Chapter XXXIII: Act III: Scene I

_A room in the house of_ LEANTIO’S _Mother_.

_Enter Mother._

MOTH. I would my son would either keep at home,
Or I were in my grave!
She was but one day abroad, but ever since
She’s grown so cutted,[1044] there’s no speaking to her:
Whether the sight of great cheer at my lady’s,
And such mean fare at home, work discontent in her,
I know not; but I'm sure she’s strangely alter’d.
I'll ne’er keep daughter-in-law i' th' house with me
Again,if I had an hundred: when read I of any
That agreed long together, but she and her mother
Fell out in the first quarter? nay, sometime
A grudging of[1045] a scolding the first week,
byrlady![1046]
So takes the new disease, methinks, in my house:
I'm weary of my part; there’s nothing likes[1047] her;
I know not how to please her here a' late:
And here she comes.

_Enter_ BIANCA.

BIAN. This is the strangest house
For all defects as ever gentlewoman
Made shift withal to pass away her love in:
Why is there not a cushion-cloth of drawn-work,
Or some fair cut-work pinn’d up in my bed-chamber,
A silver and gilt casting-bottle[1048] hung by’t?—
Nay, since I am content to be so kind to you,
To spare you for a silver basin and ewer,
Which one of my fashion looks for of duty;
She’s never offer’d under where she sleeps.
MOTH. She talks of things here my whole state’s not
worth.
BIAN. Never a green silk quilt is there i' th' house,
mother,
To cast upon my bed?
MOTH. No, by troth, is there,
Nor orange-tawny neither.
BIAN. Here’s a house
For a young gentlewoman to be got with child in!
MOTH. Yes, simple though you make it, there has been
three
Got in a year in’t, since you move me to’t,
And all as sweet-fac’d children and as lovely
As you’ll be mother of: I will not spare you:
What, cannot children be begot, think you,
Without gilt casting-bottles? yes, and as sweet ones:
The miller’s daughter brings forth as white boys[1049]
As she that bathes herself with milk and bean-flour:
’Tis an old saying, One may keep good cheer
In a mean house; so may true love affect
After the rate of princes in a cottage.
BIAN. Troth, you speak wondrous well for your old
house here;
'Twill shortly fall down at your feet to thank you,
Or stoop, when you go to bed, like a good child,
To ask you blessing. Must I live in want
Because my fortune match’d me with your son?
Wives do not give away themselves to husbands
To the end to be quite cast away; they look
To be the better us’d and tender’d rather,
Highlier respected, and maintain’d the richer;
They’re well rewarded else for the free gift
Of their whole life to a husband! I ask less now
Than what I had at home when I was a maid,
And at my father’s house; kept short of that
Which a wife knows she must have, nay, and will—
Will, mother, if she be not a fool born;
And report went of me, that I could wrangle
For what I wanted when I was two hours old;
And, by that copy, this land still I hold:
You hear me, mother. [_Exit._
MOTH. Ay, too plain, methinks;
And were I somewhat deafer when you spake,
'Twere ne’er a whit the worse for my quietness.
’Tis the most sudden’st, strangest alteration,
And the most subtlest, that e’er wit at threescore
Was puzzled to find out: I know no cause for’t; but
She’s no more like the gentlewoman at first,
Than I'm like her that never lay with man yet,—
And she’s a very young thing, where’er she be.
When she first lighted here, I told her then
How mean she should find all things; she was pleas’d,
forsooth,
None better: I laid open all defects to her,
She was contented still; but the devil’s in her,
Nothing contents her now. To-night my son
Promis’d to be at home; would he were come once,
For I am weary of my charge, and life too!
She’d be serv’d all in silver, by her good will,
By night and day; she hates the name of pewterer
More than sick men the noise, or diseas’d bones
That quake at fall o' th' hammer, seeming to have
A fellow-feeling with’t at every blow.
What course shall I think on? she frets me so!
[_Exit._

_Enter_ LEANTIO.

LEAN. How near am I now to a happiness
That earth exceeds not! not another like it:
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal’d comforts of a man
Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house:
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch-side.
When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet,
Sparkling in beauty and destruction too,
Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight
Her beautified body to a goodly temple
That’s built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting;
And so, by little and little, I shrink back again,
And quench desire with a cool meditation;
And I'm as well, methinks. Now for a welcome
Able to draw men’s envies upon man;
A kiss now, that will hang upon my lip
As sweet as morning-dew upon a rose,
And full as long; after a five-days' fast
She’ll be so greedy now, and cling about me,
I take care how I shall be rid of her:
And here’t begins.

_Re-enter_ BIANCA _and Mother_.

