[382] Ed. 1. “of.”
[383] So ed. 2.—Ed. 1. “O Ioue thy Nectar, thinke.” (“Nectar-skink”—draught of nectar.)
[384] Old eds. “beare,” but the sense clearly requires “bar” (pronounced “bear” to rhyme with “spare”). We have twice had the word “bar” spelt “beare” earlier in the present play.
[385] Ed. 2. “struck.”
SCENE IV.
Neighbourhood of Cirta.
Cornets a march. Enter Scipio in full state, triumphal ornaments carried before him, and Syphax bound; at the other door, Lælius.
Sci.
What answers Massinissa? Will he send
That Sophonisba of so moving tongue?[386]
Læ.
Full of dismay’d unsteadiness he stood,
His right hand lock’d in hers, which hand he gave
As pledge for Rome she[387] ever should live free.
But when I enter’d and well urged this vow
And thy command, his great heart sunk with shame,
His eyes lost spirit, and his heat of life
Sank from his face, as one that stood benumb’d,
All mazed, t’effect impossibilities; 10
For either unto her or Scipio
He must break vow. Long time he toss’d his thoughts;
And as you see a snow-ball being roll’d,
At first a handful, yet, long bowl’d about,
Insensibly acquires a mighty globe,—
So his cold grief through agitation grows,
And more he thinks, the more of grief he knows.
At last he seem’d to yield her.
Sy.
Mark, Scipio!
Trust him that breaks a vow?
Sci. How then trust thee? 19
Sy. O, misdoubt him not, when he’s thy slave like me.
Enter Massinissa, all in black.
Mass. Scipio!
Sci. Massinissa!
Mass. General!
Sci. King!
Mass.
Lives there no mercy for one soul of Carthage,
But must see baseness?
Sci.
Wouldst thou joy thy peace,
Deliver Sophonisba straight and cease;
Do not grasp that which is too hot to hold.
We grace thy grief, and hold it with soft sense;
Enjoy good courage, but ’void insolence.
I tell thee Rome and Scipio deign to bear
So low a breast as for her say—we fear.
Mass.
Do not, do not; let not the fright of nations 30
Know so vile terms. She rests at thy dispose.
Sy.
To my soul[’s] joy. Shall Sophonisba then
With me go bound, and wait on Scipio’s wheel?
When th’ whole world’s giddy, one man cannot reel.
Mass.
Starve thy lean hopes; and, Romans, now behold
A sight would sad the gods, make Phœbus cold.
Organ and recorders play to a single voice. Enter in the meantime the mournful solemnity of Massinissa’s presenting Sophonisba’s body.
Look, Scipio, see what hard shift we make
To keep our vows. Here, take, I yield her thee;
And Sophonisba, I keep vow, thou’rt still free.
Sy.
Burst, my vex’d heart: the torture that most racks 40
An enemy is his foe’s royal acts.
Sci.
The glory of thy virtue live for ever;
Brave hearts may be obscured, but extinct never.
[Scipio adorns Massinissa.
Take from the general of Rome this crown,
This robe of triumph, and this conquest’s wreath,
This sceptre and this hand; for ever breathe
Rome’s very minion. Live worth thy fame,
As far from faintings as from now base name.
Mass.
Thou whom, like sparkling steel, the strokes of chance
Made hard and firm, and, like[388] wild-fire turn’d, 50
The more cold fate, the more thy virtue burn’d,
And in whole seas of miseries didst flame;
On thee, loved creature of a deathless fame,
[Massinissa adorns Sophonisba.
Rest all my honour! O thou for whom I drink
So deep of grief, that he must only think,
Not dare to speak, that would express my woe;
Small rivers murmur, deep gulfs silent flow.
My grief is here,[389] not here: heave gently then,
Women’s right wonder, and just shame of men.
[Exeunt all but Massinissa.
Cornets a short flourish.
[386] Ed. 2. “tongues.”
[387] Ed. 1. “he.”
[388] Ed. 2. “like to wild fire.” (As the line stands, “firm” is equivalent to a dissyllable.)
[389] i.e., in my heart, not my eyes.
