ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.—A Room in Matheo’s House.
Enter Bellafront and Matheo.
Bell. O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave and art alive again? Oh welcome, welcome!
Mat. Dost know me? my cloak, prithee, lay’t up. Yes, faith, my winding-sheet was taken out of lavender, to be stuck with rosemary[247]: I lacked but the knot here, or here; yet if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice[248]: but sweetest villain, I am here now and I will talk with thee soon.
Bell. And glad am I thou art here.
Mat. Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah! my little plump rogue. I’ll bear up for all this, and fly high. Catso catso.[249]
Bell. Matheo?
Mat. What sayest, what sayest? O brave fresh air! a pox on these grates and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron. I’ll bear up, I’ll fly high, wench, hang toff.
Bell. Matheo, prithee, make thy prison thy glass,
And in it view the wrinkles, and the scars,
By which thou wert disfigured; viewing them, mend them.
Mat. I’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring boys.[250]
Bell. Thou dost not hear me?
Mat. Yes, faith, do I.
Bell. Thou has been in the hands of misery, and ta’en strong physic; prithee now be sound.
Mat. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now. Oh, when shall I bizzle, bizzle?[251]
Bell. Nay, see, thou’rt thirsty still for poison! Come, I will not have thee swagger.
Mat. Honest ape’s face!
Bell. ’Tis that sharpened an axe to cut thy throat.
Good love, I would not have thee sell thy substance
And time, worth all, in those damned shops of hell;
Those dicing houses, that stand never well,
But when they stand most ill; that four-squared sin
Has almost lodged us in the beggar’s inn.
Besides, to speak which even my soul does grieve,
A sort of ravens have hung upon thy sleeve,
And fed upon thee: good Mat, if you please,
Scorn to spread wing amongst so base as these;
By them thy fame is speckled, yet it shows
Clear amongst them; so crows are fair with crows.
Custom in sin, gives sin a lovely dye;
Blackness in Moors is no deformity.
Mat. Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope for my soul, I will turn over a new leaf. The prison I confess has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship, may be lousy. [Knocking within.
Bell. One knocks at door.
Mat. I’ll be the porter: they shall see a jail cannot hold a brave spirit, I’ll fly high. [Exit.
Bell. How wild is his behaviour! Oh, I fear
He’s spoiled by prison, he’s half damned comes there,
But I must sit all storms: when a full sail
His fortunes spread, he loved me: being now poor,
I’ll beg for him, and no wife can do more.
Re-enter Matheo, with Orlando disguised as a Serving-man.
Mat. Come in, pray! would you speak with me, sir?
Orl. Is your name Signor Matheo?
Mat. My name is Signor Matheo.
Orl. Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir?
Mat. This gentlewoman is my wife, sir.
Orl. The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both your loves!—The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot that. [Aside.] I’m an old man, sir, and am troubled with a whoreson salt rheum, that I cannot hold my water.—Gentlewoman, the last man I served was your father.
Bell. My father? any tongue that sounds his name,
Speaks music to me; welcome, good old man!
How does my father? lives he? has he health?
How does my father?—I so much do shame him,
So much do wound him, that I scarce dare name him. [Aside.
Orl. I can speak no more.
Mat. How now, old lad, what dost cry?
Orl. The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well seasoned, for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I have a suit to you.
Mat. What is’t, my little white-pate?
Orl. Troth, sir, I have a mind to serve your worship.
Mat. To serve me? Troth, my friend, my fortunes are, as a man may say—
Orl. Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in us, and go upon crutches, that covetousness does but then lie in her cradle; ’tis not so with me. Lechery loves to dwell in the fairest lodging, and covetousness in the oldest buildings, that are ready to fall: but my white head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If a serving-man at my years, that has sailed about the world, be not stored with biscuit enough to serve him the voyage out of his life, and to bring him East home, ill pity but all his days should be fasting days. I care not so much for wages, for I have scraped a handful of gold together. I have a little money, sir, which I would put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it more—
Mat. No, no, you say well, thou sayest well; but I must tell you,—how much is the money, sayest thou?
