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.