Some English saffron, half a dram would serve;
Your sixteen cloves, a little musk, dried mints,
Bugloss, and barley-meal—
VOLP. [Aside] She’s in again!
Before I feigned diseases, now I have one.
LADY P. And these applied with a right scarlet cloth.
VOLP. [Aside] Another flood of words! a very torrent!
LADY P. Shall I, sir, make you a poultice?
VOLP. No, no, no,
I’m very well, you need prescribe no more.
LADY P. I have a little studied physic; but now,
I’m all for music, save, in the forenoons,
An hour or two for painting. I would have
A lady, indeed, to have all, letters and arts,
Be able to discourse, to write, to paint,
But principal, as Plato holds, your music,
And so does wise Pythagoras, I take it,
Is your true rapture: when there is concent76
In face, in voice, and clothes: and is, indeed,
Our sex’s chiefest ornament.
VOLP. The poet
As old in time as Plato, and as knowing,77
Says, that your highest female grace is silence.
LADY P. Which of your poets? Petrarch, or Tasso, or Dante?
Guarini? Ariosto? Aretine?
Cieco di Hadria? I have read them all.
VOLP. [Aside] Is every thing a cause to my destruction?
LADY P. I think I have two or three of them about me.
VOLP. [Aside] The sun, the sea, will sooner both stand still
Than her eternal tongue! nothing can ’scape it.
LADY P. Here’s Pastor Fido—78
VOLP. [Aside] Profess obstinate silence;
That’s now my safest.
LADY P. All our English writers,
I mean such as are happy in the Italian,
Will deign to steal out of this author, mainly:
Almost as much as from Montagnié:
He has so modern and facile a vein,
Fitting the time, and catching the court-ear!
Your Petrarch is more passionate, yet he,
In days of sonnetting, trusted them with much:
Dante is hard, and few can understand him.
But, for a desperate wit, there’s Aretine;79
Only, his pictures are a little obscene—
You mark me not.
VOLP. Alas, my mind’s perturbed.
LADY P. Why, in such cases, we must cure ourselves,
Make use of our philosophy—
VOLP. Oh me!
LADY P. And as we find our passions do rebel,
Encounter them with reason, or divert them,
By giving scope unto some other humor
Of lesser danger: as, in politic bodies,
There’s nothing more doth overwhelm the judgment,
And cloud the understanding, than too much
Settling and fixing, and, as ’twere, subsiding
Upon one object. For the incorporating
Of these same outward things, into that part,
Which we call mental, leaves some certain fæces
That stop the organs, and as Plato says,
Assassinate our knowledge.
VOLP. [Aside] Now, the spirit
Of patience help me!
LADY P. Come, in faith, I must
Visit you more a days; and make you well;
Laugh and be lusty.
VOLP. [Aside] My good angel save me!
LADY P. There was but one sole man in all the world,
With whom I e’er could sympathise; and he
Would lie you, often, three, four hours together
To hear me speak; and be sometimes so rapt,
As he would answer me quite from the purpose,
Like you, and you are like him, just. I’ll discourse,
An’t be but only, sir, to bring you asleep,
How we did spend our time and loves together,
For some six years.
VOLP. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!
LADY P. For we were coætanei,80 and brought up—
VOLP. Some power, some fate, some fortunes rescue me!
Enter Mosca
MOS. God save you, madam!
LADY P. Good sir.
VOLP. Mosca! welcome,
Welcome to my redemption.
MOS. Why, sir?
VOLP. Oh,
Rid me of this my torture, quickly, there;
My madam, with the everlasting voice:
The bells, in time of pestilence, ne’er made
Like noise, or were in that perpetual motion!
The cock-pit comes not near it. All my house,
But now, steamed like a bath with her thick breath,
A lawyer could not have been heard; nor scarce
Another woman, such a hail of words
She has let fall. For hell’s sake, rid her hence.
MOS. Has she presented?
VOLP. O, I do not care;
I’ll take her absence, upon any price,
With any loss.
MOS. Madam—
LADY P. I have brought your patron
A toy, a cap here, of mine own work.
MOS. ’Tis well.
I had forgot to tell you, I saw your knight.
Where you would little think it.—
LADY P. Where?
MOS. Marry,
Where yet, if you make haste, you may apprehend
Rowing upon the water in a gondole
With the most cunning courtezan of Venice.
LADY P. Is’t true?
MOS. Pursue them, and believe your eyes:
Leave me, to make your gift. [Exit Lady P. hastily]—I knew
’twould take:
For, lightly, they that use themselves most license,
Are still most jealous.
VOLP. Mosca, hearty thanks,
For thy quick fiction, and delivery of me.
Now to my hopes, what say’st thou?
Re-enter Lady Politick Would-be
LADY P. But do you hear, sir?—
VOLP. Again! I fear a paroxysm.
