ACT II.
A bed thrust out. Lodvico sleeping in his clothes; Dorothea in bed. Enter Clown leading in Francisco.
Fran. Softly, sweet Pambo: are we in the chamber yet?
Clown. Within a yard of my lady, and ye can be quiet.
Fran. Art sure my lord's asleep?
Clown. I know not; I'll go and ask him.
Fran. No, no, no, do not wake him; we are undone then, man.
Clown. Ha, ha, ha! now do I see cuckold-making is as ticklish a profession as coneycatching. My lord was so paid with healths at Court, he's fast enough.
Fran. But still I pursue wonder why my lady should prescribe this strange, nay wondrous desperate, way to her desires.
Clown. Is that a question to ask now? would you would grope out the bed; for I sleep in my talk, I am sure of that.
[Lodvico coughs.
Fran. We are lost for ever! did he not cough?
Clown. 'Tis nothing but the last cup comes up in stewed broth. If ever you make true whore-master, I'll be bound to resign my place up to my lord's page; sea-sick, before you come to th' salt water! let me go in your stead.
Clown. Turn of your left hand, 'twill lead you to the devil—to my lady, I should say, presently. [Exit.
Four steps on the left hand. I have the bed,
And on this side she lies. 'Sfoot, there's a beard!
But all's well yet, she lies on this side, sure.
I have her: 'tis her hand, I know the touch.
It melts me into passion. I have much ado
To contain my wild desires. As the wind strains
In caverns lock'd, so through my big-swoll'n veins
My blood cuts capers.
Dor. Who's there?
Fran. 'Tis I.
Dor. Francis!
Fran. Fortunate Francis, that was wrapped in's mother's smock.
Dor. Give me your hand, Francis.
Fran. There 'tis. I melt already!
Dor. My lord! Count Lodovico, awake!
Fran. I am lost for ever, madam.
Dor. My lord! my lord!
Fran. If I pull too hard, I shall pull her out o' th' bed too.
Dor. My lord, will ye not wake?
Lod. What's the matter? what's the matter?
Fran. How I do dwindle!
Have resolv'd me one thing.
Most lewdly tempted me to wrong your bed.
And beg pardon.
About this hour, the door left ope on purpose——
If thou wouldst but steal down thither, thou might'st
Catch him, and snap the fool very finely.
Of thee! Crede quod habes, et habes still.
And I had thought it possible to have been
Cuckolded, I had been cuckolded.
I'll take my rapier as I go, sirrah;
And the night being dark, I'll speak like thee,
As if thou hadst kept thy word. O villain!
Nothing vexes me, but that he should think
I can be a cuckold, and have such a lady.
Do thou lie still, and I'll bring thee his heart
For thy monkey's breakfast.
My chaste, delicious Doll. What may his life
Be compar'd to that meets with such a wife! [Exit.
Enter Clown.
Fran. Pish, Pambo!
Clown. Here, boy.
Fran. Go meet him in the garden, and hark.
Clown. Excellent! I'll play my lady, I warrant ye.
Fran. Do't daintily.
Clown. Well, I may hope for a 'squire's place; my father was a costermonger.[127] [Exit.
The real strain of goodness, may in her read it,
Who can seem chaste, but not be what she seems:
So, who would see hell's craft, in her may read it,
Who can seem too, but not be what she seems.
In brief, put him to school (would cheat the de'il of's right)
To a dainty, smooth-fac'd, female hypocrite. [Exit.
Enter Lodovico and Clown.
Lod. Here's a wife, Pambo!
Clown. Now, Crede quod habes, et habes, sir.
Lod. Why, right, man; let him believe he has horns, and he has 'em.
Clown. To discover upon the pinch to ye!
What fortunes meet ye, fall[128] but with such wives.
Clown. Fortune's i' th' fashion of hay-forks.
Lod. Sirrah Pambo, thou shalt seldom see a harsh fellow have such a wife, such a fortunate wedding.
Clown. He will go to hanging as soon.
There's Count Lorenzo, for example, now;
There's a sweet coil to-morrow 'bout his wife.
He has two servants, that will take their oaths
They saw her dishonest with his friend Count Philippo;
Nay, in the very act. Now what was't brought her to't,
But his dogged usage of her?
Feather in her head and a cork in her heel.
