Part 8

How[245] now? from whence come you, sir? SAN. From flaying myself, sir. SOTO. From playing with fencers, sir; and they have beat him out of his clothes, sir. PED. Cloak, band, rapier, all lost at dice? SAN. Nor cards neither. SOTO. This was one of my master’s dog-days, and he would not sweat too much. SAN. It was mine own goose, and I laid the giblets upon another coxcomb’s trencher: you are my guardian, best beg me for a fool[246] now. SOTO. He that begs one begs t’other. [_Aside._ PED. Does any gentleman give away his things thus? SAN. Yes, and gentlewomen give away their things too. SOTO. To gulls sometimes, and are cony-catched[247] for their labour. PED. Wilt thou ever play the coxcomb? SAN. If no other parts be given me, what would you have me do? PED. Thy father was as brave a Spaniard As ever spake the haut[248] Castilian tongue. SAN. Put me in clothes, I'll be as brave[249] as he. PED. This is the ninth time thou hast play’d the ass, Flinging away thy trappings and thy cloth[250] To cover others, and go nak’d thyself. SAN. I'll make ’em up ten, because I'll be even with you. PED. Once more your broken walls shall have new hangings. SOTO. To be well hung is all our desire. PED. And what course take you next? SAN. What course? why, my man Soto and I will go make some maps. PED. What maps? SOTO. Not such maps[251] as you wash houses with, but maps of countries. SAN. I have an uncle in Seville, I'll go see him; an aunt in Siena in Italy, I['ll] go see her. SOTO. A cousin of mine in Rome, I['ll] go to him with a mortar.[252] SAN. There’s a courtesan in Venice, I'll go tickle her. SOTO. Another in England, I'll go tackle her. PED. So, so! and where’s the money to do all this? SAN. If my woods,[253] being cut down, cannot fill this pocket, cut ’em into trapsticks. SOTO. And if his acres, being sold for a marvedi[254] a turf, for larks[255] in cages, cannot fill this pocket, give ’em to gold-finders. PED. You’ll gallop both to the gallows; so fare you well. [_Exit._ SAN. And be hanged you! new clothes, you’d best. SOTO. Four cloaks, that you may give away three, and keep one. SAN. We’ll live as merrily as beggars; let’s both turn gipsies. SOTO. By any means; if they cog,[256] we’ll lie, if they toss, we’ll tumble. SAN. Both in a belly, rather than fail. SOTO. Come then, we’ll be gipsified. SAN. And tipsified too. SOTO. And we will shew such tricks and such rare gambols, As shall put down the elephant and camels.[257] [_Exeunt._

ACT III. SCENE I.

_A street._

_Enter_ RODERIGO _disguised as an Italian_.

ROD. A thousand stings are in me: O, what vild[258] prisons Make we our bodies to our immortal souls! Brave tenants to bad houses; ’tis a dear rent They pay for naughty lodging: the soul, the mistress; The body, the caroch that carries her; Sins the swift wheels that hurry her away; Our will, the coachman rashly driving on, Till coach and carriage both are quite o’erthrown. My body yet ’scapes bruises; that known thief Is not yet call’d to th' bar: there’s no true sense Of pain but what the law of conscience Condemns us to; I feel that. Who would lose A kingdom for a cottage? an estate Of perpetuity for a man’s life For annuity of that life, pleasure? a spark To those celestial fires that burn about[259] us; A painted star to that bright firmament Of constellations which each night are set Lighting our way; yet thither how few get! How many thousand in Madrill[260] drink off The cup of lust, and laughing, in one month, Not whining as I do! Should this sad lady Now meet me, do I know her? should this temple, By me profan’d, lie in the ruins here, The pieces would scarce shew her me: would they did! She’s mistress to Don Louis; by his steps, And this disguise, I'll find her. To Salamanca Thy father thinks thou’rt gone; no, close here stay; Where’er thou travell’st, scorpions stop thy way. Who are[261] these?

_Enter_ SANCHO _and_ SOTO _disguised as gipsies_.

