Chapter XV: Act III: Scene I

_A Street_; _before_ HIPPOLITO’S _House_.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ FRISCO.

FRIS. The wooden picture you sent her hath set her on
fire; and she desires you, as you pity the case of a
poor desperate gentlewoman, to serve that Monsieur in at
supper to her.

_Enter_ CAMILLO _with Musicians_.

HIP. The Frenchman? Saint Denis, let her carve him
up. Stay, here’s Camillo. Now, my fool in fashion, my
sage idiot, up with these brims,[661] down with this
devil, Melancholy! Are you decayed, concupiscentious
innamorato? News, news; Imperia doats on Fontinelle.
CAM. What comfort speaks her love to my sick
heart?
HIP. Marry, this, sir. Here’s a yellow-hammer flew to me
with thy water; and I cast it, and find that his
mistress being given to this new falling sickness, will
cure thee. The Frenchman, you see, has a soft marmalady
heart, and shall no sooner feel Imperia’s liquorish
desire to lick at him, but straight he’ll stick the
brooch of her longing in it. Then, sir, may you, sir,
come upon my sister, sir, with a fresh charge, sir; sa,
sa, sa, sa! once giving back, and thrice coming forward;
she yield, and the town of Brest[662] is taken.
CAM. This hath some taste of hope. Is that the Mercury
Who brings you notice of his mistress’ love?
FRIS. I may be her Mercury, for my running of errands;
but troth is, sir, I am Cerberus, for I am porter to
hell.
CAM. Then, Cerberus, play thy part: here, search that
hell;
[_Gives him a key._
There find and bring forth that false Fontinelle.
[_Exit_ FRISCO.
If I can win his stray’d thoughts to retire
From her encounter’d eyes, whom I have singled
In Hymen’s holy battle, he shall pass
From hence to France, in company and guard
Of mine own heart:—he comes, Hippolito.

_Enter_ FONTINELLE, _talking with_ FRISCO.

Still looks he like a lover: poor gentleman,
Love is the mind’s strong physic, and the pill
That leaves the heart sick and o’erturns the will.
FONT. O happy persecution, I embrace thee
With an unfetter’d soul! So sweet a thing
Is it to sigh upon the rack of love,
Where each calamity is groaning witness
Of the poor martyr’s faith. I never heard
Of any true affection, but ’twas nipt
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats
The leaves off the spring’s sweetest book, the rose.
Love bred on earth, is often nurs’d in hell;
By rote it reads woe, ere it learn to spell.
CAM. Good morrow, French lord.
HIP. _Bon jour, Monsieur._
FONT. To your secure and more than happy self
I tender thanks, for you have honour’d me.
You are my jailor, and have penn’d me up,
Lest the poor fly, your prisoner, should alight
Upon your mistress’ lip, and thence derive
The dimpled print of an infective touch.
Thou secure tyrant, yet unhappy lover,
Couldst thou chain mountains to my captive feet,
Yet Violetta’s heart and mine should meet.
HIP. Hark, swaggerer, there’s a little dapple-coloured
rascal; ho, a bona-roba;[663] her name’s Imperia; a
gentlewoman, by my faith, of an ancient house, and has
goodly rents and comings in of her own; and this ape
would fain have thee chained to her in the holy state.
Sirrah, she’s fallen in love with thy picture; yes,
faith. To her, woo her, and win her; leave my sister,
and thy ransom’s paid; all’s paid, gentlemen: by th’
Lord, Imperia is as good a girl as any is in Venice.
CAM. Upon mine honour, Fontinelle, ’tis true;
The lady doats on thy perfections:
Therefore resign my Violetta’s heart
To me, the lord of it; and I will send thee—
FONT. O, whither? to damnation, wilt thou not?
Think’st thou the purity of my true soul
Can taste your leperous counsel? no, I defy you.
Incestancy[664] dwell on his rivell’d brow
That weds for dirt; or on th’ enforced heart
That lags in rearward of his father’s charge,
When to some negro-guelderling he’s clogg’d
By the injunction of a golden fee!
When I call back my vows to Violetta,
May I then slip into an obscure grave,
Whose mould, imprest with stony monument,
Dwelling in open air, may drink the tears
Of the inconstant clouds, to rot me soon
Out of my private linen sepulchre!
CAM. Ay!
Is this your settled resolution?
FONT. By my love’s best divinity, it is.
CAM. Then bear him to his prison back again.—
This tune must alter ere thy lodging mend:
To death, fond[665] Frenchman, thy slight love doth
tend.
FONT. Then, constant heart, thy fate with joy pursue;
Draw wonder to thy death, expiring true. [_Exit._
HIP. After him, Frisco; enforce thy mistress’s passion.
Thou shalt have access to him, to bring him love-tokens:
if they prevail not, yet thou shalt still be in
presence, be’t but to spite him. In, honest Frisco.
FRIS. I’ll vex him to the heart, sir; fear not me.
Yet here’s a trick perchance may set him free.
[_Aside and exit._
HIP. Come, wilt thou go laugh and lie down?[666] Now
sure there be some rebels in thy belly, for thine eyes
do nothing but watch and ward: thou’st not slept these
three nights.
CAM. Alas, how can I? he that truly loves
Burns out the day in idle fantasies;
And when the lamb bleating doth bid good night
Unto the closing day, then tears begin
To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice
Shrieks like the belman[667] in the lover’s ears:
Love’s eye the jewel of sleep, O, seldom wears!
The early lark is waken’d from her bed,
Being only by love’s plaints disquieted,
And, singing in the morning’s ear, she weeps,
Being deep in love, at lovers’ broken sleeps:
But say a golden slumber chance to tie,
With silken strings, the cover of love’s eye,
Then dreams, magician-like, mocking present
Pleasures, whose fading leaves more discontent.
Have you these golden charms?
MUS. We have, my lord.
CAM. Bestow them sweetly; think a lover’s heart
Dwells in each instrument, and let it melt
In weeping strains. Yonder direct your faces,
That the soft summons of a frightless parley
May creep into the casement. So, begin:
Music, speak movingly; assume my part;
For thou must now plead to a stony heart.

