Part 32

[_Aside._ LIV. I am as dumb to any language now But love’s, as one that never learn’d to speak. I am not yet so old but he may think of me; My own fault, I've been idle a long time; But I'll begin the week, and paint to-morrow, So follow my true labour day by day; I never thriv’d so well as when I us’d it. [_Aside._ ISA. [_sings_] _What harder chance can fall to woman, Who was born to cleave to some man, Than to bestow her time, youth, beauty, Life’s observance, honour, duty, On a thing for no use good But to make physic work, or blood Force fresh in an old lady’s cheek? She that would be Mother of fools, let her compound with me._ WARD. Here’s a tune indeed! pish, I had rather hear one ballad sung i' the nose now Of the lamentable drowning of fat sheep and oxen, Than all these simpering tunes play’d upon cat’s-guts, And sung by little kitlings. [_Aside._ FAB. How like you her breast now, my lord? BIAN. Her breast? He talks as if his daughter had given suck Before she were married, as her betters have; The next he praises sure will be her nipples. [_Aside._[1066] DUKE. Methinks now such a voice to such a husband Is like a jewel of unvalu’d[1067] worth Hung at a fool’s ear. [_Aside to_ BIANCA. FAB. May it please your grace To give her leave to shew another quality? DUKE. Marry, as many good ones as you will, sir; The more the better welcome. LEAN. But the less The better practis’d: that soul’s black indeed That cannot commend virtue; but who keeps it? Th' extortioner will say to a sick beggar, Heaven comfort thee! though he give none himself; This good is common. [_Aside._ FAB. Will it please you now, sir, To entreat your Ward to take her by the hand, And lead her in a dance before the Duke? GUAR. That will I, sir; ’tis needful.—Hark you, nephew. [_Whispers Ward._ FAB. Nay, you shall see, young heir, what you’ve for your money, Without fraud or imposture. WARD. Dance with her? Not I, sweet guardianer, do not urge my heart to’t, ’Tis clean against my blood; dance with a stranger? Let who s' will do’t, I'll not begin first with her. HIP. No, fear’t not, fool; sh’as took a better order. [_Aside._ GUAR. Why, who shall take her then? WARD. Some other gentleman: Look, there’s her uncle, a fine-timber’d reveller, Perhaps he knows the manner of her dancing too; I'll have him do’t before me—I've sworn, guardianer— Then may I learn the better. GUAR. Thou’lt be an ass still! WARD. Ay, all that, uncle, shall not fool me out: Pish, I stick closer to myself than so. GUAR. I must entreat you, sir, to take your niece And dance with her; my Ward’s a little wilful, He’d have you shew him the way. HIP. Me, sir? he shall Command it at all hours; pray, tell him so. GUAR. I thank you for him; he has not wit himself, sir. HIP. Come, my life’s peace.—I've a strange office on’t here: ’Tis some man’s luck to keep the joys he likes Conceal’d for his own bosom, but my fortune To set ’em out now for another’s liking; Like the mad misery of necessitous man, That parts from his good horse with many praises, And goes on foot himself: need must be obey’d In every action; it mars man and maid. [_Aside._

[_Music._ HIPPOLITO _and_ ISABELLA _dance, making obeisance to the Duke, and to each other, both before and after the dance_.

