God preserve you. Fus. Not so, neither, good porter. [Exit Porter.] God’s lid, yonder she comes. [Enter Viola.] Sister Viola, I am glad to see you stirring: it’s news to have me here, is’t not, sister? Vio. Yes, trust me; I wondered who should be so bold to send for me: you are welcome to Milan, brother. Fus. Troth, sister, I heard you were married to a very rich chuff, Vio. Very well; you ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to sow your wild oats. Fus. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and reaped two hundred ducats if I had ’em here. Marry, I must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till the ship come: by this hand, I’ll discharge at my day, by this hand. Vio. These are your old oaths. Fus. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand? Vio. Well, well, you shall have them: put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter. Fus. I’ll sweat like a horse if I like the matter. Vio. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours? Fus. I had not sailed a league in that great fishpond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall. Vio. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true swaggerer. Fus. Nay by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me. Vio. Then lend me your ears. Fus. Mine ears are yours, dear sister. Vio. I am married to a man that has wealth enough, and wit enough. Fus. A linen-draper, I was told, sister. Vio. Very true, a grave citizen, I want nothing that a wife can wish from a husband: but here’s the spite, he has not all the things belonging to a man. Fus. God’s my life, he’s a very mandrake, Vio. O, you run over me too fast, brother; I have heard it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man. I am sure my husband is a man in print, for all things else save only in this, no tempest can move him. Fus. ’Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should ha’ been moved, and moved again, for I’ll be sworn, la, our drunken ship reeled like a Dutchman. Vio. No loss of goods can increase in him a wrinkle, no crabbed language make his countenance sour, the stubbornness of no servant shake him; he has no more gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant; musician will he never be, yet I find much music in him, but he loves no frets, and is so free from anger, that many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to anger their husbands: brother, mine can by no thunder, turn him into a sharpness. Fus. Belike his blood, sister, is well brewed then. Vio. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most affectionately; but I know not—I ha’ such a tickling within me—such a strange longing; nay, verily I do long. Fus. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens; nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else. I ha’ read Albertus Magnus, and Aristotle’s Problems. Vio. You’re wide a’ th’ bow hand Fus. ’Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make him a cuckold. Vio. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness. Fus. The honester citizen he; then make him drunk and cut off his beard. Vio. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to fret at the loss of a little scald Fus. As your mid-wife, I protest, sister, or a barber-surgeon. Vio. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s Street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave man: instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck. Fus. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too, sister. Vio. O, by any means, to show your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer. Fus. Nay, for swaggering points let me alone. Vio. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s presence, kiss me, snatch rings, jewels, or any thing, so you give it back again, brother, in secret. Fus. By this hand, sister. Vio. Swear as if you came but new from knighting. Fus. Nay, I’ll swear after four-hundred a year. Vio. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among fresh-water soldiers, call me your love, your ingle, Fus. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that’s the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their mad-caps that man ’em to the garden; to call you one a’ mine aunts’ Vio. H’as heard I have a brother, but never saw him, therefore put on a good face. Fus. The best in Milan, I warrant. Vio. Take up wares, but pay nothing, rifle my bosom, my pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice with; but, brother, you must give all back again in secret. Fus. By this welkin that here roars I will, or else let me never know what a secret is: why, sister, do you think I’ll cony-catch Vio. Be circumspect, and do so then. Farewell. Fus. The Tortoise, sister! I’ll stay there; forty ducats. Vio. Thither I’ll send.—[Exit Fustigo.]—This law can none deny, Women must have their longings, or they die. [Exit. decoration SCENE III.—A Chamber in the Duke’s Palace.Enter the Duke, Doctor Benedict, and two Servants. Duke. Give charge that none do enter, lock the doors— [Speaking as he enters. And fellows, what your eyes and ears receive, Upon your lives trust not the gadding air To carry the least part of it. The glass, the hour-glass! Doct. Here, my lord. [Brings hour-glass. Duke. Ah, ’tis near spent! But, Doctor Benedict, does your art speak truth? Art sure the soporiferous stream will ebb, And leave the crystal banks of her white body Pure as they were at first, just at the hour? Doct. Just at the hour, my lord. Duke. Uncurtain her: [A curtain is drawn back and Infelice discovered lying on a couch. Softly!—See, doctor, what a coldish heat Spreads over all her body! Doct. Now it works: The vital spirits that by a sleepy charm Were bound up fast, and threw an icy rust On her exterior parts, now ’gin to break; Trouble her not, my lord. Duke. Some stools! [Servants set stools.] You called For music, did you not? Oh ho, it speaks, [Music. It speaks! Watch, sirs, her waking, note those sands. Doctor, sit down: A dukedom that should weigh Mine own down twice, being put into one scale, And that fond Making the weight up, should not at my hands Buy her i’th’other, were her state more light Than her’s, who makes a dowry up with alms. Doctor, I’ll starve her on the Apennine Hippolito is nobly born; a man— Did not mine enemies’ blood boil in his veins— Whom I would court to be my son-in-law; But princes, whose high spleens for empery swell, Are not with easy art made parallel. Servants. She wakes, my lord. Duke. Look, Doctor Benedict— I charge you on your lives, maintain for truth, What e’er the doctor or myself aver, For you shall bear her hence to Bergamo. Inf. O God, what fearful dreams! [Wakening. Doct. Lady. Inf. Ha! Duke. Girl. Why, Infelice, how is’t now, ha, speak? Inf. I’m well—what makes this doctor here?—I’m well. Duke. Thou wert not so even now, sickness’ pale hand Laid hold on thee even in the midst of feasting; And when a cup crowned with thy lover’s health Had touched thy lips, a sensible cold dew Stood on thy cheeks, as if that death had wept To see such beauty alter. Inf. I remember I sate at banquet, but felt no such change. Duke. Thou hast forgot, then, how a messenger Came wildly in, with this unsavory news, That he was dead? Inf. What messenger? who’s dead? Duke. Hippolito. Alack! wring not thy hands. Inf. I saw no messenger, heard no such news. Doct. Trust me you did, sweet lady. Duke. La, you now! 1st Ser. Yes, indeed, madam. Duke. La, you now.—’Tis well, good knaves! Inf. You ha’ slain him, and now you’ll murder me. Duke. Good Infelice, vex not thus thyself, Of this the bad report before did strike So coldly to thy heart, that the swift currents Of life were all frozen up—— Inf. It is untrue, ’Tis most untrue, O most unnatural father! Duke. And we had much to do by art’s best cunning, To fetch life back again. Doct. Most certain, lady. Duke. Why, la, you now, you’ll not believe me. Friends, Swear we not all? had we not much to do? Servants. Yes, indeed, my lord, much. Duke. Death drew such fearful pictures in thy face, That were Hippolito alive again, I’d kneel and woo the noble gentleman To be thy husband: now I sore repent My sharpness to him, and his family; Nay, do not weep for him; we all must die— Doctor, this place where she so oft hath seen His lively presence, hurts her, does it not? Doct. Doubtless, my lord, it does. Duke. It does, it does: Therefore, sweet girl, thou shalt to Bergamo. Inf. Even where you will; in any place there’s woe. Duke. A coach is ready, Bergamo doth stand In a most wholesome air, sweet walks; there’s deer, Ay, thou shalt hunt and send us venison, Which like some goddess in the Cyprian groves, Thine own fair hand shall strike;—Sirs, you shall teach her To stand, and how to shoot; ay, she shall hunt: Cast off this sorrow. In, girl, and prepare This night to ride away to Bergamo. 1st Ser. I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that deadly word. 2nd Ser. And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than Greek. Duke. Away, look to her.—[Exeunt Servants.]—Doctor Benedict, Did you observe how her complexion altered Upon his name and death? Oh, would t’were true. Doct. It may, my lord. Duke. May! how? I wish his death. Doct. And you may have your wish; say but the word, And ’tis a strong spell to rip up his grave: I have good knowledge with Hippolito; He calls me friend, I’ll creep into his bosom, And sting him there to death; poison can do’t. Duke. Perform it; I’ll create thee half mine heir. Doct. It shall be done, although the fact be foul. Duke. Greatness hides sin, the guilt upon my soul! [Exeunt. decoration SCENE IV.—A Street.Enter Castruchio, Pioratto, and Fluello. Cas. Signor Pioratto, Signor Fluello, shall’s be merry? shall’s play the wags now? Flu. Ay, any thing that may beget the child of laughter. Cas. Truth, I have a pretty sportive conceit new crept into my brain, will move excellent mirth. Pio. Let’s ha’t, let’s ha’t; and where shall the scene of mirth lie? Cas. At Signor Candido’s house, the patient man, nay, the monstrous patient man; they say his blood is immoveable, that he has taken all patience from a man, and all constancy from a woman. Flu. That makes so many whores now-a-days. Cas. Ay, and so many knaves too. Pio. Well, sir. Cas. To conclude, the report goes, he’s so mild, so affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can move him: now do but think what sport it will be to make this fellow, the mirror of patience, as angry, as vexed, and as mad as an English cuckold. Flu. O, ’twere admirable mirth, that: but how will’t be done, signor? Cas. Let me alone, I have a trick, a conceit, a thing, a device will sting him i’faith, if he have but a thimbleful of blood in’s belly, or a spleen not so big as a tavern token. Pio. Thou stir him? thou move him? thou anger him? alas, I know his approved temper: thou vex him? why he has a patience above man’s injuries: thou may’st sooner raise a spleen in an angel, than rough humour in him. Why I’ll give you instance for it. This wonderfully tempered Signor Candido upon a time invited home to his house certain Neapolitan lords, of curious taste, and no mean palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves, Flu. Ay, I’ll swear for’t: ’sfoot, had it been my case, I should ha’ played mad tricks with my wife and family: first, I would ha’ spitted the men, stewed the maids, and baked the mistress, and so served them in. Pio. Why ’twould ha’ tempted any blood but his, And thou to vex him? thou to anger him With some poor shallow jest? Cas. ’Sblood, Signor Pioratto, you that disparage my conceit, I’ll wage a hundred ducats upon the head on’t, that it moves him, frets him, and galls him. Pio. Done, ’tis a lay, Cas. Witness: ’tis done: Come, follow me: the house is not far off, I’ll thrust him from his humour, vex his breast, And win a hundred ducats by one jest. [Exeunt. decoration SCENE V.—Candido’s Shop.George and two Prentices discovered: enter Viola. Vio. Come, you put up your wares in good order here, do you not, think you? one piece cast this way, another that way! you had need have a patient master indeed. Geo. Ay. I’ll be sworn, for we have a curst mistress. [Aside. Vio. You mumble, do you? mumble? I would your master or I could be a note more angry! for two patient 1st Pren. You patient! ay, so is the devil when he is horn-mad. [Aside. Enter Castruchio, Fluello, and Pioratto. Geo. Gentlemen, what do you lack? 1st Pren. What is’t you buy? 2nd Pren. See fine hollands, fine cambrics, fine lawns. Geo. What is’t you lack? 2nd Pren. What is’t you buy? Cas. Where’s Signor Candido, thy master? Geo. Faith, signor, he’s a little negotiated, he’ll appear presently. Cas. Fellow, let’s see a lawn, a choice one, sirrah. Geo. The best in all Milan, gentlemen, and this is the piece. I can fit you gentlemen with fine calicoes too for doublets, the only sweet fashion now, most delicate and courtly, a meek gentle calico, cut upon two double affable taffetas,—ah, most neat, feat, and unmatchable! Flu. A notable voluble-tongued villain. Pio. I warrant this fellow was never begot without much prating. Cas. What, and is this she, sayest thou? Geo. Ay, and the purest she that ever you fingered since you were a gentleman: look how even she is, look how clean she is, ha! as even as the brow of Cynthia, and as clean as your sons and heirs when they ha’ spent all. Cas. Pooh, thou talkest—pox on’t, ’tis rough. Geo. How? is she rough? but if you bid pox on’t, sir, ’twill take away the roughness presently. Flu. Ha, signor; has he fitted your French curse? Geo. Look you, gentlemen, here’s another, compare them I pray, compara Virgilium cum Homero, compare virgins with harlots. Cas. Pooh, I ha’ seen better, and as you term them, evener and cleaner. Geo. You may see further for your mind, but trust me, you shall not find better for your body. Enter Candido. Cas. O here he comes, let’s make as though we pass. Come, come, we’ll try in some other shop. Cand. How now? what’s the matter? Geo. The gentlemen find fault with this lawn, fall out with it, and without a cause too. Cand. Without a cause? And that makes you to let ’em pass away: Ah, may I crave a word with you gentlemen? Flu. He calls us. Cas. —Makes the better for the jest. Cand. I pray come near, you’re very welcome, gallants. Pray pardon my man’s rudeness, for I fear me H’as talked above a prentice with you. Lawns! [Showing lawns. Look you, kind gentlemen, this—no—ay—this: Take this upon my honest-dealing faith, To be a true weave, not too hard, nor slack, But e’en as far from falsehood as from black. Cas. Well, how do you rate it? Cand. Very conscionably, eighteen shillings a yard. Cas. That’s too dear: how many yards does the whole piece contain, think you? Cand. Why, some seventeen yards, I think, or thereabouts. How much would serve your turn, I pray? Cas. Why, let me see—would it were better too! Cand. Truth, tis the best in Milan at few words. Cas. Well: let me have then—a whole penny-worth. Cand. Ha, ha! you’re a merry gentleman. Cas. A penn’orth I say. Cand. Of lawn! Cas. Of lawn? Ay, of lawn, a penn’orth. ’Sblood, dost not hear? a whole penn’orth, are you deaf? Cand. Deaf? no, sir: but I must tell you, Our wares do seldom meet such customers. Cas. Nay, an you and your lawns be so squeamish, fare you well. Cand. Pray stay; a word, pray, signor: for what purpose is it, I beseech you? Cas. ’Sblood, what’s that to you: I’ll have a penny-worth. Cand. A penny-worth! why you shall: I’ll serve you presently. 