The works of Thomas Middleton, Volume 3 (of 5)

THE HONEST WHORE.
(PART FIRST.)

The Honest Whore, with, The Humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife. Tho: Dekker. London Printed by V. S. for John Hodgets, and are to be solde at his shop in Paules church-yard. 1604. 4to. Other eds. in 1605,^[1] 1615, 1616, 1635, 4to.

It has also been reprinted (with the grossest and most unpardonable incorrectness) in the various editions of Dodsley’s Old Plays, vol. iii.

This drama (both First and Second Parts) ought to have occupied an earlier station among our author’s works. I originally rejected it, because the name of Dekker alone appears on the title-page; but I have since felt convinced that, with such authority for ascribing a portion of it to Middleton as that of Henslowe in the following entry, I should not be justified in excluding it from the present collection:

“March 1602-3. The Patient Man and Honest Whore, by Thomas Dekker and Thomas Middleton.” Malone’s Shakespeare (by Boswell), vol. iii. p. 328.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Gasparo Trebazzi, duke of Milan.
Hippolito, a count.
Castruchio.
Sinezi.
Pioratto.
Fluello.
Matheo.
Benedict, a doctor.
Anselmo, a friar.
Fustigo, brother to Viola.
Candido, a linen-draper.
George, his servant.
First Prentice.
Second Prentice.
Crambo.
Poh.
Roger, servant to Bellafront.
Porter.
Sweeper.
Madmen, Servants, &c.

Infelice, daughter to the duke.
Bellafront, a harlot.
Viola, wife to Candido.
Mistress Fingerlock, a bawd.

Scene, Milan, and the neighbourhood.

THE HONEST WHORE.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Street.

Enter a funeral, a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheons and garlands hanging on the sides, attended by Gasparo Trebazzi, Duke of Milan, Castruchio, Sinezi, Pioratto, Fluello, and others: Hippolito meeting them, and Matheo labouring to hold him back.

Duke. Behold, yon comet shews his head again!
Twice hath he thus at cross-turns thrown on us
Prodigious[2] looks; twice hath he troubled
The waters of our eyes: see, he’s turn’d wild:—
Go on, in God’s name.

Cas.
Sin., &c. } On afore there, ho!

Duke. Kinsmen and friends, take from your manly sides
Your weapons, to keep back the desperate boy
From doing violence to the innocent dead.
Hip. I prithee, dear Matheo—--
Mat. Come, you’re mad!
Hip. I do arrest thee, murderer! Set down,
Villains, set down that sorrow, ’tis all mine!
Duke. I do beseech you all, for my blood’s sake,
Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath
Join in confederacy with your weapons’ points;
If he proceed to vex us, let your swords
Seek out his bowels; funeral grief loathes words.

Cas.
Sin., &c. } Set on.

Hip. Set down the body!
Mat. O my lord,
You’re wrong! I’ th’ open street? you see she’s dead.
Hip. I know she is not dead.
Duke. Frantic young man,
Wilt thou believe these gentlemen?—Pray, speak—
Thou dost abuse my child, and mock’st the tears
That here are shed for her: if to behold
Those roses wither’d that set out her cheeks;
That pair of stars that gave her body light
Darken’d and dim for ever; all those rivers
That fed her veins with warm and crimson streams
Frozen and dried up; if these be signs of death,
Then is she dead. Thou unreligious youth,
Art not asham’d to empty all these eyes
Of funeral tears, a debt due to the dead,
As mirth is to the living? sham’st thou not
To have them stare on thee? Hark, thou art curs’d
Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak!
Hip. My lord——
Duke. What wouldst thou have? is she not dead?
Hip. O, you ha’ kill’d her by your cruelty!
Duke. Admit I had, thou kill’st her now again,
And art more savage than a barbarous Moor.
Hip. Let me but kiss her pale and bloodless lip.
Duke. O fie, fie, fie!
Hip. Or if not touch her, let me look on her.
Mat. As you regard your honour——
Hip. Honour? smoke!
Mat. Or if you lov’d her living, spare her now.
Duke. Ay, well done, sir; you play the gentleman—
Steal hence;—’tis nobly done;—away;—I’ll join
My force to yours, to stop this violent torrent[3]—
Pass on.

[Exeunt with hearse, all except the Duke,

Hippolito, and Matheo.

