1 Langbaine says, "The passage between the patient man and his impatient wife's going to fight for the breeches, with the happy event, is exprest by Sir John Harrington in verse. See his Epigrams at the end of Orlando Furioso, Book I. Epig. 16." Ast. Yes, he will not be horsed this hour, sure. Ber. My lady swears he shall, for she longs to be at court. Car. Oh, we shall ride switch and spur; would we were there once! Enter BRYAN the Footman. Lod. How now, is thy lord ready? Bryan. No so crees sa me, my lady will have some little ting in her pelly first. Car. Oh, then they'll to breakfast. Lod. Footman, does my lord ride i'the coach with my lady, or on horseback? Bryan. No foot la, my lady will have me lord sheet wid her, my lord will sheet in de one side, and my lady sheet in de toder side. [Exit. Lod. My lady sheet in de toder side! did you ever hear a rascal speak so like a Pagan? Is't not strange that a fellow of his star, should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from a Christian? Enter ANTONIO GEORGIO, a poor Scholar. Ast. An Irishman in Italy! that so strange! why, the nation have running-heads. [Exchange-walk. Lod. Nay, Carolo, this is more strange, I have been in France, there's few of them: marry, England they count a warm chimney-corner, and there they swarm like crickets to the crevice of a brew-house; but, sir, in England I have noted one thing. Omnes. What's that, what's that of England? Lod. Marry this, sir;-what's he yonder? Ber. A poor fellow would speak with my lord. Lod. In England, sir, troth I ever laugh when I think on't: to see a whole nation should be marked i'the forehead, as a man may say, with one iron why, sir, there all coster-mongers are Irishmen. : Car. Oh, that's to shew their antiquity, as coming from Eve, who was an apple-wife, and they take after the mother. Omnes Good, good, ha, ha. Lod. Why, then, should all your chimneysweepers likewise be Irishmen ? answer that now; come, your wit. Car. Faith, that's soon answered; for St Patrick, 3 you know, keeps purgatory; he makes the fire, and his countrymen could do nothing, if they cannot sweep the chimnies. Omnes. Good again. Lod. Then, sir, have you many of them, (like this fellow) especially those of his hair, footmen to noblemen and others, and the knaves are very faithful where they love; by my faith very proper men many of them, and as active as the clouds, whirr, hah. Omnes. Are they so? Lod. And stout! exceeding stout; why, I warrant, this precious wild villain, if he were put to't, would fight more desperately than sixteen Dunkerks. Ast. The women they say are very fair? Lod. No, no, our country bona robaes; ob! are the sugrest delicious rogues! Ast. Oh, look, he has a feeling of them. Lod. Not I, I protest. There's a saying when they commend nations: it goes, the Irishman for his hand, Welshman for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for beard. Font. I faith, they may make swabbers of them. Lod. The Spaniard, let me see, for a little foot, I take it; the Frenchman, what a pox hath he? and so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? Enter BELLAFRONT with a Petition. Bel. Will it be loug, sir, ere my lord come forth? Ast. Would you speak with my lord? Lod. How now, what's this, a nurse's bill? hath any here got thee with child, and now will not keep it? Bel. No, sir, my business is unto my lord. Lod. He's about his own wife now, he'll hardly dispatch two causes in a morning. Ast. No matter what he says, fair lady; he's a knight, there's no hold to be taken at his words. Font. My lord will pass this way presently. Ber. A pretty plump rogue. Ast. A good lusty bouncing baggage. 2 Coster-mongers.-Sellers of apples. 3 St Patrick's purgatory.—see Note to The Four P's, p. 5. 4 Table-book.-See Mr Steevens's Note on Much ado about Nothing, A. 1. S. 1. Bel. Oh 'las! it does concern a poor man's life. Hip. Life! sweet heart? Seat yourself, I'll but read this and come. 5 Lod. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? if they be not yellow, change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband. Inf. Oh, sir, that cannot make me jealous. Hip. Your business, sir, to me? Hip. I'm sorry these storms are fallen on him; And any good shall do him; he and I Lod. 'Sfoot, my lord, your lady asks if you have not left your wench yet? When you get in once, you never have done: come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing, come. Hip. Ride softly on before, I'll overtake you. Lod. Your lady swears she'll have no riding on before, without ye. Hip. Pr'ythee, good Lodovico. Lod. My lord, pray hasten. Hip. I come :-to-morrow let me see you, fare you well: commend me to Matheo. Pray, one word more: Does not your father live about the court? Bel. I think he does, but such rude spots of shame Stick on my cheek, that he scarce knows my name. Hip. What does he for you? Bel. All he should: when children From duty start, parents from love may swerve: He nothing does, for nothing I deserve. Hip. Shall I join him unto you, and restore you to wonted grace? Bel. It is impossible. [Exit BELLAFRONT. Hip. It shall be put to trial; fare you well: The face I would not look on! sure then 'twas rare, When in despite of grief, 'tis still thus fair.- Ant. I am bold to express my love and duty to Have sealed two bonds of friendship, which are your lordship in these few leaves. Bel. Too true. Hip. What was he whom he killed? oh, his name's here; old Jacomo, son to the Florentine Jacomo, a dog, that, to meet profit, would to the very eye-lids wade in blood of his own children. Tell Matheo, the duke my father hardly shall deny his signed pardon; 'twas fair fight, yes, if rumour's tongue go true,-so writes he here. To-morrow morning I return from court, Pray be you here then. I'll have done, sir, straight: But in troth say, are you Matheo's wife? You have forgot me. Hip. A book! Ant. Yes, my good lord. Kings may be scholars' patrons; but faith tell me, Ant. Not one in troth, not one: your name I held more dear; I'm not, my lord, of that low character. Hip. Your name, I pray? Hip. Of Milan? Ant. Yes, my lord. VOL. I. If they be not yellow.-See Note to The Wits, A. 4. 4 B This of your loves, the earnest that of mine.