Act 3 — ACT III. SCENE I.
Reading edition
A room in the house of Leantio’s Mother.
Enter Mother.
Moth. I would my son would either keep at home,
Or I were in my grave!
She was but one day abroad, but ever since
She’s grown so cutted,[1044] there’s no speaking to her:
Whether the sight of great cheer at my lady’s,
And such mean fare at home, work discontent in her,
I know not; but I'm sure she’s strangely alter’d.
I'll ne’er keep daughter-in-law i' th' house with me
Again,if I had an hundred: when read I of any
567That agreed long together, but she and her mother
Fell out in the first quarter? nay, sometime
So takes the new disease, methinks, in my house:
I'm weary of my part; there’s nothing likes[1047] her;
I know not how to please her here a' late:
And here she comes.
Enter Bianca.
Bian. This is the strangest house
For all defects as ever gentlewoman
Made shift withal to pass away her love in:
Why is there not a cushion-cloth of drawn-work,
Or some fair cut-work pinn’d up in my bed-chamber,
A silver and gilt casting-bottle[1048] hung by’t?—
Nay, since I am content to be so kind to you,
To spare you for a silver basin and ewer,
Which one of my fashion looks for of duty;
She’s never offer’d under where she sleeps.
Moth. She talks of things here my whole state’s not worth.
Bian. Never a green silk quilt is there i' th' house, mother,
To cast upon my bed?
Moth. No, by troth, is there,
Nor orange-tawny neither.
Bian. Here’s a house
For a young gentlewoman to be got with child in!
Moth. Yes, simple though you make it, there has been three
Got in a year in’t, since you move me to’t,
And all as sweet-fac’d children and as lovely
As you’ll be mother of: I will not spare you:
568What, cannot children be begot, think you,
Without gilt casting-bottles? yes, and as sweet ones:
The miller’s daughter brings forth as white boys[1049]
As she that bathes herself with milk and bean-flour:
’Tis an old saying, One may keep good cheer
In a mean house; so may true love affect
After the rate of princes in a cottage.
Bian. Troth, you speak wondrous well for your old house here;
'Twill shortly fall down at your feet to thank you,
Or stoop, when you go to bed, like a good child,
To ask you blessing. Must I live in want
Because my fortune match’d me with your son?
Wives do not give away themselves to husbands
To the end to be quite cast away; they look
To be the better us’d and tender’d rather,
Highlier respected, and maintain’d the richer;
They’re well rewarded else for the free gift
Of their whole life to a husband! I ask less now
Than what I had at home when I was a maid,
And at my father’s house; kept short of that
Which a wife knows she must have, nay, and will—
Will, mother, if she be not a fool born;
And report went of me, that I could wrangle
For what I wanted when I was two hours old;
And, by that copy, this land still I hold:
You hear me, mother. [Exit.
Moth. Ay, too plain, methinks;
And were I somewhat deafer when you spake,
'Twere ne’er a whit the worse for my quietness.
569’Tis the most sudden’st, strangest alteration,
And the most subtlest, that e’er wit at threescore
Was puzzled to find out: I know no cause for’t; but
She’s no more like the gentlewoman at first,
Than I'm like her that never lay with man yet,—
And she’s a very young thing, where’er she be.
When she first lighted here, I told her then
How mean she should find all things; she was pleas’d, forsooth,
None better: I laid open all defects to her,
She was contented still; but the devil’s in her,
Nothing contents her now. To-night my son
Promis’d to be at home; would he were come once,
For I am weary of my charge, and life too!
She’d be serv’d all in silver, by her good will,
By night and day; she hates the name of pewterer
More than sick men the noise, or diseas’d bones
That quake at fall o' th' hammer, seeming to have
A fellow-feeling with’t at every blow.
What course shall I think on? she frets me so! [Exit.
Enter Leantio.
Lean. How near am I now to a happiness
That earth exceeds not! not another like it:
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal’d comforts of a man
Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house:
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch-side.
570When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet,
Sparkling in beauty and destruction too,
Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight
Her beautified body to a goodly temple
That’s built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting;
And so, by little and little, I shrink back again,
And quench desire with a cool meditation;
And I'm as well, methinks. Now for a welcome
Able to draw men’s envies upon man;
A kiss now, that will hang upon my lip
As sweet as morning-dew upon a rose,
And full as long; after a five-days' fast
She’ll be so greedy now, and cling about me,
I take care how I shall be rid of her:
And here’t begins.
Re-enter Bianca and Mother.
Bian. O sir, you’re welcome home!
Moth. O, is he come? I'm glad on’t.
Lean. Is that all?
Why, this is[1050] dreadful now as sudden death
To some rich man, that flatters all his sins
With promise of repentance when he’s old,
And dies in the midway before he comes to’t.— [Aside.
