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• THE HONEST WHORE. (Part I.)
• THE HONEST WHORE. (Part II.)
• THE WITCH.
• THE WIDOW.
• A FAIR QUARREL.
• MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN.

3The Honest Whore, with, The Humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife. Tho: Dekker. London Printed by V. S. for John Hodgets, and are to be solde at his shop in Paules church-yard. 1604. 4to. Other eds. in 1605,^[1] 1615, 1616, 1635, 4to.

It has also been reprinted (with the grossest and most unpardonable incorrectness) in the various editions of Dodsley’s Old Plays, vol. iii.

This drama (both First and Second Parts) ought to have occupied an earlier station among our author’s works. I originally rejected it, because the name of Dekker alone appears on the title-page; but I have since felt convinced that, with such authority for ascribing a portion of it to Middleton as that of Henslowe in the following entry, I should not be justified in excluding it from the present collection:

“March 1602-3. The Patient Man and Honest Whore, by Thomas Dekker and Thomas Middleton.” Malone’s Shakespeare (by Boswell), vol. iii. p. 328.

• Gasparo Trebazzi, duke of Milan.
• Hippolito, a count.
• Castruchio.
• Sinezi.
• Pioratto.
• Fluello.
• Matheo.
• Benedict, a doctor.
• Anselmo, a friar.
• Fustigo, brother to Viola.
• Candido, a linen-draper.
• George, his servant.
• First Prentice.
• Second Prentice.
• Crambo.
• Poh.
• Roger, servant to Bellafront.
• Porter.
• Sweeper.
• Madmen, Servants, &c.

• Infelice, daughter to the duke.
• Bellafront, a harlot.
• Viola, wife to Candido.
• Mistress Fingerlock, a bawd.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Enter a funeral, a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheons and garlands hanging on the sides, attended by Gasparo Trebazzi, Duke of Milan, Castruchio, Sinezi, Pioratto, Fluello, and others: Hippolito meeting them, and Matheo labouring to hold him back.

Cas.
Sin., &c. } On afore there, ho!

Cas.
Sin., &c. } Set on.

Mat. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [Exit Duke.]—’Sblood, the jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and, like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. [Aside.]—My lord Hippolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner?

Hip. Where is the body?

8Mat. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be wormed.

Hip. I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn: I’ll see how my love looks.

Mat. How your love looks? worse than a scarecrow. Wrestle not with me; the great fellow gives the fall, for a ducat.

Hip. I shall forget myself.

Mat. Pray, do so; leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues, that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their noses by nothing but twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much metal in him as is in a cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vexed thing; he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards: you’ll bleed three pottles of Aligant,^[4] by this light, if you follow ’em; and then we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have surgeons roll thee up, like a baby, in swaddling clouts.

Hip. What day is to-day, Matheo?

Mat. Yea, marry, this is an easy question: why, to-day is—let me see—Thursday.

Hip. O, Thursday.

Mat. Here’s a coil for a dead commodity! ’sfoot, women when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands.

Hip. She died on Monday then!

Mat. And that’s the most villanous day of all the week to die in: and she was well and eat a mess of water-gruel on Monday morning.

Mat. O yes, my lord. So soon? why, I ha’ known them that at dinner have been as well, and had so much health that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock have been found dead drunk.

Mat. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding.

Mat. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad; but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench.

Mat. If you have this strange monster, honesty, in your belly, why, so, jig-makers^[7] and chroniclers shall pick something out of you; but and^[8] I smell not you and a bawdyhouse out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as an English bag-pudding. I’ll follow your lordship, though it be to the place afore named.

SCENE II.

Fus. How now, porter, will she come?

Por. If I may trust a woman, sir, she will come.

Fus. There’s for thy pains [gives money]: God-amercy, if ever I stand in need of a wench that will come with a wet finger,^[9] porter, thou shalt earn my 11money before any clarissimo[’s]^[10] in Milan: yet so, God sa’ me, she’s mine own sister, body and soul, as I am a Christian gentleman: farewell; I’ll ponder till she come: thou hast been no bawd in fetching this woman, I assure thee.

Por. No matter if I had, sir; better men than porters are bawds.

Fus. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But, porter, art sure thou went’st into a true house?

Por. I think so, for I met with no thieves.^[11]

Fus. Nay, but art sure it was my sister Viola?

Por. I am sure, by all superscriptions, it was the party you ciphered.

Fus. Not very tall?

Por. Nor very low; a middling woman.

Fus. ’Twas she, faith, ’twas she: a pretty plump cheek, like mine?

Por. At a blush a little, very much like you.

Fus. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kicked up her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage; marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There’s a little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay [gives money]: farewell, honest porter.

Por. I am in your debt, sir; God preserve you.

Fus. Not so neither, good porter. [Exit porter.] God’s lid, yonder she comes.

Sister Viola, I am glad to see you stirring: it’s news to have me here, is’t not, sister?

Vio. Yes, trust me: I wondered who should 12be so bold to send for me. You are welcome to Milan, brother.

Fus. Troth, sister, I heard you were married to a very rich chuff, and I was very sorry for it that I had no better clothes, and that made me send; for you know we Milaners love to strut upon Spanish leather. And how do^[12] all our friends?

Vio. Very well. You ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to sow your wild oats.

Fus. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and reaped two hundred ducats, if I had ’em here. Marry, I must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till the ship come: by this hand, I’ll discharge at my day, by this hand.

Vio. These are your old oaths.

Fus. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand?

Vio. Well, well, you shall have them. Put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter.

Fus. I’ll sweat like a horse, if I like the matter.

Vio. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours?

Fus. I had not sailed a league in that great fish-pond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall.

Vio. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true swaggerer.

Fus. Nay, by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me.

Vio. Then lend me your ears.

Fus. Mine ears are yours, dear sister.

13Vio. I am married to a man that has wealth enough and wit enough.

Fus. A linen-draper, I was told, sister.

Vio. Very true; a grave citizen. I want nothing that a wife can wish from a husband; but here’s the spite, he has not all things belonging to a man.

Fus. God’s my life, he’s a very mandrake;^[13] or else, God bless us, one a’ these whiblins,^[14] and that’s worse; and then all the children that he gets lawfully of your body, sister, are bastards by a statute.

Vio. O, you run over me too fast, brother. I have heard it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man: I am sure my husband is a man in print^[15] for all things else save only in this, no tempest can move him.

Fus. ’Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should ha’ been moved and moved again; for I’ll be sworn, la, our drunken ship reeled like a Dutchman.

Vio. No loss of goods can increase in him a wrinkle; no crabbed language make his countenance sour; the stubbornness of no servant shake him: he has no more gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant; musician will he never be, yet I find much music in him, but he loves no frets; and is so free from anger, that many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to 14anger their husbands: brother, mine can by no thunder turn him into a sharpness.

Fus. Belike his blood, sister, is well brewed then.

Vio. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most affectionately; but I know not—I ha’ such a tickling within me—such a strange longing; nay, verily, I do long.

Fus. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens: nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else; I ha’ read Albertus Magnus^[16] and Aristotle’s Problems.^[17]

Vio. You’re wide a’ th’ bow-hand^[18] still, brother: my longings are not wanton, but wayward; I long to have my patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent the bristling quills may stick about his lips like a Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me: I shall be leaner than the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad.

Fus. ’Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make him a cuckold.

Vio. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness.

Fus. The honester citizen he. Then make him drunk and cut off his beard.^[19]

Vio. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to 15fret at the loss of a little scald hair.^[20] No, brother, thus it shall be—you must be secret.

Fus. As your midwife, I protest, sister, or a barber-surgeon.

Vio. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave^[21] man; instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck.

Fus. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too, sister.

Vio. O, by any means, to shew your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer.

Fus. Nay, for swaggering points let me alone.

Vio. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s presence, kiss me, snatch rings, jewels, or any thing, so you give it back again, brother, in secret.

Fus. By this hand, sister.

Vio. Swear as if you came but new from knighting.

Fus. Nay, I’ll swear after 400 a-year.

Vio. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among fresh-water soldiers; call me your love, your ingle,^[22] your cousin, or so, but sister at no hand.

Fus. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that’s the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their madcaps^[23] that man ’em to the garden: 16to call you one a’ mine aunts,^[24] sister, were as good as call you arrant whore: no, no, let me alone to cozen you rarely.

Vio. Has heard I have a brother, but never saw him; therefore put on a good face.

Fus. The best in Milan, I warrant.

Vio. Take up wares, but pay nothing; rifle my bosom, my pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice withal; but, brother, you must give all back again in secret.

Fus. By this welkin^[25] that here roars, I will, or else let me never know what a secret is. Why, sister, do you think I’ll cony-catch^[26] you, when you are my cousin? God’s my life, then I were a stark ass. If I fret not his guts, beg me for a fool.^[27]

Vio. Be circumspect, and do so then. Farewell.

Fus. The Tortoise, sister! I’ll stay there; forty ducats!

First Ser. I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that deadly word.

Sec. Ser. And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than Greek.

SCENE IV.

Cas. Signor Pioratto, signor Fluello, shall’s be merry? shall’s play the wags now?

Flu. Ay, any thing that may beget the child of laughter.

Cas. Truth, I have a pretty sportive conceit new crept into my brain, will move excellent mirth.

Pio. Let’s ha’t, let’s ha’t; and where shall the scene of mirth lie?

Cas. At signor Candido’s house, the patient man, nay, the monstrous patient man: they say his blood is immoveable; that he has taken all patience from a man, and all constancy from a woman.

Flu. That makes so many whores now-a-days.

Cas. Ay, and so many knaves too.

Pio. Well, sir.

Cas. To conclude,—the report goes, he’s so mild, so affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can 22move him: now do but think what sport it will be to make this fellow, the mirror of patience, as angry, as vexed, and as mad as an English cuckold.

Flu. O, 'twere admirable mirth that! but how will’t be done, signor?

Cas. Let me alone; I have a trick, a conceit, a thing, a device will sting him, i’faith, if he have but a thimbleful of blood in’s belly, or a spleen not so big as a tavern-token.^[41]

Pio. Thou stir him, thou move him, thou anger him? alas, I know his approved temper! thou vex him? why, he has a patience above man’s injuries; thou mayest sooner raise a spleen in an angel than rough humour in him. Why, I’ll give you instance for it. This wonderfully tempered signor Candido upon a time invited home to his house certain Neapolitan lords of curious taste and no mean palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves,^[42] to prepare cheer fitting for such honourable trenchermen. She—just of a woman’s nature, covetous to try the uttermost of vexation, and thinking at last to get the start of his humour—willingly neglected the preparation, and became unfurnished not only of dainty, but of ordinary dishes. He, according to the mildness of his breast, entertained the lords, 23and with courtly discourse beguiled the time, as much as a citizen might do. To conclude: they were hungry lords, for there came no meat in; their stomachs were plainly gulled, and their teeth deluded; and, if anger could have seized a man, there was matter enough, i’faith, to vex any citizen in the world, if he were not too much made a fool by his wife.

