The Second Part of the Honest Whore, With the Humors of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife: the Honest Whore, perswaded by strong Arguments to turne Curtizan againe: her braue refuting those Arguments. And lastly, the Comicall Passages of an Italian Bridewell, where the Scæne ends. Written by Thomas Dekker. London, Printed by Elizabeth All-de, for Nathaniel Butter, An. Dom. 1630. 4to.
No earlier impression than that of 1630 is known to exist. It has been reprinted in the second and third editions of Dodsley’s Old Plays, vol. iii.; and, as there given, is perhaps the most wretchedly edited drama in the English language.
It was licensed by Sir George Bucke, 29th April, 1608: see Chalmers’s Suppl. Apol. p. 202 (where it is by mistake called “the convicted,” instead of the “converted Courtisan, or Honest Whore”). As Middleton certainly wrote a portion of the First Part of this play (see p. 3 of the present vol.), there is every reason to believe that he was concerned in the composition of the Second Part.
Because the title-page makes no mention of its having been represented on the stage, Langbaine very unnecessarily concludes that it was never acted. “The passage,” he continues, “between the Patient Man and his Impatient Wife’s going to fight for the Breeches, with the happy Event, is exprest by Sr. John Harrington in Verse. See his Epigrams at the end of Orlando Furioso, Book 1. Epigr. 16.” Acc. of Engl. Dram. Poets, p. 122. The epigram in question is as follows:
“Although Harington’s Epigrams,” says the last editor of Dodsley’s Old Plays, “were not printed in an entire state until 1618 (see Ritson’s Bibl. Poet. 236), yet many of them were written when their author (who died in 1612) was a very young man. It seems probable that the incident was founded upon the epigram; for though Sir John Harington borrowed from the Latin and Italian, he most likely would not steal from an English play, especially when it appears that his originality had been attacked.”
Lod. Good day, gallants.
All. Good morrow, sweet Lodovico.
Lod. How dost thou, Carolo?
Car. Faith, as physicians do in a plague; see the world sick, and am well myself.
Fon. Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.
Lod. O, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle[254] Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet?
Ast. Yes; he will not be horsed this hour, sure.
Ber. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at court.
Car. O, we shall ride switch and spur: would we were there once!
Lod. How now, is thy lord ready?
Bry. No, so crees sa’ me; my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first.
Car. O, then they’ll to breakfast.
Lod. Footman, does my lord ride i’ th’ coach with my lady, or on horseback?
Bry. No, foot, la, my lady will have me lord sheet wid her; my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side. [Exit.
Lod. My lady sheet in de toder side! did you ever hear a rascal talk so like a pagan? is’t not strange that a fellow of his star should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from a Christian?
Ast. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange? why, the nation have running heads.[255]
Lod. Nay, Carolo, this is more strange; I ha’ been in France, there’s few of them; marry, England they count a warm chimney-corner, and there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but, sir, in England I have noted one thing.
Ast.
Ber., &c.[256] } What’s that, what’s that
of England?
Lod. Marry this, sir;—what’s he yonder?
Ber. A poor fellow would speak with my lord.
Lod. In England, sir—troth I ever laugh when I think on’t, to see a whole nation should be marked i’ th’ forehead, as a man may say, with one iron—why, sir, there all costermongers[257] are Irishmen.
Car. O, that’s to shew their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother.
Ast.
Ber., &c. } Good, good! ha, ha!
Lod. Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers likewise be Irishmen? answer that now; come, your wit.
Car. Faith, that’s soon answered; for saint Patrick,[258] you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing if they cannot sweep the chimneys.
Ast.
Ber., &c. } Good again!
Lod. Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow, especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others,[259] and the knaves are very faithful where they love; by my faith, very proper men many of them, and as active as the clouds,—whirr, hah!
Ast.
Ber., &c. } Are they so?
Lod. And stout, exceeding stout; why, I warrant this precious wild villain, if he were put to’t, would fight more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.[260]
Ast. The women, they say, are very fair.
Lod. No, no; our country bona-robas,[261] O, are the sugarest delicious rogues!
Ast. O look, he has a feeling of them!
Lod. Not I, I protest: there’s a saying when they commend nations; it goes, the Irishman for his hand, [the] Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for [a] beard.
Fon. I’faith, they may make swabbers[262] of them.
Lod. The Spaniard—let me see—for a little foot, I take it; the Frenchman,—what a pox hath he? and so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? come, walk.
Ast. This Lodovico is a notable-tongued fellow.
Fon. Discourses well.
Ber. And a very honest gentleman.
Ast. O, he’s well valued by my lord.
Fon. How now, how now, what’s she?
Ber. Let’s make towards her.
Bel. Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come forth?
Ast. Would you speak with my lord?
Lod. How now, what’s this? a nurse’s bill? hath any here got thee with child, and now will not keep it?
Bel. No, sir, my business is unto my lord.
Lod. He’s about his own wife[’s] now; he’ll hardly despatch two causes in a morning.
Ast. No matter what he says, fair lady; he’s a knight, there’s no hold to be taken at his words.
Fon. My lord will pass this way presently.
Ber. A pretty, plump rogue.
Ast. A good lusty, bouncing baggage.
Ber. Do you know her?
Lod. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my table-book[263] once; I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common than tobacco: this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore.
Ast.
Ber., &c. } Is this she?
Lod. This is the blackamoor that by washing was turned white; this is the birding-piece new scoured; this is she that, if any of her religion can be saved, was saved by my lord Hippolito.