Clown. Ay, that shows her light from head to heel, sir; and who have heavier heads than those whose wives have light heels? that feather confounds her.
Lod. I shall so laugh to hear the comical history of the great Count Lorenzo's horns: but as I have such a wife now, what a villain did I entertain to teach her music? H' has done her no good since he came, that I saw.
Clown. Hang him, h' has made her a little perfect in prick-song, that's all; and it may be, she had skill in that before you married her too.
But hark! I hear somebody.
Enter Francisco.
Clown. 'Tis he, sure; h' has a dreaming whoremaster's pace. Pray, let me practise my lady's part, and counterfeit for her.
Lod. Can'st thou imitate to th' life?
Clown. Can I? O wicked Francis!
Lod. Admirable! Thou shalt do't.
Clown. Pray, be you ready with your rapier to spit him then, and I'll watch him a good turn, I warrant ye.
Fran. Here they are. If Pambo now comes off with his part neatly, the comedy passes bravely. Who's there? madam?
Clown. Francis?
Fran. The same.
Clown. I think this place lies too open to the air, Francis?
The grass is wondrous wet.
And let us sport ourselves in yonder rushes,
And being set, I'll smother thee with busses.
It is enough, my lord hath now a friend
In these dishonest days, that dares be honest.
Can I contain a heart, or can that heart
Harbour a thought of injury 'gainst him
Under whose wing I safely stretch my pinions?
Has he not nobly entertain'd me? stand I not
Next neighbour, save yourself, unto his heart?
Much less with wo-man. I but took advantage
Of my lord's absence for your trial, lady.
For fear some fellow (far hotter rein'd than I)
Might have sought [her] and sped: and I'd be loth
A lord so loving——
Back, lady, to your yet unblemish'd bed:
Preserve your honour and your lord's——calf's head.
Clown. Well, Francis, you had been better—if I do not tell my lord of this!
Lod. He has put him to't now.
You'll turn it all on me, I know; but ere
I'll live to wrong so good a lord, or stand
The mark unto your malice, I will first
Fall on my sword and perish.
Lod. Hold, hold, hold, man!
Fran. Ha, who are you?
Lod. One that has more humanity in him, than to see a proper fellow cast himself away, I warrant thee. 'Tis I, 'tis I, man: I have heard all.
Clown. And 'twas I played my lady to have snapped ye.
Now am I worse afflicted than before,
That she should thus outrun me in this race
Of honesty.
Sh' has a thousand of these tricks, i' faith, man:
But howsoever, what I have found thee, I have found thee.
Hark in thine ear, shalt have five leases
And mine own nag, when th' hast a mind to ride.
Fran. Let me deserve, sir, first.
Lod. Shalt have them. I know what I do, I warrant thee.
Fran. I joy in such a lady.
Lod. Nay, there's a couple of you, for a wife and a friend. Shalt be no more my servant. I had thought to have made thee my steward, but thou'rt too honest for the place, that's the truth on't.
Clown. His superfluity is my necessity. Pray, let me ha't, sir.
Lod. I will talk with thee to-morrow, Pambo: thou shalt have something too: but I'll go to bed. Honest Francis, the dearest must part, I see. I will so hug the sweet rascal, that thinks every hour ten, till I come yonder! Good night, Frank.
Can equal such a friend and such a wife?
So, my dainty Doll, I come to thee. [Exit.
Clown. So a city nightcap go with thee! But shall I not be thought on for my night's service?
Fran. O, look ye, pray forget not ye had something.
Clown. Well, and pray do you remember I had nothing.
Fran. Nothing! what's that?
Clown. Nothing, before I had something, I mean. So you are well-returned from Utopia.
Fran. You're very nimble, sir: good-morrow. [Exeunt.
A bar set out. Enter the Duke of Verona, Pandulpho, Spinoso, Jaspro, Jovani, Lorenzo, Philippo, Abstemia, a guard and two slaves.
With acknowledg'd reverence to the presence.
To build on circumstances, but to come plainly
To the business that here plac'd us. Cousin Lorenzo,
You have free leave to speak your griefs; but this
Desire the senate to observe, and nearly:
I come here not your kinsman; neither, madam,
Looking unto the greatness of your blood,
As you are sister to the Duke of Venice;
But as an equal judge, I come to doom,
As circumstance[129] and proof informs.
