 | Loves Cure or, The Martial Maid |  |
Actus secundus.
Scæna prima.
Enter Pachieco, and Lazarillo.Pac.
Boy: my Cloake, and Rapier; it fits not a Gentleman
of my ranck, to walke the streets in Querpo.
Laz.
Nay, you are a very ranck Gent. Signior, I am
very hungry, they tell me in Civill here, I looke like an
Eele, with a mans head: and your neighbour the Smith
here hard by, would have borrowed me th'other day, to
have fish'd with me, because he had lost his angle-rod.
Pac.
Oh happy thou Lazarillo (being the cause of other
mens wits) as in thine own: live leane, and witty
still: oppresse not thy stomach too much: grosse feeders,
great sleepers: great sleepers, fat bodies; fat bodies, lean
braines: No Lazarillo, I will make thee immortall,
change thy humanitie into dietie, for I will teach thee
to live upon nothing.
Laz.
Faith Signior, I am immortall then already, or
very neere it, for I doe live upon little or nothing: belike
that's the reason the Poets are said to be immortall,
for some of them live upon their wits, which is indeed
as good as little or nothing: But good Master, let me be
mortall still, and let's goe to supper.
Pac.
Be abstinent; shew not the corruption of thy generation:
he that feeds, shall die, therefore he that feeds
not, shall live.
Laz.
I; but how long shall he live? ther's the question.
Pac.
As long as he can without feeding: did'st thou
read of the miraculous maid in Flanders?
Laz.
No, nor of any maid else; for the miracle of
virginitie now a daies ceases, ere the virgin can read
virginitie?
Pac.
She that liv'd three yeere without any other sustenance
then the smell of a Rose.
Laz.
I heard of her Signior; but they say her guts
shrunck all into Lute-strings, and her neather-parts
cling'd together like a Serpents Taile, so that though she
continued a woman still above the girdle, beneath yet
she was monster.
Pac.
So are most women, beleeve it.
Laz.
Nay all women Signior, that can live onely upon
the smell of a Rose.
Pac.
No part of the History is fabulous.
Laz.
I thinke rather no part of the Fable is Historicall:
but for all this, sir, my rebellious stomach will not
let me be immortall: I will be as immortall, as mortall
hunger will suffer: put me to a certaine stint sir, allow
me but a red herring a day.
Pac.
O' de dios: would'st thou be gluttonous in thy delicacies?
Laz.
He that eats nothing but a red herring a day,
shall neere be broyl'd for the devils rasher: a Pilcher,
Signior, a Surdiny, an Olive, that I may be a philosopher
first, and immortall after.
Pac.
Patience Lazarillo; let contemplation be thy
food a while: I say unto thee, one Peaze was a Souldiers
provant a whole day,
at the destruction of Ierusalem.
Enter Metaldi, & Mendoza.
Laz.
I: and it were any where, but at the
destruction of a place i'le be hang'd.
Met.
Signior Pachieco Alasto, my most ingenious
Cobler of Civill, the bonos noxios to your Signiorie.
Pac.
Signior Metaldi de forgio, my most famous Smith,
and man of mettle, I returne your curtesie ten fold, and
do humble my Bonnet beneath the Shooe-soale of your
congie: the like to you Signior Mendoza Pediculo de vermim,
my most exquisite Hose-heeler.
Laz.
Her's a greeting betwixt a Cobler, a Smith, and
a Botcher: they all belong to the foot, which makes
them stand so much upon their Centrie.
Mend.
Signior Lazarilla.
Laz.
Ah Signior see: nay, we are all Signiors here
in Spaine, from the Jakes-farmer to the Grandee, or
Adelantado: this botcher looks as if he w're dowgh-bak'd
a little butter now, and I could eate him like an oaten-Cake:
His fathers dies was new Cheese and Onions
when he got him: what a scallion fac'd-rascall 'tis?
Met.
But why Signior Pachieco, do you stand so much on
the prioritie, and antiquitie of your qualitie (as you call
it) in comparison of ours?
Mend.
I; your reason for that.
Pac.
Why thou Iron-pated Smith: and thou wollen-witted
Hose heeler: heare what I will speak indifferently
(and according to Ancient writers) of our three
professions: and let the upright Lazarillo be both judge,
and moderator.