SONG.
_Pity, pity, pity!
Pity, pity, pity!
That word begins that ends a true-love ditty.
Your blessed eyes, like a pair of suns,
Shine in the sphere of smiling;
Your pretty lips, like a pair of doves,
Are kisses still compiling.
Mercy hangs upon your brow, like a precious jewel:
O, let not then,
Most lovely maid, best to be lov’d of men,
Marble lie upon your heart, that will make you cruel!
Pity, pity, pity!
Pity, pity, pity!
That word begins that ends a true-love ditty._
[VIOLETTA _appears above_.
VIOL. Who owes[668] this salutation?
CAM. Thy Camillo.
VIOL. Is not your shadow there too, my sweet brother?
HIP. Here, sweet sister.
VIOL. I dreamt so. O, I am much bound to you!
For you, my lord, have us’d my love with honour.
CAM. Ever with honour.
VIOL. Indeed, indeed, you have.
HIP. ’S light, she means her French _garçon_.
VIOL. The same. Good night; trust me, ’tis somewhat
late,
And this bleak wind nips dead all idle prate.
I must to bed: good night.
CAM. The god of rest
Play music to thine eyes! whilst on my breast
The Furies sit and beat, and keep care waking.
HIP. You will not leave my friend in this poor taking?
VIOL. Yes, by the velvet brow of darkness!
HIP. You scurvy tit,—’s foot, scurvy any thing! Do you
hear, Susanna? you punk, if I geld not your musk-cat!
I’ll do’t, by Jesu. Let’s go, Camillo.
VIOL. Nay but, pure swaggerer, ruffian, do you think
To fright me with your bugbear threats? go by!
Hark, toss-pot, in your ear; the Frenchman’s mine,
And by these hands I’ll have him!
HIP. Rare rogue, fine!
VIOL. He is my prisoner, by a deed of gift;
Therefore, Camillo, you have wrong’d me much
To wrong my prisoner. By my troth, I love him
The rather for the baseness he endures
For my unworthy self. I’ll tell you what;
Release him, let him plead your love for you;
I love a’ life[669] to hear a man speak French
Of his complexion; I would undergo
The instruction of that language rather far
Than be two weeks unmarried. By my life,
Because I’ll speak true French, I’ll be his wife.
CAM. O, scorn to my chaste love! burst, heart.
HIP. ’S wounds, hold!
CAM. Come, gentle friends, tie your most solemn tunes
By silver strings unto a leaden pace.
False fair, enjoy thy base belov’d: adieu:
He’s far less noble, and shall prove less true.
[_Exeunt_ CAMILLO, HIPPOLITO, _and Musicians_.

_Enter_ TRUEPENNY _above with a letter_.

