  Enter Abstemia. Abs. Here, miserable, despis'd Abstemia, In Milan let thy misery take breath, Wearied with many sufferings. O Lorenzo! How far in love I am with my affliction, Because it calls thee father! Unto this house, Where gentlewomen lodge, I was directed; Strange actions closely carried in this house. Great persons (but not good) here nightly revel In surfeits and in riots, yet so carried, That the next day the place appears a sanctuary Rather than sin's foul receptacle. These ways Have to me still been strangers; but, Lorenzo, Thou couldst not, though, believe it. O jealousy! [O] love's eclipse! Thou art, in thy disease, A wild mad patient, wondrous hard to please. Enter Timpania and Morbo. Mor. Yonder she walks, mumbling to herself. The Prince Antonio has blessed her with's observation; and ye win her but to him, your house bears the bell away. Accost her quaintly. Tim. I warrant thee, Morbo; Madonna Timpania has effected wonders of more weight than a maidenhead. Have I ruined so many city-citadels to let in court-martialists; and shall this country-cottage hold out? I were more fit for a cart than a coach then, i' faith. How now, Millicent, how d'ye this morning? Abs. Well, I do thank so good a landlady. Tim. But hark you, Mill. Is the door close, Morbo? Mor. As a usurer's conscience. Grace was coming in, till she saw the door shut upon her. Tim. I'll set Grace about her business, and I come to her. Is here any work for Grace, with a wanion to her? Abs. Chastity guard me! how I tremble. Tim. Come hither, Mistress Millicent. Fie, how you let your hair hang about your ears too! How do you like my house, Mill? Abs. Well indeed, well. Tim. Nay, I know a woman may rise here in one month, and she will herself. But truth's truth: I know you see something, as they say, and so forth. Did you see the gallant was here last till twelve? Abs. Which of them mean you? Here was many. Tim. Which? he in the white feather, that supped in the gallery: was't not white, Morbo? Mor. As a lady's hand; by these five fingers. Tim. White? No, no, 'twas a tawny, now I remember. Mor. As a gipsy, by this hand: it looked white by candle-light, though. Tim. That lusty springal, Than the Duke of Milan's son. Abs. His excellent carriage spoke him of noble birth. Tim. And this same duke's son loves you, Millicent. Abs. Now Heaven defend me! Tim. What, from a duke's son? marry, come up with a murrain, from whence came you, trow, ha? Mor. Thus nice Grace was at first, and you remember. Tim. I would have ye know, housewife, I could have taken my coach, and fetched him one of the best pieces in Milan, and her husband should have looked after me, that's neighbours might have noted, and cried, Farewell, naunt, Mor. And yet from these perfumed fortunes Heaven defend you! Abs. Perfumed, indeed. Mor. Perfumed! I am a pander, a rogue, that hangs together like a beggar's rags, by geometry, if there were not three ladies swore yesterday that my mistress perfumed the coach! so they were fain to unbrace all the side-parts, to take in fresh air. Tim. He tells you true; I keep no common company, I warrant ye. We vent no breathed ware here. Abs. But have ye so many several women to answer so many men that come? Mor. I'll answer that by demonstration. Have ye not observed the variation of a cloud? sometimes it will be like a lion, sometimes like a horse, sometimes a castle, and yet still a cloud. Abs. True. Mor. Why, so can we make one wench one day look like a country wench, another day like a citizen's wife, another day like a lady, and yet still be a punk. Abs. What shall become of me? O, the curse Of goodness, to leave one woe for a worse! Enter Philippo. Phil. Morrow, sweet madam. O, look how, like the sun behind a cloud, The beams do give intelligence it is there! Tim. You're reciprocal welcome, sir. Phil. What, have ye not brought this young wild haggard Tim. Faith, sir, she's a little irregular yet: but time, that turns citizens' caps into court-periwigs, will bring the wonder about. Phil. Bless you, sweet mistress! Enter Antonio and Slave. Mor. 