University of Virginia Library

Enter Orlaudo Friscobaldo.
Omnes.

Signior Friscabaldo.

Hip.

Friscabaldo, oh! pray call him, and leaue me, wee
two haue businesse.

Car.
Ho Signior! Signior Friscabaldo.
The Lord Hipollito.

Exeunt.
Orla.

My Noble Lord: my Lord Hipollito! the Dukes
Sonne! his braue Daughters braue Husband! how does
your honord Lordship! does your Nobility remember so
poore a Gentleman as Signior Orlando Friscabaldo! old mad
Orlando!

Hip.

Oh sir, our friēds they ought to be vnto vs as our Iewels,
as dearely valued, being locked vp, & vnseene, as when
we weare them in our hands. I see, Friscabaldo, age hath not
command of your blood, for all Times sickle has gone ouer
you, you are Orlando still.

Orl.

Why my Lord, are not the fields mowen and cut

downe, and stript bare, and yet weare they not pide coates
againe? tho my head be like a Leeke, white: may not my
heart be like the blade, greene?

Hip.
Scarce can I read the Stories on your brow,
Which age hath writ there, you looke youthfull still.

Orla.
I eate Snakes, my Lord, I eate Snakes.
My heart shall neuer haue a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry
Hem with a cleare voice.

Hip.
You are the happier man, sir.

Orla.

Happy man! Ile giue you (my Lord) the true picture
of a happy man; I was turning leaues ouer this morning,
and found it, an excellent Italian Painter drew it, If I haue
it in the right colours, Ile bestow it on your Lordship.

Hip.
I stay for it.

Orla.
He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore,
He that at noone-day walkes by a prison doore,
He that 'ith Sunne is neither beame nor moate,
He that's not mad after a Petticoate,
He for whom poore mens curses dig no graue,
He that is neither Lords nor Lawyers slaue,
He that makes This his Sea, and That his Shore,
He that in's Coffin is richer then before,
He that counts Youth his Sword, and Age his Staffe,
He whose right hand carues his owne Epitaph,
He that vpon his death-bead is a Swan,
And Dead, no Crow, he is a happy man.

Hip.
It's very well, I thanke you for this Picture.

Orla.
After this Picture (my Lord) doe I striue to haue my face drawne:
For I am not couetous,
Am not in debt,
Sit neither at the Dukes side,
Nor lie at his feete.
Wenching and I haue done, no man I wrong,
No man I feare, no man I see;
I take heed how farre I walke, because I know yonders my home.
I would not die like, a rich man, to carry nothing away saue a winding sheete:
But like a good man, to leaue Orlando behind me.
I sowed leaues in my Youth, and I reape now Bookes in my Age.
I fill this hand, and empty this, and when the bell shall toll for me, if I proue a Swan & go singing to my nest, why so?
If a Crowl throw me out for carrion, & pick out mine eyes,
May not old Friscabaldo (my Lord) be merry now! ha?

Hip.
You may, would I were partner in your mirth.

Orla.
I haue a little,
Haue all things;
I haue nothing; I haue no wife, I haue no child, haue no chick, and why should not I be in my Iocundare?

Hip.
Is your wife then departed?

Orla.
She's an old dweller in those high Countries,
Yet not from me,

Here, she's here: but before me, when a Knaue and Queane
are married, they commonly walke like Serieants together:
but a good couple are seldome parted.

Hip.

You had a Daughter too sir, had you not?

Orla.

Oh my Lord! this old Tree had one Branch, (and
but one Branch growing out of it) It was young, it was
faire, it was straight; I prumde it daily, drest it carefully,
kept it from the winde, help'd it to the Sunne, yet for all
my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore Crabs; I
hewed it downe,

What's become of it, I neither know, nor care.

Hip.
Then can I tell you whats become of it;
That Branch is witherd.

Orl.
So 'twas long agoe.

Hip.
Her name I thinke was Bellafront, she's dead.

Orlando.
Ha? dead?

Hip.
Yes, what of her was left, not worth the keeping,
Euen in my sight was throwne into a Graue.

Orl.

Dead I my last and best peace goe with her, I see
deaths a good trencherman, he can eat course homely meat,

as well as the daintiest.

