How like you this, madonna?
Celia. Pretty;
He will do well in time, being kept under.
Crot. I’ll make his ears sore and his knuckles ache else.
Celia. And that’s the way to bring a boy to goodness, sir.
Crot. There’s many now wax’d proper gentlemen
Whom I have nipp’d i’ th’ ear, wench; that’s my comfort.—
Come, sing me over the last song I taught you;
You’re perfect in that sure; look you keep time well,
Or here I’ll notch your faults up. Sol, sol; [sings] begin, boy. [Song.[968]
Celia. So, you’ve done well, sir.
Here comes the dancing-master now; you’re discharg’d.
Enter Sinquapace.
Sinq. O, signor Crotchet, O!
Crot. A minim rest,
Two cliffs, and a semibreve. In the name
Of alamire,[969] what’s the matter, sir?

Sinq. The horriblest disaster that ever disgraced the lofty cunning of a dancer.

Crot. [sings] B, fa, b, mi,—heaven forbid, man!

Sinq. O—O—the most cruel fortune!

Crot. That semiquaver is no friend to you,
That I must tell you; ’tis not for a dancer
To put his voice so hard to’t; every workman
Must use his own tools, sir;—de, fa, sol, [sings]—man, dilate
The matter to me.

Sinq. Faith, riding upon my foot-cloth,[970] as I use to do, coming through a crowd, by chance I let fall my fiddle.

Crot. [sings] De, sol, re:—your fiddle, sir?

Sinq. O, that such an instrument should be made to betray a poor gentleman! nay, which is more lamentable, whose luck should it be to take up this unfortunate fiddle but a barber’s prentice, who cried out presently, according to his nature, You trim gentleman on horseback, you’ve lost your fiddle, your worship’s fiddle! seeing me upon my foot-cloth, the mannerly coxcomb could say no less; but away rid I, sir; put my horse to a coranto pace,[971] and left my fiddle behind me.

Crot. [sings] De, la, sol, re.

Sinq. Ay, was’t not a strange fortune? an excellent treble-viol! by my troth, ’twas my master’s when I was but a pumper, that is, a puller-on of gentlemen’s pumps.

Crot. [sings] C, c, sol, fa,—I knew you then, sir.

Sinq. But I make no question but I shall hear on’t shortly at one broker’s or another; for I know the barber will scourse[972] it away for some old cittern.[973]

Crot. [sings] Ela, mi,—my life for your’s on that, sir:
I must to my other scholars, my hour calls me away;
I leave you to your practice—fa, sol, la [sings]—fare you well, sir.

Sinq. The lavoltas[974] of a merry heart be with you, sir [exit Crotchet]; and a merry heart makes a good singing-man: a man may love to hear himself talk when he carries pith in’s mouth.—

Metereza[975] Celia.
Celia. Signor Sinquapace,
The welcom’st gentleman alive of a dancer!
This is the youth; he can do little yet,
His[976] prick-song very poorly; he is one
Must have it put into him; somewhat dull, sir.
Sinq. As you are all at first; you know ’twas long
Ere you could learn your doubles.
Celia. Ay, that’s true, sir;
But I can tickle’t now. Fa, la, la, &c.
[Sings and dances.
Lo, you, how like you me now, sir?
Sinq. Marry, pray for the founder, here he stands;
Long may he live to receive quarterages,
Go brave,[977] and pay his mercer wondrous duly,
Ay, and his jealous laundress,
That for the love she bears him starches yellow;[978]
Poor soul! my own flesh knows I wrong her not.

Come, metereza, once more shake your great hips and your little heels, since you begin to fall in of yourself, and dance over the end of the coranto[979] I taught you last night.

Celia. The tune’s clear out of my head, sir.

Sinq. A pox of my little usher! how long he stays too with the second part of the former fiddle! Come, I’ll sol fa it i’ th’ meantime: Fa, la, la, la, &c. [he sings while Celia dances.] Perfectly excellent! I will make you fit to dance with the best Christian gentleman in Europe, and keep time with him for his heart, ere I give you over.

Celia. Nay, I know I shall do well, sir, and I am somewhat proud on’t; but ’twas my mother’s fault, when she danced with the duke of Florence.

