Part 5

MAT. You, goody punk, _subaudi_ cockatrice,[153] O you’re a sweet whore of your promise, are you not, think you? how well you came to supper to us last night! mew, a whore, and break her word! nay, you may blush and hold down your head at it well enough: ’sfoot, ask these gallants if we stayed not till we were as hungry as sergeants. FLU. Ay, and their yeomen too. CAS. Nay, faith, acquaintance, let me tell you, you forgat yourself too much: we had excellent cheer, rare vintage, and were drunk after supper. PIO. And when we were in our woodcocks, sweet rogue, a brace of gulls, dwelling here in the city, came in and paid all the shot. MAT. Pox on her! let her alone. BEL. O, I pray, do, if you be gentlemen! I pray, depart the house: beshrew the door For being so easily entreated! faith, I lent but little ear unto your talk; My mind was busied otherwise, in troth, And so your words did unregarded pass: Let this suffice,—I am not as I was. FLU. I am not what I was? no, I’ll be sworn thou art not; for thou wert honest at five, and now thou’rt a punk at fifteen; thou wert yesterday a simple whore, and now thou’rt a cunning, cony-catching[154] baggage to-day. BEL. I’ll say I’m worse; I pray, forsake me then: I do desire you leave me, gentlemen, And leave yourselves: O be not what you are, Spendthrifts of soul and body! Let me persuade you to forsake all harlots, Worse than the deadliest poisons; they are worse, For o’er their souls hangs an eternal curse. In being slaves to slaves, their labours perish; They’re seldom blest with fruit, for ere it blossoms Many a worm confounds it; They have no issue but foul ugly ones, That run along with them e’en to their graves, For, ’stead of children, they breed rank diseases; And all you gallants can bestow on them Is that French infant, which ne’er acts, but speaks. What shallow son and heir, then, foolish gallant[s], Would waste all his inheritance to purchase A filthy, loath’d disease, and pawn his body To a dry evil? that usury’s worst of all, When th’ interest will eat out the principal. MAT. ’Sfoot, she gulls 'em the best! this is always her fashion when she would be rid of any company that she cares not for, to enjoy mine alone. [_Aside._ FLU. What’s here? instructions, admonitions, and caveats? come out, you scabbard of vengeance! MAT. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they fist,[155] you shall not spurn my punk, I can tell you: my blood is vexed. FLU. Pox a’ your blood! make it a quarrel. MAT. You’re a slave! will that serve turn? PIO.[156] ’Sblood, hold, hold! CAS. Matheo, Fluello, for shame, put up! MAT. Spurn my sweet varlet? BEL. O how many thus, Mov’d with a little folly, have let out Their souls in brothel-houses! fell down and died Just at their harlot’s foot, as 'twere in pride! FLU. Matheo, we shall meet. MAT. Ay, ay; any where saving at church; pray, take heed we meet not there. FLU. Adieu, damnation! CAS. Cockatrice, farewell! PIO. There’s more deceit in women than in hell. [_Exeunt_ CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO, _and_ PIORATTO. MAT. Ha, ha, thou dost gull 'em so rarely, so naturally! if I did not think thou hadst been in earnest! thou art a sweet rogue for’t, i’faith. BEL. Why are not you gone too, signor Matheo? I pray, depart my house: you may believe me; In troth, I have no part of harlot in me. MAT. How’s this? BEL. Indeed, I love you not, but hate you worse Than any man, because you were the first Gave money for my soul: you brake the ice, Which after turn’d a puddle; I was led By your temptation to be miserable. I pray, seek out some other that will fall, Or rather, I pray, seek out none at all. MAT. Is’t possible to be impossible—an honest whore? I have heard many honest wenches turn strumpets with a wet finger:[157] but for a harlot to turn honest is one of Hercules’ labours; it was more easy for him in one night to make fifty queans, than to make one of them honest again in fifty years. Come, I hope thou dost but jest. BEL. ’Tis time to leave off jesting; I had almost Jested away salvation: I shall love you, If you will soon forsake me. MAT. God be wi’ thee![158] BEL. O, tempt no more women! shun their weighty curse! Women at best are bad, make them not worse. You gladly seek our sex’s overthrow, But not to raise our states. For all your wrongs, Will you vouchsafe me but due recompense, To marry with me? MAT. How, marry with a punk, a cockatrice, a harlot? marry, foh; I’ll be burnt thorough the nose first. BEL. Why, la, these are your oaths! you love to undo us, To put heaven from us, whilst our best hours waste; You love to make us lewd, but never chaste. MAT. I’ll hear no more of this, this ground upon, Thou’rt damn’d for altering thy religion. [_Exit._ BEL. Thy lust and sin speak so much: go thou, my ruin, The first fall my soul took! By my example, I hope few maidens now will put their heads Under men’s girdles: who least trusts is most wise: Men’s oaths do cast a mist before our eyes. My best of wit be ready! now I go By some device to greet Hippolito. [_Exit._

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_A Chamber in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House_.

