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 trust The liberal voice of double-tongued report) Of dear account, in all our "Academies." Yet this position must not breed in me A fast opinion that he cannot err. Myself was once a "student," and indeed Fed 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 comprehend The 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 doth my cousin, uncle? LOR. SE. Oh, well, well, go in and see; I doubt he's scarce stirring yet. STEP. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me an he have e'er a book of 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 have bought me a hawk, and bells and all; I lack nothing but a book to keep it by. LOR. SE. Oh, most ridiculous. STEP. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle, why, you know, an a man have not skill in hawking and hunting now-a-days, I'll not give a rush for him; he is for no gentleman's company, and (by God's will) I scorn it, ay, so I do, to be a consort for every hum-drum; hang them scroyles, there's nothing in them in the world, what do you talk on it? a gentleman must shew himself like a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be not angry, I know what I have to do, 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 waste That which your friends have left you, but you must Go 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 hope Of all reclaim; ay, so, now you are told on it, you look 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 spend Your crowns on every one that humours you: I would not have you to intrude yourself In 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 taste Of affectation, lest while you pretend To make a blaze of gentry to the world A 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 our gentility, yet I can assure you mine uncle is a man of a thousand pound land a year; he hath but one son in the world; I am his next heir, as simple as I stand here, if my cousin die. I have a fair living 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 that quickly 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 such intent. 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 for shame, 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 himself In modest limits, giving no reply To your unseason'd rude comparatives; Yet you'll demean yourself without respect Either 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 di Pazzi; 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 of Florence (having some occasion to ride this way) to deliver you this letter. LOR. SE. To me, sir? What do you mean? I pray you remember your court'sy. "To his dear and most selected friend, Signior Lorenzo di Pazzi." 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 of Strozzi, is he not? SER. Ay, sir, the same: Signior Thorello, the rich Florentine merchant 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 comest not abroad, to visit thine old friends: well, take heed of him; he may do somewhat for his household servants, or so; But for his Retainers, I am sure, I have known some of them, that have followed him, three, four, five years together, scorning the world with their bare heels, and at 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 (quis contra diuos?) well; Sir, sweet villain, come and see me; but spend one minute in my company, and 'tis enough: I think I have a world of good jests for thee: oh, sir, I can shew thee two of the most perfect, rare and absolute true 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 been father of a thousand, in thy days, thou could'st be no Poet else: any scurvy roguish excuse will serve; say thou com'st but to fetch wool for thine Ink-horn. And then, 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 thy Father should see this now? what would he think of me? Well, (how ever I write to thee) I reverence him in my soul, for the general good all Florence delivers of him. Lorenzo, I conjure thee (by what, let me see) by the depth of our love, by all the strange sights we have seen in our days, (ay, or nights either), to come to me to Florence this day. Go to, you shall come, and let your Muses go spin for once. If thou wilt not, 's hart, what's your god's name? Apollo? Ay, Apollo. If this melancholy rogue (Lorenzo here) do not come, grant, that he do turn Fool presently, and never hereafter be able to make a good jest, or a blank verse, but live in more penury of wit and invention, than either the Hall-Beadle, or Poet Nuntius." Well, it is the strangest letter that ever I read. Is this the man, my son so oft hath praised To be the happiest, and most precious wit That ever was familiar with Art? Now, by our Lady's blessed son, I swear, I rather think him most unfortunate In the possession of such holy gifts, Being the master of so loose a spirit. Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ With so profane a pen unto his friend? The modest paper e'en looks pale for grief, To feel her virgin-cheek defiled and stained With such a black and criminal inscription. Well, I had thought my son could not have strayed So far from judgment as to mart himself Thus cheaply in the open trade of scorn To 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 unto Lorenzo: but, sirrah, on your life take you no knowledge I have opened 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 means To 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, didst thou observe his countenance in the reading of it, whether he were angry 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 nobody that he opened it, which, unless he had done, he would never fear to 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 assured I'll not forget this thy respective love. STEP. Oh, Musco, didst thou not see a fellow here in a what-sha-call-him doublet; he brought mine uncle a letter even 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's lid, 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 a little; nothing angers me, but I have waited such a while for him all unlac'd and untrussed yonder; and now to see he is gone the other 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 base fellow 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 at your 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 the year; but I'll have a pair of silk, e'er it be long: I think my leg 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 any old man's patience in the world. My father read this with patience? Then will I be made an Eunuch, and learn to sing Ballads. I do not deny, but my father may have as much patience as any other man; for he used to take physic, and oft taking physic makes a man a very patient creature. But, Signior Prospero, had your swaggering Epistle here arrived in my father's hands at such an hour of his patience, I mean, when he had taken physic, it is to be doubted whether I