"We such clusters hadAs made us nobly wild, not mad,And yet each verse of thineOutdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine."
But the patronage of the court failed in the days of King Charles, though Jonson was not without royal favours; and the old poet returned to the stage, producing, between 1625 and 1633, "The Staple of News," "The New Inn," "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last doubtless revised from a much earlier comedy. None of these plays met with any marked success, although the scathing generalisation of Dryden that designated them "Jonson's dotages" is unfair to their genuine merits. Thus the idea of an office for the gathering, proper dressing, and promulgation of news (wild flight of the fancy in its time) was an excellent subject for satire on the existing absurdities among newsmongers; although as much can hardly be said for "The Magnetic Lady," who, in her bounty, draws to her personages of differing humours to reconcile them in the end according to the alternative title, or "Humours Reconciled." These last plays of the old dramatist revert to caricature and the hard lines of allegory; the moralist is more than ever present, the satire degenerates into personal lampoon, especially of his sometime friend, Inigo Jones, who appears unworthily to have used his influence at court against the broken-down old poet. And now disease claimed Jonson, and he was bedridden for months. He had succeeded Middleton in 1628 as Chronologer to the City of London, but lost the post for not fulfilling its duties. King Charles befriended him, and even commissioned him to write still for the entertainment of the court; and he was not without the sustaining hand of noble patrons and devoted friends among the younger poets who were proud to be "sealed of the tribe of Ben."
Jonson died, August 6, 1637, and a second folio of his works, which he had been some time gathering, was printed in 1640, bearing in its various parts dates ranging from 1630 to 1642. It included all the plays mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs, excepting "The Case is Altered;" the masques, some fifteen, that date between 1617 and 1630; another collection of lyrics and occasional poetry called "Underwoods", including some further entertainments; a translation of "Horace's Art of Poetry" (also published in a vicesimo quarto in 1640), and certain fragments and ingatherings which the poet would hardly have included himself. These last comprise the fragment (less than seventy lines) of a tragedy called "Mortimer his Fall," and three acts of a pastoral drama of much beauty and poetic spirit, "The Sad Shepherd." There is also the exceedingly interesting "English Grammar" "made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of all strangers out of his observation of the English language now spoken and in use," in Latin and English; and "Timber, or Discoveries" "made upon men and matter as they have flowed out of his daily reading, or had their reflux to his peculiar notion of the times." The "Discoveries," as it is usually called, is a commonplace book such as many literary men have kept, in which their reading was chronicled, passages that took their fancy translated or transcribed, and their passing opinions noted. Many passages of Jonson's "Discoveries" are literal translations from the authors he chanced to be reading, with the reference, noted or not, as the accident of the moment prescribed. At times he follows the line of Macchiavelli's argument as to the nature and conduct of princes; at others he clarifies his own conception of poetry and poets by recourse to Aristotle. He finds a choice paragraph on eloquence in Seneca the elder and applies it to his own recollection of Bacon's power as an orator; and another on facile and ready genius, and translates it, adapting it to his recollection of his fellow-playwright, Shakespeare. To call such passages — which Jonson never intended for publication — plagiarism, is to obscure the significance of words. To disparage his memory by citing them is a preposterous use of scholarship. Jonson's prose, both in his dramas, in the descriptive comments of his masques, and in the "Discoveries," is characterised by clarity and vigorous directness, nor is it wanting in a fine sense of form or in the subtler graces of diction.
When Jonson died there was a project for a handsome monument to his memory. But the Civil War was at hand, and the project failed. A memorial, not insufficient, was carved on the stone covering his grave in one of the aisles of Westminster Abbey:
"O rare Ben Jonson."
FELIX E. SCHELLING. THE COLLEGE, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
The following is a complete list of his published works: —
DRAMAS:
Every Man in his Humour, 4to, 1601;The Case is Altered, 4to, 1609;Every Man out of his Humour, 4to, 1600;Cynthia's Revels, 4to, 1601;Poetaster, 4to, 1602;Sejanus, 4to, 1605;Eastward Ho (with Chapman and Marston), 4to, 1605;Volpone, 4to, 1607;Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, 4to, 1609 (?), fol., 1616;The Alchemist, 4to, 1612;Catiline, his Conspiracy, 4to, 1611;Bartholomew Fayre, 4to, 1614 (?), fol., 1631;The Divell is an Asse, fol., 1631;The Staple of Newes, fol., 1631;The New Sun, 8vo, 1631, fol., 1692;The Magnetic Lady, or Humours Reconcild, fol., 1640;A Tale of a Tub, fol., 1640;The Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, fol., 1641;Mortimer his Fall (fragment), fol., 1640.
To Jonson have also been attributed additions to Kyd's Jeronymo, and collaboration in The Widow with Fletcher and Middleton, and in the Bloody Brother with Fletcher.
POEMS:
Epigrams, The Forrest, Underwoods, published in fols., 1616, 1640; Selections: Execration against Vulcan, and Epigrams, 1640; G. Hor. Flaccus his art of Poetry, Englished by Ben Jonson, 1640; Leges Convivialis, fol., 1692. Other minor poems first appeared in Gifford's edition of Works.
PROSE:
Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter, fol., 1641; The English Grammar, made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of Strangers, fol., 1640.
