Chapter V: Act IV: Scene I

_A Chamber in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House_.

_Enter a Servant._

SER. So, this is Monday morning; and now must I to my
huswifery. [_Sets out a table, and places on it a skull,
a picture of_ INFELICE, _a book, and a taper_.] Would I
had been created a shoemaker! for all the gentle craft
are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then
to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me
into a student; for here’s my book, here my desk, here
my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so
that this dull drowzy first day of the week makes me
half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a
sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office
is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look
you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as
ever my back’s turned, will be naught together.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

HIP. Are all the window’s shut?
SER. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath
stood in three reigns.
HIP. Thou art a faithful servant, and observ’st
The calendar both of my solemn vows
And ceremonious sorrow. Get thee gone:
I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound
Of any woman’s voice pierce through that door.
SER. If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them. What
will your lordship have to breakfast?
HIP. Sighs.
SER. What to dinner?
HIP. Tears.
SER. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of
wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?
HIP. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy
of a woman.
SER. Indeed, that’s harder to come by than ever was
Ostend.[159]
HIP. Prithee, away.
SER. I’ll make away myself presently, which few servants
will do for their lords, but rather help to make them
away.—Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something
out of it. [_Aside, and exit._
HIP. [_taking up_ INFELICE’S _picture_.] My Infelice’s
face, her brow, her eye,
The dimple on her cheek! and such sweet skill
Hath from the cunning workman’s pencil flown,
These lips look fresh and lively as her own,
Seeming to move and speak. 'Las, now I see
The reason why fond[160] women love to buy
Adulterate complexion! here ’tis read;
False colours last after the true be dead:
Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,
Of all the music set upon her tongue,
Of all that was past woman’s excellence
In her white bosom, look, a painted board
Circumscribes all! earth can no bliss afford,
Nothing of her, but this: this cannot speak;
It has no lap for me to rest upon,
No lip worth tasting; here the worms will feed,
As in her coffin: hence then, idle art!
True love’s best pictur’d in a true-love’s heart:
Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead;
So that thou liv’st twice, twice art buried:
Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What’s here?
[_Takes up the skull._
Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy’s:
'Las, say it were, I need not fear him now!
For all his braves, his contumelious breath,
His frowns, though dagger-pointed, all his plot[s],
Though ne’er so mischievous, his Italian pills,
His quarrels, and that common fence, his law,
See, see, they’re all eaten out! here’s not left one:
How clean they’re pick’d away to the bare bone!
How mad are mortals, then, to rear great names
On tops of swelling houses! or to wear out
Their fingers’ ends in dirt, to scrape up gold!
Not caring, so that sumpter-horse the back
Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse,
Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul:
Yet, after all, their gayness looks thus foul.
What fools are men to build a garish tomb,
Only to save the carcass whilst it rots,
To maintain’t long in stinking, make good carrion,
But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound!
For good deeds keep men sweet long above ground.
And must all come to this? fools, wise, all hither?
Must all heads thus at last be laid together?
Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman,
After this fashion, not like this; these colours,
In time, kissing but air will be kiss’d off;
But here’s a fellow, that which he lays on
Till doomsday alters not complexion:
Death’s the best painter then: they that draw shapes,
And live by wicked faces, are but God’s apes;
They come but near the life, and there they stay:
This fellow draws life too; his art is fuller,
The pictures which he makes are without colour.

_Re-enter Servant._

SER. Here’s a person would speak with you, sir.
HIP. Hah!
SER. A parson,[161] sir, would speak with you.
HIP. Vicar?
SER. Vicar! no, sir, has too good a face to be a vicar
yet; a youth, a very youth.
HIP. What youth? of man or woman? lock the doors.
SER. If it be a woman, marrow-bones and potato-pies[162]
keep me from[163] meddling with her, for the thing has
got the breeches! ’tis a male varlet[164] sure, my lord,
for a woman’s tailor ne’er measured him.
HIP. Let him give thee his message, and be gone.
SER. He says he’s signor Matheo’s man; but I know he
lies.
HIP. How dost thou know it?
SER. 'Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think,
sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing.
HIP. Send him, and keep the door. [_Exit Servant._
_Fata[165] si liceat mihi_ [_Reads._
_Fingere arbitrio meo,
Temperem zephyro levi
Vela_—
I’d sail, were I to choose, not in the ocean;
Cedars are shaken when shrubs do feel no bruise—

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT _dressed as a page, with a letter_.