'Sfoot! here's the prince: I smell thunder. Tim. Your grace is most methodically welcome. You must pardon my variety of phrase: the courtiers e'en cloy us with good words. Ant. What's he? Mor. A gentleman of Ferrara, sir; one Pedro Sebastiano. Ant. And do ye set her out to sale? I charged ye reserve for me alone. Tim. Indeed, sir—— Ant. Pox of your deeds! [Kicks her. Tim. O my sciatica! Ant. Sirrah, you perfumed rascal! [Kicks Philippo. They draw. Tim. Nay, good my lord. Mor. Good sir, 'tis one of the duke's chamber. Phil. Let him be of the devil's chamber. Ant. Sirrah, leave the house, or I will send thee out with thunder. Slave. Good sir, 'tis madness here to stand him. Phil. 'Sfoot, kicked! Pray that we meet no more again, sir: still keep heaven about you. Abs. Whate'er thou art, a good man still go with thee. Ant. Will you bestow a cast of your professions? Mor. We are vanished, sir. Tim. This 'tis to dream of rotten glasses, Morbo. Abs. O, what shall become of me? In his eye murder and lust contend. Ant. Nay, fly not, you sweet, I am not angry with you; indeed, I am not. Do you know me? Abs. Yes, sir, report hath given intelligence You are the prince, the duke's son. Ant. Both in one. Abs. Report, sure, Spoke but her native language: you are none of either. Ant. How? Abs. Were you the prince, you would not, sure, be slav'd To your blood's passion. I do crave your pardon For my rough language: truth hath a forehead free, And in the tow'r of her integrity Sits an unvanquish'd virgin. Can you imagine 'Twill appear possible you are the prince? Why, when you set your foot first in this house, And even then fell from you your respect. Honour is like a goodly old house, which If we repair not still with virtue's hand, Like a citadel being madly rais'd on sand, It falls, is swallow'd, and not found [again]. Ant. If you rail upon the place, prythee, How cam'st thou hither? Abs. By treacherous intelligence. Honest men so In the way ignorant, through thieves' purlieus go. Are you [the] son to such a noble father? [And would you] send him to's grave then, Like a white almond-tree, full of glad days, With joy that he begot so good a son. O sir, methinks I see sweet majesty Sit with a mourning sad face full of sorrows, To see you in this place. This is a cave Of scorpions and of dragons. O, turn back: Toads here engender; 'tis the steam of death: The very air poisons a good man's breath. Ant. Within there! Enter Timpania and Morbo. Mor. Sir. Ant. Is my caroch at door? Tim. And your horses too, sir. Ye found her pliant? Ant. Y' are rotten hospitals hung with greasy satin! Tim. Ah! Mor. Came this nice piece from Naples, with a pox to her? Tim. And she has not Neapolitanised him, I'll be flea'd for't. [Exeunt Bawd and Pander. Ant. Let me borrow goodness from thy lip. Farewell. Here's a new wonder: I have met heaven in hell. [Exeunt. Enter Venice, Verona, Lodovico, Pandulpho, Jaspro. Ver. Is this your chaste, religious lady? Lod. Nay, good my lord, let it be carried with a silent reputation, for the credit of the conclusion. As all here are privy to the passage, I do desire not to be laughed at till after the masque, and we are all ready. I have made bold with some of your grace's gentlemen, that are good dancers. Ver. 'Tis one of my greatest wonders, credit me, To think what way she will devise here openly To perform her so strict penance. Ven. It busies me, believe me, too. Jas. Ye may see now, sir, how possible it is for a cunning lady to make an ass of a lord too confident. Lod. An ass! I will prove a contented cuckold the wisest man in's company. Ver. How prove you that, sir? Lod. Because he knows himself. Ver. Very well brought in. Is all our furniture fit, against the morning, To go for Milan? Jas. Ready, and like your grace. Ver. We are given to understand, the injur'd princess, Whom Count Lorenzo and noble Philippo Are, unknown to one another, gone in search of, Hath been seen there disguis'd. Strict inquisition From the duke himself shall, ere many days, Give our hopes satisfaction. Enter Dorothea, Ladies, Francisco, and Clown. Jas. The ladies, sir. Francisco keeps before, sir, And Pambo keeps all well behind. Lod. Yes, there's devout lechery between hawk and buzzard. But, please ye, set the ladies: the masque attends your grace. [Exit. Ver. Come, ladies, sit. Madonna Dorothea, Your ingenious lord hath suddenly prepar'd us For a conceited masque, and himself, it seems, Plays the presenter. Dor. Now, fie upon this vanity! A profane masque? Chastity keep us, ladies. Ven. What, from a masque? Whereon grounds your wish? Dor. Marry, my lord, upon experience. I heard of one once brought his wife to a masque As chaste as a cold night; but, poor unfortunate fellow, He lost her in the throng; and she, poor soul, Came home so crush'd next morning! Ven. 