ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.—A Chamber in Hippolito’s House.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. So, this is Monday morning, and now must I to my huswifery.—[Sets out a table, on which he places a skull, a picture of Infelice, a book, and a taper.]—Would I had been created a shoemaker, for all the gentle-craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me into a student, for here’s my book, here my desk, here my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowzy first day of the week, makes me half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back is turned, will be naught together.
Enter Hippolito.
Hip. Are all the windows shut?
Ser. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns.
Hip. Thou art a faithful servant, and observ’st
The calendar, both of my solemn vows,
And ceremonious sorrow. Get thee gone;
I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound
Of any woman’s voice pierce through that door.
Ser. If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them;
What will your lordship have to breakfast?
Hip. Sighs.
Ser. What to dinner?
Hip. Tears.
Ser. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?
Hip. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy of a woman.
Ser. Indeed that’s harder to come by than ever was Ostend.[194]
Hip. Prithee, away.
Ser. I’ll make away myself presently, which few servants will do for their lords; but rather help to make them away: Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something out of it. [Aside and exit.
Hip. [Taking up Infelice’s picture.] My Infelice’s face, her brow, her eye,
The dimple on her cheek! and such sweet skill,
Hath from the cunning workman’s pencil flown,
These lips look fresh and lively as her own,
Seeming to move and speak. ’Las! now I see,
The reason why fond[195] women love to buy
Adulterate complexion! Here ’tis read:
False colours last after the true be dead.
Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,
Of all the music set upon her tongue,
Of all that was past woman’s excellence,
In her white bosom,—look! a painted board
Circumscribes all: Earth can no bliss afford,
Nothing of her but this. This cannot speak,
It has no lap for me to rest upon,
No lip worth tasting: here the worms will feed,
As in her coffin: hence, then, idle art!
True love’s best pictured in a true-love’s heart:
Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead;
So that thou liv’st twice, twice art burièd:
Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What’s here? [Takes up the skull.
Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy’s:
’Las! say it were: I need not fear him now!
For all his braves, his contumelious breath,
His frowns, though dagger-pointed, all his plots,
Though ne’er so mischievous, his Italian pills,
His quarrels, and that common fence, his law,
See, see, they’re all eaten out! here’s not left one:
How clean they’re picked away to the bare bone!
How mad are mortals, then, to rear great names
On tops of swelling houses! or to wear out
Their fingers’ ends in dirt, to scrape up gold!
Not caring, so that sumpter-horse, the back,
Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse—
Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul:
Yet, after all, their gayness looks thus foul.
What fools are men to build a garish tomb,
Only to save the carcase whilst it rots,
To maintain’t long in stinking, make good carrion,
But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound!
For good deeds keep men sweet, long above ground.
And must all come to this? fools, wife, all hither?
Must all heads thus at last be laid together?
Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman,
After this fashion, not like this; these colours,
In time, kissing but air, will be kissed off:
But here’s a fellow; that which he lays on
Till doomsday alters not complexion:
Death’s the best painter then: They that draw shapes,
And live by wicked faces, are but God’s apes.
They come but near the life, and there they stay;
This fellow draws life too: his art is fuller,
The pictures which he makes are without colour.
Re-enter Servant.
Ser. Here’s a parson[196] would speak with you, sir.
Hip. Hah!
Ser. A parson, sir, would speak with you.
Hip. Vicar?
Ser. Vicar! no sir, has too good a face to be a vicar yet, a youth, a very youth.
Hip. What youth? of man or woman? lock the doors.
Ser. If it be a woman, marrow-bones and potato pies keep me from meddling with her, for the thing has got the breeches! ’tis a male-varlet sure, my lord, for a woman’s tailor ne’er measured him.
Hip. Let him give thee his message and be gone.
Ser. He says he’s Signor Matheo’s man, but I know he lies.
Hip. How dost thou know it?
Ser. ’Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think, sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing.
Hip. Send him and keep the door. [Exit Servant.
[Reads.] “Fata si liceat mihi,
Fingere arbitrio meo,
Temperem zephyro levi
Vela.”[197]
I’d sail were I to choose, not in the ocean,
Cedars are shaken, when shrubs do feel no bruise.
Enter Bellafront, dressed as a Page, with a letter.
How? from Matheo?
Bell. Yes, my lord.
Hip. Art sick?
Bell. Not all in health, my lord.
