SCENE I.--_A Chamber in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House_.

_Enter a ~Servant~._

SER. So, this is Monday morning, and now must I to my huswifery.--[_Sets out a table, on which he places a skull, a picture of_ INFELICE, _a book, and a taper_.]--Would I had been created a shoemaker, for all the gentle-craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me into a student, for here’s my book, here my desk, here my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowzy first day of the week, makes me half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back is turned, will be naught together.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

_Hip._ Are all the windows shut?

_Ser._ Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns.

_Hip._ Thou art a faithful servant, and observ’st The calendar, both of my solemn vows, And ceremonious sorrow. Get thee gone; I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound Of any woman’s voice pierce through that door.

_Ser._ If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them; What will your lordship have to breakfast?

_Hip._ Sighs.

_Ser._ What to dinner?

_Hip._ Tears.

_Ser._ The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?

_Hip._ That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy of a woman.

_Ser._ Indeed that’s harder to come by than ever was Ostend.[194]

[194] The siege of Ostend was protracted for three years and ten weeks.--The place was eventually captured by the Marquis of Spinola on Sep. 8, 1604.

_Hip._ Prithee, away.

_Ser._ I’ll make away myself presently, which few servants will do for their lords; but rather help to make them away: Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something out of it. [_Aside and exit._

_Hip._ [_Taking up_ INFELICE’S _picture_.] My Infelice’s face, her brow, her eye, The dimple on her cheek! and such sweet skill, Hath from the cunning workman’s pencil flown, These lips look fresh and lively as her own, Seeming to move and speak. ’Las! now I see, The reason why fond[195] women love to buy Adulterate complexion! Here ’tis read: False colours last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue, Of all that was past woman’s excellence, In her white bosom,--look! a painted board Circumscribes all: Earth can no bliss afford, Nothing of her but this. This cannot speak, It has no lap for me to rest upon, No lip worth tasting: here the worms will feed, As in her coffin: hence, then, idle art! True love’s best pictured in a true-love’s heart: Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead; So that thou liv’st twice, twice art burièd: Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What’s here? [_Takes up the skull._ Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy’s: ’Las! say it were: I need not fear him now! For all his braves, his contumelious breath, His frowns, though dagger-pointed, all his plots, Though ne’er so mischievous, his Italian pills, His quarrels, and that common fence, his law, See, see, they’re all eaten out! here’s not left one: How clean they’re picked away to the bare bone! How mad are mortals, then, to rear great names On tops of swelling houses! or to wear out Their fingers’ ends in dirt, to scrape up gold! Not caring, so that sumpter-horse, the back, Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse-- Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul: Yet, after all, their gayness looks thus foul. What fools are men to build a garish tomb, Only to save the carcase whilst it rots, To maintain’t long in stinking, make good carrion, But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound! For good deeds keep men sweet, long above ground. And must all come to this? fools, wife, all hither? Must all heads thus at last be laid together? Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman, After this fashion, not like this; these colours, In time, kissing but air, will be kissed off: But here’s a fellow; that which he lays on Till doomsday alters not complexion: Death’s the best painter then: They that draw shapes, And live by wicked faces, are but God’s apes. They come but near the life, and there they stay; This fellow draws life too: his art is fuller, The pictures which he makes are without colour.

[195] Foolish.

_Re-enter ~Servant~._

_Ser._ Here’s a parson[196] would speak with you, sir.

[196] _i.e._ A person,--thus spelt to mark the servant’s mispronunciation.

_Hip._ Hah!

_Ser._ A parson, sir, would speak with you.

_Hip._ Vicar?

_Ser._ Vicar! no sir, has too good a face to be a vicar yet, a youth, a very youth.

_Hip._ What youth? of man or woman? lock the doors.

_Ser._ If it be a woman, marrow-bones and potato pies keep me from meddling with her, for the thing has got the breeches! ’tis a male-varlet sure, my lord, for a woman’s tailor ne’er measured him.

_Hip._ Let him give thee his message and be gone.

_Ser._ He says he’s Signor Matheo’s man, but I know he lies.

_Hip._ How dost thou know it?

_Ser._ ’Cause he has ne’er a beard: ’tis his boy, I think, sir, whosoe’er paid for his nursing.

_Hip._ Send him and keep the door. [_Exit ~Servant~._ [_Reads._] “_Fata si liceat mihi, Fingere arbitrio meo, Temperem zephyro levi Vela._”[197] I’d sail were I to choose, not in the ocean, Cedars are shaken, when shrubs do feel no bruise.

