[Livia and Mother sit down to the chess-board.
Moth. As good now tell her then, for she will know’t;
I've always found her a most friendly lady. [Aside.
Liv. Why, widow, where’s your mind?
Moth. Troth, even at home, madam:
To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman
Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable,
Especially to young bloods.
Liv. Another excuse!
Moth. No; as I hope for health, madam, that’s a truth:
Please you to send and see.
Liv. What gentlewoman? pish!
Moth. Wife to my son, indeed; but not known, madam,
To any but yourself.
Liv. Now I beshrew you;
Could you be so unkind to her and me,
To come and not bring her? faith, ’tis not friendly.
Moth. I fear’d to be too bold.
Liv. Too bold! O, what’s become
Of the true hearty love was wont to be
'Mongst neighbours in old time!
Moth. And she’s a stranger, madam.
Liv. The more should be her welcome: when is courtesy
In better practice than when ’tis employ’d
In entertaining strangers? I could chide, i’faith:
Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman! alone too!
Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go.
Moth. Please you, command one of your servants, madam.
Liv. Within there!
Re-enter Servant.
Sr. Madam.
Liv. Attend the gentlewoman.[1035]
Moth. It must be carried wondrous privately
From my son’s knowledge, he’ll break out in storms else.—
Hark you, sir.
[Whispers the Servant, who then goes out.
Liv. [to Guar.] Now comes in the heat of your part.
Guar. True, I know’t, lady; and if I be out,
May the Duke banish me from all employments,
Wanton or serious!
Liv. So, have you sent, widow?
Moth. Yes, madam, he’s almost at home by this.
Liv. And, faith, let me entreat you that henceforward
All such unkind faults may be swept from friendship,
Which does but dim the lustre; and think thus much,
It is a wrong to me, that have ability
To bid friends welcome, when you keep ’em from me;
You cannot set greater dishonour near me;
For bounty is the credit and the glory
Of those that have enough. I see you’re sorry,
And the good ’mends is made by’t.
Re-enter Servant, shewing in Bianca.
Moth. Here she is, madam. [Exit Servant.
Bian. I wonder how she comes to send for me now.
[Aside.
Liv. Gentlewoman, you’re most welcome, trust me, you are,
As courtesy can make one, or respect
Due to the presence of you.
Bian. I give you thanks, lady.
Liv. I heard you were alone, and ’t had appear’d
An ill condition[1036] in me, though I knew you not,
Nor ever saw you—yet humanity
Thinks every case her own—t' have kept your company
Here from you, and left you all solitary:
I rather ventur’d upon boldness then,
As the least fault, and wish’d your presence here;
A thing most happily motion’d of that gentleman,
Whom I request you, for his care and pity,
To honour and reward with your acquaintance;
A gentleman that ladies' rights stands for,
That’s his profession.
Bian. ’Tis a noble one,
And honours my acquaintance.
Guar. All my intentions
Are servants to such mistresses.
Bian. ’Tis your modesty,
It seems, that makes your deserts speak so low, sir.
Liv. Come, widow.—Look you, lady, here’s our business;
[Pointing to the chess-board.
Are we not well employ’d, think you? an old quarrel
Between us, that will ne’er be at an end.
Bian. No? and, methinks, there’s men enough to part you, lady.
Liv. Ho, but they set us on, let us come off
As well as we can, poor souls; men care no farther.
I pray, sit down, forsooth, if you’ve the patience
To look upon two weak and tedious gamesters.
Guar. Faith, madam, set these by till evening,
You’ll have enough on’t then; the gentlewoman,
Being a stranger, would take more delight
To see your rooms and pictures.
Liv. Marry, good sir,
And well remember’d; I beseech you, shew ’em her,
That will beguile time well; pray heartily, do, sir,
I'll do as much for you: here, take these keys;
[Gives keys to Guardiano.
Shew her the monument too, and that’s a thing
Every one sees not; you can witness that, widow.
Moth. And that’s worth sight indeed, madam.
Bian. Kind lady,
I fear I came to be a trouble to you.
Liv. O, nothing less, forsooth!
Bian. And to this courteous gentleman,
That wears a kindness in his breast so noble
And bounteous to the welcome of a stranger.
Guar. If you but give acceptance to my service,
You do the greatest grace and honour to me
That courtesy can merit.