Masques and Entertainments were published in the early folios.
WORKS:
Fol., 1616, volume. 2, 1640 (1631-41);fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729;edited by P. Whalley, 7 volumes., 1756;by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 volumes., 1816, 1846;re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 volumes., 1871;in 9 volumes., 1875;by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838;by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series), with Introduction byC. H. Herford, 1893, etc.;Nine Plays, 1904;ed. H. C. Hart (Standard Library), 1906, etc;Plays and Poems, with Introduction by H. Morley (UniversalLibrary), 1885;Plays (7) and Poems (Newnes), 1905;Poems, with Memoir by H. Bennett (Carlton Classics), 1907;Masques and Entertainments, ed. by H. Morley, 1890.
SELECTIONS:
J. A. Symonds, with Biographical and Critical Essay,(Canterbury Poets), 1886;Grosart, Brave Translunary Things, 1895;Arber, Jonson Anthology, 1901;Underwoods, Cambridge University Press, 1905;Lyrics (Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher), the Chap Books,No. 4, 1906;Songs (from Plays, Masques, etc.), with earliest knownsetting, Eragny Press, 1906.
LIFE:
See Memoirs affixed to Works;J. A. Symonds (English Worthies), 1886;Notes of Ben Jonson Conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden;Shakespeare Society, 1842;ed. with Introduction and Notes by P. Sidney, 1906;Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889.
([*footnote] This is the "Italian Edition" of the comedy.The later, superior, and more familiar Anglicised version,will be a separate Project Gutenberg etext.)
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
LORENZO SENIOR.PROSPERO.THORELLO.GIULIANO.LORENZO JUNIOR.STEPHANO.DOCTOR CLEMENT.BOBADILLA.BIANCHA.HESPERIDA.PETO.MUSCO.COB.MATHEO.PISO.TIB.
SCENE I.ENTER LORENZO DI PAZZI SENIOR, MUSCO.LOR. SE. Now trust me, here's a goodly day toward.Musco, call up my son Lorenzo; bid him rise; tell him,I have some business to employ him in.MUS. I will, sir, presently.LOR. SE. But hear you, sirrah;If he be at study disturb him not.MUS. Very good, sir. [EXIT MUSCO.]LOR. SE. How happy would I estimate myself,Could I by any means retire my son,From one vain course of study he affects!He is a scholar (if a man may trustThe liberal voice of double-tongued report)Of dear account, in all our "Academies."Yet this position must not breed in meA fast opinion that he cannot err.Myself was once a "student," and indeedFed with the self-same humour he is now,Dreaming on nought but idle "Poetry";But since, Experience hath awaked my spirits,[ENTER STEPHANO]And reason taught them, how to comprehendThe sovereign use of study. What, cousin Stephano!What news with you, that you are here so early?STEP. Nothing: but e'en come to see how you do, uncle.LOR. SE. That's kindly done; you are welcome, cousin.STEP. Ay, I know that sir, I would not have come else: how dothmy cousin, uncle?LOR. SE. Oh, well, well, go in and see; I doubt he's scarcestirring yet.STEP. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me an he have e'er a bookof the sciences of hawking and hunting? I would fain borrow it.LOR. SE. Why, I hope you will not a hawking now, will you?STEP. No, wusse; but I'll practise against next year; I havebought me a hawk, and bells and all; I lack nothing but a book tokeep it by.LOR. SE. Oh, most ridiculous.STEP. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle, why, you know, an aman have not skill in hawking and hunting now-a-days, I'll not givea rush for him; he is for no gentleman's company, and (by God'swill) I scorn it, ay, so I do, to be a consort for everyhum-drum; hang them scroyles, there's nothing in them in theworld, what do you talk on it? a gentleman must shew himself likea gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be not angry, I know what I have todo, I trow, I am no novice.LOR. SE. Go to, you are a prodigal, and self-willed fool.Nay, never look at me, it's I that speak,Take't as you will, I'll not flatter you.What? have you not means enow to wasteThat which your friends have left you, but you mustGo cast away your money on a Buzzard,And know not how to keep it when you have done?Oh, it's brave, this will make you a gentleman,Well, cousin, well, I see you are e'en past hopeOf all reclaim; ay, so, now you are told on it, youlook another way.STEP. What would you have me do, trow?LOR. What would I have you do? marry,Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive,That I would have you do, and not to spendYour crowns on every one that humours you:I would not have you to intrude yourselfIn every gentleman's society,Till their affections or your own dessert,Do worthily invite you to the place.For he that's so respectless in his courses,Oft sells his reputation vile and cheap.Let not your carriage and behaviour tasteOf affectation, lest while you pretendTo make a blaze of gentry to the worldA little puff of scorn extinguish it,And you be left like an unsavoury snuff,Whose property is only to offend.Cousin, lay by such superficial forms,And entertain a perfect real substance;Stand not so much on your gentility,But moderate your expenses (now at first)As you may keep the same proportion still:Bear a low sail. Soft, who's this comes here?