Re-enter Almachildes.
Whose luck soe’er it be. O, he’s return’d already;
I knew he would not fail.
Alm. It works by this time,
Or the devil’s in’t, I think; I’ll ne’er trust witch else,
Nor sup with 'em this twelvemonth. [Aside.
Amo. I must soothe him now;
And ’tis great pain to do’t against one’s stomach.
[Aside.
Alm. Now, Amoretta!
Amo. Now you’re welcome, sir,
If you’d come always thus.
Alm. O, am I so?
Is the case alter’d since?
Amo. If you’d be ru[l']d,
And know your times,'twere somewhat; a great comfort.
'Las, I could be as loving and as venturous
As any woman—we’re all flesh and blood, man—
If you could play the game out modestly,
And not betray your hand. I must have care, sir;
You know I have a marriage-time to come,
And that’s for life: your best folks will be merry,
But look to the main chance, that’s reputation,
And then do what they list.
Alm. Wilt hear my oath?
By the sweet health of youth, I will be careful,
And never prate on’t, nor, like a cunning snarer,
Make thy clipp’d[533] name the bird to call in others.
Amo. Well, yielding then to such conditions
As my poor bashfulness shall require from you,
I shall yield shortly after.
Alm. I’ll consent to 'em;
And may thy sweet humility be a pattern
For all proud women living!
SCENE III.
The neighbourhood of Ravenna.
Enter Aberzanes, and old Woman carrying an infant.
Aber. So, so, away with him! I love to get 'em,
But not to keep 'em. Dost thou know the house?
Old Wom. No matter for the house, I know the porch.
Aber. There’s sixpence more for that: away, keep close.— [Exit old Woman.
My tailor told me he sent away a maid-servant
Well ballast of all sides within these nine days;
His wife ne’er dream’d on’t; gave the drab ten pounds,
And she ne’er troubles him: a common fashion
He told me ’twas to rid away a scape;
And I have sent him this for’t. I remember
A friend of mine once serv’d a prating tradesman
Just on this fashion, to a hair, in troth.
’Tis a good ease to a man: you can swell a maid up,
And rid her for ten pound; there’s the purse back again,
Whate’er becomes of your money or your maid.
This comes of bragging, now. It’s well for the boy too;
He’ll get an excellent trade by’t; and on Sundays
Go like a gentleman that has pawn’d his rapier:
He need not care what countryman his father was,
Nor what his mother was when he was gotten:
The boy will do well certain: give him grace
To have a quick hand and convey things cleanly!
Enter Francisca.
'Twill be his own another day. O, well said!
Art almost furnish’d? there’s such a toil always
To set a woman to horse, a mighty trouble.
The letter came to your brother’s hands, I know,
On Thursday last by noon: you were expected there
Yesterday night.
Fran. It makes the better, sir.
Aber. We must take heed we ride through all the puddles
'Twixt this and that now, that your safeguard[535] there
May be most probably dabbled.
Fran. Alas, sir,
I never mark’d till now—I hate myself—
How monstrous thin I look!
Aber. Not monstrous neither;
A little sharp i’ th’ nose, like a country woodcock.
Fran. Fie, fie, how pale I am! I shall betray myself.
I would you’d box me well and handsomely,
To get me into colour.
Aber. Not I, pardon me;
That let a husband do when he has married you:
A friend at court will never offer that.
Come, how much spice and sugar have you left now,
At this poor one month’s voyage?
Fran. Sure, not much, sir;
I think some quarter of a pound of sugar,
And half an ounce of spice.
And there was thirty pound good weight and true,
Beside what my man stole when 't was a-weighing,
And that was three pound more, I’ll speak with least.
The Rhenish wine, is’t all run out in caudles too?
Fran. Do you ask that, sir? ’tis of a week’s departure.
You see what ’tis now to get children, sir.
Enter Boy.
Boy. Your mares are ready both, sir.
Aber. Come, we’ll up, then.—
Youth, give my sister a straight wand: there’s twopence.
Boy. I’ll give her a fine whip, sir.
Aber. No, no, no;
Though we have both deserv’d it.
Boy. Here’s a new one.
Aber. Prithee, talk to us of no whips, good boy;
My heart aches when I see 'em.—Let’s away. [Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE I.
