Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

  Cand. For thus they cannot choose but conster it,

  One that is out of health, takes no delight,

  Wears his apparel without appetite,

  And puts on heedless raiment without form. —

  Re-enter George, with nightcap and staff.

  So, so, kind George, [Puts on nightcap.] — be secret now: and, prithee, do not laugh at me till I’m out of sight.

  Geo. I laugh? not I, sir.

  Cand. Now to the senate-house:

  Methinks, I’d rather wear, without a frown,

  A patient carpet, than an angry gown. [Exit.

  Geo. Now, looks my master just like one of our carpet knights, only he’s somewhat the honester of the two.

  Re-enter Viola.

  Vio. What, is your master gone?

  Geo. Yes, forsooth, his back is but new turned.

  Vio. And in his cloak? did he not vex and swear?

  Geo. No, but he’ll make you swear anon. — [Aside.]

  No, indeed, he went away like a lamb.

  Vio. Key, sink to hell! still patient, patient still?

  I am with child to vex him: prithee, George,

  If e’er thou look’st for favour at my hands,

  Uphold one jest for me.

  Geo. Against my master?

  Vio. ’Tis a mere jest in faith: say, wilt thou do’t?

  Geo. Well, what is’t?

  Vio. Here, take this key; thou know’st where all things lie.

  Put on thy master’s best apparel, gown,

  Chain, cap, ruff, every thing, be like himself;

  And ‘gainst his coming home, walk in the shop;

  Feign the same carriage, and his patient look,

  ‘Twill breed but a jest, thou know’st; speak, wilt thou?

  Geo. ‘Twill wrong my master’s patience.

  Vio. Prithee, George.

  Geo. Well, if you’ll save me harmless, and put me under covert barn, I am content to please you, provided it may breed no wrong against him.

  Vio. No wrong at all: here take the key, be gone:

  If any vex him, this: if not this, none. [Exeunt.

  SCENE II. — An outer Apartment in Bellafront’s House.

  ENTER MISTRESS FINGERLOCK and Roger.

  Mis. F. O Roger, Roger, where’s your mistress, where’s your mistress? there’s the finest, neatest gentleman at my house, but newly come over: Oh, where is she, where is she, where is she?

  Rog. My mistress is abroad, but not amongst ’em: my mistress is not the whore now that you take her for.

  Mis. F. How? is she not a whore? do you go about to take away her good name, Roger? you are a fine pander indeed.

  Rog. I tell you, Madonna Fingerlock, I am not sad for nothing, I ha’ not eaten one good meal this three and thirty days: I had wont to get sixteen pence by fetching a pottle of hippocras; but now those days are past. We had as good doings, Madonna Fingerlock, she within doors, and I without, as any poor young couple in Milan.

  Mis. F. God’s my life, and is she changed now?

  Rog. I ha’ lost by her squeamishness, more than would have builded twelve bawdy-houses.

  Mis. F. And had she no time to turn honest but now? what a vile woman is this! twenty pound a-night, I’ll be sworn, Roger, in good gold and no silver: why here was a time! if she should ha’ picked out a time, it could not be better: gold enough stirring; choice of men, choice of hair, choice of beards, choice of legs, and choice of every, every, everything: it cannot sink into my head, that she should be such an ass. Roger, I never believe it.

  Rog. Here she comes now.

  Enter Bellafront.

  Mis. F. O sweet madonna, on with your loose gown, your felt and your feather, there’s the sweetest, properest, gallantest gentleman at my house; he smells all of musk and ambergris his pocket full of crowns, flame-coloured doublet, red satin hose, carnation silk stockings, and a leg, and a body, — oh!

  Bell. Hence thou, our sex’s monster, poisonous bawd,

  Lust’s factor, and damnation’s orator.

  Gossip of hell! were all the harlots’ sins

  Which the whole world contains, numbered together,

  Thine far exceeds them all: of all the creatures

  That ever were created, thou art basest.

  What serpent would beguile thee of thy office?

