ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.—A Room in Bellafront’s House.
Enter Roger with a stool, cushion, looking-glass and chafing-dish; these being set down, he pulls out of his pocket a phial with white colour in it, and two boxes, one with white, another with red paint; he places all things in order, and a candle by them, singing the ends of old ballads as he does it. At last Bellafront, as he rubs his cheek with the colours, whistles within.
Rog. Anon, forsooth.
Bell. [Within.] What are you playing the rogue about?
Rog. About you, forsooth; I’m drawing up a hole in your white silk stocking.
Bell. Is my glass there? and my boxes of complexion?
Rog. Yes, forsooth: your boxes of complexion are here, I think: yes, ’tis here: here’s your two complexions, and if I had all the four complexions, I should ne’er set a good face upon’t. Some men I see, are born, under hard-favoured planets as well as women. Zounds, I look worse now than I did before! and it makes her face glister most damnably. There’s knavery in daubing, I hold my life; or else this only female pomatum.
Enter Bellafront not full ready;[144] she sits down; curls her hair with her bodkin; and colours her lips.
Bell. Where’s my ruff and poker,[145] you blockhead?
Rog. Your ruff, your poker, are engendering together upon the cupboard of the court, or the court cupboard.[146]
Bell. Fetch ’em: is the pox in your hams, you can go no faster? [Strikes him.
Rog. Would the pox were in your fingers, unless you could leave flinging! catch— [Exit.
Bell. I’ll catch you, you dog, by and by: do you grumble? [Sings.
Cupid is a God, as naked as my nail,
I’ll whip him with a rod, if he my true love fail.
Re-enter Roger with ruff and poker.
Rog. There’s your ruff, shall I poke it?
Bell. Yes, honest Roger—no, stay; prithee, good boy, hold here. [Sings.] [Roger holds the glass and candle.] Down, down, down, down, I fall down and arise,—down—I never shall arise.
Rog. Troth mistress, then leave the trade if you shall never rise.
Bell. What trade, Goodman Abra’m?[147]
Rog. Why that of down and arise or the falling trade.
Bell. I’ll fall with you by and by.
Rog. If you do I know who shall smart for’t:
Troth, mistress, what do I look like now?
Bell. Like as you are; a panderly sixpenny rascal.
Rog. I may thank you for that: in faith I look like an old proverb, “Hold the candle before the devil.”
Bell. Ud’s life, I’ll stick my knife in your guts an you prate to me so!—What? [Sings.
Well met, pug, the pearl of beauty: umh, umh.
How now, Sir Knave? you forget your duty, umh, umh,
Marrymuff,[148] sir, are you grown so dainty; fa, la, la, leera, la.
Is it you, sir? the worst of twenty, fa, la, la, leera, la.
Pox on you, how dost thou hold my glass?
Rog. Why, as I hold your door: with my fingers.
Bell. Nay, pray thee, sweet honey Roger, hold up handsomely. [Sings.
Pretty wantons warble, &c.
We shall ha’ guests to day, I lay my little maidenhead; my nose itches so.
Rog. I said so too last night, when our fleas twinged me.
Bell. So, poke my ruff now, my gown, my gown! have I my fall? where’s my fall, Roger?
Rog. Your fall, forsooth, is behind. [Knocking within.
Bell. God’s my pittikins![149] some fool or other knocks.
Rog. Shall I open to the fool, mistress?
Bell. And all these baubles lying thus? Away with it quickly.—Ay, ay, knock, and be damned, whosoever you be!—So: give the fresh salmon line now: let him come ashore. [Exit Roger.] He shall serve for my breakfast, though he go against my stomach.
Enter Fluello, Castruchio, and Pioratto, with Roger.
Flu. Morrow, coz.
Cas. How does my sweet acquaintance?
Pio. Save thee, little marmoset: how dost thou, good, pretty rogue?
Bell. Well, God-a-mercy, good, pretty rascal.
Flu. Roger, some light, I prithee.