[ENTER A SERVANT.]SER. Gentlemen, God save you.STEP. Welcome, good friend; we do not stand much upon ourgentility, yet I can assure you mine uncle is a man of a thousandpound land a year; he hath but one son in the world; I am his nextheir, as simple as I stand here, if my cousin die. I have a fairliving of mine own too beside.SER. In good time, sir.STEP. In good time, sir! you do not flout me, do you?SER. Not I, sir.STEP. An you should, here be them can perceive it, and thatquickly too. Go to; and they can give it again soundly, an need be.SER. Why, sir, let this satisfy you. Good faith, I had no suchintent.STEP. By God, an I thought you had, sir, I would talk with you.SER. So you may, sir, and at your pleasure.STEP. And so I would, sir, an you were out of mine uncle's ground,I can tell you.LOR. SE. Why, how now, cousin, will this ne'er be left?STEP. Whoreson, base fellow, by God's lid, an 'twere not forshame, I would —LOR. SE. What would you do? you peremptory ass,An you'll not be quiet, get you hence.You see, the gentleman contains himselfIn modest limits, giving no replyTo your unseason'd rude comparatives;Yet you'll demean yourself without respectEither of duty or humanity.Go, get you in: 'fore God, I am asham'd[EXIT STEP.]Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me.SER. I pray you, sir, is this Pazzi house?LOR. SE. Yes, marry is it, sir.SER. I should enquire for a gentleman here, one Signior Lorenzo diPazzi; do you know any such, sir, I pray you?LOR. SE. Yes, sir; or else I should forget myself.SER. I cry you mercy, sir, I was requested by a gentleman ofFlorence (having some occasion to ride this way) to deliver youthis letter.LOR. SE. To me, sir? What do you mean? I pray you remember yourcourt'sy."To his dear and most selected friend, Signior Lorenzo diPazzi."What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?Nay, pray you be covered.SER. Signior Prospero.LOR. SE. Signior Prospero? A young gentleman of the family ofStrozzi, is he not?SER. Ay, sir, the same: Signior Thorello, the rich Florentinemerchant married his sister.[ENTER MUSCO.]LOR. SE. You say very true. — Musco.MUS. Sir.LOR. SE. Make this gentleman drink here.I pray you go in, sir, an't please you.[EXEUNT.]Now (without doubt) this letter's to my son.Well, all is one: I'll be so bold as read it,Be it but for the style's sake, and the phrase;Both which (I do presume) are excellent,And greatly varied from the vulgar form,If Prospero's invention gave them life.How now! what stuff is here?"Sir Lorenzo,I muse we cannot see thee at Florence: 'Sblood, I doubt,Apollo hath got thee to be his Ingle, that thou comestnot abroad, to visit thine old friends: well, take heedof him; he may do somewhat for his household servants, orso; But for his Retainers, I am sure, I have known someof them, that have followed him, three, four, five yearstogether, scorning the world with their bare heels, andat length been glad for a shift (though no clean shift)to lie a whole winter, in half a sheet cursing Charles'wain, and the rest of the stars intolerably. But (quiscontra diuos?) well; Sir, sweet villain, come and see me;but spend one minute in my company, and 'tis enough: Ithink I have a world of good jests for thee: oh, sir, Ican shew thee two of the most perfect, rare and absolutetrue Gulls, that ever thou saw'st, if thou wilt come.'Sblood, invent some famous memorable lie, or other,to flap thy Father in the mouth withal: thou hast beenfather of a thousand, in thy days, thou could'st be noPoet else: any scurvy roguish excuse will serve; saythou com'st but to fetch wool for thine Ink-horn. Andthen, too, thy Father will say thy wits are a wool-gathering. But it's no matter; the worse, the better.Anything is good enough for the old man. Sir, how if thyFather should see this now? what would he think of me?Well, (how ever I write to thee) I reverence him in mysoul, for the general good all Florence delivers of him.Lorenzo, I conjure thee (by what, let me see) by the depthof our love, by all the strange sights we have seen inour days, (ay, or nights either), to come to me toFlorence this day. Go to, you shall come, and let yourMuses go spin for once. If thou wilt not, 's hart, what'syour god's name? Apollo? Ay, Apollo. If this melancholyrogue (Lorenzo here) do not come, grant, that he do turnFool presently, and never hereafter be able to make a goodjest, or a blank verse, but live in more penury of witand invention, than either the Hall-Beadle, or PoetNuntius."Well, it is the strangest letter that ever I read.Is this the man, my son so oft hath praisedTo be the happiest, and most precious witThat ever was familiar with Art?Now, by our Lady's blessed son, I swear,I rather think him most unfortunateIn the possession of such holy gifts,Being the master of so loose a spirit.Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writWith so profane a pen unto his friend?The modest paper e'en looks pale for grief,To feel her virgin-cheek defiled and stainedWith such a black and criminal inscription.Well, I had thought my son could not have strayedSo far from judgment as to mart himselfThus cheaply in the open trade of scornTo jeering folly and fantastic humour.But now I see opinion is a fool,And hath abused my senses. — Musco.[ENTER MUSCO.]MUS. Sir.LOR. SE. What, is the fellow gone that brought this letter?MUS. Yes sir, a pretty while since.LOR. SE. And where's Lorenzo?MUS. In his chamber, sir.LOR. SE. He spake not with the fellow, did he?MUS. No, sir, he saw him not.LOR. SE. Then, Musco, take this letter, and deliver it untoLorenzo: but, sirrah, on your life take you no knowledge I haveopened it.MUS. O Lord, sir, that were a jest indeed.[EXIT MUS.]LOR. SE. I am resolv'd I will not cross his journey,Nor will I practise any violent meansTo stay the hot and lusty course of youth.For youth restrained straight grows impatient,And, in condition, like an eager dog,Who, ne'er so little from his game withheld,Turns head and leaps up at his master's throat.Therefore I'll study, by some milder drift,To call my son unto a happier shrift.[EXIT.]