LADY P. Which way
Rowed they together?
MOS. Toward the Rialto.
LADY P. I pray you lend me your dwarf.
MOS. I pray you take him.—
Exit Lady P.
Your hopes, sir, are like happy blossoms, fair,
And promise timely fruit, if you will stay
But the maturing; keep you at your couch,
Corbaccio will arrive straight, with the will;
When he is gone, I’ll tell you more.
Exit
VOLP. My blood,
My spirits are returned; I am alive:
And like your wanton gamester at primero,81
Whose thought had whispered to him, not go less,
Methinks I lie, and draw—for an encounter.82
SCENE III
Enter Mosca and Bonario
MOS. Sir, here concealed, [shows him a closet] you may hear all. But, pray you,
Have patience, sir; [Knocking within]—the same’s your father knocks:
I am compelled to leave you.
Exit
BON. Do so.—Yet
Cannot my thought imagine this a truth
Goes into the closet
SCENE IV
Enter Mosca and Corvino, Celia following
MOS. Death on me! you are come too soon, what meant you?
Did not I say, I would send?
CORV. Yes, but I feared
You might forget it, and then they prevent us.
MOS. [Aside] Prevent! did e’er man haste so, for his horns?
A courtier would not ply it so, for a place.
Well, now there is no helping it, stay here;
I’ll presently return.
Exit
CORV. Where are you, Celia?
You know not wherefore
I have brought you hither?
CEL. Not well, except you told me.
CORV. Now, I will:
Hark hither.
Exeunt
SCENE V
Enter Mosca and Bonario
MOS. Sir, your father hath sent word,
It will be half an hour ere he come;
And therefore, if you please to walk the while
Into that gallery—at the upper end,
There are some books to entertain the time:
And I’ll take care no man shall come unto you, sir.
BON. Yes, I will stay there.—[Aside] I do doubt this fellow.
Exit
MOS. There; he is far enough; he can hear nothing:
And, for his father, I can keep him off.
Exit
SCENE VI
Enter Corvino, forcing in Celia
CORV. Nay, now, there is no starting back, and therefore,
Resolve upon it: I have so decreed.
It must be done. Nor would I move’t afore,
Because I would avoid all shifts and tricks,
That might deny me.
CEL. Sir, let me beseech you,
Affect not these strange trials; if you doubt
My chastity, why, lock me up for ever;
Make me the heir of darkness. Let me live,
Where I may please your fears, if not your trust.
CORV. Believe it, I have no such humor,
All that I speak I mean; yet I’m not mad;
Nor horn-mad, see you? Go to, show yourself
Obedient, and a wife.
CEL. O heaven!
CORV. I say it,
Do so.
CEL. Was this the train?83
CORV. I’ve told you reasons;
What the physicians have set down: how much
It may concern me; what my engagements are;
My means; and the necessity of those means,
For my recovery: wherefore, if you be
Loyal, and mine, be won, respect my venture.
CEL. Before your honor?
CORV. Honor! tut, a breath:
There’s no such thing in nature: a mere term
Invented to awe fools. What is my gold
The worse for touching, clothes for being looked on?
Why, this is no more. An old decrepit wretch,
That has no sense, no sinew; takes his meat
With others’ fingers; only knows to gape,
When you do scald his gums; a voice, a shadow;
And, what can this man hurt you?
CEL. [Aside] Lord! what spirit
Is this hath entered him?
CORV. And for your fame,84
That’s such a jig,85 as if I would go tell it,
Cry it on the Piazza! who shall know it,
But he that cannot speak it, and this fellow,
Whose lips are in my pocket? save yourself,
(If you’ll proclaim’t, you may,) I know no other
Shall come to know it.
CEL. Are heaven and saints then nothing?
Will they be blind or stupid?
CORV. HOW!
CEL. Good sir,
Be jealous still, emulate them; and think
What hate they burn with toward every sin.
CORV. I grant you: if I thought it were a sin,
I would not urge you. Should I offer this
To some young Frenchman, or hot Tuscan blood
That had read Aretine, conned all his prints,86
Knew every quirk within lust’s labyrinth,
And were professed critic in lechery;
And I would look upon him, and applaud him,
This were a sin: but here, ’tis contrary,
A pious work, mere charity for physic,
And honest polity, to assure mine own.
CEL. O heaven! canst thou suffer such a change?
VOLP. Thou art mine honor, Mosca, and my pride,
My joy, my tickling, my delight! Go bring them.
MOS. [Advancing] Please you draw near, sir.
CORV. Come on, what—
You will not be rebellious? by that light—
MOS. Sir,
Signior Corvino, here, is come to see you.
VOLP. Oh!
MOS. And hearing of the consultation had,
So lately, for your health, is come to offer,
Or rather, sir, to prostitute—
CORV. Thanks, sweet Mosca.