_Enter a Servant._

SER. So, this is Monday morning; and now must I to my huswifery. [_Sets out a table, and places on it a skull, a picture of_ INFELICE, _a book, and a taper_.] Would I had been created a shoemaker! for all the gentle craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me into a student; for here’s my book, here my desk, here my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowzy first day of the week makes me half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back’s turned, will be naught together.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

HIP. Are all the window’s shut? SER. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns. HIP. Thou art a faithful servant, and observ’st The calendar both of my solemn vows And ceremonious sorrow. Get thee gone: I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound Of any woman’s voice pierce through that door. SER. If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them. What will your lordship have to breakfast? HIP. Sighs. SER. What to dinner? HIP. Tears. SER. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper? HIP. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy of a woman. SER. Indeed, that’s harder to come by than ever was Ostend.[159] HIP. Prithee, away. SER. I’ll make away myself presently, which few servants will do for their lords, but rather help to make them away.—Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something out of it. [_Aside, and exit._ HIP. [_taking up_ INFELICE’S _picture_.] My Infelice’s face, her brow, her eye, The dimple on her cheek! and such sweet skill Hath from the cunning workman’s pencil flown, These lips look fresh and lively as her own, Seeming to move and speak. 'Las, now I see The reason why fond[160] women love to buy Adulterate complexion! here ’tis read; False colours last after the true be dead: Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue, Of all that was past woman’s excellence In her white bosom, look, a painted board Circumscribes all! earth can no bliss afford, Nothing of her, but this: this cannot speak; It has no lap for me to rest upon, No lip worth tasting; here the worms will feed, As in her coffin: hence then, idle art! True love’s best pictur’d in a true-love’s heart: Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead; So that thou liv’st twice, twice art buried: Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What’s here? [_Takes up the skull._ Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy’s: 'Las, say it were, I need not fear him now! For all his braves, his contumelious breath, His frowns, though dagger-pointed, all his plot[s], Though ne’er so mischievous, his Italian pills, His quarrels, and that common fence, his law, See, see, they’re all eaten out! here’s not left one: How clean they’re pick’d away to the bare bone! How mad are mortals, then, to rear great names On tops of swelling houses! or to wear out Their fingers’ ends in dirt, to scrape up gold! Not caring, so that sumpter-horse the back Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse, Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul: Yet, after all, their gayness looks thus foul. What fools are men to build a garish tomb, Only to save the carcass whilst it rots, To maintain’t long in stinking, make good carrion, But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound! For good deeds keep men sweet long above ground. And must all come to this? fools, wise, all hither? Must all heads thus at last be laid together? Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman, After this fashion, not like this; these colours, In time, kissing but air will be kiss’d off; But here’s a fellow, that which he lays on Till doomsday alters not complexion: Death’s the best painter then: they that draw shapes, And live by wicked faces, are but God’s apes; They come but near the life, and there they stay: This fellow draws life too; his art is fuller, The pictures which he makes are without colour.

_Re-enter Servant._

SER. Here’s a person would speak with you, sir. HIP. Hah! SER. A parson,[161] sir, would speak with you. HIP. Vicar? SER. Vicar! no, sir, has too good a face to be a vicar yet; a youth, a very youth. HIP. What youth? of man or woman? lock the doors. SER. If it be a woman, marrow-bones and potato-pies[162] keep me from[163] meddling with her, for the thing has got the breeches! ’tis a male varlet[164] sure, my lord, for a woman’s tailor ne’er measured him. HIP. Let him give thee his message, and be gone. SER. He says he’s signor Matheo’s man; but I know he lies. HIP. How dost thou know it? SER. 'Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think, sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing. HIP. Send him, and keep the door. [_Exit Servant._ _Fata[165] si liceat mihi_ [_Reads._ _Fingere arbitrio meo, Temperem zephyro levi Vela_— I’d sail, were I to choose, not in the ocean; Cedars are shaken when shrubs do feel no bruise—

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _dressed as a page, with a letter_.

