University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—An Inn.
Rolando sitting at a Table.
Rolando.
'Sdeath, that a reasonable thinking man
Should leave his friend and bottle for a woman!—
Here is the Count, now, who, in other matters,
Has a true judgment, only seeth his blood
With a full glass beyond his usual stint;
And woman, like a wildfire, runs throughout him.—
Immortal man is but a shuttlecock,
And wine and women are the battledores
That keep him going!—What! Eugenio!

Enter Eugenio alias Zamora.
Zamora.
Your pleasure, sir?

Rolando.
I am alone, and wish
One of your songs to bear me company.

Zamora.
A merry or a sad one, sir?

Rolando.
No matter.

Zamora.
I have but one that you have never heard.

Rolando.
Let it be that.

Zamora.
I shall obey you, sir.
Now, woman's wit, assist me! (Sings.)

SONG.—Zamora.

Rolando.
It is a mournful ditty, yet 'tis pleasing!

Zamora.
It was, indeed, a melancholy tale
From which I learnt it.

Rolando.
Lives it with you still?

Zamora.
Faintly, as would an ill-remember'd dream, sir:
Yet so far I remember—Now my heart— (aside)

'Twas of a gentleman—a soldier, sir,
Of a brave spirit; and his outward form
A frame to set a soul in. He had a page,
Just such a boy as I, a faithful stripling,
Who, out of pure affection, and true love,
Follow'd his fortune to the wars.

Rolando.
Why this
Is our own history.

Zamora.
So far, indeed,
But not beyond, it bore resemblance, sir.
For in the sequel (if I well remember)
This loving boy—(so, sir, the story ran)—
Turn'd out to be a woman.

Rolando.
How! a woman?

Zamora.
Yes, sir, a woman.

Rolando.
Live with him a twelvemonth,
And he not find the secret out!

Zamora.
'Twas strange.

Rolando.
Strange! 'twas impossible! At the first blush,
A palpable and most transparent lie!
Why, if the soldier had been such an ass,
She had herself betray'd it!—

Zamora.
Yet, 'tis said,
She kept it to her death;—that, oft as Love
Would heave the struggling passion to her lips,
Shame set a seal upon them:—thus long time
She nourish'd, in this strife of love and modesty,
An inward slow-consuming martyrdom,
Till in the sight of him her soul most cherish'd,—
Like flow'rs that on a river's margin, fading
Thro' lack of moisture, drop into the stream,—
So, sinking in his arms, her parting breath
Reveal'd her story.

Rolando.
You have told it well, boy!—

Zamora.
I feel it deeply, sir;—I knew the lady.—

Rolando.
Knew her! You don't believe it?

Zamora.
What regards
Her death, I will not vouch for. But the rest—
Her hopeless love, her silent patience,
The struggle 'twixt her passion and her pride—
I was a witness to—Indeed her story
Is a most true one.

Rolando.
She should not have died!—
A wench like this were worth a soldier's love:
And were she living now— (Enter the Count.)


Zamora.
'Tis well! (Aside.)


Count.
Strange things have happen'd, since we parted, Captain!—
I must away to-night.

Rolando.
To-night! and whither?

Count.
'Tis yet a secret. Thus much you shall know:
If a short fifty miles you'll bear me company,
You shall see—

Rolando.
What?

Count.
A woman tam'd.

Rolando.
No more!
I'll go a hundred!—Do I know the lady?

Count.
What think you of our new-made Duchess?—

Rolando.
She?
What mortal man has undertaken her?—
Perhaps the keeper of the beasts, the fellow
That puts his head into the lion's mouth?
Or else some tiger-tamer to a nabob?

Count.
Who, but her husband?

Rolando.
With what weapons?

Count.
Words.

Rolando.
With words? why, then he must invent a language
Which yet the learned have no glimpses of.
Fasting and fustigation may do something;
I've heard that death will quiet some of them;
But words?—mere words?—cool'd by the breath of man!—
He may preach tame a howling wilderness;
Silence a full-mouth'd battery with snow-balls;
Quench fire with oil; with his repelling breath
Puff back the northern blast; whistle 'gainst thunder:
These things are feasible—But still a woman
With the nine parts of speech!—

Count.
You know him not.