TRUE. Lady, Imperia the courtesan’s zany[670] hath
brought you this letter from the poor gentleman in the
deep dungeon, but would not stay till he had an answer.
VIOL. Her groom employed by Fontinelle? O, strange!
I wonder how he got access to him.
I’ll read, and reading my poor heart shall ache:
True love is jealous; fears the best love shake.
[_Reads._
_Meet me at the end of the old chapel, next Saint
Lorenzo’s monastery. Furnish your company with a friar,
that there he may consummate our holy vows. Till
midnight, farewell._ _Thine_, FONTINELLE.

Hath he got opportunity to ’scape?
O happy period of our separation!
Blest night, wrap Cynthia in a sable sheet,
That fearful lovers may securely meet! [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Before Saint Lorenzo’s Monastery._

_Enter_ FRISCO _in_ FONTINELLE’s _apparel, and_
FONTINELLE _making himself ready[671] in_
FRISCO’s: _they enter suddenly and in fear_.

FRIS. Play you my part bravely; you must look like a
slave: and you shall see I’ll counterfeit the Frenchman
most knavishly. My mistress, for your sake, charged me
on her blessing to fall to these shifts. I left her at
cards: she’ll sit up till you come, because she’ll have
you play a game at noddy.[672] You’ll to her presently?
FONT. I will, upon mine honour.
FRIS. I think she does not greatly care whether you fall
to her upon your honour or no. So, all’s fit. Tell my
lady that I go in a suit of durance for her sake. That’s
your way, and this pit-hole’s mine. If I can ’scape
hence, why so; if not, he that’s hanged is nearer to
heaven by half a score steps than he that dies in a bed:
and so adieu, monsieur. [_Exit._

FONT. Farewell, dear trusty slave. Shall I profane
This temple with an idol of strange love?
When I do so, let me dissolve in fire.
Yet one day will I see this dame, whose heart
Takes off my misery: I’ll not be so rude
To pay her kindness with ingratitude.

_Enter_ VIOLETTA _and a Friar apace_.

VIOL. My dearest Fontinelle!
FONT. My Violetta!
O God!
VIOL. O God!
FONT. Where is this reverend friar?
FRIAR. Here, overjoy’d young man.
VIOL. How didst thou ’scape?
How came Imperia’s man——
FONT. No more of that.
VIOL. When did Imperia——
FONT. Questions now are thieves,
And lie[673] in ambush to surprise our joys.
[O] my most happy stars, shine still, shine on!
Away, come: love beset had need be gone. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Room in_ IMPERIA’s _House_.

_Enter_ CURVETTO _and_ SIMPERINA.

CUR. I must not stay, thou sayst?
SIM. God’s me, away!
CUR. Buss, buss again;—here’s sixpence;—buss again,—
Farewell: I must not stay then?
SIM. Foh!
CUR. Farewell:
At ten a’ clock[674] thou sayst, and ring a bell,
Which thou wilt hang out at this window?
SIM. Lord!
She’ll hear this fiddling.
CUR. No, close, on my word.
Farewell: just ten a’ clock; I shall come in?
Remember to let down the cord,—just ten:
Thou’lt open, mouse? pray God thou dost. Amen![675]
I’m[676] an old courtier, wench, but I can spy
A young duck: close, mum; ten; close, ’tis not I.
[_Exit._
SIM. Mistress, sweet ladies!

_Enter_ IMPERIA _and Ladies with table-books_.[677]

IMP. Is his old rotten aqua-vitæ bottle stopt up? is he
gone? Fie, fie, fie, fie, he so smells of ale and
onions, and rosa-solis, fie. Bolt the door, stop the
keyhole, lest his breath peep in. Burn some perfume. I
do not love to handle these dried stockfishes, that ask
so much tawing:[678] fie, fie, fie.
FIRST LADY. Nor I, trust me, lady; fie.
IMP. No, no, no, no. Stools and cushions; low stools,
low stools; sit, sit, sit, round, ladies, round.
[_They seat themselves._] So, so, so, so; let your
sweet beauties be spread to the full and most moving
advantage; for we are fallen into his hands, who, they
say, has an A B C for the sticking in of the least
white pin in any part of the body.
SECOND LADY. Madam Imperia, what stuff is he like to
draw out before us?
IMP. Nay, nay, nay, ’tis Greek to me, ’tis Greek to me:
I never had remnant of his Spanish-leather learning.
Here he comes: your ears may now fit themselves out of
the whole piece.

