Part 28

MOTH. Thy sight was never yet more precious to me; Welcome, with all th' affection of a mother, That comfort can express from natural love! Since thy birth-joy—a mother’s chiefest gladness, After sh’as undergone her curse of sorrows— Thou wast not more dear to me than this hour Presents thee to my heart: welcome again! LEAN. ’Las, poor affectionate soul, how her joys speak to me! I have observ’d it often, and I know it is The fortune commonly of knavish children To have the loving’st mothers. [_Aside._ MOTH. What’s this gentlewoman? LEAN. O, you have nam’d the most unvalu’dst[1010] purchase That youth of man had ever knowledge of! As often as I look upon that treasure, And know it to be mine—there lies the blessing— It joys me that I ever was ordain’d To have a being, and to live ’mongst men; Which is a fearful living, and a poor one, Let a man truly think on’t: To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots; Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers, When even the very sheets they commit sin in May prove, for aught they know, all their last garments. O what a mark were there for women then! But beauty, able to content a conqueror Whom earth could scarce content, keeps me in compass: I find no wish in me bent sinfully To this man’s sister, or to that man’s wife; In love’s name let ’em keep their honesties, And cleave to their own husbands,—tis their duties: Now when I go to church I can pray handsomely, Nor come like gallants only to see faces, As if lust went to market still on Sundays. I must confess I'm guilty of one sin, mother, More than I brought into the world with me, But that I glory in; ’tis theft, but noble As ever greatness yet shot up withal. MOTH. How’s that? LEAN. Never to be repented, mother, Though sin be death; I had died, if I had not sinn’d; And here’s my masterpiece; do you now behold her! Look on her well, she’s mine; look on her better; Now say if’t be not the best piece of theft That ever was committed? and I've my pardon for’t,— ’Tis seal’d from heaven by marriage. MOTH. Married to her! LEAN. You must keep counsel, mother, I'm undone else; If it be known, I've lost her; do but think now What that loss is,—life’s but a trifle to’t. From Venice, her consent and I have brought her From parents great in wealth, more now in rage; But let storms spend their furies; now we’ve got A shelter o’er our quiet innocent loves, We are contented: little money sh’as brought me; View but her face, you may see all her dowry, Save that which lies lock’d up in hidden virtues, Like jewels kept in cabinets. MOTH. You’re to blame, If your obedience will give way to a check, To wrong such a perfection. LEAN. How? MOTH. Such a creature, To draw her from her fortune, which, no doubt, At the full time might have prov’d rich and noble; You know not what you’ve done; my life can give you But little helps, and my death lesser hopes; And hitherto your own means has but made shift To keep you single, and that hardly too: What ableness have you to do her right then In maintenance fitting her birth and virtues? Which every woman of necessity looks for, And most to go above it, not confin’d By their conditions, virtues, bloods, or births, But flowing to affections, wills, and humours. LEAN. Speak low, sweet mother; you’re able to spoil as many As come within the hearing; if it be not Your fortune to mar all, I have much marvel. I pray do not you teach her to rebel, When she is in a good way to obedience; To rise with other women in commotion Against their husbands for six gowns a-year, And so maintain their cause, when they’re once up, In all things else that require cost enough. They’re all of ’em a kind of spirits soon rais’d, But not so soon laid, mother; as, for example, A woman’s belly is got up in a trice,— A simple charge ere’t be laid down again: So ever in all their quarrels and their courses; And I'm a proud man I hear nothing of ’em, They’re very still, I thank my happiness, And sound asleep, pray let not your tongue wake ’em: If you can but rest quiet, she’s contented With all conditions that my fortunes bring her to; To keep close, as a wife that loves her husband; To go after the rate of my ability, Not the licentious swing of her own will, Like some of her old school-fellows; she intends To take out other works in a new sampler, And frame the fashion of an honest love, Which knows no wants, but, mocking poverty, Brings forth more children, to make rich men wonder At divine providence, that feeds mouths of infants, And sends them none to feed, but stuffs their rooms With fruitful bags, their beds with barren wombs. Good mother, make not you things worse than they are Out of your too much openness; pray take heed on’t, Nor imitate the envy of old people, That strive to mar good sport because they’re perfect: I would have you more pitiful to youth, Especially to your own flesh and blood. I'll prove an excellent husband, here’s my hand, Lay in provision, follow my business roundly, And make you a grandmother in forty weeks. Go, pray salute her, bid her welcome cheerfully. MOTH. [_saluting_ BIANCA] Gentlewoman, thus much is a debt of courtesy, Which fashionable strangers pay each other At a kind meeting: then there’s more than one Due to the knowledge I have of your nearness; I'm bold to come again, and now salute you By the name of daughter, which may challenge more Than ordinary respect. LEAN. Why, this is well now, And I think few mothers of threescore will mend it. [_Aside._ MOTH. What I can bid you welcome to, is mean, But make it all your own; we’re full of wants, And cannot welcome worth. LEAN. Now this is scurvy, And spoke[1011] as if a woman lack’d her teeth; These old folks talk of nothing but defects, Because they grow so full of ’em themselves. [_Aside._ BIAN. Kind mother, there is nothing can be wanting To her that does enjoy all her desires: Heaven send a quiet peace with this man’s love, And I'm as rich as virtue can be poor, Which were enough after the rate of mind To erect temples for content plac’d here. I have forsook friends, fortunes, and my country, And hourly I rejoice in’t. Here’s my friends, And few is the good number.—Thy successes, Howe’er they look, I will still name my fortunes; Hopeful or spiteful, they shall all be welcome: Who invites many guests has of all sorts, As he that traffics much drinks of all fortunes, Yet they must all be welcome, and us’d well. I'll call this place the place of my birth now, And rightly too, for here my love was born, And that’s the birthday of a woman’s joys. You have not bid me welcome since I came. LEAN. That I did questionless. BIAN. No, sure—how was’t? I've quite forgot it. LEAN. Thus. [_Kisses her._ BIAN. O, sir,’tis true, Now I remember well; I've done thee wrong, Pray take’t again, sir. [_Kisses him._ LEAN. How many of these wrongs Could I put up in an hour, and turn up the glass For twice as many more! MOTH. Will’t please you to walk in, daughter? BIAN. Thanks, sweet mother; The voice of her that bare me is not more pleasing. [_Exit with Mother._ LEAN. Though my own care and my rich master’s trust Lay their commands both on my factorship, This day and night I'll know no other business But her and her dear welcome. ’Tis a bitterness To think upon to-morrow! that I must leave Her still to the sweet hopes of the week’s end; That pleasure should be so restrain’d and curb’d After the course of a rich work-master, That never pays till Saturday night! marry, It comes together in a round sum then, And does more good, you’ll say. O fair-ey’d Florence, Didst thou but know what a most matchless jewel Thou now art mistress of, a pride would take thee, Able to shoot destruction through the bloods Of all thy youthful sons! but ’tis great policy To keep choice treasures in obscurest places; Should we shew thieves our wealth, ’twould make ’em bolder; Temptation is a devil will not stick To fasten upon a saint; take heed of that: The jewel is cas’d up from all men’s eyes; Who could imagine now a gem were kept Of that great value under this plain roof? But how in times of absence? what assurance Of this restraint then? Yes, yes, there’s one with her: Old mothers know the world; and such as these, When sons lock chests, are good to look to keys. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A garden attached to_ FABRICIO’S _house_.

