  Enter Lodovico, Jaspro, Jovani, and Clown. Lod. Did chronicle ever match this couple, gentlemen? Jas. You make us wonder, That both should seem to yield to the temptation, And both so meet in one resolved goodness, Unknown to one another! Lod. There lies the jest on't. Sirrah Pambo, I do but think, an' she had met him in the garden, how she would have rattled him. Clown. And ruffled him too, sir: the camomile Jov. Such an honest-minded servant where shall one find? Lod. Servant! my sworn brother, man; he's Jas. A wife! why, she's a saint; one that ever bears a good sound soul about her. Clown. Yes, when she wears her new shoes. Jov. Shall we see her, my lord? Lod. Where is she, Pambo? Clown. Walking a turn or two i' th' garden with Francisco, sir; I'll go call her. Lod. No, no, no; let her alone: 'tis pity indeed to part them, they are so well-matched. Was he not reading to her? Clown. No, sir, she was weeping to him: she heard this morning that her confessor, father Jacomo, was dead. Jas. Father Jacomo dead? Lod. Why, now shall not we have her eat one bit this five days. Clown. She'll munch the more in a corner: that's the puritan's fast. Lod. Nay, do but judge of her, my lords, by one thing: whereas most of our dames go to confession but once a month, some twice a quarter, and some but once a year, and that upon constraint too, she never misses twice a week. Jas. 'Tis wonderful! Jov. 'Tis a sign she keeps all well at home: they are even With the whole world, that so keep touch with heaven. Lod. Nay, I told ye, ye should find no Philippo of Francisco. Clown. And I remember I told your honour you should find no Abstemia of my lady. Lod. Nor no Lorenzo of myself: he was ever a melancholy stubborn fellow. He kept her in too Clown. Nay, sir, there is two come on't, an' a man could discover 'em. Lod. Two what, I prythee? Clown. It may be two babies, sir: for they come commonly with giving a woman her will. Lod. I'd laugh at that, i' faith, boy. But who has she now for her confessor? Clown. She looks for one, they call him father Antony, sir; and he's wished Enter Dorothea and Francisco. Lod. There's another modest soul too, never without a holy man at her elbow! But here comes one outweighs them all. Why, how now, chick, weeping so fast? This is the fault of most of our ladies; painting—weeping for their sins I should say, spoils their faces. Fran. Sweet madam. Lod. Look, look, look! loving soul, he weeps for company! Clown. And I shall laugh outright by and by. Dor. O that good man! Lod. Why, bird? Jas. Be patient, lady. Dor. Would he go to heaven without his zealous pupil? Clown. It may be he knew not your mind, forsooth. Dor. He knew my mind well enough. Clown. Why then, it may be, he knew you could not hold out for the journey. Pray, do not set us all a-crying. [Weeps. Lod. Prythee, sweet birds-nie, be content. Dor. Yes, yes, content! when you two leave my company! No one comes near me; so that were it not For modest simple Francis here—— Clown. As modest as a gib-cat at midnight. [Aside. Dor. That sometimes reads Virtuous books to me; were it not for him, I might go look content. Nobody cares for me. Lod. Nay, prythee, Doll. Pray, gentlemen, comfort her. [Weeps. Clown. Now is the devil writing an encomium upon cunning cuckold-makers. Fran. You have been harsh to her of late, I fear, sir. Lod. By this hand, I turned not from her all last night. What should a man do? Jas. Come, this is but a sweet obedient shower, To bedew the lamented grave of her old father. Clown. He thinks the devil's dead too. Dor. But 'tis no matter; were I such a one As the Count Lorenzo's lady, were I so graceless To make you wear a pair of wicked horns, You would make more reckoning of me—— [Weeps. Lod. Weep again? She'll cry out her eyes, gentlemen. Clown. No, I warrant you: remember the two lines your honour read last night— A woman's eye, 'S April's dust, no sooner wet but dry. Lod. Good pigs-nie! Frank, prythee, walk her t'other turn i' th' garden, and get her a stomach to her supper. We'll be with ye presently, wench. Dor. Nay, when ye please; but why should I go from ye? Lod. Loving soul! Prythee, Frank, take her away. Dor. Pray, let me kiss ye first. Come, Francis, Nobody cares for us. [At the door Francis kisses her. Exeunt. Lod. Well, there goes a couple: where shall a man match you, indeed? Hark, Pambo! Jas. Did you observe? Jov. They kissed! Jas. Peace. Lod. And entreat Madonna Lussuriosa to sup with us: as you go, tell her my lady's never well but in her company. Clown. What, if your honour invited the Count Lorenzo? he'll be so melancholy, now his lady and he are parted. Lod. Pray do as you are bid, kind sir, and let him alone: I'll have no cuckold sup in my house to-night. Clown. 