Laz.
Still am I the most immortally hungrie, that may be.
Pac.
Suppose thou wilt derive thy pedigree, like some
of the old Heroes, (as Hercules, Æeas, Achilles) lineally
from the Gods, making Saturne thy great Grand-father,
and Vulcan thy Father: Vulcan was a God.
Laz.
He'll make Vulcan your God-father by and by.
Pac.
Yet I say Saturne was a crabbed block-head, and
Vulgan a limping horn-head, for Uenus his wife was a
strumpet, and Mars begat all her Children; therefore
however, thy originall must of necessitie spring from
Bastardie: further, what can be a more deject spirit in
man, then to lay his hands under every ones horses feet,
to doe him service, as thou do'st? For thee, I will be
briefe thou do'st botch, and not mend, thou art a hider
of enormities, viz. scabs, chilblaines, and kibed heeles:
much proane thou art to Sects, and Heresies, disturbing
state, and goverment; for how canst thou be a sound
member in the Common-wealth, that art so subject to
stitches in the anckles? blush, and be silent then, Oh ye
Machanick, compare no more with the politique Cobler:
For Coblers (in old time) have prophesied, what
may they doe now then, that have every day waxed better,
and better? have we not the length of every mans
foot? are we not daily menders? yea, and what menders?
not horse-menders.
Laz.
Nor manners-menders.
Pach.
But soule-menders: Oh divine Coblers; doe we
not like the wise man spin our own threds, (or our wives
for us?) doe we not by our sowing the hide, reape the
beefe? are not we of the gentle craft, whil'st both you
are but crafts-men? You will say you feare neither Iron
nor steele, and what you get is wrought out of the fire,
I must answer you againe, though all this is but forgery,
You may likewise say, a mans a man, that has but a
hose on his head: I must likewise answer, that man is a
botcher, that has a heel'd-hose on his head: to conclude
there can be no comparison with the Cobler, who is all
in all in the Common-wealth, has his politique eye
and ends on every mans steps that walkes, and whose
course shall be lasting to the worlds end.
Net.
I give place: the wit of man is wonderfull: thou
hast hit the naile on the head, and I will give thee six
pots for't though I neere clinth shooe againe.
Enter Vitelli & Alguazier.
Pac.
Who's this? Oh our Alguazier: as arrant a knave as
Alguazier.
Met.
The other side Serjeant.
Mend.
That's both sides carrion I am sure.
Pac.
This is he apprehends whores in the way of
justice, and lodges 'em in his own house, in the way of
profit: he with him, is the Grand-Don Vitelli, 'twixt
whom and Fernando Alvarez the mortall hatred is: he
is indeed my Dons Bawd, and do's at this present lodge
a famous Curtizan of his, lately come from Madrill.
Vit.
Let her want nothing Signior, she can aske:
What losse, or injury you may sustaine
I will repaire, and recompence your love:
Onely that fellowes coming I mislike,
And did fore-warn her of him: beare her this
With my best love, at night i'le visit her.
Alg.
I rest your Lordships Servant.
Vit.
Good ev'n, Signiors:
Oh Alvarez, thou hast brought a Sonne with thee
Both brightnes, and obscures our Nation,
Whose pure strong beames on us, shoot like the Suns
On baser fires: I would to heaven my blood
Had never stain'd thy bold unfortunate hand,
That with mine honour I might emulate
Not persecute such vertue: I will see him
Though with the hazard of my life: no rest
In my contentious spirits can I finde
Till I have gratefide him in like kinde.
Exit.
Alg.
I know you not: what are ye? hence ye base Besegnios.
Pac.
Mary Catzo Signior Alguazier, do'ye not know
us? why, we are your honest neighbours, the Cobler,
Smith, and Botcher, that have so often sate snoaring
cheeke by joll with your signiorie in rug at midnight.
Laz.
Nay, good Signior, be not angry: you must
understand, a Cat and such an Officer see best in the
dark.
Met.
By this hand, I could finde in my heart to shooe
his head.
Pac.
Why then know you Signior; thou mongrill
begot at midnight, at the Goale gate, by a Beadle,
on a Catch-poles wife, are not you he that was whipt
out, of Toledo for perjury.
