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The
Gentleman Usher |
By
George Chapman |
1606 |
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Dramatis Personae: |
Duke Alphonso. |
Prince Vincentio, his son. |
Medice, the duke's
favourite. |
A servant of Medice. |
Strozza, a Lord. |
Cynanche, wife of Strozza.
|
Poggio, his nephew. |
Ancilla, a servant. |
Earl Lasso, an old Lord. |
Bassiolo, gentleman
usher to Lasso. |
Fungus, a servant of
Lasso. |
Cortezza, sister of Lasso. |
Margaret, daughter of
Lasso. |
Benevemus, a doctor. |
Sarpego, a pedant. |
Julio, a courtier. |
Attendants, servants,
huntsmen, |
guards, two pages,
maids. |
Figures in the Masques: |
Enchanter, Spirits,
Sylvanus, |
A Nymph, Broom-man,
Rush-man, |
a man-bug, a
woman-bug. |
ACT I. |
SCENE I. |
Before the House of
Strozza. |
Enter Strozza, Cynanche, and Poggio. |
Stroz. Haste, nephew; what, a sluggard? Fie, for
shame! |
Shall he that was our
morning cock, turn owl, |
And lock out daylight
from his drowsy eyes? |
Pog. Pray pardon me for once, lord uncle, for I'll
be |
sworn I had such a
dream this morning: methought one |
came with a commission
to take a sorrel curtal that was |
stolen from him,
wheresoever he could find him. And |
because I feared he
would lay claim to my sorrel curtal |
in my stable, I ran to
the smith to have him set on his |
mane again and his
tail presently, that the commission- |
man might not think
him a curtal. And when the smith |
would not do it, I
fell a-beating of him, so that I could |
not wake for my life
till I was revenged on him. |
Cyn. This
is your old valour, nephew, that will fight |
sleeping as well as
waking. |
Pog. 'Slud,
aunt, what if my dream had been true (as it |
might have been for
anything I knew)! There's never a |
smith in Italy shall
make an ass of me in my sleep, if I |
can choose. |
Stroz. Well said, my furious nephew; but I see |
You quite forget that
we must rouse to-day |
The sharp-tusked boar;
and blaze our huntsmanship |
Before the Duke. |
Pog.
Forget, lord uncle? I hope not; you think belike |
my wits are as brittle
as a beetle, or as skittish as your |
Barbary mare; one
cannot cry wehee, but straight she |
cries tehee. |
Stroz. Well guessed, cousin Hysteron Proteron! |
Pog. But
which way will the Duke's Grace hunt to-day? |
Stroz. Toward Count Lasso's house his Grace will
hunt, |
Where he will visit
his late honoured mistress. |
Pog. Who,
Lady Margaret, that dear young dame? Will |
his antiquity never leave his iniquity? |
Cyn. Why,
how now, nephew? Turned Parnassus lately? |
Pog.
“Nassus”? I know not; but I would I had all the |
Duke's living for her
sake; I'd make him a poor duke, |
i'faith! |
Stroz. No doubt of that, if thou hadst all his
living. |
Pog. I
would not stand dreaming of the matter as I do |
now. |
Cyn. Why,
how do you dream, nephew? |
Pog. Marry,
all last night methought I was tying her |
shoe-string. |
Stroz. What, all night tying her shoe-string? |
Pog. Ay,
that I was, and yet I tied it not neither; for, |
as I was tying it, the
string broke, methought, and |
then, methought,
having but one point at my hose, |
methought, I gave her
that to tie her shoe withal. |
Cyn. A
point of much kindness, I assure you. |
Pog.
Whereupon, in the very nick, methought, the |
Count came rushing in,
and I ran rushing out, with my |
heels about my hose
for haste. |
Stroz. So, will you leave your dreaming, and
dispatch? |
Pog. Mum,
not a word more, I'll go before, and |
overtake you
presently. |
[Exit.] |
Cyn. My
lord, I fancy not these hunting sports, |
When the bold game you
follow turns again |
And stares you in the
face. Let me behold |
A cast of falcons on
their merry wings |
Daring the stoopèd
prey, that shifting flies; |
Or let me view the
fearful hare or hind, |
Tossed like a music
point with harmony |
Of well-mouthed
hounds. This is a sport for princes. |
The other rude; boars
yield fit game for boors. |
Stroz. Thy timorous spirit blinds thy judgment, wife;
|
Those are most royal
sports, that most approve |
The huntsman's prowess
and his hardy mind. |
Cyn. My
lord, I know too well your virtuous spirit; |
Take heed, for God's
love, if you rouse the boar, |
You come not near him,
but discharge aloof |
Your wounding pistol,
or well-aimèd dart. |
Stroz. Ay, marry, wife, this counsel rightly flows |
Out of thy bosom; pray
thee take less care; |
Let ladies at their
tables judge of boars, |
Lords in the field.
And so farewell, sweet love; |
Fail not to meet me at
Earl Lasso's house. |
Cyn. Pray
pardon me for that. You know I love not |
These solemn meetings.
|
Stroz. You must needs
for once |
Constrain your
disposition; and indeed |
I would acquaint you
more with Lady Margaret |
For special reason. |
Cyn. Very good, my lord. |
Then I must needs go
fit me for that presence. |
Stroz. I pray thee do, farewell! |
[Exit Cynanche.] |
Enter Vincentio. |
Here comes my friend. − |
Good day, my lord! Why
does your Grace confront |
So clear a morning with so cloudy looks? |
Vinc. Ask'st thou my griefs that know'st my
desp'rate love |
Curbed by my father's
stern riválity? |
Must not I mourn that
know not whether yet |
I shall enjoy a
stepdame or a wife? |
Stroz. A wife, Prince, never doubt it; your deserts |
And youthful graces
have engaged so far |
The beauteous Margaret
that she is your own. |
Vinc. Oh, but the eye of watchful jealousy |
Robs my desires of
means t' enjoy her favour. |
Stroz. Despair not: there are means enow for you: |
Suborn some servant of
some good respect |
That's near your
choice, who, though she needs no wooing, |
May yet imagine you
are to begin |
Your strange young
love-suit, and so speak for you, |
Bear your kind letters, and get safe accéss. |
All which when he
shall do, you need not fear |
His trusty secrecy,
because he dares not |
Reveal escapes whereof
himself is author; |
Whom you may best
attempt, she must reveal; |
For, if she loves you,
she already knows, |
And in an instant can
resolve you that. |
Vinc. And so she will, I
doubt not; would to Heaven |
I had fit time, even
now, to know her mind! |
This counsel feeds my
heart with much sweet hope. |
Stroz. Pursue it then; 'twill not be hard t' effect: |
The Duke has none for
him, but Medice, |
That fustian lord, who
in his buckram face |
Bewrays, in my
conceit, a map of baseness. |
Vinc. Ay, there's a parcel of unconstruèd stuff, |
That unknown minion
raised to honour's height, |
Without the help of
virtue, or of art |
Or (to say true) of
any honest part. |
Oh, how he shames my
father! He goes like |
A prince's footman, in
old-fashioned silks, |
And most times in his
hose and doubtlet only; |
So miseráble, that his
own few men |
Do beg by virtue of
his livery; |
For he gives none, for
any service done him, |
Or any honour, any
least reward. |
Stroz. 'Tis pity such should live about a prince: |
I would have such a
noble counterfeit nailed |
Upon the pillory, and,
after, whipped |
For his adultery with
nobility. |
Vinc. Faith, I would fain disgrace him by all means,
|
As enemy to his
base-bred ignorance, |
That, being a great
lord, cannot write nor read. |
Stroz. For that, we'll follow the blind side of him, |
And make it sometimes
subject of our mirth. |
Enter Poggio post-haste. |
Vinc. See,
what news with your nephew Poggio? |
Stroz. None good, I warrant you! |
Pog. Where
should I find my lord uncle? |
Stroz. What's the huge haste with you? |
Pog. O ho,
you will hunt to-day! |
Stroz. I hope I will.
