Chapter II: Act I: Scene I

_A Street._

_Enter a funeral, a coronet lying on the hearse,
scutcheons and garlands hanging on the sides,
attended by_ GASPARO TREBAZZI, _Duke of Milan_,
CASTRUCHIO, SINEZI, PIORATTO, FLUELLO, _and others:_
HIPPOLITO _meeting them, and_ MATHEO _labouring to
hold him back_.

DUKE. Behold, yon comet shews his head again!
Twice hath he thus at cross-turns thrown on us
Prodigious[2] looks; twice hath he troubled
The waters of our eyes: see, he’s turn’d wild:—
Go on, in God’s name.
CAS. } On afore there, ho!
SIN., _&c._ }
DUKE. Kinsmen and friends, take from your manly sides
Your weapons, to keep back the desperate boy
From doing violence to the innocent dead.
HIP. I prithee, dear Matheo—--
MAT. Come, you’re mad!
HIP. I do arrest thee, murderer! Set down,
Villains, set down that sorrow, ’tis all mine!
DUKE. I do beseech you all, for my blood’s sake,
Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath
Join in confederacy with your weapons’ points;
If he proceed to vex us, let your swords
Seek out his bowels; funeral grief loathes words.
CAS. } Set on.
SIN., _&c._ }
HIP. Set down the body!
MAT. O my lord,
You’re wrong! I’ th’ open street? you see she’s dead.
HIP. I know she is not dead.
DUKE. Frantic young man,
Wilt thou believe these gentlemen?—Pray, speak—
Thou dost abuse my child, and mock’st the tears
That here are shed for her: if to behold
Those roses wither’d that set out her cheeks;
That pair of stars that gave her body light
Darken’d and dim for ever; all those rivers
That fed her veins with warm and crimson streams
Frozen and dried up; if these be signs of death,
Then is she dead. Thou unreligious youth,
Art not asham’d to empty all these eyes
Of funeral tears, a debt due to the dead,
As mirth is to the living? sham’st thou not
To have them stare on thee? Hark, thou art curs’d
Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak!
HIP. My lord——
DUKE. What wouldst thou have? is she not dead?
HIP. O, you ha’ kill’d her by your cruelty!
DUKE. Admit I had, thou kill’st her now again,
And art more savage than a barbarous Moor.
HIP. Let me but kiss her pale and bloodless lip.
DUKE. O fie, fie, fie!
HIP. Or if not touch her, let me look on her.
MAT. As you regard your honour——
HIP. Honour? smoke!
MAT. Or if you lov’d her living, spare her now.
DUKE. Ay, well done, sir; you play the gentleman—
Steal hence;—’tis nobly done;—away;—I’ll join
My force to yours, to stop this violent torrent[3]—
Pass on.
[_Exeunt with hearse, all except the Duke_,
HIPPOLITO, _and_ MATHEO.
HIP. Matheo, thou dost wound me more.
MAT. I give you physic, noble friend, not wounds.
DUKE. O, well said, well done, a true gentleman!
Alack, I know the sea of lovers’ rage
Comes rushing with so strong a tide, it beats
And bears down all respects of life, of honour,
Of friends, of foes! Forget her, gallant youth.
HIP. Forget her?
DUKE. Nay, nay, be but patient;
For why death’s hand hath sued a strict divorce
’Twixt her and thee: what’s beauty but a corse?
What but fair sand-dust are earth’s purest forms?
Queens’ bodies are but trunks to put in worms.
MAT. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip
hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I
warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here
somewhat too long already. [_Exit Duke._]—’Sblood, the
jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate
already, he should get loose again, and, like a mad ox,
toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour
his lordship. [_Aside._]—My lord Hippolito, is it in
your stomach to go to dinner?
HIP. Where is the body?
MAT. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to
be wormed.
HIP. I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn: I’ll see
how my love looks.
[MATHEO _holds_ HIPPOLITO _back_.
MAT. How your love looks? worse than a scarecrow.
Wrestle not with me; the great fellow gives the fall,
for a ducat.
HIP. I shall forget myself.
MAT. Pray, do so; leave yourself behind yourself, and go
whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base
rogues, that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their
noses by nothing but twopenny ale, make ballads of you?
If the duke had but so much metal in him as is in a
cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vexed thing; he and
his train had blown you up, but that their powder has
taken the wet of cowards: you’ll bleed three pottles of
Aligant,[4] by this light, if you follow ’em; and then
we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have
surgeons roll thee up, like a baby, in swaddling clouts.
HIP. What day is to-day, Matheo?
MAT. Yea, marry, this is an easy question: why, to-day
is—let me see—Thursday.
HIP. O, Thursday.
MAT. Here’s a coil for a dead commodity! ’sfoot, women
when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you
shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands.
HIP. She died on Monday then!
MAT. And that’s the most villanous day of all the
week to die in: and she was well and eat a mess of
water-gruel on Monday morning.
HIP. Ay? it cannot be
Such a bright taper should burn out so soon.
MAT. O yes, my lord. So soon? why, I ha’ known them that
at dinner have been as well, and had so much health that
they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock
have been found dead drunk.
HIP. On Thursday buried, and on Monday died!
Quick haste, byrlady;[5] sure her winding-sheet
Was laid out ’fore her body; and the worms,
That now must feast with her, were even bespoke,
And solemnly invited, like strange guests.
MAT. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and like
your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any
man’s trencher without bidding.
HIP. Curs’d be that day for ever that robb’d her
Of breath and me of bliss! henceforth let it stand
Within the wizard’s book, the calendar,
Mark’d with a marginal finger,[6] to be chosen
By thieves, by villains, and black murderers,
As the best day for them to labour in.
If henceforth this adulterous, bawdy world
Be got with child with treason, sacrilege,
Atheism, rapes, treacherous friendship, perjury,
Slander, the beggar’s sin, lies, sin of fools,
Or any other damn’d impieties,
On Monday let ’em be deliverèd.
I swear to thee, Matheo, by my soul,
Hereafter weekly on that day I’ll glue
Mine eyelids down, because they shall not gaze
On any female cheek; and being lock’d up
In my close chamber, there I’ll meditate
On nothing but my Infelice’s end,
Or on a dead man’s scull draw out mine own.
MAT. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday,
because it is so bad; but I hope upon Tuesday morning I
shall take you with a wench.
HIP. If ever, whilst frail blood through my veins run,
On woman’s beams I throw affection,
Save her that’s dead; or that I loosely fly
To th’ shore of any other wafting eye,
Let me not prosper, heaven! I will be true
Even to her dust and ashes: could her tomb
Stand, whilst I liv’d, so long that it might rot,
That should fall down, but she be ne’er forgot.
MAT. If you have this strange monster, honesty, in your
belly, why, so, jig-makers[7] and chroniclers shall pick
something out of you; but and[8] I smell not you and a
bawdyhouse out within these ten days, let my nose be as
big as an English bag-pudding. I’ll follow your
lordship, though it be to the place afore named.
[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Another Street._