(Great sir, grave lords, and honourable auditors
Of my dishonour) I affirm 'tis known
To th' signory of Verona, the whole city;
Nay, the great multitude without, that come
This day to hear unwilling truth, can witness,
How, since my marriage with that woman—weep'st thou?
O truth, who would not look thee in a woman's tears!
But showers that fall too late, produce dear years—
All know that, since our marriage, I have perform'd
So fairly all judicial wedlock-offices,
That malice knew not how at my whole actions
To make one blow, and to strike home. I did rather
Honour her as a saint, sir, than respect her,
As she was my wife. On pilgrimage I sent
All my endeavours to the fair-seeming shrine
Of their desires, where they did offer daily
A plenal satisfaction, which she seem'd
Reciprocally to return, paid back
As much obedience as I lent of love:
But then the serpent stings, when like a dove
Opinion feathers him: women's sweet words
As far are from their hearts, though from their breasts
They fly, as lapwings' cries are from their nests.
And for this man (how fain I would call him friend!)
I appeal to the whole state, if at the fight
Betwixt Biserta galleys and your grace,
Wherein you pleas'd to send me general there,
That he deserv'd (let me not take from him
His merit's meet confession) but I was there,
The man (the erring man) that crown'd his merit
With approbation and reward; brought him home,
Preferr'd him to those graces you heap'd on him:
Wore him a neighbour to my heart, as lovers
Wear jewels, left by their dead friends. I lock'd him
Into my heart, and double-barr'd him there
With reason and opinion: his extremities
Fasten'd me more unto him, whilst, like an arch
Well-built, by how much the more weight I bore,
I stood[130] the stronger under him; so lov'd him,
That in his absence still mine ear became
A sanctuary to his injur'd name.
Base in the depth of baseness, for this wife
So honour'd and this smooth friend so belov'd
To conspire betwixt them my dishonour.
To brand perpetually three faces: a husband's,
A wife's, and friend's.
Cast out this devil from you.
And print thee down the fool of passion.
In his opinion, plac'd me in his love,
Grac'd me with courtesies: O the craft of jealousy!
As boys, to take the bird, about the pit
Cast wheat and chaff, contriving a neat train
To entice her to her ruin—so this friend,
Falser than city-oaths, it is not doubted,
Having so far endear'd me, when he came
To enjoy a fair wife, guess'd it impossible
For me to share with him in all things else,
And not in her; for fair wives oft, we see,
Strike the discord in sweet friendship's harmony:
And having no way to ensnare me so,
To separate our loves, he seriously
Woo'd me to try his wife.
By all that honest men may be believed by.
Three several times I tried her, by him urg'd to't,
Yet still my truth not started, kept so constant,
That till this hour this lady thus much knew not.
I bore her brave reproofs. O, when she spake,
The saints (sure) listen'd, and at every point
She got th' applause of angels! Now, upon this,
This jealous lord infers (and it may be
But to shun futurity) that I,
His betray'd friend, could not hold the cup,
But I must drink the poison. No, Lorenzo,
An honest man is still an unmov'd rock,
Wash'd whiter, but not shaken with the shock
Whose heart conceives no sinister device:
Fearless he plays with flames, and treads on ice.
Counsel him to these trials?
And hast ta'en leave of modesty. Let these my servants—
That incredulity should be induction
To my more certain shame—let these speak
And relate what they saw: they grew so public,
My servants could discover them.
And what you know, even to a syllable,
Boldly confess.
As e'er my lord was gone to meet your grace,
Signor Philippo and my lady privately
Went up to her bed-chamber: we two, suspecting
What afterwards we found, stole softly up,
And through the key-hole (for the door was lock'd)
We saw my lady and Count Philippo there
Upon the bed, and in the very act,
As my lord before affirm'd.
And withhold thy thunder?
May possess three bodies.
That we affirm the truth, the whole truth,
And nothing but the truth, we swear.
Two souls, more precious than a pair of worlds,
Are levell'd below death!
Two goodly buildings beaten with a breath
Beneath the grave. You all have seen this day,
A pair of souls both cast and kiss'd away.
