Hip. Is’t dotage to relieve your child, being poor?

Or. Is’t fit for an old man to keep a whore?

Hip. ’Tis charity too.

Or. ’Tis foolery: relieve her?
Were her cold limbs stretch’d out upon a bier,
I would not sell this dirt under my nails
To buy her an hour’s breath; nor give this hair,
Unless it were to choke he
Hip. Fare you well, for I’ll trouble you no more.

Or. And fare you well, sir. [Exit Hippolito.]—Go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty. 'Las, my girl, art thou poor? poverty dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between them; despair is one of hell’s catchpolls; and lest that devil arrest her, I’ll to her, yet she shall not know me; she shall drink of my wealth as beggars do of running water, freely, yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father see his child starve? that were hard: the pelican[274] does it, and shall not I? yes, I will victual the camp for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave there her husband will be hanged, I fear: I’ll keep his neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not know how.

Enter two Serving-men.

How now, knaves? whither wander you?

First Ser. To seek your worship.

Or. Stay; which of you has my purse? what money have you about you?

Sec. Ser. Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.

Or. Give it me [takes purse]; I think I have some gold about me; yes, it’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and get you home. Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet I’ll be so bold as to pull your coat over your ears.

First Ser. What do you mean to do, sir?

[Orlando puts on the coat of First Serving-man,
and gives him in exchange his cloak.

Or. Hold thy tongue, knave: take thou my cloak; I hope I play not the paltry merchant in this bartering. Bid the steward of my house sleep with open eyes in my absence, and to look to all things: whatsoever I command by letters to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well?

Sec. Ser. As if it were made for your worship.

Or. You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear blue,[275] when your master is one of your fellows. Away! do not see me.

Both Ser. This is excellent. [Exeunt Serving-men.

Or. I should put on a worse suit too; perhaps I will. My vizard is on; now to this masque. Say I should shave off this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter; well, I will spoil a good face for once: my beard being off, how should I look? even like

A winter cuckoo, or unfeather’d owl;
Yet better lose this hair than lose her soul. [Exit.

SCENE III.

A Room in Candido’s House: Candido, the Bride, and Guests, discovered at dinner; Prentices waiting on them.

Enter Lodovico, Carolo, and Astolfo.[276]
Can. O gentlemen, so late? you’re very welcome:
Pray, sit down.

Lod. Carolo, didst e’er see such a nest of caps?[277]

Ast. Methinks it’s a most civil and most comely sight.

Lod. What does he i’ th’ middle look like?

Ast. Troth, like a spire-steeple in a country village over-peering so many thatched houses.

Lod. It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers without pikes:[278] they sit for all the world like a pair of organs,[279] and he’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.

Ast. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Can. What’s that you laugh at, signors?

Lod. Troth, shall I tell you, and aloud I’ll tell it;
We laugh to see, yet laugh we not in scorn,
Amongst so many caps that long hat worn.

First Guest.[280] Mine is as tall a felt[281] as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block[282] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair.

Can. Indeed, you’re good observers; it shews strange:
But, gentlemen, I pray neither contemn
Nor yet deride a civil ornament;
I could build so much in the round cap’s praise,
That 'bove[283] this high roof I this flat would raise.

Lod. Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do’t.

Can. So all these guests will pardon me, I’ll do’t.

Guests. With all our hearts.

Can. Thus, then, in the cap’s honour.
To every sex and state both nature, time,
The country’s laws, yea, and the very clime,
Do allot distinct habits: the spruce courtier
Jets[284] up and down in silk; the warrior
Marches in buff; the clown plods on in gray:
But for these upper garments thus I say;
The seaman has his cap, par’d without brim;
The gallant’s head is feather’d, that fits him;
The soldier has his murrion;[285] women ha’ tires;
Beasts have their head-pieces, and men ha’ their
Lod. Procee
Can. Each degree has his fashion; it’s fit then
One should be laid by for the citizen,
And that’s the cap which you see swells not high,
For caps are emblems of humility.
It is a citizen’s badge, and first was worn
By th’ Romans; for when any bondman’s turn[286]
Came to be made a freeman, thus ’twas said,
He to the cap was call’d, that is, was made
Of Rome a freeman, but was first close shorn;
And so a citizen’s hair is still short worn.

Lod. That close shaving made barbers a company, and now every citizen uses it.

