LUCRECIA

What old witch is this, that comes thus trailing her tail on the ground? Look how she sweeps the streets with her gown? Fie, what a dust she makes? Mother Celestina, you be welcome. What wind, I trow, drives you this way? I do not remember, that I have seen you in these parts this many a day. What accident hath brought you hither? Is this your only errand from home? Is it possible, you should come so far for this? I promise you, you make me much to marvel; For I am sure you were not wont to stir your stumps, but you knew wherefore; nor to go a foot forth of doors, unless it were for your profit. Did not I tell you so before? I wot well what I said; you never put in a penny, but you take out a pound: Be your pains never so little, you will be sure you will be well paid for it. But to that pass, my old mistress hath begun a web; she hath needs to buy it, and thou hast need to fell it. Come in, and stay here a while, you and I will not fallen out. With that old woman forsooth, with the scotch on her nose, who sometime dwelled hard by here in Tanners Row, close upon the Riverside. Madame! Why, this old woman is better known then the herb Rew. Do not you remember her that stood on the Pillory for a Witch? That sold young wenches by the great and by wh le sale? and that hath marred many thousands of marri ages, by sundering man and wife, and setting them at odds? Fosooth, she perfumes Calls, Vails, and the Like; she makes your sublimate Mercury, and hath some thirty several Trades beside; she is very skilful in herbs; she can cure little children: And some call her, The old woman, The Lapidary, for her great dealing in stones. If I knew it? Why, there is neither young nor old in all this City, but knows it. And should not I then know it? I am ashamed, forsooth. Her name (saving your Reverence) is Celestina. Aunt, it is my Mistress pleasure, you come up. She changed? Him, him, him! the devil she is: she was fair when she met with him (saving your reverence) that scotched her over the nose. As though I did not know Mother Celestina? Now, now, is my Mistress quite undone. All the world cannot save her; she will have Celestina come secretly to mor row. I smell a Rat; there is a Pad in the straw; I Like not this, Come secretly to morrow; I fear me, she will partly with some thing more then words. Marry, I say, Madame, you have worded well. For it is now somewhat late. I did not lie even now; I see well enough how ill the world goes. Here's Cat in the Pan. What Chop-logic have we here? A blessing on your aged heart; for I have more needs of this, then of my meat. Much good to you (good Aunt) and to all this fair company and great meeting. Me thinks (mother) it could not choose but be wone drous troublesome unto you, to have the charge of so many young wenches. For they are very dangerous Cattle to keep, and will ask a great deal of pains. Believe me, I had almost forgotten my chief errand un to you, with thinking on that merry time which you talked of. Me thinks, I could continue fasting almost a whole year in harkening unto thee, and thinking on that pleasant life, which those young wenches led; me thinks, that with the very talking thereof, I have a conceit with my self, that at this present, I feel my self in the same happiness with them. I shall now, mistress, give you to un derstand the cause of my coming: I am sent unto you for my Ladies Girdle; and moreover, my Lady intreats you, that you would come and visit her, and that out of hand, for she feels her self very ill, and much pained and troubled with griefs and pangs about the heart; I assure you, she is very heartsick. Would thou Wertenberg as well dragged along the streets, (thou old traitorous Hag) as thou knowest well enough what she ails. The subtle old Bawd comes, and does her witcheries, and her tricks, and then goes her ways, and afterwards when one comes un to her for help, she makes forsooth as if she knew no such matter, it is news (forsooth) to her. Marry, I say (mother) would we were gone once; and that you would give me the Girdle. Aunt, stay here a while behind this door, whilst I go in, and see with whom my Mistress is talking. Come in; she is talking alone to her self. Well, well, we are all undone I go, madame. Madame, long afore this, I perceived your wound, and sounded your desire: I did much pity your torment; for, the more you sought to hide from me the fire which did burn you, the more did those flames manifest themselves in the colour of your face, in the little quietness of your heart, in the restlessness of your members, in your tossing to and from, in eating without any appetite, and in your unableness to sleep: So that I did continually see