|
Pog. But
you may hap to hop without your hope, for |
the truth is, Killbuck
is run mad. |
Stroz. What's this? |
Pog. Nay,
'tis true, sir: and Killbuck being run mad,
|
bit Ringwood so by the
left buttock, you might have |
turned your nose in
it. |
Vinc. Out, ass! |
Pog. By
Heaven, you might, my lord! D'ye think I lie? |
Vinc. Zounds, might I? Let's blanket him, my lord. A
|
blanket here! |
Pog. Nay,
good my lord Vincentio, by this rush I tell |
you for good will: and
Venus, your brach there, runs so |
proud that your
huntsman cannot take her down for his |
life. |
Stroz. Take her up, fool, thou wouldst say. |
Pog. Why,
sir, he would soon take her down, and he |
could take her up, I
warrant her! |
Vinc. Well said, hammer, hammer! |
Pog. Nay,
good now, let's alone. And there's your |
horse, Gray Strozza,
too, has the staggers, and has |
strook Bay Bettrice,
your Barbary mare, so that she |
goes halting o' this
fashion, most filthily. |
Stroz. What poison blisters thy unhappy tongue, |
Evermore braying forth
unhappy news? − |
Our hunting sport is
at the best, my lord: |
How shall I satisfy
the Duke your father, |
Defrauding him of his
expected sport? |
See, see, he comes. |
Enter Alphonso, Medice, Sarpego, with attendants. |
Alph. Is this the copy of the speech you wrote,
Signor |
Sarpego? |
Sarp. It is a blaze of wit poetical; |
Read it, brave Duke,
with eyes pathetical. |
Alph. We will peruse it straight: − well met,
Vincentio, |
And good Lord Strozza;
we commend you both |
For your attendance;
but you must conceive |
'Tis no true hunting
we intend to-day, |
But an inducement to a
certain show, |
Wherewith we will
present our beauteous love, |
And therein we bespeak
your company. |
Vinc. We
both are ready to attend your Highness. |
Alph. See then, here is a poem that requires |
Your worthy censures,
offered, if it like, |
To furnish our
intended amorous show: |
Read it, Vincentio. |
Vinc. Pardon me, my lord. |
Lord Medice's reading
will express it better. |
Med. My
patience can digest your scoffs, my lord.
|
I care not to proclaim
it to the world: |
I can nor write nor
read; and what of that? |
I can both see and
hear as well as you. |
Alph. Still
are your wits at war. |
[To Vincentio]
Here, read this poem. |
Vinc. [Reads] |
“The red-faced sun
hath firked the flundering shades, |
And cast bright ammel
on Aurora's brow.” |
Alph. High words and strange! Read on, Vincentio. |
Vinc. “The busky groves that gag-toothed boars do
shroud |
With cringle-crangle
horns do ring aloud.” |
Pog. My
lord, my lord, I have a speech here worth ten |
of this, and yet I'll
mend it too. |
Alph. How likes Vincentio? |
Vinc. It
is strangely good, |
No inkhorn ever did
bring forth the like. |
Could these brave
prancing words with action's spur, |
Be ridden throughly,
and managed right, |
'Twould fright the
audience, and perhaps delight. |
Sarp. Doubt you of action, sir? |
Vinc. Ay, for such
stuff. |
Sarp. Then know, my lord, I can both act and teach
|
To any words; when I
in Padua schooled it, |
I played in one of
Plautus' comedies, |
Namely, Curculio,
where his part I acted, |
Projecting from the
poor sum of four lines |
Forty fair actions. |
Alph.
Let's see that, I pray. |
Sarp. Your Highness shall command. |
But pardon me, if in
my action's heat, |
Entering in post post haste,
I chance to take up |
Some of your honoured
heels. |
Pog. Y' ad
best leave out |
That action for a
thing that I know, sir. |
Sarp. Then shall you see what I can do without it. |
[Sarpego puts on his parasite's costume.] |
|
Alph. See, see! He hath his furniture and all. |
Sarp. You
must imagine, lords, I bring good news, |
Whereof being princely
proud I scour the street, |
And over-tumble every
man I meet. |
[Exit Sarpego.] |
Pog.
Beshrew my heart if he take up my heels! |
Enter Sarpego, running about the stage. |
Sarp. Date
viam mihi, noti atque ignoti, dum ego |
hic officium meum. |
Facio: fugite omnes,
abite, et de via secedite, |
Ne quern in cursu
capite aut cubito aut pectore |
offendam aut genu. |
Alph. Thanks, good Signor Sarpego. |
How like you, lords,
this stirring action? |
Stroz. In a
cold morning it were good, my lord, |
But something harsh
upon repletiön. |
Sarp. Sir, I have ventured, being enjoined, to eat |
Three scholars'
commons, and yet drew it neat. |
Pog. Come,
sir, you meddle in too many matters; let us, |
I pray, tend on our
own show at my lord Lasso's. |
Sarp. Doing
obeisance then to every lord, |
I now consort you,
sir, even toto corde. |
[Exit Sarpego and Poggio.] |
Med. My
lord, away with these scholastic wits, |
Lay the invention of
your speech on me, |
And the performance
too; I'll play my part |
That you shall say,
Nature yields more than Art. |
Alph. Be't so resolved; unartificial truth |
And unfeigned passion
can decipher best. |
Vinc. But 'twill be hard, my lord, for one
unlearn'd. |
Med.
Unlearn'd? I cry you mercy, sir;
unlearn'd? |
Vinc. I mean untaught, my lord, to make a speech |
As a pretended actor,
without clothes |
More gracious than
your doublet and your hose. |
Alph. What, think you, son, we mean t' express a
speech |
Of special weight
without a like attire? |
[Alphonso puts rich robes on Medice.] |
Vinc. Excuse me then, my lord; so
stands it well. |
Stroz. Has brought them rarely in to pageant him. |
Med. What,
think you, lord, we think not of attire? |
Can we not make us
ready at this age? |
Stroz. Alas, my lord, your wit must pardon his. |
Vinc. I hope it will; his wit is pitiful. |
Stroz. [To Medice] |
I pray stand by, my
lord; y' are troublesome. |
Med. To
none but you; − am I to you, my lord? |
Vinc. Not unto me. |
Med.
Why, then, you wrong me, Strozza. |
Vinc. Nay, fall not out, my lords. |
Stroz. May I not know |
What your speech is,
my Liege? |
Alph. None but myself, and the Lord Medice. |
Med. No,
pray, my lord, |
Let none partake with
us. |
Alph. No,
be assured. |
But for another cause:
|
[Aside to Strozza] a word, Lord Strozza; |
I tell you true I fear
Lord Medice |
Will scarce discharge
the speech effectually; |
As we go, therefore,
I'll explain to you |
My whole intent, that
you may second him |
If need and his
debility require. |
Stroz. Thanks for this grace, my Liege. |
[Vincentio overhears.] |
Med. My
lord, your son! |
Alph. Why, how now, son? Forbear. − Yet 'tis
no matter, |
We talk of other
business, Medice; |
And come, we will
prepare us to our show. |
[Exeunt Alphonso, Medice, and attendants.] |
|
Stroz. and Vinc. Which, as we can, we'll cast to overthrow. |
[Exeunt.] |
ACT I, SCENE II. |
A Room in the House of
Lasso. |
Enter Lasso, Bassiolo, Sarpego, two Pages; |
Bassiolo bare before. |
Bass. Stand by there, make place! |
Lasso. Say,
now, Bassiolo, you on whom relies |
The general
disposition of my house |
In this our
preparation for the Duke, |
Are all our officers
at large instructed |
For fit discharge of
their peculiar places? |
Bass. At large, my lord, instructed. |
Lasso. Are all our chambers hung? Think you our house |
Amply capacious to
lodge all the train? |
Bass. Amply capacious, I am passing glad. |
And now, then, to our
mirth and musical show, |
Which, after supper,
we intend t' endure, |
Welcome's chief
dainties; for choice cates at home |
Ever attend on
princes, mirth abroad. |
Are all parts perfect?
|
Sarp. One I know there is. |
Lasso. And that is yours. |
Sarp.
Well guessed, in earnest, lord! |
I need not erubescere
to take |
So much upon me; that
my back will bear. |
Bass. Nay, he will be perfectiön itself |
For wording well and
dextrous action, too. |
Lasso. And will these waggish pages hit their songs? |
Both Pages. Re,
mi, fa, sol, la. |
Lasso. Oh they are practising; good boys, well done! |
But where is Poggio?
There y' are overshot, |
To lay a capital part
upon his brain, |
Whose absence tells me
plainly he'll neglect him. |
Bass. Oh no, my lord, he dreams of nothing else, |
And gives it out in
wagers he'll excel; |
And see (I told your
lordship) he is come. |
Enter Poggio. |
Pog. How
now, my lord, have you borrowed a suit for |
me? Signor Bassiolo,
can all say, are all things ready? |
The Duke is hard by,
and little thinks that I'll be an |
actor, i'faith; I keep
all close, my lord. |
Lasso. Oh, 'tis well done, call all the ladies in;
− |
Sister and daughter,
come, for God's sake, come, |
Prepare your
courtliest carriage for the Duke. |
Enter Cortezza, Margaret, and Maids. |
Cort. And, niece, in any case remember this: |
Praise the old man,
and when you see him first, |
Look me on none but
him, smiling and lovingly; |
And then, when he
comes near, make beisance low, |
With both your hands
thus moving, which not only |
Is, as 'twere,
courtly, and most comely too, |
But speaks (as who
should say “Come hither, Duke.”) |
And yet says nothing,
but you may deny. |
Lasso. Well taught, sister! |
Marg.
