Part 8
DUKE. Come hither, signor: are you mad? CAN. You are not mad. DUKE. Why, I know that. CAN. Then may you know I am not mad, that know You are not mad, and that you are the duke. None is mad here but one.—How do you, wife? What do you long for now?—Pardon, my lord; She had lost her child’s nose else: I did cut out Pennyworths of lawn, the lawn was yet mine own; A carpet was my[248] gown, yet ’twas mine own; I wore my man’s coat, yet the cloth mine own; Had a crack’d crown, the crown was yet mine own: She says for this I’m mad: were her words true, I should be mad indeed. O foolish skill![249] Is patience madness? I’ll be a madman still. VIO. Forgive me, and I’ll vex your spirit no more. [_Kneels._ DUKE. Come, come, we’ll have you friends; join hearts, join hands. CAN. See, my lord,[250] we are even.— Nay, rise; for ill deeds kneel unto none but heaven. DUKE. Signor, methinks patience has laid on you Such heavy weight, that you should loathe it—— CAN. Loathe it? DUKE. For he whose breast is tender, blood so cool That no wrongs heat it, is a patient fool: What comfort do you find in being so calm? CAN. That which green wounds receive from sovereign balm. Patience, my lord! why, ’tis the soul of peace; Of all the virtues ’tis nearest kin to heaven; It makes men look like gods. The best of men That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breath’d. The stock of patience, then, cannot be poor; All it desires it has; what monarch more? It is the greatest enemy to law That can be; for it doth embrace all wrongs, And so chains up lawyers’ and women’s tongues: ’Tis the perpetual prisoner’s liberty, His walks and orchards: ’tis the bond-slave’s freedom, And makes him seem proud of each iron chain, As though he wore it more for state than pain: It is the beggars’ music, and thus sings, Although their bodies beg, their souls are kings: O my dread liege! it is the sap of bliss, Rears us aloft, makes men and angels kiss: And, last of all, to end a household strife, It is the honey 'gainst a waspish wife. DUKE. Thou giv’st it lively colours: who dare say He’s mad whose words march in so good array? 'Twere sin all women should such husbands have, For every man must then be his wife’s slave: Come, therefore, you shall teach our court to shine; So calm a spirit is worth a golden mine. Wives with meek husbands that to vex them long, In Bedlam must they dwell, else dwell they wrong. [_Exeunt omnes._
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THE HONEST WHORE.
(PART SECOND.)
_The Second Part of the Honest Whore, With the Humors of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife: the Honest Whore, perswaded by strong Arguments to turne Curtizan againe: her braue refuting those Arguments. And lastly, the Comicall Passages of an Italian Bridewell, where the Scæne ends. Written by Thomas Dekker. London, Printed by Elizabeth All-de, for Nathaniel Butter, An. Dom. 1630._ 4to.
No earlier impression than that of 1630 is known to exist. It has been reprinted in the second and third editions of Dodsley’s _Old Plays_, vol. iii.; and, as there given, is perhaps the most wretchedly edited drama in the English language.
It was licensed by Sir George Bucke, 29th April, 1608: see Chalmers’s _Suppl. Apol._ p. 202 (where it is by mistake called “the _convicted_,” instead of the “converted Courtisan, or Honest Whore”). As Middleton certainly wrote a portion of the First Part of this play (see p. 3 of the present vol.), there is every reason to believe that he was concerned in the composition of the Second Part.
Because the title-page makes no mention of its having been represented on the stage, Langbaine very unnecessarily concludes that it was never acted. “The passage,” he continues, “between the Patient Man and his Impatient Wife’s going to fight for the Breeches, with the happy Event, is exprest by S^r. John Harrington in Verse. See his Epigrams at the end of _Orlando Furioso_, Book 1. Epigr. 16.” _Acc. of Engl. Dram. Poets_, p. 122. The epigram in question is as follows:
“OF A HOUSEHOLD FRAY FRIENDLY ENDED.
A man and wife stroue earst who should be masters, And hauing chang’d between them houshold speeches, The man in wrath brought forth a paire of wasters,[251] And swore those 2 should proue who ware the breeches. She that could breake his head yet giue him plasters, Accepts the challenge, yet withall beseeches That shee (as weakest) then might strike the first, And let him ward, and after doe his worst.
