[Aside.—Knocking within.
Who knocks?
Lean. Who’s there now?—Withdraw you, Bianca;
Thou art a gem no stranger’s eye must see,
Howe’er thou['rt] pleas’d now to look dull on me.—
[Exit Bianca.
Enter Messenger.
You’re welcome, sir; to whom your business, pray?
Mess. To one I see not here now.
Lean. Who should that be, sir?
Mess. A young gentlewoman I was sent to.
Lean. A young gentlewoman?
Mess. Ay, sir, about sixteen: why look you wildly, sir?
Lean. At your strange error; you’ve mistook the house, sir;
There’s none such here, I assure you.
Mess. I assure you too
The man that sent me cannot be mistook.
Lean. Why, who is’t sent you, sir?
Mess. The Duke.
Lean. The Duke?
Mess. Yes; he entreats her company at a banquet
At lady Livia’s house.
Lean. Troth, shall I tell you, sir,
It is the most erroneous business
That e’er your honest pains was abus’d with;
I pray, forgive me if I smile a little,
I cannot choose, i’faith, sir, at an error
So comical as this,—I mean no harm though:
His grace has been most wondrous ill inform’d;
Pray, so return it, sir. What should her name be?
Mess. That I shall tell you straight too—Bianca Capello.[1053]
Lean. How, sir? Bianca? what do you call th' other?
Mess. Capello. Sir, it seems you know no such then?
Lean. Who should this be? I never heard o' the name.
Mess. Then ’tis a sure mistake.
Lean. What if you inquir’d
In the next street, sir? I saw gallants there
In the new houses that are built of late;
Ten to one there you find her.
Mess. Nay, no matter;
I will return the mistake, and seek no further.
Lean. Use your own will and pleasure, sir, you’re welcome.
[Exit Messenger.
What shall I think of first?—Come forth, Bianca!
Re-enter Bianca.
Thou art betray’d, I fear me.
Bian. Betray’d! how, sir?
Lean. The Duke knows thee.
Bian. Knows me! how know you that, sir?
Lean. Has got thy name.
Bian. Ay, and my good name too,
That’s worse o' the twain. [Aside.
Lean. How comes this work about?
Bian. How should the Duke know me? can you guess, mother?
Moth. Not I, with all my wits; sure we kept house close.
Lean. Kept close! not all the locks in Italy
Can keep you women so; you have been gadding,
And ventur’d out at twilight to the court-green yonder,
And met the gallant bowlers coming home;
Without your masks too, both of you, I'll be hang’d else:
Thou hast been seen, Bianca, by some stranger;
Never excuse it.
Bian. I'll not seek the way, sir;
Do you think you’ve married me to mew me up,
Not to be seen? what would you make of me?
Lean. A good wife, nothing else.
Bian. Why, so are some
That are seen every day, else the devil take ’em.
Lean. No more, then; I believe all virtuous in thee,
Without an argument; ’twas but thy hard chance
To be seen somewhere, there lies all the mischief:
But I've devis’d a riddance.
Moth. Now I can tell you, son,
The time and place.
Lean. When? where?
Moth. What wits have I!
When you last took your leave, if you remember,
You left us both at window.
Lean. Right, I know that.
Moth. And not the third part of an hour after,
The Duke pass’d by, in a great solemnity,
To St. Mark’s temple, and, to my apprehension,
He look’d up twice to the window.
Lean. O, there quicken’d
The mischief of this hour!
Bian. If you call’t mischief,
It is a thing I fear I am conceiv’d with. [Aside.
Lean. Look’d he up twice, and could you take no warning?
Moth. Why, once may do as much harm, son, as a thousand;
Do not you know one spark has fir’d an house
As well as a whole furnace?
Lean. My heart flames for’t:
Yet let’s be wise, and keep all smother’d closely;
I have bethought a means: is the door fast?
Moth. I lock’d it myself after him.
