Chapter XXXII: Act II: Scene I

_An apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house_.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO _and_ LIVIA.

LIV. A strange affection, brother! when I think on’t,
I wonder how thou cam’st by’t.
HIP. Even as easily
As man comes by destruction, which ofttimes
He wears in his own bosom.
LIV. Is the world
So populous in women, and creation
So prodigal in beauty, and so various,
Yet does love turn thy point to thine own blood?
’Tis somewhat too unkindly: must thy eye
Dwell evilly on the fairness of thy kindred,
And seek not where it should? it is confin’d
Now in a narrower prison than was made for’t;
It is allow’d a stranger; and where bounty
Is made the great man’s honour, ’tis ill husbandry
To spare, and servants shall have small thanks for’t;
So he heaven’s bounty seems to scorn and mock
That spares free means, and spends of his own stock.
HIP. Ne’er was man’s misery so soon summ’d[1025] up,
Counting how truly.
LIV. Nay, I love you so,
That I shall venture much to keep a change from you
So fearful as this grief will bring upon you;
Faith, it even kills me when I see you faint
Under a reprehension, and I'll leave it,
Though I know nothing can be better for you.
Prithee, sweet brother, let not passion waste
The goodness of thy time and of thy fortune:
Thou keep’st the treasure of that life I love
As dearly as mine own; and if you think
My former words too bitter, which were minister’d
By truth and zeal, ’tis but a hazarding
Of grace and virtue, and I can bring forth
As pleasant fruits as sensuality wishes
In all her teeming longings; this I can do.
HIP. O, nothing that can make my wishes perfect!
LIV. I would that love of yours were pawn’d to’t,
brother,
And as soon lost that way as I could win!
Sir, I could give as shrewd a lift to chastity
As any she that wears a tongue in Florence;
Sh’ad need be a good horsewoman, and sit fast,
Whom my strong argument could not fling at last.
Prithee, take courage, man; though I should counsel
Another to despair, yet I am pitiful
To thy afflictions, and will venture hard—
I will not name for what, it is not handsome;
Find you the proof, and praise me.
HIP. Then I fear me
I shall not praise you in haste.
LIV. This is the comfort,
You are not the first, brother, has attempted
Things more forbidden than this seems to be.
I'll minister all cordials now to you,
Because I'll cheer you up, sir.
HIP. I'm past hope.
LIV. Love, thou shalt see me do a strange cure then,
As e’er was wrought on a disease so mortal
And near akin to shame. When shall you see her?
HIP. Never in comfort more.
LIV. You’re so impatient too!
HIP. Will you believe? death, sh’as forsworn my
company,
And seal’d it with a blush.
LIV. So, I perceive
All lies upon my hands then; well, the more glory
When the work’s finish’d.

_Enter Servant._

How now, sir? the news?
SER. Madam, your niece, the virtuous Isabella,
Is lighted now to see you.
LIV. That’s great fortune;
Sir, your stars bless you.—Simple, lead[1026] her in.
[_Exit Servant._
HIP. What’s this to me?
LIV. Your absence, gentle brother;
I must bestir my wits for you.
HIP. Ay, to great purpose. [_Exit._
LIV. Beshrew you, would I lov’d you not so well!
I'll go to bed, and leave this deed undone:
I am the fondest where I once affect;
The carefull’st of their healths and of their ease,
forsooth,
That I look still but slenderly to mine own:
I take a course to pity him so much now,
That I've none left for modesty and myself.
This ’tis to grow so liberal: you’ve few sisters
That love their brothers' ease ’bove their own
honesties;
But if you question my affections,
That will be found my fault.

_Enter_ ISABELLA.