Hip. Matheo, thou dost wound me more.
Mat. I give you physic, noble friend, not wounds.
Duke. O, well said, well done, a true gentleman!
Alack, I know the sea of lovers’ rage
Comes rushing with so strong a tide, it beats
And bears down all respects of life, of honour,
Of friends, of foes! Forget her, gallant youth.
Hip. Forget her?
Duke. Nay, nay, be but patient;
For why death’s hand hath sued a strict divorce
’Twixt her and thee: what’s beauty but a corse?
What but fair sand-dust are earth’s purest forms?
Queens’ bodies are but trunks to put in worms.

Mat. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [Exit Duke.]—’Sblood, the jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and, like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. [Aside.]—My lord Hippolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner?

Hip. Where is the body?

Mat. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be wormed.

Hip. I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn: I’ll see how my love looks.

[Matheo holds Hippolito back.

Mat. How your love looks? worse than a scarecrow. Wrestle not with me; the great fellow gives the fall, for a ducat.

Hip. I shall forget myself.

Mat. Pray, do so; leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues, that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their noses by nothing but twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much metal in him as is in a cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vexed thing; he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards: you’ll bleed three pottles of Aligant,^[4] by this light, if you follow ’em; and then we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have surgeons roll thee up, like a baby, in swaddling clouts.

Hip. What day is to-day, Matheo?

Mat. Yea, marry, this is an easy question: why, to-day is—let me see—Thursday.

Hip. O, Thursday.

Mat. Here’s a coil for a dead commodity! ’sfoot, women when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands.

Hip. She died on Monday then!

Mat. And that’s the most villanous day of all the week to die in: and she was well and eat a mess of water-gruel on Monday morning.

Hip. Ay? it cannot be

Such a bright taper should burn out so soon.

Mat. O yes, my lord. So soon? why, I ha’ known them that at dinner have been as well, and had so much health that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock have been found dead drunk.

Hip. On Thursday buried, and on Monday died!
Quick haste, byrlady;[5] sure her winding-sheet
Was laid out ’fore her body; and the worms,
That now must feast with her, were even bespoke,
And solemnly invited, like strange guests.

Mat. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding.

Hip. Curs’d be that day for ever that robb’d her
Of breath and me of bliss! henceforth let it stand
Within the wizard’s book, the calendar,
Mark’d with a marginal finger,[6] to be chosen
By thieves, by villains, and black murderers,
As the best day for them to labour in.
If henceforth this adulterous, bawdy world
Be got with child with treason, sacrilege,
Atheism, rapes, treacherous friendship, perjury,
Slander, the beggar’s sin, lies, sin of fools,
Or any other damn’d impieties,
On Monday let ’em be deliverèd.
I swear to thee, Matheo, by my soul,
Hereafter weekly on that day I’ll glue
Mine eyelids down, because they shall not gaze
On any female cheek; and being lock’d up
In my close chamber, there I’ll meditate
On nothing but my Infelice’s end,
Or on a dead man’s scull draw out mine own.

Mat. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad; but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench.

Hip. If ever, whilst frail blood through my veins run,
On woman’s beams I throw affection,
Save her that’s dead; or that I loosely fly
To th’ shore of any other wafting eye,
Let me not prosper, heaven! I will be true
Even to her dust and ashes: could her tomb
Stand, whilst I liv’d, so long that it might rot,
That should fall down, but she be ne’er forgot.

Mat. If you have this strange monster, honesty, in your belly, why, so, jig-makers ^[7] and chroniclers shall pick something out of you; but and ^[8] I smell not you and a bawdyhouse out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as an English bag-pudding. I’ll follow your lordship, though it be to the place afore named.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Another Street.

Enter Fustigo in some fantastic sea-suit, meeting a Porter.

Fus. How now, porter, will she come?

Por. If I may trust a woman, sir, she will come.

Fus. There’s for thy pains [gives money]: God-amercy, if ever I stand in need of a wench that will come with a wet finger,^[9] porter, thou shalt earn my money before any clarissimo[’s]^[10] in Milan: yet so, God sa’ me, she’s mine own sister, body and soul, as I am a Christian gentleman: farewell; I’ll ponder till she come: thou hast been no bawd in fetching this woman, I assure thee.

