Chapter XXXIV: Act IV: Scene I

BIANCA’S _lodging at Court_.

_Enter_ BIANCA, _attended by two Ladies_.

BIAN. How go[1088] your watches, ladies? what’s a’clock
now?
FIRST L. By mine, full nine.
SEC. L. By mine, a quarter past.
FIRST L. I set mine by St. Mark’s.
SEC. L. St. Anthony’s, they say,
Goes truer.
FIRST L. That’s but your opinion, madam,
Because you love a gentleman o' the name.
SEC. L. He’s a true gentleman then.
FIRST L. So may he be
That comes to me to-night, for aught you know.
BIAN. I'll end this strife straight: I set mine by the
sun;
I love to set by the best, one shall not then
Be troubled to set often.
SEC. L. You do wisely in’t.
BIAN. If I should set my watch, as some girls do,
By every clock i' the town, ’twould ne’er go true;
And too much turning of the dial’s point,
Or tampering with the spring, might in small time
Spoil the whole work too; here it wants of nine now.
FIRST L. It does indeed, forsooth; mine’s nearest
truth yet.
SEC. L. Yet I've found her lying with an advocate,
which shew’d
Like two false clocks together in one parish.
BIAN. So now I thank you, ladies; I desire
Awhile to be alone.
FIRST L. And I am nobody,
Methinks, unless I've one or other with me.—
Faith, my desire and hers will ne’er be sisters.
[_Aside.—Exeunt Ladies._
BIAN. How strangely woman’s fortune comes about!
This was the farthest way to come to me,
All would have judg’d that knew me born in Venice,
And there with many jealous eyes brought up,
That never thought they had me sure enough
But when they were upon me; yet my hap
To meet it here, so far off from my birth-place,
My friends, or kindred! ’tis not good, in sadness,[1089]
To keep a maid so strict in her young days;
Restraint
Breeds wandering thoughts, as many fasting days
A great desire to see flesh stirring again:
I'll ne’er use any girl of mine so strictly;
Howe’er they’re kept, their fortunes find ’em out;
I see’t in me: if they be got in court,
I'll ne’er forbid ’em the country; nor the court,
Though they be born i' the country: they will come to’t,
And fetch their falls a thousand mile about,
Where one would little think on’t.

_Enter_ LEANTIO, _richly dressed_.

LEAN. I long to see how my despiser looks
Now she’s come here to court: these are her lodgings;
She’s simply now advanc’d: I took her out
Of no such window, I remember, first;
That was a great deal lower, and less carv’d.
[_Aside._
BIAN. How now! what silkworm’s this, i' the name of
pride?
What, is it he?
LEAN. A bow i' th' ham to your greatness;
You must have now three legs,[1090] I take it, must you
not?
BIAN. Then I must take another, I shall want else
The service I should have; you have but two there.
LEAN. You’re richly plac’d.
BIAN. Methinks you’re wondrous brave,[1091] sir.
LEAN. A sumptuous lodging.
BIAN. You’ve an excellent suit there.
LEAN. A chair of velvet.
BIAN. Is your cloak lin’d through, sir?
LEAN. You’re very stately here.
BIAN. Faith, something proud, sir.
LEAN. Stay, stay, let’s see your cloth-of-silver
slippers.
BIAN. Who’s your shoemaker? has made you a neat boot.
LEAN. Will you[1092] have a pair?
The Duke will lend you spurs.
BIAN. Yes, when I ride.
LEAN. ’Tis a brave life you lead.
BIAN. I could ne’er see you
In such good clothes in my time.
LEAN. In your time?
BIAN. Sure I think, sir,
We both thrive best asunder.
LEAN. You’re a whore!
BIAN. Fear nothing, sir.
LEAN. An impudent, spiteful strumpet!
BIAN. O, sir, you give me thanks for your captainship!
I thought you had forgot all your good manners.
LEAN. And, to spite thee as much, look there; there
read,
[_Giving letter._
Vex, gnaw; thou shalt find there I'm not love-starv’d.
The world was never yet so cold or pitiless,
But there was ever still more charity found out
Than at one proud fool’s door; and ’twere hard, faith,
If I could not pass that. Read to thy shame there;
A cheerful and a beauteous benefactor too,
As e’er erected the good works of love.
BIAN. Lady Livia!
Is’t possible? her worship was my pandress;
She dote, and send, and give, and all to him!
Why, here’s a bawd plagu’d home! [_Aside._]—You’re
simply happy, sir;
Yet I'll not envy you.
LEAN. No, court-saint, not thou!
You keep some friend of a new fashion;
There’s no harm in your devil, he’s a suckling,
But he will breed teeth shortly, will he not?
BIAN. Take heed you play not then too long with him.
LEAN. Yes, and the great one too: I shall find time
To play a hot religious bout with some of you,
And, perhaps, drive you and your course of sins
To their eternal kennels. I speak softly now,
’Tis manners in a noble woman’s lodgings,
And I well know[1093] all my degrees of duty;
But come I to your everlasting parting once,
Thunder shall seem soft music to that tempest.
BIAN. ’Twas said last week there would be change of
weather,
When the moon hung so, and belike you heard it.
LEAN. Why, here’s sin made, and ne’er a conscience put
to’t,—
A monster with all forehead and no eyes!
Why do I talk to thee of sense or virtue,
That art as dark as death? and as much madness
To set light before thee, as to lead blind folks
To see the monuments, which they may smell as soon
As they behold,—marry, ofttimes their heads,
For want of light, may feel the hardness of ’em;
So shall thy blind pride my revenge and anger,
That canst not see it now; and it may fall
At such an hour when thou least seest of all:
So, to an ignorance darker than thy womb
I leave thy perjur’d soul; a plague will come!
[_Exit._
BIAN. Get you gone first, and then I fear no greater;
Nor thee will I fear long; I'll have this sauciness
Soon banish’d from these lodgings, and the rooms
Perfum’d well after the corrupt air it leaves:
His breath has made me almost sick, in troth;
A poor, base start-up! life, because has got
Fair clothes by foul means, comes to rail and shew ’em!