should have read "sweet villain here." But, what? My wise cousin; Nay then, I'll furnish our feast with one Gull 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 in that letter. By this good light, an he had laughed at me, I would have 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 been all about to seek you. Since I came I saw mine uncle; and i'faith how have you done this great while? Good Lord, by my troth, I am glad you are well, cousin. LOR. JU. And I am as glad of your coming, I protest to you, for I am sent for by a private gentleman, my most special dear friend, to come to him to Florence this morning, and you shall go with me, cousin, if it please you, not else, I will enjoin you no further than stands with your own consent, and the condition of a friend. STEP. Why, cousin, you shall command me an 'twere twice so far as Florence, to do you good; what, do you think I will not go with you? I protest — LOR. JU. Nay, nay, you shall not protest STEP. By God, but I will, sir, by your leave I'll protest more to my 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 as you are, of so true carriage, so special good parts; of so dear and choice estimation; one whose lowest condition bears the stamp of a great spirit; nay more, a man so graced, gilded, or rather, to use a more fit metaphor, tinfoiled by nature; not that you have a leaden constitution, coz, although perhaps a little inclining to that temper, and so the more apt to melt with pity, when you fall into the fire of rage, but for your lustre only, which reflects as bright 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 as these, and shadow their glory as a milliner's wife doth her wrought stomacher, with a smoky lawn or a black cyprus? Come, come; for shame 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, that men may read in your looks: "Here within this place is to be seen the 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 and gentlemanlike than I have been, I do ensure you. LOR. JU. Why, this is well: now if I can but hold up this humour in 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 inhabit here, 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 ancestry came from a king's loins, no worse man; and yet no man neither but Herring the king of fish, one of the monarchs of the world, I assure you. I do fetch my pedigree and name from the first red herring that was eaten in Adam and Eve's kitchen: his Cob was my great, great, mighty great grandfather. MAT. Why mighty? why mighty? COB. Oh, it's a mighty while ago, sir, and it was a mighty great Cob. 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 ghost of Rashero Bacono, they were both broiled on the coals? you are a scholar, 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 the gentleman, and thyself too. I dare be sworn he scorns thy house; he! he lodge in such a base obscure place as thy house? Tut, I know his disposition so well, he would not lie in thy bed if thou'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 not on my bed, he lies on my bench, an't please you to go up, sir, you shall find him with two cushions under his head, and his cloak wrapt about him, as though he had neither won nor lost, and yet I warrant he ne'er cast better in his life than he hath done to-night. MAT. Why, was he drunk? COB. Drunk, sir? you hear not me say so; perhaps he swallow'd a tavern token, or some such device, sir; I have nothing to do withal: I deal with water and not with wine. Give me my tankard there, ho! God be with you, sir; it's six o'clock: I should have carried 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 moe fools yet: you should have some now, would take him to be a gentleman at least; alas, God help the simple, his father's an honest man, a good fishmonger, and so forth: and now doth he creep and wriggle into acquaintance with all the brave gallants about the town, such as my guest is, (oh, my guest is a fine man!) and they flout him invincibly. He useth every day to a merchant's house, (where I serve water) one M. Thorello's; and here's the jest, he is in love with my master's sister, and calls her mistress: and there he sits a whole afternoon sometimes, reading of these same abominable, vile, (a pox on them, I cannot abide them!) rascally verses, Poetry, poetry, and speaking of Interludes, '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 to me, 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, I have a guest, (he teacheth me) he doth swear the best of any man christened. By Phoebus, By the life of Pharaoh, By the body of me, As I am gentleman, and a soldier: such dainty oaths; and withal he doth take this same filthy roguish tobacco, the finest and cleanliest; it would do a man good to see the fume come forth at his nostrils: well, he owes me forty shillings, (my wife lent him out of her purse; by sixpence a time,) besides his lodging; I would I 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 the hangman. [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 cleanly house 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 somewhat audacious. BOB. Not so, Signior, I was requested to supper yesternight by a sort of gallants, where you were wished for, and drunk to, I assure you. MAT. Vouchsafe me by whom, good Signior. BOB. Marry, by Signior Prospero, and others; why, hostess, a stool here 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 can scarce open mine eyes yet; I was but new risen as you came; how passes the day abroad, sir? you can tell. MAT. Faith, some half hour to seven: now trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging here, very neat, and private. BOB. Ay, sir, sit down. I pray you, Signior Matheo, in any case possess no gentlemen of your acquaintance with notice of my lodging. MAT. Who? I, sir? no. BOB. Not that I need to care who know it, but in regard I would not 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 be to some peculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am extraordinarily engaged, 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 pen such another play as that was; they'll prate and swagger, and keep a stir of art and devices, when (by God's so) they are the most shallow, pitiful fellows that live upon the face of the earth again. MAT. Indeed, here are a number of fine speeches in this book: "Oh eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears;" there's a conceit: Fountains fraught with tears. "Oh life, no life, but lively form of death;" is't not excellent? "Oh world, no world, but mass of public wrongs;" O God's me: "confused and filled with murder and misdeeds." Is't not simply the best that ever you heard? 