'Tis a very hot evening; your honour will sup in the garden then. Lod. Yes, marry, will I, sir; what's that to you? Clown. Why, your honour was ever as good as your word. Keep the cuckolds out of door, and lay a cloth for my lord in the arbour, gentlemen. [Exit. Lod. I have been this three months about a project. Jov. What is't, my lord? Lod. Why, I intend to compose a pamphlet of all my wife's virtues, put them in print, and dedi Jas. 'Twill give him apt instructions, when he does marry, to pick out such a woman. Lod. Pick her! where will he pick her? as the English proverb says, He may as soon find a needle in a bottle of hay. Would I knew what sins she has committed, I would set them down all one with another; they would serve as foils to her virtues: but I do think she has none: d'ye think she has any, gentlemen? Jov. O, none, sir, but has some. Lod. Ay, piddling ones, it may be; as when a pin pricks her finger to cry at sight on't, and throw't away; but for other matters—— Jas. Now I think on't, sir, I have a device newly begotten that, if you be so desirous to be resolved of her perfections, 'twill be an apt means for your intelligence. Lod. That will be excellent; and then my book, grounded upon mine own experience, the report of my judgment in the choice of a woman, will sell them off faster than the compositor can set the letters together. Jas. We will discourse it as we go: meantime, sir, Let this prepare the path to your construction, Conceit and confidence are jugglers born; One grafts in air, t'other hides the real horn. Lod. Well, he that believes he has horns, has horns; and Crede quod habes, et habes, shall be my motto. [Exeunt. Enter Pandulpho and Spinoso. Spin. The powers of Venice upon our confines? Pan. Yes: Signor Philippo, it seems, having possess'd him With the passages that pass'd upon his sister, Embassadors were despatch'd to Bergamo, Where then his forces lay; who thus return'd, That he came not a public foe unto Verona, But to require justice against Count Lorenzo, To approve his sister innocent. Spin. What witness, Proof, or apparent circumstance builds he His bold attempt upon? Pan. He says, besides The honour of Philippo, he has proof So unresistible to affirm the plot Of Count Lorenzo, that he only crav'd (Hostages being render'd for their safe returns) Here in the senate-chamber the fair trial Might publicly be censur'd. And by this They are at hand. Enter at one door Duke of Venice, Philippo, and Lords: at the other, Duke of Verona, Jaspro, Jovani; Lorenzo guarded. A bar set out. The 1st Slave. Ver. Fair sir, the presence is levell'd for your grievances. Ven. First summon to the bar the Count Lorenzo. Pan. Lorenzo Medico, stand to the bar. Lor. I do stand to the bar. Ven. I come not here, witness the good man's comfort, The neighbour-bosom of my confines with The weight of armour, or do wound your breast (My dukedom's near next neighbour) with the hoofs Of war-apparell'd horses, 'tis not to seek For martial honours, but for civil justice. Conceive mine honour wounded: a sister's shame Is an unpleasant spot upon our arms; Yet that we come not here to sanctify A sister's sin; for if she be so prov'd, Shame sleep within her epitaph, and brand her; Let bears and wolves that angel's face confound, Gives goodness such a foul, unfriendly wound: But if she chaste be prov'd, what balm can cure A wounded name? As he that not inflicts The bitter stroke of law upon the strumpet Fattens the sad afflictions of a thousand; So who but stains an honest woman's name Plagues are yet kept for him: steel is no defence For the unclean tongue injures innocence. I affirm my sister wrong'd, wrong'd by this man— This, that has wrong'd pure judgment, and thrown poison Upon the face of truth; and upon him I seek a satisfaction. Lor. I reply, The law must give you satisfaction, That justly did divorce us: I appeal To the whole consiliadory, if equal law In her progression went a step astray, Either by proof or information. Let the duke speak (not as he is my kinsman) If I produc'd not legally in court, Besides mine own assertion, which even reason Grounded on probability, two of my servants, Even in the very act of sin and shame With that Philippo there. Blame me not then, sir, If I return an error to your cause. Reason, the base whereon we build the