_Enter_ GUARDIANO, FABRICIO, _and_ LIVIA.

GUAR. What, has your daughter seen him yet? know you that? FAB. No matter, she shall love him. GUAR. Nay, let’s have fair play; He has been now my ward some fifteen year, And ’tis my purpose, as time calls upon me, By custom seconded and such moral virtues, To tender him a wife. Now, sir, this wife I'd fain elect out of a daughter of yours; You see my meaning’s fair: if now this daughter So tender’d,—let me come to your own phrase, sir,— Should offer to refuse him, I were hansell’d.— Thus am I fain to calculate all my words For the meridian of a foolish old man, To take his understanding. [_Aside._]—What do you answer, sir? FAB. I say still, she shall love him. GUAR. Yet again? And shall she have no reason for this love? FAB. Why, do you think that women love with reason? GUAR. I perceive fools are not at all hours foolish, No more than wise men wise. [_Aside._ FAB. I had a wife, She ran mad for me; she had no reason for’t, For aught I could perceive.—What think you, lady sister? GUAR. ’Twas a fit match that, being both out of their wits; A loving wife, it seem’d She strove to come as near you as she could. [_Aside._ FAB. And if her daughter prove not mad for love too, She takes not after her; nor after me, If she prefer reason before my pleasure.— You’re an experienc’d widow, lady sister, I pray, let your opinion come amongst us. LIV. I must offend you then, if truth will do’t, And take my niece’s part, and call’t injustice To force her love to one she never saw: Maids should both see and like, all little enough; If they love truly after that, ’tis well. Counting the time, she takes one man till death; That’s a hard task, I tell you; but one may Inquire at three years' end amongst young wives, And mark how the game goes. FAB. Why, is not man Tied to the same observance, lady sister, And in one woman? LIV. ’Tis enough for him; Besides, he tastes of many sundry dishes That we poor wretches never lay our lips to, As obedience forsooth, subjection, duty, and such kickshaws, All of our making, but serv’d in to them; And if we lick a finger then sometimes, We’re not to blame, your best cooks [often] use it. FAB. Thou’rt a sweet lady, sister, and a witty. LIV. A witty! O the bud of commendation, Fit for a girl of sixteen! I am blown, man; I should be wise by this time; and, for instance, I've buried my two husbands in good fashion, And never mean more to marry. GUAR. No! why so, lady? LIV. Because the third shall never bury me: I think I'm more than witty. How think you, sir?' FAB. I have paid often fees to a counsellor Has had a weaker brain. LIV. Then I must tell you Your money was soon parted. GUAR. Light her now, brother.[1012] LIV. Where is my niece? let her be sent for straight, If you have any hope ’twill prove a wedding; ’Tis fit, i’faith, she should have one sight of him, And stop upon’t, and not be join’d in haste, As if they went to stock a new-found land. FAB. Look out her uncle, and you’re sure of her, Those two are ne’er asunder; they’ve been heard In argument at midnight; moonshine nights Are noondays with them; they walk out their sleeps, Or rather at those hours appear like those That walk in ’em, for so they did to me. Look you, I told you truth; they’re like a chain,— Draw but one link, all follows.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ ISABELLA.