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 commence The 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 will you come and see my study? good faith, I can shew you some very good things I have done of late: that boot becomes your leg passing well, sir, methinks. BOB. So, so, it's a fashion gentlemen use. MAT. Mass, sir, and now you speak of the fashion, Signior Prospero's elder brother and I are fallen out exceedingly: this other day I happened to enter into some discourse of a hanger, which, I assure you, both for fashion and workmanship was most beautiful and gentlemanlike; yet he condemned it for the most pied 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 a malt-horse. By St. George, I hold him the most peremptory absurd clown (one a them) in Christendom: I protest to you (as I am a gentleman and a soldier) I ne'er talk'd with the like of him: he has not so much as a good word in his belly, all iron, iron, a good commodity for a smith to make hob-nails on. MAT. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with his manhood still where 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 the more grace. BOB. That may be, for I was sure it was none of his word: but when, when said he so? MAT. Faith, yesterday, they say, a young gallant, a friend of mine, told me so. BOB. By the life of Pharaoh, an't were my case now, I should send him a challenge presently: the bastinado! come hither, you shall challenge him; I'll shew you a trick or two, you shall kill him at pleasure, the first stoccado if you will, by this air. MAT. Indeed, you have absolute knowledge in the mystery, I have heard, sir. BOB. Of whom? of whom, I pray? MAT. Faith, I have heard it spoken of divers, that you have very rare skill, sir. BOB. By heaven, no, not I, no skill in the earth: some small science, know my time, distance, or so, I have profest it more for noblemen 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 your poniard maintain your defence thus: give it the gentleman. So, sir, come on, oh, twine your body more about, that you may come to a more sweet comely gentlemanlike guard; so indifferent. Hollow your body more, sir, thus: now stand fast on your left leg, note your distance, keep your due proportion of time: oh, you disorder your point most vilely. MAT. How is the bearing of it now, sir? BOB. Oh, out of measure ill, a well-experienced man would pass upon 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: the best-practis'd gentlemen of the time term it the passado, a most desperate thrust, believe it. MAT. Well, come, sir. BOB. Why, you do not manage your weapons with that facility and grace that you should do, I have no spirit to play with you, your dearth 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 on your cloak, and we'll go to some private place where you are acquainted, some tavern or so, and we'll send for one of these fencers, where he shall breathe you at my direction, and then I'll teach you that trick; you shall kill him with it at the first if you 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; Should your adversary confront you with a pistol, 'twere nothing, you should (by the same rule) control the bullet, most certain, by Phoebus: unless it were hail-shot: what money have you about you, 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 with Coridon 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 you see the delivery of those wares to Signior Bentivole: I'll be there 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 day in Florence; (I speak a proud word now;) and one that I durst trust my life into his hands, I have so strong opinion of his love, if need were. GIU. God send me never such need: but you said you had somewhat to 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 ascribe Unto your friendship, nor in what dear state I 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 to the 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 off From 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 content To stale himself in all societies, He makes my house as common as a Mart, A Theatre, a public receptacle For 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: let him spend, and spend, and domineer till his heart ache: an he get a 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: I marle 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 title Confirms and warrants your authority: Which (seconded by your aspect) will breed A 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 disgrace And 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 sister Here 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'd My brother purposely, thereby to find An 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 opportunity To 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 good day, (God forgive me I should swear) if I put it up so, say I am the rankest — that ever pist. 'Sblood, an I swallow this, I'll ne'er draw my sword in the sight of man again while I live; I'll sit in a barn with Madge-owlet first. Scavenger! 'Heart, and I'll go near to fill that huge tumbrel slop of yours with somewhat, as I have 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 his Comrades, his walking mates, he's a gallant, a Cavaliero too, right hangman cut. God let me not live, an I could not find in my heart to swinge the whole nest of them, one after another, and begin with him first, I am grieved it should be said he is my brother, and take 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 transported With heady rashness, or devouring choler, And rather carry a persuading spirit, Whose powers will pierce more gently; and allure Th' 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 some business, 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 them by 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 security As 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 resort Of wanton gallants, and young revellers, That any woman should be honest long. Is't like, that factious beauty will preserve The sovereign state of chastity unscarr'd, When such strong motives muster, and make head Against her single peace? no, no: beware When 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 time Had answer'd their affections, all the world Should 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 ears To 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-water above 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, good Muss. 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 for God'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 you harm, 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 infect The houses of the brain: first it begins Solely 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 itself Confusedly through every sensive part, Till not a thought or motion in the mind Be free from the black poison of suspect. Ah, but what error is it to know this, And want the free election of the soul In 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.]
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