DUKE. Signor Fabricio, you’re a happy father; Your cares and pains are fortunate you see, Your cost bears noble fruits.—Hippolito, thanks. FAB. Here’s some amends for all my charges yet; She wins both prick and praise[1068] where’er she comes. DUKE. How lik’st, Bianca? BIAN. All things well, my lord, But this poor gentlewoman’s fortune, that’s the worst. DUKE. There is no doubt, Bianca, she’ll find leisure To make that good enough; he’s rich and simple. BIAN. She has the better hope o' th' upper hand, indeed, Which women strive for most. GUAR. Do’t when I bid you, sir. WARD. I'll venture but a hornpipe with her, guardianer, Or some such married man’s dance. GUAR. Well, venture something, sir. WARD. I have rhyme for what I do. GUAR. But little reason, I think. WARD. Plain men dance the measures,[1069] the sinquapace,[1070] the gay; Cuckolds dance the hornpipe, and farmers dance the hay;[1071] Your soldiers dance the round,[1072] and maidens that grow big; You[r] drunkards, the canaries;[1073] you[r] whore and bawd, the jig. Here’s your eight kind of dancers; he that finds The ninth let him pay the minstrels. DUKE. O, here he appears once in his own person; I thought he would have married her by attorney, And lain with her so too. BIAN. Nay, my kind lord, There’s very seldom any found so foolish To give away his part there. LEAN. Bitter scoff! Yet I must do’t: with what a cruel pride The glory of her sin strikes by my afflictions! [_Aside._ [_The Ward and_ ISABELLA _dance_; _he ridiculously imitating_ HIPPOLITO. DUKE. This thing will make shift, sirs, to make a husband, For aught I see in him.—How think’st, Bianca? BIAN. Faith, an ill-favour’d shift, my lord, methinks; If he would take some voyage when he’s married, Dangerous, or long enough, and scarce be seen Once in nine year together, a wife then Might make indifferent shift to be content with him. DUKE. A kiss [_kisses her_]; that wit deserves to be made much on.— Come, our caroch! GUAR. Stands ready for your grace. DUKE. My thanks to all your loves.—Come, fair Bianca, We have took special care of you, and provided Your lodging near us now. BIAN. Your love is great, my lord. DUKE. Once more, our thanks to all. OMNES. All blest honours guard you!

[_Cornets flourishing, exeunt all but_ LEANTIO _and_ LIVIA. LEAN. O hast thou left me then, Bianca, utterly? Bianca, now I miss thee! O, return, And save the faith of woman! I ne’er felt The loss of thee till now; ’tis an affliction Of greater weight than youth was made to bear; As if a punishment of after-life Were faln upon man here, so new it is To flesh and blood, so strange, so insupportable; A torment even mistook, as if a body Whose death were drowning, must needs therefore suffer it In scalding oil. [_Aside._ LIV. Sweet sir—— LEAN. As long as mine eye saw thee, I half enjoy’d thee. [_Aside._ LIV. Sir—— LEAN. Canst thou forget The dear pains my love took? how it has watch’d Whole nights together, in all weathers, for thee, Yet stood in heart more merry than the tempest That sung about mine ears,—like dangerous flatterers, That can set all their mischief to sweet tunes,— And then receiv’d thee, from thy father’s window, Into these arms at midnight; when we embrac’d As if we had been statues only made for’t, To shew art’s life, so silent were our comforts, And kiss’d as if our lips had grown together? [_Aside._ LIV. This makes me madder to enjoy him now. [_Aside._ LEAN. Canst thou forget all this, and better joys That we met after this, which then new kisses Took pride to praise? [_Aside._ LIV. I shall grow madder yet. [_Aside._]—Sir— LEAN. This cannot be but of some close bawd’s working.— [_Aside._ Cry mercy, lady! what would you say to me? My sorrow makes me so unmannerly, So comfort bless me, I had quite forgot you. LIV. Nothing, but even, in pity to that passion,[1074] Would give your grief good counsel. LEAN. Marry, and welcome, lady; It never could come better. LIV. Then first, sir, To make away all your good thoughts at once of her, Know most assuredly she is a strumpet. LEAN. Ha! _most assuredly?_ speak not a thing So vild[1075] so certainly, leave it more doubtful. LIV. Then I must leave all truth, and spare my knowledge A sin which I too lately found and wept for. LEAN. Found you it? LIV. Ay, with wet eyes. LEAN. O perjurious friendship! LIV. You miss’d your fortunes when you met with her, sir. Young gentlemen that only love for beauty, They love not wisely; such a marriage rather Proves the destruction of affection; It brings on want, and want’s the key of whoredom. I think y’had small means with her? LEAN. O, not any, lady. LIV. Alas, poor gentleman! what meant’st thou, sir, Quite to undo thyself with thine own kind heart? Thou art too good and pitiful to woman: Marry, sir, thank thy stars for this blest fortune, That rids the summer of thy youth so well From many beggars, that had lain a-sunning In thy beams only else, till thou hadst wasted The whole days of thy life in heat and labour. What would you say now to a creature found As pitiful to you, and, as it were, Even sent on purpose from the whole sex general, To requite all that kindness you have shewn to’t? LEAN. What’s that, madam? LIV. Nay, a gentlewoman, and one able To reward good things, ay, and bears a conscience to’t: Couldst thou love such a one, that, blow all fortunes, Would never see thee want? Nay, more, maintain thee to thine enemy’s envy, And shalt not spend a care for’t, stir a thought, Nor break a sleep? unless love’s music wak’d thee, No storm of fortune should: look upon me, And know that woman. LEAN. O my life’s wealth, Bianca! LIV. Still with her name? will nothing wear it out? [_Aside._

