Enter MATHEO, CASTRUCHIO, FLUELLO, PIO

RATTO.

Math. You, goody punk, subaudi cockatrice,"1 O, you're a sweet whore of your promise; are you not, think you? how well you came to supper to us last night! Mew, a whore, and break her word! Nay, you may blush, and hold down your head at it well enough; 'sfoot! ask these gallants if we staid not till we were as hungry as serjeants.

Fluel. Aye, and their yeomen too.

Cast. Nay, faith, acquaintance, let me tell you, you forgot yourself too much; we had excellent cheer, rare vintage, and were drunk after supper.

Pior. And when we were in our wood-cocks, (sweet rogue!) a brace of gulls, dwelling here in the city, came in, and paid all the shot. 52

Math. Pox on her, let her alone.
Bel. O aye, pray do; if you be gentlemen,
I pray depart the house. Beshrew the door
For being so easily entreated; faith,
I lent but little ear unto your talk;
My mind was busied otherwise, in troth,
And so your words did unregarded pass:
Let this suffice, I am not as I was.

Fluel. I am not what I was! no, I'll be sworn thou art not for thou wert honest at five, and now thou'rt a punk at fifteen; thou wert yesterday a simple whore, and now thou'rt a cunning coney-catching baggage to-day.

Bel. I'll say, I'm worse; I pray forsake me, then;

I do desire you leave me, gentlemen,
And leave yourselves: O, be not what you are,
Spendthrifts of soul and body!

Let me persuade you to forsake all harlots,
Worse than the deadliest poisons; they are worse,
For o'er their souls hangs an eternal curse.
In being slaves to slaves, their labours perish :
They're seldom blest with fruit; for, ere it blos-

soms,

Many a worm confounds it.

They have no issue, but foul ugly ones,

That run along with them, e'en to their graves;
For, 'stead of children, they breed rank diseases;
And all you gallants can bestow on them,
Is that French infant, which ne'er acts, but speaks.
What shallow son and heir, then, foolish gallant,
Would waste all his inheritance to purchase
A filthy loathed disease, and pawn his body
To a dry evil? That usury's worst of all,
When the interest will eat out the principal.
Math. 'Sfoot, she gulls 'em the best! This is
always her fashion, when she would be rid of any
company, that she cares not for, to enjoy mine
alone.

Fluel. What's here? instructions, admonitions, and caveats! Come out, you scabbard of venge

ance.

Math. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they foist; you shall not spurn my punk, I can tell you; my blood is vext.

Fluel. Pox o' your blood! make it a quarrel.
Math. You're a slave; will that serve turn?
Omnes. 'Sblood, hold, hold!

Cast. Math. Fluel. For shame put up.
Math. Spurn my sweet varlet!
Bel. O how many thus,

Moved with a little folly, have let out
Their souls in brothel houses! fell down, and died
Just at their harlot's foot, as 'twere in pride.
Fluel. Matheo, we shall meet.

Math. Aye, aye, any where, saving at church;
pray take heed we meet not there.
Fluel. Adieu, damnation!
Cust. Cockatrice, farewell!

Pior. There's more deceit in women, than in hell. [Exeunt. Math. Ha, ha! thou dost gull 'em so rarely, so naturally! if I did not think thou had'st been in earnest. Thou art a sweet rogue for't, i'faith.

Bel. Why are not you gone too, signior Matheo? I pray, depart my house; you may believe me: In troth, I have no part of harlot in me.

Math. How's this?

Bel. Indeed, I love you not; but hate you

worse

Than any man, because you were the first
Gave money for my soul. You brake the ice,
Which after turned a puddle: I was led
By your temptation to be miserable,
I pray, seek out some other that will fall,
Or, rather, (I pray,) seek out none at all.

Math. Is't possible to be? Impossible! An honest whore! I have heard many honest wenches turn strumpets, with a wet finger; but for a harlot to turn honest, is one of Hercules's labours. It was more easy for him, in one night, to make fifty queans, than to make one of them honest again in fifty years. Come, I hope, thou dost but jest.

Bel. 'Tis time to leave off jesting, I had almost Jested away salvation: I shall love you, If you will soon forsake me.

Math. God be with thee.

Bel. Oh, tempt no more women; shun their
weighty curse!

Women (at best) are bad, make them not worse.
You gladly seek our sex's overthrow,
But not to raise our states. For all your wrongs,
Will you vouchsafe me but due recompence;
To marry with me?

Math. How! marry with a punk, a cockatrice,

Enter a Servant, setting out a Table; on which he places a Skull, a Picture, a Book, and a Taper.

