Chapter LXX: Act I: Scene I.2459

_Enter at one door_ BERALDO, CAROLO, FONTINELL, _and_ ASTOLFO, _with_ Serving-men, _or_ Pages, _attending on them; at another door enter_ LODOVICO, _meeting them_.

_Lod._ Good day, gallants.

_All._ Good morrow, sweet Lodovico.

_Lod._ How dost thou, Carolo?

_Car._ Faith, as the physicians do in a plague, see the world sick,
and am well myself. 5

_Fon._ Here ’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.

_Lod._ Oh, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle,[2460] Ganymede;
which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns as they are going
a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring yet? 10

_Ast._ Yes, he will not be horst this hour, sure.

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

_Car._ Oh, we shall ride switch and spur; would we were there once. 15

_Enter_ BRYAN, _the_ Footman.

_Lod._ How now, is thy lord ready?

_Bry._ No, so crees sa’[2461] me; my lady will have some little ting
in her pelly first.

_Car._ Oh, then they ’ll to breakfast.

_Lod._ Footman, does my lord ride i ’th’ coach with my lady, or on
horseback? 21

_Bry._ No, foot, la; my lady will have me lord sheet wid her, my lord
will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side. _Exit._

_Lod._ My lady sheet in de toder side! Did (25) you ever hear a
rascal talk so like a pagan? Is ’t not strange that a fellow of his
star, should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from[2462] a
Christian?

_Enter_ ANTONIO GEORGIO, _a poor scholar_ [_with a book_].

_Ast._ An Irishman in Italy! that so strange! Why, the nation have
running heads. 31
_Exchange walk._[2463]

_Lod._ Nay, Carolo, this is more strange, I ha’ been in France, there
’s few of them. Marry, England they count a warm chimney corner, and
there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but
sir, in England I (36) have noted one thing.

_All._ What ’s that, what ’s that of England?

_Lod._ Marry this, sir,—What ’s he yonder? 39

_Ber._ A poor fellow would speak with my lord.

_Lod._ In England, sir,—troth, I ever laugh when I think on ’t: to
see a whole nation should be markt i’th’ forehead, as a man may say,
with one iron: why, sir, there all costermongers are Irishmen. 45

_Car._ Oh, that ’s to show their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who
was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother.

_All._ Good, good! ha, ha!

_Lod._ Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers (50) likewise be
Irishmen? Answer that now; come, your wit.

_Car._ Faith, that ’s soon answered; for St. Patrick, you know, keeps
purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing,
(55) if they cannot sweep the chimneys.

_All._ Good again.

_Lod._ Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow, especially
those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others, and the knaves are
(60) very faithful where they love. By my faith, very proper men,
many of them, and as active as the clouds,—whirr, hah!

_All._ Are they so?

_Lod._ And stout! exceeding stout; why, I (65) warrant, this precious
wild villain, if he were put to ’t, would fight more desperately than
sixteen Dunkirks.[2464]

_Ast._ The women, they say, are very fair.

_Lod._ No, no, our country _bona-robas_,[2465] (70) oh! are the
sugarest, delicious rogues!

_Ast._ Oh, look, he has a feeling of them!

_Lod._ Not I, I protest. There’s a saying when they commend nations.
It goes, the Irishman for his hand, the Welshmen for a leg, (75) the
Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for a beard.

_Fon._ I’ faith, they may make swabbers[2466] of them.

_Lod._ The Spaniard,—let me see,—for a little foot, I take it; the
Frenchman,—what (81) a pox hath he? And so of the rest. Are they at
breakfast yet? Come walk.

_Ast._ This Lodovico is a notable tongued fellow.

_Fon._ Discourses well. 85

_Ber._ And a very honest gentleman.

_Ast._ Oh! he ’s well valued by my lord.

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT, _with a petition_.

_Fon._ How now, how now, what’s she?

_Ber._ Let’s make towards her.

_Bell._ Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come (90) forth?

_Ast._ Would you speak with my lord?

_Lod._ How now, what ’s this, a nurse’s bill? Hath any here got thee
with child and now will not keep it? 95

_Bell._ No, sir, my business is unto my lord.

_Lod._ He ’s about his own wife’s now, he ’ll hardly dispatch two
causes in a morning.

_Ast._ No matter what he says, fair lady; he ’s a knight, there’s no
hold to be taken at his words. 101

_Fon._ My lord will pass this way presently.

_Ber._ A pretty, plump rogue.

_Ast._ A good lusty, bouncing baggage.

_Ber._ Do you know her? 105

_Lod._ A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my table-book once.
I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common
than tobacco; this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore. 110

_All._ Is this she?

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

_Ast._ She has been a goodly creature. 116

_Lod._ She has been! that ’s the epitaph of all whores. I ’m well
acquainted with the poor gentleman her husband. Lord! what fortunes
that man has overreached! She knows not (120) me, yet I have been in
her company; I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath,
like the moon, suff’red strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women
are like medlars,—no sooner ripe but rotten: 125
A woman last was made, but is spent first,
Yet man is oft proved in performance worst.

_All._ My lord is come.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO, INFELICE, _and two_ Waiting women.

_Hip._ We ha’ wasted half this morning. Morrow, Lodovico. 130

_Lod._ Morrow, madam.

_Hip._ Let ’s away to horse.

_All._ Ay, ay, to horse, to horse.

_Bell._ I do beseech your lordship, let your eye read o’er this
wretched paper. 135

_Hip._ I ’m in haste; pray thee, good woman, take some apter time.

_Inf._ Good woman, do.

_Bell._ Oh, ’las! it does concern a poor man’s life. 140

_Hip._ Life!—Sweetheart, seat yourself, I ’ll but read this and come.

_Lod._ What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? If they be
not yellow,[2467] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench
to your husband. 146

_Inf._ Oh sir, that cannot make me jealous.

_Exeunt_ [_all except_ HIPPOLITO, BELLAFRONT, _and_ ANTONIO].

_Hip._ Your business, sir? To me?