Niece, your love’s welcome.
Alas, what draws that paleness to thy cheeks?
This enforc’d marriage towards?[1027]
ISA. It helps, good aunt,
Amongst some other griefs; but those I'll keep
Lock’d up in modest silence, for they’re sorrows
Would shame the tongue more than they grieve the
thought.
LIV. Indeed, the Ward is simple.
ISA. Simple! that were well;
Why, one might make good shift with such a husband,
But he’s a fool entail’d, he halts downright in’t.
LIV. And knowing this, I hope ’tis at your choice
To take or refuse, niece.
ISA. You see it is not.
I loathe him more than beauty can hate death,
Or age her spiteful neighbour.
LIV. Let ’t appear then.
ISA. How can I, being born with that obedience
That must submit unto a father’s will?
If he command, I must of force consent.
LIV. Alas, poor soul! be not offended, prithee,
If I set by the name of niece awhile,
And bring in pity in a stranger fashion;
It lies here in this breast would cross this match.
ISA. How! cross it, aunt?
LIV. Ay, and give thee more liberty
Than thou hast reason yet to apprehend.
ISA. Sweet aunt, in goodness keep not hid from me
What may befriend my life!
LIV. Yes, yes, I must;
When I return to reputation,
And think upon the solemn vow I made
To your dead mother, my most loving sister;
As long as I've her memory ’twixt mine eyelids,
Look for no pity now.
ISA. Kind, sweet, dear aunt——
LIV. No, ’twas a secret I've took special care of,
Deliver’d by your mother on her deathbed,
That’s nine years now, and I'll not part from’t yet,
Though ne’er was fitter time, nor greater cause for’t.
ISA. As you desire the praises of a virgin——
LIV. Good sorrow, I would do thee any kindness
Not wronging secrecy or reputation.
ISA. Neither of which, as I have hope of
fruit[ful]ness,
Shall receive wrong from me.
LIV. Nay, ’twould be your own wrong
As much as any’s, should it come to that once.
ISA. I need no better means to work persuasion then.
LIV. Let it suffice, you may refuse this fool,
Or you may take him, as you see occasion
For your advantage; the best wits will do’t;
You’ve liberty enough in your own will,
You cannot be enforc’d; there grows the flower,
If you could pick it out, makes whole life sweet to you.
That which you call your father’s command’s nothing,
Then your obedience must needs be as little:
If you can make shift here to taste your happiness,
Or pick out aught that likes[1028] you, much good do
you;
You see your cheer, I'll make you no set dinner.
ISA. And, trust me, I may starve for all the good
I can find yet in this: sweet aunt, deal plainlier.
LIV. Say I should trust you now upon an oath,
And give you, in a secret, that would start you,
How am I sure of you in faith and silence?
ISA. Equal assurance may I find in mercy
As you for that in me!
LIV. It shall suffice:
Then know, however custom has made good,
For reputation’s sake, the names of niece
And aunt ’twixt you and I, we’re nothing less.
ISA. How’s that?
LIV. I told you I should start your blood:
You are no more allied to any of us,
Save what the courtesy of opinion casts
Upon your mother’s memory and your name,
Than the merest stranger is, or one begot
At Naples when the husband lies at Rome;
There’s so much odds betwixt us. Since your knowledge
Wish’d more instruction, and I have your oath
In pledge for silence, it makes me talk the freelier.
Did never the report of that fam’d Spaniard,
Marquis of Coria, since your time was ripe
For understanding, fill your ear with wonder?
ISA. Yes; what of him? I've heard his deeds of honour
Often related when we liv’d in Naples.
LIV. You heard the praises of your father then.
ISA. My father!
LIV. That was he; but all the business
So carefully and so discreetly carried,
That fame receiv’d no spot by’t, not a blemish;
Your mother was so wary to her end,
None knew it but her conscience and her friend,
Till penitent confession made it mine,
And now my pity yours, it had been long else;
And I hope care and love alike in you,
Made good by oath, will see it take no wrong now.
How weak his commands now whom you call father!
How vain all his enforcements, your obedience!
And what a largeness in your will and liberty,
To take, or to reject, or to do both!
For fools will serve to father wise men’s children:
All this you’ve time to think on. O my wench,
Nothing o’erthrows our sex but indiscretion!
We might do well else of a brittle people
As any under the great canopy:
I pray, forget not but to call me aunt still;
Take heed of that; it may be mark’d in time else:
But keep your thoughts to yourself, from all the world,
Kindred, or dearest friend; nay, I entreat you,
From him that all this while you have call’d uncle;
And though you love him dearly, as I know
His deserts claim as much even from a stranger,
Yet let not him know this, I prithee, do not;
As ever thou hast hope of second pity,
If thou shouldst stand in need on’t, do not do’t.
ISA. Believe my oath, I will not.
LIV. Why, well said.—
Who shews more craft t' undo a maidenhead,
I'll resign my part to her. [_Aside._

