Part 17

_Orl._ After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt; sit neither at the duke’s side, nor lie at his feet. Wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, no man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a winding sheet: but like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me. I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in my age. I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go singing to my nest, why so! If a crow! throw me out for carrion, and pick out mine eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now! ha?

_Hip._ You may; would I were partner in your mirth.

_Orl._ I have a little, have all things. I have nothing; I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should not I be in my jocundare?

_Hip._ Is your wife then departed?

_Orl._ She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me. Here, she’s here: but before me, when a knave and a quean are married, they commonly walk like serjeants together: but a good couple are seldom parted.

_Hip._ You had a daughter too, sir, had you not?

_Orl._ O my lord! this old tree had one branch, and but one branch growing out of it. It was young, it was fair, it was straight; I pruned it daily, dressed it carefully, kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun, yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs; I hewed it down; what’s become of it, I neither know, nor care.

_Hip._ Then I can tell you what’s become of it; That branch is withered.

_Orl._ So ’twas long ago.

_Hip._ Her name I think was Bellafront, she’s dead.

_Orl._ Ha? dead?

_Hip._ Yes; what of her was left, not worth the keeping, Even in my sight was thrown into a grave.

_Orl._ Dead! my last and best peace go with her! I see Death’s a good trencherman, he can eat coarse homely meat, as well as the daintiest.

_Hip._ Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely?

_Orl._ O my lord! a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines; all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of hell, to be her props, that she may spread upon them. And when she’s ripe, every slave has a pull at her, then must she be pressed. The young beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge, yet to taste that liquorish wine, is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead?

_Hip._ She’s turned to earth.

_Orl._ Would she were turned to Heaven! Umph, is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols; no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave sleep all my shame, and her own; and all my sorrows, and all her sins!

_Hip._ I’m glad you’re wax, not marble; you are made Of man’s best temper; there are now good hopes That all these heaps of ice about your heart, By which a father’s love was frozen up, Are thawed in these sweet showers, fetched from your eyes; We are ne’er like angels till our passion dies. She is not dead, but lives under worse fate; I think she’s poor; and more to clip her wings, Her husband at this hour lies in the jail, For killing of a man. To save his blood, Join all your force with mine: mine shall be shown: The getting of his life preserves your own.

_Orl._ In my daughter, you will say! does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is I have a handkercher to drink them up, soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor?

_Hip._ Trust me, I think she is.

_Orl._ Then she’s a right strumpet; I ne’er knew any of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have too many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools and knaves do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher: she is the gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket[237] within it, her money, her money.

[237] Preserve.

_Hip._ I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom Gives warmth to no such snakes. When did you see her?

_Orl._ Not seventeen summers.

_Hip._ Is your hate so old?

_Orl._ Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.

_Hip._ Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.

_Orl._ No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world: I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste poison; I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic.

_Hip._ Nay, but Friscobaldo!--

_Orl._ I detest her, I defy[238] both, she’s not mine, she’s--

[238] Renounce.

_Hip._ Hear her but speak.

_Orl._ I love no mermaids, I’ll not be caught with a quail-pipe.[239]

[239] Made use of by fowlers to allure quails.

_Hip._ You’re now beyond all reason.

_Orl._ I am then a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and not dishonour my creation, than be a doting father, and like Time, be the destruction of mine own brood.

_Hip._ Is’t dotage to relieve your child, being poor?

_Orl._ Is’t fit for an old man to keep a whore?

_Hip._ ’Tis charity too.

_Orl._ ’Tis foolery; relieve her! Were her cold limbs stretched out upon a bier, I would not sell this dirt under my nails To buy her an hour’s breath, nor give this hair, Unless it were to choke her.

_Hip._ Fare you well, for I’ll trouble you no more.

_Orl._ And fare you well, sir. [_Exit_ HIPPOLITO.] Go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty. ’Las my girl! art thou poor? poverty dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between them; despair is one of hell’s catch-poles; and lest that devil arrest her, I’ll to her. Yet she shall not know me; she shall drink of my wealth, as beggars do of running water, freely, yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father see his child starve? That were hard; the pelican does it, and shall not I? Yes, I will victual the camp for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave there, her husband, will be hanged, I fear; I’ll keep his neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not know how.

_Enter two ~Serving-men~._

How now, knaves? whither wander you?

_1st Ser._ To seek your worship.

_Orl._ Stay, which of you has my purse? what money have you about you?

_2nd Ser._ Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.