laws You injure in this action, gives her the lie. Who dares not build his faith upon his eye? They swore what they did see; and men still fear (Reason concludes) what they not see, to swear. Ver. You hear my kinsman's answer? Pan. And 'tis requisite That you produce your author: it is held Mere madness on a hill of sand to build. Phil. The foundation-work is mine, And that I answer: he builds on truth, The good man's mistress, and not in the sanctuary Of this injur'd brother's power, but the integrity And glory of the cause. I throw the pawn Of my afflicted honour, and on that I openly affirm your absent lady Chastity's well-knit abstract: snow in the fall, Purely refin'd by the bleak northern blast, Not freer from a soil; the thoughts of infants But little nearer heaven: and if these princes Please to permit, before their guilty thoughts Injure another hour upon the lady, My right-drawn sword shall prove it. Lor. Upon my knee, sir, (How my soul dances!) humbly I entreat Your grant to his request: fight with Philippo I' th' midst of flame or pestilence; in a cave, Where basilisks do breed. Ver. We must take counsel: The price of blood is precious. Lor. Blood desires burthen: The price of truth is precious. For all the fights Where I have tugg'd with tempests, stood storms at midnight, Out-star'd the flaring lightning, and the next morning Chas'd the unruly stubborn Turk with thunder; For all the bullets I have bravely shot, And sent death singing to the slaughter, sir—— Ver. Peace! Lor. What should a soldier do with peace? remember Mine honour lies a-bleeding, and in mine yours; Her wide wound inward bleeds; and while you cry peace, Shame wars upon my name. O, rather kill me, Than cast me to this scandal! Spin. The doubtful cause, With such a dare approv'd, you may permit it. Ver. Your request is granted, coz. Lor. You have now, sir, breath'd Fresh air in the face of fainting honour. Rapiers of fair equality. Ven. The spider, when she would snare the fly, doth weave With neater art appearance [to] deceive. Stay!—as you said, sir, blood is a precious price: Let me but see the men produc'd who swore They saw them in the shameful act, and then Farewell a sister and her honour. Pan. Produce your servants, sir. [Venice sends off a Lord. Lor. Plague of this change! here's one of them; the t'other, The next day ran away. Ven. Did you, sir, swear You saw our sister and this gentleman In this base act of sin? Lor. Fear nothing. 1st Slave. To deny truth Is more dangerous than to displease a duke. I saw it, and did swear it. Enter Lord, and 2d Slave. Ven. But here comes one Will swear you saw it not, and are forsworn. 1st Slave. 'Sfoot, Stratzo! Spin. This is the other fellow took his oath. Ver. What come you here to say, sir? 2d Slave. That we swore falsely, may it please your grace; Hir'd by my lord with gifts and promises: And as I now have spoke the truth, so Heaven Forgive my former perjury! Ver. Hear you, cousin? 1st Slave. Would you would say something: I have nettles in my breeches. Lor. Now, now, I hope, your eyes are open, lords; The bed of snakes is broke, the trick's come out, And here's the knot i' th' rush. Good Heaven, good Heaven! That craft, in seeking to put on disguise, Should so discover herself! Ver. Explain yourself! Lor. Now see, sir, where this scorpion lurks, to sting Mine honour unto death. This noble duke By nature is engaged to defend a sister; For sin still hates her scourger—makes repair, And prepossesses him with that suppos'd innocence Of an injur'd sister, which he had hir'd this slave To follow him and affirm, and lays the cause To scruple and to conscience: they did consent To steal belief by seeming accident. Sin, juggler-like, casts sin before our eyes: Craft sometimes steals the wonder of the wise. With an equal hand now weigh me, and if I want A grain of honour, tear me from your blood, And cast me to contempt. 1st Slave. My lord would have made an excellent state-sophister. [Aside. Ver. In what a strange dilemma judgment sits, Charm'd to her chair with wonder! Ven. Shall I have justice? Pan. Yes, in that this fellow swears for the duke: Reach him the book; you shall see him again Take the former oath. Ver. This doubt must be so ended: If it give not satisfaction, send back our hostage; You have fair regress to your forces: but The blood remains on you; and still remember, The price of blood is precious. Phil. Let us end it. Ven. O, what a combat honour holds with conscience! Reach him the book; and if thou false dost say, May thine own tongue thine own foul heart betray. 