ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—A Street in Milan.
Enter at one side a Funeral (a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheon and garlands hanging on the sides), attended by Gasparo Trebazzi, Duke of Milan, Castruchio, Sinezi, Pioratto, Fluello, and others. At the other side enter Hippolito, and Matheo labouring to hold him back.
Duke. Behold, yon comet shows his head again!
Twice hath he thus at cross-turns thrown on us
Prodigious[119] looks: twice hath he troubled
The waters of our eyes. See, he’s turned wild:—
Go on, in God’s name.
Cas., Sin. On afore there, ho!
Duke. Kinsmen and friends, take from your manly sides
Your weapons to keep back the desperate boy
From doing violence to the innocent dead.
Hip. I prithee, dear Matheo——
Matheo. Come you’re mad!
Hip. I do arrest thee, murderer! Set down.
Villains, set down that sorrow, ’tis all mine.
Duke. I do beseech you all, for my blood’s sake
Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath
Join in confederacy with your weapons’ points;
If he proceed to vex us, let your swords
Seek out his bowels: funeral grief loathes words.
Cas., Sin. Set on.
Hip. Set down the body!
Mat. O my lord!
You’re wrong! i’th’ open street? you see she’s dead.
Hip. I know she is not dead.
Duke. Frantic young man,
Wilt thou believe these gentlemen?—Pray speak—
Thou dost abuse my child, and mock’st the tears
That here are shed for her: if to behold
Those roses withered, that set out her cheeks:
That pair of stars that gave her body light,
Darkened and dim for ever; all those rivers
That fed her veins with warm and crimson streams
Frozen and dried up: if these be signs of death,
Then is she dead. Thou unreligious youth,
Art not ashamed to empty all these eyes
Of funeral tears, a debt due to the dead,
As mirth is to the living? Sham’st thou not
To have them stare on thee? hark, thou art cursed
Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak.
Hip. My lord——
Duke. What would’st thou have? Is she not dead?
Hip. Oh, you ha’ killed her by your cruelty!
Du. Admit I had, thou kill’st her now again;
And art more savage than a barbarous Moor.
Hip. Let me but kiss her pale and bloodless lip.
Duke. O fie, fie, fie.
Hip. Or if not touch her, let me look on her.
Mat. As you regard your honour——
Hip. Honour? smoke!
Mat. Or if you loved her living, spare her now.
Duke. Ay, well done, sir, you play the gentleman—
Steal hence;—’tis nobly done;—away;—I’ll join
My force to yours, to stop this violent torment—
Pass on.
[Exeunt with hearse, all except the Duke, Hippolito and Matheo.
Hip. Matheo, thou dost wound me more.
Mat. I give you physic, noble friend, not wounds.
Duke. O, well said, well done, a true gentleman!
Alack, I know the sea of lovers’ rage
Comes rushing with so strong a tide, it beats
And bears down all respects of life, of honour,
Of friends, of foes! Forget her, gallant youth.
Hip. Forget her?
Duke. Nay, nay, be but patient;
For why death’s hand hath sued a strict divorce
’Twixt her and thee: what’s beauty but a corse?
What but fair sand-dust are earth’s purest forms?
Queen’s bodies are but trunks to put in worms.
Mat. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [Exit Duke.] S’blood, the jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. [Aside]. My Lord Hippolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner?
Hip. Where is the body?
Mat. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be wormed.
Hip. I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn:
I’ll see how my love looks. [Matheo holds him back.
Mat. How your love looks? worse than a scare-crow.
Wrestle not with me: the great fellow gives the fall for a ducat.
Hip. I shall forget myself.
Mat. Pray, do so, leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their noses by nothing but twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much mettle in him, as is in a cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vexed thing: he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards: you’ll bleed three pottles of Alicant,[120] by this light, if you follow ’em, and then we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have surgeons roll thee up like a baby in swaddling clouts.
Hip. What day is to-day, Matheo?
Mat. Yea marry, this is an easy question: why to-day is—let me see—Thursday.