_Orl._ Give it me.--[_Takes purse._]--I think I have some gold about me; yes, it’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and get you home. Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet I’ll be so bold as to pull your coat over your ears.

[ORLANDO _puts on the coat of ~1st Serving-man~, and gives him in exchange his cloak_.

_1st Ser._ What do you mean to do, sir?

_Orl._ Hold thy tongue, knave, take thou my cloak. I hope I play not the paltry merchant in this bart’ring; bid the steward of my house sleep with open eyes in my absence, and to look to all things. Whatsoever I command by letters to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well?

_2nd Ser._ As if it were made for your worship.

_Orl._ You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear blue,[240] when your master is one of your fellows. Away! do not see me.

[240] The common livery of the time.

_Both._ This is excellent. [_Exeunt ~Serving-men~._

_Orl._ I should put on a worse suit, too; perhaps I will. My vizard is on; now to this masque. Say I should shave off this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter.

Well, I will spoil a good face for once. My beard being off, how should I look? even like A winter cuckoo, or unfeathered owl; Yet better lose this hair, than lose her soul. [_Exit._

[Illustration]

## SCENE III.--_A Room in_ CANDIDO’S _House_. CANDIDO, _the ~Bride~ and

~Guests~ discovered at dinner; ~Prentices~ waiting on them_.

_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO.

_Cand._ O gentlemen, so late, you are very welcome, pray sit down.

_Lod._ Carolo, did’st e’er see such a nest of caps?[241]

[241] In allusion to the caps worn both by traders and their apprentices.

_Ast._ Methinks it’s a most civil and most comely sight.

_Lod._ What does he i’th’ middle look like?

_Ast._ Troth, like a spire steeple in a country village overpeering so many thatched houses.

_Lod._ It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers without pikes;[242] they sit for all the world like a pair of organs, and he’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.

[242] Bucklers formerly had long spikes in their centre.

_Ast._ Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Cand._ What’s that you laugh at, signors?

_Lod._ Troth, shall I tell you, and aloud I’ll tell it; We laugh to see, yet laugh we not in scorn, Amongst so many caps that long hat worn.

_1st Guest._ Mine is as tall a felt as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block[243] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair.

[243] The model for the hat.

_Cand._ Indeed you’re good observers; it shows strange: But gentlemen, I pray neither contemn, Nor yet deride a civil ornament; I could build so much in the round cap’s praise, That ’bove this high roof, I this flat would raise.

_Lod._ Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do’t.

_Cand._ So all these guests will pardon me, I’ll do’t.

_Guests._ With all our hearts.

_Cand._ Thus, then, in the cap’s honour. To every sex, and state, both nature, time, The country’s laws, yea, and the very clime Do allot distinct habits; the spruce courtier Jets[244] up and down in silk: the warrior Marches in buff, the clown plods on in gray: But for these upper garments thus I say, The seaman has his cap, pared without brim; The gallant’s head is feathered, that fits him; The soldier has his morion, women ha’ tires; Beasts have their head-pieces, and men ha’ theirs.

[244] Struts.

_Lod._ Proceed.

_Cand._ Each degree has his fashion, it’s fit then, One should be laid by for the citizen, And that’s the cap which you see swells not high, For caps are emblems of humility. It is a citizen’s badge, and first was worn By th’ Romans; for when any bondman’s turn Came to be made a freeman, thus ’twas said, He to the cap was called, that is, was made Of Rome a freeman; but was first close shorn: And so a citizen’s hair is still short worn.

_Lod._ That close shaving made barbers a company, And now every citizen uses it.

_Cand._ Of geometric figures the most rare, And perfect’st, are the circle and the square; The city and the school much build upon These figures, for both love proportion. The city-cap is round, the scholar’s square, To show that government and learning are The perfect’st limbs i’ th’ body of a state: For without them, all’s disproportionate. If the cap had no honour, this might rear it, The reverend fathers of the law do wear it. It’s light for summer, and in cold it sits Close to the skull, a warm house for the wits; It shows the whole face boldly, ’tis not made As if a man to look on’t were afraid, Nor like a draper’s shop with broad dark shed, For he’s no citizen that hides his head. Flat caps as proper are to city gowns, As to armours helmets, or to kings their crowns. Let then the city-cap by none be scorned, Since with it princes’ heads have been adorned. If more the round cap’s honour you would know, How would this long gown with this steeple[245] show?

[245] A tall pointed hat satirized by Stubbes in his _Anatomie of Abuses_ (1538). Probably at this point Candido takes the steeple-like hat worn by the 1st Guest, and puts it on his own head.