Rolando.
I know the lady.—Well, it may to him
Be easy, gentlemanly recreation!—
But, as I hope to die a bachelor,
I'd rather come within a windmill's sweep,
Or pluck the lighted fuzee from a bomb
(Which, to say truth, she mostly does resemble,
Being stuff'd full of all things mischievous),
Than parley with that woman.—
Could he discourse with fluent eloquence
More languages than Babel sent abroad,
The simple rhet'rick of her mother tongue
Would pose him presently; for woman's voice
Sounds like a fiddle in a concert, always
The shrillest, if not loudest, instrument.

Count.
Yet, I tell you
He has the trick to draw the serpent's fang,
And yet not spoil her beauty.

Rolando.
We shall see.—
You'll follow us, Eugenio.

[Exeunt Count & Rolando.
Eugenio.
He was touch'd surely with the piteous tale
Which I delivered; and, but that the Count
Prevented him, would have broke freely out
Into a full confession of his feeling
Tow'rds such a woman as I painted to him.—
Why then, my boy's habiliments, adieu!
Henceforth, my woman's tyre—I'll trust to you!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

—The Duke's Palace.
Enter Campillo, the Duke's Steward, and another Servant.
Servant.

But can no one tell the meaning of this
fancy?

Campillo.

No: 'tis the Duke's pleasure, and that's
enough for us. You shall hear his own words:—
“For reasons that I shall hereafter communicate, it is
necessary that Jaquez should, in all things, at present,
act as my representative: you will, therefore, command
my household to obey him as myself, until you
hear further from

(Signed) Aranza.”

Servant.

Well, we must wait the upshot. But how
bears Jaquez his new dignity?

Campillo.

Like most men in whom sudden fortune
combats against long-establish'd habit.

[Laughing without.
Servant.

By their merriment, this should be he.

Campillo.

Stand aside, and let us note him.

Jaquez enters dressed as the Duke, followed by Attendants, who in vain endeavour to restrain their laughter.
Jaquez.

Why, you ragamuffins! what d'ye titter at?
Am I the first great man that has been made off-hand
by a taylor? Shew your grinders again, and I'll hang
you like onions, fifty on a rope. I can't think what
they see ridiculous about me, except, indeed, that I
feel as if I was in armour, and my sword has a trick of
getting between my legs like a monkey's tail, as if it
was determined to trip up my nobility.—And now, villains!
don't let me see you tip the wink to each other,
as I do the honours of my table. If I tell one of my
best stories, don't any of you laugh before the jest
comes out, to shew that you have heard it before:—
take care that you don't call me by my christian name,
and then pretend it was by accident;—that shall be
transportation at least:—and when I drink a health
to all friends, don't fancy that any of you are in the
number.

(Enter a Servant.)

Well, sir?

Servant.

There is a lady without presses vehemently
to speak to your Grace.

Jaques.

A lady?

Servant.

Yes, your Highness!

Jaquez.

Is she young?

Servant.

Very, your Grace!

Jaquez.

Handsome?

Servant.

Beautiful, your Highness!

Jaquez.

Send her in.— [Exit Servant.]
—You
may retire; I'll finish my instructions bye-and-bye.
—Young and handsome? I'll attend to her business
in propria persona. Your old and ugly ones I
shall dispatch by deputy. Now to alarm her with
my consequence, and then sooth her with my condescension.

I must appear important; big as a country
pedagogue when he enters the school-room with a
hem! and terrifies the apple-munching urchins with
the creaking of his shoes. I'll swell like a shirt
bleaching in a high wind; and look burly as a Sunday
beadle, when he has kick'd down the unhallow'd
stall of a profane old apple woman.—Bring my chair
of state!—Hush!

Enter Juliana.
Juliana.

I come, great Duke, for justice!

Jaquez.

You shall have it. Of what do you
complain?

Juliana.

My husband, sir!

Jaquez.

I'll hang him instantly!—What's his offence?

Juliana.

He has deceiv'd me.

Jaquez.

A very common case;—few husbands answer
their wives' expectations.

Juliana.

