[Aside.
That deep sigh went but for a strumpet, sir.
Lean. It can go for no other that loves me.
Liv. He’s vex’d in mind: I came too soon to him;
Where’s my discretion now, my skill, my judgment?
I'm cunning in all arts but my own love.
’Tis as unseasonable to tempt him now
So soon, as [for] a widow to be courted
Following her husband’s corse, or to make bargain
By the grave-side, and take a young man there:
Her strange departure stands like a hearse[1076] yet
Before his eyes, which time will take down shortly.
[Aside, and exit.
Lean. Is she my wife till death, yet no more mine?
That’s a hard measure: then what’s marriage good for?
Methinks, by right I should not now be living,
And then ’twere all well. What a happiness
Had I been made of, had I never seen her!
For nothing makes man’s loss grievous to him
But knowledge of the worth of what he loses;
For what he never had, he never misses.
She’s gone for ever, utterly; there is
As much redemption of a soul from hell,
As a fair woman’s body from his palace.
Why should my love last longer than her truth?
What is there good in woman to be lov’d,
When only that which makes her so has left her?
I cannot love her now, but I must like
Her sin and my own shame too, and be guilty
Of law’s breach with her, and mine own abusing;
All which were monstrous: then my safest course,
For health of mind and body, is to turn
My heart and hate her, most extremely hate her;
I have no other way: those virtuous powers,
Which were chaste witnesses of both our troths,
Can witness she breaks first. And I'm rewarded
With captainship o' the fort; a place of credit,
I must confess, but poor; my factorship
Shall not exchange means with’t: he that died last in’t,
He was no drunkard, yet he died a beggar
For all his thrift: besides, the place not fits me;
It suits my resolution, not my breeding.
Re-enter Livia.
Liv. I've tried all ways I can, and have not power
To keep from sight of him. [Aside.]—How are you now, sir?
Lean. I feel a better ease, madam.
Liv. Thanks to blessedness!
You will do well, I warrant you, fear’t not, sir,
Join but your own good will to’t: he’s not wise
That loves his pain or sickness, or grows fond
Of a disease whose property is to vex him,
And spitefully drink his blood up: out upon’t, sir!
Youth knows no greater loss. I pray, let’s walk, sir;
You never saw the beauty of my house yet,
Nor how abundantly fortune has blest me
In worldly treasure; trust me, I've enough, sir,
To make my friend a rich man in my life,
A great man at my death; yourself will say so.
If you want any thing, and spare to speak,
Troth, I'll condemn you for a wilful man, sir.
Lean. Why, sure,
This can be but the flattery of some dream.
Liv. Now, by this kiss, my love, my soul, and riches,
’Tis all true substance! [Kisses him.
Come, you shall see my wealth; take what you list;
The gallanter you go, the more you please me:
I will allow you too your page and footman,
Your race-horses, or any various pleasure
Exercis’d youth delights in; but to me
Only, sir, wear your heart of constant stuff;
Do but you love enough, I'll give enough.
Lean. Troth, then, I'll love enough, and take enough.
Liv. Then we are both pleas’d enough. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A room in Fabricio’s house.
Enter on one side Guardiano and Isabella, on the other the Ward and Sordido.
Guar. Now, nephew, here’s the gentlewoman again.
Ward. Mass, here she’s come again! mark her now, Sordido.
Out for your wife, and so I tender her to you;
Yourself has been eye-witness of some qualities
That speak a courtly breeding, and are costly:
I bring you both to talk together now;
’Tis time you grew familiar in your tongues,
To-morrow you join hands, and one ring ties you,
And one bed holds you; if you like the choice,
Her father and her friends are i' the next room,
And stay to see the contract ere they part:
Therefore, despatch, good Ward, be sweet and short;
Like her, or like her not, there’s but two ways,
And one your body, th' other your purse pays.
Ward. I warrant you, guardianer, I'll not stand all day thrumming,
But quickly shoot my bolt at your next coming.
Guar. Well said: good fortune to your birding then!
[Exit.
Ward. I never miss’d mark yet.
Sor. Troth, I think, master, if the truth were known,
You never shot at any but the kitchen-wench,
That was oft lost and cried[1080] at eight-and-twenty.
Ward. No more of that meat, Sordido, here’s eggs o' the spit now;
We must turn gingerly: draw out the catalogue
Of all the faults of women.
Sor. How? all the faults? have you so little reason to think so much paper will lie in my breeches? why, ten carts will not carry it, if you set down but the bawds. All the faults? pray, let’s be content with a few of ’em; and if they were less, you would find ’em enough, I warrant you: look you, sir.