  It is detestable: for thou livest

  Upon the dregs of harlots, guard’st the door,

  Whilst couples go to dancing: O coarse devil!

  Thou art the bastard’s curse, thou brand’st his birth;

  The lecher’s French disease: for thou dry-suck’st him;

  The harlot’s poison, and thine own confusion.

  Mis. F. Marry come up, with a pox, have you nobody to rail against, but your bawd now?

  Bell. And you, knave pander, kinsman to a bawd.

  Rog. You and I, madonna, are cousins.

  Bell. Of the same blood and making, near allied;

  Thou, that art slave to sixpence, base metalled villain!

  Rog. Sixpence? nay, that’s not so: I never took under two shillings four-pence; I hope I know my fee.

  Bell. I know not against which most to inveigh:

  For both of you are damned so equally.

  Thou never spar’st for oaths, swear’st any thing,

  As if thy soul were made of shoe-leather:

  “God damn me, gentleman, if she be within!”

  When in the next room she’s found dallying.

  Rog. If it be my vocation to swear, every man in his vocation: I hope my betters swear and damn themselves, and why should not I?

  Bell. Roger, you cheat kind gentlemen.

  Rog. The more gulls they.

  Bell. Slave, I cashier thee.

  Mis. F. An you do cashier him, he shall be entertained.

  Rog. Shall I? then blurt a’ your service.

  Bell. As hell would have it, entertained by you!

  I dare the devil himself to match those two. [Exit.

  Mis. F. Marry gup, are you grown so holy, so pure, so honest with a pox?

  Rog. Scurvy honest punk! but stay, madonna, how must our agreement be now? for, you know, I am to have all the comings-in at the hall-door, and you at the chamber-door.

  Mis. F. True Roger except my vails.

  Rog. Vails? what vails?

  Mis. F. Why as thus; if a couple come in a coach, and light to lie down a little, then, Roger, that’s my fee, and you may walk abroad; for the coachman himself is their pander.

  Rog. Is ‘a so? in truth I have almost forgot, for want of exercise. But how if I fetch this citizen’s wife to that gull, and that madonna to that gallant, how then?

  Mis. F. Why then, Roger, you are to have sixpence a lane; so many lanes, so many sixpences.

  Rog. Is’t so? then I see we two shall agree, and live together.

  Mis. F. Ay, Roger, so long as there be any taverns and bawdy-houses in Milan. [Exeunt.

  SCENE III. — A Chamber in Bellafront’s House.

  BELLAFRONT DISCOVERED SITTING with a lute; pen, ink, and paper on a table before her.

  Bell. [Sings.]

  The courtier’s flattering jewels,

  Temptations only fuels,

  The lawyer’s ill-got moneys,

  That suck up poor bees’ honeys:

  The citizen’s sons riot,

  The gallant’s costly diet:

  Silks and velvets, pearls and ambers,

  Shall not draw me to their chambers.

  Silks and velvets, &c. [She writes.

  Oh, ’tis in vain to write! it will not please;

  Ink on this paper would ha’ but presented

  The foul black spots that stick upon my soul,

  And rather made me loathsomer, than wrought

  My love’s impression in Hippolito’s thought:

  No, I must turn the chaste leaves of my breast,

  And pick out some sweet means to breed my rest.

  Hippolito, believe me I will be

>   As true unto thy heart, as thy heart to thee,

  And hate all men, their gifts and company!

  Enter Matheo, Castruchio, Fluello, and Pioratto.

  Mat. You, goody punk, subaudi cockatrice, oh you’re a sweet whore of your promise, are you not, think you? how well you came to supper to us last night; mew, a whore, and break her word! nay, you may blush, and hold down your head at it well enough. ‘Sfoot, ask these gallants if we stayed not till we were as hungry as sergeants.

  Flu. Ay, and their yeomen too.

  Cas. Nay, faith, acquaintance, let me tell you, you forgat yourself too much: we had excellent cheer, rare vintage, and were drunk after supper.

