Part 1
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.
Footnotes have been gathered at end of the text.
In Volume 1 of this work, the editor provided a section of ‘Addendum and Corrigendum’, with errata of the following volumes, including this. The errata for Volume 3 have been copied from that volume for straightfoward reference, and are included in the transcriber’s endnotes.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.
THE WORKS OF THOMAS MIDDLETON.
--------------
VOL. III.
CONTAINING
THE HONEST WHORE. (PART I.) THE HONEST WHORE. (PART II.) THE WITCH. THE WIDOW. A FAIR QUARREL. MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY ROBSON, LEVEY, AND FRANKLYN, 46 St. Martin’s Lane.
THE WORKS
OF
THOMAS MIDDLETON,
=Now first collected,=
WITH
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR,
AND
NOTES,
BY
THE REVEREND ALEXANDER DYCE.
---------------------
_IN FIVE VOLUMES._
VOL. III.
--------------
LONDON:
EDWARD LUMLEY, CHANCERY LANE.
---
1840.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE HONEST WHORE. (PART FIRST.)
_The Honest Whore, with, The Humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife. Tho: Dekker. London Printed by V. S. for John Hodgets, and are to be solde at his shop in Paules church-yard._ 1604. 4to. Other eds. in 1605,[1] 1615, 1616, 1635, 4to.
It has also been reprinted (with the grossest and most unpardonable incorrectness) in the various editions of Dodsley’s _Old Plays_, vol. iii.
This drama (both First and Second Parts) ought to have occupied an earlier station among our author’s works. I originally rejected it, because the name of Dekker alone appears on the title-page; but I have since felt convinced that, with such authority for ascribing a portion of it to Middleton as that of Henslowe in the following entry, I should not be justified in excluding it from the present collection:
“March 1602-3. The Patient Man and Honest Whore, by Thomas Dekker and _Thomas Middleton_.” Malone’s _Shakespeare_ (by Boswell), vol. iii. p. 328.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
GASPARO TREBAZZI, _duke of Milan_. HIPPOLITO, _a count_. CASTRUCHIO. SINEZI. PIORATTO. FLUELLO. MATHEO. BENEDICT, _a doctor_. ANSELMO, _a friar_. FUSTIGO, _brother to Viola_. CANDIDO, _a linen-draper_. GEORGE, _his servant_. _First Prentice._ _Second Prentice._ CRAMBO. POH. ROGER, _servant to Bellafront_. _Porter._ _Sweeper._ _Madmen, Servants, &c._
INFELICE, _daughter to the duke_. BELLAFRONT, _a harlot_. VIOLA, _wife to Candido_. MISTRESS FINGERLOCK, _a bawd_.
Scene, MILAN, and the neighbourhood.
THE HONEST WHORE.
--------------
ACT I. SCENE I.
_A Street._
_Enter a funeral, a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheons and garlands hanging on the sides, attended by_ GASPARO TREBAZZI, _Duke of Milan_, CASTRUCHIO, SINEZI, PIORATTO, FLUELLO, _and others:_ HIPPOLITO _meeting them, and_ MATHEO _labouring to hold him back_.
DUKE. Behold, yon comet shews his head again! Twice hath he thus at cross-turns thrown on us Prodigious[2] looks; twice hath he troubled The waters of our eyes: see, he’s turn’d wild:— Go on, in God’s name. CAS. } On afore there, ho! SIN., _&c._ } DUKE. Kinsmen and friends, take from your manly sides Your weapons, to keep back the desperate boy From doing violence to the innocent dead. HIP. I prithee, dear Matheo—-- MAT. Come, you’re mad! HIP. I do arrest thee, murderer! Set down, Villains, set down that sorrow, ’tis all mine! DUKE. I do beseech you all, for my blood’s sake, Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath Join in confederacy with your weapons’ points; If he proceed to vex us, let your swords Seek out his bowels; funeral grief loathes words. CAS. } Set on. SIN., _&c._ } HIP. Set down the body! MAT. O my lord, You’re wrong! I’ th’ open street? you see she’s dead. HIP. I know she is not dead. DUKE. Frantic young man, Wilt thou believe these gentlemen?—Pray, speak— Thou dost abuse my child, and mock’st the tears That here are shed for her: if to behold Those roses wither’d that set out her cheeks; That pair of stars that gave her body light Darken’d and dim for ever; all those rivers That fed her veins with warm and crimson streams Frozen and dried up; if these be signs of death, Then is she dead. Thou unreligious youth, Art not asham’d to empty all these eyes Of funeral tears, a debt due to the dead, As mirth is to the living? sham’st thou not To have them stare on thee? Hark, thou art curs’d Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak! HIP. My lord—— DUKE. What wouldst thou have? is she not dead? HIP. O, you ha’ kill’d her by your cruelty! DUKE. Admit I had, thou kill’st her now again, And art more savage than a barbarous Moor. HIP. Let me but kiss her pale and bloodless lip. DUKE. O fie, fie, fie! HIP. Or if not touch her, let me look on her. MAT. As you regard your honour—— HIP. Honour? smoke! MAT. Or if you lov’d her living, spare her now. DUKE. Ay, well done, sir; you play the gentleman— Steal hence;—’tis nobly done;—away;—I’ll join My force to yours, to stop this violent torrent[3]— Pass on. [_Exeunt with hearse, all except the Duke_, HIPPOLITO, _and_ MATHEO. HIP. Matheo, thou dost wound me more. MAT. I give you physic, noble friend, not wounds. DUKE. O, well said, well done, a true gentleman! Alack, I know the sea of lovers’ rage Comes rushing with so strong a tide, it beats And bears down all respects of life, of honour, Of friends, of foes! Forget her, gallant youth. HIP. Forget her? DUKE. Nay, nay, be but patient; For why death’s hand hath sued a strict divorce ’Twixt her and thee: what’s beauty but a corse? What but fair sand-dust are earth’s purest forms? Queens’ bodies are but trunks to put in worms. MAT. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [_Exit Duke._]—’Sblood, the jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and, like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. [_Aside._]—My lord Hippolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner? HIP. Where is the body? MAT. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be wormed. HIP. I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn: I’ll see how my love looks. [MATHEO _holds_ HIPPOLITO _back_. MAT. How your love looks? worse than a scarecrow. Wrestle not with me; the great fellow gives the fall, for a ducat. HIP. I shall forget myself. MAT. Pray, do so; leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues, that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their noses by nothing but twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much metal in him as is in a cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vexed thing; he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards: you’ll bleed three pottles of Aligant,[4] by this light, if you follow ’em; and then we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have surgeons roll thee up, like a baby, in swaddling clouts. HIP. What day is to-day, Matheo? MAT. Yea, marry, this is an easy question: why, to-day is—let me see—Thursday. HIP. O, Thursday. MAT. Here’s a coil for a dead commodity! ’sfoot, women when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands. HIP. She died on Monday then! MAT. And that’s the most villanous day of all the week to die in: and she was well and eat a mess of water-gruel on Monday morning. HIP. Ay? it cannot be Such a bright taper should burn out so soon. MAT. O yes, my lord. So soon? why, I ha’ known them that at dinner have been as well, and had so much health that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock have been found dead drunk. HIP. On Thursday buried, and on Monday died! Quick haste, byrlady;[5] sure her winding-sheet Was laid out ’fore her body; and the worms, That now must feast with her, were even bespoke, And solemnly invited, like strange guests. MAT. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding. HIP. Curs’d be that day for ever that robb’d her Of breath and me of bliss! henceforth let it stand Within the wizard’s book, the calendar, Mark’d with a marginal finger,[6] to be chosen By thieves, by villains, and black murderers, As the best day for them to labour in. If henceforth this adulterous, bawdy world Be got with child with treason, sacrilege, Atheism, rapes, treacherous friendship, perjury, Slander, the beggar’s sin, lies, sin of fools, Or any other damn’d impieties, On Monday let ’em be deliverèd. I swear to thee, Matheo, by my soul, Hereafter weekly on that day I’ll glue Mine eyelids down, because they shall not gaze On any female cheek; and being lock’d up In my close chamber, there I’ll meditate On nothing but my Infelice’s end, Or on a dead man’s scull draw out mine own. MAT. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad; but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench. HIP. If ever, whilst frail blood through my veins run, On woman’s beams I throw affection, Save her that’s dead; or that I loosely fly To th’ shore of any other wafting eye, Let me not prosper, heaven! I will be true Even to her dust and ashes: could her tomb Stand, whilst I liv’d, so long that it might rot, That should fall down, but she be ne’er forgot. MAT. If you have this strange monster, honesty, in your belly, why, so, jig-makers[7] and chroniclers shall pick something out of you; but and[8] I smell not you and a bawdyhouse out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as an English bag-pudding. I’ll follow your lordship, though it be to the place afore named. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_Another Street._
_Enter_ FUSTIGO _in some fantastic sea-suit, meeting a Porter._
FUS. How now, porter, will she come? POR. If I may trust a woman, sir, she will come. FUS. There’s for thy pains [_gives money_]: God-amercy, if ever I stand in need of a wench that will come with a wet finger,[9] porter, thou shalt earn my money before any clarissimo[’s][10] in Milan: yet so, God sa’ me, she’s mine own sister, body and soul, as I am a Christian gentleman: farewell; I’ll ponder till she come: thou hast been no bawd in fetching this woman, I assure thee. POR. No matter if I had, sir; better men than porters are bawds. FUS. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But, porter, art sure thou went’st into a true house? POR. I think so, for I met with no thieves.[11] FUS. Nay, but art sure it was my sister Viola? POR. I am sure, by all superscriptions, it was the party you ciphered. FUS. Not very tall? POR. Nor very low; a middling woman. FUS. ’Twas she, faith, ’twas she: a pretty plump cheek, like mine? POR. At a blush a little, very much like you. FUS. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kicked up her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage; marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There’s a little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay [_gives money_]: farewell, honest porter. POR. I am in your debt, sir; God preserve you. FUS. Not so neither, good porter. [_Exit porter._] God’s lid, yonder she comes.