Flu. Ay, I’ll swear for’t: ’sfoot, had it been my case, I should ha’ played mad tricks with my wife and family; first, I would ha’ spitted the men, stewed the maids, and baked the mistress, and so served them in.

Cas. ’Sblood, signor Pioratto, you that disparage my conceit, I’ll wage a hundred ducats upon the head on’t, that it moves him, frets him, and galls him.

Pio. Done; ’tis a lay;^[44] join golls^[45] on’t. Witness, signor Fluello.

SCENE V.

Vio. Come, you put up your wares in good order 24here, do you not, think you? one piece cast this way, another that way! you had need have a patient master indeed.

Geo. Ay, I’ll be sworn, for we have a curst mistress.

Vio. You mumble, do you? mumble? I would your master or I could be a note more angry! for two patient folks in a house spoil all the servants that ever shall come under them.

First P. You patient! ay, so is the devil when he is horn-mad. [Aside.

Geo. Gentlemen, what do you lack?

First P. What is’t you buy?

Sec. P. See fine hollands, fine cambrics, fine lawns.^[46]

Geo. What is’t you lack?

Sec. P. What is’t you buy?

Cas. Where’s signor Candido, thy master?

Geo. Faith, signor, he’s a little negotiated; he’ll appear presently.

Cas. Fellow, let’s see a lawn, a choice one, sirrah.

Geo. The best in all Milan, gentlemen, and this is the piece. I can fit you, gentlemen, with fine callicoes too for doublets; the only sweet fashion now, most delicate and courtly, a meek gentle callico, cut upon two double affable taffetas—ah, most neat, feat, and unmatchable!

Flu. A notable voluble-tongued villain!

Pio. I warrant this fellow was never begot without much prating.

25Cas. What, and is this she, sayest thou?

Geo. Ay, and the purest she that ever you fingered since you were a gentleman: look how even she is; look how clean she is, ha! as even as the brow of Cynthia, and as clean as your sons and heirs when they ha’ spent all.

Cas. Pooh! thou talkest—pox on’t, ’tis rough.

Geo. How? is she rough? but if you bid pox on’t, sir, 'twill take away the roughness presently.

Flu. Ha, signor, has he fitted your French curse?

Geo. Look you, gentleman, here’s another; compare them, I pray, compara Virgilium cum Homero, compare virgins with harlots.

Cas. Pooh! I ha’ seen better, and, as you term them, evener and cleaner.

Geo. You may see further for your mind, but trust me you shall not find better for your body.

Can. How now? what’s the matter?

Geo. The gentlemen find fault with this lawn, fall out with it, and without a cause too.

Cas. Well, how do you rate it?

Can. Very conscionably; eighteen shillings a yard.

Cas. That’s too dear. How many yards does the whole piece contain, think you?

Can. Why, some seventeen yards, I think, or thereabouts. How much would serve your turn, I pray?

Cas. Why, let me see—would it were better too!

Can. Truth, ’tis the best in Milan, at few words.

Cas. Of lawn? ay, of lawn; a penn’orth. ’Sblood, dost not hear? a whole penn’orth: are you deaf?

Cas. Nay, and^[47] you and your lawns be so squeamish, fare you well.

Can. Pray stay; a word, pray, signor: for what purpose is it, I beseech you?

Cas. ’Sblood, what’s that to you? I’ll have a pennyworth.

Can. A pennyworth! why you shall: I’ll serve you presently.

Sec. P. ’Sfoot, a pennyworth, mistress!

Vio. Ay, that patience makes a fool of you.—Gentlemen, you might ha’ found some other citizen to have made a kind gull on besides my husband.

Vio. Customers with a murrain! call you these customers?

Geo. ’Sfoot, mistress, I warrant these are some cheating companions.^[49]

Flu. Nay, it doth please me; and, as you say, ’tis a very good one: farewell, signor Candido.

Geo. I told you before, mistress, they were all cheaters.

Vio. Why, fool! why, husband! why, madman! I hope you will not let 'em sneak away so with a silver and gilt beaker, the best in the house too.—Go, fellows, make hue and cry after them.

Vio. O, you’re a goodly patient woodcock, are you not now? See what your patience comes to! every one saddles you, and rides you; you’ll be shortly the common stone-horse of Milan: a woman’s well holped up with such a meacock.^[56] I had rather have a husband that would swaddle^[57] me thrice a-day, than such a one that will be gulled twice in half an hour. O, I could burn all the wares in my shop for anger!

Vio. Hang your agreements! but if my beaker be gone—— [Exit.

Can. O, here they come.

Geo. The constable, sir, let 'em come along with me, because there should be no wondering: he stays at door.

Cas. Constable, goodman Abra’m!^[58]

Flu. Now, signor Candido, ’sblood, why do you attach us?

ACT II. SCENE I.

Enter Roger with a stool, cushion, looking-glass, and chafing-dish:^[59] those being set down, he pulls out of his pocket a phial with white colour in it, and two boxes, one with white, another with red paint; he places all things in order, and a candle by them, singing the ends of old ballads as he does it. At last Bellafront, as he nibs his cheek with the colours, whistles within.

Rog. Anon, forsooth.

Bel. [within] What are you playing the rogue about?

Rog. About you, forsooth; I’m drawing up a hole in your white silk stocking.

Bel. Is my glass there? and my boxes of complexion?

Rog. Yes, forsooth; your boxes of complexion are here, I think; yes, ’tis here; here’s your two complexions, and if I had all the four complexions, I should ne’er set a good face upon’t. Some men, I see, are born under hard-favoured planets, as well as women. Zounds, I look worse now than I did before! and it makes her face glister most damnably. There’s knavery in daubing, I hold my life; or else this is only female pomatum.

35Enter Bellafront not full ready,^[60] without a gown; she sits down; curls her hair^[61] with her bodkin, and colours her lips.

Bel. Where’s my ruff and poker,^[62] you block-head?

Rog. Your ruff, your poker, are engendering together upon the cupboard of the court, or the court-cupboard.^[63]

Bel. Fetch 'em: is the pox in your hams, you can go no faster?

Rog. Would the pox were in your fingers, unless you could leave flinging! catch—— [Exit.

Bel. I’ll catch you, you dog, by and by: do you grumble?

Rog. There’s your ruff; shall I poke it?

Bel. Yes, honest Roger:—no, stay; prithee, good boy, hold here.

[Sings] Down, down, down, down, I fall down and arise,—down,—I never shall arise.

36Rog. Troth, mistress, then leave the trade, if you shall never rise.

Bel. What trade, goodman Abra’m?^[64]

Rog. Why, that of^[65] down and arise, or the falling trade.

Bel. I’ll fall with you by and by.

Rog. If you do, I know who shall smart for’t. Troth, mistress, what do I look like now?

Bel. Like as you are; a panderly sixpenny rascal.

Rog. I may thank you for that: in faith, I look like an old proverb, Hold the candle before the devil.

Bel. Ud’s life, I’ll stick my knife in your guts and^[66] you prate to me so! What? [Sings.

Rog. Why, as I hold your door, with my fingers.

Bel. Nay, pray thee, sweet honey Roger, hold up handsomely.

We shall ha’ guests to-day, I lay my little maiden-head, my nose itches so.

Rog. I said so too last night, when our fleas twinged me.

37Bel. So, poke my ruff now. My gown, my gown! have I my fall? where’s my fall,^[69] Roger?

Rog. Your fall, forsooth, is behind.

Bel. God’s my pittikins!^[70] some fool or other knocks.

Rog. Shall I open to the fool, mistress?

Bel. And all these baubles lying thus? away with it quickly.—Ay, ay, knock and be damned, whosoever you be!—So; give the fresh salmon line now; let him come ashore. [Exit Roger.]—He shall serve for my breakfast, though he go against my stomach.

Flu. Morrow, coz.

Cas. How does my sweet acquaintance?

Pio. Save thee, little marmoset;^[71] how dost thou, good, pretty rogue?

Bel. Well, Godamercy, good, pretty rascal.

Flu. Roger, some light, I prithee.

Rog. You shall, signor; for we that live here in this vale of misery are as dark as hell. [Exit.^[72]

Cas. Good tobacco, Fluello?

Flu. Smell.

Pio. It may be tickling gear, for it plays with my nose already.

Rog. Here’s another light angel,^[73] signor.

Bel. What, you pied curtal,^[74] what’s that you are neighing?

Rog. I say, God send us the light of heaven, or some more angels!

Bel. Go fetch some wine, and drink half of it.

Rog. I must fetch some wine, gentlemen, and drink half of it.

Flu. Here, Roger.

Cas. No, let me send, prithee.

Flu. Hold, you canker-worm.

Rog. You shall send both, if you please, signors.

Pio. Stay, what’s best to drink a’ mornings?

Rog. Hippocras,^[75] sir, for my mistress, if I fetch it, is most dear to her.

Flu. Hippocras? there then, here’s a teston^[76] for you, you snake.

Rog. Right, sir; here’s three shillings sixpence for a pottle and a manchet.^[77] [Exit.

Cas. Here’s most Herculanean tobacco: ha’ some, acquaintance?

Bel. Faugh, not I! makes your breath stink like the piss of a fox. Acquaintance, where supped you last night?

Cas. At a place, sweet acquaintance, where your 39health danced the canaries,^[78] i’faith; you should ha’ been there.

Bel. I there among your punks! marry faugh, hang’em; scorn’t:^[79] will you never leave sucking of eggs in other folk’s hens’ nests?

Cas. Why, in good troth, if you’ll trust me, acquaintance, there was not one hen at the board; ask Fluello.

Flu. No, faith, coz, none but cocks; signor Malavella drunk to thee.

Bel. O, a pure beagle; that horseleech there?

Flu. And the knight, sir Oliver Lollio, swore he would bestow a taffeta petticoat on thee, but to break his fast with thee.

Bel. With me? I’ll choke him then; hang him, mole-catcher! it’s the dreamingest snotty-nose.

Pio. Well, many took that Lollio for a fool, but he’s a subtle fool.

Bel. Ay, and he has fellows: of all filthy, dry-fisted knights,^[80] I cannot abide that he should touch me.

Cas. Why, wench? is he scabbed?

Bel. Hang him, he’ll not live to be so honest, nor to the credit to have scabs about him; his betters have 'em: but I hate to wear out any of his coarse knighthood, because he’s made like an alderman’s night-gown, faced all with cony^[81] before, and 40within nothing but fox: this sweet Oliver^[82], will eat mutton till he be ready to burst, but the lean-jawed slave will not pay for the scraping of his trencher.

