SCENE I.

_A Street._

_Enter_ QUADRATUS, PHILUS _following him with a lute; a Page going before_ QUADRATUS _with a torch._

_Phi._ O, I beseech you, sir, reclaim his wits; My master's mad, stark mad, alas! for love.

_Qua._ For love? Nay, and he be not mad for hate, 'Tis amiable fortune. I tell thee, youth, Right rare and geason.[403] Strange? Mad for love! O show me him; I'll give him reasons straight-- So forcible, so all invincible, That it shall drag love out. Run mad for love? What mortally exists, on which our hearts Should be enamoured with such passion? 10 For love! Come, Philus; come, I'll change his fate; Instead of love, I'll make him mad for hate. But, troth, say what strain's his madness of?

_Phi._ Fantastical.

_Qua._ Immure him; sconce him; barricado him in't, Fantastical mad! thrice blessèd heart! Why hark, good Philus (O that thy narrow sense Could but contain me now!), all that exists, Takes valuation from opinion, A giddy minion now. Pish! thy taste is dull, 20 And canst not relish me. Come; where's Jacomo?

_Enter_ JACOMO, _unbraced, and careless dressed._

_Phi._ Look, where he comes. O map of boundless woe!

_Jaco._ Yon gleam is day; darkness, sleep, and fear, Dreams, and the ugly visions of the night, Are beat to hell by the bright palm of light; Now roams the swain, and whistles up the morn: Deep silence breaks; all things start up with light, Only my heart, that endless night and day, Lies bed-rid, crippled by coy Celia.[404]

_Qua._ There's a strain, law. 30 Nay, now I see he's mad most palpable; He speaks like a player: ha! poetical.

_Jaco._ The wanton spring lies dallying with the earth, And pours fresh blood in her decayèd veins; Look how the new-sapp'd branches are in child With tender infants! how the sun draws out, And shapes their moisture into thousand forms Of sprouting buds! all things that show or breathe Are now instaur'd,[405] saving my wretched breast, That is eternally congeal'd with ice 40 Of frozed despair. O Celia! coy, too nice!

_Qua._ Still, sans question, mad?

_Jaco._ O where doth piety and pity rest?

_Qua._ Fetch cords; he's irrecoverable; mad, rank mad. He calls for strange chimeras, fictions, That have no being since the curse of death Was thrown on man. Pity and piety, Who'll deign converse with them? Alas! vain head, Pity and piety are long since dead.

_Jaco._ Ruin to chance, and all that strive to stand 50 Like swoll'n Colossus on her tottering base! Fortune is blind--

_Qua._ You lie! you lie! None but a madman would term fortune blind. How can she see to wound desert so right, Just in the speeding-place?[406] to girt lewd brows With honor'd wreath? Ha! Fortune blind? Away! How can she, hood-wink'd, then so rightly see To starve rich worth and glut iniquity?

_Jaco._ O love!

_Qua._ Love! Hang love. It is the abject outcast of the world. 60 Hate all things; hate the world, thyself, all men; Hate knowledge; strive not to be over-wise: It drew destruction into Paradise. Hate honor, virtue; they are baits That 'tice men's hopes to sadder fates. Hate beauty: every ballad-monger Can cry his idle foppish humour. Hate riches: wealth's a flattering Jack; Adores to face, mews 'hind thy back. He that is poor is firmly sped; 70 He never shall be flatterèd. All things are error, dirt and nothing, Or pant with want, or gorged to loathing. Love only hate, affect no higher Than praise of Heaven, wine, a fire. Suck up thy days in silent breath, When their snuff's out, come Signior Death. Now, sir, adieu, run mad and wilt;[407] The worst is this, my rhyme's but spilt.

_Jaco._ Thy rhymes are spilt! who would not run rank mad, 80 To see a wandering Frenchman rival, nay, Outstrip my suit? He kiss'd my Celia's cheek.

_Qua._ Why, man, I saw my dog even kiss thy Celia's lips.

_Jaco._ To-morrow morn they go to wed.

_Qua._ Well then I know Whither to-morrow night they go.

_Jaco._ Say quick.

_Qua._ To bed.

_Jaco._ I will invoke the Triple Hecate, Make charms as potent as the breath of fate, 90 But I'll confound the match!

_Qua._ Nay, then, good day; And you be conjuring once, I'll slink away.

[_Exit_ QUADRATUS.

_Jaco._ Boy, could not Orpheus make the stones to dance?

_Phi._ Yes, sir.

_Jaco._ By'r Lady, a sweet touch. Did he not bring Eurydice out of hell with his lute?

_Phi._ So they say, sir.

_Jaco._ And thou canst bring Celia's head out of the window with thy lute. Well, hazard thy breath. Look, sir, here's a ditty. 100 'Tis foully writ, slight wit, cross'd here and there, But where thou find'st a blot, there fall a tear.

