Part 31

BIAN. This is the strangest house For all defects as ever gentlewoman Made shift withal to pass away her love in: Why is there not a cushion-cloth of drawn-work, Or some fair cut-work pinn’d up in my bed-chamber, A silver and gilt casting-bottle[1048] hung by’t?— Nay, since I am content to be so kind to you, To spare you for a silver basin and ewer, Which one of my fashion looks for of duty; She’s never offer’d under where she sleeps. MOTH. She talks of things here my whole state’s not worth. BIAN. Never a green silk quilt is there i' th' house, mother, To cast upon my bed? MOTH. No, by troth, is there, Nor orange-tawny neither. BIAN. Here’s a house For a young gentlewoman to be got with child in! MOTH. Yes, simple though you make it, there has been three Got in a year in’t, since you move me to’t, And all as sweet-fac’d children and as lovely As you’ll be mother of: I will not spare you: What, cannot children be begot, think you, Without gilt casting-bottles? yes, and as sweet ones: The miller’s daughter brings forth as white boys[1049] As she that bathes herself with milk and bean-flour: ’Tis an old saying, One may keep good cheer In a mean house; so may true love affect After the rate of princes in a cottage. BIAN. Troth, you speak wondrous well for your old house here; 'Twill shortly fall down at your feet to thank you, Or stoop, when you go to bed, like a good child, To ask you blessing. Must I live in want Because my fortune match’d me with your son? Wives do not give away themselves to husbands To the end to be quite cast away; they look To be the better us’d and tender’d rather, Highlier respected, and maintain’d the richer; They’re well rewarded else for the free gift Of their whole life to a husband! I ask less now Than what I had at home when I was a maid, And at my father’s house; kept short of that Which a wife knows she must have, nay, and will— Will, mother, if she be not a fool born; And report went of me, that I could wrangle For what I wanted when I was two hours old; And, by that copy, this land still I hold: You hear me, mother. [_Exit._ MOTH. Ay, too plain, methinks; And were I somewhat deafer when you spake, 'Twere ne’er a whit the worse for my quietness. ’Tis the most sudden’st, strangest alteration, And the most subtlest, that e’er wit at threescore Was puzzled to find out: I know no cause for’t; but She’s no more like the gentlewoman at first, Than I'm like her that never lay with man yet,— And she’s a very young thing, where’er she be. When she first lighted here, I told her then How mean she should find all things; she was pleas’d, forsooth, None better: I laid open all defects to her, She was contented still; but the devil’s in her, Nothing contents her now. To-night my son Promis’d to be at home; would he were come once, For I am weary of my charge, and life too! She’d be serv’d all in silver, by her good will, By night and day; she hates the name of pewterer More than sick men the noise, or diseas’d bones That quake at fall o' th' hammer, seeming to have A fellow-feeling with’t at every blow. What course shall I think on? she frets me so! [_Exit._

_Enter_ LEANTIO.

LEAN. How near am I now to a happiness That earth exceeds not! not another like it: The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal’d comforts of a man Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air Of blessings when I come but near the house: What a delicious breath marriage sends forth! The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlock Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden, On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delight To cast their modest odours; when base lust, With all her powders, paintings, and best pride, Is but a fair house built by a ditch-side. When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet, Sparkling in beauty and destruction too, Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight Her beautified body to a goodly temple That’s built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting; And so, by little and little, I shrink back again, And quench desire with a cool meditation; And I'm as well, methinks. Now for a welcome Able to draw men’s envies upon man; A kiss now, that will hang upon my lip As sweet as morning-dew upon a rose, And full as long; after a five-days' fast She’ll be so greedy now, and cling about me, I take care how I shall be rid of her: And here’t begins.

_Re-enter_ BIANCA _and Mother_.