_Enter the Duke._

DUKE. Who’s that?
BIAN. Cry you mercy, sir!
DUKE. Prithee, who’s that?
BIAN. The former thing, my lord, to whom you gave
The captainship; he eats his meat with grudging still.
DUKE. Still?
BIAN. He comes vaunting here of his new love,
And the new clothes she gave him, lady Livia;
Who but she now his mistress!
DUKE. Lady Livia?
Be sure of what you say.
BIAN. He shew’d me her name, sir,
In perfum’d paper, her vows, her letter,
With an intent to spite me; so his heart said,
And his threats made it good; they were as spiteful
As ever malice utter’d, and as dangerous,
Should his hand follow the copy.
DUKE. But that must not:
Do not you vex your mind; prithee, to bed, go;
All shall be well and quiet.
BIAN. I love peace, sir.
DUKE. And so do all that love: take you no care for’t,
It shall be still provided to your hand.—
[_Exit_ BIANCA.
Who’s near us there?

_Enter Servant._

SER. My lord?
DUKE. Seek out Hippolito,
Brother to lady Livia, with all speed.
SER. He was the last man I saw, my lord.
DUKE. Make haste.— [_Exit Servant._
He is a blood soon stirr’d; and as he’s quick
To apprehend a wrong, he’s bold and sudden
In bringing forth a ruin: I know, likewise,
The reputation of his sister’s honour’s
As dear to him as life-blood to his heart;
Beside, I'll flatter him with a goodness to her,—
Which I now thought on, but ne’er meant to practise,
Because I know her base,—and that wind drives him:
The ulcerous reputation feels the poise
Of lightest wrongs, as sores are vex’d with flies.
He comes.—