Isa. But that I have th' advantage of the fool,
As much as woman’s heart can wish and joy at,
What an infernal torment ’twere to be
Thus bought and sold, and turn’d and pry’d into,
When, alas,
The worst bit’s too good for him! and the comfort is,
Has but a cater’s[1081] place on’t, and provides
All for another’s table: yet how curious
The ass is! like some nice professor on’t,
That buys up all the daintiest food i' the markets,
And seldom licks his lips after a taste on’t. [Aside.
Sor. Now to her, now you’ve scann’d all her parts over.
Ward. But at [which] end shall I begin now, Sordido?
Sor. O, ever at a woman’s lip, while you live, sir: do you ask that question?
Ward. Methinks, Sordido, sh’as but a crabbed face to begin with.
Sor. A crabbed face? that will save money.
Ward. How? save money, Sordido?
Sor. Ay, sir; for, having a crabbed face of her own, she’ll eat the less verjuice with her mutton; 'twill save verjuice at year’s end, sir.
Ward. Nay, and[1082] your jests begin to be saucy once, I'll make you eat your meat without mustard.
Sor. And that in some kind is a punishment.
Ward. Gentlewoman, they say ’tis your pleasure to be my wife, and you shall know shortly whether it be mine or no to be your husband; and thereupon thus I first enter upon you. [Kisses her.]—O most delicious scent! methinks it tasted as if a man had stept into a comfit-maker’s shop to let a cart go by, all the while I kissed her.—It is reported, gentlewoman, you’ll run mad for me, if you have me not.
Isa. I should be in great danger of my wits, sir,
For being so forward.—Should this ass kick backward now!
[Aside.
Ward. Alas, poor soul! and is that hair your own?
Isa. Mine own? yes, sure, sir; I owe nothing for’t.
Ward. ’Tis a good hearing; I shall have the less to pay when I have married you.—Look, do[1083] her eyes stand well?
Sor. They cannot stand better than in her head, I think; where would you have them? and for her nose, ’tis of a very good last.
Ward. I have known as good as that has not lasted a year though.
Sor. That’s in the using of a thing; will not any strong bridge fall down in time, if we do nothing but beat at the bottom? a nose of buff would not last always, sir, especially if it came into the camp once.
Ward. But, Sordido, how shall we do to make her laugh, that I may see what teeth she has? for I'll not bate her a tooth, nor take a black one into the bargain.
Sor. Why, do but you fall in talk with her, you cannot choose but, one time or other, make her laugh, sir.
Ward. It shall go hard but I will.—Pray, what qualities have you beside singing and dancing? can you play at shittlecock, forsooth?
Ward. Why, can you catch a ball well?
Isa. I have catch’d two in my lap at one game.
Ward. What! have you, woman? I must have you learn
To play at trap too, then you’re full and whole.
Isa. Any thing that you please to bring me up to,
I shall take pains to practise.
Ward. ’Twill not do, Sordido;
We shall ne’er get her mouth open’d wide enough.
Sor. No, sir? that’s strange: then here’s a trick for your learning.
[Sordido yawns, Isabella yawns also, but covers her mouth with a handkerchief.
Look now, look now! quick, quick there!
Ward. Pox of that scurvy mannerly trick with handkerchief!
It hinder’d me a little, but I'm satisfied:
When a fair woman gapes, and stops her mouth so,
It shews like a cloth-stopple in a cream-pot:
I have fair hope of her teeth now, Sordido.
Sor. Why, then, you’ve all well, sir; for aught I see,
She’s right and straight enough now as she stands;
They’ll commonly lie crooked, that’s no matter;
Wise gamesters
Never find fault with that, let ’em lie still so.
Ward. I'd fain mark how she goes, and then I have all; for of all creatures I cannot abide a splay-footed woman; she’s an unlucky thing to meet in a morning; her heels keep together so, as if she were beginning an Irish dance still, and [t]he wriggling of her bum playing the tune to’t: but I have bethought a cleanly shift to find it; dab down as you see me, and peep of one side when her back’s toward you—I'll shew you the way.
Sor. And you shall find me apt enough to peeping;
I have been one of them has seen mad sights
Under your scaffolds.
Ward. Will’t please you walk, forsooth,
A turn or two by yourself? you’re so pleasing to me,
I take delight to view you on both sides.
Isa. I shall be glad to fetch a walk to your love, sir;
'Twill get affection a good stomach, sir,—
Which I had need have to fall to such coarse victuals. [Aside.
[Isabella walks while the Ward and Sordido
stoop down to look at her.
Ward. Now go thy ways for a clean-treading wench,
As ever man in modesty peep’d under!
Sor. I see the sweetest sight to please my master!
