ACT III.

Jaco. I warrant you, give him but fair rich clothes,
He can be ta’en, reputed anything.
Apparel’s grown a god, and goes[467] more neat;
Makes men of rags, which straight he bears aloft,
Like patch’d-up scarecrows to affright the rout
Of the idolatrous vulgar that worship images,
Stand awed and bare-scalp’d at the gloss of silks,
Which, like the glorious A-jax[468] of Lincoln’s-Inn
(Survey’d with wonder by me when I lay
Factor in London), laps up naught but filth    20
And excrements, that bear the shape of men,
Whose inside every daw[469] would peck and tear,
But that vain scarecrow clothes entreats forbear.

Fra. You would have me take upon me, Albano,
A valiant gallant Venetian burgomasco.
Well my beard, my feather, short sword, and my oath,
Shall do’t, fear not. What! I know a number,
By the sole warrant of a lappy beard,
A rain-beat plume, and a good chop-filling oath,
With an odd French shrug, and “by the Lord,” or so,    30
Ha’ leapt into sweet captain with such ease
As you would—Fear’t not. I’ll gage my heart I’ll do’t.
How sits my hat? Ha! Jack, doth my feather wag?

Jaco. Methinks now, in the common sense of fashion,
Thou shouldst grow proud, and like a fore-horse view,
None but beforehand gallants; as for sides,
Study a faint salute, give a strange eye;
And those that rank in equal file with thee,
But as to those in rearward, O be blind!
The world wants eyes—it[470] cannot see behind.    40

Fra. Where is the strumpet? Where’s the hot-vein’d French?
Lives not Albano? Hath Celia so forgot
Albano’s love, that she must forthwith wed
A runabout, a skipping Frenchman?

Jaco. Now you must grow in heat, and stut.

Fra. An odd phantasma—a beggar—a sir—a who, who, who—What You Will—a straggling go-go-go-gunds—f-f-f-f-fut——

And. Passing like him—passing like him. O ’twill strike all dead!    50

Ran. I am ravished! ’Twill be peerless exquisite
Let him go out instantly!

Jaco. O, not till twilight; meantime I’ll prop up
The tottering rumour of Albano’s scape,
And safe arrival; it begins to spread.
If this plot live, Frenchman, thy hopes are dead.

[Exeunt.

Bid. And if it live, strike off this little head.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Slip. Faith, I have little arithmetic in me, yet I remember the storm made me cast up perfectly the whole sum of all I had receiv’d; three days before I was liquor’d soundly; my guts were rinced ’fore the heavens. I look as pale ever since, as if I had ta’en the diet[471] this spring.    13

Alb. But how long is’t since our shipwrack?

Slip. Marry, since we were hung by the heels on the batch of Sicily, to make a jail-delivery of the sea in our maws, ’tis just three months. Shall I speak like a poet?—thrice hath the horned moon——

Alb. Talk not of horns. O Celia! How oft,
When thou hast laid thy cheek upon my breast,    20
And with lascivious petulancy sued
For hymeneal dalliance, marriage-rites;—
O then, how oft, with passionate protests
And zealous vows, hast thou obliged thy love,
In dateless bands, unto Albano’s breast!
Then, did I but mention second marriage,
With what a bitter hate would she inveigh
’Gainst retail’d wedlocks! “O!” would she lisp,
“If you should die,”—then would she slide a tear,
And with a wanton languishment intwist    30
Her hands,—“O God, and you should die! Marry?
Could I love life, my dear Albano dead?
Should any prince possess his widow’s bed?”
And now, see, see, I am but rumour’d drown’d.

Alb. If love be holy; if that mystery
Of co-united hearts be sacrament;
If the unbounded goodness have infused
A sacred ardour, if a mutual love,
Into our species, of those amorous joys,
Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death,
Spring from a cause above our reason’s reach;—
If that clear flame deduce his heat from heaven;—
’Tis like his cause,[472] eternal, always One,
As is th’ instiller of divinest love,    50
Unchanged by time, immortal maugre death!
But O, ’tis grown a figment, love a jest,
A comic poesy! The soul of man is rotten,
Even to the core;—no sound affection.
Our love is hollow-vaulted—stands on props
Of circumstance, profit, or ambitious hopes!
The other tissue gown, or chain of pearl,
Makes my coy minx to nuzzel[473] ’twixt the breasts
Of her lull’d husband; t’other carkanet
Deflowers that lady’s bed. One hundred more    60
Marries that loathèd blowze;—one ten-pound odds,
In promised jointure, makes the hard-palm’d sire
Enforce his daughter’s tender lips to start
At the sharp touch of some loath’d stubbèd beard;
The first pure time, the golden age, is fled.
Heaven knows I lie,—’tis now the age of gold,—
For it all marreth, and even virtue’s sold!