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

She’s thine own; go.
HIP. Alas, fair flattery cannot cure my sorrows!
[_Exit_ LIVIA.
ISA. Have I past so much time in ignorance,
And never had the means to know myself
Till this bless’d hour? thanks to her virtuous pity
That brought it now to light; would I had known it
But one day sooner! he had then receiv’d
In favours, what, poor gentleman, he took
In bitter words; a slight and harsh reward
For one of his deserts. [_Aside._
HIP. There seems to me now
More anger and distraction in her looks:
I'm gone; I'll not endure a second storm,
The memory of the first is not past yet. [_Aside._
ISA. Are you return’d, you comforts of my life,
In this man’s presence? I will keep you fast now,
And sooner part eternally from the world
Than my good joys in you. [_Aside._]—Prithee, forgive
me,
I did but chide in jest; the best loves use it
Sometimes, it sets an edge upon affection:
When we invite our best friends to a feast,
’Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before them;
There’s somewhat sharp and salt, both to whet appetite
And make ’em taste their wine well; so, methinks,
After a friendly, sharp, and savoury chiding,
A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape;
How think’st thou? does ’t not? [_Kisses him._
HIP. ’Tis so excellent,
I know not how to praise it, what to say to’t!
ISA. This marriage shall go forward.
HIP. With the Ward?
Are you in earnest?
ISA. ’Twould be ill for us else.
HIP. For us! how means she that? [_Aside._
ISA. Troth, I begin
To be so well, methinks, within this hour,
For all this match able to kill one’s heart,
Nothing can pull me down now; should my father
Provide a worse fool yet—which I should think
Were a hard thing to compass—I'd have him either;
The worse the better, none can come amiss now,
If he want wit enough; so discretion love me,
Desert and judgment, I've content sufficient.
She that comes once to be a housekeeper
Must not look every day to fare well, sir,
Like a young waiting-gentlewoman in service,
For she feeds commonly as her lady does,
No good bit passes her but she gets a taste on’t;
But when she comes to keep house for herself,
She’s glad of some choice cates then once a-week,
Or twice at most, and glad if she can get ’em;
So must affection learn to fare with thankfulness:
Pray, make your love no stranger, sir, that’s all,—
Though you be one yourself, and know not on’t,
And I have sworn you must not. [_Aside, and exit._
HIP. This is beyond me!
Never came joys so unexpectedly
To meet desires in man: how came she thus?
What has she done to her, can any tell?
’Tis beyond sorcery this, drugs, or love-powders;
Some art that has no name, sure; strange to me
Of all the wonders I e’er met withal
Throughout my ten years' travels; but I'm thankful
for’t.
This marriage now must of necessity forward;
It is the only veil wit can devise
To keep our acts hid from sin-piercing eyes. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Another apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house: a chess-board set
out_.

_Enter_ LIVIA _and_ GUARDIANO.

LIV. How, sir? a gentlewoman so young, so fair,
As you set forth, spied from the widow’s window?
GUAR. She.
LIV. Our Sunday-dinner woman?
GUAR. And Thursday-supper woman, the same still:
I know not how she came by her, but I'll swear
She’s the prime gallant for a face in Florence,
And no doubt other parts follow their leader.
The Duke himself first spied her at the window,
Then, in a rapture—as if admiration
Were poor when it were single—beckon’d me,
And pointed to the wonder warily,
As one that fear’d she would draw in her splendour
Too soon, if too much gaz’d at: I ne’er knew him
So infinitely taken with a woman;
Nor can I blame his appetite, or tax
His raptures of slight folly; she’s a creature
Able to draw a state from serious business,
And make it their best piece to do her service.
What course shall we devise? has spoke twice now.
LIV. Twice?
GUAR. ’Tis beyond your apprehension
How strangely that one look has catch’d his heart:
'Twould prove but too much worth in wealth and favour
To whose should work his peace.
LIV. And if I do’t not,
Or at least come as near it—if your art
Will take a little pains and second me—
As any wench in Florence of my standing,
I'll quite give o’er, and shut up shop in cunning.
GUAR. ’Tis for the Duke; and if I fail your purpose,
All means to come by riches or advancement
Miss me, and skip me over!
LIV. Let the old woman then
Be sent for with all speed, then I'll begin.
GUAR. A good conclusion follow, and a sweet one,
After this stale beginning with old ware!
Within there!

_Enter Servant._

SER. Sir, do you call?
GUAR. Come near, list hither. [_Whispers._
LIV. I long myself to see this absolute creature,
That wins the heart of love and praise so much.
GUAR. Go, sir, make haste.
LIV. Say I entreat her company:
Do you hear, sir?
SER. Yes, madam. [_Exit._
LIV. That brings her quickly.
GUAR. I would ’twere done! the Duke waits the good
hour,
And I wait the good fortune that may spring from’t.
I've had a lucky hand these fifteen year
At such court-passage,[1029] with three dice in a dish.—

_Enter_ FABRICIO.