  Pio. And when we were in, our woodcocks, sweet rogue, a brace of gulls, dwelling here in the city, came in, and paid all the shot.

  Mat. Pox on her! let her alone.

  Bell. Oh, I pray do, if you be gentlemen:

  I pray, depart the house: beshrew the door

  For being so easily entreated! faith,

  I lent but little ear unto your talk;

  My mind was busied otherwise, in troth,

  And so your words did unregarded pass:

  Let this suffice, — I am not as I was.

  Flu. I am not what I was? no, I’ll be sworn thou art not: for thou wert honest at five, and now thou’rt a punk at fifteen: thou wert yesterday a simple whore, and now thou’rt a cunning, cony-catching baggage to day.

  Bell. I’ll say I’m worse; I pray, forsake me then:

  I do desire you leave me, gentlemen.

  And leave yourselves: O be not what you are,

  Spendthrifts of soul and body!

  Let me persuade you to forsake all harlots,

  Worse than the deadliest poisons, they are worse:

  For o’er their souls hangs an eternal curse.

  In being slaves to slaves, their labours perish;

  They’re seldom blest with fruit; for ere it blossoms,

  Many a worm confounds it.

  They have no issue but foul ugly ones,

  That run along with them, e’en to their graves:

  For, ‘stead of children, they breed rank diseases,

  And all you gallants can bestow on them,

  Is that French infant, which ne’er acts, but speaks:

  What shallow son and heir, then, foolish gallants,

  Would waste all his inheritance, to purchase

  A filthy, loathed disease? and pawn his body

  To a dry evil: that usury’s worst of all,

  When th’ interest will eat out the principal.

  Mat. ‘Sfoot, she gulls ’em the best! this is always her fashion, when she would be rid of any company that she cares not for, to enjoy mine alone. [Aside.

  Flu. What’s here? instructions, admonitions, and caveats? Come out, you scabbard of vengeance.

  Mat. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they fist, you shall not spurn my punk, I can tell you: my blood is vexed.

  Flu. Pox a’ your blood: make it a quarrel.

  Mat. You’re a slave! will that serve turn?

  Pio. ‘Sblood, hold, hold!

  Cas. Matheo, Fluello, for shame, put up!

  Mat. Spurn my sweet varlet?

  Bell. O how many thus

  Moved with a little folly, have let out

  Their souls in brothel-houses! fell down and died

  Just at their harlot’s foot, as ‘twere in pride.

  Flu. Matheo, we shall meet.

  Mat. Ay, ay; any where, saving at church:

  Pray take heed we meet not there.

  Flu. Adieu, damnation!

  Cas. Cockatrice, farewell!

  Pio. There’s more deceit in women, than in hell. [Exeunt Castruchio, Fluello and Pioratto.

  Mat. Ha, ha, thou dost gull ’em so rarely, so naturally! If I did not think thou hadst been in earnest: thou art a sweet rogue for’t i’faith.

  Bell. Why are not you gone too, Signor Matheo?

  I pray depart my house: you may believe me,

  In troth, I have no part of harlot in me.

  Mat. How’s this?

  Bell. Indeed, I love you not: but hate you worse

  Than any man, because you were the first

  Gave money for my soul: you brake the ice,

  Which after turned a puddle; I was led

  By your temptation to be miserable:

  I pray, seek out some other that will fall,

  Or rather, I pray seek out none at all.

  Mat. Is’t possible to be impossible! an honest whore! I have heard many honest wenches turn strumpets with a wet finger, but for a harlot to turn honest is one of Hercules’ labours. It was more easy for him in one night to make fifty queans, than to make one of them honest again in fifty years. Come, I hope thou dost but jest.

  Bell. ’Tis time to leave off jesting, I had almost

  Jested away salvation: I shall love you,

  If you will soon forsake me.

  Mat. God be with thee!

  Bell. O tempt no more women! shun their weighty curse;

  Women, at best, are bad, make them not worse.

