SCENE I.--_A Street in Milan.

_Enter at one side a Funeral (a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheon and garlands hanging on the sides), attended by_ GASPARO TREBAZZI, _Duke of Milan_, CASTRUCHIO, SINEZI, PIORATTO, FLUELLO, _and others_. _At the other side enter_ HIPPOLITO, _and_ MATHEO _labouring to hold him back_.

DUKE. Behold, yon comet shows his head again! Twice hath he thus at cross-turns thrown on us Prodigious[119] looks: twice hath he troubled The waters of our eyes. See, he’s turned wild:-- Go on, in God’s name.

[119] Portentous.

_Cas._, _Sin._ On afore there, ho!

_Duke._ Kinsmen and friends, take from your manly sides Your weapons to keep back the desperate boy From doing violence to the innocent dead.

_Hip._ I prithee, dear Matheo----

_Matheo._ Come you’re mad!

_Hip._ I do arrest thee, murderer! Set down. Villains, set down that sorrow, ’tis all mine.

_Duke._ I do beseech you all, for my blood’s sake Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath Join in confederacy with your weapons’ points; If he proceed to vex us, let your swords Seek out his bowels: funeral grief loathes words.

_Cas., Sin._ Set on.

_Hip._ Set down the body!

_Mat._ O my lord! You’re wrong! i’th’ open street? you see she’s dead.

_Hip._ I know she is not dead.

_Duke._ Frantic young man, Wilt thou believe these gentlemen?--Pray speak-- Thou dost abuse my child, and mock’st the tears That here are shed for her: if to behold Those roses withered, that set out her cheeks: That pair of stars that gave her body light, Darkened and dim for ever; all those rivers That fed her veins with warm and crimson streams Frozen and dried up: if these be signs of death, Then is she dead. Thou unreligious youth, Art not ashamed to empty all these eyes Of funeral tears, a debt due to the dead, As mirth is to the living? Sham’st thou not To have them stare on thee? hark, thou art cursed Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak.

_Hip._ My lord----

_Duke._ What would’st thou have? Is she not dead?

_Hip._ Oh, you ha’ killed her by your cruelty!

_Du._ Admit I had, thou kill’st her now again; And art more savage than a barbarous Moor.

_Hip._ Let me but kiss her pale and bloodless lip.

_Duke._ O fie, fie, fie.

_Hip._ Or if not touch her, let me look on her.

_Mat._ As you regard your honour----

_Hip._ Honour? smoke!

_Mat._ Or if you loved her living, spare her now.

_Duke._ Ay, well done, sir, you play the gentleman-- Steal hence;--’tis nobly done;--away;--I’ll join My force to yours, to stop this violent torment-- Pass on.

[_Exeunt with hearse, all except the_ DUKE, HIPPOLITO _and_ MATHEO.

_Hip._ Matheo, thou dost wound me more.

_Mat._ I give you physic, noble friend, not wounds.

_Duke._ O, well said, well done, a true gentleman! Alack, I know the sea of lovers’ rage Comes rushing with so strong a tide, it beats And bears down all respects of life, of honour, Of friends, of foes! Forget her, gallant youth.

_Hip._ Forget her?

_Duke._ Nay, nay, be but patient; For why death’s hand hath sued a strict divorce ’Twixt her and thee: what’s beauty but a corse? What but fair sand-dust are earth’s purest forms? Queen’s bodies are but trunks to put in worms.

_Mat._ Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I’ll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. [_Exit_ DUKE.] S’blood, the jest were now, if, having ta’en some knocks o’ th’ pate already, he should get loose again, and like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. [_Aside_]. My Lord Hippolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner?

_Hip._ Where is the body?

_Mat._ The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be wormed.

_Hip._ I cannot rest; I’ll meet it at next turn: I’ll see how my love looks. [MATHEO _holds him back_.

_Mat._ How your love looks? worse than a scare-crow. Wrestle not with me: the great fellow gives the fall for a ducat.

_Hip._ I shall forget myself.

_Mat._ Pray, do so, leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. ’Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues that maintain a Saint Anthony’s fire in their noses by nothing but twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much mettle in him, as is in a cobbler’s awl, he would ha’ been a vexed thing: he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards: you’ll bleed three pottles of Alicant,[120] by this light, if you follow ’em, and then we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have surgeons roll thee up like a baby in swaddling clouts.

[120] A red Spanish wine, made at Alicant.

_Hip._ What day is to-day, Matheo?

_Mat._ Yea marry, this is an easy question: why to-day is--let me see--Thursday.

_Hip._ Oh! Thursday.

_Mat._ Here’s a coil for a dead commodity. ’Sfoot, women when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men’s hands.

_Hip._ She died on Monday then.

_Mat._ And that’s the most villanous day of all the week to die in: and she was well, and eat a mess of water-gruel on Monday morning.

_Hip._ Ay? it cannot be, Such a bright taper should burn out so soon.

_Mat._ O yes, my lord. So soon? why, I ha’ known them, that at dinner have been as well, and had so much health, that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a’clock have been found dead drunk.

_Hip._ On Thursday buried! and on Monday died! Quick haste, byrlady;[121] sure her winding sheet Was laid out ’fore her body; and the worms That now must feast with her, were even bespoke, And solemnly invited like strange guests.

[121] By our lady.

_Mat._ Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and, like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding.

_Hip._ Curst be that day for ever that robbed her Of breath, and me, of bliss! henceforth let it stand Within the wizard’s book (the calendar) Marked with a marginal finger, to be chosen By thieves, by villains, and black murderers, As the best day for them to labour in. If henceforth this adulterous bawdy world Be got with child with treason, sacrilege, Atheism, rapes, treacherous friendship, perjury, Slander (the beggar’s sin), lies (sin of fools), Or any other damned impieties, On Monday let ’em be deliverèd: I swear to thee, Matheo, by my soul, Hereafter weekly on that day I’ll glue Mine eye-lids down, because they shall not gaze On any female cheek. And being locked up In my close chamber, there I’ll meditate On nothing but my Infelice’s end, Or on a dead man’s skull draw out mine own.

_Mat._ You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad: but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench.

_Hip._ If ever, whilst frail blood through my veins run, On woman’s beams I throw affection, Save her that’s dead: or that I loosely fly To th’ shore of any other wafting eye, Let me not prosper, Heaven! I will be true, Even to her dust and ashes: could her tomb Stand whilst I lived, so long that it might rot, That should fall down, but she be ne’er forgot.

_Mat._ If you have this strange monster, honesty, in your belly, why so jig-makers[122] and chroniclers shall pick something out of you; but an I smell not you and a bawdy house out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as an English bag-pudding: I’ll follow your lordship, though it be to the place aforenamed. [_Exeunt._

[122] Ballad-makers.