Rog. You shall, signor, for we that live here in this vale of misery are as dark as hell. [Exit for a candle.
Cas. Good tobacco, Fluello?
Flu. Smell.
Pio. It may be tickling gear: for it plays with my nose already. [Re-enter Roger with candle.
Rog. Here’s another light angel,[150] signor.
Bell. What? you pied curtal,[151] what’s that you are neighing?
Rog. I say God send us the light of Heaven, or some more angels.
Bell. Go fetch some wine, and drink half of it.
Rog. I must fetch some wine, gentlemen, and drink half of it.
Flu. Here Roger.
Cas. No, let me send, prithee.
Flu. Hold, you cankerworm.
Rog. You shall send both, if you please, signors.
Pio. Stay, what’s best to drink a’ mornings?
Rog. Hippocras,[152] sir, for my mistress, if I fetch it, is most dear to her.
Flu. Hippocras? there then, here’s a teston for you, you snake. [They give money.
Rog. Right sir, here’s three shillings and sixpence for a pottle[153] and a manchet.[154] [Exit.
Cas. Here’s most Herculanean tobacco; ha’ some, acquaintance?
Bell. Faugh, not I, makes your breath stink like the piss of a fox. Acquaintance, where supped you last night?
Cas. At a place, sweet acquaintance, where your health danced the canaries,[155] i’faith: you should ha’ been there.
Bell. I there among your punks![156] marry, faugh, hang’em; I scorn’t: will you never leave sucking of eggs in other folk’s hens’ nests?
Cas. Why, in good troth, if you’ll trust me, acquaintance, there was not one hen at the board; ask Fluello.
Flu. No, faith, coz, none but cocks; Signor Malavella drunk to thee.
Bell. O, a pure beagle; that horse-leech there?
Flu. And the knight, Sir Oliver Lollio, swore he would bestow a taffeta petticoat on thee, but to break his fast with thee.
Bell. With me? I’ll choke him then, hang him, mole-catcher! it’s the dreamingest snotty-nose.
Pio. Well, many took that Lollio for a fool, but he’s a subtle fool.
Bell. Ay, and he has fellows: of all filthy, dry-fisted knights, I cannot abide that he should touch me.
Cas. Why, wench? is he scabbed?
Bell. Hang him, he’ll not live to be so honest, nor to the credit to have scabs about him; his betters have ’em: but I hate to wear out any of his coarse knight-hood, because he’s made like an alderman’s night-gown, faced all with cony[157] before, and within nothing but fox: this sweet Oliver will eat mutton till he be ready to burst, but the lean-jawed slave will not pay for the scraping of his trencher.
Pio. Plague him; set him beneath the salt, and let him not touch a bit, till every one has had his full cut.
Flu. Lord Ello, the gentleman-usher, came into us too; marry ’twas in our cheese, for he had been to borrow money for his lord, of a citizen.
Cas. What an ass is that lord, to borrow money of a citizen!
Bell. Nay, God’s my pity, what an ass is that citizen to lend money to a lord!
Enter Matheo and Hippolito; Hippolito saluting the company, as a stranger, walks off.[158] Roger comes in sadly behind them, with a pottle pot, and stands aloof off.
Mat. Save you, gallants. Signor Fluello, exceedingly well met, as I may say.
Flu. Signor Matheo, exceedingly well met too, as I may say.
Mat. And how fares my little pretty mistress?
Bell. Ee’n as my little pretty servant; sees three court dishes before her, and not one good bit in them:—How now? why the devil standest thou so? Art in a trance?
Rog. Yes, forsooth.
Bell. Why dost not fill out their wine?
Rog. Forsooth, ’tis filled out already: all the wine that the signors have bestowed upon you is cast away; a porter ran a little at me, and so faced me down that I had not a drop.
Bell. I’m accursed to let such a withered artichoke-faced rascal grow under my nose: now you look like an old he-cat, going to the gallows: I’ll be hanged if he ha’ not put up the money to cony-catch[159] us all.