How, from Matheo?
BEL. Yes, my lord.
HIP. Art sick?
BEL. Not all in health, my lord.
HIP. Keep off.
BEL. I do.—
Hard fate when women are compell’d to woo! [_Aside._
HIP. This paper does speak nothing.
BEL. Yes, my lord,
Matter of life it speaks, and therefore writ
In hidden character: to me instruction
My master gives, and, 'less you please to stay
Till you both meet, I can the text display.
HIP. Do so; read out.
BEL. I am already out:
Look on my face, and read the strangest story!
HIP. What, villain, ho!

_Re-enter Servant._

SER. Call you, my lord?
HIP. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil!
SER. Lord bless us, where? he’s not cloven, my lord,
that I can see; besides, the devil goes more like a
gentleman than a page: good my lord, _buon coraggio_!
HIP. Thou hast let in a woman in man’s shape,
And thou art damned for’t.
SER. Not damn’d, I hope,
For putting in a woman to a lord.
HIP. Fetch me my rapier—do not; I shall kill thee.
Purge this infected chamber of that plague
That runs upon me thus; slave, thrust her hence.
SER. Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her
hence without help!—Come, mermaid, you must to sea
again.
BEL. Hear me but speak, my words shall be all music;
Hear me but speak. [_Knocking within._
HIP. Another beats the door;
T'other she-devil! look.
SER. Why, then, hell’s broke loose.
HIP. Hence; guard the chamber; let no more come on;
[_Exit Servant._
One woman serves for man’s damnation.—
Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate
The chastest and most sanctimonious vow
That e’er was enter’d in the court of heaven!
I was, on meditation’s spotless wings,[166]
Upon my journey thither: like a storm
Thou beats my ripen’d cogitations
Flat to the ground; and like a thief dost stand,
To steal devotion from the holy land.
BEL. If woman were thy mother—if thy heart
Be not all marble, or if’t marble be,
Let my tears soften it, to pity me—
I do beseech thee, do not thus with scorn
Destroy a woman!
HIP. Woman, I beseech thee,
Get thee some other suit, this fits thee not;
I would not grant it to a kneeling queen.
I cannot love thee, nor I must not: see
[_Points to_ INFELICE’S _picture_.
The copy of that obligation,
Where my soul’s bound in heavy penalties.
BEL. She’s dead, you told me; she’ll let fall her
suit.
HIP. My vows to her fled after her to heaven:
Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou might’st behold her
Watching upon yon battlements of stars,
How I observe them. Should I break my bond,
This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips
Call me most perjur’d villain. Let it suffice,
I ha’ set thee in the path: is’t not a sign
I love thee, when with one so most most dear
I’ll have thee fellow?[167] all are fellows there.
BEL. Be greater than a king; save not a body,
But from eternal shipwreck keep a soul:
If not, and that again sin’s path I tread,
The grief be mine, the guilt fall on thy head!
HIP. Stay, and take physic for it; read this book;
Ask counsel of this head, what’s to be done;
He’ll strike it dead, that ’tis damnation
If you turn Turk again.[168] O do it not!
Though[169] heaven can not allure you to do well,
From doing ill let hell fright you: and learn this,
The soul whose bosom lust did never touch
Is God’s fair bride, and maidens’ souls are such:
The soul that, leaving chastity’s white shore,
Swims in hot sensual streams, is the devil’s whore.—