_Enter_ LAZARILLO.[679]

LAZ. I do first deliver to your most skreet[680] and
long-fingered hands this head, or top of all the
members, bare and uncombed, to shew how deeply I stand
in reverence of your naked female beauties. Bright and
unclipt angels,[681] if I were to make a discovery of
any new-found land, as Virginia or so, to ladies and
courtiers, my speech should hoist up sails fit to bear
up such lofty and well-rigged vessels: but because I am
to deal only with the civil chitty-matron,[682] I will
not lay upon your blushing and delicate cheek[s] any
other colours than such as will give lustre to your
chitty[683] faces: in and to that purpose, our thesis is
taken out of that most plentiful, but most precious
book, entitled the _Economical Cornucopia_.
FIRST LADY. The what?
LAZ. The _Economical Cornucopia_: thus,
_Wise is that wife, who with apt wit complains
That she’s kept under, yet rules all the reins._
SECOND LADY. O, again, sweet signior!—[_writing_]
———_complains
That she’s kept under_——
What follows?
LAZ. _Yet rules all the reins:
Wise is that wife, who with apt wit complains
That she’s kept under, yet rules all the reins._
Most pure and refined plants of nature, I will not,
as this distinction enticeth, take up the parts as
they lie here in order; as first, to touch your
_wisdom_, it were folly; next, your _complaining_,
’tis too common; thirdly, your _keeping under_, ’tis
above my capachity;[684] and, lastly, _the reins in
your own hands_, that is the a-per-se[685] of all, the
very cream of all, and therefore how to skim off that
only, only listen: a wife wise, no matter; apt wit, no
matter; complaining, no matter; kept under, no great
matter; but to rule the roast is the matter.
THIRD LADY. That ruling of the roast goes with me.
FOURTH LADY. And me.
FIFTH LADY. And me; I’ll have a cut of that roast.
LAZ. Since, then, a woman’s only desire is to have the
reins in her own white hand, your chief practice, the
very same day that you are wived, must be to get hold of
these reins; and being fully gotten, or wound about,
_yet to complain, with apt wit, as though you had them
not_.
IMP. How shall we know, signior, when we have them all
or not?
LAZ. I will furnish your capable understandings out of
my poor Spanish store with the chief implements, and
their appurtenances. Observe; it shall be your first and
finest praise to sing the note of every new fashion at
first sight, and, if you can, to stretch that note above
ela.[686]
OMNES. Good.
LAZ. The more you pinch your servants’ bellies for this,
the smoother will the fashion sit on your back: but if
your goodman like not this music, as being too full of
crotchets, your only way is, to learn to play upon the
virginals,[687] and so nail his ears to your sweet
humours. If this be out of time too, yet your labour
will quit the cost; for by this means your secret friend
may have free and open access to you, under the colour
of pricking you lessons. Now, because you may tie your
husband’s love in most sweet knots, you shall never give
over labouring till out of his purse you have digged _a
garden_;[688] and that garden must stand a pretty
distance from the chitty;[689] for by repairing thither,
much good fruit may be grafted.
FIRST LADY. Mark that.
LAZ. Then, in the afternoon, when you address your sweet
perfumed body to walk to this garden, there to gather a
nosegay,—sops-in-wine,[690] cowslips, columbines,
heart’s-ease, &c.,—the first principle to learn is, that
you stick black patches for the rheum on your delicate
blue temples, though there be no room for the rheum:
black patches are comely in most women, and being well
fastened, draw men’s eyes to shoot glances at you. Next,
your ruff must stand in print;[691] and for that
purpose, get poking-sticks[692] with fair and long
handles, lest they scorch your lily sweating hands. Then
your hat with a little brim, if you have a little face;
if otherwise, otherwise. Besides, you must play the wag
with your wanton fan; have your dog,—called Pearl, or
Min, or Why ask you, or any other pretty name,—dance
along by you; your embroidered muff before you, on your
ravishing hands; but take heed who thrusts his fingers
into your fur.
SECOND LADY. We’ll watch for that.
LAZ. Once a quarter take state upon you, and be
chick.[693] Being chick thus politicly, lie at your
garden: your lip-sworn servant may there visit you as a
physician; where[694] otherwise, if you languish at
home, be sure your husband will look to your water. This
chickness[695] may be increased, with giving out that
you breed young bones; and to stick flesh upon those