Rog. No, truly, forsooth, ’tis not put up yet.
Bell. How many gentlemen hast thou served thus?
Rog. None but five hundred, besides prentices and serving-men.
Bell. Dost think I’ll pocket it up at thy hands?
Rog. Yes, forsooth, I fear you will pocket it up.
Bell. Fie, fie, cut my lace, good servant; I shall ha’ the mother[160] presently, I’m so vext at this horse-plumb.
Flu. Plague, not for a scald[161] pottle of wine!
Mat. Nay, sweet Bellafront, for a little pig’s wash!
Cas. Here Roger, fetch more. [Gives money.] A mischance, i’faith, acquaintance.
Bell. Out of my sight, thou ungodly puritanical creature.
Rog. For the t’other pottle? yes, forsooth.
Bell. Spill that too. [Exit Roger.] What gentleman is that, servant? your friend?
Mat. Gods so; a stool, a stool! If you love me mistress, entertain this gentleman respectively,[162] and bid him welcome.
Bell. He’s very welcome,—pray, sir, sit.
Hip. Thanks, lady.
Flu. Count Hippolito, is’t not? Cry you mercy signor; you walk here all this while, and we not heard you! Let me bestow a stool upon you, beseech you; you are a stranger here, we know the fashions a’th’ house.
Cas. Please you be here, my lord? [Offers tobacco.
Hip. No, good Castruchio.
Flu. You have abandoned the Court, I see, my lord, since the death of your mistress; well, she was a delicate piece—Beseech you, sweet, come let us serve under the colours of your acquaintance still for all that—Please you to meet here at the lodging of my coz, I shall bestow a banquet upon you.
Hip. I never can deserve this kindness, sir.
What may this lady be, whom you call coz?
Flu. Faith, sir, a poor gentlewoman, of passing good carriage; one that has some suits in law, and lies here in an attorney’s house.
Hip. Is she married?
Flu. Ha, as all your punks are, a captain’s wife, or so: never saw her before, my lord?
Hip. Never, trust me: a goodly creature!
Flu. By gad, when you know her as we do, you’ll swear she is the prettiest, kindest, sweetest, most bewitching honest ape under the pole. A skin, your satin is not more soft, nor lawn whiter.
Hip. Belike, then, she’s some sale courtesan.[163]
Flu. Troth, as all your best faces are, a good wench.
Hip. Great pity that she’s a good wench.
Mat. Thou shalt ha’, i’faith, mistress.—How now, signors? what, whispering? Did not I lay a wager I should take you, within seven days, in a house of vanity?
Hip. You did; and, I beshrew your heart, you’ve won.
Mat. How do you like my mistress?
Hip. Well, for such a mistress; better, if your mistress be not your master—I must break manners, gentlemen, fare you well.
Mat. ’Sfoot, you shall not leave us.
Bell. The gentleman likes not the taste of our company.
Flu., Cas., &c. Beseech you stay.
Hip. Trust me, my affairs beckon for me; pardon me.
Mat. Will you call for me half an hour hence here?
Hip. Perhaps I shall.
Mat. Perhaps? faugh! I know you can swear to me you will.
Hip. Since you will press me, on my word, I will. [Exit.
Bell. What sullen picture is this, servant?
Mat. It’s Count Hippolito, the brave count.
Pio. As gallant a spirit as any in Milan, you sweet Jew.
Flu. Oh! he’s a most essential gentleman, coz.
Cas. Did you never hear of Count Hippolito, acquaintance?
Bell. Marry muff,[164] a’ your counts, and be no more life in ’em.
Mat. He’s so malcontent! sirrah[165] Bellafront—An you be honest gallants, let’s sup together, and have the count with us:—thou shalt sit at the upper end, punk.[166]
Bell. Punk? you soused gurnet!
Mat. King’s truce: come, I’ll bestow the supper to have him but laugh.
Cas. He betrays his youth too grossly to that tyrant melancholy.