He has abus'd your Grace—

Jaquez.

Indeed! if he has done that, he swings most
loftily. But how, lady, how?

Juliana.
Shortly thus, sir:
Being no better than a low-born peasant,
He has assum'd your character and person—
(Enter the Duke.)
Oh! you are here, sir? This is he, my Lord.

Jaquez.

Indeed! (Aside)
Then I must tickle him.—
Why, fellow, d'ye take this for an alehouse, that you
enter with such a swagger?—Know you where you
are, sir?

Duke.
The rogue reproves me well! (aside.)
I had forgot.
Most humbly I intreat your Grace's pardon
For this unusher'd visit; but the fear
Of what this wayward woman might allege
Beyond the truth—

Juliana.
I have spoke nought but truth.—

Duke.
Has made me thus
Unmannerly.

Jaquez.
'Tis well—you might have us'd more ceremony.
Proceed. (To Juliana.)


Juliana.
This man, my Lord, as I was saying,
Passing himself upon my inexperience
For the right owner of this sumptuous palace,
Obtain'd my slow consent to be his wife;
And cheated, by this shameful perfidy,
Me of my hopes—my father of his child.

Jaquez.

Why, this is swindling;—obtaining another
man's goods under false pretences,—that is, if
a woman be a good—That will make a very intricate
point for the Judges.—Well, sir, what have you to
say in your defence?

Duke.
I do confess I put this trick upon her;
And for my transient usurpation
Of your most noble person, with contrition
I bow me to the rigour of the law.—
But for the lady, sir, she can't complain.

Juliana.
How! not complain? To be thus vilely cozen'd,
And not complain!

Jaquez.

Peace, woman!—Tho' Justice be blind, she
is not deaf.

Duke.
He does it to the life! (Aside.)

Had not her most exceeding pride been doting,
She might have seen the diff'rence at a glance,
Between your Grace and such a man as I am.

Jaquez.
She might have seen that, certainly.—
Proceed.

Duke.
Nor did I fall so much beneath her sphere
Being what I am, as she had soar'd above it
Had I been that which I have only feign'd.

Jaquez.
Yet, you deceiv'd her?

Juliana.
Let him answer that!

Duke.
I did: most men in something cheat their wives;
Wives gull their husbands; 'tis the course of wooing.
Now, bating that my title and my fortune
Were evanescent, in all others things
I acted like a plain and honest suitor.
I told her she was fair, but very proud;
That she had taste in music, but no voice;
That she danc'd well, yet still might borrow grace
From such or such a lady. To be brief;
I prais'd her for no quality she had not,
Nor over-priz'd the talents she possess'd:
And for myself, I plac'd before her eyes,
Without extenuation or enlargement,
The thing which honest nature stampt me first,
And modest culture has since brought me to.—
Now, save in what I have before confess'd,
I challenge her worst spite to answer me,
Whether, in all attentions, which a woman—
A gentle and a reasonable woman—
Looks for, I have not to the height fulfill'd,
If not outgone, her expectations?

Jaquez.

Why, if she has no cause of complaint
since you were married—

Duke.
I dare her to the proof on't.

Jaquez.
Is it so? (To Juliana.)


Juliana.
I don't complain of what has happen'd since;
The man has made a tolerable husband.
But for the monstrous cheat he put upon me,
I claim to be divorc'd.

Jaquez.
It cannot be!

Juliana.
Cannot! my Lord?

Jaquez.
No. You must live with him!

Juliana.
Never!

Duke.
Or, if your Grace will give me leave—
We have been wedded yet a few short days—
Let us wear out a month as man and wife;
If at the end on't, with uplifted hands,
Morning and ev'ning, and sometimes at noon,
And bended knees, she doesn't plead more warmly
Than ere she prayed 'gainst stale virginity,
To keep me for her husband—

Juliana.
If I do!—

Duke.
Then let her will be done, that seeks to part us!

Juliana.
I do implore your grace to let it stand
Upon that footing!

Jaquez.

Humph!—well, it shall be so!—with this
proviso, that either of you are at liberty to hang yourselves
in the mean time.