Mass.
And[390] now
With lighter passion, though with most just fear,
I change my person, and do hither bear
Another’s voice, who with a phrase as weak
As his deserts, now will’d me (thus form’d[391]) speak:
If words well sensed, best suiting subject grave,
Noble true story, may once boldly crave
Acceptance gracious; if he whose fires
Envy not others, nor himself admires;
If scenes exempt from ribaldry or rage 10
Of taxings indiscreet, may please the stage;—
If such may hope applause, he not commands,
Yet craves as due the justice of your hands.
But freely he protests, howe’er it is—
Or well, or ill, or much, not much amiss—
With constant modesty he does submit
To all, save those that have more tongue than wit.[392]
[390] “And now ... fear.” Printed as one line in ed. 1. Ed. 2. reads, “And now with lighter passion, though just feare.”
[391] So ed. 1.—Ed. 2. “will’d me for him speake.”
[392] In ed. 1. is added the following note:—“After all, let me intreat my Reader not to taxe me for the fashion of the Entrances and Musique of this tragedy, for know it is printed only as it was presented by youths, and after the fashion of the private stage. Nor let some easily amended errors in the Printing afflict thee, since thy owne discourse will easily set vpright any such vneuennes.”
What Yov Will. By Iohn Marston. Imprinted at London by G. Eld, for Thomas Thorppe. 1607. 4to.
STORY OF THE PLAY.
Albano, a rich Venetian merchant, is reported to have been drowned at sea; whereupon his wife, Celia, is beset with suitors, and her choice falls upon a French knight, Laverdure. Jacomo, a disappointed suitor, plots with Albano’s brothers, Andrea and Randolfo, to disturb the match, and for this purpose they disguise Francisco, a perfumer, in the habiliments of Albano; but the plot is detected by Laverdure’s page, Bidet, who communicates the discovery to his master. The true Albano now arrives upon the scene, and encountering Laverdure, is accosted as Francisco, and is told that the plot has been discovered. Laverdure leaves him in a distraction of rage and amazement, which is not lessened when Jacomo and his own brothers approach and congratulate him on his powers of deception. A meeting between Albano and the disguised Francisco presently ensues. While Celia is entertaining her friends, Albano and Francisco clamour for admittance. Laverdure had told Celia (and the news had been spread abroad) that he intended to disguise a fiddler in the likeness of Albano as a foil to the disguised perfumer. When Albano and Francisco appear, Celia imagines that one is the fiddler and the other the perfumer. The true Albano and the counterfeit Albano, after engaging in a lively skirmish, declare that they will appeal to the Duke. When they retire Laverdure protests that he knows nothing of the new claimant, but his words are disregarded. The rivals appeal to the Duke, and the mystery is quickly solved when Albano, taking Celia aside, shows her a secret mark on his person, and reminds her of words that he had spoken on a certain memorable occasion.
Before the music sounds for the Act, enter Atticus, Doricus, and Philomuse; they sit a good while on the stage before the candles are lighted, talking together, and on sudden Doricus speaks.
Enter Tireman with lights.
Dor. O fie, some lights! Sirs, fie! let there be no deeds of darkness done among us. Ay,—so, so, prithee, Tireman, set Signior Snuff a-fire: he’s a choleric gentleman; he will take pepper in the nose[393] instantly; fear not. ’Fore heaven, I wonder they tolerate him so near the stage.
Phi. Faith, Doricus, thy brain boils; keel[394] it, keel it, or all the fat’s in the fire; in the name of Phœbus, what merry genius haunts thee to-day? Thy lips play with feathers. 10
Dor. Troth, they should pick straws before they should be idle.
Atti. But why—but why dost thou wonder they dare suffer Snuff so near the stage?
Dor. O, well recall’d; marry, Sir Signior Snuff, Monsieur Mew, and Cavaliero Blirt, are three of the most-to-be-fear’d auditors that ever——
Phi. Pish! for shame! stint thy idle chat.