_Enter_ FUSTIGO _in some fantastic sea-suit, meeting a
Porter._

FUS. How now, porter, will she come?
POR. If I may trust a woman, sir, she will come.
FUS. There’s for thy pains [_gives money_]: God-amercy,
if ever I stand in need of a wench that will come with a
wet finger,[9] porter, thou shalt earn my money before
any clarissimo[’s][10] in Milan: yet so, God sa’ me,
she’s mine own sister, body and soul, as I am a
Christian gentleman: farewell; I’ll ponder till she
come: thou hast been no bawd in fetching this woman, I
assure thee.
POR. No matter if I had, sir; better men than porters
are bawds.
FUS. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But,
porter, art sure thou went’st into a true house?
POR. I think so, for I met with no thieves.[11]
FUS. Nay, but art sure it was my sister Viola?
POR. I am sure, by all superscriptions, it was the party
you ciphered.
FUS. Not very tall?
POR. Nor very low; a middling woman.
FUS. ’Twas she, faith, ’twas she: a pretty plump cheek,
like mine?
POR. At a blush a little, very much like you.
FUS. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kicked up
her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage;
marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There’s a
little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay
[_gives money_]: farewell, honest porter.
POR. I am in your debt, sir; God preserve you.
FUS. Not so neither, good porter. [_Exit porter._] God’s
lid, yonder she comes.

_Enter_ VIOLA.