Hip. Oh! Thursday.
Mat. Here’s a coil for a dead commodity. ’Sfoot, women when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands.
Hip. She died on Monday then.
Mat. And that’s the most villanous day of all the week to die in: and she was well, and eat a mess of water-gruel on Monday morning.
Hip. Ay? it cannot be,
Such a bright taper should burn out so soon.
Mat. O yes, my lord. So soon? why, I ha’ known them, that at dinner have been as well, and had so much health, that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock have been found dead drunk.
Hip. On Thursday buried! and on Monday died!
Quick haste, byrlady;[121] sure her winding sheet
Was laid out ’fore her body; and the worms
That now must feast with her, were even bespoke,
And solemnly invited like strange guests.
Mat. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and, like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding.
Hip. Curst be that day for ever that robbed her
Of breath, and me, of bliss! henceforth let it stand
Within the wizard’s book (the calendar)
Marked with a marginal finger, to be chosen
By thieves, by villains, and black murderers,
As the best day for them to labour in.
If henceforth this adulterous bawdy world
Be got with child with treason, sacrilege,
Atheism, rapes, treacherous friendship, perjury,
Slander (the beggar’s sin), lies (sin of fools),
Or any other damned impieties,
On Monday let ’em be deliverèd:
I swear to thee, Matheo, by my soul,
Hereafter weekly on that day I’ll glue
Mine eye-lids down, because they shall not gaze
On any female cheek. And being locked up
In my close chamber, there I’ll meditate
On nothing but my Infelice’s end,
Or on a dead man’s skull draw out mine own.
Mat. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad: but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench.
Hip. If ever, whilst frail blood through my veins run,
On woman’s beams I throw affection,
Save her that’s dead: or that I loosely fly
To th’ shore of any other wafting eye,
Let me not prosper, Heaven! I will be true,
Even to her dust and ashes: could her tomb
Stand whilst I lived, so long that it might rot,
That should fall down, but she be ne’er forgot.
Mat. If you have this strange monster, honesty, in your belly, why so jig-makers[122] and chroniclers shall pick something out of you; but an I smell not you and a bawdy house out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as an English bag-pudding: I’ll follow your lordship, though it be to the place aforenamed. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Another Street.
Enter Fustigo in some fantastic Sea-suit, meeting a Porter.
Fus. How now, porter, will she come?
Por. If I may trust a woman, sir, she will come.
Fus. There’s for thy pains [Gives money]. Godamercy, if ever I stand in need of a wench that will come with a wet finger,[123] porter, thou shalt earn my money before any clarissimo[124] in Milan; yet, so God sa’ me, she’s mine own sister body and soul, as I am a Christian gentleman; farewell; I’ll ponder till she come: thou hast been no bawd in fetching this woman, I assure thee.
Por. No matter if I had, sir, better men than porters are bawds.
Fus. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But, porter, art sure thou went’st into a true house?
Por. I think so, for I met with no thieves.
Fus. Nay, but art sure it was my sister, Viola.
Por. I am sure, by all superscriptions, it was the party you ciphered.
Fus. Not very tall?
Por. Nor very low; a middling woman.
Fus. ’Twas she, ’faith, ’twas she, a pretty plump cheek, like mine?
Por. At a blush a little, very much like you.
Fus. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kicked up her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage, marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There’s a little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay [Gives money]; farewell, honest porter.
Por. I am in your debt, sir; God preserve you.
Fus. Not so, neither, good porter. [Exit Porter.] God’s lid, yonder she comes. [Enter Viola.] Sister Viola, I am glad to see you stirring: it’s news to have me here, is’t not, sister?
Vio. Yes, trust me; I wondered who should be so bold to send for me: you are welcome to Milan, brother.
Fus. Troth, sister, I heard you were married to a very rich chuff,[125] and I was very sorry for it, that I had no better clothes, and that made me send; for you know we Milaners love to strut upon Spanish leather. And how do all our friends?
Vio. Very well; you ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to sow your wild oats.