Bian. I were to blame else,
And out of fashion much. I pray you, lead, sir.
Liv. After a game or two, we’re for you, gentlefolks.
Guar. We wish no better seconds in society
Than your discourses, madam, and your partner’s there.
Moth. I thank your praise; I listen’d to you, sir,
Though, when you spoke, there came a paltry rook
Full in my way, and chokes up all my game.
[Exeunt. Guardiano and Bianca.
Liv. Alas, poor widow, I shall be too hard for thee!
Moth. You’re cunning at the game, I'll be sworn, madam.
Liv. It will be found so, ere I give you over.—
[Aside.
She that can place her man well——
Moth. As you do, madam.
Liv. As I shall, wench, can never lose her game:
Nay, nay, the black king’s mine.
Moth. Cry you mercy, madam!
Liv. And this my queen.
Moth. I see’t now.
Liv. Here’s a duke[1037]
Will strike a sure stroke for the game anon;
Your pawn cannot come back to relieve itself.
Moth. I know that, madam.
Liv. You play well the whilst:
How she belies her skill! I hold two ducats,
I give you check and mate to your white king,
Simplicity itself, your saintish king there.
Moth. Well, ere now, lady,
I've seen the fall of subtlety; jest on.
Liv. Ay, but simplicity receives two for one.
Moth. What remedy but patience!
Enter Guardiano and Bianca above.[1038]
Bian. Trust me, sir,
Mine eye ne’er met with fairer ornaments.
Guar. Nay, livelier, I'm persuaded, neither Florence
Nor Venice can produce.
Bian. Sir, my opinion
Takes your part highly.
Guar. There’s a better piece
Yet than all these.
Bian. Not possible, sir!
Guar. Believe it,
You’ll say so when you see’t: turn but your eye now,
You’re upon’t presently.
[Draws a curtain,[1039] and discovers the Duke;
then exit.
Bian. O sir!
Duke. He’s gone, beauty:
Pish, look not after him; he’s but a vapour,
That, when the sun appears, is seen no more.
Bian. O, treachery to honour!
Duke. Prithee, tremble not;
I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting
Under a loving hand that makes much on’t:
Why art so fearful? as I'm friend to brightness,
There’s nothing but respect and honour near thee:
You know me, you have seen me; here’s a heart
Can witness I have seen thee.
Bian. The more’s my danger.
Duke. The more’s thy happiness. Pish, strive not, sweet;
This strength were excellent employ’d in love now,
But here[1040] ’tis spent amiss: strive not to seek
Thy liberty, and keep me still in prison;
I'faith, you shall not out till I'm releas’d now;
We’ll be both freed together, or stay still by’t,
So is captivity pleasant.
Bian. O my lord!
Duke. I am not here in vain; have but the leisure
To think on that, and thou’lt be soon resolv’d:
The lifting of thy voice is but like one
That does exalt his enemy, who, proving high,
Lays all the plots to confound him that rais’d him.
Take warning, I beseech thee; thou seem’st to me
A creature so compos’d of gentleness,
And delicate meekness—such as bless the faces
Of figures that are drawn for goddesses,
And make[1041] art proud to look upon her work—
I should be sorry the least force should lay
An unkind touch upon thee.
Bian. O my extremity!
My lord, what seek you?
Duke. Love.
Bian. ’Tis gone already;
I have a husband.
Duke. That’s a single comfort;
Take a friend to him.
Bian. That’s a double mischief,
Or else there’s no religion.
Duke. Do not tremble
At fears of thine own making.
Bian. Nor, great lord,
Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin,
Because they fear not you; me they must fright—
Then am I best in health: should thunder speak,
And none regard it, it had lost the name,
And were as good be still. I'm not like those
That take their soundest sleeps in greatest tempests;
Then wake I most, the weather fearfullest,
And call for strength to virtue.
Duke. Sure, I think
Thou know’st the way to please me: I affect
A passionate pleading ’bove an easy yielding;
But never pitied any,—they deserve none,—
That will not pity me. I can command,
Think upon that; yet if thou truly knewest
The infinite pleasure my affection takes
In gentle, fair entreatings, when love’s businesses
Are carried courteously ’twixt heart and heart,
You’d make more haste to please me.
Bian. Why should you seek, sir,
To take away that you can never give?
