Act 1 — ACT I. SCENE I.

An outer room in the house of Leantio’s Mother.

Enter Leantio, Bianca, and Mother.

Moth. Thy sight was never yet more precious to me;

Welcome, with all th' affection of a mother,

That comfort can express from natural love!

Since thy birth-joy—a mother’s chiefest gladness,

After sh’as undergone her curse of sorrows—

Thou wast not more dear to me than this hour

Presents thee to my heart: welcome again!

Lean. ’Las, poor affectionate soul, how her joys speak to me!

I have observ’d it often, and I know it is

The fortune commonly of knavish children

To have the loving’st mothers. [Aside.

Moth. What’s this gentlewoman?

Lean. O, you have nam’d the most unvalu’dst^[1010] purchase

That youth of man had ever knowledge of!

As often as I look upon that treasure,

And know it to be mine—there lies the blessing—

It joys me that I ever was ordain’d

518To have a being, and to live ’mongst men;

Which is a fearful living, and a poor one,

Let a man truly think on’t:

To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years

Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots;

Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers,

When even the very sheets they commit sin in

May prove, for aught they know, all their last garments.

O what a mark were there for women then!

But beauty, able to content a conqueror

Whom earth could scarce content, keeps me in compass:

I find no wish in me bent sinfully

To this man’s sister, or to that man’s wife;

In love’s name let ’em keep their honesties,

And cleave to their own husbands,—tis their duties:

Now when I go to church I can pray handsomely,

Nor come like gallants only to see faces,

As if lust went to market still on Sundays.

I must confess I'm guilty of one sin, mother,

More than I brought into the world with me,

But that I glory in; ’tis theft, but noble

As ever greatness yet shot up withal.

Moth. How’s that?

Lean. Never to be repented, mother,

Though sin be death; I had died, if I had not sinn’d;

And here’s my masterpiece; do you now behold her!

Look on her well, she’s mine; look on her better;

Now say if’t be not the best piece of theft

That ever was committed? and I've my pardon for’t,—

’Tis seal’d from heaven by marriage.

Moth. Married to her!

519Lean. You must keep counsel, mother, I'm undone else;

If it be known, I've lost her; do but think now

What that loss is,—life’s but a trifle to’t.

From Venice, her consent and I have brought her

From parents great in wealth, more now in rage;

But let storms spend their furies; now we’ve got

A shelter o’er our quiet innocent loves,

We are contented: little money sh’as brought me;

View but her face, you may see all her dowry,

Save that which lies lock’d up in hidden virtues,

Like jewels kept in cabinets.

Moth. You’re to blame,

If your obedience will give way to a check,

To wrong such a perfection.

Lean. How?

Moth. Such a creature,

To draw her from her fortune, which, no doubt,

At the full time might have prov’d rich and noble;

You know not what you’ve done; my life can give you

But little helps, and my death lesser hopes;

And hitherto your own means has but made shift

To keep you single, and that hardly too:

What ableness have you to do her right then

In maintenance fitting her birth and virtues?

Which every woman of necessity looks for,

And most to go above it, not confin’d

By their conditions, virtues, bloods, or births,

But flowing to affections, wills, and humours.

Lean. Speak low, sweet mother; you’re able to spoil as many

As come within the hearing; if it be not

Your fortune to mar all, I have much marvel.

I pray do not you teach her to rebel,

When she is in a good way to obedience;

520To rise with other women in commotion

Against their husbands for six gowns a-year,

And so maintain their cause, when they’re once up,

In all things else that require cost enough.

They’re all of ’em a kind of spirits soon rais’d,

But not so soon laid, mother; as, for example,

A woman’s belly is got up in a trice,—

A simple charge ere’t be laid down again:

So ever in all their quarrels and their courses;

And I'm a proud man I hear nothing of ’em,

They’re very still, I thank my happiness,

And sound asleep, pray let not your tongue wake ’em:

If you can but rest quiet, she’s contented

With all conditions that my fortunes bring her to;

To keep close, as a wife that loves her husband;

To go after the rate of my ability,

Not the licentious swing of her own will,

Like some of her old school-fellows; she intends

To take out other works in a new sampler,

And frame the fashion of an honest love,

Which knows no wants, but, mocking poverty,

Brings forth more children, to make rich men wonder

At divine providence, that feeds mouths of infants,

And sends them none to feed, but stuffs their rooms

With fruitful bags, their beds with barren wombs.