Fus. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and reaped two hundred ducats if I had ’em here. Marry, I must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till the ship come: by this hand, I’ll discharge at my day, by this hand.
Vio. These are your old oaths.
Fus. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand?
Vio. Well, well, you shall have them: put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter.
Fus. I’ll sweat like a horse if I like the matter.
Vio. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours?
Fus. I had not sailed a league in that great fishpond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall.
Vio. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true swaggerer.
Fus. Nay by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me.
Vio. Then lend me your ears.
Fus. Mine ears are yours, dear sister.
Vio. I am married to a man that has wealth enough, and wit enough.
Fus. A linen-draper, I was told, sister.
Vio. Very true, a grave citizen, I want nothing that a wife can wish from a husband: but here’s the spite, he has not all the things belonging to a man.
Fus. God’s my life, he’s a very mandrake,[126] or else (God bless us) one a’ these whiblins,[127] and that’s worse, and then all the children that he gets lawfully of your body, sister, are bastards by a statute.
Vio. O, you run over me too fast, brother; I have heard it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man. I am sure my husband is a man in print, for all things else save only in this, no tempest can move him.
Fus. ’Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should ha’ been moved, and moved again, for I’ll be sworn, la, our drunken ship reeled like a Dutchman.
Vio. No loss of goods can increase in him a wrinkle, no crabbed language make his countenance sour, the stubbornness of no servant shake him; he has no more gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant; musician will he never be, yet I find much music in him, but he loves no frets, and is so free from anger, that many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to anger their husbands: brother, mine can by no thunder, turn him into a sharpness.
Fus. Belike his blood, sister, is well brewed then.
Vio. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most affectionately; but I know not—I ha’ such a tickling within me—such a strange longing; nay, verily I do long.
Fus. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens; nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else. I ha’ read Albertus Magnus, and Aristotle’s Problems.
Vio. You’re wide a’ th’ bow hand[128] still, brother: my longings are not wanton, but wayward: I long to have my patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent, the bristling quills may stick about his lips like a Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me: I shall be leaner the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad.
Fus. ’Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make him a cuckold.
Vio. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness.
Fus. The honester citizen he; then make him drunk and cut off his beard.
Vio. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to fret at the loss of a little scald[129] hair. No, brother, thus it shall be—you must be secret.
Fus. As your mid-wife, I protest, sister, or a barber-surgeon.
Vio. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s Street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave man: instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck.
Fus. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too, sister.
Vio. O, by any means, to show your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer.
Fus. Nay, for swaggering points let me alone.
Vio. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s presence, kiss me, snatch rings, jewels, or any thing, so you give it back again, brother, in secret.
Fus. By this hand, sister.
Vio. Swear as if you came but new from knighting.
Fus. Nay, I’ll swear after four-hundred a year.
Vio. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among fresh-water soldiers, call me your love, your ingle,[130] your cousin, or so; but sister at no hand.
Fus. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that’s the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their mad-caps that man ’em to the garden; to call you one a’ mine aunts’[131] sister, were as good as call you arrant whore; no, no, let me alone to cousin you rarely.
Vio. H’as heard I have a brother, but never saw him, therefore put on a good face.
Fus. The best in Milan, I warrant.
Vio. Take up wares, but pay nothing, rifle my bosom, my pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice with; but, brother, you must give all back again in secret.
Fus. By this welkin that here roars I will, or else let me never know what a secret is: why, sister, do you think I’ll cony-catch[132] you, when you are my cousin? God’s my life, then I were a stark ass. If I fret not his guts, beg me for a fool.[133]
Vio. Be circumspect, and do so then. Farewell.
Fus. The Tortoise, sister! I’ll stay there; forty ducats.
Vio. Thither I’ll send.—[Exit Fustigo.]—This law can none deny,
Women must have their longings, or they die. [Exit.
SCENE III.—A Chamber in the Duke’s Palace.
Enter the Duke, Doctor Benedict, and two Servants.
Duke. Give charge that none do enter, lock the doors— [Speaking as he enters.