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

Hippolito, welcome.
HIP. My lov’d lord!
DUKE. How does that lusty widow, thy kind sister?
Is she not sped yet of a second husband?
A bed-fellow she has, I ask not that,
I know she’s sped of him.
HIP. Of him, my lord?
DUKE. Yes, of a bed-fellow: is the news so strange to
you?
HIP. I hope ’tis so to all.
DUKE. I wish it were, sir,
But ’tis confess’d too fast; her ignorant pleasures,
Only by lust instructed, have receiv’d
Into their services an impudent boaster,
One that does raise his glory from her shame,
And tells the mid-day sun what’s done in darkness;
Yet, blinded with her appetite, wastes her wealth,
Buys her disgraces at a dearer rate
Than bounteous housekeepers purchase their honour.
Nothing sads me so much, as that, in love
To thee and to thy blood, I had pick’d out
A worthy match for her, the great Vincentio,
High in our favour and in all men’s thoughts.
HIP. O thou destruction of all happy fortunes,
Unsated blood! Know you the name, my lord,
Of her abuser?
DUKE. One Leantio.
HIP. He’s a factor.
DUKE. He ne’er made so brave a voyage,
By his own talk.
HIP. The poor old widow’s son.
I humbly take my leave.
DUKE. I see ’tis done.— [_Aside._
Give her good counsel, make her see her error;
I know she’ll hearken to you.
HIP. Yes, my lord,
I make no doubt, as I shall take the course
Which she shall never know till it be acted,
And when she wakes to honour, then she’ll thank me
for’t:
I'll imitate the pities of old surgeons
To this lost limb, who, ere they shew their art,
Cast one asleep, then cut the diseas’d part;
So, out of love to her I pity most,
She shall not feel him going till he’s lost;
Then she’ll commend the cure. [_Exit._
DUKE. The great cure’s[1094] past;
I count this done already; his wrath’s sure,
And speaks an injury deep: farewell, Leantio,
This place will never hear thee murmur more.—

_Enter the Cardinal and Servants._

Our noble brother, welcome!
CAR. Set those lights down:
Depart till you be call’d. [_Exeunt Servants._
DUKE. There’s serious business
Fix’d in his look; nay, it inclines a little
To the dark colour of a discontentment.— [_Aside._
Brother, what is’t commands your eye so powerfully?
Speak, you seem lost.
CAR. The thing I look on seems so,
To my eyes lost for ever.
DUKE. You look on me.
CAR. What a grief ’tis to a religious feeling,
To think a man should have a friend so goodly,
So wise, so noble, nay, a duke, a brother,
And all this certainly damn’d!
DUKE. How!
CAR. ’Tis no wonder,
If your great sin can do’t: dare you look up
For thinking of a vengeance? dare you sleep
For fear of never waking but to death?
And dedicate unto a strumpet’s love
The strength of your affections, zeal, and health?
Here you stand now; can you assure your pleasures
You shall once more enjoy her, but once more?
Alas, you cannot! what a misery ’tis then,
To be more certain of eternal death
Than of a next embrace! nay, shall I shew you
How more unfortunate you stand in sin
Than the low,[1095] private man: all his offences,
Like enclos’d grounds, keep but about himself,
And seldom stretch beyond his own soul’s bounds;
And when a man grows miserable, ’tis some comfort
When he’s no further charg’d than with himself,
’Tis a sweet ease to wretchedness: but, great man,
Every sin thou committ’st shews like a flame
Upon a mountain, ’tis seen far about,
And, with a big wind made of popular breath,
The sparkles fly through cities, here one takes,
Another catches there, and in short time
Waste all to cinders; but remember still,
What burnt the valleys first came from the hill:
Every offence draws his particular pain,
But ’tis example proves the great man’s bane.
The sins of mean men lie like scatter’d parcels
Of an unperfect bill; but when such fall,
Then comes example, and that sums up all:
And this your reason grants; if men of good lives,
Who by their virtuous actions stir up others
To noble and religious imitation,
Receive the greater glory after death,
As sin must needs confess, what may they feel
In height of torments and in weight of vengeance,
Not only they themselves not doing well,
But set[1096] a light up to shew men to hell?
DUKE. If you have done, I have; no more, sweet
brother!
CAR. I know time spent in goodness is too tedious;
This had not been a moment’s space in lust now:
How dare you venture on eternal pain,
That cannot bear a minute’s reprehension?
Methinks you should endure to hear that talk’d of
Which you so strive to suffer. O, my brother,
What were you, if [that] you were taken now!
My heart weeps blood to think on’t; ’tis a work
Of infinite mercy, you can never merit,
That yet you are not death-struck, no, not yet;
I dare not stay you long, for fear you should not
Have time enough allow’d you to repent in:
There’s but this wall [_pointing to his body_] betwixt
you and destruction,
When you’re at strongest, and but poor thin clay:
Think upon’t, brother; can you come so near it
For a fair strumpet’s love, and fall into
A torment that knows neither end nor bottom
For beauty but the deepness of a skin,
And that not of their own neither? Is she a thing
Whom sickness dare not visit, or age look on,
Or death resist? does the worm shun her grave?
If not, as your soul knows it, why should lust
Bring man to lasting pain for rotten dust?
DUKE. Brother of spotless honour, let me weep
The first of my repentance in thy bosom,
And shew the blest fruits of a thankful spirit:
And if I e’er keep woman more, unlawfully,
May I want penitence at my greatest need!
And wise men know there is no barren place
Threatens more famine than a dearth in grace.
CAR. Why, here’s a conversion is at this time,
brother,
Sung for a hymn in heaven,[1097] and at this instant
The powers of darkness groan, makes all hell sorry:
First I praise heaven, then in my work I glory.
Who’s there attends without?