_Re-enter Servant with letter._

How now? who comes?
SER. No more knaves,[170] my lord, that wear smocks:
here’s a letter from doctor Benedict; I would not enter
his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he
should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry,
they are half witches.[171]—’Slid, you are a sweet youth
to wear a codpiece,[172] and have no pins to stick
upon’t!
HIP. I’ll meet the doctor, tell him: yet to-night
I cannot; but at morrow rising sun
I will not fail. [_Exit Servant._]—Go, woman; fare thee
well. [_Exit._
BEL. The lowest fall can be but into hell.
It does not move him; I must therefore fly
From this undoing city, and with tears
Wash off all anger from my father’s brow:
He cannot sure but joy seeing me new born.
A woman honest first, and then turn whore,
Is, as with me, common to thousands more;
But from a strumpet to turn chaste, that sound
Has oft been heard, that woman hardly found. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A Street._

_Enter_ FUSTIGO, CRAMBO, _and_ POH.[173]

FUS. Hold up your hands, gentlemen: here’s one, two,
three [_giving money_]—nay, I warrant they are sound
pistols,[174] and without flaws; I had them of my
sister, and I know she uses to put [up] nothing that’s
cracked—three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and nine:
by this hand, bring me but a piece of his blood, and you
shall have nine more. I’ll lurk in a tavern not far off,
and provide supper to close up the end of the tragedy.
The linen-draper’s, remember. Stand to’t, I beseech you,
and play your parts perfectly.
CRAM. Look you, signor, ’tis not your gold that we
weigh——
FUS. Nay, nay, weigh it, and spare not; if it lack one
grain of corn, I’ll give you a bushel of wheat to make
it up.
CRAM. But by your favour, signor, which of the servants
is it? because we’ll punish justly.
FUS. Marry, ’tis the head man; you shall taste him by
his tongue; a pretty, tall, prating fellow, with a
Tuscalonian beard.
POH. Tuscalonian? very good.
FUS. Cod’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a
gentleman; my coxcomb was dry-beaten, as if my hair had
been hemp.
CRAM. We’ll dry-beat some of them.
FUS. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried murder
out very manfully: I have her consent, in a manner, to
have him peppered, else I’ll not do’t to win more than
ten cheaters do at a rifling:[175] break but his pate or
so, only his mazer,[176] because I’ll have his head in a
cloth as well as mine; he’s a linen-draper, and may take
enough. I could enter mine action of battery against
him, but we may 'haps be both dead and rotten before the
lawyers would end it.
CRAM. No more to do but ensconce yourself i’ th’ tavern;
provide no great cheer, a[177] couple of capons, some
pheasants, plovers, an orangado pie, or so: but how
bloody soe’er the day be, sally you not forth.
FUS. No, no; nay, if I stir, somebody shall stink; I’ll
not budge; I’ll lie like a dog in a manger.
CRAM. Well, well, to the tavern; let not our supper be
raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful.
FUS. That’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst after; blood
for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head,
plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call
your names? because I’ll leave word, if any such come to
the bar.
CRAM. My name is corporal Crambo.
POH. And mine, lieutenant Poh.
CRAM. Poh is as tall[178] a man as ever opened oyster: I
would not be the devil to meet Poh: farewell.
FUS. Nor I, by this light, if Poh be such a Poh.
[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

CANDIDO’S _Shop_.

_Enter_ VIOLA _and two Prentices_.

VIO. What’s a’ clock now?
SEC. P. ’Tis almost twelve.
VIO. That’s well;
The senate will leave wording presently:
But is George ready?
SEC. P. Yes, forsooth, he’s furbish’d.
VIO. Now as you ever hope to win my favour,
Throw both your duties and respects on him
With the like awe as if he were your master:
Let not your looks betray it with a smile
Or jeering glance to any customer;
Keep a true settled countenance, and beware
You laugh not, whatsoe’er you hear or see.
SEC. P. I warrant you, mistress, let us alone for
keeping our countenance; for, if I list, there’s never a
fool in all Milan shall make me laugh, let him play the
fool never so like an ass, whether it be the fat
court-fool or the lean city-fool.
VIO. Enough then; call down George.
SEC. P. I hear him coming.
VIO. Be ready with your legs[179] then, let me see
How courtesy would become him.—

_Enter_ GEORGE _in_ CANDIDO’S _apparel_.