SAN. Soto, how do I shew? SOTO. Like a rusty armour new scoured; but, master, how shew I? SAN. Like an ass with a new piebald saddle on his back. SOTO. If the devil were a tailor, he would scarce know us in these gaberdines.[262] SAN. If a tailor were the devil, I'd not give a louse for him, if he should bring up this fashion amongst gentlemen, and make it common. ROD. The freshness of the morning be upon you both! SAN. The saltness of the evening be upon you single! ROD. Be not displeas’d, that I abruptly thus Break in upon your favours; your strange habits Invite me with desire to understand Both what you are and whence, because no country— And I have measur’d some—shew[s] me your like. SOTO. Our like? no, we should be sorry we or our clothes should be like fish, new, stale, and stinking in three days. SAN. If you ask whence we are, we are Egyptian Spaniards; if what we are, _ut_, _re_, _mi_, _fa_, _sol_, jugglers, tumblers, any thing, any where, every where. ROD. A good fate hither leads me by the hand.— [_Aside._ Your quality I love; the scenical school Has been my tutor long in Italy, For that’s my country; there have I put on Sometimes the shape of a comedian, And now and then some other. SAN. A player! a brother of the tiring-house![263] SOTO. A bird of the same feather! SAN. Welcome! wu’t turn gipsy? ROD. I can nor dance nor sing; but if my pen From my invention can strike music-tunes, My head and brains are yours. SOTO. A calf’s head and brains were better for my stomach. SAN. A rib of poetry! SOTO. A modicum of the Muses! a horse-shoe of Helicon! SAN. A magpie of Parnassus! welcome again! I am a firebrand of Phœbus myself; we’ll invoke together, so you will not steal my plot. ROD. ’Tis not my fashion. SAN. But now-a-days ’tis all the fashion. SOTO. What was the last thing you writ? a comedy? ROD. No; ’twas a sad, too sad a tragedy. Under these eaves I'll shelter me. SAN. See, here comes our company; do our tops[264] spin as you would have ’em? SOTO. If not, whip us round.

_Enter_ ALVAREZ, GUIAMARA, CONSTANZA, CHRISTIANA, CARLO, ANTONIO, _and others, disguised as before_.

SAN. I sent you a letter to tell you we were upon a march.

ALV. And you are welcome.—Yet these fools will trouble us! [_Aside._ GUI. Rich fools shall buy our trouble. SAN. Hang lands! it’s nothing but trees, stones, and dirt. Old father, I have gold to keep up our stock. Precious Pretiosa, for whose sake I have thus transformed myself out of a gentleman into a gipsy, thou shalt not want sweet rhymes, my little musk-cat; for besides myself, here’s an Italian poet, on whom I pray throw your welcomes. ALV. } He’s welcome! GUI., _&c._[265] } CONST. Sir, you’re most welcome; I love a poet, So he writes chastely; if your pen can sell me Any smooth quaint romances, which I may sing, You shall have bays and silver. ROD. Pretty heart, no selling; What comes from me is free. SAN. And me too. ALV. We shall be glad to use you, sir: our sports Must be an orchard, bearing several trees, And fruits of several taste; one pleasure dulls. A time may come when we, besides these pastimes, May from the grandees[266] and the dons of Spain Have leave to try our skill even on the stage, And then your wits may help us. SAN. And mine too. ROD. They are your servants. CONST. Trip softly through the streets till we arrive, You know at whose house, father. SAN. [_sings_[267]]

_Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine, Shew tricks and lofty capers; At threading-needles[268] we repine, And leaping over rapiers: Pindy pandy rascal toys! We scorn cutting purses; Though we live by making noise, For cheating none can curse us._

_Over high ways, over low, And over stones and gravel, Though we trip it on the toe, And thus for silver travel; Though our dances waste our backs, At night fat capons mend them, Eggs well brew’d in butter’d sack Our wenches say befriend them._

_O that all the world were mad! Then should we have fine dancing; Hobby-horses would be had, And brave girls keep a-prancing; Beggars would on cock-horse ride, And boobies fall a-roaring, And cuckolds, though no horns be spied, Be one another goring._

_Welcome, poet, to our ging![269] Make rhymes, we’ll give thee reason, Canary bees thy brains shall sting, Mull-sack[270] did ne’er speak treason; Peter-see-me[271] shall wash thy noul,[272] And malaga glasses fox[273] thee; If, poet, thou toss not bowl for bowl, Thou shalt not kiss a doxy._ [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_A garden[274] belonging to_ FRANCISCO’S _house_.

_Enter_ FERNANDO, FRANCISCO, JOHN, PEDRO, MARIA, LOUIS _and_ DIEGO.