2nd Pren. ’Sfoot, a penny-worth, mistress! Vio. A penny-worth! call you these gentlemen? Cas. No, no: not there. Cand. What then, kind gentlemen, what at this corner here? Cas. No, nor there neither; I’ll have it just in the middle, or else not. Cand. Just in the middle!—ha—you shall too: what,— Have you a single penny? Cas. Yes, here’s one. Cand. Lend it me, I pray. Flu. An excellent followed jest! Vio. What will he spoil the lawn now? Cand. Patience, good wife. Vio. Ay, that patience makes a fool of you.—Gentlemen, you might ha’ found some other citizen to have made a kind gull on, besides my husband. Cand. Pray, gentlemen, take her to be a woman; Do not regard her language.—O kind soul: Such words will drive away my customers. Vio. Customers with a murrain! call you these customers? Cand. Patience, good wife. Vio. Pox a’ your patience. Geo. ’Sfoot, mistress, I warrant these are some cheating companions. Cand. Look you, gentlemen, there’s your ware, I thank you, I have your money here; pray know my shop, pray let me have your custom. Vio. Custom quoth’a. Cand. Let me take more of your money. Vio. You had need so. Pio. Hark in thine ear, thou’st lost an hundred ducats. Cas. Well, well, I know’t: is’t possible that homo Should be nor man, nor woman: not once moved; No not at such an injury, not at all! Sure he’s a pigeon, for he has no gall. Flu. Come, come, you’re angry though you smother it: You’re vexed i’faith; confess. Cand. Why, gentlemen, Should you conceit me to be vexed or moved? He has my ware, I have his money for’t, And that’s no argument I’m angry: no: The best logician cannot prove me so. Flu. Oh, but the hateful name of a penn’orth of lawn, And then cut out i’th middle of the piece: Pah, I guess it by myself, ’twould move a lamb Were he a linen-draper, ’twould, i’faith. Cand. Well, give me leave to answer you for that: We are set here to please all customers, Their humours and their fancies;—offend none: We get by many, if we lose by one. May be his mind stood to no more than that, A penn’orth serves him, and ’mongst trades ’tis found, Deny a penn’orth, it may cross a pound. Oh, he that means to thrive, with patient eye Must please the devil if he come to buy! Flu. O wondrous man, patient ’bove wrong or woe, How blessed were men, if women could be so! Cand. And to express how well my breast is pleased, And satisfied in all:—George fill a beaker. [Exit George. Bestowed his money with me. Vio. God’s my life, We shall have all our gains drunk out in beakers, To make amends for pennyworths of lawn! Re-enter George with beaker. Cand. Here wife, begin you to the gentleman. Vio. I begin to him! [Spills the wine. Cand. George, fill’t up again: ’Twas my fault, my hand shook. [Exit George. Pio. How strangely this doth show! A patient man linked with a waspish shrew. Flu. A silver and gilt beaker: I’ve a trick To work upon that beaker, sure ’twill fret him; It cannot choose but vex him. [Aside.] Signor Castruchio, In pity to thee I have a conceit, Will save thy hundred ducats yet; ’twill do’t, And work him to impatience. Cas. Sweet Fluello, I should be bountiful to that conceit. Flu. Well, ’tis enough. Re-enter George with beaker. Cand. Here gentlemen to you, I wish your custom, you are exceeding welcome. [Drinks. Cas. I pledge you, Signor Candido—[Drinks.]—here you that must receive a hundred ducats. Pio. I’ll pledge them deep, i’faith, Castruchio.—Signor Fluello. [Drinks. Flu. Come: play’t off to me; I am your last man. Cand. George supply the cup. Flu. So, so, good honest George,— Here Signor Candido, all this to you. Cand. O, you must pardon me, I use it not. Flu. Will you not pledge me then? Cand. Yes, but not that: Great love is shown in little. Flu. Blurt ’Sfoot, you shall pledge me all. Cand. Indeed I shall not. Flu. Not pledge me? ’Sblood, I’ll carry away the beaker then. Cand. The beaker? Oh! that at your pleasure, sir. Flu. Now by this drink I will. [Drinks. Cas. Pledge him, he’ll do’t else. Flu. So: I ha’ done you right on my thumb-nail, What, will you pledge me now? Cand. You know me, sir, I am not of that sin. Flu. Why then farewell: I’ll bear away the beaker by this light. Cand. That’s as you please; ’tis very good. Flu. Nay, it doth please me, and as you say, ’tis a very good one. Farewell Signor Candido. Pio. Farewell Candido. Cand. You’re welcome gentlemen. Cas. Art not moved yet? I think his patience is above our wit. [Exeunt Castruchio, Fluello carrying off the beaker, and Pioratto. Geo. I told you before, mistress, they were all cheaters. Vio. Why fool! why husband! why madman! I hope you will not let ’em sneak away so with a silver and gilt beaker, the best in the house too.—Go, fellows, make hue and cry after them. Cand. Pray let your tongue lie still, all will be well.— Come hither, George, hie to the constable, Make no great stir, because they’re gentlemen, And a thing partly done in merriment. ’Tis but a size above a jest thou knowest, Therefore pursue it mildly. Go begone, The constable’s hard by, bring him along,—make haste again. [Exit George. Vio. O you’re a goodly patient woodcock, Cand. Pray wear a peaceful temper; be my wife, That is, be patient; for a wife and husband Share but one soul between them: this being known, Why should not one soul then agree in one? Vio. Hang your agreements! but if my beaker be gone.— [Exit. Re-enter Castruchio, Fluello, Pioratto, and George. Cand. Oh, here they come. Geo. The constable, sir, let ’em come along with me, because there should be no wondering: he stays at door. Cas. Constable, Goodman Abra’m. Flu. Now Signor Candido, ’sblood why do you attach us? Cas. ’Sheart! attach us! Cand. Nay swear not, gallants, Your oaths may move your souls, but not move me; You have a silver beaker of my wife’s. Flu. You say not true: ’tis gilt. Cand. Then you say true; And being gilt, the guilt lies more on you. Cas. I hope y’are not angry, sir. Cand. Then you hope right; for I’m not angry. Flu. No, but a little moved. Cand. I moved! ’twas you were moved, you were brought hither. Cas. But you, out of your anger and impatience, Caused us to be attached. Cand. Nay, you misplace it: Out of my quiet sufferance I did that, And not of any wrath. Had I shown anger, I should have then pursued you with the law, And hunted you to shame, as many worldlings Do build their anger upon feebler grounds; The more’s the pity; many lose their lives For scarce so much coin as will hide their palm: Which is most cruel; those have vexÈd spirits That pursue lives; in this opinion rest, The loss of millions could not move my breast. Flu. Thou art a blest man, and with peace dost deal, Such a meek spirit can bless a commonweal. Cand. Gentlemen, now ’tis upon eating-time, Pray part not hence, but dine with me to-day. Cas. I never heard a carter yet say nay To such a motion. I’ll not be the first. Pio. Nor I. Flu. Nor I. Cand. The constable shall bear you company. George, call him in: let the world say what it can, Nothing can drive me from a patient man. [Exeunt. decoration decoration ACT THE SECOND.SCENE I.—A Room in Bellafront’s House.Enter Roger with a stool, cushion, looking-glass and chafing-dish; these being set down, he pulls out of his pocket a phial with white colour in it, and two boxes, one with white, another with red paint; he places all things in order, and a candle by them, singing the ends of old ballads as he does it. At last Bellafront, as he rubs his cheek with the colours, whistles within. Rog. Anon, forsooth. Bell. [Within.] What are you playing the rogue about? Rog. About you, forsooth; I’m drawing up a hole in your white silk stocking. Bell. Is my glass there? and my boxes of complexion? Rog. Yes, forsooth: your boxes of complexion are here, I think: yes, ’tis here: here’s your two complexions, and if I had all the four complexions, I should ne’er set a good face upon’t. Some men I see, are born, under hard-favoured planets as well as women. Zounds, I look worse now than I did before! and it makes her face glister most damnably. There’s knavery in daubing, I hold my life; or else this only female pomatum. Enter Bellafront not full ready; Bell. Where’s my ruff and poker, Rog. Your ruff, your poker, are engendering together upon the cupboard of the court, or the court cupboard. Bell. Fetch ’em: is the pox in your hams, you can go no faster? [Strikes him. Rog. Would the pox were in your fingers, unless you could leave flinging! catch— [Exit. Bell. I’ll catch you, you dog, by and by: do you grumble? [Sings. Cupid is a God, as naked as my nail, I’ll whip him with a rod, if he my true love fail. Re-enter Roger with ruff and poker. Rog. There’s your ruff, shall I poke it? Bell. Yes, honest Roger—no, stay; prithee, good boy, hold here. [Sings.] [Roger holds the glass and candle.] Down, down, down, down, I fall down and arise,—down—I never shall arise. Rog. Troth mistress, then leave the trade if you shall never rise. Bell. What trade, Goodman Abra’m? Rog. Why that of down and arise or the falling trade. Bell. I’ll fall with you by and by. Rog. If you do I know who shall smart for’t: Troth, mistress, what do I look like now? Bell. Like as you are; a panderly sixpenny rascal. Rog. I may thank you for that: in faith I look like an old proverb, “Hold the candle before the devil.” Bell. Ud’s life, I’ll stick my knife in your guts an you prate to me so!—What? [Sings. Well met, pug, the pearl of beauty: umh, umh. How now, Sir Knave? you forget your duty, umh, umh, Marrymuff, Is it you, sir? the worst of twenty, fa, la, la, leera, la. Pox on you, how dost thou hold my glass? Rog. Why, as I hold your door: with my fingers. Bell. Nay, pray thee, sweet honey Roger, hold up handsomely. [Sings. Pretty wantons warble, &c. We shall ha’ guests to day, I lay my little maidenhead; my nose itches so. Rog. I said so too last night, when our fleas twinged me. Bell. So, poke my ruff now, my gown, my gown! have I my fall? where’s my fall, Roger? Rog. Your fall, forsooth, is behind. [Knocking within. Bell. God’s my pittikins! Rog. Shall I open to the fool, mistress? Bell. And all these baubles lying thus? Away with it quickly.—Ay, ay, knock, and be damned, whosoever you be!—So: give the fresh salmon line now: let him come ashore. [Exit Roger.] He shall serve for my breakfast, though he go against my stomach. Enter Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto, with Roger. Flu. Morrow, coz. Cas. How does my sweet acquaintance? Pio. Save thee, little marmoset: how dost thou, good, pretty rogue? Bell. Well, God-a-mercy, good, pretty rascal. Flu. Roger, some light, I prithee. Rog. You shall, signor, for we that live here in this vale of misery are as dark as hell. [Exit for a candle. Cas. Good tobacco, Fluello? Flu. Smell. Pio. It may be tickling gear: for it plays with my nose already. [Re-enter Roger with candle. Rog. Here’s another light angel, Bell. What? you pied curtal, Rog. I say God send us the light of Heaven, or some more angels. Bell. Go fetch some wine, and drink half of it. Rog. I must fetch some wine, gentlemen, and drink half of it. Flu. Here Roger. Cas. No, let me send, prithee. Flu. Hold, you cankerworm. Rog. You shall send both, if you please, signors. Pio. Stay, what’s best to drink a’ mornings? Rog. Hippocras, Flu. Hippocras? there then, here’s a teston for you, you snake. [They give money. Rog. Right sir, here’s three shillings and sixpence for a pottle Cas. Here’s most Herculanean tobacco; ha’ some, acquaintance? Bell. Faugh, not I, makes your breath stink like the piss of a fox. Acquaintance, where supped you last night? Cas. At a place, sweet acquaintance, where your health danced the canaries, Bell. I there among your punks! Cas. Why, in good troth, if you’ll trust me, acquaintance, there was not one hen at the board; ask Fluello. Flu. No, faith, coz, none but cocks; Signor Malavella drunk to thee. Bell. O, a pure beagle; that horse-leech there? Flu. And the knight, Sir Oliver Lollio, swore he would bestow a taffeta petticoat on thee, but to break his fast with thee. Bell. With me? I’ll choke him then, hang him, mole-catcher! it’s the dreamingest snotty-nose. Pio. Well, many took that Lollio for a fool, but he’s a subtle fool. Bell. Ay, and he has fellows: of all filthy, dry-fisted knights, I cannot abide that he should touch me. Cas. Why, wench? is he scabbed? Bell. Hang him, he’ll not live to be so honest, nor to the credit to have scabs about him; his betters have ’em: but I hate to wear out any of his coarse knight-hood, because he’s made like an alderman’s night-gown, faced all with cony Pio. Plague him; set him beneath the salt, and let him not touch a bit, till every one has had his full cut. Flu. Lord Ello, the gentleman-usher, came into us too; marry ’twas in our cheese, for he had been to borrow money for his lord, of a citizen. Cas. What an ass is that lord, to borrow money of a citizen! Bell. Nay, God’s my pity, what an ass is that citizen to lend money to a lord! Enter Matheo and Hippolito; Hippolito saluting the company, as a stranger, walks off. Mat. Save you, gallants. Signor Fluello, exceedingly well met, as I may say. Flu. Signor Matheo, exceedingly well met too, as I may say. Mat. And how fares my little pretty mistress? Bell. Ee’n as my little pretty servant; sees three court dishes before her, and not one good bit in them:—How now? why the devil standest thou so? Art in a trance? Rog. Yes, forsooth. Bell. Why dost not fill out their wine? Rog. Forsooth, ’tis filled out already: all the wine that the signors have bestowed upon