Sister Viola, I am glad to see you stirring: it’s news
to have me here, is’t not, sister?
VIO. Yes, trust me: I wondered who should be so bold to
send for me. You are welcome to Milan, brother.
FUS. Troth, sister, I heard you were married to a very
rich chuff, and I was very sorry for it that I had no
better clothes, and that made me send; for you know we
Milaners love to strut upon Spanish leather. And how
do[12] all our friends?
VIO. Very well. You ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to
sow your wild oats.
FUS. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw
at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and
reaped two hundred ducats, if I had ’em here. Marry, I
must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till
the ship come: by this hand, I’ll discharge at my day,
by this hand.
VIO. These are your old oaths.
FUS. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand?
VIO. Well, well, you shall have them. Put yourself into
better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious
matter.
FUS. I’ll sweat like a horse, if I like the matter.
VIO. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours?
FUS. I had not sailed a league in that great fish-pond,
the sea, but I cast up my very gall.
VIO. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true
swaggerer.
FUS. Nay, by this iron, sister, they shall find I am
powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me.
VIO. Then lend me your ears.
FUS. Mine ears are yours, dear sister.
VIO. I am married to a man that has wealth enough and
wit enough.
FUS. A linen-draper, I was told, sister.
VIO. Very true; a grave citizen. I want nothing that a
wife can wish from a husband; but here’s the spite, he
has not all things belonging to a man.
FUS. God’s my life, he’s a very mandrake;[13] or else,
God bless us, one a’ these whiblins,[14] and that’s
worse; and then all the children that he gets lawfully
of your body, sister, are bastards by a statute.
VIO. O, you run over me too fast, brother. I have heard
it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man: I
am sure my husband is a man in print[15] for all things
else save only in this, no tempest can move him.
FUS. ’Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should
ha’ been moved and moved again; for I’ll be sworn, la,
our drunken ship reeled like a Dutchman.
VIO. No loss of goods can increase in him a wrinkle; no
crabbed language make his countenance sour; the
stubbornness of no servant shake him: he has no more
gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant;
musician will he never be, yet I find much music in him,
but he loves no frets; and is so free from anger, that
many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it
wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to
anger their husbands: brother, mine can by no thunder
turn him into a sharpness.
FUS. Belike his blood, sister, is well brewed then.
VIO. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most
affectionately; but I know not—I ha’ such a tickling
within me—such a strange longing; nay, verily, I do
long.
FUS. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and
tokens: nay, I am partly a physician, and partly
something else; I ha’ read Albertus Magnus[16] and
Aristotle’s Problems.[17]
VIO. You’re wide a’ th’ bow-hand[18] still, brother: my
longings are not wanton, but wayward; I long to have my
patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent
the bristling quills may stick about his lips like a
Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me: I shall be leaner
than the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad.
FUS. ’Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make
him a cuckold.
VIO. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness.
FUS. The honester citizen he. Then make him drunk and
cut off his beard.[19]
VIO. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to fret at
the loss of a little scald hair.[20] No, brother, thus
it shall be—you must be secret.
FUS. As your midwife, I protest, sister, or a
barber-surgeon.
VIO. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s
street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a
brave[21] man; instead of the arms of your mistress, let
your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck.
FUS. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too,
sister.
VIO. O, by any means, to shew your light head, else your
hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in
all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer.
FUS. Nay, for swaggering points let me alone.
VIO. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s
presence, kiss me, snatch rings, jewels, or any thing,
so you give it back again, brother, in secret.
FUS. By this hand, sister.
VIO. Swear as if you came but new from knighting.
FUS. Nay, I’ll swear after 400 a-year.
VIO. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among fresh-water
soldiers; call me your love, your ingle,[22] your
cousin, or so, but sister at no hand.
FUS. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that’s
the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their
madcaps[23] that man ’em to the garden: to call you one
a’ mine aunts,[24] sister, were as good as call you
arrant whore: no, no, let me alone to cozen you rarely.
VIO. Has heard I have a brother, but never saw him;
therefore put on a good face.
FUS. The best in Milan, I warrant.
VIO. Take up wares, but pay nothing; rifle my bosom, my
pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice withal;
but, brother, you must give all back again in secret.
FUS. By this welkin[25] that here roars, I will, or else
let me never know what a secret is. Why, sister, do you
think I’ll cony-catch[26] you, when you are my cousin?
God’s my life, then I were a stark ass. If I fret not
his guts, beg me for a fool.[27]
VIO. Be circumspect, and do so then. Farewell.
FUS. The Tortoise, sister! I’ll stay there; forty
ducats!
VIO. Thither I’ll send. [_Exit_ FUSTIGO.] This law can
none deny,
Women must have their longings, or they die. _Exit._

SCENE III.

