The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mermaid Series. Edited by H. Ellis. The best plays of the old dramatists. Thomas Dekker. Edited, with an introduction and notes by Ernest Rhys., by Thomas Dekker

Duke. Is’t so? not married till the afternoon:
Stay, stay, let’s work out some prevention. How!
This is most strange; can none but mad men serve
To dress their wedding dinner? All of you
Get presently to horse, disguise yourselves
Like country-gentlemen,
Or riding citizens, or so: and take
Each man a several path, but let us meet
At Bethlem Monastery, some space of time
Being spent between the arrival each of other,
As if we came to see the lunatics.
To horse, away! be secret on your lives.
Love must be punished that unjustly thrives. [Exeunt all but Fluello.

Flu. Be secret on your lives! Castruchio,
You’re but a scurvy spaniel; honest lord,
Good lady: zounds, their love is just, ’tis good,
And I’ll prevent you, though I swim in blood. [Exit.

SCENE II. An Apartment in Bethlem Monastery.

Hip. Nay, nay, resolve,[209] good father, or deny.

Ans. You press me to an act, both full of danger,
And full of happiness; for I behold
Your father’s frowns, his threats, nay, perhaps death
To him that dare do this: yet, noble lord,
Such comfortable beams break through these clouds
By this blest marriage, that your honoured word
Being pawned in my defence, I will tie fast
The holy wedding-knot.

Hip. Tush, fear not the duke.

Ans. O son! wisely to fear, is to be free from fear.

Hip. You have our words, and you shall have our lives,
To guard you safe from all ensuing danger.

Mat. Ay, ay, chop ’em up, and away.

Ans. Stay, when is’t fit for me, and safest for you,
To entertain this business?

Hip. Not till the evening.

Ans. Be’t so, there is a chapel stands hard by,
Upon the west end of the abbey wall;
Thither convey yourselves, and when the sun
Hath turned his back upon this upper world,
I’ll marry you; that done, no thundering voice
Can break the sacred bond: yet, lady, here
You are most safe.

Mat. Ay, well said, lock us into some little room by ourselves, that we may be mad for an hour or two.

Mat. How! no noise! do you know where you are? ’sfoot, amongst all the mad-caps in Milan: so that to throw the house out at window will be the better, and no man will suspect that we lurk here to steal mutton [210]: the more sober we are, the more scurvy ’tis. And though the friar tell us, that here we are safest, I am not of his mind, for if those lay here that had lost their money, none would ever look after them, but here are none but those that have lost their wits, so that if hue and cry be made, hither they’ll come; and my reason is, because none goes to be married till he be stark mad.

Flu. O my lord, these cloaks are not for this rain! the tempest is too great: I come sweating to tell you of it, that you may get out of it.

Hip. Then all our plots
Are turned upon our heads; and we’re blown up
With our own underminings. ’Sfoot, how comes he?
What villain durst betray our being here?

Mat. ’Sfoot, he damned himself to the pit of hell, if he spake on’t again.

Mat. Pox on ’em, and there be no faith in men, if a man shall not believe oaths: he took bread and salt,[211] by this light, that he would never open his lips.

Ans. Son, be not desperate,
Have patience, you shall trip your enemy
Down by his own slights.[212] How far is the duke hence?

Flu. He’s but new set out: Castruchio, Pioratto and Sinezi come along with him; you have time enough yet to prevent [213] them, if you have but courage.

Ans. Ye shall steal secretly into the chapel,
And presently be married. If the duke
Abide here still, spite of ten thousand eyes,
You shall ’scape hence like friars.

Hip. O blest disguise! O happy man!

Ans. Talk not of happiness till your closed hand
Have her by th’ forehead, like the lock of Time:
Be nor too slow, nor hasty, now you climb
Up to the tower of bliss; only be wary
And patient, that’s all: If you like my plot,
Build and despatch; if not, farewell, then not.

