University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—A Street in Madrid.
Enter Duke and Montalban, followed by a Servant.
The Duke
(speaking to Jaquez).
This letter you will give my steward;—this
To my old tenant, Lopez. Use dispatch, sir;
Your negligence may ruin an affair
Which I have much at heart.— [Exit Servant.]
—Why how now, Count!
You look but dull upon my wedding-day,
Nor shew the least reflexion of that joy
Which breaks from me, and should light up my friend.

Count.
If I could set my features to my tongue,
I'd give your highness joy. Still, as a friend
Whose expectation lags behind his hopes,
I wish you happy.

Duke.
You shall see me so.—
Is not the lady I have chosen fair?

Count.
Nay, she is beautiful.

Duke.
Of a right age?

Count.
In the fresh prime of youth, and bloom of womanhood.

Duke.
A well-proportion'd form and noble presence?

Count.
True.

Duke.
Then her wit? Her wit is admirable!

Count.
There is a passing shrillness in her voice.

Duke.
Has she not wit?

Count.
A sharp edg'd tongue, I own;
But uses it as bravoes do their swords—
Not for defence, but mischief. Then, her gentleness!
You had almost forgot to speak of that.

Duke.
Ay, there you touch me! Yet, tho' she be prouder
Than the vext ocean at its topmost swell,
And ev'ry breeze will chase her to a storm,
I love her still the better. Some prefer
Smoothly o'er an unwrinkled sea to glide;
Others to ride the cloud-aspiring waves,
And hear, amid the rending tackle's roar,
The spirit of an equinoctial gale.
What tho' a patient and enduring lover—
Like a tame spaniel, that with crouching eye
Meets buffets, and caresses—I have ta'en
With humble thanks her kindness and her scorn;
Yet when I am her husband, she shall feel
I was not born to be a woman's slave!
Can you be secret?

Count.
You have found me so
In matters of some moment.

Duke.
Listen, then:
I have prepar'd a penance for her pride,
To which a cell and sackcloth, and the toils
Of a barefooted pilgrimage, were pastime.
As yet she knows me, as I truly am,
The Duke Aranza: in which character
I have fed high her proud and soaring fancy
With the description of my state and fortunes,
My princely mansions, my delicious gardens,
My carriages, my servants, and my pomp.
Now mark the contrast.—In the very height
And fullest pride of her ambitious hopes,
I take her to a miserable hut
(All things are well digested for the purpose);
Where, throwing off the title of a duke,
I will appear to her a low-born peasant.
There with coarse raiment, household drudgery,
Laborious exercise, and cooling viands,
I will so lower her distemper'd blood
And tame the devil in her, that, before
We have burnt out our happy honey moon,
She, like a well-train'd hawk, shall at my whistle
Quit her high flights, and perch upon my finger
To wait my bidding.

Count.
Most excellent! A plot of rare invention!

Duke.
When with a bold hand I have weeded out
The rank growth of her pride, she'll be a garden
Lovely in blossom, rich in fruit; till then,
An unprun'd wilderness.—But to your business.
How thrives, your suit with her fair sister, Count?

Count.
The best advancement I can boast of in it
Is, that it goes not backward. She's a riddle,
Which he that solv'd the sphinx's, would die guessing.
If I but mention love, she starts away,
And wards the subject off with so much skill,
That whether she be hurt or tickled most
Her looks leave doubtful. Yet I fondly think
She keeps me (as the plover from her nest
Fearful misleads the trav'ller) from the point
Where live her warmest wishes, that are breath'd
For me in secret.

Duke.
You've her father's voice?

Count.
Yes: and we have concerted, that this evening,
Instead of Friar Dominic her confessor,
Who from his pious office is disabled
By sudden sickness, I should visit her;
And, as her mind's physician, feel the pulse
Of her affection.

Duke.
May you quickly find
Her love to you the worst of her offences!
For then her absolution would be certain.
Farewel! I see Rolando.
He is a common railer against women;
And on my wedding-day I will hear none
Blaspheme the sex. Besides, as once he fail'd
In the same suit that I have thriven in,
'Twill look like triumph. 'Tis a grievous pity
He follows them with such a settled spleen,
For he has noble qualities.

