Part 17

AMO. Blest powers, what secret sin have I committed That still you send this punishment upon me? ALM. ’Tis but a gentle punishment; so take it. AMO. Why, sir, what mean you? will you ravish me? ALM. What, in the gallery, and the sun peep in? There’s fitter time and place.— [_As he embraces her, he thrusts the ribbon into her bosom._

’Tis in her bosom now. [_Aside._ AMO. Go, you’re the rudest thing e’er came at court! ALM. Well, well; I hope you’ll tell me another tale Ere you be two hours older: a rude thing? I’ll make you eat your word; I’ll make all split[531] else. [_Exit._ AMO. Nay, now I think on’t better, I’m to blame too: There’s not a sweeter gentleman in court; Nobly descended too, and dances well. Beshrew my heart, I’ll take him when there’s time; He will be catch’d up quickly. The duchess says Sh’as some employment for him, and has sworn me To use my best art in’t: life of my joys, There were good stuff! I will not trust her with him. I’ll call him back again; he must not keep Out of my sight so long; I shall grow mad then.

_Enter Duchess._

DUCH. He lives not now to see to-morrow spent, If this means take effect, as there’s no hardness in’t. Last night he play’d his horrid game again, Came to my bed-side at the full of midnight, And in his hand that fatal, fearful cup; Wak’d me, and forc’d me pledge him, to my trembling And my dead father’s scorn: that wounds my sight, That his remembrance should be rais’d in spite: But either his confusion or mine ends it.— [_Aside._ O, Amoretta,—hast thou met him yet? Speak, wench, hast done that for me? AMO. What, good madam? DUCH. Destruction of my hopes! dost ask that now? Didst thou not swear to me, out of thy hate To Almachildes, thou’dst dissemble him A loving entertainment, and a meeting Where I should work my will? AMO. Good madam, pardon me: A loving entertainment I do protest Myself to give him, with all speed I can too; But, as I’m yet a maid, a perfect one As the old time was wont to afford, when There were[532] few tricks and little cunning stirring, I can dissemble none that will serve your turn; He must have even a right one and a plain one. DUCH. Thou mak’st me doubt thy health; speak, art thou well? AMO. O, never better! if he would make haste And come back quickly! he stays now too long. [_The ribbon falls out of her bosom._ DUCH. I’m quite lost in this woman: what’s that fell Out of her bosom now? some love-token? AMO. Nay, I’ll say that for him, he’s the uncivil’st gentleman, And every way desertless. DUCH. Who’s that now She discommends so fast? AMO. I could not love him, madam, Of any man in court. DUCH. What’s he now, prithee? AMO. Who should it be but Almachildes, madam? I never hated man so deeply yet. DUCH. As Almachildes? AMO. I am sick, good madam, When I but hear him nam’d. DUCH. How is this possible? But now thou saidst thou lov’dst him, and didst raise him 'Bove all the court in praises. AMO. How great people May speak their pleasure, madam! but surely I Should think the worse of my tongue while I liv’d then. DUCH. No longer have I patience to forbear thee, Thou that retain’st an envious soul to goodness! He is a gentleman deserves as much As ever fortune yet bestow’d on man; The glory and prime lustre of our court; Nor can there any but ourself be worthy of him: And take you notice of that now from me, Say you have warning on’t, if you did love him, You must not now. AMO. Let your grace never fear it. DUCH. Thy name is Amoretta, as ours is; 'Thas made me love and trust thee. AMO. And my faithfulness Has appear’d well i’ th’ proof still; has’t not, madam? DUCH. But if’t fail now, ’tis nothing. AMO. Then it shall not. I know he will not be long from fluttering 'Bout this place, now has had a sight of me; And I’ll perform In all that I vow’d, madam, faithfully. DUCH. Then am I blest both in revenge and love, And thou shalt taste the sweetness. [_Exit._ AMO. What your aims be I list not to inquire; all I desire Is to preserve a competent honesty, Both for mine own and his use that shall have me,

_Re-enter_ ALMACHILDES.