Orl. About twenty pound, sir.
Mat. Twenty pound? Let me see: that shall bring thee in, after ten per centum per annum.
Orl. No, no, no, sir, no: I cannot abide to have money engender: fie upon this silver lechery, fie; if I may have meat to my mouth, and rags to my back, and a flock-bed to snort upon when I die, the longer liver take all.
Mat. A good old boy, i’faith! If thou servest me, thou shall eat as I eat, drink as I drink, lie as I lie, and ride as I ride.
Orl. That’s if you have money to hire horses. [Aside.
Mat. Front, what dost thou think on’t? This good old lad here shall serve me.
Bell. Alas, Matheo, wilt thou load a back
That is already broke?
Mat. Peace, pox on you, peace. There’s a trick in’t, I fly high, it shall be so, Front, as I tell you: give me thy hand, thou shalt serve me i’faith: welcome: as for your money—
Orl. Nay, look you, sir, I have it here.
Mat. Pish, keep it thyself, man, and then thou’rt sure ’tis safe.
Orl. Safe! an’ twere ten thousand ducats, your worship should be my cash-keeper; I have heard what your worship is, an excellent dunghill cock, to scatter all abroad; but I’ll venture twenty pounds on’s head. [Gives money to Matheo.
Mat. And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, Signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once?
Orl. I served him so long, till he turned me out of doors.
Mat. It’s a notable chuff[252]: I ha’ not seen him many a day.
Orl. No matter an you ne’er see him; it’s an arrant grandee, a churl, and as damned a cut-throat.
Bell. Thou villain, curb thy tongue! thou art a Judas,
To sell thy master’s name to slander thus.
Mat. Away, ass! He speaks but truth, thy father is a—
Bell. Gentleman.
Mat. And an old knave. There’s more deceit in him than in sixteen ’pothecaries: it’s a devil; thou mayest beg, starve, hang, damn! does he send thee so much as a cheese?
Orl. Or so much as a gammon of bacon,
He’ll give it his dogs first.
Mat. A jail, a jail.
Orl. A Jew, a Jew, sir.
Mat. A dog!
Orl. An English mastiff, sir.
Mat. Pox rot out his old stinking garbage!
Bell. Art not ashamed to strike an absent man thus?
Art not ashamed to let this vile dog bark,
And bite my father thus? I’ll not endure it.
Out of my doors, base slave!
Mat. Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that old rogue’s throat, for all you take his part thus.
Orl. He shall live to see thee hanged first. [Aside.
Enter Hippolito.
Mat. God’s-so, my lord, your lordship is most welcome,
I’m proud of this, my lord.
Hip. Was bold to see you.
Is that your wife?
Mat. Yes, sir.
Hip. I’ll borrow her lip. [Kisses Bellafront.
Mat. With all my heart, my lord.
Orl. Who’s this, I pray, sir.
Mat. My Lord Hippolito: what’s thy name?
Orl. Pacheco.
Mat. Pacheco, fine name; thou seest, Pacheco, I keep company with no scoundrels, nor base fellows.
Hip. Came not my footman to you?
Bell. Yes, my lord.
Hip. I sent by him a diamond and a letter,
Did you receive them?
Bell. Yes, my lord, I did.
Hip. Read you the letter?
Bell. O’er and o’er ’tis read.
Hip. And, faith, your answer?
Bell. Now the time’s not fit,
You see, my husband’s here.
Hip. I’ll now then leave you,
And choose mine hour; but ere I part away,
Hark you, remember I must have no nay—
Matheo, I will leave you.
Mat. A glass of wine.
Hip. Not now, I’ll visit you at other times.
You’re come off well, then?
Mat. Excellent well. I thank your lordship: I owe you my life, my lord; and will pay my best blood in any service of yours.
Hip. I’ll take no such dear payment. Hark you, Matheo, I know the prison is a gulf. If money run low with you, my purse is your’s: call for it.
