Part 16
_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.[226]--Look, fine man! he was mad for me once, and I was mad for him once, and he was mad for her once, and were you never mad? Yes, I warrant; I had a fine jewel once, a very fine jewel, and that naughty man stole it away from me,--a very fine and a rich jewel.
[226] _i.e._ A wench, a prostitute.
_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[227] then?
[227] An allusion to a ballad of that name.
_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[228] you for’t, ’tis well. 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,[229] We’ll talk of legs hereafter.--See, my lord, God give us joy!
[228] _i.e._ Confound.
[229] Hands.
_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![230] Is patience madness? I’ll be a madman still.
[230] _i.e._ Reason.
_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.
_Duke._ Thou giv’st it lively colours: who dare say He’s mad, whose words march in so good array? ’Twere sin all women should such husbands have, For every man must then be his wife’s slave. Come, therefore, you shall teach our court to shine, So calm a spirit is worth a golden mine, Wives with meek husbands that to vex them long, In Bedlam must they dwell, else dwell they wrong. [_Exeunt omnes._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_THE HONEST WHORE._
[Illustration]
_PART THE SECOND._
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._]
GASPARO TREBAZZI, Duke of Milan. HIPPOLITO, a Count, Husband of INFELICE. ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO, Father of BELLAFRONT. MATHEO, Husband of BELLAFRONT. CANDIDO, a Linen Draper. LODOVICO SFORZA. BERALDO. CAROLO. FONTINELL. ASTOLFO. ANTONIO GEORGIO, a poor Scholar. BRYAN, an Irish Footman. BOTS, a Pander. Masters of Bridewell, Prentices, Servants, &c.
INFELICE, Wife of HIPPOLITO. BELLAFRONT, Wife of MATHEO. CANDIDO’S Bride. Mistress HORSELEECH, a Bawd. DOROTHEA TARGET, } PENELOPE WHOREHOUND, } Harlots. CATHARINA BOUNTINALL, }
SCENE--MILAN.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_THE HONEST WHORE._
_PART THE SECOND._
ACT THE FIRST.
## SCENE I.--_A Hall in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House_.
_On one side enter_ BERALDO, CAROLO, FONTINELL, _and_ ASTOLFO, _with ~Serving-men~, or ~Pages~, attending on them; on the other side enter_ LODOVICO.
LOD. Good day, gallants.
_All._ Good morrow, sweet Lodovico.
_Lod._ How dost thou, Carolo?
_Car._ Faith, as the physicians do in a plague, see the world sick, and am well myself.
_Fon._ Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.
_Lod._ Oh, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle,[231] Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet?
[231] Favourite.
_Ast._ Yes, he will not be horsed this hour, sure.
_Ber._ My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at court.
_Car._ Oh, we shall ride switch and spur; would we were there once.
_Enter_ BRYAN.
_Lod._ How now, is thy lord ready?
_Bry._ No, so crees sa’ me, my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first.
_Car._ Oh, then they’ll to breakfast.
_Lod._ Footman, does my lord ride i’th’ coach with my lady, or on horseback?
_Bry._ No, foot, la, my lady will have me lord sheet wid her, my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side. [_Exit._
_Lod._ My lady sheet in de toder side! Did you ever hear a rascal talk so like a pagan? Is’t not strange that a fellow of his star, should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from a Christian?
_Enter_ ANTONIO, _with a book_.
_Ast._ An Irishman in Italy! that so strange! why, the nation have running heads. [_They walk up and down._
_Lod._ Nay, Carolo, this is more strange, I ha’ been in France, there’s few of them. Marry, England they count a warm chimney corner, and there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but sir, in England I have noted one thing.
_Ast._, _Ber._, _&c._ What’s that, what’s that of England?
_Lod._ Marry this, sir,--what’s he yonder?
_Ber._ A poor fellow would speak with my lord.
_Lod._ In England, sir,--troth, I ever laugh when I think on’t: to see a whole nation should be marked i’th’ forehead, as a man may say, with one iron: why, sir, there all costermongers are Irishmen.
_Car._ Oh, that’s to show their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother.
_Ast._, _Ber._, _&c._ Good, good! ha, ha!
_Lod._ Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers likewise be Irishmen? answer that now; come, your wit.
_Car._ Faith, that’s soon answered, for St. Patrick, you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing, if they cannot sweep the chimneys.
_Ast._, _Ber._, _&c._ Good again.
_Lod._ Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow, especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others,[232] and the knaves are very faithful where they love. By my faith, very proper men many of them, and as active as the clouds,--whirr, hah!
[232] The running footmen of those days were generally Irishmen.
_Ast._, _Ber._, _&c._ Are they so?
_Lod._ And stout! exceeding stout; why, I warrant, this precious wild villain, if he were put to’t, would fight more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.[233]
[233] Meaning Dunkirk privateers.
_Ast._ The women, they say, are very fair.
_Lod._ No, no, our country _buona-robas_,[234] oh! are the sugarest, delicious rogues!