you is cast away; a porter ran a little at me, and so faced me down that I had not a drop. Bell. I’m accursed to let such a withered artichoke-faced rascal grow under my nose: now you look like an old he-cat, going to the gallows: I’ll be hanged if he ha’ not put up the money to cony-catch Rog. No, truly, forsooth, ’tis not put up yet. Bell. How many gentlemen hast thou served thus? Rog. None but five hundred, besides prentices and serving-men. Bell. Dost think I’ll pocket it up at thy hands? Rog. Yes, forsooth, I fear you will pocket it up. Bell. Fie, fie, cut my lace, good servant; I shall ha’ the mother Flu. Plague, not for a scald Mat. Nay, sweet Bellafront, for a little pig’s wash! Cas. Here Roger, fetch more. [Gives money.] A mischance, i’faith, acquaintance. Bell. Out of my sight, thou ungodly puritanical creature. Rog. For the t’other pottle? yes, forsooth. Bell. Spill that too. [Exit Roger.] What gentleman is that, servant? your friend? Mat. Gods so; a stool, a stool! If you love me mistress, entertain this gentleman respectively, Bell. He’s very welcome,—pray, sir, sit. Hip. Thanks, lady. Flu. Count Hippolito, is’t not? Cry you mercy signor; you walk here all this while, and we not heard you! Let me bestow a stool upon you, beseech you; you are a stranger here, we know the fashions a’th’ house. Cas. Please you be here, my lord? [Offers tobacco. Hip. No, good Castruchio. Flu. You have abandoned the Court, I see, my lord, since the death of your mistress; well, she was a delicate piece—Beseech you, sweet, come let us serve under the colours of your acquaintance still for all that—Please you to meet here at the lodging of my coz, I shall bestow a banquet upon you. Flu. Faith, sir, a poor gentlewoman, of passing good carriage; one that has some suits in law, and lies here in an attorney’s house. Hip. Is she married? Flu. Ha, as all your punks are, a captain’s wife, or so: never saw her before, my lord? Hip. Never, trust me: a goodly creature! Flu. By gad, when you know her as we do, you’ll swear she is the prettiest, kindest, sweetest, most bewitching honest ape under the pole. A skin, your satin is not more soft, nor lawn whiter. Hip. Belike, then, she’s some sale courtesan. Flu. Troth, as all your best faces are, a good wench. Hip. Great pity that she’s a good wench. Mat. Thou shalt ha’, i’faith, mistress.—How now, signors? what, whispering? Did not I lay a wager I should take you, within seven days, in a house of vanity? Hip. You did; and, I beshrew your heart, you’ve won. Mat. How do you like my mistress? Hip. Well, for such a mistress; better, if your mistress be not your master—I must break manners, gentlemen, fare you well. Mat. ’Sfoot, you shall not leave us. Bell. The gentleman likes not the taste of our company. Flu., Cas., &c. Beseech you stay. Hip. Trust me, my affairs beckon for me; pardon me. Mat. Will you call for me half an hour hence here? Hip. Perhaps I shall. Mat. Perhaps? faugh! I know you can swear to me you will. Hip. Since you will press me, on my word, I will. [Exit. Bell. What sullen picture is this, servant? Mat. It’s Count Hippolito, the brave count. Pio. As gallant a spirit as any in Milan, you sweet Jew. Flu. Oh! he’s a most essential gentleman, coz. Cas. Did you never hear of Count Hippolito, acquaintance? Bell. Marry muff, Mat. He’s so malcontent! sirrah Bell. Punk? you soused gurnet! Mat. King’s truce: come, I’ll bestow the supper to have him but laugh. Cas. He betrays his youth too grossly to that tyrant melancholy. Mat. All this is for a woman. Bell. A woman? some whore! what sweet jewel is’t? Pio. Would she heard you! Flu. Troth, so would I. Cas. And I, by Heaven. Bell. Nay, good servant, what woman? Mat. Pah! Bell. Prithee, tell me; a buss, and tell me: I warrant he’s an honest fellow, if he take on thus for a wench: good rogue, who? Mat. By th’ Lord I will not, must not, faith’ mistress. Is’t a match, sirs? this night, at th’ Antelope: ay, for there’s best wine, and good boys. Flu., Cas., Pio. It’s done; at th’ Antelope. Bell. I cannot be there to night. Mat. Cannot? by th’ Lord you shall. Bell. By the Lady I will not: shall! Flu. Why, then, put it off till Friday; wu’t come then, coz? Bell. Well. Re-enter Roger. Mat. You’re the waspishest ape. Roger, put your mistress in mind to sup with us on Friday next. You’re best come like a madwoman, without a band, in your waistcoat, and the linings of your kirtle outward, like every common hackney that steals out at the back gate of her sweet knight’s lodging. Bell. Go, go, hang yourself! Cas. It’s dinner-time, Matheo; shall’s hence? All. Yes, yes.—Farewell, wench. Bell. Farewell, boys.—[Exeunt all except Bellafront and Roger.]—Roger, what wine sent they for? Rog. Bastard wine, Bell. A company of rooks! O good sweet Roger, run to the poulter’s, and buy me some fine larks! Rog. No woodcocks? Bell. Yes, faith, a couple, if they be not dear. Rog. I’ll buy but one, there’s one already here. [Exit. Enter Hippolito. Hip. Is the gentleman, my friend, departed, mistress? Bell. His back is but new turned, sir. Hip. Fare you well. Bell. I can direct you to him. Hip. Can you, pray? Bell. If you please, stay, he’ll not be absent long. Hip. I care not much. Bell. Pray sit, forsooth. Hip. I’m hot. [Lays aside his sword. If I may use your room, I’ll rather walk. Bell. At your best pleasure—whew—some rubbers there! Hip. Indeed, I’ll none:—indeed I will not: thanks. Pretty fine lodging. I perceive my friend Is old in your acquaintance. Bell. Troth, sir, he comes As other gentlemen, to spend spare hours If yourself like our roof, such as it is, Your own acquaintance may be as old as his. Hip. Say I did like; what welcome should I find? Bell. Such as my present fortunes can afford. Hip. But would you let me play Matheo’s part? Bell. What part? Hip. Why, embrace you: dally with you, kiss: Faith, tell me, will you leave him and love me? Bell. I am in bonds to no man, sir. Hip. Why then, You’re free for any man; if any, me. But I must tell you, lady, were you mine, You should be all mine; I could brook no sharers, I should be covetous, and sweep up all. I should be pleasure’s usurer; faith, I should. Bell. O fate! Hip. Why sigh you, lady? may I know? Bell. ’Thas never been my fortune yet to single Out that one man, whose love could fellow mine, As I have ever wished it: O my stars! Had I but met with one kind gentleman, That would have purchased sin alone to himself, For his own private use, although scarce proper, Indifferent handsome: meetly legged and thighed: And my allowance reasonable, i’faith, According to my body, by my troth, I would have been as true unto his pleasures, As ever a poor gentlewoman could be. Hip. This were well now to one but newly fledged, And scarce a day old in this subtle world: ’Twere pretty art, good bird-lime, cunning net, But come, come, faith, confess: how many men Have drunk this self-same protestation, From that red ’ticing lip? Bell. Indeed, not any. Hip. Indeed? and blush not! Bell. No, in truth, not any. Hip. Indeed! in truth?—how warily you swear! ’Tis well: if ill it be not: yet had I The ruffian in me, and were drawn before you But in light colours, I do know indeed, You could not swear indeed, but thunder oaths That should shake Heaven, drown the harmonious spheres, And pierce a soul, that loved her maker’s honour With horror and amazement. Bell. Shall I swear?— Will you believe me then? Hip. Worst then of all; Our sins by custom, seem at last but small. Were I but o’er your threshold, a next man, And after him a next, and then a fourth, Should have this golden hook, and lascivious bait, Thrown out to the full length. Why let me tell you: I ha’ seen letters sent from that white hand, Tuning such music to Matheo’s ear. Bell. Matheo! that’s true, but believe it, I No sooner had laid hold upon your presence, But straight mine eye conveyed you to my heart. Hip. Oh, you cannot feign with me! why, I know, lady, This is the common passion of you all, To hook in a kind gentleman, and then And in the end you show him a French trick, And so you leave him, that a coach may run Between his legs for breadth. Bell. Oh, by my soul, Not I! therein I’ll prove an honest whore, In being true to one, and to no more. Hip. If any be disposed to trust your oath, Let him: I’ll not be he; I know you feign All that you speak; ay, for a mingled harlot Is true in nothing but in being false. What! shall I teach you how to loath yourself? And mildly too, not without sense or reason. Bell. I am content; I would feign loath myself If you not love me. Hip. Then if your gracious blood Be not all wasted, I shall assay to do’t. Lend me your silence, and attention. You have no soul, that makes you weigh so light; Heaven’s treasure bought it: And half-a-crown hath sold it:—for your body Is like the common-shore, that still receives All the town’s filth. The sin of many men Is within you; and thus much I suppose, That if all your committers stood in rank, They’d make a lane, in which your shame might dwell, And with their spaces reach from hence to hell. Nay, shall I urge it more? there has been known As many by one harlot, maimed and dismembered, As would ha’ stuffed an hospital: this I might Apply to you, and perhaps do you right: O you’re as base as any beast that bears,— Your body is e’en hired, and so are theirs. For gold and sparkling jewels, if he can, You’ll let a Jew get you with Christian: Be he a Moor, a Tartar, though his face Could the devil put on a human shape, If his purse shake out crowns, up then he gets; Whores will be rid to hell with golden bits. So that you’re crueller than Turks, for they Sell Christians only, you sell yourselves away. Why, those that love you, hate you: and will term you Liquorish damnation; with themselves half-sunk After the sin is laid out, and e’en curse Their fruitless riot; for what one begets Another poisons; lust and murder hit: A tree being often shook, what fruit can knit? Bell. O me unhappy! Hip. I can vex you more: A harlot is like Dunkirk, true to none, Swallows both English, Spanish, fulsome Dutch, Back-doored Italian, last of all, the French, And he sticks to you, faith, gives you your diet, Brings you acquainted, first with Monsieur Doctor And then you know what follows. Bell. Misery. Rank, stinking, and most loathsome misery. Hip. Methinks a toad is happier than a whore; That with one poison swells, with thousands more The other stocks her veins: harlot? fie, fie! You are the miserablest creatures breathing, The very slaves of nature; mark me else: You put on rich attires, others’ eyes wear them, You eat, but to supply your blood with sin: And this strange curse e’en haunts you to your graves. From fools you get, and spend it upon slaves: Like bears and apes, you’re baited and show tricks For money; but your bawd the sweetness licks. Indeed, you are their journey-women, and do All base and damned works they list set you to: So that you ne’er are rich; for do but show me, In present memory, or in ages past, Whose flesh was dear’st: that raised the price of sin, And held it up; to whose intemperate bosom, Princes, earls, lords, the worst has been a knight, The mean’st a gentleman, have offered up Whole hecatombs of sighs, and rained in showers Handfuls of gold; yet, for all this, at last Diseases sucked her marrow, then grew so poor, That she has begged e’en at a beggar’s door. And (wherein Heaven has a finger) when this idol, From coast to coast, has leapt on foreign shores, And had more worship than th’outlandish whores: When several nations have gone over her, When for each several city she has seen, Her maidenhead has been new, and been sold dear: Did live well there, and might have died unknown, And undefamed; back comes she to her own, And there both miserably lives and dies, Scorned even of those that once adored her eyes, As if her fatal circled life thus ran, Her pride should end there, where it first began. What do you weep to hear your story read? Nay, if you spoil your cheeks, I’ll read no more. Bell. O yes, I pray, proceed: Indeed, ’twill do me good to weep, indeed. Hip. To give those tears a relish, this I add, You’re like the Jews, scattered, in no place certain, Your days are tedious, your hours burdensome: And were’t not for full suppers, midnight revels, Dancing, wine, riotous meetings, which do drown, And bury quite in you all virtuous thoughts, And on your eyelids hang so heavily, They have no power to look so high as Heaven,— You’d sit and muse on nothing but despair, Curse that devil Lust, that so burns up your blood, And in ten thousand shivers break your glass For his temptation. Say you taste delight, To mete Yet your nights pay for all: I know you dream Of warrants, whips, and beadles, and then start At a door’s windy creak: think every weasel To be a constable, and every rat A long-tailed officer: Are you now not slaves? Oh, you’ve damnation without pleasure for it! Such is the state of harlots. To conclude: When you are old and can well paint no more, You turn bawd, and are then worse than before: Make use of this: farewell. Bell. Oh, I pray, stay. Hip. I see Matheo comes not: time hath barred me; Would all the harlots in the town had heard me. [Exit. Bell. Stay yet a little longer! No? quite gone! Curst be that minute—for it was no more, So soon a maid is changed into a whore— Wherein I first fell! be it for ever black! Yet why should sweet Hippolito shun mine eyes? For whose true love I would become pure, honest, Hate the world’s mixtures, and the smiles of gold. Am I not fair? why should he fly me then? Fair creatures are desired, not scorned of men. How many gallants have drunk healths to me, Out of their daggered arms, and thought them blest, Enjoying but mine eyes at prodigal feasts! And does Hippolito detest my love? Oh, sure their heedless lusts but flattered me, I am not pleasing, beautiful, nor young. Hippolito hath spied some ugly blemish, Eclipsing all my beauties: I am foul: Harlot! Ay, that’s the spot that taints my soul. What! has he left his weapon here behind him And gone forgetful? O fit instrument To let forth all the poison of my flesh! But when ’tis forth, then he’ll believe I’m changed. As she is about to stab herself re-enter Hippolito. Hip. Mad woman, what art doing? Bell. Either love me, Or split my heart upon thy rapier’s point: Yet do not neither; for thou then destroy’st That which I love thee for—thy virtues. Here, here; [Gives sword to Hippolito. Th’art crueller, and kill’st me with disdain: To die so, sheds no blood, yet ’tis worse pain. [Exit Hippolito. Not speak to me! Not bid farewell? a scorn? Hated! this must not be; some means I’ll try. Would all whores were as honest now as I! [Exit. decoration decoration ACT THE THIRD.SCENE I.