Whose luck soe’er it be. O, he’s return’d already; I knew he would not fail. ALM. It works by this time, Or the devil’s in’t, I think; I’ll ne’er trust witch else, Nor sup with 'em this twelvemonth. [_Aside._ AMO. I must soothe him now; And ’tis great pain to do’t against one’s stomach. [_Aside._ ALM. Now, Amoretta! AMO. Now you’re welcome, sir, If you’d come always thus. ALM. O, am I so? Is the case alter’d since? AMO. If you’d be ru[l']d, And know your times,'twere somewhat; a great comfort. 'Las, I could be as loving and as venturous As any woman—we’re all flesh and blood, man— If you could play the game out modestly, And not betray your hand. I must have care, sir; You know I have a marriage-time to come, And that’s for life: your best folks will be merry, But look to the main chance, that’s reputation, And then do what they list. ALM. Wilt hear my oath? By the sweet health of youth, I will be careful, And never prate on’t, nor, like a cunning snarer, Make thy clipp’d[533] name the bird to call in others. AMO. Well, yielding then to such conditions As my poor bashfulness shall require from you, I shall yield shortly after. ALM. I’ll consent to 'em; And may thy sweet humility be a pattern For all proud women living! AMO. They’re beholding[534] to you. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_The neighbourhood of Ravenna._

_Enter_ ABERZANES, _and old Woman carrying an infant_.

ABER. So, so, away with him! I love to get 'em, But not to keep 'em. Dost thou know the house? OLD WOM. No matter for the house, I know the porch. ABER. There’s sixpence more for that: away, keep close.— [_Exit old Woman._ My tailor told me he sent away a maid-servant Well ballast of all sides within these nine days; His wife ne’er dream’d on’t; gave the drab ten pounds, And she ne’er troubles him: a common fashion He told me ’twas to rid away a scape; And I have sent him this for’t. I remember A friend of mine once serv’d a prating tradesman Just on this fashion, to a hair, in troth. ’Tis a good ease to a man: you can swell a maid up, And rid her for ten pound; there’s the purse back again, Whate’er becomes of your money or your maid. This comes of bragging, now. It’s well for the boy too; He’ll get an excellent trade by’t; and on Sundays Go like a gentleman that has pawn’d his rapier: He need not care what countryman his father was, Nor what his mother was when he was gotten: The boy will do well certain: give him grace To have a quick hand and convey things cleanly!

_Enter_ FRANCISCA.

'Twill be his own another day. O, well said! Art almost furnish’d? there’s such a toil always To set a woman to horse, a mighty trouble. The letter came to your brother’s hands, I know, On Thursday last by noon: you were expected there Yesterday night. FRAN. It makes the better, sir. ABER. We must take heed we ride through all the puddles 'Twixt this and that now, that your safeguard[535] there May be most probably dabbled. FRAN. Alas, sir, I never mark’d till now—I hate myself— How monstrous thin I look! ABER. Not monstrous neither; A little sharp i’ th’ nose, like a country woodcock. FRAN. Fie, fie, how pale I am! I shall betray myself. I would you’d box me well and handsomely, To get me into colour. ABER. Not I, pardon me; That let a husband do when he has married you: A friend at court will never offer that. Come, how much spice and sugar have you left now, At this poor one month’s voyage? FRAN. Sure, not much, sir; I think some quarter of a pound of sugar, And half an ounce of spice. ABER. Here’s no sweet charge![536] And there was thirty pound good weight and true, Beside what my man stole when 't was a-weighing, And that was three pound more, I’ll speak with least. The Rhenish wine, is’t all run out in caudles too? FRAN. Do you ask that, sir? ’tis of a week’s departure. You see what ’tis now to get children, sir.

_Enter Boy._

BOY. Your mares are ready both, sir. ABER. Come, we’ll up, then.— Youth, give my sister a straight wand: there’s twopence. BOY. I’ll give her a fine whip, sir. ABER. No, no, no; Though we have both deserv’d it. BOY. Here’s a new one. ABER. Prithee, talk to us of no whips, good boy; My heart aches when I see 'em.—Let’s away. [_Exeunt._

ACT III. SCENE I.

