True. Why, sir, did my mistress prick you with the Spanish needle[593] of her love, before I summoned you from her to this parley?
Font. Doubt’s[t] thou that, boy?
True. Of mine honesty, I doubt extremely, for I cannot see the little god’s tokens upon you: there is as much difference between you and a lover, as between a cuckold and a unicorn.
Font. Why, boy?
True. For you do not wear a pair of ruffled, frowning, ungartered stockings, like a gallant that hides his small-timbered legs with a quail-pipe boot:[594] your hose stands upon too many points,[595] and are not troubled with that falling sickness which follows pale, meagre, miserable, melancholy lovers: your hands are not groping continually—
Font. Where, my little observer?
True. In your greasy pocket, sir, like one that wants a cloak for the rain, and yet is still weatherbeaten: your hat nor head are not of the true heigh-ho block, for it should be broad-brimmed, limber like the skin of a white pudding when the meat is out, the facing fatty, the felt dusty, and not entered into any band;[596] but your hat is of the nature of a loose, light, heavy-swelling wench, too strait-laced. I tell you, monsieur, a lover should be all loose from the sole of the foot rising upward, and from the bases or confines of the slop[597] falling downwards. If you were in my mistress’s chamber, you should find othergates[598] privy signs of love hanging out there.
Font. Have your little eyes watched so narrowly?
True. O, sir, a page must have a cat’s eye, a spaniel’s leg, a whore’s tongue (a little tasting of the cog[599]), a catchpoll’s hand,—what he gripes is his own; and a little, little bawdy.[600]
Hip. Nay, sweet rogue, why wouldst thou make his face a vizard, to have two loopholes only? When he comes to a good face, may he not do with his eyes what he will? ’S foot, if I were as he, I’d pull them out, and if I wist[602] they would anger thee.
Hip. Your foot, with a pox! I hope you’re no pope, sir: his lips shall kiss my sister’s soft lip, and thine the tough lips of this. Nay, sir, I do but shew you that I have a tool. Do you hear, Saint Denis? but that we both stand upon the narrow bridge of honour, I should cut your throat now, for pure love you bear to my sister, but that I know you would set out a throat.
Hip. Saint Mark set his marks upon me then! Stab? I’ll have my shins broken, ere I’ll scratch so much as the skin off a’ the law of arms. Shall I make a Frenchman cry O! before the fall of the leaf? not I, by the cross of this Dandyprat.[603]
Dandy. If you will, sir, you shall coin me into a shilling.
Hip. I shall lay too heavy a cross upon thee then.
Cam. Is this a time to jest? Boy, call my servants.
Doyt. Gentlemen, to the dresser![604]
Hip. But, sirrah Camillo, wilt thou play the wise and venerable bearded master-constable, and commit him indeed, because he would be meddling in thy precinct, and will not put off the cap of his love to the brown-bill[605] of thy desires? Well, thou hast given the law of arms a broken pate already; therefore, if thou wilt needs turn broker,[606] and be a cut-throat too, do. For my part, I’ll go get a sweet ball, and wash my hands of it.
Cam. Boy? what boy is that?
Hip. Is’t you, Sir Pandarus, the broking[608] knight of Troy? Are your two legs the pair of tressels for the Frenchman to get up upon my sister?
True. By the Nine Worthies, worthy gallants, not I: I a gentleman for conveyance? I Sir Pandarus? Would Troy, then, were in my breeches, and I burnt worse than poor Troy! Sweet signior, you know, I know, and all Venice knows, that my mistress scorns double-dealing with her heels.
Hip. With her heels? O, here’s a sure pocket dag![609] and my sister shoots him off, snip-snap, at her pleasure. Sirrah Mephostophilis,[610] did not you bring letters from my sister to the Frenchman?
True. Signior, no.
Cam. Did not you fetch him out of the tennis court?
True. No, point, par ma foi: you see I have many tongues speak for me.
Hip. Did not he follow your crackship[611] at a beck given?
True. Ita, true, certes, he spied, and I spitting thus, went thus.
Hip. But were stayed thus.
True. You hold a’ my side, and therefore I must needs stick to you; ’tis true: I going, he followed, and following fingered me, just as your worship does now; but I struggled and straggled, and wriggled and wraggled, and at last cried vale, valete, as I do now, with this fragment of a rhyme,
Dandy. Shall Doyt and I play the bloodhounds, and after him?
Cam. No, let him run.
Hip. Not for this wager of my sister’s love; run! away, Dandyprat, catch Truepenny, and hold him; thyself shall pass more current.[612]
Dandy. I fly, sir; your Dandyprat is as light as a clipt angel.[613] [Exit.
Hip. Nay, God’s lid, after him, Camillo; reply not, but away.
Cam. Content; you know where to meet. [Exit.
Hip. For I know that the only way to win a wench is not to woo her; the only way to have her fast is to have her loose; the only way to triumph over her is to make her fall; and the way to make her fall,—
Doyt. Is to throw her down.
Hip. Are you so cunning, sir?
Doyt. O Lord, sir, and have so perfect a master?
