Part 30
GUAR. Now, young heir. WARD. What’s the next business after shittlecock now? GUAR. To-morrow you shall see the gentlewoman Must be your wife. WARD. There’s even another thing too, Must be kept up with a pair of battledoors: My wife! what can she do? GUAR. Nay, that’s a question you should ask yourself, Ward, When you’re alone together. WARD. That’s as I list; A wife’s to be ask['d] any where, I hope; I'll ask her in a congregation, If I've a mind to’t, and so save a license. My guardianer has no more wit than an herb-woman, That sells away all her sweet herbs and nosegays, And keeps a stinking breath for her own pottage. SOR. Let me be at the choosing of your belov’d, If you desire a woman of good parts. WARD. Thou shalt, sweet Sordido. SOR. I have a plaguy guess; let me alone to see what she is: if I but look upon her—'way! I know all the faults to a hair that you may refuse her for. WARD. Dost thou? I prithee, let me hear ’em, Sordido. SOR. Well, mark ’em then; I have ’em all in rhyme: The wife your guardianer ought to tender Should be pretty, straight, and slender; Her hair not short, her foot not long, Her hand not huge, nor too, too loud her tongue; No pearl in eye,[1031] nor ruby in her nose, No burn or cut but what the catalogue shews; She must have teeth, and that no black ones, And kiss most sweet when she does smack once; Her skin must be both white and plump['d], Her body straight, not hopper-rump’d, Or wriggle sideways like a crab; She must be neither slut nor drab, Nor go too splay-foot with her shoes, To make her smock lick up the dews; And two things more, which I forgot to tell ye, She neither must have bump in back nor belly: These are the faults that will not make her pass. WARD. And if I spy not these, I'm a rank ass. SOR. Nay, more; by right, sir, you should see her naked, For that’s the ancient order. WARD. See her naked? That were good sport, i’faith: I'll have the books turn’d o’er, And if I find her naked on record, She shall not have a rag on: but stay, stay; How if she should desire to see me so too? I were in a sweet case then; such a foul skin! SOR. But you’ve a clean shirt, and that makes amends, sir. WARD. I will not see her naked for that trick though. [_Exit._ SOR. Then take her with all faults with her clothes on, And they may hide a number with a bum-roll.[1032] Faith, choosing of a wench in a huge farthingale Is like the buying of ware under a great penthouse; What with the deceit of one, And the false light of th' other, mark my speeches, He may have a diseas’d wench in’s bed, And rotten stuff in’s breeches. [_Exit._ GUAR. It may take handsomely.[1033] LIV. I see small hindrance.—
_Re-enter Servant, shewing in Mother._
How now? so soon return’d? GUAR. She’s come. LIV. That’s well.— [_Exit Servant._ Widow, come, come, I've a great quarrel to you; Faith, I must chide you, that you must be sent for; You make yourself so strange, never come at us, And yet so near a neighbour, and so unkind; Troth, you’re to blame; you cannot be more welcome To any house in Florence, that I'll tell you. MOTH. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, madam. LIV. How can you be so strange then? I sit here Sometime[s] whole days together without company, When business draws this gentleman from home, And should be happy in society Which I so well affect as that of yours: I know you’re alone too; why should not we, Like two kind neighbours, then, supply the wants Of one another, having tongue-discourse, Experience in the world, and such kind helps To laugh down time, and meet age merrily?[1034] MOTH. Age, madam! you speak mirth; ’tis at my door, But a long journey from your ladyship yet. LIV. My faith, I'm nine and-thirty, every stroke, wench; And ’tis a general observation 'Mongst knights—wives or widows, we account ourselves Then old, when young men’s eyes leave looking at’s; ’Tis a true rule amongst us, and ne’er fail’d yet In any but in one, that I remember; Indeed, she had a friend at nine-and-forty; Marry, she paid well for him, and in th' end He kept a quean or two with her own money, That robb’d her of her plate and cut her throat. MOTH. She had her punishment in this world, madam, And a fair warning to all other women That they live chaste at fifty. LIV. Ay, or never, wench. Come, now I have thy company, I'll not part with’t Till after supper. MOTH. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam. LIV. I swear you shall stay supper; we’ve no strangers, woman, None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman And the young heir his ward; you know our company. MOTH. Some other time I'll make bold with you, madam. GUAR. Nay, pray stay, widow. LIV. Faith, she shall not go: Do you think I'll be forsworn? MOTH. ’Tis a great while Till supper-time; I'll take my leave then now, madam, And come again i' th' evening, since your ladyship Will have it so. LIV. I' th' evening? by my troth, wench, I'll keep you while I have you: you’ve great business, sure, To sit alone at home; I wonder strangely What pleasure you take in’t; were’t to me now, I should be ever at one neighbour’s house Or other all day long: having no charge, Or none to chide you, if you go or stay, Who may live merrier, ay, or more at heart’s ease? Come, we’ll to chess or draughts; there are an hundred tricks To drive out time till supper, never fear’t, wench. MOTH. I'll but make one step home, and return straight, madam. LIV. Come, I'll not trust you; you use more excuses To your kind friends than ever I knew any. What business can you have, if you be sure You’ve lock’d the doors? and, that being all you have, I know you’re careful on’t. One afternoon So much to spend here! say I should entreat you now To lie a night or two, or a week, with me, Or leave your own house for a month together; It were a kindness that long neighbourhood And friendship might well hope to prevail in; Would you deny such a request? i’faith, Speak truth, and freely. MOTH. I were then uncivil, madam. LIV. Go to then; set your men; we’ll have whole nights Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench. [LIVIA _and Mother sit down to the chess-board_. MOTH. As good now tell her then, for she will know’t; I've always found her a most friendly lady. [_Aside._ LIV. Why, widow, where’s your mind? MOTH. Troth, even at home, madam: To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable, Especially to young bloods. LIV. Another excuse! MOTH. No; as I hope for health, madam, that’s a truth: Please you to send and see. LIV. What gentlewoman? pish! MOTH. Wife to my son, indeed; but not known, madam, To any but yourself. LIV. Now I beshrew you; Could you be so unkind to her and me, To come and not bring her? faith, ’tis not friendly. MOTH. I fear’d to be too bold. LIV. Too bold! O, what’s become Of the true hearty love was wont to be 'Mongst neighbours in old time! MOTH. And she’s a stranger, madam. LIV. The more should be her welcome: when is courtesy In better practice than when ’tis employ’d In entertaining strangers? I could chide, i’faith: Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman! alone too! Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go. MOTH. Please you, command one of your servants, madam. LIV. Within there!
_Re-enter Servant._
SR. Madam. LIV. Attend the gentlewoman.[1035] MOTH. It must be carried wondrous privately From my son’s knowledge, he’ll break out in storms else.— Hark you, sir. [_Whispers the Servant, who then goes out._ LIV. [_to_ GUAR.] Now comes in the heat of your part. GUAR. True, I know’t, lady; and if I be out, May the Duke banish me from all employments, Wanton or serious! LIV. So, have you sent, widow? MOTH. Yes, madam, he’s almost at home by this. LIV. And, faith, let me entreat you that henceforward All such unkind faults may be swept from friendship, Which does but dim the lustre; and think thus much, It is a wrong to me, that have ability To bid friends welcome, when you keep ’em from me; You cannot set greater dishonour near me; For bounty is the credit and the glory Of those that have enough. I see you’re sorry, And the good ’mends is made by’t.
_Re-enter Servant, shewing in_ BIANCA.