FER. Louis de Castro, since you circled are In such a golden ring of worthy friends, Pray, let me question you about that business You and I last conferr’d on. LOUIS. My lord, I wish it. FER. Then, gentlemen, though you all know this man, Yet now look on him well, and you shall find Such mines of Spanish honour in his bosom As but in few are treasur’d. LOUIS. O, my good lord—— FER. He’s son to that De Castro o’er whose tomb Fame stands writing a book, which will take up The age of time to fill it with the stories Of his great acts, and that his honour’d father Fell in the quarrel of those families, His own and Don Alvarez de Castilla['s]. FRAN. The volume of those quarrels[275] is too large And too wide printed in our memory. LOUIS. Would it had ne’er come forth! FRAN. } So wish we all. PED., _&c._ } FER. But here’s a son as matchless as the father, For his[276] mind’s bravery; he lets blood his spleen, Tears out the leaf in which the picture stands Of slain De Castro, casts a hill of sand On all revenge, and stifles it. FRAN. } ’Tis done nobly! PED., _&c._ } FER. For I by him am courted to solicit The king for the repeal of poor Alvarez, Who lives a banish’d man, some say, in Naples. PED. Some say in Arragon. LOUIS. No matter where; That paper folds in it my hand and heart, Petitioning the royalty of Spain To free the good old man, and call him home: But what hope hath your lordship that these beams Of grace shall shine upon me? FER. The word royal. FRAN. } And that’s enough. PED., _&c._ } LOUIS. Then since this sluice is drawn up to increase The stream, with pardon of these honour’d friends Let me set ope another, and that’s this; That you, my lord don Pedro, and this lady Your noble wife, would in this fair assembly, If still you hold me tenant to your favour, Repeat the promise you so oft have made me, Touching the beauteous Clara for my wife. PED. What I possess in her, before these lords I freely once more give you. MAR.[277] And what’s mine, To you, as right heir to it, I resign. FER. } What would you more? FRAN., _&c._ } LOUIS. What would I more? the tree bows down his head Gently to have me touch it, but when I offer To pluck the fruit, the top branch grows so high, To mock my reaching hand, up it does fly; I have the mother’s smile, the daughter’s frown. FRAN. } O, you must woo hard! PED., _&c._ } FER. Woo her well, she’s thine own. JOHN. That law holds not ’mongst gipsies; I shoot hard, And am wide off from the mark. [_Aside._ [_Flourish within._ FER. Is this, my lord, your music? FRAN. None of mine.

_Enter_ SOTO _disguised as before, with a cornet in his hand_.

SOTO. A crew of gipsies with desire To shew their sports are at your gates a-fire. FRAN. How, how, my gates a-fire, knave? JOHN. Art panting? I am a-fire I'm sure! [_Aside._ FER. What are the things they do? SOTO. They frisk, they caper, dance and sing, Tell fortunes too, which is a very fine thing; They tumble—how? not up and down, As tumblers do, but from town to town: Antics they have and gipsy-masquing, And toys which you may have for asking: They come to devour nor wine nor good cheer, But to earn money, if any be here; But being ask’d, as I suppose, Your answer will be, in your t’other hose;[278] For there’s not a gipsy amongst ’em that begs, But gets his living by his tongue and legs. If therefore you please, dons, they shall come in: Now I have ended, let them begin. FER. } Ay, ay, by any means. PED. _&c._ } FRAN. But, fellow, bring you music along with you too? SOTO. Yes, my lord, both loud music and still music; the loud is that which you have heard, and the still is that which no man can hear. [_Exit._ FER. A fine knave! FRAN. There’s report[279] of a fair gipsy, A pretty little toy, whom all our gallants In Madrill[280] flock to look on: this she, trow;[281] JOHN. Yes, sure[282] ’tis she—I should be sorry else. [_Aside._

_Enter_ ALVAREZ, GUIAMARA, CONSTANZA, CHRISTIANA, CARLO, ANTONIO, RODERIGO, SANCHO, SOTO, _and others, disguised as before, with the following_

_Song._

_Come, follow your leader, follow, Our convoy be Mars and Apollo! The van comes brave up here; As hotly[283] comes the rear:_

_Chorus._

_Our knackers are the fifes and drums, Sa, sa, the gipsies' army comes!_

_Horsemen we need not fear, There’s none but footmen here; The horse sure charge without; Or if they wheel about,_

_Chorus._

_Our knackers are the shot that fly, Pit-a-pat rattling in the sky._

_If once the great ordnance play, That’s laughing, yet run not away, But stand the push of pike, Scorn can but basely strike;_

_Chorus._

_Then let our armies join and sing, And pit-a-pat make our knackers ring._

_Arm, arm! what bands are those? They cannot be sure our foes; We’ll not draw up our force, Nor muster any horse;_

