Chapter VII: Act I: Scene I

_A Hall in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House._

4

LOD. Good day, gallants.
ALL. Good morrow, sweet Lodovico.
LOD. How dost thou, Carolo?
CAR. Faith, as physicians do in a plague; see the world
sick, and am well myself.
FON. Here’s a sweet morning, gentlemen.
LOD. O, a morning to tempt Jove from his ningle[254]
Ganymede; which is but to give dairy-wenches green gowns
as they are going a-milking. What, is thy lord stirring
yet?
AST. Yes; he will not be horsed this hour, sure.
BER. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at
court.

CAR. O, we shall ride switch and spur: would we were
there once!

_Enter_ BRYAN.

LOD. How now, is thy lord ready?
BRY. No, so crees sa’ me; my lady will have some little
ting in her pelly first.
CAR. O, then they’ll to breakfast.
LOD. Footman, does my lord ride i’ th’ coach with my
lady, or on horseback?
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 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 a Christian?

_Enter_ ANTONIO _with a book_.

AST. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange? why, the
nation have running heads.[255]
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
have noted one thing.
AST. } What’s that, what’s that
BER., _&c._[256] } of England?
LOD. Marry this, sir;—what’s he yonder?
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 marked i’ th’
forehead, as a man may say, with one iron—why, sir,
there all costermongers[257] are Irishmen.
CAR. O, that’s to shew their antiquity, as coming from
Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the
mother.
AST. } Good, good! ha, ha!
BER., _&c._ }
LOD. Why, then, should all your chimney-sweepers
likewise be Irishmen? answer that now; come, your wit.
CAR. Faith, that’s soon answered; for saint
Patrick,[258] you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the
fire, and his countrymen could do nothing if they cannot
sweep the chimneys.
AST. } Good again!
BER., _&c._ }
LOD. Then, sir, have you many of them, like this fellow,
especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and
others,[259] and the knaves are very faithful where they
love; by my faith, very proper men many of them, and as
active as the clouds,—whirr, hah!
AST. } Are they so?
BER., _&c._ }
LOD. And stout, exceeding stout; why, I warrant this
precious wild villain, if he were put to’t, would fight
more desperately than sixteen Dunkirks.[260]
AST. The women, they say, are very fair.
LOD. No, no; our country bona-robas,[261] O, are the
sugarest delicious rogues!
AST. O 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] Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the
Dutchman for [a] beard.
FON. I’faith, they may make swabbers[262] of them.
LOD. The Spaniard—let me see—for a little foot, I take
it; the Frenchman,—what 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.
BER. And a very honest gentleman.
AST. O, 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.
BEL. Will it be long, sir, ere my lord come 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?
BEL. No, sir, my business is unto my lord.
LOD. He’s about his own wife[’s] now; he’ll hardly
despatch 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.
FON. My lord will pass this way presently.
BER. A pretty, plump rogue.
AST. A good lusty, bouncing baggage.
BER. Do you know her?
LOD. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my
table-book[263] 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.
AST. } Is this she?
BER., _&c._ }
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.
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 me, yet I have been in her company; I scarce know
her, for the beauty of her cheek hath, like the moon,
suffered strange eclipses since I beheld it: but women
are like medlars, no sooner ripe but rotten:

A woman last was made, but is spent first;
Yet man is oft prov’d in performance worst.
AST. } My lord is come.
BER., _&c_. }

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO, INFELICE, _and two Waiting-women_.