_All._ Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly.

_Cand._ Pray, signor, pardon me, ’twas done in jest.

_Bride._ A cup of claret wine there.

_1st Pren._ Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride.

_Car._ You ha’ well set out the cap, sir.

_Lod._ Nay, that’s flat.

_Cand._ A health!

_Lod._ Since his cap’s round, that shall go round. Be bare, For in the cap’s praise all of you have share.

[_They bare their heads and drink. As ~1st Prentice~ offers the wine to the ~Bride~, she hits him on the lips, breaking the glass._

The bride’s at cuffs.

_Cand._ Oh, peace, I pray thee, thus far off I stand, I spied the error of my servants; She called for claret, and you filled out sack; That cup give me, ’tis for an old man’s back, And not for hers. Indeed, ’twas but mistaken; Ask all these else.

_Guests._ No faith, ’twas but mistaken.

_1st Pren._ Nay, she took it right enough.

_Cand._ Good Luke, reach her that glass of claret. Here mistress bride, pledge me there.

_Bride._ Now I’ll none. [_Exit._

_Cand._ How now?

_Lod._ Look what your mistress ails.

_1st Pren._ Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,--a scurvy trick.

_Cand._ I pray you, hold your tongue.--My servant there tells me she is not well.

_Guests._ Step to her, step to her.

_Lod._ A word with you: do ye hear? This wench, your new wife, will take you down in your wedding shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding garters.

_Cand._ How, hang her in her garters?

_Lod._ Will you be a tame pigeon still? Shall your back be like a tortoise shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse, and mouse you worse: look to’t.

_Cand._ What would you have me do, sir?

_Lod._ What would I have you do? Swear, swagger, brawl, fling! for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already; you know, that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked. The moral of which is, that a man must, from his beginning be crooked to his wife; be you like an orange to her, let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me?

_Cand._ In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just.

_Lod._ Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me?

_Cand._ I have the very same which myself wore.

_Lod._ I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and within this two hour I’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs.

_Cand._ It will be but some jest, sir?

_Lod._ Only a jest: farewell, come, Carolo. [_Exeunt_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO.

_Guests._ We’ll take our leaves, sir, too.

_Cand._ Pray conceit not ill Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight, Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic, And he tells me, the disease called the mother,[246] Hangs on my wife, it is a vehement heaving And beating of the stomach, and that swelling Did with the pain thereof cramp up her arm, That hit his lips, and brake the glass,--no harm, It was no harm!

[246] Hysteria.

_Guests._ No, signor, none at all.

_Cand._ The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance. But come, we’ll close this brawl up in some dance. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

ACT THE SECOND.

## SCENE I.--_A Room in_ MATHEO’S _House_.

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _and_ MATHEO.

BELL. O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave and art alive again? Oh welcome, welcome!

_Mat._ Dost know me? my cloak, prithee, lay’t up. Yes, faith, my winding-sheet was taken out of lavender, to be stuck with rosemary[247]: I lacked but the knot here, or here; yet if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice[248]: but sweetest villain, I am here now and I will talk with thee soon.

[247] Rosemary was used as an emblem of remembrance at both funerals and weddings.

[248] A favourite simile with the writers of the time.

_Bell._ And glad am I thou art here.

_Mat._ Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah! my little plump rogue. I’ll bear up for all this, and fly high. _Catso catso._[249]

[249] _Ital._ A term of abuse or contempt.

_Bell._ Matheo?

_Mat._ What sayest, what sayest? O brave fresh air! a pox on these grates and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron. I’ll bear up, I’ll fly high, wench, hang toff.

_Bell._ Matheo, prithee, make thy prison thy glass, And in it view the wrinkles, and the scars, By which thou wert disfigured; viewing them, mend them.

_Mat._ I’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring boys.[250]

[250] Roystering young gallants. A highly favourable female version of the type is given in Dekker and Middleton’s comedy, _The Roaring Girl_.

_Bell._ Thou dost not hear me?

_Mat._ Yes, faith, do I.

_Bell._ Thou has been in the hands of misery, and ta’en strong physic; prithee now be sound.

_Mat._ Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now. Oh, when shall I bizzle, bizzle?[251]

[251] _i.e._ Get a chance of drinking to excess.

_Bell._ Nay, see, thou’rt thirsty still for poison! Come, I will not have thee swagger.

_Mat._ Honest ape’s face!

