Chapter XII: Act I: Scene I

_An Apartment in the House of the Lord Governor: a
banquet set out._

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ FERNANDO.

SEB. My three years spent in war has now undone
My peace for ever.
FER. Good, be patient, sir.
SEB. She is my wife by contract before heaven
And all the angels, sir.
FER. I do believe you;
But where’s the remedy now? you see she’s gone,
Another has possession.
SEB. There’s the torment!
FER. This day, being the first of your return,
Unluckily proves the first too of her fastening.
Her uncle, sir, the governor of Ravenna,
Holding a good opinion of the bridegroom,
As he’s fair-spoken, sir, and wondrous mild——
SEB. There goes the devil in a sheep-skin!
FER. With all speed
Clapp’d it up suddenly: I cannot think, sure,
That the maid over-loves him; though being married,
Perhaps, for her own credit, now she intends
Performance of an honest, duteous wife.
SEB. Sir, I’ve a world of business: question nothing;
You will but lose your labour; ’tis not fit
For any, hardly mine own secrecy,
To know what I intend. I take my leave, sir.
I find such strange employments in myself,
That unless death pity me and lay me down,
I shall not sleep these seven years; that’s the least,
sir.
[_Exit._
FER. That sorrow’s dangerous can abide no counsel;
’Tis like a wound past cure: wrongs done to love
Strike the heart deeply; none can truly judge on’t
But the poor sensible sufferer whom it racks
With unbelieved pains, which men in health,
That enjoy love, not possibly can act,
Nay, not so much as think. In troth, I pity him:
His sighs drink life-blood in this time of feasting.
A banquet towards[466] too! not yet hath riot
Play’d out her last scene? at such entertainments still
Forgetfulness obeys, and surfeit governs:
Here’s marriage sweetly honour’d in gorg’d stomachs
And overflowing cups!

_Enter_ GASPARO _and Servant_.

GAS. Where is she, sirrah?
SER. Not far off.
GAS. Prithee, where? go fetch her hither:
I’ll rid him away straight.— [_Exit Servant._
The duke’s[467] now
risen, sir.
FER. I am a joyful man to hear it, sir,
It seems has drunk the less; though I think he
That has the least has certainly enough. [_Exit._
GAS. I have observ’d this fellow: all the feast-time
He hath not pledg’d one cup, but look’d most wickedly
Upon good Malaga; flies to the black-jack still,
And sticks to small drink like a water-rat.
O, here she comes:

_Enter_ FLORIDA.

Alas, the poor whore weeps!
’Tis not for grace now, all the world must judge;
It is for spleen and madness 'gainst this marriage:
I do but think how she could beat the vicar now,
Scratch the man horribly that gave the woman,
The woman worst of all, if she durst do it. [_Aside._
Why, how now, mistress? this weeping needs not; for
though
My master marry for his reputation,
He means to keep you too.
FLO. How, sir?
GAS. He doth indeed;
He swore’t to me last night. Are you so simple,
And have been five years traded, as to think
One woman would serve him? fie, not an empress!
Why, he’ll be sick o’ th’ wife within ten nights,
Or never trust my judgment.
FLO. Will he, think’st thou?
GAS. Will he!
FLO. I find thee still so comfortable,
Beshrew my heart, if I know[468] how to miss thee:
They talk of gentlemen, perfumers, and such things;
Give me the kindness of the master’s man
In my distress, say I.
GAS. ’Tis your great love, forsooth.
Please you withdraw yourself to yond private parlour;
I’ll send you venison, custard, parsnip-pie;
For banqueting stuff, as suckets,[469] jellies, sirups,
I will bring in myself.
FLO. I’ll take 'em kindly, sir. [_Exit._
GAS. Sh’as your grand strumpet’s complement to a
tittle.
’Tis a fair building: it had need; it has
Just at this time some one and twenty inmates;
But half of 'em are young merchants, they’ll depart
shortly;
They take but rooms for summer, and away they
When’t grows foul weather: marry, then come the
termers,[470]
And commonly they’re well-booted for all seasons.
But peace, no word; the guests are coming in.
[_Retires._

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES _and_ AMORETTA.

