Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

  Mat. Strange feeders they are indeed, my lord, and, like your jester, or young courtier, will enter upon any man’s trencher without bidding.

  Hip. Curst be that day for ever that robbed her

  Of breath, and me, of bliss! henceforth let it stand

  Within the wizard’s book (the calendar)

  Marked with a marginal finger, to be chosen

  By thieves, by villains, and black murderers,

  As the best day for them to labour in.

  If henceforth this adulterous bawdy world

  Be got with child with treason, sacrilege,

  Atheism, rapes, treacherous friendship, perjury,

  Slander (the beggar’s sin), lies (sin of fools),

  Or any other damned impieties,

  On Monday let ’em be deliverèd:

  I swear to thee, Matheo, by my soul,

  Hereafter weekly on that day I’ll glue

  Mine eye-lids down, because they shall not gaze

  On any female cheek. And being locked up

  In my close chamber, there I’ll meditate

  On nothing but my Infelice’s end,

  Or on a dead man’s skull draw out mine own.

  Mat. You’ll do all these good works now every Monday, because it is so bad: but I hope upon Tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench.

  Hip. If ever, whilst frail blood through my veins run,

  On woman’s beams I throw affection,

  Save her that’s dead: or that I loosely fly

  To th’ shore of any other wafting eye,

  Let me not prosper, Heaven! I will be true,

  Even to her dust and ashes: could her tomb

  Stand whilst I lived, so long that it might rot,

  That should fall down, but she be ne’er forgot.

  Mat. If you have this strange monster, honesty, in your belly, why so jig-makers and chroniclers shall pick something out of you; but an I smell not you and a bawdy house out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as an English bag-pudding: I’ll follow your lordship, though it be to the place aforenamed. [Exeunt.

  SCENE II. — Another Street.

  ENTER FUSTIGO IN some fantastic Sea-suit, meeting a Porter.

  Fus. How now, porter, will she come?

  Por. If I may trust a woman, sir, she will come.

  Fus. There’s for thy pains [Gives money]. Godamercy, if ever I stand in need of a wench that will come with a wet finger, porter, thou shalt earn my money before any clarissimo in Milan; yet, so God sa’ me, she’s mine own sister body and soul, as I am a Christian gentleman; farewell; I’ll ponder till she come: thou hast been no bawd in fetching this woman, I assure thee.

  Por. No matter if I had, sir, better men than porters are bawds.

  Fus. O God, sir, many that have borne offices. But, porter, art sure thou went’st into a true house?

  Por. I think so, for I met with no thieves.

  Fus. Nay, but art sure it was my sister, Viola.

  Por. I am sure, by all superscriptions, it was the party you ciphered.

  Fus. Not very tall?

  Por. Nor very low; a middling woman.

  Fus. ’Twas she, ‘faith, ’twas she, a pretty plump cheek, like mine?

  Por. At a blush a little, very much like you.

  Fus. Godso, I would not for a ducat she had kicked up her heels, for I ha’ spent an abomination this voyage, marry, I did it amongst sailors and gentlemen. There’s a little modicum more, porter, for making thee stay [Gives money]; farewell, honest porter.

  Por. I am in your debt, sir; God preserve you.

  Fus. Not so, neither, good porter. [Exit Porter.] God’s lid, yonder she comes. [Enter Viola.] Sister Viola, I am glad to see you stirring: it’s news to have me here, is’t not, sister?

  Vio. Yes, trust me; I wondered who should be so bold to send for me: you are welcome to Milan, brother.

  Fus. Troth, sister, I heard you were married to a very rich chuff, and I was very sorry for it, that I had no better clothes, and that made me send; for you know we Milaners love to strut upon Spanish leather. And how do all our friends?

  Vio. Very well; you ha’ travelled enough now, I trow, to sow your wild oats.

  Fus. A pox on ’em! wild oats? I ha’ not an oat to throw at a horse. Troth, sister, I ha’ sowed my oats, and reaped two hundred ducats if I had ’em here. Marry, I must entreat you to lend me some thirty or forty till the ship come: by this hand, I’ll discharge at my day, by this hand.

  Vio. These are your old oaths.

  Fus. Why, sister, do you think I’ll forswear my hand?

  Vio. Well, well, you shall have them: put yourself into better fashion, because I must employ you in a serious matter.