ACT I. SCENE II.ENTER LORENZO JUNIOR, WITH MUSCO.MUS. Yes, sir, on my word he opened it, and read the contents.LOR. JU. It scarce contents me that he did so. But, Musco, didstthou observe his countenance in the reading of it, whether he wereangry or pleased?MUS. Why, sir, I saw him not read it.LOR. JU. No? how knowest thou then that he opened it?MUS. Marry, sir, because he charg'd me on my life to tell nobodythat he opened it, which, unless he had done, he would never fearto have it revealed.LOR. JU. That's true: well, Musco, hie thee in again,Lest thy protracted absence do lend light,[ENTER STEPHANO.]To dark suspicion: Musco, be assuredI'll not forget this thy respective love.STEP. Oh, Musco, didst thou not see a fellow here in awhat-sha-call-him doublet; he brought mine uncle a lettereven now?MUS. Yes, sir, what of him?STEP. Where is he, canst thou tell?MUS. Why, he is gone.STEP. Gone? which way? when went he? how long since?MUS. It's almost half an hour ago since he rode hence.STEP. Whoreson scanderbag rogue; oh that I had a horse; by God'slid, I'd fetch him back again, with heave and ho.MUS. Why, you may have my master's bay gelding, an you will.STEP. But I have no boots, that's the spite on it.MUS. Then it's no boot to follow him. Let him go and hang, sir.STEP. Ay, by my troth; Musco, I pray thee help to truss me alittle; nothing angers me, but I have waited such a while for himall unlac'd and untrussed yonder; and now to see he is gone theother way.MUS. Nay, I pray you stand still, sir.STEP. I will, I will: oh, how it vexes me.MUS. Tut, never vex yourself with the thought of such a basefellow as he.STEP. Nay, to see he stood upon points with me too.MUS. Like enough so; that was because he saw you had so few atyour hose.STEP. What! Hast thou done? Godamercy, good Musco.MUS. I marle, sir, you wear such ill-favoured coarse stockings,having so good a leg as you have.STEP. Foh! the stockings be good enough for this time of theyear; but I'll have a pair of silk, e'er it be long: I think myleg would shew well in a silk hose.MUS. Ay, afore God, would it, rarely well.STEP. In sadness I think it would: I have a reasonable good leg?MUS. You have an excellent good leg, sir: I pray you pardon me.I have a little haste in, sir.STEP. A thousand thanks, good Musco.[EXIT.]What, I hope he laughs not at me; an he do —LOR. JU. Here is a style indeed, for a man's senses to leap over,e'er they come at it: why, it is able to break the shins of anyold man's patience in the world. My father read this withpatience? Then will I be made an Eunuch, and learn to singBallads. I do not deny, but my father may have as much patience asany other man; for he used to take physic, and oft taking physicmakes a man a very patient creature. But, Signior Prospero, hadyour swaggering Epistle here arrived in my father's hands at suchan hour of his patience, I mean, when he had taken physic, it is tobe doubted whether I should have read "sweet villain here." But,what? My wise cousin; Nay then, I'll furnish our feast with oneGull more toward a mess; he writes to me of two, and here's one,that's three, i'faith. Oh for a fourth! now, Fortune, or never,Fortune!STEP. Oh, now I see who he laughed at: he laughed at somebody inthat letter. By this good light, an he had laughed at me, I wouldhave told mine uncle.LOR. JU. Cousin Stephano: good morrow, good cousin, how fare you?STEP. The better for your asking, I will assure you. I have beenall about to seek you. Since I came I saw mine uncle; and i'faithhow have you done this great while? Good Lord, by my troth, I amglad you are well, cousin.LOR. JU. And I am as glad of your coming, I protest to you, for Iam sent for by a private gentleman, my most special dear friend, tocome to him to Florence this morning, and you shall go with me,cousin, if it please you, not else, I will enjoin you no furtherthan stands with your own consent, and the condition of a friend.STEP. Why, cousin, you shall command me an 'twere twice so far asFlorence, to do you good; what, do you think I will not go withyou? I protest —LOR. JU. Nay, nay, you shall not protestSTEP. By God, but I will, sir, by your leave I'll protest more tomy friend than I'll speak of at this time.LOR. JU. You speak very well, sir.STEP. Nay, not so neither, but I speak to serve my turn.LOR. JU. Your turn? why, cousin, a gentleman of so fair sort asyou are, of so true carriage, so special good parts; of so dear andchoice estimation; one whose lowest condition bears the stamp of agreat spirit; nay more, a man so graced, gilded, or rather, to usea more fit metaphor, tinfoiled by nature; not that you have aleaden constitution, coz, although perhaps a little inclining tothat temper, and so the more apt to melt with pity, when you fallinto the fire of rage, but for your lustre only, which reflects asbright to the world as an old ale-wife's pewter again a good time;and will you now, with nice modesty, hide such real ornaments asthese, and shadow their glory as a milliner's wife doth her wroughtstomacher, with a smoky lawn or a black cyprus? Come, come; forshame do not wrong the quality of your dessert in so poor a kind;but let the idea of what you are be portrayed in your aspect, thatmen may read in your looks: "Here within this place is to be seenthe most admirable, rare, and accomplished work of nature!"Cousin, what think you of this?STEP. Marry, I do think of it, and I will be more melancholy andgentlemanlike than I have been, I do ensure you.LOR. JU. Why, this is well: now if I can but hold up this humourin him, as it is begun, Catso for Florence, match him an she can.Come, cousin.STEP. I'll follow you.LOR. JU. Follow me! you must go before!STEP. Must I? nay, then I pray you shew me, good cousin.[EXEUNT.]