Slip. Master, will you trust me, and I’ll——

Alb. Yes, boy, I’ll trust thee. Babes and fools I’ll trust;
But servants’ faith, wives’ love, or female’s lust,—    70
A usurer and the devil sooner. Now, were I dead,
Methinks I see a huff-cap swaggering sir
Pawning my plate, my jewels mortgage; nay,
Selling outright[474] the purchase of my brows,
Whilst my poor fatherless, lean, totter’d[475] son—
My gentry’s relics, my house’s only prop—
Is saw’d asunder, lies forlorn, all bleak
Unto the griefs of sharp necessities,
Whilst his father-in-law, his father-in-devil, or d-d-d-d-devil-f-f-f-father,
Or who, who, who, who,—What You Will!—    80
When is the marriage morn?

Slip. Even next rising sun.

Alb. Good, good, good! Go to my brother Andrea:[476]
Tell him I’ll lurk; stay, tell him I’ll lurk: stay.—
Now is Albano’s marriage-bed new hung
With fresh rich curtains! Now are my valence up,
Emboss’d with orient pearl, my grandsire’s gift!
Now are the lawn sheets fumed with violets,[477]
To fresh the pall’d lascivious appetite!
Now work the cooks, the pastry sweats with slaves;
The march-panes[478] glitter: now, now, the musicians    90
Hover with nimble sticks o’er squeaking crowds,[479]
Tickling the dried guts of a mewing cat.

The tailors, starchers, sempsters, butchers, poulterers, mercers,—all, all, all,—now, now, now,—none think o’ me,—the f-f-f-French is te f-f-f-fine man, de p-p-p-pock man, de——

Enter Laverdure and Bidet, talking; Quadratus, Lampatho, Simplicius, Pedant, and Holofernes Pippo.

Lav. Sest,[480] I’ll to Celia, and, maugre the nose of her friends, wed her, bed her; my first son shall be a captain, and his name shall be what it please his godfathers; the second, if he have a face bad enough, a lawyer; the third, a merchant; and the fourth, if he be maim’d, dull-brain’d, or hard-shaped, a scholar; for that’s your fashion.    123

Lam. Dirt upon dirt, fear is beneath my shoe.
Dreadless of racks, strappadoes, or the sword—
Maugre informer and sly intelligence,—
I’ll stand as confident as Hercules,
And, with a frightless resolution,
Rip up and lance our time’s impieties.

Lam. Now is my fury mounted. Fix your eyes;
Intend your senses; bend your list’ning up;
For I’ll make greatness quake; I’ll taw[481] the hide    160
Of thick-skinn’d Hugeness.

Lav. ’Tis most gracious; we’ll observe thee calmly.

Qua. Hang on thy tongue’s end. Come on! prithee do.

Lam. I’ll see you hanged first I thank you, sir, I’ll none.
This is the strain that chokes the theatres;
That makes them crack with full-stuff’d audience;
This is your humour only in request,
Forsooth to rail; this brings your ears to bed;
This people gape for; for this some do stare.
This some would hear, to crack the author’s neck;    170
This admiration and applause pursues;
Who cannot rail? my humour’s changed, ’tis clear:
Pardon, I’ll none; I prize my joints more dear.

Bid. Master, master, I ha’ descried the Perfumer in Albano’s disguise. Look you! look you! Rare sport! rare sport!    176

Alb. I can contain my impatience no longer. You, Monsieur Cavalier, Saint Dennis,—you, capricious sir, Signior Caranto French Brawl,[482]—you, that must marry Celia Galanto,—is Albano drown’d now? Go wander, avaunt, knight-errant! Celia shall be no cuck-quean,[483]—my heir no beggar,—my plate no pawn,—my land no mortgage,—my wealth no food for thy luxuries,—my house no harbour for thy comrades,—my bed no booty for thy lusts! My anything shall be thy nothing. Go hence! pack, pack! avaunt! caper, caper! aloun, aloun! pass by, pass by! cloak your nose! away! vanish! wander! depart! slink by! away!    188

Lav. Hark you, Perfumer. Tell Jacomo, Randolfo, and Andrea,[484] ’twill not do;—look you, say no more, but—’twill not do.

Alb. What Perfumer? what Jacomo?

Qua. Nay, assure thee, honest Perfumer, good Francisco, we know all, man. Go home to thy civet box; look to the profit, commodity, or emolument of thy musk-cat’s tail: go, clap on your round cap—my “what do you lack,” sir,—for i’faith, good rogue, all’s descried!