BIAN. O sir, you’re welcome home! MOTH. O, is he come? I'm glad on’t. LEAN. Is that all? Why, this is[1050] dreadful now as sudden death To some rich man, that flatters all his sins With promise of repentance when he’s old, And dies in the midway before he comes to’t.— [_Aside._ Sure you’re not well, Bianca; how dost, prithee? BIAN. I have been better than I am at this time. LEAN. Alas, I thought so! BIAN. Nay, I've been worse too Than now you see me, sir. LEAN. I'm glad thou mend’st yet, I feel my heart mend too: how came it to thee? Has any thing dislik’d[1051] thee in my absence? BIAN. No, certain; I have had the best content That Florence can afford. LEAN. Thou mak’st the best on’t.— Speak, mother; what’s the cause? you must needs know. MOTH. Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself; Unless it be the same gave Lucifer A tumbling cast,—that’s pride. BIAN. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind; I'd have some pleasant lodging i' th' high street, sir; Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better: ’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman To stand in a bay-window and see gallants. LEAN. Now I've another temper, a mere stranger To that of yours, it seems; I should delight To see none but yourself. BIAN. I praise not that; Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish: I would not have a husband of that proneness To kiss me before company for a world; Beside, ’tis tedious to see one thing still, sir, Be it the best that ever heart affected; Nay, were’t yourself, whose love had power, you know, To bring me from my friends, I'd not stand thus And gaze upon you always, troth, I could not, sir; As good be blind and have no use of sight, As look on one thing still: what’s the eye’s treasure But change of objects? you are learnèd, sir, And know I speak not ill: ’tis[1052] full as virtuous For woman’s eye to look on several men, As for her heart, sir, to be fix’d on one. LEAN. Now thou com’st home to me; a kiss for that word. BIAN. No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass; ’Tis but a toy, we’ll not so much as mind it; Let’s talk of other business, and forget it. What news now of the pirates? any stirring? Prithee, discourse a little. MOTH. I'm glad he’s here yet, To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously If I had told ’em first. [_Aside._ LEAN. Speak, what’s the humour, sweet, You make your lip so strange? this was not wont. BIAN. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife, Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship, And be still billing? ’tis the idlest fondness That ever was invented, and ’tis pity It’s grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen; There’s many a disease kiss’d in a year by’t, And a French cur[t]sy made to’t: alas, sir! Think of the world, how we shall live; grow serious; We have been married a whole fortnight now. LEAN. How? a whole fortnight! why, is that so long? BIAN. ’Tis time to leave off dalliance; ’tis a doctrine Of your own teaching, if you be remember’d; And I was bound to obey it. MOTH. Here’s one fits him; This was well catch’d, i’faith, son; like a fellow That rids another country of a plague, And brings it home with him to his own house.

[_Aside._—_Knocking within._

Who knocks? LEAN. Who’s there now?—Withdraw you, Bianca; Thou art a gem no stranger’s eye must see, Howe’er thou['rt] pleas’d now to look dull on me.— [_Exit_ BIANCA.

_Enter Messenger._

You’re welcome, sir; to whom your business, pray? MESS. To one I see not here now. LEAN. Who should that be, sir? MESS. A young gentlewoman I was sent to. LEAN. A young gentlewoman? MESS. Ay, sir, about sixteen: why look you wildly, sir? LEAN. At your strange error; you’ve mistook the house, sir; There’s none such here, I assure you. MESS. I assure you too The man that sent me cannot be mistook. LEAN. Why, who is’t sent you, sir? MESS. The Duke. LEAN. The Duke? MESS. Yes; he entreats her company at a banquet At lady Livia’s house. LEAN. Troth, shall I tell you, sir, It is the most erroneous business That e’er your honest pains was abus’d with; I pray, forgive me if I smile a little, I cannot choose, i’faith, sir, at an error So comical as this,—I mean no harm though: His grace has been most wondrous ill inform’d; Pray, so return it, sir. What should her name be? MESS. That I shall tell you straight too—Bianca Capello.[1053] LEAN. How, sir? Bianca? what do you call th' other? MESS. Capello. Sir, it seems you know no such then? LEAN. Who should this be? I never heard o' the name. MESS. Then ’tis a sure mistake. LEAN. What if you inquir’d In the next street, sir? I saw gallants there In the new houses that are built of late; Ten to one there you find her. MESS. Nay, no matter; I will return the mistake, and seek no further. LEAN. Use your own will and pleasure, sir, you’re welcome. [_Exit Messenger._ What shall I think of first?—Come forth, Bianca!