ALM. The fates have bless’d me; have I met you
privately?
AM. Why, sir, why, Almachildes!——
ALM. Not a kiss?
AM. I’ll call aloud, i’faith.
ALM. I’ll stop your mouth.
AM. Upon my love to reputation,
I’ll tell the duchess once more.
ALM. ’Tis the way
To make her laugh a little.
AM. She’ll not think
That you dare use a maid of honour thus.
ALM. Amsterdam[471] swallow thee for a puritan,
And Geneva cast thee up again! like she that sunk[472]
At Charing Cross, and rose again at Queenhithe!
AM. Ay, these are the silly fruits of the sweet vine,
sir. [_Retires._
ALM. Sweet venery be with thee, and I at the tail
Of my wish! I am a little headstrong, and so
Are most of the company. I will to the witches.
They say they have charms[473] and tricks to make
A wench fall backwards, and lead a man herself
To a country-house,[474] some mile out of the town,
Like a fire-drake. There be such whoreson kind girls
And such bawdy witches; and I’ll try conclusions.[475]

_Enter Duke, Duchess, Lord Governor_, ANTONIO, ISABELLA,
_and_ FRANCISCA.

DUKE. A banquet[476] yet! why surely, my lord governor,
Bacchus could ne’er boast of a day till now,
To spread his power, and make his glory known.
DUCH. Sir, you’ve done nobly; though in modesty
You keep it from us, know, we understand so much,
All this day’s cost ’tis your great love bestows,
In honour of the bride, your virtuous neice.
GOV. In love to goodness and your presence, madam;
So understood, ’tis rightly.
DUKE. Now will I
Have a strange health after all these.
GOV. What’s that, my lord?
DUKE. A health in a strange cup; and 't shall go
round.
GOV. Your grace need not doubt that, sir, having seen
So many pledg’d already: this fair company
Cannot shrink now for one, so it end there.
DUKE. It shall, for all ends here: here’s a full
period.
[_Produces a skull set as a cup._
GOV. A skull, my lord?
DUKE. Call it a soldier’s cup, man:
Fie, how you fright the women! I have sworn
It shall go round, excepting only you, sir,
For your late sickness, and the bride herself,
Whose health it is.
ISA. Marry, I thank heaven for that!
DUKE. Our duchess, I know, will pledge us, though the
cup
Was once her father’s head, which, as a trophy,
We’ll keep till death in memory of that conquest.
He was the greatest foe our steel e’er strook at,
And he was bravely slain: then took we thee
Into our bosom’s love: thou mad’st the peace
For all thy country, thou, that beauty, did.
We’re dearer than a father, are we not?
DUCH. Yes, sir, by much.
DUKE. And we shall find that straight.
ANT. That’s an ill bride-cup for a marriage-day,
I do not like the face on’t.
GOV. Good my lord,
The duchess looks pale: let her not pledge you there.
DUKE. Pale?
DUCH. Sir, not I.
DUKE. See how your lordship fails now;
The rose not fresher, nor the sun at rising
More comfortably pleasing.
DUCH. Sir, to you,
The lord of this day’s honour. [_Drinks._
ANT. All first moving
From your grace, madam, and the duke’s great favour,
Since it must. [_Drinks._
FRAN. This the worst fright that could come
To a conceal’d great belly! I’m with child;
And this will bring it out, or make me come
Some seven weeks sooner than we maidens reckon.
[_Aside._
DUCH. Did ever cruel barbarous art match this?
Twice have[477] his surfeits brought my father’s memory
Thus spitefully and scornfully to mine eyes;
And I’ll endure’t no more; ’tis in my heart since:
I’ll be reveng’d as far as death can lead one.
[_Aside._
ALM. Am I the last man, then? I may deserve
To be first one day. [_Drinks._
GOV. Sir, it has gone round now.
DUKE. The round?[478] an excellent way to train up
soldiers!
Where’s bride and bridegroom?
ANT. At your happy service.
DUKE. A boy to-night, at least; I charge you look
to’t,
Or I’ll renounce you for industrious subjects.
ANT. Your grace speaks like a worthy and tried
soldier.
GAS. And you’ll do well for one that ne’er toss’d
pike, sir. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_The abode of_ HECATE.