'Las, that was ill: But women will be lost against their will. Ver. Silence, the masquers enter. Enter Lodovico, Clown, and Masquers: a stag, a ram, a bull, and a goat. Clown. Look to me, master. Lod. Do not shake: they'll think th' art out. A masque Clown. A masque, or no masque; no masque but a by-clap; And yet a masque yclep'd A City Nightcap. Lod. And conve—— Clown. And conveniently for to keep off scorns. Considerately the cap is hedg'd with horns. Lod. We insinuate. Clown. Speak a little louder. Lod. We insinuate. Clown. We insinuate, by this stag and ram so pretty, With goat and bull, court, country, camp, and city. Lod. Cuckold. Clown. Cuckold, my lord? Lod. 'Tis the first word of your next line. Clown. O—— Cuckold begins with C. And is't not sport? The C begins with country, camp, and court: But here's the fine figary of our poet, That one may wear this nightcap, and not know it. Dor. Why, chicken, shall they make such an ass of thee? Good your grace, can a woman endure to see her loving husband wear horns in's own house? Ver. Pray, lady, 'tis but in jest. Dor. In jest? Nay, for the jest sake, keep then on, sweet bird. Clown. Now to our masque's name: but first, be it known-a When I name a city, I only mean Verona. Those two lines are extempore, I protest, sir; I brought them in, because here are some of other cities in the room, that might snuff pepper else. Ven. You have fairly ta'en that fear off; pray, proceed. Lod. Your kindest men—— Clown. Your kindest men most cuckolds are, O pity! And where have women most their will? i'th' Seek Who thrives like him who hath the daintiest duck To deck his stall? nay, at the time of rapping, When you may take the watch at corners napping; Take it, forsooth—it is a wondrous hap, If you find master constable without his cap: So a city nightcap, for whilst he doth roam And fights abroad, his wife commits at home. Ven. A Verona constable. Clown. A constable of Verona; we will not meddle with your city of Venice, sir. Therefore 'tis fit the city, wise men say, Should have a cap called Cornucopia. Lod. To con—— Clown. To conclude our cap, and stretch it on the tenter, 'Tis known a city is the whole land's centre: So that a city nightcap ours we call By a conclusion philosophical. Heavy bodies tend to th' centre, so (the more the pity) The heaviest heads do butt upon the city: And to our dance this title doth redound, A city nightcap, alias, cuckolds' round. Dor. Cuckolds' round! and my sweet bird leads the dance! Ver. Be patient, madam, 'tis but honest mirth: From good construction pleasure finds full birth. [Dance. Ver. Jaspro, fill some wine. Jas. 'Tis here, sir. Ver. Count Lodovico! Lod. Sir. Ver. I'll instantly give you a fair occasion to produce The performance of her penance. Lod. I'll catch occasion by the lock, Ver. Here, a health to all; it shall go round. Lod. 'Tis a general health, and leads the rest into the field. Clown. Your honour breaks jests as servingmen do glasses—by chance. Ver. As I was drinking, I was thinking, trust me, How fortunate our kind host was to meet with So chaste a wife. Troth, tell me, good Count Lodowick, Admit Heaven had her—— Lod. O good your grace, do not wound me— Admit Heaven had her! 