HIP. We ha’ wasted half this morning.—Morrow, Lodovico.
LOD. Morrow, madam.
HIP. Let’s away to horse.
LOD. } Ay, ay, to horse, to horse.
AST., _&c._ }
BEL. I do beseech your lordship, let your eye
Read o’er this wretched paper!
HIP. I’m in haste;
Pray thee, good woman, take some apter time.
INF. Good woman, do.
BEL. O 'las, it does concern
A poor man’s life!
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,[264] change them; that paper is a
letter from some wench to your husband.
INF. O sir, that cannot make me jealous.
[_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO, BELLAFRONT, _and_ ANTONIO.
HIP. Your business, sir, to me?
AN. Yes, my good lord.
HIP. Presently, sir.—Are you Matheo’s wife?
BEL. That most unfortunate woman.
HIP. I am 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.
He speaks here he’s condemn’d: is’t so?
BEL. Too true.
HIP. What was he whom he kill’d? O, his name’s here,
_Old Giacomo, son to the Florentine_;
Giacomo, a dog, that, to meet profit,
Would to the very eyelids wade in blood
Of his own children. Tell Matheo,
The duke my father hardly shall deny
His signèd pardon; it was fair fight, yes,
If rumour’s tongue go true; so writes he here.
To-morrow morning I return from court;
Pray be you here then.—I’ll have done, sir, straight.—
But in troth say, are you Matheo’s wife?
You have forgot me.
BEL. No, my lord.
HIP. Your turner,
That made you smooth to run an even bias;
You know I lov’d you when your very soul
Was full of discord: art not a good wench still?
BEL. Umh,—when I had lost my way to heaven, you shew’d
it;
I was new born that day.

_Re-enter_ LODOVICO.

LOD. ’Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if 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 overtake you.
LOD. Your lady swears she’ll have no riding on before
without ye.
HIP. Prithee, good Lodovico——
LOD. My lord, pray hasten.
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?
BEL. I think he does; but such rude spots of shame
Stick on my cheek, that he scarce knows my name.
HIP. Orlando Friscobaldo is’t not?
BEL. Yes, my lord.
HIP. What does he for you?
BEL. All he should: when children
From duty start, parents from love may swerve:
He nothing does, for nothing I deserve.
HIP. Shall I join him unto you, and restore you
To wonted grace?
BEL. It is impossible.
HIP. It shall be put to trial: fare you well.
[_Exit_ BELLAFRONT.
The face I would not look on![265] sure then ’twas rare,
When, in despite of grief, ’tis still thus fair.—
Now, sir, your business with me.
AN. I am bold
T’ express my love and duty to your lordship
In these few leaves.
HIP. A book?
AN. Yes, my good lord.
HIP. Are you a scholar?
AN. 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?
AN. Not one,
In troth, not one: your name I held more dear;
I’m not, my lord, of that low character.
HIP. Your name, I pray?
AN. Antonio Georgio.
HIP. Of Milan?
AN. 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;
[_Gives money._
This of your loves, the earnest that of mine.—

_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 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.
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
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.
[_Exit_ ANTONIO.
BRY. Come, I pray dee; wu’t come, sweet face? go.
[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace._

_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, ASTOLFO, _and_ BERALDO.

LOD. Godso, gentlemen, what do we forget?
CAR. }
AST. } What?
BER. }
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?
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 come about the eaves amongst
bees.
LOD. O, ’tis rare sucking a sweet honeycomb! 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 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.
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.
LOD. O, fie upon’t! 'twould undo all us that are
courtiers; we should have no ho[266] with the wenches
then.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.
CAR. }
AST. } My lord’s come.
BER. }
HIP. How now, what news?
CAR. }
AST. } None.
BER. }
LOD. Your lady is with the duke her father.
HIP. And we’ll to them both presently.—

_Enter_ ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO.

Who’s that?
Car. }
Ast. } Signor Friscobaldo.
Ber. }
HIP. Friscobaldo? O, pray call him, and leave me; we two
have business.
CAR. Ho, signor! signor Friscobaldo! the lord Hippolito.
[_Exeunt all except_ HIPPOLITO _and_ FRISCOBALDO.
OR. My noble lord, my lord Hippolito! the duke’s son!
his brave daughter’s brave husband! how does your
honoured lordship? does your nobility remember so poor a
gentleman as signor Orlando Friscobaldo, old mad
Orlando?
HIP. O sir,[267] our friends, they ought to be 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.
OR. 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?
HIP. Scarce can I read the stories on your brow
Which age hath writ there; you look youthful still.
OR. I eat snakes,[268] 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.
HIP. You are the happier man, sir.
OR. 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 the right colours, I’ll bestow it on your
lordship.
HIP. I stay for it.
OR. He that[269] makes gold his wife, but not his
whore,
He that at noon-day walks by a prison-door,
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,
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 death-bed is a swan,
And dead no crow,—he is a happy man.