Hip. Keep off.
Bell. I do.—
Hard fate when women are compelled to woo. [Aside.
Hip. This paper does speak nothing.
Bell. Yes, my lord,
Matter of life it speaks, and therefore writ
In hidden character: to me instruction
My master gives, and, ’less you please to stay
Till you both meet, I can the text display.
Hip. Do so; read out.
Bell. I am already out:
Look on my face, and read the strangest story!
Hip. What, villain, ho?——
Re-enter Servant.
Ser. Call you, my lord?
Hip. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil!
Ser. Lord bless us, where? he’s not cloven, my lord, that I can see: besides the devil goes more like a gentleman than a page; good my lord, Buon coraggio![198]
Hip. Thou hast let in a woman in man’s shape.
And thou art damned for’t.
Ser. Not damned I hope for putting in a woman to a lord.
Hip. Fetch me my rapier,—do not; I shall kill thee.
Purge this infected chamber of that plague,
That runs upon me thus: Slave, thrust her hence.
Ser. Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her hence without help! Come, mermaid, you must to sea again.
Bell. Hear me but speak, my words shall be all music;
Hear me but speak. [Knocking within.
Hip. Another beats the door,
T’other she-devil! look.
Ser. Why, then, hell’s broke loose.
Hip. Hence; guard the chamber: let no more come on, [Exit Servant.
One woman serves for man’s damnation—
Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate
The chastest and most sanctimonious vow,
That e’er was entered in the court of Heaven!
I was, on meditation’s spotless wings,
Upon my journey thither; like a storm
Thou beat’st my ripened cogitations,
Flat to the ground: and like a thief dost stand,
To steal devotion from the holy land.
Bell. If woman were thy mother—if thy heart,
Be not all marble, or if’t marble be,
Let my tears soften it, to pity me—
I do beseech thee, do not thus with scorn
Destroy a woman!
Hip. Woman, I beseech thee,
Get thee some other suit, this fits thee not:
I would not grant it to a kneeling queen,
I cannot love thee, nor I must not: see [Points to Infelice’s picture.
The copy of that obligation,
Where my soul’s bound in heavy penalties.
Bell. She’s dead, you told me, she’ll let fall her suit.
Hip. My vows to her, fled after her to Heaven:
Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou might’st behold her,
Watching upon yon battlements of stars,
How I observe them. Should I break my bond,
This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips
Call me most perjured villain. Let it suffice,
I ha’ set thee in the path; is’t not a sign
I love thee, when with one so most most dear,
I’ll have thee fellow? All are fellows there.
Bell. Be greater than a king; save not a body,
But from eternal shipwreck keep a soul,
If not, and that again, sin’s path I tread,
The grief be mine, the guilt fall on thy head!
Hip. Stay, and take physic for it; read this book,
Ask counsel of this head, what’s to be done;
He’ll strike it dead, that ’tis damnation
If you turn Turk again. Oh, do it not!
Though Heaven cannot allure you to do well,
From doing ill let hell fright you: and learn this,
The soul whose bosom lust did never touch,
Is God’s fair bride, and maidens’ souls are such:
The soul that leaving chastity’s white shore,
Swims in hot sensual streams, is the devil’s whore.—
Re-enter Servant with letter.
How now, who comes?
Ser. No more knaves, my lord, that wear smocks: here’s a letter from Doctor Benedict; I would not enter his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry, they are half-witches. ’Slid![199] you are a sweet youth to wear a cod-piece, and have no pins to stick upon’t.
Hip. I’ll meet the doctor, tell him; yet to-night
I cannot: but at morrow rising sun
I will not fail.—[Exit Servant.]—Go, woman; fare thee well. [Exit.
Bell. The lowest fall can be but into hell:
It does not move him I must therefore fly
From this undoing city, and with tears
Wash off all anger from my father’s brow;
He cannot sure but joy, seeing me new born.
A woman honest first, and then turn whore,
Is, as with me, common to thousands more:
But from a strumpet to turn chaste, that sound
Has oft been heard, that woman hardly found. [Exit.
SCENE II. A Street.
Enter Fustigo, Crambo, and Poh.