An Apartment in the Duke’s House.
Enter Duchess, leading Almachildes blindfold.
Alm. This you that was a maid? how are you born
To deceive men! I’d thought to have married you:
I had been finely handled, had I not?
I’ll say that man is wise ever hereafter
That tries his wife beforehand. ’Tis no marvel
You should profess such bashfulness, to blind one,
As if you durst not look a man i’ th’ face,
Your modesty would blush so. Why do you not run
And tell the duchess now? go; you should tell all:
Let her know this too.—Why, here’s the plague now:
’Tis hard at first to win 'em; when they’re gotten,
There’s no way to be rid on 'em; they stick
To a man like bird-lime.—My oath is out:
Will you release me? I’ll release myself else.
Duch. Nay, sure, I’ll bring you to your sight again.
[Taking off the bandage from his eyes.
Say, thou must either die, or kill the duke;
For one of them thou must do.
Alm. How, good madam?
Duch. Thou hast thy choice, and to that purpose, sir,
I’ve given thee knowledge now of what thou hast,
And what thou must do, to be worthy on’t.
You must not think to come by such a fortune
Without desert; that were unreasonable.
He that’s not born to honour must not look
To have it come with ease to him; he must win’t.
Take but unto thine actions wit and courage,
That’s all we ask of thee. But if through weakness
Of a poor spirit thou deniest me this,
Think but how thou shalt die! as I’ll work means for’t,
No murderer ever like thee; for I purpose
To call this subtle, sinful snare of mine
An act of force from thee. Thou’rt proud and youthful;
I shall be believ’d: besides, thy wantonness
Is at this hour in question 'mongst our women,
Which will make ill for thee.
Alm. I had hard chance
To light upon this pleasure that’s so costly;
’Tis not content with what a man can do,
And give him breath, but seeks to have that too.
Duch. Well, take thy choice.
Alm. I see no choice in’t, madam,
For ’tis all death, methinks.
Duch. Thou’st an ill sight then
Of a young man. ’Tis death if thou refuse it;
And say, my zeal has warn’d thee. But consenting,
'Twill be new life, great honour, and my love,
Which in perpetual bands I’ll fasten to thee.
Alm. How, madam?
Duch. I’ll do’t religiously;
Make thee my husband; may I lose all sense
Of pleasure in life else, and be more miserable
Than ever creature was! for nothing lives
But has a joy in somewhat.
Alm. Then by all
The hopeful fortunes of a young man’s rising,
I will perform it, madam.
Duch. There’s a pledge then
Of a duchess’ love for thee; and now trust me
For thy most happy safety. I will choose
That time shall never hurt thee: when a man
Shews resolution, and there’s worth in him,
I’ll have a care of him. Part now for this time;
But still be near about us, till thou canst
Be nearer, that’s ourself.
Alm. And that I’ll venture hard for.
Duch. Good speed to thee! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in Antonio’s House.
Enter Gasparo and Florida.
Flo. Prithee, be careful of me, very careful now!
Gas. I warrant you: he that cannot be careful of a quean, can be careful of nobody; ’tis every man’s humour that: I should never look to a wife half so handsomely.
Flo. O softly, sweet sir! should your mistress meet me now
In her own house, I were undone for ever.
Gas. Never fear her: she’s at her prick-song close;
There’s all the joy she has, or takes delight in.
Look, here’s the garden-key, my master gave’t me,
And will’d me to be careful: doubt not you on’t.
Flo. Your master is a noble complete gentleman,
And does a woman all the right that may be.
Enter Sebastian.
Seb. How now? what’s she?
Gas. A kind of doubtful creature:
I’ll tell thee more anon.
[Exeunt Gasparo and Florida.
Seb. I know that face
To be a strumpet’s, or mine eye is envious,
And would fain wish it so where I would have it.
I fail, if the condition[537] of this fellow
Wears not about it a strong scent of baseness.
I saw her once before here, five days since ’tis,
And the same wary panderous diligence
Was then bestow’d on her: she came alter’d then,
And more inclining to the city-tuck.
Whom should this piece of transformation visit,
After the common courtesy of frailty,
In our house here? surely not any servant;
They are not kept so lusty, she so low.
I’m at a strange stand: love and luck assist me!