MOTH. Here she is, madam. [_Exit Servant._ BIAN. I wonder how she comes to send for me now. [_Aside._ LIV. Gentlewoman, you’re most welcome, trust me, you are, As courtesy can make one, or respect Due to the presence of you. BIAN. I give you thanks, lady. LIV. I heard you were alone, and ’t had appear’d An ill condition[1036] in me, though I knew you not, Nor ever saw you—yet humanity Thinks every case her own—t' have kept your company Here from you, and left you all solitary: I rather ventur’d upon boldness then, As the least fault, and wish’d your presence here; A thing most happily motion’d of that gentleman, Whom I request you, for his care and pity, To honour and reward with your acquaintance; A gentleman that ladies' rights stands for, That’s his profession. BIAN. ’Tis a noble one, And honours my acquaintance. GUAR. All my intentions Are servants to such mistresses. BIAN. ’Tis your modesty, It seems, that makes your deserts speak so low, sir. LIV. Come, widow.—Look you, lady, here’s our business; [_Pointing to the chess-board._ Are we not well employ’d, think you? an old quarrel Between us, that will ne’er be at an end. BIAN. No? and, methinks, there’s men enough to part you, lady. LIV. Ho, but they set us on, let us come off As well as we can, poor souls; men care no farther. I pray, sit down, forsooth, if you’ve the patience To look upon two weak and tedious gamesters. GUAR. Faith, madam, set these by till evening, You’ll have enough on’t then; the gentlewoman, Being a stranger, would take more delight To see your rooms and pictures. LIV. Marry, good sir, And well remember’d; I beseech you, shew ’em her, That will beguile time well; pray heartily, do, sir, I'll do as much for you: here, take these keys; [_Gives keys to_ GUARDIANO. Shew her the monument too, and that’s a thing Every one sees not; you can witness that, widow. MOTH. And that’s worth sight indeed, madam. BIAN. Kind lady, I fear I came to be a trouble to you. LIV. O, nothing less, forsooth! BIAN. And to this courteous gentleman, That wears a kindness in his breast so noble And bounteous to the welcome of a stranger. GUAR. If you but give acceptance to my service, You do the greatest grace and honour to me That courtesy can merit. BIAN. I were to blame else, And out of fashion much. I pray you, lead, sir. LIV. After a game or two, we’re for you, gentlefolks. GUAR. We wish no better seconds in society Than your discourses, madam, and your partner’s there. MOTH. I thank your praise; I listen’d to you, sir, Though, when you spoke, there came a paltry rook Full in my way, and chokes up all my game. [_Exeunt._ GUARDIANO _and_ BIANCA. LIV. Alas, poor widow, I shall be too hard for thee! MOTH. You’re cunning at the game, I'll be sworn, madam. LIV. It will be found so, ere I give you over.— [_Aside._ She that can place her man well—— MOTH. As you do, madam. LIV. As I shall, wench, can never lose her game: Nay, nay, the black king’s mine. MOTH. Cry you mercy, madam! LIV. And this my queen. MOTH. I see’t now. LIV. Here’s a duke[1037] Will strike a sure stroke for the game anon; Your pawn cannot come back to relieve itself. MOTH. I know that, madam. LIV. You play well the whilst: How she belies her skill! I hold two ducats, I give you check and mate to your white king, Simplicity itself, your saintish king there. MOTH. Well, ere now, lady, I've seen the fall of subtlety; jest on. LIV. Ay, but simplicity receives two for one. MOTH. What remedy but patience!
