Urc. What be the accoutrements of these gallants?
Far. Indeed, that’s one of their fustian, outlandish phrases, too. Marry, sir, their accoutrements are all the fantastic fashions that can be taken up, either upon trust or at second hand.
Urc. What their qualities?
Far. None good: these are the best — to make good faces, to take tobacco well, to spit well, to laugh like a waiting gentlewoman, to lie well, to blush for nothing, to look big upon little fellows, to scoff with a grace, though they have a very filthy grace in scoffing; and, for a need, to ride pretty and well.
Urc. They cannot choose but ride well, because every good wit rides well.
Far. Here’s the difference; that they ride upon horses, and when they are ridden, they are spurred for asses. So they can cry “wighee!” and “holloa, kicking jade!” they care not if they have no more learning than a jade.
Urc. No more of these jadish tricks: here comes the hobby-horse.
Far. Oh, he would dance a morrice rarely, if he were hung with bells.
Urc. He would jangle villanously.
Far. Peace! Let’s encounter them.
Enter EMULO, and SIR OWEN talking; RICE after them, eating secretly.
Sir Ow. By Cod, Sir Emulo, Sir Owen is clad out o’ cry, because is friends with hur, for Sir Owen sware — did hur not swear, Rice?
Rice. Yes, forsooth. — [Spits out his meat.
Sir Ow. By Cod is swear terrible to knog hur pade, and fling hur spingle legs at plum trees, when hur come to fall to hur tagger and fencing trigs. Yes, faith, and to breag hur shins; did hur not, Rice? —
Rice. Yes, by my troth, sir.
Sir Ow. By Cod’s udge me, is all true; and to give hur a great teal of bloody nose, because, Sir Emulo, you shallenge the Pritish knight. Rice, you know, Sir Owen, shentleman first, and secondly knight. What a pox ail you, Rice? is shoke now? —
Rice. No, sir: I have my five senses, and am as well as any man. —
Sir Ow. [To EMULO.] Well, here is hand: now is mighty friends.
Emu. Sir Owen —
Far. [Aside to URCENZE.] NOW the gallimaufry of language comes in.
Emu. I protest to you, the magnitude of my condolement hath been elevated the higher to see you and myself, two gentlemen —
Sir Ow. Nay, ’tis well known Sir Owen is good shentleman, is not, Rice?
Rice. He that shall deny it, sir, I’ll make him eat his words.
Emu. Good friend, I am not in the negative: be not so capricious — you misprize me — my collocution tendeth to Sir Owen’s dignifying.
Far. [Aside to URCENZE.] Let’s step in. [To them.] God save you, Signor Emulo.
Urc. Well encounter’d, Sir Owen.
Sir Ow. Owe! how do you? Sir Emulo is friends out a cry now; but Emulos, take heed you match no more love trigs to widow Gwenthyans. By Cod udge me, that do so must knog hur, see you now!
Emu. Not so tempestuous, sweet knight. Though to my disconsolation, I will oblivionize my love to the Welsh widow, and do here proclaim my delinquishment; but, sweet signior, be not too Diogenical to me.
Sir Ow. Ha? ha? is know not what genicalls mean; but Sir Owen will genicall hur, and hur tage hur genicalling Gwenthyan.
Far. Nay, faith, we’ll have you sound friends, indeed; otherwise, you know, Signor Emulo, if you should bear all the wrongs, you would be out-Atlassed.
Emu. Most true.
Sir Ow. By Cod, is out a cry friends. But harg, Fameze, Urcenze, tawg a great teal to Emulos. Owen is great teal of friends. [To FARNEZE]. Ha! ha! is tell fine admirable shest: by Cod, Emulos, for fear Sir Owen knog hur shins, is tell Sir Owen by tozen shentlemen, her poots is put about with laths: ha, ha! Serge hur, serge hur.
Far. No more; tell Urcenze of it. — Why should you two fall out for the love of a woman, considering what store we have of them? Sir Emulo, I gratulate your peace: your company you know is precious to us, and we’ll be merry, and ride abroad. Before God, now I talk of riding, Sir Owen, methinks, has an excellent boot.
Urc. His leg graces the boot.
Sir Ow. By Cod, is fine leg, and fine poot too; but Emulos leg is petter, and finer, and shenglier skin to wear.
Emu. I bought them of a penurious cordwainer, and they are the most incongruent that e’er I ware.
Sir Ow. Congruent t ‘splood! what leather is congruent? Spanish leather?