Sero. So, this is Monday morning; and now must I to my housewifery. Would I had been created a shoemaker; for all the gentle craft are gentlemen every Monday by their copy, and scorn (then) to work one true stitch. My master means, sure, to turn me into a student; for here's my book, here my desk, here my light; this my close chamber, and here my punk: so that this dull drowsy first day of the week makes me balf a priest, half a chandler, half a painter, half a sexton, aye, and half a bawd; for all this day my office is to do nothing but keep the door. To prove it, look you, this good face and yonder gentleman, so soon as ever my back's turned, will be naught together.

Enter HIPOLITO.

Hip. Are all the windows shut? Sero. Close, sir, as the fist of a courtier that hath stood in three reigns.

Hip. Thou art a faithful servant, and observ'st The calendar, both of my solemn vows And ceremonious sorrow: Get thee gone. I charge thee on thy life, let not the sound = Of any woman's voice pierce through that door. Serv. If they do, my lord, I'll pierce some of them.

[Exit.

Hip. My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye,
The dimple on her cheek; and such sweet skill
Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown,
These lips look fresh and lively as her own;
Seeming to move and speak. 'Las! now I see,
Adulterate complexion; here 'tis read;
The reason why fond women love to buy

False colours last after the true be dead.
Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,
Of all the music set upon her tongue,
Of all that was past woman's excellence,
In her white bosom; look, a painted board
Circumscribes all! Earth can no bliss afford;
Nothing of her but this! This cannot speak ;
It has no lap for me to rest upon;
No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will feed,
As in her coffin. Hence, then, idle art!
True love's best pictured in a true-love's heart.
Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead!
So that thou liv'st twice, twice art buried.
Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What's here?
Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy's.
'Las! say it were, I need not fear him now:
For all his braves, his contumelious breath;
His frowns, though dagger-pointed; all his plot,
Though ne'er so mischievous; his Italian pills;
His quarrels; and that common fence, his law;
See, see, they're all eaten out; here's not left one;
How clean they're pickt away to the bare bone!
How mad are mortals, then, to rear great names
On tops of swelling houses! or to wear out
Their fingers ends in dirt, to scrape up gold!
Not caring, so that sumpter-horse,
54 the back,
Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse,
Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul;

Yet, after all, their gayness looks thus foul.
What fools are men, to build a garish 55 tomb,
Only to save the carcase whilst it rots;
To maintain't long in stinking, make good carion,
But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound;
For good deeds keep men sweet long above
ground.

And must all come to this? fools, wise, all hither?

Must all heads thus at last be laid together? Draw me my picture, then, thou grave neat work

man,

After this fashion, not like this; these colours,
In time, kissing but air, will be kissed off;
But here's a fellow, that which he lays on,
Till doom's-day alters not complexion.
Death's the best painter, then. They that draw
shapes,

And live by wicked faces, are but God's apes;
They come but near the life, and there they stay:
This fellow draws life too; his art is fuller,
The pictures which he makes are without colour.
Enter his Servant.

sir.

Look on my face, and read the strangest story!
Enter his Servant..

Hip. What, villain, ho!
Serv. Call you, my lord?

Hip. Thou slave, thou hast let in the devil. Serv. Lord bless us, where? he's not cloven, my lord, that I can see; besides, the devil goes more like a gentleman than a page; good my

Serv. If it be woman, marrow-bones and potatoe-pies 56 keep me from meddling with her, for the thing has got the breeches! 'Tis a male-varlet, 57 sure, my lord, for a woman's tailor ne'er measured him.

Hip. Let him give thee his message, and be gone.

Serv. He says, he's Signor Matheo's man; but I know he lies.

Hip. How dost thou know it.

Serv. 'Cause he has ne'er a beard; 'tis his boy, I think, sir, whosoe'er paid for his nursing. Hip. Send him in, and keep the door.— [Reads.] Fata si liceat mihi,

Fingere arbitrio me,

Temperem zephyro levi vela, I'd sail, were I to choose, not in the ocean; Cedars are shaken, when shrubs do feel no bruise.

Enter BELLAFRONT, like a Page.

How! from Matheo?

Hip. Thou hast let in a woman in man's shape, And thou art damned for't.

Serv. Not damned, I hope, for putting in a woman to a lord.

Hip. Fetch me my rapier,-do not; I shall kill thee.

Purge this infected chamber of that plague, That runs upon me thus: Slave, thrust her hence. Serv. Alas! my lord, I shall never be able to thrust her hence without help.-Come, mermaid, you must to sea again.

Bel. Hear me but speak, my words shall be all music; Hear me but speak.

Hip. Another beats the door,

T'other she-devil! look.

Serv. Why, then, hell's broke loose.

[Erit.

Hip. Hence, guard the chamber; let no more