Hip. O yes, we do applaud it! we’ll dispute
No longer, but will hence and execute.
Fluello, you’ll stay here: let us be gone;
The ground that frighted lovers tread upon
Is stuck with thorns.

Ans. Come, then, away, ’tis meet,
To escape those thorns, to put on wingèd feet. [Exeunt Anselmo, Hippolito and Infelice.

Mat. No words, I pray, Fluello, for’t stands us upon.

Flu. Oh, sir, let that be your lesson! [Exit Matheo.
Alas, poor lovers! On what hopes and fears
Men toss themselves for women! When she’s got,
The best has in her that which pleaseth not.

Enter the Duke, Castruchio, Pioratto, and Sinezi from different doors, muffled.

Duke. Who’s there?

Duke. Peace; send that lord away.
A lordship will spoil all; let’s be all fellows.
What’s he?

Cas. Fluello, or else Sinezi, by his little legs.

Cas., Flu., Pio. All friends, all friends.

Duke. What? met upon the very point of time?
Is this the place?

Pio. This is the place, my lord.

Duke. Dream you on lordships? come no more lords, I pray:
You have not seen these lovers yet?

Duke. Castruchio, art thou sure this wedding feast
Is not till afternoon?

Cas. So’t is given out, my lord.

Duke. Nay, nay, ’tis like; thieves must observe their hours;
Lovers watch minutes like astronomers;
How shall the interim hours by us be spent?

Flu. Let’s all go see the madmen.

Cas., Pio., Sin. Mass, content.

Sweep. Yes, forsooth, I am one of the implements, I sweep the madmen’s rooms, and fetch straw for ’em, and buy chains to tie ’em, and rods to whip ’em. I was a mad wag myself here, once, but I thank Father Anselmo, he lashed me into my right mind again.

Duke. Anselmo is the friar must marry them;
Question him where he is.

Cas. And where is Father Anselmo now?

Sweep. Marry, he’s gone but e’en now.

Duke. Ay, well done.—Tell me, whither is he gone?

Sweep. Why, to God a’mighty.

Flu. Ha, ha! this fellow’s a fool, talks idly.

Sweep. How, all? there’s a question indeed: why if all the mad folks in Milan should come hither, there would not be left ten men in the city.

Sweep. O yes, abundance, abundance! lands no sooner fall into their hands, but straight they run out a’ their wits: citizens’ sons and heirs are free of the house by their fathers’ copy. Farmers’ sons come hither like geese, in flocks, and when they ha’ sold all their corn-fields, here they sit and pick the straws.

Sweep. Oh, ay, a plague on ’em, there’s no ho![214] with ’em; they’re madder than March hares.

Sweep. Oh no, not one; never any lawyer, we dare not let a lawyer come in, for he’ll make ’em mad faster than we can recover ’em.

Sweep. Why, according to the quantity of the moon that’s got into ’em. An alderman’s son will be mad a great while, a very great while, especially if his friends left him well; a whore will hardly come to her wits again: a puritan, there’s no hope of him, unless he may pull down the steeple, and hang himself i’ th’ bell-ropes.

Sweep. Yes, in truth, we have blocks [215] for all heads; we have good store of wild-oats here: for the courtier is mad at the citizen, the citizen is mad at the countryman; the shoemaker is mad at the cobbler, the cobbler at the car-man; the punk is mad that the merchant’s wife is no whore, the merchant’s wife is mad that the punk is so common a whore. Gods so, here’s Father Anselmo; pray say nothing that I tell tales out of the school. [Exit.

All. God bless you, father.

Ans. I thank you, gentlemen.

Cas. Pray, may we see some of those wretched souls,
That here are in your keeping?

Ans. Yes, you shall.
But gentlemen, I must disarm you then:
There are of mad men, as there are of tame,
All humoured not alike: we have here some,
So apish and fantastic, play with a feather,
And, though ’twould grieve a soul to see God’s image
So blemished and defaced, yet do they act
Such antic and such pretty lunacies,
That spite of sorrow they will make you smile:
Others again we have like hungry lions,
Fierce as wild-bulls, untameable as flies,
And these have oftentimes from strangers’ sides
Snatched rapiers suddenly, and done much harm,
Whom if you’ll see, you must be weaponless.

