Cur. Yes, what else? I came to that end to accuse both parties.
Just. May I crave what you are?
Cur. Faith Sir, one that to be known would not profit you, more than kinsman of the dead Antonio's.
Just. 'Tis well, I am sorry for my neighbor, truly, that he had no more grace, 'twill kill his Mother; she's a good old woman, will you walk in? I'll but put my cloak on, and my chain off, and a clean band, and have my shooes blackt over, and shift my Jerkin, and we'll to our business, and you shall see how I can bolt these matters.
Cur. As soon as't please you, Sir. [Exit.
Enter Valerio, and Richardo.
Val. This is the place; here did I leave the Maid
Alone last night, drying her tender eyes,
Uncertain what to do, and yet desirous
To have me gone.
Rich. How rude are all we men,
That take the name of Civil to our selves!
If she had set her foot upon an earth
Where people live that we call barbarous;
Though they had had no house to bring her to,
They would have spoil'd the glory, that the spring
Has deckt the trees in, and with willing hands
Have torn their branches down, and every man
Would have become a builder for her sake.
What time left you her there?
Val. I left her, when the Sun had so much to sett,
As he is now got from his place of rise.
Rich. So near the night she could not wander far;
Fair Viola!
Val. It is in vain to call, she sought a house
Without all question.
Rich. Peace, fair Viola?
Fair Viola? who should have left her here
On such a ground? if you had meant to lose her,
You might have found there were [no ecchos] here
To take her name, and carry it about,
When her true Lover came to mourn for her,
Till all the neighboring valleys and the hills,
Resounded Viola,—
And such a place,
You should have chose—
You pity us because
The dew a little wets our feet,
Unworthy far to seek her in the wet;
And what becomes of her? where wandred she,
With two showers raining on her, from her eyes
Continually, abundantly, from which
There's neither tree nor house to shelter her;
Will you go with me to travel?
Val. Whither?
Rich. Over all the world.
Val. No by my faith, I'll make a shorter journey
When I do travel.
Rich. But there's no hope
To gain my end in any shorter way.
Val. Why, what's your end?
Rich. It is to search the earth,
Till we have found two in the shapes of men,
As wicked as our selves.
Val. 'Twere not so hard to find out those.
Rich. Why, if we find them out,
It were the better, for what brave villany,
Might we four do? we wou'd not keep together:
For every one has treachery enough
For twenty countreys, one should trouble Asia,
Another should sow strife in Africa;
But you should play the knave, in at home in Europe,
And for America let me alone.
Val. Sir, I am honester,
Than you know how to be, and can no more
Be wrong'd, but I shall find my self aright.
Rich. If you had any spark of honesty,
You would not think that honester than I,
Were a praise high enough to serve your turn:
If men were commonly so bad as I,
Thieves would be put in Calendars for Saints;
And bones of murderers would work miracles.
I am a kind of knave, of knave so much
There is betwixt me, and the vilest else—
But the next place of all to mine is yours.
Enter two Milk-maids and Viola with pails.
Val. That last is she, 'tis she.
Rich. Let us away, we shall infect her, let her have the wind,
And we will kneel down here.