BIAN. O sir, you’re welcome home!
MOTH. O, is he come? I'm glad on’t.
LEAN. Is that all?
Why, this is[1050] dreadful now as sudden death
To some rich man, that flatters all his sins
With promise of repentance when he’s old,
And dies in the midway before he comes to’t.—
[_Aside._
Sure you’re not well, Bianca; how dost, prithee?
BIAN. I have been better than I am at this time.
LEAN. Alas, I thought so!
BIAN. Nay, I've been worse too
Than now you see me, sir.
LEAN. I'm glad thou mend’st yet,
I feel my heart mend too: how came it to thee?
Has any thing dislik’d[1051] thee in my absence?
BIAN. No, certain; I have had the best content
That Florence can afford.
LEAN. Thou mak’st the best on’t.—
Speak, mother; what’s the cause? you must needs know.
MOTH. Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;
Unless it be the same gave Lucifer
A tumbling cast,—that’s pride.
BIAN. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind;
I'd have some pleasant lodging i' th' high street, sir;
Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better:
’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman
To stand in a bay-window and see gallants.
LEAN. Now I've another temper, a mere stranger
To that of yours, it seems; I should delight
To see none but yourself.
BIAN. I praise not that;
Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish:
I would not have a husband of that proneness
To kiss me before company for a world;
Beside, ’tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,
Be it the best that ever heart affected;
Nay, were’t yourself, whose love had power, you know,
To bring me from my friends, I'd not stand thus
And gaze upon you always, troth, I could not, sir;
As good be blind and have no use of sight,
As look on one thing still: what’s the eye’s treasure
But change of objects? you are learnèd, sir,
And know I speak not ill: ’tis[1052] full as virtuous
For woman’s eye to look on several men,
As for her heart, sir, to be fix’d on one.
LEAN. Now thou com’st home to me; a kiss for that
word.
BIAN. No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;
’Tis but a toy, we’ll not so much as mind it;
Let’s talk of other business, and forget it.
What news now of the pirates? any stirring?
Prithee, discourse a little.
MOTH. I'm glad he’s here yet,
To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously
If I had told ’em first. [_Aside._
LEAN. Speak, what’s the humour, sweet,
You make your lip so strange? this was not wont.
BIAN. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife,
Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,
And be still billing? ’tis the idlest fondness
That ever was invented, and ’tis pity
It’s grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen;
There’s many a disease kiss’d in a year by’t,
And a French cur[t]sy made to’t: alas, sir!
Think of the world, how we shall live; grow serious;
We have been married a whole fortnight now.
LEAN. How? a whole fortnight! why, is that so long?
BIAN. ’Tis time to leave off dalliance; ’tis a
doctrine
Of your own teaching, if you be remember’d;
And I was bound to obey it.
MOTH. Here’s one fits him;
This was well catch’d, i’faith, son; like a fellow
That rids another country of a plague,
And brings it home with him to his own house.

[_Aside._—_Knocking within._

Who knocks?
LEAN. Who’s there now?—Withdraw you, Bianca;
Thou art a gem no stranger’s eye must see,
Howe’er thou['rt] pleas’d now to look dull on me.—
[_Exit_ BIANCA.

_Enter Messenger._

You’re welcome, sir; to whom your business, pray?
MESS. To one I see not here now.
LEAN. Who should that be, sir?
MESS. A young gentlewoman I was sent to.
LEAN. A young gentlewoman?
MESS. Ay, sir, about sixteen: why look you wildly,
sir?
LEAN. At your strange error; you’ve mistook the house,
sir;
There’s none such here, I assure you.
MESS. I assure you too
The man that sent me cannot be mistook.
LEAN. Why, who is’t sent you, sir?
MESS. The Duke.
LEAN. The Duke?
MESS. Yes; he entreats her company at a banquet
At lady Livia’s house.
LEAN. Troth, shall I tell you, sir,
It is the most erroneous business
That e’er your honest pains was abus’d with;
I pray, forgive me if I smile a little,
I cannot choose, i’faith, sir, at an error
So comical as this,—I mean no harm though:
His grace has been most wondrous ill inform’d;
Pray, so return it, sir. What should her name be?
MESS. That I shall tell you straight too—Bianca
Capello.[1053]
LEAN. How, sir? Bianca? what do you call th' other?
MESS. Capello. Sir, it seems you know no such then?
LEAN. Who should this be? I never heard o' the name.
MESS. Then ’tis a sure mistake.
LEAN. What if you inquir’d
In the next street, sir? I saw gallants there
In the new houses that are built of late;
Ten to one there you find her.
MESS. Nay, no matter;
I will return the mistake, and seek no further.
LEAN. Use your own will and pleasure, sir, you’re
welcome.
[_Exit Messenger._
What shall I think of first?—Come forth, Bianca!

_Re-enter_ BIANCA.