Por. No matter if I had, sir; better men than porters are bawds.

Fus. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But, porter, art sure thou went’st into a true house?

Por. I think so, for I met with no thieves.^[11]

Fus. Nay, but art sure it was my sister Viola?

Por. I am sure, by all superscriptions, it was the party you ciphered.

Fus. Not very tall?

Por. Nor very low; a middling woman.

Fus. ’Twas she, faith, ’twas she: a pretty plump cheek, like mine?

Por. At a blush a little, very much like you.

Fus. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kicked up her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage; marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There’s a little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay [gives money]: farewell, honest porter.

Por. I am in your debt, sir; God preserve you.

Fus. Not so neither, good porter. [Exit porter.] God’s lid, yonder she comes.

Enter Viola.

Sister Viola, I am glad to see you stirring: it’s news to have me here, is’t not, sister?

Vio. Yes, trust me: I wondered who should be so bold to send for me. You are welcome to Milan, brother.

Fus. Troth, sister, I heard you were married to a very rich chuff, and I was very sorry for it that I had no better clothes, and that made me send; for you know we Milaners love to strut upon Spanish leather. And how do ^[12] all our friends?

Vio. Very well. You ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to sow your wild oats.

Fus. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and reaped two hundred ducats, if I had ’em here. Marry, I must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till the ship come: by this hand, I’ll discharge at my day, by this hand.

Vio. These are your old oaths.

Fus. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand?

Vio. Well, well, you shall have them. Put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter.

Fus. I’ll sweat like a horse, if I like the matter.

Vio. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours?

Fus. I had not sailed a league in that great fish-pond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall.

Vio. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true swaggerer.

Fus. Nay, by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me.

Vio. Then lend me your ears.

Fus. Mine ears are yours, dear sister.

Vio. I am married to a man that has wealth enough and wit enough.

Fus. A linen-draper, I was told, sister.

Vio. Very true; a grave citizen. I want nothing that a wife can wish from a husband; but here’s the spite, he has not all things belonging to a man.

Fus. God’s my life, he’s a very mandrake;^[13] or else, God bless us, one a’ these whiblins,^[14] and that’s worse; and then all the children that he gets lawfully of your body, sister, are bastards by a statute.

Vio. O, you run over me too fast, brother. I have heard it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man: I am sure my husband is a man in print ^[15] for all things else save only in this, no tempest can move him.

Fus. ’Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should ha’ been moved and moved again; for I’ll be sworn, la, our drunken ship reeled like a Dutchman.

Vio. No loss of goods can increase in him a wrinkle; no crabbed language make his countenance sour; the stubbornness of no servant shake him: he has no more gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant; musician will he never be, yet I find much music in him, but he loves no frets; and is so free from anger, that many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to anger their husbands: brother, mine can by no thunder turn him into a sharpness.

Fus. Belike his blood, sister, is well brewed then.

Vio. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most affectionately; but I know not—I ha’ such a tickling within me—such a strange longing; nay, verily, I do long.

Fus. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens: nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else; I ha’ read Albertus Magnus ^[16] and Aristotle’s Problems.^[17]

Vio. You’re wide a’ th’ bow-hand ^[18] still, brother: my longings are not wanton, but wayward; I long to have my patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent the bristling quills may stick about his lips like a Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me: I shall be leaner than the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad.

Fus. ’Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make him a cuckold.

Vio. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness.

Fus. The honester citizen he. Then make him drunk and cut off his beard.^[19]

Vio. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to fret at the loss of a little scald hair.^[20] No, brother, thus it shall be—you must be secret.

Fus. As your midwife, I protest, sister, or a barber-surgeon.

Vio. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave ^[21] man; instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck.

Fus. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too, sister.

Vio. O, by any means, to shew your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer.

Fus. Nay, for swaggering points let me alone.

Vio. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s presence, kiss me, snatch rings, jewels, or any thing, so you give it back again, brother, in secret.

Fus. By this hand, sister.

Vio. Swear as if you came but new from knighting.

Fus. Nay, I’ll swear after 400 a-year.

Vio. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among fresh-water soldiers; call me your love, your ingle,^[22] your cousin, or so, but sister at no hand.