Signor Fabricio!
FAB. O sir,
I bring an alteration in my mouth now.
GUAR. An alteration?—No wise speech, I hope;
He means not to talk wisely, does he, trow?[1030]—

rj [_Aside._
Good; what’s the change, I pray, sir?
FAB. A new change.
GUAR. Another yet? faith, there’s enough already.
FAB. My daughter loves him now.
GUAR. What, does she, sir?
FAB. Affects him beyond thought: who but the Ward,
forsooth;
No talk but of the Ward; she would have him
To choose ’bove all the men she ever saw:
My will goes not so fast as her consent now;
Her duty gets before my command still.
GUAR. Why, then, sir, if you’ll have me speak my
thoughts,
I smell ’twill be a match.
FAB. Ay, and a sweet young couple,
If I have any judgment.
GUAR. Faith, that’s little.— [_Aside._
Let her be sent to-morrow, before noon,
And handsomely trick’d up, for ’bout that time
I mean to bring her in, and tender her to him.
FAB. I warrant you for handsome; I will see
Her things laid ready, every one in order,
And have some part of her trick’d up to-night.
GUAR. Why, well said.
FAB. ’Twas a use her mother had;
When she was invited to an early wedding,
She’d dress her head o’er night, sponge up herself,
And give her neck three lathers.
GUAR. Ne’er a halter? [_Aside._
FAB. On with her chain of pearl, her ruby bracelets,
Lay ready all her tricks and jiggembobs.
GUAR. So must your daughter.
FAB. I'll about it straight, sir. [_Exit._
LIV. How he sweats in the foolish zeal of fatherhood,
After six ounces an hour, and seems
To toil as much as if his cares were wise ones!
GUAR. You’ve let his folly blood in the right vein,
lady.
LIV. And here comes his sweet son-in-law that shall
be;
They’re both allied in wit before the marriage;
What will they be hereafter, when they’re nearer!
Yet they can go no further than the fool;
There’s the world’s end in both of ’em.

_Enter the Ward and_ SORDIDO, _one with a shittlecock,
the other with a battledoor_.

GUAR. Now, young heir.
WARD. What’s the next business after shittlecock now?
GUAR. To-morrow you shall see the gentlewoman
Must be your wife.
WARD. There’s even another thing too,
Must be kept up with a pair of battledoors:
My wife! what can she do?
GUAR. Nay, that’s a question you should ask yourself,
Ward,
When you’re alone together.
WARD. That’s as I list;
A wife’s to be ask['d] any where, I hope;
I'll ask her in a congregation,
If I've a mind to’t, and so save a license.
My guardianer has no more wit than an herb-woman,
That sells away all her sweet herbs and nosegays,
And keeps a stinking breath for her own pottage.
SOR. Let me be at the choosing of your belov’d,
If you desire a woman of good parts.
WARD. Thou shalt, sweet Sordido.
SOR. I have a plaguy guess; let me alone to see what she
is: if I but look upon her—'way! I know all the faults
to a hair that you may refuse her for.
WARD. Dost thou? I prithee, let me hear ’em, Sordido.
SOR. Well, mark ’em then; I have ’em all in rhyme:
The wife your guardianer ought to tender
Should be pretty, straight, and slender;
Her hair not short, her foot not long,
Her hand not huge, nor too, too loud her tongue;
No pearl in eye,[1031] nor ruby in her nose,
No burn or cut but what the catalogue shews;
She must have teeth, and that no black ones,
And kiss most sweet when she does smack once;
Her skin must be both white and plump['d],
Her body straight, not hopper-rump’d,
Or wriggle sideways like a crab;
She must be neither slut nor drab,
Nor go too splay-foot with her shoes,
To make her smock lick up the dews;
And two things more, which I forgot to tell ye,
She neither must have bump in back nor belly:
These are the faults that will not make her pass.
WARD. And if I spy not these, I'm a rank ass.
SOR. Nay, more; by right, sir, you should see her
naked,
For that’s the ancient order.
WARD. See her naked?
That were good sport, i’faith: I'll have the books
turn’d o’er,
And if I find her naked on record,
She shall not have a rag on: but stay, stay;
How if she should desire to see me so too?
I were in a sweet case then; such a foul skin!
SOR. But you’ve a clean shirt, and that makes amends,
sir.
WARD. I will not see her naked for that trick though.
[_Exit._
SOR. Then take her with all faults with her clothes
on,
And they may hide a number with a bum-roll.[1032]
Faith, choosing of a wench in a huge farthingale
Is like the buying of ware under a great penthouse;
What with the deceit of one,
And the false light of th' other, mark my speeches,
He may have a diseas’d wench in’s bed,
And rotten stuff in’s breeches. [_Exit._
GUAR. It may take handsomely.[1033]
LIV. I see small hindrance.—