_Ant._ Yes, my good lord. 149

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

_Bell._ That most unfortunate woman.

_Hip._ I’m sorry these storms are fallen on him; I love Matheo,
And any good shall do him; he and I
Have seal’d two bonds of friendship, which are strong
In me, however fortune does him wrong. 155
He speaks here he’s condemned. Is ’t so?

_Bell._ Too true.

_Hip._ What was he whom he killed? Oh, his name’s here;
Old Giacomo, son to the Florentine;
Giacomo, a dog, that, to meet profit, 160
Would to the very eyelids wade in blood
Of his own children. Tell Matheo,
The duke, my father, hardly shall deny
His signed pardon. ’T was fair fight, yes,
If rumour’s tongue go true; so writes he here.— 165
To-morrow morning I return from court,
Pray be you here then.—I’ll have done, sir, straight:—
[_To_ ANTONIO.]
But in troth say, are you Matheo’s wife?
You have forgot me.

_Bell._ No, my lord.

_Hip._ Your turner,
That made you smooth to run an even bias, 170
You know I lov’d you when your very soul
Was full of discord: art not a good wench still?

_Bell._ Umph, when I had lost my way to Heaven, you show’d it:
I was new born that day.

_Re-enter_ LODOVICO.

_Lod._ ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if (175) you have not left
your wench yet? When you get in once, you never have done. Come,
come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing; come.

_Hip._ Ride softly on before, I’ll o’ertake you. 181

_Lod._ Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before, without ye.

_Hip._ Prithee, good Lodovico.

_Lod._ My lord, pray hasten. 185

_Hip._ I come. [_Exit_ LODOVICO.]
To-morrow let me see you, fare you well;
Commend me to Matheo. Pray one word more:
Does not your father live about the court?

_Bell._ I think he does, but such rude spots of shame 190
Stick on my cheek, that he scarce knows my name.

_Hip._ Orlando Friscobaldo, is’t not?

_Bell._ Yes, my lord.

_Hip._ What does he for you?

_Bell._ All he should: when children
From duty start, parents from love may swerve.
He nothing does; for nothing I deserve. 196

_Hip._ Shall I join him unto you, and restore you to wonted grace?

_Bell._ It is impossible. [_Exit_ BELLAFRONT.]

_Hip._ It shall be put to trial: fare you well.
The face I would not look on! Sure then ’t was rare, 201
When, in despite of grief, ’t is still thus fair.
Now, sir, your business with me.

_Ant._ I am bold
T’ express my love and duty to your lordship
In these few leaves.

_Hip._ A book!

_Ant._ Yes, my good lord. 205

_Hip._ Are you a scholar?

_Ant._ Yes, my lord, a poor one.

_Hip._ Sir, you honour me.
Kings may be scholars’ patrons, but, faith, tell me,
To how many hands besides hath this bird flown.
How many partners share with me?

_Ant._ Not one, 210
In troth, not one: your name I held more dear.
I’m not, my lord, of that low character.

_Hip._ Your name I pray?

_Ant._ Antonio Georgio.

_Hip._ Of Milan?

_Ant._ Yes, my lord.

_Hip._ I’ll borrow leave
To read you o’er, and then we’ll talk: till then
Drink up this gold; good wits should love good wine; 216
This of your loves, the earnest that of mine.— [_Gives money._]
_Re-enter_ BRYAN.
How now, sir, where’s your lady? Not gone yet?

_Bry._ I fart di lady is run away from dee, a mighty deal of ground;
she sent me back (220) for dine own sweet face. I pray dee come, my
lord, away, wu’t tow go now?

_Hip._ Is the coach gone? Saddle my horse, the sorrel. 224

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

_Hip._ Well, sir.—I pray let ’s see you, master scholar. 234

_Bry._ Come, I pray dee, wu’t come, sweet face? Go. _Exeunt._

SCENE II.[2468]

_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, ASTOLFO, _and_ BERALDO.

_Lod._ Godso, gentlemen, what do we forget?

_All._ What?

_Lod._ Are not we all enjoined as this day,— Thursday is’t not? Ay,
as that day to be at the linen-draper’s house at dinner? 5

_Car._ Signor Candido, the patient man.

_Ast._ Afore Jove, true, upon this day he’s married.

_Ber._ I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares
venture again to (10) come about the eaves amongst bees.

_Lod._ Oh ’t is rare sucking a sweet honey comb! Pray Heaven his
old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for
her dance! The poor fiddlers’ instruments would crack for (15) it;
she’d tickle them. At any hand let’s try what mettle is in his new
bride; if there be none, we’ll put in some. Troth, it’s a very noble
citizen, I pity he should marry again; I’ll walk along, for it is a
good old fellow. 20

_Car._ I warrant the wives of Milan would give any fellow twenty
thousand ducats, that could but have the face to beg of the duke,
that all the citizens in Milan might be bound to the peace of
patience, as the linen-draper is. 25

_Lod._ Oh, fie upon’t! ’t would undo all us that are courtiers; we
should have no whoo with the wenches then.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

_All._ My lord’s come.

_Hip._ How now, what news? 30

_All._ None.

_Lod._ Your lady is with the duke, her father.

_Hip._ And we’ll to them both presently—
_Enter_ ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO.
Who’s that!

_All._ Signor Friscobaldo. 35

_Hip._ Friscobaldo, oh! pray call him, and leave me; we two have
business.

_Car._ Ho Signor! Signor Friscobaldo! The Lord Hippolito.
_Exeunt_ [_all but_ HIPPOLITO _and_ FRISCOBALDO].

_Orl._ My noble lord: my Lord Hippolito! (40) the duke’s son! his
brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your honour’d lordship!
Does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as Signor Orlando
Friscobaldo! old mad Orlando!

_Hip._ Oh, sir, our friends! they ought to be (45) unto us as our
jewels, as dearly valued, being locked up, and unseen, as when we
wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of
your blood; for all Time’s sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando
still. 50

_Orl._ Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down, and stript
bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? Though my head be like
a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green? 55

_Hip._ Scarce can I read the stories on your brow,
Which age hath writ there; you look youthful still.