And fellows, what your eyes and ears receive,
Upon your lives trust not the gadding air
To carry the least part of it. The glass, the hour-glass!
Doct. Here, my lord. [Brings hour-glass.
Duke. Ah, ’tis near spent!
But, Doctor Benedict, does your art speak truth?
Art sure the soporiferous stream will ebb,
And leave the crystal banks of her white body
Pure as they were at first, just at the hour?
Doct. Just at the hour, my lord.
Duke. Uncurtain her:
[A curtain is drawn back and Infelice discovered lying on a couch.
Softly!—See, doctor, what a coldish heat
Spreads over all her body!
Doct. Now it works:
The vital spirits that by a sleepy charm
Were bound up fast, and threw an icy rust
On her exterior parts, now ’gin to break;
Trouble her not, my lord.
Duke. Some stools! [Servants set stools.] You called
For music, did you not? Oh ho, it speaks, [Music.
It speaks! Watch, sirs, her waking, note those sands.
Doctor, sit down: A dukedom that should weigh
Mine own down twice, being put into one scale,
And that fond[134] desperate boy, Hippolito,
Making the weight up, should not at my hands
Buy her i’th’other, were her state more light
Than her’s, who makes a dowry up with alms.
Doctor, I’ll starve her on the Apennine
Ere he shall marry her. I must confess,
Hippolito is nobly born; a man—
Did not mine enemies’ blood boil in his veins—
Whom I would court to be my son-in-law;
But princes, whose high spleens for empery swell,
Are not with easy art made parallel.
Servants. She wakes, my lord.
Duke. Look, Doctor Benedict—
I charge you on your lives, maintain for truth,
What e’er the doctor or myself aver,
For you shall bear her hence to Bergamo.
Inf. O God, what fearful dreams! [Wakening.
Doct. Lady.
Inf. Ha!
Duke. Girl.
Why, Infelice, how is’t now, ha, speak?
Inf. I’m well—what makes this doctor here?—I’m well.
Duke. Thou wert not so even now, sickness’ pale hand
Laid hold on thee even in the midst of feasting;
And when a cup crowned with thy lover’s health
Had touched thy lips, a sensible cold dew
Stood on thy cheeks, as if that death had wept
To see such beauty alter.
Inf. I remember
I sate at banquet, but felt no such change.
Duke. Thou hast forgot, then, how a messenger
Came wildly in, with this unsavory news,
That he was dead?
Inf. What messenger? who’s dead?
Duke. Hippolito. Alack! wring not thy hands.
Inf. I saw no messenger, heard no such news.
Doct. Trust me you did, sweet lady.
Duke. La, you now!
1st Ser. Yes, indeed, madam.
Duke. La, you now.—’Tis well, good knaves!
Inf. You ha’ slain him, and now you’ll murder me.
Duke. Good Infelice, vex not thus thyself,
Of this the bad report before did strike
So coldly to thy heart, that the swift currents
Of life were all frozen up——
Inf. It is untrue,
’Tis most untrue, O most unnatural father!
Duke. And we had much to do by art’s best cunning,
To fetch life back again.
Doct. Most certain, lady.
Duke. Why, la, you now, you’ll not believe me. Friends,
Swear we not all? had we not much to do?
Servants. Yes, indeed, my lord, much.
Duke. Death drew such fearful pictures in thy face,
That were Hippolito alive again,
I’d kneel and woo the noble gentleman
To be thy husband: now I sore repent
My sharpness to him, and his family;
Nay, do not weep for him; we all must die—
Doctor, this place where she so oft hath seen
His lively presence, hurts her, does it not?
Doct. Doubtless, my lord, it does.
Duke. It does, it does:
Therefore, sweet girl, thou shalt to Bergamo.
Inf. Even where you will; in any place there’s woe.
Duke. A coach is ready, Bergamo doth stand
In a most wholesome air, sweet walks; there’s deer,
Ay, thou shalt hunt and send us venison,
Which like some goddess in the Cyprian groves,
Thine own fair hand shall strike;—Sirs, you shall teach her
To stand, and how to shoot; ay, she shall hunt:
Cast off this sorrow. In, girl, and prepare
This night to ride away to Bergamo.