Fus. Hold up your hands, gentlemen, here’s one, two, three [Giving money]—nay, I warrant they are sound pistoles, and without flaws; I had them of my sister and I know she uses to put up nothing that’s cracked—four, five, six, seven, eight and nine; by this hand bring me but a piece of his blood, and you shall have nine more. I’ll lurk in a tavern not far off, and provide supper to close up the end of the tragedy: the linen-draper’s, remember. Stand to’t, I beseech you, and play your parts perfectly.
Cram. Look you, signor, ’tis not your gold that we weigh—
Fus. Nay, nay, weigh it and spare not; if it lack one grain of corn, I’ll give you a bushel of wheat to make it up.
Cram. But by your favour, signor, which of the servants is it? because we’ll punish justly.
Fus. Marry ’tis the head man; you shall taste him by his tongue; a pretty, tall, prating fellow, with a Tuscalonian beard.
Poh. Tuscalonian? very good.
Fus. God’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman: my coxcomb was dry beaten, as if my hair had been hemp.
Cram. We’ll dry-beat some of them.
Fus. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried out murder, very manfully: I have her consent, in a manner, to have him peppered: else I’ll not do’t, to win more than ten cheaters do at a rifling: break but his pate, or so, only his mazer,[200] because I’ll have his head in a cloth as well as mine; he’s a linen-draper, and may take enough. I could enter mine action of battery against him, but we may’haps be both dead and rotten before the lawyers would end it.
Cram. No more to do, but ensconce yourself i’th’ tavern; provide no great cheer, a couple of capons, some pheasants, plovers, an orangeado-pie, or so: but how bloody howsoe’er the day be, sally you not forth.
Fus. No, no; nay if I stir, some body shall stink: I’ll not budge: I’ll lie like a dog in a manger.
Cram. Well, well, to the tavern, let not our supper be raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful.
Fus. That’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst after; blood for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head, plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call your names? because I’ll leave word, if any such come to the bar.
Cram. My name is Corporal Crambo.
Poh. And mine, Lieutenant Poh.
Cram. Poh is as tall a man as ever opened oyster:
I would not be the devil to meet Poh: farewell.
Fus. Nor I, by this light, if Poh be such a Poh. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. Candido’s Shop.
Enter Viola and the two Prentices.
Vio. What’s a’clock now?
2nd Pren. ’Tis almost twelve.
Vio. That’s well,
The Senate will leave wording presently:
But is George ready?
2nd Pren. Yes, forsooth, he’s furbished.
Vio. Now, as you ever hope to win my favour,
Throw both your duties and respects on him,
With the like awe as if he were your master,
Let not your looks betray it with a smile,
Or jeering glance to any customer;
Keep a true settled countenance, and beware
You laugh not, whatsoe’er you hear or see.
2nd Pren. I warrant you, mistress, let us alone for keeping our countenance: for, if I list, there’s ne’er a fool in all Milan shall make me laugh, let him play the fool never so like an ass, whether it be the fat court-fool, or the lean city-fool.
Vio. Enough then, call down George.
2nd Pren. I hear him coming.
Vio. Be ready with your legs[201] then, let me see
How courtesy would become him.—
Enter George in Candido’s apparel.
Beshrew my blood, a proper seemly man. Gallantly!
Of a choice carriage, walks with a good port!
Geo. I thank you, mistress, my back’s broad enough, now my master’s gown’s on.
Vio. Sure, I should think it were the least of sin,
To mistake the master, and to let him in.
Geo. ’Twere a good Comedy of Errors[202] that, i’faith.
2nd Pren. Whist, whist! my master.
Vio. You all know your tasks.
Enter Candido,[203] dressed as before in the carpet: he stares at George, and exit.
God’s my life, what’s that he has got upon’s back? who can tell?
Geo. [Aside.] That can I, but I will not.
Vio. Girt about him like a madman! what has he lost his cloak too? This is the maddest fashion that e’er I saw. What said he, George, when he passed by thee?
Geo. Troth, mistress, nothing: not so much as a bee, he did not hum: not so much as a bawd, he did not hem: not so much as a cuckold, he did not ha: neither hum, hem, nor ha; only stared me in the face, passed along, and made haste in, as if my looks had worked with him, to give him a stool.
Vio. Sure he’s vexed now, this trick has moved his spleen,
He’s angered now, because he uttered nothing:
And wordless wrath breaks out more violent,
May be he’ll strive for place, when he comes down,
But if thou lov’st me, George, afford him none.
