Part 32

What, at thy meditation? half in heaven? LAC. The better half, my lord, my mind’s there still; And when the heart’s above, the body walks here But like an idle serving-man below, Gaping and waiting for his master’s coming. CAR. What man in age could bring forth graver thoughts? LAC. He that lives fourscore years is but like one That stays here for a friend; when death comes, then Away he goes, and is ne’er seen agen.[870] I wonder at the young men of our days, That they can doat on pleasure, or what ’tis They give that title to, unless in mockage: There’s nothing I can find upon the earth Worthy the name of pleasure, unless 't be To laugh at folly, which indeed good charity Should rather pity; but of all the frenzies That follow flesh and blood, O reverend uncle, The most ridiculous is to fawn on women; There’s no excuse for that; ’tis such a madness, There is no cure set down for’t; no physician Ever spent hour about it, for they guess’d 'Twas all in vain when they first lov’d themselves, And never since durst practise; cry _Hei mihi_,[871] That’s all the help they’ve for’t. I had rather meet A witch far north, than a fine fool in love, The sight would less afflict me: but for modesty, And your grave presence that learns men respect, I should fall foul in words upon fond[872] man, That can forget his excellence and honour, His serious meditations, being the end Of his creation to learn well to die, And live a prisoner to a woman’s eye: Can there be greater thraldom, greater folly? CAR. In making him my heir, I make good works, And they give wealth a blessing; where,[873] on the contrary, What curses does he heap upon his soul That leaves his riches to a riotous young man, To be consum’d on surfeits, pride, and harlots! Peace be upon that spirit, whose life provides A quiet rest for mine! [_Aside._

_Enter Page._[874]

LAC. How now? the news? PAGE. A letter, sir [_gives letter to_ LACTANTIO], brought by a gentleman That lately came from Rome. LAC. That’s she; she’s come; I fear not to admit her in his presence, There is the like already: I’m writ chaste In my grave uncle’s thoughts, and honest meanings Think all men’s like their own. [_Aside._]—Thou look’st so pale! What ail’st thou here a’ late? PAGE. I doubt I’ve cause, sir. LAC. Why, what’s the news? PAGE. I fear, sir, I’m with child. LAC. With child? peace, peace; speak low. PAGE. 'Twill prove, I fear, so. LAC. Beshrew my heart for that!—Desire the gentleman To walk a turn or two. CAR. What gentleman? LAC. One lately come from Rome, my lord, in credit With Lord Vincentio; so the letter speaks him. CAR. Admit him, my kind boy. [_Exit Page._]—The prettiest servant That ever man was bless’d with! ’tis so meek, So good and gentle; ’twas the best alm’s-deed That e’er you did to keep him: I’ve oft took him Weeping alone, poor boy, at the remembrance Of his lost friends, which, as he says, the sea Swallow’d, with all their substance. LAC. ’Tis a truth, sir, Has cost the poor boy many a feeling tear, And me some too, for company: in such pity I always spend my part. Here comes the gentleman.

_Enter_ AURELIA _disguised as a man_.

CAR. Welcome to Milan, sir: how is the health Of Lord Vincentio? AUR. May it please your grace, I left it well and happy, and I hope The same bless’d fortune keeps it. CAR. I hear you’re near him. AUR. One of his chamber, my lord. LAC. I’d ne’er wish one of her condition nearer Than to be one of mine. [_Aside._ CAR. Your news is pleasing: Whilst you remain in Milan, I request you To know the welcome of no house but ours. AUR. Thanks to your grace. CAR. I’ll leave you to confer; I’ll to the duchess, and labour her perfection. [_Exit._

LAC. Then thus begins our conference: I arrest thee In Cupid’s name; deliver up your weapon, [_Takes her sword._

It is not for your wearing, Venus knows it: Here’s a fit thing indeed! nay, hangers[875] and all; Away with 'em, out upon 'em! things of trouble, And out of use with you. Now you’re my prisoner; And till you swear you love me, all and only, You part not from mine arms. AUR. I swear it willingly. LAC. And that you do renounce the general’s love, That heretofore laid claim to you. AUR. My heart bids me, You need not teach me that; my eye ne’er knew A perfect choice till it stood bless’d with you. There’s yet a rival whom you little dream of, Tax me with him, and I’ll swear too I hate him; I’ll thrust 'em both together in one oath, And send 'em to some pair of waiting-women, To solder up their credits. LAC. Prithee, what’s he? Another yet? for laughter’ sake, discover him. AUR. The governor of the fort. LAC. That old dried neat’s tongue! AUR. A gentleman after my father’s relish.

_Enter_ AURELIA’S _Father and Governor_.