Alb. What Perfumer? what musk-cat? what Francisco? What do you lack? Is’t not enough that you kiss’d my wife?    200

Lav. Enough.

Sim. Why, look you, sir: I ha’ paid for[485] my knowing of men and women too, in my days: I know you are Francisco Soranza, the perfumer; ay, maugre Signor Satin, ay——

Alb. Do not tempt my patience. Go to; do not——

Sim. I know you dwell in Saint Mark’s Lane, at the sign of the Musk Cat, as well——    222

Alb. Fool, or mad, or drunk, no more!

Sim. I know where you were dressed, where you were——

Alb. Nay, then, take all!—take all! take all!——

[He bastinadoes Simplicius.

Sim. And I tell not my father; if I make you not lose your office of gutter-master-ship; and you be scavenger next year, well! Come, Holofernes; come, good Holofernes; come, servant.    230

Enter Andrea[486] and Randolfo.

Jaco. Francisco, did I not help to clothe thee even now? I would ha’ sworn thee, Albano, my good sweet slave.

[Exit Jacomo.

Alb. See, see! Jesu, Jesu! Impostors! Coney-catchers! Sancta Maria!    249

Ran. Look you. He walks; he feigns most excellent.

And.[487] Accost him first as if you were ignorant
Of the deceit.

Ran. O, dear Albano! now thrice happy eyes,
To view the hopeless presence of my brother!

Alb. Most lovèd kinsman, praise to Heaven, yet
You know Albano. But for yonder slaves—well——

And.[487] Success could not come on more gracious.

Alb. Had not you come, dear brother Andrea,[488]
I think not one would know me. Ulysses’ dog
Had quicker sense than my dull countrymen;    260
Why, none had known me.

Ran. Doubt you of that? Would I might die,
Had I not known the guile, I would ha’ sworn
Thou hadst been Albano, my nimble, coz’ning knave.

Alb. Whip, whip! Heaven preserve all! Saint
Mark, Saint Mark!
Brother Andrea,[488] be frantic, prithee be;
Say I am a perfumer—Francisco. Hay, hay!
Is’t not some feast-day? You are all rank drunk!
Rats, ra-ra-ra-rats, knights of the be-be-be-bell! be-be-bell!

And.[487] Go, go! proceed: thou dost it rare. Farewell.

[Exeunt Andrea[488] and Randolfo.

Alb. Farewell? Ha! Is’t even so? Boy, who am I?

Slip. My Lord Albano!

Alb. By this breast you lie.    272
The Samian[489] faith is true, true! I was drown’d;
And now my soul is skipp’d into a perfumer,
A gutter-master.

Alb. No, no!
I’ll believe nothing! no!
The disadvantage of all honest hearts
Is quick credulity. Perfect state-policy
Can cross-bite[490] even sense. The world’s turn’d juggler!
Casts mists before our eyes. Hey-pass re-pass![491]    280
I’ll credit nothing.

Slip. Good sir!

Alb. Hence, ass!
Doth not opinion stamp the current pass
Of each man’s value, virtue, quality?
Had I engross’d the choice commodities
Of Heaven’s traffic, yet reputed vile,
I am a rascal! O, dear unbelief!
How wealthy dost thou make thy owner’s wit!
Thou train of knowledge! what a privilege
Thou givest to thy possessor! anchor’st him
From floating with the tide of vulgar faith;    290
From being damn’d with multitude’s dear unbelief!
I am a perfumer: ay, think’st thou, my blood,
My brothers know not right Albano yet?
Away! ’tis faithless![492] If Albano’s name
Were liable to sense, that I could taste, or touch,
Or see, or feel it, it might ’tice belief;
But since ’tis voice, and air—Come to the Muskcat, boy;
Francisco, that’s my name; ’tis right: ay, ay,
What do you lack? what is’t you lack? right; that’s my cry.

SCENE III.

A Tavern.

Enter Slip and Noose; Trip, with the truncheon of a staff torch, and Doit with a pantofle;[493] Bidet, Holofernes following. The cornets sound.

Bid. Proclaim our titles!

Do. Bosphoros Cormelydon Honorificacuminos Bidet!

Hol. I think your majesty’s a Welshman; you have a horrible long name.

Bid. Death or silence! Proceed!