_A Chamber in the Duke’s Palace._

_Enter the Duke_, BENEDICT,[28] _and two Servants._

DUKE. Give charge that none do enter, lock the doors—
[_Speaking as he enters._
And, fellows, what your eyes and ears receive,
Upon your lives trust not the gadding air
To carry the least part of it. The glass, the
hour-glass!
BEN. Here, my lord. [_Brings hour-glass._
DUKE. Ah, ’tis near[29] spent!
But, doctor Benedict, does your art speak truth?
Art sure the soporiferous stream will ebb,
And leave the crystal banks of her white body
Pure as they were at first, just at the hour?
BEN. Just at the hour, my lord.
DUKE. Uncurtain her:
[_A curtain is drawn back, and_ INFELICE
_discovered lying on a couch._
Softly!—See, doctor, what[30] a coldish heat
Spreads over all her body!
BEN. Now it works:
The vital spirits, that by a sleepy charm
Were bound up fast, and threw an icy rust[31]
On her exterior parts, now 'gin to break:
Trouble her not, my lord.
DUKE. Some stools! [_Servants set stools._] You call’d
For music, did you not? O ho, it speaks, [_Music._
It speaks! Watch, sirs, her waking; note those sands.
Doctor, sit down: a dukedom that should weigh
Mine own down twice being put into one scale,
And that fond[32] desperate boy Hippolito
Making the weight up, should not at my hands
Buy her i’ th’ other, were her state more light
Than her’s who makes a dowry up with alms.
Doctor, I’ll starve her on the Apennine,
Ere he shall marry her. I must confess
Hippolito is nobly born; a man,
Did not mine enemies’ blood boil in his veins,
Whom I would court to be my son-in-law;
But princes, whose high spleens for empery swell,
Are not with easy art made parallel.
SERVANTS. She wakes, my lord.
DUKE. Look, doctor Benedict!—
I charge you, on your lives, maintain for truth
Whate’er the doctor or myself aver,
For you shall bear her hence to Bergamo.
INF. O God, what fearful dreams! [_Wakening._
BEN. Lady.
INF. Ha!
DUKE. Girl!
Why, Infelice, how is’t now, ha, speak?
INF. I’m well—what makes this doctor here?—I’m well.
DUKE. Thou wert not so even now: sickness’ pale hand
Laid hold on thee even in the midst[33] of feasting;
And when a cup, crown’d with thy lover’s health,
Had touch’d thy lips, a sensible cold dew
Stood on thy cheeks, as if that death had wept
To see such beauty alter.[34]
INF. I remember
I sate at banquet, but felt no such change.
DUKE. Thou hast forgot, then, how a messenger
Came wildly in, with this unsavoury news,
That he was dead?
INF. What messenger? who’s dead?
DUKE. Hippolito. Alack, wring not thy hands!
INF. I saw no messenger, heard no such news.
BEN. Trust me you did, sweet lady.
DUKE. La, you now!
SERVANTS. Yes, indeed, madam.
DUKE. La, you now!—’Tis well, good knaves![35]
INF. You ha’ slain him, and now you’ll murder me.
DUKE. Good Infelice, vex not thus thyself:
Of this the bad report before did strike
So coldly to thy[36] heart, that the swift currents
Of life were all frozen up—
INF. It is untrue,
’Tis most untrue, O most unnatural father!
DUKE. And we had much to do, by art’s best cunning,
To fetch life back again.
BEN. Most certain, lady.
DUKE. Why, la, you now, you’ll not believe me.—
Friends,
Sweat we not all? had we not much to do?
SERVANTS. Yes, indeed, my lord, much.
DUKE. Death drew such fearful pictures in thy face,
That, were Hippolito alive again,
I’d[37] kneel and woo the noble gentleman
To be thy husband: now I sore repent
My sharpness to him and his family.
Nay, do not weep for him; we all must die.—
Doctor, this place, where she so oft hath seen
His lively presence, hurts[38] her, does it not?
BEN. Doubtless, my lord, it does.
DUKE. It does, it does;
Therefore, sweet girl, thou shalt to Bergamo.
INF. Even where you will; in any place there’s woe.
DUKE. A coach is ready; Bergamo doth stand
In a most wholesome air, sweet walks; there’s deer—
Ay, thou shalt hunt, and send us venison,
Which, like some goddess in the Cyprian[39] groves,
Thine own fair hand shall strike.— Sirs, you shall teach
her
To stand, and how to shoot; ay, she shall hunt.—
Cast off this sorrow: in, girl, and prepare
This night to ride away to Bergamo.
INF. O most unhappy maid! [_Exit._
DUKE. Follow her[40] close:
No words that she was buried, on your lives,
Or that her ghost walks now after she’s dead;
I’ll hang you if you name a funeral.
FIRST SER. I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that
deadly word.
SEC. SER. And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than
Greek.
DUKE. Away; look to her. [_Exeunt Servants._]—Doctor
Benedict,
Did you observe how her complexion alter’d
Upon his name and death? O, would 'twere true!
BEN. It may, my lord.
DUKE. May! how? I wish his death.
BEN. And you may have your wish: say but the word,
And ’tis a strong spell to rip up his grave.
I have good knowledge with Hippolito;
He calls me friend: I’ll creep into his bosom,
And sting him there to death; poison can do’t.
DUKE. Perform it, I’ll create thee half mine heir.
BEN. It shall be done, although the fact be foul.
DUKE. Greatness hides sin; the guilt upon my soul!
[_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