Pio. Plague him; set him beneath the salt,^[83] and let him not touch a bit till every one has had his full cut.

Flu. Lord Ello, the gentleman-usher, came into us too: marry, ’twas in our cheese, for he had been to borrow money for his lord of a citizen.

Cas. What an ass is that lord to borrow money of a citizen!

Bel. Nay, God’s my pity, what an ass is that citizen to lend money to^[84] a lord!

Enter Matheo and Hippolito; Hippolito, saluting the company as a stranger, walks of.^[85] Roger comes in sadly behind them with a pottle-pot, and stands aloof off.^[86]

Mat. Save you, gallants. Signor Fluello, exceedingly well met, as I may say.

Flu. Signor Matheo, exceedingly well met too, as I may say.

41Mat. And how fares my little pretty mistress?

Bel. E’en as my little pretty servant; sees three court-dishes before her, and not one good bit in them.—How now? why the devil standest thou so? art in a trance?

Rog. Yes, forsooth.

Bel. Why dost not fill out their wine?

Rog. Forsooth,’tis filled out already: all the wine that the signors have^[87] bestowed upon you is cast away; a porter ran a little^[88] at me, and so faced me down that I had not a drop.

Bel. I’m accursed to let such a withered artichoke-faced rascal grow under my nose: now you look like an old he-cat going to the gallows. I’ll be hanged if he ha’ not put up the money to cony-catch^[89] us all.

Rog. No, truly, forsooth, ’tis not put up yet.

Bel. How many gentlemen hast thou served thus?

Rog. None but five hundred, besides prentices and serving-men.

Bel. Dost think I’ll pocket it up at thy hands?

Rog. Yes, forsooth, I fear you will pocket it up.

Bel. Fie, fie, cut my lace, good servant; I shall ha’ the mother^[90] presently, I’m so vexed at this horse-plumb.

Flu. Plague, not for a scald^[91] pottle of wine!

42Mat. Nay, sweet Bellafront, for a little pig’s wash!

Cas. Here, Roger, fetch more. [Gives money to Roger.]—A mischance, i’faith, acquaintance.

Bel. Out of my sight, thou ungodly, puritanical creature!

Rog. For the t’other pottle? yes, forsooth.

Bel. Spill that too. [Exit Roger.]—What gentleman^[92] is that, servant? your friend?

Mat. Gods so; a stool, a stool! If you love me, mistress, entertain this gentleman respectively,^[93] and bid him welcome.

Bel. He’s very welcome.—Pray, sir, sit.

Hip. Thanks, lady.

Flu. Count Hippolito, is’t not? Cry you mercy, signor; you walk here all this while, and we not heard you! Let me bestow a stool upon you, beseech you; you are a stranger here, we know the fashions a’ th’ house.

Cas. Please you be here, my lord? [Offers tobacco.

Hip. No, good Castruchio.

Flu. You have abandoned the court, I see, my lord, since the death of your mistress: well, she was a delicate piece—Beseech you,^[94] sweet, come, let us serve under the colours of your acquaintance still for all that—Please you to meet here at the^[95] lodging of my coz, I shall bestow a banquet upon you.

Hip. I never can deserve this kindness, sir. What may this lady be whom you call coz?

Flu. Faith, sir, a poor gentlewoman, of passing 43good carriage; one that has some suits in law, and lies here in an attorney’s house.

Hip. Is she married?

Flu. Ha, as all your punks are; a captain’s wife or so: never saw her before, my lord?

Hip. Never, trust me: a goodly creature!

Flu. By gad, when you know her as we do, you’ll swear she is the prettiest, kindest, sweetest, most bewitching, honest ape under the pole: a skin, your satin is not more soft, nor lawn whiter.

Hip. Belike, then, she’s some sale courtesan.

Flu. Troth, as all your best faces are, a good wench.

Hip. Great pity that she’s a good wench.

Mat. Thou shalt ha’, i’faith, mistress.—How now, signors? what, whispering?—Did not I lay a wager I should take you, within seven days, in a house of vanity?

Mat. How do you like my mistress?

Hip. Well, for such a mistress; better, if your mistress be not your master—I must break manners, gentlemen; fare you well.

Mat. ’Sfoot, you shall not leave us.

Bel. The gentleman likes not the taste of our company.

Flu.
Cas., &c. } Beseech you, stay.

Hip. Trust me, my affairs beckon for me; pardon me.

Mat. Will you call for me half an hour hence here?

Hip. Perhaps I shall.

Mat. Perhaps? faugh! I know you can swear to me you will.

44Hip. Since you will press me, on my word, I will. [Exit.

Bel. What sullen picture is this, servant?

Mat. It’s count Hippolito, the brave count.

Pio. As gallant a spirit as any in Milan, you sweet Jew.

Flu. O, he’s a most essential gentleman, coz!

Cas. Did you never hear of count Hippolito, acquaintance?^[96]

Bel. Marry muff^[97] a’ your counts, and^[98] be no more life in 'em.

Mat. He’s so malcontent, sirrah^[99] Bellafront.—And^[98] you be honest gallants, let’s sup together, and have the count with us:—thou shalt sit at the upper end, punk.

Bel. Punk? you soused gurnet!^[100]

Mat. King’s truce: come, I’ll bestow the supper to have him but laugh.

Cas. He betrays his youth too grossly to that tyrant melancholy.

Mat. All this is for a woman.

Bel. A woman? some whore! what sweet jewel is’t?

Pio. Would she heard you!

Flu. Troth, so would I.

Cas. And I, by heaven.

Bel. Nay, good servant, what woman?

Mat. Pah!

Bel. Prithee, tell me; a buss, and tell me: I warrant he’s an honest fellow, if he take on thus for a wench: good rogue, who?

45Mat. By th’ lord, I will not, must not, faith, mistress.—Is’t a match, sirs? this night at th’ Antelope; ay, for there’s best wine and good boys.

Flu.
Cas.
Pio. } It’s done; at th’ Antelope.

Bel. I cannot be there to-night.

Mat. Cannot? by th’ lord, you shall.

Bel. By the lady, I will not: shaall!^[101]

Flu. Why, then, put it off till Friday: wu’t come then, coz?

Bel. Well.

Mat. You’re the waspishest ape!—Roger, put your mistress in mind to sup with us on Friday next.—You’re best come like a madwoman, without a band, in your waistcoat,^[102] and the linings of your kirtle outward, like every common hackney that steals out at the back gate of her sweet knight’s lodging.

Bel. Go, go, hang yourself!

Cas. It’s dinner-time, Matheo; shall’s hence?

Mat.
Flu.
Pio. } Yes, yes.—Farewell, wench.

Bel. Farewell, boys. [Exeunt all except Bellafront and Roger.]—Roger, what wine sent they for?

Rog. Bastard wine;^[103] for if it had been truly begotten, 46it would not ha’ been ashamed to come in. Here’s six shillings, to pay for nursing the bastard.

Bel. A company of rooks! O good, sweet Roger, run to the poulter’s,^[104] and buy me some fine larks!

Rog. No woodcocks?

Bel. Yes, faith, a couple, if they be not dear.

Rog. I’ll buy but one; there’s one^[105] already here.

ACT III. SCENE I.

Geo. See, gentlemen, what you lack?^[120] a fine holland, a fine cambric: see what you buy.

First P. Holland for shirts, cambric for bands; what is’t you lack?

Fus. ’Sfoot, I lack 'em all; nay, more, I lack money to buy 'em. Let me see, let me look again: mass, this is the shop. [Aside.]—What, coz, sweet coz! how dost, i’faith, since last night after candle-light? we had good sport, i’faith, had we not? and when shall’s laugh again?

Vio. When you will, cousin.

Fus. Spoke like a kind Lacedemonian! I see yonder’s thy husband.

55Vio. Ay, there’s the sweet youth, God bless him!

Fus. And how is’t, cousin? and how, how is’t, thou squall?^[121]

Vio. Well, cousin: how fare you?

Fus. How fare I? troth, for sixpence a-meal, wench, as well as heart can wish, with calves’ chaldrons^[122] and chitterlings; besides, I have a punk after supper, as good as a roasted apple.

Can. Are you my wife’s cousin?

Fus. I am, sir: what hast thou to do with that?

Can. O, nothing, but you’re welcome.

Fus. The devil’s dung in thy teeth! I’ll be welcome whether thou wilt or no, I.—What ring’s this, coz? very pretty and fantastical, i’faith; let’s see it.

Vio. Pooh! nay, you wrench my finger.

Fus. I ha’ sworn I’ll ha’t, and I hope you will not let my oaths be cracked in the ring,^[123] will you? [Seizes the ring.]—I hope, sir, you are not malicholly^[124] at this, for all your great looks: are you angry?

Geo. Suffer this, sir, and suffer all: a whoreson gull to——

Geo. But in the mean time she makes an ass of 56somebody.

Sec. P. See, see, see, sir, as you turn your back they do nothing but kiss.

Fus. Troth, coz, and well remembered; I would thou wouldst give me five yards of lawn, to make my punk some falling-bands^[126] a’ the fashion; three falling one upon another, for that’s the new edition now: she’s out of linen horribly too; troth, sha’s never a good smock to her back neither, but one that has a great many patches in’t, and that I’m fain to wear myself for want of shift too: prithee, put me into wholesome napery,^[127] and bestow some clean commodities upon us.

Vio. Reach me those cambrics and the lawns hither.

Fus. Fool? ’Snails, eat the fool, or I’ll so batter your crown that it shall scarce go for five shillings.

57Sec. P. Do you hear, sir? you’re best be quiet, and say a fool tells you so.

Fus. Nails, I think so, for thou tellest me.

Fus. Zounds, cousin, he talks to me as if I were a scurvy tragedian!

Sec. P. Sirrah George, I ha’ thought upon a device, how to break his pate, beat him soundly, and ship him away.

Geo. Do’t.

Sec. P. I’ll go in, pass thorough the house, give some of our fellow-prentices the watch-word when they shall enter; then come and fetch my master in by a wile, and place one in the hall to hold him in conference whilst we cudgel the gull out of his coxcomb.

Geo. Do’t; away, do’t. [Exit Second Prentice.

Vio. Must I call twice for these cambrics and lawns?

First P. Two of the choicest pieces are in the warehouse, sir.

Fus. Stranger? no, sir, I’m a natural Milaner 58born.

Fus. My acquaintance? I scorn that, i’faith. I hope my acquaintance goes in chains of gold three and fifty times double:—you know who I mean, coz; the posts of his gate are a-painting too.^[128]

Sec. P. Signor Pandulfo the merchant desires conference with you.

Vio. When do you shew those pieces?

Fus. Ay, when do you shew those pieces?

Prentices [within].^[129] Presently, sir, presently; we are but charging them.