Lean. You know, mother,
At the end of the dark parlour there’s a place
So artificially contriv’d for a conveyance,
No search could ever find it; when my father
Kept in for manslaughter, it was his sanctuary;
There will I lock my life’s best treasure up,
Bianca.
Bian. Would you keep me closer yet?
Have you the conscience? you’re best e’en choke me up, sir:
You make me fearful of your health and wits,
You cleave to such wild courses; what’s the matter?
Lean. Why, are you so insensible of your danger
To ask that now? the Duke himself has sent for you
To lady Livia’s to a banquet, forsooth.
Bian. Now I beshrew you heartily, has he so!
And you the man would never yet vouchsafe
To tell me on’t till now? you shew your loyalty
And honesty at once; and so farewell, sir.
Lean. Bianca, whither now?
Bian. Why, to the Duke, sir;
You say he sent for me.
Lean. But thou dost not mean
To go, I hope.
Bian. No? I shall prove unmannerly,
Rude, and uncivil, mad, and imitate you!—
Come, mother, come, follow his humour no longer;
We shall be all executed for treason shortly.
Moth. Not I, i’faith; I'll first obey the Duke,
And taste of a good banquet; I'm of thy mind:
I'll step but up and fetch two handkerchiefs
To pocket up some sweetmeats, and o’ertake thee. [Exit.
Bian. Why, here’s an old wench would trot into a bawd now
For some dry sucket,[1054] or a colt in march-pane.[1055] [Aside, and exit.
Lean. O thou, the ripe time of man’s misery, wedlock,
When all his thoughts, like overladen trees,
Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in jealousies!
O, that’s a fruit that ripens hastily,
After ’tis knit to marriage! it begins,
As soon as the sun shines upon the bride,
A little to shew colour. Blessèd powers,
Whence comes this alteration? the distractions,
The fears and doubts it brings, are numberless;
And yet the cause I know not. What a peace
Has he that never marries! if he knew
The benefit he enjoy’d, or had the fortune
To come and speak with me, he should know then
Th' infinite wealth he had, and discern rightly
The greatness of his treasure by my loss:
Nay, what a quietness has he ’bove mine
That wears his youth out in a strumpet’s arms,
And never spends more care upon a woman
Than at the time of lust; but walks away;
And if he find her dead at his return,
His pity is soon done,—he breaks a sigh
In many parts, and gives her but a piece on’t:
But all the fears, shames, jealousies, costs and troubles,
And still renew’d cares of a marriage-bed,
Live in the issue, when the wife is dead.
Re-enter Messenger.
Mess. A good perfection to your thoughts!
Lean. The news, sir?
Mess. Though you were pleas’d of late to pin an error on me,
You must not shift another in your stead too:
The Duke has sent me for you.
Lean. How! for me, sir?—
I see then ’tis my theft; we’re both betray’d:
Well, I'm not the first has stol’n away a maid;
My countrymen have us’d it. [Aside.]—I'll along with you, sir. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An apartment in Livia’s house:[1056] a banquet set out.
Enter Guardiano and the Ward.
Guar. Take you especial note of such a gentlewoman,
She’s here on purpose; I've invited her,
Her father, and her uncle, to this banquet;
Mark her behaviour well, it does concern you;
And what her good parts are, as far as time
And place can modestly require a knowledge of,
Shall be laid open to your understanding.
You know I'm both your guardian and your uncle;
My care of you is double, ward and nephew,
And I'll express it here.
Ward. Faith, I should know her
Now by her mark among a thousand women;
A little pretty deft[1057] and tidy thing, you say?
Guar. Right.
Ward. With a lusty sprouting sprig in her hair?
Guar. Thou goest the right way still; take one mark more,—
Thou shalt ne’er find her hand out of her uncle’s,
Or else his out of hers, if she be near him;
The love of kindred never yet stuck closer
Than theirs to one another; he that weds her,
Marries her uncle’s heart too.
Ward. Say you so, sir?