_Chorus._

_For since they pleas’d to view our sight, Let’s this way, this way give delight._

_A council of war let’s call, Look either to stand or fall; If our weak army stands, Thank all these noble hands;_

_Chorus._

_Whose gates of love being open thrown, We enter, and then the town’s our own._

FER. A very dainty thing! FRAN. A handsome creature! PED.[284] Look what a pretty pit there’s in her chin! JOHN. Pit? ’tis a grave to bury lovers in. ROD. My father?[285] disguise guard me! [_Aside._ SAN. Soto, there’s De Cortes my guardian, but he smells not us. SOTO. Peace, brother gipsy.—Would any one here know his fortune? FER. } Good fortunes all of us! FRAN., _&c._ } PED. ’Tis I, sir, need[286] a good one: come, sir, what’s mine? MAR. Mine and my husband’s fortunes keep together; Who is’t tells mine? SAN. I, I; hold up, madam; fear not your pocket, for I ha' but two hands. [_Examining her hands._ You are sad, or mad, or glad, For a couple of cocks that cannot be had; Yet when abroad they have pick’d store of grain, Doodle-doo they will cry on your dunghills again. MAR. Indeed I miss an idle gentleman, And a thing of his a fool, but neither sad Nor mad for them: would that were all the lead Lying at my heart! PED. [_while_ SOTO _examines his hand_] What look’st thou on so long? SOTO. So long! do you think good fortunes are fresh herrings, to come in shoals? bad fortunes are like mackerel at midsummer: you have had a sore loss of late. PED. I have indeed; what is’t? SOTO. I wonder it makes you not mad, for— Through a gap in your ground thence late have[287] been stole A very fine ass and a very fine foal: Take heed, for I speak not by habs and by nabs, Ere long you’ll be horribly troubled with scabs. PED. I am now so; go, silly fool. SOTO. I ha' gi’n't him. [_Aside._ SAN. O Soto, that ass and foal fattens me! FER. The mother of the gipsies, what can she do? I'll have a bout with her. JOHN. I with the gipsy daughter. FRAN. To her, boy! GUI. [_examining_ FERNANDO’S _hand_] From you went a dove away, Which ere this had been more white Than the silver robe of day; Her eyes, the moon has none so bright. Sate she now upon your hand, Not the crown of Spain could buy it; But ’tis flown to such a land, Never more shall you come nigh it: Ha! yes, if palmistry tell true, This dove again may fly to you.

FER. Thou art a lying witch; I'll hear no more. SAN. If you be so hot, sir, we can cool you with a song. SOTO. And when that song’s done, we’ll heat you again with a dance. LOUIS. Stay, dear sir; send for Clara, let her know Her fortune. MAR. ’Tis too well known. LOUIS. ’Twill make her Merry to be in this brave company. PED. Good Diego, fetch her. [_Exit_ DIEGO. FRAN. What’s that old man? has he cunning too? GUI. } More than all we! CAR., _&c._[288] } LOUIS. Has he? I'll try his spectacles. FER. Ha! Roderigo there? the scholar That went to Salamanca, takes he degrees I' th' school of gipsies? let the fish alone, Give him line: this is the dove,—the dove?—the raven That beldam mock’d me with. [_Aside._ LOUIS. [_while_ ALVAREZ _examines his hand_] What worms pick you out there now? ALV. This: When this line the other crosses, Art tells me ’tis a book of losses:— Bend your hand thus:—O, here I find You have lost a ship in a great wind. LOUIS. Lying rogue, I ne’er had any. ALV. Hark, as I gather, That great ship was De Castro call’d, your father. LOUIS. And I must hew that rock that split him. ALV. Nay, and[289] you threaten—— [_Retires._ FRAN. And what’s, Don John, thy fortune? Thou’rt long fumbling at it. JOHN. She tells me tales of the moon, sir. CONSTI. And now ’tis come to the sun, sir. [_To_ FRAN.] Your son would ride, the youth would run, The youth would sail, the youth would fly; He’s tying a knot will ne’er be done, He shoots, and yet has ne’er an eye: You have two, ’twere good you lent him one, And a heart too, for he has none. FRAN. Hoyday! lend one of mine eyes? SAN. They give us nothing; we’d[290] best put on a bold face and ask it. [_Sings._

_Now that from the hive You gather’d have the honey, Our bees but poorly thrive Unless the banks be sunny; Then let your sun and moon, Your gold and silver shine, My thanks shall humming fly to you,_ _Chorus._ _And mine, and mine, and mine._ [FRAN., FER., _&c. give money_. ALV. [_sings_.]