Dor. Nay, dream whatsoe’er your fantasy swims on, Philomuse; I protest, in the love you have procured me to bear your friend the author, I am vehemently fearful this threefold halter of contempt that chokes the breath of wit, these aforesaid tria sunt omnia, knights of the mew,[395] will sit heavy on the skirts of his scenes, if—— 24
Phi.
If what? Believe it, Doricus, his spirit
Is higher blooded than to quake and pant
At the report of Scoff’s artillery.
Shall he be crest-fall’n, if some looser brain,
In flux of wit uncivilly befilth
His slight composures? Shall his bosom faint, 30
If drunken Censure belch out sour breath
From Hatred’s surfeit on his labour’s front?
Nay, say some half a dozen rancorous breasts
Should plant themselves on purpose to discharge
Imposthum’d malice on his latest scene,
Shall his resolve be struck through with the blirt
Of a goose-breath? What imperfect-born,
What short-liv’d meteor, what cold-hearted snow
Would melt in dolour, cloud his mudded eyes,
Sink down his jaws, if that some juiceless husk, 40
Some boundless ignorance, should on sudden shoot
His gross-knobb’d burbolt[396] with—“That’s not so good;
Mew, blirt, ha, ha, light chaffy stuff!”
Why, gentle spirits, what loose-waving vane,
What anything, would thus be screw’d about
With each slight touch of odd phantasmatas?
No, let the feeble palsey’d lamer joints
Lean on opinion’s crutches; let the——
Dor.
Nay, nay, nay.
Heaven’s my hope, I cannot smooth this strain; 50
Wit’s death, I cannot. What a leprous humour
Breaks from rank swelling of these bubbling wits?
Now out upon’t, I wonder what tight brain,
Wrung in this custom to maintain contempt
’Gainst common censure;[397] to give stiff counter-buffs,
To crack rude scorn even on the very face
Of better audience. Slight, is’t not odious?
Why, hark you, honest, honest Philomuse
(You that endeavour to endear our thoughts
To the composer’s spirit), hold this firm: 60
Music and poetry were first approved
By common sense; and that which pleasèd most,
Held most allowèd pass: know,[398] rules of art
Were shaped to pleasure, not pleasure to your rules;
Think you, if that his scenes took stamp in mint
Of three or four deem’d most judicious,
It must enforce the world to current them,
That you must spit defiance on dislike?
Now, as I love the light, were I to pass
Through public verdict, I should fear my form, 70
Lest ought I offer’d were unsquared or warp’d.
The more we know, the more we want:
What Bayard[399] bolder than the ignorant?
Believe me, Philomuse, i’faith thou must,
The best, best seal of wit is wit’s distrust.
Phi. Nay, gentle Doricus.
Dor. I’ll hear no more of him; nay, and your friend the author, the composer, the What You Will, seems so fair in his own glass, so straight in his own measure, that he talks once of squinting critics, drunken censure, splay-footed opinion, juiceless husks, I ha’ done with him, I ha’ done with him. 82
Phi. Pew, nay then——
Dor. As if any such unsanctified stuff could find a being ’mong these ingenuous breasts.
Atti. Come, let pass, let pass; let’s see what stuff must clothe our ears. What’s the play’s name?
Phi. What You Will.
Dor. Is’t comedy, tragedy, pastoral, moral, nocturnal, or history? 90
Phi. Faith, perfectly neither, but even What You Will,—a slight toy, lightly composed, too swiftly finish’d, ill plotted, worse written, I fear me worst acted, and indeed What You Will.
Dor. Why, I like this vein well now.
Atti. Come, we strain the spectators’ patience in delaying their expected delights. Let’s place ourselves within the curtains, for good faith the stage is so very little, we shall wrong the general eye else very much.
Phi. If you’ll stay but a little, I’ll accompany you; I have engaged myself to the author to give a kind of inductive speech to his comedy. 102
Atti. Away! you neglect yourself, a gentleman——
Phi. Tut, I have vow’d it; I am double charged; go off as ’twill, I’ll set fire to it.
Dor. I’ll not stand it; may chance recoil, and be not stuffed with saltpetre: well, mark the report; mark the report.
Phi. Nay, prithee stay; ’slid the female presence, the Genteletza, the women will put me out. 110
Dor. And they strive to put thee out, do thou endeavour to put them.