Then I'll be ask’d i' the church to both of them.
[Cornets within.
Guar. Fall back; here comes the Duke.
Ward. He brings a gentlewoman,
I should fall forward rather.

Enter the Duke leading in Bianca, Fabricio, Hippolito, Livia, Mother, Isabella, Gentlemen, and Attendants.

Duke. Come, Bianca,
Of purpose sent into the world to shew
Perfection once in woman; I'll believe
Henceforward they have every one a soul too,
'Gainst all the uncourteous opinions
That man’s uncivil rudeness ever held of ’em:
Glory of Florence, light into mine arms!
Bian. Yon comes a grudging man will chide you, sir;
Enter Leantio.
The storm is now in’s heart, and would get nearer,
And fall here, if it durst; it pours down yonder.
Duke. If that be he, the weather shall soon clear;
List, and I'll tell thee how. [Whispers Bianca.
Lean. A kissing too!
I see ’tis plain lust now, adultery ’bolden’d;
What will it prove anon, when ’tis stuff’d full
Of wine and sweetmeats,[1058] being so impudent fasting?
[Aside.
Duke. We’ve heard of your good parts, sir, which we honour
With our embrace and love.—Is not the captainship
Of Rouans'[1059] citadel, since the late deceas’d,
Suppli[ed] by any yet?
Gentleman. By none, my lord.
Duke. Take it, the place is yours then; and as faithfulness
And desert grows, our favour shall grow with’t: [Leantio kneels.
Rise now, the captain of our fort at Rouans.
Lean. [rising] The service of whole life give your grace thanks!
Duke. Come, sit, Bianca.
[Duke, Bianca, &c. seat themselves.
Lean. This is some good yet,
And more than e’er I look’d for; a fine bit
To stay a cuckold’s stomach: all preferment
That springs from sin and lust it shoots up quickly,
As gardeners' crops do in the rotten’st grounds;
So is all means rais’d from base prostitution
Even like a salad growing upon a dunghill.
I'm like a thing that never was yet heard of,
Half merry and half mad; much like a fellow
That eats his meat with a good appetite,
And wears a plague-sore that would fright a country;
Or rather, like the barren,[1060] harden’d ass,
That feeds on thistles till he bleeds again;
And such is the condition of my misery. [Aside.
Liv. Is that your son, widow?
Moth. Yes; did your ladyship
Never know that till now?
Liv. No, trust me, did I,—
Nor ever truly felt the power of love
And pity to a man, till now I knew him.
I have enough to buy me my desires,
And yet to spare, that’s one good comfort. [Aside.]—Hark you,
Pray, let me speak with you, sir, before you go.
Lean. With me, lady? you shall, I'm at your service.—
What will she say now, trow?[1061] more goodness yet?
[Aside.
Ward. I see her now, I'm sure; the ape’s so little,
I shall scarce feel her; I have seen almost
As tall as she sold in the fair for tenpence:
See how she simpers it, as if marmalade
Would not melt in her mouth! she might have the kindness, i’faith,
To send me a gilded bull from her own trencher,
A ram, a goat, or somewhat to be nibbling:
These women, when they come to sweet things once,
They forget all their friends, they grow so greedy,
Nay, oftentimes their husbands.
Duke. Here’s a health now, gallants,
To the best beauty at this day in Florence.
Bian. Whoe’er she be, she shall not go unpledg’d, sir.
Duke. Nay, you’re excus’d for this.
Bian. Who, I, my lord?
Duke. Yes, by the law of Bacchus; plead your benefit,
You are not bound to pledge your own health, lady.
Bian. That’s a good way, my lord, to keep me dry.
Duke. Nay, then, I'll not offend Venus so much,
Let Bacchus seek his ’mends in another court;
Here’s to thyself, Bianca. [Duke and others drink.
Bian. Nothing comes
More welcome to that name than your grace.