—Candido’s Shop.Candido, Viola, George, and two Prentices discovered: Fustigo enters, walking by. Geo. See, gentlemen, what you lack; a fine holland, a fine cambric: see what you buy. 1st Pren. Holland for shirts, cambric for bands; what is’t you lack? Fus. ’Sfoot, I lack ’em all; nay, more, I lack money to buy ’em. Let me see, let me look again: mass, this is the shop. [Aside.] What coz! sweet coz! how dost, i’faith, since last night after candlelight? we had good sport, i’faith, had we not? and when shall’s laugh again? Vio. When you will, cousin. Fus. Spoke like a kind Lacedemonian: I see yonder’s thy husband. Vio. Ay, there’s the sweet youth, God bless him! Fus. And how is’t, cousin? and how, how is’t, thou squall? Vio. Well, cousin, how fare you? Fus. How fare I? for sixpence a-meal, wench, as well as heart can wish, with calves’ chaldrons, Cand. Are you my wife’s cousin? Fus. I am, sir; what hast thou to do with that? Cand. O, nothing, but you’re welcome. Fus. The devil’s dung in thy teeth! I’ll be welcome whether thou wilt or no, I.—What ring’s this, coz? very pretty and fantastical, i’faith! let’s see it. Vio. Pooh! nay, you wrench my finger. Fus. I ha’ sworn I’ll ha’t, and I hope you will not let my oaths be cracked in the ring, will you? [Seizes the ring.] I hope, sir, you are not malicholly Cand. Angry? not I, sir, nay if she can part So easily with her ring, ’tis with my heart. Geo. Suffer this, sir, and suffer all, a whoreson gull, to— Cand. Peace George, when she has reaped what I have sown, She’ll say, one grain tastes better of her own, Than whole sheaves gathered from another’s land: Wit’s never good, till bought at a dear hand. Geo. But in the mean-time she makes an ass of some body. 2nd Pren. See, see, see, sir, as you turn your back they do nothing but kiss. Cand. No matter, let ’em: when I touch her lip, I shall not feel his kisses, no, nor miss Any of her lip: no harm in kissing is. Look to your business, pray, make up your wares. Fus. Troth, coz, and well remembered, I would thou wouldst give me five yards of lawn, to make my punk some falling bands a’ the fashion; three falling one upon another, for that’s the new edition now: she’s out of linen horribly, too; troth, sh’ as never a good smock to her back neither, but one that has a great many patches in’t, and that I’m fain to wear myself for want of shift, too: prithee, put me into wholesome napery, and bestow some clean commodities upon us. Vio. Reach me those cambrics, and the lawns hither. Cand. What to do, wife? to lavish out my goods upon a fool? Fus. Fool? Snails, eat the fool, or I’ll so batter your crown, that it shall scarce go for five shillings. 2nd Pren. Do you hear, sir? you’re best be quiet, and say a fool tells you so. Fus. Nails, I think so, for thou tellest me. Cand. Are you angry, sir, because I named the fool? Trust me, you are not wise in my own house, And to my face to play the antic thus: If you needs play the madman, choose a stage Of lesser compass, where few eyes may note Your action’s error: but if still you miss, As here you do, for one clap, ten will hiss. Fus. Zounds, cousin, he talks to me, as if I were a scurvy tragedian. 2nd Pren. Sirrah George, I ha’ thought upon a device, how to break his pate, beat him soundly, and ship him away. Geo. Do’t. 2nd Pren. I’ll go in, pass through the house, give some of our fellow-prentices the watch-word when they shall enter; then come and fetch my master in by a wile, and place one in the hall to hold him in conference, whilst we cudgel the gull out of his coxcomb. [Exit 2nd Prentice. Geo. Do’t: away, do’t. Vio. Must I call twice for these cambrics and lawns? Cand. Nay see, you anger her, George, prithee despatch. 1st Pren. Two of the choicest pieces are in the warehouse, sir. Cand. Go fetch them presently. Fus. Ay, do, make haste, sirrah. [Exit 1st Prentice. Cand. Why were you such a stranger all this while, being my wife’s cousin? Fus. Stranger? no sir, I’m a natural Milaner born. Cand. I perceive still it is your natural guise to mistake me, but you are welcome, sir; I much wish your acquaintance. Fus. My acquaintance? I scorn that, i’faith; I hope my acquaintance goes in chains of gold three and fifty times double:—you know who I mean, coz; the posts of his gate are a-painting too. Re-enter the 2nd Prentice. 2nd Pren. Signor Pandulfo the merchant desires conference with you. Cand. Signor Pandulfo? I’ll be with him straight, Attend your mistress and the gentleman. [Exit. Vio. When do you show those pieces? Fus. Ay, when do you show those pieces? Prentices. [Within.] Presently, sir, presently: we are but charging them. Fus. Come, sirrah: you flat-cap, Re-enter 1st Prentice with pieces. Geo. Flat-cap? hark in your ear, sir, you’re a flat fool, an ass, a gull, and I’ll thrum Fus. ’Sfoot coz, a good jest, did you hear him? he told me in my ears, I was a “flat fool, an ass, a gull, and I’ll thrum you:—do you see this cambric sir?” Vio. What, not my men, I hope? Fus. No, not your men, but one of your men i’faith. 1st Pren. I pray, sir, come hither, what say you to this? here’s an excellent good one. Fus. Ay, marry, this likes 2nd Pren. Let your whores cut; you’re an impudent coxcomb; you get none, and yet I’ll thrum you:—a very good cambric, sir. Fus. Again, again, as God judge me! ’Sfoot, coz, they stand thrumming here with me all day, and yet I get nothing. 1st Pren. A word, I pray, sir, you must not be angry. Prentices have hot bloods, young fellows,—what say you to this piece? Look you, ’tis so delicate, so soft, so even, so fine a thread, that a lady may wear it. Fus. ’Sfoot, I think so, if a knight marry my punk, a lady shall wear it: cut me off twenty yards: thou’rt an honest lad. 1st Pren. Not without money, gull, and I’ll thrum you too. Prentices. [Within.] Gull, we’ll thrum you. Fus. O Lord, sister, did you not hear something cry thrum? zounds, your men here make a plain ass of me. Vio. What, to my face so impudent? Geo. Ay, in a cause so honest, we’ll not suffer Our master’s goods to vanish moneyless. Vio. You will not suffer them? 2nd Pren. No, and you may blush, In going about to vex so mild a breast, As is our master’s. Vio. Take away those pieces. Cousin, I give them freely. Fus. Mass, and I’ll take ’em as freely. Geo., 1st and 2nd Pren., and other prentices, rushing in. We’ll make you lay ’em down again more freely. [They all attack Fustigo with their clubs. Vio. Help, help! my brother will be murdered. Re-enter Candido. Cand. How now, what coil is here? forbear I say. [Exeunt all the Prentices except the 1st and 2nd. Geo. He calls us flat-caps, and abuses us. Cand. Why, sirs, do such examples flow from me? Vio. They’re of your keeping, sir. Alas, poor brother. Fus. I’faith they ha’ peppered me, sister; look, dost not spin? call you these prentices? I’ll ne’er play at cards more when clubs is trump: I have a goodly coxcomb, sister, have I not? Cand. Sister and brother? brother to my wife? Fus. If you have any skill in heraldry, you may soon know that; break but her pate, and you shall see her blood and mine is all one. Cand. A surgeon! run, a surgeon! [Exit 1st Prentice.] Why then wore you that forged name of cousin? Fus. Because it’s a common thing to call coz, and ningle Cand. Cousin! A name of much deceit, folly, and sin, For under that common abused word, Many an honest-tempered citizen Is made a monster, and his wife trained out To foul adulterous action, full of fraud. I may well call that word, a city’s bawd. Fus. Troth, brother, my sister would needs ha’ me take upon me to gull your patience a little: but it has made double gules Vio. What, playing the woman? blabbing now, you fool? Cand. Oh, my wife did but exercise a jest upon your wit. Fus. ’Sfoot, my wit bleeds for’t, methinks. Cand. Then let this warning more of sense afford; The name of cousin is a bloody word. Fus. I’ll ne’er call coz again whilst I live, to have such a coil about it; this should be a coronation day; for my head runs claret lustily. [Exit. Cand. Go, wish Enter an Officer. How now, my friend? what, do they sit to day? Offi. Yes, sir, they expect you at the senate-house. Cand. I thank your pains; I’ll not be last man there.— [Exit Officer. My gown, George, go, my gown. [Exit George.] A happy land, Where grave men meet each cause to understand; Whose consciences are not cut out in bribes To gull the poor man’s right; but in even scales, Peize Re-enter George. Come, where’s the gown? Geo. I cannot find the key, sir. Cand. Request it of your mistress. Vio. Come not to me for any key; I’ll not be troubled to deliver it. Cand. Good wife, kind wife, it is a needful trouble, but for my gown! Vio. Moths swallow down your gown! You set my teeth on edge with talking on’t. Cand. Nay, prithee, sweet,—I cannot meet without it, I should have a great fine set on my head. Vio. Set on your coxcomb; tush, fine me no fines. Cand. Believe me, sweet, none greets the senate-house, Without his robe of reverence,—that’s his gown. Geo. Troth, sir, were’t any but you, they would break open chest. Cand. O no! break open chest! that’s a thief’s office; Therein you counsel me against my blood: ’Twould show impatience that: any meek means I would be glad to embrace. Mass, I have got it. Go, step up, fetch me down one of the carpets, The saddest-coloured carpet, honest George, Cut thou a hole i’th’ middle for my neck, Two for mine arms. Nay, prithee, look not strange. Geo. I hope you do not think, sir, as you mean. Cand. Prithee, about it quickly, the hour chides me: Warily, George, softly, take heed of eyes, [Exit George. Out of two evils he’s accounted wise, That can pick out the least; the fine imposed For an un-gowned senator, is about Forty crusadoes, Thus have I chosen the lesser evil yet, Preserved my patience, foiled her desperate wit. Re-enter George with carpet. Geo. Here, sir, here’s the carpet. Cand. O well done, George, we’ll cut it just i’th’ midst. [They cut the carpet. ’Tis very well; I thank thee: help it on. Geo. It must come over your head, sir, like a wench’s petticoat. Cand. Thou’rt in the right, good George; it must indeed. Fetch me a night-cap: for I’ll gird it close, As if my health were queasy: ’twill show well For a rude, careless night-gown, will’t not, think’st? Geo. Indifferent well, sir, for a night-gown, being girt and pleated. Cand. Ay, and a night-cap on my head. Geo. That’s true sir, I’ll run and fetch one, and a staff. [Exit. Cand. For thus they cannot choose but conster One that is out of health, takes no delight, Wears his apparel without appetite, And puts on heedless raiment without form.— Re-enter George, with nightcap and staff. So, so, kind George, [Puts on nightcap.]—be secret now: and, prithee, do not laugh at me till I’m out of sight. Geo. I laugh? not I, sir. Cand. Now to the senate-house: Methinks, I’d rather wear, without a frown, A patient carpet, than an angry gown. [Exit. Geo. Now, looks my master just like one of our carpet knights, Re-enter Viola. Vio. What, is your master gone? Geo. Yes, forsooth, his back is but new turned. Vio. And in his cloak? did he not vex and swear? Geo. No, but he’ll make you swear anon.— [Aside.] No, indeed, he went away like a lamb. Vio. Key, sink to hell! still patient, patient still? I am with child If e’er thou look’st for favour at my hands, Uphold one jest for me. Geo. Against my master? Vio. ’Tis a mere jest in faith: say, wilt thou do’t? Geo. Well, what is’t? Vio. Here, take this key; thou know’st where all things lie. Chain, cap, ruff, every thing, be like himself; And ’gainst his coming home, walk in the shop; Feign the same carriage, and his patient look, ’Twill breed but a jest, thou know’st; speak, wilt thou? Geo. ’Twill wrong my master’s patience. Vio. Prithee, George. Geo. Well, if you’ll save me harmless, and put me under covert barn, Vio. No wrong at all: here take the key, be gone: If any vex him, this: if not this, none. [Exeunt. decoration SCENE II.—An outer Apartment in Bellafront’s House.Enter Mistress Fingerlock and Roger. Mis. F. O Roger, Roger, where’s your mistress, where’s your mistress? there’s the finest, neatest gentleman at my house, but newly come over: Oh, where is she, where is she, where is she? Rog. My mistress is abroad, but not amongst ’em: my mistress is not the whore now that you take her for. Mis. F. How? is she not a whore? do you go about to take away her good name, Roger? you are a fine pander indeed. Rog. I tell you, Madonna Fingerlock, I am not sad for nothing, I ha’ not eaten one good meal this three and thirty days: I had wont to get sixteen pence by fetching a pottle of hippocras; but now those days are past. We Mis. F. God’s my life, and is she changed now? Rog. I ha’ lost by her squeamishness, more than would have builded twelve bawdy-houses. Mis. F. And had she no time to turn honest but now? what a vile woman is this! twenty pound a-night, I’ll be sworn, Roger, in good gold and no silver: why here was a time! if she should ha’ picked out a time, it could not be better: gold enough stirring; choice of men, choice of hair, choice of beards, choice of legs, and choice of every, every, everything: it cannot sink into my head, that she should be such an ass. Roger, I never believe it. Rog. Here she comes now. Enter Bellafront. Mis. F. O sweet madonna, on with your loose gown, your felt Bell. Hence thou, our sex’s monster, poisonous bawd, Lust’s factor, and damnation’s orator. Gossip of hell! were all the harlots’ sins Which the whole world contains, numbered together, Thine far exceeds them all: of all the creatures That ever were created, thou art basest. What serpent would beguile thee of thy office? It is detestable: for thou livest Upon the dregs of harlots, guard’st the door, Whilst couples go to dancing: O coarse devil! Thou art the bastard’s curse, thou brand’st his birth; The lecher’s French disease: for thou dry-suck’st him; The harlot’s poison, and thine own confusion. Mis. F. Marry come up, with a pox, have you nobody to rail against, but your bawd now? Bell. And you, knave pander, kinsman to a bawd. Rog. You and I, madonna, are cousins. Bell. Of the same blood and making, near allied; Thou, that art slave to sixpence, base metalled villain! Rog. Sixpence? nay, that’s not so: I never took under two shillings four-pence; I hope I know my fee. Bell. I know not against which most to inveigh: For both of you are damned so equally. Thou never spar’st for oaths, swear’st any thing, As if thy soul were made of shoe-leather: “God damn me, gentleman, if she be within!” When in the next room she’s found dallying. Rog. If it be my vocation to swear, every man in his vocation: I hope my betters swear and damn themselves, and why should not I? Bell. Roger, you cheat kind gentlemen. Rog. The more gulls they. Bell. Slave, I cashier thee. Mis. F. An you do cashier him, he shall be entertained. Rog. Shall I? then blurt Bell. As hell would have it, entertained by you! I dare the devil himself to match those two. [Exit. Mis. F. Marry gup, are you grown so holy, so pure, so honest with a pox? Rog. Scurvy honest punk! but stay, madonna, how must our agreement be now? for, you know, I am to have all the comings-in at the hall-door, and you at the chamber-door. Mis. F. True Roger except my vails. Rog. Vails? what vails? Mis. F. Why as thus; if a couple come in a coach, and light to lie down a little, then, Roger, that’s my fee, and you may walk abroad; for the coachman himself is their pander. Rog. Is ’a so? in truth I have almost forgot, for want of exercise. But how if I fetch this citizen’s wife to that gull, and that madonna to that gallant, how then? Mis. F. Why then, Roger, you are to have sixpence a lane; so many lanes, so many sixpences. Rog. Is’t so? then I see we two shall agree, and live together. Mis. F. Ay, Roger, so long as there be any taverns and bawdy-houses in Milan. [Exeunt. decoration SCENE III.