That deep sigh went but for a strumpet, sir. LEAN. It can go for no other that loves me. LIV. He’s vex’d in mind: I came too soon to him; Where’s my discretion now, my skill, my judgment? I'm cunning in all arts but my own love. ’Tis as unseasonable to tempt him now So soon, as [for] a widow to be courted Following her husband’s corse, or to make bargain By the grave-side, and take a young man there: Her strange departure stands like a hearse[1076] yet Before his eyes, which time will take down shortly. [_Aside, and exit._ LEAN. Is she my wife till death, yet no more mine? That’s a hard measure: then what’s marriage good for? Methinks, by right I should not now be living, And then ’twere all well. What a happiness Had I been made of, had I never seen her! For nothing makes man’s loss grievous to him But knowledge of the worth of what he loses; For what he never had, he never misses. She’s gone for ever, utterly; there is As much redemption of a soul from hell, As a fair woman’s body from his palace. Why should my love last longer than her truth? What is there good in woman to be lov’d, When only that which makes her so has left her? I cannot love her now, but I must like Her sin and my own shame too, and be guilty Of law’s breach with her, and mine own abusing; All which were monstrous: then my safest course, For health of mind and body, is to turn My heart and hate her, most extremely hate her; I have no other way: those virtuous powers, Which were chaste witnesses of both our troths, Can witness she breaks first. And I'm rewarded With captainship o' the fort; a place of credit, I must confess, but poor; my factorship Shall not exchange means with’t: he that died last in’t, He was no drunkard, yet he died a beggar For all his thrift: besides, the place not fits me; It suits my resolution, not my breeding.

_Re-enter_ LIVIA.

LIV. I've tried all ways I can, and have not power To keep from sight of him. [_Aside._]—How are you now, sir? LEAN. I feel a better ease, madam. LIV. Thanks to blessedness! You will do well, I warrant you, fear’t not, sir, Join but your own good will to’t: he’s not wise That loves his pain or sickness, or grows fond Of a disease whose property is to vex him, And spitefully drink his blood up: out upon’t, sir! Youth knows no greater loss. I pray, let’s walk, sir; You never saw the beauty of my house yet, Nor how abundantly fortune has blest me In worldly treasure; trust me, I've enough, sir, To make my friend a rich man in my life, A great man at my death; yourself will say so. If you want any thing, and spare to speak, Troth, I'll condemn you for a wilful man, sir. LEAN. Why, sure, This can be but the flattery of some dream. LIV. Now, by this kiss, my love, my soul, and riches, ’Tis all true substance! [_Kisses him._ Come, you shall see my wealth; take what you list; The gallanter you go, the more you please me: I will allow you too your page and footman, Your race-horses, or any various pleasure Exercis’d youth delights in; but to me Only, sir, wear your heart of constant stuff; Do but you love enough, I'll give enough. LEAN. Troth, then, I'll love enough, and take enough. LIV. Then we are both pleas’d enough. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A room in_ FABRICIO’S _house_.

_Enter on one side_ GUARDIANO _and_ ISABELLA, _on the other the Ward and_ SORDIDO.