Inf. O most unhappy maid! [Exit.
Duke. Follow her close.
No words that she was buried, on your lives!
Or that her ghost walks now after she’s dead;
I’ll hang you if you name a funeral.
1st Ser. I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that deadly word.
2nd Ser. And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than Greek.
Duke. Away, look to her.—[Exeunt Servants.]—Doctor Benedict,
Did you observe how her complexion altered
Upon his name and death? Oh, would t’were true.
Doct. It may, my lord.
Duke. May! how? I wish his death.
Doct. And you may have your wish; say but the word,
And ’tis a strong spell to rip up his grave:
I have good knowledge with Hippolito;
He calls me friend, I’ll creep into his bosom,
And sting him there to death; poison can do’t.
Duke. Perform it; I’ll create thee half mine heir.
Doct. It shall be done, although the fact be foul.
Duke. Greatness hides sin, the guilt upon my soul! [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—A Street.
Enter Castruchio, Pioratto, and Fluello.
Cas. Signor Pioratto, Signor Fluello, shall’s be merry? shall’s play the wags now?
Flu. Ay, any thing that may beget the child of laughter.
Cas. Truth, I have a pretty sportive conceit new crept into my brain, will move excellent mirth.
Pio. Let’s ha’t, let’s ha’t; and where shall the scene of mirth lie?
Cas. At Signor Candido’s house, the patient man, nay, the monstrous patient man; they say his blood is immoveable, that he has taken all patience from a man, and all constancy from a woman.
Flu. That makes so many whores now-a-days.
Cas. Ay, and so many knaves too.
Pio. Well, sir.
Cas. To conclude, the report goes, he’s so mild, so affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can move him: now do but think what sport it will be to make this fellow, the mirror of patience, as angry, as vexed, and as mad as an English cuckold.
Flu. O, ’twere admirable mirth, that: but how will’t be done, signor?
Cas. Let me alone, I have a trick, a conceit, a thing, a device will sting him i’faith, if he have but a thimbleful of blood in’s belly, or a spleen not so big as a tavern token.
Pio. Thou stir him? thou move him? thou anger him? alas, I know his approved temper: thou vex him? why he has a patience above man’s injuries: thou may’st sooner raise a spleen in an angel, than rough humour in him. Why I’ll give you instance for it. This wonderfully tempered Signor Candido upon a time invited home to his house certain Neapolitan lords, of curious taste, and no mean palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves,[135] to prepare cheer fitting for such honourable trencher-men. She—just of a woman’s nature, covetous to try the uttermost of vexation, and thinking at last to get the start of his humour—willingly neglected the preparation, and became unfurnished, not only of dainty, but of ordinary dishes. He, according to the mildness of his breast, entertained the lords, and with courtly discourse beguiled the time, as much as a citizen might do. To conclude, they were hungry lords, for there came no meat in; their stomachs were plainly gulled, and their teeth deluded, and, if anger could have seized a man, there was matter enough i’faith to vex any citizen in the world, if he were not too much made a fool by his wife.
Flu. Ay, I’ll swear for’t: ’sfoot, had it been my case, I should ha’ played mad tricks with my wife and family: first, I would ha’ spitted the men, stewed the maids, and baked the mistress, and so served them in.
Pio. Why ’twould ha’ tempted any blood but his,
And thou to vex him? thou to anger him
With some poor shallow jest?
Cas. ’Sblood, Signor Pioratto, you that disparage my conceit, I’ll wage a hundred ducats upon the head on’t, that it moves him, frets him, and galls him.
Pio. Done, ’tis a lay,[136] join golls[137] on’t: witness Signor Fluello.
Cas. Witness: ’tis done:
Come, follow me: the house is not far off,
I’ll thrust him from his humour, vex his breast,
And win a hundred ducats by one jest. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.—Candido’s Shop.