_Enter_ HECATE.[479]

HEC. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin and Pidgen, Liard and
Robin! white spirits, black spirits, grey spirits,
red spirits! devil-toad, devil-ram, devil-cat, and
devil-dam! why, Hoppo and Stadlin,[480] Hellwain[481]
and Puckle![482]
STAD. [_within_] Here, sweating at the vessel.
HEC. Boil it well.
HOP. [_within_] It gallops now.
HEC. Are the flames blue enough?
Or shall I use a little seething more?
STAD. [_within_] The nips of fairies[483] upon maids’
white hips
Are not more perfect azure.
HEC. Tend it carefully.
Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish,
That I may fall to work upon these serpents,
And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour:
Why, when?[484]

_Enter_ STADLIN _with a dish_.

STAD. Here’s Stadlin and the dish.
HEC. There, take this unbaptised brat;[485]
[_Giving the dead body of a child._

Boil it well; preserve the fat:
You know ’tis precious to transfer
Our 'nointed flesh into the air,
In moonlight nights, on steeple-tops,
Mountains, and pine-trees, that like pricks or stops
Seem to our height; high towers and roofs of princes
Like wrinkles in the earth; whole provinces
Appear to our sight then even leek[486]
A russet mole upon some lady’s cheek.
When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing,
Dance, kiss, and coll,[487] use every thing:
What young man can we wish to pleasure us,
But we enjoy him in an incubus?
Thou know’st it, Stadlin?
STAD. Usually that’s done.
HEC. Last night thou got’st the mayor of
Whelplie’s[488] son;
I knew him by his black cloak lin’d with yellow;
I think thou’st spoil’d the youth, he’s but seventeen:
I’ll have him the next mounting. Away, in:
Go, feed the vessel for the second hour.
STAD. Where be the magical herbs?
HEC. They’re down his throat;[489]
His mouth cramm’d full, his ears and nostrils stuff’d.
I thrust in eleoselinum lately,
Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot—
You may see that, he looks so b[l]ack i’ th’ mouth—
Then sium, acorum vulgare too,
Pentaphyllon,[490] the blood of a flitter-mouse,[491]
Solanum somnificum et oleum.
STAD. Then there’s all, Hecate.
HEC. Is the heart of wax
Stuck full of magic needles?
STAD. ’Tis done, Hecate.
HEC. And is the farmer’s picture and his wife’s
Laid down to th’ fire yet?
STAD. They’re a-roasting both too.
HEC. Good [_exit_ STADLIN]; then their marrows are
a-melting subtly,
And three months’ sickness sucks up life in 'em.
They denied me often flour, barm, and milk,
Goose-grease and tar, when I ne’er hurt their
churnings,[492]
Their brew-locks, nor their batches, nor forespoke
Any of their breedings. Now I’ll be meet[493] with 'em:
Seven of their young pigs I’ve bewitch’d already,
Of the last litter;
Nine ducklings, thirteen goslings, and a hog,
Fell lame last Sunday after even-song too;
And mark how their sheep prosper, or what sup
Each milch-kine gives to th’ pail: I’ll send these
snakes
Shall milk 'em all
Beforehand; the dew-skirted[494] dairy-wenches
Shall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing;
I’ll mar their sillabubs and swathy feastings[495]
Under cows’ bellies with the parish-youths.
Where’s Firestone, our son Firestone?

_Enter_ FIRESTONE.

FIRE. Here am I, mother.
HEC. Take in this brazen dish full of dear ware:
[_Gives dish._