— Bryan. I fait di lady is run away from dee a mighty deal of ground; she sent me back for dine own sweet face; I pray dee come, my lord, away,-wut tow go now? Hip. Is the coach gone? Saddle my horse, the sorel. Enter HIPOLITO. Omnes. My lord's come. Lod. Your lady is with the duke her father. that? Enter ORLANDO FRISCOBALDO. Hip. Friscobaldo, oh! pray call him, and leave me; we two have business. Car. Ho Signior! Signior Friscobaldo. Bryan. A pox a de horse's nose, he is a lousy [Exeunt. rascally fellow; when I came to gird his belly, Orl. My noble lord! my lord Hipolito! the his scurvy guts rumbled, di horse farted in my duke's son! his brave daughter's brave husband! face, and dow knowest an Irishman cannot abide how does your honour'd lordship? does your no a fart; but I have saddled de hobby-horse, dibility remember so poor a gentleman as Signior fine hobby is ready: I pray dee, my good sweet Orlando Friscobaldo! old mad Orlando! lord, wit tow go now, and I will run to de devil before dee? Hip. Well, sir.-I pray let's see you, master scholar. Bryan. Come, I pray dee, wut come, sweet face? Go. [Exeunt. Enter LODOVICO, CAROLO, ASTOLFO, BERALDO. Lod. Godso, gentlemen, what do we forget? Lod. Are not we all enjoined as this day, Thursday, is't not? Aye, as that day to be at the linen-draper's house at dinner? Car. Signior Candido, the patient man. Ast. Afore Jove, true, upon this day he's married. Ber. I wonder, that being so stung with a wasp before, he dares venture again to come about the eaves amongst bees. Lod. Ob 'tis rare sucking a sweet honey-comb; pray heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance! The poor fiddlers instruments would crack for it, she'd tickle them at any hand, lets try what mettle is in his new bride; if there be none, we'll put in some. Troth it's a very noble citizen, I pity he should marry again: I'll walk along, for it is a good old fellow. Car. I warrant, the wives of Millan would give any fellow twenty thousand duckets, that could but have the face to beg of the duke, that all the citizens in Millan might be bound to the peace of patience, as the linen-draper is. Lod. Oh fie upon't, 'twould undo all us that are courtiers; we should have no hoe with the wenches then. Hip. Oh, sir, our friends! they ought to be unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued, being locked up, and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood; for all time's sickle hath gone over you, you are Orlando still. Orl. Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut down, and stript bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? though my head be like a leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green? Hip. Scarce can I read the stories on your brow, Which age hath writ there; you look youthfu! Orl. I eat snakes, my lord, I eat snakes. Hip. You are the happier man, sir. Orl. Happy man! I'll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man; I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in the right colours, I'll bestow it on your lordship. Hip. I stay for it. Orl. He that makes gold his wife, but not his He that at noon-day walks by a prison door, 5 Hoe.-See Note 70 to the First Part of this Play, p. 553. Orl. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn: For I am not covetous, Sit neither at the duke's side, Wenching and I have done; no man I wrong, I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonders my home. I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a winding sheet: But like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me. I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in my age. I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan, and go singing to my nest, why so: If a crow! throw me out for carrion, and pick out mine eyes. May not old Friscobaldo, my lord, be merry now! ha? Hip. You may; would I were partner in your mirth! Orl. I have a little, have all things; I have nothing; I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick, and why should not I be in my jocundare? Hip. Is your wife then departed? Orl. She's an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me: Here, she's here; but before me, when a knave and a quean are married, they commonly walk like serjeants together; but a good couple are seldom parted. Hip. You had a daughter too, sir, had you not? Orl. Oh, my lord! this old tree had one branch, and but one branch growing out of it: it was young, it was fair, it was straight; I prun'd it daily, drest it carefully, kept it from the wind, help'd it to the sun; yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore crabs; I hewed it down;-what's become of it, I neither know, nor stuck upright out of hell, to be her props, that she may spread upon them: And, when she's ripe, every slave has a pull at her, then must she be prest. The young beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust on edge; yet to taste that lickrish wine, is to drink a man's own damnation. Is she dead? Hip. She's turned to earth. Orl. Would she were turned to heaven; umb, is she dead! I am glad the world has lost one of his idols; no whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors; in her grave sleep all my shame, and her own; and all my sorrows, and all her I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot! but the best is, I have a kandkercher to drink them up, soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor? Hip. Trust me, I think she is. Orl. Then she's a right strumpet. I never knew any of their trade rich two years together; sieves can hold no water, nor harlots hoard up money; they have many vents, too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves, do all wait upon a common harlot's trencher: she is the gallypot to which these drones fly not for love to the pot, but for the sweet sucket within it, her money, her money. Hip. I almost dare pawn my word, her bosom gives warmth to no such snakes; when did you see her? Orl. Not seventeen summers. Orl. Older; it has a white head, Hip. Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame. Orl. No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out of the world; I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste poison; I hate her for herself, because she refused my physic. Hip. Nay, but Friscobaldo. Orl. I detest her, I defy both, she's not mine, she's |
