Part 9

HIP. It’s very well: I thank you for this picture. OR. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt; sit neither at the duke’s side, nor lie at his feet; wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, no man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a winding-sheet, but like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me; I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in my age; I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go singing to my nest, why, so! if a crow, throw me out for carrion, and pick out mine eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now, ha? HIP. You may: would I were partner in your mirth! OR. I have a little, have all things; I have nothing, I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should not I be in my jocundare? HIP. Is your wife then departed? OR. She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me—here, she’s here—but before me: when a knave and a quean are married, they commonly walk like sergeants together, but a good couple are seldom parted. HIP. You had a daughter too, sir, had you not? OR. O my lord, this old tree had one branch, and but one branch, growing out of it! it was young, it was fair, it was straight; I pruned it daily, drest it carefully, kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun; yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs; I hewed it down; what’s become of it, I neither know nor care. HIP. Then can I tell you what’s become of it; That branch is wither' OR. So ’twas long ag HIP. Her name, I think, was Bellafront: she’s dea OR. Ha! dea HIP. Yes; what of her was left, not worth the keeping, Even in my sight was thrown into a grave. OR. Dead? my last and best peace go with her! I see Death’s a good trencherman; he can eat coarse homely meat, as well as the daintiest. HIP. Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely? OR. O my lord, a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines! all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of hell to be her props, that she may spread upon them; and when she’s ripe, every slave has a pull at her; then must she be prest: the young beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge; yet to taste that liquorish wine is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead? HIP. She’s turn’d to earth. OR. Would she were turned to heaven! umh, is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols: no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave sleep all my shame and her own, and all my sorrows and all her sins! HIP. I’m glad you’re wax, not marble; you are made Of man’s best temper; there are now good hopes That all those[270] heaps of ice about your heart, By which a father’s love was frozen up, Are thaw’d in these sweet showers fetch’d from your eyes: We’re ne’er like angels till our passion dies. She is not dead, but lives under worse fate; I think she’s poor; and, more to clip her wings, Her husband at this hour lies in the jail For killing of a man. To save his blood, Join all your force with mine; mine shall be shewn: The getting of his life preserves your own. OR. In my daughter, you will say: does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is, I have a handkercher to drink them up; soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor? HIP. Trust me, I think she is. OR. Then she’s a right strumpet: I ne’er knew any of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have [too] many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves, do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher; she is the gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket[271] within it, her money, her money. HIP. I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom Gives warmth to no such snakes. When did you see her? OR. Not seventeen summers. HIP. Is your hate so old? OR. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bed-fellow. HIP. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.

OR. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world. I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste poison: I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic. HIP. Nay, but, Friscobaldo—— OR. I detest her, I defy[272] both: she’s not mine, she’s—— HIP. Hear her but speak. OR. I love no mermaids; I’ll not be caught with a quail-pipe.[273] HIP. You’re now beyond all reason. OR. I am then a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and not dishonour my creation, than be a doting father, and, like Time, be the destruction of mine own brood. HIP. Is’t dotage to relieve your child, being poor? OR. Is’t fit for an old man to keep a whore? HIP. ’Tis charity too. OR. ’Tis foolery: relieve her? Were her cold limbs stretch’d out upon a bier, I would not sell this dirt under my nails To buy her an hour’s breath; nor give this hair, Unless it were to choke he HIP. Fare you well, for I’ll trouble you no more. OR. And fare you well, sir. [_Exit_ HIPPOLITO.]—Go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty. 'Las, my girl, art thou poor? poverty dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between them; despair is one of hell’s catchpolls; and lest that devil arrest her, I’ll to her, yet she shall not know me; she shall drink of my wealth as beggars do of running water, freely, yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father see his child starve? that were hard: the pelican[274] does it, and shall not I? yes, I will victual the camp for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave there her husband will be hanged, I fear: I’ll keep his neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not know how.

_Enter two Serving-men._

How now, knaves? whither wander you? FIRST SER. To seek your worship. OR. Stay; which of you has my purse? what money have you about you? SEC. SER. Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir. OR. Give it me [_takes purse_]; I think I have some gold about me; yes, it’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and get you home. Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet I’ll be so bold as to pull your coat over your ears. FIRST SER. What do you mean to do, sir?