Duke.
We thank your providence.—Come, Juliana—

Juliana.
Well, there's my hand—a month's soon past, and then—
I am your humble servant, sir.

Duke.
For ever.

Juliana.
Nay, I'll be hang'd first.

Duke.
That may do as well!
Come, you'll think better on't!

Juliana.
By all—

Duke.
No swearing.—
We humbly take our leaves.
[Exeunt the Duke and Juliana.
Jaquez solus.

I begin to find, by the strength of my nerves and
the steadiness of my countenance, that I was certainly
intended for a great man;—for what more
does it require to be a great man, than boldly to
put on the appearance of it?—How many sage Politicians
are there, who can scarce comprehend the
mystery of a mouse-trap;—valiant Generals, who
wouldn't attack a bulrush, unless the wind were in
in their favour;—profound Lawyers, who would

make excellent wig-blocks;—and skilful Physicians,
whose knowledge extends no further—than writing
death-warrants in Latin; and are shining examples,
that a man will never want gold in his pocket, who
carries plenty of brass in his face!—It will be rather
awkward, to be sure, to resign at the end of a month:—
but, like other great men in office, I must make the
most of my time, and retire with a good grace, to
avoid being turned out—as a well-bred dog always
walks down stairs, when he sees preparation ripe
for kicking him into the street.

[Exit.
SCENE.
—An Inn.
Enter Balthazar, as having fallen from his Horse, supported by Volante, the Count, &c. and preceded by Hostess and Attendants.
Hostess.

This way, this way, if you please.—Alas!
poor gentleman! (Brings a chair.)
How do you feel
now, sir? (They set him down.)

Balthazar.
I almost think my brains are where they should be—
Confound the jade!—tho' they dance merrily
To their own music.

Count.
Is a surgeon sent for?

Hostess.
Here he comes, sir.

Enter Lampedo.
Lampedo.
Is this the gentleman?

Balthazar.

I want no surgeon; all my bones are
whole.

Volante.
Pray, take advice!

Balthazar.
Well!—Doctor, I have doubts
Whether my soul be shaken from my body,—
Else I am whole.

Lampedo.
Then you are safe, depend on't;
Your soul and body are not yet divorc'd—
Tho' if they were, we have a remedy.—
Nor have you fracture, sir, simple or compound;—
Yet very feverish! I begin to fear
Some inward bruise—a very raging pulse!—
We must phlebotomize!

Balthazar.
You won't! Already
There is too little blood in these old veins
To do my cause full justice.

Lampedo.
Quick, and feverish!—
He must lie down a little; for as yet,
His blood and spirits being all in motion,
There is too great confusion in the symptoms
To judge discreetly from.

Balthazar.
I'll not lie down!

Volante.
Nay; for an hour or so!

Balthazar.
Well, be it so.

Hostess.

I'll shew you to a chamber; this way,
this way, if you please.

[Exeunt all but Lampedo.
Lampedo solus.
'Tis the first patient, save the miller's mare,
And an old lady's cat that has the phthisic,
That I have touch'd these six weeks.—Well, good Hostess!
(Enter Hostess.)
How fares your guest?

Hostess.
He must not go to-night!

Lampedo.
No—nor to-morrow—

Hostess.
Nor the next day, neither!

Lampedo.
Leave that to me.—

Hostess.
He has no hurt, I fear.

Lampedo.
None:—but, as you're his cook, and I'm his doctor,
Such things may happen.—You must make him ill,
And I must keep him so—for, to say truth,
'Tis the first biped customer I've handled
This many a day:—they fall but slowly in,—
Like the subscribers to my work on fevers.—

Hostess.
Hard times indees!—no business stirring my way.

Lampedo.
So I should guess, from your appearance, Hostess.
You look as if, for lack of company,
You were obliged to eat up your whole larder.

Hostess.
Alas! 'tis so—
Yet I contrive to keep my spirits up.

Lampedo.
Yes; and your flesh too.—Look at me!