Geo. Nay, let me alone to play my master’s prize,[204] as long as my mistress warrants me: I’m sure I have his best clothes on, and I scorn to give place to any that is inferior in apparel to me, that’s an axiom, a principle, and is observed as much as the fashion; let that persuade you then, that I’ll shoulder with him for the upper hand in the shop, as long as this chain will maintain it.
Vio. Spoke with the spirit of a master, though with the tongue of a prentice.
Re-enter Candido dressed as a Prentice.
Why how now, madman? what in your tricksi-coats?
Cand. O peace, good mistress.
Enter Crambo and Poh.
See, what you lack? what is’t you buy? pure calicoes, fine Hollands, choice cambrics, neat lawns: see what you buy? pray come near, my master will use you well, he can afford you a penny-worth.
Vio. Ay, that he can, out of a whole piece of lawn i’faith.
Cand. Pray see your choice here, gentlemen.
Vio. O fine fool! what, a madman! a patient madman! who ever heard of the like? Well, sir, I’ll fit you and your humour presently: what, cross-points? I’ll untie ’em all in a trice: I’ll vex you i’faith: boy, take your cloak, quick, come. [Exit with 1st Prentice.
Cand. Be covered, George, this chain and welted gown
Bare to this coat? then the world’s upside down.
Geo. Umh, umh, hum.
Cram. That’s the shop, and there’s the fellow.
Poh. Ay, but the master is walking in there.
Cram. No matter, we’ll in.
Poh. ’Sblood, dost long to lie in limbo?
Cram. An limbo be in hell, I care not.
Cand. Look you, gentlemen, your choice: cambrics?
Cram. No, sir, some shirting.
Cand. You shall.
Cram. Have you none of this striped canvas for doublets?
Cand. None striped, sir, but plain.
2nd Pren. I think there be one piece striped within.
Geo. Step, sirrah, and fetch it, hum, hum, hum. [Exit 2nd Pren., and returns with the piece.
Cand. Look you, gentleman, I’ll make but one spreading, here’s a piece of cloth, fine, yet shall wear like iron, ’tis without fault; take this upon my word, ’tis without fault.
Cram. Then ’tis better than you, sirrah.
Cand. Ay, and a number more: Oh, that each soul
Were but as spotless as this innocent white,
And had as few breaks in it!
Cram. ’Twould have some then:
There was a fray here last day in this shop.
Cand. There was, indeed, a little flea-biting.
Poh. A gentleman had his pate broke; call you that but a flea-biting?
Cand. He had so.
Cram. Zounds, do you stand to it? [Strikes Candido.
Geo. ’Sfoot, clubs, clubs! prentices, down with ’em!
Enter several Prentices with clubs, who disarm Crambo and Poh.
Ah, you rogues, strike a citizen in’s shop?
Cand. None of you stir, I pray; forbear, good George.
Cram. I beseech you, sir, we mistook our marks; deliver us our weapons.
Geo. Your head bleeds, sir; cry clubs!
Cand. I say you shall not; pray be patient,
Give them their weapons: sirs, you’d best be gone,
I tell you here are boys more tough than bears:
Hence, lest more fists do walk about your ears.
Cram., Poh. We thank you, sir. [Exeunt.
Cand. You shall not follow them;
Let them alone, pray; this did me no harm;
Troth, I was cold, and the blow made me warm,
I thank ’em for’t: besides, I had decreed
To have a vein pricked, I did mean to bleed:
So that there’s money saved: they’re honest men,
Pray use ’em well, when they appear again.
Geo. Yes, sir, we’ll use ’em like honest men.
Cand. Ay, well said, George, like honest men, though they be arrant knaves, for that’s the phrase of the city; help to lay up these wares.
Re-enter Viola and 1st Prentice with Officers.
Vio. Yonder he stands.
1st Off. What in a prentice-coat?
Vio. Ay, ay; mad, mad; pray take heed.
Cand. How now! what news with them?
What make they with my wife?
Officers, is she attached?—Look to your wares.
Vio. He talks to himself: oh, he’s much gone indeed.
1st Off. Pray, pluck up a good heart, be not so fearful:
Sirs, hark, we’ll gather to him by degrees.
Vio. Ay, ay, by degrees I pray: Oh me! What makes he with the lawn in his hand? He’ll tear all the ware in my shop.
1st Off. Fear not, we’ll catch him on a sudden.