Re-enter Gasparo.
The truth I shall win from him by false play.
He’s now return’d.—Well, sir, as you were saying,—
Go forward with your tale.
Gas. What? I know nothing.
Seb. The gentlewoman.
Gas. She’s gone out at the back-door now.
Seb. Then farewell she, and you, if that be all.
Gas. Come, come, thou shalt have more: I have no power
To lock myself up from thee.
Seb. So methinks.
Gas. You shall not think, trust me, sir, you shall not:
Your ear; she’s one o’ th’ falling family,
A quean my master keeps; she lies at Rutney’s.
Seb. Is’t possible? I thought I’d seen her somewhere.
Gas. I tell you truth sincerely. Sh’as been thrice here
By stealth within these ten days, and departed still
With pleasure and with thanks, sir; ’tis her luck.
Surely I think if ever there were man
Bewitch’d in this world, ’tis my master, sirrah.
Seb. Think’st thou so, Gaspar?
Gas. O sir, too apparent.
Seb. This may prove happy: ’tis the likeliest means
That fortune yet e’er shew’d me. [Aside.
Enter Isabella with a letter.
Isa. You’re both here now,
And strangers newly lighted! where’s your attendance?
Seb. I know what makes you waspish: a pox on’t!
She’ll every day be angry now at nothing. [Aside.
[Exeunt Gasparo and Sebastian.
Isa. I’ll call her stranger ever in my heart:
Sh’as kill’d the name of sister through base lust,
And fled to shifts. O how a brother’s good thoughts
May be beguil’d in woman! here’s a letter,
Found in her absence, reports strangely of her,
And speaks her impudence: sh’as undone herself—
I could not hold from weeping when I read it—
Abus’d her brother’s house and his good confidence.
'Twas done not like herself; I blame her much:
But if she can but keep it from his knowledge,
I will not grieve him first; it shall not come
By my means to his heart.—
Re-enter Gasparo.
Now, sir, the news?
Gas. You call’d 'em strangers; ’tis my master’s sister, madam.
Isa. O, is it so? she’s welcome: who’s come with her?
Gas. I see none but Aberzanes. [Exit.
Isa. He’s enough
To bring a woman to confusion,
More than a wiser man or a far greater.
A letter came last week to her brother’s hands,
To make way for her coming up again,
After her shame was lighten’d; and she writ there,
The gentleman her mother wish’d her to,
Taking a violent surfeit at a wedding,
Died ere she came to see him: what strange cunning
Sin helps a woman to! Here she comes now.—
Enter Francisca and Aberzanes.
Sister, you’re welcome home again.
Fran. Thanks, sweet sister.
Isa. You’ve had good speed.
Fran. What says she? [Aside.]—I have made
All the best speed I could.
Isa. I well believe you.—
Sir, we’re all much beholding[538] to your kindness.
Aber. My service ever, madam, to a gentlewoman.
I took a bonny mare I keep, and met her
Some ten mile out of town,—eleven, I think.—
'Twas at the stump I met you, I remember,
At bottom of the hill.
Fran. 'Twas thereabout, sir.
Aber. Full eleven then, by the rod, if they were measur’d.
Isa. You look ill, methinks: have you been sick of late?—
Troth, very bleak, doth she not? how think you, sir?
Aber. No, no; a little sharp with riding; sh’as rid sore.
Fran. I ever look lean after a journey, sister;
One shall do that has travell’d, travell’d hard.
Aber. Till evening I commend you to yourselves, ladies.
[Exit.
Isa. And that’s best trusting to, if you were hang’d.—
[Aside.
You’re well acquainted with his hand went out now?
Fran. His hand?
Isa. I speak of nothing else; I think ’tis there.
[Giving letter.
Please you to look upon’t; and when you’ve done,
If you did weep, it could not be amiss,
A sign you could say grace after a full meal.
You had not need look paler, yet you do.
'Twas ill done to abuse yourself and us,
To wrong so good a brother, and the thoughts
That we both held of you. I did doubt you much
Before our marriage; but then my strangeness.[539]
And better hope still kept me off from speaking.
Yet may you find a kind and peaceful sister of me,
If you desist here, and shake hands with folly,
Which you ha’ more cause to do than I to wish you.
