  A bed thrust out. Lodvico sleeping in his clothes; Dorothea in bed. Enter Clown leading in Francisco. Fran. Softly, sweet Pambo: are we in the chamber yet? Clown. Within a yard of my lady, and ye can be quiet. Fran. Art sure my lord's asleep? Clown. I know not; I'll go and ask him. Fran. No, no, no, do not wake him; we are undone then, man. Clown. Ha, ha, ha! now do I see cuckold-making is as ticklish a profession as coneycatching. My lord was so paid with healths at Court, he's fast enough. Fran. But still I pursue wonder why my lady should prescribe this strange, nay wondrous desperate, way to her desires. Clown. Is that a question to ask now? would you would grope out the bed; for I sleep in my talk, I am sure of that. [Lodvico coughs. Fran. We are lost for ever! did he not cough? Clown. 'Tis nothing but the last cup comes up in stewed broth. If ever you make true whore-master, I'll be bound to resign my place up to my lord's page; sea-sick, before you come to th' salt water! let me go in your stead. Fran. No, I'll venture, stood a gulf between, How resolute thou go'st to acts unjust! Pambo, good night. Desire drowns fear in presuppos'd delight. Clown. Turn of your left hand, 'twill lead you to the devil—to my lady, I should say, presently. [Exit. Fran. Let me [see]: Four steps on the left hand. I have the bed, And on this side she lies. 'Sfoot, there's a beard! But all's well yet, she lies on this side, sure. I have her: 'tis her hand, I know the touch. It melts me into passion. I have much ado To contain my wild desires. As the wind strains In caverns lock'd, so through my big-swoll'n veins My blood cuts capers. Dor. Who's there? Fran. 'Tis I. Dor. Francis! Fran. Fortunate Francis, that was wrapped in's mother's smock. Dor. Give me your hand, Francis. Fran. There 'tis. I melt already! Dor. My lord! Count Lodovico, awake! Fran. I am lost for ever, madam. Dor. My lord! my lord! Fran. If I pull too hard, I shall pull her out o' th' bed too. Dor. My lord, will ye not wake? Lod. What's the matter? what's the matter? Fran. How I do dwindle! Dor. Pray, hear me, sir; I cannot sleep, till you Have resolv'd me one thing. Lod. What is't, sweetheart? Dor. Of all your men, which do you love best? Lod. That's a strange question to ask at midnight! Francisco. Dor. And that same false Francisco in your absence Most lewdly tempted me to wrong your bed. Fran. Was ever woodcock catch'd thus! Lod. O rogue, I'll go cut his throat sleeping. Dor. Nay, I have fitted him most daintily. Fran. Now, now, now, now, I am spitted. Dor. I seem'd, sweetheart, to consent to him—— Fran. A plague of seemings. I were best confess, And beg pardon. Dor. And to make him sure for your revenge, I appointed About this hour, the door left ope on purpose—— Fran. Ah! Dor. To meet me in the garden. Fran. All's well again. Dor. Now, sweetheart, If thou wouldst but steal down thither, thou might'st Catch him, and snap the fool very finely. Lod. O my sweet birds-nie! what a wench have I Of thee! Crede quod habes, et habes still. And I had thought it possible to have been Cuckolded, I had been cuckolded. I'll take my rapier as I go, sirrah; And the night being dark, I'll speak like thee, As if thou hadst kept thy word. O villain! Nothing vexes me, but that he should think I can be a cuckold, and have such a lady. Do thou lie still, and I'll bring thee his heart For thy monkey's breakfast. Dor. And would you part unkindly, and not kiss me? Lod. I have no more manners than a goose. Farewell, My chaste, delicious Doll. What may his life Be compar'd to that meets with such a wife! [Exit. Enter Clown. Fran. Pish, Pambo! Clown. Here, boy. Fran. Go meet him in the garden, and hark. Clown. Excellent! I'll play my lady, I warrant ye. Fran. Do't daintily. Clown. Well, I may hope for a 'squire's place; my father was a costermonger. Fran. Well, now I see, as he who fain would know The real strain of goodness, may in her read it, Who can seem chaste, but not be what she seems: So, who would see hell's craft, in