—A Chamber in Bellafront’s House.Bellafront discovered sitting with a lute; pen, ink, and paper on a table before her. Bell. [Sings.] The courtier’s flattering jewels, Temptations only fuels, The lawyer’s ill-got moneys, That suck up poor bees’ honeys: The citizen’s sons riot, The gallant’s costly diet: Silks and velvets, pearls and ambers, Shall not draw me to their chambers. Silks and velvets, &c. [She writes. Oh, ’tis in vain to write! it will not please; Ink on this paper would ha’ but presented The foul black spots that stick upon my soul, And rather made me loathsomer, than wrought My love’s impression in Hippolito’s thought: No, I must turn the chaste leaves of my breast, And pick out some sweet means to breed my rest. Hippolito, believe me I will be As true unto thy heart, as thy heart to thee, And hate all men, their gifts and company! Enter Matheo, Castruchio, Fluello, and Pioratto. Mat. You, goody punk, subaudi cockatrice, oh you’re a sweet whore of your promise, are you not, think you? how well you came to supper to us last night; mew, a whore, and break her word! nay, you may blush, and hold down your head at it well enough. ’Sfoot, ask these gallants if we stayed not till we were as hungry as sergeants. Flu. Ay, and their yeomen too. Cas. Nay, faith, acquaintance, let me tell you, you forgat yourself too much: we had excellent cheer, rare vintage, and were drunk after supper. Pio. And when we were in, our woodcocks, Mat. Pox on her! let her alone. Bell. Oh, I pray do, if you be gentlemen: I pray, depart the house: beshrew the door For being so easily entreated! faith, I lent but little ear unto your talk; My mind was busied otherwise, in troth, And so your words did unregarded pass: Let this suffice,—I am not as I was. Flu. I am not what I was? no, I’ll be sworn thou art not: for thou wert honest at five, and now thou’rt a punk at fifteen: thou wert yesterday a simple whore, and now thou’rt a cunning, cony-catching baggage to day. Bell. I’ll say I’m worse; I pray, forsake me then: I do desire you leave me, gentlemen. And leave yourselves: O be not what you are, Spendthrifts of soul and body! Let me persuade you to forsake all harlots, Worse than the deadliest poisons, they are worse: For o’er their souls hangs an eternal curse. They’re seldom blest with fruit; for ere it blossoms, Many a worm confounds it. They have no issue but foul ugly ones, That run along with them, e’en to their graves: For, ’stead of children, they breed rank diseases, And all you gallants can bestow on them, Is that French infant, which ne’er acts, but speaks: What shallow son and heir, then, foolish gallants, Would waste all his inheritance, to purchase A filthy, loathed disease? and pawn his body To a dry evil: that usury’s worst of all, When th’ interest will eat out the principal. Mat. ’Sfoot, she gulls ’em the best! this is always her fashion, when she would be rid of any company that she cares not for, to enjoy mine alone. [Aside. Flu. What’s here? instructions, admonitions, and caveats? Come out, you scabbard of vengeance. Mat. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they fist, you shall not spurn my punk, I can tell you: my blood is vexed. Flu. Pox a’ your blood: make it a quarrel. Mat. You’re a slave! will that serve turn? Pio. ’Sblood, hold, hold! Cas. Matheo, Fluello, for shame, put up! Mat. Spurn my sweet varlet? Bell. O how many thus Moved with a little folly, have let out Their souls in brothel-houses! fell down and died Just at their harlot’s foot, as ’twere in pride. Flu. Matheo, we shall meet. Mat. Ay, ay; any where, saving at church: Pray take heed we meet not there. Flu. Adieu, damnation! Cas. Cockatrice, farewell! Pio. There’s more deceit in women, than in hell. [Exeunt Castruchio, Fluello and Pioratto. Mat. Ha, ha, thou dost gull ’em so rarely, so naturally! If I did not think thou hadst been in earnest: thou art a sweet rogue for’t i’faith. Bell. Why are not you gone too, Signor Matheo? I pray depart my house: you may believe me, In troth, I have no part of harlot in me. Mat. How’s this? Bell. Indeed, I love you not: but hate you worse Than any man, because you were the first Gave money for my soul: you brake the ice, Which after turned a puddle; I was led By your temptation to be miserable: I pray, seek out some other that will fall, Or rather, I pray seek out none at all. Mat. Is’t possible to be impossible! an honest whore! I have heard many honest wenches turn strumpets with a wet finger, Bell. ’Tis time to leave off jesting, I had almost Jested away salvation: I shall love you, If you will soon forsake me. Mat. God be with thee! Bell. O tempt no more women! shun their weighty curse; Women, at best, are bad, make them not worse. You gladly seek our sex’s overthrow: But not to raise our states. For all your wrongs, Will you vouchsafe me but due recompense, To marry with me? Mat. How! marry with a punk, a cockatrice, a harlot? maarr, faugh, I’ll be burnt through the nose first. Bell. Why, la, these are your oaths! you love to undo us, You love to make us lewd, but never chaste. Mat. I’ll hear no more of this, this ground upon, Thou’rt damned for altering thy religion. [Exit. Bell. Thy lust and sin speak so much: go thou, my ruin, The first fall my soul took! By my example I hope few maidens now will put their heads Under men’s girdles; who least trusts is most wise: Men’s oaths do cast a mist before our eyes. My best of wit, be ready! Now I go, By some device to greet Hippolito. decoration decoration ACT THE FOURTH.SCENE I.—A Chamber in Hippolito’s House.Enter a Servant. Ser. So, this is Monday morning, and now must I to my huswifery.—[Sets out a table, on which he places a skull, a picture of Infelice, a book, and a taper.]—Would I had been created a shoemaker, for all the gentle-craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me into a student, for here’s my book, here my desk, here my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowzy first day of the week, makes me half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back is turned, will be naught together. Enter Hippolito. Hip. Are all the windows shut? Ser. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns. Hip. Thou art a faithful servant, and observ’st And ceremonious sorrow. Get thee gone; I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound Of any woman’s voice pierce through that door. Ser. If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them; What will your lordship have to breakfast? Hip. Sighs. Ser. What to dinner? Hip. Tears. Ser. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper? Hip. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy of a woman. Ser. Indeed that’s harder to come by than ever was Ostend. Hip. Prithee, away. Ser. I’ll make away myself presently, which few servants will do for their lords; but rather help to make them away: Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something out of it. [Aside and exit. Hip. [Taking up Infelice’s picture.] My Infelice’s face, her brow, her eye, The dimple on her cheek! and such sweet skill, Hath from the cunning workman’s pencil flown, These lips look fresh and lively as her own, Seeming to move and speak. ’Las! now I see, The reason why fond Adulterate complexion! Here ’tis read: False colours last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue, Of all that was past woman’s excellence, Circumscribes all: Earth can no bliss afford, Nothing of her but this. This cannot speak, It has no lap for me to rest upon, No lip worth tasting: here the worms will feed, As in her coffin: hence, then, idle art! True love’s best pictured in a true-love’s heart: Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead; So that thou liv’st twice, twice art buriÈd: Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What’s here? [Takes up the skull. Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy’s: ’Las! say it were: I need not fear him now! For all his braves, his contumelious breath, His frowns, though dagger-pointed, all his plots, Though ne’er so mischievous, his Italian pills, His quarrels, and that common fence, his law, See, see, they’re all eaten out! here’s not left one: How clean they’re picked away to the bare bone! How mad are mortals, then, to rear great names On tops of swelling houses! or to wear out Their fingers’ ends in dirt, to scrape up gold! Not caring, so that sumpter-horse, the back, Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse— Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul: Yet, after all, their gayness looks thus foul. What fools are men to build a garish tomb, Only to save the carcase whilst it rots, To maintain’t long in stinking, make good carrion, But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound! For good deeds keep men sweet, long above ground. And must all come to this? fools, wife, all hither? Must all heads thus at last be laid together? Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman, After this fashion, not like this; these colours, In time, kissing but air, will be kissed off: But here’s a fellow; that which he lays on Death’s the best painter then: They that draw shapes, And live by wicked faces, are but God’s apes. They come but near the life, and there they stay; This fellow draws life too: his art is fuller, The pictures which he makes are without colour. Re-enter Servant. Ser. Here’s a parson Hip. Hah! Ser. A parson, sir, would speak with you. Hip. Vicar? Ser. Vicar! no sir, has too good a face to be a vicar yet, a youth, a very youth. Hip. What youth? of man or woman? lock the doors. Ser. If it be a woman, marrow-bones and potato pies keep me from meddling with her, for the thing has got the breeches! ’tis a male-varlet sure, my lord, for a woman’s tailor ne’er measured him. Hip. Let him give thee his message and be gone. Ser. He says he’s Signor Matheo’s man, but I know he lies. Hip. How dost thou know it? Ser. ’Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think, sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing. Hip. Send him and keep the door. [Exit Servant. [Reads.] “Fata si liceat mihi, Fingere arbitrio meo, Temperem zephyro levi Vela.” I’d sail were I to choose, not in the ocean, Cedars are shaken, when shrubs do feel no bruise. Enter Bellafront, dressed as a Page, with a letter. How? from Matheo? Bell. Yes, my lord. Hip. Art sick? Bell. Not all in health, my lord. Hip. Keep off. Bell. I do.— Hard fate when women are compelled to woo. [Aside. Hip. This paper does speak nothing. Bell. Yes, my lord, Matter of life it speaks, and therefore writ In hidden character: to me instruction My master gives, and, ’less you please to stay Till you both meet, I can the text display. Hip. Do so; read out. Bell. I am already out: Look on my face, and read the strangest story! Hip. What, villain, ho?—— Re-enter Servant. Ser. Call you, my lord? Hip. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil! Ser. Lord bless us, where? he’s not cloven, my lord, that I can see: besides the devil goes more like a gentleman than a page; good my lord, Buon coraggio! Hip. Thou hast let in a woman in man’s shape. And thou art damned for’t. Ser. Not damned I hope for putting in a woman to a lord. Hip. Fetch me my rapier,—do not; I shall kill thee. Purge this infected chamber of that plague, That runs upon me thus: Slave, thrust her hence. Ser. Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her hence without help! Come, mermaid, you must to sea again. Bell. Hear me but speak, my words shall be all music; Hear me but speak. [Knocking within. Hip. Another beats the door, T’other she-devil! look. Ser. Why, then, hell’s broke loose. Hip. Hence; guard the chamber: let no more come on, [Exit Servant. One woman serves for man’s damnation— Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate The chastest and most sanctimonious vow, That e’er was entered in the court of Heaven! I was, on meditation’s spotless wings, Upon my journey thither; like a storm Thou beat’st my ripened cogitations, Flat to the ground: and like a thief dost stand, To steal devotion from the holy land. Bell. If woman were thy mother—if thy heart, Be not all marble, or if’t marble be, Let my tears soften it, to pity me— I do beseech thee, do not thus with scorn Destroy a woman! Hip. Woman, I beseech thee, Get thee some other suit, this fits thee not: I would not grant it to a kneeling queen, I cannot love thee, nor I must not: see [Points to Infelice’s picture. The copy of that obligation, Where my soul’s bound in heavy penalties. Bell. She’s dead, you told me, she’ll let fall her suit. Hip. My vows to her, fled after her to Heaven: Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou might’st behold her, Watching upon yon battlements of stars, How I observe them. Should I break my bond, This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips Call me most perjured villain. Let it suffice, I ha’ set thee in the path; is’t not a sign I love thee, when with one so most most dear, I’ll have thee fellow? All are fellows there. Bell. Be greater than a king; save not a body, If not, and that again, sin’s path I tread, The grief be mine, the guilt fall on thy head! Hip. Stay, and take physic for it; read this book, Ask counsel of this head, what’s to be done; He’ll strike it dead, that ’tis damnation If you turn Turk again. Oh, do it not! Though Heaven cannot allure you to do well, From doing ill let hell fright you: and learn this, The soul whose bosom lust did never touch, Is God’s fair bride, and maidens’ souls are such: The soul that leaving chastity’s white shore, Swims in hot sensual streams, is the devil’s whore.