Part 29
LEAN. Methinks I'm even as dull now at departure, As men observe great gallants the next day After a revel;[1020] you shall see ’em look Much of my fashion, if you mark ’em well. ’Tis even a second hell to part from pleasure When man has got a smack on’t: as many holydays Coming together make[1021] your poor heads idle A great while after, and are said to stick Fast in their fingers' ends,—even so does game In a new-married couple; for the time It spoils all thrift, and indeed lies a-bed T' invent all the new ways for great expenses. [BIANCA _and Mother appear above_. See, and[1022] she be not got on purpose now Into the window to look after me! I've no power to go now, and[1022] I should be hang’d; Farewell all business; I desire no more Than I see yonder: let the goods at key Look to themselves; why should I toil my youth out? It is but begging two or three year sooner, And stay with her continually: is’t a match? O, fie, what a religion have I leap’d into! Get out again, for shame! the man loves best When his care’s most, that shews his zeal to love: Fondness is but the idiot to[1023] affection, That plays at hot-cockles with rich merchants' wives, Good to make sport withal when the chest’s full, And the long warehouse cracks. ’Tis time of day For us to be more wise; ’tis early with us; And if they lose the morning of their affairs, They commonly lose the best part of the day: Those that are wealthy, and have got enough, ’Tis after sunset with ’em; they may rest, Grow fat with ease, banquet, and toy, and play, When such as I enter the heat o' the day, And I'll do’t cheerfully. BIAN. I perceive, sir, You’re not gone yet; I've good hope you’ll stay now. LEAN. Farewell; I must not. BIAN. Come, come, pray return; To-morrow, adding but a little care more, Will despatch all as well, believe me ’twill, sir. LEAN. I could well wish myself where you would have me; But love that’s wanton must be rul’d awhile By that that’s careful, or all goes to ruin: As fitting is a government in love As in a kingdom; where ’tis all mere lust, ’Tis like an insurrection in the people, That, rais’d in self-will, wars against all reason; But love that is respective for increase Is like a good king, that keeps all in peace. Once more, farewell. BIAN. But this one night, I prithee! LEAN. Alas, I'm in for twenty, if I stay, And then for forty more! I've such luck to flesh, I never bought a horse but he bore double. If I stay any longer, I shall turn An everlasting spendthrift: as you love To be maintain’d well, do not call me again, For then I shall not care which end goes forward. Again, farewell to thee. BIAN. Since it must, farewell too. [_Exit_ LEANTIO. MOTH. Faith, daughter, you’re to blame; you take the course To make him an ill husband, troth you do; And that disease is catching, I can tell you, Ay, and soon taken by a young man’s blood, And that with little urging. Nay, fie, see now, What cause have you to weep? would I had no more, That have liv’d threescore years! there were a cause, And[1024] ’twere well thought on. Trust me, you’re to blame; His absence cannot last five days at utmost: Why should those tears be fetch’d forth? cannot love Be even as well express’d in a good look, But it must see her face still in a fountain? It shews like a country maid dressing her head By a dish of water: come, ’tis an old custom To weep for love.
_Enter several Boys, several Citizens, and an Apprentice._
FIRST BOY. Now they come, now they come! SEC. BOY. The duke! THIRD BOY. The state[s]! FIRST CIT. How near, boy? FIRST BOY. I' the next street, sir, hard at hand. FIRST CIT. You, sirrah, get a standing for your mistress, The best in all the city. APPREN. I have’t for her, sir; ’Twas a thing I provided for her over-night, ’Tis ready at her pleasure. FIRST CIT. Fetch her to’t then: Away, sir! [_Exeunt Boys, Citizens, and Apprentice._ BIAN. What’s the meaning of this hurry? Can you tell, mother? MOTH. What a memory Have I! I see by that years come upon me: Why, ’tis a yearly custom and solemnity, Religiously observ’d by the Duke and state[s], To St. Mark’s temple, the fifteenth of April; See, if my dull brains had not quite forgot it! ’Twas happily question’d of thee; I had gone down else, Sat like a drone below, and never thought on’t. I would not, to be ten years younger again, That you had lost the sight: now you shall see Our Duke, a goodly gentleman of his years. BIAN. Is he old, then? MOTH. About some fifty-five. BIAN. That’s no great age in man; he’s then at best For wisdom and for judgment. MOTH. The lord Cardinal, His noble brother—there’s a comely gentleman, And greater in devotion than in blood. BIAN. He’s worthy to be mark’d. MOTH. You shall behold All our chief states of Florence: you came fortunately Against this solemn day. BIAN. I hope so always. [_Music within._ MOTH. I hear ’em near us now: do you stand easily? BIAN. Exceeding well, good mother. MOTH. Take this stool. BIAN. I need it not, I thank you. MOTH. Use your will then.