Thou art betray’d, I fear me.
BIAN. Betray’d! how, sir?
LEAN. The Duke knows thee.
BIAN. Knows me! how know you that, sir?
LEAN. Has got thy name.
BIAN. Ay, and my good name too,
That’s worse o' the twain. [_Aside._
LEAN. How comes this work about?
BIAN. How should the Duke know me? can you guess,
mother?
MOTH. Not I, with all my wits; sure we kept house
close.
LEAN. Kept close! not all the locks in Italy
Can keep you women so; you have been gadding,
And ventur’d out at twilight to the court-green yonder,
And met the gallant bowlers coming home;
Without your masks too, both of you, I'll be hang’d
else:
Thou hast been seen, Bianca, by some stranger;
Never excuse it.
BIAN. I'll not seek the way, sir;
Do you think you’ve married me to mew me up,
Not to be seen? what would you make of me?
LEAN. A good wife, nothing else.
BIAN. Why, so are some
That are seen every day, else the devil take ’em.
LEAN. No more, then; I believe all virtuous in thee,
Without an argument; ’twas but thy hard chance
To be seen somewhere, there lies all the mischief:
But I've devis’d a riddance.
MOTH. Now I can tell you, son,
The time and place.
LEAN. When? where?
MOTH. What wits have I!
When you last took your leave, if you remember,
You left us both at window.
LEAN. Right, I know that.
MOTH. And not the third part of an hour after,
The Duke pass’d by, in a great solemnity,
To St. Mark’s temple, and, to my apprehension,
He look’d up twice to the window.
LEAN. O, there quicken’d
The mischief of this hour!
BIAN. If you call’t mischief,
It is a thing I fear I am conceiv’d with. [_Aside._
LEAN. Look’d he up twice, and could you take no
warning?
MOTH. Why, once may do as much harm, son, as a
thousand;
Do not you know one spark has fir’d an house
As well as a whole furnace?
LEAN. My heart flames for’t:
Yet let’s be wise, and keep all smother’d closely;
I have bethought a means: is the door fast?
MOTH. I lock’d it myself after him.
LEAN. You know, mother,
At the end of the dark parlour there’s a place
So artificially contriv’d for a conveyance,
No search could ever find it; when my father
Kept in for manslaughter, it was his sanctuary;
There will I lock my life’s best treasure up,
Bianca.
BIAN. Would you keep me closer yet?
Have you the conscience? you’re best e’en choke me up,
sir:
You make me fearful of your health and wits,
You cleave to such wild courses; what’s the matter?
LEAN. Why, are you so insensible of your danger
To ask that now? the Duke himself has sent for you
To lady Livia’s to a banquet, forsooth.
BIAN. Now I beshrew you heartily, has he so!
And you the man would never yet vouchsafe
To tell me on’t till now? you shew your loyalty
And honesty at once; and so farewell, sir.
LEAN. Bianca, whither now?
BIAN. Why, to the Duke, sir;
You say he sent for me.
LEAN. But thou dost not mean
To go, I hope.
BIAN. No? I shall prove unmannerly,
Rude, and uncivil, mad, and imitate you!—
Come, mother, come, follow his humour no longer;
We shall be all executed for treason shortly.
MOTH. Not I, i’faith; I'll first obey the Duke,
And taste of a good banquet; I'm of thy mind:
I'll step but up and fetch two handkerchiefs
To pocket up some sweetmeats, and o’ertake thee.
[_Exit._
BIAN. Why, here’s an old wench would trot into a bawd
now
For some dry sucket,[1054] or a colt in
march-pane.[1055] [_Aside, and exit._
LEAN. O thou, the ripe time of man’s misery, wedlock,
When all his thoughts, like overladen trees,
Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in
jealousies!
O, that’s a fruit that ripens hastily,
After ’tis knit to marriage! it begins,
As soon as the sun shines upon the bride,
A little to shew colour. Blessèd powers,
Whence comes this alteration? the distractions,
The fears and doubts it brings, are numberless;
And yet the cause I know not. What a peace
Has he that never marries! if he knew
The benefit he enjoy’d, or had the fortune
To come and speak with me, he should know then
Th' infinite wealth he had, and discern rightly
The greatness of his treasure by my loss:
Nay, what a quietness has he ’bove mine
That wears his youth out in a strumpet’s arms,
And never spends more care upon a woman
Than at the time of lust; but walks away;
And if he find her dead at his return,
His pity is soon done,—he breaks a sigh
In many parts, and gives her but a piece on’t:
But all the fears, shames, jealousies, costs and
troubles,
And still renew’d cares of a marriage-bed,
Live in the issue, when the wife is dead.

_Re-enter Messenger._

MESS. A good perfection to your thoughts!
LEAN. The news, sir?
MESS. Though you were pleas’d of late to pin an error
on me,
You must not shift another in your stead too:
The Duke has sent me for you.
LEAN. How! for me, sir?—
I see then ’tis my theft; we’re both betray’d:
Well, I'm not the first has stol’n away a maid;
My countrymen have us’d it. [_Aside._]—I'll along with
you, sir. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_An apartment in_ LIVIA’S _house_:[1056] _a banquet set
out_.

_Enter_ GUARDIANO _and the Ward_.

GUAR. Take you especial note of such a gentlewoman,
She’s here on purpose; I've invited her,
Her father, and her uncle, to this banquet;
Mark her behaviour well, it does concern you;
And what her good parts are, as far as time
And place can modestly require a knowledge of,
Shall be laid open to your understanding.
You know I'm both your guardian and your uncle;
My care of you is double, ward and nephew,
And I'll express it here.
WARD. Faith, I should know her
Now by her mark among a thousand women;
A little pretty deft[1057] and tidy thing, you say?
GUAR. Right.
WARD. With a lusty sprouting sprig in her hair?
GUAR. Thou goest the right way still; take one mark
more,—
Thou shalt ne’er find her hand out of her uncle’s,
Or else his out of hers, if she be near him;
The love of kindred never yet stuck closer
Than theirs to one another; he that weds her,
Marries her uncle’s heart too.
WARD. Say you so, sir?
Then I'll be ask’d i' the church to both of them.
[_Cornets within._
GUAR. Fall back; here comes the Duke.
WARD. He brings a gentlewoman,
I should fall forward rather.

_Enter the Duke leading in_ BIANCA, FABRICIO, HIPPOLITO,
LIVIA, _Mother_, ISABELLA, _Gentlemen_, _and
Attendants_.