Mat. Faith, my lord, I thank my stars, they send me down some; I cannot sink, so long these bladders hold.
Hip. I will not see your fortunes ebb, pray, try.
To starve in full barns were fond[253] modesty.
Mat. Open the door, sirrah.
Hip. Drink this, and anon, I pray thee, give thy mistress this.
[Gives to Friscobaldo, who opens the door, first money, then a purse, and exit.
Orl. O noble spirit, if no worse guests here dwell,
My blue coat sits on my old shoulders well.
Mat. The only royal fellow, he’s bounteous as the Indies, what’s that he said to thee, Bellafront?
Bell. Nothing.
Mat. I prithee, good girl?
Bell. Why, I tell you, nothing.
Mat. Nothing? it’s well: tricks! that I must be beholden to a scald hot-livered goatish gallant, to stand with my cap in my hand, and vail bonnet, when I ha’ spread as lofty sails as himself. Would I had been hanged. Nothing? Pacheco, brush my cloak.
Orl. Where is’t, sir?
Mat. Come, we’ll fly high.
Nothing? There is a whore still in thy eye. [Exit.
Orl. My twenty pounds fly high, O wretched woman!
This varlet’s able to make Lucrece common. [Aside.
How now, mistress? has my master dyed you into this sad colour?
Bell. Fellow, begone I pray thee; if thy tongue
Itch after talk so much, seek out thy master.
Thou’rt a fit instrument for him.
Orl. Zounds, I hope he will not play upon me!
Bell. Play on thee? no, you two will fly together,
Because you’re roving arrows of one feather.
Would thou wouldst leave my house, thou ne’er shalt please me!
Weave thy nets ne’er so high,
Thou shalt be but a spider in mine eye.
Thou’rt rank with poison, poison tempered well
Is food for health; but thy black tongue doth swell
With venom, to hurt him that gave thee bread:
To wrong men absent, is to spurn the dead.
And so did’st thou my master, and my father.
Orl. You have small reason to take his part; for I have heard him say five hundred times, you were as arrant a whore as ever stiffened tiffany neckcloths in water-starch upon a Saturday i’ th’ afternoon.
Bell. Let him say worse, when for the earth’s offence
Hot vengeance through the marble clouds is driven,
Is’t fit earth shoot again those darts at heaven?
Orl. And so if your father call you whore you’ll not call him old knave:—Friscobaldo, she carries thy mind up and down; she’s thine own flesh, blood, and bone. [Aside] Troth, mistress, to tell you true, the fireworks that ran from me upon lines against my good old master, your father, were but to try how my young master, your husband, loved such squibs: but it’s well known, I love your father as myself; I’ll ride for him at mid-night, run for you by owl-light; I’ll die for him, drudge for you; I’ll fly low, and I’ll fly high, as my master says, to do you good, if you’ll forgive me.
Bell. I am not made of marble; I forgive thee.
Orl. Nay, if you were made of marble, a good stone-cutter might cut you. I hope the twenty pound I delivered to my master, is in a sure hand.
Bell. In a sure hand, I warrant thee, for spending.
Orl. I see my young master is a mad-cap, and a bonus socius. I love him well, mistress: yet as well as I love him, I’ll not play the knave with you; look you, I could cheat you of this purse full of money; but I am an old lad, and I scorn to cony-catch[254]: yet I ha’ been dog at a cony in my time. [Gives purse.
Bell. A purse? where hadst it?
Orl. The gentleman that went away, whispered in mine ear, and charged me to give it you.
Bell. The Lord Hippolito?
Orl. Yes, if he be a lord, he gave it me.
Bell. ’Tis all gold.
Orl. ’Tis like so: it may be, he thinks you want money, and therefore bestows his alms bravely, like a lord.
Bell. He thinks a silver net can catch the poor;
Here’s bait to choke a nun, and turn her whore.
Wilt thou be honest to me?
Orl. As your nails to your fingers, which I think never deceived you.
Bell. Thou to this lord shalt go, commend me to him,
And tell him this, the town has held out long,
Because within ’twas rather true than strong.