_Enter six knights bare-headed, then two cardinals, then the lord Cardinal, then the Duke; after him the states of Florence by two and two, with variety of music and song. They pass over the stage in great pomp, and exeunt._
MOTH. How like you, daughter? BIAN. ’Tis a noble state; Methinks my soul could dwell upon the reverence Of such a solemn and most worthy custom. Did not the Duke look up? methought he saw us. MOTH. That’s every one’s conceit that sees a duke; If he look stedfastly, he looks straight at them, When he, perhaps, good, careful gentleman, Never minds any, but the look he casts Is at his own intentions, and his object Only the public good. BIAN. Most likely so. MOTH. Come, come, we’ll end this argument below. [_Exeunt above._
ACT II. SCENE I.
_An apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house_.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ LIVIA.
LIV. A strange affection, brother! when I think on’t, I wonder how thou cam’st by’t. HIP. Even as easily As man comes by destruction, which ofttimes He wears in his own bosom. LIV. Is the world So populous in women, and creation So prodigal in beauty, and so various, Yet does love turn thy point to thine own blood? ’Tis somewhat too unkindly: must thy eye Dwell evilly on the fairness of thy kindred, And seek not where it should? it is confin’d Now in a narrower prison than was made for’t; It is allow’d a stranger; and where bounty Is made the great man’s honour, ’tis ill husbandry To spare, and servants shall have small thanks for’t; So he heaven’s bounty seems to scorn and mock That spares free means, and spends of his own stock. HIP. Ne’er was man’s misery so soon summ’d[1025] up, Counting how truly. LIV. Nay, I love you so, That I shall venture much to keep a change from you So fearful as this grief will bring upon you; Faith, it even kills me when I see you faint Under a reprehension, and I'll leave it, Though I know nothing can be better for you. Prithee, sweet brother, let not passion waste The goodness of thy time and of thy fortune: Thou keep’st the treasure of that life I love As dearly as mine own; and if you think My former words too bitter, which were minister’d By truth and zeal, ’tis but a hazarding Of grace and virtue, and I can bring forth As pleasant fruits as sensuality wishes In all her teeming longings; this I can do. HIP. O, nothing that can make my wishes perfect! LIV. I would that love of yours were pawn’d to’t, brother, And as soon lost that way as I could win! Sir, I could give as shrewd a lift to chastity As any she that wears a tongue in Florence; Sh’ad need be a good horsewoman, and sit fast, Whom my strong argument could not fling at last. Prithee, take courage, man; though I should counsel Another to despair, yet I am pitiful To thy afflictions, and will venture hard— I will not name for what, it is not handsome; Find you the proof, and praise me. HIP. Then I fear me I shall not praise you in haste. LIV. This is the comfort, You are not the first, brother, has attempted Things more forbidden than this seems to be. I'll minister all cordials now to you, Because I'll cheer you up, sir. HIP. I'm past hope. LIV. Love, thou shalt see me do a strange cure then, As e’er was wrought on a disease so mortal And near akin to shame. When shall you see her? HIP. Never in comfort more. LIV. You’re so impatient too! HIP. Will you believe? death, sh’as forsworn my company, And seal’d it with a blush. LIV. So, I perceive All lies upon my hands then; well, the more glory When the work’s finish’d.