_Bell._ ’Tis that sharpened an axe to cut thy throat. Good love, I would not have thee sell thy substance And time, worth all, in those damned shops of hell; Those dicing houses, that stand never well, But when they stand most ill; that four-squared sin Has almost lodged us in the beggar’s inn. Besides, to speak which even my soul does grieve, A sort of ravens have hung upon thy sleeve, And fed upon thee: good Mat, if you please, Scorn to spread wing amongst so base as these; By them thy fame is speckled, yet it shows Clear amongst them; so crows are fair with crows. Custom in sin, gives sin a lovely dye; Blackness in Moors is no deformity.

_Mat._ Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope for my soul, I will turn over a new leaf. The prison I confess has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship, may be lousy. [_Knocking within._

_Bell._ One knocks at door.

_Mat._ I’ll be the porter: they shall see a jail cannot hold a brave spirit, I’ll fly high. [_Exit._

_Bell._ How wild is his behaviour! Oh, I fear He’s spoiled by prison, he’s half damned comes there, But I must sit all storms: when a full sail His fortunes spread, he loved me: being now poor, I’ll beg for him, and no wife can do more.

_Re-enter_ MATHEO, _with_ ORLANDO _disguised as a ~Serving-man~_.

_Mat._ Come in, pray! would you speak with me, sir?

_Orl._ Is your name Signor Matheo?

_Mat._ My name is Signor Matheo.

_Orl._ Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir?

_Mat._ This gentlewoman is my wife, sir.

_Orl._ The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both your loves!--The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot that. [_Aside._] I’m an old man, sir, and am troubled with a whoreson salt rheum, that I cannot hold my water.--Gentlewoman, the last man I served was your father.

_Bell._ My father? any tongue that sounds his name, Speaks music to me; welcome, good old man! How does my father? lives he? has he health? How does my father?--I so much do shame him, So much do wound him, that I scarce dare name him. [_Aside._

_Orl._ I can speak no more.

_Mat._ How now, old lad, what dost cry?

_Orl._ The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well seasoned, for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I have a suit to you.

_Mat._ What is’t, my little white-pate?

_Orl._ Troth, sir, I have a mind to serve your worship.

_Mat._ To serve me? Troth, my friend, my fortunes are, as a man may say--

_Orl._ Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in us, and go upon crutches, that covetousness does but then lie in her cradle; ’tis not so with me. Lechery loves to dwell in the fairest lodging, and covetousness in the oldest buildings, that are ready to fall: but my white head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If a serving-man at my years, that has sailed about the world, be not stored with biscuit enough to serve him the voyage out of his life, and to bring him East home, ill pity but all his days should be fasting days. I care not so much for wages, for I have scraped a handful of gold together. I have a little money, sir, which I would put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it more--

_Mat._ No, no, you say well, thou sayest well; but I must tell you,--how much is the money, sayest thou?

_Orl._ About twenty pound, sir.

_Mat._ Twenty pound? Let me see: that shall bring thee in, after ten _per centum per annum_.

_Orl._ No, no, no, sir, no: I cannot abide to have money engender: fie upon this silver lechery, fie; if I may have meat to my mouth, and rags to my back, and a flock-bed to snort upon when I die, the longer liver take all.

_Mat._ A good old boy, i’faith! If thou servest me, thou shall eat as _I_ eat, drink as _I_ drink, lie as _I_ lie, and ride as _I_ ride.

_Orl._ That’s if you have money to hire horses. [_Aside._

_Mat._ Front, what dost thou think on’t? This good old lad here shall serve me.

_Bell._ Alas, Matheo, wilt thou load a back That is already broke?

_Mat._ Peace, pox on you, peace. There’s a trick in’t, I fly high, it shall be so, Front, as I tell you: give me thy hand, thou shalt serve me i’faith: welcome: as for your money--

_Orl._ Nay, look you, sir, I have it here.

_Mat._ Pish, keep it thyself, man, and then thou’rt sure ’tis safe.

_Orl._ Safe! an’ twere ten thousand ducats, your worship should be my cash-keeper; I have heard what your worship is, an excellent dunghill cock, to scatter all abroad; but I’ll venture twenty pounds on’s head. [_Gives money to_ MATHEO.

_Mat._ And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, Signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once?

_Orl._ I served him so long, till he turned me out of doors.

_Mat._ It’s a notable chuff[252]: I ha’ not seen him many a day.

[252] See note _ante_, p. 99.

_Orl._ No matter an you ne’er see him; it’s an arrant grandee, a churl, and as damned a cut-throat.

_Bell._ Thou villain, curb thy tongue! thou art a Judas, To sell thy master’s name to slander thus.