Hostess.
Why, truly,
You look half starv'd

Lampedo.
Half starv'd! I wish you'd tell me
Which half of me is fed. I shew more points
Than an old horse, that has been three weeks pounded—
Yet I do all to tempt them into sickness.
Have I not, in the jaws of bankruptcy,
And to the desolation of my person,
Painted my shop, that it looks like a rainbow?—
New double-gilt my pestle and my mortar,
That some, at distance, take't for a new planet?
And blaz'd in flaming letters o'er my door,
Each one a glorious constellation,
Surgeon, apothecary, accoucheur—
(For midwife is grown vulgar)?—Yet they ail not:
Phials and gallipots still keep their ranks,
As if there was no cordial virtue in them.
The healing chime of pulverising drugs
They shun as 'twere a tolling bell, or death-watch.
I never give a dose, or set a limb!—
But, come, we must devise, we must devise
How to make much of this same guest, sweet Hostess.

Hostess.
You know I always make the most of them.

Lampedo.
Spoke like an antient tapstress!—Come, let's in—
And, whilst I sooth my bowels with an omelette
(For, like a nest of new-wak'd rookings, Hostess,
They caw for provender), and take a glass
Of thy Falernian—we will think of means;
For tho' to cure men be beyond our skill,
'Tis hard indeed if we can't keep them ill.

[Exeunt.
SCENE.
—The Cottage.
Enter the Duke, bringing in Juliana.
Duke.
Nay, no resistance!—for a month, at least,
I am your husband.

Juliana.
True!—and what's a husband?

Duke.
Why, as some wives would metamorphose him,
A very miserable ass indeed!—
A sweating slave to dig the precious ore
Which their high-feeding vanities make current;
A fence to stand betwixt them and dishonour,
Which if their bounding wantonness o'erleaps—
A thing more loathsome and detestable!—
Mere fuller's earth to bleach their spotted credit,
And blotting paper to drink up their stains!

Juliana.
True, there are many such.

Duke.
And there are men
Whom not a swelling lip, or wrinkled brow,
Or the loud rattle of a woman's tongue—
Or, what's more hard to parry, the warm pressure
Of lips, that from the inmost heart of man
Pluck out his stern'st resolves—can move one jot
From the determin'd purpose of his soul,
Or stir an inch from his prerogative.—
E'er it be long, you'll dream of such a man.

Juliana.
Where, waking, shall I see him?

Duke.
Look on me!
Come to your chamber!

Juliana.
I won't be confin'd!

Duke.
Won't!—Say you so?

Juliana.
Well, then, I do request
You won't confine me!

Duke.
You'll leave me?

Juliana.
No, indeed!
As there is truth in language, on my soul
I will not leave you!

Duke.
You've deceiv'd me once—

Juliana.
And therefore do not merit to be trusted.
I do confess it:—but, by all that's sacred,
Give me my liberty, and I will be
A patient, drudging, most obedient wife!

Duke.
Yes; but a grumbling one?

Juliana.
No; on my honour,
I will do all you ask, ere you have said it.

Duke.
And with no secret murmur of your spirit?

Juliana.
With none, believe me!

Duke.
Have a care!
For if I catch ye on the wing again,
I'll clip ye closer than a garden hawk,
And put ye in a cage where daylight comes not;
Where you may fret your pride against the bars
Until your heart break. See who's at the door!
(Knocking at the door. She opens the door.)
(Enter Lopez.)
My neighbour Lopez!—Welcome, sir!—My wife—
(introducing her.)
A chair! (To Juliana.)
Your pardon—you'll excuse her, sir—
A little awkward, but exceeding willing.
(She brings in a chair.)
One for your husband!—Pray be seated, neighbour!—
Now, you may serve yorself.

Juliana.
I thank you, sir,
I'd rather stand.

Duke.
I'd rather you should it.

Juliana.
If you will have it so—Would I were dead!— (Aside. She brings a chair, and sits down.)


Duke.
Tho', now I think again, 'tis fit you stand,
That you may be more free to serve our guest.

Juliana.
Even as you command! (Rises.)


Duke.
You will eat something? (To Lopez.)


Lopez.
Not a morsel, thank ye.

Duke.

Then, you will drink?—a glass of wine, at
least?

Lopez.

Well, I am warm with walking, and care
not if I do taste your liquor.

Duke.

You have some wine, wife?