GUAR. O affinity, What piece of excellent workmanship art thou! ’Tis work clean wrought, for there’s no lust but love in’t, And that abundantly; when in stranger things There is no love at all but what lust brings. FAB. On with your mask! for ’tis your part to see now, And not be seen: go to, make use of your time; See what you mean to like; nay, and I charge you, Like what you see: do you hear me? there’s no dallying; The gentleman’s almost twenty, and ’tis time He were getting lawful heirs, and you a-breeding on ’em. ISA. Good father—— FAB. Tell not me of tongues and rumours: You’ll say the gentleman is somewhat simple; The better for a husband, were you wise, For those that marry fools live ladies' lives. On with the mask! I'll hear no more: he’s rich; The fool’s hid under bushels. LIV. Not so hid neither But here’s a foul great piece of him, methinks; What will he be when he comes altogether?

_Enter the Ward with a trap-stick, and_ SORDIDO.

WARD. Beat him? I beat him out o' the field with his own cat-stick, Yet gave him the first hand. SOR. O strange! WARD. I did it; Then he set jacks[1013] on me. SOR. What, my lady’s tailor? WARD. Ay, and I beat him too. SOR. Nay, that’s no wonder, He’s us’d to beating. WARD. Nay, I tickled him When I came once to my tippings. SOR. Now you talk on ’em, There was a poulterer’s wife made a great complaint Of you last night to your guardianer, that you struck A bump in her child’s head as big as an egg. WARD. An egg may prove a chicken, then in time The poulterer’s wife will get by’t: when I am In game, I'm furious; came my mother’s eyes In my way, I would not lose a fair end; no, Were she alive, but with one tooth in her head, I should venture the striking out of that: I think of nobody when I'm in play, I am so earnest. Coads me, my guardianer! Prithee, lay up my cat and cat-stick[1014] safe. SOR. Where, sir? i' the chimney-corner? WARD. Chimney-corner! SOR. Yes, sir; your cats are always safe i' the chimney-corner, Unless they burn their coats. WARD. Marry, that I am afraid on! SOR. Why, then, I will bestow your cat i' the gutter, And there she’s safe, I'm sure. WARD. If I but live To keep a house, I'll make thee a great man, If meat and drink can do’t. I can stoop gallantly, And pitch out when I list; I'm dog at a hole: I mar’l[1015] my guardianer does not seek a wife for me; I protest I'll have a bout with the maids else, Or contract myself at midnight to the larder-woman, In presence of a fool or a sack-posset. GUAR. Ward! WARD. I feel myself after any exercise Horribly prone: let me but ride, I'm lusty; A cock-horse, straight, i’faith! GUAR. Why, Ward, I say! WARD. I'll forswear eating eggs in moonshine nights; There’s ne’er a one I eat but turns into a cock In four-and-twenty hours; if my hot blood Be not took down in time, sure ’twill crow shortly. GUAR. Do you hear, sir? follow me, I must new-school you. WARD. School me? I scorn that now, I am past schooling: I'm not so base to learn to write and read; I was born to better fortunes in my cradle.