Ay, and to much end; |
I am exceeding fond to
humour him. |
Enter Enchanter, with spirits singing; |
after them Medice like Sylvanus, next the Duke |
bound, Vincentio, Strozza, with others. |
Lasso. Hark! Does he come with
music? What, and bound? |
An amorous device;
daughter, observe! |
Vinc. [Aside to Strozza] |
Now let's gull Medice;
I do not doubt |
But this attire put
on, will put him out. |
Stroz. [Aside to Vincentio] |
We'll do our best to
that end, therefore mark. |
Enchanter. Lady
or Princess, both your choice commands, |
These spirits and I,
all servants of your beauty, |
Present this royal
captive to your mercy. |
Marg. Captive to me, a subject? |
Vinc. Ay, fair nymph! |
And how the worthy
mystery befell, |
Sylvanus here, this
wooden god, can tell. |
Alph. Now, my lord! |
Vinc. Now is the time, man, speak! |
Med.
Peace! |
Alph. Peace, Vincentio! |
Vinc. 'Swounds, my lord, |
Shall I stand by and
suffer him to shame you? − |
My lord Medice! |
Stroz.
Will you not speak, my lord? |
Med. How
can I? |
Vinc. But
you must speak, in earnest. − |
Would not your
Highness have him speak, my lord? |
Med. Yes,
and I will speak, and perhaps speak so
|
As you shall never
mend: I can, I know. |
Vinc. Do then, my good lord. |
Alph. Medice, forth!
|
Med.
Goddess, fair goddess, for no less − no less – |
[Medice hesitates.] |
Alph. No
less, no less? No more, no more! |
[To Strozza] Speak you. |
Med.
'Swounds, they have put me out!
|
Vinc.
Laugh you, fair goddess? |
This nobleman disdains
to be your fool. |
Alph. Vincentio, peace! |
Vinc. 'Swounds, my lord, it is as good a show!
− |
Pray speak, Lord
Strozza. |
Stroz. Honourable dame – |
Vinc. Take
heed you be not out, I pray, my lord. |
Stroz. I pray forbear, my lord Vincentio. − |
How this distressèd
Prince came thus enthralled, |
I must relate with
words of height and wonder: |
His Grace this
morning, visiting the woods, |
And straying far to
find game for the chase, |
At last out of a
myrtle grove he roused |
A vast and dreadful
boar, so stern and fierce. |
As if the fiend, fell
Cruèlty herself, |
Had come to fright the
woods in that strange shape. |
Alph. Excellent good! |
Vinc.
Too good, a plague on him! |
Stroz. The princely savage being thus on foot, |
Tearing the earth up
with his thundering hoof, |
And with th' enragèd
Ætna of his breath |
Firing the air, and
scorching all the woods, |
Horror held all us
huntsmen from pursuit; |
Only the Duke,
incensed with our cold fear, |
Encouraged like a
second Hercules – |
Vinc. Zounds, too good, man! |
Stroz.
Pray thee let me
alone! |
And like the English
sign of great Saint George – |
Vinc. Plague of that simile! |
Stroz. Gave valorous example, and, like fire, |
Hunted the monster
close, and charged so fierce |
That he enforced him
(as our sense conceived) |
To leap for soil into
a crystal spring; |
Where on the sudden
strangely vanishing, |
Nymph-like, for him,
out of the waves arose |
Your sacred figure,
like Diana armed, |
And (as in purpose of
the beast's revenge) |
Discharged an arrow
through his Highness' breast, |
Whence yet no wound or
any blood appeared; |
With which the angry
shadow left the light; |
And this enchanter,
with his power of spirits, |
Brake from a cave,
scattering enchanted sounds, |
That strook us
senseless, while in these strange bands |
These cruèl spirits
thus enchained his arms, |
And led him captive to
your heavenly eyes, |
Th' intent whereof on
their report relies. |
Enchanter. Bright
nymph, that boar figured your cruèlty, |
Chargèd by love,
defended by your beauty. |
This amorous huntsman
here we thus enthralled |
As the attendants on
your Grace's charms, |
And brought him
hither, by your bounteous hands |
To be released, or live in endless bands. |
Lasso. Daughter, release the Duke! − Alas, my
Liege, |
What meant your
Highness to endure this wrong? |
Cort. Enlarge him, niece; come, dame, it must be so.
|
Marg. What,
madam, shall I arrogate so much? |
Lasso. His Highness' pleasure is to grace you so. |
Alph. Perform it then, sweet love, it is a deed |
Worthy the office of
your honoured hand. |
Marg. Too worthy, I confess, my lord, for me, |
If it were serious;
but it is in sport, |
And women are fit
actors for such pageants. |
[She unbinds Alphonso.] |
Alph. Thanks, gracious love; why made you strange of
this? |
I rest no less your
captive than before; |
For me untying, you
have tied me more. − |
Thanks, Strozza, for
your speech. − |
[To Medice]
No thanks to you! |
Med. No,
thank your son, my lord! |
Lasso. 'Twas
very well, |
Exceeding well
performed on every part; |
How say you,
Bassiolo? |
Bass. Rare, I protest, my lord! |
Cort. Oh, my lord Medice became it rarely; |
Methought I liked his
manly being out; |
It becomes noblemen to
do nothing well. |
Lasso. Now then, will't please your Grace to grace
our house, |
And still vouchsafe
our service further honour? |
Alph. Lead
us, my lord; we will your daughter lead. |
[Exeunt all but Vincentio and Strozza.] |
Vinc. You do not lead, but
drag her leaden steps. |
Stroz. How did you like my speech? |
Vinc.
Oh, fie upon't! |
Your rhetoric was too
fine. |
Stroz. Nothing at all; |
I hope Saint George's
sign was gross enough: |
But (to be serious) as
these warnings pass, |
Watch you your father,
I'll watch Medice, |
That in your love-suit
we may shun suspect; |
To which end, with
your next occasion urge |
Your love to name the
person she will choose, |
By whose means you may
safely write or meet. |
Vinc. That's our chief business; and see, here she
comes. |
Enter Margaret in haste. |
Marg. My lord, I only come to say, y' are welcome, |
And so
must say farewell. |
Vinc. One
word, I pray. |
Marg. What's that?
|
Vinc.
You needs
must presently devise |
What person trusted
chiefly with your guard |
You think is aptest
for me to corrupt |
In making him a mean
for our safe meeting. |
Marg. My father's usher, none so fit. |
If you can work him
well; − and so farewell, |
With thanks, my good
lord Strozza, for your speech. |
[Exit.] |
Stroz. I thank you for your patience, mocking lady. |
Vinc. Oh, what a fellow has she picked us out! |
One that I would have
choosed past all the rest |
For his close
stockings only. |
Stroz. And why not |
For the most constant
fashion of his hat? |
Vinc. Nay, then, if nothing must be left unspoke, |
For his strict form
thus still to wear his cloak. |
Stroz. Well, sir, he is your own, I make no doubt; |
For to these outward
figures of his mind |
He hath two inward
swallowing properties |
Of any gudgeons,
servile avarice |
And overweening
thought of his own worth, |
Ready to snatch at
every shade of glory: |
And, therefore, till
you can directly board him, |
Waft him aloof with
hats and other favours |
Still as you meet him.
|
Vinc. Well, let me alone: |
He that is one man's
slave is free from none. |
[Exeunt.] |
ACT II. |
SCENE I. |
A Room in the House of
Lasso. |
Enter Medice, Cortezza, |
a Page with a cup of sack. |
Med. Come,
lady, sit you here. Page, fill some sack. |
[Aside] I am to
work upon this agèd dame, |
To glean from her if
there be any cause |
(In loving others) of
her niece's coyness |
To the most gracious
love-suit of the Duke. – |
Here, noble lady, this
is healthful drink |
After our supper. |
Cort.