Hip. Well, sir, you know the gentlewoman that dwells in the midst of Saint Mark’s Street?
Doyt. Midst of Saint Mark’s Street, sir?
Hip. A pox on you! the flea-bitten-faced lady.
Doyt. O, sir, the freckle-cheeke[d] Madonna; I know her, signior, as well—
Hip. Not as I do, I hope, sir.
Doyt. No, sir, I’d be loath to have such inward acquaintance with her as you have.
Hip. Well, sir, slip, go presently to her, and from me deliver to her own white hands Fontinelle’s picture.
Doyt. Indeed, sir, she loves to have her chamber hung with the pictures of men.
Hip. She does. I’ll keep my sister’s eyes and his painted face asunder. Tell her, besides, the masque holds, and this the night, and nine the hour: say we are all for her: away.
Doyt. And she’s for you all, were you an army.
Imp. Fie, fie, fie, fie, by the light oath of my fan, the weather is exceeding tedious and faint. Trivia, Simperina, stir, stir, stir: one of you open the casements, t’other take a ventoy[614] and gently cool my face. Fie, I ha’ such an exceeding high colour, I so sweat! Simperina, dost hear? prithee be more compendious; why, Simperina!
Simp. Here, madam.
Imp. Press down my ruff before. Away; fie, how thou blowest upon me! thy breath, (God’s me!) thy breath, fie, fie, fie, fie, it takes off all the painting and colour from my cheek. In good faith, I care not if I go and be sick presently: heigho, my head so aches with carrying this bodkin! in troth I’ll try if I can be sick.
Triv. Nay, good sweet lady.
Simp. You know a company of gallants will be here at night: be not out of temper, sweet mistress.
Imp. In good troth, if I be not sick, I must be melancholy then. This same gown never comes on but I am so melancholy and so heart-burnt! ’tis a strange garment: I warrant, Simperina, the foolish tailor that made it was troubled with the stitch when he composed it.
Simp. That’s very likely, madam; but it makes you have, O, a most incony[615] body!
Imp. No, no, no, no, by Saint Mark, the waist is not long enough, for I love a long and tedious waist; besides, I have a most ungodly middle in it; and, fie, fie, fie, fie, it makes me bend i’ th’ back: O, let me have some music!
Simp. That’s not the fault in your gown, madam, but of your bawdy. [Music.
Imp. Fa, la, la, fa, la, la![616]—indeed, the bending of the back is the fault of the body,—la, la, la, la! fa, la, la! fa, la, la, la, la, la!
Triv. O, rich!
Simp. O, rare!
Imp. No, no, no, no, no; ’tis slight and common all that I do. Prithee, Simperina, do not ingle[617] me; do not flatter me, Trivia: I ha’ never a cast gown till the next week. Fa, la, la, la, la, la, fa, la, la, fa, la, la, &c.[618] This stirring to and fro has done me much good. A song, I prithee. I love these French movings: O, they are so clean! if you tread them true, you shall hit them to a hair. Sing, sing, sing; some odd and fantastical thing, for I cannot abide these dull and lumpish tunes; the musician stands longer a-pricking them than I would do to hear them. No, no, no, give me your light ones, that go nimbly and quick, and are full of changes, and carry sweet division. Ho, prithee, sing! Stay, stay, stay; here’s Hippolito’s sonnet; first read it, and then sing it.
| First. | In a fair woman what thing is best? | |
| Second. | I think a coral lip. | |
| First. | No, no, you jest; | |
| She has a better thing. | ||
| Second. | Then ’tis a pretty eye. | |
| First. | Yet ’tis a better thing, | |
| Which more delight does bring. | ||
| Second. | Then ’tis a cherry cheek. | |
| First. | No, no, you lie; | |
| Were neither coral lip, nor cherry cheek, nor pretty eyes,[620] | ||
| Were not her swelling breast stuck with strawberries, | ||
| Nor had smooth hand, soft skin, white neck, pure eye, | ||
| Yet she at this alone your love can tie. | ||
| It is, O, ’tis the only joy to men, | ||
| The only praise to women! | ||
| [Second] | What is’t then? | |
| First. | This it is, O, this it is, and in a woman’s middle it is plac’d, | |
| In a most beauteous body, a heart most chaste! | ||
| This is the jewel kings may buy; | ||
| If women sell this jewel, women lie. | ||
| [Doyt knocks within; Frisco answers within. | ||
Fris. [within] Who, the pox, knocks?
Doyt. [within] One that will knock thy coxcomb, if he do not enter.
Fris. [within] If thou dost not enter, how canst thou knock me?
Doyt. [within] Why then I’ll knock thee when I do enter.
Fris. [within] Why then thou shalt not enter, but instead of me knock thy heels.
Doyt. [within] Frisco, I am Doyt, Hippolito’s page.
Fris. [within] And I am Frisco, squire to a bawdy-house.
Doyt. [within] I have a jewel to deliver to thy mistress.
Fris. [within] Is’t set with precious stones?
Doyt. [within] Thick, thick, thick.
Fris. [within] Why, enter then, thick, thick, thick.
Imp. Fie, fie, fie, fie, fie, who makes that yawling at door?
Fris. Here’s signior Hippolito’s man (that shall be) come to hang you.
Imp. Trivia, strip that villain; Simperina, pinch him, slit his wide nose. Fie, fie, fie, I’ll have you gelded for this lustiness.
Fris. And[621] she threatens to geld me unless I be lusty, what shall poor Frisco do?
Imp. Hang me?
Fris. Not I; hang me if you will, and set up my quarters too.
Imp. Hippolito’s boy come to hang me?
Doyt. To hang you with jewels, sweet and gentle; that’s Frisco’s meaning, and that’s my coming.
Imp. Keep the door.
Fris. That’s my office: indeed, I have been your door-keeper so long, that all the hinges, the spring-locks, and the ring, are worn to pieces. How if any body knock at the door?
Imp. Let them enter. [Exit Frisco.] Fie, fie, fie, fie, fie, his great tongue does so run through my little ears! ’tis more harsh than a younger brother’s courting of a gentlewoman, when he has no crowns. Boy!
Doyt. At your service.
Imp. My service? alas, alas, thou canst do me small service! Did thy master send this painted gentleman to me?
Doyt. This painted gentleman to you.
Imp. Well, I will hang his picture up by the walls, till I see his face; and, when I see his face, I’ll take his picture down. Hold it, Trivia.
Triv. It’s most sweetly made.
Imp. Hang him up, Simperina.
Simp. It’s a most sweet man.
Imp. And does the masque hold?—Let me see it again.
Doyt. If their vizards hold, here you shall see all their blind cheeks: this is the night, nine the hour, and I the jack[622] that gives warning.
Simp. He gives warning, mistress; shall I set him out?
Doyt. You shall not need; I can set out myself.
Imp. Flaxen hair, and short too; O, that’s the French cut! but fie, fie, fie, these[623] flaxen-haired men are such pulers, and such piddlers, and such chicken-hearts (and yet great quarrellers), that when they court a lady they are for the better part bound to the peace! No, no, no, no; your black-haired man (so he be fair) is your only sweet man, and in any service the most active. A banquet, Trivia; quick, quick, quick.
Triv. In a twinkling.—’Slid, my mistress cries like the rod-woman,—quick, quick, quick, buy any rosemary and bays? [Aside and exit.
Imp. A little face, but a lovely face: fie, fie, fie, no matter what face he make, so the other parts be legitimate and go upright. Stir, stir, Simperina; be doing, be doing quickly; move, move, move.
Simp. Most incontinently.[624]—Move, move, move? O, sweet! [Aside and exit.
Imp. Heigho! as I live, I must love thee, and suck kisses from thy lips. Alack, that women should fall thus deeply in love with dumb things, that have no feeling! but they are women’s crosses, and the only way to take them is to take them patiently.
Heigho! set music, Frisco!
Fris. Music, if thou hast not a hard heart, speak to my mistress. [Music.
Imp. Say he scorn to marry me, yet he shall stand me in some stead by being my Ganymede. If he be the most decayed gallant in all Venice, I will myself undo myself and my whole state, to set him up again. Though speaking truth would save my life, I will lie to do him pleasure. Yet to tell lies may hurt the soul: fie, no, no, no; souls are things to be trodden under our feet when we dance after love’s pipe. Therefore here, hang this counterfeit[625] at my bed’s feet.
Fris. If he be counterfeit, nail him up[626] upon one of your posts. [Exit with the picture.
Imp. By the moist hand of love, I swear I will be his lottery, and he shall never draw but it shall be a prize!
Fris. [within] Who knocks?
Cur. [within] Why, ’tis I, knave.
Fris. [within] Then, knave, knock there still.
Cur. [within] Wut[627] open door?
Fris. [within] Yes, when I list I will.
Cur. [within] Here’s money.
Fris. [within] Much![628]
Cur. [within] Here’s gold.
Fris. [within] Away!
Cur. [within] Knave, open.
Fris. [within] Call to our maids; good[629] night; we are all aslopen.[630] [Entering.
Mistress, if you have ever a pinnace to set out, you may now have it manned and rigged; for signior Curvetto,—he that cries, I am, an old courtier, but lie close, lie close, when our maids swear he lies as wide as any courtier in Italy—
Imp. Do we care how he lies?
Fris. Anon, anon, anon!—this old hoary red deer serves himself in at your keyhole.
Cur. [within] What, Frisco!
Fris. Hark! shall he enter the breach?
Imp. Fie, fie, fie, I wonder what this gurnet’s head makes here! Yet bring him in; he will serve for picking meat. [Exit Frisco.] Let music play, for I will feign myself to be asleep. [Music.
Fris. Any thing at your hands, sir, I will put up, because you seldom pull out any thing.
Simp. Softly, sweet signior Curvetto, for she’s fast.
Fris. An old hoary courtier? why, so has a jowl of ling and a musty whiting been, time out of mind. Methinks, signior, you should not be so old by your face.
Imp. Heigho! who’s that? Signior Curvetto! by my virginity—