'las, what should Heaven do with her? Ver. Your love makes you thus passionate; but admit so: Faith, what wife would you choose? Lod. Were I to choose then, as I would I were, so this were at Japan, I would wish, my lord, a wife so like my lady, That once a week she should go to confession; And to perform the penance she should run, Nay, should do nought but dream on't, till 'twere done. Jas. A delicate memento to put her in mind of her penance. [Aside. Dor. Now you talk of dreams, sweetheart, I'll tell ye a very unhappy one: I was a-dreamed last night of Francis there. Lod. Of Frank? Dor. Nay, I have done with him. Lod. Now your grace shall see the devil outdone. Ver. Pray, let us hear your dream. Dor. Bless me! I am e'en asham'd to tell it: but 'tis no matter, chick, A dream is a dream, and this it was. Methought, sweet husband, Francis lay with me. Lod. The best friend still at home, Francisco. Could the devil, sir, perform a penance neater, And save his credit better? On, chick; a dream is but a dream. Dor. Methought I prov'd with child, sweetheart. Lod. Ay, bird? Fran. Pox of these dreams! Dor. Methought I was brought to bed; and one day sitting I' th' gallery, where your masquing-suits and vizards hang, Having the child, methought, upon my knee, Who should come thither, as to play at foils, But thou, sweetheart, and Francis? Lod. Frank and I! Does your grace mark that? Ver. I do, and wonder at her neat conveyance on't. Dor. Ye had not play'd three veneys, He hit thee such a blow upon the forehead, Lod. See, see! Dor. At which the child cried, so that I could not still it; Whereat, methought, I pray'd thee to put on The hat thou wor'st but now before the duke, thinking thereby To still the child: but, being frighted with't, He cried the more. Lod. He! Frank, thou gett'st boys. Fran. In dreams, it seems, sir. Dor. Whereat I cried, methought, pointing to thee— Away, thou naughty man, you are not this child's father! Lod. Meaning the child Francisco got. Dor. The same: and then I wak'd and kiss'd thee. Omnes. A pretty merry dream! Enter Jaspro. Jas. Your servant tells me, Count Lodowick, that one Father Antony, A holy man, stays without to speak with you. Lod. With me or my lady? Jas. Nay, with you, and about earnest business. Lod. I'll go send up, and he shall interpret my lady's dream. Hist, Jaspro. [Exeunt. Dor. Why, husband! my lord! Fran. Didst mark? He must interpret. Clown. I smell wormwood and vinegar. [Aside. Ven. She changes colour. Dor. He will not, sure, reveal confession! Ver. We'll rise, and to our lodgings: I think your highness Keeps better hours in Venice? Ven. As all do, sir: We many times make modest mirth a necessity To produce ladies' dreams. Fran. How they shoot at us! Would I were in Milan! These passages fry me. Enter Jaspro and Lodovico. Jas. Here's strange juggling come to light. Ver. Ha; juggling! Jas. This friar hath confess'd unto Count Lodowick, That this lady here, being absolv'd, confess'd This morning to him here, in her own house, Her man Francisco here had lain with her. At which her lord runs up and down the garden Dor. Art mad? Deny it yet; I am undone else. Clown. Father Tony! Lod. I confess it, I deny it—ay, anything. I do everything; I do nothing. Ver. The friar's fallen frantic; and being mad, Depraves a lady of so chaste a breast, A bad thought never bred there. Dor. 'Tis my misfortune still to suffer, sir. Lod. Did you not see one slip out of a cloak-bag i' th' fashion of a flitch of bacon, and run under the table amongst the hogs? Ven. He's mad, he's mad. Clown. Ay, ay, a tithe-pig: 'twas overlaid last night, and he speaks nonsense all the day after—— Dor. Shall I, sir, suffer this—in mine own house too? Clown. I'd scratch out his eyes first. Ver. Since, lady, you and your man Francisco Are the two injur'd persons, here disrobe This irregular son of his religious mother, Expose him to th' apparent blush of shame, And tear those holy weeds off. Fran. Now you, my frantic brother, Had you not been better spar'd your breath? Dor. And ye keep counsel, sir, no better, We'll ease you of your orders. Clown. Nay, let me have a hand in't: I'll tear the coat with more zeal than a puritan would tear a surplice. Fran. See what 'tis to accuse when you're mad. Dor. I confess again to you now, sir, this man did lie with me. Clown. And I brought him to her chamber, too: but come, turn out here. Duke. Who's this? Omnes. 