Atti. In good faith, if they put thee out of countenance, put them out of patience, and hew their ears with hacking imperfect utterance.
Dor. Go, stand to it; show thyself a tall man of thy tongue; make an honest leg; put off thy cap with discreet carriage: and so we leave thee to the kind gentlemen and most respected auditors.
[Exeunt, all but Philomuse.
[393] “Se courroucer. To fret, fume, chafe, be angrie, take pet, or pepper in the nose.”—Cotgrave.
[394] See note, vol. i. p. 77.
[395] Cat-calls.—See Middleton, iv. 9.
[396] A short blunt arrow, for killing birds without piercing them.
[397] Judgment.—Marston is here plainly referring to the truculent attitude assumed by Ben Jonson towards the audience.
[398] Old eds. “not.”
[399] “As bold as blind bayard” was a proverb (as old as Chaucer) applied to those who do not look before they leap. In R. B.’s Appius and Virginia, 1575, we have:—“As bold as blind bayard, as wise as a woodcock.” Bayard was the name for a bay-horse.
Nor labours he the favour of the rude,
Nor offers sops unto the Stygian dog,
To force a silence in his viperous tongues;
Nor cares he to insinuate the grace
Of loath’d detraction, nor pursues the love
Of the nice critics of this squeamish age;
Nor strives he to bear up with every sail
Of floating censure; nor once dreads or cares
What envious hand his guiltless muse hath struck;
Sweet breath from tainted stomachs who can suck?
But to the fair proportion’d loves of wit, 11
To the just scale of even, paizèd[400] thoughts;
To those that know the pangs of bringing forth
A perfect feature; to their gentle minds,
That can as soon slight of as find a blemish;
To those, as humbly low as to their feet,
I am obliged to bend—to those his muse
Makes solemn honour for their wish’d delight.
He vows industrious sweat shall pale his cheek,
But he’ll gloss up sleek objects for their eyes; 20
For those he is asham’d his best’s too bad.
A silly subject, too too[401] simply clad,
Is all his present, all his ready pay
For many debts. Give further day.[402]
I’ll give a proverb,—Sufferance giveth ease:
So you may once be paid, we once may please.
[Exit.
[400] Balanced.—Perhaps we should read “even-paizèd.”
[401] Sometimes written “too-too” (a strengthened form of too), but quite as often printed as two separate words. I have followed the old copies.
[402] “Give further day” = allow the day of payment to be deferred. Cf. Middleton, ii. 337.
Duke of Venice.
Albano, a merchant.
Jacomo, in love with Celia.
Andrea, and
Randolfo, brothers to Albano.
Quadratus.
Laverdure, a Frenchman.
Lampatho Doria.
Simplicius Faber.
Francisco, a perfumer.
Philus, page to Jacomo.
Bidet, page to Laverdure.
Slip, page to Albano.
Holofernes Pippo, page to Simplicius.
A Schoolmaster.
Battus,
Nous,
Nathaniel, and
Slip, schoolboys.
Noose,
Trip, and
Doit, pages.
Celia, wife to Albano.
Maletza, sister to Celia.
Lyzabetta.
Lucia, waiting-woman to Celia.
The Scene—Venice.
SCENE I.
A Street.
Enter Quadratus, Philus following him with a lute; a Page going before Quadratus with a torch.
Phi. O, I beseech you, sir, reclaim his wits;
My master’s mad, stark mad, alas! for love.
Qua. For love? Nay, and he be not mad for hate,
’Tis amiable fortune. I tell thee, youth,
Right rare and geason.[403] Strange? Mad for love!
O show me him; I’ll give him reasons straight—
So forcible, so all invincible,
That it shall drag love out. Run mad for love?
What mortally exists, on which our hearts
Should be enamoured with such passion? 10
For love! Come, Philus; come, I’ll change his fate;
Instead of love, I’ll make him mad for hate.
But, troth, say what strain’s his madness of?
Phi. Fantastical.
Qua. Immure him; sconce him; barricado him in’t,
Fantastical mad! thrice blessèd heart!