_Re-enter Servants._

FIRST SER. My lord?
CAR. Take up those lights; there was a thicker
darkness
When they came first.—The peace of a fair soul
Keep with my noble brother!
DUKE. Joys be with you, sir!
[_Exeunt Cardinal and Servants._
She lies alone to-night for’t, and must still,
Though it be hard to conquer; but I've vow’d
Never to know her as a strumpet more,
And I must save my oath: if fury fail not,
Her husband dies to-night, or, at the most,
Lives not to see the morning spent to-morrow;
Then will I make her lawfully mine own,
Without this sin and horror. Now I'm chidden,
For what I shall enjoy then unforbidden;
And I'll not freeze in stoves: ’tis but a while;
Live like a hopeful bridegroom, chaste from flesh,
And pleasure then will seem new, fair, and fresh.
[_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A hall in_ LIVIA’S _house_.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

HIP. The morning so far wasted, yet his baseness
So impudent! see if the very sun
Do not blush at him!
Dare he do thus much, and know me alive?
Put case one must be vicious, as I know myself
Monstrously guilty, there’s a blind time made for’t,
He might use only that,—'twere conscionable;
Art, silence, closeness, subtlety, and darkness,
Are fit for such a business; but there’s no pity
To be bestow’d on an apparent sinner,
An impudent daylight lecher. The great zeal
I bear to her advancement in this match
With lord Vincentio, as the Duke has wrought it,
To the perpetual honour of our house,
Puts fire into my blood to purge the air
Of this corruption, fear it spread too far,
And poison the whole hopes of this fair fortune.
I love her good so dearly, that no brother
Shall venture farther for a sister’s glory
Than I for her preferment.

_Enter_ LEANTIO _and a Page_.

LEAN. Once again
I'll see that glistering whore, shines like a serpent
Now the court sun’s upon her. [_Aside._]—Page.
PAGE. Anon, sir.
LEAN. I'll go in state too. [_Aside._]—See the coach
be ready;
[_Exit Page._
I'll hurry away presently.
HIP. Yes, you shall hurry,
And the devil after you: take that at setting forth:
[_Strikes him._
Now, and[1098] you’ll draw, we’re upon equal terms, sir.
Thou took’st advantage of my name in honour
Upon my sister; I ne’er saw the stroke
Come, till I found my reputation bleeding;
And therefore count it I no sin to valour
To serve thy lust so: now we’re of even hand,
Take your best course against me. You must die.
LEAN. How close sticks envy to man’s happiness!
When I was poor, and little car’d for life,
I had no such means offer’d me to die,
No man’s wrath minded me.—Slave, I turn this to thee,
[_Draws._
To call thee to account for a wound lately
Of a base stamp upon me.
HIP. ’Twas most fit
For a base metal: come and fetch one now
More noble then, for I will use thee fairer
Than thou hast done thine [own] soul, or our honour;
[_They fight._
And there I think ’tis for thee. [LEANTIO _falls_.
[_Voices within_] Help, help! O, part ’em!
LEAN. False wife, I feel now thou’st pray’d heartily
for me:
Rise, strumpet, by my fall! thy lust may reign now:
My heart-string, and the marriage-knot that tied thee,
Break[1099] both together. [_Dies._
HIP. There I heard the sound on’t,
And never lik’d string better.

_Enter_ GUARDIANO, LIVIA, ISABELLA, _the Ward, and_
SORDIDO.