_Re-enter_ BIANCA.

Thou art betray’d, I fear me. BIAN. Betray’d! how, sir? LEAN. The Duke knows thee. BIAN. Knows me! how know you that, sir? LEAN. Has got thy name. BIAN. Ay, and my good name too, That’s worse o' the twain. [_Aside._ LEAN. How comes this work about? BIAN. How should the Duke know me? can you guess, mother? MOTH. Not I, with all my wits; sure we kept house close. LEAN. Kept close! not all the locks in Italy Can keep you women so; you have been gadding, And ventur’d out at twilight to the court-green yonder, And met the gallant bowlers coming home; Without your masks too, both of you, I'll be hang’d else: Thou hast been seen, Bianca, by some stranger; Never excuse it. BIAN. I'll not seek the way, sir; Do you think you’ve married me to mew me up, Not to be seen? what would you make of me? LEAN. A good wife, nothing else. BIAN. Why, so are some That are seen every day, else the devil take ’em. LEAN. No more, then; I believe all virtuous in thee, Without an argument; ’twas but thy hard chance To be seen somewhere, there lies all the mischief: But I've devis’d a riddance. MOTH. Now I can tell you, son, The time and place. LEAN. When? where? MOTH. What wits have I! When you last took your leave, if you remember, You left us both at window. LEAN. Right, I know that. MOTH. And not the third part of an hour after, The Duke pass’d by, in a great solemnity, To St. Mark’s temple, and, to my apprehension, He look’d up twice to the window. LEAN. O, there quicken’d The mischief of this hour! BIAN. If you call’t mischief, It is a thing I fear I am conceiv’d with. [_Aside._ LEAN. Look’d he up twice, and could you take no warning? MOTH. Why, once may do as much harm, son, as a thousand; Do not you know one spark has fir’d an house As well as a whole furnace? LEAN. My heart flames for’t: Yet let’s be wise, and keep all smother’d closely; I have bethought a means: is the door fast? MOTH. I lock’d it myself after him. LEAN. You know, mother, At the end of the dark parlour there’s a place So artificially contriv’d for a conveyance, No search could ever find it; when my father Kept in for manslaughter, it was his sanctuary; There will I lock my life’s best treasure up, Bianca. BIAN. Would you keep me closer yet? Have you the conscience? you’re best e’en choke me up, sir: You make me fearful of your health and wits, You cleave to such wild courses; what’s the matter? LEAN. Why, are you so insensible of your danger To ask that now? the Duke himself has sent for you To lady Livia’s to a banquet, forsooth. BIAN. Now I beshrew you heartily, has he so! And you the man would never yet vouchsafe To tell me on’t till now? you shew your loyalty And honesty at once; and so farewell, sir. LEAN. Bianca, whither now? BIAN. Why, to the Duke, sir; You say he sent for me. LEAN. But thou dost not mean To go, I hope. BIAN. No? I shall prove unmannerly, Rude, and uncivil, mad, and imitate you!— Come, mother, come, follow his humour no longer; We shall be all executed for treason shortly. MOTH. Not I, i’faith; I'll first obey the Duke, And taste of a good banquet; I'm of thy mind: I'll step but up and fetch two handkerchiefs To pocket up some sweetmeats, and o’ertake thee. [_Exit._ BIAN. Why, here’s an old wench would trot into a bawd now For some dry sucket,[1054] or a colt in march-pane.[1055] [_Aside, and exit._ LEAN. O thou, the ripe time of man’s misery, wedlock, When all his thoughts, like overladen trees, Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in jealousies! O, that’s a fruit that ripens hastily, After ’tis knit to marriage! it begins, As soon as the sun shines upon the bride, A little to shew colour. Blessèd powers, Whence comes this alteration? the distractions, The fears and doubts it brings, are numberless; And yet the cause I know not. What a peace Has he that never marries! if he knew The benefit he enjoy’d, or had the fortune To come and speak with me, he should know then Th' infinite wealth he had, and discern rightly The greatness of his treasure by my loss: Nay, what a quietness has he ’bove mine That wears his youth out in a strumpet’s arms, And never spends more care upon a woman Than at the time of lust; but walks away; And if he find her dead at his return, His pity is soon done,—he breaks a sigh In many parts, and gives her but a piece on’t: But all the fears, shames, jealousies, costs and troubles, And still renew’d cares of a marriage-bed, Live in the issue, when the wife is dead.