[ORLANDO _puts on the coat of First Serving-man, and gives him in exchange his cloak._

OR. Hold thy tongue, knave: take thou my cloak; I hope I play not the paltry merchant in this bartering. Bid the steward of my house sleep with open eyes in my absence, and to look to all things: whatsoever I command by letters to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well? SEC. SER. As if it were made for your worship. OR. You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear blue,[275] when your master is one of your fellows. Away! do not see me. BOTH SER. This is excellent. [_Exeunt Serving-men._ OR. I should put on a worse suit too; perhaps I will. My vizard is on; now to this masque. Say I should shave off this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter; well, I will spoil a good face for once: my beard being off, how should I look? even like

A winter cuckoo, or unfeather’d owl; Yet better lose this hair than lose her soul. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_A Room in_ CANDIDO’S _House_: CANDIDO, _the Bride, and Guests, discovered at dinner; Prentices waiting on them_.

_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO.[276]

CAN. O gentlemen, so late? you’re very welcome: Pray, sit down. LOD. Carolo, didst e’er see such a nest of caps?[277] AST. Methinks it’s a most civil and most comely sight. LOD. What does he i’ th’ middle look like? AST. Troth, like a spire-steeple in a country village over-peering so many thatched houses.

LOD. It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers without pikes:[278] they sit for all the world like a pair of organs,[279] and he’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst. AST. Ha, ha, ha, ha! CAN. What’s that you laugh at, signors? LOD. Troth, shall I tell you, and aloud I’ll tell it; We laugh to see, yet laugh we not in scorn, Amongst so many caps that long hat worn. FIRST GUEST.[280] Mine is as tall a felt[281] as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block[282] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair. CAN. Indeed, you’re good observers; it shews strange: But, gentlemen, I pray neither contemn Nor yet deride a civil ornament; I could build so much in the round cap’s praise, That 'bove[283] this high roof I this flat would raise. LOD. Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do’t. CAN. So all these guests will pardon me, I’ll do’t. GUESTS. With all our hearts. CAN. Thus, then, in the cap’s honour. To every sex and state both nature, time, The country’s laws, yea, and the very clime, Do allot distinct habits: the spruce courtier Jets[284] up and down in silk; the warrior Marches in buff; the clown plods on in gray: But for these upper garments thus I say; The seaman has his cap, par’d without brim; The gallant’s head is feather’d, that fits him; The soldier has his murrion;[285] women ha’ tires; Beasts have their head-pieces, and men ha’ their LOD. Procee CAN. Each degree has his fashion; it’s fit then One should be laid by for the citizen, And that’s the cap which you see swells not high, For caps are emblems of humility. It is a citizen’s badge, and first was worn By th’ Romans; for when any bondman’s turn[286] Came to be made a freeman, thus ’twas said, He to the cap was call’d, that is, was made Of Rome a freeman, but was first close shorn; And so a citizen’s hair is still short worn. LOD. That close shaving made barbers a company, and now every citizen uses it. CAN. Of geometric figures the most rare And perfect’st are the circle and the square: The city and the school much build upon These figures, for both love proportion. The city-cap is round, the scholar’s square, To shew that government and learning are The perfect’st limbs i’ th’ body of a state; For without them all’s disproportionate. If the cap had no honour, this might rear it, The reverend fathers of the law do wear it. It’s light for summer, and in cold it sits Close to the skull, a warm house for the wits; It shews the whole face boldly, ’tis not made As if a man to look out[287] were afraid; Nor like a draper’s shop with broad dark shed, For he’s no citizen that hides his head. Flat caps as proper are to city-gowns, As to armours helmets, or to kings their crowns. Let then the city-cap by none be scorn’d, Since with it princes’ heads have been adorn’d. If more the round cap’s honour you would know, How would this long gown with this steeple[288] shew? ALL. Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly. CAN. Pray, signor, pardon me, ’twas done in jest. BRIDE. A cup of claret wine there! FIRST P. Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride. CAR. You ha’ well set out the cap, sir. LOD. Nay, that’s flat. CAN.[289] A health! LOD. Since his cap’s round, that shall go round. Be bare, For in the cap’s praise all of you have share.