George and two Prentices discovered: enter Viola.
Vio. Come, you put up your wares in good order here, do you not, think you? one piece cast this way, another that way! you had need have a patient master indeed.
Geo. Ay. I’ll be sworn, for we have a curst mistress. [Aside.
Vio. You mumble, do you? mumble? I would your master or I could be a note more angry! for two patient folks in a house spoil all the servants that ever shall come under them.
1st Pren. You patient! ay, so is the devil when he is horn-mad. [Aside.
Enter Castruchio, Fluello, and Pioratto.
Geo. Gentlemen, what do you lack?[138]
1st Pren. What is’t you buy?
2nd Pren. See fine hollands, fine cambrics, fine lawns.
Geo. What is’t you lack?
2nd Pren. What is’t you buy?
Cas. Where’s Signor Candido, thy master?
Geo. Faith, signor, he’s a little negotiated, he’ll appear presently.
Cas. Fellow, let’s see a lawn, a choice one, sirrah.
Geo. The best in all Milan, gentlemen, and this is the piece. I can fit you gentlemen with fine calicoes too for doublets, the only sweet fashion now, most delicate and courtly, a meek gentle calico, cut upon two double affable taffetas,—ah, most neat, feat, and unmatchable!
Flu. A notable voluble-tongued villain.
Pio. I warrant this fellow was never begot without much prating.
Cas. What, and is this she, sayest thou?
Geo. Ay, and the purest she that ever you fingered since you were a gentleman: look how even she is, look how clean she is, ha! as even as the brow of Cynthia, and as clean as your sons and heirs when they ha’ spent all.
Cas. Pooh, thou talkest—pox on’t, ’tis rough.
Geo. How? is she rough? but if you bid pox on’t, sir, ’twill take away the roughness presently.
Flu. Ha, signor; has he fitted your French curse?
Geo. Look you, gentlemen, here’s another, compare them I pray, compara Virgilium cum Homero, compare virgins with harlots.
Cas. Pooh, I ha’ seen better, and as you term them, evener and cleaner.
Geo. You may see further for your mind, but trust me, you shall not find better for your body.
Enter Candido.
Cas. O here he comes, let’s make as though we pass. Come, come, we’ll try in some other shop.
Cand. How now? what’s the matter?
Geo. The gentlemen find fault with this lawn, fall out with it, and without a cause too.
Cand. Without a cause?
And that makes you to let ’em pass away:
Ah, may I crave a word with you gentlemen?
Flu. He calls us.
Cas. —Makes the better for the jest.
Cand. I pray come near, you’re very welcome, gallants.
Pray pardon my man’s rudeness, for I fear me
H’as talked above a prentice with you. Lawns! [Showing lawns.
Look you, kind gentlemen, this—no—ay—this:
Take this upon my honest-dealing faith,
To be a true weave, not too hard, nor slack,
But e’en as far from falsehood as from black.
Cas. Well, how do you rate it?
Cand. Very conscionably, eighteen shillings a yard.
Cas. That’s too dear: how many yards does the whole piece contain, think you?
Cand. Why, some seventeen yards, I think, or thereabouts.
How much would serve your turn, I pray?
Cas. Why, let me see—would it were better too!
Cand. Truth, tis the best in Milan at few words.
Cas. Well: let me have then—a whole penny-worth.
Cand. Ha, ha! you’re a merry gentleman.
Cas. A penn’orth I say.
Cand. Of lawn!
Cas. Of lawn? Ay, of lawn, a penn’orth. ’Sblood, dost not hear? a whole penn’orth, are you deaf?
Cand. Deaf? no, sir: but I must tell you,
Our wares do seldom meet such customers.
Cas. Nay, an you and your lawns be so squeamish, fare you well.
Cand. Pray stay; a word, pray, signor: for what purpose is it, I beseech you?
Cas. ’Sblood, what’s that to you: I’ll have a penny-worth.
Cand. A penny-worth! why you shall: I’ll serve you presently.
2nd Pren. ’Sfoot, a penny-worth, mistress!