Emu. Ha! ha! Well, gentlemen, I have other projects beckon for me: I must disgress from this bias, and leave you. Accept, I beseech you, of this vulgar and domestic compliment.
[Whilst they are saluting, Sir Owen gets to EMULO’S leg, and pulls down his boot.
Sir Ow. Pray, Emulos, let hur see hur congruent leather. Ha! ha! how! what a pox is here? ha! ha! is mage a wall to hur shins for keep hur warm.
Far. What’s here? laths! Where’s the lime and hair, Emulo?
Rice. Oh, rare! is this to save his shins?
Sir Ow. Ha! ha! Riee, go call Gwenthyan.
Rice. I will, master. Dahoma, Gwenthyan! Dahoma!
Sir Ow. A pogs on hur! go fedge her, and call her within.
Rice. I am gone, sir. — [Exit RICE.
Far. Nay, Sir Owen, what mean you?
Sir Ow. By Cod, is mean to let Gwenthyan see what booby fool love her. A pogs on you!
Emu. Sir Owen, and signors both, do not expatiate my obloquy; my love shall be so fast conglutinated to you.
Sir Ow. Cod’s plood! you call her gluttons? Gwenthyan! so ho, Gwenthyan!
Emu. I’ll not disgest this pill. — Signors, adieu! You are fastidious, and I banish you.
[Exit EMULO.
Far. Gods so, here comes the widow; but, in faith, Sir Owen, say nothing of this.
Sir Ow. No go to them: by Cod, Sir Owen bear as prave mind as emperor.
Enter GWENTHYAN.
Gwe. Who calls Gwenthyan so great teal of time?
Urc. Sweet widow, even your countryman here.
Sir Ow. Belly the ruddo whee: wrage witho mandag eny mou du ac whellock en wea awh.
Gwe. Sir Owen, gramarcye whee: Gwenthyan mandage eny, ac wellock en thawen en ryn mogh.
Far. Mundage! Thlawen! oh, my good widow, gabble that we understand you, and have at you.
Sir Ow. Have at her! nay, by Cod, is no have at her to. Is tawg in her Pritish tongue; for ’tis fine délicates tongue, I can tell hur. — Welsh tongue is finer as Greek tongue.
Far. A baked neates tongue is finer than both.
Sir Ow. But what says Gwenthyan now? will have Sir Owen? Sir Owen is known for a wisely man as any since Adam and Eve’s time; and that is, by Cod’s udge me, a great teal ago.
Urc. I think Solomon was wiser than Sir Owen.
Sir Ow. Solomons had pretty wit, but what say you to king Tavie? King Tavie, is well known, was as good musitions as the best fiddler in all Italy, and king Tavie was Sir Owen’s countryman: yes, truly, a Pritish shentleman porn, and did twinkle, twinkle, twinkle out o’cry upon Welsh harp; and ’tis known Tavie love mistress Persabe, as Sir Owen loves Gwenthyan. Will hur have Sir Owen now? —
Far. Faith, widow, take him. Sir Owen is a tall man, I can tell you.
Sir Ow. Tall man, as Cod udge me: hur think the Prittish shentleman is faliant as Mars, that is (the fine knaves, the poets, say) the cod of pribles and prables. I hope, widow, you see little more in Sir Owen than in Sir Emulos. Say, shall hur have her now? ’tis faliant as can desire, I warrant hur.
Gwe. Sir Owen, Sir Owen; ’tis not for faliant Gwenthyan care so much, but for honest, and firtuous, and loving, and pundal to let her have her will.
Sir Ow. Cod udge me, tage her away to her husband, and is let her have her will out o’ cry; yet, by Cod, is pridle her well enough.
Gwe. Well, Sir Owen, Gwenthyan is going to her cousin Gwalter, the duke; for, you know, is her near cousin by marriage, by t’other husband that pring her from Wales.
Sir Ow. By Cod, Wales is better country than Italy; a great teal so better.
Gwe. Now, if her cousi
n Gwalter say, “Gwenthyan, tage this Pritish knight,” shall love hur diggon; but must have her good will, marg you that, Sir Owen.
Sir Ow. Owe! what’s else? Sir Owen marg that ferrywell. Yet shall tage her down quigly inough. Come, widow, will wag to the coward, now to her cousin, and bid her cousin tell hur mind of Sir Owen.
Gwe. You’ll man Gwenthyan, Sir Owen?