— Re-enter Servant with letter. How now, who comes? Ser. No more knaves, my lord, that wear smocks: here’s a letter from Doctor Benedict; I would not enter his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry, they are half-witches. ’Slid! Hip. I’ll meet the doctor, tell him; yet to-night I cannot: but at morrow rising sun I will not fail.—[Exit Servant.]—Go, woman; fare thee well. [Exit. Bell. The lowest fall can be but into hell: It does not move him I must therefore fly From this undoing city, and with tears Wash off all anger from my father’s brow; He cannot sure but joy, seeing me new born. A woman honest first, and then turn whore, Is, as with me, common to thousands more: But from a strumpet to turn chaste, that sound Has oft been heard, that woman hardly found. [Exit. SCENE II. A Street.Enter Fustigo, Crambo, and Poh. Fus. Hold up your hands, gentlemen, here’s one, two, three [Giving money]—nay, I warrant they are sound pistoles, and without flaws; I had them of my sister and I know she uses to put up nothing that’s cracked—four, five, six, seven, eight and nine; by this hand bring me but a piece of his blood, and you shall have nine more. I’ll lurk in a tavern not far off, and provide supper to close up the end of the tragedy: the linen-draper’s, remember. Stand to’t, I beseech you, and play your parts perfectly. Cram. Look you, signor, ’tis not your gold that we weigh— Fus. Nay, nay, weigh it and spare not; if it lack one grain of corn, I’ll give you a bushel of wheat to make it up. Cram. But by your favour, signor, which of the servants is it? because we’ll punish justly. Fus. Marry ’tis the head man; you shall taste him by his tongue; a pretty, tall, prating fellow, with a Tuscalonian beard. Poh. Tuscalonian? very good. Fus. God’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman: my coxcomb was dry beaten, as if my hair had been hemp. Cram. We’ll dry-beat some of them. Fus. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried out murder, very manfully: I have her consent, in a manner, to have him peppered: else I’ll not do’t, to win more than ten cheaters do at a rifling: break but his pate, or so, only his mazer, Cram. No more to do, but ensconce yourself i’th’ tavern; provide no great cheer, a couple of capons, some pheasants, plovers, an orangeado-pie, or so: but how bloody howsoe’er the day be, sally you not forth. Fus. No, no; nay if I stir, some body shall stink: I’ll not budge: I’ll lie like a dog in a manger. Cram. Well, well, to the tavern, let not our supper be raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful. Fus. That’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst after; blood for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head, plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call your names? because I’ll leave word, if any such come to the bar. Enter Viola and the two Prentices. Vio. What’s a’clock now? 2nd Pren. ’Tis almost twelve. Vio. That’s well, The Senate will leave wording presently: But is George ready? 2nd Pren. Yes, forsooth, he’s furbished. Vio. Now, as you ever hope to win my favour, Throw both your duties and respects on him, With the like awe as if he were your master, Let not your looks betray it with a smile, Keep a true settled countenance, and beware You laugh not, whatsoe’er you hear or see. 2nd Pren. I warrant you, mistress, let us alone for keeping our countenance: for, if I list, there’s ne’er a fool in all Milan shall make me laugh, let him play the fool never so like an ass, whether it be the fat court-fool, or the lean city-fool. Vio. Enough then, call down George. 2nd Pren. I hear him coming. Vio. Be ready with your legs How courtesy would become him.— Enter George in Candido’s apparel. Beshrew my blood, a proper seemly man. Gallantly! Of a choice carriage, walks with a good port! Geo. I thank you, mistress, my back’s broad enough, now my master’s gown’s on. Vio. Sure, I should think it were the least of sin, To mistake the master, and to let him in. Geo. ’Twere a good Comedy of Errors 2nd Pren. Whist, whist! my master. Vio. You all know your tasks. Enter Candido, God’s my life, what’s that he has got upon’s back? who can tell? Geo. [Aside.] That can I, but I will not. Vio. Girt about him like a madman! what has he lost his cloak too? This is the maddest fashion that e’er I saw. What said he, George, when he passed by thee? Geo. Troth, mistress, nothing: not so much as a bee, he did not hum: not so much as a bawd, he did not hem: not so much as a cuckold, he did not ha: neither hum, hem, nor ha; only stared me in the face, passed along, and made haste in, as if my looks had worked with him, to give him a stool. Vio. Sure he’s vexed now, this trick has moved his spleen, He’s angered now, because he uttered nothing: And wordless wrath breaks out more violent, May be he’ll strive for place, when he comes down, But if thou lov’st me, George, afford him none. Geo. Nay, let me alone to play my master’s prize, Vio. Spoke with the spirit of a master, though with the tongue of a prentice. Re-enter Candido dressed as a Prentice. Why how now, madman? what in your tricksi-coats? Cand. O peace, good mistress. Enter Crambo and Poh. See, what you lack? what is’t you buy? pure calicoes, fine Hollands, choice cambrics, neat lawns: see what you buy? pray come near, my master will use you well, he can afford you a penny-worth. Vio. Ay, that he can, out of a whole piece of lawn i’faith. Cand. Pray see your choice here, gentlemen. Vio. O fine fool! what, a madman! a patient madman! Cand. Be covered, George, this chain and welted gown Bare to this coat? then the world’s upside down. Geo. Umh, umh, hum. Cram. That’s the shop, and there’s the fellow. Poh. Ay, but the master is walking in there. Cram. No matter, we’ll in. Poh. ’Sblood, dost long to lie in limbo? Cram. An limbo be in hell, I care not. Cand. Look you, gentlemen, your choice: cambrics? Cram. No, sir, some shirting. Cand. You shall. Cram. Have you none of this striped canvas for doublets? Cand. None striped, sir, but plain. 2nd Pren. I think there be one piece striped within. Geo. Step, sirrah, and fetch it, hum, hum, hum. [Exit 2nd Pren., and returns with the piece. Cand. Look you, gentleman, I’ll make but one spreading, here’s a piece of cloth, fine, yet shall wear like iron, ’tis without fault; take this upon my word, ’tis without fault. Cram. Then ’tis better than you, sirrah. Cand. Ay, and a number more: Oh, that each soul Were but as spotless as this innocent white, And had as few breaks in it! Cram. ’Twould have some then: There was a fray here last day in this shop. Cand. There was, indeed, a little flea-biting. Poh. A gentleman had his pate broke; call you that but a flea-biting? Cand. He had so. Cram. Zounds, do you stand to it? [Strikes Candido. Geo. ’Sfoot, clubs, clubs! prentices, down with ’em! Enter several Prentices with clubs, who disarm Crambo and Poh. Ah, you rogues, strike a citizen in’s shop? Cand. None of you stir, I pray; forbear, good George. Cram. I beseech you, sir, we mistook our marks; deliver us our weapons. Geo. Your head bleeds, sir; cry clubs! Cand. I say you shall not; pray be patient, Give them their weapons: sirs, you’d best be gone, I tell you here are boys more tough than bears: Hence, lest more fists do walk about your ears. Cram., Poh. We thank you, sir. [Exeunt. Cand. You shall not follow them; Let them alone, pray; this did me no harm; Troth, I was cold, and the blow made me warm, I thank ’em for’t: besides, I had decreed To have a vein pricked, I did mean to bleed: So that there’s money saved: they’re honest men, Pray use ’em well, when they appear again. Geo. Yes, sir, we’ll use ’em like honest men. Cand. Ay, well said, George, like honest men, though they be arrant knaves, for that’s the phrase of the city; help to lay up these wares. Re-enter Viola and 1st Prentice with Officers. Vio. Yonder he stands. 1st Off. What in a prentice-coat? Vio. Ay, ay; mad, mad; pray take heed. Cand. How now! what news with them? What make they with my wife? Officers, is she attached?—Look to your wares. Vio. He talks to himself: oh, he’s much gone indeed. 1st Off. Pray, pluck up a good heart, be not so fearful: Sirs, hark, we’ll gather to him by degrees. Vio. Ay, ay, by degrees I pray: Oh me! What makes he with the lawn in his hand? He’ll tear all the ware in my shop. 1st Off. Fear not, we’ll catch him on a sudden. Vio. Oh! you had need do so; pray take heed of your warrant. 1st Off. I warrant, mistress. Now, Signor Candido. Cand. Now, sir, what news with you, sir? Vio. What news with you? he says: oh, he’s far gone! 1st Off. I pray, fear nothing; let’s alone with him, Signor, you look not like yourself, methinks,— Steal you a’ t’other side; you’re changed, you’re altered. Cand. Changed, sir, why true, sir. Is change strange? ’Tis not The fashion unless it alter! monarchs turn To beggars, beggars creep into the nests Of princes, masters serve their prentices, Ladies their serving-men, men turn to women. 1st Off. And women turn to men. Cand. Ay, and women turn to men, you say true: ha, ha, a mad world, a mad world. [Officers seize Candido. 1st Off. Have we caught you, sir? Cand. Caught me? well, well, you have caught me. Vio. He laughs in your faces. Geo. A rescue, prentices! my master’s catchpolled. 1st Off. I charge you, keep the peace, or have your legs Gartered with irons! we have from the duke A warrant strong enough for what we do. Cand. I pray, rest quiet, I desire no rescue. Vio. La, he desires no rescue, ’las poor heart, He talks against himself. Cand. Well, what’s the matter? 1st Off. Look to that arm, [Officers bind Candido. Pray, make sure work, double the cord. Cand. Why, why? Vio. Look how his head goes, should he get but loose, Oh ’twere as much as all our lives were worth! 1st Off. Fear not, we’ll make all sure for our own safety. Cand. Are you at leisure now? well, what’s the matter? Why do I enter into bonds thus, ha? 1st Off. Because you’re mad, put fear upon your wife. Vio. Oh ay, I went in danger of my life every minute. Cand. What, am I mad, say you, and I not know it? 1st Off. That proves you mad, because you know it not. Vio. Pray talk to him as little as you can, You see he’s too far spent. Cand. Bound, with strong cord! A sister’s thread, i’faith, had been enough, To lead me anywhere.—Wife, do you long? You are mad too, or else you do me wrong. Geo. But are you mad indeed, master? Cand. My wife says so, And what she says, George, is all truth, you know.— And whither now, to Bethlem Monastery? Ha! whither? 1st Off. Faith, e’en to the madmen’s pound. Cand. A’ God’s name! still I feel my patience sound. [Exeunt Officers with Candido. Geo. Come, we’ll see whither he goes; if the master be mad, we are his servants, and must follow his steps; we’ll be mad-caps too. Farewell, mistress, you shall have us all in Bedlam. [Exeunt George and Prentices. Vio. I think I ha’ fitted you now, you and your clothes, If this move not his patience, nothing can; I’ll swear then I’ve a saint, and not a man. [Exit. decoration SCENE IV.—Grounds near the Duke’s Palace.Enter Duke, Doctor Benedict, Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto. Duke. Give us a little leave. [Exeunt Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto. Doctor, your news. Doct. I sent for him my lord, at last he came, As gilded pills made to prolong his health. My credit with him wrought it; for some men Swallow even empty hooks, like fools that fear No drowning where ’tis deepest, ’cause ’tis clear: In th’end we sat and eat: a health I drank To Infelice’s sweet departed soul. This train I knew would take. Duke. ’Twas excellent. Doct. He fell with such devotion on his knees, To pledge the fame— Duke. Fond, superstitious fool! Doct. That had he been inflamed with zeal of prayer, He could not pour’t out with more reverence: About my neck he hung, wept on my cheek, Kissed it, and swore he would adore my lips, Because they brought forth Infelice’s name. Duke. Ha, ha! alack, alack. Doct. The cup he lifts up high, and thus he said; Here noble maid!—drinks, and was poisonÈd. Duke. And died? Doct. And died, my lord. Duke. Thou in that word Hast pieced mine aged hours out with more years, Than thou hast taken from Hippolito. A noble youth he was, but lesser branches Hindering the greater’s growth, must be lopt off, And feed the fire. Doctor, we’re now all thine, And use us so: be bold. Doct. Thanks, gracious lord— My honoured lord:— Duke. Hum. Doct. I do beseech your grace to bury deep, This bloody act of mine. Duke. Nay, nay, for that, Doctor, look you to it, me it shall not move; They’re cursed that ill do, not that ill do love. Doct. You throw an angry forehead on my face: But be you pleased backward thus far to look, That for your good, this evil I undertook— Duke. Ay, ay, we conster Doct. And only for your love. Duke. Confessed: ’tis true. Doct. Nor let it stand against me as a bar, To thrust me from your presence; nor believe As princes have quick thoughts, that now my finger Being dipt in blood, I will not spare the hand, But that for gold,—as what can gold not do?