SCENE V. A bed-room in the same.
[Enter a maid with a child in her arms, the mother by her a step.]
MAID.
Sleep, sweet babe; sorrow makes thy mother sleep:
It bodes small good when heaviness falls so deep.
Hush, pretty boy, thy hopes might have been better.
Tis lost at Dice what ancient honour won:
Hard when the father plays away the son!
No thing but misery serves in this house.
Ruin and desolation, oh!
[Enter husband with the boy bleeding.]
HUSBAND.
Whore, give me that boy.
[Strives with her for the child.]
MAID.
Oh help, help! out alas, murder, murder!
HUSBAND.
Are you gossiping, prating, sturdy queane?
I’ll break your clamor with your neck: down stairs!
Tumble, tumble, headlong!
[Throws her down.]
So!
The surest way to charm a womans tongue
Is break her neck: a politician did it.
SON.
Mother, mother; I am kild, mother.
WIFE WAKES.
Ha, whose that cried? oh me, my children!
Both, both, both; bloody, bloody.
[Catches up the youngest.]
HUSBAND.
Strumpet, let go the boy, let go the beggar.
WIFE.
Oh my sweet husband!
HUSBAND.
Filth, harlot.
WIFE.
Oh what will you do, dear husband?
HUSBAND.
Give me the bastard.
WIFE.
Your own sweet boy!
HUSBAND.
There are too many beggars.
WIFE.
Good my husband—
HUSBAND.
Doest thou prevent me still?
WIFE.
Oh god!
HUSBAND.
Have at his heart!
[Stabs at the child in her arms.]
WIFE.
Oh my dear boy!
[Gets it from her.]
HUSBAND.
Brat, thou shalt not live to shame thy house!
WIFE.
Oh heaven!
[She’s hurt and sinks down.]
HUSBAND.
And perish! now begone:
There’s whores enow, and want would make thee one.
[Enter a lusty servant.]
SERVANT.
Oh Sir, what deeds are these?
HUSBAND.
Base slave, my vassail:
Comst thou between my fury to question me?
SERVANT.
Were you the Devil, I would hold you, sir.
HUSBAND.
Hold me? presumption! I’ll undo thee for’t.
SERVANT.
Sblood, you have undone us all, sir.
HUSBAND.
Tug at thy master!
SERVANT.
Tug at a Monster.
HUSBAND.
Have I no power? shall my slave fetter me?
SERVANT.
Nay, then, the Devil wrestles, I am thrown.
HUSBAND.
Oh, villain, now I’ll tug thee,
[Overthrows him]
now I’ll tear thee;
Set quick spurs to my vassail, bruize him, trample him.
So! I think thou wilt not follow me in haste.
My horse stands ready saddled. Away, away;
Now to my brat at nurse, my suckling begger.
Fates, I’ll not leave you one to trample on.