Enter Guiamara, Constanza, Christiana, disguised as gipsies, and Cardochia.
Const. See, father, how I'm fitted: how do you like
This our new stock of clothes?
Alv. My sweet girl, excellent.—
See their old robes be safe.
Card. That, sir, I'll look to;
Whilst in my house you lie, what thief soever
Lays hands upon your goods, call but to me,
I'll make the
[207] satisfaction.
Alv. Thanks, good hostess!
Card. People already throng into the inn,
And call for you into their private rooms.
Alv. No chamber-comedies: hostess, ply you
your tide; flow let ’em to a full sea, but we’ll shew
no pastime till after dinner, and that in a full ring
of good people, the best, the noblest; no closet-sweetmeats,
pray tell ’em so.
Card. I shall. [Exit.
Alv. How old is Pretiosa?
Gui. Twelve and upwards.
Const. I am in my teens, assure you, mother;
as little as I am, I have been taken for an elephant;
castles and lordships offered to be set upon me, if
I would bear ’em: why, your smallest clocks are
the prettiest things to carry about gentlemen.
Gui. Nay, child, thou wilt be tempted.
Const. Tempted? though I am no mark in respect
of a huge butt, yet I can tell you great bubbers[208]
have shot at me, and shot golden arrows, but
I myself gave aim,[209] thus,—wide, four bows; short,
three and a half: they that crack me shall find me
as hard as a nut of Galicia; a parrot I am, but my
teeth too tender to crack a wanton’s almond.[210]
Alv. Thou art, my noble girl! a many dons
Will not believe but that thou art a boy
In woman’s
[211] clothes; and to try that conclusion,
[212]To see if thou be’st alcumy
[213] or no,
They’ll throw down gold in musses;
[214] but, Pretiosa,
Let these proud sakers
[215] and gerfalcons fly,
Do not thou move a wing; be to thyself
Thyself,
[216] and not a changeling.
Const. How? not a changeling?
Yes, father, I will play the changeling;
I'll change myself into a thousand shapes,
To court our brave spectators; I'll change my postures
Into a thousand different variations,
To draw even ladies' eyes to follow mine;
I'll change my voice into a thousand tones,
To chain attention: not a changeling, father?
None but myself
[217] shall play the changeling.
Alv. Do what thou wilt, Pretiosa.
[A knocking within.
Card. Here’s gentlemen swear all the oaths in
Spain they have seen you, must see you, and will
see you.
Alv. To drown this noise let ’em enter.
[Exit Cardochia.
San. Is your playhouse an inn, a gentleman cannot
see you without crumpling his taffeta cloak?
Soto. Nay, more than a gentleman, his man
being a diminutive don too.
San. Is this the little ape does the fine tricks?
Const. Come aloft,[218] Jack little ape!
San. Would my jack might come aloft! please
you to set the watermill with the ivory cogs[219] in’t
a-grinding my handful of purging comfits. [Offers comfits.
Soto. My master desires to have you loose from
your company.
Const. Am I a pigeon, think you, to be caught
with cummin-seeds?[220] a fly to glue my wings to
sweetmeats, and so be ta’en?
San. When do your gambols begin?
Alv. Not till we ha' dined.
San. ’Foot, then your bellies will be so full,
you’ll be able to do nothing.—Soto, prithee, set a
good face on’t, for I cannot, and give the little
monkey that letter.
Soto. Walk off and hum to yourself. [Sancho
retires.]—I dedicate, sweet Destiny, into whose
hand every Spaniard desires to put a distaff, these
lines of love. [Offering a paper to Constanza.
Gui. What love? what’s the matter?
Soto. Grave mother Bumby,[221] the mark’s out a'
your mouth.
Alv. What’s the paper? from whom comes it?
Soto. The commodity wrapped up in the paper
are verses; the warming-pan that puts heat into
'em, yon[222] fire-brained bastard of Helicon.