As truly as I bear a love to goodness,
Your brother knows not yet on’t, nor shall ever
For my part, so you leave his company.
But if I find you impudent in sinning,
I will not keep’t an hour, nay, prove your enemy,
And you know who will aid me. As you’ve goodness,
You may make use of this; I’ll leave it with you.
[Exit.
Fran. Here’s a sweet churching after a woman’s labour,
And a fine Give you joy! why, where the devil
Lay you to be found out? the sudden hurry
Of hastening to prevent shame brought shame forth:
That’s still the curse of all lascivious stuff;
Misdeeds could never yet be wary enough.
Now must I stand in fear of every look,
Nay, tremble at a whisper. She can keep it secret?
That’s very likely, and a woman too!
I’m sure I could not do’t; and I am made
As well as she can be for any purpose:
'Twould ne’er stay with me two days—I have cast[540] it—
The third would be a terrible sick day with me,
Not possible to bear it: should I then
Trust to her strength in’t, that lies every night
Whispering the day’s news in a husband’s ear?
No; and I’ve thought upon the means: blest fortune!
I must be quit with her in the same fashion,
Or else ’tis nothing: there is no way like it,
To bring her honesty into question cunningly.
My brother will believe small likelihoods,
Coming from me too. I lying now i’ th’ house
May work things to my will, beyond conceit too:
Disgrace her first, her tale will ne’er be heard;
I learn’d that counsel first of a sound guard.
I do suspect Gaspar, my brother’s squire there,
Had some hand in this mischief, for he’s cunning;
And I perhaps may fit him.
Enter Antonio.
Ant. Your sister told me you were come; thou’rt welcome.
Fran. Where is she?
Ant. Who, my wife?
Fran. Ay, sir.
Ant. Within.
Fran. Not within hearing, think you?
Ant. Within hearing?
What’s thy conceit in that? why shak’st thy head so,
And look’st so pale and poorly?
Fran. I’m a fool indeed
To take such grief for others; for your fortune, sir.
Ant. My fortune? worse things yet? farewell life then!
Fran. I fear you’re much deceiv’d, sir, in this woman.
Ant. Who? in my wife? speak low; come hither; softly, sister.
Fran. I love her as a woman you made choice of;
But when she wrongs you, natural love is touch’d, brother,
And that will speak, you know.
Ant. I trust it will.
Fran. I held a shrewd suspicion of her lightness
At first, when I went down, which made me haste the sooner;
But more, to make amends, at my return now,
I found apparent signs.
Ant. Apparent, sayst thou?
Fran. Ay, and of base lust too; that makes th’ affliction.
Ant. There has been villany wrought upon me then;
’Tis too plain now.
Fran. Happy are they, I say still,
That have their sisters living i’ th’ house with 'em,
Their mothers, or some kindred; a great comfort
To all poor married men; it is not possible
A young wife can abuse a husband then;
’Tis found straight. But swear service to this, brother.
Ant. To this, and all thou wilt have.
Fran. Then this follows, sir. [Whispers him.
Ant. I praise thy counsel well; I’ll put’t in use straight.
See where she comes herself. [Exit Francisca.
Re-enter Isabella.
Kind, honest lady,
I must now borrow a whole fortnight’s leave of thee.
Isa. How, sir, a fortnight’s?
Ant. It may be but ten days, I know not yet;
’Tis business for the state, and 't must be done.
Isa. I wish good speed to’t then.
Ant. Why, that was well spoke.
I’ll take but a foot-boy; I need no more;
The rest I’ll leave at home to do you service.
Isa. Use your own pleasure, sir.
Ant. Till my return
You’ll be good company, my sister and you.
Isa. We shall make shift, sir.
Ant. I’m glad now she’s come;
And so the wishes of my love to both!
Isa. And our good prayers with you, sir!
[Exit Antonio.
Re-enter Sebastian.
Seb. Now, my fortune!— [Aside.
By your kind favour, madam.
Isa. With me, sir?
Seb. The words shall not be many, but the faithfulness
And true respect that are[541] included in 'em
Is worthy your attention, and may put upon me
The fair repute of a just, honest servant.
Isa. What’s here to do, sir,
There’s such great preparation toward?