Fus. Come, sirrah, you flat-cap,^[130] where be these whites?

Geo. Flat-cap? hark in your ear, sir; you’re a flat fool, an ass, a gull, and I’ll thrum you:—do you see this cambric, sir?

Fus. ’Sfoot, coz, a good jest; did you hear him? he told me in my ear I was a flat fool, an ass, a 59gull, and I’ll thrum you:—do you see this cambric, sir?

Vio. What, not my men, I hope?

Fus. No, not your men, but one of your men, i’faith.

First P. I pray, sir, come hither: what say you to this? here’s^[131] an excellent good one.

Fus. Ay, marry, this likes^[132] me well; cut me off some half-score yards.

Sec. P. Let your whores cut; you’re an impudent coxcomb; you get none, and yet I’ll thrum you:—a very good cambric, sir.

Fus. Again, again, as God judge me! ’sfoot, coz, they stand thrumming here with me all day, and yet I get nothing.

First P. A word, I pray, sir; you must not be angry; prentices have hot bloods, young fellows—what say you to this piece? look you, ’tis so delicate, so soft, so even, so fine a thread, that a lady may wear it.

Fus. ’Sfoot, I think so; if a knight marry my punk, a lady shall wear it: cut me off twenty yards; thou’rt an honest lad.

First P. Not without money, gull, and I’ll thrum you too.

Prentices [within]. Gull, we’ll thrum you!

Fus. O lord, sister, did you not hear something cry thrum? zounds, your men here make a plain ass of me.

Vio. What, to my face so impudent?

Fus. Mass, and I’ll take 'em as freely.

Geo., First and Sec. P., and other Prentices rushing in. We’ll make you lay 'em down again more freely.

Can. How now, what coil is here? forbear, I say!

Fus. I’faith, they ha’ peppered me, sister; look, dost not spin? call you these prentices? I’ll ne’er play at cards more when clubs is trump: I have a goodly coxcomb, sister, have I not?

Fus. If you have any skill in heraldry, you may soon know that; break but her pate, and you shall see her blood and mine is all one.

Fus. Because it’s a common thing to call coz^[133] and ningle^[134] now-a-days all the world over.

Fus. Troth, brother, my sister would needs ha’ me take upon me to gull your patience a little; but it has made double gules^[135] on my coxcomb.

Fus. I’ll ne’er call coz again whilst I live, to have such a coil about it: this should be a coronation-day, for my head runs claret lustily.

Geo. I hope you do not think, sir, as you mean.

Geo. Here, sir, here’s the carpet.

Geo. It must come over your head, sir, like a wench’s petticoat.

Geo. Indifferent well, sir, for a nightgown, being girt and plaited.

Can. Ay, and a nightcap on my head.

Geo. That’s true, sir; I’ll run and fetch one, and a staff. [Exit.

Geo. I laugh? not I, sir.

Geo. Now looks my master just like one of our carpet knights,^[142] only he’s somewhat the honester of the two.

Geo. [aside] No; but he’ll make you swear anon.—No, indeed, he went away like a lamb.

Geo. Well, if you’ll save me harmless, and put me under covert barn,^[144] I am content to please you, provided it may breed no wrong against him.

Mis. F. O Roger, Roger, where’s your mistress, where’s your mistress? there’s the finest, neatest gentleman at my house, but newly come over: O where is she, where is she, where is she?

Rog. My mistress is abroad, but not amongst 'em: my mistress is not the whore now that you take her for.

Mis. F. How? is she not a whore? do you go about to take away her good name, Roger? you are a fine pander indeed!

Rog. I tell you, madonna Fingerlock, I am not sad for nothing; I ha’ not eaten one good meal this three and thirty days: I had wont to get sixteen pence by fetching a pottle of hippocras;^[145] but now those days are past: we had as good doings, madonna Fingerlock, she within doors, and I without, as any poor young couple in Milan.

Mis. F. God’s my life, and is she changed now?

Rog. I ha’ lost by her squeamishness more than would have builded twelve bawdy-houses.

Mis. F. And had she no time to turn honest but now? what a vile woman is this! twenty pound a-night, I’ll be sworn, Roger, in good gold and no silver: why, here was a time! if she should ha’ picked out a time, it could not be better: gold enough stirring; choice of men, choice of hair, choice of beards, choice of legs, and choice of every, every, every thing: it cannot sink into my head that she should be such an ass; Roger, I never believe it.

67Rog. Here she comes now.

Mis. F. O sweet madonna, on with your loose gown,^[146] your felt,^[147] and your feather! there’s the sweetest, properest,^[148] gallantest gentleman at my house; he smells all of musk and ambergrise, his pocket full of crowns, flame-coloured doublet, red satin hose,^[149] carnation silk stockings, and a leg and a body,—O!

Mis. F. Marry come up, with a pox! have you nobody to rail against but your bawd now?

Rog. Sixpence? nay, that’s not so; I never took under two shillings fourpence: I hope I know my fee.

Rog. If it be my vocation to swear, every man in his vocation: I hope my betters swear, and damn themselves; and why should not I?

Mis. F. And^[150] you do cashier him, he shall be entertained.

Rog. Shall I? then blurt^[151] a’ your service!

Mis. F. Marry gup, are you grown so holy, so pure, so honest, with a pox?

Rog. Scurvy, honest punk! But stay, madonna, how must our agreement be now? for, you know, I am to have all the comings-in at the hall-door, and you at the chamber-door.

Mis. F. True, Roger, except my vails.

Rog. Vails? what vails?

Mis. F. Why as thus: if a couple come in a coach, and light to lie down a little, then, Roger, that’s my fee, and you may walk abroad, for the coachman himself is their pander.

69Rog. Is 'a so? in truth, I have almost forgot, for want of exercise. But how if I fetch this citizen’s wife to that gull, and that madonna to that gallant, how then?

Mis. F. Why then, Roger, you are to have sixpence a lane; so many lanes, so many sixpences.

Rog. Is’t so? then I see we two shall agree, and live together.

Mis. F. Ay, Roger, so long as there be any taverns and bawdy-houses in Milan.

SCENE III.

Mat. You, goody punk, subaudi cockatrice,^[153] O you’re a sweet whore of your promise, are you not, think you? how well you came to supper to us last night! mew, a whore, and break her word! nay, you may blush and hold down your head at it well enough: ’sfoot, ask these gallants if we stayed not till we were as hungry as sergeants.

Flu. Ay, and their yeomen too.

Cas. Nay, faith, acquaintance, let me tell you, you forgat yourself too much: we had excellent cheer, rare vintage, and were drunk after supper.

Pio. And when we were in our woodcocks, sweet rogue, a brace of gulls, dwelling here in the city, came in and paid all the shot.

Mat. Pox on her! let her alone.

Flu. I am not what I was? no, I’ll be sworn thou art not; for thou wert honest at five, and now thou’rt a punk at fifteen; thou wert yesterday a simple whore, and now thou’rt a cunning, cony-catching^[154] baggage to-day.

Mat. ’Sfoot, she gulls 'em the best! this is always her fashion when she would be rid of any company that she cares not for, to enjoy mine alone.

Flu. What’s here? instructions, admonitions, and caveats? come out, you scabbard of vengeance!

Mat. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they fist,^[155] you shall not spurn my punk, I can tell you: my blood is vexed.

Flu. Pox a’ your blood! make it a quarrel.

Mat. You’re a slave! will that serve turn?

Pio.^[156] ’Sblood, hold, hold!

Cas. Matheo, Fluello, for shame, put up!

Mat. Spurn my sweet varlet?

Flu. Matheo, we shall meet.

Mat. Ay, ay; any where saving at church; pray, take heed we meet not there.

Flu. Adieu, damnation!

Cas. Cockatrice, farewell!

Pio. There’s more deceit in women than in hell.

Mat. Ha, ha, thou dost gull 'em so rarely, so naturally! if I did not think thou hadst been in earnest! thou art a sweet rogue for’t, i’faith.

Mat. How’s this?

Mat. Is’t possible to be impossible—an honest whore? I have heard many honest wenches turn strumpets with a wet finger:^[157] but for a harlot to turn honest is one of Hercules’ labours; it was more easy for him in one night to make fifty queans, than to make one of them honest again in fifty years. Come, I hope thou dost but jest.

Mat. How, marry with a punk, a cockatrice, a harlot? marry, foh; I’ll be burnt thorough the nose first.

Ser. So, this is Monday morning; and now must I to my huswifery. [Sets out a table, and places on it a skull, a picture of Infelice, a book, and a taper.] Would I had been created a shoemaker! for all the gentle craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me into a student; for here’s my book, here my desk, here my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowzy first day of the week makes me half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back’s turned, will be naught together.

Hip. Are all the window’s shut?

Ser. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns.

Ser. If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them. What will your lordship have to breakfast?

Ser. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?

Hip. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy of a woman.

Ser. Indeed, that’s harder to come by than ever was Ostend.^[159]

Hip. Prithee, away.

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.

Ser. Here’s a person would speak with you, sir.

Hip. Hah!

Ser. A parson,^[161] 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.

Ser. If it be a woman, marrow-bones and potato-pies^[162] keep me from^[163] meddling with her, for the thing has got the breeches! ’tis a male varlet^[164] sure, my lord, for a woman’s tailor ne’er measured him.

Ser. He says he’s signor Matheo’s man; but I know he lies.

Ser. 'Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think, sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing.

How, from Matheo?

Bel. Yes, my lord.

Hip. Art sick?

Bel. Not all in health, my lord.

Hip. Keep off.

Ser. Call you, my lord?

Hip. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil!

Ser. Lord bless us, where? he’s not cloven, my lord, that I can see; besides, the devil goes more like a gentleman than a page: good my lord, buon coraggio!

Ser. Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her hence without help!—Come, mermaid, you must to sea again.

How now? who comes?

Ser. No more knaves,^[170] my lord, that wear smocks: here’s a letter from doctor Benedict; I would not enter his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry, they are half witches.^[171]—’Slid, you are a sweet youth to wear a codpiece,^[172] and have no pins to stick upon’t!

SCENE II.

Fus. Hold up your hands, gentlemen: here’s one, two, three [giving money]—nay, I warrant 82they are sound pistols,^[174] and without flaws; I had them of my sister, and I know she uses to put [up] nothing that’s cracked—three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and nine: by this hand, bring me but a piece of his blood, and you shall have nine more. I’ll lurk in a tavern not far off, and provide supper to close up the end of the tragedy. The linen-draper’s, remember. Stand to’t, I beseech you, and play your parts perfectly.

Cram. Look you, signor, ’tis not your gold that we weigh——

Fus. Nay, nay, weigh it, and spare not; if it lack one grain of corn, I’ll give you a bushel of wheat to make it up.

Cram. But by your favour, signor, which of the servants is it? because we’ll punish justly.