Lean. So, so;
Here stands the poor thief now that stole the treasure,
And he’s not thought on. Ours is near kin now
To a twin misery born into the world;
First the hard-conscienc’d worldling, he hoards wealth up,
Then comes the next, and he feasts all upon’t;
One’s damn’d for getting, th' other for spending on’t.
O equal justice, thou hast met my sin
With a full weight! I'm rightly now opprest,
All her friends' heavy hearts lie in my breast. [Aside.
Duke. Methinks there is no spirit ’mongst us, gallants,
But what divinely sparkles from the eyes
Of bright Bianca; we sat all in darkness
But for that splendour. Who was’t told us lately
Of a match-making right, a marriage-tender?
Guar. ’Twas I, my lord.
Duke. ’Twas you indeed. Where is she?
Guar. This is the gentlewoman.
Fab. My lord, my daughter.
Duke. Why, here’s some stirring yet.
Fab. She’s a dear child to me.
Duke. That must needs be, you say she is your daughter.
Fab. Nay, my good lord, dear to my purse, I mean,
Beside my person, I ne’er reckon’d that.
Sh’as the full qualities of a gentlewoman;
I've brought her up to music, dancing, what not,
That may commend her sex, and stir her husband.
Duke. And which is he now?
Guar. This young heir, my lord.
Duke. What is he brought up to?
Hip. To cat and trap.[1062] [Aside.
Guar. My lord, he’s a great ward, wealthy, but simple;
His parts consist in acres.
Duke. O, wise-acres.
Guar. You’ve spoke him in a word, sir.
Bian. ’Las, poor gentlewoman!
She’s ill-bestead, unless sh’as dealt the wiselier,
And laid in more provision for her youth;
Fools will not keep in summer.
Lean. No, nor such wives
From whores in winter. [Aside.
Duke. Yea, the voice too, sir?
Fab. Ay, and a sweet breast[1063] too, my lord, I hope,
Or I have cast away my money wisely;
She took her pricksong[1064] earlier, my lord,
Than any of her kindred ever did;
A rare child, though I say’t: but I'd not have
The baggage hear so much, ’twould make her swell straight,
And maids of all things must not be puff’d up.
Duke. Let’s turn us to a better banquet, then;
For music bids the soul of[1065] man to a feast,
And that’s indeed a noble entertainment,
Worthy Bianca’s self: you shall perceive, beauty,
Our Florentine damsels are not brought up idly.
Bian. They’re wiser of themselves it seems, my lord,
And can take gifts when goodness offers ’em.
Lean. True, and damnation has taught you that wisdom;
[Music.
You can take gifts too. O, that music mocks me!
[Aside.
Liv. I am as dumb to any language now
But love’s, as one that never learn’d to speak.
I am not yet so old but he may think of me;
My own fault, I've been idle a long time;
But I'll begin the week, and paint to-morrow,
So follow my true labour day by day;
I never thriv’d so well as when I us’d it. [Aside.
Isa. [sings]
What harder chance can fall to woman,
Who was born to cleave to some man,
Than to bestow her time, youth, beauty,
Life’s observance, honour, duty,
On a thing for no use good
But to make physic work, or blood
Force fresh in an old lady’s cheek?
She that would be
Mother of fools, let her compound with me.
Ward. Here’s a tune indeed! pish,
I had rather hear one ballad sung i' the nose now
Of the lamentable drowning of fat sheep and oxen,
Than all these simpering tunes play’d upon cat’s-guts,
And sung by little kitlings. [Aside.
Fab. How like you her breast now, my lord?
Bian. Her breast?
He talks as if his daughter had given suck
Before she were married, as her betters have;
The next he praises sure will be her nipples. [Aside.[1066]
Duke. Methinks now such a voice to such a husband
Is like a jewel of unvalu’d[1067] worth
Hung at a fool’s ear. [Aside to Bianca.
Fab. May it please your grace
To give her leave to shew another quality?
Duke. Marry, as many good ones as you will, sir;
The more the better welcome.
