Alb. Talk not of horns. O Celia! How oft,
When thou hast laid thy cheek upon my breast, 20
And with lascivious petulancy sued
For hymeneal dalliance, marriage-rites;—
O then, how oft, with passionate protests
And zealous vows, hast thou obliged thy love,
In dateless bands, unto Albano’s breast!
Then, did I but mention second marriage,
With what a bitter hate would she inveigh
’Gainst retail’d wedlocks! “O!” would she lisp,
“If you should die,”—then would she slide a tear,
And with a wanton languishment intwist 30
Her hands,—“O God, and you should die! Marry?
Could I love life, my dear Albano dead?
Should any prince possess his widow’s bed?”
And now, see, see, I am but rumour’d drown’d.
Slip. She’ll make you prince;—your worship must be crown’d.
O master, you know the woman is the weaker creature!
She must have a prop. The maid is the brittle metal;
Her head is quickly crack’d. The wife is queasy-stomach’d,
She must be fed with novelties. But, then, what’s your widow?
Custom is a second nature;—I say no more, but think you the rest. 40
Alb. If love be holy; if that mystery
Of co-united hearts be sacrament;
If the unbounded goodness have infused
A sacred ardour, if a mutual love,
Into our species, of those amorous joys,
Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death,
Spring from a cause above our reason’s reach;—
If that clear flame deduce his heat from heaven;—
’Tis like his cause,[472] eternal, always One,
As is th’ instiller of divinest love, 50
Unchanged by time, immortal maugre death!
But O, ’tis grown a figment, love a jest,
A comic poesy! The soul of man is rotten,
Even to the core;—no sound affection.
Our love is hollow-vaulted—stands on props
Of circumstance, profit, or ambitious hopes!
The other tissue gown, or chain of pearl,
Makes my coy minx to nuzzel[473] ’twixt the breasts
Of her lull’d husband; t’other carkanet
Deflowers that lady’s bed. One hundred more 60
Marries that loathèd blowze;—one ten-pound odds,
In promised jointure, makes the hard-palm’d sire
Enforce his daughter’s tender lips to start
At the sharp touch of some loath’d stubbèd beard;
The first pure time, the golden age, is fled.
Heaven knows I lie,—’tis now the age of gold,—
For it all marreth, and even virtue’s sold!
Slip. Master, will you trust me, and I’ll——
Alb. Yes, boy, I’ll trust thee. Babes and fools I’ll trust;
But servants’ faith, wives’ love, or female’s lust,— 70
A usurer and the devil sooner. Now, were I dead,
Methinks I see a huff-cap swaggering sir
Pawning my plate, my jewels mortgage; nay,
Selling outright[474] the purchase of my brows,
Whilst my poor fatherless, lean, totter’d[475] son—
My gentry’s relics, my house’s only prop—
Is saw’d asunder, lies forlorn, all bleak
Unto the griefs of sharp necessities,
Whilst his father-in-law, his father-in-devil, or d-d-d-d-devil-f-f-f-father,
Or who, who, who, who,—What You Will!— 80
When is the marriage morn?
Slip. Even next rising sun.
Alb. Good, good, good! Go to my brother Andrea:[476]
Tell him I’ll lurk; stay, tell him I’ll lurk: stay.—
Now is Albano’s marriage-bed new hung
With fresh rich curtains! Now are my valence up,
Emboss’d with orient pearl, my grandsire’s gift!
Now are the lawn sheets fumed with violets,[477]
To fresh the pall’d lascivious appetite!
Now work the cooks, the pastry sweats with slaves;
The march-panes[478] glitter: now, now, the musicians 90
Hover with nimble sticks o’er squeaking crowds,[479]
Tickling the dried guts of a mewing cat.