ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—A Hall in Hippolito’s House.
On one side enter Beraldo, Carolo, Fontinell, and Astolfo, with Serving-men, or Pages, attending on them; on the other side enter Lodovico.
Lod. Good day, gallants.
All. Good morrow, sweet Lodovico.
Lod. How dost thou, Carolo?
Car. Faith, as the physicians do in a plague, see the world sick, and am well myself.
Fon. Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.
Lod. Oh, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle,[231] Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet?
Ast. Yes, he will not be horsed this hour, sure.
Ber. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at court.
Car. Oh, we shall ride switch and spur; would we were there once.
Enter Bryan.
Lod. How now, is thy lord ready?
Bry. No, so crees sa’ me, my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first.
Car. Oh, then they’ll to breakfast.
Lod. Footman, does my lord ride i’th’ coach with my lady, or on horseback?
Bry. No, foot, la, my lady will have me lord sheet wid her, my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side. [Exit.
Lod. My lady sheet in de toder side! Did you ever hear a rascal talk so like a pagan? Is’t not strange that a fellow of his star, should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from a Christian?
Enter Antonio, with a book.
Ast. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange! why, the nation have running heads. [They walk up and down.
Lod. Nay, Carolo, this is more strange, I ha’ been in France, there’s few of them. Marry, England they count a warm chimney corner, and there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but sir, in England I have noted one thing.
Ast., Ber., &c. What’s that, what’s that of England?
Lod. Marry this, sir,—what’s he yonder?
Ber. A poor fellow would speak with my lord.
Lod. In England, sir,—troth, I ever laugh when I think on’t: to see a whole nation should be marked i’th’ forehead, as a man may say, with one iron: why, sir, there all costermongers are Irishmen.
Car. Oh, that’s to show their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother.
Ast., Ber., &c. Good, good! ha, ha!
Lod. Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers likewise be Irishmen? answer that now; come, your wit.
Car. Faith, that’s soon answered, for St. Patrick, you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing, if they cannot sweep the chimneys.
Ast., Ber., &c. Good again.
Lod. Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow, especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others,[232] and the knaves are very faithful where they love. By my faith, very proper men many of them, and as active as the clouds,—whirr, hah!
Ast., Ber., &c. Are they so?
Lod. And stout! exceeding stout; why, I warrant, this precious wild villain, if he were put to’t, would fight more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.[233]
Ast. The women, they say, are very fair.
Lod. No, no, our country buona-robas,[234] oh! are the sugarest, delicious rogues!
Ast. Oh, look, he has a feeling of them!
Lod. Not I, I protest. There’s a saying when they commend nations. It goes, the Irishman for his hand, the Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for a beard.
Fon. I’faith, they may make swabbers of them.
Lod. The Spaniard,—let me see,—for a little foot, I take it; the Frenchman,—what a pox hath he? and so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? come walk.
Ast. This Lodovico is a notable tongued fellow.
Fon. Discourses well.
Ber. And a very honest gentleman.
Ast. Oh! he’s well valued by my lord.
Enter Bellafront, with a petition.
Fon. How now, how now, what’s she?
Ber. Let’s make towards her.
Bell. Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come forth?
Ast. Would you speak with my lord?
Lod. How now, what’s this, a nurse’s bill? hath any here got thee with child and now will not keep it?
Bell. No, sir, my business is unto my lord.
Lod. He’s about his own wife’s now, he’ll hardly dispatch two causes in a morning.
Ast. No matter what he says, fair lady; he’s a knight, there’s no hold to be taken at his words.
Fon. My lord will pass this way presently.
Ber. A pretty, plump rogue.
Ast. A good lusty, bouncing baggage.
Ber. Do you know her?
Lod. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my table-book once; I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common than tobacco: this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore.
Ast., Ber., &c. Is this she?
Lod. This is the blackamoor that by washing was turned white: this is the birding-piece new scoured: this is she that, if any of her religion can be saved, was saved by my lord Hippolito.
Ast. She has been a goodly creature.
Lod. She has been! that’s the epitaph of all whores. I’m well acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband. Lord! what fortunes that man has overreached! She knows not me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon, suffered strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women are like medlars,—no sooner ripe but rotten:
A woman last was made, but is spent first.
Yet man is oft proved in performance worst.
Ast., Ber., &c. My lord is come.
Enter Hippolito, Infelice, and two Waiting-women.
Hip. We ha’ wasted half this morning. Morrow, Lodovico.