FATH. By your kind favours, gentlemen. AUR. O, my father! We’re both betray’d. LAC. Peace; you may prove too fearful.— To whom your business, sir? FATH. To the lord cardinal, If it would please yourself, or that young gentleman, To grace me with admittance. LAC. I will see, sir; The gentleman’s a stranger, new come o’er; He understands you not.— _Loff tro veen, tantumbro, hoff tufftee locumber shaw._ AUR. _Quisquimken, sapadlaman, fool-urchin old astrata._ FATH. Nay, and[876] that be the language, we can speak it too: _Strumpettikin, bold harlottum, queaninisma, whore-mongeria!_ Shame to thy sex, and sorrow to thy father! Is this a shape for reputation And modesty to masque in? Thou too cunning For credulous goodness, Did not a reverent respect and honour, That’s due unto the sanctimonious peace Of this lord’s house, restrain my voice and anger, And teach it soft humility, I would lift Both your disgraces to the height of grief That you have rais’d in me; but to shame you I will not cast a blemish upon virtue: Call that your happiness, and the dearest too That such a bold attempt could ever boast of. We’ll see if a strong fort can hold you now.— Take her, sir, to you. GOV. How have I deserv’d The strangeness of this hour? FATH. Talk not so tamely.— For you, sir, thank the reverence of this place, Or your hypocrisy I’d put out of grace, I had, i’faith; if ever I can fit you, Expect to hear from me. [_Exeunt Father, Governor, and_ AURELIA.

LAC. I thank you, sir; The cough o’ th’ lungs requite you! I could curse him Into diseases by whole dozens now; But one’s enough to beggar him, if he light Upon a wise physician. ’Tis a labour To keep those little wits I have about me. Still did I dream that villain would betray her: I’ll never trust slave with a parboil’d nose again. I must devise some trick t’ excuse her absence Now to my uncle too; there is no mischief But brings one villan[y] or other still Even close at heels on’t. I am pain’d at heart; If ever there were hope of me to die For love, ’tis now; I never felt such gripings: If I can ’scape this climacterical year, Women ne’er trust me, though you hear me swear. Kept with him in the fort? why, there’s no hope Of ever meeting now, my way’s not thither; Love bless us with some means to get together, And I’ll pay all the old reckonings. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_Street before the Duchess’s House._

_Enter on a balcony[877] Duchess and_ CELIA.

DUCH. What a contented rest rewards my mind For faithfulness! I give it constancy, And it returns me peace. How happily Might woman live, methinks, confin’d within The knowledge of one husband! What comes of more rather proclaims desire Prince of affections than religious love, Brings frailty and our weakness into question 'Mongst our male enemies, makes widows’ tears Rather the cup of laughter than of pity: What credit can our sorrows have with men, When in some months’ space they turn light agen,[878] Feast, dance, and go in colours? If my vow Were yet to make, I would not sleep without it, Or make a faith as perfect to myself In resolution, as a vow would come to, And do as much right so to constancy As strictness could require; for ’tis our goodness And not our strength that does it. I am arm’d now 'Gainst all deserts in man, be’t valour, wisdom, Courtesy, comeliness, nay, truth itself, Which seldom keeps him company. I commend The virtues highly, as I do an instrument When the case hangs by th’ wall; but man himself Never comes near my heart.

_Enter Cardinal above._

CAR. The blessing of perfection to your thoughts, lady! For I’m resolv’d[879] they’re good ones. DUCH. Honour of greatness, Friend to my vow, and father to my fame, Welcome as peace to temples! CAR. I bring war. DUCH. How, sir? CAR. A harder fight: if now you conquer, You crown my praises double. DUCH. What’s your aim, sir? CAR. T’ astonish sin and all her tempting evils, And make your goodness shine more glorious. When your fair noble vow shew’d you the way To excellence in virtue, to keep back The fears that might discourage you at first, Pitying your strength, it shew’d you not the worst: ’Tis not enough for tapers to burn bright, But to be seen, so to lend others light, Yet not impair themselves, their flame as pure As when it shin’d in secret; so, t’ abide Temptations is the soul’s flame truly tried. I’ve an ambition, but a virtuous one; I’d have nothing want to your perfection. DUCH. Is there a doubt found yet? is it so hard For woman to recover, with all diligence, And a true fasting faith from sensual pleasure, What many of her sex have[880] so long lost? Can you believe that any sight of man, Held he the worth of millions in one spirit, Had power to alter me? CAR. No; there’s my hope, My credit, and my triumph. DUCH. I’ll no more Keep strictly private, since the glory on’t Is but a virtue question’d; I’ll come forth And shew myself to all; the world shall witness, That, like the sun, my constancy can look On earth’s corruptions, and shine clear itself. CAR. Hold conquest now, and I have all my wishes. [_Cornets, and a shout within._ DUCH. The meaning of that sudden shout, my lord? CAR. Signor Andrugio, general of the field, Successful in his fortunes, is arriv’d, And met by all the gallant hopes of Milan, Welcom’d with laurel-wreaths and hymns of praises: Vouchsafe but you to give him the first grace, madam, Of your so long-hid presence, he has then All honours that can bless victorious man. DUCH. You shall prevail, grave sir. [_Exit Cardinal above._