Juliana.

I must e'en submit!

[Exit.
Duke.

This visit, sir, is kind and neighbourly.

Lopez.

I came to ask a favour of you. We have
to-day a sort of merry-making on the green hard
by—'twere too much to call it a dance—and as you
are a stranger here—

Enter Juliana, with a horn of liquor.
Duke.
(Taking it.)
What have we here?

Juliana.
'Tis wine—You call'd for wine!

Duke.
And did I bid you bring it in a nutshell?

Lopez.
Nay, there is plenty!

Duke.
I can't suffer it.
You must excuse me.— (To Lopez.)
When friends drink with us,
'Tis usual, love, to bring it in a jug,
Or else they may suspect we grudge our liquor.
You understand! A jug!

Juliana.
I shall remember.

[Exit.
Lopez.
I am asham'd to give you so much trouble!

Duke.
No trouble; she must learn her duty, sir:
I'm only sorry you should be kept waiting.—
But you were speaking—

Lopez.

As I was saying, it being the conclusion of
our vintage, we have assembled the lads and lasses of
the village—

Enter Juliana.
Duke.

Now we shall do! (Pours out.)
Why, what
the devil's this?

Juliana.
Wine, sir!

Duke.
This wine?—Tis foul as ditch-water!—
Did you shake the cask?

Juliana.
What shall I say? (Aside.)
Yes, sir.

Duke.
You did?

Juliana.
I did.

Duke.
I thought so.
Why, do you think, my love, that wine is physic,
That must be shook before 'tis swallow'd?—
Come, try again!

Juliana.
I'll go no more!

Duke.
You won't?

Juliana.
I won't!

Duke.
You won't! (Shewing the key.)

You had forgot yourself, my love!

Juliana.
Well, I obey!

[Exit.
Duke.
Was ever man so plagued!
You have a wife, no doubt, of more experience,
Who would not by her awkwardness disgrace
Herself or husband thus? This 'tis to marry
An inexperienc'd girl!
(Enter Juliana.)
Ay, this looks well!

Juliana.
The heavens be prais'd!

Duke.
Come, sir, your judgment?

Lopez.

'Tis excellent!—But, as I was saying, to-day
we have some country pastimes on the green.—
Will it please you both to join our simple recreations?

Duke.

We will attend you. Come, renew your
draught, sir!

Lopez.

We shall expect you presently:—till then,
good even, sir.

Duke.
Good even, neighbour. (Exit Lopez.)
Go and make you ready.

Juliana.
I take no pleasure in these rural sports.

Duke.
Then you shall go to please your husband.—Hold!
I'll have no glittering gewgaws stuck about you,
To stretch the gaping eyes of ideot wonder,
And make men stare upon a piece of earth
As on the star-wrought firmament—no feathers
To wave as streamers to your vanity—
Nor cumbrous silk, that, with its rustling sound,
Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorn'd
Amply, that in her husband's eye looks lovely—
The truest mirror that an honest wife
Can see her beauty in!

Juliana.
I shall observe, sir.

Duke.
I should like well to see you in the dress
I last presented you.

Juliana.
The blue one, sir?—

Duke.
No, love, the white.—Thus modestly attir'd,
An half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair,
With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of,
No deeper rubies than compose thy lips,
Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them;
With the pure red and white, which that same hand
That blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks,
This well-proportion'd form (think not I flatter)
In graceful motion to harmonious sounds,
And thy free tresses dancing in the wind;—
Thou'lt fix as much observance, as chaste dames
Can meet, without a blush.
[Exit Juliana.
Duke solus.
I'll trust her with these bumpkins. There no coxcomb
Shall buz his fulsome praises in her ear,
And swear she has in all things, save myself,
A most especial taste. No meddling gossip
(Who, having claw'd or cuddled into bondage
The thing misnam'd a husband, privately
Instructs less daring spirits to revolt)
Shall, from the fund of her experience, teach her
When lordly man can best be made a fool of;
And how, and when, and where, with most success,
Domestic treaties, on the woman's side,
Are made and ratified.—
Ye that would have obedient wives, beware
Of meddling woman's kind officious care.

[Exit.