San. Hum, hum.[223]
Alv. What’s your master’s name?
Soto. His name is Don Tomazo Portacareco,
nuncle[224] to young Don Hortado de Mendonza,
cousin-german to the Conde de Tindilla, and natural
brother to Francisco de Bavadilla, one of the
commendadors of Alcantara, a gentleman of long
standing.
Alv. And of as long a style.[225]
Const. Verses? I love good ones; let me see ’em.
[Taking paper.
San. [advancing] Good ones? if they were not
good ones, they should not come from me; at the
name of verses I can stand on no ground.
Const. Here’s gold too! whose is this?
San. Whose but yours? If there be[226] any fault
in the verses, I can mend it extempore; for a stitch
in a man’s stocking not taken up in time, ravels
out all the rest.
Soto. Botcherly poetry, botcherly! [Aside.
Const. Verses and gold! these then are golden verses.
San. Had every verse a pearl in the eye, it
should be thine.
Const. A pearl in mine eye! I thank you for
that; do you wish me blind?[227]
San. Ay, by this light do I, that you may look
upon nobody’s rhymes[228] but mine.
Const. I should be blind indeed then.[229]
Alv. Pray, sir, read your verses.
San. Shall I sing ’em or say ’em?
Alv. Which you can best.
Soto. Both scurvily. [Aside.
San. I'll set out a throat then.
Soto. Do, master, and I'll run division behind
your back.[230]
San. [sings]
O that I were a bee, to sing
Hum, buz, buz, hum! I first would bring
Home honey to your hive, and there leave my sting.
Soto. [sings] He maunders.[231]
San. [sings]
O that I were a goose, to feed
At your barn-door! such corn I need,
Nor would I bite, but goslings breed.
Soto. [sings] And ganders.
San. [sings]
O that I were your needle’s eye!
How through your linen would I fly,
And never leave one stitch awry!
Soto. [sings] He’ll touse ye.
San. [sings]
O would I were one of your hairs,
That you might comb out all my cares,
And kill the nits of my despairs!
Soto. [sings] O lousy!
San. How? lousy? can rhymes be lousy?
Const. }
Car., &c.[232] } No, no, they’re excellent.
Alv. But are these all your own?
San. Mine own? would I might never see ink
drop out of the nose of any goose-quill more, if
velvet cloaks have not clapped me for ’em! Do
you like ’em?
Const. Past all compare;
They shall be writ out: when you’ve as good or better,
For these and those, pray, book me down your debtor:
Your paper is long-liv’d, having two souls,
Verses and gold.
San. Would both those were in thy[233] pretty little
body, sweet gipsy!
Const. A pistolet[234] and this paper? ’twould choke
me.
Soto. No more than a bribe does a constable:
the verses will easily into your head, then buy what
you like with the gold, and put it into your belly.
I hope I ha' chawed a good reason for you.
San. Will you chaw my jennet ready, sir?
Soto. And eat him down, if you say the word. [Exit.
San. Now the coxcomb my man is gone, because
you’re but a country company of strolls, I think
your stock is threadbare; here mend it with this
cloak.
[Giving his cloak.
Alv. What do you mean, sir?
San. This scarf, this feather, and this hat.
[Giving his scarf, &c.
Alv.
Car., &c.[235] bracket Dear signor!——
San. If they be never so dear:—pox o' this hot
ruff! little gipsy, wear thou that. [Giving his ruff.
Alv. Your meaning, sir?
San. My meaning is, not to be an ass, to carry
a burden when I need not. If you shew your gambols
forty leagues hence, I'll gallop to ’em.—Farewell,
old greybeard;—adieu, mother mumble-crust;—morrow,
my little wart of beauty. [Exit.
Another MS. addition.]
Enter behind John, muffled.
Alv. So, harvest will come in; such sunshine days
Will bring in golden sheaves, our markets raise:
Away to your task.