_Enter_ ANDRUGIO, _attended by the nobility, senators, and masquers_.

_Song._

_Laurel is a victor’s due, I give it you, I give it you; Thy name with praise, Thy brow with bays We circle round: All men rejoice With cheerful voice, To see thee like a conqueror crown’d._ [_A Cupid descending, sings_: _I am a little conqueror too; For wreaths of bays There’s arms of cross,[881] And that’s my due: I give the flaming heart, It is my crest; And by the mother’s side, The weeping eye, The sighing breast. It is not power in you, fair beauties; If I command love, ’tis your duties._ [_Ascends._ [_During the preceding songs_ ANDRUGIO _peruses a letter delivered to him by a Lord: the masque then closes with the following_

_Song._

_Welcome, welcome, son of fame, Honour triumphs in thy name!_ [_Exeunt all except Lord._

LORD. Alas, poor gentleman! I brought him news That like a cloud spread over all his glories: When he miss’d her whom his eye greedily sought for, His welcome seem’d so poor, he took no joy in’t; But when he found her by her father forc’d To the old governor’s love, and kept so strictly, A coldness strook his heart. There is no state So firmly happy but feels envy’s might. I know Lactantio, nephew to the cardinal, Hates him as deeply as a rich man death; And yet his welcome shew’d as fair and friendly As his that wore the truest love to him; When in his wishes he could drink his blood, And make his heart the sweetness of his food. [_Exit._ CELIA. Madam! madam! DUCH. Beshrew thy heart, dost thou not see me busy? You shew your manners! CELIA. In the name of goodness, What ails my lady? DUCH. I confess I’m mortal; There’s no defending on’t; ’tis cruel flattery To make a lady believe otherwise. Is not this flesh? can you drive heat from fire? So may you love from this; for love and death Are brothers in this kingdom, only death Comes by the mother’s side, and that’s the surest. That general is wondrous fortunate, Has won another field since, and a victory That credits all the rest; he may more boast on’t Than of a thousand conquests. I am lost, Utterly lost! where are my women now? Alas, what help’s in them, what strength have they? I call to a weak guard when I call them; In rescuing me they’d be themselves o’ercome: When I, that profess’d war, am overthrown, What hope’s in them, then, that ne’er stirr’d from home? My faith is gone for ever; My reputation with the cardinal, My fame, my praise, my liberty, my peace, Chang’d for a restless passion: O hard spite, To lose my seven years’ victory at one sight! [_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

LACTANTIO’S _lodging in the Cardinal’s mansion_.

_Enter_ DONDOLO, _and Page[882] carrying a shirt_.