Vio. A penny-worth! call you these gentlemen?
Cas. No, no: not there.
Cand. What then, kind gentlemen, what at this corner here?
Cas. No, nor there neither;
I’ll have it just in the middle, or else not.
Cand. Just in the middle!—ha—you shall too: what,—
Have you a single penny?
Cas. Yes, here’s one.
Cand. Lend it me, I pray.
Flu. An excellent followed jest!
Vio. What will he spoil the lawn now?
Cand. Patience, good wife.
Vio. Ay, that patience makes a fool of you.—Gentlemen, you might ha’ found some other citizen to have made a kind gull on, besides my husband.
Cand. Pray, gentlemen, take her to be a woman;
Do not regard her language.—O kind soul:
Such words will drive away my customers.
Vio. Customers with a murrain! call you these customers?
Cand. Patience, good wife.
Vio. Pox a’ your patience.
Geo. ’Sfoot, mistress, I warrant these are some cheating companions.
Cand. Look you, gentlemen, there’s your ware, I thank you, I have your money here; pray know my shop, pray let me have your custom.
Vio. Custom quoth’a.
Cand. Let me take more of your money.
Vio. You had need so.
Pio. Hark in thine ear, thou’st lost an hundred ducats.
Cas. Well, well, I know’t: is’t possible that homo
Should be nor man, nor woman: not once moved;
No not at such an injury, not at all!
Sure he’s a pigeon, for he has no gall.
Flu. Come, come, you’re angry though you smother it:
You’re vexed i’faith; confess.
Cand. Why, gentlemen,
Should you conceit me to be vexed or moved?
He has my ware, I have his money for’t,
And that’s no argument I’m angry: no:
The best logician cannot prove me so.
Flu. Oh, but the hateful name of a penn’orth of lawn,
And then cut out i’th middle of the piece:
Pah, I guess it by myself, ’twould move a lamb
Were he a linen-draper, ’twould, i’faith.
Cand. Well, give me leave to answer you for that:
We are set here to please all customers,
Their humours and their fancies;—offend none:
We get by many, if we lose by one.
May be his mind stood to no more than that,
A penn’orth serves him, and ’mongst trades ’tis found,
Deny a penn’orth, it may cross a pound.
Oh, he that means to thrive, with patient eye
Must please the devil if he come to buy!
Flu. O wondrous man, patient ’bove wrong or woe,
How blessed were men, if women could be so!
Cand. And to express how well my breast is pleased,
And satisfied in all:—George fill a beaker. [Exit George.
I’ll drink unto that gentleman, who lately
Bestowed his money with me.
Vio. God’s my life,
We shall have all our gains drunk out in beakers,
To make amends for pennyworths of lawn!
Re-enter George with beaker.
Cand. Here wife, begin you to the gentleman.
Vio. I begin to him! [Spills the wine.
Cand. George, fill’t up again:
’Twas my fault, my hand shook. [Exit George.
Pio. How strangely this doth show!
A patient man linked with a waspish shrew.
Flu. A silver and gilt beaker: I’ve a trick
To work upon that beaker, sure ’twill fret him;
It cannot choose but vex him. [Aside.] Signor Castruchio,
In pity to thee I have a conceit,
Will save thy hundred ducats yet; ’twill do’t,
And work him to impatience.
Cas. Sweet Fluello, I should be bountiful to that conceit.
Flu. Well, ’tis enough.
Re-enter George with beaker.
Cand. Here gentlemen to you,
I wish your custom, you are exceeding welcome. [Drinks.
Cas. I pledge you, Signor Candido—[Drinks.]—here you that must receive a hundred ducats.
Pio. I’ll pledge them deep, i’faith, Castruchio.—Signor Fluello. [Drinks.
Flu. Come: play’t off to me;
I am your last man.
Cand. George supply the cup. [Exit George who returns with beaker filled.
Flu. So, so, good honest George,—
Here Signor Candido, all this to you.
Cand. O, you must pardon me, I use it not.
Flu. Will you not pledge me then?