All. With all our hearts. [Giving their weapons to Anselmo.

Ans. Here, take these weapons in,— [Exit Servant with weapons.
Stand off a little, pray; so, so, ’tis well:
I’ll show you here a man that was sometimes
A very grave and wealthy citizen;
Has served a prenticeship to this misfortune,
Been here seven years, and dwelt in Bergamo.

Duke. How fell he from his wits?

Ans. By loss at sea;
I’ll stand aside, question him you alone,
For if he spy me, he’ll not speak a word,
Unless he’s throughly vexed.

1st Mad. Dost not see, fool? there’s a fresh salmon in’t; if you step one foot further, you’ll be over shoes, for you see I’m over head and ears in the salt-water: and if you fall into this whirl-pool where I am, you’re drowned: you’re a drowned rat. I am fishing here for five ships, but I cannot have a good draught, for my net breaks still, and breaks; but I’ll break some of your necks an I catch you in my clutches. Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay, where’s the wind? where’s the wind? where’s the wind? where’s the wind? Out you gulls, you goose-caps, you gudgeon-eaters! do you look for the wind in the heavens? ha, ha, ha, ha! no, no! look there, look there, look there! the wind is always at that door: hark how it blows, puff, puff, puff!

1st Mad. Do you laugh at God’s creatures? Do you mock old age, you rogues? Is this gray beard and head counterfeit that you cry, ha, ha, ha? Sirrah, art not thou my eldest son?

1st Mad. Then thou’rt a fool, for my eldest son had a polt-foot,[216] crooked legs, a verjuice face, and a pear-coloured beard: I made him a scholar, and he made himself a fool. Sirrah, thou there: hold out thy hand.

1st Mad. Such nails had my second boy. Kneel down, thou varlet, and ask thy father’s blessing. Such nails had my middlemost son, and I made him a promoter:[217] and he scraped, and scraped, and scraped, till he got the devil and all: but he scraped thus, and thus, and thus, and it went under his legs, till at length a company of kites, taking him for carrion, swept up all, all, all, all, all, all, all. If you love your lives, look to yourselves: see, see, see, see, the Turks’ galleys are fighting with my ships! Bounce go the guns! Oooh! cry the men! Rumble, rumble, go the waters! Alas, there; ’tis sunk, ’tis sunk: I am undone, I am undone! You are the damned pirates have undone me: you are, by the Lord, you are, you are! Stop ’em—you are!

1st Mad. Tame me! no, I’ll be madder than a roasted cat. See, see, I am burnt with gunpowder,—these are our close fights!

1st Mad. Whip me? Out you toad! Whip me? What justice is this, to whip me because I am a beggar? Alas! I am a poor man: a very poor man! I am starved, and have had no meat by this light, ever since the great flood; I am a poor man.

1st Mad. Ay, ay, pray do; for look you, here be my guts: these are my ribs—you may look through my ribs—see how my guts come out! These are my red guts, my very guts, oh, oh!

Ans. They must be used like children, pleased with toys,
And anon whipped for their unruliness:
I’ll show you now a pair quite different
From him that’s gone: he was all words; and these
Unless you urge ’em, seldom spend their speech,
But save their tongues.

La, you; this hithermost
Fell from the happy quietness of mind,
About a maiden that he loved, and died:
He followed her to church, being full of tears,
And as her body went into the ground,
He fell stark mad. This is a married man,
Was jealous of a fair, but, as some say,
A very virtuous wife; and that spoiled him.

3rd Mad. All these are whoremongers, and lay with my wife: whore, whore, whore, whore, whore!