Gallantly!
Beshrew my blood, a proper seemly man,
Of a choice carriage, walks with a good port!
GEO. I thank you, mistress; my back’s broad enough, now
my master’s gown’s on.
VIO. Sure I should think it were the least of sin
To mistake the master, and to let him in.
GEO. 'Twere a good Comedy of Errors[180] that,
i’faith.
SEC. P. Whist, whist! my master.
VIO. You all know your tasks.—

_Enter_ CANDIDO,[181] _dressed as before in the carpet:
he stares at_ GEORGE, _and exit_.'

God’s my life, what’s that he has got upon’s back? who
can tell?
GEO. That can I, but I will not.
VIO. Girt about him like a madman! what, has he lost his
cloak too? This is the maddest fashion that e’er I saw.
What said he, George, when he passed by thee?
GEO. Troth, mistress, nothing; not so much as a bee, he
did not hum; not so much as a bawd, he did not hem; not
so much as a cuckold, he did not ha; neither hum, hem,
nor ha; only stared me in the face, past along, and made
haste in, as if my looks had worked with him to give him
a stool.
VIO. Sure he’s vex’d now, this trick has mov’d his
spleen;
He’s anger’d now, because he utter’d nothing,
And wordless wrath breaks out more violent.
May be he’ll strive for place when he comes down,
But if thou lov’st me, George, afford him none.

GEO. Nay, let me alone to play my master’s prize,[182]
as long as my mistress warrants me: I’m sure I have his
best clothes on, and I scorn to give place to any that
is inferior in apparel to me; that’s an axiom, a
principle, and is observed as much as the fashion: let
that persuade you then, that I’ll shoulder with him for
the upper hand in the shop as long as this chain will
maintain it.
VIO. Spoke with the spirit of a master, though with the
tongue of a prentice!—

_Re-enter_ CANDIDO _dressed as a prentice_.

Why, how now, madman? what, in your tricksi-coats?
CAN. O peace, good mistress!—

_Enter_ CRAMBO _and_ POH.[183]

See, what you lack?[184] what is’t you buy? pure
callicoes, fine hollands, choice cambrics, neat lawns:
see, what you buy? pray, come near, my master will use
you well, he can afford you a pennyworth.
VIO. Ay, that he can, out of a whole piece of lawn,
i’faith.
CAN. Pray, see your choice here, gentlemen.
VIO. O fine fool! what, a madman? a patient madman? who
ever heard of the like! well, sir, I’ll fit you and your
humour presently: what, cross-points? I’ll untie 'em all
in a trice; I’ll vex you, faith.—Boy, take your cloak;
quick, come. [_Exit with First Prentice._
CAN. Be cover’d,[185] George; this chain and welted
gown[186]
Bare to this coat? then the world’s upside down.
GEO. Umh, umh, hum.
CRAM. That’s the shop,[187] and there’s the fellow.
POH. Ay, but the master is walking in there.
CRAM. No matter; we’ll in.
POH. ’Sblood, dost long to lie in limbo?
CRAM. And[188] limbo be in hell, I care not.
CAN. Look you, gentlemen, your choice: cambrics?
CRAM. No, sir, some shirting.
CAN. You shall.
CRAM. Have you none of this striped canvass for
doublets?
CAN. None striped, sir, but plain.
SEC. P. I think there be one piece striped within.
GEO. Step, sirrah, and fetch it; hum, hum, hum.
[_Exit Sec. Prentice,[189] and returns with the piece._
CAN. Look you, gentlemen,
I’ll make but one spreading; here’s a piece of cloth,
Fine, yet shall wear like iron, ’tis without fault;
Take this upon my word, ’tis without fault.
CRAM. Then ’tis better than you, sirrah.
CAN. Ay, and a number more. O that each soul
Were but as spotless as this innocent white,
And had as few breaks in it!
CRAM. 'Twould have some then:
There was a fray here last day in this shop.
CAN. There was indeed a little flea-biting.
POH. A gentleman had his pate broke; call you that but a
flea-biting?
CAN. He had so.
CRAM. Zounds, do you stand in’t? [_Strikes_ CANDIDO.
GEO. ’Sfoot, clubs, clubs![190] prentices, down with
'em!—