Men.
Next, condemn'd to the Gallies for pilfery, to
the buls pizell.
Met.
And after call'd to the Inquisition, for Apostacie.
Pac.
Are not you he that rather then you durst goe
an industrious voyage being press'd to the Islands,
skulk'd till the fleet was gone, and then earn'd your
royall a day by squiring puncks, and puncklings up and
down the City?
Laz.
Are not you a Portuguize borne, descended
o'the Moores, and came hither into Civill with your
Master, an errant Taylor, in your red Bonnet, and your
Blew Jacket lowrie: though now your block-head be
cover'd with the Spanish Block, and your lashed Shoulders
with a Velvet Pee?
Pac.
Are not you he, that have been of thirty callings,
yet ne're a one lawfull? that being a Chandler first,
profess'd sincerity, and would sell no man Mustard to
his beefe on the Sabbath, and yet sold Hypocrisie all
your life time?
Met.
Are not you he, that were since a Surgeon to
the Stewes, and undertooke to cure what the Church it
selfe could not, strumpets that rise to your Office by being
a great Dons Baw'd?
Laz.
That commit men nightly, offenceless, for the
gaine of a groat a Prisoner, which your Beadle seemes
to put up, when you share three pence?
Mend.
Are not you he, that is a kisser of men, in
drunkennesse, and a berrayer in sobriety?
Alg.
Diabolo: they'll raile me into the Gallyes again.
Pac.
Yes Signior, thou art even he we speake of all
this while: thou maist by thy place now, lay us by the
heeles: 'tis true: but take heed, be wiser, pluck not ruine
on thine own head: for never was there such an Anatomy,
as we shall make thee then: be wise therefore, Oh
thou Childe of the night! be friends and shake hands,
thou art a proper man, if thy beard were redder: remember
thy worshipfull function, a Constable though thou
turn'st day into night, and night into day, what of that?
watch lesse, and pray more: gird thy beares skin (viz.
thy Rug-gowne) to thy loyes, take thy staffe in thy
hand, and goe forth at midnight: Let not thy mittens
abate the talons of thy authority, but gripe theft and
whoredom, wheresoever thou meet'st 'em: bear'em away
like a tempest, and lodge 'em safely in thine own house:
Laz.
Would you have whores and theeves lodg'd in
such a house?
Pac.
They ever doe so: I have found a theefe, or a
whore there, when the whole Suburbs could not furnish me.
Laz.
But why doe they lodge there?
Pac.
That they may be safe, and forth-coming: for
in the morning usually the theefe is sent to the Goale,
and the whore prostrates her selfe to the Justice.
Mend.
Admirable Pachieco.
Met.
Thou Cobler of Christendom.
Alg.
There is no railing with these rogues: I will
close with'em, till I can cry quittance: why Signiors,
and my honest neighbours, will you impute that as a
neglect of my friends, which is an imperfection in me? I
have been Sand-blinde from my infancie: to make you
amends, you shall sup with me.
Laz.
Shall we sup with'ye sir? O' my conscience,
they have wrong'd the Gentleman extreamly,
Alg.
And after supper, I have a project to employ
you in shall make you drink, & eat merrily this moneth:
I am a little knavish: why and doe not I know all you
to be knaves?
Pac.
I grant you, we are all knaves, and will be your
knaves: But, oh, while you live, take heed of being a
proud knave.
Alg.
On then passe: I will beare out my staffe, and my
staffe shall beare out me.
Laz.
Oh Lazarillo, thou art going to supper.
Exeunt.
Scæna Secunda.
Enter Lucio, and Bobadilla.Luc.
Pray be not angry.
I am angry, and I will be angry diablo': what should you
doe in the Kitchin, cannot the Cooks lick their fingers
without your overseeing? nor the maids make pottage,
except your dogs-head be in the pot? Don Lucio, Don
Quot-queane, Don Spinster, weare a Petti-coate still, and
put on your smock a' monday: I will have a badie o'
clouts made for it, like a great girl: nay, if you will needs
be starching of Ruffs, and sowing of black-work, I will
of a milde, and loving Tutor, become a Tyrant, Your
Father has committed you to my charge, and I will
make a man, or a mouse on you.