3rd Mad. Gaffer shoemaker, you pulled on my wife’s pumps, and then crept into her pantofles:[218] lie there, lie there! This was her tailor. You cut out her loose-bodied gown, and put in a yard more than I allowed her; lie there by the shoemaker. O master doctor! are you here? you gave me a purgation, and then crept into my wife’s chamber, to feel her pulses, and you said, and she said, and her maid said, that they went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat. Doctor, I’ll put you anon into my wife’s urinal. Heigh, come aloft, Jack: this was her schoolmaster, and taught her to play upon the virginals, and still his jacks leapt up, up.[219] You pricked her out nothing but bawdy lessons, but I’ll prick you all, fiddler—doctor—tailor—shoemaker—shoemaker—fiddler—doctor—tailor! So! lie with my wife again, now.

2nd Mad. I’ll not give thee a spoonful: thou liest, it’s no dragon, ’tis a parrot, that I bought for my sweetheart, and I’ll keep it.

2nd Mad. O—oh! I am slain! murder, murder, murder! I am slain; my brains are beaten out.

3rd Mad. I’ll answer’t at sessions: he was eating of almond-butter, and I longed for’t: the child had never been delivered out of my belly, if I had not killed him. I’ll answer’t at sessions, so my wife may be burnt i’ th’ hand, too.

3rd Mad. I’ll answer’t at sessions. [Servants remove 2nd and 3rd Madmen.

Bell. A-nutting, forsooth: how do you, gaffer? how do you, gaffer? there’s a French curtsey for you, too.

Ans. As yet I know not,
She came in but this day; talks little idly,
And therefore has the freedom of the house.

Bell. Then you are an ass,—and you an ass,—and you are an ass,—for I know you.

Bell. They’re fish-wives, will you buy any gudgeons? God’s santy![222] yonder come friars, I know them too—

Ans. Nay, nay, away, you must not trouble friars.—
The duke is here, speak nothing.

Bell. Nay, indeed, you shall not go: we’ll run at barley-break first, and you shall be in hell.[223]

Bell. Fie? marry, soh! they shall not go indeed, till I ha’ told ’em their fortunes.

Ans. Well then, be brief, but if you’re thus unruly,
I’ll have you locked up fast.

Bell. Let me see, one, two, three, and four. I’ll begin with the little friar [224] first. Here’s a fine hand, indeed! I never saw friar have such a dainty hand: here’s a hand for a lady! Here’s your fortune:—

You love a friar better than a nun;
Yet long you’ll love no friar, nor no friar’s son.
Bow a little, the line of life is out, yet I’m afraid,
For all you’re holy, you’ll not die a maid.
God give you joy!
Now to you, Friar Tuck.

Mat. God send me good luck!

Bell. You love one, and one loves you:
You’re a false knave, and she’s a Jew,
Here is a dial that false ever goes—

Mat. O your wit drops!

Bell. Troth, so does your nose—
Nay lets shake hands with you too; pray open, here’s a fine hand!
Ho friar, ho! God be here,
So he had need: you’ll keep good cheer,
Here’s a free table,[225] but a frozen breast,
For you’ll starve those that love you best;
Yet you have good fortune, for if I’m no liar,
Then you are no friar, nor you, nor you no friar,
Haha, haha! [Discovers them.

Duke. Are holy habits cloaks for villany?
Draw all your weapons!

Hip. Do; draw all your weapons.

Duke. Where are your weapons? draw!

Cas., Pio., &c. The friar has gulled us of ’em.

Mat. O rare trick!
You ha’ learnt one mad point of arithmetic.

Hip. Why swells your spleen so high? against what bosom
Would you your weapons draw? her’s? ’tis your daughter’s:
Mine? ’tis your son’s.

Mat. Son, by yonder sun.

Hip. You cannot shed blood here but ’tis your own;
To spill your own blood were damnation:
Lay smooth that wrinkled brow, and I will throw
Myself beneath your feet:
Let it be ruggèd still and flinted ore,
What can come forth but sparkles, that will burn
Yourself and us? She’s mine; my claim’s most good;
She’s mine by marriage, though she’s yours by blood.