Count.
Most rare ones—
A happy wit, and independent spirit.

Duke.
And then he's brave, too.

Count.
Of as tried a courage
As ever walk'd up to the roaring throats
Of a deep-rang'd artillery; and planted,
Midst fire and smoke, upon an enemy's wall
The standard of his country.

Duke.
Farewel, Count.

Count.
Success attend your schemes!

Duke.
Fortune crown yours!
[Exit Duke.

Count and Rolando.
Count.
Signor Rolando, you seem melancholy.

Rolando.
As an old cat in the mumps. I met three women—
I marvel much they suffer them to walk
Loose in the streets, whilst other untam'd monsters
Are kept in cages—three loud talking women;
They were discoursing of the newest fashions,
And their tongues went like—I have since been thinking
What most that active member of a woman
Of mortal things resembles.—

Count.
Have you found it?

Rolando.
Umph! not exactly—something like a smoke-jack;
For it goes ever without winding up:
But that wears out in time—there fails the simile.
Next I bethought me of a water-mill,
But that stands still on Sundays: woman's tongue
Needs no reviving sabbath. And, besides,
A mill, to give it motion, waits for grist;
Now, whether she has aught to say or no,
A woman's tongue will go for exercise.
In short, I came to this conclusion:
Most earthly things have their similitudes,
But woman's tongue is yet incomparable.—
Was't not the Duke that left you?

Count.
'Twas.

Rolando.
He saw me.
And hurried off!—A cur, that has been caught
Privately stealing in a butcher's shop,
Ne'er sneak'd away more scurvily. He knew
I should have rated him.

Count.
Aye! 'twas most wise in him
To shun the bitter flowing of your gall.—
You know he's on the brink of matrimony.

Rolando.
Why now, in reason, what can he expect?
To marry such a woman!
A thing so closely pack'd with her own pride,
She has no room for any thought of him.
Why, she ne'er threw a word of kindness at him
But when she quarrell'd with her monkey. Then,
As he with nightly minstrelsy dol'd out
A lying ballad to her peerless beauty,
Unto his whining lute, and at each turn
Sigh'd like a paviour, the kind lady, sir,
Would lift the casement up to laugh at him,
And vanish like a shooting star; whilst he,
Like an astronomer in an eclipse,
Stood gazing on the spot whence she departed:
Then, stealing home, went supperless to bed,
And fed all night upon her apparition.
Now, rather than espouse a thing like this,
I'd wed a bear that never learnt to dance,
Though her first hug were mortal.

Count.
Peace, Rolando!
You rail at women as priests cry down pleasure;
Who, for the penance which they do their tongues,
Give ample licence to their appetites.
Come, come; however you may mask your nature,
I know the secret pulses of your heart
Beat towards them still. A woman-hater! Pshaw!
A young and handsome fellow, and a brave one—

Rolando.
Go on.

Count.
Had I a sister, mother, nay, my grandam,
I'd no more trust her in a corner with thee,
Than cream within the whiskers of a cat.

Rolando.
Right! I should beat her. You are very right,
I have a sneaking kindness for the sex;
And could I meet a reasonable woman,
Fair without vanity, rich without pride,
Discreet though witty, learn'd, yet very humble;
That has no ear for flattery, no tongue
For scandal; one who never reads romances;
Who loves to listen better than to talk,
And rather than be gadding would sit quiet;
Hates cards and cordials, goes ill-dress'd to church;
I'd marry certainly. You shall find two such,
And we'll both wed together.

Count.
You are merry.—
Where shall we dine together?

Rolando.
Not to-day.

Count.
Nay, I insist.

Rolando.
Where shall I meet you, then?

Count.
Here, at the Mermaid.

Rolando.
I don't like the sign;
A mermaid is half-woman.

Count.
Pshaw, Rolando!
You strain this humour beyond sense or measure.