_Enter several Prentices with clubs, who disarm_
CRAMBO _and_ POH.

Ah, you rogues, strike a citizen in’s shop!
CAN. None of you stir, I pray; forbear, good George.
CRAM. I beseech you, sir; we mistook our marks; deliver
us our weapons.
GEO. Your head bleeds, sir; cry, clubs!
CAN. I say you shall not; pray, be patient;
Give them their weapons.—Sirs, you’re best be gone;
I tell you, here are boys more tough than bears:
Hence, lest more fists do walk about your ears.
CRAM. } We thank you, sir.
POH. }
[_Exeunt._
CAN. You shall not follow them;
Let them alone, pray: this did me no harm;
Troth, I was cold, and the blow made me warm;
I thank 'em for’t: besides, I had decreed
To have a vein prick’d, I did mean to bleed,
So that there’s money sav’d: they’re honest men;
Pray, use 'em well when they appear agen.[191]
GEO. Yes, sir, we’ll use 'em like honest men.
CAN. Ay, well said, George, like honest men, though
they
Be arrant knaves; for that’s the phrase[192] of the
city.
Help to lay up these wares.

_Re-enter_ VIOLA _and First Prentice, with Officers_.

VIO. Yonder he stands.
FIRST OFF. What, in a prentice-coat?
VIO. Ay, ay; mad, mad: pray, take heed.
CAN. How now?
What news with them? what make they with my wife?
Officers? is she attach’d?—Look to your wares.
VIO. He talks to himself: O, he’s much gone indeed!
FIRST OFF. Pray, pluck up a good heart, be not so
fearful.—
Sirs, hark, we’ll gather to him by degrees.
VIO. Ay, ay, by degrees, I pray. O me, what makes he
with the lawn in his hand? he’ll tear all the ware in my
shop.
FIRST OFF. Fear not, we’ll catch him on a sudden.
VIO. O, you had need do so: pray, take heed of your
warrant.
FIRST OFF. I warrant, mistress.—Now, signor Candido.
CAN. Now, sir, what news with you, sir?
VIO. What news with you? he says: O, he’s far gone!
FIRST OFF. I pray, fear nothing; let’s alone with
him.—
Signor, you look not like yourself, methinks—
Steal you a’ t’other side—you’re chang’d, you’re
alter’d.
CAN. Chang’d, sir? why, true, sir. Is change strange?
’tis not
The fashion unless it alter: monarchs turn
To beggars, beggars creep into the nests
Of princes, masters serve their prentices,
Ladies their serving-men, men turn to women.
FIRST OFF. And women turn to men.
CAN. Ay, and women turn to men, you say true; ha, ha! a
mad world, a mad world! [_Officers seize_ CANDIDO.
FIRST OFF. Have we caught you, sir?
CAN. Caught me? well, well, you have caught me.
VIO. He laughs in your faces.
GEO. A rescue, prentices! my master’s catch-poll’d.
FIRST OFF. I charge you, keep the peace, or have your
legs
Garter’d with irons! we have from the duke
A warrant strong enough for what we do.
CAN. I pray, rest quiet; I desire no rescue.
VIO. La, he desires no rescue; 'las, poor heart,
He talks against himself!
CAN. Well, what’s the matter?
FIRST OFF. Look to that arm; [_Officers bind_
CANDIDO.
Pray, make sure work, double the cord.
CAN. Why, why!—VIO. Look how his head goes! should he
get but loose,
O, 'twere as much as all our lives were worth!
FIRST OFF. Fear not, we’ll make all sure for our own
safety.
CAN. Are you at leisure now? well, what’s the matter?
Why do I enter into bonds thus, ha?
FIRST OFF. Because you’re mad, put fear upon your
wife.
VIO. O ay; I went in danger of my life every minute.
CAN. What, am I mad, say you, and I not know it?
FIRST OFF. That proves you mad, because you
know it not.
VIO. Pray, talk as little to him as you can;
You see he’s too far spent.
CAN. Bound with strong cord!
A sister’s[193] thread, i’faith, had been enough
To lead me any where.—Wife, do you long?
You are mad too, or else you do me wrong.
GEO. But are you mad indeed, master?
CAN. My wife says so,
And what she says, George, is all truth, you know.—
And whither now? to Bethlem Monastery?
Ha, whither?
FIRST OFF. Faith, e’en to the madmen’s pound.
CAN. a’ God’s name! still I feel my patience sound.
[_Exeunt Officers with_ CANDIDO.
GEO. Come, we’ll see whither he goes: if the master be
mad, we are his servants, and must follow his steps;
we’ll be mad-caps too.—Farewell, mistress; you shall
have us all in Bedlam.
[_Exeunt_ GEORGE _and Prentices_.
VIO. I think I ha’ fitted now you and your clothes.
If this move not his patience, nothing can;
I’ll swear then I’ve a saint, and not a man. [_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_Grounds near the Duke’s Palace._