Lod. Morrow, madam.
Hip. Let’s away to horse.
Lod., Ast., &c. Ay, ay, to horse, to horse.
Bell. I do beseech your lordship, let your eye read o’er this wretched paper.
Hip. I’m in haste, pray thee, good woman, take some apter time.
Inf. Good woman, do.
Bell. Oh ’las! it does concern a poor man’s life.
Hip. Life! sweetheart?—Seat yourself, I’ll but read this and come.
Lod. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? if they be not yellow,[235] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband.
Inf. Oh sir, that cannot make me jealous.
[Exeunt all except Hippolito, Bellafront, and Antonio.
Hip. Your business, sir? to me?
Ant. Yes, my good lord.
Hip. Presently, sir.—Are you Matheo’s wife?
Bell. That most unfortunate woman.
Hip. I’m sorry these storms are fallen on him; I love Matheo,
And any good shall do him; he and I
Have sealed two bonds of friendship, which are strong
In me, however fortune does him wrong.
He speaks here he’s condemned. Is’t so?
Bell. Too true.
Hip. What was he whom he killed? Oh, his name’s here;
Old Giacomo, son to the Florentine;
Giacomo, a dog, that to meet profit,
Would to the very eyelids wade in blood
Of his own children. Tell Matheo,
The duke, my father, hardly shall deny
His signèd pardon; ’twas fair fight, yes,
If rumour’s tongue go true; so writes he here.—
To-morrow morning I return from court,
Pray be you here then.—I’ll have done, sir, straight:— [To Antonio.
But in troth say, are you Matheo’s wife?
You have forgot me.
Bell. No, my lord.
Hip. Your turner,
That made you smooth to run an even bias,
You know I loved you when your very soul
Was full of discord: art not a good wench still?
Bell. Umph, when I had lost my way to Heaven, you showed it:
I was new born that day.
Re-enter Lodovico.
Lod. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have not left your wench yet? When you get in once, you never have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come.
Hip. Ride softly on before, I’ll o’ertake you.
Lod. Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before, without ye.
Hip. Prithee, good Lodovico.
Lod. My lord, pray hasten.
Hip. I come. [Exit Lodovico.
To-morrow let me see you, fare you well;
Commend me to Matheo. Pray one word more:
Does not your father live about the court?
Bell. I think he does, but such rude spots of shame
Stick on my cheek, that he scarce knows my name.
Hip. Orlando Friscobaldo, is’t not?
Bell. Yes, my lord.
Hip. What does he for you?
Bell. All he should: when children
From duty start, parents from love may swerve;
He nothing does: for nothing I deserve.
Hip. Shall I join him unto you, and restore you to wonted grace?
Bell. It is impossible.
Hip. It shall be put to trial: fare you well. [Exit Bellafront.
The face I would not look on! Sure then ’twas rare,
When in despite of grief, ’tis still thus fair.
Now, sir, your business with me.
Ant. I am bold
T’express my love and duty to your lordship
In these few leaves.
Hip. A book!
Ant. Yes, my good lord.
Hip. Are you a scholar?
Ant. Yes, my lord, a poor one.
Hip. Sir, you honour me.
Kings may be scholars’ patrons, but, faith, tell me,
To how many hands besides hath this bird flown,
How many partners share with me?
Ant. Not one,
In troth, not one: your name I held more dear;
I’m not, my lord, of that low character.
Hip. Your name I pray?
Ant. Antonio Georgio.
Hip. Of Milan?
Ant. Yes, my lord.
Hip. I’ll borrow leave
To read you o’er, and then we’ll talk: till then
Drink up this gold; good wits should love good wine;
This of your loves, the earnest that of mine.— [Gives money.
Re-enter Bryan.
How now, sir, where’s your lady? not gone yet?
Bry. I fart di lady is run away from dee, a mighty deal of ground, she sent me back for dine own sweet face, I pray dee come, my lord, away, wu’t tow go now?
Hip. Is the coach gone? Saddle my horse, the sorrel.
Bry. A pox a’ de horse’s nose, he is a lousy rascally fellow, when I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts rumbled; di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest, an Irishman cannot abide a fart. But I have saddled de hobby-horse, di fine hobby is ready, I pray dee my good sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee?
Hip. Well, sir,—I pray let’s see you, master scholar.
Bry. Come, I pray dee, wu’t come, sweet face? Go. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace.
Enter Lodovico, Carolo, Astolfo, and Beraldo.