Luc.
What would you have me doe? this scurvy sword
So gals my thigh: I would 'twer burnt: pish, looke
This cloak will ne'r keep on: these boots too hide bound,
And my Spurs gingle, like a Morris-dancer:
Lord, how my head akes, with this roguish hat;
This masculine attire, is most uneasie,
I am bound up in it: I had rather walke
In folio, againe, loose, like a woman.
Bob.
In Foolio, had you not?
Thou mock to heav'n, and nature, and thy Parents,
Thou tender Legge of Lamb; Oh, how he walkes
As it he had be-piss'd himselfe, and fleares!
Is this a gate for the young Cavalier,
Don Lucio, Sonne and heire to Alvarez?
Has it a corne? or do's it walke on conscience,
It treads so gingerly? Come on your wayes,
Suppose me now your Fathers foe, Vitelli,
And spying you i'th' street, thus I advance,
I twist my Beard, and then I draw my sword.
Luc.
Alas.
Bob.
And thus accost thee: traiterous brat,
How dur'st thou thus confront me? impious twig
Of that old stock, dew'd with my kinsmans gore,
Draw, for i'le quarter thee in peeces foure.
Luc.
Nay, Prethee Bobadilla, leave thy fooling,
Put up thy sword, I will not meddle with ye;
I, justle me, I care not: I'le not draw,
Pray be a quiet man.
Bob.
Do'ye heare: answer me, as you would doe
Don Vitelli, or i'le be so bold as to lay the pomell of my
sword over the bilts of your head my name's Vitelli, and
i'le have the wall.
Luc.
Why then i'le have the kennell: what a coyle you keepe?
Signior, what happen'd 'twixt my Sire and your
Kinsman, was long before I saw the world,
No fault of mine, nor will I justifie
My Fathers crimes: forget sir, and forgive,
'Tis Christianity: I pray put up your sword,
Ile give you any satisfaction
That may become a Gentleman; however
I hope you are bred to more humanity
Then to revenge my Fathers wrong on me
That crave your love, and peace: law you now Zancho
Would not this quiet him, were he ten Vitallies.
Bob.
Oh craven-chicken of a Cock o'th'game: well,
what remedy? did thy father see this, O' my conscience,
he would cut of thy Masculine gender, crop thine eares,
beat out thine eyes, and set thee in one of the Peare-trees
for a scar-crow: As I am Vitelli, I am satisfied, but as I
am Bobadilla Spindola Zancho, Steward of the house, and
thy fathers servant, I could finde in my heart to lop of
the hinder part of thy face, or to beat all thy teeth into
thy mouth: Oh thou whay-blooded milk-sop, Ile waite
upon thee no longer, thou shalt ev'n waite upon me:
come your wayes fir, I shall take a little paines with ye
else.
Enter Clara.
Cla.
Where art thou Brother Lucio? ran tan tan ta
ran tan ran tan tan, ta ran tan tan tan. Oh, I shall no
more see those golden dayes, these clothes will never
fadge with me: a—O' this filthie vardingale, this
hip hape: brother why are womens hanches onely limited,
confin'd, hoop'd in, as it were with these same
scurvy vardingales?
Bob.
Because womens hanches onely are most subject
to display and fly out.
Cla.
Bobadilla, rogue, ten Duckets, I hit the propose
of thy Cod-peice.
Luc.
Hold, if you love my life, Sister: I am not Zancho
Bobadilla, I am your brother Lucio: what a fright you
have put me in?
Cla.
Brother? and wherefore thus?
Luc.
Why, Master Steward here, Signior Zancho, made
me change: he do's nothing but misuse me, and call me
Cowheard, and sweares I shall waite upon him.
Bob.
Well: I doe no more then, I have authority for:
would I were away though: for she's as much too mannish,
as he too womanish: I dare not meddle with her,
yet I must set a good face on't (if I had it) I have like
charge of you Maddam, I am as well to mollifie you,
as to qualifie him: what have you to doe with Armors,
and Pistols, and Javelins, and swords, and such tooles?
remember Mistresse; nature hath given you a sheath
onely, to signifie women are to put up mens weapons,
not to draw them: looke you now, in this a fit trot for
a Gentlewoman? You shalt see the Court Ladies move
like Goddesses, as if they trod ayre; they will swim
you their measures, like whiting-mops as if their feet
were sinnes, and the hinges of their knees oyld: doe
they love to ride great horses, as you doe? no, they love
to ride great asses sooner: faith, I know not what to
say to'ye both: Custome hath turn'd nature topsie-turvy
in you.