Never went Frenchman righter upon ropes,
Than she on Florentine rushes.[1085]
Ward. ’Tis enough, forsooth.
Isa. And how do you like me now, sir?
Ward. Faith, so well,
I never mean to part with thee, sweetheart,
Under some sixteen children, and all boys.
Isa. You’ll be at simple pains, if you prove kind,
And breed ’em all in your teeth.[1086]
Ward. Nay, by my faith,
What serves your belly for? ’twould make my cheeks
Look like blown bagpipes.
Re-enter Guardiano.
Guar. How now, ward and nephew,
Gentlewoman and niece! speak, is it so or not?
Ward. ’Tis so; we’re both agreed, sir.
Guar. In to your kindred then;
There’s friends, and wine, and music wait[1087] to welcome you.
Ward. Then I'll be drunk for joy.
Sor. And I for company;
I cannot break my nose in a better action. [Exeunt.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
Bianca’s lodging at Court.
Enter Bianca, attended by two Ladies.
First L. By mine, full nine.
Sec. L. By mine, a quarter past.
First L. I set mine by St. Mark’s.
Sec. L. St. Anthony’s, they say,
Goes truer.
First L. That’s but your opinion, madam,
Because you love a gentleman o' the name.
Sec. L. He’s a true gentleman then.
First L. So may he be
That comes to me to-night, for aught you know.
Bian. I'll end this strife straight: I set mine by the sun;
I love to set by the best, one shall not then
Be troubled to set often.
Sec. L. You do wisely in’t.
Bian. If I should set my watch, as some girls do,
By every clock i' the town, ’twould ne’er go true;
And too much turning of the dial’s point,
Or tampering with the spring, might in small time
Spoil the whole work too; here it wants of nine now.
First L. It does indeed, forsooth; mine’s nearest truth yet.
Sec. L. Yet I've found her lying with an advocate, which shew’d
Like two false clocks together in one parish.
Bian. So now I thank you, ladies; I desire
Awhile to be alone.
First L. And I am nobody,
Methinks, unless I've one or other with me.—
Faith, my desire and hers will ne’er be sisters.
[Aside.—Exeunt Ladies.
Bian. How strangely woman’s fortune comes about!
This was the farthest way to come to me,
All would have judg’d that knew me born in Venice,
And there with many jealous eyes brought up,
That never thought they had me sure enough
But when they were upon me; yet my hap
To meet it here, so far off from my birth-place,
My friends, or kindred! ’tis not good, in sadness,[1089]
To keep a maid so strict in her young days;
Restraint
Breeds wandering thoughts, as many fasting days
A great desire to see flesh stirring again:
I'll ne’er use any girl of mine so strictly;
Howe’er they’re kept, their fortunes find ’em out;
I see’t in me: if they be got in court,
I'll ne’er forbid ’em the country; nor the court,
Though they be born i' the country: they will come to’t,
And fetch their falls a thousand mile about,
Where one would little think on’t.
Enter Leantio, richly dressed.
Lean. I long to see how my despiser looks
Now she’s come here to court: these are her lodgings;
She’s simply now advanc’d: I took her out
Of no such window, I remember, first;
That was a great deal lower, and less carv’d.
[Aside.
Bian. How now! what silkworm’s this, i' the name of pride?
What, is it he?
Lean. A bow i' th' ham to your greatness;
You must have now three legs,[1090] I take it, must you not?
Bian. Then I must take another, I shall want else
The service I should have; you have but two there.
Lean. You’re richly plac’d.
Lean. A sumptuous lodging.
Bian. You’ve an excellent suit there.
Lean. A chair of velvet.
Bian. Is your cloak lin’d through, sir?
Lean. You’re very stately here.
Bian. Faith, something proud, sir.
Lean. Stay, stay, let’s see your cloth-of-silver slippers.
Bian. Who’s your shoemaker? has made you a neat boot.
The Duke will lend you spurs.
Bian. Yes, when I ride.
Lean. ’Tis a brave life you lead.
Bian. I could ne’er see you
In such good clothes in my time.
Lean. In your time?
Bian. Sure I think, sir,
We both thrive best asunder.
Lean. You’re a whore!
Bian. Fear nothing, sir.
Lean. An impudent, spiteful strumpet!
Bian. O, sir, you give me thanks for your captainship!
I thought you had forgot all your good manners.
Lean. And, to spite thee as much, look there; there read,
[Giving letter.
Vex, gnaw; thou shalt find there I'm not love-starv’d.
The world was never yet so cold or pitiless,
But there was ever still more charity found out
Than at one proud fool’s door; and ’twere hard, faith,
If I could not pass that. Read to thy shame there;
A cheerful and a beauteous benefactor too,
As e’er erected the good works of love.