Why hark, good Philus (O that thy narrow sense
Could but contain me now!), all that exists,
Takes valuation from opinion,
A giddy minion now. Pish! thy taste is dull, 20
And canst not relish me. Come; where’s Jacomo?
Enter Jacomo, unbraced, and careless dressed.
Phi. Look, where he comes. O map of boundless woe!
Jaco. Yon gleam is day; darkness, sleep, and fear,
Dreams, and the ugly visions of the night,
Are beat to hell by the bright palm of light;
Now roams the swain, and whistles up the morn:
Deep silence breaks; all things start up with light,
Only my heart, that endless night and day,
Lies bed-rid, crippled by coy Celia.[404]
Qua. There’s a strain, law. 30
Nay, now I see he’s mad most palpable;
He speaks like a player: ha! poetical.
Jaco. The wanton spring lies dallying with the earth,
And pours fresh blood in her decayèd veins;
Look how the new-sapp’d branches are in child
With tender infants! how the sun draws out,
And shapes their moisture into thousand forms
Of sprouting buds! all things that show or breathe
Are now instaur’d,[405] saving my wretched breast,
That is eternally congeal’d with ice 40
Of frozed despair. O Celia! coy, too nice!
Qua. Still, sans question, mad?
Jaco. O where doth piety and pity rest?
Qua. Fetch cords; he’s irrecoverable; mad, rank mad.
He calls for strange chimeras, fictions,
That have no being since the curse of death
Was thrown on man. Pity and piety,
Who’ll deign converse with them? Alas! vain head,
Pity and piety are long since dead.
Jaco. Ruin to chance, and all that strive to stand 50
Like swoll’n Colossus on her tottering base!
Fortune is blind—
Qua. You lie! you lie!
None but a madman would term fortune blind.
How can she see to wound desert so right,
Just in the speeding-place?[406] to girt lewd brows
With honor’d wreath? Ha! Fortune blind? Away!
How can she, hood-wink’d, then so rightly see
To starve rich worth and glut iniquity?
Jaco. O love!
Qua. Love! Hang love.
It is the abject outcast of the world. 60
Hate all things; hate the world, thyself, all men;
Hate knowledge; strive not to be over-wise:
It drew destruction into Paradise.
Hate honor, virtue; they are baits
That ’tice men’s hopes to sadder fates.
Hate beauty: every ballad-monger
Can cry his idle foppish humour.
Hate riches: wealth’s a flattering Jack;
Adores to face, mews ’hind thy back.
He that is poor is firmly sped; 70
He never shall be flatterèd.
All things are error, dirt and nothing,
Or pant with want, or gorged to loathing.
Love only hate, affect no higher
Than praise of Heaven, wine, a fire.
Suck up thy days in silent breath,
When their snuff’s out, come Signior Death.
Now, sir, adieu, run mad and wilt;[407]
The worst is this, my rhyme’s but spilt.
Jaco. Thy rhymes are spilt! who would not run rank mad, 80
To see a wandering Frenchman rival, nay,
Outstrip my suit? He kiss’d my Celia’s cheek.
Qua. Why, man, I saw my dog even kiss thy Celia’s lips.
Jaco. To-morrow morn they go to wed.
Qua. Well then I know
Whither to-morrow night they go.
Jaco. Say quick.
Qua. To bed.
Jaco. I will invoke the Triple Hecate,
Make charms as potent as the breath of fate, 90
But I’ll confound the match!
Qua. Nay, then, good day;
And you be conjuring once, I’ll slink away.
[Exit Quadratus.
Jaco. Boy, could not Orpheus make the stones to dance?
Phi. Yes, sir.
Jaco. By’r Lady, a sweet touch. Did he not bring Eurydice out of hell with his lute?
Phi. So they say, sir.
Jaco. And thou canst bring Celia’s head out of the
window with thy lute. Well, hazard thy breath. Look,
sir, here’s a ditty. 100
’Tis foully writ, slight wit, cross’d here and there,
But where thou find’st a blot, there fall a tear.
The Song.
Fie! peace, peace, peace! it hath no passion in’t.