her may read it, Who can seem too, but not be what she seems. In brief, put him to school (would cheat the de'il of's right) To a dainty, smooth-fac'd, female hypocrite. [Exit. Enter Lodovico and Clown. Lod. Here's a wife, Pambo! Clown. Now, Crede quod habes, et habes, sir. Lod. Why, right, man; let him believe he has horns, and he has 'em. Clown. To discover upon the pinch to ye! Lod. O you kind loving husbands, like myself, What fortunes meet ye, fall Clown. Fortune's i' th' fashion of hay-forks. Lod. Sirrah Pambo, thou shalt seldom see a harsh fellow have such a wife, such a fortunate wedding. Clown. He will go to hanging as soon. Lod. No, no; we loving souls have all the fortunes. There's Count Lorenzo, for example, now; There's a sweet coil to-morrow 'bout his wife. He has two servants, that will take their oaths They saw her dishonest with his friend Count Philippo; But his dogged usage of her? Clown. Nay, she never lived a good day with him. Lod. How she goes flaunting too! she must have a Feather in her head and a cork in her heel. Clown. Ay, that shows her light from head to heel, sir; and who have heavier heads than those whose wives have light heels? that feather confounds her. Lod. I shall so laugh to hear the comical history of the great Count Lorenzo's horns: but as I have such a wife now, what a villain did I entertain to teach her music? H' has done her no good since he came, that I saw. Clown. Hang him, h' has made her a little perfect in prick-song, that's all; and it may be, she had skill in that before you married her too. Lod. She could sing at the first sight, by this hand, Pambo. But hark! I hear somebody. Enter Francisco. Clown. 'Tis he, sure; h' has a dreaming whoremaster's pace. Pray, let me practise my lady's part, and counterfeit for her. Lod. Can'st thou imitate to th' life? Clown. Can I? O wicked Francis! Lod. Admirable! Thou shalt do't. Clown. Pray, be you ready with your rapier to spit him then, and I'll watch him a good turn, I warrant ye. Fran. Here they are. If Pambo now comes off with his part neatly, the comedy passes bravely. Who's there? madam? Clown. Francis? Fran. The same. Clown. I think this place lies too open to the air, Francis? Lod. Delicate Pambo. [Aside. Clown. And truly there's a great dew fallen to-night; The grass is wondrous wet. Lod. Sweet rogue! [Aside. Clown. Come, Francis, And let us sport ourselves in yonder rushes, And being set, I'll smother thee with busses. Lod. O villain! [Aside. Fran. Hear me, lady: It is enough, my lord hath now a friend In these dishonest days, that dares be honest. Lod. How is this? Clown. Nay, for thy lord, he's a mere coxcomb, Francis. Lod. Out, rogue! Fran. 'Tis but your bad desires that tell you so. Can I contain a heart, or can that heart Harbour a thought of injury 'gainst him Under whose wing I safely stretch my pinions? Has he not nobly entertain'd me? stand I not Next neighbour, save yourself, unto his heart? Lod. Ay, by this hand, dost thou. Fran. And should I quit him thus? No, lady, no. Lod. Brave Frank! Fran. I am too wise to fall in love with woe, Much less with wo-man. I but took advantage Of my lord's absence for your trial, lady. For fear some fellow (far hotter rein'd than I) Might have sought [her] and sped: and I'd be loth A lord so loving—— Lod. Shalt have five leases, by these fingers. Fran. Should have a lady false. Back, lady, to your yet unblemish'd bed: Preserve your honour and your lord's——calf's head. Clown. Well, Francis, you had been better—if I do not tell my lord of this! Lod. He has put him to't now. Fran. Then I am lost for ever: You'll turn it all on me, I know; but ere I'll live to wrong so good a lord, or stand The mark unto your malice, I will first Fall on my sword and perish. Lod. Hold, hold, hold, man! Fran. Ha, who are you? Lod. One that has more humanity in him, than to see a proper fellow cast himself away, I warrant thee. 