GUAR. Now, nephew, here’s the gentlewoman again. WARD. Mass, here she’s come again! mark her now, Sordido. GUAR. This is the maid my love and care have[1077] chose Out for your wife, and so I tender her to you; Yourself has been eye-witness of some qualities That speak a courtly breeding, and are costly: I bring you both to talk together now; ’Tis time you grew familiar in your tongues, To-morrow you join hands, and one ring ties you, And one bed holds you; if you like the choice, Her father and her friends are i' the next room, And stay to see the contract ere they part: Therefore, despatch, good Ward, be sweet and short; Like her, or like her not, there’s but two ways, And one your body, th' other your purse pays. WARD. I warrant you, guardianer, I'll not stand all day thrumming, But quickly shoot my bolt at your next coming. GUAR. Well said: good fortune to your birding then! [_Exit._ WARD. I never miss’d mark yet. SOR. Troth, I think, master, if the truth were known, You never shot at any but the kitchen-wench, And that was a she-woodcock,[1078], a mere innocent,[1079] That was oft lost and cried[1080] at eight-and-twenty. WARD. No more of that meat, Sordido, here’s eggs o' the spit now; We must turn gingerly: draw out the catalogue Of all the faults of women. SOR. How? all the faults? have you so little reason to think so much paper will lie in my breeches? why, ten carts will not carry it, if you set down but the bawds. All the faults? pray, let’s be content with a few of ’em; and if they were less, you would find ’em enough, I warrant you: look you, sir. ISA. But that I have th' advantage of the fool, As much as woman’s heart can wish and joy at, What an infernal torment ’twere to be Thus bought and sold, and turn’d and pry’d into, When, alas, The worst bit’s too good for him! and the comfort is, Has but a cater’s[1081] place on’t, and provides All for another’s table: yet how curious The ass is! like some nice professor on’t, That buys up all the daintiest food i' the markets, And seldom licks his lips after a taste on’t. [_Aside._ SOR. Now to her, now you’ve scann’d all her parts over. WARD. But at [which] end shall I begin now, Sordido? SOR. O, ever at a woman’s lip, while you live, sir: do you ask that question? WARD. Methinks, Sordido, sh’as but a crabbed face to begin with. SOR. A crabbed face? that will save money. WARD. How? save money, Sordido? SOR. Ay, sir; for, having a crabbed face of her own, she’ll eat the less verjuice with her mutton; 'twill save verjuice at year’s end, sir. WARD. Nay, and[1082] your jests begin to be saucy once, I'll make you eat your meat without mustard. SOR. And that in some kind is a punishment. WARD. Gentlewoman, they say ’tis your pleasure to be my wife, and you shall know shortly whether it be mine or no to be your husband; and thereupon thus I first enter upon you. [_Kisses her._]—O most delicious scent! methinks it tasted as if a man had stept into a comfit-maker’s shop to let a cart go by, all the while I kissed her.—It is reported, gentlewoman, you’ll run mad for me, if you have me not. ISA. I should be in great danger of my wits, sir, For being so forward.—Should this ass kick backward now! [_Aside._ WARD. Alas, poor soul! and is that hair your own? ISA. Mine own? yes, sure, sir; I owe nothing for’t. WARD. ’Tis a good hearing; I shall have the less to pay when I have married you.—Look, do[1083] her eyes stand well? SOR. They cannot stand better than in her head, I think; where would you have them? and for her nose, ’tis of a very good last. WARD. I have known as good as that has not lasted a year though. SOR. That’s in the using of a thing; will not any strong bridge fall down in time, if we do nothing but beat at the bottom? a nose of buff would not last always, sir, especially if it came into the camp once. WARD. But, Sordido, how shall we do to make her laugh, that I may see what teeth she has? for I'll not bate her a tooth, nor take a black one into the bargain. SOR. Why, do but you fall in talk with her, you cannot choose but, one time or other, make her laugh, sir. WARD. It shall go hard but I will.—Pray, what qualities have you beside singing and dancing? can you play at shittlecock, forsooth? ISA. Ay, and at stool-ball[1084] too, sir; I've great luck at it. WARD. Why, can you catch a ball well? ISA. I have catch’d two in my lap at one game. WARD. What! have you, woman? I must have you learn To play at trap too, then you’re full and whole. ISA. Any thing that you please to bring me up to, I shall take pains to practise. WARD. ’Twill not do, Sordido; We shall ne’er get her mouth open’d wide enough. SOR. No, sir? that’s strange: then here’s a trick for your learning. [SORDIDO _yawns_, ISABELLA _yawns also, but covers her mouth with a handkerchief_. Look now, look now! quick, quick there! WARD. Pox of that scurvy mannerly trick with handkerchief! It hinder’d me a little, but I'm satisfied: When a fair woman gapes, and stops her mouth so, It shews like a cloth-stopple in a cream-pot: I have fair hope of her teeth now, Sordido. SOR. Why, then, you’ve all well, sir; for aught I see, She’s right and straight enough now as she stands; They’ll commonly lie crooked, that’s no matter; Wise gamesters Never find fault with that, let ’em lie still so. WARD. I'd fain mark how she goes, and then I have all; for of all creatures I cannot abide a splay-footed woman; she’s an unlucky thing to meet in a morning; her heels keep together so, as if she were beginning an Irish dance still, and [t]he wriggling of her bum playing the tune to’t: but I have bethought a cleanly shift to find it; dab down as you see me, and peep of one side when her back’s toward you—I'll shew you the way. SOR. And you shall find me apt enough to peeping; I have been one of them has seen mad sights Under your scaffolds. WARD. Will’t please you walk, forsooth, A turn or two by yourself? you’re so pleasing to me, I take delight to view you on both sides. ISA. I shall be glad to fetch a walk to your love, sir; 'Twill get affection a good stomach, sir,— Which I had need have to fall to such coarse victuals. [_Aside._ [ISABELLA _walks while the Ward and_ SORDIDO _stoop down to look at her_. WARD. Now go thy ways for a clean-treading wench, As ever man in modesty peep’d under! SOR. I see the sweetest sight to please my master! Never went Frenchman righter upon ropes, Than she on Florentine rushes.[1085] WARD. ’Tis enough, forsooth. ISA. And how do you like me now, sir? WARD. Faith, so well, I never mean to part with thee, sweetheart, Under some sixteen children, and all boys. ISA. You’ll be at simple pains, if you prove kind, And breed ’em all in your teeth.[1086] WARD. Nay, by my faith, What serves your belly for? ’twould make my cheeks Look like blown bagpipes.