Duke. But I give better in exchange,—wealth, honour;
She that is fortunate in a duke’s favour
'Lights on a tree that bears all women’s wishes:
If your own mother saw you pluck fruit there,
She would commend your wit, and praise the time
Of your nativity; take hold of glory.
Do not I know you’ve cast away your life
Upon necessities, means merely doubtful
To keep you in indifferent health and fashion—
A thing I heard too lately, and soon pitied—
And can you be so much your beauty’s enemy,
To kiss away a month or two in wedlock,
And weep whole years in wants for ever after?
Come, play the wise wench, and provide for ever;
Let storms come when they list, they find thee shelter’d.
Should any doubt arise, let nothing trouble thee;
Put trust in our love for the managing
Of all to thy heart’s peace: we’ll walk together,
And shew a thankful joy for both our fortunes.
[Exeunt Duke and Bianca above.
Liv. Did not I say my duke would fetch you o’er, widow?
Moth. I think you spoke in earnest when you said it, madam.
Liv. And my black king makes all the haste he can too.
Moth. Well, madam, we may meet with him in time yet.
Liv. I've given thee blind mate twice.
Moth. You may see, madam,
My eyes begin to fail.
Liv. I'll swear they do, wench.
Re-enter Guardiano.
Guar. I can but smile as often as I think on’t:
How prettily the poor fool was beguil’d!
How unexpectedly! it’s a witty age;
Never were finer snares for women’s honesties
Than are devis’d in these days; no spider’s web
Made of a daintier thread than are now practis’d
To catch love’s flesh-fly by the silver wing:
Yet, to prepare her stomach by degrees
To Cupid’s feast, because I saw ’twas queasy,
I shew’d her naked pictures by the way,
A bit to stay the appetite. Well, advancement,
I venture hard to find thee; if thou com’st
With a greater title set upon thy crest,
I'll take that first cross patiently, and wait
Until some other comes greater than that;
I'll endure all. [Aside.
Liv. The game’s even at the best now: you may see, widow,
How all things draw to an end.
Moth. Even so do I, madam.
Liv. I pray, take some of your neighbours along with you.
Moth. They must be those are almost twice your years then,
If they be chose fit matches for my time, madam.
Liv. Has not my duke bestirr’d himself?
Moth. Yes, faith, madam;
Has done me all the mischief in this game.
Liv. Has shew’d himself in’s kind.
Moth. In’s kind, call you it?
I may swear that.
Liv. Yes, faith, and keep your oath.
Guar. Hark, list! there’s somebody coming down: ’tis she.
[Aside.
Re-enter Bianca.
Bian. Now bless me from a blasting! I saw that now,
Fearful for any woman’s eye to look on;
Infectious mists and mildews hang at’s eyes,
The weather of a doomsday dwells upon him:
Yet since mine honour’s leprous, why[1042] should I
Preserve that fair that caus’d the leprosy?
Come, poison all at once. [Aside.]—Thou in whose baseness
The bane of virtue broods, I'm bound in soul
Eternally to curse thy smooth-brow’d treachery,
That wore the fair veil of a friendly welcome,
And I a stranger; think upon’t, ’tis worth it;
Murders pil’d up upon a guilty spirit,
At his last breath will not lie heavier
Than this betraying act upon thy conscience:
Beware of offering the first-fruits to sin;
His weight is deadly who commits with strumpets,
After they’ve been abas’d, and made for use;
If they offend to the death, as wise men know,
How much more they, then, that first make ’em so!
I give thee that to feed on. I'm made bold now,
I thank thy treachery; sin and I'm acquainted,
No couple greater; and I'm like that great one,
Who, making politic use of a base villain,
He likes the treason well, but hates the traitor;
So I hate thee, slave!
Guar. Well, so the Duke love me,
I fare not much amiss then; two great feasts
Do seldom come together in one day,
We must not look for ’em.
Bian. What, at it still, mother?
Moth. You see we sit by’t: are you so soon return’d?
Liv. So lively and so cheerful! a good sign that.
[Aside.
Moth. You have not seen all since, sure?
Bian. That have I, mother,
The monument and all: I'm so beholding[1043]
To this kind, honest, courteous gentleman,
You’d little think it, mother; shew’d me all,
Had me from place to place so fashionably;
The kindness of some people, how ’t exceeds!
Faith, I've seen that I little thought to see
I' the morning when I rose.