_Re-enter Servant, shewing in Mother._

How now? so soon return’d?
GUAR. She’s come.
LIV. That’s well.— [_Exit Servant._
Widow, come, come, I've a great quarrel to you;
Faith, I must chide you, that you must be sent for;
You make yourself so strange, never come at us,
And yet so near a neighbour, and so unkind;
Troth, you’re to blame; you cannot be more welcome
To any house in Florence, that I'll tell you.
MOTH. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, madam.
LIV. How can you be so strange then? I sit here
Sometime[s] whole days together without company,
When business draws this gentleman from home,
And should be happy in society
Which I so well affect as that of yours:
I know you’re alone too; why should not we,
Like two kind neighbours, then, supply the wants
Of one another, having tongue-discourse,
Experience in the world, and such kind helps
To laugh down time, and meet age merrily?[1034]
MOTH. Age, madam! you speak mirth; ’tis at my door,
But a long journey from your ladyship yet.
LIV. My faith, I'm nine and-thirty, every stroke,
wench;
And ’tis a general observation
'Mongst knights—wives or widows, we account ourselves
Then old, when young men’s eyes leave looking at’s;
’Tis a true rule amongst us, and ne’er fail’d yet
In any but in one, that I remember;
Indeed, she had a friend at nine-and-forty;
Marry, she paid well for him, and in th' end
He kept a quean or two with her own money,
That robb’d her of her plate and cut her throat.
MOTH. She had her punishment in this world, madam,
And a fair warning to all other women
That they live chaste at fifty.
LIV. Ay, or never, wench.
Come, now I have thy company, I'll not part with’t
Till after supper.
MOTH. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam.
LIV. I swear you shall stay supper; we’ve no
strangers, woman,
None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman
And the young heir his ward; you know our company.
MOTH. Some other time I'll make bold with you, madam.
GUAR. Nay, pray stay, widow.
LIV. Faith, she shall not go:
Do you think I'll be forsworn?
MOTH. ’Tis a great while
Till supper-time; I'll take my leave then now, madam,
And come again i' th' evening, since your ladyship
Will have it so.
LIV. I' th' evening? by my troth, wench,
I'll keep you while I have you: you’ve great business,
sure,
To sit alone at home; I wonder strangely
What pleasure you take in’t; were’t to me now,
I should be ever at one neighbour’s house
Or other all day long: having no charge,
Or none to chide you, if you go or stay,
Who may live merrier, ay, or more at heart’s ease?
Come, we’ll to chess or draughts; there are an hundred
tricks
To drive out time till supper, never fear’t, wench.
MOTH. I'll but make one step home, and return
straight, madam.
LIV. Come, I'll not trust you; you use more excuses
To your kind friends than ever I knew any.
What business can you have, if you be sure
You’ve lock’d the doors? and, that being all you have,
I know you’re careful on’t. One afternoon
So much to spend here! say I should entreat you now
To lie a night or two, or a week, with me,
Or leave your own house for a month together;
It were a kindness that long neighbourhood
And friendship might well hope to prevail in;
Would you deny such a request? i’faith,
Speak truth, and freely.
MOTH. I were then uncivil, madam.
LIV. Go to then; set your men; we’ll have whole nights
Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench.
[LIVIA _and Mother sit down to the chess-board_.
MOTH. As good now tell her then, for she will know’t;
I've always found her a most friendly lady. [_Aside._
LIV. Why, widow, where’s your mind?
MOTH. Troth, even at home, madam:
To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman
Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable,
Especially to young bloods.
LIV. Another excuse!
MOTH. No; as I hope for health, madam, that’s a truth:
Please you to send and see.
LIV. What gentlewoman? pish!
MOTH. Wife to my son, indeed; but not known, madam,
To any but yourself.
LIV. Now I beshrew you;
Could you be so unkind to her and me,
To come and not bring her? faith, ’tis not friendly.
MOTH. I fear’d to be too bold.
LIV. Too bold! O, what’s become
Of the true hearty love was wont to be
'Mongst neighbours in old time!
MOTH. And she’s a stranger, madam.
LIV. The more should be her welcome: when is courtesy
In better practice than when ’tis employ’d
In entertaining strangers? I could chide, i’faith:
Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman! alone too!
Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go.
MOTH. Please you, command one of your servants, madam.
LIV. Within there!

