Act 4 — ACT IV. SCENE I.

Bianca’s lodging at Court.

Enter Bianca, attended by two Ladies.

Bian. How go^[1088] your watches, ladies? what’s a’clock now?

First L. By mine, full nine.

600Sec. L. By mine, a quarter past.

First L. I set mine by St. Mark’s.

Sec. L. St. Anthony’s, they say,

Goes truer.

First L. That’s but your opinion, madam,

Because you love a gentleman o' the name.

Sec. L. He’s a true gentleman then.

First L. So may he be

That comes to me to-night, for aught you know.

Bian. I'll end this strife straight: I set mine by the sun;

I love to set by the best, one shall not then

Be troubled to set often.

Sec. L. You do wisely in’t.

Bian. If I should set my watch, as some girls do,

By every clock i' the town, ’twould ne’er go true;

And too much turning of the dial’s point,

Or tampering with the spring, might in small time

Spoil the whole work too; here it wants of nine now.

First L. It does indeed, forsooth; mine’s nearest truth yet.

Sec. L. Yet I've found her lying with an advocate, which shew’d

Like two false clocks together in one parish.

Bian. So now I thank you, ladies; I desire

Awhile to be alone.

First L. And I am nobody,

Methinks, unless I've one or other with me.—

Faith, my desire and hers will ne’er be sisters.

[Aside.—Exeunt Ladies.

Bian. How strangely woman’s fortune comes about!

This was the farthest way to come to me,

All would have judg’d that knew me born in Venice,

And there with many jealous eyes brought up,

601That never thought they had me sure enough

But when they were upon me; yet my hap

To meet it here, so far off from my birth-place,

My friends, or kindred! ’tis not good, in sadness,^[1089]

To keep a maid so strict in her young days;

Restraint

Breeds wandering thoughts, as many fasting days

A great desire to see flesh stirring again:

I'll ne’er use any girl of mine so strictly;

Howe’er they’re kept, their fortunes find ’em out;

I see’t in me: if they be got in court,

I'll ne’er forbid ’em the country; nor the court,

Though they be born i' the country: they will come to’t,

And fetch their falls a thousand mile about,

Where one would little think on’t.

Enter Leantio, richly dressed.

Lean. I long to see how my despiser looks

Now she’s come here to court: these are her lodgings;

She’s simply now advanc’d: I took her out

Of no such window, I remember, first;

That was a great deal lower, and less carv’d.

[Aside.

Bian. How now! what silkworm’s this, i' the name of pride?

What, is it he?

Lean. A bow i' th' ham to your greatness;

You must have now three legs,^[1090] I take it, must you not?

Bian. Then I must take another, I shall want else

The service I should have; you have but two there.

Lean. You’re richly plac’d.

602Bian. Methinks you’re wondrous brave,^[1091] sir.

Lean. A sumptuous lodging.

Bian. You’ve an excellent suit there.

Lean. A chair of velvet.

Bian. Is your cloak lin’d through, sir?

Lean. You’re very stately here.

Bian. Faith, something proud, sir.

Lean. Stay, stay, let’s see your cloth-of-silver slippers.

Bian. Who’s your shoemaker? has made you a neat boot.

Lean. Will you^[1092] have a pair?

The Duke will lend you spurs.

Bian. Yes, when I ride.

Lean. ’Tis a brave life you lead.

Bian. I could ne’er see you

In such good clothes in my time.

Lean. In your time?

Bian. Sure I think, sir,

We both thrive best asunder.

Lean. You’re a whore!

Bian. Fear nothing, sir.

Lean. An impudent, spiteful strumpet!

Bian. O, sir, you give me thanks for your captainship!

I thought you had forgot all your good manners.

Lean. And, to spite thee as much, look there; there read,

[Giving letter.

Vex, gnaw; thou shalt find there I'm not love-starv’d.

The world was never yet so cold or pitiless,

But there was ever still more charity found out

603Than at one proud fool’s door; and ’twere hard, faith,

If I could not pass that. Read to thy shame there;

A cheerful and a beauteous benefactor too,

As e’er erected the good works of love.

Bian. Lady Livia!

Is’t possible? her worship was my pandress;

She dote, and send, and give, and all to him!

Why, here’s a bawd plagu’d home! [Aside.]—You’re simply happy, sir;

Yet I'll not envy you.

Lean. No, court-saint, not thou!

You keep some friend of a new fashion;

There’s no harm in your devil, he’s a suckling,

But he will breed teeth shortly, will he not?

Bian. Take heed you play not then too long with him.