HIP. It’s very well: I thank you for this picture.
OR. 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 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 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 singing to my nest, why, so! if a
crow, throw me out for 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!
OR. 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?
HIP. Is your wife then departed?
OR. 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
sergeants together, but a good couple are seldom parted.
HIP. You had a daughter too, sir, had you not?
OR. 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 pruned it daily, drest it carefully,
kept it from the wind, helped 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.
HIP. Then can I tell you what’s become of it;
That branch is wither'
OR. So ’twas long ag
HIP. Her name, I think, was Bellafront: she’s dea
OR. Ha! dea
HIP. Yes; what of her was left, not worth the keeping,
Even in my sight was thrown into a grave.
OR. 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.
HIP. Why, Friscobaldo, was she homely?
OR. 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 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 liquorish wine
is to drink a man’s own damnation. Is she dead?
HIP. She’s turn’d to earth.
OR. Would she were turned to heaven! umh, 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 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 those[270] heaps of ice about your heart,
By which a father’s love was frozen up,
Are thaw’d in these sweet showers fetch’d from your
eyes:
We’re ne’er like angels till our passion dies.
She is not dead, but lives under worse fate;
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 shewn:
The getting of his life preserves your own.
OR. 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.
OR. 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 [too] many
vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors,
bawds, 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[271] within it, her money,
her money.
HIP. I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom
Gives warmth to no such snakes. When did you see her?
OR. Not seventeen summers.
HIP. Is your hate so old?
OR. Older; it has a white head, and shall never die till
she be buried: her wrongs shall be my bed-fellow.
HIP. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.

OR. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of
the world. I hate him for her; he taught her first to
taste poison: I hate her for herself, because she
refused my physic.
HIP. Nay, but, Friscobaldo——
OR. I detest her, I defy[272] both: she’s not mine,
she’s——
HIP. Hear her but speak.
OR. I love no mermaids; I’ll not be caught with a
quail-pipe.[273]
HIP. You’re now beyond all reason.
OR. 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?
OR. Is’t fit for an old man to keep a whore?
HIP. ’Tis charity too.
OR. ’Tis foolery: relieve her?
Were her cold limbs stretch’d 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 he
HIP. Fare you well, for I’ll trouble you no more.
OR. And fare you well, sir. [_Exit_ HIPPOLITO.]—Go thy
ways; we have few lords of thy making, that love wenches
for their honesty. 'Las, my girl, art thou poor? poverty
dwells next door to despair, there’s but a wall between
them; despair is one of hell’s catchpolls; and lest that
devil arrest her, I’ll to her, yet she shall not know
me; she shall drink of my wealth 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[274]
does 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.

_Enter two Serving-men._

How now, knaves? whither wander you?
FIRST SER. To seek your worship.
OR. Stay; which of you has my purse? what money have you
about you?
SEC. SER. Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.
OR. 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.
FIRST SER. What do you mean to do, sir?

[ORLANDO _puts on the coat of First Serving-man,
and gives him in exchange his cloak._

OR. Hold thy tongue, knave: take thou my cloak; I hope
I play not the paltry merchant in this bartering. Bid
the steward of my 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?
SEC. SER. As if it were made for your worship.
OR. You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to wear
blue,[275] when your master is one of your fellows.
Away! do not see me.
BOTH SER. This is excellent. [_Exeunt Serving-men._
OR. 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

A winter cuckoo, or unfeather’d owl;
Yet better lose this hair than lose her soul. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_A Room in_ CANDIDO’S _House_: CANDIDO, _the Bride, and
Guests, discovered at dinner; Prentices waiting on
them_.