To the accuser, that I might not appear
Partial in judgment, let it seem no wonder
If unto your gravities I leave
The following sentence: but as Lorenzo stands
A kinsman to Verona, so forget not,
Abstemia still is sister unto Venice.
Abstemia's lover once, when he did vow
And when I did believe; then when Abstemia
Denied so many princes for Lorenzo,
Then when you swore. O maids! how men can weep,
Print protestations on their breasts and sigh,
And look so truly, and then weep again,
And then protest again, and again dissemble!
When once enjoy'd, like strange sights we grow stale,
And find our comforts, like their wonder, fail.
Look upon tears, each one of which, well-valued,
Is worth the pity of a king; but thou
Art harder far than rocks, and can'st not prize
The precious waters of truth's injur'd eyes.
Against all contradiction. Signor Philippo,
In that you have thus grossly, sir, dishonour'd
Even our blood itself in this rude injury
Lights on our kinsman, his prerogative
Implies death on your trespass; but your merit,
Of more antiquity is than your trespass,
That death is[132] blotted out, and in the place
Banishment writ, perpetual banishment
(On pain of death, if you return) for ever,
From Verona and her signories.
This censure is allotted. Your high blood
Takes off the danger of the law, nay, from
Even banishment itself. This lord your husband
Sues only for a legal fair divorce,
Which we think good to grant, the church allowing:
And in that the injury chiefly reflects
On him, he hath free licence to marry, when
And whom he pleases.
That you are favourable unto my love,
Whom yet I love and weep for.
This breast did never yet harbour a thought
Of thee, but man was in it, honest man:
There's all the words that thou art worth. Of your grace,
I humbly thus take leave: farewell, my lords:
And lastly farewell thou, fairest of many,
Yet by far more unfortunate. Look up
And see a crown held for thee; win it, and die
Love's martyr, the sad map of injury:
And so remember, sir, your injur'd lady
Has a brother yet in Venice.
Whom my soul doth [yet] love: if you e'er marry,
May you meet a good wife: so good, that you
May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy
Of your suspicion: and if you hear hereafter,
That I am dead, inquire but my last words,
And you shall know that to the last I lov'd you:
And when you walk forth with your second choice
Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me,
Imagine that you see me lean and pale,
Strewing your paths with flowers: and when in bed
You cast your arms about her happy side[s],
Think you see me stand with a patient look,
Crying, All hail, you lovers, live and prosper.
But may she never live to pay my debts.
If but in thought she wrong you, may she die
In the conception of the injury.
Pray, make me wealthy with one kiss. Farewell, sir.
Let it not grieve you, when you shall remember
That I was innocent: nor this forget—
Though innocence here suffer, sigh, and groan,
She walks but thorough thorns to find a throne. [Exit.
Who stabs truth's bosom, makes an angel bleed.
FOOTNOTES:
[127] A costermonger is a seller of apples; and an apple-squire was formerly a cant term for a pimp.
So in Erasmus's "Praise of Folly," translated by Chaloner, 1549, sig. P.: "Or doo you judge peradventure they coulde easily fynde in their hertes, that so many scriveners, so many registrers, so manie notaries, so many advocates, so many promoters, so many secretaries, so many moyleters, so many horsekeepers, so many gentlemen of householde, so many apple-squires, so many baudes, I had almost spoken a softer worde," &c.
Again, in "Faults, Faults, and Nothing but Faultes," by Barnaby Rich, 1606, p. 24: "Shee shall not want the assistance of her ruffians, her apple-squires, and of those brothell queanes that lodge, that harbour, and that retain her."
Again, in Ben Jonson's "Every Man in his Humour," iv. 10—
That make your husband such a hoddy doddy;
And you, young apple-squire, and old cuckold-maker,
I'll ha' you every one before a justice."
See also "Dekker's Belman of London," sig. H 2.
And in Bale's "Actis of Englishe Votaries," 1550, Part I., fol. 27: "Women in those dayes might sore have distained their newlie risen opinion of holines, if they had chaunced to haue bene with childe by the prelates, and therefore other spiritual remedies were sought out for them by their good providers and proctors; ye may if ye will call them apple-squires."—Gilchrist.
[128] [Old copy, full.]
[129] [Old copy, circumstances.]
[130] [Old copy, stand.]
[131] [A not unusual form of De Medici.]
[132] [Old copy, than is.]