_A Street._

_Enter_ CASTRUCHIO, PIORATTO, _and_ FLUELLO.

CAS. Signor Pioratto, signor Fluello, shall’s be merry?
shall’s play the wags now?
FLU. Ay, any thing that may beget the child of laughter.
CAS. Truth, I have a pretty sportive conceit new crept
into my brain, will move excellent mirth.
PIO. Let’s ha’t, let’s ha’t; and where shall the scene
of mirth lie?
CAS. At signor Candido’s house, the patient man, nay,
the monstrous patient man: they say his blood is
immoveable; that he has taken all patience from a man,
and all constancy from a woman.
FLU. That makes so many whores now-a-days.
CAS. Ay, and so many knaves too.
PIO. Well, sir.
CAS. To conclude,—the report goes, he’s so mild, so
affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can move him:
now do but think what sport it will be to make this
fellow, the mirror of patience, as angry, as vexed, and
as mad as an English cuckold.
FLU. O, 'twere admirable mirth that! but how will’t be
done, signor?
CAS. Let me alone; I have a trick, a conceit, a thing, a
device will sting him, i’faith, if he have but a
thimbleful of blood in’s belly, or a spleen not so big
as a tavern-token.[41]
PIO. Thou stir him, thou move him, thou anger him? alas,
I know his approved temper! thou vex him? why, he has a
patience above man’s injuries; thou mayest sooner raise
a spleen in an angel than rough humour in him. Why, I’ll
give you instance for it. This wonderfully tempered
signor Candido upon a time invited home to his house
certain Neapolitan lords of curious taste and no mean
palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves,[42] to
prepare cheer fitting for such honourable trenchermen.
She—just of a woman’s nature, covetous to try the
uttermost of vexation, and thinking at last to get the
start of his humour—willingly neglected the preparation,
and became unfurnished not only of dainty, but of
ordinary dishes. He, according to the mildness of his
breast, entertained the lords, and with courtly
discourse beguiled the time, as much as a citizen might
do. To conclude: they were hungry lords, for there came
no meat in; their stomachs were plainly gulled, and
their teeth deluded; and, if anger could have seized a
man, there was matter enough, i’faith, to vex any
citizen in the world, if he were not too much made a
fool by his wife.
FLU. Ay, I’ll swear for’t: ’sfoot, had it been my case,
I should ha’ played mad tricks with my wife and family;
first, I would ha’ spitted the men, stewed the maids,
and baked the mistress, and so served them in.
PIO. Why, 'twould ha’ tempted[43] any blood but his.
And thou to vex him! thou to anger him
With some poor, shallow jest!
CAS. ’Sblood, signor Pioratto, you that disparage my
conceit, I’ll wage a hundred ducats upon the head on’t,
that it moves him, frets him, and galls him.
PIO. Done; ’tis a lay;[44] join golls[45] on’t. Witness,
signor Fluello.
CAS. Witness: ’tis done.
Come, follow me; the house is not far off.
I’ll thrust him from his humour, vex his breast,
And win a hundred ducats by one jest. [_Exeunt._

SCENE V.