Fus. Marry, ’tis the head man; you shall taste him by his tongue; a pretty, tall, prating fellow, with a Tuscalonian beard.

Poh. Tuscalonian? very good.

Fus. Cod’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman; my coxcomb was dry-beaten, as if my hair had been hemp.

Cram. We’ll dry-beat some of them.

Fus. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried murder out very manfully: I have her consent, in a manner, to have him peppered, else I’ll not do’t to win more than ten cheaters do at a rifling:^[175] 83break but his pate or so, only his mazer,^[176] because I’ll have his head in a cloth as well as mine; he’s a linen-draper, and may take enough. I could enter mine action of battery against him, but we may 'haps be both dead and rotten before the lawyers would end it.

Cram. No more to do but ensconce yourself i’ th’ tavern; provide no great cheer, a^[177] couple of capons, some pheasants, plovers, an orangado pie, or so: but how bloody soe’er the day be, sally you not forth.

Fus. No, no; nay, if I stir, somebody shall stink; I’ll not budge; I’ll lie like a dog in a manger.

Cram. Well, well, to the tavern; let not our supper be raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful.

Fus. That’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst after; blood for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head, plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call your names? because I’ll leave word, if any such come to the bar.

Cram. My name is corporal Crambo.

Poh. And mine, lieutenant Poh.

Cram. Poh is as tall^[178] a man as ever opened oyster: I would not be the devil to meet Poh: farewell.

Fus. Nor I, by this light, if Poh be such a Poh. [Exeunt.

Sec. P. Yes, forsooth, he’s furbish’d.

Sec. P. I warrant you, mistress, let us alone for keeping our countenance; for, if I list, there’s never a fool in all Milan shall make me laugh, let him play the fool never so like an ass, whether it be the fat court-fool or the lean city-fool.

Vio. Enough then; call down George.

Sec. P. I hear him coming.

Geo. I thank you, mistress; my back’s broad enough, now my master’s gown’s on.

Sec. P. Whist, whist! my master.

Vio. You all know your tasks.—

Enter Candido,^[181] dressed as before in the carpet: he stares at George, and exit.'

God’s my life, what’s that he has got upon’s back? who can tell?

Geo. That can I, but I will not.

Vio. Girt about him like a madman! what, has he lost his cloak too? This is the maddest fashion that e’er I saw. What said he, George, when he passed by thee?

Geo. Troth, mistress, nothing; not so much as a bee, he did not hum; not so much as a bawd, he did not hem; not so much as a cuckold, he did not ha; neither hum, hem, nor ha; only stared me in the face, past along, and made haste in, as if my looks had worked with him to give him a stool.

86Geo. Nay, let me alone to play my master’s prize,^[182] as long as my mistress warrants me: I’m sure I have his best clothes on, and I scorn to give place to any that is inferior in apparel to me; that’s an axiom, a principle, and is observed as much as the fashion: let that persuade you then, that I’ll shoulder with him for the upper hand in the shop as long as this chain will maintain it.

Vio. Spoke with the spirit of a master, though with the tongue of a prentice!—

Why, how now, madman? what, in your tricksi-coats?

Can. O peace, good mistress!—

See, what you lack?^[184] what is’t you buy? pure callicoes, fine hollands, choice cambrics, neat lawns: see, what you buy? pray, come near, my master will use you well, he can afford you a pennyworth.

Vio. Ay, that he can, out of a whole piece of lawn, i’faith.

Can. Pray, see your choice here, gentlemen.

Vio. O fine fool! what, a madman? a patient madman? who ever heard of the like! well, sir, I’ll fit you and your humour presently: what, cross-points? I’ll untie 'em all in a trice; I’ll vex you, faith.—Boy, take your cloak; quick, come. [Exit with First Prentice.

Geo. Umh, umh, hum.

Cram. That’s the shop,^[187] and there’s the fellow.

Poh. Ay, but the master is walking in there.

Cram. No matter; we’ll in.

Poh. ’Sblood, dost long to lie in limbo?

Cram. And^[188] limbo be in hell, I care not.

Can. Look you, gentlemen, your choice: cambrics?

Cram. No, sir, some shirting.

Can. You shall.

Cram. Have you none of this striped canvass for doublets?

Can. None striped, sir, but plain.

Sec. P. I think there be one piece striped within.

Geo. Step, sirrah, and fetch it; hum, hum, hum.

Can. There was indeed a little flea-biting.

88Poh. A gentleman had his pate broke; call you that but a flea-biting?

Can. He had so.

Cram. Zounds, do you stand in’t? [Strikes Candido.

Geo. ’Sfoot, clubs, clubs!^[190] prentices, down with 'em!—

Ah, you rogues, strike a citizen in’s shop!

Cram. I beseech you, sir; we mistook our marks; deliver us our weapons.

Cram.
Poh. } We thank you, sir.

Vio. Yonder he stands.

First Off. What, in a prentice-coat?

Vio. Ay, ay; mad, mad: pray, take heed.

Vio. Ay, ay, by degrees, I pray. O me, what makes he with the lawn in his hand? he’ll tear all the ware in my shop.

First Off. Fear not, we’ll catch him on a sudden.

Vio. O, you had need do so: pray, take heed of your warrant.

Can. Ay, and women turn to men, you say true; ha, ha! a mad world, a mad world! [Officers seize Candido.

First Off. Have we caught you, sir?

Can. Caught me? well, well, you have caught me.

Vio. He laughs in your faces.

Vio. O ay; I went in danger of my life every minute.

Geo. Come, we’ll see whither he goes: if the master be mad, we are his servants, and must follow his steps; we’ll be mad-caps too.—Farewell, mistress; you shall have us all in Bedlam.

SCENE IV.

Duke. Give us a little leave.—

Ser. Meet you, sir? he might have met with three fencers in this time, and have received less hurt than by meeting one doctor of physic. Why, sir, has walked under the old Abbey-wall yonder 94this hour, till he’s more cold than a citizen’s country-house in Janivere.^[196] You may smell him behind, sir: la, you, yonder he comes.

Ben. Leave me.

Ser. I’ th’ lurch, if you will. [Exit.

ACT V. SCENE I.

Vio. O watch, good George, watch which way the duke comes!

Geo. Here comes one of the butterflies; ask him.

Vio. Pray, sir, comes the duke this way?

Pio. He’s upon coming, mistress.

Vio. I thank you, sir. [Exit Pioratto.]—George, are there many mad folks where thy master lies?

Geo. O yes, of all countries some; but especially mad Greeks,^[199] they swarm. Troth, mistress, the world is altered with you; you had not wont to stand thus with a paper, humbly complaining: but you’re well enough served. Provender pricked you, as it does many of our city wives besides.

Vio. Dost think, George, we shall get him forth?

97Geo. Truly, mistress, I cannot tell; I think you’ll hardly get him forth. Why,’tis strange! ’sfoot, I have known many women that have had mad rascals to their husbands, whom they would belabour by all means possible to keep 'em in their right wits; but of a woman to long to turn a tame man into a madman, why, the devil himself was never used so by his dam.

Vio. How does he talk, George? ha, good George, tell me.

Geo. Why, you’re best go see.

Vio. Alas, I am afraid!

Geo. Afraid? you had more need be ashamed; he may rather be afraid of you.

Vio. But, George, he’s not stark mad, is he? he does not rave? he’s not horn-mad, George, is he?

Geo. Nay, I know not that; but he talks like a justice of peace of a thousand matters, and to no purpose.

Vio. I’ll to the monastery. I shall be mad till 1 enjoy him; I shall be sick till I see him; yet when I do see him, I shall weep out mine eyes.

Geo. I’d fain see a woman weep out her eyes; that’s as true as to say a man’s cloak burns when it hangs in the water. I know you’ll weep, mistress; but what says the painted cloth?^[200]

Vio. Ay, but, George, that painted cloth is worthy 98to be hanged up for lying: all women have not tears at will, unless they have good cause.

Geo. Ay, but, mistress, how easily will they find a cause! and as one of our cheese-trenchers^[202] says, very learnedly,

Vio. Tame,^[203] George; but I ha’ done storming now.

Geo. Why, that’s well done: good mistress, throw aside this fashion of your humour; be not so fantastical in wearing it; storm no more, long no more: this longing has made you come short of many a good thing that you might have had from my master. Here comes the duke.

Geo. And^[204] please your grace, he’s not stark mad, but only talks like a young gentleman, somewhat fantastically; that’s all: there’s a thousand about your court, city, and country, madder than he.

Geo. Whoop! come, mistress, the duke’s mad 100too.

Duke. Who told me that Hippolito was dead?

Cas. He that can make any man dead, the doctor. But, my lord, he’s as full of life as wildfire, and as quick: Hippolito, the doctor, and one more, rid hence this evening; the inn at which they light is Bethlem Monastery; Infelice comes from Bergamo, and meets them there. Hippolito is mad, for he means this day to be married: the afternoon is the hour, and friar Anselmo is the knitter.

Cas.
Flu., &c.^[207] } Six or seven miles.

SCENE II.

Inf. Father, your love’s most dear.

Mat. Ay, well said; lock us into some little room by ourselves, that we may be mad for an hour or two.

Hip. O good Matheo, no! let’s make no noise.

Mat. How? no noise? do you know where you are? ’sfoot, amongst all the madcaps in Milan; so that to throw the house out at window will be the better, and no man will suspect that we lurk here to steal mutton.^[210] The more sober we are, the more scurvy ’tis; and though the friar tell us that here we are safest, I’m not of his mind; for if those lay here that had lost their money, none would ever look after them: but here are none but those that have lost their wits; so that if hue and cry be made, hither they’ll come; and my reason is, because none goes to be married till he be stark mad.

Hip. Muffle yourselves; yonder’s Fluello.

Mat. Zounds!

Flu. O my lord, these cloaks are not for this rain! the tempest is too great: I come sweating to tell you of it, that you may get out of it.

Mat. Why, what’s the matter?

Flu. What’s the matter! you have mattered it fair: the duke’s at hand.

Flu. Castruchio; Castruchio told the duke, and Matheo here told Castruchio.

Hip. Would you betray me to Castruchio?

Mat. ’Sfoot, he damned himself to the pit of hell if he spake on’t again.

Mat. Pox on 'em, and there be no faith in men, if a man shall not believe oaths. He took bread and salt,^[211] by this light, that he would never open his lips.

Flu. He’s but new set out: Castruchio, Pioratto, and Sinezi, come along with him; you have time enough yet to prevent^[213] them, if you have but courage.

Flu.
Pio.
Sin. } All friends, all friends.

Cas.
Pio.
Sin. } Mass, content.

Flu. How now, honest fellow? dost thou belong to the house?