Lean. But the less
The better practis’d: that soul’s black indeed
That cannot commend virtue; but who keeps it?
Th' extortioner will say to a sick beggar,
Heaven comfort thee! though he give none himself;
This good is common. [Aside.
Fab. Will it please you now, sir,
To entreat your Ward to take her by the hand,
And lead her in a dance before the Duke?
Guar. That will I, sir; ’tis needful.—Hark you, nephew.
[Whispers Ward.
Fab. Nay, you shall see, young heir, what you’ve for your money,
Without fraud or imposture.
Ward. Dance with her?
Not I, sweet guardianer, do not urge my heart to’t,
’Tis clean against my blood; dance with a stranger?
Let who s' will do’t, I'll not begin first with her.
Hip. No, fear’t not, fool; sh’as took a better order. [Aside.
Guar. Why, who shall take her then?
Ward. Some other gentleman:
Look, there’s her uncle, a fine-timber’d reveller,
Perhaps he knows the manner of her dancing too;
I'll have him do’t before me—I've sworn, guardianer—
Then may I learn the better.
Guar. Thou’lt be an ass still!
Ward. Ay, all that, uncle, shall not fool me out:
Pish, I stick closer to myself than so.
Guar. I must entreat you, sir, to take your niece
And dance with her; my Ward’s a little wilful,
He’d have you shew him the way.
Hip. Me, sir? he shall
Command it at all hours; pray, tell him so.
Guar. I thank you for him; he has not wit himself, sir.
Hip. Come, my life’s peace.—I've a strange office on’t here:
’Tis some man’s luck to keep the joys he likes
Conceal’d for his own bosom, but my fortune
To set ’em out now for another’s liking;
Like the mad misery of necessitous man,
That parts from his good horse with many praises,
And goes on foot himself: need must be obey’d
In every action; it mars man and maid. [Aside.

[Music. Hippolito and Isabella dance, making obeisance to the Duke, and to each other, both before and after the dance.

Duke. Signor Fabricio, you’re a happy father;
Your cares and pains are fortunate you see,
Your cost bears noble fruits.—Hippolito, thanks.
Fab. Here’s some amends for all my charges yet;
She wins both prick and praise[1068] where’er she comes.
Duke. How lik’st, Bianca?
Bian. All things well, my lord,
But this poor gentlewoman’s fortune, that’s the worst.
Duke. There is no doubt, Bianca, she’ll find leisure
To make that good enough; he’s rich and simple.
Bian. She has the better hope o' th' upper hand, indeed,
Which women strive for most.
Guar. Do’t when I bid you, sir.
Ward. I'll venture but a hornpipe with her, guardianer,
Or some such married man’s dance.
Guar. Well, venture something, sir.
Ward. I have rhyme for what I do.
Guar. But little reason, I think.
Ward. Plain men dance the measures,[1069] the sinquapace,[1070] the gay;
Cuckolds dance the hornpipe, and farmers dance the hay;[1071]
Your soldiers dance the round,[1072] and maidens that grow big;
You[r] drunkards, the canaries;[1073] you[r] whore and bawd, the jig.
Here’s your eight kind of dancers; he that finds
The ninth let him pay the minstrels.
Duke. O, here he appears once in his own person;
I thought he would have married her by attorney,
And lain with her so too.
Bian. Nay, my kind lord,
There’s very seldom any found so foolish
To give away his part there.
Lean. Bitter scoff!
Yet I must do’t: with what a cruel pride
The glory of her sin strikes by my afflictions!
[Aside.

[The Ward and Isabella dance; he ridiculously imitating Hippolito.

Duke. This thing will make shift, sirs, to make a husband,
For aught I see in him.—How think’st, Bianca?
Bian. Faith, an ill-favour’d shift, my lord, methinks;
If he would take some voyage when he’s married,
Dangerous, or long enough, and scarce be seen
Once in nine year together, a wife then
Might make indifferent shift to be content with him.