[234] _Buona roba_ is an Italian phrase for a courtesan.
_Ast._ Oh, look, he has a feeling of them!
_Lod._ Not I, I protest. There’s a saying when they commend nations. It goes, the Irishman for his hand, the Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for a beard.
_Fon._ I’faith, they may make swabbers of them.
_Lod._ The Spaniard,--let me see,--for a little foot, I take it; the Frenchman,--what a pox hath he? and so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? come walk.
_Ast._ This Lodovico is a notable tongued fellow.
_Fon._ Discourses well.
_Ber._ And a very honest gentleman.
_Ast._ Oh! he’s well valued by my lord.
_Enter_ BELLAFRONT, _with a petition_.
_Fon._ How now, how now, what’s she?
_Ber._ Let’s make towards her.
_Bell._ Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come forth?
_Ast._ Would you speak with my lord?
_Lod._ How now, what’s this, a nurse’s bill? hath any here got thee with child and now will not keep it?
_Bell._ No, sir, my business is unto my lord.
_Lod._ He’s about his own wife’s now, he’ll hardly dispatch two causes in a morning.
_Ast._ No matter what he says, fair lady; he’s a knight, there’s no hold to be taken at his words.
_Fon._ My lord will pass this way presently.
_Ber._ A pretty, plump rogue.
_Ast._ A good lusty, bouncing baggage.
_Ber._ Do you know her?
_Lod._ A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my table-book once; I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common than tobacco: this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore.
_Ast._, _Ber._, _&c._ Is this she?
_Lod._ This is the blackamoor that by washing was turned white: this is the birding-piece new scoured: this is she that, if any of her religion can be saved, was saved by my lord Hippolito.
_Ast._ She has been a goodly creature.
_Lod._ She has been! that’s the epitaph of all whores. I’m well acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband. Lord! what fortunes that man has overreached! She knows not me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon, suffered strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women are like medlars,--no sooner ripe but rotten:
A woman last was made, but is spent first. Yet man is oft proved in performance worst.
_Ast._, _Ber._, _&c._ My lord is come.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO, INFELICE, _and two ~Waiting-women~_.
_Hip._ We ha’ wasted half this morning. Morrow, Lodovico.
_Lod._ Morrow, madam.
_Hip._ Let’s away to horse.
_Lod._, _Ast._, _&c._ Ay, ay, to horse, to horse.
_Bell._ I do beseech your lordship, let your eye read o’er this wretched paper.
_Hip._ I’m in haste, pray thee, good woman, take some apter time.
_Inf._ Good woman, do.
_Bell._ Oh ’las! it does concern a poor man’s life.
_Hip._ Life! sweetheart?--Seat yourself, I’ll but read this and come.
_Lod._ What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? if they be not yellow,[235] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband.
[235] Yellow was typical of jealousy.
_Inf._ Oh sir, that cannot make me jealous.
[_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO, BELLAFRONT, _and_ ANTONIO.
_Hip._ Your business, sir? to me?
_Ant._ Yes, my good lord.
_Hip._ Presently, sir.--Are you Matheo’s wife?
_Bell._ That most unfortunate woman.
_Hip._ I’m sorry these storms are fallen on him; I love Matheo, And any good shall do him; he and I Have sealed two bonds of friendship, which are strong In me, however fortune does him wrong. He speaks here he’s condemned. Is’t so?
_Bell._ Too true.
_Hip._ What was he whom he killed? Oh, his name’s here; Old Giacomo, son to the Florentine; Giacomo, a dog, that to meet profit, Would to the very eyelids wade in blood Of his own children. Tell Matheo, The duke, my father, hardly shall deny His signèd pardon; ’twas fair fight, yes, If rumour’s tongue go true; so writes he here.-- To-morrow morning I return from court, Pray be you here then.--I’ll have done, sir, straight:-- [_To_ ANTONIO. But in troth say, are you Matheo’s wife? You have forgot me.
_Bell._ No, my lord.
_Hip._ Your turner, That made you smooth to run an even bias, You know I loved you when your very soul Was full of discord: art not a good wench still?
_Bell._ Umph, when I had lost my way to Heaven, you showed it: I was new born that day.
_Re-enter_ LODOVICO.
_Lod._ ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have not left your wench yet? When you get in once, you never have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come.
_Hip._ Ride softly on before, I’ll o’ertake you.
_Lod._ Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before, without ye.
_Hip._ Prithee, good Lodovico.
_Lod_. My lord, pray hasten.
_Hip._ I come. [_Exit_ LODOVICO. To-morrow let me see you, fare you well; Commend me to Matheo. Pray one word more: Does not your father live about the court?
_Bell._ I think he does, but such rude spots of shame Stick on my cheek, that he scarce knows my name.
_Hip._ Orlando Friscobaldo, is’t not?
_Bell._ Yes, my lord.
_Hip._ What does he for you?