Cla.
Nay but Master Steward.
Bob.
You cannot trot so fast, but he ambles as slowly.
Cla.
Signior Spindle, will you heare me,
Bob.
He that shall come to bestride your virginitie, had better be afoot o're the Dragon.
Cla.
Very well.
Bob.
Did ever Spanish Lady pace so?
Cla.
Hold these a little.
Luc.
Ile not touch 'em, I.
Cla.
First doe I breake your Office o're your pate,
You Dog-skin-fac'd-rogue, pilcher, you poore Iohn,
Which I will be at to Stock-fish.
Luc.
Sister.
Bob.
Maddam.
Cla.
You Cittern-head, who have you talk'd to, hah?
You nasty, stincking, and ill-countenanc'd Cur.
Bob.
By this hand, Ile bang your brother for this, when I get him alone.
Cla.
How? kick him Lucio, he shall kick you Bob,
Spight o' the nose, that's flat: kick him, I say,
Or I will cut thy head off.
Bob.
Softly y'had best.
Cla.
Now, thou leane, dride, and ominous visag'd knave,
Thou false and peremptory Steward, pray,
For I will hang thee up in thine own Chaine.
Luc.
Good Sister, doe not choake him.
Bob.
Murder, murder.
Exit.
Cla.
Well: I shall meet with 'ye: Lucio, who bought this?
'Tis a reasonable good one; but there hangs one
Spaines Champion ne're us'd truer: with this Staffe
Old Alvarez has led up men so close,
They could almost spit in the Canons mouth,
Whil'st I with that, and this well mounted, scurr'd
A Horse-troope through, and through, like swift desire;
And seen poor rogues retire, all gore, and gash'd
Like bleeding Shade.
Luc.
'Blesse us, Sister Clara,
How desperately you talke: what do'ye call
This Gun a dag?
Cla.
Ile give't thee: a French petronell:
You never saw my Barbary, the Infanta
Bestow'd upon me, as yet Lucio?
Walke down, and see it.
Luc.
What into the Stable?
Was almost spoyld the other day.
Cla.
Fie on thee,
Thou wilt scarce be a man before thy mother.
Luc.
When wil you be a woman?
Enter Alvarez and Bobadilla.
Cla.
Would I were none.
But natures privy Seale assures me one.
Alv.
Thou angerst me: can strong habituall custome
Work with such Magick on the mind, and manners
In spight of sex and nature? finde out sirha,
Some skilfull fighter.
Bob.
Yes sir.
Alv.
I wil rectifie,
And redeem eithers proper inclination,
Or bray 'em in a morter, and new mold 'em.
(Exit.
Bob.
Believe your eyes sir; I tell you, we wash an Ethiop.
Cla.
I strike it for ten Duckets.
Alv.
How now Clara,
Your breeches on still? and your petticote
Not yet off Lucio? art thou not guelt?
Or did the cold Muscovite beget thee,
That lay here Lieger in the last great frost?
Art not thou Clara, turn'd a man indeed
Beneath the girdle? and a woman thou?
Ile have you search'd by—,I strongly doubt;
We must have these things mended: come go in.
Exit.
Enter Vitelli, and Bobadilla.
Bob.
With Lucio say you? there is for you.
Vit.
And there is for thee.
Bob.
I thank you: you have now bought a little advice
Of me; if you chance to have conference with that
Lady there, be very civill, or looke to your head: she has
Ten nailes, and you have but two eyes: If any foolish
Hot motions should chance to rise in the horizon
Under your equinoctiall there, qualifie it as well as
You can, for I feare the elevation of your pole will
Not agree with the Horoscope of her constitution:
She is Bell the Dragon I assure you.
Exit.
Vit.
Are you the Lucio, sir, that sav'd Vitelli?
Luc.
Not I indeed sir, I did never brable;
There walks that Lucio, metamorphosed.
Exit.
Vit.
Do ye mock me?
Cla.
No, he do's not: I am that
Suposed Lucio, that was but Clara,
That is, and daughter unto Alvarez.
Vit.
Amazement daunts me; would my life were riddles,
So you were still my faire Expositor:
Protected by a Lady from my death.
Oh I shall weare an everlasting blush
Upon my cheek from this discovery:
Oh you the fairest Souldier, I ere saw;
Each of whose eyes, like a bright beamy shield
Conquers, without blowes, the contentious.
Cla.
Sir, guard your self, you are in your enemies house,
And may be iniur'd.
Vit.
Tis impossible:
Foe, nor oppressing odds dares prove Vitelli,
If Clara side him, and wil call him friend;
I would the difference of our bloods were such
As might with any shift be wip'd away:
Or would to Heaven your selfe were all your name;
That having lost blood by you, I might hope
To raise blood from you. But my black-wing'd face
Hovers aversely over that fond hope:
And he, whose tongue thus gratifies the daughter,
And sister of his enemy, weares a Sword
To rip the father and the brother up.
Thus you, that sav'd this wretched life of mine,
Have savd it to the ruine of your friends.
That my affections should promiscuously
Dart love and hate at once, both worthily?
Pray let me kisse your hand.
Cla.
You are treacherous,
And come to do me mischiefe.
Vit.
Speake on still:
Your words are falser (faire) then my intents,
And each sweet ancient far more treacherous; for
Though you speak ill of me, you speak so well,
I doe desire to heare you.
Cla.
Pray be gone:
Or kill me, if you please.
Uit.
Oh, neither can:
For to be gone, were to destroy my life;
And to kill you, were to destroy my soule:
I am in love, yet must not be in love:
Ile get away a pace: yet valiant Lady,
Such gratitude to honour I do owe,
And such obedience to your memory,
That if you will bestow something, that I
May weare about me, it shall bind all wrath,
My most inveterate wrath, from all attempts,
Till you and I meet next.
Cla.
A favour sir?
Why I wil 'give ye good councell.
Vit.
That already
You have bestowd. a Ribbon, or a Glove.
Cla.
Nay those are tokens for a waiting maid
To trim the Butler with.
Vit.
Your feather.
Cla.
Fie; the wenches give them to their Serving-men.
Vit.
That little ring.
Cla.
Twill hold you but by th'finger;
And I would have you faster.
Vit.
Any thing
That I may weare, and but remember you.
Cla.
This smile: my good opinion, or my self.
But that it seems you like not.
Uit.
Yes, so well:
When any smiles, I will remember yours;
Your good opinion shall in weight poize me
Against a thousand ill: Lastly, your selfe,
My curious eye now figures in my heart,
Where I wil weare you, till the Table breake.
So, whitest Angels guard you.
Cla.
Stay sir, I
Have fitly thought to give, what you as fitly
May not disdaine to weare.
Vit.
What's that?
Cla.
This Sword.
I never heard a man speak till this houre.
His words are golden chaines, and now I feare
The Lyonesse hath met a tamer here;
Fie, how his tongue chimes: what was I saying?
Oh: this favour I bequeath you, which I tie
In a love-knot, fast, nere to hurt my friends;
Yet be it fortunate 'gainst all your foes
(For I have neither friend, nor foe, but yours)
As ere it was to me: I have kepit it long,
And value it, next my Virginity:
But good, return it, for I now remember
I vow'd, who purchas'd it, should have me too.
Vit.
would that were possible: but alas it is not;
Yet this assure your selfe, most honour'd Clara,
Ile not infringe an Article of breath
My vow hath offerd to ye: nor from this part
Exit.
Cla.
Oh leave me living: what new exercise
Is crept into my breast, that blauncheth clean
My former nature? I begin to finde
I am a woman, and must learn to fight
A softer sweeter battaile, then with Swords.
I am sick me thinks, but the disease I feele
Pleaseth, and punisheth: I warrant love
Is very like this, that folks talke of so;
I skill not what it is, yet sure even here,
Even in my heart, I sensibly perceive
It glows, and riseth like a glimmering flame,
But know not yet the essence on't nor name.
Exit.
| Loves Cure or, The Martial Maid | |