Can. Of geometric figures the most rare
And perfect’st are the circle and the square:
The city and the school much build upon
These figures, for both love proportion.
The city-cap is round, the scholar’s square,
To shew that government and learning are
The perfect’st limbs i’ th’ body of a state;
For without them all’s disproportionate.
If the cap had no honour, this might rear it,
The reverend fathers of the law do wear it.
It’s light for summer, and in cold it sits
Close to the skull, a warm house for the wits;
It shews the whole face boldly, ’tis not made
As if a man to look out[287] were afraid;
Nor like a draper’s shop with broad dark shed,
For he’s no citizen that hides his head.
Flat caps as proper are to city-gowns,
As to armours helmets, or to kings their crowns.
Let then the city-cap by none be scorn’d,
Since with it princes’ heads have been adorn’d.
If more the round cap’s honour you would know,
How would this long gown with this steeple[288] shew?

All. Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly.

Can. Pray, signor, pardon me, ’twas done in jest.

Bride. A cup of claret wine there!

First P. Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride.

Car. You ha’ well set out the cap, sir.

Lod. Nay, that’s flat.

Can.[289] A health!

Lod. Since his cap’s round, that shall go round. Be bare,
For in the cap’s praise all of you have share.

[They uncover their heads, and drink. As First Prentice offers the wine to the Bride, she hits him on the lips, and breaks the glass.

The bride’s at cuff
Can. O, peace, I pray thee; thus[290] far off I stand,
I spied the error of my servants.
She call’d for claret, and you fill’d out sack;
That cup give me, ’tis for an old man’s back,
And not for hers. Indeed, ’twas but mistaken;
Ask all these else.

All. No, faith, ’twas but mistaken.

First P. Nay, she took it right enough.

Can. Good Luke, reach her that glass of claret.—Here, mistress bride, pledge me there.

Bride. Now I’ll none. [Exit.

Can. How now?

Lod. Look what your mistress ails.

First P. Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,—a scurvy trick.

Can. I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there
Tells me she is not well.

Guests. Step to her, step to her.

Lod. A word with you; do ye hear? this wench, your new wife, will take you down in your wedding-shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding-garters.

Can. How? hang her in her garters?

Lod. Will you be a tame pigeon still? shall your back be like a tortoise-shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse and mouse you worse: look to’t.

Can. What would you have me do, sir?

Lod. What would I have you do? swear, swagger, brawl, fling; for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already: you know that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked; the moral of which is, that a man must, from his beginning, be crooked to his wife. Be you like an orange to her; let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me?

Can. In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just.

Lod. Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me?

Can. I have the very same which myself wore.

Lod. I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and within this two hours I’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs.

Can. It will be but some jest, sir?

Lod. Only a jest: farewell.—Come, Carolo.

[Exeunt Lodovico, Carolo, and Astolfo.
Guests. We’ll take our leaves, sir, to
Can. Pray, conceit not ill
Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight,
Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic,
And he tells me the disease call’d the mother[291]
Hangs on my wife; it is a vehement heaving
And beating of the stomach, and that swelling
Did with the pain thereof cramp up her arm,
That hit his lips and brake the glass: no harm,
It was no har
Guests. No, signor, none at al
Can. The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance:
But, come, we’ll close this brawl up in some dance. [Exeunt.

ACT II. SCENE I.

A Room in Matheo’s House.
Enter Bellafront and Matheo.
Bel. O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave,
And art alive again? O welcome, welcome!

Mat. Dost know me? my cloak, prithee, lay’t up. Yes, faith, my winding-sheet was taken out of lavender, to be stuck with rosemary:[292] I lacked but the knot here or here; yet, if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice.[293] But, sweetest villain, I am here now, and I will talk with thee soon.

Bel. And glad am I thou’rt here.

Mat. Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah, my little plump rogue, I’ll bear up for all this, and fly high! catso, catso![294]

Bel. Matheo——

Mat. What sayst, what sayst? O brave fresh air! a pox on these grates, and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron! I’ll bear up, I’ll fly high, wench, hang toss!

Bel. Matheo, prithee, make thy prison thy glass,
And in it view the wrinkles and the scars
By which thou wert disfigur’d; viewing them, mend them.

Mat. I’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring boys.[295]

Bel. Thou dost not hear me.

Mat. Yes, faith, do I.

Bel. Thou hast been in the hands of misery,
And ta’en strong physic; prithee, now be sound.

Mat. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now: O, when shall I bizle,[296] bizle?

Bel. Nay, see, thou’rt thirsty still for poison! come,
I will not have thee swagger.

Mat. Honest ape’s face!

Bel. ’Tis that sharpen’d an axe to cut thy throat.
Good love, I would not have thee sell thy substance
And time, worth all, in those damn’d shops of hell,
Those dicing-houses, that stand never well
But when they stand most ill: that four-squar’d sin
Has almost lodg’d us in the beggar’s inn.
Besides, to speak which even my soul does grieve,
A sort[297] of ravens have hung upon thy sleeve,
And fed upon thee:[298] good Mat, if you please,
Scorn to spread wing amongst so base as these;
By them thy fame is speckled; yet it shews
Clear amongst them, so crows are fair with crows.
Custom in sin gives sin a lovely dye;
Blackness in Moors is no deformity.