Thou shalt have all when I die; and that will be
Even just at twelve a’ clock at night come three year.
FIRE. And may you not have one a’ clock in to th’ dozen,
mother?
HEC. No.
FIRE. Your spirits are, then, more unconscionable than
bakers. You’ll have lived then, mother, sixscore year
to the hundred; and, methinks, after sixscore years,
the devil might give you a cast, for he’s a fruiterer
too, and has been from the beginning; the first apple
that e’er was eaten came through his fingers: the
costermonger’s,[496] then, I hold to be the ancientest
trade, though some would have the tailor pricked down
before him.
HEC. Go, and take heed you shed not by the way;
The hour must have her portion: ’tis dear sirup;
Each charmed drop is able to confound
A family consisting of nineteen
Or one-and-twenty feeders.
FIRE. Marry, here’s stuff indeed!
Dear sirup call you it? a little thing
Would make me give you a dram on’t in a posset,
And cut you three years shorter. [_Aside._
HEC. Thou art now
About some villany.
FIRE. Not I, forsooth.—
Truly the devil’s in her, I think: how one villain
smells out another straight! there’s no knavery but is
nosed like a dog, and can smell out a dog’s meaning.
[_Aside._]—Mother, I pray, give me leave to ramble
abroad to-night with the Nightmare, for I have a great
mind to overlay a fat parson’s daughter.
HEC. And who shall lie with me, then?
FIRE. The great cat
For one night, mother; ’tis but a night:
Make shift with him for once.
HEC. You’re a kind son!
But ’tis the nature of you all, I see that;
You had rather hunt after strange women still
Than lie with your own mothers. Get thee gone;
Sweat thy six ounces out about the vessel,
And thou shalt play at midnight; the Nightmare
Shall call thee when it walks.
FIRE. Thanks, most sweet mother. [_Exit._
HEC. Urchins, Elves, Hags, Satyrs, Pans, Fawns,
Sylvans,[497] Kitt-with-the-candlestick, Tritons,
Centaurs,
Dwarfs, Imps, the Spoo[r]n, the Mare, the
Man-i’-th’-oak, the Hellwain, the Fire-drake, the
Puckle! A ab hur hus!

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN.

SEB. Heaven knows with what unwillingness and hate
I enter this damn’d place: but such extremes
Of wrongs in love fight 'gainst religion’s knowledge,
That were I led by this disease to deaths
As numberless as creatures that must die,
I could not shun the way. I know what ’tis
To pity madmen now; they’re wretched things
That ever were created, if they be
Of woman’s making, and her faithless vows.
I fear they’re now a-kissing: what’s a’clock?
’Tis now but supper-time; but night will come,
And all new-married couples make short suppers.—
Whate’er thou art, I’ve no spare time to fear thee;
My horrors are so strong and great already,
That thou seemest nothing. Up, and laze not:
Hadst thou my business, thou couldst ne’er sit so;
'Twould firk thee into air a thousand mile,
Beyond thy ointments. I would I were read
So much in thy black power as[498] mine own griefs!
I’m in great need of help; wilt give me any?
HEC. Thy boldness takes me bravely; we’re all sworn
To sweat for such a spirit: see, I regard thee;
I rise and bid thee welcome. What’s thy wish now?
SEB. O, my heart swells with’t! I must take breath
first.
HEC. Is’t to confound some enemy on the seas?
It may be done to-night: Stadlin’s within;[499]
She raises all your sudden ruinous storms,
That shipwreck barks, and tear[500] up growing oaks,
Fly over houses, and take _Anno Domini_[501]
Out of a rich man’s chimney—a sweet place for’t!
He’d be hang’d ere he would set his own years there;
They must be chamber’d in a five-pound picture,
A green silk curtain drawn before the eyes on’t;
His rotten, diseas’d years!—or dost thou envy
The fat prosperity of any neighbour?
I’ll call forth Hoppo, and her incantation
Can straight destroy the young of all his cattle;
Blast vineyards, orchards, meadows; or in one night
Transport his dung, hay, corn, by reeks,[502] whole
stacks,
Into thine own ground.
SEB. This would come most richly now
To many a country grazier; but my envy
Lies not so low as cattle, corn, or vines:
'Twill trouble your best powers to give me ease.
HEC. Is it to starve up generation?
To strike a barrenness in man or woman?
SEB. Hah!
HEC. Hah, did you feel me there? I knew your grief.
SEB. Can there be such things done?
HEC. Are these the skins
Of serpents? these of snakes?
SEB. I see they are.
HEC. So sure into what house these are convey’d,
[_Giving serpent-skins, &c. to_ SEBASTIAN.
Knit with these charms[503] and retentive knots,
Neither the man begets nor woman breeds,
No, nor performs the least desires of wedlock,
Being then a mutual duty. I could give thee
Chirocineta,[504] adincantida,
Archimedon, marmaritin, calicia,
Which I could sort to villanous barren ends;
But this leads the same way. More I could instance;
As, the same needles thrust into their pillows
That sew and sock[505] up dead men in their sheets;
A privy gristle of a man that hangs
After sunset; good, excellent; yet all’s there, sir.
SEB. You could not do a man that special kindness
To part 'em utterly now? could you do that?
HEC. No, time must do’t: we cannot disjoin wedlock;
’Tis of heaven’s fastening. Well may we raise jars,
Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements,
Like a thick scurf o’er life, as did our master
Upon that patient miracle;[506] but the work itself
Our power cannot disjoint.
SEB. I depart happy
In what I have then, being constrain’d to this.—
And grant, you greater powers that dispose men,
That I may never need this hag agen![507]
[_Aside, and exit._
HEC. I know he loves me not,[508] nor there’s no hope
on’t;
’Tis for the love of mischief I do this,
And that we’re sworn to the first oath we take.