Mat. All this is for a woman.
Bell. A woman? some whore! what sweet jewel is’t?
Pio. Would she heard you!
Flu. Troth, so would I.
Cas. And I, by Heaven.
Bell. Nay, good servant, what woman?
Mat. Pah!
Bell. Prithee, tell me; a buss, and tell me: I warrant he’s an honest fellow, if he take on thus for a wench: good rogue, who?
Mat. By th’ Lord I will not, must not, faith’ mistress. Is’t a match, sirs? this night, at th’ Antelope: ay, for there’s best wine, and good boys.
Flu., Cas., Pio. It’s done; at th’ Antelope.
Bell. I cannot be there to night.
Mat. Cannot? by th’ Lord you shall.
Bell. By the Lady I will not: shall!
Flu. Why, then, put it off till Friday; wu’t come then, coz?
Bell. Well.
Re-enter Roger.
Mat. You’re the waspishest ape. Roger, put your mistress in mind to sup with us on Friday next. You’re best come like a madwoman, without a band, in your waistcoat, and the linings of your kirtle outward, like every common hackney that steals out at the back gate of her sweet knight’s lodging.
Bell. Go, go, hang yourself!
Cas. It’s dinner-time, Matheo; shall’s hence?
All. Yes, yes.—Farewell, wench.
Bell. Farewell, boys.—[Exeunt all except Bellafront and Roger.]—Roger, what wine sent they for?
Rog. Bastard wine,[167] for if it had been truly begotten, it would ha’ been ashamed to come in. Here’s six shillings to pay for nursing the bastard.
Bell. A company of rooks! O good sweet Roger, run to the poulter’s, and buy me some fine larks!
Rog. No woodcocks?[168]
Bell. Yes, faith, a couple, if they be not dear.
Rog. I’ll buy but one, there’s one already here. [Exit.
Enter Hippolito.
Hip. Is the gentleman, my friend, departed, mistress?
Bell. His back is but new turned, sir.
Hip. Fare you well.
Bell. I can direct you to him.
Hip. Can you, pray?
Bell. If you please, stay, he’ll not be absent long.
Hip. I care not much.
Bell. Pray sit, forsooth.
Hip. I’m hot. [Lays aside his sword.
If I may use your room, I’ll rather walk.
Bell. At your best pleasure—whew—some rubbers there!
Hip. Indeed, I’ll none:—indeed I will not: thanks.
Pretty fine lodging. I perceive my friend
Is old in your acquaintance.
Bell. Troth, sir, he comes
As other gentlemen, to spend spare hours
If yourself like our roof, such as it is,
Your own acquaintance may be as old as his.
Hip. Say I did like; what welcome should I find?
Bell. Such as my present fortunes can afford.
Hip. But would you let me play Matheo’s part?
Bell. What part?
Hip. Why, embrace you: dally with you, kiss:
Faith, tell me, will you leave him and love me?
Bell. I am in bonds to no man, sir.
Hip. Why then,
You’re free for any man; if any, me.
But I must tell you, lady, were you mine,
You should be all mine; I could brook no sharers,
I should be covetous, and sweep up all.
I should be pleasure’s usurer; faith, I should.
Bell. O fate!
Hip. Why sigh you, lady? may I know?
Bell. ’Thas never been my fortune yet to single
Out that one man, whose love could fellow mine,
As I have ever wished it: O my stars!
Had I but met with one kind gentleman,
That would have purchased sin alone to himself,
For his own private use, although scarce proper,
Indifferent handsome: meetly legged and thighed:
And my allowance reasonable, i’faith,
According to my body, by my troth,
I would have been as true unto his pleasures,
Yea, and as loyal to his afternoons,
As ever a poor gentlewoman could be.
Hip. This were well now to one but newly fledged,
And scarce a day old in this subtle world:
’Twere pretty art, good bird-lime, cunning net,
But come, come, faith, confess: how many men
Have drunk this self-same protestation,
From that red ’ticing lip?
