 | The Honest Whore, With The Humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife |  |
SCENA 10.
Enter a seruant setting out a Table, on which he places a scull, a picture, a booke and a Taper.Ser.
So, this is Monday morning, and now must I to my
huswifry: would I had bin created a Shoomaker; for all the
gentle craft are gentlemen euery Monday by their Copy,
& scorne (then) to worke one true stitch. My M. meanes
sure to turne me into a student; for here's my booke, here
my deske, here my light; this my close chamber, and heere
my Punck: so that this dull drowzy first day of the weeke,
makes me halfe a Priest, halfe a Chandler, halfe a paynter,
halfe a Sexton, I & halfe a Bawd: for (all this day) my office
is to do nothing but keep the dore. To proue it, looke you,
this good-face & yonder gentleman (so soone as euer my
back's turnd) wilbe naught together.
Enter Hipolito.
Hip.
Are all the windowes shut?
Ser.
Close sir, as the fist
of a Courtier that hath stood in three raignes.
Hip.
Thou art a faythfull seruant, and obseru'st
The Calender, both of my solemne vowes,
And ceremonious sorrow: Get thee gone,
I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound
Of any womans voyce pierce through that dore.
Ser.
If they do, my Lord, Ile pearce some of them.
What will your Lordship haue to breakfast?
Hip.
Sighs.
Ser.
What to dinner?
Hip.
Teares.
Ser.
The one of them, my Lord, will fill you too full of
wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?
Hip.
That which (now) thou canst not get me, the constancy
of a woman.
Ser.
Indeed thats harder to come by then euer was
Ostend.
Hip.
Prythee away.
Ser.
Ile make away my selfe presently, which few Seruants
will doe for their Lords; but rather helpe to make
them away: Now to my dore-keeping, I hope to picke
something out of it.
Exit.
Hip.
My Infelices face: her brow, her eye,
The dimple on her cheeke: and such sweet skill,
These lippes looke fresh and liuely as her owne,
Seeming to mooue and speake. Las! now I see,
The reason why fond women loue to buy
Adulterate complexion: here 'tis read,
False coulours last after the true be dead.
Of all the Roses grafted on her cheekes,
Of all the graces dauncing in her eyes,
Of all the Musick set vpon her tongue,
Of all that was past womans excellence,
In her white bosome, looke! a painted board,
Circumscribes all: Earth can no blisse affoord.
Nothing of her, but this? this cannot speake,
It has no lap for me to rest vpon,
No lip worth tasting: here the wormes will feed,
As in her coffin: hence then idle Art,
True loue's best picturde in a true-loues heart.
Here art thou drawne sweet maid, till this be dead,
So that thou liu'st twice, twice art buried.
Thou figure of my friend, lye there. Whats here?
Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enimies:
Alas! say it were: I need not feare him now:
For all his braues, his contumelious breath,
His frownes (tho dagger-pointed) all his plot,
(Tho 'nere so mischieuous) his Italian pilles,
His quarrels, and (that common fence) his law,
See, see, they're all eaten out; here's not left one;
How cleane they're pickt away! to the bare bone!
How mad are mortals then to reare great names
On tops of swelling houses? or to weare out
Their fingers ends (in durt,) to scrape vp gould!
Not caring so (that Sumpter-horse) the back
Be hung with gawdy trappings, with what course,
Yea rags most beggerly, they cloath the soule:
Yet (after all) their Gay-nes lookes thus foule.
What fooles are men to build a garish tombe,
Onely to saue the carcasse whilst it rots,
To maintein't long in stincking, make good carion,
For good deedes keepe men sweet, long aboue ground,
And must all come to this; fooles; wise, all hether,
Must all heads thus at last be laid together:
Draw me my picture then, thou graue neate workeman,
After this fashion, not like this; these coulours
In time kissing but ayre, will be kist off,
But heres a fellow; that which he layes on,
Till doomes day, alters not complexion.
Deaths' the best Painter then: They that draw shapes,
And liue by wicked faces, are but Gods Apes,
They come but neere the life, and there they stay,
This fellow drawes life to: his Art is fuller,
The pictures which he makes are without coulour.
Enter his seruant.
Ser.
Heres a person would speake with you Sir.
Hip.
Hah!
Ser.
A parson sir would speake with you.
Hip.
Vicar?
Ser.
Vicar? no sir, has too good a face to be a Vicar yet, a
youth, a very youth.
Hip.
What youth? of man or woman? lock the dores.
Ser.
If it be a woman, mary-bones and Potato pies keepe
me for medling with her, for the thing has got the breeches,
tis a male-varlet sure my Lord, for a womans tayler nore
measurd him.
Hip.
Let him giue thee his message and be gone.
Ser.
He sayes hees signior Mathæos man, but I know he
lyes.
Hip.