Oh, 'tis that, my lord, |
That of all drinks
keeps life and soul in me. |
Med. Here,
fill it, page, for this my worthy love. |
Oh, how I could
embrace this good old widow! |
Cort. Now, lord, when you do thus you make me think |
Of my sweet husband,
for he was as like you; |
E'en the same words
and fashion, the same eyes, |
Manly, and choleric,
e'en as you are, just; |
And e'en as kind as
you for all the world. |
Med. Oh, my sweet widow, thou
dost make me proud! |
Cort. Nay, I am too old for you. |
Med. Too
old! That's nothing; |
Come, pledge me,
wench, for I am dry again, |
And straight will
charge your widowhood fresh, i'faith: |
[She drinks.] |
Why, that's well done!
|
Cort. Now fie on't, here's a draught! |
Med. Oh, it
will warm your blood; if you should sip, |
'Twould make you
heartburned. |
Cort. 'Faith, and so they say; |
Yet I must tell you,
since I plied this gear, |
I have been haunted
with a whoreson pain here, |
And every moon,
almost, with a shrewd fever, |
And yet I cannot leave
it; for, thank God! |
I never was more sound of wind and limb. |
[Enter Strozza behind.] |
|
Look you, I warrant
you I have a leg, |
[Cortezza shows a great bumbasted leg.] |
Holds out as
handsomely – |
Med. Beshrew my
life, |
But 'tis a leg indeed,
a goodly limb! |
Stroz. [Aside] This is most excellent! |
Med.
Oh, that your niece |
Were of as mild a
spirit as yourself! |
Cort. Alas, Lord Medice, would you have a girl |
As well seen in
behaviöur as I? |
Ah, she's a fond young
thing, and grown so proud, |
The wind must blow at
west still or she'll be angry. |
Med. Mass,
so methinks; how coy she's to the Duke! |
I lay my life she has
some younger love. |
Cort. 'Faith, like enough! |
Med. Gods me, who
should it be? |
Cort. If it be any − Page, a little sack
− |
If it be any, hark
now, if it be – |
I know not, by this
sack − but if it be, |
Mark what I say, my
lord − I drink t'ye first. |
Med. Well
said, good widow; much good do't thy heart! |
So, now what if it be? |
Cort.
Well, if it be − |
To come to that, I
said, for so I said – |
If it be any, 'tis the
shrewd young Prince; |
For eyes can speak,
and eyes can understand, |
And I have marked her
eyes; yet by this cup, |
Which I will only kiss
– |
[She drinks.] |
Stroz.
[Aside] Oh, noble crone! |
Now such a huddle and
kettle never was. |
Cort. I never yet have seen − not yet, I say –
|
But I will mark her
after for your sake. |
Med. And
do, I pray, for it is passing like; |
And there is Strozza,
a sly counsellór |
To the young boy: Oh,
I would give a limb |
To have their knavery
limned and painted out. |
They stand upon their
wits and paper-learning; |
Give me a fellow with
a natural wit |
That can make wit of
no wit; and wade through |
Great things with
nothing, when their wits stick fast. |
Oh, they be scurvy
lords! |
Cort.
Faith, so they be! |
Your lordship still is
of my mind in all, |
And e'en so was my
husband. |
Med. [Spying Strozza.] Gods my life! |
Strozza hath
eavesdropped here, and overheard us. |
Stroz. They have descried me. |
[Advancing.]
What, Lord Medice, |
Courting the lusty
widow? |
Med. Ay, and why
not? |
Perhaps one does as
much for you at home. |
Stroz. What, choleric, man? And toward wedlock too? |
Cort. And if he be, my lord, he may do worse. |
Stroz. If he be not, madam, he may do better. |
Enter Bassiolo with Servants, |
with rushes and a carpet. |
Bass. My lords, and madam, the Duke's Grace entreats
you |
T'attend his new-made
Duchess for this night |
Into his presence. |
Stroz. We are ready, sir. |
[Exeunt Cortezza, Medice, Strozza and Page.] |
Bass. Come, strew this room afresh; spread here this
carpet; |
Nay, quickly, man, I
pray thee; this way, fool; |
Lay me it smooth, and
even; look if he will! |
This way a little
more; a little there. |
Hast thou no forecast?
'Sblood, methinks a man |
Should not of mere
necessity be an ass. |
Look, how he strows
here, too: come, Sir Giles Goosecap, |
I must do all myself;
lay me 'em thus, |
In fine smooth
threaves; look you, sir, thus, in threaves. |
Perhaps some tender
lady will squat here, |
And if some standing
rush should chance to prick her, |
She'd squeak, and spoil the songs that must be sung. |
Enter Vincentio and Strozza. |
Stroz. See, where he is; now to him, and prepare |
Your familiarity. |
Vinc.
Save you, master Bassiolo! |
I pray a word, sir;
but I fear I let you. |
Bass. No, my good lord, no let. |
Vinc. I thank you, sir. |
Nay, pray be covered;
oh, I cry you mercy, |
You must be bare. |
Bass.
Ever to you, my lord. |
Vinc. Nay, not to me, sir. |
But to the fair right
of your worshipful place. |
[Vincentio uncovers.] |
Stroz. [Aside] A shame of both your
worships. |
Bass. What means your lordship? |
[Exit Strozza.] |
Vinc. Only to do you right, sir, and myself ease. |
And what, sir, will
there be some show to-night? |
Bass. A slender presentation of some music, |
And something else, my
lord. |
Vinc. 'Tis
passing good, sir; |
I'll not be overbold
t' ask the particulars. |
Bass. Yes, if your lordship please. |
Vinc. Oh, no, good sir; |
But I did wonder much,
for, as me thought, |
I saw your hands at
work. |
Bass.
Or else, my lord, |
Our busïness would be
but badly done. |
Vinc. How virtuous is a worthy man's example! |
Who is this throne
for, pray? |
Bass. For my lord's daughter. |
Whom the Duke makes to
represent his Duchess. |
Vinc. 'Twill be exceeding fit; and all this room |
Is passing well
prepared; a man would swear |
That all presentments
in it would be rare. |
Bass. Nay, see if thou canst lay 'em thus, in
threaves. |
Vinc. In threaves, d'ye call it? |
Bass. Ay, my lord, in threaves. |
Vinc. A pretty term! |
Well, sir, I thank you
highly for this kindness, |
And pray you always
make as bold with me |
For kindness more than
this, if more may be. |
Bass. Oh, my lord, this is nothing. |
Vinc. Sir, 'tis much! |
And now I'll leave
you, sir; I know y' are busy. |
Bass. Faith, sir, a little! |
Vinc.
I commend me t' ye, sir. |
[Exit Vincentio.] |
Bass. A courteous prince, believe it; I am sorry |
I was no bolder with
him; what a phrase |
He used at parting, “I
commend me t' ye.” |
I'll ha't, i'faith! |
[Enter Sarpego, half dressed.] |
Sarp. Good Master Usher, will you dictate to me |
Which is the part
precédent of this night-cap, |
And which posterior? I
do ignorare |
How I should wear it. |
Bass.
Why, sir, this, I take it, |
Is the precédent part;
ay, so it is. |
Sarp. And is
all well, sir, think you? |
Bass. Passing well. |
Enter Poggio and Fungus. |
Pog. Why,
sir, come on; the usher shall be judge. − |
See, Master Usher,
this same Fungus here, |
Your lord's retainer,
whom I hope you rule, |
Would wear this better
jerkin for the Rush-man, |
When I do play the
Broom-man, and speak first. |
Fung. Why,
sir, I borrowed it, and I will wear it. |
Pog. What,
sir; in spite of your lord's gentleman usher? |
Fung. No
spite, sir, but you have changed twice already, |
And now would ha't
again. |
Pog. Why, that's
all one, sir, |
Gentility must be
fantastical. |
Bass. I pray thee, Fungus, let Master Poggio wear
it. |
Fung. And
what shall I wear then? |
Pog.
Why, here is one |
That was a rush-man's
jerkin, and I pray, |
Were't not absurd
then, a broom-man should wear it? |
Fung. Foh,
there's a reason! I will keep it, sir.
|
Pog. Will,
sir? Then do your office, Master Usher, |
Make him put off his
jerkin; you may pluck |
His coat over his
ears, much more his jerkin. |
Bass. Fungus, y' ad best be
ruled. |
Fung.
Best, sir! I care not. |
Pog. No,
sir? I hope you are my lord's retainer.
|
I need not care a
pudding for your lord: |
But spare not, keep
it, for perhaps I'll play |
My part as well in
this as you in that. |
Bass. Well said. Master Poggio! |
[To Fungus.]