Vio. Oh! you had need do so; pray take heed of your warrant.
1st Off. I warrant, mistress. Now, Signor Candido.
Cand. Now, sir, what news with you, sir?
Vio. What news with you? he says: oh, he’s far gone!
1st Off. I pray, fear nothing; let’s alone with him,
Signor, you look not like yourself, methinks,—
Steal you a’ t’other side; you’re changed, you’re altered.
Cand. Changed, sir, why true, sir. Is change strange? ’Tis not
The fashion unless it alter! monarchs turn
To beggars, beggars creep into the nests
Of princes, masters serve their prentices,
Ladies their serving-men, men turn to women.
1st Off. And women turn to men.
Cand. Ay, and women turn to men, you say true: ha, ha, a mad world, a mad world. [Officers seize Candido.
1st Off. Have we caught you, sir?
Cand. Caught me? well, well, you have caught me.
Vio. He laughs in your faces.
Geo. A rescue, prentices! my master’s catchpolled.
1st Off. I charge you, keep the peace, or have your legs
Gartered with irons! we have from the duke
A warrant strong enough for what we do.
Cand. I pray, rest quiet, I desire no rescue.
Vio. La, he desires no rescue, ’las poor heart,
He talks against himself.
Cand. Well, what’s the matter?
1st Off. Look to that arm, [Officers bind Candido.
Pray, make sure work, double the cord.
Cand. Why, why?
Vio. Look how his head goes, should he get but loose,
Oh ’twere as much as all our lives were worth!
1st Off. Fear not, we’ll make all sure for our own safety.
Cand. Are you at leisure now? well, what’s the matter?
Why do I enter into bonds thus, ha?
1st Off. Because you’re mad, put fear upon your wife.
Vio. Oh ay, I went in danger of my life every minute.
Cand. What, am I mad, say you, and I not know it?
1st Off. That proves you mad, because you know it not.
Vio. Pray talk to him as little as you can,
You see he’s too far spent.
Cand. Bound, with strong cord!
A sister’s thread, i’faith, had been enough,
To lead me anywhere.—Wife, do you long?
You are mad too, or else you do me wrong.
Geo. But are you mad indeed, master?
Cand. My wife says so,
And what she says, George, is all truth, you know.—
And whither now, to Bethlem Monastery?
Ha! whither?
1st Off. Faith, e’en to the madmen’s pound.
Cand. A’ God’s name! still I feel my patience sound. [Exeunt Officers with Candido.
Geo. Come, we’ll see whither he goes; if the master be mad, we are his servants, and must follow his steps; we’ll be mad-caps too. Farewell, mistress, you shall have us all in Bedlam. [Exeunt George and Prentices.
Vio. I think I ha’ fitted you now, you and your clothes,
If this move not his patience, nothing can;
I’ll swear then I’ve a saint, and not a man. [Exit.
SCENE IV.—Grounds near the Duke’s Palace.
Enter Duke, Doctor Benedict, Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto.
Duke. Give us a little leave.
[Exeunt Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto.
Doctor, your news.
Doct. I sent for him my lord, at last he came,
And did receive all speech that went from me,
As gilded pills made to prolong his health.
My credit with him wrought it; for some men
Swallow even empty hooks, like fools that fear
No drowning where ’tis deepest, ’cause ’tis clear:
In th’end we sat and eat: a health I drank
To Infelice’s sweet departed soul.
This train I knew would take.
Duke. ’Twas excellent.
Doct. He fell with such devotion on his knees,
To pledge the fame—
Duke. Fond, superstitious fool!
Doct. That had he been inflamed with zeal of prayer,
He could not pour’t out with more reverence:
About my neck he hung, wept on my cheek,
Kissed it, and swore he would adore my lips,
Because they brought forth Infelice’s name.
Duke. Ha, ha! alack, alack.
Doct. The cup he lifts up high, and thus he said;
Here noble maid!—drinks, and was poisonèd.
Duke. And died?
Doct. And died, my lord.
Duke. Thou in that word
Hast pieced mine aged hours out with more years,
Than thou hast taken from Hippolito.
A noble youth he was, but lesser branches
Hindering the greater’s growth, must be lopt off,
And feed the fire. Doctor, we’re now all thine,
And use us so: be bold.
Doct. Thanks, gracious lord—
My honoured lord:—
Duke. Hum.