ACT I. SCENE III.ENTER SIGNIOR MATHEO, TO HIM COB.MAT. I think this be the house: what ho!COB. Who's there? oh, Signior Matheo. God give you good morrow,sir.MAT. What? Cob? how doest thou, good Cob? does thou inhabithere, Cob?COB. Ay, sir, I and my lineage have kept a poor house in our days.MAT. Thy lineage, Monsieur Cob! what lineage, what lineage?COB. Why, sir, an ancient lineage, and a princely: mine ancestrycame from a king's loins, no worse man; and yet no man neither butHerring the king of fish, one of the monarchs of the world, Iassure you. I do fetch my pedigree and name from the first redherring that was eaten in Adam and Eve's kitchen: his Cob was mygreat, great, mighty great grandfather.MAT. Why mighty? why mighty?COB. Oh, it's a mighty while ago, sir, and it was a mighty greatCob.MAT. How knowest thou that?COB. How know I? why, his ghost comes to me every night.MAT. Oh, unsavoury jest: the ghost of a herring Cob.COB. Ay, why not the ghost of a herring Cob, as well as the ghostof Rashero Bacono, they were both broiled on the coals? you are ascholar, upsolve me that now.MAT. Oh, rude ignorance! Cob, canst thou shew me of a gentleman,one Signior Bobadilla, where his lodging is?COB. Oh, my guest, sir, you mean?MAT. Thy guest, alas! ha, ha.COB. Why do you laugh, sir? do you not mean Signior Bobadilla?MAT. Cob, I pray thee advise thyself well: do not wrong thegentleman, and thyself too. I dare be sworn he scorns thy house;he! he lodge in such a base obscure place as thy house? Tut, Iknow his disposition so well, he would not lie in thy bed ifthou'dst give it him.COB. I will not give it him. Mass, I thought somewhat was in it,we could not get him to bed all night. Well sir, though he lie noton my bed, he lies on my bench, an't please you to go up, sir, youshall find him with two cushions under his head, and his cloakwrapt about him, as though he had neither won nor lost, and yet Iwarrant he ne'er cast better in his life than he hath doneto-night.MAT. Why, was he drunk?COB. Drunk, sir? you hear not me say so; perhaps he swallow'd atavern token, or some such device, sir; I have nothing to dowithal: I deal with water and not with wine. Give me my tankardthere, ho! God be with you, sir; it's six o'clock: I should havecarried two turns by this, what ho! my stopple, come.MAT. Lie in a water-bearer's house, a gentleman of his note?Well, I'll tell him my mind.[EXIT.]COB. What, Tib, shew this gentleman up to Signior Bobadilla: oh,an my house were the Brazen head now, faith it would e'en cry moefools yet: you should have some now, would take him to be agentleman at least; alas, God help the simple, his father's anhonest man, a good fishmonger, and so forth: and now doth he creepand wriggle into acquaintance with all the brave gallants aboutthe town, such as my guest is, (oh, my guest is a fine man!) andthey flout him invincibly. He useth every day to a merchant'shouse, (where I serve water) one M. Thorello's; and here's thejest, he is in love with my master's sister, and calls hermistress: and there he sits a whole afternoon sometimes,reading of these same abominable, vile, (a pox on them, I cannotabide them!) rascally verses, Poetry, poetry, and speaking ofInterludes, 'twill make a man burst to hear him: and the wenches,they do so jeer and tihe at him; well, should they do as much tome, I'd forswear them all, by the life of Pharaoh, there's an oath:how many water-bearers shall you hear swear such an oath? oh, Ihave a guest, (he teacheth me) he doth swear the best of any manchristened. By Phoebus, By the life of Pharaoh, By the body of me,As I am gentleman, and a soldier: such dainty oaths; and withal hedoth take this same filthy roguish tobacco, the finest andcleanliest; it would do a man good to see the fume come forth athis nostrils: well, he owes me forty shillings, (my wife lent himout of her purse; by sixpence a time,) besides his lodging; I wouldI had it: I shall have it, he saith, next Action. Helter skelter,hang sorrow, care will kill a cat, up-tails all, and a pox on thehangman.[EXIT.][BOBADILLA DISCOVERS HIMSELF; ON A BENCH; TO HIM TIB.]BOB. Hostess, hostess.TIB. What say you, sir?BOB. A cup of your small beer, sweet hostess.TIB. Sir, there's a gentleman below would speak with you.BOB. A gentleman? (God's so) I am not within.TIB. My husband told him you were, sir.BOB. What a plague! what meant he?MAT. Signior Bobadilla.[MATHEO WITHIN.]BOB. Who's there? (take away the bason, good hostess) come up,sir.TIB. He would desire you to come up, sir; you come into a cleanlyhouse here.MAT. God save you, sir, God save you.[ENTER MATHEO.]BOB. Signior Matheo, is't you, sir? please you sit down.MAT. I thank you, good Signior, you may see I am somewhataudacious.BOB. Not so, Signior, I was requested to supper yesternight by asort of gallants, where you were wished for, and drunk to, I assureyou.MAT. Vouchsafe me by whom, good Signior.BOB. Marry, by Signior Prospero, and others; why, hostess, a stoolhere for this gentleman.MAT. No haste, sir, it is very well.BOB. Body of me, it was so late ere we parted last night, I canscarce open mine eyes yet; I was but new risen as you came; howpasses the day abroad, sir? you can tell.MAT. Faith, some half hour to seven: now trust me, you have anexceeding fine lodging here, very neat, and private.BOB. Ay, sir, sit down. I pray you, Signior Matheo, in any casepossess no gentlemen of your acquaintance with notice of mylodging.MAT. Who? I, sir? no.BOB. Not that I need to