_Orl._ I eat snakes,[2469] my lord, I eat snakes. My heart shall
never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry “Hem,” with a clear
voice. 60

_Hip._ You are the happier man, sir.

_Orl._ Happy man? I’ll give you, my lord, the true picture of a
happy man. I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an
excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in (65) the right
colours, I ll bestow it on your lordship.

_Hip._ I stay for it.

_Orl._ He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore,
He that at noon-day walks by a prison door, 70
He that i’ th’ sun is neither beam nor mote,
He that’s not mad after a petticoat,
He for whom poor men’s curses dig no grave,
He that is neither lord’s nor lawyer’s slave,
He that makes this his sea, and that his shore, 75
He that in ’s coffin is richer than before,
He that counts youth his sword, and age his staff,
He whose right hand carves his own epitaph,
He that upon his deathbed is a swan,
And dead, no crow—he is a happy man. 80

_Hip._ It ’s very well; I thank you for this picture.

_Orl._ After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face
drawn: for I am not covetous, am not in debt, sit neither at the
duke’s (85) side, nor lie at his feet. Wenching and I have done; no
man I wrong, no man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk,
because I know yonder’s my home; I would not die like a rich man, to
carry nothing away save a (90) winding sheet; but like a good man, to
leave Orlando behind me. I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now
books in my age. I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell
shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go (95) singing to my nest,
why so; If a crow! throw me out like a carrion, and pick out mine
eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now! ha?

_Hip._ You may; would I were partner in your mirth. 100

_Orl._ I have a little, have all things. I have nothing; I have no
wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should not I be in my
jocundare?[2470] 105

_Hip._ Is your wife then departed?

_Orl._ She’s an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from
me. Here, she’s here: but, before me, when a knave and a quean are
married, they commonly walk like serjeants (110) together: but a good
couple are seldom parted.

_Hip._ You had a daughter too, sir, had you not?

_Orl._ O my lord! this old tree had one branch, and but one branch
growing out of it. It was young, it was fair, it was straight; I
prun’d (115) it daily, drest it carefully, kept it from the wind,
help ’d it to the sun, yet for all my skill in planting, it grew
crooked, it bore crabs. I hewed it down; what’s become of it, I
neither know, nor care. 120

_Hip._ Then I can tell you what’s become of it;
That branch is wither’d.

_Orl._ So ’t was long ago.

_Hip._ Her name I think was Bellafront; she ’s dead.

_Orl._ Ha? dead?

_Hip._ Yes; what of her was left, not worth the keeping, 125
Even in my sight was thrown into a grave.

_Orl._ Dead! my last and best peace go with her! I see Death’s a good
trencherman; he can eat coarse homely meat, as well as the
daintiest. 130

_Hip._ Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely?

_Orl._ O my lord! a strumpet is one of the devil’s vines; all the
sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of hell, to be her
props, that she may spread upon them. And when (135) she’s ripe,
every slave has a pull at her, then must she be prest. The young
beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge, yet to taste that
lickerish[2471] wine, is to drink a man’s own damnation.
Is she dead? 140

_Hip._ She’s turned to earth.

_Orl._ Would she were turn’d to Heaven! Umph, is she dead? I am glad
the world has lost one of his idols; no whoremonger will at midnight
beat at the doors. In her grave (145) sleep all my shame, and her
own; and all my sorrows, and all her sins!

_Hip._ I’m glad you’re wax, not marble; you are made
Of man’s best temper; there are now good hopes
That all these heaps of ice about your heart, 150
By which a father’s love was frozen up,
Are thaw’d in these sweet showers, fetcht from your eyes;
We are ne’er like angels till our passion dies.
She is not dead, but lives under worse fate; 154
I think she ’s poor; and, more to clip her wings,
Her husband at this hour lies in the jail,
For killing of a man. To save his blood,
Join all your force with mine: mine shall be shown:
The getting of his life preserves your own. 159

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

_Hip._ Trust me, I think she is. 165

_Orl._ Then she ’s a right strumpet; I ne’er knew any of their trade
rich two years together. Sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard
up money; they have many vents, too many sluices to let it out;
taverns, tailors, bawds, (170) panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools,
and knaves do all wait upon a common harlot’s trencher. She is the
gallipot to which these drones fly, not for love to the pot, but for
the sweet sucket[2472] within it, her money, her money. 175

_Hip._ I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom
Gives warmth to no such snakes. When did you see her?

_Orl._ Not seventeen summers.

_Hip._ Is your hate so old? 179

_Orl._ Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till she be
buried: her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.

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

_Orl._ No let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world.
I hate him for her; (185) he taught her first to taste poison; I hate
her for herself, because she refused my physic.

_Hip._ Nay, but Friscobaldo!—

_Orl._ I detest her, I defy[2473] both; she ’s not mine, she ’s— 190

_Hip._ Hear her but speak.

_Orl._ I love no mermaids, I ’ll not be caught with a
quail-pipe.[2474]

_Hip._ You ’re now beyond all reason. 194

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

_Hip._ Is ’t dotage to relieve your child, being poor? 199

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

_Hip._ ’T is charity, too.

_Orl._ ’T is foolery; relieve her!
Were her cold limbs stretcht out upon a bier,
I would not sell this dirt under my nails
To buy her an hour’s breath, nor give this hair,
Unless it were to choke her. 206

_Hip._ Fare you well, for I ’ll trouble you no more. _Exit._

_Orl._ And fare you well, sir. Go thy ways; we have few lords of thy
making, that love wenches for their honesty. ’Las my girl! (210) art
thou poor? Poverty dwells next door to despair, there ’s but a wall
between them. Despair is one of hell’s catch-poles; and lest that
devil arrest her, I ’ll to her. Yet she shall not know me; she shall
drink of my wealth, (215) as beggars do of running water, freely,
yet never know from what fountain’s head it flows. Shall a silly
bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father
see his child starve? That were hard; the pelican does (220) it, and
shall not I? Yes, I will victual the camp for her, but it shall be
by some stratagem. That knave there, her husband, will be hanged, I
fear; I ’ll keep his neck out of the noose if I can, he shall not
know how. 225
_Enter two_ Serving-men.
How now, knaves? Whither wander you?

