SCENE I.--_An Apartment in_ HIPPOLITO’S _House_.

_Enter_ INFELICE, _and_ ORLANDO _disguised as a ~Serving-man~_.

INF. From whom sayst thou?

_Orl._ From a poor gentlewoman, madam, whom I serve.

_Inf._ And what’s your business?

_Orl._ This madam: my poor mistress has a waste piece of ground, which is her own by inheritance, and left to her by her mother. There’s a lord now that goes about not to take it clean from her, but to enclose it to himself, and to join it to a piece of his lordship’s.

_Inf._ What would she have me do in this?

_Orl._ No more, madam, but what one woman should do for another in such a case. My honourable lord your husband, would do any thing in her behalf, but she had rather put herself into your hands, because you, a woman, may do more with the duke, your father.

_Inf._ Where lies this land?

_Orl._ Within a stone’s cast of this place; my mistress, I think, would be content to let him enjoy it after her decease, if that would serve his turn, so my master would yield too; but she cannot abide to hear that the lord should meddle with it in her lifetime.

_Inf._ Is she then married? why stirs not her husband in it?

_Orl._ Her husband stirs in it underhand: but because the other is a great rich man, my master is loath to be seen in it too much.

_Inf._ Let her in writing draw the cause at large: And I will move the duke.

_Orl._ ’Tis set down, madam, here in black and white already: work it so madam, that she may keep her own without disturbance, grievance, molestation, or meddling of any other; and she bestows this purse of gold on your ladyship.

_Inf._ Old man, I’ll plead for her, but take no fees: Give lawyers them, I swim not in that flood; I’ll touch no gold, till I have done her good.

_Orl._ I would all proctors’ clerks were of your mind, I should law more amongst them than I do then; here, madam, is the survey, not only of the manor itself, but of the grange-house, with every meadow, pasture, plough-land, cony-burrow, fish-pond, hedge, ditch, and bush, that stands in it. [_Gives a letter._

_Inf._ My husband’s name, and hand and seal at arms To a love letter? Where hadst thou this writing?

_Orl._ From the foresaid party, madam, that would keep the foresaid land out of the foresaid lord’s fingers.

_Inf._ My lord turned ranger now?

_Orl._ You’re a good huntress, lady; you ha’ found your game already: your lord would fain be a ranger, but my mistress requests you to let him run a course in your own park. If you’ll not do’t for love, then do’t for money! she has no white money, but there’s gold; or else she prays you to ring him by this token, and so you shall be sure his nose will not be rooting other men’s pastures. [_Gives purse and ring._

_Inf._ This very purse was woven with mine own hands; This diamond on that very night, when he Untied my virgin girdle, gave I him: And must a common harlot share in mine? Old man, to quit thy pains, take thou the gold.

_Orl._ Not I, madam, old serving-men want no money.

_Inf._ Cupid himself was sure his secretary; These lines are even the arrows love let flies, The very ink dropt out of Venus’ eyes.

_Orl._ I do not think, madam, but he fetched off some poet or other for those lines, for they are parlous hawks to fly at wenches.

_Inf._ Here’s honied poison! To me he ne’er thus writ; But lust can set a double edge on wit.

_Orl._ Nay, that’s true, madam, a wench will whet any thing, if it be not too dull.

_Inf._ Oaths, promises, preferments, jewels, gold, What snares should break, if all these cannot hold? What creature is thy mistress?

_Orl._ One of those creatures that are contrary to man; a woman.

_Inf._ What manner of woman?

_Orl._ A little tiny woman, lower than your ladyship by head and shoulders, but as mad a wench as ever unlaced a petticoat: these things should I indeed have delivered to my lord, your husband.

_Inf._ They are delivered better: why should she Send back these things?

_Orl._ ’Ware, ’ware, there’s knavery.

_Inf._ Strumpets, like cheating gamesters, will not win At first: these are but baits to draw him in. How might I learn his hunting hours?

_Orl._ The Irish footman can tell you all his hunting hours, the park he hunts in, the doe he would strike; that Irish shackatory[260] beats the bush for him, and knows all; he brought that letter, and that ring; he is the carrier.

