SCENE I.--_A Hall in the_ DUKE’S _Palace_.

_Enter_ VIOLA, _with a petition and_ GEORGE.

VIO. Oh watch, good George, watch which way the duke comes.

_Geo._ Here comes one of the butterflies; ask him.

_Enter_ PIORATTO.

_Vio._ Pray, sir, comes the duke this way?

_Pio._ He’s upon coming, mistress.

_Vio._ I thank you, sir. [_Exit_ PIORATTO.] George, are there many mad folks where thy master lies?

_Geo._ Oh yes, of all countries some; but especially mad Greeks, they swarm. Troth mistress, the world is altered with you; you had not wont to stand thus with a paper humbly complaining: but you’re well enough served: provender pricked you, as it does many of our city wives besides.

_Vio._ Dost think, George, we shall get him forth?

_Geo._ Truly, mistress, I cannot tell; I think you’ll hardly get him forth. Why, ’tis strange! ’Sfoot, I have known many women that have had mad rascals to their husbands, whom they would belabour by all means possible to keep ’em in their right wits, but of a woman to long to turn a tame man into a madman, why the devil himself was never used so by his dam.

_Vio._ How does he talk, George! ha! good George, tell me.

_Geo._ Why you’re best go see.

_Vio._ Alas, I am afraid!

_Geo._ Afraid! you had more need be ashamed, he may rather be afraid of you.

_Vio._ But, George, he’s not stark mad, is he? he does not rave, he is not horn-mad, George, is he?

_Geo._ Nay I know not that, but he talks like a justice of peace, of a thousand matters, and to no purpose.

_Vio._ I’ll to the monastery: I shall be mad till I enjoy him, I shall be sick until I see him; yet when I do see him, I shall weep out mine eyes.

_Geo._ I’d fain see a woman weep out her eyes, that’s as true as to say, a man’s cloak burns, when it hangs in the water: I know you’ll weep, mistress, but what says the painted cloth?[206]

[206] A cheap substitute for tapestry and very frequently having verses inscribed on it as in the present instance.

Trust not a woman when she cries, For she’ll pump water from her eyes With a wet finger,[207] and in faster showers, Than April when he rains down flowers.

[207] Readily. Possibly the above use of the term points to its derivation.

_Vio._ Ay, but George, that painted cloth is worthy to be hanged up for lying; all women have not tears at will, unless they have good cause.

_Geo._ Ay, but mistress, how easily will they find a cause, and as one of our cheese-trenchers[208] says very learnedly,

[208] Cheese-trenchers used to be inscribed with proverbial phrases.

As out of wormwood bees suck honey, As from poor clients lawyers firk money, As parsley from a roasted cony: So, though the day be ne’er so funny, If wives will have it rain, down then it drives, The calmest husbands make the stormiest wives--

_Vio._ --Tame, George. But I ha’ done storming now.

_Geo._ Why that’s well done: good mistress, throw aside this fashion of your humour, be not so fantastical in wearing it: storm no more, long no more. This longing has made you come short of many a good thing that you might have had from my master: Here comes the duke.

_Enter_ DUKE, FLUELLO, PIORATTO, _and_ SINEZI.

_Vio._ O, I beseech you, pardon my offence, In that I durst abuse your grace’s warrant; Deliver forth my husband, good my lord.

_Duke._ Who is her husband?

_Flu._ Candido, my lord.

_Duke._ Where is he?

_Vio._ He’s among the lunatics; He was a man made up without a gall; Nothing could move him, nothing could convert His meek blood into fury; yet like a monster, I often beat at the most constant rock Of his unshaken patience, and did long To vex him.

_Duke._ Did you so?

_Vio._ And for that purpose, Had warrant from your grace, to carry him To Bethlem Monastery, whence they will not free him, Without your grace’s hand that sent him in.

_Duke._ You have longed fair; ’tis you are mad, I fear; It’s fit to fetch him thence, and keep you there: If he be mad, why would you have him forth?

_Geo._ An please your grace, he’s not stark mad, but only talks like a young gentleman, somewhat fantastically, that’s all: there’s a thousand about your court, city, and country madder than he.

_Duke._ Provide a warrant, you shall have our hand.

_Geo._ Here’s a warrant ready drawn, my lord.

_Duke._ Get pen and ink, get pen and ink. [_Exit_ GEO.

_Enter_ CASTRUCHIO.

_Cas._ Where is my lord the duke?

_Duke._ How now! more madmen?

_Cas._ I have strange news, my lord.

_Duke._ Of what? of whom?

_Cas._ Of Infelice, and a marriage.

_Duke._ Ha! where? with whom?

_Cas._ Hippolito.

_Re-enter_ GEORGE, _with pen and ink_.

_Geo._ Here, my lord.

_Duke._ Hence, with that woman! void the room!

_Flu._ Away! the duke’s vexed.

_Geo._ Whoop, come, mistress, the duke’s mad too. [_Exeunt_ VIOLA _and_ GEORGE.

_Duke._ Who told me that Hippolito was dead?

_Cas._ He that can make any man dead, the doctor: but, my lord, he’s as full of life as wild-fire, and as quick. Hippolito, the doctor, and one more rid hence this evening; the inn at which they light is Bethlem Monastery; Infelice comes from Bergamo and meets them there. Hippolito is mad, for he means this day to be married; the afternoon is the hour, and Friar Anselmo is the knitter.

_Duke._ From Bergamo? is’t possible? it cannot be. It cannot be.

_Cas._ I will not swear, my lord; But this intelligence I took from one Whose brains work in the plot.

_Duke._ What’s he?

_Cas._ Matheo.

_Flu._ Matheo knows all.

_Pior._ He’s Hippolito’s bosom.

_Duke._ How far stands Bethlem hence?

_Cas._, _Flu._, _&c._ Six or seven miles.

_Duke._ Is’t so? not married till the afternoon: Stay, stay, let’s work out some prevention. How! This is most strange; can none but mad men serve To dress their wedding dinner? All of you Get presently to horse, disguise yourselves Like country-gentlemen, Or riding citizens, or so: and take Each man a several path, but let us meet At Bethlem Monastery, some space of time Being spent between the arrival each of other, As if we came to see the lunatics. To horse, away! be secret on your lives. Love must be punished that unjustly thrives. [_Exeunt all but_ FLUELLO.

_Flu._ Be secret on your lives! Castruchio, You’re but a scurvy spaniel; honest lord, Good lady: zounds, their love is just, ’tis good, And I’ll prevent you, though I swim in blood. [_Exit._