Lean. Yes, and the great one too: I shall find time

To play a hot religious bout with some of you,

And, perhaps, drive you and your course of sins

To their eternal kennels. I speak softly now,

’Tis manners in a noble woman’s lodgings,

And I well know^[1093] all my degrees of duty;

But come I to your everlasting parting once,

Thunder shall seem soft music to that tempest.

Bian. ’Twas said last week there would be change of weather,

When the moon hung so, and belike you heard it.

Lean. Why, here’s sin made, and ne’er a conscience put to’t,—

A monster with all forehead and no eyes!

Why do I talk to thee of sense or virtue,

That art as dark as death? and as much madness

To set light before thee, as to lead blind folks

604To see the monuments, which they may smell as soon

As they behold,—marry, ofttimes their heads,

For want of light, may feel the hardness of ’em;

So shall thy blind pride my revenge and anger,

That canst not see it now; and it may fall

At such an hour when thou least seest of all:

So, to an ignorance darker than thy womb

I leave thy perjur’d soul; a plague will come!

[Exit.

Bian. Get you gone first, and then I fear no greater;

Nor thee will I fear long; I'll have this sauciness

Soon banish’d from these lodgings, and the rooms

Perfum’d well after the corrupt air it leaves:

His breath has made me almost sick, in troth;

A poor, base start-up! life, because has got

Fair clothes by foul means, comes to rail and shew ’em!

Enter the Duke.

Duke. Who’s that?

Bian. Cry you mercy, sir!

Duke. Prithee, who’s that?

Bian. The former thing, my lord, to whom you gave

The captainship; he eats his meat with grudging still.

Duke. Still?

Bian. He comes vaunting here of his new love,

And the new clothes she gave him, lady Livia;

Who but she now his mistress!

Duke. Lady Livia?

Be sure of what you say.

Bian. He shew’d me her name, sir,

In perfum’d paper, her vows, her letter,

With an intent to spite me; so his heart said,

And his threats made it good; they were as spiteful

605As ever malice utter’d, and as dangerous,

Should his hand follow the copy.

Duke. But that must not:

Do not you vex your mind; prithee, to bed, go;

All shall be well and quiet.

Bian. I love peace, sir.

Duke. And so do all that love: take you no care for’t,

It shall be still provided to your hand.—

[Exit Bianca.

Who’s near us there?

Enter Servant.

Ser. My lord?

Duke. Seek out Hippolito,

Brother to lady Livia, with all speed.

Ser. He was the last man I saw, my lord.

Duke. Make haste.— [Exit Servant.

He is a blood soon stirr’d; and as he’s quick

To apprehend a wrong, he’s bold and sudden

In bringing forth a ruin: I know, likewise,

The reputation of his sister’s honour’s

As dear to him as life-blood to his heart;

Beside, I'll flatter him with a goodness to her,—

Which I now thought on, but ne’er meant to practise,

Because I know her base,—and that wind drives him:

The ulcerous reputation feels the poise

Of lightest wrongs, as sores are vex’d with flies.

He comes.—

Enter Hippolito.

Hippolito, welcome.

Hip. My lov’d lord!

Duke. How does that lusty widow, thy kind sister?

606Is she not sped yet of a second husband?

A bed-fellow she has, I ask not that,

I know she’s sped of him.

Hip. Of him, my lord?

Duke. Yes, of a bed-fellow: is the news so strange to you?

Hip. I hope ’tis so to all.

Duke. I wish it were, sir,

But ’tis confess’d too fast; her ignorant pleasures,

Only by lust instructed, have receiv’d

Into their services an impudent boaster,

One that does raise his glory from her shame,

And tells the mid-day sun what’s done in darkness;

Yet, blinded with her appetite, wastes her wealth,

Buys her disgraces at a dearer rate

Than bounteous housekeepers purchase their honour.

Nothing sads me so much, as that, in love

To thee and to thy blood, I had pick’d out

A worthy match for her, the great Vincentio,

High in our favour and in all men’s thoughts.

Hip. O thou destruction of all happy fortunes,

Unsated blood! Know you the name, my lord,

Of her abuser?

Duke. One Leantio.

Hip. He’s a factor.

Duke. He ne’er made so brave a voyage,

By his own talk.

Hip. The poor old widow’s son.

I humbly take my leave.

Duke. I see ’tis done.— [Aside.

Give her good counsel, make her see her error;

I know she’ll hearken to you.

Hip. Yes, my lord,

I make no doubt, as I shall take the course

Which she shall never know till it be acted,

607And when she wakes to honour, then she’ll thank me for’t:

I'll imitate the pities of old surgeons

To this lost limb, who, ere they shew their art,

Cast one asleep, then cut the diseas’d part;

So, out of love to her I pity most,

She shall not feel him going till he’s lost;

Then she’ll commend the cure. [Exit.