_The Song._

Fie! peace, peace, peace! it hath no passion in't. O melt thy breath in fluent softer tunes, That every note may seem to trickle down Like sad distilling tears, and make--O God! That I were but a poet, now t' express my thoughts, Or a musician but to sing my thoughts, Or anything but what I am.--Sing't o'er once more, My grief's a boundless sea that hath no shore. 110

[_He sings, and is answered; from above a willow_[408] _garland is flung down, and the song ceaseth._

Is this my favour? Am I crown'd with scorn? Then thus I manumit my slaved condition. Celia, but hear me execrate thy love. By Heaven, that once was conscious of my love; By all that is, that knows my all was thine, I will pursue with detestation; Thwart with outstretchèd[409] vehemence of hate, Thy wishèd Hymen! I will craze my brain, But I'll[410] dissever all. Thy hopes unite: What rage so violent as love turn'd spite! 120

_Enter_ RANDOLFO _and_ ANDREA, _with a supplication, reading._

_Ran._ _Humbly complaining, kissing the hands of your excellence, your poor orators_ RANDOLFO _and_ ANDREA _beseecheth, forbidding of the dishonour'd match of their niece_ CELIA, _widow, to their brother----_

O 'twill do; 'twill do; it cannot choose but do.

_And._ What should one say?--what should one do now? Umph! If she do match with yon same wand'ring knight, She's but undone; her estimation, wealth----

_Jaco._ Nay, sir, her estimation's mounted up. She shall be ladied and sweet-madam'd now. 130

_Ran._ Be ladied? Ha! ha! O, could she but recall The honour'd port of her deceasèd love! But think whose wife she was! God wot no knight's, But one (that title off) was even a prince, A Sultan Solyman. Thrice was he made, In dangerous arms, Venice providetore.

_And._ He was a merchant; but so bounteous, Valiant, wise, learned, all so absolute, That naught was valued praiseful excellent, But in it was he most praiseful excellent. 140

_Jaco._ O, I shall ne'er forget how he went clothed. He would maintain 't a base ill-usèd fashion To bind a merchant to the sullen habit Of precise black; chiefly in Venice state, Where merchants gilt the top; And therefore should you have him pass the bridge Up the Rialto like a soldier (As still he stood a potestate at sea).

_Ran._ In a black beaver felt, ash-colour plain, A Florentine cloth-of-silver jerkin, sleeves 150 White satin cut on tinsel, then long stock.[411]

_Jaco._ French panes[412] embroider'd, goldsmith's work, O God! Methinks I see him now how he would walk; With what a jolly presence he would pace Round the Rialto.[413] Well, he's soon forgot; A straggling sir in his rich bed must sleep, Which if I cannot cross I'll curse and weep. Shall I be plain as truth? I love your sister: My education, birth, and wealth deserves her. I have no cross, no rub to stop my suit; 160 But Laverdure's a knight: that strikes all mute.

_And._ Ay, there's the devil, she must be ladied now.

_Jaco._ O ill-nursed custom! No sooner is the wealthy merchant dead, His wife left great in fair possessions, But giddy rumour grasps it 'twixt his teeth, And shakes it 'bout our ears. Then thither flock A rout of crazèd fortunes, whose crack'd states Gape to be solder'd up by the rich mass Of the deceased labours; and now and then 170 The troop of "I beseech," and "I protest," And "Believe it, sweet," is mix'd with two or three Hopeful, well-stock'd, neat clothèd citizens.

_Ran._ But as we see the son of a divine Seldom proves preacher, or a lawyer's son Rarely a pleader (for they strive to run A various fortune from their ancestors), So 'tis right geason[414] for the merchant's widow To be the citizen's loved second spouse.

_Jaco._ Variety of objects please us still; 180 One dish, though ne'er so cook'd, doth quickly fill, When diverse cates the palate's sense delight, And with fresh taste creates new appetite; Therefore my widow she cashiers the blacks,[415] Forswears, turns off the furr'd-gowns, and surveys The beadroll of her suitors, thinks and thinks, And straight her questing thoughts springs up a knight; Have after then amain, the game's a-foot, The match clapp'd up; tut, 'tis the knight must do't!

_Ran._ Then must my pretty peat[416] be fann'd and coach'd? 190

_Jaco._ Muff'd, mask'd, and ladied, with "my more than most sweet madam!" But how long doth this perfume of sweet madam last? Faith, 'tis but a wash scent. My riotous sir Begins to crack jests on his lady's front, Touches her new-stamp'd gentry, takes a glut, Keeps out, abandons home, and spends and spends, Till stock be melted; then, sir, takes up[417] here, Takes up there, till nowhere ought is left. Then for the Low Countries, hey for the French! And so (to make up rhyme) good night, sweet wench.

_Ran._ By blessedness we'll stop this fatal lot. 201

_Jaco._ But how? But how?

_Ran._ Why, stay, let's think a plot.

_And._ Was not Albano Beletzo honourable-rich?

_Ran._ Not peer'd in Venice, for birth, fortune, love.

_And._ Tis scarce three months since fortune gave him dead.

_Ran._ In the black fight in the Venetian gulf.

_And._ You hold a truth.