Sure you’re not well, Bianca; how dost, prithee?
Bian. I have been better than I am at this time.
Lean. Alas, I thought so!
Bian. Nay, I've been worse too
Than now you see me, sir.
Lean. I'm glad thou mend’st yet,
I feel my heart mend too: how came it to thee?
Has any thing dislik’d[1051] thee in my absence?
571Bian. No, certain; I have had the best content
That Florence can afford.
Lean. Thou mak’st the best on’t.—
Speak, mother; what’s the cause? you must needs know.
Moth. Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;
Unless it be the same gave Lucifer
A tumbling cast,—that’s pride.
Bian. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind;
I'd have some pleasant lodging i' th' high street, sir;
Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better:
’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman
To stand in a bay-window and see gallants.
Lean. Now I've another temper, a mere stranger
To that of yours, it seems; I should delight
To see none but yourself.
Bian. I praise not that;
Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish:
I would not have a husband of that proneness
To kiss me before company for a world;
Beside, ’tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,
Be it the best that ever heart affected;
Nay, were’t yourself, whose love had power, you know,
To bring me from my friends, I'd not stand thus
And gaze upon you always, troth, I could not, sir;
As good be blind and have no use of sight,
As look on one thing still: what’s the eye’s treasure
But change of objects? you are learnèd, sir,
And know I speak not ill: ’tis[1052] full as virtuous
572For woman’s eye to look on several men,
As for her heart, sir, to be fix’d on one.
Lean. Now thou com’st home to me; a kiss for that word.
Bian. No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;
’Tis but a toy, we’ll not so much as mind it;
Let’s talk of other business, and forget it.
What news now of the pirates? any stirring?
Prithee, discourse a little.
Moth. I'm glad he’s here yet,
To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously
If I had told ’em first. [Aside.
Lean. Speak, what’s the humour, sweet,
You make your lip so strange? this was not wont.
Bian. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife,
Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,
And be still billing? ’tis the idlest fondness
That ever was invented, and ’tis pity
It’s grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen;
There’s many a disease kiss’d in a year by’t,
And a French cur[t]sy made to’t: alas, sir!
Think of the world, how we shall live; grow serious;
We have been married a whole fortnight now.
Lean. How? a whole fortnight! why, is that so long?
Bian. ’Tis time to leave off dalliance; ’tis a doctrine
Of your own teaching, if you be remember’d;
And I was bound to obey it.
Moth. Here’s one fits him;
This was well catch’d, i’faith, son; like a fellow
That rids another country of a plague,
And brings it home with him to his own house.
[Aside.—Knocking within.
Who knocks?
573Lean. Who’s there now?—Withdraw you, Bianca;
Thou art a gem no stranger’s eye must see,
Howe’er thou['rt] pleas’d now to look dull on me.—
[Exit Bianca.
Enter Messenger.
You’re welcome, sir; to whom your business, pray?
Mess. To one I see not here now.
Lean. Who should that be, sir?
Mess. A young gentlewoman I was sent to.
Lean. A young gentlewoman?
Mess. Ay, sir, about sixteen: why look you wildly, sir?
Lean. At your strange error; you’ve mistook the house, sir;
There’s none such here, I assure you.
Mess. I assure you too
The man that sent me cannot be mistook.
Lean. Why, who is’t sent you, sir?
Mess. The Duke.
Lean. The Duke?
Mess. Yes; he entreats her company at a banquet
At lady Livia’s house.
Lean. Troth, shall I tell you, sir,
It is the most erroneous business
That e’er your honest pains was abus’d with;
I pray, forgive me if I smile a little,
I cannot choose, i’faith, sir, at an error
So comical as this,—I mean no harm though:
His grace has been most wondrous ill inform’d;
Pray, so return it, sir. What should her name be?
Mess. That I shall tell you straight too—Bianca Capello.[1053]
574Lean. How, sir? Bianca? what do you call th' other?
Mess. Capello. Sir, it seems you know no such then?
Lean. Who should this be? I never heard o' the name.
Mess. Then ’tis a sure mistake.
Lean. What if you inquir’d
In the next street, sir? I saw gallants there
In the new houses that are built of late;
Ten to one there you find her.
Mess. Nay, no matter;
I will return the mistake, and seek no further.
Lean. Use your own will and pleasure, sir, you’re welcome.
[Exit Messenger.
What shall I think of first?—Come forth, Bianca!
Re-enter Bianca.
Thou art betray’d, I fear me.
Bian. Betray’d! how, sir?
Lean. The Duke knows thee.
Bian. Knows me! how know you that, sir?
Lean. Has got thy name.