_Re-enter Servant._

SR. Madam.
LIV. Attend the gentlewoman.[1035]
MOTH. It must be carried wondrous privately
From my son’s knowledge, he’ll break out in storms
else.—
Hark you, sir.
[_Whispers the Servant, who then goes out._
LIV. [_to_ GUAR.] Now comes in the heat of your part.
GUAR. True, I know’t, lady; and if I be out,
May the Duke banish me from all employments,
Wanton or serious!
LIV. So, have you sent, widow?
MOTH. Yes, madam, he’s almost at home by this.
LIV. And, faith, let me entreat you that henceforward
All such unkind faults may be swept from friendship,
Which does but dim the lustre; and think thus much,
It is a wrong to me, that have ability
To bid friends welcome, when you keep ’em from me;
You cannot set greater dishonour near me;
For bounty is the credit and the glory
Of those that have enough. I see you’re sorry,
And the good ’mends is made by’t.

_Re-enter Servant, shewing in_ BIANCA.

MOTH. Here she is, madam. [_Exit Servant._
BIAN. I wonder how she comes to send for me now.
[_Aside._
LIV. Gentlewoman, you’re most welcome, trust me, you
are,
As courtesy can make one, or respect
Due to the presence of you.
BIAN. I give you thanks, lady.
LIV. I heard you were alone, and ’t had appear’d
An ill condition[1036] in me, though I knew you not,
Nor ever saw you—yet humanity
Thinks every case her own—t' have kept your company
Here from you, and left you all solitary:
I rather ventur’d upon boldness then,
As the least fault, and wish’d your presence here;
A thing most happily motion’d of that gentleman,
Whom I request you, for his care and pity,
To honour and reward with your acquaintance;
A gentleman that ladies' rights stands for,
That’s his profession.
BIAN. ’Tis a noble one,
And honours my acquaintance.
GUAR. All my intentions
Are servants to such mistresses.
BIAN. ’Tis your modesty,
It seems, that makes your deserts speak so low, sir.
LIV. Come, widow.—Look you, lady, here’s our business;
[_Pointing to the chess-board._
Are we not well employ’d, think you? an old quarrel
Between us, that will ne’er be at an end.
BIAN. No? and, methinks, there’s men enough to part
you, lady.
LIV. Ho, but they set us on, let us come off
As well as we can, poor souls; men care no farther.
I pray, sit down, forsooth, if you’ve the patience
To look upon two weak and tedious gamesters.
GUAR. Faith, madam, set these by till evening,
You’ll have enough on’t then; the gentlewoman,
Being a stranger, would take more delight
To see your rooms and pictures.
LIV. Marry, good sir,
And well remember’d; I beseech you, shew ’em her,
That will beguile time well; pray heartily, do, sir,
I'll do as much for you: here, take these keys;
[_Gives keys to_ GUARDIANO.
Shew her the monument too, and that’s a thing
Every one sees not; you can witness that, widow.
MOTH. And that’s worth sight indeed, madam.
BIAN. Kind lady,
I fear I came to be a trouble to you.
LIV. O, nothing less, forsooth!
BIAN. And to this courteous gentleman,
That wears a kindness in his breast so noble
And bounteous to the welcome of a stranger.
GUAR. If you but give acceptance to my service,
You do the greatest grace and honour to me
That courtesy can merit.
BIAN. I were to blame else,
And out of fashion much. I pray you, lead, sir.
LIV. After a game or two, we’re for you, gentlefolks.
GUAR. We wish no better seconds in society
Than your discourses, madam, and your partner’s there.
MOTH. I thank your praise; I listen’d to you, sir,
Though, when you spoke, there came a paltry rook
Full in my way, and chokes up all my game.
[_Exeunt._ GUARDIANO _and_ BIANCA.
LIV. Alas, poor widow, I shall be too hard for thee!
MOTH. You’re cunning at the game, I'll be sworn,
madam.
LIV. It will be found so, ere I give you over.—
[_Aside._
She that can place her man well——
MOTH. As you do, madam.
LIV. As I shall, wench, can never lose her game:
Nay, nay, the black king’s mine.
MOTH. Cry you mercy, madam!
LIV. And this my queen.
MOTH. I see’t now.
LIV. Here’s a duke[1037]
Will strike a sure stroke for the game anon;
Your pawn cannot come back to relieve itself.
MOTH. I know that, madam.
LIV. You play well the whilst:
How she belies her skill! I hold two ducats,
I give you check and mate to your white king,
Simplicity itself, your saintish king there.
MOTH. Well, ere now, lady,
I've seen the fall of subtlety; jest on.
LIV. Ay, but simplicity receives two for one.
MOTH. What remedy but patience!