'Tis I, 'tis I, man: I have heard all. Clown. And 'twas I played my lady to have snapped ye. Fran. Has she been then so good to tell your honour? Now am I worse afflicted than before, That she should thus outrun me in this race Of honesty. Lod. Nay, sh' has bobb'd thee bravely. Sh' has a thousand of these tricks, i' faith, man: But howsoever, what I have found thee, I have found thee. Hark in thine ear, shalt have five leases And mine own nag, when th' hast a mind to ride. Fran. Let me deserve, sir, first. Lod. Shalt have them. I know what I do, I warrant thee. Fran. I joy in such a lady. Lod. Nay, there's a couple of you, for a wife and a friend. Shalt be no more my servant. I Clown. His superfluity is my necessity. Pray, let me ha't, sir. Lod. I will talk with thee to-morrow, Pambo: thou shalt have something too: but I'll go to bed. Honest Francis, the dearest must part, I see. I will so hug the sweet rascal, that thinks every hour ten, till I come yonder! Good night, Frank. To bed, Pambo. What delight in life Can equal such a friend and such a wife? So, my dainty Doll, I come to thee. [Exit. Clown. So a city nightcap go with thee! But shall I not be thought on for my night's service? Fran. O, look ye, pray forget not ye had something. Clown. Well, and pray do you remember I had nothing. Fran. Nothing! what's that? Clown. Nothing, before I had something, I mean. So you are well-returned from Utopia. Fran. You're very nimble, sir: good-morrow. [Exeunt. A bar set out. Enter the Duke of Verona, Pandulpho, Spinoso, Jaspro, Jovani, Lorenzo, Philippo, Abstemia, a guard and two slaves. Ver. Call the accus'd to th' bar. Phil. We appear With acknowledg'd reverence to the presence. Ver. We meet not To build on circumstances, but to come plainly To the business that here plac'd us. Cousin Lorenzo, You have free leave to speak your griefs; but this I come here not your kinsman; neither, madam, Looking unto the greatness of your blood, As you are sister to the Duke of Venice; But as an equal judge, I come to doom, As circumstance Lor. Thus then, (Great sir, grave lords, and honourable auditors Of my dishonour) I affirm 'tis known To th' signory of Verona, the whole city; Nay, the great multitude without, that come This day to hear unwilling truth, can witness, How, since my marriage with that woman—weep'st thou? O truth, who would not look thee in a woman's tears! But showers that fall too late, produce dear years— All know that, since our marriage, I have perform'd So fairly all judicial wedlock-offices, That malice knew not how at my whole actions To make one blow, and to strike home. I did rather Honour her as a saint, sir, than respect her, As she was my wife. On pilgrimage I sent All my endeavours to the fair-seeming shrine Of their desires, where they did offer daily A plenal satisfaction, which she seem'd Reciprocally to return, paid back As much obedience as I lent of love: But then the serpent stings, when like a dove Opinion feathers him: women's sweet words As far are from their hearts, though from their breasts They fly, as lapwings' cries are from their nests. Pan. O, you inveigh. Lor. I would appear no satire. And for this man (how fain I would call him friend!) I appeal to the whole state, if at the fight Betwixt Biserta galleys and your grace, Wherein you pleas'd to send me general there, That he deserv'd (let me not take from him His merit's meet confession) but I was there, The man (the erring man) that crown'd his merit With approbation and reward; brought him home, Preferr'd him to those graces you heap'd on him: Wore him a neighbour to my heart, as lovers Wear jewels, left by their dead friends. I lock'd him Into my heart, and double-barr'd him there With reason and opinion: his extremities Fasten'd me more unto him, whilst, like an arch Well-built, by how much the more weight I bore, I stood That in his absence still mine ear became A sanctuary to his injur'd name. Ver. And what from hence infer you? Lor. That 'twas base, Base in the depth of baseness, for this wife So honour'd and this smooth friend so belov'd To conspire betwixt them my dishonour. Ver. How? Lor. To stain my sheets with lust, a minute's theft; To brand perpetually three faces: a husband's, A wife's, and friend's. Abs. O good my lord, Cast out this devil from you. Lor. O good my lady, Keep not the devil within you, but confess. Phil. Hear me, great sir; I will confess, Lorenzo, And print thee down the fool of passion. Spin. Speak, sir. Phil. 