PAGE. I prithee, Dondolo, take this shirt and air it a little against my master rises; I had rather do any thing than do’t, i’faith. DON. O monstrous, horrible, terrible, intolerable! are not you big enough to air a shirt? were it a smock now, you liquorish page, you’d be hanged ere you’d part from’t. If thou dost not prove as arrant a smell-smock as any the town affords in a term-time, I’ll lose my judgment in wenching. PAGE. Pish; here, Dondolo, prithee, take it. DON. It’s no more but up and ride with you then! all my generation were beadles and officers, and do you think I’m so easily entreated? you shall find a harder piece of work, boy, than you imagine, to get any thing from my hands; I will not disgenerate so much from the nature of my kindred; you must bribe me one way or other, if you look to have any thing done, or else you may do’t yourself: ’twas just my father’s humour when he bore office. You know my mind, page; the song! the song! I must either have the song you sung to my master last night when he went to bed, or I’ll not do a stitch of service for you from one week’s end to the other. As I am a gentleman, you shall brush cloaks, make clean spurs, nay, pull off strait boots, although in the tugging you chance to fall and hazard the breaking of your little buttocks; I’ll take no more pity of your marrow-bones than a butcher’s dog of a rump of beef; nay, ka me, ka thee;[883] if you will ease the melancholy of my mind with singing, I will deliver you from the calamity of boots-haling. PAGE. Alas, you know I cannot sing! DON. Take heed; you may speak at such an hour that your voice may be clean taken away from you: I have known many a good gentlewoman say so much as you say now, and have presently gone to bed and lay speechless: ’tis not good to jest, as old Chaucer was wont to say, that broad famous English poet. Cannot you sing, say you? O that a boy should so keep cut with[884] his mother, and be given to dissembling! PAGE. Faith, to your knowledge in’t, ill may seem well; But as I hope in comforts, I’ve no skill. DON. A pox of skill! give me plain simple cunning: why should not singing be as well got without skill as the getting of children? You shall have the arrantest fool do as much there as the wisest coxcomb of 'em all, let 'em have all the help of doctors put to 'em, both the directions of physicians, and the erections of pothecaries; you shall have a plain hobnailed country fellow, marrying some dairy-wench, tumble out two of a year, and sometimes three, byrlady,[885] as the crop falls out; and your nice paling physicking gentlefolks some one in nine years, and hardly then a whole one as it should be; the wanting of some apricock or something loses a member on him, or quite spoils it. Come, will you sing, that I may warm the shirt? by this light, he shall put it on cold for me else. PAGE. A song or two I learnt with hearing gentlewomen practise themselves. DON. Come, you are so modest now, ’tis pity that thou wast ever bred to be thrust through a pair of canions;[887] thou wouldst have made a pretty foolish waiting-woman but for one thing. Wilt sing? PAGE. As well as I can, Dondolo. DON. Give me the shirt then, I’ll warm’t as well[’s] I can too. Why, look, you whoreson coxcomb, this is a smock! PAGE. No, ’tis my master’s shirt. DON. Why, that’s true too; Who knows not that? why, ’tis the fashion, fool; All your young gallants[888] here of late wear smocks, Those without beards especially. PAGE. Why, what’s the reason, sir? DON. Marry, very great reason in’t: a young gallant lying a-bed with his wench, if the constable should chance to come up and search, being both in smocks, they’d be taken for sisters, and I hope a constable dare go no further; and as for the knowing of their heads, that’s well enough too, for I know many young gentlemen wear longer hair than their mistresses. PAGE. ’Tis a hot world the whilst. DON. Nay, that’s most certain; and a most witty age of a bald one, for all languages; you’ve many daughters so well brought up, they speak French naturally at fifteen, and they are turned to the Spanish and Italian half a year after. PAGE. That’s like learning the grammar first, and the accidence after, they go backward so. DON. The fitter for th’ Italian: thou’st no wit, boy; Hadst had a tutor, he’d have taught thee that. Come, come, that I may be gone, boy! PAGE [_sings_]. _Cupid is Venus’[889] only joy, But he is a wanton boy, A very, very wanton boy; He shoots at ladies’ naked breasts, He is the cause of most men’s crests, I mean upon the forehead, Invisible, but horrid;_ _Of the short velvet mask he was deviser, That wives may kiss, the husbands ne’er the wiser; 'Twas he first thought upon the way To keep a lady’s lips in play._ DON. O rich, ravishing, rare, and enticing! Well, go thy ways for as sweet a breasted page[890] as ever lay at his master’s feet in a truckle-bed. PAGE. You’ll hie you in straight, Dondolo? DON. I’ll not miss you. [_Exit Page._ This smockified shirt, or shirted smock, I will go toast. Let me see what’s a’clock: I must to th’ castle straight to see his love, Either by hook or crook: my master storming Sent me last night, but I’ll be gone this morning. [_Exit._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_An Apartment in the House of the Duchess._

_Enter_ DUCHESS _and_ CELIA.

DUCH. Seek out the lightest colours can be got, The youthfull’st dressings; tawny is too sad, I am not thirty yet; I’ve wrong’d my time To go so long in black, like a petitioner: See that the powder that I use about me Be rich in cassia. CELIA. Here’s a sudden change! [_Aside._ DUCH. O, I’m undone in faith! Stay, art thou certain Lactantio, nephew to the cardinal, was present In the late entertainment of the general? CELIA. Upon my reputation with your excellence, These eyes beheld him: he came foremost, madam; 'Twas he in black and yellow. DUCH. Nay, ’tis no matter, either for himself Or for the affectation of his colours, So you be sure he was there. CELIA. As sure as sight Can discern man from man, madam. DUCH. It suffices. [_Exit_ CELIA. O, an ill cause had need of many helps, Much art, and many friends, ay, and those mighty, Or else it sets in shame! A faith once lost Requires great cunning ere’t be entertain’d Into the breast of a belief again; There’s no condition so unfortunate, Poor, miserable, to any creature given, As hers that breaks in vow; she breaks with heaven.

_Enter Cardinal._