Act 1 — [ACT IV]

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,20 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?25 Hip. Sighs. Ser. What to dinner? Hip. Tears.

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,44 Seeming to move and speak. ’Las! now I see, The reason why fond[2406] women love to buy Adulterate complexion! Here, ’t is 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,50 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,55 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 pictur’d in a true-love’s heart. Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead;60 So that thou liv’st twice, twice art buried. 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,65 His frowns, though dagger-pointed, all his plot, 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 pickt away to the bare bone!70 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—75 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,80 But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound! 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[2407] together? Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman,85 After this fashion, not like this; these colours In time, kissing but air, will be kist off: But here ’s a fellow; that which he lays on Till doomsday alters not complexion. Death ’s the best painter then: they that draw shapes,90 And live by wicked faces, are but God’s apes. They come but near the life, and there they stay; This fellow draws life too: his art is fuller, The pictures which he makes are without colour.94

(Reads.) “Fata si liceat mihi,115 Fingere arbitrio meo, Temperem zephyro levi Vela.”[2409] I ’d sail were I to choose, not in the ocean; Cedars are shaken, when shrubs do feel no bruise.120 Enter Bellafront, like a Page, [with a letter]. How? from Matheo? Bell. Yes, my lord. Hip. Art sick? Bell. Not all in health, my lord. Hip. Keep off. Bell. I do.— [Aside.] Hard fate when women are compell’d to woo. Hip. This paper does speak nothing. Bell. Yes, my lord, Matter of life, it speaks, and therefore writ125 In hidden character: to me instruction My master gives, and, ’less you please to stay Till you both meet, I can the text display. Hip. Do so; read out. Bell. I am already out.[2410]129 Look on my face, and read the strangest story! Hip. What, villain, ho?——

Hip. 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.144

Bell. Hear me but speak, my words shall be all music; Hear me but speak. [Knocking within. Hip. Another beats the door, T ’other she-devil! look. Ser. Why, then, hell ’s broke loose.150 Hip. Hence; guard the chamber: let no more come on, Exit [Servant]. One woman serves for man’s damnation— Beshrew thee, thou dost make me violate The chastest and most sanctimonious vow, That e’er was ent’red in the court of Heaven! I was, on meditation’s spotless wings,156 Upon my journey thither; like a storm Thou beat’st my ripened cogitations, Flat to the ground; and like a thief dost stand, To steal devotion from the holy land.160 Bell. If woman were thy mother—if thy heart, Be not all marble, or if ’t marble be, Let my tears soften it, to pity me— I do beseech thee, do not thus with scorn Destroy a woman! Hip. Woman, I beseech thee,165 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 [Points to Infelice’s picture.] The copy of that obligation, Where my soul’s bound in heavy penalties.170 Bell. She ’s dead, you told me; she ’ll let fall her suit. Hip. My vows to her fled after her to Heaven. Were thine eyes clear as mine, thou might’st behold her, Watching upon you battlements of stars,— How I observe them! Should I break my bond, This board would rive in twain, these wooden lips176 Call me most perjur’d villain. Let it suffice, I ha’ set thee in the path; is ’t not a sign I love thee, when with one so most most dear, I ’ll have thee fellows? All are fellows there.180 Bell. Be greater than a king; save not a body, But from eternal shipwrack keep a soul. If not, and that again sin’s path I tread, The grief be mine, the guilt fall on thy head! Hip. Stay, and take physic for it; read this book,185 Ask counsel of this head, what ’s to be done; He ’ll strike it dead, that ’t is damnation If you turn Turk again. Oh, do it not! Though Heaven cannot allure you to do well, From doing ill let hell fright you; and learn this,190 The soul whose bosom lust did never touch, Is God’s fair bride, and maidens’ souls are such: The soul that leaving chastity’s white shore, Swims in hot sensual streams, is the devil’s whore.— Re-enter Servant [with letter]. How now, who comes?195

Hip. I ’ll meet the doctor, tell him; yet tonight I cannot: but at morrow rising sun205 I will not fail.—Go, woman; fare thee well. Exeunt [Hippolito and Servant]. Bell. The lowest fall can be but into hell; It does not move him: I must therefore fly From this undoing city, and with tears Wash off all anger from my father’s brow:210 He cannot sure but joy, seeing me new born. A woman honest first, and then turn whore, Is, as with me, common to thousands more;213 But from a strumpet to turn chaste, that sound Has oft been heard, that woman hardly found. Exit.