  Fus. I’ll sweat like a horse if I like the matter.

  Vio. You ha’ cast off all your old swaggering humours?

  Fus. I had not sailed a league in that great fishpond, the sea, but I cast up my very gall.

  Vio. I am the more sorry, for I must employ a true swaggerer.

  Fus. Nay by this iron, sister, they shall find I am powder and touch-box, if they put fire once into me.

  Vio. Then lend me your ears.

  Fus. Mine ears are yours, dear sister.

  Vio. I am married to a man that has wealth enough, and wit enough.

  Fus. A linen-draper, I was told, sister.

  Vio. Very true, a grave citizen, I want nothing that a wife can wish from a husband: but here’s the spite, he has not all the things belonging to a man.

  Fus. God’s my life, he’s a very mandrake, or else (God bless us) one a’ these whiblins, and that’s worse, and then all the children that he gets lawfully of your body, sister, are bastards by a statute.

  Vio. O, you run over me too fast, brother; I have heard it often said, that he who cannot be angry is no man. I am sure my husband is a man in print, for all things else save only in this, no tempest can move him.

  Fus. ‘Slid, would he had been at sea with us! he should ha’ been moved, and moved again, for I’ll be sworn, la, our drunken ship reeled like a Dutchman.

  Vio. No loss of goods can increase in him a wrinkle, no crabbed language make his countenance sour, the stubbornness of no servant shake him; he has no more gall in him than a dove, no more sting than an ant; musician will he never be, yet I find much music in him, but he loves no frets, and is so free from anger, that many times I am ready to bite off my tongue, because it wants that virtue which all women’s tongues have, to anger their husbands: brother, mine can by no thunder, turn him into a sharpness.

  Fus. Belike his blood, sister, is well brewed then.

  Vio. I protest to thee, Fustigo, I love him most affectionately; but I know not — I ha’ such a tickling within me — such a strange longing; nay, verily I do long.

  Fus. Then you’re with child, sister, by all signs and tokens; nay, I am partly a physician, and partly something else. I ha’ read Albertus Magnus, and Aristotle’s Problems.

  Vio. You’re wide a’ th’ bow hand still, brother: my longings are not wanton, but wayward: I long to have my patient husband eat up a whole porcupine, to the intent, the bristling quills may stick about his lips like a Flemish mustachio, and be shot at me: I shall be leaner the new moon, unless I can make him horn-mad.

  Fus. ‘Sfoot, half a quarter of an hour does that; make him a cuckold.

  Vio. Pooh, he would count such a cut no unkindness.

  Fus. The honester citizen he; then make him drunk and cut off his beard.

  Vio. Fie, fie, idle, idle! he’s no Frenchman, to fret at the loss of a little scald hair. No, brother, thus it shall be — you must be secret.

  Fus. As your mid-wife, I protest, sister, or a barber-surgeon.

  Vio. Repair to the Tortoise here in St. Christopher’s Street; I will send you money; turn yourself into a brave man: instead of the arms of your mistress, let your sword and your military scarf hang about your neck.

  Fus. I must have a great horseman’s French feather too, sister.


  Vio. O, by any means, to show your light head, else your hat will sit like a coxcomb: to be brief, you must be in all points a most terrible wide-mouthed swaggerer.

  Fus. Nay, for swaggering points let me alone.

  Vio. Resort then to our shop, and, in my husband’s presence, kiss me, snatch rings, jewels, or any thing, so you give it back again, brother, in secret.

  Fus. By this hand, sister.

  Vio. Swear as if you came but new from knighting.

  Fus. Nay, I’ll swear after four-hundred a year.

  Vio. Swagger worse than a lieutenant among fresh-water soldiers, call me your love, your ingle, your cousin, or so; but sister at no hand.

  Fus. No, no, it shall be cousin, or rather coz; that’s the gulling word between the citizens’ wives and their mad-caps that man ’em to the garden; to call you one a’ mine aunts’ sister, were as good as call you arrant whore; no, no, let me alone to cousin you rarely.

  Vio. H’as heard I have a brother, but never saw him, therefore put on a good face.

  Fus. The best in Milan, I warrant.