_See, see, your[291] gipsy-toys, You mad girls, you merry boys, A boon voyage we have made, Loud peals must then be had; If I a gipsy be, A crack-rope I'm for thee: O, here’s a golden ring! Such clappers please a king,_ _Chorus._ _Such clappers please a king._

ALV. [_sings_.]

_You pleas’d may pass away; Then let your bell-ropes stay; Now chime, ’tis holyday,_ _Chorus._ _Now chime, ’tis holyday._ CONST. No more of this, pray, father; fall to your dancing. [CONST., CAR., _&c. dance_. LOUIS. Clara will come too late now. FER. ’Tis great pity, Besides your songs, dances, and other pastimes, You do not, as our Spanish actors do, Make trial of a stage. ALV. We are, sir, about it; So please your high authority to sign us Some warrant to confirm us. FER. My hand shall do’t, And bring the best in Spain to see your sports. ALV. Which to set off, this gentleman, a scholar—— ROD. Pox on you! [_Aside._ ALV. Will write for us. FER. A Spaniard, sir? ROD. No, my lord, an Italian. FER. Denies His country too? my son sings gipsy-ballads! [_Aside._ Keep as you are, we’ll see your poet’s vein, And your’s for playing: time is not ill spent That’s thus laid out in harmless merriment. [_Exeunt._ ALVAREZ, GUIAMARA, CONSTANZA, CHRISTIANA, CARLO, ANTONIO, RODERIGO, SANCHO, SOTO, _and others, dancing_. PED. My lord of Carcomo, for this entertainment You shall command our loves. FRAN. You’re nobly welcome. PED. The evening grows upon us: lords, to all A happy time of day. FER. The like to you, Don Pedro. LOUIS. To my heart’s sole lady Pray let my service humbly be remember’d; We only miss’d her presence. MAR. I shall truly Report your worthy love. [_Exeunt._ PEDRO _and_ MARIA. FER. You shall no further; Indeed, my lords, you shall not. FRAN. With your favour, We will attend you home.

_Re-enter_ DIEGO.

DIEGO. Where’s Don Pedro?—O sir! LOUIS. Why, what’s the matter? DIEGO. The lady Clara, Passing near to my lord corregidor’s house, Met with a strange mischance. FER. How? what mischance? DIEGO. The jester that so late arriv’d at court, And there was welcome for his country’s sake, By importunity of some friends, it seems, Had borrow’d from the gentleman of your horse The backing of your mettled Barbary; On which being mounted, whilst a number gaz’d To hear what jests he could perform on horseback, The headstrong beast, unus’d to such a rider, Bears the press of people [on] before him; With which throng the lady Clara meeting, Fainted, and there fell down, not bruis’d, I hope, But frighted and entranc’d. LOUIS. Ill-destin’d mischief! FER. Where have you left her? DIEGO. At your house, my lord; A servant coming forth, and knowing who The lady was, convey’d her to a chamber; A surgeon, too, is sent for. FER. Had she been my daughter, My care could not be greater than it shall be For her recure. LOUIS. But if she miscarry, I am the most unhappy man that lives. [_Exit._ FER. Diego, [straightway[292]] coast about the fields, And overtake Don Pedro and his wife; They newly parted from us. DIEGO. I'll run speedily. [_Exit._ FER. A strange mischance: but what I have, my lord Francisco, this day noted, I may tell you; An accident of merriment and wonder. FRAN. Indeed, my lord! FER. I have not thoughts enough About me to imagine what th' event Can come to; ’tis indeed about my son; Hereafter you may counsel me. FRAN. Most gladly.—

_Re-enter_ LOUIS.

How fares the lady? LOUIS. Callèd back to life, But full of sadness. FER. Talks she nothing? LOUIS. Nothing; For when the women that attend on her Demanded how she did, she turn’d about, And answer’d with a sigh: when I came near, And by the love I bore her begg’d a word Of hope to comfort me in her well-doing, Before she would reply, from her fair eyes She greets me with a bracelet of her tears, Then wish’d me not to doubt; she was too well; Entreats that she may sleep without disturbance Or company until her father came: And thus I left her. FRAN. Sir,[293] she’s past the worst. Young maids are oft so troubled. FER. Here come they You talk of.—

_Re-enter_ PEDRO _and_ MARIA.