To sell it now were base; Say ’tis no hold
Built of weak stuff, to be blown up with gold.
He shall believe thee by this token, or this;
If not, by this. [Giving purse, ring and letters.
Orl. Is this all?
Bell. This is all.
Orl. Mine own girl still! [Aside.
Bell. A star may shoot, not fall. [Exit.
Orl. A star? nay, thou art more than the moon, for thou hast neither changing quarters, nor a man standing in thy circle with a bush of thorns. Is’t possible the Lord Hippolito, whose face is as civil as the outside of a dedicatory book, should be a muttonmonger?[255] A poor man has but one ewe, and this grandee sheep-biter leaves whole flocks of fat wethers, whom he may knock down, to devour this. I’ll trust neither lord nor butcher with quick flesh for this trick; the cuckoo, I see now, sings all the year, though every man cannot hear him; but I’ll spoil his notes. Can neither love-letters, nor the devil’s common pick-locks, gold, nor precious stones make my girl draw up her percullis?[256] Hold out still, wench.
All are not bawds, I see now, that keep doors,
Nor all good wenches that are marked for whores. [Exit.
SCENE II.—Before Candido’s Shop.
Enter Candido, and Lodovico disguised as a Prentice.
Lod. Come, come, come, what do ye lack, sir? what do ye lack, sir? what is’t ye lack, sir? Is not my worship well suited? did you ever see a gentleman better disguised?
Cand. Never, believe me, signor.
Lod. Yes, but when he has been drunk. There be prentices would make mad gallants, for they would spend all, and drink, and whore, and so forth; and I see we gallants could make mad prentices. How does thy wife like me? Nay, I must not be so saucy, then I spoil all: pray you how does my mistress like me?
Cand. Well; for she takes you for a very simple fellow.
Lod. And they that are taken for such are commonly the arrantest knaves: but to our comedy, come.
Cand. I shall not act it; chide, you say, and fret,
And grow impatient: I shall never do’t.
Lod. ’Sblood, cannot you do as all the world does, counterfeit?
Cand. Were I a painter, that should live by drawing
Nothing but pictures of an angry man,
I should not earn my colours; I cannot do’t.
Lod. Remember you’re a linen-draper, and that if you give your wife a yard, she’ll take an ell: give her not therefore a quarter of your yard, not a nail.
Cand. Say I should turn to ice, and nip her love
Now ’tis but in the bud.
Lod. Well, say she’s nipt.
Cand. It will so overcharge her heart with grief,
That like a cannon, when her sighs go off,
She in her duty either will recoil,
Or break in pieces and so die: her death,
By my unkindness might be counted murder.
Lod. Die? never, never. I do not bid you beat her, nor give her black eyes, nor pinch her sides; but cross her humours. Are not baker’s arms the scales of justice? yet is not their bread light? and may not you, I pray, bridle her with a sharp bit, yet ride her gently?
Cand. Well, I will try your pills,
Do you your faithful service, and be ready
Still at a pinch to help me in this part,
Or else I shall be out clean.
Lod. Come, come, I’ll prompt you.
Cand. I’ll call her forth now, shall I?
Lod. Do, do, bravely.
Cand. Luke, I pray, bid your mistress to come hither.
Lod. Luke, I pray, bid your mistress to come hither.
Cand. Sirrah, bid my wife come to me: why, when?[257]
1st Pren. [Within] Presently, sir, she comes.
Lod. La, you, there’s the echo! she comes.
Enter Bride.
Bride. What is your pleasure with me?
Cand. Marry, wife,
I have intent; and you see this stripling here,
He bears good will and liking to my trade,
And means to deal in linen.
Lod. Yes, indeed, sir, I would deal in linen, if my mistress like me so well as I like her.
Cand. I hope to find him honest, pray; good wife, look that his bed and chamber be made ready.
Bride. You’re best to let him hire me for his maid.
I look to his bed? look to’t yourself.
Cand. Even so?