Fus. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that’s the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their madcaps ^[23] that man ’em to the garden: to call you one a’ mine aunts,^[24] sister, were as good as call you arrant whore: no, no, let me alone to cozen you rarely.

Vio. Has heard I have a brother, but never saw him; therefore put on a good face.

Fus. The best in Milan, I warrant.

Vio. Take up wares, but pay nothing; rifle my bosom, my pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice withal; but, brother, you must give all back again in secret.

Fus. By this welkin ^[25] that here roars, I will, or else let me never know what a secret is. Why, sister, do you think I’ll cony-catch ^[26] you, when you are my cousin? God’s my life, then I were a stark ass. If I fret not his guts, beg me for a fool.^[27]

Vio. Be circumspect, and do so then. Farewell.

Fus. The Tortoise, sister! I’ll stay there; forty ducats!

Vio. Thither I’ll send. [Exit Fustigo.] This law can none deny,

Women must have their longings, or they die. Exit.

SCENE III.

A Chamber in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter the Duke, Benedict,^[28] and two Servants.

Duke. Give charge that none do enter, lock the doors—[Speaking as he enters.
And, fellows, what your eyes and ears receive,
Upon your lives trust not the gadding air
To carry the least part of it. The glass, the hour-glass!
Ben. Here, my lord. [Brings hour-glass.
Duke. Ah, ’tis near[29] spent!
But, doctor Benedict, does your art speak truth?
Art sure the soporiferous stream will ebb,
And leave the crystal banks of her white body
Pure as they were at first, just at the hour?
Ben. Just at the hour, my lord.
Duke. Uncurtain her:

[A curtain is drawn back, and Infelice

discovered lying on a couch.

Softly!—See, doctor, what[30] a coldish heat
Spreads over all her body!
Ben. Now it works:
The vital spirits, that by a sleepy charm
Were bound up fast, and threw an icy rust[31]
On her exterior parts, now 'gin to break:
Trouble her not, my lord.
Duke. Some stools! [Servants set stools.] You call’d
For music, did you not? O ho, it speaks, [Music.
It speaks! Watch, sirs, her waking; note those sands.
Doctor, sit down: a dukedom that should weigh
Mine own down twice being put into one scale,
And that fond[32] desperate boy Hippolito
Making the weight up, should not at my hands
Buy her i’ th’ other, were her state more light
Than her’s who makes a dowry up with alms.
Doctor, I’ll starve her on the Apennine,
Ere he shall marry her. I must confess
Hippolito is nobly born; a man,
Did not mine enemies’ blood boil in his veins,
Whom I would court to be my son-in-law;
But princes, whose high spleens for empery swell,
Are not with easy art made parallel.
Servants. She wakes, my lord.
Duke. Look, doctor Benedict!—
I charge you, on your lives, maintain for truth
Whate’er the doctor or myself aver,
For you shall bear her hence to Bergamo.
Inf. O God, what fearful dreams!  [Wakening.
Ben. Lady.
Inf. Ha!
Duke. Girl!
Why, Infelice, how is’t now, ha, speak?
Inf. I’m well—what makes this doctor here?—I’m well.
Duke. Thou wert not so even now: sickness’ pale hand
Laid hold on thee even in the midst[33] of feasting;
And when a cup, crown’d with thy lover’s health,
Had touch’d thy lips, a sensible cold dew
Stood on thy cheeks, as if that death had wept
To see such beauty alter.[34]
Inf. I remember
I sate at banquet, but felt no such change.
Duke. Thou hast forgot, then, how a messenger
Came wildly in, with this unsavoury news,
That he was dead?
Inf. What messenger? who’s dead?
Duke. Hippolito. Alack, wring not thy hands!
Inf. I saw no messenger, heard no such news.
Ben. Trust me you did, sweet lady.
Duke. La, you now!
Servants. Yes, indeed, madam.
Duke. La, you now!—’Tis well, good knaves![35]
Inf. You ha’ slain him, and now you’ll murder me.
Duke. Good Infelice, vex not thus thyself:
Of this the bad report before did strike
So coldly to thy[36] heart, that the swift currents
Of life were all frozen up—
Inf. It is untrue,
’Tis most untrue, O most unnatural father!
Duke. And we had much to do, by art’s best cunning,
To fetch life back again.
Ben. Most certain, lady.
Duke. Why, la, you now, you’ll not believe me.—Friends,
Sweat we not all? had we not much to do?
Servants. Yes, indeed, my lord, much.
Duke. Death drew such fearful pictures in thy face,
That, were Hippolito alive again,
I’d[37] kneel and woo the noble gentleman
To be thy husband: now I sore repent
My sharpness to him and his family.
Nay, do not weep for him; we all must die.—
Doctor, this place, where she so oft hath seen
His lively presence, hurts[38] her, does it not?
Ben. Doubtless, my lord, it does.
Duke. It does, it does;
Therefore, sweet girl, thou shalt to Bergamo.
Inf. Even where you will; in any place there’s woe.
Duke. A coach is ready; Bergamo doth stand
In a most wholesome air, sweet walks; there’s deer—
Ay, thou shalt hunt, and send us venison,
Which, like some goddess in the Cyprian[39] groves,
Thine own fair hand shall strike.— Sirs, you shall teach her
To stand, and how to shoot; ay, she shall hunt.—
Cast off this sorrow: in, girl, and prepare
This night to ride away to Bergamo.
Inf. O most unhappy maid! [Exit.
Duke. Follow her[40] close:
No words that she was buried, on your lives,
Or that her ghost walks now after she’s dead;
I’ll hang you if you name a funeral.

