Enter Pisaro.
How smug this grey-ey'd morning seems to be!
A pleasant sight; but yet more pleasure have I
To think upon this moist'ning southwest wind,
That drives my laden ships from fertile Spain.
But come what will, no wind can come amiss.
For two and thirty winds that rule the seas,
And blow about this airy region,
Thirty-two ships have I to equal them,
Whose wealthy freights do make Pisaro rich:
Thus every soil to me is natural.
Indeed, by birth I am a Portingal
Who, driven by western winds on English shore,
Here, liking of the soil, I married,
And have three daughters: but impartial death
Long since depriv'd me of her dearest life;
Since whose decease in London I have dwelt,
And by the sweet-lov'd trade of usury,
Letting for interest and on mortgages,
Do I wax rich; though many gentlemen
By my extortion come to misery.
Amongst the rest, three English gentlemen
Have pawned to me their livings and their lands:
Each several hoping, though their hopes are vain,
By marriage of my daughters to possess
Their patrimonies and their lands again.
But gold is sweet, and they deceive themselves;
For though I gild my temples with a smile,
It is but Judas-like to work their ends.
But soft, what noise of footing do I hear? [Retires.
Enter Laurentia, Marina, Mathea, and Anthony.
Laur. Now, master, what intend you to read to us?
Anth. Pisaro, your father, would have me read moral philosophy.
Mar. What's that?
Anth. First tell me how you like it?
Math. First tell us what it is.
Pis. They be my daughters and their schoolmaster.
Pisaro, not a word, but list their talk. [Aside.
Anth. Gentlewomen, to paint philosophy,
Is to present youth with so sour a dish,
As their abhorring stomachs nill digest.
When first my mother Oxford (England's pride)
Foster'd me, pupil-like, with her rich store,
My study was to read philosophy;
But since my headstrong youth's unbridled will,
Scorning the leaden fetters of restraint,
Hath prun'd my feathers to a higher pitch.
Gentlewomen, moral philosophy is a kind of art,
The most contrary to your tender sexes;
It teacheth to be grave, and on that brow,
Where beauty in her rarest glory shines,
Plants the sad semblance of decayed age.
Those weeds, that with their riches should adorn
And grace fair nature's curious workmanship,
Must be converted to a black-faced veil,
Grief's livery and sorrow's semblance:
Your food must be your hearts' abundant sighs,
Steep'd in the brinish liquor of your tears:
Daylight as dark night—dark night spent in prayer:
Thoughts your companions, and repentant minds
The recreation of your tired spirits.
Gentlewomen, if you can like this modesty,[477]
Then will I read to you philosophy.