Good mother, make not you things worse than they are

Out of your too much openness; pray take heed on’t,

Nor imitate the envy of old people,

That strive to mar good sport because they’re perfect:

I would have you more pitiful to youth,

Especially to your own flesh and blood.

521I'll prove an excellent husband, here’s my hand,

Lay in provision, follow my business roundly,

And make you a grandmother in forty weeks.

Go, pray salute her, bid her welcome cheerfully.

Moth. [saluting Bianca] Gentlewoman, thus much is a debt of courtesy,

Which fashionable strangers pay each other

At a kind meeting: then there’s more than one

Due to the knowledge I have of your nearness;

I'm bold to come again, and now salute you

By the name of daughter, which may challenge more

Than ordinary respect.

Lean. Why, this is well now,

And I think few mothers of threescore will mend it. [Aside.

Moth. What I can bid you welcome to, is mean,

But make it all your own; we’re full of wants,

And cannot welcome worth.

Lean. Now this is scurvy,

And spoke^[1011] as if a woman lack’d her teeth;

These old folks talk of nothing but defects,

Because they grow so full of ’em themselves. [Aside.

Bian. Kind mother, there is nothing can be wanting

To her that does enjoy all her desires:

Heaven send a quiet peace with this man’s love,

And I'm as rich as virtue can be poor,

Which were enough after the rate of mind

To erect temples for content plac’d here.

I have forsook friends, fortunes, and my country,

And hourly I rejoice in’t. Here’s my friends,

And few is the good number.—Thy successes,

Howe’er they look, I will still name my fortunes;

522Hopeful or spiteful, they shall all be welcome:

Who invites many guests has of all sorts,

As he that traffics much drinks of all fortunes,

Yet they must all be welcome, and us’d well.

I'll call this place the place of my birth now,

And rightly too, for here my love was born,

And that’s the birthday of a woman’s joys.

You have not bid me welcome since I came.

Lean. That I did questionless.

Bian. No, sure—how was’t?

I've quite forgot it.

Lean. Thus. [Kisses her.

Bian. O, sir,’tis true,

Now I remember well; I've done thee wrong,

Pray take’t again, sir. [Kisses him.

Lean. How many of these wrongs

Could I put up in an hour, and turn up the glass

For twice as many more!

Moth. Will’t please you to walk in, daughter?

Bian. Thanks, sweet mother;

The voice of her that bare me is not more pleasing.

[Exit with Mother.

Lean. Though my own care and my rich master’s trust

Lay their commands both on my factorship,

This day and night I'll know no other business

But her and her dear welcome. ’Tis a bitterness

To think upon to-morrow! that I must leave

Her still to the sweet hopes of the week’s end;

That pleasure should be so restrain’d and curb’d

After the course of a rich work-master,

That never pays till Saturday night! marry,

It comes together in a round sum then,

And does more good, you’ll say. O fair-ey’d Florence,

Didst thou but know what a most matchless jewel

523Thou now art mistress of, a pride would take thee,

Able to shoot destruction through the bloods

Of all thy youthful sons! but ’tis great policy

To keep choice treasures in obscurest places;

Should we shew thieves our wealth, ’twould make ’em bolder;

Temptation is a devil will not stick

To fasten upon a saint; take heed of that:

The jewel is cas’d up from all men’s eyes;

Who could imagine now a gem were kept

Of that great value under this plain roof?

But how in times of absence? what assurance

Of this restraint then? Yes, yes, there’s one with her:

Old mothers know the world; and such as these,

When sons lock chests, are good to look to keys.

[Exit.