_An Apartment in the Duke’s House._

_Enter Duchess, leading_ ALMACHILDES _blindfold_.

ALM. This you that was a maid? how are you born To deceive men! I’d thought to have married you: I had been finely handled, had I not? I’ll say that man is wise ever hereafter That tries his wife beforehand. ’Tis no marvel You should profess such bashfulness, to blind one, As if you durst not look a man i’ th’ face, Your modesty would blush so. Why do you not run And tell the duchess now? go; you should tell all: Let her know this too.—Why, here’s the plague now: ’Tis hard at first to win 'em; when they’re gotten, There’s no way to be rid on 'em; they stick To a man like bird-lime.—My oath is out: Will you release me? I’ll release myself else. DUCH. Nay, sure, I’ll bring you to your sight again. [_Taking off the bandage from his eyes._ Say, thou must either die, or kill the duke; For one of them thou must do. ALM. How, good madam? DUCH. Thou hast thy choice, and to that purpose, sir, I’ve given thee knowledge now of what thou hast, And what thou must do, to be worthy on’t. You must not think to come by such a fortune Without desert; that were unreasonable. He that’s not born to honour must not look To have it come with ease to him; he must win’t. Take but unto thine actions wit and courage, That’s all we ask of thee. But if through weakness Of a poor spirit thou deniest me this, Think but how thou shalt die! as I’ll work means for’t, No murderer ever like thee; for I purpose To call this subtle, sinful snare of mine An act of force from thee. Thou’rt proud and youthful; I shall be believ’d: besides, thy wantonness Is at this hour in question 'mongst our women, Which will make ill for thee. ALM. I had hard chance To light upon this pleasure that’s so costly; ’Tis not content with what a man can do, And give him breath, but seeks to have that too. DUCH. Well, take thy choice. ALM. I see no choice in’t, madam, For ’tis all death, methinks. DUCH. Thou’st an ill sight then Of a young man. ’Tis death if thou refuse it; And say, my zeal has warn’d thee. But consenting, 'Twill be new life, great honour, and my love, Which in perpetual bands I’ll fasten to thee. ALM. How, madam? DUCH. I’ll do’t religiously; Make thee my husband; may I lose all sense Of pleasure in life else, and be more miserable Than ever creature was! for nothing lives But has a joy in somewhat. ALM. Then by all The hopeful fortunes of a young man’s rising, I will perform it, madam. DUCH. There’s a pledge then Of a duchess’ love for thee; and now trust me For thy most happy safety. I will choose That time shall never hurt thee: when a man Shews resolution, and there’s worth in him, I’ll have a care of him. Part now for this time; But still be near about us, till thou canst Be nearer, that’s ourself. ALM. And that I’ll venture hard for. DUCH. Good speed to thee! [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_An Apartment in_ ANTONIO’S _House_.

_Enter_ GASPARO _and_ FLORIDA.

FLO. Prithee, be careful of me, very careful now! GAS. I warrant you: he that cannot be careful of a quean, can be careful of nobody; ’tis every man’s humour that: I should never look to a wife half so handsomely. FLO. O softly, sweet sir! should your mistress meet me now In her own house, I were undone for ever. GAS. Never fear her: she’s at her prick-song close; There’s all the joy she has, or takes delight in. Look, here’s the garden-key, my master gave’t me, And will’d me to be careful: doubt not you on’t. FLO. Your master is a noble complete gentleman, And does a woman all the right that may be.

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN.

SEB. How now? what’s she? GAS. A kind of doubtful creature: I’ll tell thee more anon. [_Exeunt_ GASPARO _and_ FLORIDA. SEB. I know that face To be a strumpet’s, or mine eye is envious, And would fain wish it so where I would have it. I fail, if the condition[537] of this fellow Wears not about it a strong scent of baseness. I saw her once before here, five days since ’tis, And the same wary panderous diligence Was then bestow’d on her: she came alter’d then, And more inclining to the city-tuck. Whom should this piece of transformation visit, After the common courtesy of frailty, In our house here? surely not any servant; They are not kept so lusty, she so low. I’m at a strange stand: love and luck assist me!