LIV. ’Tis my brother!
Are you hurt, sir?
HIP. Not any thing.
LIV. Blest fortune!
Shift for thyself: what is he thou hast kill’d?
HIP. Our honour’s enemy.
GUAR. Know you this man, lady?
LIV. Leantio! my love’s joy!—Wounds stick upon thee
As deadly as thy sins! art thou not hurt—
The devil take that fortune!—and he dead?
Drop plagues into thy bowels without voice,
Secret and fearful!—Run for officers;
Let him be apprehended with all speed,
For fear he ’scape away; lay hands on him,
We cannot be too sure, ’tis wilful murder:[1100]
You do heaven’s vengeance and the law just service:
You know him not as I do; he’s a villain
As monstrous as a prodigy and as dreadful.
HIP. Will you but entertain a noble patience
Till you but hear the reason, worthy sister?
LIV. The reason! that’s a jest hell falls a-laughing
at:
Is there a reason found for the destruction
Of our more lawful loves, and was there none
To kill the black lust ’twixt thy niece and thee,
That has kept close so long?
GUAR. How’s that, good madam?
LIV. Too true, sir; there she stands, let her deny’t:
The deed cries shortly in the midwife’s arms,
Unless the parents' sins strike it still-born;
And if you be not deaf and ignorant,
You’ll hear strange notes ere long.—Look upon me, wench;
’Twas I betray’d thy honour subtlely to him,
Under a false tale; it lights upon me now.—
His arm has paid me home upon thy breast,
My sweet, belov’d Leantio!
GUAR. Was my judgment
And care in choice so devilishly abus’d,
So beyond shamefully? all the world will grin at me.
WARD. O Sordido, Sordido, I'm damn’d, I'm damn’d!
SOR. Damn’d? why, sir?
WARD. One of the wicked; dost not see’t? a cuckold, a
plain reprobate cuckold!
SOR. Nay, and[1101] you be damned for that, be of good
cheer, sir, you’ve gallant company of all professions;
I'll have a wife next Sunday too, because I'll along
with you myself.
WARD. That will be some comfort yet.
LIV. You, sir, that bear your load of injuries,
As I of sorrows, lend me your griev’d strength
To this sad burden [_pointing to the body of_ LEANTIO],
who in life wore actions,
Flames were not nimbler: we will talk of things
May have the luck to break our hearts together.
GUAR. I'll list to nothing but revenge and anger,
Whose counsels I will follow.
[_Exeunt._ LIVIA _and_ GUARDIANO
_with the body of_ LEANTIO.
SOR. A wife, quoth ’a?
Here’s a sweet plum-tree of your guardianer’s graffing!
WARD. Nay, there’s a worse name belongs to this fruit
yet, and[1101] you could hit on’t, a more open one; for
he that marries a whore looks like a fellow bound all
his lifetime to a medlar-tree, and that’s good stuff;
’tis no sooner ripe, but it looks rotten, and so do some
queans at nineteen. A pox on’t! I thought there was some
knavery a-broach, for something stirred in her belly the
first night I lay with her.
SOR. What, what, sir?
WARD. This is she brought up so courtly, can sing, and
dance!—and tumble too, methinks: I'll never marry wife
again that has so many qualities.
SOR. Indeed, they are seldom good, master; for likely
when they are taught so many, they will have one trick
more of their own finding out. Well, give me a wench but
with one good quality, to lie with none but her husband,
and that’s bringing up enough for any woman breathing.
WARD. This was the fault when she was tendered to me;
you never looked to this.
SOR. Alas, how would you have me see through a great
farthingale, sir? I cannot peep through a mill-stone, or
in the going, to see what’s done i' the bottom.
WARD. Her father praised her breast;[1102] sh’ad the
voice, forsooth! I marvelled she sung so small indeed,
being no maid: now I perceive there’s a young quirister
in her belly, this breeds a singing in my head, I'm
sure.
SOR. ’Tis but the tune of your wife’s sinquapace[1103]
danced in a feather-bed: faith, go lie down, master;
but take heed your horns do not make holes in the
pillowbeers.[1104]—I would not batter brows with him
for a hogshead of angels;[1105] he would prick my
skull as full of holes as a scrivener’s sand-box.