He swore that should be so, as God should blesse him, And close he laid him to the sured locke. Shee flourishing as though she would not misse him, Laid downe her cudgell, and with witty mocke She told him for his kindnes she would kisse him That now was sworne to giue her neuer knock: You sware, said she, I should the first blow giue, And I sweare I’le neuer strike you while I liue.
Ah flattring slut, said he, thou dar’st not fight! I am no larke, quoth she, man doe not dare me,[252] Let me point time and place, as ’tis my right By law of challenge, and then neuer spare me. Agreed, said he. Then rest (quoth she) to night; To-morrow, at Cuckolds hauen, I’le prepare me. Peace, wife, said he, wee’le cease all rage and rancor, Ere in that Harbor I will ride at Ancor.”
“Although Harington’s Epigrams,” says the last editor of Dodsley’s _Old Plays_, “were not printed in an entire state until 1618 (see Ritson’s _Bibl. Poet._ 236), yet many of them were written when their author (who died in 1612) was a very young man. It seems probable that the incident was founded upon the epigram; for though Sir John Harington borrowed from the Latin and Italian, he most likely would not steal from an English play, especially when it appears that his originality had been attacked.”
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DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
GASPARO TREBAZZI, _duke of Milan_. HIPPOLITO, _a count, husband to Infelice_. ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO,[253] _father to Bellafront_. MATHEO, _husband to Bellafront_. CANDIDO, _a linen-draper_. LODOVICO SFORZA. BERALDO. CAROLO. FONTINELL. ASTOLFO. ANTONIO GEORGIO, _a poor scholar_. BRYAN, _an Irish footman_. BOTS, _a pander_. _Masters of Bridewell, Prentices, Servants, &c._
INFELICE, _wife to Hippolito_. BELLAFRONT, _wife to Matheo_. CANDIDO’S _Bride_. MISTRESS HORSELEECH, _a bawd_. DOROTHEA TARGET, } PENELOPE WHOREHOUND, } _harlots_. CATHERINA BOUNTINALL, }
Scene, MILAN.
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THE SECOND PART
OF
THE HONEST WHORE.
ACT I. SCENE I.
_A Hall in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House._
4
LOD. Good day, gallants. ALL. Good morrow, sweet Lodovico. LOD. How dost thou, Carolo? CAR. Faith, as physicians do in a plague; see the world sick, and am well myself. FON. Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen. LOD. O, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle[254] Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet? AST. Yes; he will not be horsed this hour, sure. BER. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at court.
CAR. O, we shall ride switch and spur: would we were there once!
_Enter_ BRYAN.
LOD. How now, is thy lord ready? BRY. No, so crees sa’ me; my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first. CAR. O, then they’ll to breakfast. LOD. Footman, does my lord ride i’ th’ coach with my lady, or on horseback? BRY. No, foot, la, my lady will have me lord sheet wid her; my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side. [_Exit._ LOD. My lady sheet in de toder side! did you ever hear a rascal talk so like a pagan? is’t not strange that a fellow of his star should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from a Christian?
_Enter_ ANTONIO _with a book_.
AST. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange? why, the nation have running heads.[255] LOD. Nay, Carolo, this is more strange; I ha’ been in France, there’s few of them; marry, England they count a warm chimney-corner, and there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but, sir, in England I have noted one thing. AST. } What’s that, what’s that BER., _&c._[256] } of England? LOD. Marry this, sir;—what’s he yonder? BER. A poor fellow would speak with my lord. LOD. In England, sir—troth I ever laugh when I think on’t, to see a whole nation should be marked i’ th’ forehead, as a man may say, with one iron—why, sir, there all costermongers[257] are Irishmen. CAR. O, that’s to shew their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother. AST. } Good, good! ha, ha! BER., _&c._ } LOD. Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers likewise be Irishmen? answer that now; come, your wit. CAR. Faith, that’s soon answered; for saint Patrick,[258] you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing if they cannot sweep the chimneys. AST. } Good again! BER., _&c._ } LOD. Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow, especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others,[259] and the knaves are very faithful where they love; by my faith, very proper men many of them, and as active as the clouds,—whirr, hah! AST. } Are they so? BER., _&c._ } LOD. And stout, exceeding stout; why, I warrant this precious wild villain, if he were put to’t, would fight more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.[260] AST. The women, they say, are very fair. LOD. No, no; our country bona-robas,[261] O, are the sugarest delicious rogues! AST. O look, he has a feeling of them! LOD. Not I, I protest: there’s a saying when they commend nations; it goes, the Irishman for his hand, [the] Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for [a] beard. FON. I’faith, they may make swabbers[262] of them. LOD. The Spaniard—let me see—for a little foot, I take it; the Frenchman,—what a pox hath he? and so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? come, walk. AST. This Lodovico is a notable-tongued fellow. FON. Discourses well. BER. And a very honest gentleman. AST. O, he’s well valued by my lord.