Moth. Nay, so I told you
Before you saw’t, it would prove worth your sight.—
I give you great thanks for my daughter, sir,
And all your kindness towards her.
Guar. O, good widow,
Much good may['t] do her!—forty weeks hence, i’faith.
[Aside.
Re-enter Servant.
Liv. Now, sir?
Ser. May’t please you, madam, to walk in;
Supper’s upon the table.
Liv. Yes, we come.— [Exit Servant.
Will’t please you, gentlewoman?
Bian. Thanks, virtuous lady.—
You’re a damn’d bawd. [Aside to Livia.]—I'll follow you, forsooth;
Pray, take my mother in;—an old ass go with you!— [Aside.
This gentleman and I vow not to part.
Liv. Then get you both before.
Bian. There lies his art. [Exeunt. Bianca and Guardiano.
Liv. Widow, I'll follow you. [Exit Mother.] Is’t so? damn’d bawd!
Are you so bitter? ’tis but want of use:
Her tender modesty is sea-sick a little,
Being not accustom’d to the breaking billow
Of woman’s wavering faith blown with temptations:
’Tis but a qualm of honour, ’twill away;
A little bitter for the time, but lasts not:
Sin tastes at the first draught like wormwood-water,
But drunk again, ’tis nectar ever after. [Exit.

ACT III. SCENE I.

A room in the house of Leantio’s Mother.
Enter Mother.
Moth. I would my son would either keep at home,
Or I were in my grave!
She was but one day abroad, but ever since
She’s grown so cutted,[1044] there’s no speaking to her:
Whether the sight of great cheer at my lady’s,
And such mean fare at home, work discontent in her,
I know not; but I'm sure she’s strangely alter’d.
I'll ne’er keep daughter-in-law i' th' house with me
Again,if I had an hundred: when read I of any
That agreed long together, but she and her mother
Fell out in the first quarter? nay, sometime
A grudging of[1045] a scolding the first week, byrlady![1046]
So takes the new disease, methinks, in my house:
I'm weary of my part; there’s nothing likes[1047] her;
I know not how to please her here a' late:
And here she comes.
Enter Bianca.
Bian. This is the strangest house
For all defects as ever gentlewoman
Made shift withal to pass away her love in:
Why is there not a cushion-cloth of drawn-work,
Or some fair cut-work pinn’d up in my bed-chamber,
A silver and gilt casting-bottle[1048] hung by’t?—
Nay, since I am content to be so kind to you,
To spare you for a silver basin and ewer,
Which one of my fashion looks for of duty;
She’s never offer’d under where she sleeps.
Moth. She talks of things here my whole state’s not worth.
Bian. Never a green silk quilt is there i' th' house, mother,
To cast upon my bed?
Moth. No, by troth, is there,
Nor orange-tawny neither.
Bian. Here’s a house
For a young gentlewoman to be got with child in!
Moth. Yes, simple though you make it, there has been three
Got in a year in’t, since you move me to’t,
And all as sweet-fac’d children and as lovely
As you’ll be mother of: I will not spare you:
What, cannot children be begot, think you,
Without gilt casting-bottles? yes, and as sweet ones:
The miller’s daughter brings forth as white boys[1049]
As she that bathes herself with milk and bean-flour:
’Tis an old saying, One may keep good cheer
In a mean house; so may true love affect
After the rate of princes in a cottage.
Bian. Troth, you speak wondrous well for your old house here;
'Twill shortly fall down at your feet to thank you,
Or stoop, when you go to bed, like a good child,
To ask you blessing. Must I live in want
Because my fortune match’d me with your son?
Wives do not give away themselves to husbands
To the end to be quite cast away; they look
To be the better us’d and tender’d rather,
Highlier respected, and maintain’d the richer;
They’re well rewarded else for the free gift
Of their whole life to a husband! I ask less now
Than what I had at home when I was a maid,
And at my father’s house; kept short of that
Which a wife knows she must have, nay, and will—
Will, mother, if she be not a fool born;
And report went of me, that I could wrangle
For what I wanted when I was two hours old;
And, by that copy, this land still I hold:
You hear me, mother. [Exit.
Moth. Ay, too plain, methinks;
And were I somewhat deafer when you spake,
'Twere ne’er a whit the worse for my quietness.