Sinq. Why, you will never dance well while you live,
If you be not proud. I know that by myself;
I may teach my heart out, if you’ve not the grace
To follow me.
Celia. I warrant you for that, sir.
Sinq. Gentlewomen that are good scholars
Will come as near their masters as they can;
I’ve known some lie with 'em for their better understanding:
I speak not this to draw you on, forsooth;
Use your pleasure; if you come, you’re welcome;
You shall see a fine lodging, a dish of comfits,
Music, and sweet linen.
Celia. And trust me, sir,
No woman can wish more in this world,
Unless it be ten pound in th’ chamber-window,
Laid ready in good gold against she rises.
Sinq. Those things are got in a morning, wench, with me.
Celia. Indeed, I hold the morning the best time of getting;
So says my sister; she’s a lawyer’s wife, sir,
And should know what belongs to cases best.
A fitter time for this; I must not talk
Too long of women’s matters before boys.
He’s very raw, you must take pains with him,
It is the duchess’ mind it should be so;
She loves him well, I tell you. [Exit.
Sinq. How, love him?
He’s too little for any woman’s love i’ th’ town
By three handfulls:[980] I wonder of a great woman
Sh’as no more wit, i’faith; one of my pitch
Were somewhat tolerable.
Enter Nicholao with a viol.
O, are you come?
Who would be thus plagu’d with a dandiprat usher!
How many kicks do you deserve in conscience?
Nic. Your horse is safe, sir.
Sinq. Now I talk’d of kicking,
'Twas well remember’d; is not the foot-cloth stoln yet?

Nic. More by good hap than any cunning, sir. Would any gentleman but you get a tailor’s son to walk his horse, in this dear time of black velvet?

Sinq. Troth, thou sayst true; thy care has got thy pardon;
I’ll venture so no more.—Come, my young scholar,
I’m ready for you now.
Page. Alas, 'twill kill me!
I’m even as full of qualms as heart can bear:
How shall I do to hold up? [Aside.]—Alas, sir,
I can dance nothing but ill-favouredly,
A strain or two of passa-measures galliard![981]
Sinq. Marry, you’re forwarder than I conceiv’d you;
A toward stripling.—Enter him, Nicholao;
For the fool’s bashful, as they’re all at first,
Till they be once well enter’d.
Nic. Passa-measures, sir?
Sinq. Ay, sir, I hope you hear me.—Mark him now, boy.—
[Nicholao dances, while Sinquapace plays.
Ha, well done! excellent boy! dainty, fine springal![982]
The glory of Dancers’ Hall, if they had any!
And of all professions they’d most need of one,
For room to practise in, yet they have none.
O times! O manners! you have very little:
Why should the leaden-heel’d plumber have his hall,
And the light-footed dancer none at all?
But fortuna della guerra[983] things must be;
We’re born to teach in back-houses and nooks,
Garrets sometimes, where’t rains upon our books.—
Come on, sir; are you ready? first, your honour.
Page. I’ll wish no foe a greater cross upon her.
[Aside—then makes a curtsy.
Sinq. Curtsy, heyday! run to him, Nicholao;
By this light, he’ll shame me; he makes curtsy like a chambermaid.

Nic. Why, what do you mean, page? are you mad? did you ever see a boy begin a dance and make curtsy like a wench before?

Page. Troth, I was thinking of another thing,
And quite forgot myself; I pray, forgive me, sir.
Sinq. Come, make amends then now with a good leg,
And dance it sprightly. [Plays, while Page dances.] What a beastly leg
Has he made there now! it would vex one’s heart out.

Now begin, boy.—O, O, O, O! &c.[984] Open thy knees; wider, wider, wider, wider: did you ever see a boy dance clenched up? he needs a pick-lock: out upon thee for an arrant ass! an arrant ass! I shall lose my credit by thee; a pestilence on thee!—Here, boy, hold the viol [gives the viol to Nicholao, who plays when Page proceeds to dance]; let me come to him: I shall get more disgrace by this little monkey now than by all the ladies that ever I taught.—Come on, sir, now; cast thy leg out from thee; lift it up aloft, boy: a pox, his knees are soldered together, they’re sewed together: canst not stride? O, I could eat thee up, I could eat thee up, and begin upon thy hinder quarter, thy hinder quarter! I shall never teach this boy without a screw; his knees must be opened with a vice, or there’s no good to be done upon him. Who taught you to dance, boy?