  You gladly seek our sex’s overthrow:

  But not to raise our states. For all your wrongs,

  Will you vouchsafe me but due recompense,

  To marry with me?

  Mat. How! marry with a punk, a cockatrice, a harlot? maarr, faugh, I’ll be burnt through the nose first.

  Bell. Why, la, these are your oaths! you love to undo us,

  To put Heaven from us, whilst our best hours waste;

  You love to make us lewd, but never chaste.

  Mat. I’ll hear no more of this, this ground upon,

  Thou’rt damned for altering thy religion. [Exit.

  Bell. Thy lust and sin speak so much: go thou, my ruin,

  The first fall my soul took! By my example

  I hope few maidens now will put their heads

  Under men’s girdles; who least trusts is most wise:

  Men’s oaths do cast a mist before our eyes.

  My best of wit, be ready! Now I go,

  By some device to greet Hippolito.

  ACT THE FOURTH.

  SCENE I. — A Chamber in Hippolito’s House.

  ENTER A SERVANT.

  Ser. So, this is Monday morning, and now must I to my huswifery. — [Sets out a table, on which he places a skull, a picture of Infelice, a book, and a taper.] — Would I had been created a shoemaker, for all the gentle-craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn then to work one true stitch. My master means sure to turn me into a student, for here’s my book, here my desk, here my light, this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowzy first day of the week, makes me half a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a sexton, ay, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back is turned, will be naught together.

  Enter Hippolito.

  Hip. Are all the windows shut?

  Ser. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns.

  Hip. Thou art a faithful servant, and observ’st

  The calendar, both of my solemn vows,

  And ceremonious sorrow. Get thee gone;

  I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound

  Of any woman’s voice pierce through that door.

  Ser. If they do, my lord, I’ll pierce some of them;

  What will your lordship have to breakfast?

  Hip. Sighs.

  Ser. What to dinner?

  Hip. Tears.

  Ser. The one of them, my lord, will fill you too full of wind, the other wet you too much. What to supper?

  Hip. That which now thou canst not get me, the constancy of a woman.

  Ser. Indeed that’s harder to come by than ever was Ostend.

  Hip. Prithee, away.

  Ser. I’ll make away myself presently, which few servants will do for their lords; but rath
er help to make them away: Now to my door-keeping; I hope to pick something out of it. [Aside and exit.

  Hip. [Taking up Infelice’s picture.] My Infelice’s face, her brow, her eye,

  The dimple on her cheek! and such sweet skill,

  Hath from the cunning workman’s pencil flown,

  These lips look fresh and lively as her own,

  Seeming to move and speak. ‘Las! now I see,

  The reason why fond women love to buy

  Adulterate complexion! Here ’tis read:

  False colours last after the true be dead.

  Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,

  Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,

  Of all the music set upon her tongue,

  Of all that was past woman’s excellence,

  In her white bosom, — look! a painted board

  Circumscribes all: Earth can no bliss afford,

  Nothing of her but this. This cannot speak,

  It has no lap for me to rest upon,

  No lip worth tasting: here the worms will feed,

  As in her coffin: hence, then, idle art!

  True love’s best pictured in a true-love’s heart:

  Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead;

  So that thou liv’st twice, twice art burièd:

  Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What’s here? [Takes up the skull.

  Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy’s:

  ‘Las! say it were: I need not fear him now!

  For all his braves, his contumelious breath,

  His frowns, though dagger-pointed, all his plots,

  Though ne’er so mischievous, his Italian pills,

  His quarrels, and that common fence, his law,

  See, see, they’re all eaten out! here’s not left one:

  How clean they’re picked away to the bare bone!

  How mad are mortals, then, to rear great names

  On tops of swelling houses! or to wear out

  Their fingers’ ends in dirt, to scrape up gold!

  Not caring, so that sumpter-horse, the back,

  Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse —

  Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul:

  Yet, after all, their gayness looks thus foul.

  What fools are men to build a garish tomb,

  Only to save the carcase whilst it rots,

  To maintain’t long in stinking, make good carrion,