Ans. [Kneeling.] I have a hand, dear lord, deep in this act,
For I foresaw this storm, yet willingly
Put forth to meet it. Oft have I seen a father
Washing the wounds of his dear son in tears,
A son to curse the sword that struck his father,
Both slain i’ th’ quarrel of your families.
Those scars are now ta’en off; and I beseech you
To seal our pardon! All was to this end,
To turn the ancient hates of your two houses
To fresh green friendship, that your loves might look
Like the spring’s forehead, comfortably sweet:
And your vexed souls in peaceful union meet,
Their blood will now be yours, yours will be their’s,
And happiness shall crown your silver hairs.

Flu. You see, my lord, there’s now no remedy.

Cas., Pio., &c. Beseech your lordship!

Duke. You beseech fair, you have me in place fit
To bridle me—Rise friar, you may be glad
You can make madmen tame, and tame men mad,
Since Fate hath conquered, I must rest content,
To strive now, would but add new punishment:
I yield unto your happiness; be blest,
Our families shall henceforth breathe in rest.

Duke. Your’s now is my content,
I throw upon your joys my full consent.

Bell. Am not I a good girl, for finding the friar in the well? God’s-so, you are a brave man: will not you buy me some sugar-plums, because I am so good a fortune-teller?

Duke. Would thou hadst wit, thou pretty soul, to ask,
As I have will to give.

Bell. Pretty soul? a pretty soul is better than a pretty body: do not you know my pretty soul? I know you: Is not your name Matheo?

Bell. Baa lamb! there you lie, for I am mutton.[226]—Look, fine man! he was mad for me once, and I was mad for him once, and he was mad for her once, and were you never mad? Yes, I warrant; I had a fine jewel once, a very fine jewel, and that naughty man stole it away from me,—a very fine and a rich jewel.

Bell. Maid? nay, that’s a lie: O, ’twas a very rich jewel, called a maidenhead, and had not you it, leerer?

Duke. Had he thy maidenhead?
He shall make thee amends, and marry thee.

Duke. And if he bear the mind of a gentleman,
I know he will.

Mat. I think I rifled her of some such paltry jewel.

Duke. Did you? Then marry her; you see the wrong
Has led her spirits into a lunacy.

Mat. How? marry her, my lord? ’Sfoot, marry a madwoman? Let a man get the tamest wife he can come by, she’ll be mad enough afterward, do what he can.

Duke. Nay then, Father Anselmo here shall do his best,
To bring her to her wits; and will you then?

Mat. I cannot tell, I may choose.

Duke. Nay, then, law shall compel: I tell you, sir,
So much her hard fate moves me, you should not breathe
Under this air, unless you married her.

Mat. Well, then, when her wits stand in their right place,
I’ll marry her.

Bell. I thank your grace.—Matheo, thou art mine:
I am not mad, but put on this disguise,
Only for you, my lord; for you can tell
Much wonder of me, but you are gone: farewell.
Matheo, thou didst first turn my soul black,
Now make it white again: I do protest,
I’m pure as fire now, chaste as Cynthia’s breast.

Hip. I durst be sworn, Matheo, she’s indeed.

Mat. Cony-catched, gulled, must I sail in your fly-boat,
Because I helped to rear your main-mast first?
Plague ’found [228] you for’t, ’tis well.
The cuckold’s stamp goes current in all nations,
Some men ha’ horns giv’n them at their creations,
If I be one of those, why so: ’tis better
To take a common wench, and make her good,
Than one that simpers, and at first will scarce
Be tempted forth over the threshold door,
Yet in one se’nnight, zounds, turns arrant whore!
Come wench, thou shalt be mine, give me thy golls,[229]
We’ll talk of legs hereafter.—See, my lord,
God give us joy!

SCENE II. An Apartment in Bethlem Monastery.