Bian. Lady Livia!
Is’t possible? her worship was my pandress;
She dote, and send, and give, and all to him!
Why, here’s a bawd plagu’d home! [Aside.]—You’re simply happy, sir;
Yet I'll not envy you.
Lean. No, court-saint, not thou!
You keep some friend of a new fashion;
There’s no harm in your devil, he’s a suckling,
But he will breed teeth shortly, will he not?
Bian. Take heed you play not then too long with him.
Lean. Yes, and the great one too: I shall find time
To play a hot religious bout with some of you,
And, perhaps, drive you and your course of sins
To their eternal kennels. I speak softly now,
’Tis manners in a noble woman’s lodgings,
And I well know[1093] all my degrees of duty;
But come I to your everlasting parting once,
Thunder shall seem soft music to that tempest.
Bian. ’Twas said last week there would be change of weather,
When the moon hung so, and belike you heard it.
Lean. Why, here’s sin made, and ne’er a conscience put to’t,—
A monster with all forehead and no eyes!
Why do I talk to thee of sense or virtue,
That art as dark as death? and as much madness
To set light before thee, as to lead blind folks
To see the monuments, which they may smell as soon
As they behold,—marry, ofttimes their heads,
For want of light, may feel the hardness of ’em;
So shall thy blind pride my revenge and anger,
That canst not see it now; and it may fall
At such an hour when thou least seest of all:
So, to an ignorance darker than thy womb
I leave thy perjur’d soul; a plague will come!
[Exit.
Bian. Get you gone first, and then I fear no greater;
Nor thee will I fear long; I'll have this sauciness
Soon banish’d from these lodgings, and the rooms
Perfum’d well after the corrupt air it leaves:
His breath has made me almost sick, in troth;
A poor, base start-up! life, because has got
Fair clothes by foul means, comes to rail and shew ’em!
Enter the Duke.
Duke. Who’s that?
Bian. Cry you mercy, sir!
Duke. Prithee, who’s that?
Bian. The former thing, my lord, to whom you gave
The captainship; he eats his meat with grudging still.
Duke. Still?
Bian. He comes vaunting here of his new love,
And the new clothes she gave him, lady Livia;
Who but she now his mistress!
Duke. Lady Livia?
Be sure of what you say.
Bian. He shew’d me her name, sir,
In perfum’d paper, her vows, her letter,
With an intent to spite me; so his heart said,
And his threats made it good; they were as spiteful
As ever malice utter’d, and as dangerous,
Should his hand follow the copy.
Duke. But that must not:
Do not you vex your mind; prithee, to bed, go;
All shall be well and quiet.
Bian. I love peace, sir.
Duke. And so do all that love: take you no care for’t,
It shall be still provided to your hand.—
[Exit Bianca.
Who’s near us there?
Enter Servant.
Ser. My lord?
Duke. Seek out Hippolito,
Brother to lady Livia, with all speed.
Ser. He was the last man I saw, my lord.
Duke. Make haste.— [Exit Servant.
He is a blood soon stirr’d; and as he’s quick
To apprehend a wrong, he’s bold and sudden
In bringing forth a ruin: I know, likewise,
The reputation of his sister’s honour’s
As dear to him as life-blood to his heart;
Beside, I'll flatter him with a goodness to her,—
Which I now thought on, but ne’er meant to practise,
Because I know her base,—and that wind drives him:
The ulcerous reputation feels the poise
Of lightest wrongs, as sores are vex’d with flies.
He comes.—
Enter Hippolito.
Hippolito, welcome.
Hip. My lov’d lord!
Duke. How does that lusty widow, thy kind sister?
Is she not sped yet of a second husband?
A bed-fellow she has, I ask not that,
I know she’s sped of him.
Hip. Of him, my lord?
Duke. Yes, of a bed-fellow: is the news so strange to you?
Hip. I hope ’tis so to all.
Duke. I wish it were, sir,
But ’tis confess’d too fast; her ignorant pleasures,
Only by lust instructed, have receiv’d
Into their services an impudent boaster,
One that does raise his glory from her shame,
And tells the mid-day sun what’s done in darkness;
Yet, blinded with her appetite, wastes her wealth,
Buys her disgraces at a dearer rate
Than bounteous housekeepers purchase their honour.
Nothing sads me so much, as that, in love
To thee and to thy blood, I had pick’d out
A worthy match for her, the great Vincentio,
High in our favour and in all men’s thoughts.
Hip. O thou destruction of all happy fortunes,
Unsated blood! Know you the name, my lord,
Of her abuser?