First Ser. I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that deadly word.

Sec. Ser. And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than Greek.

Duke. Away; look to her. [Exeunt Servants.]—Doctor Benedict,
Did you observe how her complexion alter’d
Upon his name and death? O, would 'twere true!
Ben. It may, my lord.
Duke. May! how? I wish his death.
Ben. And you may have your wish: say but the word,
And ’tis a strong spell to rip up his grave.
I have good knowledge with Hippolito;
He calls me friend: I’ll creep into his bosom,
And sting him there to death; poison can do’t.
Duke. Perform it, I’ll create thee half mine heir.
Ben. It shall be done, although the fact be foul.
Duke. Greatness hides sin; the guilt upon my soul!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Street.

Enter Castruchio, Pioratto, and Fluello.

Cas. Signor Pioratto, signor Fluello, shall’s be merry? shall’s play the wags now?

Flu. Ay, any thing that may beget the child of laughter.

Cas. Truth, I have a pretty sportive conceit new crept into my brain, will move excellent mirth.

Pio. Let’s ha’t, let’s ha’t; and where shall the scene of mirth lie?

Cas. At signor Candido’s house, the patient man, nay, the monstrous patient man: they say his blood is immoveable; that he has taken all patience from a man, and all constancy from a woman.

Flu. That makes so many whores now-a-days.

Cas. Ay, and so many knaves too.

Pio. Well, sir.

Cas. To conclude,—the report goes, he’s so mild, so affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can move him: now do but think what sport it will be to make this fellow, the mirror of patience, as angry, as vexed, and as mad as an English cuckold.

Flu. O, 'twere admirable mirth that! but how will’t be done, signor?

Cas. Let me alone; I have a trick, a conceit, a thing, a device will sting him, i’faith, if he have but a thimbleful of blood in’s belly, or a spleen not so big as a tavern-token.^[41]

Pio. Thou stir him, thou move him, thou anger him? alas, I know his approved temper! thou vex him? why, he has a patience above man’s injuries; thou mayest sooner raise a spleen in an angel than rough humour in him. Why, I’ll give you instance for it. This wonderfully tempered signor Candido upon a time invited home to his house certain Neapolitan lords of curious taste and no mean palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves,^[42] to prepare cheer fitting for such honourable trenchermen. She—just of a woman’s nature, covetous to try the uttermost of vexation, and thinking at last to get the start of his humour—willingly neglected the preparation, and became unfurnished not only of dainty, but of ordinary dishes. He, according to the mildness of his breast, entertained the lords, and with courtly discourse beguiled the time, as much as a citizen might do. To conclude: they were hungry lords, for there came no meat in; their stomachs were plainly gulled, and their teeth deluded; and, if anger could have seized a man, there was matter enough, i’faith, to vex any citizen in the world, if he were not too much made a fool by his wife.

Flu. Ay, I’ll swear for’t: ’sfoot, had it been my case, I should ha’ played mad tricks with my wife and family; first, I would ha’ spitted the men, stewed the maids, and baked the mistress, and so served them in.