Vin. That breast Is turn'd to quarled poison. Moth. Cut not your days for 't. Am not I your mother? Vin. Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud, For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd. Moth. A bawd! O name far loathsomer than hell! Hip. It should be so, knew'st thou thy office well. Vin. Ah, is it possible, you powers on high, That women should dissemble when they die ? Vin. Did not the duke's son direct A fellow of the world's condition hither, And work our sister to his purpose? Moth. Who, I? That had been monstrous. I defy that man None lives so pure, But shall be soil'd with slander. Good son, believe it not. Vin. Oh, I'm in doubt Whether I am myself or no Stay, let me look again upon this face. Who shall be saved when mothers have no grace [Resumes his Disguise. Hip. 'Twould make ono half despair. Vin. I was the man. Defy me now, let's see, do 't modestly. Moth. O hell unto my soul! Vin. In that disguise, I, sent from the duke's son, Tried you, and found you base metal, As any villain might have done. Moth. O no, No tongue but yours could have bewitched me so. Vin. O nimble in damnation, quick in turn! There is no devil could strike fire so soon. Moth. Oh sons, Forgive me, to myself I'll prove more true; Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter! Vin. Nay, and you draw tears once, go you to bed. Vin. I' faith 'tis a sweet shower, it does much good. Take this infectious spot out of my soul; I'll rince it in seven waters of mine eyes. Vin. Nay, I'll kiss you now. Kiss her, brother: Hip. Let it be. Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare, 'Tis good to cherish those poor few that are. you of easy wax! do but imagine Now the disease has left you, how leprously That office would have cling'd unto your forehead! Would have worn masks to hide their face at you. The duke's son's great concubine! A drab of state, a cloth-o'-silver slut, To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt! Hip. To be great, miserable; to be rich, eternally wretched. Ask but the thriving'st harlot in cold blood, Hip. O brother, you forget our business. Vin. And well remember'd; joy's a subtil elf; Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister. Vin. Why that was motherly said.* Castiza seems to consent to her Mother's wicked motion. Cast. Now, mother, you have wrought with me so strongly, That, what for my advancement, as to calm The trouble of your tongue, I am content. Moth. Content, to what? Cast. To do as you have wish'd me: To prostitute my breast to the duke's son, And put myself to common usury. • The reality and life of this Dialogue passes any scenical illusion I ever felt. I never read it but my cars tingle, and I feel a hot blush spread my cheeks, as if I were presently about to “proclaim" some such “malefactions" of myself, as the Brothers here rebuke in their unnatural parent; in words more keen and dagger-like than those which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only to "strike guilty creatures unto the soul," but to "appal " even those that are "free." Moth. I hope you will not so. Cast. Hope you I will not? That's not the hope you look to be saved in. Moth. Truth, but it is. Cast. Do not deceive yourself. I am as you, e'en out of marble wrought. What would you now: are ye not pleas'd yet with me? Than I intend to be. Moth. Strike not me cold. Cast. How often have you charg'd me on your blessing To be a cursed woman! when you knew Your blessing had no force to make me lewd, Put not all out with woman's wilful follies. That haunts too many mothers; kind, forgive me, My words prevail'd, when they were wickedness, In three hours' reading, to untwist so much Of the black serpent, as you wound about me! Moth. "Tis unfruitful held, tedious, to repeat what's past. I'm now your present mother. Cast. Pish, now 'tis too late. Moth. Bethink again, thou know'st not what thou say'st. Cast. No! deny advancement! treasure! the duke's son! Moth. O see, I spoke those words, and now they poison me. What will the deed do then? Advancement! true; as high as shame can pitch! For treasure: who e'er knew a Harlot rich ? An hospital to keep their bastards in? The duke's son! oh; when women are young courtiers, To know the miseries most harlots taste, Thou'dst wish thyself unborn when thou'rt unchaste. And kiss you till my soul melt on your lips; I did but this to try you. Moth. O speak truth. Cast. Indeed I did not; for no tongue hath force To alter me from honest: If maidens would, men's words could have no power; A virgin's honor is a crystal tower, Which being weak is guarded with good spirits; Until she basely yields, no ill inherits. Moth. O happy child! faith, and thy birth, hath saved me, 'Mongst thousand daughters, happiest of all others ; Buy thou a glass for maids, and I for mothers. Evil Report after Death. What is it to have A flattering false insculption on a tomb, And in men's hearts reproach? the 'bowel'd corps Bastards. Oh what a grief 'tis that a man should live But once in the world, and then to live a Bastard? The curse of the womb, the thief of nature, Begot against the seventh commandment, Too nice respects in Courtship. It is as easy way unto a duchess |