Bell. Indeed, not any.
Hip. Indeed? and blush not!
Bell. No, in truth, not any.
Hip. Indeed! in truth?—how warily you swear!
’Tis well: if ill it be not: yet had I
The ruffian in me, and were drawn before you
But in light colours, I do know indeed,
You could not swear indeed, but thunder oaths
That should shake Heaven, drown the harmonious spheres,
And pierce a soul, that loved her maker’s honour
With horror and amazement.
Bell. Shall I swear?—
Will you believe me then?
Hip. Worst then of all;
Our sins by custom, seem at last but small.
Were I but o’er your threshold, a next man,
And after him a next, and then a fourth,
Should have this golden hook, and lascivious bait,
Thrown out to the full length. Why let me tell you:
I ha’ seen letters sent from that white hand,
Tuning such music to Matheo’s ear.
Bell. Matheo! that’s true, but believe it, I
No sooner had laid hold upon your presence,
But straight mine eye conveyed you to my heart.
Hip. Oh, you cannot feign with me! why, I know, lady,
This is the common passion of you all,
To hook in a kind gentleman, and then
Abuse his coin, conveying it to your lover,
And in the end you show him a French trick,
And so you leave him, that a coach may run
Between his legs for breadth.
Bell. Oh, by my soul,
Not I! therein I’ll prove an honest whore,
In being true to one, and to no more.
Hip. If any be disposed to trust your oath,
Let him: I’ll not be he; I know you feign
All that you speak; ay, for a mingled harlot
Is true in nothing but in being false.
What! shall I teach you how to loath yourself?
And mildly too, not without sense or reason.
Bell. I am content; I would feign loath myself
If you not love me.
Hip. Then if your gracious blood
Be not all wasted, I shall assay to do’t.
Lend me your silence, and attention.
You have no soul, that makes you weigh so light;
Heaven’s treasure bought it:
And half-a-crown hath sold it:—for your body
Is like the common-shore, that still receives
All the town’s filth. The sin of many men
Is within you; and thus much I suppose,
That if all your committers stood in rank,
They’d make a lane, in which your shame might dwell,
And with their spaces reach from hence to hell.
Nay, shall I urge it more? there has been known
As many by one harlot, maimed and dismembered,
As would ha’ stuffed an hospital: this I might
Apply to you, and perhaps do you right:
O you’re as base as any beast that bears,—
Your body is e’en hired, and so are theirs.
For gold and sparkling jewels, if he can,
You’ll let a Jew get you with Christian:
Be he a Moor, a Tartar, though his face
Look uglier than a dead man’s skull.
Could the devil put on a human shape,
If his purse shake out crowns, up then he gets;
Whores will be rid to hell with golden bits.
So that you’re crueller than Turks, for they
Sell Christians only, you sell yourselves away.
Why, those that love you, hate you: and will term you
Liquorish damnation; with themselves half-sunk
After the sin is laid out, and e’en curse
Their fruitless riot; for what one begets
Another poisons; lust and murder hit:
A tree being often shook, what fruit can knit?
Bell. O me unhappy!
Hip. I can vex you more:
A harlot is like Dunkirk, true to none,
Swallows both English, Spanish, fulsome Dutch,
Back-doored Italian, last of all, the French,
And he sticks to you, faith, gives you your diet,
Brings you acquainted, first with Monsieur Doctor
And then you know what follows.
Bell. Misery.
Rank, stinking, and most loathsome misery.
Hip. Methinks a toad is happier than a whore;
That with one poison swells, with thousands more
The other stocks her veins: harlot? fie, fie!
You are the miserablest creatures breathing,
The very slaves of nature; mark me else:
You put on rich attires, others’ eyes wear them,
You eat, but to supply your blood with sin:
And this strange curse e’en haunts you to your graves.
From fools you get, and spend it upon slaves:
Like bears and apes, you’re baited and show tricks
For money; but your bawd the sweetness licks.