Sweep. Yes, forsooth, I am one of the implements; I sweep the madmen’s rooms, and fetch straw for 'em, and buy chains to tie 'em, and rods to whip 'em. I was a mad wag myself here once; but I thank father Anselmo, he lashed me into my right mind again.

106Cas. And where is father Anselmo now?

Sweep. Marry, he’s gone but e’en now.

Sweep. Why, to God a’mighty.

Flu. Ha, ha! this fellow is a fool, talks idly.

Pio. Sirrah, are all the mad folks in Milan brought hither?

Sweep. How, all? there’s a wise question indeed! why, if all the mad folks in Milan should come hither, there would not be left ten men in the city.

Duke. Few gentlemen or courtiers here, ha?

Sweep. O yes, abundance, abundance! lands no sooner fall into their hands but straight they run out a’ their wits: citizens’ sons and heirs are free of the house by their fathers’ copy: farmers’ sons come hither like geese, in flocks; and when they ha’ sold all their corn-fields, here they sit and pick the straws.

Sin. Methinks you should have women here as well as men.

Sweep. O ay, a plague on 'em, there’s no ho with them;^[218] they are madder than March-hares.

Flu. Are there no lawyers here amongst you?

Sweep. O no, not one; never any lawyer: we dare not let a lawyer come in, for he’ll make 'em mad faster than we can recover 'em.

Duke. And how long is’t ere you recover any of these?

Sweep. Why, according to the quantity of the moon that’s got into 'em. An alderman’s son will be mad a great while, a very great while, especially if his friends left him well; a whore will hardly 107come to her wits again; a puritan, there’s no hope of him, unless he may pull down the steeple, and hang himself i’ th’ bell-ropes.

Flu. I perceive all sorts of fish come to your net.

Sweep. Yes, in truth, we have blocks^[219] for all heads; we have good store of wild oats here: for the courtier is mad at the citizen, the citizen is mad at the countryman,^[220] the shoemaker is mad at the cobbler, the cobbler at the carman, the punk is mad that the merchant’s wife is no whore, the merchant’s wife is mad that the punk is so common a whore. God’s-so, here’s father Anselmo! pray, say nothing that I tell tales out of the school. [Exit.

Flu. Alas, poor soul!

Cas. A very old man.

Duke. God speed, father!

First Mad. God speed the plough! thou shalt not speed me.

Pio. We see you, old man, for all you dance in a net.

First Mad. True, but thou wilt dance in a halter, and I shall not see thee.

An. O, do not vex him, pray!

Cas. Are you a fisherman, father?

109First Mad. No, I’m neither fish nor flesh.

Flu. What do you with that net, then?

First Mad. Dost not see, fool, there’s a fresh salmon in’t? If you step one foot further, you’ll be over shoes, for you see I’m over head and ears^[222] in the salt water: and if you fall into this whirlpool where I am, you’re drowned, you’re a drowned rat!—I am fishing here for five ships, but I cannot have a good draught, for my net breaks still, and breaks; but I’ll break some of your necks, and^[223] I catch you in my clutches. Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay: where’s the wind, where’s the wind, where’s the wind, where’s the wind? Out, you gulls, you goosecaps, you gudgeon-eaters! do you look for the wind in the heavens? ha, ha, ha, ha! no, no! look there, look there, look there! the wind is always at that door: hark, how it blows! puff, puff, puff!

All. Ha, ha, ha!

First Mad. Do you laugh at God’s creatures? do you mock old age, you rogues? is this grey beard and head counterfeit, that you cry ha, ha, ha?—Sirrah, art not thou my eldest son?

Pio. Yes indeed, father.

First Mad. Then thou’rt a fool; for my eldest son had a polt foot,^[224] crooked legs, a verjuice face, and a pear-coloured^[225] beard: I made him a scholar, and he made himself a fool.—Sirrah, thou there! hold out thy hand.

Duke. My hand? well, here ’tis.

First Mad. Look, look, look, look! has he not long nails and short hair?

110Flu. Yes, monstrous short hair and abominable long nails.

First Mad. Ten-penny nails, are they not?

Flu. Yes, ten-penny nails.

First Mad. Such nails had my second boy.—Kneel down, thou varlet, and ask thy father’s blessing. Such nails had my middlemost son, and I made him a promoter;^[226] and he scraped, and scraped, and scraped, till he got the devil and all: but he scraped thus, and thus, and thus, and it went under his legs, till at length a company of kites, taking him for carrion, swept up all, all, all, all, all, all, all. If you love your lives, look to yourselves! see, see, see, see, the Turk’s galleys are fighting with my ships! bounce go^[227] the guns! O—O, cry the men! rumble, rumble go the waters! alas, there, ’tis sunk, ’tis sunk! I am undone, I am undone! you are the damned pirates have undone me, you are, by th’ lord, you are, you are!—stop 'em—you are!

First Mad. Tame me? no; I’ll be madder than a roasted cat. See, see, I am burnt with gunpowder! these are our close fights!

An. I’ll whip you, if you grow unruly thus.

First Mad. Whip me? out, you toad! whip me? what justice is this, to whip me because I’m a beggar? Alas, I am a poor man, a very poor man! I am starved, and have had no meat, by this light, ever since the great flood; I am a poor man.

First Mad. Ay, ay, pray, do; for, look you, 111here be my guts; these are my ribs, you may look through my ribs; see how my guts come out! these are my red guts, my very guts, O, O!

An. Take him in there.

Flu.
Pio., &c. } A very piteous sight.

Third Mad. All these are whoremongers, and lay with my wife: whore, whore, whore, whore, whore!

Flu. Observe him.

Third Mad. Gaffer shoemaker, you pulled on my wife’s pumps, and then crept into her pantofles:^[228] lie there, lie there!—This was her tailor. You cut out her loose-bodied gown, and put in a yard more than I allowed her: lie there, by the shoemaker.—O 112master doctor, are you here? you gave me a purgation, and then crept into my wife’s chamber to feel her pulses; and you said, and she said, and her maid said, that they went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat: doctor, I’ll put you anon into my wife’s urinal.—Heigh, come aloft, Jack!^[229] This was her schoolmaster, and taught her to play upon the virginals;^[230] and still his jacks leapt up, up. You pricked her out nothing but bawdy lessons; but I’ll prick you all! fiddler—doctor—tailor—shoemaker,—shoemaker—fiddler—doctor—tailor!—so! lie with my wife again, now!

Cas. See how he notes the other now he feeds.

Third Mad. Give me some porridge.

Sec. Mad. I’ll give thee none.

Third Mad. Give me some porridge.

Sec. Mad. I’ll not give thee a bit.

Third Mad. Give me that flap-dragon.^[231]

Sec. Mad. I’ll not give thee a spoonful: thou liest, it’s no dragon; ’tis a parrot that I bought for my sweetheart, and I’ll keep it.

Third Mad. Here’s an almond for parrot.^[232]

Sec. Mad. Hang thyself!

113Third Mad. Here’s a rope for parrot.^[233]

Sec. Mad. Eat it, for I’ll eat this.

Third Mad. I’ll shoot at thee, and^[234] thou’t give me none.

Sec. Mad. Wu’t thou?

Third Mad. I’ll run a tilt at thee, and thou’t give me none.

Sec. Mad. Wu’t thou? do, and thou darest.

Third Mad. Bounce!

Sec. Mad. O—O, I am slain! murder, murder, murder! I am slain; my brains are beaten out.

Sec. Mad. I am dead! I am slain! ring out the bell, for I am dead.

Third Mad. I’ll answer’t at sessions. He was eating of almond-butter, and I longed for’t: the child had never been delivered out of my belly, if I had not killed him. I’ll answer’t at sessions, so my wife may be burnt i’ th’ hand too.

An. Take 'em in both; bury him, for he’s dead.

Sec. Mad. Ay, indeed, I am dead; put me, I pray, into a good pit-hole.

Third Mad. I’ll answer’t at sessions.

An. How now, huswife? whither gad you?

114Bel. A nutting, forsooth.—How do you, gaffer?—how do you, gaffer?—there’s a French curtsey for you too.

Flu. ’Tis Bellafront!

Pio. ’Tis the punk, by th’ lord!

Duke. Father, what’s she, I pray?

Bel. Do not you know me?—nor you?—nor you?—nor you?

All. No, indeed.

Bel. Then you are an ass—and you are an ass—and you are an ass; for I know you.

Bel. They’re fish-wives: will you buy any gudgeons? God’s-santy,^[236] yonder come friars! I know them too.—

How do you, friar?

Bel. Nay, indeed, you shall not go; we’ll run at barley-break^[237] first, and you shall be in hell.

An. I’ll lock you up, if you’re unruly: fie!

Bel. Fie? marry, foh! they shall not go, indeed, till I ha’ told 'em their fortunes.

Duke. Good father, give her leave.

Bel. Ay, pray, good father, and I’ll give you my blessing.

Pio. Come, to their fortunes.

Bel. Let me see; one, two, three, and four. I’ll begin with the little friar^[238] first. Here’s a fine hand indeed! I never saw friar have such a dainty hand: here’s a hand for a lady! Here’s your fortune:

Mat. God send me good luck!

Mat. O, your wit drops.

Cas.
Pio., &c. } The friar has gull’d us of ’em.

Cas.
Pio., &c. } Beseech your lordship!

Bel. Am not I a good girl for finding the friar in the well? God’s-so, you are a brave man! will not you buy me some sugar-plumbs, because I am so good a fortune-teller?

Bel. Pretty soul? a pretty soul is better than a pretty body.—Do not you know my pretty soul? I know you: is not your name Matheo?

Mat. Yes, lamb.

Bel. Baa, lamb! there you lie, for I am mutton.^[243]—Look, fine man! he was mad for me once, and I was mad for him once, and he was mad for her once; and were you never mad? yes, I warrant. I had a fine jewel once, a very fine jewel, and that naughty man stole it away from me,—a very fine jewel.

Duke. What jewel, pretty maid?

Bel. Maid? nay, that’s a lie. O, ’twas a very rich jewel, called a maidenhead! and had not you it, leerer?

Mat. Out, you mad ass, away!

Bel. Shall he? O brave Arthur of Bradley then!^[244]

Mat. I think I rifled her of some such paltry jewel.

Mat. How? marry her, my lord? ’sfoot, marry a mad woman! let a man get the tamest wife he 119can come by, she’ll be mad enough afterward, do what he can.

Mat. I cannot tell: I may choose.

Mat. Well, then, when her wits stand in their right place, I’ll marry her.

All. God give you joy!

Geo. Come, mistress, we are in Bedlam now; mass, and see, we come in pudding-time, for here’s the duke.

Vio. My husband, good my lord!

Duke. Have I thy husband?

Cas. It’s Candido, my lord; he’s here among the lunatics.—Father Anselmo, pray, fetch him forth. [Exit Anselmo.]—This mad woman is his wife; and though she were not with child, yet did she long most spitefully to have her husband mad; and because she would be sure he should turn Jew, she placed him here in Bethlem. Yonder he comes!