Sir Ow. Yes, by Cod, and pravely too. Come, shentlemens, you’ll tage pains to go with her.
Far. We’ll follow you presently, Sir Owen.
Sir Ow. Come, widow. Un loddis glane Gwenthyari an mondu.
Gwe. Gramercy wheeh, am a mock honnoh.
[Exeunt.
Far. So, this will be rare. Sirrah Urcenze, at the marriage night of these two, instead of Io Hymen, we shall hear hey ho, Hymen! Their love will be like a great fire made of bay leaves, that yields nothing but cracking, noise, noise.
Urc. If she miss his crown, ’tis no matter for cracking.
Far. So she solder it again, it will pass current.
Enter ONOPHRIO and JULIA, walking over, the stage.
Urc. Peace! here comes our fair mistress.
Far. Let’s have a fling at her.
Urc. So you may, but the hardness is to hit her.
Ono. Farewell. — Farneze, you attend well upon your mistress.
Jul. Nay, nay; their wages shall be of the same colour that their service is of.
Far. Faith, mistress, would you had travelled a little sooner this way, you should have seen a rare comedy acted by Emulo.
Urc. Every courteous mouth will be a stage for that. Rather tell her of the Welsh tragedy that’s towards.
Jul. What tragedy?
Far. Sir Owen shall marry your cousin Gwenthyan.
Jul. Is’t possible? ah, they two will beget brave warriors; for if she scold, he’ll fight, and if he quarrel, she’ll take up the bucklers. She’s fire, and he’s brimstone; must not there be hot doings, then, think you?
Ono. They’ll prove turtles; for their hearts being so like they cannot chuse but be loving. —
Jul. Turtles! turkey cocks. For God’s love, let’s entreat the duke, my brother, to make a law that, wheresoever Sir Owen and his lady dwell, the next neighbour may always be constable, lest the peace be broken for they’ll do nothing but cry Arm! Arm!
Far. I think Sir Owen would rather die than lose her love.
Jul. So think not I.
Ono. I should for Julia, if I were Julia’s husband.
Jul. Therefore Julia shall not be Onophrio’s wife, for I’ll have none die for me. I like not that colour.
Far. Yes; for your love you would, Julia.
Jul. No; nor yet for my hate, Farneze.
Urc. Would you not have men love you, sweet mistress?
Jul. No, not I; fye upon it, sweet servant.
Ono. Would you wish men to hate you?
Jul. Yes, rather than love me. Of all saints I love not to serve Mistress Venus.
Far. Then, I perceive you mean to lead apes in hell.
Jul. That spiteful proverb was proclaim’d against them that are married upon earth; for to be married is to live in a kind of hell.
Far. Ay, as they do at barley-break.
Jul. Your wife is your ape, and that heavy burthen wedlock, your jack-an-ape’s clog; therefore, I’ll not be tied to’t. Master Fameze, sweet virginity is that invisible godhead, that turns [us] into angels, that makes us saints on earth, and stars in heaven: here virgins seem goodly, but there glorious: in heaven is no wooing, yet all there are lovely; in heaven are no weddings, yet all there are lovers.
Ono. Let us, sweet madam, turn earth into heaven by being all lovers here too.
Jul. So we do; to an earthly heaven we turn it.
Ono. Nay; but, dear Julia, tell us why so much you hate to enter into the lists of this same combat, matrix mony.
Jul. You may well call that a combat; for indeed marriage is nothing else but a battle of love, a friendly fighting, a kind of favourable, terrible war. But you err, Onophrio, in thinking I hate it: I deal by marriage as some Indians do [by] the sun, adore it, and reverence it, but dare not stare on it, for fear I be stark blind. You three are bachelors, and, being sick of this maidenhead, count all things bitter which the physic of a single life ministers unto you: you imagine, if you could make the arms of fair ladies the spheres of your hearts, good hearts! then you were in heaven. Oh, but, bachelors, take heed: you are no sooner in that heaven, but you straight slip into hell.
Far. As long as I have a beautiful lady to torment me, I care not.
Urc. Nor I; the sweetness of her looks shall make me relish any punishment.
Ono. Except the punishment of the horn, Urcenze; put that in.
Jul. Nay, he were best put that by. Lord, lord! see what unthrifts this love makes us! if he once but get into our mouths, he labours to turn our tongues to clappers, and to ring all in at Cupid’s church, when we were better to bite off our tongues, so we may thrust him out. Cupid is sworn enemy to time; and he that loseth time, I can tell you, loseth a friend.