Doct. I do beseech your grace to bury deep,
This bloody act of mine.
Duke. Nay, nay, for that,
Doctor, look you to it, me it shall not move;
They’re cursed that ill do, not that ill do love.
Doct. You throw an angry forehead on my face:
But be you pleased backward thus far to look,
That for your good, this evil I undertook—
Duke. Ay, ay, we conster[205] so.
Doct. And only for your love.
Duke. Confessed: ’tis true.
Doct. Nor let it stand against me as a bar,
To thrust me from your presence; nor believe
As princes have quick thoughts, that now my finger
Being dipt in blood, I will not spare the hand,
But that for gold,—as what can gold not do?—
I may be hired to work the like on you.
Duke. Which to prevent—
Doct. ’Tis from my heart as far.
Duke. No matter, doctor; ’cause I’ll fearless sleep,
And that you shall stand clear of that suspicion,
I banish thee for ever from my court.
This principle is old, but true as fate,
Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate. [Exit.
Doct. Is’t so? nay then, duke, your stale principle,
With one as stale, the doctor thus shall quit—
He falls himself that digs another’s pit.
Enter the Doctor’s Servant.
How now! where is he? will he meet me?
Ser. Meet you, sir? he might have met with three fencers in this time, and have received less hurt than by meeting one doctor of physic: Why, sir, he has walked under the old abbey-wall yonder this hour, till he’s more cold than a citizen’s country house in Janivery. You may smell him behind, sir: la, you, yonder he comes.
Doct. Leave me.
Ser. I’th’ lurch, if you will. [Exit.
Enter Hippolito.
Doct. O my most noble friend!
Hip. Few but yourself,
Could have enticed me thus, to trust the air
With my close sighs. You sent for me; what news?
Doct. Come, you must doff this black, dye that pale cheek
Into his own colour, go, attire yourself
Fresh as a bridegroom when he meets his bride.
The duke has done much treason to thy love;
’Tis now revealed, ’tis now to be revenged:
Be merry, honoured friend, thy lady lives.
Hip. What lady?
Doct. Infelice, she’s revived;
Revived? Alack! death never had the heart,
To take breath from her.
Hip. Umh: I thank you, sir,
Physic prolongs life, when it cannot save;
This helps not my hopes, mine are in their grave,
You do some wrong to mock me.
Doct. By that love
Which I have ever borne you, what I speak
Is truth: the maiden lives; that funeral,
Duke’s tears, the mourning, was all counterfeit;
A sleepy draught cozened the world and you:
I was his minister, and then chambered up,
To stop discovery.
Hip. O treacherous duke!
Doct. He cannot hope so certainly for bliss,
As he believes that I have poisoned you:
He wooed me to’t; I yielded, and confirmed him
In his most bloody thoughts.
Hip. A very devil!
Doct. Her did he closely coach to Bergamo,
And thither—
Hip. Will I ride: stood Bergamo
In the low countries of black hell, I’ll to her.
Doct. You shall to her, but not to Bergamo:
How passion makes you fly beyond yourself.
Much of that weary journey I ha’ cut off;
For she by letters hath intelligence
Of your supposed death, her own interment,
And all those plots, which that false duke, her father,
Has wrought against you; and she’ll meet you—
Hip. Oh, when?
Doct. Nay, see; how covetous are your desires!
Early to-morrow morn.
Hip. Oh where, good father?
Doct. At Bethlem Monastery: are you pleased now?
Hip. At Bethlem Monastery! the place well fits,
It is the school where those that lose their wits,
Practise again to get them: I am sick
Of that disease; all love is lunatic.
Doct. We’ll steal away this night in some disguise:
Father Anselmo, a most reverend friar,
Expects our coming; before whom we lay
Reasons so strong, that he shall yield in bands
Of holy wedlock to tie both your hands.
Hip. This is such happiness,
That to believe it, ’tis impossible.
Doct. Let all your joys then die in misbelief;
I will reveal no more.
Hip. O yes, good father,
I am so well acquainted with despair,
I know not how to hope: I believe all.
Doct. We’ll hence this night, much must be done, much said:
But if the doctor fail not in his charms,
Your lady shall ere morning fill these arms.
Hip. Heavenly physician! for thy fame shall spread,
That mak’st two lovers speak when they be dead. [Exeunt.