[_They uncover their heads, and drink. As First Prentice offers the wine to the Bride, she hits him on the lips, and breaks the glass._

The bride’s at cuff CAN. O, peace, I pray thee; thus[290] far off I stand, I spied the error of my servants. She call’d for claret, and you fill’d out sack; That cup give me, ’tis for an old man’s back, And not for hers. Indeed, ’twas but mistaken; Ask all these else.

ALL. No, faith, ’twas but mistaken. FIRST P. Nay, she took it right enough. CAN. Good Luke, reach her that glass of claret.—Here, mistress bride, pledge me there. BRIDE. Now I’ll none. [_Exit._ CAN. How now? LOD. Look what your mistress ails. FIRST P. Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,— a scurvy trick. CAN. I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there Tells me she is not well. GUESTS. Step to her, step to her. LOD. A word with you; do ye hear? this wench, your new wife, will take you down in your wedding-shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding-garters. CAN. How? hang her in her garters? LOD. Will you be a tame pigeon still? shall your back be like a tortoise-shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse and mouse you worse: look to’t. CAN. What would you have me do, sir? LOD. What would I have you do? swear, swagger, brawl, fling; for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already: you know that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked; the moral of which is, that a man must, from his beginning, be crooked to his wife. Be you like an orange to her; let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me? CAN. In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just. LOD. Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me? CAN. I have the very same which myself wore. LOD. I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and within this two hours I’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs. CAN. It will be but some jest, sir? LOD. Only a jest: farewell.—Come, Carolo. [_Exeunt_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO. GUESTS. We’ll take our leaves, sir, to CAN. Pray, conceit not ill Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight, Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic, And he tells me the disease call’d the mother[291] Hangs on my wife; it is a vehement heaving And beating of the stomach, and that swelling Did with the pain thereof cramp up her arm, That hit his lips and brake the glass: no harm, It was no har GUESTS. No, signor, none at al CAN. The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance: But, come, we’ll close this brawl up in some dance. [_Exeunt._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ MATHEO’S _House_.

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _and_ MATHEO.

BEL. O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave, And art alive again? O welcome, welcome! MAT. Dost know me? my cloak, prithee, lay’t up. Yes, faith, my winding-sheet was taken out of lavender, to be stuck with rosemary:[292] I lacked but the knot here or here; yet, if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice.[293] But, sweetest villain, I am here now, and I will talk with thee soon. BEL. And glad am I thou’rt here. MAT. Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah, my little plump rogue, I’ll bear up for all this, and fly high! catso, catso![294] BEL. Matheo—— MAT. What sayst, what sayst? O brave fresh air! a pox on these grates, and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron! I’ll bear up, I’ll fly high, wench, hang toss! BEL. Matheo, prithee, make thy prison thy glass, And in it view the wrinkles and the scars By which thou wert disfigur’d; viewing them, mend them. MAT. I’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring boys.[295] BEL. Thou dost not hear me. MAT. Yes, faith, do I. BEL. Thou hast been in the hands of misery, And ta’en strong physic; prithee, now be sound. MAT. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now: O, when shall I bizle,[296] bizle?

BEL. Nay, see, thou’rt thirsty still for poison! come, I will not have thee swagger. MAT. Honest ape’s face! BEL. ’Tis that sharpen’d an axe to cut thy throat. Good love, I would not have thee sell thy substance And time, worth all, in those damn’d shops of hell, Those dicing-houses, that stand never well But when they stand most ill: that four-squar’d sin Has almost lodg’d us in the beggar’s inn. Besides, to speak which even my soul does grieve, A sort[297] of ravens have hung upon thy sleeve, And fed upon thee:[298] good Mat, if you please, Scorn to spread wing amongst so base as these; By them thy fame is speckled; yet it shews Clear amongst them, so crows are fair with crows. Custom in sin gives sin a lovely dye; Blackness in Moors is no deformity. MAT. Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope [for] my soul, I will turn over a new leaf; the prison, I confess, has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship may be lousy. [_Knocking within._ BEL. One knocks at door. MAT. I’ll be the porter: they shall see a jail cannot hold a brave spirit; I’ll fly high. [_Exit._ BEL. How wild is his behaviour! O, I fear He’s spoil’d by prison! he’s half damn’d comes there. But I must sit all storms: when a full sail His fortunes spread, he lov’d me; being now poor, I’ll beg for him, and no wife can do more.