_Ran._ Now what a giglet[418] is this Celia?

_And._ To match so sudden, so unworthily?

_Ran._ Why, she might have----

_And._ Who might not Celia have? 210 The passionate enamour'd Jacomo.

_Jaco._ The passionate enamour'd Jacomo!

_And._ Of honour'd lineage, and not meanly rich.

_Ran._ The sprightful Piso; the great Florentine, Aurelius Tuber.

_And._ And to leave these all, And wed a wand'ring knight, Sir Laverdure, A God knows what!

_Ran._ Brother, she shall not. Shall our blood be mongrell'd With the corruption of a straggling French?

_And._ Saint Mark, she shall not. 220 She[419] shall not, brother, by our father's soul.

_Ran._ Good day.

_Jaco._ Wish me good day? It stands in idle stead; My Celia's lost! all my good days are dead!

[_The cornets sound a flourish._

Hark: Lorenzo Celso, the loose Venice Duke Is going to bed; 'tis now a forward morn, For he take rest. O strange transformèd sight, When princes make night day, the day their night!

_And._ Come, we'll petition him.

_Jaco._ Away! Away! He scorns all plaints; makes jest of serious suit. 230

_Ran._ Fall out as 'twill, I am resolved to do't.

[_The cornets sound._

_Enter the_ Duke _coupled with a_ Lady; _two couples more with them, the men having tobacco-pipes in their hands, the women sit; they dance a round. The petition is delivered up by_ RANDOLFO; _the_ Duke _lights his tobacco-pipe with it, and goes out dancing_.

_Ran._ Saint Mark! Saint Mark!

_Jaco._ Did not I tell you? lose no more rich time; What can one get but mire from a swine?

_And._ Let's work a cross; we'll fame it all about The Frenchman's gelded.

_Ran._ O that's absolute.

_Jaco._ Fie on't! Away! She knows too well 'tis false. I fear it too well. No, no, I have't will strongly do't. Who knows Francisco Soranza?

_Ran._ Pish! pish! Why, what of him? 240

_Jaco._ Is he not wondrous like your deceased kinsman, Albano?

_And._ Exceedingly; the strangest, nearly like In voice, in gesture, face, in----

_Ran._ Nay, he hath Albano's imperfection too, And stuts[420] when he is vehemently moved.

_Jaco._ Observe me, then; him would I have disguised, Most perfect, like Albano; giving out, Albano saved by swimming (as in faith 'Tis known he swome most strangely): rumour him 250 This morn arrived in Venice, here to lurk, As having heard the forward nuptials; T' observe his wife's most infamous lewd haste, And to revenge----

_Ran._ I have't, I have't, I have't; 'twill be invincible.

_Jaco._ By this means now some little time we catch For better hopes, at least disturb the match.

_And._ I'll to Francisco.

_Ran._ Brother Adrian, You have our brother's picture; shape him to it. 259

_And._ Precise in each point:[421] tush, tush! fear it not.

_Ran._ Saint Mark then prosper once our hopeful plot!

_Jaco._ Good souls, good day; I have not slept last night; I'll take a nap: then pell-mell broach all spite.

[_Exeunt._

[403] "Rare.--Rare, seld, unusuall, _geason_."--_Cotgrave._ (Spenser has the word more than once. The derivation is uncertain.)

[404] Old eds. "Lucea."

[405] Repaired, renovated.

[406] "_Id est_, in the place _where a wound is fatal_. Tharsalio, in the _Widow's Tears_ of Chapman, says:--'I have given't him i' th' _speeding-place_ for all his confidence.'"--_Dilke._

[407] Old eds. "'twilt."

[408] The appropriate garland for forsaken lovers.

[409] Old eds. "thwart without stretched."

[410] Old eds. "all."

[411] Stockings drawn above the knee.

[412] Squares of coloured silk or velvet inserted in a garment.

[413] "To judge of the liberality of these notions of dress, we must advert to the days of Gresham and the consternation which a Phenomenon habited like a merchant here described would have excited among the flat round caps, and cloth stockings, upon Change, when those 'original arguments or tokens of a citizen's vocation were in fashion, not more for thrift and usefulness than for distinction and grace.' The blank uniformity to which all professional distinctions in apparel have been long hastening is one instance of the Decay of Symbols among us, which, whether it has contributed or not to make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a less imaginative people. Shakespeare knew the force of signs:--'a malignant and a turban'd Turk.' 'This meal-cap miller,' says the author of _God's Revenge against Murder_, to express his indignation at the atrocious outrage committed by the miller Pierot upon the person of the fair Marieta."--_Charles Lamb._

[414] See note, p. 331.

[415] Mourning robes.

[416] Pet. ("A pretty _peat_."--_Taming of the Shrew_, i. 1.)

[417] _Takes up commodities_,--gets goods on credit.

[418] Wanton.

[419] Old eds. give this line to Jacomo and read:--"She shall not, fathers, by our brother souls."

[420] Stutters.

[421] The old editions read:--"Precise in each _but Tassell_, feare it not."