HIPPOLITO

I pry thee deer Matheo. Where is the body? I cannot rest, isle meet it at next turn, I'll see how my love looks, Mathaeo holds him inns arms I shall forget my self. What day is to day, Mathaeo? O, Thursday. She died on monday then. I, it cannot be, Such a bright taper should burn out so soon. On Thursday buried! and on monday died, Quick haste byr'lady: sure her winding sheet Was laid out before her body, and the worms That now must feast with her, were even bespoke, And solemnly invited Like strange guests. Cursed be that day for ever that robbed her Of breath, and me of bliss, henceforth let it stand Within the Wizards 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 God with child with treason, sacrilege, Atheism, rapes, treacherous friendship, perjury, Slander, (the beggars sin) lies, (sin of fools) Or any other damned impieties, On Monday let em be delivered: I swear to thee Mathaeo, by my soul. Hereafter weekly on that day isle glew Mine eyelids down, because they shall not gaze On any female cheek. And being locked up In my close chamber, there isle meditate On nothing but my Infaelices end, Or on a dead men scull draw out mine own. If ever while frail blood through my veins run, On woman's beams I throw affection, Save her thats 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 while I lived so long, that it might rot, That should fallen down, but she be never forgotten. I do arrest thee murderer: set down. Villains set down that sorrow, 'tis all mine. I know she is not dead. Set down the body. My Lord. O, you would killed her by your cruelty. Let me but kiss her pale and bloodless lip. Or if not touch her, let me look on her. Honour! smoke. Matheo, thou dost wound me more. Forget her? Perhaps I shall. Since you will press me on my word, I will. Exit. I can vex you more; A harlot is Like Dunkirk, true to none, Swallows both English, Spanish, fulsome Dutch, Blacke-doord Italian last of all the French, And he sticks to you faith: gives you your diet, Brings you acquainted, first with monsieur Doctor, And then you know what follows. Me thinks a toad is happier then a whore, That with one poison swells, with thousands more The other stocks her veins: harlot: fie! fie, You are the miserablest Creatures breathing, The very slaves of nature: mark me else, You put on rich attires, others eyes wear them, You eat, but to supply your blood with sin, And this strange curse ee'ne haunts you to your graves. From fools you get, and spend it upon slaves: Like Bears and Apes, you're baited and show tricks For money; but your Bawd the sweetness licks. Indeed you are their Journey-women, and do All base and damned works they list set you to: So that you never are rich; for do but show me, In present memory, or in ages passed, The fairest and most famous Courtesan, Whose flesh was dearest; that raised the price of sin, And held it up; to whose intemperate bosom, Princes, Earls, Lords, the worst has been a knight, The meanest a Gentleman, have offered up Whole Hecatombs of sighs, & reigned in showers Handfuls of gold, yet for all this, at last Diseases sucked her marrow, then grew so poor, That she has begged, e'ene at a beggars door. And (wherein heaven has a singer) when this Idol, From coast to coast, has leapt on foreign shores, And had more worship, the ̄ outlandish whores: When several Nations have gone over her, When for each several City she has seen, Her Maidenhead has been new, & been sold deer: Did live well there, & might have died unknown, And undefamed; back comes she to her own, And there both miserably lives and die, Scorned even of those, that once adored her eyes, As if her fatal-circled life, thus ran, Her pride should end there, where it first began. What do you weep to hear your Story read? Nay, if you spoil your cheeks, I'll read no more. To give those tears a relish, this I add, You're Like the Jews, scattered, in no place certain, Your days are tedious, your hours burdensome: And were't not for full suppers, midnight Revels, Dancing, wine, riotous meetings, which do drown, And bury quite in you all virtuous thoughts, And on your eyelids hang so heavily, They have no power to look so high as heaven, Youde fit and muse on nothing but despair, Curse that devil Lust, that so burns up your blood, And in ten thousand shivers break your glass For his temptation. Say you taste delight, To have a golden Gull from ize to See, To meat you in his hight luxurious arms, Yet your nights pay for all: I know you dream Of warrants, whips, & Beadles, and then start At a doors windy creak: think every Weezle To be a Constable: and every Rat A long tailed Officer: Are you now not slaves? O you have damnation without pleasure for it! Such is the state of Harlots. To conclude, When you are old, and can well paint no more, You turn Bawd, and are then worse then before: Make use of this: farewell. See Matheo comes not: time hath barred me, Would all the Harlots in the town had herd me. Exit. Mad woman, what art doing? Enter Hipo. Are all the windows shut? Thou art a faithful servant, and observest The Calendar, both of my solemn vows, And ceremonious sorrow: Get thee gone, I charge thee on thy life, let not the found Of any woman's voice pierce through that door. Sighs. Tears. That which (now) thou canst not get me, the con stancy of a woman. Prithee away. My Infelices 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 found women love to buy Adulterate complexion: here it's 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 passed 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 trueloves heart. Here art thou drawn sweet maid, till this be dead, So that thou livest twice, twice art buried. Thou figure of my friend, lie there. Whats here? Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemies: Las! say it were: I needs not fear him now: For all his braves, his contumelious breath, His frowns (though dagger-pointed) all his plot, (Though 'nere 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 bore 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 gawdy trappings, with what course, Yea rags most beggarly, they cloth the soul: Yet (after all) their Gains looks thus foul. What fools are men to built a garish tomb, Only to save the carcase while it rots, To maintein't long in stinking, make good carrion, But leave no good deeds to preserve them found, For good deeds keep men sweet, long above ground, And must all come to this; fools; wise, all hither, Must all heads thus at last be laid together: Draw me my picture then, thou graven neat workman, After this fashion, not Like this; these colours In time kissing but air, will be kissed off, But heres a fellow; that which he lays on, Till dooms day, alters not complexion. Deaths' the best Painter then: They that draw shapes, And live by wicked faces, are but Gods Apes, They come but near the life, and there they stay, This fellow draws life to: his Art is fuller, The pictures which he makes are without colour. Hah! Vicar? What youth? of man or woman? lock the doors. Let him give thee his message and be gone. How dost thou know it? Send him and keep the door. Reads. Fata si liceat mihi, Fingere arbitrio meo, Temperem Zephyro leuivela. Idem sail were I to choose, not in the Ocean, Cedars are shaken, when shrubs do feel no bruise How? from Mathaeo. Art sick? Keep off. This paper does speak nothing. Do so: read out. What villain, ho? Enter his servant. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil. Thou hast let in a woman in men shape. And thou art damned for't. Fetch me my Rapier,—do not: I shall kill thee. Purge this infected chamber of that plague, That runs upon me thus: Slave, thrust her hence. Another beats the door, Tother Shee-diuell, look. Hence, guard the chamber: let no more come on, One woman serves for men damnation. Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate, The chastest and most sanctimonious vow, That ere was entered in the court of heaven: I was on meditations spottles wings, upon my journey thither; Like a storm Thou beats my ripened cogitations, flat to the ground: and Like a thief dost stand, To steal devotion from the holy land. Woman I beseech thee, Get thee some other suit, this fits thee not, I would not grant it to a kneeling Queen, I cannot love thee, nor I must not: See, The copy of that obligation, Where my soul's bound in heavy penalties. My vows to her, fled after her to heaven, Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou mightest behold her, Watching upon yond battlements of stars, How I observe them: should I break my bound, This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips Call me most periurde villain, let it suffice, I would set thee in the path; Is't not a sign, I love thee, when with one so most most deer, I'll have thee fellows? All are fellows there. Stay and take Physic for it, read this book, Ask counsel of this head whats to be done, He'll strike it dead that 'tis damnation, If you turn turk again, o do it not, The heaven cannot allure you to do well From doing ill let hell fright you: and learn this, The soul whose bosom lust did never touch, Is Gods fair bride, and maidens souls are such: The soul that leaving chastities white shore, Swims in hight sensual streams, is the devils whore, How now: who comes. Enter his servant. I'll meet the doctor, tell him, yet to night I cannot: but at morrow rising Sun I will not fail: go: woman fare thee well. Exeunt. Few but your self, Could have intied me thus, to trust the Air, With my close sighs, you send for me: what news? What Lady? Umh: I thank you sir, Physic prolongs life, when it cannot save, This helps not my Hope's. mine are in their graven: You do some wrong to mock me. Oh treacherous Duke: A very devil! Will I ride, stood Bergamo, In the low countries of black hell, isle to her. Oh when: Oh where good father. This is such happiness: That to believe it 'tis impossible. Oh yes good father, I am so well acquainted with despair, I know not how to hope: I believe all. heavenly Physician: far thy fame shall spread, That makest two lovers speak when they be dead. Nay, nay, resolve good father, or deny. Tush fear not the Duke. You have our words, and you shall have our lives, To guard you safe from all ensuing danger. Not till the evening. Oh good Mathaeo no, lets make no noise. Muffle your selves yonders Fluello. Enter Fluello. Then all our plots are turned upon our heads; and we are blown up with our own underminings. Sfoot how comes he, what villain durst betray our being here. Would you betray me to Chastruchio, So did you swear to me, so were you damned. O God, o God. Oh blessed disguised: Oh happy man. Oh Yes, we do applaud it, we e dispute, No longer, but will hence and execute. Fluello yowl tay here, let us be gone, The ground that freighted lovers tread upon, Is stuke with thorns. Speak nothing, but steal hence, when you spy time. do, draw all your weapons. Why swells your spleen so High? against what bosom, Would you your weapons draw? hers! 