1st Slave. Amen, say I: Give me the book. My oath must end all, then? Spin. It must. Lor. Now you shall hear him swear He saw them both in the base act. 1st Slave. Nay, I swear They are now both seen in the base act. Omnes. How's this? Pan. 'Tis a strange oath. 1st Slave. 'Tis true, though. Lor. True, villain! are both now seen in the base act? 1st Slave. Yes, both. Lor. Which both? 1st Slave. You and I, sir. Omnes. How? 1st Slave. Both you and I are seen in the base act, Slandering spotless honour, an act so base The barbarous Moor would blush at. Phil. D'ye hear him now? Lor. Out, slave! wilt thou give ground too? fear works upon 'em: Did you not both here swear i' th' senate-chamber, You saw them both dishonest? 1st Slave. Then we swore true, sir. Lor. I told you 'twas but fear. Ver. Swore ye true then, sir, when ye swore Ye both saw them dishonest? 1st Slave. Yes, marry, did we, sir; For we were both two villains when we saw them, So we saw them dishonest. Ven. Heaven, thou art equal! 1st Slave. This is a jealous lord, his lady chaste. A rock of crystal not more clear, this gentleman Basely abus'd; this great prince dishonour'd; And so we kneel for mercy. Ver. You have redeem'd it; Depart, prove honest men. That I should bear Dishonour in my blood! Omnes. Much-injur'd lady! Ven. What justice, sir, belongs unto the injur'd? Ver. First, witness Heaven, I tear thee from my blood, And cast thee off a stranger. Assume you, sir, Since the great cause is yours, my seat of justice, And sentence this foul homicide: it must be, And suddenly; he will infect the air else. Proceed, great sir, with rigour, whilst I stand by, And do adore the sentence. Ven. Answer, Lorenzo, Art thou not guilty? Lor. Give me my merit—death. Princes can build and ruin with one breath. Ven. The cause may seem to merit death, in that Two souls were hazarded, a princess' fame, A duke dishonour'd, and a noble lord Wounded in reputation; but since she lives, And that no blood was spilt (though something dearer) Mercy thus far stretches her silver wings Over your trespass. We do banish you Both from our dukedom's limits and your own: If you but set a daring foot upon them, Whilst life lends you ability to stand, You fall into the pit of death, unless You shall find out our most unfortunate sister, And bring her to our court. Lor. You, sir, are merciful! Ver. This let me add, In that you have had Princes should punish vice in their own blood: Until you find that excellent injur'd lady, Upon this gentleman, who hath suffer'd for you, We confer your lands, revenues, and your place: That, during three days' stay within our confines, But, as they do a beggar at their door, So cast you from their presence. Lor. Your dooms are just! O love, thy first destruction is distrust! [Exeunt Lorenzo, Ver. For you, fair sir, until we shall hear tidings Of your most-injur'd sister, please you to call My court your own—conceive it so—where live. Two partners in one passion we will be, And sweeten sorrow with a sympathy. [Exeunt. Enter Lodovico like a friar, Jaspro, and Jovani. Lod. What, am I fitted, gallants? am I fitted? Jas. To th' life, able to cheat suspicion; and so like Father Antony the confessor, that I protest There's not more semblance in a pair of eggs. Jov. An apple cut in half is not so like. Lod. Well, lords, Jas. That will be admirable! Jov. We'll step aside: by this she's upon coming! Jas. We shall know all. Lod. Reveal, confession! but go your ways: as Jas. Come, let's be gone. But once upon a time, sir, A beggar found a lark's nest; and, o'erjoy'd At his sudden glut, for he thought 'twas full of young ones, Looking, they were all gone: he was forc'd again to beg, For he found in the lark's nest a serpent's egg. So much good d'ye, sir. [Exeunt. Enter Dorothea. Lod. Well, thou surpassest all the courtiers in these pretty ones, if a man had the wit to understand them. Yonder she comes: I can hardly forbear blushing, but that for discovering myself. Right reverend habit, I honour thee With a son's obedience, and do but borrow thee, As men would play with flies who, i' th' midst Of modest mirth, with care preserve themselves. Dor. Hail, holy father! Lod. Welcome, my chaste daughter! Dor. Death having taken good father Jacomo, Upon the plenal and approv'd report Of your integrity and upright dealing—— Lod. Delicate Doll! [Aside. Dor. I have made a modest choice of you, grave sir, To be my ghostly father: and to you I fall For absolution. Lod. Empty then, my daughter, That