_Enter_ GUARDIANO _and_ BIANCA _above_.[1038]

BIAN. Trust me, sir,
Mine eye ne’er met with fairer ornaments.
GUAR. Nay, livelier, I'm persuaded, neither Florence
Nor Venice can produce.
BIAN. Sir, my opinion
Takes your part highly.
GUAR. There’s a better piece
Yet than all these.
BIAN. Not possible, sir!
GUAR. Believe it,
You’ll say so when you see’t: turn but your eye now,
You’re upon’t presently.
[_Draws a curtain,[1039] and discovers the Duke;
then exit._
BIAN. O sir!
DUKE. He’s gone, beauty:
Pish, look not after him; he’s but a vapour,
That, when the sun appears, is seen no more.
BIAN. O, treachery to honour!
DUKE. Prithee, tremble not;
I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting
Under a loving hand that makes much on’t:
Why art so fearful? as I'm friend to brightness,
There’s nothing but respect and honour near thee:
You know me, you have seen me; here’s a heart
Can witness I have seen thee.
BIAN. The more’s my danger.
DUKE. The more’s thy happiness. Pish, strive not,
sweet;
This strength were excellent employ’d in love now,
But here[1040] ’tis spent amiss: strive not to seek
Thy liberty, and keep me still in prison;
I'faith, you shall not out till I'm releas’d now;
We’ll be both freed together, or stay still by’t,
So is captivity pleasant.
BIAN. O my lord!
DUKE. I am not here in vain; have but the leisure
To think on that, and thou’lt be soon resolv’d:
The lifting of thy voice is but like one
That does exalt his enemy, who, proving high,
Lays all the plots to confound him that rais’d him.
Take warning, I beseech thee; thou seem’st to me
A creature so compos’d of gentleness,
And delicate meekness—such as bless the faces
Of figures that are drawn for goddesses,
And make[1041] art proud to look upon her work—
I should be sorry the least force should lay
An unkind touch upon thee.
BIAN. O my extremity!
My lord, what seek you?
DUKE. Love.
BIAN. ’Tis gone already;
I have a husband.
DUKE. That’s a single comfort;
Take a friend to him.
BIAN. That’s a double mischief,
Or else there’s no religion.
DUKE. Do not tremble
At fears of thine own making.
BIAN. Nor, great lord,
Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin,
Because they fear not you; me they must fright—
Then am I best in health: should thunder speak,
And none regard it, it had lost the name,
And were as good be still. I'm not like those
That take their soundest sleeps in greatest tempests;
Then wake I most, the weather fearfullest,
And call for strength to virtue.
DUKE. Sure, I think
Thou know’st the way to please me: I affect
A passionate pleading ’bove an easy yielding;
But never pitied any,—they deserve none,—
That will not pity me. I can command,
Think upon that; yet if thou truly knewest
The infinite pleasure my affection takes
In gentle, fair entreatings, when love’s businesses
Are carried courteously ’twixt heart and heart,
You’d make more haste to please me.
BIAN. Why should you seek, sir,
To take away that you can never give?
DUKE. But I give better in exchange,—wealth, honour;
She that is fortunate in a duke’s favour
'Lights on a tree that bears all women’s wishes:
If your own mother saw you pluck fruit there,
She would commend your wit, and praise the time
Of your nativity; take hold of glory.
Do not I know you’ve cast away your life
Upon necessities, means merely doubtful
To keep you in indifferent health and fashion—
A thing I heard too lately, and soon pitied—
And can you be so much your beauty’s enemy,
To kiss away a month or two in wedlock,
And weep whole years in wants for ever after?
Come, play the wise wench, and provide for ever;
Let storms come when they list, they find thee
shelter’d.
Should any doubt arise, let nothing trouble thee;
Put trust in our love for the managing
Of all to thy heart’s peace: we’ll walk together,
And shew a thankful joy for both our fortunes.
[_Exeunt Duke and_ BIANCA _above_.
LIV. Did not I say my duke would fetch you o’er,
widow?
MOTH. I think you spoke in earnest when you said it,
madam.
LIV. And my black king makes all the haste he can too.
MOTH. Well, madam, we may meet with him in time yet.
LIV. I've given thee blind mate twice.
MOTH. You may see, madam,
My eyes begin to fail.
LIV. I'll swear they do, wench.

_Re-enter_ GUARDIANO.