Rolando.
Well, on condition that we're very private,
And that we drink no toast that's feminine,
I'll waste some time with you.

Count.
Agreed.

Rolando.
Go on, then;
I will but give directions to my page,
And follow you.

Enter Eugenio.
Count.
A pretty smooth-fac'd boy.

Rolando.
The lad is handsome; and for one so young,
Save that his heart will flutter at a drum,
And he would rather eat his sword than draw it,
He is the noblest youth in Christendom,
The kindest and most gentle. Talk of woman!
Not all the rarest virtues of the sex,
If any cunning chemist could compound them,
Would make a tythe of his. When before Tunis
I got well scratch'd for leaping on the walls
Too nimbly, that same boy attended me.
'Twould bring an honest tear into thine eye
To tell thee how for ten days, without sleep
And almost nourishment, he waited on me;
Cheer'd the dull time by reading merry tales;
And when my fest'ring body smarted most,
Sweeter than a fond mother's lullaby
Over her peevish child, he sung to me,
That the soft cadence of his dying tones
Dropt like an oily balsam on my wounds,
And breath'd an healing influence throughout me.—
But this is womanish!—Order our dinner,
And I'll be with you presently.

Count.
I will not fail.
[Exit Count.

(Zamora comes forward.)
Rolando.
The wars are ended, boy.

Zamora.
I'm glad of that, sir.

Rolando.
You should be sorry, if you love your master.—

Zamora.
Then I am very sorry.

Rolando.
We must part, boy!—

Zamora.
Part?

Rolando.
I am serious.

Zamora.
Nay, you cannot mean it.
Have I been idle, sir, or negligent?
Saucy I'm sure I have not.—If aught else,
It is my first fault; chide me gently for it—
Nay, heavily;—but do not say,—we part!

Rolando.
I'm a disbanded soldier, without pay,
Fit only now with rusty swords and helmets
To hang up in an armoury, till the wars
New burnish me again; so poor, indeed,
I can but leanly cater for myself,
Much less provide for thee.

Zamora.
Let not that
Divide us, sir; the thought of how I far'd
Never yet troubled me, and shall not now.
Indeed, I never follow'd you for hire,
But for the simple and the pure delight
Of serving such a master.—If we must part,
Let me wear out my service by degrees;
To-day omit some sweet and sacred duty,
Some dearer one to morrow: slowly thus
My nature may be wean'd from her delight:
But suddenly to quit you, sir!—I cannot!—
I should go broken hearted.

Rolando.
Pshaw, those tears!
Well, well, we'll talk of this some other day.
I dine with Count Montalban at the Mermaid;
In the mean time, go, and amuse yourself
With what is worthiest note in this fam'd city.—
But hark, Eugenio! 'Tis a wicked place;
You'll meet (for they are weeds of ev'ry soil)
Abundance here of—women;—keep aloof!—
For they are like the smooth, but brittle, ice,
That tempts th' unpractis'd urchin to his ruin.
They are like comets, to be wonder'd at,
But not approach'd: eccentric in their course,
They sweep in dazzling state before men's eyes,
But carry sure destruction in their train.—
Go not within their reach!

Zamora.
Doubt me not, sir.—
What a hard fate is mine!—to follow thus
With love a gentleman that scorns my sex,
And swears no great or noble quality
Ever yet liv'd in woman!—When I read to him
The story of Lucretia, or of Portia,
Or other glorious dames, or some rare virgin
Who, cross'd in love, has died,—'mid peals of laughter,
He praises the invention of the writer;
Or, growing angry, bids me shut the book,
Nor with such dull lies wear his patience out.
What opposition has a maid like me
To turn the head-strong current of his spleen!
For tho' he sets off with a lavish tongue
My humble merits, thinking me a boy,
Yet, should I stand before his jaundic'd sight
A woman, all that now is fair in me
Might turn to ugliness; all that is good
Appear the smooth gloss of hypocrisy:—
Yet, I must venture the discovery,
Tho' 'tis a fearful hazard. This perplexity
Of hopes and fears makes up too sad a life;
I will or lose him quite or be his wife.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

—A Room in Balthazar's House.
Enter Balthazar and Volante.
Balthazar.
Not yet apparell'd?