_Re-enter_ GASPARO.

The truth I shall win from him by false play. He’s now return’d.—Well, sir, as you were saying,— Go forward with your tale. GAS. What? I know nothing. SEB. The gentlewoman. GAS. She’s gone out at the back-door now. SEB. Then farewell she, and you, if that be all. GAS. Come, come, thou shalt have more: I have no power To lock myself up from thee. SEB. So methinks. GAS. You shall not think, trust me, sir, you shall not: Your ear; she’s one o’ th’ falling family, A quean my master keeps; she lies at Rutney’s. SEB. Is’t possible? I thought I’d seen her somewhere. GAS. I tell you truth sincerely. Sh’as been thrice here By stealth within these ten days, and departed still With pleasure and with thanks, sir; ’tis her luck. Surely I think if ever there were man Bewitch’d in this world, ’tis my master, sirrah. SEB. Think’st thou so, Gaspar? GAS. O sir, too apparent. SEB. This may prove happy: ’tis the likeliest means That fortune yet e’er shew’d me. [_Aside._

_Enter_ ISABELLA _with a letter_.

ISA. You’re both here now, And strangers newly lighted! where’s your attendance? SEB. I know what makes you waspish: a pox on’t! She’ll every day be angry now at nothing. [_Aside._

[_Exeunt_ GASPARO _and_ SEBASTIAN.

ISA. I’ll call her stranger ever in my heart: Sh’as kill’d the name of sister through base lust, And fled to shifts. O how a brother’s good thoughts May be beguil’d in woman! here’s a letter, Found in her absence, reports strangely of her, And speaks her impudence: sh’as undone herself— I could not hold from weeping when I read it— Abus’d her brother’s house and his good confidence. 'Twas done not like herself; I blame her much: But if she can but keep it from his knowledge, I will not grieve him first; it shall not come By my means to his heart.—

_Re-enter_ GASPARO.

Now, sir, the news? GAS. You call’d 'em strangers; ’tis my master’s sister, madam. ISA. O, is it so? she’s welcome: who’s come with her? GAS. I see none but Aberzanes. [_Exit._ ISA. He’s enough To bring a woman to confusion, More than a wiser man or a far greater. A letter came last week to her brother’s hands, To make way for her coming up again, After her shame was lighten’d; and she writ there, The gentleman her mother wish’d her to, Taking a violent surfeit at a wedding, Died ere she came to see him: what strange cunning Sin helps a woman to! Here she comes now.—

_Enter_ FRANCISCA _and_ ABERZANES.