care who know it, but in regard I wouldnot be so popular and general as some be.MAT. True, Signior, I conceive you.BOB. For do you see, sir, by the heart of myself, (except it beto some peculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am extraordinarilyengaged, as yourself, or so,) I could not extend thus far.MAT. O Lord, sir! I resolve so.BOB. What new book have you there? What? "Go by Hieronymo."MAT. Ay, did you ever see it acted? is't not well penned?BOB. Well penned: I would fain see all the Poets of our time pensuch another play as that was; they'll prate and swagger, and keepa stir of art and devices, when (by God's so) they are the mostshallow, pitiful fellows that live upon the face of the earthagain.MAT. Indeed, here are a number of fine speeches in this book:"Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears;" there's aconceit: Fountains fraught with tears. "Oh life, no life, butlively form of death;" is't not excellent? "Oh world, no world,but mass of public wrongs;" O God's me: "confused and filled withmurder and misdeeds." Is't not simply the best that ever youheard?Ha, how do you like it?BOB. 'Tis good.MAT. "To thee, the purest object to my sense,The most refined essence heaven covers,Send I these lines, wherein I do commenceThe happy state of true deserving lovers.If they prove rough, unpolish'd, harsh, and rude,Haste made that waste; thus mildly I conclude."BOB. Nay, proceed, proceed, where's this? where's this?MAT. This, sir, a toy of mine own in my non-age: but when willyou come and see my study? good faith, I can shew you some verygood things I have done of late: that boot becomes your legpassing well, sir, methinks.BOB. So, so, it's a fashion gentlemen use.MAT. Mass, sir, and now you speak of the fashion, SigniorProspero's elder brother and I are fallen out exceedingly: thisother day I happened to enter into some discourse of a hanger,which, I assure you, both for fashion and workmanship was mostbeautiful and gentlemanlike; yet he condemned it for the mostpied and ridiculous that ever he saw.BOB. Signior Giuliano, was it not? the elder brother?MAT. Ay, sir, he.BOB. Hang him, rook! he! why, he has no more judgment than amalt-horse. By St. George, I hold him the most peremptory absurdclown (one a them) in Christendom: I protest to you (as I am agentleman and a soldier) I ne'er talk'd with the like of him: hehas not so much as a good word in his belly, all iron, iron, agood commodity for a smith to make hob-nails on.MAT. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with his manhood stillwhere he comes: he brags he will give me the bastinado, as I hear.BOB. How, the bastinado? how came he by that word, trow?MAT. Nay, indeed, he said cudgel me; I termed it so for themore grace.BOB. That may be, for I was sure it was none of his word: butwhen, when said he so?MAT. Faith, yesterday, they say, a young gallant, a friend ofmine, told me so.BOB. By the life of Pharaoh, an't were my case now, I should sendhim a challenge presently: the bastinado! come hither, you shallchallenge him; I'll shew you a trick or two, you shall kill him atpleasure, the first stoccado if you will, by this air.MAT. Indeed, you have absolute knowledge in the mystery, I haveheard, sir.BOB. Of whom? of whom, I pray?MAT. Faith, I have heard it spoken of divers, that you have veryrare skill, sir.BOB. By heaven, no, not I, no skill in the earth: some smallscience, know my time, distance, or so, I have profest it more fornoblemen and gentlemen's use than mine own practise, I assure you.Hostess, lend us another bed-staff here quickly: look you, sir,exalt not your point above this state at any hand, and let yourponiard maintain your defence thus: give it the gentleman. So,sir, come on, oh, twine your body more about, that you may come toa more sweet comely gentlemanlike guard; so indifferent. Hollowyour body more, sir, thus: now stand fast on your left leg, noteyour distance, keep your due proportion of time: oh, you disorderyour point most vilely.MAT. How is the bearing of it now, sir?BOB. Oh, out of measure ill, a well-experienced man would passupon you at pleasure.MAT. How mean you pass upon me?BOB. Why, thus, sir: make a thrust at me; come in upon my time;control your point, and make a full career at the body: thebest-practis'd gentlemen of the time term it the passado, a mostdesperate thrust, believe it.MAT. Well, come, sir.BOB. Why, you do not manage your weapons with that facility andgrace that you should do, I have no spirit to play with you, yourdearth of judgment makes you seem tedious.MAT. But one venue, sir.BOB. Fie! venue, most gross denomination as ever I heard: oh,the stoccado while you live, Signior, not that. Come, put onyour cloak, and we'll go to some private place where you areacquainted, some tavern or so, and we'll send for one of thesefencers, where he shall breathe you at my direction, and then I'llteach you that trick; you shall kill him with it at the first ifyou please: why, I'll learn you by the true judgment of the eye,hand, and foot, to control any man's point in the world; Shouldyour adversary confront you with a pistol, 'twere nothing, youshould (by the same rule) control the bullet, most certain, byPhoebus: unless it were hail-shot: what money have you aboutyou, sir?MAT. Faith, I have not past two shillings, or so.BOB. 'Tis somewhat with the least, but come, when we have done,we'll call up Signior Prospero; perhaps we shall meet withCoridon his brother there.[EXEUNT.]