[260] A hound,--derived from “Shake a Tory.”

_Inf._ Knowest thou what other gifts have passed between them?

_Orl._ Little Saint Patrick knows all.

_Inf._ Him I’ll examine presently.

_Orl._ Not whilst I am here, sweet madam.

_Inf._ Be gone then, and what lies in me command. [_Exit_ ORLANDO.

_Enter_ BRYAN.

_Inf._ How much cost those satins, And cloth of silver, which my husband sent by you To a low gentlewoman yonder?

_Bry._ Faat satins? faat silvers, faat low gentlefolks? dow pratest dow knowest not what, i’faat, la.

_Inf._ She there, to whom you carried letters.

_Bry._ By dis hand and bod dow saist true, if I did so, oh how? I know not a letter a’ de book i’faat, la.

_Inf._ Did your lord never send you with a ring, sir, Set with a diamond?

_Bry._ Never, sa _crees_[261] fa’ me, never! he may run at a towsand rings i’faat, and I never hold his stirrup, till he leap into de saddle. By Saint Patrick, madam, I never touch my lord’s diamond, nor ever had to do, i’faat, la, with any of his precious stones.

[261] _Críosd_--Christ.

_Enter_ HIPPOLITO.

_Inf._ Are you so close, you bawd, you pandering slave? [_Strikes_ BRYAN.

_Hip._ How now? why, Infelice; what’s your quarrel?

_Inf._ Out of my sight, base varlet! get thee gone.

_Hip._ Away, you rogue!

_Bry._ _Slawne loot_,[262] fare de well, fare de well. _Ah marragh frofat boddah breen!_[263] [_Exit._

[262] Irish: _Slán lúitheach_--A joyous farewell(?).

[263] Irish: _As a márach frómhadh bodach bréan_--On the morrow of a feast, a clown is a beast.

_Hip._ What, grown a fighter? prithee, what’s the matter?

_Inf._ If you’ll needs know, it was about the clock: How works the day, my lord, pray, by your watch?

_Hip._ Lest you cuff me, I’ll tell you presently: I am near two.

_Inf._ How, two? I’m scarce at one.

_Hip._ One of us then goes false.

_Inf._ Then sure ’tis you, Mine goes by heaven’s dial, the sun, and it goes true.

_Hip._ I think, indeed, mine runs somewhat too fast.

_Inf._ Set it to mine at one then.

_Hip._ One? ’tis past: ’Tis past one by the sun.

_Inf._ Faith, then, belike, Neither your clock nor mine does truly strike; And since it is uncertain which goes true, Better be false at one, than false at two.

_Hip._ You’re very pleasant, madam.

_Inf._ Yet not merry.

_Hip._ Why, Infelice, what should make you sad?

_Inf._ Nothing, my lord, but my false watch: pray, tell me,-- You see, my clock or yours is out of frame, Must we upon the workmen lay the blame, Or on ourselves that keep them?

_Hip._ Faith on both. He may by knavery spoil them, we by sloth. But why talk you all riddle thus? I read Strange comments in those margins of your looks: Your cheeks of late are like bad printed books, So dimly charactered, I scarce can spell One line of love in them. Sure all’s not well.

_Inf._ All is not well indeed, my dearest lord; Lock up thy gates of hearing, that no sound Of what I speak may enter.

_Hip._ What means this?

_Inf._ Or if my own tongue must myself betray, Count it a dream, or turn thine eyes away, And think me not thy wife. [_Kneels._

_Hip._ Why do you kneel?

_Inf._ Earth is sin’s cushion: when the sick soul feels Herself growing poor, then she turns beggar, cries, And kneels for help: Hippolito, for husband I dare not call thee, I have stolen that jewel Of my chaste honour, which was only thine, And given it to a slave.

_Hip._ Ha?

_Inf._ On thy pillow Adultery and lust have slept, thy groom Hath climbed the unlawful tree, and plucked the sweets, A villain hath usurped a husband’s sheets.

_Hip._ S’death, who?--a cuckold!--who?

_Inf._ This Irish footman.