I swear to you a great oath—
Lod. Swear, cry Zounds!—
Cand. I will not—go to, wife—I will not—
Lod. That your great oath?
Cand. Swallow these gudgeons!
Lod. Well said!
Bride. Then fast, then you may choose.
Cand. You know at table
What tricks you played, swaggered, broke glasses, fie!
Fie, fie, fie! and now before my prentice here,
You make an ass of me, thou—what shall I call thee?
Bride. Even what you will.
Lod. Call her arrant whore.
Cand. Oh fie, by no means! then she’ll call me cuckold.
Sirrah, go look to th’ shop. How does this show?
Lod. Excellent well—I’ll go look to the shop, sir.
Fine cambrics, lawns; what do you lack? [Goes into the shop.
Cand. A curst cow’s milk I ha’ drunk once before,
And ’twas so rank in taste, I’ll drink no more.
Wife, I’ll tame you.
Bride. You may, sir, if you can,
But at a wrestling I have seen a fellow
Limbed like an ox, thrown by a little man.
Cand. And so you’ll throw me?—Reach me, knaves, a yard!
Lod. A yard for my master.
[Lodovico returns from the shop with a yard-wand and followed by Prentices.
1st Pren. My master is grown valiant.
Cand. I’ll teach you fencing tricks.
Prentices. Rare, rare! a prize![258]
Lod. What will you do, sir?
Cand. Marry, my good prentice, nothing but breathe my wife.
Bride. Breathe me with your yard?
Lod. No, he’ll but measure you out, forsooth.
Bride. Since you’ll needs fence, handle your weapon well,
For if you take a yard, I’ll take an ell.
Reach me an ell!
Lod. An ell for my mistress! [Brings an ell wand from the shop. Keep the laws of the noble science, sir, and measure weapons with her; your yard is a plain heathenish weapon; ’tis too short, she may give you a handful, and yet you’ll not reach her.
Cand. Yet I ha’ the longer arm.—Come fall to’t roundly,
And spare not me, wife, for I’ll lay’t on soundly:
If o’er husbands their wives will needs be masters,
We men will have a law to win’t at wasters.[259]
Lod. ’Tis for the breeches, is’t not?
Cand. For the breeches!
Bride. Husband, I’m for you, I’ll not strike in jest.
Cand. Nor I.
Bride. But will you sign to one request?
Cand. What’s that?
Bride. Let me give the first blow.
Cand. The first blow, wife? shall I?
Lod. Let her ha’t:
If she strike hard, in to her, and break her pate.
Cand. A bargain: strike!
Bride. Then guard you from this blow,
For I play all at legs, but ’tis thus low. [Kneels.
Behold, I’m such a cunning fencer grown,
I keep my ground, yet down I will be thrown
With the least blow you give me: I disdain
The wife that is her husband’s sovereign.
She that upon your pillow first did rest,
They say, the breeches wore, which I detest:
The tax which she imposed on you, I abate you;
If me you make your master, I shall hate you.
The world shall judge who offers fairest play;
You win the breeches, but I win the day.
Cand. Thou win’st the day indeed, give me thy hand;
I’ll challenge thee no more: my patient breast
Played thus the rebel, only for a jest:
Here’s the rank rider, that breaks colts; ’tis he
Can tame the mad folks, and curst wives easily.
Bride. Who? your man?
Cand. My man? my master, though his head be bare,
But he’s so courteous, he’ll put off his hair.
Lod. Nay, if your service be so hot a man cannot keep his hair on, I’ll serve you no longer. [Takes off his false hair.
Bride. Is this your schoolmaster?
Lod. Yes, faith, wench, I taught him to take thee down: I hope thou canst take him down without teaching;
You ha’ got the conquest, and you both are friends.
Cand. Bear witness else.
Lod. My prenticeship then ends.
Cand. For the good service you to me have done,
I give you all your years.
Lod. I thank you, master.
I’ll kiss my mistress now, that she may say,
My man was bound, and free all in one day. [Exeunt.