O melt thy breath in fluent softer tunes,
That every note may seem to trickle down
Like sad distilling tears, and make—O God!
That I were but a poet, now t’ express my thoughts,
Or a musician but to sing my thoughts,
Or anything but what I am.—Sing’t o’er once more,
My grief’s a boundless sea that hath no shore. 110
[He sings, and is answered; from above a willow[408] garland is flung down, and the song ceaseth.
Is this my favour? Am I crown’d with scorn?
Then thus I manumit my slaved condition.
Celia, but hear me execrate thy love.
By Heaven, that once was conscious of my love;
By all that is, that knows my all was thine,
I will pursue with detestation;
Thwart with outstretchèd[409] vehemence of hate,
Thy wishèd Hymen! I will craze my brain,
But I’ll[410] dissever all. Thy hopes unite:
What rage so violent as love turn’d spite! 120
Enter Randolfo and Andrea, with a supplication, reading.
Ran. Humbly complaining, kissing the hands of your excellence, your poor orators Randolfo and Andrea beseecheth, forbidding of the dishonour’d match of their niece Celia, widow, to their brother——
O ’twill do; ’twill do; it cannot choose but do.
And. What should one say?—what should one do now? Umph!
If she do match with yon same wand’ring knight,
She’s but undone; her estimation, wealth——
Jaco. Nay, sir, her estimation’s mounted up.
She shall be ladied and sweet-madam’d now. 130
Ran. Be ladied? Ha! ha! O, could she but recall
The honour’d port of her deceasèd love!
But think whose wife she was! God wot no knight’s,
But one (that title off) was even a prince,
A Sultan Solyman. Thrice was he made,
In dangerous arms, Venice providetore.
And. He was a merchant; but so bounteous,
Valiant, wise, learned, all so absolute,
That naught was valued praiseful excellent,
But in it was he most praiseful excellent. 140
Jaco. O, I shall ne’er forget how he went clothed.
He would maintain ’t a base ill-usèd fashion
To bind a merchant to the sullen habit
Of precise black; chiefly in Venice state,
Where merchants gilt the top;
And therefore should you have him pass the bridge
Up the Rialto like a soldier
(As still he stood a potestate at sea).
Ran. In a black beaver felt, ash-colour plain,
A Florentine cloth-of-silver jerkin, sleeves 150
White satin cut on tinsel, then long stock.[411]
Jaco. French panes[412] embroider’d, goldsmith’s work, O God!
Methinks I see him now how he would walk;
With what a jolly presence he would pace
Round the Rialto.[413] Well, he’s soon forgot;
A straggling sir in his rich bed must sleep,
Which if I cannot cross I’ll curse and weep.
Shall I be plain as truth? I love your sister:
My education, birth, and wealth deserves her.
I have no cross, no rub to stop my suit; 160
But Laverdure’s a knight: that strikes all mute.
And. Ay, there’s the devil, she must be ladied now.
Jaco. O ill-nursed custom!
No sooner is the wealthy merchant dead,
His wife left great in fair possessions,
But giddy rumour grasps it ’twixt his teeth,
And shakes it ’bout our ears. Then thither flock
A rout of crazèd fortunes, whose crack’d states
Gape to be solder’d up by the rich mass
Of the deceased labours; and now and then 170
The troop of “I beseech,” and “I protest,”
And “Believe it, sweet,” is mix’d with two or three
Hopeful, well-stock’d, neat clothèd citizens.
Ran. But as we see the son of a divine
Seldom proves preacher, or a lawyer’s son
Rarely a pleader (for they strive to run
A various fortune from their ancestors),
So ’tis right geason[414] for the merchant’s widow
To be the citizen’s loved second spouse.
Jaco. Variety of objects please us still; 180
One dish, though ne’er so cook’d, doth quickly fill,
When diverse cates the palate’s sense delight,
And with fresh taste creates new appetite;
Therefore my widow she cashiers the blacks,[415]
Forswears, turns off the furr’d-gowns, and surveys
The beadroll of her suitors, thinks and thinks,
And straight her questing thoughts springs up a knight;
Have after then amain, the game’s a-foot,
The match clapp’d up; tut, ’tis the knight must do’t!