GUAR. I can but smile as often as I think on’t:
How prettily the poor fool was beguil’d!
How unexpectedly! it’s a witty age;
Never were finer snares for women’s honesties
Than are devis’d in these days; no spider’s web
Made of a daintier thread than are now practis’d
To catch love’s flesh-fly by the silver wing:
Yet, to prepare her stomach by degrees
To Cupid’s feast, because I saw ’twas queasy,
I shew’d her naked pictures by the way,
A bit to stay the appetite. Well, advancement,
I venture hard to find thee; if thou com’st
With a greater title set upon thy crest,
I'll take that first cross patiently, and wait
Until some other comes greater than that;
I'll endure all. [_Aside._
LIV. The game’s even at the best now: you may see,
widow,
How all things draw to an end.
MOTH. Even so do I, madam.
LIV. I pray, take some of your neighbours along with
you.
MOTH. They must be those are almost twice your years
then,
If they be chose fit matches for my time, madam.
LIV. Has not my duke bestirr’d himself?
MOTH. Yes, faith, madam;
Has done me all the mischief in this game.
LIV. Has shew’d himself in’s kind.
MOTH. In’s kind, call you it?
I may swear that.
LIV. Yes, faith, and keep your oath.
GUAR. Hark, list! there’s somebody coming down: ’tis
she.
[_Aside._

_Re-enter_ BIANCA.

BIAN. Now bless me from a blasting! I saw that now,
Fearful for any woman’s eye to look on;
Infectious mists and mildews hang at’s eyes,
The weather of a doomsday dwells upon him:
Yet since mine honour’s leprous, why[1042] should I
Preserve that fair that caus’d the leprosy?
Come, poison all at once. [_Aside._]—Thou in whose
baseness
The bane of virtue broods, I'm bound in soul
Eternally to curse thy smooth-brow’d treachery,
That wore the fair veil of a friendly welcome,
And I a stranger; think upon’t, ’tis worth it;
Murders pil’d up upon a guilty spirit,
At his last breath will not lie heavier
Than this betraying act upon thy conscience:
Beware of offering the first-fruits to sin;
His weight is deadly who commits with strumpets,
After they’ve been abas’d, and made for use;
If they offend to the death, as wise men know,
How much more they, then, that first make ’em so!
I give thee that to feed on. I'm made bold now,
I thank thy treachery; sin and I'm acquainted,
No couple greater; and I'm like that great one,
Who, making politic use of a base villain,
He likes the treason well, but hates the traitor;
So I hate thee, slave!
GUAR. Well, so the Duke love me,
I fare not much amiss then; two great feasts
Do seldom come together in one day,
We must not look for ’em.
BIAN. What, at it still, mother?
MOTH. You see we sit by’t: are you so soon return’d?
LIV. So lively and so cheerful! a good sign that.
[_Aside._
MOTH. You have not seen all since, sure?
BIAN. That have I, mother,
The monument and all: I'm so beholding[1043]
To this kind, honest, courteous gentleman,
You’d little think it, mother; shew’d me all,
Had me from place to place so fashionably;
The kindness of some people, how ’t exceeds!
Faith, I've seen that I little thought to see
I' the morning when I rose.
MOTH. Nay, so I told you
Before you saw’t, it would prove worth your sight.—
I give you great thanks for my daughter, sir,
And all your kindness towards her.
GUAR. O, good widow,
Much good may['t] do her!—forty weeks hence, i’faith.
[_Aside._

_Re-enter Servant._

LIV. Now, sir?
SER. May’t please you, madam, to walk in;
Supper’s upon the table.
LIV. Yes, we come.— [_Exit Servant._
Will’t please you, gentlewoman?
BIAN. Thanks, virtuous lady.—
You’re a damn’d bawd. [_Aside to_ LIVIA.]—I'll follow
you, forsooth;
Pray, take my mother in;—an old ass go with you!—
[_Aside._
This gentleman and I vow not to part.
LIV. Then get you both before.
BIAN. There lies his art. [_Exeunt._ BIANCA _and_
GUARDIANO.
LIV. Widow, I'll follow you. [_Exit Mother._] Is’t so?
_damn’d bawd!_
Are you so bitter? ’tis but want of use:
Her tender modesty is sea-sick a little,
Being not accustom’d to the breaking billow
Of woman’s wavering faith blown with temptations:
’Tis but a qualm of honour, ’twill away;
A little bitter for the time, but lasts not:
Sin tastes at the first draught like wormwood-water,
But drunk again, ’tis nectar ever after. [_Exit._