'Tis Count Lodowick. Lod. How dreams, sweet wife, do fall out true! Clown. I was a-dream'd, now I remember, I was whipped through Verona. Lod. I was your confessor: Did not I enjoin your chaste nice ladyship A dainty penance? Jas. And she perform'd it As daintily, sir, we'll be sworn for that. Dor. O good sir, I crave your pardon! Lod. And what say you, Francis? Fran. You have run best, sir: vain 'tis to defend; Craft sets forth swift, but still fails in the end. Lod. You brought him to her chamber, Pambo. Clown. Good my lord, I was merely inveigled to't. Lod. I have nothing to do with ye; I take no notice of ye; I have played my part off to th' life, and your grace promised to perform yours. Ver. And publicly we will still raise their fame: Who e'er knew private sin 'scape public shame? You, sir, that do appear a gentleman, Yet are within slave to dishonest passions, You shall through Verona ride upon an ass With your face towards his back-part, and in Your hand his tail 'stead of a bridle. Clown. Snails! upon an ass? an't 'ad been upon a horse, it had been worthy, gramercy. Ver. Peace, sirrah: After that, you shall be branded in the forehead, And after banish'd. Away with him! Fran. Lust is still Like a midnight meal: after our violent drinkings, 'Tis swallow'd greedily; but, the course being kept, We are sicker when we wake than ere we slept. [Exit. Clown. He must be branded! if the whoremaster be burnt, what shall become of the procurer? Ver. You, madam, in that you have cosen'd sanctity, To promise her the vows you never paid, You shall unto the monastery of matrons, And spend your days reclusive: for we conceive it Her greatest plague, who her days in lust hath pass'd And soil'd, against Dor. Your doom is just: no sentence can be given Too hard for her plays fast and loose Lod. I will buss thee, and bid fair weather after thee. But for you, sirrah—— Clown. Nay, sir, 'tis but crede quod habes, et habes, at most; believe I have a halter, and I have one. Ver. You, sirrah, we are possess'd, were their pander. Clown. I brought but flesh to flesh, sir, and your grace does as much when you bring your meat to your mouth. Ver. You, sirrah, at a cart's tail shall be whipped through the city. Clown. There's my dream out already! but, since there is no remedy but that whipping-cheer must close up my stomach, I would request a note from your grace to the carman, to entreat him to drive apace; I shall never endure it else. Ver. I hope, Count Lodowick, we have satisfied ye. Lod. To th' full; and I think the cuckold catch'd the cuckold-makers. Ver. 'Twas a neat penance; but, O the art of woman in the performance! Lod. Pshaw, sir, 'tis nothing: had she been in her gran'am's place— Had not the devil first begun the sin, And cheated her, she would have cheated him. Ver. Let all to rest: and, noble sir, i' th' morning With a small private train we are for Milan. Vice for a time may shine, and virtue sigh; But truth, like heaven's sun, plainly doth reveal, And scourge or crown, what darkness did conceal. FOOTNOTES:"Look how thou stirrest now: Come away, I'll fetch thee with a wannion." Again, in Ben Jonson's "Devil is an Ass"— "And a cuckold is, Where'er he put his head with a wannion, If his horns be forth, the devil's companion!" [And in a thousand other places.] "Amongst the rest which in that space befel, There came two springals of full tender yeers." And in "Wily Beguiled," 1606: "Pray ye, maid, bid him welcome, and make much of him, for by my vay, he's a good proper springold." And Massinger's "Maid of Honour," act ii. sc. 2— "A proud haggard, And not to be reclaim'd!" Ben Jonson's "Every Man in his Humour," act i. sc. 5— "Mat. But one venue, sir. Bob. Venue! fie, a most gross denomination as ever I heard." "The Old Law," by Massinger, &c., act iii. sc. 2— "To give your perfum'd worship three venues. A sound old man puts his thrust better home Than a spic'd young man." Greene's "Historie of Fryer Bacon and Fryer Bungay," Sig. G 4, edit. 1630— "Why stand'st thou, Serlsby, doubt'st thou of thy life. A veney, man! faire Margaret craves so much." Fennor's "Compter's Commonwealth," 1617, p. 21: "Thus are my young novices strucke to the heart at the first venny, and dares come no more for feare of as sharp a repulse." |
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