How, from Matheo? BEL. Yes, my lord. HIP. Art sick? BEL. Not all in health, my lord. HIP. Keep off. BEL. I do.— Hard fate when women are compell’d to woo! [_Aside._ HIP. This paper does speak nothing. BEL. Yes, my lord, Matter of life it speaks, and therefore writ In hidden character: to me instruction My master gives, and, 'less you please to stay Till you both meet, I can the text display. HIP. Do so; read out. BEL. I am already out: Look on my face, and read the strangest story! HIP. What, villain, ho!

_Re-enter Servant._

SER. Call you, my lord? HIP. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil! SER. Lord bless us, where? he’s not cloven, my lord, that I can see; besides, the devil goes more like a gentleman than a page: good my lord, _buon coraggio_! HIP. Thou hast let in a woman in man’s shape, And thou art damned for’t. SER. Not damn’d, I hope, For putting in a woman to a lord. HIP. Fetch me my rapier—do not; I shall kill thee. Purge this infected chamber of that plague That runs upon me thus; slave, thrust her hence. SER. Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her hence without help!—Come, mermaid, you must to sea again. BEL. Hear me but speak, my words shall be all music; Hear me but speak. [_Knocking within._ HIP. Another beats the door; T'other she-devil! look. SER. Why, then, hell’s broke loose. HIP. Hence; guard the chamber; let no more come on; [_Exit Servant._ One woman serves for man’s damnation.— Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate The chastest and most sanctimonious vow That e’er was enter’d in the court of heaven! I was, on meditation’s spotless wings,[166] Upon my journey thither: like a storm Thou beats my ripen’d cogitations Flat to the ground; and like a thief dost stand, To steal devotion from the holy land. BEL. If woman were thy mother—if thy heart Be not all marble, or if’t marble be, Let my tears soften it, to pity me— I do beseech thee, do not thus with scorn Destroy a woman! HIP. Woman, I beseech thee, Get thee some other suit, this fits thee not; I would not grant it to a kneeling queen. I cannot love thee, nor I must not: see [_Points to_ INFELICE’S _picture_. The copy of that obligation, Where my soul’s bound in heavy penalties. BEL. She’s dead, you told me; she’ll let fall her suit. HIP. My vows to her fled after her to heaven: Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou might’st behold her Watching upon yon battlements of stars, How I observe them. Should I break my bond, This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips Call me most perjur’d villain. Let it suffice, I ha’ set thee in the path: is’t not a sign I love thee, when with one so most most dear I’ll have thee fellow?[167] all are fellows there. BEL. Be greater than a king; save not a body, But from eternal shipwreck keep a soul: If not, and that again sin’s path I tread, The grief be mine, the guilt fall on thy head! HIP. Stay, and take physic for it; read this book; Ask counsel of this head, what’s to be done; He’ll strike it dead, that ’tis damnation If you turn Turk again.[168] O do it not! Though[169] heaven can not allure you to do well, From doing ill let hell fright you: and learn this, The soul whose bosom lust did never touch Is God’s fair bride, and maidens’ souls are such: The soul that, leaving chastity’s white shore, Swims in hot sensual streams, is the devil’s whore.—

_Re-enter Servant with letter._

How now? who comes? SER. No more knaves,[170] my lord, that wear smocks: here’s a letter from doctor Benedict; I would not enter his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry, they are half witches.[171]—’Slid, you are a sweet youth to wear a codpiece,[172] and have no pins to stick upon’t! HIP. I’ll meet the doctor, tell him: yet to-night I cannot; but at morrow rising sun I will not fail. [_Exit Servant._]—Go, woman; fare thee well. [_Exit._ BEL. The lowest fall can be but into hell. It does not move him; I must therefore fly From this undoing city, and with tears Wash off all anger from my father’s brow: He cannot sure but joy seeing me new born. A woman honest first, and then turn whore, Is, as with me, common to thousands more; But from a strumpet to turn chaste, that sound Has oft been heard, that woman hardly found. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A Street._

_Enter_ FUSTIGO, CRAMBO, _and_ POH.[173]