_Hip._ Worse than damnation! a wild kerne,[264] a frog, A dog: whom I’ll scarce spurn. Longed you for shamrock? Were it my father’s father, heart, I’ll kill him, Although I take him on his death-bed gasping ’Twixt Heaven and hell! a shag-haired cur! Bold strumpet, Why hang’st thou on me? think’st I’ll be a bawd To a whore, because she’s noble?

[264] A rough sturdy fellow. Irish: _Ceithearneach_--A soldier.

_Inf._ I beg but this, Set not my shame out to the world’s broad eye, Yet let thy vengeance, like my fault, soar high, So it be in darkened clouds.

_Hip._ Darkened! my horns Cannot be darkened, nor shall my revenge. A harlot to my slave? the act is base, Common, but foul, so shall not thy disgrace. Could not I feed your appetite? O women You were created angels, pure and fair; But since the first fell, tempting devils you are, You should be men’s bliss, but you prove their rods: Were there no women, men might live like gods; You ha’ been too much down already; rise, Get from my sight, and henceforth shun my bed; I’ll with no strumpet’s breath be poisonèd. As for your Irish lubrican, that spirit Whom by preposterous charms thy lust hath raised In a wrong circle, him I’ll damn more black Then any tyrant’s soul.

_Inf._ Hippolito!

_Hip._ Tell me, didst thou bait hooks to draw him to thee, Or did he bewitch thee?

_Inf._ The slave did woo me.

_Hip._ Tu-whoos in that screech-owl’s language. Oh, who’d trust Your cork-heeled sex? I think to sate your lust, You’d love a horse, a bear, a croaking toad, So your hot itching veins might have their bound: Then the wild Irish dart[265] was thrown? Come, how? The manner of this fight?

[265] An allusion to the darts carried by the Irish running footmen.--_Dyce._

_Inf._ ’Twas thus, he gave me this battery first.--Oh, I Mistake--believe me, all this in beaten gold; Yet I held out, but at length thus was charmed. [_Gives letter, purse and ring._ What? change your diamond, wench, the act is base, Common, but foul, so shall not your disgrace: Could not I feed your appetite? O men, You were created angels, pure and fair, But since the first fell, worse than devils you are. You should our shields be, but you prove our rods. Were there no men, women might live like gods. Guilty, my lord?

_Hip._ Yes, guilty my good lady.

_Inf._ Nay, you may laugh, but henceforth shun my bed, With no whore’s leavings I’ll be poisonèd. [_Exit._

_Hip._ O’er-reached so finely? ’Tis the very diamond And letter which I sent: this villany Some spider closely weaves, whose poisonèd bulk I must let forth. Who’s there without?

_Ser._ [_Within._] My lord calls?

_Hip._ Send me the footman.

_Ser._ [_Within._] Call the footman to my lord,--Bryan, Bryan!

_Hip._ It can be no man else, that Irish Judas, Bred in a country where no venom prospers But in the nation’s blood, hath thus betrayed me.

_Re-enter_ BRYAN.

Slave, get you from your service.

_Bry._ Faat meanest thou by this now?

_Hip._ Question me not, nor tempt my fury, villain Couldst thou turn all the mountains in the land, To hills of gold, and give me: here thou stayest not.

_Bry._ I’faat, I care not.

_Hip._ Prate not, but get thee gone, I shall send else.

_Bry._ Ay, do predy, I had rather have thee make a scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poor belly, den to be a false knave to de, i’faat! I will never see dine own sweet face more. _A mawhid deer a gra_,[266] fare dee well, fare dee well; I will go steal cows again in Ireland. [_Exit._

[266] Irish: _Maighisdir mo grádh_--Master of my love.

_Hip._ He’s damned that raised this whirlwind, which hath blown Into her eyes this jealousy: yet I’ll on, I’ll on, stood armed devils staring in my face, To be pursued in flight, quickens the race, Shall my blood-streams by a wife’s lust be barred? Fond[267] woman, no: iron grows by strokes more hard; Lawless desires are seas scorning all bounds, Or sulphur, which being rammed up, more confounds, Struggling with madmen madness nothing tames, Winds wrestling with great fires incense the flames. [_Exit._

[267] Foolish.