_Re-enter Messenger._

MESS. A good perfection to your thoughts! LEAN. The news, sir? MESS. Though you were pleas’d of late to pin an error on me, You must not shift another in your stead too: The Duke has sent me for you. LEAN. How! for me, sir?— I see then ’tis my theft; we’re both betray’d: Well, I'm not the first has stol’n away a maid; My countrymen have us’d it. [_Aside._]—I'll along with you, sir. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_An apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house_:[1056] _a banquet set out_.

_Enter_ GUARDIANO _and the Ward_.

GUAR. Take you especial note of such a gentlewoman, She’s here on purpose; I've invited her, Her father, and her uncle, to this banquet; Mark her behaviour well, it does concern you; And what her good parts are, as far as time And place can modestly require a knowledge of, Shall be laid open to your understanding. You know I'm both your guardian and your uncle; My care of you is double, ward and nephew, And I'll express it here. WARD. Faith, I should know her Now by her mark among a thousand women; A little pretty deft[1057] and tidy thing, you say? GUAR. Right. WARD. With a lusty sprouting sprig in her hair? GUAR. Thou goest the right way still; take one mark more,— Thou shalt ne’er find her hand out of her uncle’s, Or else his out of hers, if she be near him; The love of kindred never yet stuck closer Than theirs to one another; he that weds her, Marries her uncle’s heart too. WARD. Say you so, sir? Then I'll be ask’d i' the church to both of them. [_Cornets within._ GUAR. Fall back; here comes the Duke. WARD. He brings a gentlewoman, I should fall forward rather.

_Enter the Duke leading in_ BIANCA, FABRICIO, HIPPOLITO, LIVIA, _Mother_, ISABELLA, _Gentlemen_, _and Attendants_.

DUKE. Come, Bianca, Of purpose sent into the world to shew Perfection once in woman; I'll believe Henceforward they have every one a soul too, 'Gainst all the uncourteous opinions That man’s uncivil rudeness ever held of ’em: Glory of Florence, light into mine arms! BIAN. Yon comes a grudging man will chide you, sir;

_Enter_ LEANTIO.