Seb. In brief, that goodness in you is abus’d, madam;
You have the married life, but ’tis a strumpet
That has the joy on’t and the fruitfulness;
There goes away your comfort.
Isa. How? a strumpet?
Seb. Of five years’ cost and upwards, a dear mischief,
As they are all of 'em; his fortnight’s journey
Is to that country: if it be not rudeness
To speak the truth, I’ve found it all out, madam.
Isa. Thou’st found out thine own ruin; for to my knowledge
Thou dost belie him basely: I dare swear
He’s a gentleman as free from that folly
As ever took religious life upon him.
Seb. Be not too confident to your own abuse, madam.
Since I’ve begun the truth, neither your frowns—
The only curses that I have on earth,
Because my means depend[542] upon your service—
Nor all the execration of man’s fury,
Shall put me off: though I be poor, I’m honest,
And too just in this business. I perceive now
Too much respect and faithfulness to ladies
May be a wrong to servants.
Isa. Art thou yet
So impudent to stand in’t?
Seb. Are you yet so cold, madam,
In the belief on’t? there my wonder’s fix’d;
Having such blessed health and youth about you,
Which makes the injury mighty.
Isa. Why, I tell thee,
It were too great a fortune for thy lowness
To find out such a thing; thou dost not look
As if thou’rt made for’t. By the sweets[543] of love,
I would give half my wealth for such a bargain,
And think 'twere bought too cheap: thou canst not guess
Thy means and happiness, should I find this true.
First, I’d prefer thee to the lord my uncle;
He’s governor of Ravenna, all th’ advancements
I’ th’ kingdom flow[544] from him: what need I boast that
Which common fame can teach thee?
Seb. Then thus, madam:
Since I presume now on your height of spirit,
And your regard to your own youth and fruitfulness,
Which every woman naturally loves and covets,
Accept but of my labour in directions,
You shall both find your wrongs, which you may right
At your own pleasure, yet not miss’d to-night
Here in the house neither; none shall take notice
Of any absence in you, as I’ve thought on’t.
Isa. Do this, and take my praise and thanks for ever.
Seb. As I deserve, I wish 'em, and will serve you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Field.
Enter Hecate, Stadlin, Hoppo, and other Witches; Firestone in the back-ground.
Hec. The moon’s a gallant; see how brisk she rides!
Stad. Here’s a rich evening, Hecate.
Hec. Ay, is’t not, wenches,
To take a journey of five thousand mile?
Hop. Ours will be more to-night.
Hec. O 'twill be precious!
Heard you the owl yet?[545]
Stad. Briefly in the copse,
As we came through now.
Hec. ’Tis high time for us then.
Stad. There was a bat hung at my lips three times
As we came through the woods, and drank her fill:
Old Puckle saw her.
Hec. You are fortunate still;
The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder
And woos you, like a pigeon. Are you furnish’d?
Have you your ointments?
Stad. All.
Hec. Prepare to flight then;
I’ll overtake you swiftly.
Stad. Hie thee, Hecate;
We shall be up betimes.
Hec. I’ll reach you quickly.
[Exeunt all the Witches except Hecate.
Fire. They are all going a-birding to-night: they
talk of fowls i’ th’ air that fly by day; I am sure
they’ll be a company of foul sluts there to-night:
if we have not mortality after’t, I’ll be hanged, for
they are able to putrefy it, to infect a whole region.
She spies me now.
Hec. What, Firestone, our sweet son?
Fire. A little sweeter than some of you, or a dunghill were too good for me. [Aside.
Hec. How much hast here?
Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones,
Besides six lizards and three serpentine eggs.
Hec. Dear and sweet boy! what herbs hast thou?
Fire. I have some marmartin and mandragon.
Hec. Marmaritin and mandragora, thou wouldst say.
Fire. Here’s panax too—I thank thee—my pan aches, I’m sure,
With kneeling down to cut 'em.
Hec. And selago,
Hedge-hyssop too: how near he goes my cuttings!
Were they all cropt by moonlight?
Fire. Every blade of 'em,
Or I’m a moon-calf, mother.
Hec. Hie thee home with 'em:
Look well to the house to-night; I’m for aloft.
Fire. Aloft, quoth you? I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly! [Aside.]—Hark, hark, mother! they are above the steeple already, flying over your head with a noise[546] of musicians.