Duke. A kiss [kisses her]; that wit deserves to be made much on.—
Come, our caroch!
Guar. Stands ready for your grace.
Duke. My thanks to all your loves.—Come, fair Bianca,
We have took special care of you, and provided
Your lodging near us now.
Bian. Your love is great, my lord.
Duke. Once more, our thanks to all.
Omnes. All blest honours guard you!

[Cornets flourishing, exeunt all but Leantio and Livia.

Lean. O hast thou left me then, Bianca, utterly?
Bianca, now I miss thee! O, return,
And save the faith of woman! I ne’er felt
The loss of thee till now; ’tis an affliction
Of greater weight than youth was made to bear;
As if a punishment of after-life
Were faln upon man here, so new it is
To flesh and blood, so strange, so insupportable;
A torment even mistook, as if a body
Whose death were drowning, must needs therefore suffer it
In scalding oil. [Aside.
Liv. Sweet sir——
Lean. As long as mine eye saw thee,
I half enjoy’d thee. [Aside.
Liv. Sir——
Lean. Canst thou forget
The dear pains my love took? how it has watch’d
Whole nights together, in all weathers, for thee,
Yet stood in heart more merry than the tempest
That sung about mine ears,—like dangerous flatterers,
That can set all their mischief to sweet tunes,—
And then receiv’d thee, from thy father’s window,
Into these arms at midnight; when we embrac’d
As if we had been statues only made for’t,
To shew art’s life, so silent were our comforts,
And kiss’d as if our lips had grown together?
[Aside.
Liv. This makes me madder to enjoy him now.
[Aside.
Lean. Canst thou forget all this, and better joys
That we met after this, which then new kisses
Took pride to praise? [Aside.
Liv. I shall grow madder yet. [Aside.]—Sir—
Lean. This cannot be but of some close bawd’s working.— [Aside.
Cry mercy, lady! what would you say to me?
My sorrow makes me so unmannerly,
So comfort bless me, I had quite forgot you.
Liv. Nothing, but even, in pity to that passion,[1074]
Would give your grief good counsel.
Lean. Marry, and welcome, lady;
It never could come better.
Liv. Then first, sir,
To make away all your good thoughts at once of her,
Know most assuredly she is a strumpet.
Lean. Ha! most assuredly? speak not a thing
So vild[1075] so certainly, leave it more doubtful.
Liv. Then I must leave all truth, and spare my knowledge
A sin which I too lately found and wept for.
Lean. Found you it?
Liv. Ay, with wet eyes.
Lean. O perjurious friendship!
Liv. You miss’d your fortunes when you met with her, sir.
Young gentlemen that only love for beauty,
They love not wisely; such a marriage rather
Proves the destruction of affection;
It brings on want, and want’s the key of whoredom.
I think y’had small means with her?
Lean. O, not any, lady.
Liv. Alas, poor gentleman! what meant’st thou, sir,
Quite to undo thyself with thine own kind heart?
Thou art too good and pitiful to woman:
Marry, sir, thank thy stars for this blest fortune,
That rids the summer of thy youth so well
From many beggars, that had lain a-sunning
In thy beams only else, till thou hadst wasted
The whole days of thy life in heat and labour.
What would you say now to a creature found
As pitiful to you, and, as it were,
Even sent on purpose from the whole sex general,
To requite all that kindness you have shewn to’t?
Lean. What’s that, madam?
Liv. Nay, a gentlewoman, and one able
To reward good things, ay, and bears a conscience to’t:
Couldst thou love such a one, that, blow all fortunes,
Would never see thee want?
Nay, more, maintain thee to thine enemy’s envy,
And shalt not spend a care for’t, stir a thought,
Nor break a sleep? unless love’s music wak’d thee,
No storm of fortune should: look upon me,
And know that woman.
Lean. O my life’s wealth, Bianca!
Liv. Still with her name? will nothing wear it out?