Act 2 — ACT II. SCENE I.

An apartment in Livia’s house.

Enter Hippolito and Livia.

Liv. A strange affection, brother! when I think on’t,

I wonder how thou cam’st by’t.

Hip. Even as easily

As man comes by destruction, which ofttimes

He wears in his own bosom.

Liv. Is the world

So populous in women, and creation

So prodigal in beauty, and so various,

Yet does love turn thy point to thine own blood?

’Tis somewhat too unkindly: must thy eye

Dwell evilly on the fairness of thy kindred,

538And seek not where it should? it is confin’d

Now in a narrower prison than was made for’t;

It is allow’d a stranger; and where bounty

Is made the great man’s honour, ’tis ill husbandry

To spare, and servants shall have small thanks for’t;

So he heaven’s bounty seems to scorn and mock

That spares free means, and spends of his own stock.

Hip. Ne’er was man’s misery so soon summ’d^[1025] up,

Counting how truly.

Liv. Nay, I love you so,

That I shall venture much to keep a change from you

So fearful as this grief will bring upon you;

Faith, it even kills me when I see you faint

Under a reprehension, and I'll leave it,

Though I know nothing can be better for you.

Prithee, sweet brother, let not passion waste

The goodness of thy time and of thy fortune:

Thou keep’st the treasure of that life I love

As dearly as mine own; and if you think

My former words too bitter, which were minister’d

By truth and zeal, ’tis but a hazarding

Of grace and virtue, and I can bring forth

As pleasant fruits as sensuality wishes

In all her teeming longings; this I can do.

Hip. O, nothing that can make my wishes perfect!

Liv. I would that love of yours were pawn’d to’t, brother,

And as soon lost that way as I could win!

Sir, I could give as shrewd a lift to chastity

As any she that wears a tongue in Florence;

Sh’ad need be a good horsewoman, and sit fast,

Whom my strong argument could not fling at last.

539Prithee, take courage, man; though I should counsel

Another to despair, yet I am pitiful

To thy afflictions, and will venture hard—

I will not name for what, it is not handsome;

Find you the proof, and praise me.

Hip. Then I fear me

I shall not praise you in haste.

Liv. This is the comfort,

You are not the first, brother, has attempted

Things more forbidden than this seems to be.

I'll minister all cordials now to you,

Because I'll cheer you up, sir.

Hip. I'm past hope.

Liv. Love, thou shalt see me do a strange cure then,

As e’er was wrought on a disease so mortal

And near akin to shame. When shall you see her?

Hip. Never in comfort more.

Liv. You’re so impatient too!

Hip. Will you believe? death, sh’as forsworn my company,

And seal’d it with a blush.

Liv. So, I perceive

All lies upon my hands then; well, the more glory

When the work’s finish’d.

Enter Servant.

How now, sir? the news?

Ser. Madam, your niece, the virtuous Isabella,

Is lighted now to see you.

Liv. That’s great fortune;

Sir, your stars bless you.—Simple, lead^[1026] her in.

[Exit Servant.

Hip. What’s this to me?

540Liv. Your absence, gentle brother;

I must bestir my wits for you.

Hip. Ay, to great purpose. [Exit.

Liv. Beshrew you, would I lov’d you not so well!

I'll go to bed, and leave this deed undone:

I am the fondest where I once affect;

The carefull’st of their healths and of their ease, forsooth,

That I look still but slenderly to mine own:

I take a course to pity him so much now,

That I've none left for modesty and myself.

This ’tis to grow so liberal: you’ve few sisters

That love their brothers' ease ’bove their own honesties;

But if you question my affections,

That will be found my fault.

Enter Isabella.

Niece, your love’s welcome.

Alas, what draws that paleness to thy cheeks?

This enforc’d marriage towards?^[1027]

Isa. It helps, good aunt,

Amongst some other griefs; but those I'll keep

Lock’d up in modest silence, for they’re sorrows

Would shame the tongue more than they grieve the thought.

Liv. Indeed, the Ward is simple.

Isa. Simple! that were well;

Why, one might make good shift with such a husband,

But he’s a fool entail’d, he halts downright in’t.

Liv. And knowing this, I hope ’tis at your choice

To take or refuse, niece.

Isa. You see it is not.

541I loathe him more than beauty can hate death,

Or age her spiteful neighbour.

Liv. Let ’t appear then.

Isa. How can I, being born with that obedience

That must submit unto a father’s will?

If he command, I must of force consent.

Liv. Alas, poor soul! be not offended, prithee,

If I set by the name of niece awhile,

And bring in pity in a stranger fashion;

It lies here in this breast would cross this match.

Isa. How! cross it, aunt?

Liv. Ay, and give thee more liberty

Than thou hast reason yet to apprehend.

Isa. Sweet aunt, in goodness keep not hid from me

What may befriend my life!

Liv. Yes, yes, I must;

When I return to reputation,

And think upon the solemn vow I made

To your dead mother, my most loving sister;

As long as I've her memory ’twixt mine eyelids,

Look for no pity now.

Isa. Kind, sweet, dear aunt——

Liv. No, ’twas a secret I've took special care of,

Deliver’d by your mother on her deathbed,

That’s nine years now, and I'll not part from’t yet,

Though ne’er was fitter time, nor greater cause for’t.

Isa. As you desire the praises of a virgin——

Liv. Good sorrow, I would do thee any kindness

Not wronging secrecy or reputation.

Isa. Neither of which, as I have hope of fruit[ful]ness,

Shall receive wrong from me.

Liv. Nay, ’twould be your own wrong

As much as any’s, should it come to that once.

542Isa. I need no better means to work persuasion then.

