Banquets abroad by torch-light! music! sports!
Bare-headed vassals, that had ne'er the fortune
To keep on their own hats, but let horns wear
'em!

Nine coaches waiting-hurry, hurry, hurry—
Cast. Ay, to the devil-

Vin. Ay, to the devil! to the duke, by my faith. Moth. Ay, to the duke. Daughter, you'd scorn to

think

O' the devil, an' you were there once. Vin. Who'd sit at home in a neglected room, Dealing her short-liv'd beauty to the pictures, That are as useless as old men, when those Poorer in face and fortune than herself Walk with a hundred acres on their backs, Fair meadows cut into green fore-parts ?Fair trees, those comely foretops of the field, Are cut to maintain head-tires-much untoldAll thrives but chastity, she lies cold. Nay, shall I come nearer to you? mark but this : Why are there so few honest women, but because 'tis the poorer profession? that 's accounted best, that's best follow'd; least in trade, least in fashion; and that's not honesty, believe it; and do but note the low and dejected price of it?

Lose but a pearl, we search and cannot brook it; But that once gone, who is so mad to look it? Moth. Troth, he says true.

Cast. False! I defy you both.

I have endured you with an ear of fire,

Your tongues have struck hot irons on my face. Mother, come from that poisonous woman there. Moth. Where?

Cast. Do you not see her? she 's too inward then. Slave, perish in thy office. You heavens, please Henceforth to make the mother a disease,

Which first begins with me; yet I 've outgone

you. Vin. O angels, clap your wings upon the skies,

[Exit.

And give this virgin crystal plaudities! [Aside. Moth. Peevish, coy, foolish !—but return this answer, My lord shall be most welcome, when his pleasure Conducts him this way; I will sway mine own, Women with women can work best alone. [Exit. Vin. Forgive me, Heaven, to call my mother wicked! O lessen not my days upon the earth,

I cannot honour her.

The Brothers, VINDICI and HIPPOLITO, threaten their MOTHER with death for consenting to the dishonour of their Sister.

Vin. O thou for whom no name is bad enough! Moth. What mean my sons? what, will you murther me?

Vin. Wicked unnatural parent!

Hip. Friend of women!

Moth. Oh! are sons turn'd monsters ? help!
Vin. In vain.

Moth. Are you so barbarous to set iron nipples
Upon the breast that gave you suck?

Vin. That breast

Is turn'd to quarled poison.

Moth. Cut not your days for 't! Am not I

mother?

Vin. Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud,
For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd.

your

Moth. A bawd! O name far loathsomer than hell! Hip. It should be so, knew'st thou thy office well.

Moth. I hate it.

Vin. Ah, is 't possible, you powers on high,

That women should dissemble when they die?

Moth. Dissemble !

Vin. Did not the duke's son direct

A fellow, of the world's condition, hither,
That did corrupt all that was good in thee?

Made thee uncivilly forget thyself,
And work our sister to his lust?
Moth. Who, I?

That had been monstrous. I defy that man
For any such intent. None lives so pure,
But shall be soil'd with slander. Good son,
Believe it not.

Vin. Oh, I'm in doubt

Whether I'm myself or no

Stay, let me look again upon this face.

Who shall be sav'd when mothers have no grace?

[Resumes his disguise.

Hip. "Twould make one half despair.

Vin. I was the man.

Defy me now, let's see, do 't modestly.
Moth. O hell unto my soul !

Vin. In that disguise I, sent from the duke's son,
Tried you, and found you

base metal,

As any villain might have done.

Moth. O no,

No tongue but yours

could have bewitch'd me so.

Vin. O nimble in damnation, quick in tune!
There is no devil could strike fire so soon.

I am confuted in a word.

Moth. O sons, forgive me! to myself I'll prove

more true;

You that should honour me, I kneel to you. Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter! Hip. True, brother; how far beyond nature 'tis, Tho' many mothers do 't!

Vin. Nay, and you draw tears once, go you to bed. Wet will make iron blush and change to red.

Brother, it rains; 'twill spoil your dagger, house it. Hip. 'Tis done.

Vin. I' faith 'tis a sweet shower, it does much good. The fruitful grounds and meadows of her soul Have been long dry: pour down, thou blessed dew!

Rise, mother; troth, this shower has made you higher.

Moth. O you heavens! take this infectious spot out of my soul;

I'll rinse it in seven waters of mine eyes.

Make my tears salt enough to taste of grace. To weep is to our sex naturally given; But to weep truly, that 's a gift from Heaven. Vin. Nay, I'll kiss you now. Kiss her, brother: Let's marry her to our souls, wherein 's no lust, And honourably love her.

Hip. Let it be.

Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare,
'Tis good to cherish those poor few that are.
O you of easy wax! do but imagine,

Now the disease has left you, how leprously
That office would have cling'd unto your forehead!
All mothers that had any graceful hue

Would have worn masks to hide their face at you.
It would have grown to this, at your foul name

Green-coloured maids would have turn'd red with shame.

Hip. And then our sister, full of hire and baseness— Vin. There had been boiling lead again!

The duke's son's great concubine!

A drab of state, a cloth, a silver slut,

To have her train borne up, and her soul trail i' th' dirt! great

Hip. To be miserably great; rich, to be eternally wretched.

Vin. O common madness!

Ask but the thriving'st harlot in cold blood,
She 'd give the world to make her honour good.
Perhaps you '11 say, but only to the duke's son
In private; why, she first begins with one
Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore :
Break ice in one place, it will crack in more.

Moth. Most certainly applied!

Hip. O brother, you forget your business.
Vin. And well remember'd; joy 's a subtile elf;
I think man's happiest when he forgets himself.
Farewell, once dry, now holy-water'd mead;
Our hearts wear feathers, that before wore lead.
Moth. I'll give you this, that one I never knew
Plead better for, and 'gainst the devil than you.
Vin. You make me proud on 't.

Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister.
Vin. Ay, for the love of heaven, to that true maid.
Moth. With my best words.

Vin. Why, that was motherly said.1

CASTIZA seems to consent to her MOTHER's wicked notion.

CASTIZA. MOTHER.

Cast. Now, mother, you have wrought with me so strongly,

That what for my advancement, as to calm
The trouble of your tongue, I am content.

Moth. Content, to what?

Cast. To do as you had wish'd me;

To prostitute my breast to the duke's son,
And put myself to common usury.

Moth. I hope you will not so.

Cast. Hope you I will not?

That 's not the hope you look to be saved in. Moth. Truth, but it is.

Cast. Do not deceive yourself.

I am as you, e'en out of marble wrought.

1 The reality and life of this dialogue passes any scenical illusion I ever felt. I never read it but my ears tingle, and I feel a hot blush spread my cheeks, as if I were presently about to "proclaim" some such "malefactions" of myself, as the brothers here rebuke in their unnatural parent, in words more keen and dagger-like than those which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only to "strike guilty creatures unto the soul," but to "appal" even those that are "free."