_Enter Servant._
How now, sir? the news? SER. Madam, your niece, the virtuous Isabella, Is lighted now to see you. LIV. That’s great fortune; Sir, your stars bless you.—Simple, lead[1026] her in. [_Exit Servant._ HIP. What’s this to me? LIV. Your absence, gentle brother; I must bestir my wits for you. HIP. Ay, to great purpose. [_Exit._ LIV. Beshrew you, would I lov’d you not so well! I'll go to bed, and leave this deed undone: I am the fondest where I once affect; The carefull’st of their healths and of their ease, forsooth, That I look still but slenderly to mine own: I take a course to pity him so much now, That I've none left for modesty and myself. This ’tis to grow so liberal: you’ve few sisters That love their brothers' ease ’bove their own honesties; But if you question my affections, That will be found my fault.
_Enter_ ISABELLA.
Niece, your love’s welcome. Alas, what draws that paleness to thy cheeks? This enforc’d marriage towards?[1027] ISA. It helps, good aunt, Amongst some other griefs; but those I'll keep Lock’d up in modest silence, for they’re sorrows Would shame the tongue more than they grieve the thought. LIV. Indeed, the Ward is simple. ISA. Simple! that were well; Why, one might make good shift with such a husband, But he’s a fool entail’d, he halts downright in’t. LIV. And knowing this, I hope ’tis at your choice To take or refuse, niece. ISA. You see it is not. I loathe him more than beauty can hate death, Or age her spiteful neighbour. LIV. Let ’t appear then. ISA. How can I, being born with that obedience That must submit unto a father’s will? If he command, I must of force consent. LIV. Alas, poor soul! be not offended, prithee, If I set by the name of niece awhile, And bring in pity in a stranger fashion; It lies here in this breast would cross this match. ISA. How! cross it, aunt? LIV. Ay, and give thee more liberty Than thou hast reason yet to apprehend. ISA. Sweet aunt, in goodness keep not hid from me What may befriend my life! LIV. Yes, yes, I must; When I return to reputation, And think upon the solemn vow I made To your dead mother, my most loving sister; As long as I've her memory ’twixt mine eyelids, Look for no pity now. ISA. Kind, sweet, dear aunt—— LIV. No, ’twas a secret I've took special care of, Deliver’d by your mother on her deathbed, That’s nine years now, and I'll not part from’t yet, Though ne’er was fitter time, nor greater cause for’t. ISA. As you desire the praises of a virgin—— LIV. Good sorrow, I would do thee any kindness Not wronging secrecy or reputation. ISA. Neither of which, as I have hope of fruit[ful]ness, Shall receive wrong from me. LIV. Nay, ’twould be your own wrong As much as any’s, should it come to that once. ISA. I need no better means to work persuasion then. LIV. Let it suffice, you may refuse this fool, Or you may take him, as you see occasion For your advantage; the best wits will do’t; You’ve liberty enough in your own will, You cannot be enforc’d; there grows the flower, If you could pick it out, makes whole life sweet to you. That which you call your father’s command’s nothing, Then your obedience must needs be as little: If you can make shift here to taste your happiness, Or pick out aught that likes[1028] you, much good do you; You see your cheer, I'll make you no set dinner. ISA. And, trust me, I may starve for all the good I can find yet in this: sweet aunt, deal plainlier. LIV. Say I should trust you now upon an oath, And give you, in a secret, that would start you, How am I sure of you in faith and silence? ISA. Equal assurance may I find in mercy As you for that in me! LIV. It shall suffice: Then know, however custom has made good, For reputation’s sake, the names of niece And aunt ’twixt you and I, we’re nothing less. ISA. How’s that? LIV. I told you I should start your blood: You are no more allied to any of us, Save what the courtesy of opinion casts Upon your mother’s memory and your name, Than the merest stranger is, or one begot At Naples when the husband lies at Rome; There’s so much odds betwixt us. Since your knowledge Wish’d more instruction, and I have your oath In pledge for silence, it makes me talk the freelier. Did never the report of that fam’d Spaniard, Marquis of Coria, since your time was ripe For understanding, fill your ear with wonder? ISA. Yes; what of him? I've heard his deeds of honour Often related when we liv’d in