My lord shall know it. |
Enter Cortezza, with the Broom-wench and |
Rush-wench in their petticoats, cloaks over them, |
with hats over their head-tires. |
Cort. Look, Master Usher, are these wags well
dressed? |
I have been so in
labour with 'em truly. |
Bass. Y' ave had a very good deliverance, lady. |
[Aside] How I
did take her at her labour there; |
I use to gird these
ladies so sometimes. |
Enter Lasso, with Sylvanus and a Nymph, |
a man Bug, and a woman Bug. |
1st Bug. I
pray, my lord, must not I wear this hair?
|
Lasso. I pray thee, ask my usher; come, dispatch, |
The Duke is ready; are
you ready there? |
2nd Bug. See,
Master Usher, must he wear this hair? |
1st Bug. Pray,
Master Usher, where must I come in? |
2nd Bug. Am not
I well for a Bug, Master Usher? |
Bass. What stir is with these boys here! God forgive
me, |
If 'twere not for the
credit on't, I'd see |
Your apish trash
afire, ere I'd endure this. |
1st Bug. But
pray, good Master Usher – |
Bass. Hence, ye brats! |
You stand upon your
tire; but for your action |
Which you must use in
singing of your songs |
Exceeding dextrously
and full of life, |
I hope you'll then
stand like a sort of blocks, |
Without due motion of
your hands and heads, |
And wresting your
whole bodies to your words; |
Look to't, y' are
best, and in; go, all go in! |
Pog. Come
in, my masters; let's be out anon. |
[Exeunt all but Lasso and Bassiolo.] |
Lasso. What, are all furnished well? |
Bass. All well, my lord. |
Lasso. More
lights then here, and let loud music sound. |
Bass. Sound music! |
[Exeunt.] |
Enter Vincentio, Strozza, bare, Margaret, |
Cortezza and Cynanche bearing her train. |
After her the Duke whispering with Medice, |
Lasso with Bassiolo, etc. |
Alph. Advance yourself, fair Duchess, to this
throne, |
As we have long since
raised you to our heart; |
Better decorum never
was beheld, |
Than twixt this state
and you: and as all eyes |
Now fixed on your
bright graces think it fit, |
So frame your favour to continue it. |
Marg. My
lord, but to obey your earnest will, |
And not make serious
scruple of a toy, |
I scarce durst have
presumed this minute's height. |
Lasso. Usher, cause other music; begin your
show. |
Bass. Sound, consort! Warn the Pedant to be ready. |
Cort. Madam, I think you'll see a pretty show. |
Cyn. I can
expect no less in such a presence. |
Alph. Lo! what attention and state beauty breeds, |
Whose moving silence
no shrill herald needs. |
Enter Sarpego. |
Sarp. Lords of high degree, |
And ladies of low
courtesy, |
I the Pedant here, |
Whom some call
schoolmaster, |
Because I can speak
best, |
Approach before the
rest. |
Vinc. A very good reason. |
Sarp. But
there are others coming, |
Without mask or
mumming; |
For they are not
ashamed, |
If need be, to be
named; |
Nor will they hide
their faces, |
In any place or
places; |
For though they seem
to come, |
Loaded with rush and
broom, |
The Broom-man, you
must know, |
Is Signor Poggio, |
Nephew, as shall
appear, |
To my Lord Strozza
here – |
Stroz. Oh, Lord! I thank you, sir; you grace me
much. |
Sarp. And to this noble dame, |
Whom I with finger
name. |
[Pointing to Cynanche.] |
Vinc. A plague of that fool's finger! |
Sarp. And women will ensue, |
Which, I must tell you
true, |
No women are indeed, |
But pages made, for
need, |
To fill up women's
places, |
By virtue of their
faces, |
And other hidden
graces. |
A hall, a hall! Whist,
still, be mum! |
For now
with silver song they come. |
Enter Poggio, Fungus, with the song, |
Broom-maid and Rush-maid. |
Sylvanus, a Nymph, and two Bugs. |
After which Poggio. |
Pog. Heroes
and heroines of gallant strain, |
Let not these brooms'
motes in your eyes remain, |
For in the moon
there's one bears withered bushes; |
But we (dear wights)
do bear green brooms, green rushes, |
Whereof these verdant herbals,
clepèd broom, |
Do pierce and enter
every lady's room; |
And to prove them
high-born, and no base trash, |
Water, with which your
physnomies you wash, |
Is but a broom. And,
more truth to deliver, |
Grim Hercules swept a
stable with a river. |
The wind, that sweeps
foul clouds out of the air, |
And for you ladies
makes the welkin fair, |
Is but a broom: and
oh, Dan Titan bright, |
Most clerkly called
the scavenger of night, |
What art thou, but a
very broom of gold |
For all this world not
to be cried nor sold? |
Philosophy, that
passion sweeps from thought, |
Is the soul's broom,
and by all brave wits sought: |
Now if philosophers
but broom-men are, |
Each broom-man then is
a philosopher. |
And so
we come (gracing your gracious Graces) |
To sweep Care's
cobwebs from your cleanly faces. |
Alph. Thanks, good Master Broom-man! |
Fung. For me
Rush-man, then, |
To make rush ruffle in
a verse of ten. |
A rush, which now your
heels do lie on here – |
[Pointing to Vincentio.] |
Vinc. Cry
mercy, sir! |
Fung. Was
whilome usèd for a pungent spear, |
In that odd battle
never fought but twice |
(As Homer sings)
betwixt the frogs and mice. |
Rushes make true-love
knots; rushes make rings; |
Your rush maugre the
beard of Winter springs. |
And when with gentle,
amorous, lazy limbs, |
Each lord with his
fair lady sweetly swims |
On these cool rushes,
they may with these bables, |
Cradles for children
make, children for cradles. |
And lest some Momus
here might now cry “Push!” |
Saying our pageant is
not worth a rush, |
Bundles of rushes, lo,
we bring along, |
To pick his teeth that
bites them with his tongue. |
Stroz. See, see, that's Lord Medice! |
Vinc. Gods me, my lord! |
Has he picked you out,
picking of your teeth? |
Med. What
pick you out of that? |
Stroz. Not
such stale stuff |
As you pick from your
teeth. |
Alph. Leave this war with rushes. |
Good Master Pedant,
pray forth with your show. |
Sarp. Lo, thus far then (brave Duke) you see |
Mere entertainment.
Now our glee |
Shall march forth in
morality: |
And this quaint
Duchess here shall see |
The fault of virgin
nicety, |
First wooed with rural
courtesy. |
Disburthen them,
prance on this ground, |
And make your Exit
with your round. |
[Poggio and Fungus dance with the |
Broom-maid and Rush-maid, and exeunt.] |
Well have they danced,
as it is meet, |
Both with their nimble
heads and feet. |
Now, as our country
girls held off, |
And rudely did their
lovers scoff, |
Our Nymph, likewise, shall
only glance |
By your fair eyes, and
look askance |
Upon her feral friend
that woos her, |
Who is in plain field
forced to loose her. |
And after them, to
conclude all |
The purlieu of our
pastoral, |
A female bug, and eke
her friend, |
Shall only come and
sing, and end. |
Bugs' Song: |
Thus, Lady and
Duchess, we conclude: |
Fair virgins must not
be too rude; |
For though the rural
wild and antic |
Abused their loves as
they were frantic, |
Yet take you in your
ivory clutches |
This noble Duke, and be his Duchess. |
Thus thanking all for their tacete, |
I void the room, and
cry valete. |
[Exit Sarpego with Nymph, Sylvanus, |
and the two Bugs.] |
Alph. Generally well and pleasingly performed. |
Marg. Now I resign this borrowed majesty, |
Which sate unseemly on
my worthless head, |
With humble service to
your Highness' hands. |
Alph. Well you became it, lady, and I know |
All here could wish it
might be ever so. |
Stroz. [Aside] Here's one says nay to
that. |
Vinc. [Aside to Strozza] Plague on you, peace! |
Lasso. Now let it please your Highness to accept |
A homely banquet to
close these rude sports. |
Alph. I thank your Lordship much. |
Bass. Bring lights,
make place! |
Enter Poggio in his cloak and broom-man's attire. |
Pog. How
d'ye, my lord? |
Alph. Oh, Master Broom-man, you did passing well. |
Vinc. Ah, you mad slave,
you! You are a tickling actor. |
Pog. I was
not out, like my Lord Medice. − |
How did you like me,
aunt? |
Cyn. Oh,
rarely, rarely! |
Stroz. Oh, thou hast done a work of memory, |
And raised our house
up higher by a story. |
Vinc. Friend, how conceit you my young mother here? |
Cyn. Fitter
for you, my lord, than for your father. |
Vinc. No more of that, sweet friend; those are bugs'
words. |
[Exeunt.] |
ACT
III. |
SCENE I. |
A Room in the House of
Lasso. |
Medice after the song whispers alone with his servant. |
Med. Thou
art my trusty servant, and thou know'st |
I have been ever
bountiful lord to thee, |
As still I will be; be
thou thankful then, |
And do me now a
service of import. |
Serv. Any,
my lord, in compass of my life. |
Med.
To-morrow, then, the Duke intends to hunt, |
Where Strozza, my
despiteful enemy, |
Will give attendance
busy in the chase; |
Wherein (as if by
chance, when others shoot |
At the wild boar) do
thou discharge at him, |
And with an arrow
cleave his cankered heart. |
Serv. I will
not fail, my lord. |
Med. Be secret,
then, |
And thou to me shalt
be the dear’st of men. |
[Exeunt.] |
ACT III, SCENE II. |
Another Room in the
House of Lasso. |
Enter Vincentio and Bassiolo severally. |
Vinc. [Aside] Now Vanity and Policy enrich me
|
With some ridiculous
fortune on this usher. − |
Where's Master Usher? |
Bass.