_1 Ser._ To seek your worship.

_Orl._ Stay, which of you has my purse? What money have you about
you? 229

_2 Ser._ Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.

_Orl._ Give it me. [_Takes purse._]—I think I have some gold about
me; yes, it ’s well. Leave my lodging at court, and get you home.
Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet I ’ll be
so bold as to pull your coat over your ears. 236
[ORLANDO _puts on the coat of_ 1 Serving-man, _and gives him in
exchange his cloak._]

_1 Ser._ What do you mean to do, sir?

_Orl._ Hold thy tongue, knave; take thou my cloak. I hope I play not
the paltry merchant in this bart’ring; bid the steward of my 240
house sleep with open eyes in my absence, and to look to all things.
Whatsoever I command by letters to be done by you, see it done. So,
does it sit well? 244

_2 Ser._ As if it were made for your worship.

_Orl._ You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear blue,[2475]
when your master is one of your fellows. Away, do not see me.

_Both._ This is excellent. _Exeunt._ 249

_Orl._ I should put on a worse suit, too; perhaps
I will. My vizard is on, now to this
masque. Say I should shave off this honour of
an old man, or tie it up shorter. Well, I will
spoil a good face for once.
My beard being off, how should I look? Even like 255
A winter cuckoo, or unfeather’d owl;
Yet better lose this hair, than lose her soul. _Exit._

[SCENE III.][2476]

_Enter_ CANDIDO, LODOVICO, CAROLO, [ASTOLFO], _other guests, and_ Bride _with_ Prentices.

_Cand._ O gentlemen, so late! Y’ are very welcome, pray sit down.

_Lod._ Carolo, did’st e’er see such a nest of caps?[2477]

_Ast._ Methinks it ’s a most civil and most comely sight.

_Lod._ What does he i’ th’ middle look like? 5

_Ast._ Troth, like a spire steeple in a country village overpeering
so many thatcht houses.

_Lod._ It ’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers
without pikes;[2478] they sit for all the world like a pair of
organs,[2479] and he ’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst. 11

_Ast._ Ha, ha, ha, ha!

_Cand._ What ’s that you laugh at, signors?

_Lod._ Troth, shall I tell you, and aloud I ’ll tell it;
We laugh to see, yet laugh we not in scorn, 15
Amongst so many caps that long hat worn.

[_1 Guest._] Mine is as tall a felt as any is this day in Milan, and
therefore I love it, for the block[2480] was cleft out for my head,
and fits me to a hair. 20

_Cand._ Indeed you ’re good observers; it shows strange:
But gentlemen, I pray neither contemn,
Nor yet deride a civil ornament;
I could build so much in the round cap’s praise,
That ’bove this high roof, I this flat would raise.

_Lod._ Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do ’t. 26

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

_All._ With all our hearts.

_Cand._ Thus, then, in the cap’s honour:
To every sex, and state, both nature, time, 30
The country’s laws, yea, and the very clime
Do allot distinct habits; the spruce courtier
Jets[2481] up and down in silk; the warrior
Marches in buff; the clown plods on in gray:
But for these upper garments thus I say, 35
The seaman has his cap, par’d without brim;
The gallant’s head is feather’d, that fits him;
The soldier has his morion,[2482] women ha’ tires;[2483]
Beasts have their head-pieces, and men ha’ theirs.

_Lod._ Proceed. 40

_Cand._ Each degree has his fashion, it ’s fit then,
One should be laid by for the citizen,
And that ’s the cap which you see swells not high,
For caps are emblems of humility.
It is a citizen’s badge, and first was worn 45
By th’ Romans; for when any bondman’s turn
Came to be made a freeman, thus ’t was said,
He to the cap was call’d, that is, was made
Of Rome a freeman; but was first close shorn:
And so a citizen’s hair is still short worn. 50

_Lod._ That close shaving made barbers a company,
And now every citizen uses it.

_Cand._ Of geometric figures the most rare,
And perfect’st, are the circle and the square;
The city and the school much build upon 55
These figures, for both love proportion.
The city-cap is round, the scholar’s square,
To show that government and learning are
The perfect’st limbs i’ th’ body of a state;
For without them, all ’s disproportionate. 60
If the cap had no honour, this might rear it,
The reverend fathers of the law do wear it.
It ’s light for summer, and in cold it sits
Close to the skull, a warm house for the wits;
It shows the whole face boldly, ’t is not made
As if a man to look on ’t were afraid, 66
Nor like a draper’s shop with broad dark shed,
For he ’s no citizen that hides his head.
Flat caps as proper are to city gowns,
As to armours helmets, or to kings their crowns.
Let then the city-cap by none be scorn’d, 71
Since with it princes’ heads have been adorn’d.
If more the round cap’s honour you would know,
How would this long gown with this steeple[2484] show?

_All._ Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly. 75

_Cand._ Pray, signor, pardon me, ’t was done in jest.

_Bride._ A cup of claret wine there.

_1 Pren._ Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride.

_Car._ You ha’ well set out the cap, sir.

_Lod._ Nay, that ’s flat. 80

_Cand._ A health!

_Lod._ Since his cap ’s round, that shall go round. Be bare,
For in the cap’s praise all of you have share.
[_They bare their heads and drink. As_ 1 Prentice _offers the wine to
the_ Bride,] _she hits him on the lips_, [_breaking the glass_].
The bride ’s at cuffs.

_Cand._ Oh, peace, I pray thee; thus far off I stand, 85
I spied the error of my servants;
She call’d for claret, and you fill’d out sack.
That cup give me, ’t is for an old man’s back,
And not for hers. Indeed, ’t was but mistaken;
Ask all these else.

_Guests._ No faith,’t was but mistaken.