Ran.
Then must my pretty peat[416] be fann’d and coach’d? 190
Jaco. Muff’d, mask’d, and ladied, with “my more than most sweet madam!”
But how long doth this perfume of sweet madam last?
Faith, ’tis but a wash scent. My riotous sir
Begins to crack jests on his lady’s front,
Touches her new-stamp’d gentry, takes a glut,
Keeps out, abandons home, and spends and spends,
Till stock be melted; then, sir, takes up[417] here,
Takes up there, till nowhere ought is left.
Then for the Low Countries, hey for the French!
And so (to make up rhyme) good night, sweet wench.
Ran. By blessedness we’ll stop this fatal lot. 201
Jaco. But how? But how?
Ran. Why, stay, let’s think a plot.
And. Was not Albano Beletzo honourable-rich?
Ran. Not peer’d in Venice, for birth, fortune, love.
And. Tis scarce three months since fortune gave him dead.
Ran. In the black fight in the Venetian gulf.
And. You hold a truth.
Ran. Now what a giglet[418] is this Celia?
And. To match so sudden, so unworthily?
Ran. Why, she might have——
And. Who might not Celia have? 210
The passionate enamour’d Jacomo.
Jaco. The passionate enamour’d Jacomo!
And. Of honour’d lineage, and not meanly rich.
Ran. The sprightful Piso; the great Florentine,
Aurelius Tuber.
And. And to leave these all,
And wed a wand’ring knight, Sir Laverdure,
A God knows what!
Ran. Brother, she shall not. Shall our blood be mongrell’d
With the corruption of a straggling French?
And. Saint Mark, she shall not. 220
She[419] shall not, brother, by our father’s soul.
Ran. Good day.
Jaco. Wish me good day? It stands in idle stead;
My Celia’s lost! all my good days are dead!
[The cornets sound a flourish.
Hark: Lorenzo Celso, the loose Venice Duke
Is going to bed; ’tis now a forward morn,
For he take rest. O strange transformèd sight,
When princes make night day, the day their night!
And. Come, we’ll petition him.
Jaco. Away! Away!
He scorns all plaints; makes jest of serious suit. 230
Ran. Fall out as ’twill, I am resolved to do’t.
[The cornets sound.
Enter the Duke coupled with a Lady; two couples more with them, the men having tobacco-pipes in their hands, the women sit; they dance a round. The petition is delivered up by Randolfo; the Duke lights his tobacco-pipe with it, and goes out dancing.
Ran. Saint Mark! Saint Mark!
Jaco. Did not I tell you? lose no more rich time;
What can one get but mire from a swine?
And. Let’s work a cross; we’ll fame it all about
The Frenchman’s gelded.
Ran. O that’s absolute.
Jaco. Fie on’t! Away! She knows too well ’tis false.
I fear it too well. No, no, I have’t will strongly do’t.
Who knows Francisco Soranza?
Ran. Pish! pish! Why, what of him? 240
Jaco. Is he not wondrous like your deceased kinsman, Albano?
And. Exceedingly; the strangest, nearly like
In voice, in gesture, face, in——
Ran. Nay, he hath Albano’s imperfection too,
And stuts[420] when he is vehemently moved.
Jaco. Observe me, then; him would I have disguised,
Most perfect, like Albano; giving out,
Albano saved by swimming (as in faith
’Tis known he swome most strangely): rumour him 250
This morn arrived in Venice, here to lurk,
As having heard the forward nuptials;
T’ observe his wife’s most infamous lewd haste,
And to revenge——
Ran. I have’t, I have’t, I have’t; ’twill be invincible.
Jaco. By this means now some little time we catch
For better hopes, at least disturb the match.
And. I’ll to Francisco.
Ran. Brother Adrian,
You have our brother’s picture; shape him to it. 259
And. Precise in each point:[421] tush, tush! fear it not.
Ran. Saint Mark then prosper once our hopeful plot!
Jaco. Good souls, good day; I have not slept last night;
I’ll take a nap: then pell-mell broach all spite.
[Exeunt.