[_Aside._—_Exeunt Ward and_ SORDIDO.
ISA. Was ever maid so cruelly beguil’d,
To the confusion of life, soul, and honour,
All of one woman’s murdering! I'd fain bring
Her name no nearer to my blood than woman,
And ’tis too much of that. O, shame and horror!
In that small distance from yon man to me
Lies sin enough to make a whole world perish.—
[_Aside._
’Tis time we parted, sir, and left the sight
Of one another; nothing can be worse
To hurt repentance, for our very eyes
Are far more poisonous to religion
Than basilisks to them: if any goodness
Rest in you, hope of comforts, fear of judgments,
My request is, I ne’er may see you more;
And so I turn me from you everlastingly,
So is my hope to miss you: but for her
That durst so dally with a sin so dangerous,
And lay a snare so spitefully for my youth,
If the least means but favour my revenge,
That I may practise the like cruel cunning
Upon her life as she has on mine honour,
I'll act it without pity.
HIP. Here’s a care
Of reputation and a sister’s fortune
Sweetly rewarded by her! would a silence,
As great as that which keeps among the graves,
Had everlastingly chain’d up her tongue!
My love to her has made mine miserable.

_Re-enter_ GUARDIANO _and_ LIVIA.

GUAR. If you can but dissemble your heart’s griefs
now,—
Be but a woman so far.
LIV. Peace; I'll strive, sir.
GUAR. As I can wear my injuries in a smile:
Here’s an occasion offer’d, that gives anger
Both liberty and safety to perform
Things worth the fire it holds, without the fear
Of danger or of law; for mischiefs acted
Under the privilege of a marriage-triumph,
At the Duke’s hasty nuptials, will be thought
Things merely accidental, all’s[1106] by chance,
Not got of their own natures.
LIV. I conceive you, sir,
Even to a longing for performance on’t;
And here behold some fruits.—[_Kneels to_ HIPPOLITO
_and_ ISABELLA.] Forgive me both:
What I am now, return’d to sense and judgment,
Is not the same rage and distraction
Presented lately to you,—that rude form
Is gone for ever; I am now myself,
That speaks all peace and friendship, and these tears
Are the true springs of hearty, penitent sorrow
For those foul wrongs which my forgetful fury
Slander’d your virtues with: this gentleman
Is well resolv’d[1107] now.
GUAR. I was never otherwise;
I knew, alas, ’twas but your anger spake it,
And I ne’er thought on’t more.
HIP. [_raising_ LIVIA] Pray, rise, good sister.
ISA. Here’s even as sweet amends made for a wrong now,
As one that gives a wound, and pays the surgeon;
All the smart’s nothing, the great loss of blood,
Or time of hindrance: well, I had a mother,
I can dissemble too. [_Aside._]—What wrongs have slipt
Through anger’s ignorance, aunt, my heart forgives.
GUAR. Why, thus[1108] tuneful now!
HIP. And what I did, sister,
Was all for honour’s cause, which time to come
Will approve to you.
LIV. Being awak’d to goodness,
I understand so much, sir, and praise now
The fortune of your arm and of your safety;
For by his death you’ve rid me of a sin
As costly as e’er woman doated on:
'T has pleas’d the Duke so well too, that, behold, sir,
[_Giving paper._
Has sent you here your pardon, which I kiss’d
With most affectionate comfort: when ’twas brought,
Then was my fit just past; it came so well, methought,
To glad my heart.
HIP. I see his grace thinks on me.
LIV. There’s no talk now but of the preparation
For the great marriage.
HIP. Does he marry her, then?
LIV. With all speed, suddenly, as fast as cost
Can be laid on with many thousand hands.
This gentleman and I had once a purpose
To have honour’d the first marriage of the Duke
With an invention of his own; ’twas ready,
The pains well past, most of the charge bestow’d on’t,
Then came the death of your good mother, niece,
And turn’d the glory of it all to black:
’Tis a device would fit these times so well too,
Art’s treasury not better: if you’ll join,
It shall be done; the cost shall all be mine.
HIP. You’ve my voice first; ’twill well approve my
thankfulness
For the Duke’s love and favour.
LIV. What say you, niece?
ISA. I am content to make one.
GUAR. The plot’s full then;
Your pages, madam, will make shift for Cupids.
LIV. That will they, sir.
GUAR. You’ll play your old part still.
LIV. What is it? good troth, I have even forgot it.
GUAR. Why, Juno Pronuba, the marriage-goddess.
LIV. ’Tis right indeed.
GUAR. And you shall play the Nymph,
That offers sacrifice to appease her wrath.
ISA. Sacrifice, good sir?
LIV. Must I be appeas’d then?
GUAR. That’s as you list yourself, as you see cause.
LIV. Methinks ’twould shew the more state in her deity
To be incens’d.
ISA. ’Twould; but my sacrifice
Shall take a course to appease you;—or I'll fail in’t,
And teach a sinful bawd to play a goddess. [_Aside,
and exit._
GUAR. For our parts, we’ll not be ambitious, sir:
Please you, walk in and see the project drawn,
Then take your choice.
HIP. I weigh not, so I have one.
[_Exeunt._ GUARDIANO _and_ HIPPOLITO.
LIV. How much ado have I to restrain fury
From breaking into curses! O, how painful ’tis
To keep great sorrow smother’d! sure, I think
’Tis harder to dissemble grief than love.
Leantio, here the weight of thy loss lies,
Which nothing but destruction can suffice. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_Before the Duke’s Palace._