  Vio. Take up wares, but pay nothing, rifle my bosom, my pocket, my purse, the boxes for money to dice with; but, brother, you must give all back again in secret.

  Fus. By this welkin that here roars I will, or else let me never know what a secret is: why, sister, do you think I’ll cony-catch you, when you are my cousin? God’s my life, then I were a stark ass. If I fret not his guts, beg me for a fool.

  Vio. Be circumspect, and do so then. Farewell.

  Fus. The Tortoise, sister! I’ll stay there; forty ducats.

  Vio. Thither I’ll send. — [Exit Fustigo.] — This law can none deny,

  Women must have their longings, or they die. [Exit.

  SCENE III. — A Chamber in the Duke’s Palace.

  ENTER THE DUKE, Doctor Benedict, and two Servants.

  Duke. Give charge that none do enter, lock the doors — [Speaking as he enters.

  And fellows, what your eyes and ears receive,

  Upon your lives trust not the gadding air

  To carry the least part of it. The glass, the hour-glass!

  Doct. Here, my lord. [Brings hour-glass.

  Duke. Ah, ’tis near spent!

  But, Doctor Benedict, does your art speak truth?

  Art sure the soporiferous stream will ebb,

  And leave the crystal banks of her white body

  Pure as they were at first, just at the hour?

  Doct. Just at the hour, my lord.

  Duke. Uncurtain her:

  [A curtain is drawn back and Infelice discovered lying on a couch.

  Softly! — See, doctor, what a coldish heat

  Spreads over all her body!

  Doct. Now it works:

  The vital spirits that by a sleepy charm

  Were bound up fast, and threw an icy rust

  On her exterior parts, now ‘gin to break;

  Trouble her not, my lord.

  Duke. Some stools! [Servants set stools.] You called

  For music, did you not? Oh ho, it speaks, [Music.

  It speaks! Watch, sirs, her waking, note those sands.

  Doctor, sit down: A dukedom that should weigh

  Mine own down twice, being put into one scale,

  And that fond desperate boy, Hippolito,

  Making the weight up, should not at my hands

  Buy her i’th’other, were her state more light

  Than her’s, who makes a dowry up with alms.

  Doctor, I’ll starve her on the Apennine

  Ere he shall marry her. I must confess,

  Hippolito is nobly born; a man —

  Did not mine enemies’ blood boil in his veins —

  Whom I would court to be my son-in-law;

  But princes, whose high spleens for empery swell,

  Are not with easy art made parallel.

  Servants. She wakes, my lord.

  Duke. Look, Doctor Benedict —

  I charge you on your lives, maintain for truth,

  What e’er the doctor or myself aver,

  For you shall bear her hence to Bergamo.

  Inf. O God, what fearful dreams! [Wakening.

  Doct. Lady.

  Inf. Ha!

  Duke. Girl.

  Why, Infelice, how is’t now, ha, speak?

  Inf. I’m well — what makes this doctor here? — I’m well.

  Duke. Thou wert not so even now, sickness’ pale hand

  Laid hold on thee even in the midst of feasting;

  And when a cup crowned with thy lover’s health

  Had touched thy lips, a sensible cold dew

  Stood on thy cheeks, as if that death had wept

  To see such beauty alter.

  Inf. I remember

  I sate at banquet, but felt no such change.

  Duke. Thou hast forgot, then, how a messenger

  Came wildly in, with this unsavory news,

  That he was dead?

  Inf. What messenger? who’s dead?

  Duke. Hippolito. Alack! wring not thy hands.

  Inf. I saw no messenger, heard no such news.

  Doct. Trust me you did, sweet lady.

  Duke. La, you now!

  1st Ser. Yes, indeed, madam.

  Duke. La, you now.— ’Tis well, good knaves!

  Inf. You ha’ slain him, and now you’ll murder me.

  Duke. Good Infelice, vex not thus thyself,

  Of this the bad report before did strike

  So coldly to thy heart, that the swift currents

  Of life were all frozen up ——

  Inf. It is untrue,

  ’Tis most untrue, O most unnatural father!

  Duke. And we had much to do by art’s best cunning,

  To fetch life back again.

  Doct. Most certain, lady.

  Duke. Why, la, you now, you’ll not believe me. Friends,

  Swear we not all? had we not much to do?

  Servants. Yes, indeed, my lord, much.