Mat. Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope [for] my soul, I will turn over a new leaf; the prison, I confess, has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship may be lousy. [Knocking within.

Bel. One knocks at door.

Mat. I’ll be the porter: they shall see a jail cannot hold a brave spirit; I’ll fly high. [Exit.

Bel. How wild is his behaviour! O, I fear
He’s spoil’d by prison! he’s half damn’d comes there.
But I must sit all storms: when a full sail
His fortunes spread, he lov’d me; being now poor,
I’ll beg for him, and no wife can do more.
Re-enter Matheo with Orlando disguised as a serving-man.

Mat. Come in, pray; would you speak with me, sir?

Or. Is your name signor Matheo?

Mat. My name is signor Matheo.

Or. Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir?

Mat. This gentlewoman is my wife, sir.

Or. The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both your loves!—The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot that. [Aside.]—I’m an old man, sir, and am troubled with a whoreson salt rheum, that I cannot hold my water.—Gentlewoman, the last man I served was your father.

Bel. My father? any tongue that sounds his name
Speaks music to me: welcome, good old man!
How does my father? lives he? has he health?
How does my father? I so much do shame him,
So much do wound him, that I scarce dare name him.

Or. I can speak no more. [Aside.

Mat. How now, old lad? what, dost cry?

Or. The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well seasoned, for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I have a suit to you.

Mat. What is’t, my little white-pate?

Or. Troth, sir, I have a mind to serve your worship.

Mat. To serve me? troth, my friend, my fortunes are, as a man may say——

Or. Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in us, and go upon crutches, that covetousness does but then lie in her cradle; ’tis not so with me. Lechery loves to dwell in the fairest lodging, and covetousness in the oldest buildings that are ready to fall: but my white head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If a serving-man at my years be not stored with biscuit enough, that has sailed about the world, to serve him the voyage out of his life, and to bring him east-home, ill pity but all his days should be fasting days. I care not so much for wages, for I have scraped a hand-full of gold together; I have a little money, sir, which I would put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it more——

Mat. No, no, you say well, thou sayst well; but I must tell you—how much is the money, sayst thou?

Or. About twenty pound, sir.

Mat. Twenty pound? let me see, that shall bring thee in, after ten per centum per annum——

Or. No, no, no, sir, no, I cannot abide to have money engender; fie upon this silver lechery, fie! if I may have meat to my mouth, and rags to my back, and a flock-bed to snort upon, when I die the longer liver take all.

Mat. A good old boy, i’faith! If thou servest me, thou shalt eat as I eat, drink as I drink, lie as I lie, and ride as I ride.

Or. That’s if you have money to hire horses.

[Aside.

Mat. Front, what dost thou think on’t? this good old lad here shall serve me.

Bel. Alas, Matheo, wilt thou load a back
That is already broke?

Mat. Peace, pox on you, peace! there’s a trick in’t; I fly high; it shall be so, Front, as I tell you.—Give me thy hand, thou shalt serve me, i’faith; welcome: as for your money——

Or. Nay, look you, sir, I have it here.

Mat. Pish, keep it thyself, man, and then thou’rt sure ’tis safe.

Or. Safe? and[299] 'twere ten thousand ducats, your worship should be my cash-keeper; I have heard what your worship is, an excellent dunghill cock to scatter all abroad; but I’ll venture twenty pounds on’s head.

[Gives money to Matheo.

Mat. And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once?

Or. I served him so long till he turned me out of doors.

Mat. It’s a notable chuff: I ha’ not seen him many a day.

Or. No matter and you ne’er see him: it’s an arrant grandee, a churl, and as damned a cut-throat——

Bel. Thou villain, curb thy tongue! thou art a Judas,
To sell thy master’s name to slander thus.

Mat. Away, ass! he speaks but truth; thy father is a——

Bel. Gentleman.

Mat. And an old knave; there’s more deceit in him than in sixteen pothecaries: it’s a devil; thou mayest beg, starve, hang, damn; does he send thee so much as a cheese?

Or. Or so much as a gammon of bacon? he’ll give it his dogs first.

Mat. A jail,[300] a jail!

Or. A Jew, a Jew, sir!

Mat. A dog!

Or. An English mastiff, sir!

Mat. Pox rot out his old stinking garbage!