_Enter_ DUKE, BENEDICT, FLUELLO, CASTRUCHIO, _and_
PIORATTO.

DUKE. Give us a little leave.—
[_Exeunt_ FLUELLO, CASTRUCHIO, _and_ PIORATTO.
Doctor, your news.
BEN. I sent for him, my lord: at last he came,
And did receive all speech that went from me
As gilded pills made to prolong his health:
My credit with him wrought it; for some men
Swallow even empty hooks, like fools that fear
No drowning where ’tis deepest, 'cause ’tis clear.
In th’ end we sat and eat: a health I drank
To Infelice’s sweet departed soul;
This train I knew would take.
DUKE. 'Twas excellent.
BEN. He fell with such devotion on his knees,
To pledge the same——
DUKE. Fond, superstitious fool!
BEN. That had he been inflam’d with zeal of prayer
He could not pour’t out with more reverence.
About my neck he hung, wept on my cheek,
Kiss’d it, and swore he would adore my lips,
Because they brought forth Infelice’s name.
DUKE. Ha, ha! alack, alack!
BEN. The cup he lifts up high, and thus he said,
Here, noble maid!—drinks, and was poisoned.
DUKE. And died?
BEN. And died, my lord.
DUKE. Thou in that word
Hast piec’d mine aged hours out with more years
Than thou hast taken from Hippolito.
A noble youth he was; but lesser branches,
Hindering the greater’s growth, must be lopt off,
And feed the fire. Doctor, we’re now all thine,
And use us so; be bold.
BEN. Thanks, gracious lord!—
My honour’d lord——
DUKE. Hum.
BEN. I do beseech your grace to bury deep
This bloody act of mine.
DUKE. Nay, nay, for that,
Doctor, look you to’t, me it shall not move;
They’re curs’d that ill do, not that ill do love.
BEN. You throw an angry forehead on my face;
But be you pleas’d backward thus far[194] to look,
That for your good this evil I undertook——
DUKE. Ay, ay, we conster[195] so.
BEN. And only for your love.
DUKE. Confess’d; ’tis true.
BEN. Nor let it stand against me as a bar,
To thrust me from your presence; nor believe,
As princes have quick thoughts, that now my finger
Being dipt in blood, I will not spare the hand,
But that for gold—as what can gold not do?—
I may be hir’d to work the like on you.
DUKE. Which to prevent——
BEN. ’Tis from my heart as far——
DUKE. No matter, doctor: 'cause I’ll fearless sleep,
And that you shall stand clear of that suspicion,
I banish thee for ever from my court.
This principle is old, but true as fate,
Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate.
[_Exit._
BEN. Is’t so? Nay, then, duke, your stale principle
With one as stale the doctor thus shall quit,—
He falls himself that digs another’s pit.—