[Exeunt. Alvarez, Christiana, Carlo, and
Antonio; and as Guiamara and Constanza
are going out, John pulls the latter
back.
Const. Mother! grandmother!
John. Two rows of kindred in one mouth?
Gui. Be not uncivil, sir; thus have you used
her thrice.
John. Thrice? three thousand more: may I not
use mine own?
Const. Your own! by what tenure?
John. Cupid entails this land upon me; I have
wooed thee, thou art coy: by this air, I am a bull
of Tarifa, wild, mad for thee! you told[236] I was some
copper coin; I am a knight of Spain; Don Francisco
de Carcomo my father, I Don John his son;
this paper tells you more. [Gives paper.]—Grumble
not, old granam; here’s gold [gives money]; for I
must, by this white hand, marry this cherry-lipped,
sweet-mouthed villain.
Const. There’s a thing called quando.
John. Instantly.
Gui. Art thou so willing?
John. Peace, threescore and five!
Const. Marry me? eat a chicken ere it be out
o' th' shell? I'll wear no shackles; liberty is sweet;
that I have, that I'll hold. Marry me? can gold
and lead mix together? a diamond and a button of
crystal fit one ring? You are too high for me, I
am too low; you too great, I too little.
Gui. I pray, leave her, sir, and take your gold
again.
Const. Or if you doat, as you say, let me try you
do this.
John. Any thing; kill the great Turk, pluck
out the Mogul’s eye-teeth; in earnest, Pretiosa,
any thing!
Const. Your task[237] is soon set down; turn
gipsy[238] for two years, be one of us; if in that time
you mislike not me nor I you, here’s my hand:
farewell. [Exit.
Gui. There’s enough for your gold.—Witty
child!
[Aside, and exit.
John. Turn gipsy for two years? a capering trade;
And I in th' end may keep a dancing-school,
Having serv’d for it; gipsy I must turn.
O beauty, the sun’s fires cannot so burn! [Exit.
SCENE II.
A room in the house of Pedro.
Cla. I have offended; yet, O heaven, thou know’st
How much I have abhorr’d, even from my birth,
A thought that tended to immodest folly!
Yet I have fallen; thoughts with disgraces strive,
And thus I live, and thus I die alive.
Ped. Fie, Clara, thou dost court calamity too much.
Mar. Yes, girl, thou dost.
Ped. Why should we fret our eyes out with our tears,
Weary [heaven with
[239]] complaints? ’tis fruitless, childish
Impatience; for when mischief hath wound up
The full weight of the ravisher’s foul life
To an equal height of ripe iniquity,
The poise will, by degrees, sink down his soul
To a much lower, much more lasting ruin
Than our joint wrongs can challenge.
Mar.[240] Darkness itself
Will change night’s sable brow into a sunbeam
For a discovery; and be [thou] sure,
Whenever we can learn what monster ’twas
Hath robb’d thee of the jewel held so precious,
Our vengeance shall be noble.
Ped. Royal, any thing:
Till then let’s live securely; to proclaim
Our sadness were mere vanity.
Cla. ’A needs not;
I'll study to be merry.
Ped. We are punish’d,
Maria, justly; covetousness to match
Our daughter to that matchless piece of ignorance,
Our foolish ward, hath drawn this curse upon us.
Mar. I fear it has.
Ped. Off with this face of grief:
Here comes
[241] Don Louis.
Noble sir.
Louis. My lord,
I trust I have you[r] and your lady’s leave
T' exchange a word with your fair daughter.
Ped. Leave
And welcome.—Hark, Maria.—Your ear too.
Diego. Mine, my lord?
Louis. Dear Clara, I have often sued for love,
And now desire you would at last be pleas’d
To style me yours.
Cla. Mine eyes ne’er saw that gentleman
Whom I more nobly in my heart respected
Than I have you; yet you must, sir, excuse me,
If I resolve to use awhile that freedom
My younger days allow.
Louis. But shall I hope?