Now I come, my lord. |
Vinc. Besides, good sir, your
show did show so well. |
Bass. Did it, indeed, my lord? |
Vinc. Oh, sir, believe it! |
'Twas the
best-fashioned and well-ordered thing |
That ever eye beheld;
and, therewithal, |
The fit attendance by
the servants used, |
The gentle guise in
serving every guest |
In other
entertainments; everything |
About your house so
sortfully disposed, |
That even as in a
turn-spit called a jack |
One vice assists
another, the great wheels, |
Turning but softly,
make the less to whirr |
About their business,
every different part |
Concurring to one
cómmendable end, − |
So, and in such
conformance, with rare grace, |
Were all things
ordered in your good lord's house. |
Bass. The most fit simile that ever was. |
Vinc. But shall I tell you plainly my conceit, |
Touching the man that
I think caused this order? |
Bass. Ay, good my lord! |
Vinc. You note my simile? |
Bass. Drawn from the turn-spit. |
Vinc. I see you have me. |
Even as in that quaint
engine you have seen |
A little man in shreds
stand at the winder, |
And seems to put all
things in act about him, |
Lifting and pulling
with a mighty stir, |
Yet adds no force to
it, nor nothing does: |
So (though your lord
be a brave gentleman |
And seems to do this
business) he does nothing; |
Some man about him was
the festival robe |
That made him show so
glorious and divine. |
Bass. I
cannot tell, my lord, yet I should know |
If any such there
were. |
Vinc.
Should know, quoth you; |
I warrant you know!
Well, some there be |
Shall have the fortune
to have such rare men |
(Like brave beasts to
their arms) support their state, |
When others of as high
a worth and breed |
Are made the wasteful
food of them they feed. |
What state hath your
lord made you for your service? |
Bass. He has been my good lord, for I can spend |
Some fifteen hundred
crowns in lands a year, |
Which I have gotten
since I served him first. |
Vinc. No more than fifteen hundred crowns a year?
|
Bass. It is so much as makes me live, my lord, |
Like a poor gentleman.
|
Vinc.
Nay, 'tis pretty well; |
But certainly
my nature does esteem |
Nothing enough for
virtue; and had I |
The Duke my father's
means, all should be spent |
To keep brave men
about me; but, good sir, |
Accept this simple
jewèl at my hands, |
Till I can work
persuasion of my friendship |
With worthier
arguments. |
Bass. No, good my lord! |
I can by no means
merit the free bounties |
You have bestowed
besides. |
Vinc. Nay, be not strange, |
But do yourself right,
and be all one man |
In all your actions;
do not think but some |
Have extraordinary
spirits like yourself, |
And will not stand in
their society |
On birth and riches,
but on worth and virtue; |
With whom there is no
niceness, nor respect |
Of others' common
friendship; be he poor |
Or basely born, so he
be rich in soul |
And noble in degrees
of qualities, |
He shall be my friend
sooner than a king. |
Bass. 'Tis a
most kingly judgment in your lordship. |
Vinc. Faith, sir, I know not, but 'tis my vain
humour. |
Bass. Oh, 'tis an honour in a nobleman. |
Vinc. Y' ave some lords, now, so politic and proud, |
They scorn to give
good looks to worthy men. |
Bass. Oh, fie upon 'em! By that light, my lord, |
I am but servant to a
nobleman, |
But if I would not
scorn such puppet lords, |
Would I were breathless! |
Vinc. You, sir? So you may; |
For they will cog so
when they wish to use men, |
With, “Pray be
covered, sir”, “I beseech you sit”, |
“Who's there? Wait of
Master Usher to the door”. |
Oh, these be godly
gudgeons: where's the deeds? |
The perfect nobleman? |
Bass. Oh,
good my lord − |
Vinc. Away, away, ere I would flatter so, |
I would eat rushes
like Lord Medice! |
Bass. Well, well, my lord, would there were more
such princes! |
Vinc. Alas, 'twere pity, sir! They would be gulled |
Out of their very
skins. |
Bass. Why, how are you, my lord? |
Vinc. Who, I? I care not: |
If I be gulled where I
profess plain love, |
Twill be their faults,
you know. |
Bass. Oh, 'twere
their shames. |
Vinc. Well, take my jewèl, you shall not be strange;
|
I love not many words.
|
Bass.
My Lord, I thank you; |
I am of few words too.
|
Vinc.
'Tis friendly said; |
You prove yourself a
friend, and I would have you |
Advance your thoughts,
and lay about for state |
Worthy your virtues;
be the miniön |
Of some great king or
duke; there's Medice |
The minion of my
father − Oh, the Father! |
What difference is
there? But I cannot flatter; |
A word to wise men! |
Bass.
I perceive your lordship, |
Vinc. Your lordship? Talk you now like a friend? |
Is this plain
kindness? |
Bass.
Is it not, my lord? |
Vinc. A palpable flatt'ring figure for men
common: |
O my word, I should
think, if 'twere another, |
He meant to gull me. |
Bass. Why, 'tis but your due. |
Vinc. 'Tis
but my due if you be still a stranger; |
But as I wish to
choose you for my friend, |
As I intend, when God
shall call my father, |
To do I can tell what
− but let that pass − |
Thus 'tis not fit; let my friend be familiar, |
Use not "my
lordship", nor yet call me lord, |
Nor my whole name,
Vincentio, but Vince, |
As they call Jack or
Will; 'tis now in use |
Twixt men of no
equality or kindness. |
Bass. I shall be quickly bold enough, my lord. |
Vinc. Nay, see how still you use that coy term, “lord.” |
What argues this but
that you shun my friendship? |
Bass. Nay, pray, say not so. |
Vinc. Who should not say so? |
Will you afford me now
no name at all? |
Bass. What should I call you? |
Vinc.
Nay, then 'tis no
matter. |
But I told you,
“Vince”. |
Bass.
Why, then, my sweet Vince. |
Vinc. Why, so, then; and yet still there is a fault |
In using these kind
words without kind deeds; |
Pray thee embrace me
too. |
Bass.
Why then, sweet Vince. |
[He embraces Vincentio.] |
Vinc. Why, now I thank you; 'sblood, shall friends
be strange? |
Where there is
plainness, there is ever truth; |
And I will still be
plain since I am true. |
Come, let us lie a
little; I am weary. |
Bass. And so am I, I swear, since yesterday. |
[They lie down together.] |
Vinc. You may, sir, by my faith; and, sirrah, hark
thee, |
What lordship wouldst
thou wish to have, i'faith, |
When my old father
dies? |
Bass.
Who, I? Alas! |
Vinc. Oh, not you! Well, sir, you shall have none; |
You are as coy a piece
as your lord's daughter. |
Bass. Who, my mistress? |
Vinc. Indeed! Is she your mistress? |
Bass.
I'faith, sweet Vince, since she was three year old.
|
Vinc. And are not we two friends? |
Bass. Who doubts of that? |
Vinc. And are not two friends one? |
Bass. Even
man and wife. |
Vinc. Then what to you she is, to me she should be. |
Bass. Why, Vince, thou wouldst not have her? |
Vinc.