_Enter_ GUARDIANO _and_ BIANCA _above_.[1038]
BIAN. Trust me, sir, Mine eye ne’er met with fairer ornaments. GUAR. Nay, livelier, I'm persuaded, neither Florence Nor Venice can produce. BIAN. Sir, my opinion Takes your part highly. GUAR. There’s a better piece Yet than all these. BIAN. Not possible, sir! GUAR. Believe it, You’ll say so when you see’t: turn but your eye now, You’re upon’t presently. [_Draws a curtain,[1039] and discovers the Duke; then exit._ BIAN. O sir! DUKE. He’s gone, beauty: Pish, look not after him; he’s but a vapour, That, when the sun appears, is seen no more. BIAN. O, treachery to honour! DUKE. Prithee, tremble not; I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting Under a loving hand that makes much on’t: Why art so fearful? as I'm friend to brightness, There’s nothing but respect and honour near thee: You know me, you have seen me; here’s a heart Can witness I have seen thee. BIAN. The more’s my danger. DUKE. The more’s thy happiness. Pish, strive not, sweet; This strength were excellent employ’d in love now, But here[1040] ’tis spent amiss: strive not to seek Thy liberty, and keep me still in prison; I'faith, you shall not out till I'm releas’d now; We’ll be both freed together, or stay still by’t, So is captivity pleasant. BIAN. O my lord! DUKE. I am not here in vain; have but the leisure To think on that, and thou’lt be soon resolv’d: The lifting of thy voice is but like one That does exalt his enemy, who, proving high, Lays all the plots to confound him that rais’d him. Take warning, I beseech thee; thou seem’st to me A creature so compos’d of gentleness, And delicate meekness—such as bless the faces Of figures that are drawn for goddesses, And make[1041] art proud to look upon her work— I should be sorry the least force should lay An unkind touch upon thee. BIAN. O my extremity! My lord, what seek you? DUKE. Love. BIAN. ’Tis gone already; I have a husband. DUKE. That’s a single comfort; Take a friend to him. BIAN. That’s a double mischief, Or else there’s no religion. DUKE. Do not tremble At fears of thine own making. BIAN. Nor, great lord, Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin, Because they fear not you; me they must fright— Then am I best in health: should thunder speak, And none regard it, it had lost the name, And were as good be still. I'm not like those That take their soundest sleeps in greatest tempests; Then wake I most, the weather fearfullest, And call for strength to virtue. DUKE. Sure, I think Thou know’st the way to please me: I affect A passionate pleading ’bove an easy yielding; But never pitied any,—they deserve none,— That will not pity me. I can command, Think upon that; yet if thou truly knewest The infinite pleasure my affection takes In gentle, fair entreatings, when love’s businesses Are carried courteously ’twixt heart and heart, You’d make more haste to please me. BIAN. Why should you seek, sir, To take away that you can never give? DUKE. But I give better in exchange,—wealth, honour; She that is fortunate in a duke’s favour 'Lights on a tree that bears all women’s wishes: If your own mother saw you pluck fruit there, She would commend your wit, and praise the time Of your nativity; take hold of glory. Do not I know you’ve cast away your life Upon necessities, means merely doubtful To keep you in indifferent health and fashion— A thing I heard too lately, and soon pitied— And can you be so much your beauty’s enemy, To kiss away a month or two in wedlock, And weep whole years in wants for ever after? Come, play the wise wench, and provide for ever; Let storms come when they list, they find thee shelter’d. Should any doubt arise, let nothing trouble thee; Put trust in our love for the managing Of all to thy heart’s peace: we’ll walk together, And shew a thankful joy for both our fortunes. [_Exeunt Duke and_ BIANCA _above_. LIV. Did not I say my duke would fetch you o’er, widow? MOTH. I think you spoke in earnest when you said it, madam. LIV. And my black king makes all the haste he can too. MOTH. Well, madam, we may meet with him in time yet. LIV. I've given thee blind mate twice. MOTH. You may see, madam, My eyes begin to fail. LIV. I'll swear they do, wench.
_Re-enter_ GUARDIANO.
GUAR. I can but smile as often as I think on’t: How prettily the poor fool was beguil’d! How unexpectedly! it’s a witty age; Never were finer snares for women’s honesties Than are devis’d in these days; no spider’s web Made of a daintier thread than are now practis’d To catch love’s flesh-fly by the silver wing: Yet, to prepare her stomach by degrees To Cupid’s feast, because I saw ’twas queasy, I shew’d her naked pictures by the way, A bit to stay the appetite. Well, advancement, I venture hard to find thee; if thou com’st With a greater title set upon thy crest, I'll take that first cross patiently, and wait Until some other comes greater than that; I'll endure all. [_Aside._ LIV. The game’s even at the best now: you may see, widow, How all things draw to an end. MOTH. Even so do I, madam. LIV. I pray, take some of your neighbours along with you. MOTH. They must be those are almost twice your years then, If they be chose fit matches for my time, madam. LIV. Has not my duke bestirr’d himself? MOTH. Yes, faith, madam; Has done me all the mischief in this game. LIV. Has shew’d himself in’s kind. MOTH. In’s kind, call you it? I may swear that. LIV. Yes, faith, and keep your oath. GUAR. Hark, list! there’s somebody coming down: ’tis she. [_Aside._
_Re-enter_ BIANCA.