Sister, you’re welcome home again. FRAN. Thanks, sweet sister. ISA. You’ve had good speed. FRAN. What says she? [_Aside._]—I have made All the best speed I could. ISA. I well believe you.— Sir, we’re all much beholding[538] to your kindness. ABER. My service ever, madam, to a gentlewoman. I took a bonny mare I keep, and met her Some ten mile out of town,—eleven, I think.— 'Twas at the stump I met you, I remember, At bottom of the hill. FRAN. 'Twas thereabout, sir. ABER. Full eleven then, by the rod, if they were measur’d. ISA. You look ill, methinks: have you been sick of late?— Troth, very bleak, doth she not? how think you, sir? ABER. No, no; a little sharp with riding; sh’as rid sore. FRAN. I ever look lean after a journey, sister; One shall do that has travell’d, travell’d hard. ABER. Till evening I commend you to yourselves, ladies. [_Exit._ ISA. And that’s best trusting to, if you were hang’d.— [_Aside._ You’re well acquainted with his hand went out now? FRAN. His hand? ISA. I speak of nothing else; I think ’tis there. [_Giving letter._ Please you to look upon’t; and when you’ve done, If you did weep, it could not be amiss, A sign you could say grace after a full meal. You had not need look paler, yet you do. 'Twas ill done to abuse yourself and us, To wrong so good a brother, and the thoughts That we both held of you. I did doubt you much Before our marriage; but then my strangeness.[539] And better hope still kept me off from speaking. Yet may you find a kind and peaceful sister of me, If you desist here, and shake hands with folly, Which you ha’ more cause to do than I to wish you. As truly as I bear a love to goodness, Your brother knows not yet on’t, nor shall ever For my part, so you leave his company. But if I find you impudent in sinning, I will not keep’t an hour, nay, prove your enemy, And you know who will aid me. As you’ve goodness, You may make use of this; I’ll leave it with you. [_Exit._ FRAN. Here’s a sweet churching after a woman’s labour, And a fine Give you joy! why, where the devil Lay you to be found out? the sudden hurry Of hastening to prevent shame brought shame forth: That’s still the curse of all lascivious stuff; Misdeeds could never yet be wary enough. Now must I stand in fear of every look, Nay, tremble at a whisper. She can keep it secret? That’s very likely, and a woman too! I’m sure I could not do’t; and I am made As well as she can be for any purpose: 'Twould ne’er stay with me two days—I have cast[540] it— The third would be a terrible sick day with me, Not possible to bear it: should I then Trust to her strength in’t, that lies every night Whispering the day’s news in a husband’s ear? No; and I’ve thought upon the means: blest fortune! I must be quit with her in the same fashion, Or else ’tis nothing: there is no way like it, To bring her honesty into question cunningly. My brother will believe small likelihoods, Coming from me too. I lying now i’ th’ house May work things to my will, beyond conceit too: Disgrace her first, her tale will ne’er be heard; I learn’d that counsel first of a sound guard. I do suspect Gaspar, my brother’s squire there, Had some hand in this mischief, for he’s cunning; And I perhaps may fit him.

_Enter_ ANTONIO.

ANT. Your sister told me you were come; thou’rt welcome. FRAN. Where is she? ANT. Who, my wife? FRAN. Ay, sir. ANT. Within. FRAN. Not within hearing, think you? ANT. Within hearing? What’s thy conceit in that? why shak’st thy head so, And look’st so pale and poorly? FRAN. I’m a fool indeed To take such grief for others; for your fortune, sir. ANT. My fortune? worse things yet? farewell life then! FRAN. I fear you’re much deceiv’d, sir, in this woman. ANT. Who? in my wife? speak low; come hither; softly, sister. FRAN. I love her as a woman you made choice of; But when she wrongs you, natural love is touch’d, brother, And that will speak, you know. ANT. I trust it will. FRAN. I held a shrewd suspicion of her lightness At first, when I went down, which made me haste the sooner; But more, to make amends, at my return now, I found apparent signs. ANT. Apparent, sayst thou? FRAN. Ay, and of base lust too; that makes th’ affliction. ANT. There has been villany wrought upon me then; ’Tis too plain now. FRAN. Happy are they, I say still, That have their sisters living i’ th’ house with 'em, Their mothers, or some kindred; a great comfort To all poor married men; it is not possible A young wife can abuse a husband then; ’Tis found straight. But swear service to this, brother. ANT. To this, and all thou wilt have. FRAN. Then this follows, sir. [_Whispers him._ ANT. I praise thy counsel well; I’ll put’t in use straight. See where she comes herself. [_Exit_ FRANCISCA.

_Re-enter_ ISABELLA.

Kind, honest lady, I must now borrow a whole fortnight’s leave of thee. ISA. How, sir, a fortnight’s? ANT. It may be but ten days, I know not yet; ’Tis business for the state, and 't must be done. ISA. I wish good speed to’t then. ANT. Why, that was well spoke. I’ll take but a foot-boy; I need no more; The rest I’ll leave at home to do you service. ISA. Use your own pleasure, sir. ANT. Till my return You’ll be good company, my sister and you. ISA. We shall make shift, sir. ANT. I’m glad now she’s come; And so the wishes of my love to both! ISA. And our good prayers with you, sir! [_Exit_ ANTONIO.

_Re-enter_ SEBASTIAN.