_Bell._ All he should: when children From duty start, parents from love may swerve; He nothing does: for nothing I deserve.
_Hip._ Shall I join him unto you, and restore you to wonted grace?
_Bell._ It is impossible.
_Hip._ It shall be put to trial: fare you well. [_Exit_ BELLAFRONT. The face I would not look on! Sure then ’twas rare, When in despite of grief, ’tis still thus fair. Now, sir, your business with me.
_Ant._ I am bold T’express my love and duty to your lordship In these few leaves.
_Hip._ A book!
_Ant._ Yes, my good lord.
_Hip._ Are you a scholar?
_Ant._ Yes, my lord, a poor one.
_Hip._ Sir, you honour me. Kings may be scholars’ patrons, but, faith, tell me, To how many hands besides hath this bird flown, How many partners share with me?
_Ant._ Not one, In troth, not one: your name I held more dear; I’m not, my lord, of that low character.
_Hip._ Your name I pray?
_Ant._ Antonio Georgio.
_Hip._ Of Milan?
_Ant._ Yes, my lord.
_Hip._ I’ll borrow leave To read you o’er, and then we’ll talk: till then Drink up this gold; good wits should love good wine; This of your loves, the earnest that of mine.-- [_Gives money._
_Re-enter_ BRYAN.
How now, sir, where’s your lady? not gone yet?
_Bry._ I fart di lady is run away from dee, a mighty deal of ground, she sent me back for dine own sweet face, I pray dee come, my lord, away, wu’t tow go now?
_Hip._ Is the coach gone? Saddle my horse, the sorrel.
_Bry._ A pox a’ de horse’s nose, he is a lousy rascally fellow, when I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts rumbled; di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest, an Irishman cannot abide a fart. But I have saddled de hobby-horse, di fine hobby is ready, I pray dee my good sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee?
_Hip._ Well, sir,--I pray let’s see you, master scholar.
_Bry._ Come, I pray dee, wu’t come, sweet face? Go. [_Exeunt._
[Illustration]
## SCENE II.--_An Apartment in the_ DUKE’S _Palace_.
_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, ASTOLFO, _and_ BERALDO.
_Lod._ Godso’, gentlemen, what do we forget?
_Car._, _Ast._, _Ber._ What?
_Lod._ Are not we all enjoined as this day.--Thursday is’t not? Ay, as this day to be at the linen-draper’s house at dinner?
_Car._ Signor Candido, the patient man.
_Ast._ Afore Jove, true, upon this day he’s married.
_Ber._ I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares venture again to come about the eaves amongst bees.
_Lod._ Oh ’tis rare sucking a sweet honey comb! pray Heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance! The poor fiddlers’ instruments would crack for it, she’d tickle them. At any hand let’s try what mettle is in his new bride; if there be none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble citizen, I pity he should marry again; I’ll walk along, for it is a good old fellow.
_Car._ I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow twenty thousand ducats, that could but have the face to beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Milan might be bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is.
_Lod._ Oh, fie upon’t! ’twould undo all us that are courtiers, we should have no whoop! with the wenches then.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
_Car._, _Ast._, _Ber._ My lord’s come.
_Hip._ How now, what news?
_Car._, _Ast._, _Ber._ None.
_Lod._ Your lady is with the duke, her father.
_Hip._ And we’ll to them both presently--
_Enter_ ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO.
Who’s that!
_Car._, _Ast._, _Ber._ Signor Friscobaldo.
_Hip._ Friscobaldo, oh! pray call him, and leave me, we two have business.
_Car._ Ho Signor! Signor Friscobaldo! The Lord Hippolito. [_Exeunt all but_ HIPPOLITO _and_ FRISCOBALDO.
_Orl._ My noble lord: my Lord Hippolito! the duke’s son! his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your honoured lordship! does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as Signor Orlando Friscobaldo! old mad Orlando!
_Hip._ Oh, sir, our friends! they ought to be unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued, being locked up, and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood, for all Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still.
_Orl._ Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down, and stripped bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? Though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green?
_Hip._ Scarce can I read the stories on your brow, Which age hath writ there; you look youthful still.
_Orl._ I eat snakes,[236] my lord, I eat snakes.
[236] A supposed recipe for restoring youth.--_Dyce._
My heart shall never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry “Hem,” with a clear voice.
_Hip._ You are the happier man, sir.
_Orl._ Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man; I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in the right colours, I’ll bestow it on your lordship.
_Hip._ I stay for it.
_Orl._ He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore, He that at noon-day walks by a prison door, He that i’th’ sun is neither beam nor mote, He that’s not mad after a petticoat, He for whom poor men’s curses dig no grave, He that is neither lord’s nor lawyer’s slave, He that makes this his sea, and that his shore, He that in’s coffin is richer than before, He that counts youth his sword, and age his staff, He whose right hand carves his own epitaph, He that upon his deathbed is a swan, And dead, no crow--he is a happy man.
_Hip._ It’s very well; I thank you for this picture.