How doest thou know it?
Ser.
Cause has nere a beard: tis his boy I thinke sir, whosoere
paide for his nursing.
Hip.
Send him and keepe the doore.
Reades.
Fata fi liceat mihi,
Fingere arbitrio meo,
Temperem Zephyro leuivela.
Ide saile were I to choose, not in the Ocean,
Enter Bellafronte like a Page.
How? from Mathæo.
Bell.
Yes my Lord.
Hip.
Art sick?
Bell.
Not all in health my Lord.
Hip.
Keepe off.
Bell.
I do:
Hard fate when women are compeld to wooe.
Hip.
This paper does speake nothing.
Bell.
Yes my Lord,
Matter of life it speakes, and therefore writ
In hidden Caracter; to me iustruction
My maister giues, And (lesse you please to stay
Till you both meet) I can the text display.
Hip.
Doe so: read out.
Bell.
I am already out:
Looke on my face, and read the strangest story!
Hip.
What villaine, ho?
Enter his seruant.
Ser.
Call you my Lord?
Hip.
Thou slaue, thou hast let in the diuell.
Ser.
Lord blesse vs, where? hees not clouen my Lord that
I can see: besides the diuell goes more like a Gentleman
than a Page: good my Lord Boon couragio.
Hip.
Thou hast let in a woman, in mans shape.
And thou art dambd for't.
Ser.
Not dambd I hope for putting in a woman to a Lord.
Hip.
Fetch me my Rapier,—do not: I shall kill thee.
Purge this infected chamber of that plague,
That runnes vpon me thus: Slaue, thrust her hence.
Ser.
Alas my Lord, I shall neuer be able to thrust her hence
without helpe: come Mermaid you must to Sea agen.
Bell.
Here me but speake, my words shall be all Musick:
Here me but speake.
Hip.
Another beates the dore,
T'other Shee-diuell, looke.
Ser.
Why then hell's broke loose.
Exit.
Hip.
Hence, guard the chamber: let no more come on,
Beshrew thee, thou doost make me violate,
The chastest and most sanctimonious vow,
That ere was entred in the court of heauen:
I was on meditations spottles wings,
vpon my iorney thether; like a storme
Thou beats my ripened cogitations,
flat to the ground: and like a theife doost stand,
To steale deuotion from the holy land.
Bel.
If woman were thy mother; if thy hart,
Bee not all Marble, (or ift Marble be)
Let my teares soften it, to pitty me,
I doe beseech thee doe not thus with scorne,
Destroy a woman.
Hip.
Woman I beseech thee,
Get thee some other suite, this fits thee not,
I would not grant it to a kneeling Queene,
I cannot loue thee, nor I must not: See,
The copy of that obligation,
Where my soule's bound in heauy penalties.
Bel.
She's dead you told me, shele let fal her suite.
Hip.
My vowes to her, fled after her to heauen,
Were thine eyes cleere as mine, thou mightst behold her,
Watching vpon yon battlements of starres,
How I obserue them: should I breake my bond,
This bord would riue in twaine, these wooden lippes
Call me most periurde villaine, let it suffice,
I ha set thee in the path; Ist not a signe,
I loue thee, when with one so most most deare,
Ile haue thee fellowes? All are fellowes there.
Bel.
Be greater then a king, saue not a body,
But from eternall shipwracke keepe a soule,
If not, and that againe, sinnes path I tread;
The griefe be mine, the guilt fall on thy head.
Hip.
Stay and take Phisicke for it, read this booke,
Aske counsell of this head whats to be done,
Hele strike it dead that tis damnation,
If you turne turke againe, oh doe it not,
From doing ill let hell fright you: and learne this,
The soule whose bosome lust did neuer touch,
Is Gods faire bride, and maidens soules are such:
The soule that leauing chastities white shore,
Swims in hot sensuall streames, is the diuels whore,
How now: who comes.
Enter his seruant.
Ser.
No more knaues my Lord that weare smocks: heres
a letter from doctor Benedect; I would not enter his man, tho
he had haires at his mouth, for feare he should be a woman, for
some women haue beardes, mary they are halfe witches,
Slid you are a sweete youth to weare a codpeece, and haue no
pinnes to sticke vpont.
Hip.
Ile meete the doctor, tell him, yet to night
I cannot: but at morrow rising Sunne
I will not faile: go: woman fare thee well.
Exeunt.
Bel.
The lowest fall can be but into hell,
It does not moue him. I must therefore fly,
From this vndoing Cittie, and with teares,
Wash off all anger from my fathers brow,
He cannot sure but ioy seeing me new borne,
A woman honest first and then turne whore,
Is (as with me) common to thousands more,
But from a strumpet to turne chast: that sound,
Has oft bin heard, that woman hardly found.
Exit.
| The Honest Whore, With The Humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife | |