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 | The Merchant |  |
93
CHARINUS.
'Tis now my purpose to dispatch two things,
The argument and my amours, at once.
Not like some other lovers I have seen
In Comedy, who to the night, or day,
Or sun, or moon, relate their miseries.
For what care They for the complaints of men?
What are our wishes, or our fears, to Them?
I therefore rather tell my griefs to You.
The argument and my amours, at once.
Not like some other lovers I have seen
In Comedy, who to the night, or day,
Or sun, or moon, relate their miseries.
For what care They for the complaints of men?
What are our wishes, or our fears, to Them?
I therefore rather tell my griefs to You.
This play, in Greek intitled Emporos,
And written by Philemon, Marcus Accius,
Translating it in Latin, stiles Mercator.
94
Translating it in Latin, stiles Mercator.
Know then, 'tis now two years I parted hence,
Sent by my father forth to trade at Rhodes.
There with a charming fair I fell in love;
And how I was entangled with that love,
Lend but your ears and minds, I will unfold.
—In this too have I swerv'd from ancient rules,
By falling roundly on my tale, ere yet
I had obtain'd or ask'd your leave.—For love
Hath all these vices in his train; care, spleen,
And elegance refin'd into a fault:
—For not the lover only, but whoe'er
Aims at an elegance beyond his means,
Brings great and heavy evils on himself.—
But these ills also, which are yet untold,
Are incident to love; the wakeful eye,
The troubled mind, confusion, terror, flight,
Trifling, nay folly, rashness, thoughtlessness,
Madness, and impudence, and petulance,
Inordinate desires, and wanton wishes:
Covetousness too, and idleness, and wrong,
And want, and contumely, and expence,
Babbling unopportune, and ill-tim'd silence:
Now talking much, and nothing to the purpose,
Things not to have been said, or not said now;
And then again too mute; for never lover,
However eloquent, e'er utter'd half
That might be said in pleading for his love.
Let not my babbling then offend you now!
Since Venus gave it, when she gave me love:
Love! the dear subject of my tale, to which
'Tis fitting now I study to return.
Sent by my father forth to trade at Rhodes.
There with a charming fair I fell in love;
And how I was entangled with that love,
Lend but your ears and minds, I will unfold.
—In this too have I swerv'd from ancient rules,
By falling roundly on my tale, ere yet
I had obtain'd or ask'd your leave.—For love
Hath all these vices in his train; care, spleen,
And elegance refin'd into a fault:
—For not the lover only, but whoe'er
Aims at an elegance beyond his means,
Brings great and heavy evils on himself.—
But these ills also, which are yet untold,
Are incident to love; the wakeful eye,
The troubled mind, confusion, terror, flight,
Trifling, nay folly, rashness, thoughtlessness,
Madness, and impudence, and petulance,
Inordinate desires, and wanton wishes:
Covetousness too, and idleness, and wrong,
And want, and contumely, and expence,
Babbling unopportune, and ill-tim'd silence:
Now talking much, and nothing to the purpose,
Things not to have been said, or not said now;
95
However eloquent, e'er utter'd half
That might be said in pleading for his love.
Let not my babbling then offend you now!
Since Venus gave it, when she gave me love:
Love! the dear subject of my tale, to which
'Tis fitting now I study to return.
No sooner was I unto manhood grown,
My boyish days and boyish studies past,
But I became distractedly enamour'd
Of a young harlot in this neighbourhood:
Then all my means, without my father's knowlege,
Were squander'd upon Her; for she was held
In slavery by a hungry pimp, whose palm
Still itch'd, and tongue still crav'd, for sordid gain.
On this my father urg'd me night and day,
Painting the wrongs, the perfidy, of pimps;
Insisting, that his fortunes ran to waste,
To swell the tide of theirs. All this aloud:
Anon he growl'd and mutter'd to himself,
Refus'd to enter into converse with me,
Nay, would deny me for his son; then ran,
Bawling and raving, to warn all the town
To give no credit, and advance no money;
Crying, that the extravagance of love
Had ruin'd thousands;—that I past all bounds,
And was a spendthrift and a libertine,
Who drew, by ev'ry means I could devise,
His wealth and substance from him;—that 'twas vile,
To waste and dissipate in vicious love,
What he by care and labour had acquir'd;—
That he had nurtur'd a domestick shame,
Whom nothing but repentance could redeem,
And render fit to live;—that at my years
He did not, like myself, devote his time
To idleness, and indolence, and love,
—Nor could indeed have done it, so severe
And strict a hand his father held on him—
But toil'd and moyl'd for ever in the country;
Once in five years allow'd to visit town,
And then, as soon as he had seen the shew,
Dragg'd by his father back into the country,
Where he work'd most of all the family;
His father crying all the while, “Well done!
“'Tis not for me, but for yourself, my boy,
“You plow and harrow, sow and reap; your toil
“Will end in joy and happiness at last;”—
That when his father died he sold the farm,
And purchas'd with the money rais'd from thence
A vessel of three hundred ton; with which
He traded to all quarters of the globe,
And made the fortune which he now possest;
—That it behov'd me then to do the same,
And shew that I was worthy of his love,
By following so worthy an example.—
I therefore, seeing that I was become
The object of my father's hate—my father,
Whom I was bound to please—tho' mad with love,
Subdued, however hard the task, my mind,
And told him I was ready to go forth
To traffick, and determin'd to renounce,
So he were pleas'd withal, all thoughts of love.
He thank'd me, prais'd me for my good intention,
But fail'd not to exact my promise of me:
Builds me a vessel, purchases a cargo,
Embarks it strait, and pays me down a talent.
With me he sends a slave too, who had been
A tutor to me in my infancy,
By way of governor. We hoisted sail,
And soon arriv'd at Rhodes; where I dispos'd
Of all the merchandize that I had brought,
Much to my gain and profit, much beyond
The rate at which my father valued it.
Having thus rais'd much money, I encounter'd
An old acquaintance at the port, who knew me,
And ask'd me home to supper: home I went,
And sat me down; was handsomely receiv'd,
And merrily and nobly entertain'd.
Going to rest at night, behold, a woman,
A handsomer was never seen, came to me!
Sent by my host's command to sleep with me.
Judge too how much she pleas'd me! for next day
I begg'd my host to sell her to me, swearing
I would be grateful, and requite his kindness.
In short I bought her, and but yesterday
I brought her hither. Yet would I not chuse
My father should discover I have brought her.
Her and a slave I've left on board the ship.—
But how's this? Is't not he that I see yonder,
My slave, that's running hither from the port,
Altho' I charg'd him not to leave the ship?
I dread the reason of it.
My boyish days and boyish studies past,
But I became distractedly enamour'd
Of a young harlot in this neighbourhood:
Then all my means, without my father's knowlege,
Were squander'd upon Her; for she was held
In slavery by a hungry pimp, whose palm
Still itch'd, and tongue still crav'd, for sordid gain.
On this my father urg'd me night and day,
Painting the wrongs, the perfidy, of pimps;
Insisting, that his fortunes ran to waste,
To swell the tide of theirs. All this aloud:
Anon he growl'd and mutter'd to himself,
Refus'd to enter into converse with me,
Nay, would deny me for his son; then ran,
Bawling and raving, to warn all the town
To give no credit, and advance no money;
Crying, that the extravagance of love
Had ruin'd thousands;—that I past all bounds,
And was a spendthrift and a libertine,
Who drew, by ev'ry means I could devise,
His wealth and substance from him;—that 'twas vile,
To waste and dissipate in vicious love,
96
That he had nurtur'd a domestick shame,
Whom nothing but repentance could redeem,
And render fit to live;—that at my years
He did not, like myself, devote his time
To idleness, and indolence, and love,
—Nor could indeed have done it, so severe
And strict a hand his father held on him—
But toil'd and moyl'd for ever in the country;
Once in five years allow'd to visit town,
And then, as soon as he had seen the shew,
Dragg'd by his father back into the country,
Where he work'd most of all the family;
His father crying all the while, “Well done!
“'Tis not for me, but for yourself, my boy,
“You plow and harrow, sow and reap; your toil
“Will end in joy and happiness at last;”—
That when his father died he sold the farm,
And purchas'd with the money rais'd from thence
A vessel of three hundred ton; with which
He traded to all quarters of the globe,
And made the fortune which he now possest;
—That it behov'd me then to do the same,
97
By following so worthy an example.—
I therefore, seeing that I was become
The object of my father's hate—my father,
Whom I was bound to please—tho' mad with love,
Subdued, however hard the task, my mind,
And told him I was ready to go forth
To traffick, and determin'd to renounce,
So he were pleas'd withal, all thoughts of love.
He thank'd me, prais'd me for my good intention,
But fail'd not to exact my promise of me:
Builds me a vessel, purchases a cargo,
Embarks it strait, and pays me down a talent.
With me he sends a slave too, who had been
A tutor to me in my infancy,
By way of governor. We hoisted sail,
And soon arriv'd at Rhodes; where I dispos'd
Of all the merchandize that I had brought,
Much to my gain and profit, much beyond
The rate at which my father valued it.
Having thus rais'd much money, I encounter'd
An old acquaintance at the port, who knew me,
And ask'd me home to supper: home I went,
And sat me down; was handsomely receiv'd,
And merrily and nobly entertain'd.
Going to rest at night, behold, a woman,
98
Sent by my host's command to sleep with me.
Judge too how much she pleas'd me! for next day
I begg'd my host to sell her to me, swearing
I would be grateful, and requite his kindness.
In short I bought her, and but yesterday
I brought her hither. Yet would I not chuse
My father should discover I have brought her.
Her and a slave I've left on board the ship.—
But how's this? Is't not he that I see yonder,
My slave, that's running hither from the port,
Altho' I charg'd him not to leave the ship?
I dread the reason of it.
SCENE II.
Enter ACANTHIO hastily.Acan.
Do your utmost,
Try all your force, use all your skill, to save
Your poor young master! Stir yourself, Acanthio;
Away with weariness; beware of sloth;—
Plague on this panting! I can scarce fetch breath.—
Drive all you meet before you; push them down,
And roll them in the kennel!—Plague upon't;
Tho' the folks see one breathless and in haste,
None have the manners truly to give place.
99
To run, and fight, and quarrel all the way.
Cha.
(behind)
What can it be that asks such wondrous haste?
I long to know what news he brings.
Acan.
I trifle.
The more I stop, the more we are in danger.
Cha.
He speaks of some misfortune.
Acan.
My knees fail me.
Oh, how my heart keeps thumping in my bosom!
My breath's gone! I should make a woful piper!
Cha.
(behind)
Plague! take your mantle, and wipe off the sweat.
Acan.
Not all the baths on earth can take away
This lassitude.—But where's Charinus now?
Is he abroad? or to be found at home?
Cha.
Oh, how I doubt what this affair can be!
I'll know immediately, to ease my pain.
Acan.
Why do I stand thus? why do I not beat
Our door to shatters?—Open somebody!
Ho! is Charinus, my young master, here?
Or is he gone abroad?—What! nobody
To answer to the door?
Cha.
Ho! here am I,
You're looking for, Acanthio!
Acan.
(not seeing him)
Such a school
For servants, as our house!
Cha.
What mischief now? (Going up.)
100
Much mischief to yourself and me, Charinus.
Cha.
What is the matter?
Acan.
We're undone, Charinus.
Cha.
Be that the fortune of our enemies!
Acan.
But 'tis your fortune.
Cha.
Well, whate'er it be,
Tell me this instant.
Acan.
Softly! I want breath.
I've burst a vein already for your sake,—
And now I spit blood.
Cha.
Take Ægyptian rosin
Mix'd with a little honey: that will cure you.
Acan.
Plague! drink hot pitch, and that will ease your pain.
Cha.
I never saw so passionate a fellow.
Acan.
Nor I one so provoking.
Cha.
But why so?
Because that I advise you for your health?
Acan.
Plague take the health that's bought with so much pain!
Cha.
Was ever good without some little ill?
And would you lose the first to miss the last?
Acan.
I don't know that: I'm no philosopher:
And don't desire the good that's mix'd with evil.
Cha.
Give me your hand, Acanthio.
Acan.
Here then, take it.
Cha.
Will you obey me? ay, or no, Acanthio?
Acan.
Judge by experience; when I've burst myself
In running up and down to seek you out,
That you might know the news more speedily.
101
Within these few months I will make you free.
Acan.
Ah, how you stroak me!
Cha.
Do you think 'tis false?
Before I speak, you know if I would lie.
Acan.
Ah! your words weary me still more: you kill me.
Cha.
Is't thus that you obey me?
Acan.
What's your pleasure?
Cha.
Do as I'd have you.
Acan.
Well, what would you have?
Cha.
I'll tell you.
Acan.
Tell me.
Cha.
Softly, in your ear.
Acan.
Are you afraid to wake the sleeping audience?
Cha.
Plague take you!
Acan.
I have brought you from the port—
Cha.
What have you brought me? tell me.
Acan.
Force, and fear,
Torture, and care, and strife, and beggary.
Cha.
Death! what a store of evils hast thou brought!
I'm ruin'd then?
Acan.
You are.
Cha.
And I'm a wretch?
Acan.
Ev'n so: I'll say no more.
102
What is this mischief?
Acan.
Nay, never ask: the heaviest misfortune!
Cha.
Ah prithee, good now, ease me of my pain:
You keep my mind too long in this suspence.
Acan.
Softly! I've many things to ask of you
Before I'm beaten.
Cha.
Faith, you shall be beaten,
Unless you speak, or run away.
Acan.
See there!
See, how he coaxes! no man upon earth
So gentle, when he gives his mind to it.
Cha.
I beg you, I intreat you, tell me quickly;
Since I must turn a suppliant to my slave.
Acan.
Am I unworthy on't?
Cha.
Oh no: most worthy.
Acan.
I thought so.
Cha.
Is the ship lost?
Acan.
Safe: ne'er fear.
Cha.
And all the cargo?
Acan.
Safe and sound.
Cha.
Then tell me,
Why you ran over the whole town to seek me?
Acan.
You take the words out of my mouth.
Cha.
I'm dumb.
103
Be dumb then: surely if I brought glad tidings
You would be wondrous pressing, since you urge me
Thus beyond measure to tell evil news.
Cha.
I do beseech you, let me know the worst.
Acan.
I will then, since you challenge it.—Your father—
Cha.
What of my father?
Acan.
Has seen—
Cha.
What?
Acan.
Your mistress.
Cha.
My mistress? Oh, ill fortune!—But inform me—
Acan.
Of what?
Cha.
How could he see her?
Acan.
With his eyes.
Cha.
But how?
Acan.
By opening them.
Cha.
Away, you rascal!
To trifle when my life's at stake.
Acan.
How trifle?
Did not I give an answer to your question?
Cha.
Is't certain he has seen her?
Acan.
Ay, as certain
As I see you, or you see me.
Cha.
But where?
Acan.
On board the ship, where he stood close beside her,
And spoke with her.
Cha.
You have undone me, father!
104
Prevent his seeing her? How comes it, sirrah,
You did not shut her up, to hinder it?
Acan.
Because we were employ'd about our business,
And busy with the tackling. The mean while
Your father came 'long-side us with a boat,
And no soul saw him till he was on board.
Cha.
In vain have I escap'd loud storms at sea:
Now, when I thought myself secure on shore,
I feel myself the sport of angry waves,
And dash'd upon the rocks.—Proceed: what follow'd?
Acan.
Soon as he saw the woman, he enquir'd
Whom she belong'd to.
Cha.
What did she reply?
Acan.
I ran directly up, and breaking in,
Said you had bought her as a serving-maid,
To wait upon your mother.
Cha.
Did he seem
To credit this?
Acan.
Entirely.—But the rogue
Began to toy with her.
Cha.
With her, d'ye say?
Acan.
Why, do you think he'd toy with me?
Cha.
My heart
Melts away drop by drop in briny tears,
Like salt dissolv'd in water. I'm undone.
105
That's true enough: and yet 'tis foolish too.
Cha.
What shall I do?—If I should tell my father
I bought this woman for my mother's use,
He'll not believe it: and 'tis shameful too
To tell my father lies. He'll not believe it;
Nor is it credible I should have purchas'd
So sweet a creature to attend my mother.
Acan.
Ridiculous! Have done: he will believe it:
For he believ'd my story.
Cha.
How I dread
His catching some suspicion of the truth!
Tell me, Acanthio!
Acan.
What is't I must tell you?
Cha.
Did he appear to have the least suspicion
She was my mistress?
Acan.
Not the least: but swallow'd
All that I told him.
Cha.
So you might imagine.
Acan.
Nay, but I'm sure he did.
Cha.
Confusion! ruin!
—But wherefore waste I my time here in grieving?
Why don't I seek the vessel?—Follow me.
Acan.
Go that way, and you're sure to meet your father:
Who, when he sees you fearful and dismay'd,
106
Where 'twas you bought her, what you gave for her,
And overwhelm you in your fright.
Cha.
Why then,
I'll go this other way.—D'ye think my father
Has left the port?
Acan.
It was the very reason
I ran before to seek you out, for fear
He should fall on you unawares, and worm
The secret out of you.
Cha.
'Twas bravely done.
The End of the First Act.
| The Merchant | |