Act 3 — ACT III. SCENE I.
Reading edition
A street.
Enter Roderigo disguised as an Italian.
Rod. A thousand stings are in me: O, what vild[258] prisons
Make we our bodies to our immortal souls!
Brave tenants to bad houses; ’tis a dear rent
They pay for naughty lodging: the soul, the mistress;
The body, the caroch that carries her;
Sins the swift wheels that hurry her away;
Our will, the coachman rashly driving on,
Till coach and carriage both are quite o’erthrown.
My body yet ’scapes bruises; that known thief
Is not yet call’d to th' bar: there’s no true sense
Of pain but what the law of conscience
Condemns us to; I feel that. Who would lose
A kingdom for a cottage? an estate
Of perpetuity for a man’s life
For annuity of that life, pleasure? a spark
To those celestial fires that burn about[259] us;
A painted star to that bright firmament
Of constellations which each night are set
Lighting our way; yet thither how few get!
How many thousand in Madrill[260] drink off
The cup of lust, and laughing, in one month,
Not whining as I do! Should this sad lady
Now meet me, do I know her? should this temple,
By me profan’d, lie in the ruins here,
138The pieces would scarce shew her me: would they did!
She’s mistress to Don Louis; by his steps,
And this disguise, I'll find her. To Salamanca
Thy father thinks thou’rt gone; no, close here stay;
Where’er thou travell’st, scorpions stop thy way.
Who are[261] these?
Enter Sancho and Soto disguised as gipsies.
San. Soto, how do I shew?
Soto. Like a rusty armour new scoured; but, master, how shew I?
San. Like an ass with a new piebald saddle on his back.
Soto. If the devil were a tailor, he would scarce know us in these gaberdines.[262]
San. If a tailor were the devil, I'd not give a louse for him, if he should bring up this fashion amongst gentlemen, and make it common.
Rod. The freshness of the morning be upon you both!
San. The saltness of the evening be upon you single!
Rod. Be not displeas’d, that I abruptly thus
Break in upon your favours; your strange habits
Invite me with desire to understand
Both what you are and whence, because no country—
And I have measur’d some—shew[s] me your like.
Soto. Our like? no, we should be sorry we or our clothes should be like fish, new, stale, and stinking in three days.
San. If you ask whence we are, we are Egyptian 139Spaniards; if what we are, ut, re, mi, fa, sol, jugglers, tumblers, any thing, any where, every where.
Rod. A good fate hither leads me by the hand.—
[Aside.
Your quality I love; the scenical school
Has been my tutor long in Italy,
For that’s my country; there have I put on
Sometimes the shape of a comedian,
And now and then some other.
San. A player! a brother of the tiring-house![263]
Soto. A bird of the same feather!
San. Welcome! wu’t turn gipsy?
Rod. I can nor dance nor sing; but if my pen
From my invention can strike music-tunes,
My head and brains are yours.
Soto. A calf’s head and brains were better for my stomach.
San. A rib of poetry!
Soto. A modicum of the Muses! a horse-shoe of Helicon!
San. A magpie of Parnassus! welcome again! I am a firebrand of Phœbus myself; we’ll invoke together, so you will not steal my plot.
Rod. ’Tis not my fashion.
San. But now-a-days ’tis all the fashion.
Soto. What was the last thing you writ? a comedy?
Rod. No; ’twas a sad, too sad a tragedy.
Under these eaves I'll shelter me.
San. See, here comes our company; do our tops[264] spin as you would have ’em?
Soto. If not, whip us round.
140Enter Alvarez, Guiamara, Constanza, Christiana, Carlo, Antonio, and others, disguised as before.
San. I sent you a letter to tell you we were upon a march.
Alv. And you are welcome.—Yet these fools will trouble us!
[Aside.
Gui. Rich fools shall buy our trouble.
San. Hang lands! it’s nothing but trees, stones, and dirt. Old father, I have gold to keep up our stock. Precious Pretiosa, for whose sake I have thus transformed myself out of a gentleman into a gipsy, thou shalt not want sweet rhymes, my little musk-cat; for besides myself, here’s an Italian poet, on whom I pray throw your welcomes.
Alv. Gui., &c.[265] He’s welcome!
Const. Sir, you’re most welcome; I love a poet,
So he writes chastely; if your pen can sell me
Any smooth quaint romances, which I may sing,
You shall have bays and silver.
Rod. Pretty heart, no selling;
What comes from me is free.
San. And me too.
Alv. We shall be glad to use you, sir: our sports
Must be an orchard, bearing several trees,
And fruits of several taste; one pleasure dulls.
A time may come when we, besides these pastimes,
May from the grandees[266] and the dons of Spain
Have leave to try our skill even on the stage,
And then your wits may help us.
San. And mine too.
Rod. They are your servants.
141Const. Trip softly through the streets till we arrive,
You know at whose house, father.
San. [sings[267]]
Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine,
Shew tricks and lofty capers;
At threading-needles[268] we repine,
And leaping over rapiers:
Pindy pandy rascal toys!
We scorn cutting purses;
Though we live by making noise,
For cheating none can curse us.
Over high ways, over low,
And over stones and gravel,
Though we trip it on the toe,
And thus for silver travel;
Though our dances waste our backs,
At night fat capons mend them,
Eggs well brew’d in butter’d sack
Our wenches say befriend them.
O that all the world were mad!
Then should we have fine dancing;
Hobby-horses would be had,
And brave girls keep a-prancing;
Beggars would on cock-horse ride,
And boobies fall a-roaring,
And cuckolds, though no horns be spied,
Be one another goring.
Welcome, poet, to our ging![269]
Make rhymes, we’ll give thee reason,
142 Canary bees thy brains shall sting,
Mull-sack[270] did ne’er speak treason;
And malaga glasses fox[273] thee;
If, poet, thou toss not bowl for bowl,
Thou shalt not kiss a doxy. [Exeunt.