_Re-enter_ MATHEO _with_ ORLANDO _disguised as a serving-man_.

MAT. Come in, pray; would you speak with me, sir? OR. Is your name signor Matheo? MAT. My name is signor Matheo. OR. Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir? MAT. This gentlewoman is my wife, sir. OR. The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both your loves!—The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot that. [_Aside._]—I’m an old man, sir, and am troubled with a whoreson salt rheum, that I cannot hold my water.—Gentlewoman, the last man I served was your father. BEL. My father? any tongue that sounds his name Speaks music to me: welcome, good old man! How does my father? lives he? has he health? How does my father? I so much do shame him, So much do wound him, that I scarce dare name him. OR. I can speak no more. [_Aside._ MAT. How now, old lad? what, dost cry? OR. The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well seasoned, for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I have a suit to you. MAT. What is’t, my little white-pate? OR. Troth, sir, I have a mind to serve your worship. MAT. To serve me? troth, my friend, my fortunes are, as a man may say—— OR. Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in us, and go upon crutches, that covetousness does but then lie in her cradle; ’tis not so with me. Lechery loves to dwell in the fairest lodging, and covetousness in the oldest buildings that are ready to fall: but my white head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If a serving-man at my years be not stored with biscuit enough, that has sailed about the world, to serve him the voyage out of his life, and to bring him east-home, ill pity but all his days should be fasting days. I care not so much for wages, for I have scraped a hand-full of gold together; I have a little money, sir, which I would put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it more—— MAT. No, no, you say well, thou sayst well; but I must tell you—how much is the money, sayst thou? OR. About twenty pound, sir. MAT. Twenty pound? let me see, that shall bring thee in, after ten _per centum per annum_—— OR. No, no, no, sir, no, I cannot abide to have money engender; fie upon this silver lechery, fie! if I may have meat to my mouth, and rags to my back, and a flock-bed to snort upon, when I die the longer liver take all. MAT. A good old boy, i’faith! If thou servest me, thou shalt eat as I eat, drink as I drink, lie as I lie, and ride as I ride. OR. That’s if you have money to hire horses. [_Aside._ MAT. Front, what dost thou think on’t? this good old lad here shall serve me. BEL. Alas, Matheo, wilt thou load a back That is already broke?

MAT. Peace, pox on you, peace! there’s a trick in’t; I fly high; it shall be so, Front, as I tell you.—Give me thy hand, thou shalt serve me, i’faith; welcome: as for your money—— OR. Nay, look you, sir, I have it here. MAT. Pish, keep it thyself, man, and then thou’rt sure ’tis safe. OR. Safe? and[299] 'twere ten thousand ducats, your worship should be my cash-keeper; I have heard what your worship is, an excellent dunghill cock to scatter all abroad; but I’ll venture twenty pounds on’s head. [_Gives money to_ MATHEO. MAT. And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once? OR. I served him so long till he turned me out of doors. MAT. It’s a notable chuff: I ha’ not seen him many a day. OR. No matter and you ne’er see him: it’s an arrant grandee, a churl, and as damned a cut-throat—— BEL. Thou villain, curb thy tongue! thou art a Judas, To sell thy master’s name to slander thus. MAT. Away, ass! he speaks but truth; thy father is a—— BEL. Gentleman. MAT. And an old knave; there’s more deceit in him than in sixteen pothecaries: it’s a devil; thou mayest beg, starve, hang, damn; does he send thee so much as a cheese? OR. Or so much as a gammon of bacon? he’ll give it his dogs first. MAT. A jail,[300] a jail! OR. A Jew, a Jew, sir! MAT. A dog! OR. An English mastiff, sir! MAT. Pox rot out his old stinking garbage! BEL. Art not asham’d to strike an absent man thus? Art not asham’d to let this vild[301] dog bark, And bite my father thus? I’ll not endure it.— Out of my doors, base slave! MAT. Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that old rogue’s throat, for all you take his part thus. OR. He shall live to see thee hanged first. [_Aside._

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.