Duke. The great cure’s^[1094] past;

I count this done already; his wrath’s sure,

And speaks an injury deep: farewell, Leantio,

This place will never hear thee murmur more.—

Enter the Cardinal and Servants.

Our noble brother, welcome!

Car. Set those lights down:

Depart till you be call’d. [Exeunt Servants.

Duke. There’s serious business

Fix’d in his look; nay, it inclines a little

To the dark colour of a discontentment.— [Aside.

Brother, what is’t commands your eye so powerfully?

Speak, you seem lost.

Car. The thing I look on seems so,

To my eyes lost for ever.

Duke. You look on me.

Car. What a grief ’tis to a religious feeling,

To think a man should have a friend so goodly,

So wise, so noble, nay, a duke, a brother,

And all this certainly damn’d!

Duke. How!

Car. ’Tis no wonder,

If your great sin can do’t: dare you look up

For thinking of a vengeance? dare you sleep

608For fear of never waking but to death?

And dedicate unto a strumpet’s love

The strength of your affections, zeal, and health?

Here you stand now; can you assure your pleasures

You shall once more enjoy her, but once more?

Alas, you cannot! what a misery ’tis then,

To be more certain of eternal death

Than of a next embrace! nay, shall I shew you

How more unfortunate you stand in sin

Than the low,^[1095] private man: all his offences,

Like enclos’d grounds, keep but about himself,

And seldom stretch beyond his own soul’s bounds;

And when a man grows miserable, ’tis some comfort

When he’s no further charg’d than with himself,

’Tis a sweet ease to wretchedness: but, great man,

Every sin thou committ’st shews like a flame

Upon a mountain, ’tis seen far about,

And, with a big wind made of popular breath,

The sparkles fly through cities, here one takes,

Another catches there, and in short time

Waste all to cinders; but remember still,

What burnt the valleys first came from the hill:

Every offence draws his particular pain,

But ’tis example proves the great man’s bane.

The sins of mean men lie like scatter’d parcels

Of an unperfect bill; but when such fall,

Then comes example, and that sums up all:

And this your reason grants; if men of good lives,

Who by their virtuous actions stir up others

To noble and religious imitation,

Receive the greater glory after death,

As sin must needs confess, what may they feel

In height of torments and in weight of vengeance,

609Not only they themselves not doing well,

But set^[1096] a light up to shew men to hell?

Duke. If you have done, I have; no more, sweet brother!

Car. I know time spent in goodness is too tedious;

This had not been a moment’s space in lust now:

How dare you venture on eternal pain,

That cannot bear a minute’s reprehension?

Methinks you should endure to hear that talk’d of

Which you so strive to suffer. O, my brother,

What were you, if [that] you were taken now!

My heart weeps blood to think on’t; ’tis a work

Of infinite mercy, you can never merit,

That yet you are not death-struck, no, not yet;

I dare not stay you long, for fear you should not

Have time enough allow’d you to repent in:

There’s but this wall [pointing to his body] betwixt you and destruction,

When you’re at strongest, and but poor thin clay:

Think upon’t, brother; can you come so near it

For a fair strumpet’s love, and fall into

A torment that knows neither end nor bottom

For beauty but the deepness of a skin,

And that not of their own neither? Is she a thing

Whom sickness dare not visit, or age look on,

Or death resist? does the worm shun her grave?

If not, as your soul knows it, why should lust

Bring man to lasting pain for rotten dust?

Duke. Brother of spotless honour, let me weep

The first of my repentance in thy bosom,

And shew the blest fruits of a thankful spirit:

And if I e’er keep woman more, unlawfully,

May I want penitence at my greatest need!

610And wise men know there is no barren place

Threatens more famine than a dearth in grace.

Car. Why, here’s a conversion is at this time, brother,

Sung for a hymn in heaven,^[1097] and at this instant

The powers of darkness groan, makes all hell sorry:

First I praise heaven, then in my work I glory.

Who’s there attends without?

Re-enter Servants.

First Ser. My lord?

Car. Take up those lights; there was a thicker darkness

When they came first.—The peace of a fair soul

Keep with my noble brother!

Duke. Joys be with you, sir!

[Exeunt Cardinal and Servants.

She lies alone to-night for’t, and must still,

Though it be hard to conquer; but I've vow’d

Never to know her as a strumpet more,

And I must save my oath: if fury fail not,

Her husband dies to-night, or, at the most,

Lives not to see the morning spent to-morrow;

Then will I make her lawfully mine own,

Without this sin and horror. Now I'm chidden,

For what I shall enjoy then unforbidden;

And I'll not freeze in stoves: ’tis but a while;

Live like a hopeful bridegroom, chaste from flesh,

And pleasure then will seem new, fair, and fresh.

[Exit.

611