_Enter_ VIOLA.
Sister Viola, I am glad to see you stirring: it’s news to have me here, is’t not, sister? VIO. Yes, trust me: I wondered who should be so bold to send for me. You are welcome to Milan, brother. FUS. Troth, sister, I heard you were married to a very rich chuff, and I was very sorry for it that I had no better clothes, and that made me send; for you know we Milaners love to strut upon Spanish leather. And how do[12] all our friends? VIO. Very well. You ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to sow your wild oats. FUS. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and reaped two hundred ducats, if I had ’em here. Marry, I must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till the ship come: by this hand, I’ll discharge at my day, by this hand. VIO. These are your old oaths. FUS. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand? VIO. Well, well, you shall have them. Put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter. FUS. I’ll sweat like a horse, if I like the matter. VIO. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours? FUS. I had not sailed a league in that great fish-pond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall. VIO. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true swaggerer. FUS. Nay, by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me. VIO. Then lend me your ears. FUS. Mine ears are yours, dear sister. VIO. I am married to a man that has wealth enough and wit enough. FUS. A linen-draper, I was told, sister. VIO. Very true; a grave citizen. I want nothing that a wife can wish from a husband; but here’s the spite, he has not all things belonging to a man. FUS. God’s my life, he’s a very mandrake;[13] or else, God bless us, one a’ these whiblins,[14] and that’s worse; and then all the children that he gets lawfully of your body, sister, are bastards by a statute. VIO. O, you run over me too fast, brother. I have heard it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man: I am sure my husband is a man in print[15] for all things else save only in this, no tempest can move him. FUS. ’Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should ha’ been moved and moved again; for I’ll be sworn, la, our drunken ship reeled like a Dutchman. VIO. No loss of goods can increase in him a wrinkle; no crabbed language make his countenance sour; the stubbornness of no servant shake him: he has no more gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant; musician will he never be, yet I find much music in him, but he loves no frets; and is so free from anger, that many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to anger their husbands: brother, mine can by no thunder turn him into a sharpness. FUS. Belike his blood, sister, is well brewed then. VIO. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most affectionately; but I know not—I ha’ such a tickling within me—such a strange longing; nay, verily, I do long. FUS. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens: nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else; I ha’ read Albertus Magnus[16] and Aristotle’s Problems.[17] VIO. You’re wide a’ th’ bow-hand[18] still, brother: my longings are not wanton, but wayward; I long to have my patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent the bristling quills may stick about his lips like a Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me: I shall be leaner than the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad. FUS. ’Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make him a cuckold. VIO. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness. FUS. The honester citizen he. Then make him drunk and cut off his beard.[19] VIO. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to fret at the loss of a little scald hair.[20] No, brother, thus it shall be—you must be secret. FUS. As your midwife, I protest, sister, or a barber-surgeon. VIO. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave[21] man; instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck. FUS. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too, sister. VIO. O, by any means, to shew your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer. FUS. Nay, for swaggering points let me alone. VIO. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s presence, kiss me, snatch rings, jewels, or any thing, so you give it back again, brother, in secret. FUS. By this hand, sister. VIO. Swear as if you came but new from knighting. FUS. Nay, I’ll swear after 400 a-year. VIO. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among fresh-water soldiers; call me your love, your ingle,[22] your cousin, or so, but sister at no hand. FUS. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that’s the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their madcaps[23] that man ’em to the garden: to call you one a’ mine aunts,[24] sister, were as good as call you arrant whore: no, no, let me alone to cozen you rarely. VIO. Has heard I have a brother, but never saw him; therefore put on a good face. FUS. The best in Milan, I warrant. VIO. Take up wares, but pay nothing; rifle my bosom, my pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice withal; but, brother, you must give all back again in secret. FUS. By this welkin[25] that here roars, I will, or else let me never know what a secret is. Why, sister, do you think I’ll cony-catch[26] you, when you are my cousin? God’s my life, then I were a stark ass. If I fret not his guts, beg me for a fool.[27] VIO. Be circumspect, and do so then. Farewell. FUS. The Tortoise, sister! I’ll stay there; forty ducats! VIO. Thither I’ll send. [_Exit_ FUSTIGO.] This law can none deny, Women must have their longings, or they die. _Exit._
SCENE III.
_A Chamber in the Duke’s Palace._
_Enter the Duke_, BENEDICT,[28] _and two Servants._