Duke. One Leantio.
Hip. He’s a factor.
Duke. He ne’er made so brave a voyage,
By his own talk.
Hip. The poor old widow’s son.
I humbly take my leave.
Duke. I see ’tis done.— [Aside.
Give her good counsel, make her see her error;
I know she’ll hearken to you.
Hip. Yes, my lord,
I make no doubt, as I shall take the course
Which she shall never know till it be acted,
And when she wakes to honour, then she’ll thank me for’t:
I'll imitate the pities of old surgeons
To this lost limb, who, ere they shew their art,
Cast one asleep, then cut the diseas’d part;
So, out of love to her I pity most,
She shall not feel him going till he’s lost;
Then she’ll commend the cure. [Exit.
I count this done already; his wrath’s sure,
And speaks an injury deep: farewell, Leantio,
This place will never hear thee murmur more.—
Enter the Cardinal and Servants.
Our noble brother, welcome!
Car. Set those lights down:
Depart till you be call’d. [Exeunt Servants.
Duke. There’s serious business
Fix’d in his look; nay, it inclines a little
To the dark colour of a discontentment.— [Aside.
Brother, what is’t commands your eye so powerfully?
Speak, you seem lost.
Car. The thing I look on seems so,
To my eyes lost for ever.
Duke. You look on me.
Car. What a grief ’tis to a religious feeling,
To think a man should have a friend so goodly,
So wise, so noble, nay, a duke, a brother,
And all this certainly damn’d!
Duke. How!
Car. ’Tis no wonder,
If your great sin can do’t: dare you look up
For thinking of a vengeance? dare you sleep
For fear of never waking but to death?
And dedicate unto a strumpet’s love
The strength of your affections, zeal, and health?
Here you stand now; can you assure your pleasures
You shall once more enjoy her, but once more?
Alas, you cannot! what a misery ’tis then,
To be more certain of eternal death
Than of a next embrace! nay, shall I shew you
How more unfortunate you stand in sin
Than the low,[1095] private man: all his offences,
Like enclos’d grounds, keep but about himself,
And seldom stretch beyond his own soul’s bounds;
And when a man grows miserable, ’tis some comfort
When he’s no further charg’d than with himself,
’Tis a sweet ease to wretchedness: but, great man,
Every sin thou committ’st shews like a flame
Upon a mountain, ’tis seen far about,
And, with a big wind made of popular breath,
The sparkles fly through cities, here one takes,
Another catches there, and in short time
Waste all to cinders; but remember still,
What burnt the valleys first came from the hill:
Every offence draws his particular pain,
But ’tis example proves the great man’s bane.
The sins of mean men lie like scatter’d parcels
Of an unperfect bill; but when such fall,
Then comes example, and that sums up all:
And this your reason grants; if men of good lives,
Who by their virtuous actions stir up others
To noble and religious imitation,
Receive the greater glory after death,
As sin must needs confess, what may they feel
In height of torments and in weight of vengeance,
Not only they themselves not doing well,
But set[1096] a light up to shew men to hell?
Duke. If you have done, I have; no more, sweet brother!
Car. I know time spent in goodness is too tedious;
This had not been a moment’s space in lust now:
How dare you venture on eternal pain,
That cannot bear a minute’s reprehension?
Methinks you should endure to hear that talk’d of
Which you so strive to suffer. O, my brother,
What were you, if [that] you were taken now!
My heart weeps blood to think on’t; ’tis a work
Of infinite mercy, you can never merit,
That yet you are not death-struck, no, not yet;
I dare not stay you long, for fear you should not
Have time enough allow’d you to repent in:
There’s but this wall [pointing to his body] betwixt you and destruction,
When you’re at strongest, and but poor thin clay:
Think upon’t, brother; can you come so near it
For a fair strumpet’s love, and fall into
A torment that knows neither end nor bottom
For beauty but the deepness of a skin,
And that not of their own neither? Is she a thing
Whom sickness dare not visit, or age look on,
Or death resist? does the worm shun her grave?
If not, as your soul knows it, why should lust
Bring man to lasting pain for rotten dust?
Duke. Brother of spotless honour, let me weep
The first of my repentance in thy bosom,
And shew the blest fruits of a thankful spirit:
And if I e’er keep woman more, unlawfully,
May I want penitence at my greatest need!
And wise men know there is no barren place
Threatens more famine than a dearth in grace.
Car. Why, here’s a conversion is at this time, brother,
Sung for a hymn in heaven,[1097] and at this instant
The powers of darkness groan, makes all hell sorry:
First I praise heaven, then in my work I glory.
Who’s there attends without?