BIAN. Now bless me from a blasting! I saw that now, Fearful for any woman’s eye to look on; Infectious mists and mildews hang at’s eyes, The weather of a doomsday dwells upon him: Yet since mine honour’s leprous, why[1042] should I Preserve that fair that caus’d the leprosy? Come, poison all at once. [_Aside._]—Thou in whose baseness The bane of virtue broods, I'm bound in soul Eternally to curse thy smooth-brow’d treachery, That wore the fair veil of a friendly welcome, And I a stranger; think upon’t, ’tis worth it; Murders pil’d up upon a guilty spirit, At his last breath will not lie heavier Than this betraying act upon thy conscience: Beware of offering the first-fruits to sin; His weight is deadly who commits with strumpets, After they’ve been abas’d, and made for use; If they offend to the death, as wise men know, How much more they, then, that first make ’em so! I give thee that to feed on. I'm made bold now, I thank thy treachery; sin and I'm acquainted, No couple greater; and I'm like that great one, Who, making politic use of a base villain, He likes the treason well, but hates the traitor; So I hate thee, slave! GUAR. Well, so the Duke love me, I fare not much amiss then; two great feasts Do seldom come together in one day, We must not look for ’em. BIAN. What, at it still, mother? MOTH. You see we sit by’t: are you so soon return’d? LIV. So lively and so cheerful! a good sign that. [_Aside._ MOTH. You have not seen all since, sure? BIAN. That have I, mother, The monument and all: I'm so beholding[1043] To this kind, honest, courteous gentleman, You’d little think it, mother; shew’d me all, Had me from place to place so fashionably; The kindness of some people, how ’t exceeds! Faith, I've seen that I little thought to see I' the morning when I rose. MOTH. Nay, so I told you Before you saw’t, it would prove worth your sight.— I give you great thanks for my daughter, sir, And all your kindness towards her. GUAR. O, good widow, Much good may['t] do her!—forty weeks hence, i’faith. [_Aside._
_Re-enter Servant._
LIV. Now, sir? SER. May’t please you, madam, to walk in; Supper’s upon the table. LIV. Yes, we come.— [_Exit Servant._ Will’t please you, gentlewoman? BIAN. Thanks, virtuous lady.— You’re a damn’d bawd. [_Aside to_ LIVIA.]—I'll follow you, forsooth; Pray, take my mother in;—an old ass go with you!— [_Aside._ This gentleman and I vow not to part. LIV. Then get you both before. BIAN. There lies his art. [_Exeunt._ BIANCA _and_ GUARDIANO. LIV. Widow, I'll follow you. [_Exit Mother._] Is’t so? _damn’d bawd!_ Are you so bitter? ’tis but want of use: Her tender modesty is sea-sick a little, Being not accustom’d to the breaking billow Of woman’s wavering faith blown with temptations: ’Tis but a qualm of honour, ’twill away; A little bitter for the time, but lasts not: Sin tastes at the first draught like wormwood-water, But drunk again, ’tis nectar ever after. [_Exit._
ACT III. SCENE I.
_A room in the house of_ LEANTIO’S _Mother_.
_Enter Mother._
MOTH. I would my son would either keep at home, Or I were in my grave! She was but one day abroad, but ever since She’s grown so cutted,[1044] there’s no speaking to her: Whether the sight of great cheer at my lady’s, And such mean fare at home, work discontent in her, I know not; but I'm sure she’s strangely alter’d. I'll ne’er keep daughter-in-law i' th' house with me Again,if I had an hundred: when read I of any That agreed long together, but she and her mother Fell out in the first quarter? nay, sometime A grudging of[1045] a scolding the first week, byrlady![1046] So takes the new disease, methinks, in my house: I'm weary of my part; there’s nothing likes[1047] her; I know not how to please her here a' late: And here she comes.
_Enter_ BIANCA.