Far. Ay, a bald friend.
Jul. Therefore, my good servants, if you wear my livery, cast off this loose upper coat of love: be ashamed to wait upon a boy, a wag, a blind boy, a wanton. My brother, the duke, wants our companies. ’Tis idleness and love make you captives to this solitariness: follow me, and love not, and I’ll teach you how to find liberty.
All. We obey; to follow you, but not to love you: we renounce that obedience. — [Exeunt.
SCENE II. — The Palace of Saluzzo.
ENTER THE MARQUESS and FURIO.
Mar. Furio.
Fu. My lord.
Mar. Thy faith I oft have tried, thy faith I credit,
For I have found it solid as the rock.
No babbling echo sits upon thy lips,
For silence, even in speech, doth seal them up.
Wilt thou be trusty, Furio, to thy lord?
Fu. I will.
Mar. It is enough: those words, “I will,”
Yield sweeter music than the gilded sounds,
Which chatting parrots, long-tongu’d sycophants,
Send from the organs of their syren voice.
Grissil, my wife, thou seest bear in her womb
The joy of marriage. Furio, I protest,
My love to her is as the heat to fire,
Her love to me as beauty to the sun,
Inseparable adjuncts: in one word,
So dearly love! Grissil, that my life
Shall end, when she doth end to be my wife.
Fu. ’Tis well done.
Mar. Yet is my bosom burnt up with desires
To try my Grissil’s patience. I’ll put on
A wrinkled forehead, and turn both mine eyes
Into two balls of fire, and clasp my hand,
Like to a mace of iron, to threaten death;
But, Furio, when that hand lifts up to strike,
It shall fly open to embrace my love.
Yet Grissil must not know this: all my words
Shall smack of wormwood, all my deeds of gall;
My tongue shall jar, my heart be musical:
Yet Grissil must not know this.
Fu. Not for me. —
Mar. Furio, my trial is thy secresy.
Enter GRISSIL.
Yonder she comes: on goes this mask of frowns.
Tell her I am angry. — Men, men, try your wives;
Love that abides sharp tempests sweetly thrives.
Fu. My lord is angry.
Gri. Angry? the heavens forefend! with whom? for what? Is it with me?
Fu. Not me.
Gri. May I presume
To touch the vein of that sad discontent,
Which swells upon my dear lord’s angry brow?
Mar. Away, away!
Gri. Oh, chide me not away.
Your handmaid Grissil, with unvexed thoughts,
And with an unrepining soul, will bear
The bur
den of all sorrows, of all woe,
Before the smallest grief should wound you so.
Mar, I am not beholding to your love for this.
Woman, I love thee not: thine eyes to mine
Are eyes of basilisks; they murder me. —
Gri. Suffer me to part hence, I’ll tear them out,
Because they work such treason to my love.
Mar. Talk not of love: I hate thee more than poison
That sticks upon the air’s infected wings,
Exhal’d up by the hot breath of the sun.
’Tis for thy sake that speckled infamy
Sits like a screech-owl on my honour’d breast,
To make my subjects stare and mock at me.
They swear they’ll never bend their awful knees
To the base issue of thy beggar womb
’Tis for thy sake they curse me, rail at me.
Think’st thou, then, I can love thee? — Oh, my soul! —
Why didst thou build this mountain of my shame!
Why lie my joys buried in Grissil’s name!
Gri. My gracious lord —
Mar. Call not me gracious lord.
See, woman, here hangs up thine ancestry,
The monuments of thy nobility;
This is thy russet gentry, coat and crest:
Thy earthen honours I will never hide,
Because this bridle shall pull in thy pride.
Gri. Poor Grissil is not proud of these attires;
They are to me but as your livery,
And from your humble servant, when you please,
You may take all this outside, which, indeed,
Is none of Grissil’s: her best wealth is need.
I’ll cast this gayness off, and be content
To wear this russet bravery of my own,
For that’s more warm than this. I shall look old
No sooner in coarse frieze, than cloth of gold.
Mar. [Aside.] Spite of my soul, she’ll triumph over me. — [He drops his glove.]
Fu. Your glove, ray lord.
Mar. Cast down my glove again. —
Stoop you for it, for I will have you stoop,
And kneel even to the meanest groom I keep.
Gri. ’Tis but my duty. If you’ll have me stoop
Even to your meanest groom, my lord, I’ll stoop.
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 112