University of Virginia Library

Enter Hipollito.
Mat.

Gods so my Lord, your Lordship is most welcome,
I'm proud of this, my Lord.

Hip.
Was bold to see you.
Is that your wife?

Mat.
Yes sir.

Hip.
Ile borrow her lip.

Mat.
With all my heart, my Lord.

Orl.
Who's this, I pray sir?

Mat.
My Lord Hipollito: what's thy name?

Orl.
Pacheco.

Mat.

Pacheco, fine name; Thou seest, Pacheco, I keepe
company with no Scondrels, nor base fellowes.

Hip.
Came not my Footman to you?

Bel.
Yes my Lord.

Hip.
I sent by him a Diamond and a Letter,
Did you receiue them?

Bel.
Yes my Lord, I did.

Hip.
Read you the letter?

Bel.
O're and o're 'tis read.

Hip.
And faith your answer?

Bel.
Now the time's not fit,
You see, my Husbands here.

Hip.
Ile now then leaue you,
And choose mine houre; but ere I part away,
Harke, you remember I must haue no nay.
Matheo, I will leaue you.

Mat.
A glasse of wine.

Hip.
Not now, Ile visit you at other times.
Y'are come off well then?

Mat.

Excellent well, I thanke your Lordship: I owe you
my life, my Lord; and will pay my best blood in any seruice
of yours.

Hip.

Ile take no such deare payment, harke you Matheo,
I know, the prison is a gulfe, if money runne low with you,
my purse is yours: call for it.

Mat.

Faith my Lord, I thanke my starres, they send me
downe some; I cannot sinke, so long as these bladders hold.

Hip.
I will not see your fortunes ebbe, pray try.
To starue in full barnes were fond modesty.

Mat.
Open the doore, sirra.

Hip.

Drinke this, and anon I pray thee giue thy Mistris
this.

Exit.
Orl.
O Noble Spirit, if no worse guests here dwell,
My blue coate sits on my old shoulders well.

Mat.

The onely royall fellow, he's bounteous as the Indies,
what's that he said to thee, Bellafront?

Bel.

Nothing.

Mat.

I prethee good Girle?

Bel.

Why I tell you nothing.

Mat.

Nothing? it's well: trickes, that I must be beholden
to a scald hot-liuerd gotish Gallant, to stand with my
cap in my hand, and vaile bonnet, when I ha spred as lofty
sayles as himselfe, wud I had beene hanged. Nothing? Pacheco,
brush my cloake.

Orl.
Where is't, sir?

Mat.
Come, wee'll flye hye.
Nothing? there is a whore still in thine eye.

Exit.
Orl.
My twenty pounds flyes high, O wretched woman,
This varlot's able to make Lucrece common.

How now Mistris? has my Master dyed you into this sad
colour?

Bel.

Fellow, be gone I pray thee; if thy tongue itch after
talke so much, seeke out thy Master, th'art a fit instrument
for him.

Orl.
Zownes, I hope he will not play vpon me?

Bel.
Play on thee? no, you two will flye together,
Because you are rouing arrowes of one feather.
Would thou wouldst leaue my house, thou ne'r shalt
Please, me weaue thy nets ne'r so hye,
Thou shalt be but a spider in mine eye.
Th'art ranke with poyson, poyson temperd well,
Is food for health; but thy blacke tongue doth swell
With venome, to hurt him that gaue thee bread,
To wrong men absent, is to spurne the dead.
And so did'st thou thy Master, and my Father.

Orl.

You haue small reason to take his part; for I haue
heard him say fiue hundred times, you were as arrant a
whore as euer stiffned tiffany neckcloathes in water-starch
vpon a Saturday 'ith afternoone.

Bel.
Let him say worse, when for the earths offence
Hot vengeance through the marble cloudes is driuen,
Is't fit earth shoot agen those darts at heauen?

Orl.

And so if your Father call you whore, you'll not call
him old knaue: Friscabaldo, she carries thy mind vp and
downe; she's thine owne flesh, blood, and bone; troth Mistris,
to tell you true, the fireworkes that ran from me vpon
lines against my good old Master, your father, were but to
try how my young Master your Husband loued such squibs:
but it's well knowne, I loue your father as my selfe; Ile ride
for him at mid-night, runne for you by Owle-light; Ile dye
for him, drudge for you; Ile flye low, and Ile flye hye (as
my Master saies) to doe you good, if you'll forgiue me.

Bel.

I am not made of marble: I forgiue thee.

Orl.

Nay, if you were made of marble, a good Stone-cutter
might cut you: I hope the twenty pound I deliuered
to my Master, is in a sure hand.

Bel.

In a sure hand I warrant thee for spending.

Orl.

I see my yong Master is a madcap, and a bonus socius,
I loue him well, Mistris: yet as well as I loue him, Ile not
play the knaue with you; looke you, I could cheat you of
this purse full of money; but I, am an old Lad, and I scorne
to cunny-catch: yet I ha beene Dog at a Cony in my time.

Bel.

A purse, where hadst it?

Orl.

The Gentleman that went away, whisperd in mine
eare, and charged me to giue it you.

Bel.

The Lord Hipollito?

Orla.

Yes, if he be a Lord, he gaue it me.

Bel.

'Tis all gold.

Orl.

'Tis like so: it may be, he thinkes you want money,
and therefore bestowes his almes brauely, like a Lord.

Bel.
He thinkes a siluer net can catch the poore,
Here's baite to choake a Nun, and turne her whore.
Wilt thou be honest to me?

Orl.

As your nailes to your fingers, which I thinke neuer
deceiued you.

Bel.
Thou to this Lord shalt goe, commend me to him,
And tell him this, the Towne has held out long,
Because (within) 'twas rather true, then strong.
To sell it now were base; Say 'tis no hold
Built of weake stuffe, to be blowne vp with gold.
He shall beleeue thee by this token, or this; if not, by this.

Orla.
Is this all?

Bel.
This is all.

Orl.
Mine owne Girle still.

Bel.
A Starre may shoote, not fall.
Exit Bellafront.

Orl.

A Starre? nay, thou art more then the moone, for
thou hast neither changing quarters, nor a man standing in
thy circle with a bush of thornes. Is't possible the Lord
Hipollito, whose face is as ciuill as the outside of a Dedicatory
Booke, should be a Muttonmunger? A poore man has
but one Ewe, and this Grandy Sheepe-biter leaues whole
Flockes of fat Weathers (whom he may knocke downe)
to deuoure this. Ile trust neither Lord nor Butcher with
quicke flesh for this tricke; the Cuckoo I see now sings all
the yeere, though euery man cannot heare him, but Ile
spoyle his notes; can neither Loue-letters, nor the Deuils
common Pick-lockes (Gold) nor Precious Stones make my
Girle draw vp her Percullis: hold out still, wench.

All are not Bawds (I see now) that keepe doores,
Nor all good wenches that are markt for Whores.

Exit.