Page. It is but little, sir, that I can do.
Sinq. No, I’ll be sworn for you.
Page. And that signor Laurentio taught me, sir.
Sinq. Signor Laurentio was an arrant coxcomb,
And fit to teach none but white bakers’ children
To knead their knees together. You can turn above ground, boy?
Page. Not I, sir; my turn’s rather under ground.
Sinq. We’ll see what you can do; I love to try
What’s in my scholars the first hour I teach them.
Shew him a close trick now, Nicholao.
[Nicholao dances while Sinquapace plays.
Ha, dainty stripling!—Come, boy.
Page. 'Las, not I, sir;
I’m not for lofty tricks, indeed I am not, sir.
Sinq. How? such another word, down goes your hose,[985] boy.
Page. Alas,’tis time for me to do any thing then!
[Attempts to dance, and falls down.
Sinq. Heyday, he’s down!—Is this your lofty trick, boy?
Nic. O master, the boy swoons! he’s dead, I fear me.
Sinq. Dead? I ne’er knew one die with a lofty trick before.—
Up, sirrah, up!
Page. A midwife! run for a midwife!
Sinq. A midwife? by this light, the boy’s with child!
A miracle! some woman is the father.
The world’s turn’d upside down: sure if men breed,
Women must get; one never could do both yet.—
No marvel you danc’d close-knee’d the sinquapace.[986]—
Put up my fiddle, here’s a stranger case.
[Exit Sinquapace, leading out Page.
Nic. That ’tis, I’ll swear; 'twill make the duchess wonder:
I fear me 'twill bring dancing out of request,
And hinder our profession for a time.
Your women that are closely got with child
Will put themselves clean out of exercise,
And will not venture now, for fear of meeting
Their shames in a coranto,[987] ’specially
If they be near their time. Well, in my knowledge,
If that should happen, we are sure to lose
Many a good waiting-woman that’s now o’er shoes.
Alas the while! [Exit.

SCENE II.