MOS. Freely, unasked, or unintreated—
CORV. Well.
MOS. As the true fervent instance of his love,
His own most fair and proper wife; the beauty,
Only of price in Venice—
CORV. ’Tis well urged.
MOS. To be your comfortress, and to preserve you.
VOLP. Alas, I am past, already! Pray you, thank him
For his good care and promptness; but for that,
’Tis a vain labor e’en to fight ’gainst heaven;
Applying fire to stone—uh, uh, uh, uh! [Coughing]
Making a dead leaf grow again. I take
His wishes gently, though; and you may tell him,
What I have done for him: marry, my state is hopeless.
Will him to pray for me; and to use his fortune
With reverence, when he comes to’t.
MOS. Do you hear, sir?
Go to him with your wife.
CORV. Heart of my father!
Wilt thou persist thus? come, I pray thee, come.
Thou seest ’tis nothing, Celia. By this hand,
I shall grow violent. Come, do’t, I say.
CEL. Sir, kill me, rather: I will take down poison,
Eat burning coals, do any thing.—
CORV. Be damned!
Heart, I will drag thee hence, home, by the hair;
Cry thee a strumpet through the streets; rip up
Thy mouth unto thine ears; and slit thy nose,
Like a raw rochet!87—Do not tempt me; come,
Yield, I am loath—Death! I will buy some slave
Whom I will kill, and bind thee to him, alive;
And at my window hang you forth, devising
Some monstrous crime, which I, in capital letters,
Will eat into thy flesh with aquafortis,
And burning corsives, on this stubborn breast.
Now, by the blood thou hast incensed, I’ll do it!
CEL. Sir, what you please, you may, I am your martyr.
CORV. Be not thus obstinate, I have not deserved it:
Think who it is intreats you. ’Prithee, sweet;—
Good faith, thou shalt have jewels, gowns, attires,
What thou wilt think, and ask. Do but go kiss him.
Or touch him, but. For my sake.—At my suit.—
This once.—No! not! I shall remember this.
Will you disgrace me thus? Do you thirst my undoing?
MOS. Nay, gentle lady, be advised.
CORV. NO, no.
She has watched her time. Ods precious, this is scurvy,
’Tis very scurvy; and you are—
MOS. Nay, good sir.
CORV. An arrant locust, by heaven, a locust!
Whore, crocodile, that hast thy tears prepared,
Expecting how thou’lt bid them flow—
MOS. Nay, pray you, sir!
She will consider.
CEL. Would my life would serve
To satisfy—
CORV. S’death! if she would but speak to him,
And save my reputation, it were somewhat;
But spitefully to affect my utter ruin!
MOS. Ay, now you have put your fortune in her hands.
Why i’faith, it is her modesty, I must quit88 her.
If you were absent, she would be more cunning;
I know it: and dare undertake for her.
What woman can before her husband? ’pray you,
Let us depart, and leave her here.
CORV.
Sweet Celia,
Thou may’st redeem all, yet; I’ll say no more:
If not, esteem yourself as lost. Nay, stay there.
Shuts the door, and exits with Mosca
CEL. O God, and his good angels! whither, whither,
Is shame fled human breasts? that with such ease,
Men dare put off your honors, and their own?
Is that, which ever was a cause of life,
Now placed beneath the basest circumstance,
And modesty an exile made, for money?
VOLP. Ay, in Corvino, and such earth-fed minds,
[Leaping from his couch]
That never tasted the true heaven of love.
Assure thee, Celia, he that would sell thee,
Only for hope of gain, and that uncertain,
He would have sold his part of Paradise
For ready money, had he met a cope-man.89
Why art thou mazed to see me thus revived?
Rather applaud thy beauty’s miracle;
’Tis thy great work: that hath, not now alone,
But sundry times raised me, in several shapes,
And, but this morning, like a mountebank,
To see thee at thy window: ay, before
I would have left my practice, for thy love,
In varying figures, I would have contended
With the blue Proteus, or the hornèd flood.
Now art thou welcome.
CEL. Sir!
VOLP. Nay, fly me not.
Nor let thy false imagination
That I was bed-rid, make thee think I am so:
Thou shalt not find it. I am, now, as fresh,
As hot, as high, and in as jovial plight,
As when, in that so celebrated scene,
At recitation of our comedy,
For entertainment of the great Valois,90
I acted young Antinous;91 and attracted
The eyes and ears of all the ladies present,
To admire each graceful gesture, note, and footing.
[Sings]
Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love,
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever;
Spend not then his gifts in vain;
Suns, that set, may rise again;
But if once we lose this light,
’Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
Thus removèd by our wile?—
’Tis no sin love’s fruits to steal:
But the sweet thefts to reveal;
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.
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