Hip.

Why, Friscabaldo, was she homely?

Orla.

O my Lord! a Strumpet is one of the Deuils Vines;
all the sinnes like so many Poles are stucke vpright out of
hell, to be her props, that she may spread vpon them. And
when she's ripe, euery Slaue has a pull at her, then must she
be prest. The yong beautifull Grape sets the teeth of Lust
on edge, yet to taste that lickrish Wine, is to drinke a mans
owne damnation. Is she dead?

Hip.

Shee's turned to earth.

Orla.

Wod she were turn'd to heauen; Vmh, is she dead!
I am glad the world has lost one of his Idols; no Whoremonger
will at midnight beat at the doores; In her graue
sleepe all my shame, and her owne; and all my sorrowes,
and all her sinnes.

Hip.
I'm glad you are wax, not marble; you are made
Of maris best temper, there are now good hopes
That all these heapes of
Ice about your heart,
By which a fathers loue was frozen vp,
Are thawed in these sweet showres fetcht from your eyes,
We are ne'r like Angels till our passion dyes,
She is not dead, but liues vnder worse fate,
I thinke she's poore, and more to clip her wings,
Her Husband at this houre lies in the Iayle,
For killing of a man, to saue his blood,
Ioyne all your force with mine: mine shall be showne,
The getting of his life preserues your owne.

Orla.

In my daughter you will say! does she liue then?
I am sorry I wasted teares vpon a Harlot, but the best is I
haue a handkercher to drinke them vp, sope can wash them
all out agen.

Is she poore?

Hip.
Trust me, I thinke she is.

Orla.

Then she's a right Strumpet; I ne'r knew any of
their trade rich two yeeres together; Siues can hold no

water, nor Harlots hoord vp money; they haue many vents,
too many sluces to let it out; Tauernes, Taylors, Bawds,
Panders, Fidlers, Swaggerers, Fooles and Knaues, doe all
waite vpon a common Harlots trencher: she is the Gallypot
to which these Drones flye: not for loue to the pot, but
for the sweet sucket within it, her money, her money.

Hip.

I almost dare pawne my word, her bosome giues
warmth to no such Snakes; when did you see her?

Orla.

Not seuenteene Summers.

Hip.

Is your hate so old?

Orla.

Older; it has a white head, and shall neuer dye till
she be buried,

Her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.

Hip.
Worke yet his life, since in it liues her fame.

Orla.

No, let him hang, and halfe her infamy departs out
of the world: I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste
poyson; I hate her for her selfe, because she refused my
Physicke.

Hip.

Nay but Friscabaldo.

Orl.

I detest her, I defie both, she's not mine, she's.

Hip.

Heare her but speake.

Orl.

I loue no Maremaides, Ile not be caught with a quaill
pipe.

Hip.

Y'are now beyond all reason.

Orl.

I am then a Beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast, and not
dishonor my creation, then be a doting father, & like Time,
be the destruction of mine owne broode.

Hip.
Is't dotage to relieue your child being poore?

Orl.
Is't fit for an old man to keepe a whore?

Hip.
'Tis charity too.

Orl.
'Tis foolery; releeue her!
Were her cold limbes stretcht out vpon a Beere,
I would not sell this durt vnder my nailes
To buy her an houres breath, nor giue this haire,
Vnlesse it were to choke her.

Hip.
Fare you well, for Ile trouble you no more.

Exit.
Orl.

And fare you well sir, goe thy waies, we haue few

Lords of thy making, that loue wenches for their honesty;
Las my Girle! art thou poore? pouerty dwells next doore
to despaire, there's but a wall betweene them; despaire is
one of hells Catch-poles; and lest that Deuill arrest her, Ile
to her, yet she shall not know me; she shall drinke of my
wealth, as beggers doe of running water, freely, yet neuer
know from what Fountaines head it flowes. Shall a silly
bird picke her owne brest to nourish her yong ones, and
can a father see his child starue? That were hard; The Pelican
does it, and shall not I. Yes, I will victuall the Campe
for her, but it shall be by some stratagem; that knaue there
her husband will be hanged I feare, Ile keepe his necke out
of the nooze if I can, he shall not know how.