Lod. Godso’, gentlemen, what do we forget?
Car., Ast., Ber. What?
Lod. Are not we all enjoined as this day.—Thursday is’t not? Ay, as this day to be at the linen-draper’s house at dinner?
Car. Signor Candido, the patient man.
Ast. Afore Jove, true, upon this day he’s married.
Ber. I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares venture again to come about the eaves amongst bees.
Lod. Oh ’tis rare sucking a sweet honey comb! pray Heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance! The poor fiddlers’ instruments would crack for it, she’d tickle them. At any hand let’s try what mettle is in his new bride; if there be none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble citizen, I pity he should marry again; I’ll walk along, for it is a good old fellow.
Car. I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow twenty thousand ducats, that could but have the face to beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Milan might be bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is.
Lod. Oh, fie upon’t! ’twould undo all us that are courtiers, we should have no whoop! with the wenches then.
Enter Hippolito.
Car., Ast., Ber. My lord’s come.
Hip. How now, what news?
Car., Ast., Ber. None.
Lod. Your lady is with the duke, her father.
Hip. And we’ll to them both presently—
Enter Orlando Friscobaldo.
Who’s that!
Car., Ast., Ber. Signor Friscobaldo.
Hip. Friscobaldo, oh! pray call him, and leave me, we two have business.
Car. Ho Signor! Signor Friscobaldo! The Lord Hippolito. [Exeunt all but Hippolito and Friscobaldo.
Orl. My noble lord: my Lord Hippolito! the duke’s son! his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your honoured lordship! does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as Signor Orlando Friscobaldo! old mad Orlando!
Hip. Oh, sir, our friends! they ought to be unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued, being locked up, and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood, for all Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still.
Orl. Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down, and stripped bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? Though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green?
Hip. Scarce can I read the stories on your brow,
Which age hath writ there; you look youthful still.
Orl. I eat snakes,[236] my lord, I eat snakes.
My heart shall never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry “Hem,” with a clear voice.
Hip. You are the happier man, sir.
Orl. Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man; I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in the right colours, I’ll bestow it on your lordship.
Hip. I stay for it.
Orl. He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore,
He that at noon-day walks by a prison door,
He that i’th’ sun is neither beam nor mote,
He that’s not mad after a petticoat,
He for whom poor men’s curses dig no grave,
He that is neither lord’s nor lawyer’s slave,
He that makes this his sea, and that his shore,
He that in’s coffin is richer than before,
He that counts youth his sword, and age his staff,
He whose right hand carves his own epitaph,
He that upon his deathbed is a swan,
And dead, no crow—he is a happy man.
Hip. It’s very well; I thank you for this picture.
Orl. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt; sit neither at the duke’s side, nor lie at his feet. Wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, no man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a winding sheet: but like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me. I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in my age. I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go singing to my nest, why so! If a crow! throw me out for carrion, and pick out mine eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now! ha?
Hip. You may; would I were partner in your mirth.
Orl. I have a little, have all things. I have nothing; I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should not I be in my jocundare?
Hip. Is your wife then departed?
Orl. She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me. Here, she’s here: but before me, when a knave and a quean are married, they commonly walk like serjeants together: but a good couple are seldom parted.
Hip. You had a daughter too, sir, had you not?
Orl. O my lord! this old tree had one branch, and but one branch growing out of it. It was young, it was fair, it was straight; I pruned it daily, dressed it carefully, kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun, yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs; I hewed it down; what’s become of it, I neither know, nor care.
Hip. Then I can tell you what’s become of it;
That branch is withered.
Orl. So ’twas long ago.
Hip. Her name I think was Bellafront, she’s dead.
Orl. Ha? dead?
Hip. Yes; what of her was left, not worth the keeping,
Even in my sight was thrown into a grave.
Orl. Dead! my last and best peace go with her! I see Death’s a good trencherman, he can eat coarse homely meat, as well as the daintiest.
Hip. Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely?
Orl. O my lord! a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines; all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of hell, to be her props, that she may spread upon them. And when she’s ripe, every slave has a pull at her, then must she be pressed. The young beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge, yet to taste that liquorish wine, is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead?
Hip. She’s turned to earth.
Orl. Would she were turned to Heaven! Umph, is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols; no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave sleep all my shame, and her own; and all my sorrows, and all her sins!
Hip. I’m glad you’re wax, not marble; you are made
Of man’s best temper; there are now good hopes
That all these heaps of ice about your heart,
By which a father’s love was frozen up,
Are thawed in these sweet showers, fetched from your eyes;
We are ne’er like angels till our passion dies.
She is not dead, but lives under worse fate;
I think she’s poor; and more to clip her wings,
Her husband at this hour lies in the jail,
For killing of a man. To save his blood,
Join all your force with mine: mine shall be shown:
The getting of his life preserves your own.
Orl. In my daughter, you will say! does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is I have a handkercher to drink them up, soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor?
Hip. Trust me, I think she is.
Orl. Then she’s a right strumpet; I ne’er knew any of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have too many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools and knaves do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher: she is the gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket[237] within it, her money, her money.
Hip. I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom
Gives warmth to no such snakes. When did you see her?
Orl. Not seventeen summers.
Hip. Is your hate so old?
Orl. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.
Hip. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.
Orl. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world: I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste poison; I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic.
Hip. Nay, but Friscobaldo!—
Orl. I detest her, I defy[238] both, she’s not mine, she’s—
Hip. Hear her but speak.
Orl. I love no mermaids, I’ll not be caught with a quail-pipe.[239]
Hip. You’re now beyond all reason.
Orl. I am then a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and not dishonour my creation, than be a doting father, and like Time, be the destruction of mine own brood.
Hip. Is’t dotage to relieve your child, being poor?
Orl. Is’t fit for an old man to keep a whore?
Hip. ’Tis charity too.
Orl. ’Tis foolery; relieve her!
Were her cold limbs stretched out upon a bier,
I would not sell this dirt under my nails
To buy her an hour’s breath, nor give this hair,
Unless it were to choke her.
Hip. Fare you well, for I’ll trouble you no more.
Orl. And fare you well, sir. [Exit Hippolito.] Go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty. ’Las my girl! art thou poor? poverty dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between them; despair is one of hell’s catch-poles; and lest that devil arrest her, I’ll to her. Yet she shall not know me; she shall drink of my wealth, as beggars do of running water, freely, yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father see his child starve? That were hard; the pelican does it, and shall not I? Yes, I will victual the camp for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave there, her husband, will be hanged, I fear; I’ll keep his neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not know how.
Enter two Serving-men.
How now, knaves? whither wander you?
1st Ser. To seek your worship.
Orl. Stay, which of you has my purse? what money have you about you?
2nd Ser. Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.
Orl. Give it me.—[Takes purse.]—I think I have some gold about me; yes, it’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and get you home. Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet I’ll be so bold as to pull your coat over your ears.
[Orlando puts on the coat of 1st Serving-man, and gives him in exchange his cloak.
1st Ser. What do you mean to do, sir?
Orl. Hold thy tongue, knave, take thou my cloak. I hope I play not the paltry merchant in this bart’ring; bid the steward of my house sleep with open eyes in my absence, and to look to all things. Whatsoever I command by letters to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well?
2nd Ser. As if it were made for your worship.
Orl. You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear blue,[240] when your master is one of your fellows. Away! do not see me.
Both. This is excellent. [Exeunt Serving-men.
Orl. I should put on a worse suit, too; perhaps I will. My vizard is on; now to this masque. Say I should shave off this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter.
Well, I will spoil a good face for once.
My beard being off, how should I look? even like
A winter cuckoo, or unfeathered owl;
Yet better lose this hair, than lose her soul. [Exit.
SCENE III.—A Room in Candido’s House. Candido, the Bride and Guests discovered at dinner; Prentices waiting on them.
Enter Lodovico, Carolo, and Astolfo.
Cand. O gentlemen, so late, you are very welcome, pray sit down.
Lod. Carolo, did’st e’er see such a nest of caps?[241]
Ast. Methinks it’s a most civil and most comely sight.
Lod. What does he i’th’ middle look like?
Ast. Troth, like a spire steeple in a country village overpeering so many thatched houses.
Lod. It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers without pikes;[242] they sit for all the world like a pair of organs, and he’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.
Ast. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Cand. What’s that you laugh at, signors?
Lod. Troth, shall I tell you, and aloud I’ll tell it;
We laugh to see, yet laugh we not in scorn,
Amongst so many caps that long hat worn.
1st Guest. Mine is as tall a felt as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block[243] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair.
Cand. Indeed you’re good observers; it shows strange:
But gentlemen, I pray neither contemn,
Nor yet deride a civil ornament;
I could build so much in the round cap’s praise,
That ’bove this high roof, I this flat would raise.
Lod. Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do’t.
Cand. So all these guests will pardon me, I’ll do’t.
Guests. With all our hearts.
Cand. Thus, then, in the cap’s honour.
To every sex, and state, both nature, time,
The country’s laws, yea, and the very clime
Do allot distinct habits; the spruce courtier
Jets[244] up and down in silk: the warrior
Marches in buff, the clown plods on in gray:
But for these upper garments thus I say,
The seaman has his cap, pared without brim;
The gallant’s head is feathered, that fits him;
The soldier has his morion, women ha’ tires;
Beasts have their head-pieces, and men ha’ theirs.
Lod. Proceed.
Cand. Each degree has his fashion, it’s fit then,
One should be laid by for the citizen,
And that’s the cap which you see swells not high,
For caps are emblems of humility.
It is a citizen’s badge, and first was worn
By th’ Romans; for when any bondman’s turn
Came to be made a freeman, thus ’twas said,
He to the cap was called, that is, was made
Of Rome a freeman; but was first close shorn:
And so a citizen’s hair is still short worn.
Lod. That close shaving made barbers a company,
And now every citizen uses it.
Cand. Of geometric figures the most rare,
And perfect’st, are the circle and the square;
The city and the school much build upon
These figures, for both love proportion.
The city-cap is round, the scholar’s square,
To show that government and learning are
The perfect’st limbs i’ th’ body of a state:
For without them, all’s disproportionate.
If the cap had no honour, this might rear it,
The reverend fathers of the law do wear it.
It’s light for summer, and in cold it sits
Close to the skull, a warm house for the wits;
It shows the whole face boldly, ’tis not made
As if a man to look on’t were afraid,
Nor like a draper’s shop with broad dark shed,
For he’s no citizen that hides his head.
Flat caps as proper are to city gowns,
As to armours helmets, or to kings their crowns.
Let then the city-cap by none be scorned,
Since with it princes’ heads have been adorned.
If more the round cap’s honour you would know,
How would this long gown with this steeple[245] show?
All. Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly.
Cand. Pray, signor, pardon me, ’twas done in jest.
Bride. A cup of claret wine there.
1st Pren. Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride.
Car. You ha’ well set out the cap, sir.
Lod. Nay, that’s flat.
Cand. A health!
Lod. Since his cap’s round, that shall go round. Be bare,
For in the cap’s praise all of you have share.
[They bare their heads and drink. As 1st Prentice offers the wine to the Bride, she hits him on the lips, breaking the glass.
The bride’s at cuffs.
Cand. Oh, peace, I pray thee, thus far off I stand,
I spied the error of my servants;
She called for claret, and you filled out sack;
That cup give me, ’tis for an old man’s back,
And not for hers. Indeed, ’twas but mistaken;
Ask all these else.
Guests. No faith, ’twas but mistaken.
1st Pren. Nay, she took it right enough.
Cand. Good Luke, reach her that glass of claret.
Here mistress bride, pledge me there.
Bride. Now I’ll none. [Exit.
Cand. How now?
Lod. Look what your mistress ails.
1st Pren. Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,—a scurvy trick.
Cand. I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there tells me she is not well.
Guests. Step to her, step to her.
Lod. A word with you: do ye hear? This wench, your new wife, will take you down in your wedding shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding garters.
Cand. How, hang her in her garters?
Lod. Will you be a tame pigeon still? Shall your back be like a tortoise shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse, and mouse you worse: look to’t.
Cand. What would you have me do, sir?
Lod. What would I have you do? Swear, swagger, brawl, fling! for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already; you know, that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked. The moral of which is, that a man must, from his beginning be crooked to his wife; be you like an orange to her, let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me?
Cand. In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just.
Lod. Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me?
Cand. I have the very same which myself wore.
Lod. I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and within this two hour I’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs.
Cand. It will be but some jest, sir?
Lod. Only a jest: farewell, come, Carolo. [Exeunt Lodovico, Carolo, and Astolfo.
Guests. We’ll take our leaves, sir, too.
Cand. Pray conceit not ill
Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight,
Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic,
And he tells me, the disease called the mother,[246]
Hangs on my wife, it is a vehement heaving
And beating of the stomach, and that swelling
Did with the pain thereof cramp up her arm,
That hit his lips, and brake the glass,—no harm,
It was no harm!
Guests. No, signor, none at all.
Cand. The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance.
But come, we’ll close this brawl up in some dance. [Exeunt.