Another apartment in the house of the Duchess.
Enter Duchess and Celia.
Duch. Thou tell’st me things are enemies to reason;
I cannot get my faith to entertain 'em,
And I hope never shall.
Celia. ’Tis too true, madam.
Duch. I say ’tis false: 'twere better th’hadst been dumb
Than spoke a truth so unpleasing; thou shalt get
But little praise by’t: he whom we affect
To place his love upon so base a creature!
Celia. Nay, ugliness itself; you’d say so, madam,
If you but saw her once; a strolling gipsy;
No Christian that is born a hind could love her;
She’s the sun’s masterpiece for tawniness;
Yet have I seen Andrugio’s arms about her,
Perceiv’d his hollow whisperings in her ear,
His joys at meeting her.
Duch. What joy could that be?
Celia. Such, madam, I have seldom seen it equall’d;
He kiss’d her with that greediness of affection,
As if her[988] lips had been as red as yours;
I look’d still when he would be black in mouth,
Like boys with eating hedge-berries; nay, more, madam,
He brib’d one of his keepers with ten ducats
To find her out amongst a flight of gipsies.
Duch. I’ll have that keeper hang’d, and you for malice;
She cannot be so bad as you report,
Whom he so firmly loves; you’re false in much,
And I will have you tried: go, fetch her to us.
[Exit Celia.
He cannot be himself, and appear guilty
Of such gross folly; has an eye of judgment,
And that will overlook him. This wench fails
In understanding service; she must home,
Live at her house i’ th’ country; she decays
In beauty and discretion.—
Re-enter Celia, with Aurelia disguised as a gipsy.
Who hast brought there?
Celia. This is she, madam.
Duch. Youth and whiteness bless me!
It is not possible: he talk’d sensibly
Within this hour; this cannot be: how does he?
I fear me my restraint has made him mad.
Celia. His health is perfect, madam.
Duch. You are perfect
In falsehood still; he’s certainly distracted.
Though I’d be loath to foul my words upon her,
She looks so beastly, yet I’ll ask the question:—
Are you beloved, sweet face, of Andrugio?
Aur. Yes, showrly,[989] mistress; he done love me
'Bove all the girls that shine above me:
Full often has he sweetly kiss’d me,
And wept as often when he miss’d me;
Swore he was to marry none
But me alone.
Duch. Out on thee! marry thee?—away with her;
Clear mine eyes of her;—
A curate that has got his place by simony
Is not half black enough to marry thee.
[Exit Aurelia with Celia, who presently returns.
Surely the man’s far spent; howe’er he carries it,
He’s without question mad; but I ne’er knew
Man bear it better before company.
The love of woman wears so thick a blindness,
It sees no fault, but only man’s unkindness,
And that’s so gross, it may be felt.—Here, Celia,
Take this [giving signet-ring]; with speed command Andrugio to us,
And his guard from him.
Celia. It shall straight be done, madam. [Exit.
Duch. I’ll look into his carriage more judiciously
When I next get him. A wrong done to beauty
Is greater than an injury done to love,
And we’ll less pardon it; for had it been
A creature whose perfection had outshin’d me,
It had been honourable judgment in him,
And to my peace a noble satisfaction;
But as it is, ’tis monstrous above folly.
Look he be mad indeed, and throughly gone,
Or he pays dearly for it; it is not
The ordinary madness of a gentleman
That shall excuse him here; had better lose
His wits eternally than lose my grace:
So strange is the condition of his fall,
He’s safe in nothing but in loss of all.
He comes:
Enter Andrugio with Celia.
Now by the fruits of all my hopes,
A man that has his wits cannot look better!
It likes[990] me well enough; there’s life in’s eye,
And civil health in’s cheek; he stands with judgment,
And bears his body well. What ails this man?
Sure I durst venture him 'mongst a thousand ladies,
Let 'em shoot all their scoffs, which makes none laugh
But their own waiting-women, and they dare do no otherwise. [Aside.
Come nearer, sir:—I pray keep further off,
Now I remember you.
And. What new trick’s in this now? [Aside.
Duch. How long have you been mad, sir?
And. Mad? a great time, lady;
Since I first knew I should not sin, yet sinn’d;
That’s now some thirty years, byrlady,[991] upwards.
Duch. This man speaks reason wondrous feelingly,
Enough to teach the rudest soul good manners.
[Aside.
You cannot be excus’d with lightness now,
Or frantic fits; you’re able to instruct, sir,
And be a light to men. If you have errors,
They be not ignorant in you, but wilful,
And in that state I seize on 'em. Did I
Bring thee acquainted lately with my heart,
And when thou thought’st a storm of anger took thee,
It in a moment clear’d up all to love,
To the abusing of thy spiteful enemy,
That sought to fix his malice upon thee;
And couldst thou so requite me?
And. How, good madam?
Duch. To wrong all worth in man, to deal so basely
Upon contempt itself, disdain and loathsomeness;
A thing whose face, through ugliness, frights children,
A straggling gipsy!
And. See how you may err, madam,
Through wrongful information; by my hopes
Of truth and mercy, there is no such love
Bestow’d upon a creature so unworthy.
Duch. No! then you cannot fly me.—Fetch her back.
[Exit Celia.
And though the sight of her displease mine eye
Worse than th’ offensiv’st object earth and nature
Can present to us, yet for truth’s probation
We will endure’t contentfully.
Re-enter Celia with Aurelia in her own dress.
What now?
Art thou return’d without her?
And. No, madam; this is she my peace dwells in:
If here be either baseness of descent,
Rudeness of manners, or deformity
In face or fashion, I have lost, I’ll yield it;
Tax me severely, madam.
Duch. [to Celia] How thou stand’st,
As dumb as the salt-pillar! where’s this gipsy? [Celia points to Aurelia.
What, no? I cannot blame thee then for silence;
Now I’m confounded too, and take part with thee.
Aur. Your pardon and your pity, virtuous madam:
[Kneels.
Cruel restraint, join’d with the power of love,
Taught me that art; in that disguise I ’scap’d
The hardness of my fortunes; you that see
What love’s force is, good madam, pity me!
And. Your grace has ever been the friend of truth,
And here ’tis set before you. [Kneels.
Duch. I confess
I have no wrong at all; she’s younger, fairer;