_1 Pren._ Nay, she took it right enough. 91

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

_Bride._ Now I ’ll none. _Exit._

_Cand._ How now?

_Lod._ Look what your mistress ails.

_1 Pren._ Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,—a scurvy
trick. 96

_Cand._ I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there tells me she
is not well.

_Guests._ Step to her, step to her.

_Lod._ A word with you: do ye hear? This wench, your new wife, will
take you down in (101) your wedding shoes, unless you hang her up in
her wedding garters?

_Cand._ How, hang her in her garters? 104

_Lod._ Will you be a tame pigeon still? Shall your back be like a
tortoise shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This
she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will
scratch worse, and mouse you worse: look to ’t. 110

_Cand._ What would you have me do, sir?

_Lod._ What would I have you do? Swear, swagger, brawl, fling! for
fighting it ’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already;
you know, that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib
was crooked. The (116) moral of which is, that a man must from his
beginning be crooked to his wife. Be you like an orange to her; let
her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled
by me?

_Cand._ In any thing that ’s civil, honest, and just. 122

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

_Cand._ I have the very same which myself wore. 126

_Lod._ I ’ll send my man for ’t within this half hour, and within
this two hours I ’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the
cock; I ’ll sharpen your spurs. 130

_Cand._ It will be but some jest, sir?

_Lod._ Only a jest: farewell, come, Carolo.
_Exeunt_ [LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO].

_All._ We ’ll take our leaves, sir, too.

_Cand._ Pray conceit not ill
Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight,
Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic, 135
And he tells me, the disease, called the mother,[2485]
Hangs on my wife, it is a vehement heaving
And beating of the stomach, and that swelling
Did with the pain thereof cramp up her arm.
That hit his lips, and brake the glass,—no harm, 140
It was no harm!

_Guests._ No, signor, none at all.

_Cand._ The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance.
But come, we ’ll close this brawl up in some dance. _Exeunt._

[ACT II]

[SCENE I.][2486]

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _and_ MATHEO.

_Bell._ O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave and art alive
again? Oh welcome, welcome!

_Mat._ Dost know me? My cloak, prithee, lay ’t up. Yes, faith,
my winding-sheet was taken (5) out of lavender, to be stuck with
rosemary:[2487] I lackt but the knot here, or here; yet if I had had
it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice: but,
sweetest villain, I am here now and I will talk with thee soon. 10

_Bell._ And glad am I th’ art here.

_Mat._ Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah! my little plump rogue,
I ’ll bear up for all this, and fly high. _Catso catso_.[2488]

_Bell._ Matheo? 15

_Mat._ What sayest, what sayest? O brave fresh air! a pox on these
grates and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron. I ’ll bear up, I
’ll fly high, wench, hang toff.[2489]

_Bell._ Matheo, prithee, make thy prison thy glass, 20
And in it view the wrinkles and the scars
By which thou wert disfigur’d: viewing them, mend them.

_Mat._ I ’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring
boys.[2490]

_Bell._ Thou dost not hear me? 25

_Mat._ Yes, faith, do I.

_Bell._ Thou has been in the hands of misery, and ta’en strong
physic; prithee now be sound.

_Mat._ Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now.
Oh, when shall I (30) bizzle, bizzle.[2491]

_Bell._ Nay, see, thou ’rt thirsty still for poison! Come,
I will not have thee swagger.

_Mat._ Honest ape’s face!

_Bell._ ’T is that sharp’ned an axe to cut thy throat.
Good love, I would not have thee sell thy substance 35
And time, worth all, in those damn’d shops of hell;
Those dicing houses, that stand never well
But when they stand most ill; that four-squar’d sin[2492]
Has almost lodg’d us in the beggar’s inn.
Besides, to speak which even my soul does grieve, 40
A sort[2493] of ravens have hung upon thy sleeve,
And fed upon thee: good Mat, if you please,
Scorn to spread wing amongst so base as these;
By them thy fame is speckled, yet it shows
Clear amongst them; so crows are fair with crows. 45
Custom in sin, gives sin a lovely dye;
Blackness in Moors is no deformity.

_Mat._ Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope
for my soul, I will turn over a new leaf. The prison I confess 50
has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship, may be lousy.
[_Knocking within._]

_Bell._ One knocks at door.

_Mat._ I ’ll be the porter. They shall see a jail cannot hold a brave
spirit, I ’ll fly high. _Exit._ 55

_Bell._ How wild is his behaviour! Oh, I fear
He ’s spoil’d by prison, he ’s half damn’d comes there.
But I must sit all storms: when a full sail
His fortunes spread, he lov’d me; being now poor,
I ’ll beg for him, and no wife can do more. 60

_Re-enter_ MATHEO, _with_ ORLANDO _like a_ Serving-man.

_Mat._ Come in, pray! would you speak with me, sir?

_Orl._ Is your name Signor Matheo?

_Mat._ My name is Signor Matheo.

_Orl._ Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir? 65

_Mat._ This gentlewoman is my wife, sir.

_Orl._ The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both your
loves!—[_Aside._] The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot that.—I
’m an old man, sir, and am troubled with a (70) whoreson salt rheum,
that I cannot hold my water.—Gentlewoman, the last man I served was
your father.

_Bell._ My father? Any tongue that sounds his name,
Speaks music to me; welcome, good old man!
How does my father? Lives he? Has he health? 76
How does my father?—[_Aside._] I so much do shame him,
So much do wound him, that I scarce dare name him.

_Orl._ I can speak no more.

_Mat._ How, old lad, what, dost cry? 80

_Orl._ The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well season’d,
for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I have a suit to you.

_Mat._ What is ’t, my little white-pate?