CANDIDO’S _Shop._

GEORGE _and the Prentices discovered: enter_ VIOLA.

VIO. Come, you put up your wares in good order here, do
you not, think you? one piece cast this way, another
that way! you had need have a patient master indeed.
GEO. Ay, I’ll be sworn, for we have a curst mistress.
[_Aside._
VIO. You mumble, do you? mumble? I would your master or
I could be a note more angry! for two patient folks in a
house spoil all the servants that ever shall come under
them.
FIRST P. You patient! ay, so is the devil when he is
horn-mad. [_Aside._

_Enter_ CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO, _and_ PIORATTO.

GEO. Gentlemen, what do you lack?
FIRST P. What is’t you buy?
SEC. P. See fine hollands, fine cambrics, fine
lawns.[46]
GEO. What is’t you lack?
SEC. P. What is’t you buy?
CAS. Where’s signor Candido, thy master?
GEO. Faith, signor, he’s a little negotiated; he’ll
appear presently.
CAS. Fellow, let’s see a lawn, a choice one, sirrah.
GEO. The best in all Milan, gentlemen, and this is the
piece. I can fit you, gentlemen, with fine callicoes too
for doublets; the only sweet fashion now, most delicate
and courtly, a meek gentle callico, cut upon two double
affable taffetas—ah, most neat, feat, and unmatchable!
FLU. A notable voluble-tongued villain!
PIO. I warrant this fellow was never begot without much
prating.
CAS. What, and is this she, sayest thou?
GEO. Ay, and the purest she that ever you fingered since
you were a gentleman: look how even she is; look how
clean she is, ha! as even as the brow of Cynthia, and as
clean as your sons and heirs when they ha’ spent all.
CAS. Pooh! thou talkest—pox on’t, ’tis rough.
GEO. How? is she rough? but if you bid pox on’t, sir,
'twill take away the roughness presently.
FLU. Ha, signor, has he fitted your French curse?
GEO. Look you, gentleman, here’s another; compare them,
I pray, _compara Virgilium cum Homero_, compare virgins
with harlots.
CAS. Pooh! I ha’ seen better, and, as you term them,
evener and cleaner.
GEO. You may see further for your mind, but trust me you
shall not find better for your body.

_Enter_ CANDIDO.