DUKE. Come, Bianca,
Of purpose sent into the world to shew
Perfection once in woman; I'll believe
Henceforward they have every one a soul too,
'Gainst all the uncourteous opinions
That man’s uncivil rudeness ever held of ’em:
Glory of Florence, light into mine arms!
BIAN. Yon comes a grudging man will chide you, sir;

_Enter_ LEANTIO.

The storm is now in’s heart, and would get nearer,
And fall here, if it durst; it pours down yonder.
DUKE. If that be he, the weather shall soon clear;
List, and I'll tell thee how. [_Whispers_ BIANCA.
LEAN. A kissing too!
I see ’tis plain lust now, adultery ’bolden’d;
What will it prove anon, when ’tis stuff’d full
Of wine and sweetmeats,[1058] being so impudent fasting?
[_Aside._
DUKE. We’ve heard of your good parts, sir, which we
honour
With our embrace and love.—Is not the captainship
Of Rouans'[1059] citadel, since the late deceas’d,
Suppli[ed] by any yet?
GENTLEMAN. By none, my lord.
DUKE. Take it, the place is yours then; and as
faithfulness
And desert grows, our favour shall grow with’t:
[LEANTIO _kneels_.
Rise now, the captain of our fort at Rouans.
LEAN. [_rising_] The service of whole life give your
grace thanks!
DUKE. Come, sit, Bianca.
[_Duke_, BIANCA, _&c. seat themselves_.
LEAN. This is some good yet,
And more than e’er I look’d for; a fine bit
To stay a cuckold’s stomach: all preferment
That springs from sin and lust it shoots up quickly,
As gardeners' crops do in the rotten’st grounds;
So is all means rais’d from base prostitution
Even like a salad growing upon a dunghill.
I'm like a thing that never was yet heard of,
Half merry and half mad; much like a fellow
That eats his meat with a good appetite,
And wears a plague-sore that would fright a country;
Or rather, like the barren,[1060] harden’d ass,
That feeds on thistles till he bleeds again;
And such is the condition of my misery. [_Aside._
LIV. Is that your son, widow?
MOTH. Yes; did your ladyship
Never know that till now?
LIV. No, trust me, did I,—
Nor ever truly felt the power of love
And pity to a man, till now I knew him.
I have enough to buy me my desires,
And yet to spare, that’s one good comfort. [_Aside._]—
Hark you,
Pray, let me speak with you, sir, before you go.
LEAN. With me, lady? you shall, I'm at your service.—
What will she say now, trow?[1061] more goodness yet?
[_Aside._
WARD. I see her now, I'm sure; the ape’s so little,
I shall scarce feel her; I have seen almost
As tall as she sold in the fair for tenpence:
See how she simpers it, as if marmalade
Would not melt in her mouth! she might have the
kindness, i’faith,
To send me a gilded bull from her own trencher,
A ram, a goat, or somewhat to be nibbling:
These women, when they come to sweet things once,
They forget all their friends, they grow so greedy,
Nay, oftentimes their husbands.
DUKE. Here’s a health now, gallants,
To the best beauty at this day in Florence.
BIAN. Whoe’er she be, she shall not go unpledg’d, sir.
DUKE. Nay, you’re excus’d for this.
BIAN. Who, I, my lord?
DUKE. Yes, by the law of Bacchus; plead your benefit,
You are not bound to pledge your own health, lady.
BIAN. That’s a good way, my lord, to keep me dry.
DUKE. Nay, then, I'll not offend Venus so much,
Let Bacchus seek his ’mends in another court;
Here’s to thyself, Bianca. [_Duke and others drink._
BIAN. Nothing comes
More welcome to that name than your grace.
LEAN. So, so;
Here stands the poor thief now that stole the treasure,
And he’s not thought on. Ours is near kin now
To a twin misery born into the world;
First the hard-conscienc’d worldling, he hoards wealth
up,
Then comes the next, and he feasts all upon’t;
One’s damn’d for getting, th' other for spending on’t.
O equal justice, thou hast met my sin
With a full weight! I'm rightly now opprest,
All her friends' heavy hearts lie in my breast.
[_Aside._
DUKE. Methinks there is no spirit ’mongst us,
gallants,
But what divinely sparkles from the eyes
Of bright Bianca; we sat all in darkness
But for that splendour. Who was’t told us lately
Of a match-making right, a marriage-tender?
GUAR. ’Twas I, my lord.
DUKE. ’Twas you indeed. Where is she?
GUAR. This is the gentlewoman.
FAB. My lord, my daughter.
DUKE. Why, here’s some stirring yet.
FAB. She’s a dear child to me.
DUKE. That must needs be, you say she is your
daughter.
FAB. Nay, my good lord, dear to my purse, I mean,
Beside my person, I ne’er reckon’d that.
Sh’as the full qualities of a gentlewoman;
I've brought her up to music, dancing, what not,
That may commend her sex, and stir her husband.
DUKE. And which is he now?
GUAR. This young heir, my lord.
DUKE. What is he brought up to?
HIP. To cat and trap.[1062] [_Aside._
GUAR. My lord, he’s a great ward, wealthy, but simple;
His parts consist in acres.
DUKE. O, wise-acres.
GUAR. You’ve spoke him in a word, sir.
BIAN. ’Las, poor gentlewoman!
She’s ill-bestead, unless sh’as dealt the wiselier,
And laid in more provision for her youth;
Fools will not keep in summer.
LEAN. No, nor such wives
From whores in winter. [_Aside._
DUKE. Yea, the voice too, sir?
FAB. Ay, and a sweet breast[1063] too, my lord, I
hope,
Or I have cast away my money wisely;
She took her pricksong[1064] earlier, my lord,
Than any of her kindred ever did;
A rare child, though I say’t: but I'd not have
The baggage hear so much, ’twould make her swell
straight,
And maids of all things must not be puff’d up.
DUKE. Let’s turn us to a better banquet, then;
For music bids the soul of[1065] man to a feast,
And that’s indeed a noble entertainment,
Worthy Bianca’s self: you shall perceive, beauty,
Our Florentine damsels are not brought up idly.
BIAN. They’re wiser of themselves it seems, my lord,
And can take gifts when goodness offers ’em.
LEAN. True, and damnation has taught you that wisdom;
[_Music._