Do. Honorificacuminos Bidet, Emperor of Cracks,[494] Prince of Pages, Marquess of Mumchance,[495] and sole Regent over a Bale[496] of False Dice: to all his under-ministers health, crowns, sack, tobacco, and stockings uncrack’d above the shoe.    10

Bid. Ourself will give them their charge. Now let me stroke my beard, and I had it, and speak wisely, if I knew how. Most unconscionable, honest little, or little honest, good subjects, inform our person of your several qualities, and of the prejudice that is foisted upon you, that ourself may preview, prevent, and preoccupy the pestilent[497] dangers incident to all your cases.

Do. Here is a petition exhibited of the particular grievances of each sort of pages.    19

Bid. We will vouchsafe, in this our public session, to peruse them. Pleaseth your excellent wagship to be informed that the division of pages is tripartite (tripartite), or threefold: of pages, some be court-pages, others ordinary gallant pages, and the third apple-squires,[498] basket-bearers, or pages of the placket: with the last we will proceed first. Stand forth, page of the placket,[499] what is your mistress?

Slip. A kind of puritan.[500]

Bid. How live you?    29

Slip. Miserably, complaining to your crack-ship: though we have light mistresses, we are made the children and servants of darkness. What profane use we are put to, all these gallants more feelingly know than we can lively express; it is to be commiserated, and by your royal insight only to be prevented, that a male monkey and the diminutive of a man should be synonima, and no sense. Though we are the dross of your subjects, yet being a kind of page, let us find your celsitude kind and respective of our time-fortunes and birth’s abuse: and so, in the name of our whole tribe of empty basket-bearers, I kiss your little hands.    41

No. He eats well and right slovenly; and when the dice favour him, goes in good clothes, and scours his pink colour silk stockings; when he hath any money, he bears his crowns; when he hath none, I carry his purse. He cheats well, swears better, but swaggers in a wanton’s chamber admirably; he loves his boy and the rump of a cramm’d capon; and this summer hath a passing thrifty humour to bottle ale; as contemptuous as Lucifer, as arrogant as ignorance can make him, as libidinous as Priapus. He keeps me as his adamant, to draw metal after to his lodging: I curl his perriwig, paint his cheeks, perfume his breath; I am his froterer[501] or rubber in a hot-house, the prop of his lies, the bearer of his false dice; and yet for all this, like the Persian louse, that eats biting, and biting eats, so I say sighing,[502] and sighing say, my end is to paste up a si quis.[503] My master’s fortunes are forced to cashier me, and so six to one I fall to be a pippin-squire. Hic finis Priami!—this is the end of pickpockets.    63

Bid. Stand forth, court-page: thou lookest pale and wan.

Bid. You must perform a valorous, virtuous, and religious exploit first, in desert of your order.

Bid. That thou mayst the easier purge him of superfluous blood, I will describe thy master’s constitution. He loves and is beloved of himself, and one more, his dog. There is a company of unbraced, untruss’d rutters[504] in the town, that crinkle in the hams, swearing their flesh is their only living, and when they have any crowns, cry “God a mercy, Mol!” and shrugging, “let the cock-holds[505] pay for’t;” intimating that their maintenance flows from the wantonness of merchants’ wives, when in troth the plain troth is, the plain and the stand, or the plain stand and deliver, delivers them all their living. These comrades have persuaded thy master that there’s no way to redeem his peach-colour satin suit from pawn but by the love of a citizen’s wife; he believes it: they flout him, he feeds them; and now ’tis our honest and religious meditation that he feed us, Holofernes Puppi.    115

Hol. Pippo, and shall please you.

Bid. Pippo, ’tis our will and pleasure thou suit thyself like a merchant’s wife; leave the managing of the sequence unto our prudence.

Hol. Or unto our Prudence; truly she is a very witty wench, and hath a stammel[506] petticoat with three guards[507] for the nonce; but for your merchant’s wife, alas! I am too little, speak too small, go too gingerly: by my troth I fear I shall look too fair.    124

Bid. Our majesty dismounteth, and we put off our greatness; and now, my little knaves, I am plain Crack. As I am Bosphoros Carmelydon Honorificacuminos Bidet, I am imperious, honour sparkles in mine eyes; but as I am Crack, I will convey,[508] crossbite,[509] and cheat upon Simplicius. I will feed, satiate, and fill your paunches; replenish, stuff, or furnish your purses: we will laugh when others weep—sing when others sigh—feed when others starve—and be drunk when others are sober. This is my charge at the loose.[510] As you love our brotherhood, avoid true speech, square dice, small liquor, and above all, those two ungentlemanlike protestations of indeed and verily. And so,    137

Gentle Apollo, touch thy nimble string;
Our scene is done; yet ’fore we cease, we sing.

[The Song, and exeunt.