CAS. O, here he comes: let’s make as though we pass.
Come, come, we’ll try in some other shop.
CAN. How now? what’s the matter?
GEO. The gentlemen find fault with this lawn, fall out
with it, and without a cause too.
CAN. Without a cause?
And that makes you to let 'em pass away.—
Ah, may I crave a word with you, gentlemen?
FLU. He calls us.
CAS. Makes the better for the jest.
CAN. I pray come near. You’re very welcome, gallants;
Pray pardon my man’s rudeness, for I fear me
Has talk’d above a prentice with you. Lawns!
[_Shewing lawns._
Look you, kind gentlemen, this—no—ay, this;
Take this, upon my honest-dealing faith,
To be a true weave; not too hard, nor slack,
But e’en as far from falsehood as from black.
CAS. Well, how do you rate it?
CAN. Very conscionably; eighteen shillings a yard.
CAS. That’s too dear. How many yards does the whole
piece contain, think you?
CAN. Why, some seventeen yards, I think, or thereabouts.
How much would serve your turn, I pray?
CAS. Why, let me see—would it were better too!
CAN. Truth, ’tis the best in Milan, at few words.
CAS. Well, let me have then—a whole pennyworth.
CAN. Ha, ha! you’re a merry gentleman.
CAS. A penn’orth, I say.
CAN. Of lawn?
CAS. Of lawn? ay, of lawn; a penn’orth. ’Sblood, dost
not hear? a whole penn’orth: are you deaf?
CAN. Deaf? no, sir; but I must tell you,
Our wares do seldom meet such customers.
CAS. Nay, and[47] you and your lawns be so squeamish,
fare you well.
CAN. Pray stay; a word, pray, signor: for what purpose
is it, I beseech you?
CAS. ’Sblood, what’s that to you? I’ll have a
pennyworth.
CAN. A pennyworth! why you shall: I’ll serve you
presently.
SEC. P. ’Sfoot, a pennyworth, mistress!
VIO. A pennyworth! call you these gentlemen?
CAS. No, no; not there.
CAN. What then, kind gentleman?
What, at this corner here?
CAS. No, nor there neither;
I’ll have it just in the middle, or else not.
CAN. Just in the middle!—ha—you shall too: what,
Have you a single penny?
CAS. Yes, here’s one.
CAN. Lend it me, I pray.
FLU. An excellent followed jest!
VIO. What, will he spoil the lawn now?
CAN. Patience, good wife.
VIO. Ay, that patience makes a fool of you.—Gentlemen,
you might ha’ found some other citizen to have made a
kind gull on besides my husband.
CAN. Pray, gentlemen, take her to be a woman;
Do not regard her language.—O, kind soul,
Such words will drive away my customers.
VIO. Customers with a murrain! call you these customers?
CAN. Patience, good wife. [_Cuts the lawn._
VIO. Pax[48] a’ your patience!
GEO. ’Sfoot, mistress, I warrant these are some cheating
companions.[49]
CAN. Look you, gentleman, there’s your ware; I thank
you,
I have your money here; pray know my shop,
Pray let me have your custom.
VIO. Custom, quoth 'a?
CAN. Let me take more of your money.
VIO. You had need so.
PIO. Hark in thine ear; thou’st lost an hundred
ducats.
CAS. Well, well, I know’t: is’t possible that homo
Should be nor man nor woman? not once mov’d,
No, not at such an injury, not at all?
Sure he’s a pigeon, for he has no gall.
FLU. Come, come, you’re angry, though you smother it;
You’re vex’d, i’faith; confess.
CAN. Why, gentlemen,
Should you conceit me to be vex’d or mov’d?
He has my ware, I have his money for’t,
And that’s no argument I’m angry; no,
The best logician cannot prove me so.
FLU. O, but the hateful name of a penn’orth of lawn!
And then cut out i’ th’ middle of the piece!
Pah, I guess it by myself, ['t]would move a lamb,
Were he a linen-draper, 'twould, i’faith.
CAN. Well, give me leave to answer you for that:
We are set here to please all customers,
Their humours and their fancies; offend none:
We get by many, if we leese[50] by one.
May be his mind stood to no more than that;
A penn’orth serves him: and 'mongst trades ’tis found,
Deny a penn’orth, it may cross a pound.
O, he that means to thrive, with patient eye
Must please the devil, if he come to buy!
FLU. O wond’rous man, patient 'bove wrong or woe!
How blest were men, if women could be so!
CAN. And to express how well my breast is pleas’d
And satisfied in all—George, fill a beaker: [_Exit_
GEORGE.
I’ll drink unto that gentleman who lately
Bestow’d his money with me.
VIO. God’s my life,
We shall have all our gains drunk out in beakers,
To make amends for pennyworths of lawn!

_Re-enter_ GEORGE _with beaker._

CAN. Here, wife, begin you to the gentleman.
VIO. I begin to him! [_Spills the wine._
CAN. George, fill’t up again:
'Twas my fault, my hand shook. [_Exit_ GEORGE.
PIO. How strangely this doth show,
A patient man link’d with a waspish shrow![51]
FLU. A silver and gilt beaker! I’ve a trick
To work upon that beaker; sure 'twill fret him;
It cannot choose but vex him. [_Aside._]—Signor
Castruchio,
In pity to thee, I have a conceit
Will save thy hundred ducats yet; 'twill do’t,
And work him to impatience.
CAS. Sweet Fluello,
I should be bountiful to that conceit.
FLU. Well, ’tis enough.