You can take gifts too. O, that music mocks me!

[_Aside._
LIV. I am as dumb to any language now
But love’s, as one that never learn’d to speak.
I am not yet so old but he may think of me;
My own fault, I've been idle a long time;
But I'll begin the week, and paint to-morrow,
So follow my true labour day by day;
I never thriv’d so well as when I us’d it. [_Aside._
ISA. [_sings_]
_What harder chance can fall to woman,
Who was born to cleave to some man,
Than to bestow her time, youth, beauty,
Life’s observance, honour, duty,
On a thing for no use good
But to make physic work, or blood
Force fresh in an old lady’s cheek?
She that would be
Mother of fools, let her compound with me._
WARD. Here’s a tune indeed! pish,
I had rather hear one ballad sung i' the nose now
Of the lamentable drowning of fat sheep and oxen,
Than all these simpering tunes play’d upon cat’s-guts,
And sung by little kitlings. [_Aside._
FAB. How like you her breast now, my lord?
BIAN. Her breast?
He talks as if his daughter had given suck
Before she were married, as her betters have;
The next he praises sure will be her nipples.
[_Aside._[1066]
DUKE. Methinks now such a voice to such a husband
Is like a jewel of unvalu’d[1067] worth
Hung at a fool’s ear. [_Aside to_ BIANCA.
FAB. May it please your grace
To give her leave to shew another quality?
DUKE. Marry, as many good ones as you will, sir;
The more the better welcome.
LEAN. But the less
The better practis’d: that soul’s black indeed
That cannot commend virtue; but who keeps it?
Th' extortioner will say to a sick beggar,
Heaven comfort thee! though he give none himself;
This good is common. [_Aside._
FAB. Will it please you now, sir,
To entreat your Ward to take her by the hand,
And lead her in a dance before the Duke?
GUAR. That will I, sir; ’tis needful.—Hark you,
nephew.
[_Whispers Ward._
FAB. Nay, you shall see, young heir, what you’ve for
your money,
Without fraud or imposture.
WARD. Dance with her?
Not I, sweet guardianer, do not urge my heart to’t,
’Tis clean against my blood; dance with a stranger?
Let who s' will do’t, I'll not begin first with her.
HIP. No, fear’t not, fool; sh’as took a better order.
[_Aside._
GUAR. Why, who shall take her then?
WARD. Some other gentleman:
Look, there’s her uncle, a fine-timber’d reveller,
Perhaps he knows the manner of her dancing too;
I'll have him do’t before me—I've sworn, guardianer—
Then may I learn the better.
GUAR. Thou’lt be an ass still!
WARD. Ay, all that, uncle, shall not fool me out:
Pish, I stick closer to myself than so.
GUAR. I must entreat you, sir, to take your niece
And dance with her; my Ward’s a little wilful,
He’d have you shew him the way.
HIP. Me, sir? he shall
Command it at all hours; pray, tell him so.
GUAR. I thank you for him; he has not wit himself,
sir.
HIP. Come, my life’s peace.—I've a strange office on’t
here:
’Tis some man’s luck to keep the joys he likes
Conceal’d for his own bosom, but my fortune
To set ’em out now for another’s liking;
Like the mad misery of necessitous man,
That parts from his good horse with many praises,
And goes on foot himself: need must be obey’d
In every action; it mars man and maid. [_Aside._

[_Music._ HIPPOLITO _and_ ISABELLA _dance,
making obeisance to the Duke, and to each
other, both before and after the dance_.