Bian. Ay, and my good name too,
That’s worse o' the twain. [Aside.
Lean. How comes this work about?
Bian. How should the Duke know me? can you guess, mother?
Moth. Not I, with all my wits; sure we kept house close.
Lean. Kept close! not all the locks in Italy
Can keep you women so; you have been gadding,
And ventur’d out at twilight to the court-green yonder,
And met the gallant bowlers coming home;
575Without your masks too, both of you, I'll be hang’d else:
Thou hast been seen, Bianca, by some stranger;
Never excuse it.
Bian. I'll not seek the way, sir;
Do you think you’ve married me to mew me up,
Not to be seen? what would you make of me?
Lean. A good wife, nothing else.
Bian. Why, so are some
That are seen every day, else the devil take ’em.
Lean. No more, then; I believe all virtuous in thee,
Without an argument; ’twas but thy hard chance
To be seen somewhere, there lies all the mischief:
But I've devis’d a riddance.
Moth. Now I can tell you, son,
The time and place.
Lean. When? where?
Moth. What wits have I!
When you last took your leave, if you remember,
You left us both at window.
Lean. Right, I know that.
Moth. And not the third part of an hour after,
The Duke pass’d by, in a great solemnity,
To St. Mark’s temple, and, to my apprehension,
He look’d up twice to the window.
Lean. O, there quicken’d
The mischief of this hour!
Bian. If you call’t mischief,
It is a thing I fear I am conceiv’d with. [Aside.
Lean. Look’d he up twice, and could you take no warning?
Moth. Why, once may do as much harm, son, as a thousand;
Do not you know one spark has fir’d an house
As well as a whole furnace?
576Lean. My heart flames for’t:
Yet let’s be wise, and keep all smother’d closely;
I have bethought a means: is the door fast?
Moth. I lock’d it myself after him.
Lean. You know, mother,
At the end of the dark parlour there’s a place
So artificially contriv’d for a conveyance,
No search could ever find it; when my father
Kept in for manslaughter, it was his sanctuary;
There will I lock my life’s best treasure up,
Bianca.
Bian. Would you keep me closer yet?
Have you the conscience? you’re best e’en choke me up, sir:
You make me fearful of your health and wits,
You cleave to such wild courses; what’s the matter?
Lean. Why, are you so insensible of your danger
To ask that now? the Duke himself has sent for you
To lady Livia’s to a banquet, forsooth.
Bian. Now I beshrew you heartily, has he so!
And you the man would never yet vouchsafe
To tell me on’t till now? you shew your loyalty
And honesty at once; and so farewell, sir.
Lean. Bianca, whither now?
Bian. Why, to the Duke, sir;
You say he sent for me.
Lean. But thou dost not mean
To go, I hope.
Bian. No? I shall prove unmannerly,
Rude, and uncivil, mad, and imitate you!—
Come, mother, come, follow his humour no longer;
We shall be all executed for treason shortly.
Moth. Not I, i’faith; I'll first obey the Duke,
And taste of a good banquet; I'm of thy mind:
577I'll step but up and fetch two handkerchiefs
To pocket up some sweetmeats, and o’ertake thee. [Exit.
Bian. Why, here’s an old wench would trot into a bawd now
Lean. O thou, the ripe time of man’s misery, wedlock,
When all his thoughts, like overladen trees,
Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in jealousies!
O, that’s a fruit that ripens hastily,
After ’tis knit to marriage! it begins,
As soon as the sun shines upon the bride,
A little to shew colour. Blessèd powers,
Whence comes this alteration? the distractions,
The fears and doubts it brings, are numberless;
And yet the cause I know not. What a peace
Has he that never marries! if he knew
The benefit he enjoy’d, or had the fortune
To come and speak with me, he should know then
Th' infinite wealth he had, and discern rightly
The greatness of his treasure by my loss:
Nay, what a quietness has he ’bove mine
That wears his youth out in a strumpet’s arms,
And never spends more care upon a woman
Than at the time of lust; but walks away;
And if he find her dead at his return,
His pity is soon done,—he breaks a sigh
In many parts, and gives her but a piece on’t:
But all the fears, shames, jealousies, costs and troubles,
578And still renew’d cares of a marriage-bed,
Live in the issue, when the wife is dead.
Re-enter Messenger.
Mess. A good perfection to your thoughts!
Lean. The news, sir?
Mess. Though you were pleas’d of late to pin an error on me,
You must not shift another in your stead too:
The Duke has sent me for you.
Lean. How! for me, sir?—
I see then ’tis my theft; we’re both betray’d:
Well, I'm not the first has stol’n away a maid;
My countrymen have us’d it. [Aside.]—I'll along with you, sir. [Exeunt.