_Enter_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO.[276]

CAN. O gentlemen, so late? you’re very welcome:
Pray, sit down.
LOD. Carolo, didst e’er see such a nest of caps?[277]
AST. Methinks it’s a most civil and most comely sight.
LOD. What does he i’ th’ middle look like?
AST. Troth, like a spire-steeple in a country village
over-peering so many thatched houses.

LOD. It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many
bucklers without pikes:[278] they sit for all the world
like a pair of organs,[279] and he’s the tall great
roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.
AST. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
CAN. 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,
Amongst so many caps that long hat worn.
FIRST GUEST.[280] Mine is as tall a felt[281] as any is
this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the
block[282] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a
hair.
CAN. Indeed, you’re good observers; it shews 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[283] this high roof I this flat would raise.
LOD. Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do’t.
CAN. So all these guests will pardon me, I’ll do’t.
GUESTS. With all our hearts.
CAN. Thus, then, in the cap’s honour.
To every sex and state both nature, time,
The country’s laws, yea, and the very clime,
Do allot distinct habits: the spruce courtier
Jets[284] up and down in silk; the warrior
Marches in buff; the clown plods on in gray:
But for these upper garments thus I say;
The seaman has his cap, par’d without brim;
The gallant’s head is feather’d, that fits him;
The soldier has his murrion;[285] women ha’ tires;
Beasts have their head-pieces, and men ha’ their
LOD. Procee
CAN. 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
By th’ Romans; for when any bondman’s turn[286]
Came to be made a freeman, thus ’twas 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.
LOD. That close shaving made barbers a company, and now
every citizen uses it.
CAN. Of geometric figures the most rare
And perfect’st are the circle and the square:
The city and the school much build upon
These figures, for both love proportion.
The city-cap is round, the scholar’s square,
To shew that government and learning are
The perfect’st limbs i’ th’ body of a state;
For without them all’s disproportionate.
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 shews the whole face boldly, ’tis not made
As if a man to look out[287] were afraid;
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,
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[288] shew?
ALL. Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly.
CAN. Pray, signor, pardon me, ’twas done in jest.
BRIDE. A cup of claret wine there!
FIRST P. Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride.
CAR. You ha’ well set out the cap, sir.
LOD. Nay, that’s flat.
CAN.[289] 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 uncover their heads, and drink. As First Prentice
offers the wine to the Bride, she hits him on the
lips, and breaks the glass._

The bride’s at cuff
CAN. O, peace, I pray thee; thus[290] far off I stand,
I spied the error of my servants.
She call’d for claret, and you fill’d out sack;
That cup give me, ’tis for an old man’s back,
And not for hers. Indeed, ’twas but mistaken;
Ask all these else.

ALL. No, faith, ’twas but mistaken.
FIRST P. Nay, she took it right enough.
CAN. Good Luke, reach her that glass of claret.—Here,
mistress bride, pledge me there.
BRIDE. Now I’ll none. [_Exit._
CAN. How now?
LOD. Look what your mistress ails.
FIRST P. Nothing, sir, but about filling a wrong glass,—
a scurvy trick.
CAN. 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 your wedding-shoes, unless
you hang her up in her wedding-garters.
CAN. How? hang her in her garters?
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.
CAN. 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 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?
CAN. In any thing that’s civil, honest, and just.
LOD. Have you ever a prentice’s suit will fit me?
CAN. I have the very same which myself wore.
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.
CAN. It will be but some jest, sir?
LOD. Only a jest: farewell.—Come, Carolo.
[_Exeunt_ LODOVICO, CAROLO, _and_ ASTOLFO.
GUESTS. We’ll take our leaves, sir, to
CAN. Pray, conceit not ill
Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight,
Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic,
And he tells me the disease call’d the mother[291]
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,
It was no har
GUESTS. No, signor, none at al
CAN. The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance:
But, come, we’ll close this brawl up in some dance.
[_Exeunt._