DUKE. Signor Fabricio, you’re a happy father;
Your cares and pains are fortunate you see,
Your cost bears noble fruits.—Hippolito, thanks.
FAB. Here’s some amends for all my charges yet;
She wins both prick and praise[1068] where’er she comes.
DUKE. How lik’st, Bianca?
BIAN. All things well, my lord,
But this poor gentlewoman’s fortune, that’s the worst.
DUKE. There is no doubt, Bianca, she’ll find leisure
To make that good enough; he’s rich and simple.
BIAN. She has the better hope o' th' upper hand,
indeed,
Which women strive for most.
GUAR. Do’t when I bid you, sir.
WARD. I'll venture but a hornpipe with her,
guardianer,
Or some such married man’s dance.
GUAR. Well, venture something, sir.
WARD. I have rhyme for what I do.
GUAR. But little reason, I think.
WARD. Plain men dance the measures,[1069] the
sinquapace,[1070] the gay;
Cuckolds dance the hornpipe, and farmers dance the
hay;[1071]
Your soldiers dance the round,[1072] and maidens that
grow big;
You[r] drunkards, the canaries;[1073] you[r] whore and
bawd, the jig.
Here’s your eight kind of dancers; he that finds
The ninth let him pay the minstrels.
DUKE. O, here he appears once in his own person;
I thought he would have married her by attorney,
And lain with her so too.
BIAN. Nay, my kind lord,
There’s very seldom any found so foolish
To give away his part there.
LEAN. Bitter scoff!
Yet I must do’t: with what a cruel pride
The glory of her sin strikes by my afflictions!
[_Aside._
[_The Ward and_ ISABELLA _dance_; _he
ridiculously imitating_ HIPPOLITO.
DUKE. This thing will make shift, sirs, to make a
husband,
For aught I see in him.—How think’st, Bianca?
BIAN. Faith, an ill-favour’d shift, my lord, methinks;
If he would take some voyage when he’s married,
Dangerous, or long enough, and scarce be seen
Once in nine year together, a wife then
Might make indifferent shift to be content with him.
DUKE. A kiss [_kisses her_]; that wit deserves to be
made much on.—
Come, our caroch!
GUAR. Stands ready for your grace.
DUKE. My thanks to all your loves.—Come, fair Bianca,
We have took special care of you, and provided
Your lodging near us now.
BIAN. Your love is great, my lord.
DUKE. Once more, our thanks to all.
OMNES. All blest honours guard you!

[_Cornets flourishing, exeunt all but_ LEANTIO
_and_ LIVIA.
LEAN. O hast thou left me then, Bianca, utterly?
Bianca, now I miss thee! O, return,
And save the faith of woman! I ne’er felt
The loss of thee till now; ’tis an affliction
Of greater weight than youth was made to bear;
As if a punishment of after-life
Were faln upon man here, so new it is
To flesh and blood, so strange, so insupportable;
A torment even mistook, as if a body
Whose death were drowning, must needs therefore suffer
it
In scalding oil. [_Aside._
LIV. Sweet sir——
LEAN. As long as mine eye saw thee,
I half enjoy’d thee. [_Aside._
LIV. Sir——
LEAN. Canst thou forget
The dear pains my love took? how it has watch’d
Whole nights together, in all weathers, for thee,
Yet stood in heart more merry than the tempest
That sung about mine ears,—like dangerous flatterers,
That can set all their mischief to sweet tunes,—
And then receiv’d thee, from thy father’s window,
Into these arms at midnight; when we embrac’d
As if we had been statues only made for’t,
To shew art’s life, so silent were our comforts,
And kiss’d as if our lips had grown together?
[_Aside._
LIV. This makes me madder to enjoy him now.
[_Aside._
LEAN. Canst thou forget all this, and better joys
That we met after this, which then new kisses
Took pride to praise? [_Aside._
LIV. I shall grow madder yet. [_Aside._]—Sir—
LEAN. This cannot be but of some close bawd’s
working.— [_Aside._
Cry mercy, lady! what would you say to me?
My sorrow makes me so unmannerly,
So comfort bless me, I had quite forgot you.
LIV. Nothing, but even, in pity to that passion,[1074]
Would give your grief good counsel.
LEAN. Marry, and welcome, lady;
It never could come better.
LIV. Then first, sir,
To make away all your good thoughts at once of her,
Know most assuredly she is a strumpet.
LEAN. Ha! _most assuredly?_ speak not a thing
So vild[1075] so certainly, leave it more doubtful.
LIV. Then I must leave all truth, and spare my
knowledge
A sin which I too lately found and wept for.
LEAN. Found you it?
LIV. Ay, with wet eyes.
LEAN. O perjurious friendship!
LIV. You miss’d your fortunes when you met with her,
sir.
Young gentlemen that only love for beauty,
They love not wisely; such a marriage rather
Proves the destruction of affection;
It brings on want, and want’s the key of whoredom.
I think y’had small means with her?
LEAN. O, not any, lady.
LIV. Alas, poor gentleman! what meant’st thou, sir,
Quite to undo thyself with thine own kind heart?
Thou art too good and pitiful to woman:
Marry, sir, thank thy stars for this blest fortune,
That rids the summer of thy youth so well
From many beggars, that had lain a-sunning
In thy beams only else, till thou hadst wasted
The whole days of thy life in heat and labour.
What would you say now to a creature found
As pitiful to you, and, as it were,
Even sent on purpose from the whole sex general,
To requite all that kindness you have shewn to’t?
LEAN. What’s that, madam?
LIV. Nay, a gentlewoman, and one able
To reward good things, ay, and bears a conscience to’t:
Couldst thou love such a one, that, blow all fortunes,
Would never see thee want?
Nay, more, maintain thee to thine enemy’s envy,
And shalt not spend a care for’t, stir a thought,
Nor break a sleep? unless love’s music wak’d thee,
No storm of fortune should: look upon me,
And know that woman.
LEAN. O my life’s wealth, Bianca!
LIV. Still with her name? will nothing wear it out?
[_Aside._