Volante.
'Tis her wedding-day, sir:
On such occasions women claim some grace.

Balthazar.
How bears she
The coming of her greatness?

Volante.
Bravely, sir.
Instead of the high honours that await her,
I think that, were she now to be enthron'd,
She would become her coronation:
For, when she has adjusted some stray lock,
Or fixt at last some sparkling ornament,
She views her beauty with collected pride,
Musters her whole soul in her eyes, and says,
“Look I not like an Empress?” But, she comes.—

Enter Juliana, in her Wedding-dress.
Juliana.
Well, sir, what think you? do I to the life
Appear a duchess, or will people say,
She does but poorly play a part which nature
Never designed her for?—But, where's the Duke?

Balthazar.
Not come yet.

Juliana.
How! not come?—the Duke not come!

Volante.
Patience, sweet sister; oft without a murmur
It has been his delight to wait for you.

Juliana.
It was his duty.—Man was born to wait
On woman, and attend her sov'reign pleasure!
This tardiness upon his wedding-day
Is but a sorry sample of obedience.

Balthazar.
Obedience, girl!

Juliana.
Ay, obedience! sir.

Volante.
Why, what a wire-drawn puppet you will make
The man you marry!—I suppose, ere long,
You'll choose how often he shall walk abroad
For recreation; fix his diet for him;
Bespeak his clothes, and say on what occasions
He may put on his finest suit;—

Juliana.
Proceed.

Volante.
Keep all the keys, and when he bids his friends,
Mete out a modicum of wine to each.
Had you not better put him on a livery
At once, and let him stand behind your chair?—
Why, I would rather wed a man of dough,
Such as some school-girl, when the pye is made,
To amuse her childish fancy, kneads at hazard
Out of the remnant paste—a paper man
Cut by a baby. Heav'ns preserve me ever
From that dull blessing—an obedient husband!

Juliana.
And make you an obedient wife!—a thing
For lordly man to vent his humours on;
A dull domestic drudge, to be abus'd
Or fondled as the fit may work upon him;—
“If you think so, my dear,” and, “As you please;”
And, “You know best;”—even when he nothing knows.
I have no patience—that a free-born woman
Should sink the high tone of her noble nature
Down to a slavish whisper, for that compound
Of frail mortality they call a man,
And give her charter up, to make a tyrant!—

Balthazar.
You talk it most heroically.—Pride
May be a proper bait to catch a lover,
But, trust me, daughter, 'twill not hold a husband.

Juliana.
Leave that to me.—And what should I have caught,
If I had fish'd with your humility?—
Some pert apprentice, or rich citizen.—
Who would have bought me? Some poor gentleman,
Whose high patrician blood would have descended
To wed a painter's daughter and her ducats.—
I felt my value, and still kept aloof,
Nor stoop'd my eye till I had met the man,
Pick'd from all Spain, to be my husband, girl:
And him I have so manag'd, that he feels
I have conferr'd an honour on his house,
By coyly condescending to be his.

Balthazar.
He comes.

Volante.
Smooth your brow, sister.

Juliana.
For a man!
He must be one not made of mortal clay, then.
Enter the Duke.
Oh! you are come, sir? I have waited for you!—
Is this your gallantry? at such a time, too?

Duke.
I do intreat your pardon;—if you knew
The pressing cause—

Volante.
Let me intreat for him.

Balthazar.
Come, girl, be kind.

Juliana.
Well, sir, you are forgiven.

Duke.
You are all goodness; let me on this hand—

[Taking her hand, which she withdraws.
Juliana.
Not yet, sir; 'tis a virgin hand as yet,
And my own property:—forbear awhile,
And with this humble person 'twill be yours.

Duke.
Exquisite modesty! Come, let us on,
All things are waiting for the ceremony;
And, till you grace it, Hymen's wasting torch
Burns dim and sickly.—Come, my Juliana.

[Exeunt.