FUS. Hold up your hands, gentlemen: here’s one, two, three [_giving money_]—nay, I warrant they are sound pistols,[174] and without flaws; I had them of my sister, and I know she uses to put [up] nothing that’s cracked—three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and nine: by this hand, bring me but a piece of his blood, and you shall have nine more. I’ll lurk in a tavern not far off, and provide supper to close up the end of the tragedy. The linen-draper’s, remember. Stand to’t, I beseech you, and play your parts perfectly. CRAM. Look you, signor, ’tis not your gold that we weigh—— FUS. Nay, nay, weigh it, and spare not; if it lack one grain of corn, I’ll give you a bushel of wheat to make it up. CRAM. But by your favour, signor, which of the servants is it? because we’ll punish justly. FUS. Marry, ’tis the head man; you shall taste him by his tongue; a pretty, tall, prating fellow, with a Tuscalonian beard. POH. Tuscalonian? very good. FUS. Cod’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman; my coxcomb was dry-beaten, as if my hair had been hemp. CRAM. We’ll dry-beat some of them. FUS. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried murder out very manfully: I have her consent, in a manner, to have him peppered, else I’ll not do’t to win more than ten cheaters do at a rifling:[175] break but his pate or so, only his mazer,[176] because I’ll have his head in a cloth as well as mine; he’s a linen-draper, and may take enough. I could enter mine action of battery against him, but we may 'haps be both dead and rotten before the lawyers would end it. CRAM. No more to do but ensconce yourself i’ th’ tavern; provide no great cheer, a[177] couple of capons, some pheasants, plovers, an orangado pie, or so: but how bloody soe’er the day be, sally you not forth. FUS. No, no; nay, if I stir, somebody shall stink; I’ll not budge; I’ll lie like a dog in a manger. CRAM. Well, well, to the tavern; let not our supper be raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful. FUS. That’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst after; blood for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head, plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call your names? because I’ll leave word, if any such come to the bar. CRAM. My name is corporal Crambo. POH. And mine, lieutenant Poh. CRAM. Poh is as tall[178] a man as ever opened oyster: I would not be the devil to meet Poh: farewell. FUS. Nor I, by this light, if Poh be such a Poh. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

CANDIDO’S _Shop_.

_Enter_ VIOLA _and two Prentices_.

VIO. What’s a’ clock now? SEC. P. ’Tis almost twelve. VIO. That’s well; The senate will leave wording presently: But is George ready? SEC. P. Yes, forsooth, he’s furbish’d. VIO. Now as you ever hope to win my favour, Throw both your duties and respects on him With the like awe as if he were your master: Let not your looks betray it with a smile Or jeering glance to any customer; Keep a true settled countenance, and beware You laugh not, whatsoe’er you hear or see. SEC. P. I warrant you, mistress, let us alone for keeping our countenance; for, if I list, there’s never a fool in all Milan shall make me laugh, let him play the fool never so like an ass, whether it be the fat court-fool or the lean city-fool. VIO. Enough then; call down George. SEC. P. I hear him coming. VIO. Be ready with your legs[179] then, let me see How courtesy would become him.—

_Enter_ GEORGE _in_ CANDIDO’S _apparel_.

Gallantly! Beshrew my blood, a proper seemly man, Of a choice carriage, walks with a good port! GEO. I thank you, mistress; my back’s broad enough, now my master’s gown’s on. VIO. Sure I should think it were the least of sin To mistake the master, and to let him in. GEO. 'Twere a good Comedy of Errors[180] that, i’faith. SEC. P. Whist, whist! my master. VIO. You all know your tasks.—

_Enter_ CANDIDO,[181] _dressed as before in the carpet: he stares at_ GEORGE, _and exit_.'

God’s my life, what’s that he has got upon’s back? who can tell? GEO. That can I, but I will not. VIO. Girt about him like a madman! what, has he lost his cloak too? This is the maddest fashion that e’er I saw. What said he, George, when he passed by thee? GEO. Troth, mistress, nothing; not so much as a bee, he did not hum; not so much as a bawd, he did not hem; not so much as a cuckold, he did not ha; neither hum, hem, nor ha; only stared me in the face, past along, and made haste in, as if my looks had worked with him to give him a stool. VIO. Sure he’s vex’d now, this trick has mov’d his spleen; He’s anger’d now, because he utter’d nothing, And wordless wrath breaks out more violent. May be he’ll strive for place when he comes down, But if thou lov’st me, George, afford him none.

GEO. Nay, let me alone to play my master’s prize,[182] as long as my mistress warrants me: I’m sure I have his best clothes on, and I scorn to give place to any that is inferior in apparel to me; that’s an axiom, a principle, and is observed as much as the fashion: let that persuade you then, that I’ll shoulder with him for the upper hand in the shop as long as this chain will maintain it. VIO. Spoke with the spirit of a master, though with the tongue of a prentice!—

_Re-enter_ CANDIDO _dressed as a prentice_.

Why, how now, madman? what, in your tricksi-coats? CAN. O peace, good mistress!—

_Enter_ CRAMBO _and_ POH.[183]