'Tis true, this boasting man did thus erect me In his opinion, plac'd me in his love, Grac'd me with courtesies: O the craft of jealousy! As boys, to take the bird, about the pit Cast wheat and chaff, contriving a neat train To entice her to her ruin—so this friend, Falser than city-oaths, it is not doubted, Having so far endear'd me, when he came To enjoy a fair wife, guess'd it impossible For me to share with him in all things else, And not in her; for fair wives oft, we see, Strike the discord in sweet friendship's harmony: And having no way to ensnare me so, To separate our loves, he seriously Woo'd me to try his wife. Lor. 'Tis false. Phil. 'Tis true, By all that honest men may be believed by. Three several times I tried her, by him urg'd to't, Yet still my truth not started, kept so constant, That till this hour this lady thus much knew not. I bore her brave reproofs. O, when she spake, The saints (sure) listen'd, and at every point She got th' applause of angels! Now, upon this, This jealous lord infers (and it may be But to shun futurity) that I, His betray'd friend, could not hold the cup, But I must drink the poison. No, Lorenzo, An honest man is still an unmov'd rock, Wash'd whiter, but not shaken with the shock Whose heart conceives no sinister device: Fearless he plays with flames, and treads on ice. Ver. Cousin, did you, as your friend here affirms, Counsel him to these trials? Lor. I? Phil. You did. Lor. Philippo, thou art fallen from a good man, And hast ta'en leave of modesty. Let these my servants— That incredulity should be induction To my more certain shame—let these speak And relate what they saw: they grew so public, My servants could discover them. Pan. Speak, friends, be fearless; And what you know, even to a syllable, Boldly confess. 1st Slave. Then know, great sir, as soon As e'er my lord was gone to meet your grace, Signor Philippo and my lady privately Went up to her bed-chamber: we two, suspecting What afterwards we found, stole softly up, And through the key-hole (for the door was lock'd) We saw my lady and Count Philippo there Upon the bed, and in the very act, As my lord before affirm'd. Abs. Canst thou hear, heaven, And withhold thy thunder? Phil. My lords, one devil, ye know, May possess three bodies. Ver. Will you swear this, sir? 1st Slave. I will, my lord. Spin. And you? 2d Slave. I will, and dare, sir. Lor. Brave rascals! Ver. Reach them the book. Abs. Ye poor deluded men, O, do not swear! Lor. Think of the chain of pearl. [Aside. 1st Slave. Give us the book: And nothing but the truth, we swear. Pan. Believe me, I am sorry for the lady. Phil. How soon Two souls, more precious than a pair of worlds, Are levell'd below death! Abs. O, hark! did you not hear it? Omnes. What, lady? Abs. This hour a pair of glorious towers are fallen; Two goodly buildings beaten with a breath Beneath the grave. You all have seen this day, A pair of souls both cast and kiss'd away. Spin. What censure gives your grace? Ver. In that I am a kinsman To the accuser, that I might not appear Partial in judgment, let it seem no wonder If unto your gravities I leave The following sentence: but as Lorenzo stands A kinsman to Verona, so forget not, Abstemia still is sister unto Venice. Phil. Misery of goodness! Abs. O Lorenzo Medico! Abstemia's lover once, when he did vow And when I did believe; then when Abstemia Denied so many princes for Lorenzo, Then when you swore. O maids! how men can weep, Print protestations on their breasts and sigh, And look so truly, and then weep again, And then protest again, and again dissemble! When once enjoy'd, like strange sights we grow stale, And find our comforts, like