Indeed, you are their journey-women, and do
All base and damned works they list set you to:
So that you ne’er are rich; for do but show me,
In present memory, or in ages past,
The fairest and most famous courtesan,
Whose flesh was dear’st: that raised the price of sin,
And held it up; to whose intemperate bosom,
Princes, earls, lords, the worst has been a knight,
The mean’st a gentleman, have offered up
Whole hecatombs of sighs, and rained in showers
Handfuls of gold; yet, for all this, at last
Diseases sucked her marrow, then grew so poor,
That she has begged e’en at a beggar’s door.
And (wherein Heaven has a finger) when this idol,
From coast to coast, has leapt on foreign shores,
And had more worship than th’outlandish whores:
When several nations have gone over her,
When for each several city she has seen,
Her maidenhead has been new, and been sold dear:
Did live well there, and might have died unknown,
And undefamed; back comes she to her own,
And there both miserably lives and dies,
Scorned even of those that once adored her eyes,
As if her fatal circled life thus ran,
Her pride should end there, where it first began.
What do you weep to hear your story read?
Nay, if you spoil your cheeks, I’ll read no more.
Bell. O yes, I pray, proceed:
Indeed, ’twill do me good to weep, indeed.
Hip. To give those tears a relish, this I add,
You’re like the Jews, scattered, in no place certain,
Your days are tedious, your hours burdensome:
And were’t not for full suppers, midnight revels,
Dancing, wine, riotous meetings, which do drown,
And bury quite in you all virtuous thoughts,
And on your eyelids hang so heavily,
They have no power to look so high as Heaven,—
You’d sit and muse on nothing but despair,
Curse that devil Lust, that so burns up your blood,
And in ten thousand shivers break your glass
For his temptation. Say you taste delight,
To have a golden gull from rise to set,
To mete[169] you in his hot luxurious arms,
Yet your nights pay for all: I know you dream
Of warrants, whips, and beadles, and then start
At a door’s windy creak: think every weasel
To be a constable, and every rat
A long-tailed officer: Are you now not slaves?
Oh, you’ve damnation without pleasure for it!
Such is the state of harlots. To conclude:
When you are old and can well paint no more,
You turn bawd, and are then worse than before:
Make use of this: farewell.
Bell. Oh, I pray, stay.
Hip. I see Matheo comes not: time hath barred me;
Would all the harlots in the town had heard me. [Exit.
Bell. Stay yet a little longer! No? quite gone!
Curst be that minute—for it was no more,
So soon a maid is changed into a whore—
Wherein I first fell! be it for ever black!
Yet why should sweet Hippolito shun mine eyes?
For whose true love I would become pure, honest,
Hate the world’s mixtures, and the smiles of gold.
Am I not fair? why should he fly me then?
Fair creatures are desired, not scorned of men.
How many gallants have drunk healths to me,
Out of their daggered arms, and thought them blest,
Enjoying but mine eyes at prodigal feasts!
And does Hippolito detest my love?
Oh, sure their heedless lusts but flattered me,
I am not pleasing, beautiful, nor young.
Hippolito hath spied some ugly blemish,
Eclipsing all my beauties: I am foul:
Harlot! Ay, that’s the spot that taints my soul.
What! has he left his weapon here behind him
And gone forgetful? O fit instrument
To let forth all the poison of my flesh!
Thy master hates me, ’cause my blood hath ranged:
But when ’tis forth, then he’ll believe I’m changed.
As she is about to stab herself re-enter Hippolito.
Hip. Mad woman, what art doing?
Bell. Either love me,
Or split my heart upon thy rapier’s point:
Yet do not neither; for thou then destroy’st
That which I love thee for—thy virtues. Here, here; [Gives sword to Hippolito.
Th’art crueller, and kill’st me with disdain:
To die so, sheds no blood, yet ’tis worse pain. [Exit Hippolito.
Not speak to me! Not bid farewell? a scorn?
Hated! this must not be; some means I’ll try.
Would all whores were as honest now as I! [Exit.