ACT I. SCENE IV.ENTER THORELLO, GIULIANO, PISO.THO. Piso, come hither: there lies a note within, upon my desk;here, take my key: it's no matter neither, where's the boy?PIS. Within, sir, in the warehouse.THO. Let him tell over that Spanish gold, and weigh it, and do yousee the delivery of those wares to Signior Bentivole: I'll bethere myself at the receipt of the money anon.PIS. Very good, sir.[EXIT PISO.]THO. Brother, did you see that same fellow there?GIU. Ay, what of him?THO. He is e'en the honestest, faithful servant that is this dayin Florence; (I speak a proud word now;) and one that I durst trustmy life into his hands, I have so strong opinion of his love, ifneed were.GIU. God send me never such need: but you said you had somewhatto tell me, what is't?THO. Faith, brother, I am loath to utter it,As fearing to abuse your patience,But that I know your judgment more direct,Able to sway the nearest of affection.GIU. Come, come, what needs this circumstance?THO. I will not say what honour I ascribeUnto your friendship, nor in what dear stateI hold your love; let my continued zeal,The constant and religious regard,That I have ever carried to your name,My carriage with your sister, all contest,How much I stand affected to your house.GIU. You are too tedious, come to the matter, come tothe matter.THO. Then (without further ceremony) thus.My brother Prospero (I know not how)Of late is much declined from what he was,And greatly alter'd in his disposition.When he came first to lodge here in my house,Ne'er trust me, if I was not proud of him:Methought he bare himself with such observance,So true election and so fair a form:And (what was chief) it shew'd not borrow'd in him,But all he did became him as his own,And seem'd as perfect, proper, and innate,Unto the mind, as colour to the blood,But now, his course is so irregular,So loose affected, and deprived of grace,And he himself withal so far fallen offFrom his first place, that scarce no note remains,To tell men's judgments where he lately stood;He's grown a stranger to all due respect,Forgetful of his friends, and not contentTo stale himself in all societies,He makes my house as common as a Mart,A Theatre, a public receptacleFor giddy humour, and diseased riot,And there, (as in a tavern, or a stews,)He, and his wild associates, spend their hours,In repetition of lascivious jests,Swear, leap, and dance, and revel night by night,Control my servants: and indeed what not?GIU. Faith, I know not what I should say to him: so God save me,I am e'en at my wits' end, I have told him enough, one would think,if that would serve: well, he knows what to trust to for me: lethim spend, and spend, and domineer till his heart ache: an he geta penny more of me, I'll give him this ear.THO. Nay, good brother, have patience.GIU. 'Sblood, he mads me, I could eat my very flesh for anger: Imarle you will not tell him of it, how he disquiets your house.THO. O, there are divers reasons to dissuade me,But would yourself vouchsafe to travail in it,(Though but with plain and easy circumstance,)It would both come much better to his sense,And savour less of grief and discontent.You are his elder brother, and that titleConfirms and warrants your authority:Which (seconded by your aspect) will breedA kind of duty in him, and regard.Whereas, if I should intimate the least,It would but add contempt to his neglect,Heap worse on ill, rear a huge pile of hate,That in the building would come tottering down,And in her ruins bury all our love.Nay, more than this, brother; if I should speak,He would be ready in the heat of passion,To fill the ears of his familiars,With oft reporting to them, what disgraceAnd gross disparagement I had proposed him.And then would they straight back him in opinion,Make some loose comment upon every word,And out of their distracted phantasies,Contrive some slander, that should dwell with me.And what would that be, think you? marry, this,They would give out, (because my wife is fair,Myself but lately married, and my sisterHere sojourning a virgin in my house,)That I were jealous: nay, as sure as death,Thus they would say: and how that I had wrong'dMy brother purposely, thereby to findAn apt pretext to banish them my house.GIU. Mass, perhaps so.THO. Brother, they would, believe it: so should I(Like one of these penurious quack-salvers)But try experiments upon myself,Open the gates unto mine own disgrace,Lend bare-ribb'd envy opportunityTo stab my reputation, and good name.[ENTER BOBA. AND MAT.]MAT. I will speak to him.BOB. Speak to him? away, by the life of Pharaoh, you shall not,you shall not do him that grace: the time of day to you,gentlemen: is Signior Prospero stirring?GIU. How then? what should he do?BOB. Signior Thorello, is he within, sir?THO. He came not to his lodging to-night, sir, I assure you.GIU. Why, do you hear? you.BOB. This gentleman hath satisfied me, I'll talk to no Scavenger.GIU. How, Scavenger? stay, sir, stay.