_Re-enter_ FIRESTONE.

FIRE. O mother, mother!
HEC. What’s the news with thee now?
FIRE. There’s the bravest[509] young gentleman within,
and the fineliest drunk! I thought he would have fallen
into the vessel; he stumbled at a pipkin of child’s
grease; reeled against Stadlin, overthrew her, and in
the tumbling-cast struck up old Puckle’s heels with her
clothes over her ears.
HEC. Hoyday!
FIRE. I was fain to throw the cat upon her to save her
honesty, and all little enough; I cried out still, I
pray, be covered.[510] See where he comes now, mother.

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

ALM. Call you these witches? they be tumblers,
methinks,
Very flat tumblers.
HEC. ’Tis Almachildes—fresh blood stirs in me—
The man that I have lusted to enjoy;
I’ve had him thrice in incubus already. [_Aside._
ALM. Is your name Goody Hag?
HEC. ’Tis any thing:
Call me the horrid’st and unhallow’d things
That life and nature tremble[511] at, for thee
I’ll be the same. Thou com’st for a love-charm now?
ALM. Why, thou’rt a witch, I think.
HEC. Thou shalt have choice of twenty, wet or dry.
ALM. Nay, let’s have dry ones.
HEC. If thou wilt use’t by way of cup and potion,
I’ll give thee a remora shall bewitch her straight.
ALM. A remora? what’s that?
HEC. A little suck-stone;
Some call it a sea-lamprey, a small fish.
ALM. And must be butter’d?
HEC. The bones of a green frog too, wondrous precious,
The flesh consum’d by pismires.
ALM. Pismires? give me a chamber-pot!
FIRE. You shall see him go nigh to be so unmannerly,
he’ll make water before my mother anon. [_Aside._
ALM. And now you talk of frogs, I’ve somewhat here;
I come not empty-pocketed from a banquet,
I learn’d that of my haberdasher’s wife:
Look, goody witch, there’s a toad in marchpane[512] for
you.
[_Gives marchpane._
HEC. O sir, you’ve fitted me!
ALM. And here’s a spawn or two
Of the same paddock-brood too, for your son.
[_Gives other pieces of marchpane._
FIRE. I thank your worship, sir: how comes your
handkercher
So sweetly thus beray’d?[513] sure ’tis wet sucket,[514]
sir.
ALM. ’Tis nothing but the sirup the toad spit;
Take all, I prithee.
HEC. This was kindly done, sir;
And you shall sup with me to-night for this.
ALM. How? sup with thee? dost think I’ll eat fried
rats
And pickled spiders?
HEC. No; I can command, sir,
The best meat i’ th’ whole province for my friends,
And reverently serv’d in too.
ALM. How?
HEC. In good fashion.
ALM. Let me but see that, and I’ll sup with you.

[HECATE _conjures; and enter a Cat playing on a fiddle,
and Spirits with meat._

The Cat and Fiddle’s an excellent ordinary:
You had a devil once in a fox-skin?
HEC. O, I have him still: come, walk with me, sir.
[_Exeunt all except_ FIRESTONE.
FIRE. How apt and ready is a drunkard now to reel to the
devil! Well, I’ll even in and see how he eats; and I’ll
be hanged if I be not the fatter of the twain with
laughing at him. [_Exit._