_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _with a petition_.
FON. How now, how now, what’s she? BER. Let’s make towards her. BEL. Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come forth? AST. Would you speak with my lord? LOD. How now, what’s this? a nurse’s bill? hath any here got thee with child, and now will not keep it? BEL. No, sir, my business is unto my lord. LOD. He’s about his own wife[’s] now; he’ll hardly despatch two causes in a morning. AST. No matter what he says, fair lady; he’s a knight, there’s no hold to be taken at his words. FON. My lord will pass this way presently. BER. A pretty, plump rogue. AST. A good lusty, bouncing baggage. BER. Do you know her? LOD. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my table-book[263] once; I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common than tobacco: this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore. AST. } Is this she? BER., _&c._ } LOD. This is the blackamoor that by washing was turned white; this is the birding-piece new scoured; this is she that, if any of her religion can be saved, was saved by my lord Hippolito. AST. She has been a goodly creature. LOD. She has been! that’s the epitaph of all whores. I’m well acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband; lord, what fortunes that man has overreached! She knows not me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon, suffered strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women are like medlars, no sooner ripe but rotten:
A woman last was made, but is spent first; Yet man is oft prov’d in performance worst. AST. } My lord is come. BER., _&c_. }
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO, INFELICE, _and two Waiting-women_.
HIP. We ha’ wasted half this morning.—Morrow, Lodovico. LOD. Morrow, madam. HIP. Let’s away to horse. LOD. } Ay, ay, to horse, to horse. AST., _&c._ } BEL. I do beseech your lordship, let your eye Read o’er this wretched paper! HIP. I’m in haste; Pray thee, good woman, take some apter time. INF. Good woman, do. BEL. O 'las, it does concern A poor man’s life! HIP. Life, sweetheart?—Seat yourself; I’ll but read this and come. LOD. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? if they be not yellow,[264] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband. INF. O sir, that cannot make me jealous. [_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO, BELLAFRONT, _and_ ANTONIO. HIP. Your business, sir, to me? AN. Yes, my good lord. HIP. Presently, sir.—Are you Matheo’s wife? BEL. That most unfortunate woman. HIP. I am sorry These storms are fallen on him; I love Matheo, And any good shall do him; he and I Have seal’d two bonds of friendship, which are strong In me, however fortune does him wrong. He speaks here he’s condemn’d: is’t so? BEL. Too true. HIP. What was he whom he kill’d? O, his name’s here, _Old Giacomo, son to the Florentine_; Giacomo, a dog, that, to meet profit, Would to the very eyelids wade in blood Of his own children. Tell Matheo, The duke my father hardly shall deny His signèd pardon; it was fair fight, yes, If rumour’s tongue go true; so writes he here. To-morrow morning I return from court; Pray be you here then.—I’ll have done, sir, straight.— But in troth say, are you Matheo’s wife? You have forgot me. BEL. No, my lord. HIP. Your turner, That made you smooth to run an even bias; You know I lov’d you when your very soul Was full of discord: art not a good wench still? BEL. Umh,—when I had lost my way to heaven, you shew’d it; I was new born that day.
_Re-enter_ LODOVICO.