Bel. Art not asham’d to strike an absent man thus?
Art not asham’d to let this vild[301] dog bark,
And bite my father thus? I’ll not endure it.—
Out of my doors, base slave!

Mat. Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that old rogue’s throat, for all you take his part thus.

Or. He shall live to see thee hanged first. [Aside.

Enter Hippolito.
Mat. God’s-so, my lord, your lordship is most welcome!
I’m proud of this, my lor
Hip. Was bold to see you.
Is that your wife?

Mat. Yes, sir.

Hip. I’ll borrow her lip. [Kisses Bellafront.

Mat. With all my heart, my lord.

Or. Who’s this, I pray, sir?

Mat. My lord Hippolito. What’s thy name?

Or. Pacheco.

Mat. Pacheco? fine name: thou seest, Pacheco, I keep company with no scoundrels nor base fellows.

Hip. Came not my footman to you?

Bel. Yes, my lord.

Hip. I sent by him a diamond and a letter;
Did you receive them?

Bel. Yes, my lord, I did.

Hip. Read you the letter?

Bel. O'er and o’er ’tis read.

Hip. And, faith, your answer?

Bel. Now the time’s not fit;
You see my husband’s her
Hip. I’ll now then leave you,
And choose mine hour: but, ere I part away,
Hark you, remember I must have no nay.—
Matheo, I will leave yo
Mat. A glass of win
Hip. Not now; I’ll visit you at other times.
You’re come off well, then?

Mat. Excellent well, I thank your lordship: I owe you my life, my lord, and will pay my best blood in any service of yours.

Hip. I’ll take no such dear payment. Hark you, Matheo;
I know the prison is a gulf; if money
Run low with you, my purse is yours, call for it.

Mat. Faith, my lord, I thank my stars they send me down some; I cannot sink so long as these bladders hold.

Hip. I will not see your fortunes ebb; pray, try:
To starve in full barns were fond[302] modesty.

Mat. Open the door, sirrah.

Hip. Drink this;
And anon, I pray thee, give thy mistress this.
[Gives to Friscobaldo, who opens the door,
first money, then a purse, and exit.
Or. O noble spirit! if no worse guests here dwell,
My blue coat[303] sits on my old shoulders well.

Mat. The only royal fellow! he’s bounteous as the Indies. What’s that he said to thee, Bellafront?

Bel. Nothing.

Mat. I prithee, good girl——

Bel. Why, I tell you, nothing.

Mat. Nothing? it’s well: tricks! that I must be beholden to a scald, hot-livered, goatish gallant, to stand with my cap in my hand and vail bonnet, when I ha’ spread as lofty sails as himself! would I had been hanged! nothing?—Pacheco, brush my cloak.

Or. Where is’t, sir?

Mat. Come,[304] we’ll fly high.
Nothing? there is a whore still in thine eye. [Exit.
Or. My twenty pounds fly[305] high. O wretched woman!
This varlet’s able to make Lucrece common. [Aside.

How now, mistress? has my master dyed you into this sad colour?

Bel. Fellow, begone, I pray thee; if thy tongue
Itch after talk so much, seek out thy master,
Thou’rt a fit instrument for him.
Or. Zounds, 1 hope he will not play upon me!
Bel. Play on thee? no, you two will fly together,
Because you’re roving arrows of one feather.
Would thou wouldst leave my house, thou ne’er shalt please me!
Weave thy nets[306] ne’er so high,
Thou shalt be but a spider in mine eye.
Thou’rt rank with poison: poison temper’d well
Is food for health, but thy black tongue doth swell
With venom to hurt him that gave thee bread:
To wrong men absent is to spurn the dead;
And so did’st thou thy master and my father.

Or. You have small reason to take his part, for I have heard him say five hundred times you were as arrant a whore as ever stiffened tiffany neck-cloths in water-starch upon a Saturday i’ th’ afternoon.

Bel. Let him say worse: when, for the earth’s offence,
Hot vengeance through the marble clouds is driven,
Is’t fit earth shoot again those darts at heaven?

Or. And so if your father call you whore, you’ll not call him old knave.—Friscobaldo, she carries thy mind up and down; she’s thine own flesh, blood, and bone. [Aside.]—Troth, mistress, to tell you true, the fireworks that ran from me upon lines against my good old master your father were but to try how my young master your husband loved such squibs: but it’s well known I love your father as myself: I’ll ride for him at midnight, run for you by owl-light; I’ll die for him, drudge for you; I’ll fly low, and I’ll fly high, as my master says, to do you good, if you’ll forgive me.

Bel. I am not made of marble; I forgive thee.

Or. Nay, if you were made of marble, a good stone-cutter might cut you. I hope the twenty pound I delivered to my master is in a sure hand.