Naples. LIV. You heard the praises of your father then. ISA. My father! LIV. That was he; but all the business So carefully and so discreetly carried, That fame receiv’d no spot by’t, not a blemish; Your mother was so wary to her end, None knew it but her conscience and her friend, Till penitent confession made it mine, And now my pity yours, it had been long else; And I hope care and love alike in you, Made good by oath, will see it take no wrong now. How weak his commands now whom you call father! How vain all his enforcements, your obedience! And what a largeness in your will and liberty, To take, or to reject, or to do both! For fools will serve to father wise men’s children: All this you’ve time to think on. O my wench, Nothing o’erthrows our sex but indiscretion! We might do well else of a brittle people As any under the great canopy: I pray, forget not but to call me aunt still; Take heed of that; it may be mark’d in time else: But keep your thoughts to yourself, from all the world, Kindred, or dearest friend; nay, I entreat you, From him that all this while you have call’d uncle; And though you love him dearly, as I know His deserts claim as much even from a stranger, Yet let not him know this, I prithee, do not; As ever thou hast hope of second pity, If thou shouldst stand in need on’t, do not do’t. ISA. Believe my oath, I will not. LIV. Why, well said.— Who shews more craft t' undo a maidenhead, I'll resign my part to her. [_Aside._
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
She’s thine own; go. HIP. Alas, fair flattery cannot cure my sorrows! [_Exit_ LIVIA. ISA. Have I past so much time in ignorance, And never had the means to know myself Till this bless’d hour? thanks to her virtuous pity That brought it now to light; would I had known it But one day sooner! he had then receiv’d In favours, what, poor gentleman, he took In bitter words; a slight and harsh reward For one of his deserts. [_Aside._ HIP. There seems to me now More anger and distraction in her looks: I'm gone; I'll not endure a second storm, The memory of the first is not past yet. [_Aside._ ISA. Are you return’d, you comforts of my life, In this man’s presence? I will keep you fast now, And sooner part eternally from the world Than my good joys in you. [_Aside._]—Prithee, forgive me, I did but chide in jest; the best loves use it Sometimes, it sets an edge upon affection: When we invite our best friends to a feast, ’Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before them; There’s somewhat sharp and salt, both to whet appetite And make ’em taste their wine well; so, methinks, After a friendly, sharp, and savoury chiding, A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape; How think’st thou? does ’t not? [_Kisses him._ HIP. ’Tis so excellent, I know not how to praise it, what to say to’t! ISA. This marriage shall go forward. HIP. With the Ward? Are you in earnest? ISA. ’Twould be ill for us else. HIP. For us! how means she that? [_Aside._ ISA. Troth, I begin To be so well, methinks, within this hour, For all this match able to kill one’s heart, Nothing can pull me down now; should my father Provide a worse fool yet—which I should think Were a hard thing to compass—I'd have him either; The worse the better, none can come amiss now, If he want wit enough; so discretion love me, Desert and judgment, I've content sufficient. She that comes once to be a housekeeper Must not look every day to fare well, sir, Like a young waiting-gentlewoman in service, For she feeds commonly as her lady does, No good bit passes her but she gets a taste on’t; But when she comes to keep house for herself, She’s glad of some choice cates then once a-week, Or twice at most, and glad if she can get ’em; So must affection learn to fare with thankfulness: Pray, make your love no stranger, sir, that’s all,— Though you be one yourself, and know not on’t, And I have sworn you must not. [_Aside, and exit._ HIP. This is beyond me! Never came joys so unexpectedly To meet desires in man: how came she thus? What has she done to her, can any tell? ’Tis beyond sorcery this, drugs, or love-powders; Some art that has no name, sure; strange to me Of all the wonders I e’er met withal Throughout my ten years' travels; but I'm thankful for’t. This marriage now must of necessity forward; It is the only veil wit can devise To keep our acts hid from sin-piercing eyes. [_Exit._
SCENE II.