LOD. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have not left your wench yet? when you get in once, you never have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come. HIP. Ride softly on before, I’ll overtake you. LOD. Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before without ye. HIP. Prithee, good Lodovico—— LOD. My lord, pray hasten. HIP. I come.— [_Exit_ LODOVICO. To-morrow let me see you; fare you well; Commend me to Matheo. Pray, one word more; Does not your father live about the court? BEL. I think he does; but such rude spots of shame Stick on my cheek, that he scarce knows my name. HIP. Orlando Friscobaldo is’t not? BEL. Yes, my lord. HIP. What does he for you? BEL. All he should: when children From duty start, parents from love may swerve: He nothing does, for nothing I deserve. HIP. Shall I join him unto you, and restore you To wonted grace? BEL. It is impossible. HIP. It shall be put to trial: fare you well. [_Exit_ BELLAFRONT. The face I would not look on![265] sure then ’twas rare, When, in despite of grief, ’tis still thus fair.— Now, sir, your business with me. AN. I am bold T’ express my love and duty to your lordship In these few leaves. HIP. A book? AN. Yes, my good lord. HIP. Are you a scholar? AN. Yes, my lord, a poor one. HIP. Sir, you honour me; Kings may be scholars’ patrons: but, faith, tell me To how many hands besides hath this bird flown? How many partners share with me? AN. Not one, In troth, not one: your name I held more dear; I’m not, my lord, of that low character. HIP. Your name, I pray? AN. Antonio Georgio. HIP. Of Milan? AN. Yes, my lord. HIP. I’ll borrow leave To read you o’er, and then we’ll talk: till then Drink up this gold, good wits should love good wine; [_Gives money._ This of your loves, the earnest that of mine.—
_Re-enter_ BRYAN.
How now, sir, where’s your lady? not gone yet? BRY. I fart di lady is run away from dee a mighty deal of ground; she sent me back for dine own sweet face; I pray dee come, my lord, away; wu’t tow go now? HIP. Is the coach gone? saddle my horse, the sorrel. BRY. A pox a’ de horse’s nose! he is a lousy rascally fellow: when I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts rumbled, di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest an Irishman cannot abide a fart: but I have saddled de hobby-horse; di fine hobby is ready; I pray dee, my good sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee? HIP. Well, sir.—I pray let’s see you, master scholar. [_Exit_ ANTONIO. BRY. Come, I pray dee; wu’t come, sweet face? go. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace._
_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, ASTOLFO, _and_ BERALDO.
LOD. Godso, gentlemen, what do we forget? CAR. } AST. } What? BER. } LOD. Are not we all enjoined as this day—Thursday, is’t not?—ay, as that day to be at the linen-draper’s house at dinner? CAR. Signor Candido, the patient man. AST. Afore Jove, true; upon this day he’s married. BER. I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares venture again to come about the eaves amongst bees. LOD. O, ’tis rare sucking a sweet honeycomb! Pray heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance! the poor fiddlers’ instruments would crack for it: she’d tickle them. At any hand, let’s try what mettle is in his new bride: if there be none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble citizen; I pity he should marry again: I’ll walk along, for it is a good old fellow. CAR. I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow twenty thousand ducats that could but have the face to beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Milan might be bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is. LOD. O, fie upon’t! 'twould undo all us that are courtiers; we should have no ho[266] with the wenches then.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITO. CAR. } AST. } My lord’s come. BER. } HIP. How now, what news? CAR. } AST. } None. BER. } LOD. Your lady is with the duke her father. HIP. And we’ll to them both presently.—
_Enter_ ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO.
Who’s that? Car. } Ast. } Signor Friscobaldo. Ber. } HIP. Friscobaldo? O, pray call him, and leave me; we two have business. CAR. Ho, signor! signor Friscobaldo! the lord Hippolito. [_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO _and_ FRISCOBALDO. OR. My noble lord, my lord Hippolito! the duke’s son! his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your honoured lordship? does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as signor Orlando Friscobaldo, old mad Orlando? HIP. O sir,[267] our friends, they ought to be unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued being locked up and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood; for all Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still. OR. Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down and stript bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green? HIP. Scarce can I read the stories on your brow Which age hath writ there; you look youthful still. OR. I eat snakes,[268] my lord, I eat snakes: my heart shall never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry hem with a clear voice. HIP. You are the happier man, sir. OR. Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man: I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in the right colours, I’ll bestow it on your lordship. HIP. I stay for it. OR. He that[269] makes gold his wife, but not his whore, He that at noon-day walks by a prison-door, He that i’ th’ sun is neither beam nor mote, He that’s not mad after a petticoat, He for whom poor men’s curses dig no grave, He that is neither lord’s nor lawyer’s slave, He that makes this his sea and that his shore, He that in’s coffin is richer than before, He that counts youth his sword and age his staff, He whose right hand carves his own epitaph, He that upon his death-bed is a swan, And dead no crow,—he is a happy man.