  Duke. Death drew such fearful pictures in thy face,

  That were Hippolito alive again,

  I’d kneel and woo the noble gentleman

  To be thy husband: now I sore repent

  My sharpness to him, and his family;

  Nay, do not weep for him; we all must die —

  Doctor, this place where she so oft hath seen

  His lively presence, hurts her, does it not?

  Doct. Doubtless, my lord, it does.

  Duke. It does, it does:

  Therefore, sweet girl, thou shalt to Bergamo.

  Inf. Even where you will; in any place there’s woe.

  Duke. A coach is ready, Bergamo doth stand

  In a most wholesome air, sweet walks; there’s deer,

  Ay, thou shalt hunt and send us venison,

  Which like some goddess in the Cyprian groves,

  Thine own fair hand shall strike; — Sirs, you shall teach her

  To stand, and how to shoot; ay, she shall hunt:

  Cast off this sorrow. In, girl, and prepare

  This night to ride away to Bergamo.

  Inf. O most unhappy maid! [Exit.

  Duke. Follow her close.

  No words that she was buried, on your lives!

  Or that her ghost walks now after she’s dead;

  I’ll hang you if you name a funeral.

  1st Ser. I’ll speak Greek, my lord, ere I speak that deadly word.

  2nd Ser. And I’ll speak Welsh, which is harder than Greek.

  Duke. Away, look to her. — [Exeunt Servants.] — Doctor Benedict,

  Did you observe how her complexion altered

  Upon his name and death? Oh, would t’were true.

  Doct. It may, my lord.

  Duke. May! how? I wish his death.

  Doct. And you may have your wish; say but the word,

  And ’tis a strong spell to rip up his grave:

  I have good knowledge with Hippolito;

  He calls me friend, I�
��ll creep into his bosom,

  And sting him there to death; poison can do’t.

  Duke. Perform it; I’ll create thee half mine heir.

  Doct. It shall be done, although the fact be foul.

  Duke. Greatness hides sin, the guilt upon my soul! [Exeunt.

  SCENE IV. — A Street.

  ENTER CASTRUCHIO, PIORATTO, and Fluello.

  Cas. Signor Pioratto, Signor Fluello, shall’s be merry? shall’s play the wags now?

  Flu. Ay, any thing that may beget the child of laughter.

  Cas. Truth, I have a pretty sportive conceit new crept into my brain, will move excellent mirth.

  Pio. Let’s ha’t, let’s ha’t; and where shall the scene of mirth lie?

  Cas. At Signor Candido’s house, the patient man, nay, the monstrous patient man; they say his blood is immoveable, that he has taken all patience from a man, and all constancy from a woman.

  Flu. That makes so many whores now-a-days.

  Cas. Ay, and so many knaves too.

  Pio. Well, sir.

  Cas. To conclude, the report goes, he’s so mild, so affable, so suffering, that nothing indeed can move him: now do but think what sport it will be to make this fellow, the mirror of patience, as angry, as vexed, and as mad as an English cuckold.

  Flu. O, ‘twere admirable mirth, that: but how will’t be done, signor?

  Cas. Let me alone, I have a trick, a conceit, a thing, a device will sting him i’faith, if he have but a thimbleful of blood in’s belly, or a spleen not so big as a tavern token.

  Pio. Thou stir him? thou move him? thou anger him? alas, I know his approved temper: thou vex him? why he has a patience above man’s injuries: thou may’st sooner raise a spleen in an angel, than rough humour in him. Why I’ll give you instance for it. This wonderfully tempered Signor Candido upon a time invited home to his house certain Neapolitan lords, of curious taste, and no mean palates, conjuring his wife, of all loves, to prepare cheer fitting for such honourable trencher-men. She — just of a woman’s nature, covetous to try the uttermost of vexation, and thinking at last to get the start of his humour — willingly neglected the preparation, and became unfurnished, not only of dainty, but of ordinary dishes. He, according to the mildness of his breast, entertained the lords, and with courtly discourse beguiled the time, as much as a citizen might do. To conclude, they were hungry lords, for there came no meat in; their stomachs were plainly gulled, and their teeth deluded, and, if anger could have seized a man, there was matter enough i’faith to vex any citizen in the world, if he were not too much made a fool by his wife.