bones, it shall not be amiss if you long for peascods at
ten groats the cod, and for cherries at a crown the
cherry.
FIRST LADY. O dear tutor!
SECOND LADY. Interrupt him not.
LAZ. If, while this pleasing fit of chickness hold you,
you be invited forth to supper, whimper and seem
unwilling to go; but if your goodman, bestowing the
sweet duck and kiss upon your moist lip, entreat, go.
Marry, my counsel is, you eat little at table, because
it may be said of you, you are no cormorant; yet at your
coming home you may counterfeit a qualm, and so devour a
posset. Your husband need not have his nose in that
posset; no, trust your chambermaid only in this, and
scarcely her; for you cannot be too careful into whose
hands you commit your secrets.
OMNES. That’s certain.
LAZ. If you have daughters capable, marry them by no
means to chittizens,[696] but choose for them some
smooth-chinned, curled-headed gentlemen;[697] for
gentlemen will lift up your daughters to their own
content; and to make these curled-pated gallants come
off the more roundly, make your husband go to the herald
for arms; and let it be your daily care that he have a
fair and comely crest; yea, go all the ways yourselves
you can to be made ladies, especially if, without danger
to his person, or for love or money, you can procure
your husband to be dubbed. The goddess of memory lock up
these jewels, which I have bestowed upon you, in your
sweet brains! Let these be the rules to square out your
life by, though you ne’er go level, but tread you[r]
shoes awry. If you can get these reins into your lily
hand[s], you shall need no coaches, but may drive your
husbands. Put it down; and, according to that wise
saying of you, be saints in the church, angels in the
street, devils in the kitchen, and apes in your bed:
upon which leaving you tumbling, pardon me that thus
abruptly and openly I take you all up.
FIRST LADY. You have got so far into our books, signior,
that you cannot ’scape without a pardon here, if you
take us up never so snappishly.
IMP. Music there, to close our stomachs! How do you like
him, madonna?
[_Music._
SECOND LADY. O, trust me, I like him most profoundly!
why, he’s able to put down twenty such as I am.
THIRD LADY. Let them build upon that; nay, more, we’ll
henceforth never go to a cunning woman, since men can
teach us our lerry.[698]
FOURTH LADY. We are all fools to him; and our husbands,
if we can hold these reins fast, shall be fools to us.
SECOND LADY. If we can keep but this bias, wenches, our
goodmen may perchance once in a month get a fore-game of
us; but, if they win a rubbers, let them throw their
caps at it.
IMP. No, no, no, dear features, hold their noses to the
grindstone, and they’re gone. Thanks, worthy signior:
fie, fie, fie, you stand bare too long. Come, bright
mirrors, will you withdraw into a gallery, and taste a
slight banquet?
FIRST LADY. We shall cloy ourselves with sweets, my
sweet madonna.
SECOND LADY. Troth, I will not, madonna Imperia.
IMP. No, no, no. Fie, fie, fie, signior Lazarillo,
either be you our foreman, or else put in these ladies,
at your discretion, into the gallery, and cut off this
striving.
LAZ. It shall be my office; my fees being, as they pass,
to take toll of their alablaster[699] hands. [_Exeunt
Ladies_: IMPERIA _stays_.] Admired creature, I summon
you to a parley: you remember this is the night?
IMP. So, so, so, I do remember: here is a key; that is
your chamber.—Lights, Simperina.—About twelve a’ clock
you shall take my beauty prisoner:—fie, fie, fie, how I
blush!—at twelve a’ clock.
LAZ. Rich argosy of all golden pleasure—
IMP. No, no, no, put up, put up your joys till anon: I
will come, by my virginity. But I must tell you one
thing, that all my chambers are many nights haunted,
with what sprites none can see; but sometimes we hear
birds singing, sometimes music playing, sometimes voices
laughing: but stir not you, nor be frighted at any
thing.
LAZ. By Hercules, if any spirits rise, I will conjure
them in their own circles with toledo.
IMP. So, so, so; lights for his chamber.—Is the trap-
door ready?
[_Aside._
SIMP. ’Tis set sure.
IMP. So, so, so, I will be rid of this broiled red
sprat, that stinks so in my stomach, fie; I hate him
worse than to have a tailor come a-wooing to me.
[_Aside._] God’s me! the sweet ladies, the banquet,—I
forget: fie, fie, fie, follow, dear signior.—The trap-
door, Simperina.
[_Aside, and exit._
SIMP. Signior, come away.
LAZ. Cupid, I kiss the nock[700] of thy sweet bow: A
woman makes me yield; Mars could not so.
[_Exit with_ SIMPERINA.