_Orl._ Troth, sir, I have a mind to serve your worship. 86

_Mat._ To serve me? Troth, my friend, my fortunes are, as a man may
say—

_Orl._ Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in us, and
go upon crutches, that covetousness (90) does but then lie in her
cradle; ’t is not so with me. Lechery loves to dwell in the fairest
lodging, and covetousness in the oldest buildings, that are ready
to fall: but my white head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If
a (95) serving-man at my years be not stored with biscuit enough,
that has sailed about the world, to serve him the voyage out of his
life, and to bring him East home, ill pity but all his days should be
fasting days. I care not so much (100) for wages, for I have scraped
a handful of gold together. I have a little money, sir, which I would
put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it more— 104

_Mat._ No, no, you say well, thou sayest well; but I must tell
you,—How much is the money, sayest thou?

_Orl._ About twenty pound, sir.

_Mat._ Twenty pound? Let me see: that shall bring thee in, after ten
_per centum per annum_.— 111

_Orl._ No, no, no, sir, no: I cannot abide to have money engender:
fie upon this silver lechery, fie! If I may have meat to my mouth,
and rags to my back, and a flock-bed to (115) snort upon when I die,
the longer liver take all.

_Mat._ A good old boy, i’ faith! If thou servest me, thou shalt eat
as _I_ eat, drink as _I_ drink, lie as _I_ lie, and ride as _I_ ride.

_Orl._ [_Aside._] That ’s if you have money (120) to hire horses.

_Mat._ Front, what dost thou think on ’t? This good old lad here
shall serve me.

_Bell._ Alas, Matheo, wilt thou load a back
That is already broke? 125

_Mat._ Peace, pox on you, peace. There ’s a trick in ’t, I fly high;
it shall be so. Front, as I tell you. Give me thy hand, thou shalt
serve me i’faith: welcome. As for your money—

_Orl._ Nay, look you, sir, I have it here. 130

_Mat._ Pish, keep it thyself, man, and then thou ’rt sure ’t is safe.

_Orl._ Safe! an ’t were ten thousand ducats, your worship should be
my cash-keeper. I have heard what your worship is, an excellent 135
dunghill cock, to scatter all abroad; but I ’ll venture twenty pounds
on ’s head. [_Gives money to_ MATHEO.]

_Mat._ And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, Signor
Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once? 140

_Orl._ I served him so long, till he turned me out of doors.

_Mat._ It ’s a notable chuff;[2494] I ha’ not seen him many a day.

_Orl._ No matter an you ne’er see him; (145) it ’s an arrant grandee,
a churl, and as damn’d a cut-throat.

_Bell._ Thou villain, curb thy tongue! Thou art a Judas,
To sell thy master’s name to slander thus.

_Mat._ Away, ass! He speaks but truth, thy father is a— 151

_Bell._ Gentleman.

_Mat._ And an old knave. There ’s more deceit in him than in sixteen
’pothecaries: it ’s a devil; thou may’st beg, starve, hang, damn!
does he send thee so much as a cheese? 156

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

_Mat._ A jail, a jail.

_Orl._ A Jew, a Jew, sir. 160

_Mat._ A dog!

_Orl._ An English mastiff, sir.

_Mat._ Pox rot out his old stinking garbage!

_Bell._ Art not asham’d to strike an absent man thus?
Art not asham’d to let this vild[2495] dog bark, 165
And bite my father thus? I ’ll not endure it.
Out of my doors, base slave!

_Mat._ Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that old rogue’s
throat, for all you take his part thus. 170

_Orl._ [_Aside._] He shall live to see thee hang’d first.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

_Mat._ Gods so, my lord, your lordship is most welcome,
I ’m proud of this, my lord.

_Hip._ Was bold to see you.
Is that your wife?

_Mat._ Yes, sir.

_Hip._ I ’ll borrow her lip. 175
[_Kisses_ BELLAFRONT.]

_Mat._ With all my heart, my lord.

_Orl._ Who ’s this, I pray, sir.

_Mat._ My Lord Hippolito: what ’s thy name?

_Orl._ Pacheco.

_Mat._ Pacheco, fine name: thou seest, Pacheco, I keep company with
no scoundrels, nor base fellows. 180

_Hip._ Came not my footman to you?

_Bell._ Yes, my lord.

_Hip._ I sent by him a diamond and a letter,
Did you receive them?

_Bell._ Yes, my lord, I did.

_Hip._ Read you the letter?

_Bell._ O’er and o’er ’t is read.

_Hip._ And, faith, your answer?

_Bell._ Now the time’s not fit, 185
You see, my husband’s here.

_Hip._ I’ll now then leave you,
And choose mine hour; but ere I part away,
Hark you, remember I must have no nay.—
Matheo, I will leave you.

_Mat._ A glass of wine.

_Hip._ Not now, I’ll visit you at other times.
You’re come off well, then? 191

_Mat._ Excellent well, I thank your lordship. I owe you my life, my
lord; and will pay my best blood in any service of yours.

_Hip._ I ’ll take no such dear payment. (195) Hark you, Matheo, I
know the prison is a gulf. If money run low with you, my purse is
yours: call for it.

_Mat._ Faith, my lord, I thank my stars, they send me down some; I
cannot sink, so long as these bladders hold. 201

_Hip._ I will not see your fortunes ebb; pray, try.
To starve in full barns were fond[2496] modesty.

_Mat._ Open the door, sirrah.

_Hip._ Drink this, and anon, I pray thee, (205) give thy mistress
this.
[_Gives to_ FRISCOBALDO, _who opens the door, first money, then a
purse, and_] _exit_.

_Orl._ O noble spirit, if no worse guests here dwell,
My blue coat sits on my old shoulders well.

_Mat._ The only royal fellow, he’s bounteous as the Indies. What’s
that he said to thee, (210) Bellafront?

_Bell._ Nothing.

_Mat._ I prithee, good girl.

_Bell._ Why, I tell you, nothing.

_Mat._ Nothing? It’s well. Tricks! that I (215) must be beholden to a
scald hot-liver’d goatish gallant, to stand with my cap in my hand,
and vail[2497] bonnet, when I ha’ spread as lofty sails as himself.
Would I had been hanged. Nothing? Pacheco, brush my cloak. 220

_Orl._ Where is’t, sir?