[EXEUNT.]THO. Nay, brother Giuliano.GIU. 'Sblood, stand you away, an you love me.THO. You shall not follow him now, I pray you,Good faith, you shall not.GIU. Ha! Scavenger! well, go to, I say little, but, by this goodday, (God forgive me I should swear) if I put it up so, say I amthe rankest — that ever pist. 'Sblood, an I swallow this, I'llne'er draw my sword in the sight of man again while I live; I'llsit in a barn with Madge-owlet first. Scavenger! 'Heart, and I'llgo near to fill that huge tumbrel slop of yours with somewhat, as Ihave good luck, your Garagantua breech cannot carry it away so.THO. Oh, do not fret yourself thus, never think on't.GIU. These are my brother's consorts, these, these are hisComrades, his walking mates, he's a gallant, a Cavaliero too, righthangman cut. God let me not live, an I could not find in my heartto swinge the whole nest of them, one after another, and begin withhim first, I am grieved it should be said he is my brother, andtake these courses, well, he shall hear on't, and that tightly too,an I live, i'faith.THO. But, brother, let your apprehension (then)Run in an easy current, not transportedWith heady rashness, or devouring choler,And rather carry a persuading spirit,Whose powers will pierce more gently; and allureTh' imperfect thoughts you labour to reclaim,To a more sudden and resolved assent.GIU. Ay, ay, let me alone for that, I warrant you.[BELL RINGS.]THO. How now! oh, the bell rings to breakfast.Brother Giuliano, I pray you go in and bear my wife company:I'll but give order to my servants for the dispatch of somebusiness, and come to you presently.[EXIT GIU., ENTER COB.]What, Cob! our maids will have you by the back (i'faith)For coming so late this morning.COB. Perhaps so, sir, take heed somebody have not themby the belly for walking so late in the evening.[EXIT.]THO. Now (in good faith) my mind is somewhat eased,Though not reposed in that securityAs I could wish; well, I must be content,Howe'er I set a face on't to the world,Would I had lost this finger at a vent,So Prospero had ne'er lodged in my house,Why't cannot be, where there is such resortOf wanton gallants, and young revellers,That any woman should be honest long.Is't like, that factious beauty will preserveThe sovereign state of chastity unscarr'd,When such strong motives muster, and make headAgainst her single peace? no, no: bewareWhen mutual pleasure sways the appetite,And spirits of one kind and quality,Do meet to parley in the pride of blood.Well, (to be plain) if I but thought the timeHad answer'd their affections, all the worldShould not persuade me, but I were a cuckold:Marry, I hope they have not got that start.For opportunity hath balk'd them yet,And shall do still, while I have eyes and earsTo attend the imposition of my heart:My presence shall be as an iron bar,'Twixt the conspiring motions of desire,Yea, every look or glance mine eye objects,Shall check occasion, as one doth his slave,When he forgets the limits of prescription.[ENTER BIANCHA WITH HESPERIDA.]BIA. Sister Hesperida, I pray you fetch down the rose-waterabove in the closet: Sweet-heart, will you come in to breakfast?THO. An she have overheard me now?[EXIT HESPERIDA.]BIA. I pray thee, (good Muss) we stay for you.THO. By Christ, I would not for a thousand crowns.BIA. What ail you, sweet-heart? are you not well? speak, goodMuss.THO. Troth, my head aches extremely on a sudden.BIA. Oh Jesu!THO. How now! what!BIA. Good Lord, how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth,it is this new disease, there's a number are troubled withall forGod's sake, sweet-heart, come in out of the air.THO. How simple, and how subtle are her answers!A new disease, and many troubled with it.Why true, she heard me all the world to nothing.BIA. I pray thee, good sweet-heart, come in; the air will do youharm, in troth.THO. I'll come to you presently, it will away, I hope.BIA. Pray God it do.[EXIT.]THO. A new disease! I know not, new or old,But it may well be call'd poor mortals' Plague;For like a pestilence it doth infectThe houses of the brain: first it beginsSolely to work upon the phantasy,Filling her seat with such pestiferous air,As soon corrupts the judgment, and from thence,Sends like contagion to the memory,Still each of other catching the infection,Which as a searching vapour spreads itselfConfusedly through every sensive part,Till not a thought or motion in the mindBe free from the black poison of suspect.Ah, but what error is it to know this,And want the free election of the soulIn such extremes! well, I will once more strive(Even in despite of hell) myself to be,And shake this fever off that thus shakes me.[EXIT.]