[_Exeunt._ GUARDIANO, _the Ward, and_ SORDIDO. FAB. How do you like him, girl? this is your husband: Like him, or like him not, wench, you shall have him, And you shall love him. LIV. O, soft there, brother! though you be a justice, Your warrant cannot be serv’d out of your liberty; You may compel, out of the power of father, Things merely harsh to a maid’s flesh and blood; But when you come to love, there the soil alters, You’re in another country, where your laws Are no more set by than the cacklings Of geese in Rome’s great Capitol. FAB. Marry him she shall then, Let her agree upon love afterwards. [_Exit._ LIV. You speak now, brother, like an honest mortal That walks upon th' earth with a staff; you were up I' the clouds before; you would command love, And so do most old folks that go without it.— My best and dearest brother, I could dwell here; There is not such another seat on earth, Where all good parts better express themselves. HIP. You’ll make me blush anon. LIV. ’Tis but like saying grace before a feast then, And that’s most comely; thou art all a feast, And she that has thee a most happy guest. Prithee, cheer up thy[1016] niece with special counsel. [_Exit._ HIP. I would ’twere fit to speak to her what I would; but ’Twas not a thing ordain’d, heaven has forbid it; And ’tis most meet that I should rather perish Than the decree divine receive least blemish. Feed inward, you my sorrows, make no noise, Consume me silent, let me be stark dead Ere the world know I'm sick. You see my honesty; If you befriend me, so. [_Aside._ ISA. Marry a fool! Can there be greater misery to a woman That means to keep her days true to her husband, And know no other man? so virtue wills it. Why, how can I obey and honour him, But I must needs commit idolatry? A fool is but the image of a man, And that but ill made neither. O the heartbreakings Of miserable maids, where love’s enforc’d! The best condition is but bad enough; When women have their choices, commonly They do but buy their thraldoms, and bring great portions To men to keep ’em in subjection; As if a fearful prisoner should bribe The keeper to be good to him, yet lies in still, And glad of a good usage, a good look sometimes. Byrlady,[1017] no misery surmounts a woman’s; Men buy their slaves, but women buy their masters; Yet honesty and love make[1018] all this happy, And, next to angels', the most bless’d estate. That providence, that has made every poison Good for some use, and sets four warring elements At peace in man, can make a harmony In things that are most strange to human reason. O, but this marriage! [_Aside._]—What, are you sad too, uncle? Faith, then there’s a whole household down together: Where shall I go to seek my comfort now, When my best friend’s distress’d? what is’t afflicts you, sir? HIP. Faith, nothing but one grief, that will not leave me, And now ’tis welcome; every man has something To bring him to his end, and this will serve, Join’d with your father’s cruelty to you,— That helps it forward. ISA. O, be cheer’d, sweet uncle! How long has ’t been upon you? I ne’er spied it; What a dull sight have I! how long, I pray, sir? HIP. Since I first saw you, niece, and left Bologna. ISA. And could you deal so unkindly with my heart, To keep it up so long hid from my pity? Alas! how shall I trust your love hereafter? Have we pass’d through so many arguments, And miss’d of that still, the most needful one? Walk’d[1019] out whole nights together in discourses, And the main point forgot? we’re to blame both; This is an obstinate, wilful forgetfulness, And faulty on both parts: let’s lose no time now; Begin, good uncle, you that feel ’t; what is it? HIP. You of all creatures, niece, must never hear on’t, ’Tis not a thing ordain’d for you to know. ISA. Not I, sir? all my joys that word cuts off; You made profession once you lov’d me best, ’Twas but profession. HIP. Yes, I do’t too truly, And fear I shall be chid for’t. Know the worst then; I love thee dearlier than an uncle can. ISA. Why, so you ever said, and I believ’d it. HIP. So simple is the goodness of her thoughts, They understand not yet th' unhallow’d language Of a near sinner; I must yet be forc’d, Though blushes be my venture, to come nearer.— [_Aside._ As a man loves his wife, so love I thee. ISA. What’s that? Methought I heard ill news come toward me, Which commonly we understand too soon, Then over-quick at hearing; I'll prevent it, Though my joys fare the harder, welcome it: It shall ne’er come so near mine ear again. Farewell all friendly solaces and discourses; I'll learn to live without ye, for your dangers Are greater than your comforts. What’s become Of truth in love, if such we cannot trust, When blood, that should be love, is mix’d with lust? [_Exit._ HIP. The worst can be but death, and let it come; He that lives joyless, every day’s his doom. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_Street before the house of_ LEANTIO’S _Mother_.

_Enter_ LEANTIO.