_Mat._ Come, we’ll fly high.
Nothing? There’s a whore still in thy eye. _Exit._

_Orl._ [_Aside._] My twenty pounds fly high. O wretched woman! 224
This varlet’s able to make Lucrece common.—
How now, mistress?
Has my master dy’d you into this sad colour?

_Bell._ Fellow, begone I pray thee; if thy tongue
Itch after talk so much, seek out thy master.
Thou’rt a fit instrument for him. 230

_Orl._ Zounds, I hope he will not play upon me!

_Bell._ Play on thee? No, you two will fly together.
Because you’re roving arrows of one feather.
Would thou wouldst leave my house; thou ne’er
shalt please me!
Weave thy nets ne’er so high, 235
Thou shalt be but a spider in mine eye.
Thou’rt rank with poison: poison temper’d well
Is food for health; but thy black tongue doth swell
With venom, to hurt him that gave thee bread.
To wrong men absent, is to spurn the dead; 240
And so did’st thou thy master, and my father.

_Orl._ You have small reason to take his part; for I have heard him
say five hundred times, you were as arrant a whore as ever stiff’ned
tiffany neckcloths in water-starch upon a (246) Saturday i’ th’
afternoon.

_Bell._ Let him say worse. When for the earth’s offence
Hot vengeance through the marble clouds is driven,
Is’t fit earth shoot again those darts at heaven?

_Orl._ And so if your father call you whore (250) you’ll not call him
old knave.—[_Aside._] Friscobaldo, she carries thy mind up and down;
she’s thine own flesh, blood, and bone.—Troth, mistress, to tell you
true, the fireworks that ran from me upon lines against my good 255
old master, your father, were but to try how my young master, your
husband, loved such squibs: but it’s well known, I love your father
as myself; I’ll ride for him at midnight, run for you by owl-light;
I’ll die for him, drudge for you; I’ll fly low, and I’ll fly high, 260
as my master says, to do you good, if you’ll forgive me.

_Bell._ I am not made of marble; I forgive thee. 264

_Orl._ Nay, if you were made of marble, a good stone-cutter might cut
you. I hope the twenty pound I delivered to my master is in a sure
hand.

_Bell._ In a sure hand, I warrant thee, for spending.

_Orl._ I see my young master is a mad-cap, (270) and a _bonus
socius_.[2498] I love him well, mistress: yet as well as I love
him, I’ll not play the knave with you. Look you, I could cheat you
of this purse full of money; but I am an old lad, and I scorn to
cony-catch:[2499] yet I ha’ been dog at a cony in my time. [_Gives
purse._] 275

_Bell._ A purse? Where hadst it?

_Orl._ The gentleman that went away whisper’d in mine ear, and
charged me to give it you. 280

_Bell._ The Lord Hippolito?

_Orl._ Yes, if he be a lord, he gave it me.

_Bell._ ’T is all gold.

_Orl._ ’T is like so. It may be, he thinks you want money, and
therefore bestows his alms (286) bravely, like a lord.

_Bell._ He thinks a silver net can catch the poor:
Here’s bait to choke a nun, and turn her whore.
Wilt thou be honest to me? 290

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

_Bell._ Thou to this lord shalt go, commend me to him,
And tell him this, the town has held out long,
Because within’t was rather true than strong;
To sell it now were base. Say ’t is no hold 295
Built of weak stuff, to be blown up with gold.
He shall believe thee by this token, or this;
If not, by this. [_Giving purse, ring, and letters._

_Orl._ Is this all?

_Bell._ This is all.

_Orl._ [_Aside._] Mine own girl still!

_Bell._ A star may shoot, not fall. _Exit._

_Orl._ A star? nay, thou art more than the (300) moon, for thou
hast neither changing quarters, nor a man standing in thy circle
with a bush of thorns. Is’t possible the Lord Hippolito, whose
face is as civil as the outside of a dedicatory book, should be
a muttonmonger?[2500] A (305) poor man has but one ewe, and this
grandee sheep-biter leaves whole flocks of fat wethers, whom he may
knock down, to devour this. I’ll trust neither lord nor butcher
with quick flesh for this trick; the cuckoo, I see now, (310) sings
all the year, though every man cannot hear him; but I ’ll spoil his
notes. Can neither love-letters, nor the devil’s common pick-locks,
gold, nor precious stones make my girl draw up her percullis?[2501]
Hold out still, wench. 315
All are not bawds, I see now, that keep doors,
Nor all good wenches that are markt for whores. [_Exit._

[SCENE II.][2502]

_Enter_ CANDIDO, _and_ LODOVICO _like a_ Prentice.

_Lod._ Come, come, come, what do ye lack, sir? What do ye lack, sir?
What is’t ye lack, sir? Is not my worship well suited? Did you ever
see a gentleman better disguised?

_Cand._ Never, believe me, signor. 5

_Lod._ Yes, but when he has been drunk. There be prentices would make
mad gallants, for they would spend all, and drink, and whore, and so
forth; and I see we gallants could make mad prentices. How does thy
wife like me? (10) Nay, I must not be so saucy, then I spoil all.
Pray you how does my mistress like me?

_Cand._ Well; for she takes you for a very simple fellow.

_Lod._ And they that are taken for such are (15) commonly the
arrantest knaves: but to our comedy, come.

_Cand._ I shall not act it; chide, you say, and fret,
And grow impatient: I shall never do ’t.

_Lod._ ’Sblood, cannot you do as all the (20) world does, counterfeit?

_Cand._ Were I a painter, that should live by drawing
Nothing but pictures of an angry man,
I should not earn my colours; I cannot do’t.

_Lod._ Remember you’re a linen-draper, and (25) that if you give your
wife a yard, she’ll take an ell: give her not therefore a quarter of
your yard, not a nail.

_Cand._ Say I should turn to ice, and nip her love
Now ’t is but in the bud.