their wonder, fail. Phil. O Lorenzo! Is worth the pity of a king; but thou Art harder far than rocks, and can'st not prize The precious waters of truth's injur'd eyes. Lor. Please your grace, proceed to censure. Ver. Thus 'tis decreed, as these lords have set down Against all contradiction. Signor Philippo, In that you have thus grossly, sir, dishonour'd Even our blood itself in this rude injury Lights on our kinsman, his prerogative Implies death on your trespass; but your merit, Of more antiquity is than your trespass, That death is Banishment writ, perpetual banishment (On pain of death, if you return) for ever, From Verona and her signories. Phil. Verona is kind. Pan. Unto you, madam, This censure is allotted. Your high blood Takes off the danger of the law, nay, from Even banishment itself. This lord your husband Sues only for a legal fair divorce, Which we think good to grant, the church allowing: And in that the injury chiefly reflects On him, he hath free licence to marry, when And whom he pleases. Abs. I thank ye, That you are favourable unto my love, Whom yet I love and weep for. Phil. Farewell, Lorenzo. This breast did never yet harbour a thought Of thee, but man was in it, honest man: I humbly thus take leave: farewell, my lords: And lastly farewell thou, fairest of many, Yet by far more unfortunate. Look up And see a crown held for thee; win it, and die Love's martyr, the sad map of injury: And so remember, sir, your injur'd lady Has a brother yet in Venice. Abs. Farewell, Lorenzo, Whom my soul doth [yet] love: if you e'er marry, May you meet a good wife: so good, that you May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy Of your suspicion: and if you hear hereafter, That I am dead, inquire but my last words, And you shall know that to the last I lov'd you: And when you walk forth with your second choice Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me, Imagine that you see me lean and pale, Strewing your paths with flowers: and when in bed You cast your arms about her happy side[s], Think you see me stand with a patient look, Crying, All hail, you lovers, live and prosper. But may she never live to pay my debts. If but in thought she wrong you, may she die In the conception of the injury. Pray, make me wealthy with one kiss. Farewell, sir. Let it not grieve you, when you shall remember That I was innocent: nor this forget— Though innocence here suffer, sigh, and groan, She walks but thorough thorns to find a throne. [Exit. Ver. Break up the court; and, cousin, learn this rede; Who stabs truth's bosom, makes an angel bleed. Lor. The storm upon my breast, sir. [Exeunt. FOOTNOTES:So in Erasmus's "Praise of Folly," translated by Chaloner, 1549, sig. P.: "Or doo you judge peradventure they coulde easily fynde in their hertes, that so many scriveners, so many registrers, so manie notaries, so many advocates, so many promoters, so many secretaries, so many moyleters, so many horsekeepers, so many gentlemen of householde, so many apple-squires, so many baudes, I had almost spoken a softer worde," &c. Again, in "Faults, Faults, and Nothing but Faultes," by Barnaby Rich, 1606, p. 24: "Shee shall not want the assistance of her ruffians, her apple-squires, and of those brothell queanes that lodge, that harbour, and that retain her." Again, in Ben Jonson's "Every Man in his Humour," iv. 10— "Well, good wife bawd, Cob's wife, and you, That make your husband such a hoddy doddy; And you, young apple-squire, and old cuckold-maker, I'll ha' you every one before a justice." See also "Dekker's Belman of London," sig. H 2. And in Bale's "Actis of Englishe Votaries," 1550, Part I., fol. 27: "Women in those dayes might sore have distained their newlie risen opinion of holines, if they had chaunced to haue bene with childe by the prelates, and therefore other spiritual remedies were sought out for them by their good providers and proctors; ye may if ye will call them apple-squires."—Gilchrist. |
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