_Re-enter_ GUARDIANO.

GUAR. How now, ward and nephew, Gentlewoman and niece! speak, is it so or not? WARD. ’Tis so; we’re both agreed, sir. GUAR. In to your kindred then; There’s friends, and wine, and music wait[1087] to welcome you. WARD. Then I'll be drunk for joy. SOR. And I for company; I cannot break my nose in a better action. [_Exeunt._

ACT IV. SCENE I.

BIANCA’S _lodging at Court_.

_Enter_ BIANCA, _attended by two Ladies_.

BIAN. How go[1088] your watches, ladies? what’s a’clock now? FIRST L. By mine, full nine. SEC. L. By mine, a quarter past. FIRST L. I set mine by St. Mark’s. SEC. L. St. Anthony’s, they say, Goes truer. FIRST L. That’s but your opinion, madam, Because you love a gentleman o' the name. SEC. L. He’s a true gentleman then. FIRST L. So may he be That comes to me to-night, for aught you know. BIAN. I'll end this strife straight: I set mine by the sun; I love to set by the best, one shall not then Be troubled to set often. SEC. L. You do wisely in’t. BIAN. If I should set my watch, as some girls do, By every clock i' the town, ’twould ne’er go true; And too much turning of the dial’s point, Or tampering with the spring, might in small time Spoil the whole work too; here it wants of nine now. FIRST L. It does indeed, forsooth; mine’s nearest truth yet. SEC. L. Yet I've found her lying with an advocate, which shew’d Like two false clocks together in one parish. BIAN. So now I thank you, ladies; I desire Awhile to be alone. FIRST L. And I am nobody, Methinks, unless I've one or other with me.— Faith, my desire and hers will ne’er be sisters. [_Aside.—Exeunt Ladies._ BIAN. How strangely woman’s fortune comes about! This was the farthest way to come to me, All would have judg’d that knew me born in Venice, And there with many jealous eyes brought up, That never thought they had me sure enough But when they were upon me; yet my hap To meet it here, so far off from my birth-place, My friends, or kindred! ’tis not good, in sadness,[1089] To keep a maid so strict in her young days; Restraint Breeds wandering thoughts, as many fasting days A great desire to see flesh stirring again: I'll ne’er use any girl of mine so strictly; Howe’er they’re kept, their fortunes find ’em out; I see’t in me: if they be got in court, I'll ne’er forbid ’em the country; nor the court, Though they be born i' the country: they will come to’t, And fetch their falls a thousand mile about, Where one would little think on’t.

_Enter_ LEANTIO, _richly dressed_.