That deep sigh went but for a strumpet, sir.
LEAN. It can go for no other that loves me.
LIV. He’s vex’d in mind: I came too soon to him;
Where’s my discretion now, my skill, my judgment?
I'm cunning in all arts but my own love.
’Tis as unseasonable to tempt him now
So soon, as [for] a widow to be courted
Following her husband’s corse, or to make bargain
By the grave-side, and take a young man there:
Her strange departure stands like a hearse[1076] yet
Before his eyes, which time will take down shortly.
[_Aside, and exit._
LEAN. Is she my wife till death, yet no more mine?
That’s a hard measure: then what’s marriage good for?
Methinks, by right I should not now be living,
And then ’twere all well. What a happiness
Had I been made of, had I never seen her!
For nothing makes man’s loss grievous to him
But knowledge of the worth of what he loses;
For what he never had, he never misses.
She’s gone for ever, utterly; there is
As much redemption of a soul from hell,
As a fair woman’s body from his palace.
Why should my love last longer than her truth?
What is there good in woman to be lov’d,
When only that which makes her so has left her?
I cannot love her now, but I must like
Her sin and my own shame too, and be guilty
Of law’s breach with her, and mine own abusing;
All which were monstrous: then my safest course,
For health of mind and body, is to turn
My heart and hate her, most extremely hate her;
I have no other way: those virtuous powers,
Which were chaste witnesses of both our troths,
Can witness she breaks first. And I'm rewarded
With captainship o' the fort; a place of credit,
I must confess, but poor; my factorship
Shall not exchange means with’t: he that died last in’t,
He was no drunkard, yet he died a beggar
For all his thrift: besides, the place not fits me;
It suits my resolution, not my breeding.

_Re-enter_ LIVIA.

LIV. I've tried all ways I can, and have not power
To keep from sight of him. [_Aside._]—How are you now,
sir?
LEAN. I feel a better ease, madam.
LIV. Thanks to blessedness!
You will do well, I warrant you, fear’t not, sir,
Join but your own good will to’t: he’s not wise
That loves his pain or sickness, or grows fond
Of a disease whose property is to vex him,
And spitefully drink his blood up: out upon’t, sir!
Youth knows no greater loss. I pray, let’s walk, sir;
You never saw the beauty of my house yet,
Nor how abundantly fortune has blest me
In worldly treasure; trust me, I've enough, sir,
To make my friend a rich man in my life,
A great man at my death; yourself will say so.
If you want any thing, and spare to speak,
Troth, I'll condemn you for a wilful man, sir.
LEAN. Why, sure,
This can be but the flattery of some dream.
LIV. Now, by this kiss, my love, my soul, and riches,
’Tis all true substance! [_Kisses him._
Come, you shall see my wealth; take what you list;
The gallanter you go, the more you please me:
I will allow you too your page and footman,
Your race-horses, or any various pleasure
Exercis’d youth delights in; but to me
Only, sir, wear your heart of constant stuff;
Do but you love enough, I'll give enough.
LEAN. Troth, then, I'll love enough, and take enough.
LIV. Then we are both pleas’d enough. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A room in_ FABRICIO’S _house_.

_Enter on one side_ GUARDIANO _and_ ISABELLA, _on the
other the Ward and_ SORDIDO.