’Tis the most sudden’st, strangest alteration,
And the most subtlest, that e’er wit at threescore
Was puzzled to find out: I know no cause for’t; but
She’s no more like the gentlewoman at first,
Than I'm like her that never lay with man yet,—
And she’s a very young thing, where’er she be.
When she first lighted here, I told her then
How mean she should find all things; she was pleas’d, forsooth,
None better: I laid open all defects to her,
She was contented still; but the devil’s in her,
Nothing contents her now. To-night my son
Promis’d to be at home; would he were come once,
For I am weary of my charge, and life too!
She’d be serv’d all in silver, by her good will,
By night and day; she hates the name of pewterer
More than sick men the noise, or diseas’d bones
That quake at fall o' th' hammer, seeming to have
A fellow-feeling with’t at every blow.
What course shall I think on? she frets me so! [Exit.
Enter Leantio.
Lean. How near am I now to a happiness
That earth exceeds not! not another like it:
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal’d comforts of a man
Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house:
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch-side.
When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet,
Sparkling in beauty and destruction too,
Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight
Her beautified body to a goodly temple
That’s built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting;
And so, by little and little, I shrink back again,
And quench desire with a cool meditation;
And I'm as well, methinks. Now for a welcome
Able to draw men’s envies upon man;
A kiss now, that will hang upon my lip
As sweet as morning-dew upon a rose,
And full as long; after a five-days' fast
She’ll be so greedy now, and cling about me,
I take care how I shall be rid of her:
And here’t begins.
Re-enter Bianca and Mother.
Bian. O sir, you’re welcome home!
Moth. O, is he come? I'm glad on’t.
Lean. Is that all?
Why, this is[1050] dreadful now as sudden death
To some rich man, that flatters all his sins
With promise of repentance when he’s old,
And dies in the midway before he comes to’t.— [Aside.
Sure you’re not well, Bianca; how dost, prithee?
Bian. I have been better than I am at this time.
Lean. Alas, I thought so!
Bian. Nay, I've been worse too
Than now you see me, sir.
Lean. I'm glad thou mend’st yet,
I feel my heart mend too: how came it to thee?
Has any thing dislik’d[1051] thee in my absence?
Bian. No, certain; I have had the best content
That Florence can afford.
Lean. Thou mak’st the best on’t.—
Speak, mother; what’s the cause? you must needs know.
Moth. Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;
Unless it be the same gave Lucifer
A tumbling cast,—that’s pride.
Bian. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind;
I'd have some pleasant lodging i' th' high street, sir;
Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better:
’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman
To stand in a bay-window and see gallants.
Lean. Now I've another temper, a mere stranger
To that of yours, it seems; I should delight
To see none but yourself.
Bian. I praise not that;
Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish:
I would not have a husband of that proneness
To kiss me before company for a world;
Beside, ’tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,
Be it the best that ever heart affected;
Nay, were’t yourself, whose love had power, you know,
To bring me from my friends, I'd not stand thus
And gaze upon you always, troth, I could not, sir;
As good be blind and have no use of sight,
As look on one thing still: what’s the eye’s treasure
But change of objects? you are learnèd, sir,
And know I speak not ill: ’tis[1052] full as virtuous
For woman’s eye to look on several men,
As for her heart, sir, to be fix’d on one.
Lean. Now thou com’st home to me; a kiss for that word.
Bian. No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;
’Tis but a toy, we’ll not so much as mind it;
Let’s talk of other business, and forget it.
What news now of the pirates? any stirring?
Prithee, discourse a little.
Moth. I'm glad he’s here yet,
To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously
If I had told ’em first. [Aside.
Lean. Speak, what’s the humour, sweet,
You make your lip so strange? this was not wont.
Bian. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife,
Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,
And be still billing? ’tis the idlest fondness
That ever was invented, and ’tis pity
It’s grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen;
There’s many a disease kiss’d in a year by’t,
And a French cur[t]sy made to’t: alas, sir!
Think of the world, how we shall live; grow serious;
We have been married a whole fortnight now.
Lean. How? a whole fortnight! why, is that so long?
Bian. ’Tis time to leave off dalliance; ’tis a doctrine
Of your own teaching, if you be remember’d;
And I was bound to obey it.
Moth. Here’s one fits him;
This was well catch’d, i’faith, son; like a fellow
That rids another country of a plague,
And brings it home with him to his own house.