[197] From Seneca’s _Oedipus_.

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT, _dressed as a ~Page~, with a letter_.

How? from Matheo?

_Bell._ Yes, my lord.

_Hip._ Art sick?

_Bell._ Not all in health, my lord.

_Hip._ Keep off.

_Bell._ I do.-- Hard fate when women are compelled to woo. [_Aside._

_Hip._ This paper does speak nothing.

_Bell._ Yes, my lord, Matter of life it speaks, and therefore writ In hidden character: to me instruction My master gives, and, ’less you please to stay Till you both meet, I can the text display.

_Hip._ Do so; read out.

_Bell._ I am already out: Look on my face, and read the strangest story!

_Hip._ What, villain, ho?----

_Re-enter ~Servant~._

_Ser._ Call you, my lord?

_Hip._ Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil!

_Ser._ Lord bless us, where? he’s not cloven, my lord, that I can see: besides the devil goes more like a gentleman than a page; good my lord, _Buon coraggio_![198]

[198] Ital. Good courage.

_Hip._ Thou hast let in a woman in man’s shape. And thou art damned for’t.

_Ser._ Not damned I hope for putting in a woman to a lord.

_Hip._ Fetch me my rapier,--do not; I shall kill thee. Purge this infected chamber of that plague, That runs upon me thus: Slave, thrust her hence.

_Ser._ Alas, my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her hence without help! Come, mermaid, you must to sea again.

_Bell._ Hear me but speak, my words shall be all music; Hear me but speak. [_Knocking within._

_Hip._ Another beats the door, T’other she-devil! look.

_Ser._ Why, then, hell’s broke loose.

_Hip._ Hence; guard the chamber: let no more come on, [_Exit ~Servant~._ One woman serves for man’s damnation-- Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate The chastest and most sanctimonious vow, That e’er was entered in the court of Heaven! I was, on meditation’s spotless wings, Upon my journey thither; like a storm Thou beat’st my ripened cogitations, Flat to the ground: and like a thief dost stand, To steal devotion from the holy land.

_Bell._ If woman were thy mother--if thy heart, Be not all marble, or if’t marble be, Let my tears soften it, to pity me-- I do beseech thee, do not thus with scorn Destroy a woman!

_Hip._ Woman, I beseech thee, Get thee some other suit, this fits thee not: I would not grant it to a kneeling queen, I cannot love thee, nor I must not: see [_Points to_ INFELICE’S _picture_. The copy of that obligation, Where my soul’s bound in heavy penalties.

_Bell._ She’s dead, you told me, she’ll let fall her suit.

_Hip._ My vows to her, fled after her to Heaven: Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou might’st behold her, Watching upon yon battlements of stars, How I observe them. Should I break my bond, This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips Call me most perjured villain. Let it suffice, I ha’ set thee in the path; is’t not a sign I love thee, when with one so most most dear, I’ll have thee fellow? All are fellows there.

_Bell._ Be greater than a king; save not a body, But from eternal shipwreck keep a soul, If not, and that again, sin’s path I tread, The grief be mine, the guilt fall on thy head!

_Hip._ Stay, and take physic for it; read this book, Ask counsel of this head, what’s to be done; He’ll strike it dead, that ’tis damnation If you turn Turk again. Oh, do it not! Though Heaven cannot allure you to do well, From doing ill let hell fright you: and learn this, The soul whose bosom lust did never touch, Is God’s fair bride, and maidens’ souls are such: The soul that leaving chastity’s white shore, Swims in hot sensual streams, is the devil’s whore.--

_Re-enter ~Servant~ with letter._

How now, who comes?

_Ser._ No more knaves, my lord, that wear smocks: here’s a letter from Doctor Benedict; I would not enter his man, though he had hairs at his mouth, for fear he should be a woman, for some women have beards; marry, they are half-witches. ’Slid![199] you are a sweet youth to wear a cod-piece, and have no pins to stick upon’t.

[199] “Slid” according to Halliwell is a north country oath.

_Hip._ I’ll meet the doctor, tell him; yet to-night I cannot: but at morrow rising sun I will not fail.--[_Exit ~Servant~._]--Go, woman; fare thee well. [_Exit._

_Bell._ The lowest fall can be but into hell: It does not move him I must therefore fly From this undoing city, and with tears Wash off all anger from my father’s brow; He cannot sure but joy, seeing me new born. A woman honest first, and then turn whore, Is, as with me, common to thousands more: But from a strumpet to turn chaste, that sound Has oft been heard, that woman hardly found. [_Exit._