GUAR. Now, nephew, here’s the gentlewoman again.
WARD. Mass, here she’s come again! mark her now,
Sordido.
GUAR. This is the maid my love and care have[1077]
chose
Out for your wife, and so I tender her to you;
Yourself has been eye-witness of some qualities
That speak a courtly breeding, and are costly:
I bring you both to talk together now;
’Tis time you grew familiar in your tongues,
To-morrow you join hands, and one ring ties you,
And one bed holds you; if you like the choice,
Her father and her friends are i' the next room,
And stay to see the contract ere they part:
Therefore, despatch, good Ward, be sweet and short;
Like her, or like her not, there’s but two ways,
And one your body, th' other your purse pays.
WARD. I warrant you, guardianer, I'll not stand all
day thrumming,
But quickly shoot my bolt at your next coming.
GUAR. Well said: good fortune to your birding then!
[_Exit._
WARD. I never miss’d mark yet.
SOR. Troth, I think, master, if the truth were known,
You never shot at any but the kitchen-wench,
And that was a she-woodcock,[1078], a mere
innocent,[1079]
That was oft lost and cried[1080] at eight-and-twenty.
WARD. No more of that meat, Sordido, here’s eggs o'
the spit now;
We must turn gingerly: draw out the catalogue
Of all the faults of women.
SOR. How? all the faults? have you so little reason to
think so much paper will lie in my breeches? why, ten
carts will not carry it, if you set down but the bawds.
All the faults? pray, let’s be content with a few of
’em; and if they were less, you would find ’em enough, I
warrant you: look you, sir.
ISA. But that I have th' advantage of the fool,
As much as woman’s heart can wish and joy at,
What an infernal torment ’twere to be
Thus bought and sold, and turn’d and pry’d into,
When, alas,
The worst bit’s too good for him! and the comfort is,
Has but a cater’s[1081] place on’t, and provides
All for another’s table: yet how curious
The ass is! like some nice professor on’t,
That buys up all the daintiest food i' the markets,
And seldom licks his lips after a taste on’t.
[_Aside._
SOR. Now to her, now you’ve scann’d all her parts
over.
WARD. But at [which] end shall I begin now, Sordido?
SOR. O, ever at a woman’s lip, while you live, sir: do
you ask that question?
WARD. Methinks, Sordido, sh’as but a crabbed face to
begin with.
SOR. A crabbed face? that will save money.
WARD. How? save money, Sordido?
SOR. Ay, sir; for, having a crabbed face of her own,
she’ll eat the less verjuice with her mutton; 'twill
save verjuice at year’s end, sir.
WARD. Nay, and[1082] your jests begin to be saucy once,
I'll make you eat your meat without mustard.
SOR. And that in some kind is a punishment.
WARD. Gentlewoman, they say ’tis your pleasure to be my
wife, and you shall know shortly whether it be mine or
no to be your husband; and thereupon thus I first enter
upon you. [_Kisses her._]—O most delicious scent!
methinks it tasted as if a man had stept into a
comfit-maker’s shop to let a cart go by, all the while I
kissed her.—It is reported, gentlewoman, you’ll run mad
for me, if you have me not.
ISA. I should be in great danger of my wits, sir,
For being so forward.—Should this ass kick backward now!
[_Aside._
WARD. Alas, poor soul! and is that hair your own?
ISA. Mine own? yes, sure, sir; I owe nothing for’t.
WARD. ’Tis a good hearing; I shall have the less to pay
when I have married you.—Look, do[1083] her eyes stand
well?
SOR. They cannot stand better than in her head, I think;
where would you have them? and for her nose, ’tis of a
very good last.
WARD. I have known as good as that has not lasted a year
though.
SOR. That’s in the using of a thing; will not any strong
bridge fall down in time, if we do nothing but beat at
the bottom? a nose of buff would not last always, sir,
especially if it came into the camp once.
WARD. But, Sordido, how shall we do to make her laugh,
that I may see what teeth she has? for I'll not bate her
a tooth, nor take a black one into the bargain.
SOR. Why, do but you fall in talk with her, you cannot
choose but, one time or other, make her laugh, sir.
WARD. It shall go hard but I will.—Pray, what qualities
have you beside singing and dancing? can you play at
shittlecock, forsooth?
ISA. Ay, and at stool-ball[1084] too, sir; I've great
luck at it.
WARD. Why, can you catch a ball well?
ISA. I have catch’d two in my lap at one game.
WARD. What! have you, woman? I must have you learn
To play at trap too, then you’re full and whole.
ISA. Any thing that you please to bring me up to,
I shall take pains to practise.
WARD. ’Twill not do, Sordido;
We shall ne’er get her mouth open’d wide enough.
SOR. No, sir? that’s strange: then here’s a trick for
your learning.
[SORDIDO _yawns_, ISABELLA _yawns also, but covers
her mouth with a handkerchief_.
Look now, look now! quick, quick there!
WARD. Pox of that scurvy mannerly trick with
handkerchief!
It hinder’d me a little, but I'm satisfied:
When a fair woman gapes, and stops her mouth so,
It shews like a cloth-stopple in a cream-pot:
I have fair hope of her teeth now, Sordido.
SOR. Why, then, you’ve all well, sir; for aught I see,
She’s right and straight enough now as she stands;
They’ll commonly lie crooked, that’s no matter;
Wise gamesters
Never find fault with that, let ’em lie still so.
WARD. I'd fain mark how she goes, and then I have all;
for of all creatures I cannot abide a splay-footed
woman; she’s an unlucky thing to meet in a morning; her
heels keep together so, as if she were beginning an
Irish dance still, and [t]he wriggling of her bum
playing the tune to’t: but I have bethought a cleanly
shift to find it; dab down as you see me, and peep of
one side when her back’s toward you—I'll shew you the
way.
SOR. And you shall find me apt enough to peeping;
I have been one of them has seen mad sights
Under your scaffolds.
WARD. Will’t please you walk, forsooth,
A turn or two by yourself? you’re so pleasing to me,
I take delight to view you on both sides.
ISA. I shall be glad to fetch a walk to your love,
sir;
'Twill get affection a good stomach, sir,—
Which I had need have to fall to such coarse victuals.
[_Aside._
[ISABELLA _walks while the Ward and_ SORDIDO
_stoop down to look at her_.
WARD. Now go thy ways for a clean-treading wench,
As ever man in modesty peep’d under!
SOR. I see the sweetest sight to please my master!
Never went Frenchman righter upon ropes,
Than she on Florentine rushes.[1085]
WARD. ’Tis enough, forsooth.
ISA. And how do you like me now, sir?
WARD. Faith, so well,
I never mean to part with thee, sweetheart,
Under some sixteen children, and all boys.
ISA. You’ll be at simple pains, if you prove kind,
And breed ’em all in your teeth.[1086]
WARD. Nay, by my faith,
What serves your belly for? ’twould make my cheeks
Look like blown bagpipes.

_Re-enter_ GUARDIANO.

GUAR. How now, ward and nephew,
Gentlewoman and niece! speak, is it so or not?
WARD. ’Tis so; we’re both agreed, sir.
GUAR. In to your kindred then;
There’s friends, and wine, and music wait[1087] to
welcome you.
WARD. Then I'll be drunk for joy.
SOR. And I for company;
I cannot break my nose in a better action. [_Exeunt._