Duke. Come hither, signor: are you mad?

Can. You are not mad.

Duke. Why, I know that.

125The Second Part of the Honest Whore, With the Humors of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife: the Honest Whore, perswaded by strong Arguments to turne Curtizan againe: her braue refuting those Arguments. And lastly, the Comicall Passages of an Italian Bridewell, where the Scæne ends. Written by Thomas Dekker. London, Printed by Elizabeth All-de, for Nathaniel Butter, An. Dom. 1630. 4to.

No earlier impression than that of 1630 is known to exist. It has been reprinted in the second and third editions of Dodsley’s Old Plays, vol. iii.; and, as there given, is perhaps the most wretchedly edited drama in the English language.

It was licensed by Sir George Bucke, 29th April, 1608: see Chalmers’s Suppl. Apol. p. 202 (where it is by mistake called “the convicted,” instead of the “converted Courtisan, or Honest Whore”). As Middleton certainly wrote a portion of the First Part of this play (see p. 3 of the present vol.), there is every reason to believe that he was concerned in the composition of the Second Part.

Because the title-page makes no mention of its having been represented on the stage, Langbaine very unnecessarily concludes that it was never acted. “The passage,” he continues, “between the Patient Man and his Impatient Wife’s going to fight for the Breeches, with the happy Event, is exprest by S^r. John Harrington in Verse. See his Epigrams at the end of Orlando Furioso, Book 1. Epigr. 16.” Acc. of Engl. Dram. Poets, p. 122. The epigram in question is as follows:

“Although Harington’s Epigrams,” says the last editor of Dodsley’s Old Plays, “were not printed in an entire state until 1618 (see Ritson’s Bibl. Poet. 236), yet many of them were written when their author (who died in 1612) was a very young man. It seems probable that the incident was founded upon the epigram; for though Sir John Harington borrowed from the Latin and Italian, he most likely would not steal from an English play, especially when it appears that his originality had been attacked.”

• Gasparo Trebazzi, duke of Milan.
• Hippolito, a count, husband to Infelice.
• Orlando Friscobaldo,^[253] father to Bellafront.
• Matheo, husband to Bellafront.
• Candido, a linen-draper.
• Lodovico Sforza.
• Beraldo.
• Carolo.
• Fontinell.
• Astolfo.
• Antonio Georgio, a poor scholar.
• Bryan, an Irish footman.
• Bots, a pander.
• Masters of Bridewell, Prentices, Servants, &c.

• Infelice, wife to Hippolito.
• Bellafront, wife to Matheo.
• Candido’s Bride.
• Mistress Horseleech, a bawd.
• Dorothea Target,
  Penelope Whorehound
  Catherina Bountinall} harlots

ACT I. SCENE I.

Lod. Good day, gallants.

All. Good morrow, sweet Lodovico.

Lod. How dost thou, Carolo?

Car. Faith, as physicians do in a plague; see the world sick, and am well myself.

Fon. Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.

Lod. O, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle^[254] Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet?

Ast. Yes; he will not be horsed this hour, sure.

Ber. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at court.

130Car. O, we shall ride switch and spur: would we were there once!

Lod. How now, is thy lord ready?

Bry. No, so crees sa’ me; my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first.

Car. O, then they’ll to breakfast.

Lod. Footman, does my lord ride i’ th’ coach with my lady, or on horseback?

Bry. No, foot, la, my lady will have me lord sheet wid her; my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side. [Exit.

Lod. My lady sheet in de toder side! did you ever hear a rascal talk so like a pagan? is’t not strange that a fellow of his star should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from a Christian?

Ast. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange? why, the nation have running heads.^[255]

Lod. Nay, Carolo, this is more strange; I ha’ been in France, there’s few of them; marry, England they count a warm chimney-corner, and there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but, sir, in England I have noted one thing.

Ast.
Ber., &c.^[256] } What’s that, what’s that
of England?

Lod. Marry this, sir;—what’s he yonder?

Ber. A poor fellow would speak with my lord.

Lod. In England, sir—troth I ever laugh when I think on’t, to see a whole nation should be marked 131i’ th’ forehead, as a man may say, with one iron—why, sir, there all costermongers^[257] are Irishmen.

Car. O, that’s to shew their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother.

Ast.
Ber., &c. } Good, good! ha, ha!

Lod. Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers likewise be Irishmen? answer that now; come, your wit.

Car. Faith, that’s soon answered; for saint Patrick,^[258] you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing if they cannot sweep the chimneys.

Ast.
Ber., &c. } Good again!

Lod. Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow, especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others,^[259] and the knaves are very faithful where they love; by my faith, very proper 132men many of them, and as active as the clouds,—whirr, hah!

Ast.
Ber., &c. } Are they so?

Lod. And stout, exceeding stout; why, I warrant this precious wild villain, if he were put to’t, would fight more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.^[260]

Ast. The women, they say, are very fair.

Lod. No, no; our country bona-robas,^[261] O, are the sugarest delicious rogues!

Ast. O look, he has a feeling of them!

Lod. Not I, I protest: there’s a saying when they commend nations; it goes, the Irishman for his hand, [the] Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for [a] beard.

Fon. I’faith, they may make swabbers^[262] of them.

Lod. The Spaniard—let me see—for a little foot, I take it; the Frenchman,—what a pox hath he? and so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? come, walk.

Ast. This Lodovico is a notable-tongued fellow.

Fon. Discourses well.

Ber. And a very honest gentleman.

Ast. O, he’s well valued by my lord.

Fon. How now, how now, what’s she?

Ber. Let’s make towards her.

Bel. Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come forth?

133Ast. Would you speak with my lord?

Lod. How now, what’s this? a nurse’s bill? hath any here got thee with child, and now will not keep it?

Bel. No, sir, my business is unto my lord.

Lod. He’s about his own wife[’s] now; he’ll hardly despatch two causes in a morning.

Ast. No matter what he says, fair lady; he’s a knight, there’s no hold to be taken at his words.

Fon. My lord will pass this way presently.

Ber. A pretty, plump rogue.

Ast. A good lusty, bouncing baggage.

Ber. Do you know her?

Lod. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my table-book^[263] once; I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common than tobacco: this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore.

Ast.
Ber., &c. } Is this she?

Lod. This is the blackamoor that by washing was turned white; this is the birding-piece new scoured; this is she that, if any of her religion can be saved, was saved by my lord Hippolito.

Ast. She has been a goodly creature.

Lod. She has been! that’s the epitaph of all whores. I’m well acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband; lord, what fortunes that man has overreached! She knows not me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon, suffered strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women are like medlars, no sooner ripe but rotten:

Ast.
Ber., &c. } My lord is come.

Hip. We ha’ wasted half this morning.—Morrow, Lodovico.

Lod. Morrow, madam.

Hip. Let’s away to horse.

Lod.
Ast., &c. } Ay, ay, to horse, to horse.

Lod. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? if they be not yellow,^[264] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband.

Inf. O sir, that cannot make me jealous.

Hip. Your business, sir, to me?

135An. Yes, my good lord.

Hip. Presently, sir.—Are you Matheo’s wife?

Bel. That most unfortunate woman.

Hip. I am sorry

Bel. Too true.

Bel. No, my lord.

Lod. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have 136not left your wench yet? when you get in once, you never have done. Come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come.

Hip. Ride softly on before, I’ll overtake you.

Lod. Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before without ye.

Hip. Prithee, good Lodovico——

Lod. My lord, pray hasten.

How now, sir, where’s your lady? not gone yet?

Bry. I fart di lady is run away from dee a mighty deal of ground; she sent me back for dine own sweet face; I pray dee come, my lord, away; wu’t tow go now?

Bry. A pox a’ de horse’s nose! he is a lousy rascally fellow: when I came to gird his belly, his scurvy guts rumbled, di horse farted in my face, and dow knowest an Irishman cannot abide a fart: but I have saddled de hobby-horse; di fine hobby is ready; I pray dee, my good sweet lord, wi’t tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee?

Bry. Come, I pray dee; wu’t come, sweet face? 138go. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Lod. Godso, gentlemen, what do we forget?

Car.
Ast.
Ber. } What?

Lod. Are not we all enjoined as this day—Thursday, is’t not?—ay, as that day to be at the linen-draper’s house at dinner?

Car. Signor Candido, the patient man.

Ber. I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares venture again to come about the eaves amongst bees.

Lod. O, ’tis rare sucking a sweet honeycomb! Pray heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance! the poor fiddlers’ instruments would crack for it: she’d tickle them. At any hand, let’s try what mettle is in his new bride: if there be none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble citizen; I pity he should marry again: I’ll walk along, for it is a good old fellow.

Car. I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow twenty thousand ducats that could but have the face to beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Milan might be bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is.

Lod. O, fie upon’t! 'twould undo all us that are 139courtiers; we should have no ho^[266] with the wenches then.

Car.
Ast.
Ber. } My lord’s come.

Hip. How now, what news?

Car.
Ast.
Ber. } None.

Lod. Your lady is with the duke her father.

Hip. And we’ll to them both presently.—

Who’s that?

Car.
Ast.
Ber. } Signor Friscobaldo.

Hip. Friscobaldo? O, pray call him, and leave me; we two have business.

Car. Ho, signor! signor Friscobaldo! the lord Hippolito.

Or. My noble lord, my lord Hippolito! the duke’s son! his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your honoured lordship? does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as signor Orlando Friscobaldo, old mad Orlando?

Hip. O sir,^[267] our friends, they ought to be unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued being locked up and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your 140blood; for all Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still.

Or. Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down and stript bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green?

Hip. You are the happier man, sir.

Or. Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man: I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in the right colours, I’ll bestow it on your lordship.

Hip. I stay for it.

141Hip. It’s very well: I thank you for this picture.

Or. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt; sit neither at the duke’s side, nor lie at his feet; wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, no man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a winding-sheet, but like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me; I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in my age; I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go singing to my nest, why, so! if a crow, throw me out for carrion, and pick out mine eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now, ha?

Or. I have a little, have all things; I have nothing, I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should not I be in my jocundare?

Hip. Is your wife then departed?

Or. She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me—here, she’s here—but before me: when a knave and a quean are married, they commonly walk like sergeants together, but a good couple are seldom parted.

Or. O my lord, this old tree had one branch, and but one branch, growing out of it! it was young, it was fair, it was straight; I pruned it daily, drest it carefully, kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun; yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs; I hewed it 142down; what’s become of it, I neither know nor care.

Or. Dead? my last and best peace go with her! I see Death’s a good trencherman; he can eat coarse homely meat, as well as the daintiest.

Hip. Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely?