Liv. Let it suffice, you may refuse this fool,

Or you may take him, as you see occasion

For your advantage; the best wits will do’t;

You’ve liberty enough in your own will,

You cannot be enforc’d; there grows the flower,

If you could pick it out, makes whole life sweet to you.

That which you call your father’s command’s nothing,

Then your obedience must needs be as little:

If you can make shift here to taste your happiness,

Or pick out aught that likes^[1028] you, much good do you;

You see your cheer, I'll make you no set dinner.

Isa. And, trust me, I may starve for all the good

I can find yet in this: sweet aunt, deal plainlier.

Liv. Say I should trust you now upon an oath,

And give you, in a secret, that would start you,

How am I sure of you in faith and silence?

Isa. Equal assurance may I find in mercy

As you for that in me!

Liv. It shall suffice:

Then know, however custom has made good,

For reputation’s sake, the names of niece

And aunt ’twixt you and I, we’re nothing less.

Isa. How’s that?

Liv. I told you I should start your blood:

You are no more allied to any of us,

Save what the courtesy of opinion casts

Upon your mother’s memory and your name,

Than the merest stranger is, or one begot

At Naples when the husband lies at Rome;

543There’s so much odds betwixt us. Since your knowledge

Wish’d more instruction, and I have your oath

In pledge for silence, it makes me talk the freelier.

Did never the report of that fam’d Spaniard,

Marquis of Coria, since your time was ripe

For understanding, fill your ear with wonder?

Isa. Yes; what of him? I've heard his deeds of honour

Often related when we liv’d in Naples.

Liv. You heard the praises of your father then.

Isa. My father!

Liv. That was he; but all the business

So carefully and so discreetly carried,

That fame receiv’d no spot by’t, not a blemish;

Your mother was so wary to her end,

None knew it but her conscience and her friend,

Till penitent confession made it mine,

And now my pity yours, it had been long else;

And I hope care and love alike in you,

Made good by oath, will see it take no wrong now.

How weak his commands now whom you call father!

How vain all his enforcements, your obedience!

And what a largeness in your will and liberty,

To take, or to reject, or to do both!

For fools will serve to father wise men’s children:

All this you’ve time to think on. O my wench,

Nothing o’erthrows our sex but indiscretion!

We might do well else of a brittle people

As any under the great canopy:

I pray, forget not but to call me aunt still;

Take heed of that; it may be mark’d in time else:

But keep your thoughts to yourself, from all the world,

Kindred, or dearest friend; nay, I entreat you,

544From him that all this while you have call’d uncle;

And though you love him dearly, as I know

His deserts claim as much even from a stranger,

Yet let not him know this, I prithee, do not;

As ever thou hast hope of second pity,

If thou shouldst stand in need on’t, do not do’t.

Isa. Believe my oath, I will not.

Liv. Why, well said.—

Who shews more craft t' undo a maidenhead,

I'll resign my part to her. [Aside.

Enter Hippolito.

She’s thine own; go.

Hip. Alas, fair flattery cannot cure my sorrows! [Exit Livia.

Isa. Have I past so much time in ignorance,

And never had the means to know myself

Till this bless’d hour? thanks to her virtuous pity

That brought it now to light; would I had known it

But one day sooner! he had then receiv’d

In favours, what, poor gentleman, he took

In bitter words; a slight and harsh reward

For one of his deserts. [Aside.

Hip. There seems to me now

More anger and distraction in her looks:

I'm gone; I'll not endure a second storm,

The memory of the first is not past yet. [Aside.

Isa. Are you return’d, you comforts of my life,

In this man’s presence? I will keep you fast now,

And sooner part eternally from the world

Than my good joys in you. [Aside.]—Prithee, forgive me,

I did but chide in jest; the best loves use it

Sometimes, it sets an edge upon affection:

When we invite our best friends to a feast,

’Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before them;

545There’s somewhat sharp and salt, both to whet appetite

And make ’em taste their wine well; so, methinks,

After a friendly, sharp, and savoury chiding,

A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape;

How think’st thou? does ’t not? [Kisses him.

Hip. ’Tis so excellent,

I know not how to praise it, what to say to’t!

Isa. This marriage shall go forward.

Hip. With the Ward?

Are you in earnest?

Isa. ’Twould be ill for us else.

Hip. For us! how means she that? [Aside.

Isa. Troth, I begin

To be so well, methinks, within this hour,

For all this match able to kill one’s heart,

Nothing can pull me down now; should my father

Provide a worse fool yet—which I should think

Were a hard thing to compass—I'd have him either;

The worse the better, none can come amiss now,

If he want wit enough; so discretion love me,

Desert and judgment, I've content sufficient.

She that comes once to be a housekeeper

Must not look every day to fare well, sir,

Like a young waiting-gentlewoman in service,

For she feeds commonly as her lady does,

No good bit passes her but she gets a taste on’t;

But when she comes to keep house for herself,

She’s glad of some choice cates then once a-week,

Or twice at most, and glad if she can get ’em;

So must affection learn to fare with thankfulness:

Pray, make your love no stranger, sir, that’s all,—

Though you be one yourself, and know not on’t,

And I have sworn you must not. [Aside, and exit.

Hip. This is beyond me!

Never came joys so unexpectedly

546To meet desires in man: how came she thus?

What has she done to her, can any tell?

’Tis beyond sorcery this, drugs, or love-powders;

Some art that has no name, sure; strange to me

Of all the wonders I e’er met withal

Throughout my ten years' travels; but I'm thankful for’t.

This marriage now must of necessity forward;

It is the only veil wit can devise

To keep our acts hid from sin-piercing eyes. [Exit.