Oh,
not I! |
I do not fancy
anything like you. |
Bass. Nay, but I pray thee tell me. |
Vinc. You do not mean to marry her yourself? |
Bass. Not I, by Heaven! |
Vinc. Take heed now; do not gull
me. |
Bass. No, by
that candle! |
Vinc. Then
will I be plain. |
Think you she dotes
not too much on my father? |
Bass. Oh
yes, no doubt on't! |
Vinc. Nay, I pray you
speak! |
Bass. You seely man, you! She cannot abide him. |
Vinc. Why, sweet friend, pardon me; alas, I knew
not! |
Bass. But I do note you are in some things simple, |
And wrong yourself too
much. |
Vinc. Thank you,
good friend. |
For your plain
dealing, I do mean, so well. |
Bass. But who saw ever summer mixed with
winter? |
There must be equal
years where firm love is. |
Could we two love so well so suddenly, |
Were we not something
equaller in years |
Than he and she are? |
Vinc. I cry ye mercy, sir, |
I know we could not;
but yet be not too bitter, |
Considering love is
fearful. And, sweet friend, |
I have a letter t'
entreat her kindness, |
Which, if you would
convey − |
Bass. Ay, if I would, sir! |
Vinc. Why, faith, dear friend, I would not die
requiteless. |
Bass. Would
you not so, sir? |
By Heaven a little
thing would make me box you! |
"Which if you
would convey?" Why not, I pray, |
“Which, friend, thou
shalt convey?” |
Vinc. Which, friend, you
shall then. |
Bass. Well, friend, and I will then. |
Vinc. And use some kind persuasive words for
me? |
Bass. The best, I swear, that my poor tongue can
forge. |
Vinc. Ay, well said, "poor tongue!" Oh,
'tis rich in meekness; |
You are not known to
speak well? You have won |
Direction of the Earl
and all his house, |
The favour of his
daughter, and all dames |
That ever I saw come
within your sight, |
With a poor tongue? A
plague o' your sweet lips! |
Bass. Well, we will do our best; and faith, my
Vince, |
She shall have an
unwieldy and dull soul |
If she be nothing
moved with my poor tongue − |
Call it no better, be
it what it will. |
Vinc. Well said, i'faith! Now if I do not think |
'Tis possible, besides
her bare receipt |
Of that my letter,
with thy friendly tongue |
To get an answer of
it, never trust me. |
Bass. An answer, man? 'Sblood, make no doubt of
that! |
Vinc. By Heaven, I think so; now a plague of Nature,
|
That she gives all to
some, and none to others! |
Bass. [rising, aside] |
How I endear him to
me! − Come, Vince, rise; |
Next time I see her I
will give her this; |
Which when she sees,
she'll think it wondrous strange |
Love should go by
descent and make the son |
Follow the father in
his amorous steps. |
Vinc. She needs must think it strange, that ne'er
yet saw |
I durst speak to her, or had scarce her sight. |
Bass. Well, Vince, I swear thou shalt both see and
kiss her. |
Vinc. Swears my dear friend? By what? |
Bass. Even by our
friendship. |
Vinc. Oh, sacred oath! Which how long will you keep?
|
Bass. While there be bees in Hybla, or white swans |
In bright Meander;
while the banks of Po |
Shall bear brave
lilies; or Italian dames |
Be called the
bona-robas of the world. |
Vinc. 'Tis elegantly said; and when I fail, |
Let there be found in
Hybla hives no bees; |
Let no swans swim in
bright Meander stream, |
Nor lilies spring upon
the banks of Po, |
Nor let one fat
Italian dame be found, |
But lean and
brawn-fall'n; ay, and scarcely sound. |
Bass. It is enough, but let's embrace withal. |
Vinc. With all my heart. |
Bass.
So, now farewell, sweet
Vince! |
[Exit.] |
Vinc. Farewell, my worthy friend! − I think I
have him. |
Enter Bassiolo. |
Bass. [Aside] |
I had forgot the
parting phrase he taught me. − |
I commend me t'ye,
sir. |
[Exit instanter.] |
Vinc. At your wished service, sir. −
|
Oh fine friend, he had forgot the phrase: |
How serious apish
souls are in vain form! |
Well, he is mine and
he, being trusted most |
With my dear love, may
often work our meeting, |
And being thus
engaged, dare not reveal. |
Enter Poggio in haste, Strozza following. |
Pog. Horse,
horse, horse, my lord, horse! Your father
|
is going a
hunting. |
Vinc. My
lord horse? You ass, you! D'ye call my lord |
horse? |
Stroz. Nay, he speaks huddles still; let's slit his
tongue. |
Pog. Nay,
good uncle now, 'sblood, what captious |
merchants you be! So the Duke took me up even now, |
my lord uncle here,
and my old Lord Lasso. By Heaven |
y' are all too witty
for me; I am the veriest fool on you |
all, I'll be sworn! |
Vinc. Therein thou art worth us all, for thou
know'st |
thyself. |
Stroz. But your wisdom was in a pretty taking last |
night; was it not, I
pray? |
Pog. Oh,
for taking my drink a little? I'faith, my lord, |
for that, you shall
have the best sport presently, with |
Madam Cortezza, that
ever was; I have made her so |
drunk that she does
nothing but kiss my lord Medice. |
See, she comes riding
the Duke; she's passing well |
mounted, believe it. |
Enter Alphonso, Cortezza leaning on the Duke, |
Cynanche, Margaret, Bassiolo first, two women |
attendants, and Huntsmen, Lasso. |
Alph. Good wench, forbear! |
Cort. My lord, you must put forth yourself
among |
ladies. I warrant you
have much in you, if you would |
show it; see, a cheek
o' twenty, the body of a George, |
a good leg still,
still a good calf, and not flabby, nor |
hanging, I warrant
you; a brawn of a thumb here, |
and 'twere a pulled
partridge. − Niece Meg, thou shalt |
have the sweetest
bedfellow on him that ever called |
lady husband; try him,
you shame-faced bable you, |
try him. |
Marg. Good madam, be ruled. |
Cort. What a nice thing it is! My lord, you
must |
set forth this gear,
and kiss her; i'faith, you must! Get |
you together and be
naughts awhile, get you together. |
Alph. Now, what a merry, harmless dame it is! |
Cort. My
lord Medice, you are a right noble man, and |
will do a woman right
in a wrong matter, and need be; |
pray, do you give the
Duke ensample upon me; you |
come a wooing to me
now; I accept it. |
Lasso. What mean you, sister? |
Cort. Pray, my lord, away; − consider me as I
am, a |
woman. |
Pog. [Aside]
Lord, how I have whittled her! |
Cort. You come a wooing to me now; − pray thee, |
Duke, mark my lord
Medice; and do you mark me, |
virgin. Stand you
aside, my lords all, and you, give |
place. Now, my lord
Medice, put case I be strange a |
little, yet you like a
man put me to it. Come, kiss me, |
my lord; be not
ashamed. |
Med. Not I,
madam! I come not a wooing to you. |
Cort. 'Tis no matter, my lord, make as though you
did, |
and come kiss me; I
won't be strange a whit. |
Lasso. Fie,
sister, y' are to blame! Pray will you go to |
your chamber? |
Cort. Why, hark you, brother. |
Lasso. What's
the matter? |
Cort. D'ye
think I am drunk? |
Lasso. I
think so, truly. |
Cort. But
are you sure I am drunk? |
Lasso. Else I
would not think so. |
Cort. But I
would be glad to be sure on't. |
Lasso. I
assure you then. |
Cort. Why,
then, say nothing, and I'll begone. − |
God b'w'y', Lord Duke,
I'll come again anon. |
[Exit.] |
Lasso. I hope your Grace will pardon her, my Liege, |
For 'tis most strange;
she's as discreet a dame |
As any in these
countries, and as sober, |
But for this only
humour of the cup. |
Alph. 'Tis
good, my lord, sometimes. |
Come, to our hunting;
now 'tis time, I think. |
Omnes. The
very best time of the day, my lord. |
Alph. Then,
my lord, I will take my leave till night, |
Reserving thanks for
all my entertainment |
Till I return; −
in meantime, lovely dame, |
Remember the high
state you last presented, |
And think it was not a
mere festival show, |
But an essential type
of that you are |
In full consent of all
my faculties, − |
And hark you, good my
lord. |
[He whispers to Lasso.] |
[Vincentio and Strozza have all this while |
talked together a pretty way.] |
Vinc. [Aside to Strozza and Cynanche] |
See now, they whisper |
Some private order (I
dare lay my life) |
For a forced marriage
'twixt my love and father; |
I therefore must make
sure; and, noble friends, |
I'll leave you all
when I have brought you forth |
And seen you in the
chase; meanwhile observe |
In all the time this
solemn hunting lasts |
My father and his
minion, Medice, |
And note if you can
gather any sign |
That they have missed
me, and suspect my being; |
If which fall out,
send home my page before. |
Stroz. I will not fail, my lord. |
[Medice whispers with 1st Huntsman all this while.] |
Med. Now take
thy time. |
1st Hunts. I warrant you, my lord,
he shall not scape me. |
Alph. Now,
my dear mistress, till our sports intended |
End with my absence, I
will take my leave. |
Lasso. Bassiolo, attend you on my daughter. |
[Exeunt Alphonso, Lasso, Medice, Strozza, |
Poggio, Huntsmen, and attendants.] |
Bass. I will,
my lord. |
Vinc. [Aside]
Now will the sport begin; I think my love |
Will handle him as
well as I have done. |
[Exit.] |
Cyn. Madam,
I take my leave, and humbly thank you.
|
Marg.