Cla. You will do injury to better fortunes,
To your own merit, greatness, and advancement,
Which I beseech you not to slack.
Louis. Then hear me;
If ever I embrace another choice,
Until I know you elsewhere match’d, may all
The chief of my desires find scorn and ruin!
Cla. O me!
Louis. Why sigh you, lady?
Cla. ’Deed, my lord,
I am not well.
Louis. Then all discourse is tedious;
I'll choose some fitter time; till when,
[242] fair Clara——
Cla. You shall not be unwelcome hither, sir;
That’s all that I dare promise.
Louis. Diego.
Diego. My lord?
Louis. What says Don Pedro?
Diego. He’ll go with you.
Louis. Leave us.— [Exit Diego.
Shall I, my lord, entreat your privacy?
Ped. Withdraw, Maria; we’ll follow presently.
[Exeunt. Maria and Clara.
Louis. The great corregidor, whose politic stream
Of popularity glides on the shore
Of every vulgar praise, hath often urg’d me
To be a suitor to his Catholic Majesty
For a repeal from banishment for him
Who slew my father; compliments in vows
And strange well-studied promises of friendship;
But what is new to me, still as he courts
Assistance for Alvarez, my grand enemy,
Still he protests how ignorant he is
Whether Alvarez be alive or dead.
To-morrow is the day we have appointed
For meeting, at the lord Francisco’s house,
The earl of Carcomo: now, my good lord,
The sum of my request is, you will please
To lend your presence there, and witness wherein
Our joint accord consists.
Ped. You shall command it.
Louis. But first, as you are noble, I beseech you
Help me with your advice what you conceive
Of great Fernando’s importunity,
Or whether you imagine that Alvarez
Survive or not?
Ped. It is a question, sir,
Beyond my resolution: I remember
The difference betwixt your noble father
And Conde de Alvarez; how it sprung
From a mere trifle first, a cast
[243] of hawks,
Whose made the swifter flight, whose could mount highest,
Lie longest on the wing: from change of words
Their controversy grew to blows, from blows
To parties, thence to faction; and, in short,
I well remember how our streets were frighted
With brawls, whose end was blood; till, when no friends
Could mediate their discords, by the king
A reconciliation was enforc’d,
Death threaten’d [to] the first occasioner
Of breach, besides the confiscation
Of lands and honours: yet at last they met
Again; again they drew to sides, renew’d
Their ancient quarrel; in which dismal uproar
Your father hand to hand fell by Alvarez:
Alvarez fled; and after him the doom
Of exile was se[n]t out: he, as report
Was bold to voice, retir’d himself to Rhodes;
His lands and honours by the king bestow’d
On you, but then an infant.
Louis. Ha, an infant?
Ped. His wife, the sister to the corregidor,
With a young daughter and some few that follow’d her,
By stealth were shipp’d for Rhodes, and by a storm
Shipwreck’d at sea: but for the banish’d Conde,
’Twas never yet known what became of him:
Here’s all I can inform you.
Louis. A repeal?
Yes, I will sue for’t, beg for’t, buy it, any thing
That may by possibility of friends
Or money, I'll attempt.
Ped. ’Tis a brave charity.
Louis. Alas, poor lady, I could mourn for her!
Her loss was usury more than I covet;
But for the man, I'd sell my patrimony
For his repeal, and run about the world
To find him out; there is no peace can dwell
About my father’s tomb, till I have sacrific’d
Some portion of revenge to his wrong’d ashes.
You will along with me?
Ped. You need not question it.
Louis. I have strange thoughts about me: two such furies
Revel amidst my joys as well may move
Distraction in a saint, vengeance and love.
I'll follow, sir.
Ped. Pray, lead the way, you know it.—
[Exit Louis.
Enter Sancho without his cloak, &c.,
[244] and Soto.
How[245] now? from whence come you, sir?
San. From flaying myself, sir.