Ast. She has been a goodly creature.
Lod. She has been! that’s the epitaph of all whores. I’m well acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband; lord, what fortunes that man has overreached! She knows not me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon, suffered strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women are like medlars, no sooner ripe but rotten:
Ast.
Ber., &c. } My lord is come.
Hip. We ha’ wasted half this morning.—Morrow, Lodovico.
Lod. Morrow, madam.
Hip. Let’s away to horse.
Lod.
Ast., &c. } Ay, ay, to horse, to horse.
Lod. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? if they be not yellow,[264] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband.
Inf. O sir, that cannot make me jealous.
Hip. Your business, sir, to me?
An. Yes, my good lord.
Hip. Presently, sir.—Are you Matheo’s wife?
Bel. That most unfortunate woman.
Hip. I am sorry
Bel. Too true.
Bel. No, my lord.
Lod. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have not left your wench yet? when you get in once, you never have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come.
Hip. Ride softly on before, I’ll overtake you.
Lod. Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before without ye.
Hip. Prithee, good Lodovico——
Lod. My lord, pray hasten.
How now, sir, where’s your lady? not gone yet?
Bry. I fart di lady is run away from dee a mighty deal of ground; she sent me back for dine own sweet face; I pray dee come, my lord, away; wu’t tow go now?
Bry. A pox a’ de horse’s nose! he is a lousy rascally fellow: when I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts rumbled, di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest an Irishman cannot abide a fart: but I have saddled de hobby-horse; di fine hobby is ready; I pray dee, my good sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee?
Bry. Come, I pray dee; wu’t come, sweet face? go. [Exeunt.
Lod. Godso, gentlemen, what do we forget?
Car.
Ast.
Ber. } What?
Lod. Are not we all enjoined as this day—Thursday, is’t not?—ay, as that day to be at the linen-draper’s house at dinner?
Car. Signor Candido, the patient man.
Ber. I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares venture again to come about the eaves amongst bees.
Lod. O, ’tis rare sucking a sweet honeycomb! Pray heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance! the poor fiddlers’ instruments would crack for it: she’d tickle them. At any hand, let’s try what mettle is in his new bride: if there be none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble citizen; I pity he should marry again: I’ll walk along, for it is a good old fellow.
Car. I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow twenty thousand ducats that could but have the face to beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Milan might be bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is.
Lod. O, fie upon’t! 'twould undo all us that are courtiers; we should have no ho[266] with the wenches then.
Car.
Ast.
Ber. } My lord’s come.
Hip. How now, what news?
Car.
Ast.
Ber. } None.
Lod. Your lady is with the duke her father.
Hip. And we’ll to them both presently.—
Who’s that?
Car.
Ast.
Ber. } Signor Friscobaldo.
Hip. Friscobaldo? O, pray call him, and leave me; we two have business.
Car. Ho, signor! signor Friscobaldo! the lord Hippolito.
Or. My noble lord, my lord Hippolito! the duke’s son! his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your honoured lordship? does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as signor Orlando Friscobaldo, old mad Orlando?
Hip. O sir,[267] our friends, they ought to be unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued being locked up and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood; for all Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still.
Or. Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down and stript bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green?
Hip. You are the happier man, sir.
Or. Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man: I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in the right colours, I’ll bestow it on your lordship.
Hip. I stay for it.
Hip. It’s very well: I thank you for this picture.
Or. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt; sit neither at the duke’s side, nor lie at his feet; wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, no man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a winding-sheet, but like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me; I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in my age; I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go singing to my nest, why, so! if a crow, throw me out for carrion, and pick out mine eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now, ha?
Or. I have a little, have all things; I have nothing, I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should not I be in my jocundare?
Hip. Is your wife then departed?
Or. She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me—here, she’s here—but before me: when a knave and a quean are married, they commonly walk like sergeants together, but a good couple are seldom parted.
Or. O my lord, this old tree had one branch, and but one branch, growing out of it! it was young, it was fair, it was straight; I pruned it daily, drest it carefully, kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun; yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs; I hewed it down; what’s become of it, I neither know nor care.
Or. Dead? my last and best peace go with her! I see Death’s a good trencherman; he can eat coarse homely meat, as well as the daintiest.
Hip. Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely?
Or. O my lord, a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines! all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of hell to be her props, that she may spread upon them; and when she’s ripe, every slave has a pull at her; then must she be prest: the young beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge; yet to taste that liquorish wine is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead?
Hip. She’s turn’d to earth.
Or. Would she were turned to heaven! umh, is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols: no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave sleep all my shame and her own, and all my sorrows and all her sins!
Or. In my daughter, you will say: does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is, I have a handkercher to drink them up; soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor?
Hip. Trust me, I think she is.
Or. Then she’s a right strumpet: I ne’er knew any of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have [too] many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves, do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher; she is the gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket[271] within it, her money, her money.
Or. Not seventeen summers.
Hip. Is your hate so old?
Or. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bed-fellow.
Hip. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.
Or. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world. I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste poison: I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic.
Hip. Nay, but, Friscobaldo——
Or. I detest her, I defy[272] both: she’s not mine, she’s——
Hip. Hear her but speak.
Or. I love no mermaids; I’ll not be caught with a quail-pipe.[273]
Hip. You’re now beyond all reason.
Or. I am then a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and not dishonour my creation, than be a doting father, and, like Time, be the destruction of mine own brood.