— I may be hired to work the like on you. Duke. Which to prevent— Doct. ’Tis from my heart as far. Duke. No matter, doctor; ’cause I’ll fearless sleep, And that you shall stand clear of that suspicion, I banish thee for ever from my court. This principle is old, but true as fate, Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate. [Exit. Doct. Is’t so? nay then, duke, your stale principle, With one as stale, the doctor thus shall quit— He falls himself that digs another’s pit. Enter the Doctor’s Servant. How now! where is he? will he meet me? Ser. Meet you, sir? he might have met with three fencers in this time, and have received less hurt than by meeting one doctor of physic: Why, sir, he has walked under the old abbey-wall yonder this hour, till he’s more cold than a citizen’s country house in Janivery. You may smell him behind, sir: la, you, yonder he comes. Doct. Leave me. Ser. I’th’ lurch, if you will. [Exit. Enter Hippolito. Doct. O my most noble friend! Hip. Few but yourself, Could have enticed me thus, to trust the air With my close sighs. You sent for me; what news? Doct. Come, you must doff this black, dye that pale cheek Into his own colour, go, attire yourself Fresh as a bridegroom when he meets his bride. The duke has done much treason to thy love; ’Tis now revealed, ’tis now to be revenged: Be merry, honoured friend, thy lady lives. Hip. What lady? Doct. Infelice, she’s revived; Revived? Alack! death never had the heart, To take breath from her. Hip. Umh: I thank you, sir, Physic prolongs life, when it cannot save; This helps not my hopes, mine are in their grave, You do some wrong to mock me. Doct. By that love Which I have ever borne you, what I speak Is truth: the maiden lives; that funeral, Duke’s tears, the mourning, was all counterfeit; A sleepy draught cozened the world and you: I was his minister, and then chambered up, To stop discovery. Hip. O treacherous duke! Doct. He cannot hope so certainly for bliss, As he believes that I have poisoned you: He wooed me to’t; I yielded, and confirmed him In his most bloody thoughts. Hip. A very devil! Doct. Her did he closely coach to Bergamo, And thither— Hip. Will I ride: stood Bergamo In the low countries of black hell, I’ll to her. Doct. You shall to her, but not to Bergamo: How passion makes you fly beyond yourself. For she by letters hath intelligence Of your supposed death, her own interment, And all those plots, which that false duke, her father, Has wrought against you; and she’ll meet you— Hip. Oh, when? Doct. Nay, see; how covetous are your desires! Early to-morrow morn. Hip. Oh where, good father? Doct. At Bethlem Monastery: are you pleased now? Hip. At Bethlem Monastery! the place well fits, It is the school where those that lose their wits, Practise again to get them: I am sick Of that disease; all love is lunatic. Doct. We’ll steal away this night in some disguise: Father Anselmo, a most reverend friar, Expects our coming; before whom we lay Reasons so strong, that he shall yield in bands Of holy wedlock to tie both your hands. Hip. This is such happiness, That to believe it, ’tis impossible. Doct. Let all your joys then die in misbelief; I will reveal no more. Hip. O yes, good father, I am so well acquainted with despair, I know not how to hope: I believe all. Doct. We’ll hence this night, much must be done, much said: But if the doctor fail not in his charms, Your lady shall ere morning fill these arms. Hip. Heavenly physician! for thy fame shall spread, That mak’st two lovers speak when they be dead. [Exeunt. decoration decoration ACT THE FIFTH.SCENE I.—A Hall in the Duke’s Palace.Enter Viola, with a petition and George. Vio. Oh watch, good George, watch which way the duke comes. Geo. Here comes one of the butterflies; ask him. Enter Pioratto. Vio. Pray, sir, comes the duke this way? Pio. He’s upon coming, mistress. Vio. I thank you, sir. [Exit Pioratto.] George, are there many mad folks where thy master lies? Geo. Oh yes, of all countries some; but especially mad Greeks, they swarm. Troth mistress, the world is altered with you; you had not wont to stand thus with a paper humbly complaining: but you’re well enough served: provender pricked you, as it does many of our city wives besides. Vio. Dost think, George, we shall get him forth? Geo. Truly, mistress, I cannot tell; I think you’ll hardly get him forth. Why, ’tis strange! ’Sfoot, I have known many women that have had mad rascals to their husbands, whom they would belabour by all means possible to keep ’em in their right wits, but of a woman to long to turn a tame man into a madman, why the devil himself was never used so by his dam. Vio. How does he talk, George! ha! good George, tell me. Geo. Why you’re best go see. Vio. Alas, I am afraid! Geo. Afraid! you had more need be ashamed, he may rather be afraid of you. Vio. But, George, he’s not stark mad, is he? he does not rave, he is not horn-mad, George, is he? Geo. Nay I know not that, but he talks like a justice of peace, of a thousand matters, and to no purpose. Vio. I’ll to the monastery: I shall be mad till I enjoy him, I shall be sick until I see him; yet when I do see him, I shall weep out mine eyes. Geo. I’d fain see a woman weep out her eyes, that’s as true as to say, a man’s cloak burns, when it hangs in the water: I know you’ll weep, mistress, but what says the painted cloth? Trust not a woman when she cries, For she’ll pump water from her eyes With a wet finger, Than April when he rains down flowers. Vio. Ay, but George, that painted cloth is worthy to be hanged up for lying; all women have not tears at will, unless they have good cause. Geo. Ay, but mistress, how easily will they find a cause, and as one of our cheese-trenchers As out of wormwood bees suck honey, As from poor clients lawyers firk money, As parsley from a roasted cony: So, though the day be ne’er so funny, If wives will have it rain, down then it drives, The calmest husbands make the stormiest wives— Vio. —Tame, George. But I ha’ done storming now. Geo. Why that’s well done: good mistress, throw aside this fashion of your humour, be not so fantastical in wearing it: storm no more, long no more. This longing has made you come short of many a good thing that you might have had from my master: Here comes the duke. Enter Duke, Fluello, Pioratto, and Sinezi. Vio. O, I beseech you, pardon my offence, In that I durst abuse your grace’s warrant; Deliver forth my husband, good my lord. Duke. Who is her husband? Flu. Candido, my lord. Duke. Where is he? Vio. He’s among the lunatics; He was a man made up without a gall; Nothing could move him, nothing could convert His meek blood into fury; yet like a monster, I often beat at the most constant rock Of his unshaken patience, and did long To vex him. Duke. Did you so? Vio. And for that purpose, Had warrant from your grace, to carry him To Bethlem Monastery, whence they will not free him, Without your grace’s hand that sent him in. Duke. You have longed fair; ’tis you are mad, I fear; It’s fit to fetch him thence, and keep you there: If he be mad, why would you have him forth? Geo. An please your grace, he’s not stark mad, but only talks like a young gentleman, somewhat fantastically, that’s all: there’s a thousand about your court, city, and country madder than he. Duke. Provide a warrant, you shall have our hand. Geo. Here’s a warrant ready drawn, my lord. Duke. Get pen and ink, get pen and ink. Enter Castruchio. Cas. Where is my lord the duke? Duke. How now! more madmen? Cas. I have strange news, my lord. Duke. Of what? of whom? Cas. Of Infelice, and a marriage. Duke. Ha! where? with whom? Cas. Hippolito. Re-enter George, with pen and ink. Geo. Here, my lord. Duke. Hence, with that woman! void the room! Flu. Away! the duke’s vexed. Geo. Whoop, come, mistress, the duke’s mad too. [Exeunt Viola and George. Duke. Who told me that Hippolito was dead? Cas. He that can make any man dead, the doctor: but, my lord, he’s as full of life as wild-fire, and as quick. Hippolito, the doctor, and one more rid hence this evening; the inn at which they light is Bethlem Monastery; Infelice comes from Bergamo and meets them there. Hippolito is mad, for he means this day to be married; the afternoon is the hour, and Friar Anselmo is the knitter. Duke. From Bergamo? is’t possible? it cannot be. It cannot be. Cas. I will not swear, my lord; But this intelligence I took from one Whose brains work in the plot. Duke. What’s he? Cas. Matheo. Flu. Matheo knows all. Pior. He’s Hippolito’s bosom. Duke. How far stands Bethlem hence? Cas., Flu., &c. Six or seven miles. Duke. Is’t so? not married till the afternoon: This is most strange; can none but mad men serve To dress their wedding dinner? All of you Get presently to horse, disguise yourselves Like country-gentlemen, Or riding citizens, or so: and take Each man a several path, but let us meet At Bethlem Monastery, some space of time Being spent between the arrival each of other, As if we came to see the lunatics. To horse, away! be secret on your lives. Love must be punished that unjustly thrives. [Exeunt all but Fluello. Flu. Be secret on your lives! Castruchio, You’re but a scurvy spaniel; honest lord, Good lady: zounds, their love is just, ’tis good, And I’ll prevent you, though I swim in blood. [Exit. decoration SCENE II. An Apartment in Bethlem Monastery.Enter Friar Anselmo, Hippolito, Matheo, and Infelice. Hip. Nay, nay, resolve, Ans. You press me to an act, both full of danger, And full of happiness; for I behold Your father’s frowns, his threats, nay, perhaps death To him that dare do this: yet, noble lord, Such comfortable beams break through these clouds By this blest marriage, that your honoured word Being pawned in my defence, I will tie fast The holy wedding-knot. Ans. O son! wisely to fear, is to be free from fear. Hip. You have our words, and you shall have our lives, To guard you safe from all ensuing danger. Mat. Ay, ay, chop ’em up, and away. Ans. Stay, when is’t fit for me, and safest for you, To entertain this business? Hip. Not till the evening. Ans. Be’t so, there is a chapel stands hard by, Upon the west end of the abbey wall; Thither convey yourselves, and when the sun Hath turned his back upon this upper world, I’ll marry you; that done, no thundering voice Can break the sacred bond: yet, lady, here You are most safe. Inf. Father, your love’s most dear. Mat. Ay, well said, lock us into some little room by ourselves, that we may be mad for an hour or two. Hip. O, good Matheo, no, let’s make no noise. Mat. How! no noise! do you know where you are? ’sfoot, amongst all the mad-caps in Milan: so that to throw the house out at window will be the better, and no man will suspect that we lurk here to steal mutton Hip. Muffle yourselves, yonder’s Fluello. Enter Fluello. Mat. Zounds! Flu. O my lord, these cloaks are not for this rain! the Mat. Why, what’s the matter? Flu. What’s the matter? you have mattered it fair: the duke’s at hand. All. The duke? Flu. The very duke. Hip. Then all our plots Are turned upon our heads; and we’re blown up With our own underminings. ’Sfoot, how comes he? What villain durst betray our being here? Flu. Castruchio! Castruchio told the duke, and Matheo here told Castruchio. Hip. Would you betray me to Castruchio? Mat. ’Sfoot, he damned himself to the pit of hell, if he spake on’t again. Hip. So did you swear to me: so were you damned. Mat. Pox on ’em, and there be no faith in men, if a man shall not believe oaths: he took bread and salt, Hip. O God, O God! Ans. Son, be not desperate, Have patience, you shall trip your enemy Down by his own slights. Flu. He’s but new set out: Castruchio, Pioratto and Sinezi come along with him; you have time enough yet to prevent Ans. Ye shall steal secretly into the chapel, And presently be married. If the duke Abide here still, spite of ten thousand eyes, You shall ’scape hence like friars. Hip. O blest disguise! O happy man! Ans. Talk not of happiness till your closed hand Have her by th’ forehead, like the lock of Time: Up to the tower of bliss; only be wary And patient, that’s all: If you like my plot, Build and despatch; if not, farewell, then not. Hip. O yes, we do applaud it! we’ll dispute No longer, but will hence and execute. Fluello, you’ll stay here: let us be gone; The ground that frighted lovers tread upon Is stuck with thorns. Ans. Come, then, away, ’tis meet, To escape those thorns, to put on wingÈd feet. [Exeunt Anselmo, Hippolito and Infelice. Mat. No words, I pray, Fluello, for’t stands us upon. Flu. Oh, sir, let that be your lesson! [Exit Matheo. Alas, poor lovers! On what hopes and fears Men toss themselves for women! When she’s got, The best has in her that which pleaseth not. Enter the Duke, Castruchio, Pioratto, and Sinezi from different doors, muffled. Duke. Who’s there? Cas. My lord. Duke. Peace; send that lord away. A lordship will spoil all; let’s be all fellows. What’s he? Cas. Fluello, or else Sinezi, by his little legs. Cas., Flu., Pio. All friends, all friends. Duke. What? met upon the very point of time? Is this the place? Pio. This is the place, my lord. Duke. Dream you on lordships? come no more lords, I pray: You have not seen these lovers yet? All. Not yet. Duke. Castruchio, art thou sure this wedding feast Is not till afternoon? Cas. So’t is given out, my lord. Duke. Nay, nay, ’tis like; thieves must observe their hours; Lovers watch minutes like astronomers; How shall the interim hours by us be spent? Flu. Let’s all go see the madmen. Cas., Pio., Sin. Mass, content. Enter a Sweeper. Duke. Oh, here comes one; question him, question him. Flu. Now, honest fellow? dost thou belong to the house? Sweep. Yes, forsooth, I am one of the implements, I sweep the madmen’s rooms, and fetch straw for ’em, and buy chains to tie ’em, and rods to whip ’em. I was a mad wag myself here, once, but I thank Father Anselmo, he lashed me into my right mind again. Duke. Anselmo is the friar must marry them; Question him where he is. Cas. And where is Father Anselmo now? Sweep. Marry, he’s gone but e’en now. Duke. Ay, well done.