Soto. From playing with fencers, sir; and they
have beat him out of his clothes, sir.
Ped. Cloak, band, rapier, all lost at dice?
San. Nor cards neither.
Soto. This was one of my master’s dog-days,
and he would not sweat too much.
San. It was mine own goose, and I laid the
giblets upon another coxcomb’s trencher: you are
my guardian, best beg me for a fool[246] now.
Soto. He that begs one begs t’other. [Aside.
Ped. Does any gentleman give away his things
thus?
San. Yes, and gentlewomen give away their
things too.
Soto. To gulls sometimes, and are cony-catched[247]
for their labour.
Ped. Wilt thou ever play the coxcomb?
San. If no other parts be given me, what would
you have me do?
Ped. Thy father was as brave a Spaniard
As ever spake the haut
[248] Castilian tongue.
San. Put me in clothes, I'll be as brave[249] as he.
Ped. This is the ninth time thou hast play’d the ass,
Flinging away thy trappings and thy cloth
[250]To cover others, and go nak’d thyself.
San. I'll make ’em up ten, because I'll be even
with you.
Ped. Once more your broken walls shall have new hangings.
Soto. To be well hung is all our desire.
Ped. And what course take you next?
San. What course? why, my man Soto and I
will go make some maps.
Ped. What maps?
Soto. Not such maps[251] as you wash houses with,
but maps of countries.
San. I have an uncle in Seville, I'll go see him;
an aunt in Siena in Italy, I['ll] go see her.
Soto. A cousin of mine in Rome, I['ll] go to him
with a mortar.[252]
San. There’s a courtesan in Venice, I'll go tickle
her.
Soto. Another in England, I'll go tackle her.
Ped. So, so! and where’s the money to do all
this?
San. If my woods,[253] being cut down, cannot fill
this pocket, cut ’em into trapsticks.
Soto. And if his acres, being sold for a marvedi[254]
a turf, for larks[255] in cages, cannot fill this pocket,
give ’em to gold-finders.
Ped. You’ll gallop both to the gallows; so fare you well. [Exit.
San. And be hanged you! new clothes, you’d
best.
Soto. Four cloaks, that you may give away three,
and keep one.
San. We’ll live as merrily as beggars; let’s both
turn gipsies.
Soto. By any means; if they cog,[256] we’ll lie, if
they toss, we’ll tumble.
San. Both in a belly, rather than fail.
Soto. Come then, we’ll be gipsified.
San. And tipsified too.
Soto. And we will shew such tricks and such rare gambols,
As shall put down the elephant and camels.
[257]
[Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE I.
Enter Roderigo disguised as an Italian.
Rod. A thousand stings are in me: O, what vild
[258] prisons
Make we our bodies to our immortal souls!
Brave tenants to bad houses; ’tis a dear rent
They pay for naughty lodging: the soul, the mistress;
The body, the caroch that carries her;
Sins the swift wheels that hurry her away;
Our will, the coachman rashly driving on,
Till coach and carriage both are quite o’erthrown.
My body yet ’scapes bruises; that known thief
Is not yet call’d to th' bar: there’s no true sense
Of pain but what the law of conscience
Condemns us to; I feel that. Who would lose
A kingdom for a cottage? an estate
Of perpetuity for a man’s life
For annuity of that life, pleasure? a spark
To those celestial fires that burn about
[259] us;
A painted star to that bright firmament
Of constellations which each night are set
Lighting our way; yet thither how few get!
How many thousand in Madrill
[260] drink off
The cup of lust, and laughing, in one month,
Not whining as I do! Should this sad lady
Now meet me, do I know her? should this temple,
By me profan’d, lie in the ruins here,
The pieces would scarce shew her me: would they did!
She’s mistress to Don Louis; by his steps,
And this disguise, I'll find her. To Salamanca
Thy father thinks thou’rt gone; no, close here stay;
Where’er thou travell’st, scorpions stop thy way.