The storm is now in’s heart, and would get nearer, And fall here, if it durst; it pours down yonder. DUKE. If that be he, the weather shall soon clear; List, and I'll tell thee how. [_Whispers_ BIANCA. LEAN. A kissing too! I see ’tis plain lust now, adultery ’bolden’d; What will it prove anon, when ’tis stuff’d full Of wine and sweetmeats,[1058] being so impudent fasting? [_Aside._ DUKE. We’ve heard of your good parts, sir, which we honour With our embrace and love.—Is not the captainship Of Rouans'[1059] citadel, since the late deceas’d, Suppli[ed] by any yet? GENTLEMAN. By none, my lord. DUKE. Take it, the place is yours then; and as faithfulness And desert grows, our favour shall grow with’t: [LEANTIO _kneels_. Rise now, the captain of our fort at Rouans. LEAN. [_rising_] The service of whole life give your grace thanks! DUKE. Come, sit, Bianca. [_Duke_, BIANCA, _&c. seat themselves_. LEAN. This is some good yet, And more than e’er I look’d for; a fine bit To stay a cuckold’s stomach: all preferment That springs from sin and lust it shoots up quickly, As gardeners' crops do in the rotten’st grounds; So is all means rais’d from base prostitution Even like a salad growing upon a dunghill. I'm like a thing that never was yet heard of, Half merry and half mad; much like a fellow That eats his meat with a good appetite, And wears a plague-sore that would fright a country; Or rather, like the barren,[1060] harden’d ass, That feeds on thistles till he bleeds again; And such is the condition of my misery. [_Aside._ LIV. Is that your son, widow? MOTH. Yes; did your ladyship Never know that till now? LIV. No, trust me, did I,— Nor ever truly felt the power of love And pity to a man, till now I knew him. I have enough to buy me my desires, And yet to spare, that’s one good comfort. [_Aside._]— Hark you, Pray, let me speak with you, sir, before you go. LEAN. With me, lady? you shall, I'm at your service.— What will she say now, trow?[1061] more goodness yet? [_Aside._ WARD. I see her now, I'm sure; the ape’s so little, I shall scarce feel her; I have seen almost As tall as she sold in the fair for tenpence: See how she simpers it, as if marmalade Would not melt in her mouth! she might have the kindness, i’faith, To send me a gilded bull from her own trencher, A ram, a goat, or somewhat to be nibbling: These women, when they come to sweet things once, They forget all their friends, they grow so greedy, Nay, oftentimes their husbands. DUKE. Here’s a health now, gallants, To the best beauty at this day in Florence. BIAN. Whoe’er she be, she shall not go unpledg’d, sir. DUKE. Nay, you’re excus’d for this. BIAN. Who, I, my lord? DUKE. Yes, by the law of Bacchus; plead your benefit, You are not bound to pledge your own health, lady. BIAN. That’s a good way, my lord, to keep me dry. DUKE. Nay, then, I'll not offend Venus so much, Let Bacchus seek his ’mends in another court; Here’s to thyself, Bianca. [_Duke and others drink._ BIAN. Nothing comes More welcome to that name than your grace. LEAN. So, so; Here stands the poor thief now that stole the treasure, And he’s not thought on. Ours is near kin now To a twin misery born into the world; First the hard-conscienc’d worldling, he hoards wealth up, Then comes the next, and he feasts all upon’t; One’s damn’d for getting, th' other for spending on’t. O equal justice, thou hast met my sin With a full weight! I'm rightly now opprest, All her friends' heavy hearts lie in my breast. [_Aside._ DUKE. Methinks there is no spirit ’mongst us, gallants, But what divinely sparkles from the eyes Of bright Bianca; we sat all in darkness But for that splendour. Who was’t told us lately Of a match-making right, a marriage-tender? GUAR. ’Twas I, my lord. DUKE. ’Twas you indeed. Where is she? GUAR. This is the gentlewoman. FAB. My lord, my daughter. DUKE. Why, here’s some stirring yet. FAB. She’s a dear child to me. DUKE. That must needs be, you say she is your daughter. FAB. Nay, my good lord, dear to my purse, I mean, Beside my person, I ne’er reckon’d that. Sh’as the full qualities of a gentlewoman; I've brought her up to music, dancing, what not, That may commend her sex, and stir her husband. DUKE. And which is he now? GUAR. This young heir, my lord. DUKE. What is he brought up to? HIP. To cat and trap.[1062] [_Aside._ GUAR. My lord, he’s a great ward, wealthy, but simple; His parts consist in acres. DUKE. O, wise-acres. GUAR. You’ve spoke him in a word, sir. BIAN. ’Las, poor gentlewoman! She’s ill-bestead, unless sh’as dealt the wiselier, And laid in more provision for her youth; Fools will not keep in summer. LEAN. No, nor such wives From whores in winter. [_Aside._ DUKE. Yea, the voice too, sir? FAB. Ay, and a sweet breast[1063] too, my lord, I hope, Or I have cast away my money wisely; She took her pricksong[1064] earlier, my lord, Than any of her kindred ever did; A rare child, though I say’t: but I'd not have The baggage hear so much, ’twould make her swell straight, And maids of all things must not be puff’d up. DUKE. Let’s turn us to a better banquet, then; For music bids the soul of[1065] man to a feast, And that’s indeed a noble entertainment, Worthy Bianca’s self: you shall perceive, beauty, Our Florentine damsels are not brought up idly. BIAN. They’re wiser of themselves it seems, my lord, And can take gifts when goodness offers ’em. LEAN. True, and damnation has taught you that wisdom; [_Music._

You can take gifts too. O, that music mocks me!