Cand. Yes, but not that:
Great love is shown in little.
Flu. Blurt[139] on your sentences!
’Sfoot, you shall pledge me all.
Cand. Indeed I shall not.
Flu. Not pledge me? ’Sblood, I’ll carry away the beaker then.
Cand. The beaker? Oh! that at your pleasure, sir.
Flu. Now by this drink I will. [Drinks.
Cas. Pledge him, he’ll do’t else.
Flu. So: I ha’ done you right on my thumb-nail,
What, will you pledge me now?
Cand. You know me, sir, I am not of that sin.
Flu. Why then farewell:
I’ll bear away the beaker by this light.
Cand. That’s as you please; ’tis very good.
Flu. Nay, it doth please me, and as you say, ’tis a very good one. Farewell Signor Candido.
Pio. Farewell Candido.
Cand. You’re welcome gentlemen.
Cas. Art not moved yet?
I think his patience is above our wit.
[Exeunt Castruchio, Fluello carrying off the beaker, and Pioratto.
Geo. I told you before, mistress, they were all cheaters.
Vio. Why fool! why husband! why madman! I hope you will not let ’em sneak away so with a silver and gilt beaker, the best in the house too.—Go, fellows, make hue and cry after them.
Cand. Pray let your tongue lie still, all will be well.—
Come hither, George, hie to the constable,
And in calm order wish him to attach them;
Make no great stir, because they’re gentlemen,
And a thing partly done in merriment.
’Tis but a size above a jest thou knowest,
Therefore pursue it mildly. Go begone,
The constable’s hard by, bring him along,—make haste again. [Exit George.
Vio. O you’re a goodly patient woodcock,[140] are you not now? See what your patience comes to: every one saddles you, and rides you; you’ll be shortly the common stone-horse of Milan: a woman’s well holped up with such a meacock[141]; I had rather have a husband that would swaddle[142] me thrice a day, than such a one, that will be gulled twice in half-an-hour: Oh, I could burn all the wares in my shop for anger.
Cand. Pray wear a peaceful temper; be my wife,
That is, be patient; for a wife and husband
Share but one soul between them: this being known,
Why should not one soul then agree in one?
Vio. Hang your agreements! but if my beaker be gone.— [Exit.
Re-enter Castruchio, Fluello, Pioratto, and George.
Cand. Oh, here they come.
Geo. The constable, sir, let ’em come along with me, because there should be no wondering: he stays at door.
Cas. Constable, Goodman Abra’m.[143]
Flu. Now Signor Candido, ’sblood why do you attach us?
Cas. ’Sheart! attach us!
Cand. Nay swear not, gallants,
Your oaths may move your souls, but not move me;
You have a silver beaker of my wife’s.
Flu. You say not true: ’tis gilt.
Cand. Then you say true;
And being gilt, the guilt lies more on you.
Cas. I hope y’are not angry, sir.
Cand. Then you hope right; for I’m not angry.
Flu. No, but a little moved.
Cand. I moved! ’twas you were moved, you were brought hither.
Cas. But you, out of your anger and impatience,
Caused us to be attached.
Cand. Nay, you misplace it:
Out of my quiet sufferance I did that,
And not of any wrath. Had I shown anger,
I should have then pursued you with the law,
And hunted you to shame, as many worldlings
Do build their anger upon feebler grounds;
The more’s the pity; many lose their lives
For scarce so much coin as will hide their palm:
Which is most cruel; those have vexèd spirits
That pursue lives; in this opinion rest,
The loss of millions could not move my breast.
Flu. Thou art a blest man, and with peace dost deal,
Such a meek spirit can bless a commonweal.
Cand. Gentlemen, now ’tis upon eating-time,
Pray part not hence, but dine with me to-day.
Cas. I never heard a carter yet say nay
To such a motion. I’ll not be the first.
Pio. Nor I.
Flu. Nor I.
Cand. The constable shall bear you company.
George, call him in: let the world say what it can,
Nothing can drive me from a patient man. [Exeunt.