Welcome, good madam; − maids, wait on my lady. |
[Exit Cynanche.] |
Bass. So,
mistress, this is fit. |
Marg. Fit, sir;
why so? |
Bass. Why
so? I have most fortunate news for you. |
Marg. For
me, sir? I beseech you, what are they? |
Bass. Merit
and fortune, for you both agree; |
Merit what you have, and have what you merit. |
Marg. Lord,
with what rhetoric you prepare your news! |
Bass. I need not; for the plain contents they bear, |
Uttered in any words,
deserve their welcome; |
And yet I hope the
words will serve the turn. |
Marg. What, in a letter? |
[He offers her the letter.] |
Bass. Why not? |
Marg. Whence is
it? |
Bass. From one that will not shame it with his name, |
And that is Lord
Vincentio. |
Marg. King of Heaven! |
Is the man mad? |
Bass. Mad, madam, why? |
Marg. Oh,
Heaven! I muse a man of your importance
|
Will offer to bring me
a letter thus. |
Bass. Why,
why, good mistress, are you hurt in that? |
Your answer may be
what you will yourself. |
Marg. Ay,
but you should not do it; God's my life! |
You shall answer
it. |
Bass. Nay, you must answer
it. |
Marg. I
answer it! Are you the man I trusted, |
And will betray me to
a stranger thus? |
Bass. That's
nothing, dame; all friends were strangers first. |
Marg. Now,
was there ever woman over-seen so |
In a wise man's
discretion? |
Bass. Your
brain is shallow; come, receive this letter. |
Marg. How
dare you say so, when you know so well |
How much I am engagèd
to the duke? |
Bass. The duke? A proper match! A grave old
gentleman, |
Has beard at will, and
would, in my conceit, |
Make a most excellent
pattern for a potter, |
To have his picture
stampèd on a jug, |
To keep ale-knights in
memory of sobriety. |
Here, gentle madam,
take it. |
Marg. Take it,
sir? |
Am I a common taker of
love-letters? |
Bass.
Common? Why, when received you one before? |
Marg. Come
'tis no matter; I had thought your care |
Of my bestowing would
not tempt me thus |
To one I know not; but
it is because |
You know I dote so
much on your direction. |
Bass. On my
direction? |
Marg. No, sir, not on
yours! |
Bass. Well,
mistress, if you will take my advice |
At any time, then take
this letter now. |
Marg. 'Tis
strange; I wonder the coy gentleman, |
That seeing me so oft
would never speak, |
Is on the sudden so
far rapt to write. |
Bass. It
showed his judgment that he would not speak, |
Knowing with what a
strict and jealous eye |
He should be noted;
hold, if you love yourself. |
Now will you take this
letter? Pray be ruled. |
[Gives her the letter.] |
Marg. Come, you have such another plaguy tongue! |
And yet, i'faith, I
will not. |
[Drops the letter.] |
Bass. Lord of Heaven! |
What, did it burn your
hands? Hold, hold, I pray. |
And let the words
within it fire your heart. |
[Gives her the letter again.] |
Marg. I
wonder how the devil he found you out |
To be his spokesman.
− Oh, the Duke would thank you |
If he knew how you
urged me for his son. |
[Reads the letter.] |
Bass. [Aside] The Duke! I have fretted
her, |
Even to the liver, and
had much ado |
To make her take it;
but I knew 'twas sure, |
For he that cannot
turn and wind a woman |
Like silk about his
finger is no man. |
I'll make her answer
't too. |
Marg. Oh, here's good
stuff! |
Hold, pray take it for
your pains to bring it. |
[Returning the letter.] |
Bass. Lady,
you err in my reward a little, |
Which must be a kind
answer to this letter. |
Marg. Nay then, i'faith, 'twere best you brought a
priest, |
And then your client,
and then keep the door. |
Gods me, I never knew
so rude a man! |
Bass. Well, you shall answer; I'll fetch pen and
paper. |
[Exit.] |
Marg. Poor usher, how wert thou wrought to this
brake? |
Men work on one
another for we women, |
Nay, each man on
himself; and all in one |
Say, “No man is
content that lies alone.” |
Here comes our gullèd
squire. |
Bass. Here, mistress, write. |
Marg. What should I write? |
Bass.
An answer to this
letter. |
Marg. Why, sir, I see no cause of answer in it; |
But if you needs will show how much you rule me, |
Sit down and answer it
as you please yourself; |
Here is your paper,
lay it fair afore you. |
Bass. Lady, content; I'll be your secretary. |
[He sits down to write.] |
Marg. [Aside] I fit him in this task; he
thinks his pen |
The shaft of Cupid in
an amorous letter. |
Bass. Is
here no great worth of your answer, say you?
|
Believe it, 'tis
exceedingly well writ. |
Marg. So much the more unfit for me to answer, |
And therefore
let your style and it contend. |
Bass. Well,
you shall see I will not be far short, |
Although, indeed, I
cannot write so well |
When one is by as when
I am alone. |
Marg. Oh, a good scribe must write though twenty talk, |
And he talk to them too. |
Bass. Well, you shall see. |
[He writes.] |
Marg. [Aside] |
A proper piece of
scribeship, there's no doubt; |
Some words picked out
of proclamatiöns, |
Or great men's
speeches, or well-selling pamphlets: |
See how he rubs his
temples; I believe |
His muse lies in the
back part of his brain, |
Which, thick and
gross, is hard to be brought forward. − |
What, is it loath to
come? |
Bass. No, not a whit: |
Pray hold your peace a
little. |
Marg. [Aside] |
He sweats with
bringing on his heavy style; |
I'll ply him still
till he sweat all his wit out. − |
What man, not yet? |
Bass. 'Swoons, you'll not extort it from a man! |
How do you like the
word endear? |
Marg. O fie
upon't! |
Bass. Nay,
then, I see your judgment. What say you |
to condole? |
Marg. Worse
and worse! |
Bass. Oh
brave! I should make a sweet answer, if I
|
should use no words
but of your admittance. |
Marg. Well,
sir, write what you please. |
Bass. Is model
a good word with you? |
Marg. Put
them together, I pray. |
Bass. So I will, I warrant you! [He writes.] |
Marg. [Aside]
See, see, see, now it comes pouring |
down. |
Bass. I hope
you'll take no exceptions to believe it. |
Marg. Out
upon't! That phrase is so run out of breath
|
in trifles, that we
shall have no belief at all in earnest |
shortly. “Believe it,
'tis a pretty feather.” “Believe it, a |
dainty rush.” “Believe
it, an excellent cockscomb.” |
Bass. So,
so, so; your exceptions sort very collaterally. |
Marg.
Collaterally! There's a fine word now; wrest |
in that if you can by
any means. |
Bass. I
thought she would like the very worst of them |
all! − How think
you? Do not I write, and hear, and |
talk too now? |
Marg. By my
soul, if you can tell what you write now, |
you write very
readily. |
Bass. That
you shall see straight. |
Marg. But do
you not write that you speak now? |
Bass. Oh
yes; do you not see how I write it? I cannot |
write when anybody is
by me, I! |
Marg. God's
my life! Stay, man; you'll make it too
|
long. |
Bass. Nay,
if I cannot tell what belongs to the length |
of a lady's device,
i'faith! |
Marg. But I
will not have it so long. |
Bass. If I
cannot fit you! |
Marg. Oh me,
how it comes upon him! Prithee be |
short. |
Bass. Well,
now I have done, and now I will read it: |
Your lordship's motive accommodating
my |
thoughts with the very
model of my heart's mature |
consideration, it
shall not be out of my element to |
negotiate with you in
this amorous duello; wherein |
I will condole with
you that our project cannot he so |
collaterally made as
our endeared hearts may very |
well seem to insinuate. |
Marg. No
more, no more; fie upon this! |
Bass. Fie
upon this? He's accursed that has to do with |
these unsound women of
judgment: if this be not good, |
i'faith! |
Marg. But
'tis so good, 'twill not be thought to come
|
from a woman's brain. |
Bass. That's
another matter. |
Marg. Come,
I will write myself. |
[She sits down to write.] |
Bass. O' God's name lady! And yet I will not lose
this |
I warrant you; I know
for what lady this will serve as |
fit. |
[Folding up his letter.] |
Now we shall have a
sweet piece of inditement. |
Marg. How
spell you foolish? |
Bass.
F-oo-l-i-sh. |
[Aside] She
will presume t' indite that cannot spell. |
Marg. How
spell you usher? |
Bass.
'Sblood, you put not in those words together, do |
you? |
Marg. No,
not together. |
Bass. What
is betwixt, I pray? |
Marg. As
the. |
Bass. Ass
the? Betwixt foolish and usher? God's |
my life, foolish
ass the usher! |
Marg. Nay,
then, you are so jealous of your wit! Now |
read all I have
written, I pray. |
Bass. [Reads]
“I am not so foolish as the usher |
would make me” − Oh, so foolish as the usher
would |
make me? Wherein would
I make you foolish? |
Marg. Why, sir, in willing me to believe he loved
me |
so well, being so mere
a stranger. |
Bass. Oh,
is't so? You may say so, indeed. |