'tis your daughters: Mine! 'tis your sons. You cannot shed blould here, but 'tis your own, To spill your own blood were damnation, Lay smooth that wrinkled brow, and I will throw My self beneath your feet, Let it be rugged still and flinted over, What can come forth but sparkles, that will burn, Your self and us? She's mine; my claims most good, She's mine by marriage, though she's yours by blood. I have a hand deer Lord, deep in this act, For I foresaw this storm, yet willingly Put fourth to meet it? Oft have I seen a father Washing the wounds of his deer son in tears, A son to curse the sword that struck his father, Both slain ith quarrel of your families, Those scars are now taken off: And I beseech you, To seal our pardon, all was to this end To turn the ancient hates of your two houses To fresh green friendship, that your Loves might look: Like the springs forehead, comfortably sweet, And your vexed souls in peaceful union meet, Their blood will now be yours, yours will be theirs, And happiness shall crown your silver hairs. I durst be sworn Mathaeo she's indeed. Thanks Lady. No good Castruchio. I never can deserve this kindness sir. What may this Lady be, whom you call cuz? Is she married? Never trust me a goodly creature. Belike then she's some sale courtesan. Great pity that she's a good wench: You did, and I beshrew your heart, you have wone. Well, for such a mistress: better, if your mistress be not you master. I must break manners gentlemen, fare you well. Trust me my affairs beckon for me, pardon me. Is the gentleman (my friend) departed mistress? Fare you well. Can you? pray. I care not much. I'm hight. If may use your room, isle rather walk. Indeed isle non: -Indeed I will not: thanks. Pretty-fine-lodging. I perceive my friend Is old in your acquaintance. Say I did Like; what welcome should I find? But would you let me play Mathaeos partly? Why embrace you: dally with you, kiss: Faith tell me, will you leave him, and love me? Why then, You're free for any man: if any, me. But I must tell you Lady, were you mine, You should be all mine: I could brook no sharers, I should be covetous, and sweep up all. I should be pleasures usurer: faith I should. Why sighs you Lady? may I know? This were well now, to one but newly ledged And scarce a day old in this subtle world: It pretty Art, good birdlime, cunning net: But come, come, faith-confess: how many men Have drunk this selfsame protestation, From that read ticing lip? Indeed? and blush not! Indeed! in truth!-how warily you swear? 'Tis well: if ill it be not: yet had I The ruffian in me, and were drawn before you But in light cullors, I do know indeed, You could not swear indeed, But thunder oaths That should shake heaven, drown the harmonious spheres, And pierce a soul (that loved her makers honour) With horror and amazement. Worst then of all, Our sins by custom, seem (at last) but small. Were I but over your threshold, a next man, And after him a next, and then a fourth, Should have this golden hook, and lascivious bait, Thrown out to the full length, why let me tell you: I would seen letters sent from that white hand, Tuning such musi ke to Matheos ear. O, you cannot feign with me, why, I know Lady, This is the common passion of you all, To hook in a kind gentleman, and then Abuse his coin, conveying it to your lover, And in the end you show him a french trick, And so you leave him, that a coach may run Between his legs for breadth. If any be disposed to trust your oath, Let him: isle not be he I know you feign All that you speak, I: for a mingled harlot, Is true in nothing but in being false. What! shall I teach you how to loath your self? And mildly to : not without sense or reason. Then if your gracious blood be not all wasted, I shall assay to doo't. Lend me your silence, and attention,-you have no soul, That makes you weigh so light: heavens treasure bought it, And half a crown hath sold it: for your body Is Like the common shore, that still receives All the towns filth. The sin of many men Is within you, and thus much I suppose, That if all your committers stood in rank, Theide make a lane, (in which your shame might dwell) And with their spaces reach from hence to hell. Nay, shall I urge it more, there has be known, As many by one harlot, maimed and dismembered, As would would stuffed and Hospital: this I might Apply to you, and perhaps do you right: Oh you're as base as any beast that bears, Your body is ee'ne hirde, and so are theirs. For gold and sparkling jewels, (if he can) Yowl let a Jew get you with christian: Be he a More, a Tartar, though his face Look uglier then a dead men scull, Could the devil put on a humane shape, If his purse shake out crowns, up then he gets, Whores will be rid to hell with golden bits: So that you're crueler then Turks, for they Fell Christians only, you fell your selves away. Why those that love you, hate you: and will term you Lickerish damnation: wish themselves half sunk After the sin is laid out, and ee'ne curse Their fruitless riot, (for what one begets Another poisons) lust and murder hit, A tree being often shook, what fruit can knit? At Bethlehem monastery: the place well fits, It is the scoole where those that lose their wits, Practice again to get them: I am sick Of that disease, all love is lunatic.