—Tell me, whither is he gone? Sweep. Why, to God a’mighty. Flu. Ha, ha! this fellow’s a fool, talks idly. Pio. Sirrah, are all the mad folks in Milan brought hither? Sweep. How, all? there’s a question indeed: why if all the mad folks in Milan should come hither, there would not be left ten men in the city. Duke. Few gentlemen or courtiers here, ha? Sweep. O yes, abundance, abundance! lands no sooner fall into their hands, but straight they run out a’ their wits: citizens’ sons and heirs are free of the house by their fathers’ copy. Farmers’ sons come hither like geese, in flocks, and when they ha’ sold all their corn-fields, here they sit and pick the straws. Sin. Methinks you should have women here as well as men. Sweep. Oh, ay, a plague on ’em, there’s no ho! Flu. Are there no lawyers amongst you? Sweep. Oh no, not one; never any lawyer, we dare not let a lawyer come in, for he’ll make ’em mad faster than we can recover ’em. Duke. And how long is’t ere you recover any of these? Sweep. Why, according to the quantity of the moon that’s got into ’em. An alderman’s son will be mad a great while, a very great while, especially if his friends left him well; a whore will hardly come to her wits again: a puritan, there’s no hope of him, unless he may pull down the steeple, and hang himself i’ th’ bell-ropes. Flu. I perceive all sorts of fish come to your net. Sweep. Yes, in truth, we have blocks Re-enter Anselmo and Servants. All. God bless you, father. Ans. I thank you, gentlemen. Cas. Pray, may we see some of those wretched souls, That here are in your keeping? Ans. Yes, you shall. But gentlemen, I must disarm you then: There are of mad men, as there are of tame, All humoured not alike: we have here some, So apish and fantastic, play with a feather, And, though ’twould grieve a soul to see God’s image Such antic and such pretty lunacies, That spite of sorrow they will make you smile: Others again we have like hungry lions, Fierce as wild-bulls, untameable as flies, And these have oftentimes from strangers’ sides Snatched rapiers suddenly, and done much harm, Whom if you’ll see, you must be weaponless. All. With all our hearts. [Giving their weapons to Anselmo. Ans. Here, take these weapons in,— [Exit Servant with weapons. Stand off a little, pray; so, so, ’tis well: I’ll show you here a man that was sometimes A very grave and wealthy citizen; Has served a prenticeship to this misfortune, Been here seven years, and dwelt in Bergamo. Duke. How fell he from his wits? Ans. By loss at sea; I’ll stand aside, question him you alone, For if he spy me, he’ll not speak a word, Unless he’s throughly vexed. [Opens a door and then retires: enter 1st Madman, wrapt in a net. Flu. Alas, poor soul! Cas. A very old man. Duke. God speed, father! 1st Mad. God speed the plough, thou shalt not speed me. Pio. We see you, old man, for all you dance in a net. 1st Mad. True, but thou wilt dance in a halter, and I shall not see thee. Ans. Oh do not vex him, pray. Cas. Are you a fisherman, father? 1st Mad. No, I am neither fish nor flesh. Flu. What do you with that net then? 1st Mad. Dost not see, fool? there’s a fresh salmon All. Ha, ha, ha! 1st Mad. Do you laugh at God’s creatures? Do you mock old age, you rogues? Is this gray beard and head counterfeit that you cry, ha, ha, ha? Sirrah, art not thou my eldest son? Pio. Yes indeed, father. 1st Mad. Then thou’rt a fool, for my eldest son had a polt-foot, Duke. My hand? well, here ’tis. 1st Mad. Look, look, look, look! has he not long nails, and short hair? Flu. Yes, monstrous short hair, and abominable long nails. 1st Mad. Ten penny nails, are they not? Flu. Yes, ten-penny nails. 1st Mad. Such nails had my second boy. Kneel down, thou varlet, and ask thy father’s blessing. Such nails had my middlemost son, and I made him a promoter: Ans. Why, how now sirrah! must I fall to tame you? 1st Mad. Tame me! no, I’ll be madder than a roasted cat. See, see, I am burnt with gunpowder,—these are our close fights! Ans. I’ll whip you, if you grow unruly thus. 1st Mad. Whip me? Out you toad! Whip me? What justice is this, to whip me because I am a beggar? Alas! I am a poor man: a very poor man! I am starved, and have had no meat by this light, ever since the great flood; I am a poor man. Ans. Well, well, be quiet, and you shall have meat. 1st Mad. Ay, ay, pray do; for look you, here be my guts: these are my ribs—you may look through my ribs—see how my guts come out! These are my red guts, my very guts, oh, oh! Ans. Take him in there. [Servants remove 1st Madman. Flu., Pio., &c. A very piteous sight. Cas. Father, I see you have a busy charge. Ans. They must be used like children, pleased with toys, And anon whipped for their unruliness: I’ll show you now a pair quite different From him that’s gone: he was all words; and these Unless you urge ’em, seldom spend their speech, But save their tongues. [Opens another door, from which enter 2nd and 3rd Madmen. La, you; this hithermost About a maiden that he loved, and died: He followed her to church, being full of tears, And as her body went into the ground, He fell stark mad. This is a married man, Was jealous of a fair, but, as some say, A very virtuous wife; and that spoiled him. 3rd Mad. All these are whoremongers, and lay with my wife: whore, whore, whore, whore, whore! Flu. Observe him. 3rd Mad. Gaffer shoemaker, you pulled on my wife’s pumps, and then crept into her pantofles: Cas. See how he notes the other, now he feeds. 3rd Mad. Give me some porridge. 2nd Mad. I’ll give thee none. 3rd Mad. Give me some porridge. 2nd Mad. I’ll not give thee a bit. 3rd Mad. Give me that flap-dragon. 2nd Mad. I’ll not give thee a spoonful: thou liest, it’s 3rd Mad. Here’s an almond for parrot. 2nd Mad. Hang thyself! 3rd Mad. Here’s a rope for parrot. 2nd Mad. Eat it, for I’ll eat this. 3rd Mad. I’ll shoot at thee, an thou’t give me none. 2nd Mad. Wu’t thou? 3rd Mad. I’ll run a tilt at thee, an thou’t give me none. 2nd Mad. Wu’t thou? do an thou darest. 3rd Mad. Bounce! [Strikes him. 2nd Mad. O—oh! I am slain! murder, murder, murder! I am slain; my brains are beaten out. Ans. How now, you villains! Bring me whips: I’ll whip you. 2nd Mad. I am dead! I am slain! ring out the bell, for I am dead. Duke. How will you do now, sirrah? you ha’ killed him. 3rd Mad. I’ll answer’t at sessions: he was eating of almond-butter, and I longed for’t: the child had never been delivered out of my belly, if I had not killed him. I’ll answer’t at sessions, so my wife may be burnt i’ th’ hand, too. Ans. Take ’em in both: bury him, for he’s dead. 2nd Mad. Indeed, I am dead; put me, I pray, into a good pit-hole. 3rd Mad. I’ll answer’t at sessions. [Servants remove 2nd and 3rd Madmen. Enter Bellafront. Ans. How now, huswife, whither gad you? Bell. A-nutting, forsooth: how do you, gaffer? how do you, gaffer? there’s a French curtsey for you, too. Flu. ’Tis Bellafront! Pio. Tis the punk, by th’ Lord! Duke. Father, what’s she, I pray? Ans. As yet I know not, She came in but this day; talks little idly, And therefore has the freedom of the house. Bell. Do not you know me?—nor you?—nor you?—nor you? All. No, indeed. Bell. Then you are an ass,—and you an ass,—and you are an ass,—for I know you. Ans. Why, what are they? come, tell me, what are they? Bell. They’re fish-wives, will you buy any gudgeons? God’s santy! Enter Hippolito, Matheo, and Infelice, disguised as Friars. How do you, friar? Ans. Nay, nay, away, you must not trouble friars.— The duke is here, speak nothing. Bell. Nay, indeed, you shall not go: we’ll run at barley-break first, and you shall be in hell. Mat. My punk turned mad whore, as all her fellows are! Hip. Say nothing; but steal hence, when you spy time. Ans. I’ll lock you up, if you’re unruly: fie! Bell. Fie? marry, soh! they shall not go indeed, till I ha’ told ’em their fortunes. Duke. Good father, give her leave. Bell. Ay, pray, good father, and I’ll give you my blessing. Ans. Well then, be brief, but if you’re thus unruly, I’ll have you locked up fast. Pio. Come, to their fortunes. Bell. Let me see, one, two, three, and four. I’ll begin with the little friar You love a friar better than a nun; Yet long you’ll love no friar, nor no friar’s son. Bow a little, the line of life is out, yet I’m afraid, For all you’re holy, you’ll not die a maid. God give you joy! Now to you, Friar Tuck. Mat. God send me good luck! Bell. You love one, and one loves you: You’re a false knave, and she’s a Jew, Here is a dial that false ever goes— Mat. O your wit drops! Bell. Troth, so does your nose— Nay lets shake hands with you too; pray open, here’s a fine hand! Ho friar, ho! God be here, So he had need: you’ll keep good cheer, Here’s a free table, For you’ll starve those that love you best; Yet you have good fortune, for if I’m no liar, Then you are no friar, nor you, nor you no friar, Haha, haha! [Discovers them. Duke. Are holy habits cloaks for villany? Draw all your weapons! Hip. Do; draw all your weapons. Duke. Where are your weapons? draw! Cas., Pio., &c. The friar has gulled us of ’em. Mat. O rare trick! You ha’ learnt one mad point of arithmetic. Hip. Why swells your spleen so high? against what bosom Mine? ’tis your son’s. Duke. Son? Mat. Son, by yonder sun. Hip. You cannot shed blood here but ’tis your own; To spill your own blood were damnation: Lay smooth that wrinkled brow, and I will throw Myself beneath your feet: Let it be ruggÈd still and flinted ore, What can come forth but sparkles, that will burn Yourself and us? She’s mine; my claim’s most good; She’s mine by marriage, though she’s yours by blood. Ans. [Kneeling.] I have a hand, dear lord, deep in this act, For I foresaw this storm, yet willingly Put forth to meet it. Oft have I seen a father Washing the wounds of his dear son in tears, A son to curse the sword that struck his father, Both slain i’ th’ quarrel of your families. Those scars are now ta’en off; and I beseech you To seal our pardon! All was to this end, To turn the ancient hates of your two houses To fresh green friendship, that your loves might look Like the spring’s forehead, comfortably sweet: And your vexed souls in peaceful union meet, Their blood will now be yours, yours will be their’s, And happiness shall crown your silver hairs. Flu. You see, my lord, there’s now no remedy. Cas., Pio., &c. Beseech your lordship! Duke. You beseech fair, you have me in place fit To bridle me—Rise friar, you may be glad You can make madmen tame, and tame men mad, Since Fate hath conquered, I must rest content, To strive now, would but add new punishment: I yield unto your happiness; be blest, Our families shall henceforth breathe in rest. All. Oh, happy change! Duke. Your’s now is my content, I throw upon your joys my full consent. Bell. Am not I a good girl, for finding the friar in the well? God’s-so, you are a brave man: will not you buy me some sugar-plums, because I am so good a fortune-teller? Duke. Would thou hadst wit, thou pretty soul, to ask, As I have will to give. Bell. Pretty soul? a pretty soul is better than a pretty body: do not you know my pretty soul? I know you: Is not your name Matheo? Mat. Yes, lamb. Bell. Baa lamb! there you lie, for I am mutton. Duke. What jewel, pretty maid? Bell. Maid? nay, that’s a lie: O, ’twas a very rich jewel, called a maidenhead, and had not you it, leerer? Mat. Out, you mad ass! away. Duke. Had he thy maidenhead? He shall make thee amends, and marry thee. Bell. Shall he? O brave Arthur of Bradley Duke. And if he bear the mind of a gentleman, I know he will. Mat. I think I rifled her of some such paltry jewel. Duke. Did you? Then marry her; you see the wrong Has led her spirits into a lunacy. Mat. How? marry her, my lord? ’Sfoot, marry a madwoman? Let a man get the tamest wife he can come by, she’ll be mad enough afterward, do what he can. Duke. Nay then, Father Anselmo here shall do his best, To bring her to her wits; and will you then? Mat. I cannot tell, I may choose. Duke. Nay, then, law shall compel: I tell you, sir, So much her hard fate moves me, you should not breathe Under this air, unless you married her. Mat. Well, then, when her wits stand in their right place, I’ll marry her. Bell. I thank your grace.—Matheo, thou art mine: I am not mad, but put on this disguise, Only for you, my lord; for you can tell Much wonder of me, but you are gone: farewell. Matheo, thou didst first turn my soul black, Now make it white again: I do protest, I’m pure as fire now, chaste as Cynthia’s breast. Hip. I durst be sworn, Matheo, she’s indeed. Mat. Cony-catched, gulled, must I sail in your fly-boat, Because I helped to rear your main-mast first? Plague ’found The cuckold’s stamp goes current in all nations, Some men ha’ horns giv’n them at their creations, If I be one of those, why so: ’tis better To take a common wench, and make her good, Than one that simpers, and at first will scarce Be tempted forth over the threshold door, Yet in one se’nnight, zounds, turns arrant whore! Come wench, thou shalt be mine, give me thy golls, We’ll talk of legs hereafter.—See, my lord, God give us joy! All. God give you joy! Enter Viola and George. Geo. Come mistress, we are in Bedlam now; mass and see, we come in pudding-time, for here’s the duke. Vio. My husband, good my lord. Duke. Have I thy husband? Cast. It’s Candido, my lord, he’s here among the lunatics: Father Anselmo, pray fetch him forth. [Exit Anselmo.] This mad woman is his wife, and though she were not with child, yet did she long most spitefully to have her husband mad: and because she would be sure he should turn Jew, she placed him here in Bethlem. Yonder he comes. Enter Anselmo with Candido. Duke. Come hither, signor; are you mad? Cand. You are not mad. Duke. Why, I know that. Cand. Then may you know I am not mad, that know You are not mad, and that you are the duke: None is mad here but one.—How do you, wife? What do you long for now?—Pardon, my lord: She had lost her child’s nose else: I did cut out Pennyworths of lawn, the lawn was yet mine own: A carpet was my gown, yet ’twas mine own: I wore my man’s coat, yet the cloth mine own: Had a cracked crown, the crown was yet mine own. She says for this I’m mad: were her words true, I should be mad indeed: O foolish skill! Is patience madness? I’ll be a madman still. Vio. Forgive me, and I’ll vex your spirit no more. [Kneels. Duke. Come, come, we’ll have you friends; join hearts, join hands. Cand. See, my lord, we are even,— Nay rise, for ill deeds kneel unto none but Heaven. Duke. Signor, methinks patience has laid on you Such heavy weight, that you should loathe it—— Cand. Loathe it! Duke. For he whose breast is tender, blood so cool, That no wrongs heat it, is a patient fool: What comfort do you find in being so calm? Cand. That which green wounds receive from sovereign balm, Patience, my lord! why, ’tis the soul of peace; Of all the virtues, ’tis nearest kin to Heaven. It makes men look like gods. The best of men That e’er wore earth about him, was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breathed. The stock of patience then cannot be poor; All it desires, it has; what monarch more? It is the greatest enemy to law That can be; for it doth embrace all wrongs, And so chains up lawyers and women’s tongues. ’Tis the perpetual prisoner’s liberty, His walks and orchards: ’tis the bond slave’s freedom, And makes him seem proud of each iron chain, As though he wore it more for state than pain: It is the beggars’ music, and thus sings, Although their bodies beg, their souls are kings. O my dread liege! It is the sap of bliss Rears us aloft, makes men and angels kiss. And last of all, to end a household strife, It is the honey ’gainst a waspish wife. |
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