_Lod._ Well, say she’s nipt. 30

_Cand._ It will so overcharge her heart with grief,
That like a cannon, when her sighs go off,
She in her duty either will recoil,
Or break in pieces and so die: her death,
By my unkindness might be counted murder. 35

_Lod._ Die? never, never. I do not bid you beat her, nor give her
black eyes, nor pinch her sides; but cross her humours. Are not
baker’s arms the scales of justice? Yet is not their bread light? And
may not you, I pray, (40) bridle her with a sharp bit, yet ride her
gently?

_Cand._ Well, I will try your pills.
Do you your faithful service, and be ready
Still at a pinch to help me in this part,
Or else I shall be out clean. 45

_Lod._ Come, come, I’ll prompt you.

_Cand._ I’ll call her forth now, shall I?

_Lod._ Do, do, bravely.

_Cand._ Luke, I pray, bid your mistress to come hither.

_Lod._ Luke, I pray, bid your mistress to come hither. 50

_Cand._ Sirrah, bid my wife come to me: why, when?[2503]

_1 Pren._ (_within._) Presently, sir, she comes.

_Lod._ La, you, there’s the echo! She comes.

_Enter_ BRIDE.

_Bride._ What is your pleasure with me?

_Cand._ Marry, wife,
I have intent: and you see this stripling here, 55
He bears good will and liking to my trade,
And means to deal in linen.

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

_Cand._ I hope to find him honest, pray; good wife, 60
Look that his bed and chamber be made ready.

_Bride._ You’re best to let him hire me for his maid.
I look to his bed? Look to’t yourself.

_Cand._ Even so?
I swear to you a great oath—

_Lod._ [_Aside._] Swear, cry “Zounds!”— 64

_Cand._ I will not—go to, wife—I will not—

_Lod._ [_Aside._] That your great oath?

_Cand._ Swallow these gudgeons![2504]

_Lod._ [_Aside._] Well said!

_Bride._ Then fast, then you may choose.

_Cand._ You know at table
What tricks you play’d, swagger’d, broke glasses, fie! 70
Fie, fie, fie! and now before my prentice here,
You make an ass of me, thou—what shall I call thee?

_Bride._ Even what you will.

_Lod._ [_Aside._] Call her arrant whore.

_Cand._ [_Aside._] Oh fie, by no means! then she ’ll call me cuckold.—
Sirrah, go look to th’ shop.—How does this show? 75

_Lod._ [_Aside._] Excellent well—I ’ll go look to the shop, sir.
Fine cambrics, lawns; what do you lack? _Exit_ [_into the shop_].

_Cand._ A curst cow’s milk I ha’ drunk once before,
And ’t was so rank in taste, I ’ll drink no more.
Wife, I ’ll tame you.

_Bride._ You may, sir, if you can, 80
But at a wrestling I have seen a fellow
Limb’d like an ox, thrown by a little man.

_Cand._ And so you ’ll throw me?—Reach me, knaves, a yard!

_Lod._ A yard for my master.
[LODOVICO _returns from the shop with a yard-wand and followed by_
Prentices.]

_1 Pren._ My master is grown valiant. 85

_Cand._ I ’ll teach you fencing tricks.

_Prentices._ Rare, rare! a prize![2505]

_Lod._ What will you do, sir?

_Cand._ Marry, my good prentice, nothing but breathe my wife. 90

_Bride._ Breathe me with your yard?

_Lod._ No, he ’ll but measure you out, forsooth.

_Bride._ Since you ’ll needs fence, handle your weapon well,
For if you take a yard, I ’ll take an ell.
Reach me an ell!

_Lod._ An ell for my mistress. 95
[_Brings an ell-wand from the shop._]
Keep the laws of the noble science, sir, and measure weapons with
her: your yard is a plain heathenish weapon. ’T is too short, she may
give you a handful, and yet you ’ll not reach her. 100

_Cand._ Yet I ha’ the longer arm.—Come fall to ’t roundly,
And spare not me, wife, for I ’ll lay ’t on soundly:
If o’er husbands their wives will needs be masters,
We men will have a law to win ’t at wasters.[2506]

_Lod._ ’T is for the breeches, is ’t not?

_Cand._ For the breeches! 105

_Bride._ Husband, I ’m for you, I ’ll not strike in jest.

_Cand._ Nor I.

_Bride._ But will you sign to one request?

_Cand._ What ’s that?

_Bride._ Let me give the first blow.

_Cand._ The first blow, wife? [_Aside to_ LOD.] Shall I? Prompt?

_Lod._ Let her ha ’t: 109
If she strike hard, in to her, and break her pate.

_Cand._ A bargain: strike!

_Bride._ Then guard you from this blow,
For I play all at legs, but ’t is thus low. _She kneels._
Behold, I ’m such a cunning fencer grown,
I keep my ground, yet down I will be thrown
With the least blow you give me; I disdain 115
The wife that is her husband’s sovereign.
She that upon your pillow first did rest,
They say, the breeches wore, which I detest:
The tax which she impos’d on you, I abate you;
If me you make your master, I shall hate you. 120
The world shall judge who offers fairest play;
You win the breeches, but I win the day.

_Cand._ Thou win’st the day indeed, give me thy hand;
I ’ll challenge thee no more. My patient breast
Play’d thus the rebel, only for a jest. 125
Here ’s the rank rider that breaks colts; ’t is he
Can tame the mad folks, and curst wives.

_Bride._ Who? Your man?

_Cand._ My man? My master, though his head be bare,
But he ’s so courteous, he ’ll put off his hair.

_Lod._ Nay, if your service be so hot a (130) man cannot keep his hair
on, I ’ll serve you no longer. [_Takes off his false hair._]

_Bride._ Is this your schoolmaster?

_Lod._ Yes, faith, wench, I taught him to take thee down. I hope thou
canst take him down (135) without teaching;
You ha’ got the conquest, and you both are friends.

_Cand._ Bear witness else.

_Lod._ My prenticeship then ends.

_Cand._ For the good service you to me have done,
I give you all your years.

_Lod._ I thank you, master. 140
I ’ll kiss my mistress now, that she may say
My man was bound, and free all in one day. _Exeunt._