vessel of your flesh of all the dregs Which, since your last confession clear'd you, have Taken a settled habitation in you; And with a powerful sweet acknowledgment Tears make dry branches flourish green and fresh. Dor. Since last I confess'd, then I do confess My first sin was, that my tailor bringing home My last new gown, having made the sleeves too flanting, In an unchristian passion I did bid The devil take him. Lod. That was something harsh, dear daughter, Yet the more pardonable, for it may be your tailor Lies in hell night by night. Pray, to your second. Dor. Next, in a more savage rage, my chambermaid Putting a little saffron in her starch, I most unmercifully broke her head. Lod. 'Twas rashly done too. But are you sure, dear daughter, The maid's head was not broke before? Dor. No, no, sir; she came to me with ne'er a crack about her. Lod. These will be brave sins to mix with her virtues! Why, they will make no more show than three or four bailiffs amongst a company of honest men. [Aside.] These sins, my dove-like daughter, are out of contradiction venial, trivial, and light. Have you none of greater growth? Dor. O yes, sir, one! Lod. One! What should that be, I wonder? Dor. One yet remains behind Of weight and consequence. The same order Heralds prescribe in shows, I now observe In placing of my sins; as there inferiors Fare 'fore the persons of great note, Because the last lives freshest in our memories, Lod. Sh' has trod some chicken to death, I warrant her. [Aside. Dor. Hear me, and let a blush make you look red. Unseemly I have abus'd my husband's bed. Lod. You did ill to drink too hard ere you went to bed. Dor. Alas, sir! you mistake me: I have lain With another man besides my husband. Lod. How? Dor. Nay, the same way I use to lie with him, But not altogether so often. Lod. Why then, Crede quod habes, et habes, I will believe I have horns, for I have 'em. 'Sfoot, a woman, I perceive, is a neat herald; she can quarter her husband's coat with another's Dor. Yes, yes; sure, 'twas that night's work. Lod. How know you that? Dor. Alas! by experience, sir. The kind fool my husband Wishes all well; but, like a light piece of gold, He's taken for more than he weighs. Lod. With child! there's charges too: o' th' other side, there should follow A zealous exhortation: but great affairs That brook no stay make me be brief, rememb'ring Lawful necessity may dispense with ceremony. You are ingenuously sorry? Dor. Yes, indeed, sir. Lod. And resolve to fall no more so? Dor. No, in truth, sir. Lod. I then pronounce you here absolv'd. Now for your penance. Dor. Anything. Lod. As the fact in you seems strange, so blame me not If your penance be as strange. You may wonder at it, But it is wonderous easy in performance; But as your penance I enjoin it. Nay, now I remember In an old French authentic author, his book 'Titled, De Satisfactione, I read the same Enjoin'd a lady of Dauphin. 'Tis no holy fast, No devout prayer, nor no zealous pilgrimage; 'Tis out of the prescrib'd road. Dor. Let it be So strange [that] story ne'er match'd the injunction, I do vow the plenal strict performance. Lod. Listen to me. Soon at night (so rumour spreads it through the city) The two great dukes of Venice and Verona Are feasted by your lord, where a masque's intended. Dor. That's true, sir. Lod. Now, when ye all are set round about the table, In depth of silence, you shall confess these words Aloud to your husband, You are not this child's father: And, 'cause my order bars You shall say, Such a man lay with me, Dor. Good sir! Lod. This is your penance I enjoin you: keep it, You are absolv'd; break it, you know the danger of it. Good-bye! Dor. O good sir, stay! never was penance of more shame than this. Lod. You know the danger of the breach as to us: 'Tis the shameful loss of our religious orders, If we reveal. Dor. For Heaven's sake, Enjoin me first upon my knees to creep From Verona to Loretto. Lod. That's nothing. Dor. Nothing indeed to this. Is this your penance, So wondrous easy in performance? Lod. 'Tis irrevocable. Dor. I am silent: your new penance may meet A new performance. Farewell, sir. You are the cruell'st e'er confess'd me before. Lod. And this the trick to catch a right pure whore. [Exeunt. And in the "First Part of King Henry IV.," act ii. sc. 4: "For though the camomile the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears." See other instances in the notes of Mr Steevens and Dr Farmer on the last passage. |
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