« PreviousContinue »
Col. Ay me! to me he did.
Nib. What else, what else, Petruchio ?-and, madam, my quondam daughter, I hope h’ave passed some huge words of matrimony to you, too.
Jul. Alas ! to me he did.
Nib. And how many more the great incubus of hell knows best.—Petruchio, give me your hand; mine own daughter in this arm, and yours, Colona, in this :there, there, sit ye down together. (Julia and Colona sit down.] Never rise, as you hope to inherit kur blessings, till you have plotted some brave revenge; think upon it to purpose, and you shall want no seconds to further it; be secret one to another.—Come, Petruchio, let 'em alone : the wenches will demur on't, and for the process we'll give 'em courage.
Pet. You counsel wisely; I approve your plot.—Think on your shames, and who it was that wrought 'em.
Nib. Ay, ay, ay, leave them alone.—To work, wenches, to work !
[Exeunt NIBRASSA and PETRUCHIO. Col. We are quite ruined.
Jul. True, Colona,
Heigh-ho! and so am I:
This : with cunning words
Col. And so he knows I am ; I told him on't
Now, by the stars,
Those very words
Peace ! here's a noise, methinks. Let's rise; we'll take a time to talk of this.
[They rise, and walk aside. Enter FERENTES and MORONA. Feren. Will ye hold ? death of my delights, have ye lost all sense of shame? You're best roar about the court that I have been your woman's-barber and trimmed ye, kind Morona.
Mor. Defiance to thy kindness! thou'st robbed me of my good name ; didst promise to love none but me, me, only me; sworest like an unconscionable villain, to marry me the twelfth day of the month two months since ; didst make my bed thine own, mine house thine own, mine all and everything thine own. I will exclaim to the world on thee, and beg justice of the duke himself, villain ! I will.
Feren. Yet again ? nay, an if you be in that mood, shut up your fore-shop, I'll be your journeyman no longer. Why, wise Madam Dryfist, could your mouldy brain be so addle to imagine I would marry a stale widow at six-and-forty ? Marry gip! are there not varieties enough of thirteen ? come, stop your clap-dish, or I'll purchase a carting for you. By this light, I have toiled more with this tough carrion hen than with ten quails scarce grown into their first feathers.
Mor. O, treason to all honesty or religion !-Speak, thou perjured, damnable, ungracious defiler of women, who shall father my child which thou hast begotten ?
Feren. Why, thee, countrywoman; thou'st a larger purse to pay for the nursing. Nay, if you'll needs have the world know how you, reputed a grave, matron-like, motherly madam, kicked up your heels like a jennet whose mark is new come into her mouth, e'en do, do ! the worst can be said of me is, that I was ill advised to dig for gold in a coal-pit. Are you answered ?
1 Two or three centuries ago, diseased or infectious wretches wandered up and down with a clap-dish, a wooden vessel with a movable cover, to give the charitable warning at once of their necessities and their infectious condition.- Gifford.
Mor. Answered !
Colona]-Love, how is't, chick ? ha ?
Feren. [Aside] Excellent! (), for three Barbary stonehorses to stop three Flanders mares ! --Why, how now, wenches ! what means this?
Mor. Out upon me! here's more of his trulls.
Good love, let's walk. Feren. [Aside] I must rid my hands of 'em, or they'll ride on my shoulders.—By your leave, ladies; here's none but is of common counsel one with another ; in short, there are three of ye with child, you tell me, by me. All of you I cannot satisfy, nor, indeed, handsomely any of ye. You all hope I should marry you; which, for that it is impossible to be done, I am content to have neither of ye: for your looking big on the matter, keep your own counsels, I'll not bewray ye ! but for marriage,-Heaven bless ye, and me from ye! This is my resolution.
Col. How, not me!
Jul. Not me! · Mor. Not me !
Feren. Nor you, nor you, nor you : and to give you some satisfaction, I'll yield ye reasons.---You, Colona, had a pretty art in your dalliance; but your fault was, you were too suddenly won.-You, Madam Morona, could have pleased well enough some three or four-and-thirty years ago ; but you are too old.—You, Julia, were young enough, but your fault is, you have a scurvy face.—Now, everyone knowing her proper defect, thank me that I ever vouchsafed you the honour of my bed once in your lives. If you want clouts, all I'll promise is to rip up an old shirt or two. So, wishing a speedy deliverance to all your burdens, I commend you to your patience. [Exit.
Mor. Excellent !
Unmatched villain ! Jul. Madam, though strangers, yet we understand Your wrongs do equal ours; which to revenge, Please but to join with us, and we'll redeem Our loss of honour by a brave exploit.
Mor. I embrace your motion, ladies, with gladness, and will strive by any action to rank with you in any danger.
Col. Come, gentlewomen, let's together, then.--
SCENE II.- The State-room in the Palace, Enter the Duke, BIANCA supported by FERNANDO, FIOR
MONDA, PETRUCHIO, NIBRASSA, FERENTES, and · D'Avolos.
Duke. Roseilli will not come, then ! will not ? well; His pride shall ruin him.-Our letters speak The duchess' uncle will be here to-morrow, To-morrow, D'Avolos. · D’Av. To-morrow night, my lord, but not to make more than one day's abode here ; for his Holiness has commanded him to be at Rome the tenth of this month, the conclave of cardinals not being resolved to sit till his coming.
Duke. Your uncle, sweetheart, at his next return
Fern. My lord, in honour to the court of Pavy.
Ti.e. The present time.
The Duke of Brabant welcome the Archbishop
Bian. Now, good my Lord Fernando, further this
Fior. [Aside] If she entreat, 'tis ten to one the man
Friend, thou honour'st me:
Fern. I'll undertake it, if the ladies please,
I shall fit ye;
Best of all, madam :
Feren. With my best service and dexterity,
brassa. Nib. [Aside to PETRUCHIO] We could not wish it
better : Heaven is an unbribed justice.
Duke. We'll meet our uncle in a solemn grace Of zealous presence, as becomes the church : See all the choir be ready, D'Avolos.
D'Av. I have already made your highness' pleasure known to them.
Bian. Your lip, my lord !
11.e. Of an anti-masque, which was always of a burlesque character.
2 An idiot.