Or. O my lord, a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines! all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of hell to be her props, that she may spread upon them; and when she’s ripe, every slave has a pull at her; then must she be prest: the young beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge; yet to taste that liquorish wine is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead?

Hip. She’s turn’d to earth.

Or. Would she were turned to heaven! umh, is she dead? I am glad the world has lost one of his idols: no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave sleep all my shame and her own, and all my sorrows and all her sins!

Or. In my daughter, you will say: does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot; but the best is, I have a handkercher to drink them up; soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor?

Hip. Trust me, I think she is.

Or. Then she’s a right strumpet: I ne’er knew any of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have [too] many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves, do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher; she is the gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket^[271] within it, her money, her money.

Or. Not seventeen summers.

Hip. Is your hate so old?

Or. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bed-fellow.

Hip. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.

144Or. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world. I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste poison: I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic.

Hip. Nay, but, Friscobaldo——

Or. I detest her, I defy^[272] both: she’s not mine, she’s——

Hip. Hear her but speak.

Or. I love no mermaids; I’ll not be caught with a quail-pipe.^[273]

Hip. You’re now beyond all reason.

Or. I am then a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and not dishonour my creation, than be a doting father, and, like Time, be the destruction of mine own brood.

Or. Is’t fit for an old man to keep a whore?

Hip. ’Tis charity too.

Or. And fare you well, sir. [Exit Hippolito.]—Go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty. 'Las, my girl, art thou poor? poverty dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between them; despair is one of hell’s catchpolls; and lest that devil arrest her, I’ll to her, yet she shall not know me; she shall drink 145of my wealth as beggars do of running water, freely, yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father see his child starve? that were hard: the pelican^[274] does it, and shall not I? yes, I will victual the camp for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave there her husband will be hanged, I fear: I’ll keep his neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not know how.

How now, knaves? whither wander you?

First Ser. To seek your worship.

Or. Stay; which of you has my purse? what money have you about you?

Sec. Ser. Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.

Or. Give it me [takes purse]; I think I have some gold about me; yes, it’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and get you home. Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet I’ll be so bold as to pull your coat over your ears.

First Ser. What do you mean to do, sir?

Or. Hold thy tongue, knave: take thou my cloak; I hope I play not the paltry merchant in this bartering. Bid the steward of my house sleep with open eyes in my absence, and to look to all things: whatsoever I command by letters to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well?

Sec. Ser. As if it were made for your worship.

Or. You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed 146to wear blue,^[275] when your master is one of your fellows. Away! do not see me.

Both Ser. This is excellent. [Exeunt Serving-men.

Or. I should put on a worse suit too; perhaps I will. My vizard is on; now to this masque. Say I should shave off this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter; well, I will spoil a good face for once: my beard being off, how should I look? even like

SCENE III.

A Room in Candido’s House: Candido, the Bride, and Guests, discovered at dinner; Prentices waiting on them.

Lod. Carolo, didst e’er see such a nest of caps?^[277]

Ast. Methinks it’s a most civil and most comely sight.

Lod. What does he i’ th’ middle look like?

Ast. Troth, like a spire-steeple in a country village over-peering so many thatched houses.

147Lod. It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers without pikes:^[278] they sit for all the world like a pair of organs,^[279] and he’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.

Ast. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Can. What’s that you laugh at, signors?

First Guest.^[280] Mine is as tall a felt^[281] as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block^[282] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair.

Lod. Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do’t.

Can. So all these guests will pardon me, I’ll do’t.

Guests. With all our hearts.

Lod. That close shaving made barbers a company, and now every citizen uses it.

All. Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly.

Can. Pray, signor, pardon me, ’twas done in jest.

Bride. A cup of claret wine there!

First P. Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride.

Car. You ha’ well set out the cap, sir.

Lod. Nay, that’s flat.

Can.^[289] A health!

[They uncover their heads, and drink. As First Prentice offers the wine to the Bride, she hits him on the lips, and breaks the glass.

150All. No, faith, ’twas but mistaken.

First P. Nay, she took it right enough.

Can. Good Luke, reach her that glass of claret.—Here, mistress bride, pledge me there.

Bride. Now I’ll none. [Exit.

Can. How now?

Lod. Look what your mistress ails.

First P. Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,—a scurvy trick.

Guests. Step to her, step to her.

Lod. A word with you; do ye hear? this wench, your new wife, will take you down in your wedding-shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding-garters.

Can. How? hang her in her garters?

Lod. Will you be a tame pigeon still? shall your back be like a tortoise-shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse and mouse you worse: look to’t.

Can. What would you have me do, sir?

Lod. What would I have you do? swear, swagger, brawl, fling; for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already: you know that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked; the moral of which is, that a man must, from his beginning, be crooked to his wife. Be you like an orange to her; let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me?

Can. In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just.

Lod. Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me?

Can. I have the very same which myself wore.

151Lod. I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and within this two hours I’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs.

Can. It will be but some jest, sir?

Lod. Only a jest: farewell.—Come, Carolo.

ACT II. SCENE I.

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:^[292] I lacked but 152the knot here or here; yet, if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice.^[293] But, sweetest villain, I am here now, and I will talk with thee soon.

Bel. And glad am I thou’rt 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!^[294]

Bel. Matheo——

Mat. What sayst, what sayst? 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 toss!

Mat. I’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring boys.^[295]

Bel. Thou dost not hear me.

Mat. Yes, faith, do I.

Mat. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now: O, when shall I bizle,^[296] bizle?

Mat. Honest ape’s face!

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.

Bel. 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.

Mat. Come in, pray; would you speak with me, sir?

Or. Is your name signor Matheo?

Mat. My name is signor Matheo.

Or. Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir?

Mat. This gentlewoman is my wife, sir.

Or. 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.

Or. I can speak no more. [Aside.

Mat. How now, old lad? what, dost cry?

Or. 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?

Or. Troth, sir, I have a mind to serve your worship.

155Mat. To serve me? troth, my friend, my fortunes are, as a man may say——

Or. 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 be not stored with biscuit enough, that has sailed about the world, 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 hand-full 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 sayst well; but I must tell you—how much is the money, sayst thou?

Or. About twenty pound, sir.

Mat. Twenty pound? let me see, that shall bring thee in, after ten per centum per annum——

Or. 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 shalt eat as I eat, drink as I drink, lie as I lie, and ride as I ride.

Or. That’s if you have money to hire horses.

Mat. Front, what dost thou think on’t? this good old lad here shall serve me.

156Mat. 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——

Or. Nay, look you, sir, I have it here.

Mat. Pish, keep it thyself, man, and then thou’rt sure ’tis safe.

Or. Safe? and^[299] '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.

Mat. And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once?

Or. I served him so long till he turned me out of doors.

Mat. It’s a notable chuff: I ha’ not seen him many a day.

Or. No matter and you ne’er see him: it’s an arrant grandee, a churl, and as damned a cut-throat——

Mat. Away, ass! he speaks but truth; thy father is a——

Bel. 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?

Or. Or so much as a gammon of bacon? he’ll give it his dogs first.

157Mat. A jail,^[300] a jail!

Or. A Jew, a Jew, sir!

Mat. A dog!

Or. An English mastiff, sir!

Mat. Pox rot out his old stinking garbage!

Mat. Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that old rogue’s throat, for all you take his part thus.

Or. He shall live to see thee hanged first. [Aside.

Mat. Yes, sir.

Hip. I’ll borrow her lip. [Kisses Bellafront.

Mat. With all my heart, my lord.

Or. Who’s this, I pray, sir?

Mat. My lord Hippolito. What’s thy name?

Or. Pacheco.

Mat. Pacheco? fine name: thou seest, Pacheco, I keep company with no scoundrels nor base fellows.

Hip. Came not my footman to you?

158Bel. Yes, my lord.

Bel. Yes, my lord, I did.

Hip. Read you the letter?

Bel. O'er and o’er ’tis read.

Hip. And, faith, your answer?

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.

Mat. Faith, my lord, I thank my stars they send me down some; I cannot sink so long as these bladders hold.

Mat. Open the door, sirrah.

Mat. The only royal fellow! he’s bounteous as the Indies. What’s that he said to thee, Bellafront?

Bel. Nothing.

Mat. I prithee, good girl——

Bel. 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.

Or. Where is’t, sir?

How now, mistress? has my master dyed you into this sad colour?

Or. 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 neck-cloths in water-starch upon a Saturday i’ th’ afternoon.

Or. 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 midnight, 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.

Bel. I am not made of marble; I forgive thee.

Or. 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.

Or. I see my young master is a madcap 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 161money; but I am an old lad, and I scorn to cony-catch,^[307] yet I ha’ been dog at a cony in my time. [Gives purse.

Bel. A purse? where hadst it?

Or. The gentleman that went away whispered in mine ear, and charged me to give it you.

Bel. The lord Hippolito?

Or. Yes, if he be a lord, he gave it me.

Bel.’Tis all gold.

Or. ’Tis like so: it may be he thinks you want money, and therefore bestows his alms bravely, like a lord.

Or. As your nails to your fingers, which I think never deceived you.

Or. Is this all?

Bel. This is all.

Or. Mine own girl still! [Aside.

Bel. A star may shoot, not fall. [Exit.

Or. 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 162muttonmonger?^[308] 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?^[309]

SCENE II.

Lod. Come, come, come, what do ye lack,^[310] 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?

Can. Never, believe me, signor.

Lod. Yes, but when he has been drunk.^[311] 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?

163Can. 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.

Lod. ’Sblood, cannot you do as all the world does, counterfeit?

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.

Lod. Well, say she’s nipt.

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 bakers’ 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?

Lod. Come, come, I’ll prompt you.

Can. I’ll call her forth now, shall I?

Lod. Do, do, bravely.

Can. Luke, I pray, bid your mistress to come hither.

Lod. Luke, I pray,^[314] bid your mistress to come hither!

Can. Sirrah, bid my wife come to me: why, when?^[315]

First P.^[316] [within] Presently, sir, she comes.

Lod. La, you, there’s the echo! she comes.

Bride. What is your pleasure with me?

Lod. Yes indeed, sir, I would deal in linen, if my mistress like me so well as I like her.

Lod. Swear? cry zounds!

165Can. I will not,—go to, wife,—I will not——

Lod. That your great oath!

Can. Swallow these gudgeons.

Lod. Well said!

Bride. Then fast, then you may choose.^[317]

Bride. Even what you will.

Lod. Call her arrant whore.

Lod. Excellent well.—I’ll go look to the shop, sir.—Fine cambrics, lawns; what do you lack?

Lod. A yard for my master!

Lodovico returns from the shop with a yard-wand, and followed by Prentices.

First P. My master is grown valiant.

Can. I’ll teach you fencing tricks.

166Prentices. Rare, rare! a prize!^[319]

Lod. What will you do, sir?

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.