from time to time, as plainly as if I had been within you, most manifest, and apparent signs of your wretched estate; but because in that instant, when as will reigneth in those whom we serve, or a disordinate ap petite, it is fitting for us that are servants, to obey them with bo dily diligence, and not to check and control them with the Ar tificiall counsels of the tongue. And therefore did I suffer with pain, held my peace with fear, concealed with fidelity; though I always held it better to use sharp counsel then smooth flattery. But since that your Ladyship hath no other remedy for your reco very, but either to die or to live; it is very meet, that you should make choice of that for the best, which in it self is best. My old Ladies counsel comes too late. If I be not deceived, this is Calisto's voice. But for the more surety, I will go a little nearer. Who is that that speaks? Who is there without? Madame, why come you not? Come hither, I say, be not afraid, for here is the Gentleman you wot of. Come hither I tell you, it is he, I know him by his voice. I conceive (Madame) he hath some joust cause of stay, and it is not in his power to come so soon as you expect. No Madame, I was fast asleep. But if you knew as much as I do, your hearts would burst in sunder. I, I, you mistake your mark, she is not the woe man you wot of; the best is lost; and ill year is Like to attend upon your old age. Calisto hath plucked that flower wherein you so much glory. There is not any that can now new film her, or repair her lost Virginity, for Celestina is dead, the only curer of a cracked mai den-head, you have awaked somewhat of the latest; you should have risen a little earlier. Hark, hark; good Mistress Melibea, hark, I say. Come hither, Madame, and you shall hear how for ward your father and mother are for to provide you a husband, you shall be married out of hand, out of hand, Madame. Peace, Madame, hark, hark, they continue in their discourse. I go, Madame. Oh that I kept the Key, Which opens to these fair flowers, To pluck them day by day, When you do leave these bowers. The Lilies and the Roses, Put on their newest colours, And when thy Love reposes, They breathe their freshest odours. Sweet is the fount, the place, I drank at, being dry; More sweet Calisto's face, In Melibea's eye. And though that it be night, His sighed my heart will cheer, And when he down shall light, Oh how I'll clip my Dear! The Wolf for joy does leap, To see the Lambkinnes move, The Kid joys in the teat, And thou joyest in thy Love. Never was loving wight, Of's friend desired so; Never Walks of more delight, Nor nights more free from woe. Now never trust me again, if I harken to them any longer. Here's a life indeed! Oh how I feel my self melt with in, Like snow against the Sun; and how squeamish my Mistress seems, because, forsooth, she would feign be entreated! Assum redly, had I been in her case, and have lost so much time, I should think the worse of my self the longest day of my life. My head akes with hearing; and yet their tongues ache not with talking, nor their arms with colling, nor their lips with kissing. Sure, they will make me gnaw the finger of my glove all to pieces. Hark, hark, Madame! what a great mischance is this? Tristan, wha'ts the matter (my Love) why dost thou weep so bitterly? why take you on so, beyond all measure & reason? Madame, tear not your face; rend not your hair: What? but even now all pleasure? and now all sorrow? Out alas! that one, and the selfsame Planet should so suddenly afford and effect so contrary? where is your courage? Fie, what a faint heart have you? pray you arise from the ground; let not your father find you in so suspicious a place: for if you continue thus, you cannot choose but be herd. Why, Madame, Madame, I say hear you me? Do you hear, Lady? Of all loves, do not fallen any more into these swounds. Be as valiant and courageous in enduring your sorrow, as you were hight and hardy in committing your error. Up, up, Madame; for it will be a greater dishonour unto you, to be found thus here in the garden, then either the pleasure you received by his coming, or the sorrow which you take for his death. Come, let us into your chamber. And go lay you down on your bed; and I will call your father. We will feign some other ill, since to hide this, it is impossible. Sir, if you will see her alive, come quickly. What her grief is, I know not; Nay, scarce know I her, so disfigured is her face. I go, Madame. My Mistress hath lost her wits: she is exceeding ill: this same sorceress hath captivated her will. A little noise (I perceive) can wake them; me thought they spoke somewhat fearfully, as if all had not been well.