_Another apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house: a chess-board set out_.
_Enter_ LIVIA _and_ GUARDIANO.
LIV. How, sir? a gentlewoman so young, so fair, As you set forth, spied from the widow’s window? GUAR. She. LIV. Our Sunday-dinner woman? GUAR. And Thursday-supper woman, the same still: I know not how she came by her, but I'll swear She’s the prime gallant for a face in Florence, And no doubt other parts follow their leader. The Duke himself first spied her at the window, Then, in a rapture—as if admiration Were poor when it were single—beckon’d me, And pointed to the wonder warily, As one that fear’d she would draw in her splendour Too soon, if too much gaz’d at: I ne’er knew him So infinitely taken with a woman; Nor can I blame his appetite, or tax His raptures of slight folly; she’s a creature Able to draw a state from serious business, And make it their best piece to do her service. What course shall we devise? has spoke twice now. LIV. Twice? GUAR. ’Tis beyond your apprehension How strangely that one look has catch’d his heart: 'Twould prove but too much worth in wealth and favour To whose should work his peace. LIV. And if I do’t not, Or at least come as near it—if your art Will take a little pains and second me— As any wench in Florence of my standing, I'll quite give o’er, and shut up shop in cunning. GUAR. ’Tis for the Duke; and if I fail your purpose, All means to come by riches or advancement Miss me, and skip me over! LIV. Let the old woman then Be sent for with all speed, then I'll begin. GUAR. A good conclusion follow, and a sweet one, After this stale beginning with old ware! Within there!
_Enter Servant._
SER. Sir, do you call? GUAR. Come near, list hither. [_Whispers._ LIV. I long myself to see this absolute creature, That wins the heart of love and praise so much. GUAR. Go, sir, make haste. LIV. Say I entreat her company: Do you hear, sir? SER. Yes, madam. [_Exit._ LIV. That brings her quickly. GUAR. I would ’twere done! the Duke waits the good hour, And I wait the good fortune that may spring from’t. I've had a lucky hand these fifteen year At such court-passage,[1029] with three dice in a dish.—
_Enter_ FABRICIO.
Signor Fabricio! FAB. O sir, I bring an alteration in my mouth now. GUAR. An alteration?—No wise speech, I hope; He means not to talk wisely, does he, trow?[1030]—
rj [_Aside._ Good; what’s the change, I pray, sir? FAB. A new change. GUAR. Another yet? faith, there’s enough already. FAB. My daughter loves him now. GUAR. What, does she, sir? FAB. Affects him beyond thought: who but the Ward, forsooth; No talk but of the Ward; she would have him To choose ’bove all the men she ever saw: My will goes not so fast as her consent now; Her duty gets before my command still. GUAR. Why, then, sir, if you’ll have me speak my thoughts, I smell ’twill be a match. FAB. Ay, and a sweet young couple, If I have any judgment. GUAR. Faith, that’s little.— [_Aside._ Let her be sent to-morrow, before noon, And handsomely trick’d up, for ’bout that time I mean to bring her in, and tender her to him. FAB. I warrant you for handsome; I will see Her things laid ready, every one in order, And have some part of her trick’d up to-night. GUAR. Why, well said. FAB. ’Twas a use her mother had; When she was invited to an early wedding, She’d dress her head o’er night, sponge up herself, And give her neck three lathers. GUAR. Ne’er a halter? [_Aside._ FAB. On with her chain of pearl, her ruby bracelets, Lay ready all her tricks and jiggembobs. GUAR. So must your daughter. FAB. I'll about it straight, sir. [_Exit._ LIV. How he sweats in the foolish zeal of fatherhood, After six ounces an hour, and seems To toil as much as if his cares were wise ones! GUAR. You’ve let his folly blood in the right vein, lady. LIV. And here comes his sweet son-in-law that shall be; They’re both allied in wit before the marriage; What will they be hereafter, when they’re nearer! Yet they can go no further than the fool; There’s the world’s end in both of ’em.
_Enter the Ward and_ SORDIDO, _one with a shittlecock, the other with a battledoor_.