University of Virginia Library

Enter Bryan.
Infæ.

Come hither sirra, how much cost those Satins, and
cloth of Siluer, which my husband sent by you to a low
Gentlewoman yonder?

Bry.

Faat Sattins? faat Siluers, faat low Gentlefolkes?
dow pratest dow knowest not what, yfaat la.

Infæ.

She there, to whom you carried letters.

Bry.

By dis hand and bod dow saist true, if I did so, oh
how? I know not a letter a de Booke yfaat la.

Infæ.

Did your Lord neuer send you with a Ring, sir, set
with a Diamond?

Bry.

Neuer, sa crees sa me, neuer; he may runne at a towsand
rings yfaat, and I neuer hold his stirrop, till he leape into
de saddle. By S. Patricke, Madam, I neuer touch my Lords
Diamond, nor euer had to doe, yfaat la, with any of his precious
stones.

Enter Hipollito.
Infæ.

Are you so close, you Bawd, you pandring slaue?

Hip.

How now? why Infælice? what's your quarrell?

Infæ.

Out of my sight, base varlet, get thee gone.

Hip.

Away you rouge.

Bry.

Slawne loot, fare de well, fare de well. Ah marragh
frofat boddah breen.

Exit.
Hip.

What, growne a fighter? prethee what's the matter?

Infæ.

If you'll needs know, it was about the clocke: how
workes the day, my Lord, (pray) by your watch?

Hip.

Lest you cuffe me, Ile tell you presently: I am
neere two.

Infæ.
How, two? I am scarce at one.

Hip.
One of vs then goes false.

Infæ.
Then sure 'tis you,
Mine goes by heauens Diall, (the Sunne) and it goes true.

Hip.
I thinke (indeed) mine runnes somewhat too fast.

Infæ.
Set it to mine (at one) then.

Hip.
One? 'tis past:
'Tis past one by the Sunne.

Infæ.
Faith then belike,
Neither your clocke nor mine does truely strike,
And since it is vncertaine which goes true,
Better be false at one, then false at two.

Hip.
Y'are very pleasant, Madam.

Infæ.
Yet not merry.

Hip.
Why Infælice, what should make you sad?

Infæ.
Nothing my Lord, but my false watch, pray tell me,
You see, my clocke, or yours is out of frame,
Must we vpon the Workeman lay the blame,
Or on your selues that keepe them?

Hip.
Faith on both.
He may by knauery spoile them, we by sloth,
But why talke yon all riddle thus? I read
Strange Comments in those margines of your lookes:
Your cheekes of late are (like bad printed Bookes)
So dimly charactred, I scarce can spell,
One line of loue in them. Sure all's not well.

Infæ.
All is not well indeed, my dearest Lord,
Looke vp thy gates of hearing, that no sound
Of what I speake may enter.

Hip.
What meanes this?

Infæ.
Or if my owne tongue must my selfe betray,
Count it a dreame, or turne thine eyes away,
And thinke me not thy wife.

She kneeles.
Hip.
Why doe you kneele?

Infæ.

Earth is sinnes cushion: when the sicke soule feeles
her selfe growing poore, then she turnes begger, cryes and
kneeles for helpe; Hipollito (for husband I dare not call
thee) I haue slolne that Iewell of my chaste honour (which
was onely thine) and giuen it to a slaue.

Hip.
Hah?

Infæ.
On thy pillow adultery & lust haue slept, thy Groome
Hath climbed the vnlawfull tree, and pluckt the sweets,
A villaine hath vsurped a husbands sheetes.

Hip.
S'death, who, (a Cuckold) who?

Infæ.
This Irish Footman.

Hip.

Worse then damnation, a wild Kerne, a Frogge, a
Dog: whom Ile scarce spurne. Longed you for Shamocke?
were it my fathers father (heart) Ile kill him, althought I
take him on his death-bed gasping 'twixt heauen and hell;
a shag-haired Cur? Bold Strumpet, why hangest thou on me?
thinkst Ile be a Bawde to a Whore, because she's Noble?

Infæ.
I beg but this,
Set not my shame out to the worlds broad eye,
Yet let thy vengeance (like my fault) soare hye,
So it be in darkned clowdes.

Hip.
Darkned! my hornes
Cannot be darkned, nor shall my reuenge.
A Harlot to my slaue? the act is base,
Common, but foule, so shall thy disgrace:
Could not I feed your appetite? oh women
You were created Angels; pure and faire;
But since the first fell, tempting Deuils you are,
You should be mens blisse, but you proue their rods.
Were there no women, men might liue like gods:
You ha beene too much downe already, rise,
Get from my sight, and henceforth shun my bed,
Ile with no Strumpets breath be poysoned.
As for your Irish Lubrican, that spirit
Whom by prepostrous charmes thy lust hath raised
In a wrong Circle, him Ile damne more blacke
Then any Tyrants soule.

Infæ.
Hippolito?

Hip.

Tell me, didst thou baite Hawkes to draw him to
thee, or did he bewitch thee?

Infæ.

The slaue did woo me.

Hip.

Two wooes in that Skreech-owles language? Oh
who would trust your corcke-heeld sex? I thinke to sate
your lust, you would loue a Horse, a Beare, a croaking Toade,
so your hot itching veines might haue their bound, then the
wild Irish Dart was throwne. Come, how? the manner of
this fight.

Infæ.
'Twas thus, he gaue me this battery first. Oh I
Mistake, beleeue me, all this in beaten gold:
Yet I held out, but at length this was charm'd.
What? change your Diamond wench, the act is base,
Common but foule, so shall not your disgrace:
Could not I feed your appetite? Oh Men,
You were created Angels, pure and faire,
But since the first fell, worse then Deuils you are.
You should our shields be, but you proue our rods.
Were there no Men, Women might liue like gods.
Guilty my Lord?

Hip.
Yes, guilty my good Lady.

Infæ.
Nay, you may laugh, but henceforth shun my bed,
With no whores leauings Ile be poysoned.

Exit.
Hip.
O're-reach'd so finely? 'Tis the very Diamond
And Letter which I sent: this villany
Some Spider closely weaues, whose poysond bulke
I must let forth. Who's there without?

Seruant.
My Lord calls.— within.
—

Hip.
Send me the Footman.

Ser.
Call the Footman to my Lord, Bryan, Bryan.