He has not now dishonour’d me in choice;
I much commend his noble care and judgment:
'Twas a just cross led in by a temptation,
For offering but to part from my dear vow,
And I’ll embrace it cheerfully. [Aside.]—Rise, both;
[Andrugio and Aurelia rise.
The joys of faithful marriage bless your souls!
I will not part you.
And. Virtue’s crown be yours, madam!
Enter Lactantio.
Aur. O, there appears the life of all my wishes!
[Aside.
Is your grace pleas’d, out of your bounteous goodness
To a poor virgin’s comforts, I shall freely
Enjoy whom my heart loves?
Duch. Our word is past;
Enjoy without disturbance.
Aur. There, Lactantio,
Spread thy arms open wide, to welcome her
That has wrought all this means to rest in thee.
And. Death of my joys! how’s this?
Lac. Prithee, away, fond fool; hast no shame in thee?
Thou’rt bold and ignorant, whate’er thou art.
Aur. Whate’er I am? do not you know me then?
Lac. Yes, for some waiting-vessel; but the times
Are chang’d with me, if y’had the grace to know 'em:
I look’d for more respect; I am not spoke withal
After this rate, I tell you; learn hereafter
To know what belongs to me; you shall see
All the court teach you shortly. Farewell, manners.
Duch. I’ll mark the event of this. [Aside.
Aur. I have undone myself
Two ways at once; lost a great deal of time,
And now I’m like to lose more. O my fortune!
I was nineteen yesterday, and partly vow’d
To have a child by twenty, if not twain:
To see how maids are cross’d! but I’m plagu’d justly;
And she that makes a fool of her first love,
Let her ne’er look to prosper. [Aside.—Sir——
[To Andrugio.
And. O falsehood!
Aur. Have you forgiveness in you? there’s more hope of me
Than of a maid that never yet offended.
And. Make me your property?[992]
Aur. I’ll promise you
I’ll never make you worse; and, sir, you know
There are worse things for women to make men.
But, by my hope of children, and all lawful,
I’ll be as true for ever to your bed
As she in thought or deed that never err’d.
And. I’ll once believe a woman, be’t but to strengthen
Weak faith in other men: I have a love
That covers all thy faults.
Enter Cardinal and Lords.
Car. Nephew, prepare thyself
With meekness and thanksgiving to receive
Thy reverend fortune: amongst all the lords,
Her close affection now makes choice of thee.
Lac. Alas, I’m not to learn to know that now!
Where could she make choice here, if I were missing?
'Twould trouble the whole state, and puzzle 'em all,
To find out such another.
Car. ’Tis high time, madam,
If your grace please, to make election now:
Behold, they’re all assembled.
Duch. What election?
You speak things strange to me, sir.
Car. How, good madam?
Duch. Give me your meaning plainly, like a father;
You’re too religious, sir, to deal in riddles.
Car. Is there a plainer way than leads to marriage, madam,
And the man set before you?
Duch. O blasphèmy
To sanctimonious faith! comes it from you, sir?
An ill example! know you what you speak,
Or who you are? is not my vow in place?
How dare you be so bold, sir? Say a woman
Were tempt with a temptation, must you presently
Take all th’ advantage on’t?
Car. Is this in earnest, madam?
Duch. Heaven pardon you! if you do not think so, sir.
You’ve much to answer for: but I will leave you;
Return I humbly now from whence I fell.
All you bless’d powers that register the vows
Of virgins and chaste matrons, look on me
With eyes of mercy, seal forgiveness to me
By signs of inward peace! and to be surer
That I will never fail your good hopes of me,
I bind myself more strictly; all my riches
I’ll speedily commend to holy uses,
This temple[993] unto some religious sanctuary,
Where all my time to come I will allow
For fruitful thoughts; so knit I up my vow.
Lac. This ['t]is to hawk at eagles: pox of pride!
It lays a man i’ th’ mire still, like a jade
That has too many tricks, and ne’er a good one.
I must gape high! I’m in a sweet case now!
I was sure of one, and now I’ve lost her too. [Aside.
Duch. I know, my lord, all that great studious care
Is for your kinsman; he’s provided for
According to his merits.
Car. How’s that, good madam?
Duch. Upon the firmness of my faith, it’s true, sir:
Enter Page[994] in a female dress.
See, here’s the gentlewoman; the match was made
Near forty weeks ago: he knows the time, sir,
Better than I can tell him, and the poor gentlewoman
Better than he;
But being religious, sir, and fearing you,
He durst not own her for his wife till now;
Only contracted with her in man’s apparel,
For the more modesty, because he was bashful,
And never could endure the sight of woman,
For fear that you should see her: this was he
Chose for my love, this page preferr’d to me.
Lac. I’m paid with mine own money. [Aside.
Car. Dare hypocrisy,
For fear of vengeance, sit so close to virtue?
Steal’st thou a holy vestment from religion
To clothe forbidden lust with? th’ open villain[995]
Goes before thee to mercy, and his penitency
Is bless’d with a more sweet and quick return.
I utterly disclaim all blood in thee;
I’ll sooner make a parricide my heir
Than such a monster.—O, forgive me, madam!
The apprehension of the wrong to you
Has a sin’s weight at it. I forget all charity
When I but think upon him.
Duch. Nay, my lord,
At our request, since we are pleas’d to pardon,
And send remission to all former errors,
Which conscionable justice now sets right,
From you we expect patience; has had punishment
Enough in his false hopes; trust me he has, sir;
They have requited his dissembling largely:
And to erect your falling goodness to him,
We’ll begin first ourself; ten thousand ducats
The gentlewoman shall bring out of our treasure
To make her dowry.
Car. None has the true way
Of overcoming anger with meek virtue,
Like your compassionate grace.

Lac. Curse of this fortune! this ’tis to meddle with taking stuff, whose belly cannot be confined in a waistband. [Aside.]—Pray, what have you done with the breeches? we shall have need of 'em shortly, and[996] we get children so fast; they are too good to be cast away. My son and heir need not scorn to wear what his mother has left off. I had my fortune told me by a gipsy seven years ago; she said then I should be the spoil of many a maid, and at seven years’ end marry a quean for my labour, which falls out wicked and true.