_Enter Servant._

How now? where is he? will he meet me?
SER. Meet you, sir? he might have met with three fencers
in this time, and have received less hurt than by
meeting one doctor of physic. Why, sir, has walked under
the old Abbey-wall yonder this hour, till he’s more cold
than a citizen’s country-house in Janivere.[196] You may
smell him behind, sir: la, you, yonder he comes.
BEN. Leave me.
SER. I’ th’ lurch, if you will. [_Exit._

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

BEN. O my most noble friend!
HIP. Few but yourself
Could have entic’d me thus to trust the air
With my close sighs. You sent[197] for me; what news?
BEN. Come, you must doff this black; dye that pale
cheek
Into his own colour; go, attire yourself
Fresh as a bridegroom when he meets his bride.
The duke has done much treason to thy love;
’Tis now revealed, ’tis now to be reveng’d:
Be merry, honour’d friend! thy lady lives.
HIP. What lady?
BEN. Infelice; she’s reviv’d:
Reviv’d? alack, death never had the heart
To take breath from her!
HIP. Umh, I thank you, sir:
Physic prolongs life when it cannot save;
This helps not my hopes, mine are in their grave:
You do some wrong to mock me.
BEN. By that love
Which I have ever borne you, what I speak
Is truth; the maiden lives: that funeral,
Duke’s tears, the mourning, was all counterfeit;
A sleepy draught cozen’d the world and you:
I was his minister; and then chamber’d up,
To stop discovery.
HIP. O treacherous duke!
BEN. He cannot hope so certainly for bliss
As he believes that I have poison’d you.
He woo’d me to’t; I yielded, and confirm’d him
In his most bloody thoughts.
HIP. A very devil!
BEN. Her did he closely coach to Bergamo;
And thither——
HIP. Will I ride: stood Bergamo
In the low countries of black hell, I’ll to her.
BEN. You shall to her, but not to Bergamo.
How passion makes you fly beyond yourself!
Much of that weary journey I ha’ cut off;
For she by letters hath intelligence
Of your supposed death, her own interment,
And all those plots which that false duke her father
Has wrought against you; and she’ll meet you—
HIP. O, when?
BEN. Nay, see, how covetous are your desires!
Early to-morrow morn.
HIP. O where, good father?
BEN. At Bethlem Monastery. Are you pleas’d now?
HIP. At Bethlem Monastery? the place well fits;
It is the school where those that lose their wits
Practise again to get them. I am sick
Of that disease; all love is lunatic.
BEN. We’ll steal away this night in some disguise.
Father Anselmo, a most reverend friar,
Expects our coming; before whom we’ll lay
Reasons so strong, that he shall yield in bands[198]
Of holy wedlock to tie both your hands.
HIP. This is such happiness,
That to believe it, ’tis impossible.
BEN. Let all your joys then die in misbelief;
I will reveal no more.
HIP. O yes, good father!
I am so well acquainted with despair,
I know not how to hope; I believe all.
BEN. We’ll hence this night: much must be done, much
said;
But if the doctor fail not in his charms,
Your lady shall ere morning fill these arms.
HIP. Heavenly physician! far thy fame shall spread,
That mak’st two lovers speak when they be dead.
[_Exeunt._