_Re-enter_ GEORGE _with beaker._

CAN. Here, gentleman, to you;
I wish your custom; you’re exceeding welcome.
[_Drinks._
CAS. I pledge you,[52] signor Candido.—
[_Drinks._

Here you that must receive a hundred ducats.
PIO. I’ll pledge them deep, i’faith, Castruchio.—
Signor Fluello. [_Drinks._
FLU. Come, play’t off to me;
I am your last man.
CAN. George, supply the cup.
[_Exit_ GEORGE, _who returns with beaker filled._
FLU. So, so, good, honest George.—
Here, signor Candido, all this to you.
CAN. O, you must pardon me; I use it not.
FLU. Will you not pledge me then?
CAN. Yes, but not that:
Great love is shewn in little.
FLU. Blurt[53] on your sentences!
’Sfoot, you shall pledge me all.
CAN. Indeed I shall not.
FLU. Not pledge me? ’Sblood, I’ll carry away the
beaker then.
CAN. The beaker! O, that at your pleasure, sir.
FLU. Now, by this drink, I will. [_Drinks._
CAS. Pledge him; he’ll do’t else.
FLU. So: I ha’ done you right on my thumbnail.[54]
What, will you pledge me now?
CAN. You know me, sir,
I am not of that sin.
FLU. Why, then, farewell:
I’ll bear away the beaker, by this light.
CAN. That’s as you please; ’tis very good.
FLU. Nay, it doth please me; and, as you say, ’tis a
very good one: farewell, signor Candido.
PIO. Farewell, Candido.
CAN. You’re welcome, gentlemen.
CAS. Heart, not mov’d yet?
I think his patience is above our wit.
[_Exeunt_ CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO _carrying off
the beaker, and_ PIORATTO.
GEO. I told you before, mistress, they were all
cheaters.
VIO. Why, fool! why, husband! why, madman! I hope you
will not let 'em sneak away so with a silver and gilt
beaker, the best in the house too.—Go, fellows, make hue
and cry after them.
CAN. Pray, let your tongue lie still; all will be
well.—
Come hither, George; hie to the constable,
And in calm order wish[55] him to attach them;
Make no great stir, because they’re gentlemen,
And a thing partly done in merriment:
’Tis but a size above a jest, thou knowest;
Therefore pursue it mildly. Go, begone;
The constable’s hard by, bring him along;
Make haste again. [_Exit_ GEORGE.
VIO. O, you’re a goodly patient woodcock, are you not
now? See what your patience comes to! every one saddles
you, and rides you; you’ll be shortly the common
stone-horse of Milan: a woman’s well holped up with such
a meacock.[56] I had rather have a husband that would
swaddle[57] me thrice a-day, than such a one that will
be gulled twice in half an hour. O, I could burn all the
wares in my shop for anger!
CAN. Pray, wear a peaceful temper; be my wife,
That is, be patient; for a wife and husband
Share but one soul between them: this being known,
Why should not one soul then agree in one?
VIO. Hang your agreements! but if my beaker be gone——
[_Exit._

_Re-enter_ CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO, PIORATTO, _and_ GEORGE.

CAN. O, here they come.
GEO. The constable, sir, let 'em come along with me,
because there should be no wondering: he stays at door.
CAS. Constable, goodman Abra’m![58]
FLU. Now, signor Candido, ’sblood, why do you attach us?
CAS. ’Sheart, attach us!
CAN. Nay, swear not, gallants;
Your oaths may move your souls, but not move me:
You have a silver beaker of my wife’s.
FLU. You say not true; ’tis gilt.
CAN. Then you say true;
And being gilt, the guilt lies more on you.
CAS. I hope you’re not angry, sir.
CAN. Then you hope right;
For I’m not angry.
PIO. No, but a little mov’d.
CAN. I mov’d? ’twas you were mov’d, you were brought
hither.
CAS. But you, out of your anger and impatience,
Caus’d us to be attach’d.
CAN. Nay, you misplace it:
Out of my quiet sufferance I did that,
And not of any wrath. Had I shewn anger,
I should have then pursu’d you with the law,
And hunted you to shame; as many worldlings
Do build their anger upon feebler grounds;
The more’s the pity! many lose their lives
For scarce so much coin as will hide their palm;
Which is most cruel. Those have vexed spirits
That pursue lives. In this opinion rest,
The loss of millions could not move my breast.
FLU. Thou art a blest man, and with peace dost deal;
Such a meek spirit can bless a commonweal.
CAN. Gentlemen, now ’tis upon eating-time;
Pray, part not hence, but dine with me to-day.
CAS. I never heard a carter yet say nay
To such a motion: I’ll not be the first.
PIO. Nor I.
FLU. Nor I.
CAN. The constable shall bear you company—
George, call him in.—Let the world say what it can,
Nothing can drive me from a patient man.
[_Exeunt._