_Hautboys. Enter the Duke and_ BIANCA _richly attired,
attended by Lords, Cardinals, Ladies, and others: as
they are passing in great state over the stage,
enter the Cardinal meeting them_.

CAR. Cease, cease! religious honours done to sin
Disparage virtue’s reverence, and will pull
Heaven’s thunder upon Florence: holy ceremonies
Were made for sacred uses, not for sinful.
Are these the fruits of your repentance, brother?
Better it had been you had never sorrow’d,
Than to abuse the benefit, and return
To worse than where sin left you.
Vow’d you then never to keep strumpet more,
And are you now so swift in your desires
To knit your honours and your life fast to her?
Is not sin sure enough to wretched man,
But he must bind himself in chains to’t? worse;
Must marriage, that immaculate robe of honour,
That renders virtue glorious, fair, and fruitful
To her great master, be now made the garment
Of leprosy and foulness? Is this penitence
To sanctify hot lust? what is it otherwise
Than worship done to devils? Is this the best
Amends that sin can make after her riots?
As if a drunkard, to appease heaven’s wrath,
Should offer up his surfeit for a sacrifice:
If that be comely, then lust’s offerings are
On wedlock’s sacred altar.
DUKE. Here you’re bitter
Without cause, brother; what I vow’d I keep,
As safe as you your conscience; and this needs not;
I taste more wrath in’t than I do religion,
And envy more than goodness: the path now
I tread is honest, leads to lawful love,
Which virtue in her strictness would not check:
I vow’d no more to keep a sensual woman;
’Tis done, I mean to make a lawful wife of her.
CAR. He that taught you that craft,
Call him not master long, he will undo you;
Grow not too cunning for your soul, good brother:
Is it enough to use adulterous thefts,
And then take sanctuary in marriage?
I grant, so long as an offender keeps
Close in a privileg’d temple, his life’s safe;
But if he ever venture to come out,
And so be taken, then he surely dies for’t:
So now you’re safe; but when you leave this body,
Man’s only privileg’d temple upon earth,
In which the guilty soul takes sanctuary,
Then you’ll perceive what wrongs chaste vows endure
When lust usurps the bed that should be pure.
BIAN. Sir, I have read you over all this while
In silence, and I find great knowledge in you
And severe learning; yet, ’mongst all your virtues
I see not charity written, which some call
The first-born of religion, and I wonder
I cannot see’t in yours: believe it, sir,
There is no virtue can be sooner miss’d,
Or later welcom’d; it begins the rest,
And sets ’em all in order:[1109] heaven and angels
Take great delight in a converted sinner;
Why should you then, a servant and professor,
Differ so much from them? If every woman
That commits evil should be therefore kept
Back in desires of goodness, how should virtue
Be known and honour’d? From a man that’s blind,
To take a burning taper ’tis no wrong,
He never misses it; but to take light
From one that sees, that’s injury and spite.
Pray, whether is religion better serv’d,
When lives that are licentious are made honest,
Than when they still run through a sinful blood?
’Tis nothing virtue’s temples to deface;
But build the ruins, there’s a work of grace!
DUKE. I kiss thee for that spirit; thou’st prais’d thy
wit
A modest way.—On, on, there!
[_Hautboys. Exeunt all except the Cardinal._
CAR. Lust is bold,
And will have vengeance speak ere’t be controll’d.
[_Exit._