Sound, after a flourish: Juniper a cobler is discovered, sitting at work in his shop, and singing.
Juniper, Onion, Antony Balladino.
Junip. YOU woful wights, give ear a while,
And mark the tenor of my stile,
Enter Onion in haste.
Which shall such trembling hearts unfold,
As seldom hath to fore been told,
Such chances are, and doleful news, —
Oni. Fellow Juniper! peace a god's name.
Junip. As may attempt your wits to muse.
Oni. Godso, hear, man! a pox a god on you.
Junip. And cause such trickling tears to pass,
Except your hearts be flint or brass: —
Oni. Juniper! Juniper!
Junip. To hear the news which I shall tell,
That in Custella once befel.
'Sblood, where didst thou learn to corrupt a man in the midst of a verse, ha?
Oni. Godslid, man, service is ready to go up, man: you must slip on your coat, and come in; we lack waiters pitifully.
Junip. A pitiful hearing; for now must I of a merry cobler become mourning creature.
Oni. Well, you'll come.
Junip. Presto. Go to, a word to the wise, away, fly, vanish:
Lie there the weeds that I disdain to wear.
Ant. God save you, master Juniper.
Junip. What signior Antonio Balladino! welcome sweet Ingle.
Ant. And how do you, sir?
Junip. Faith you see, put to my shifts here, as poor retainers be oft-times. Sirrah, Antony, there's one of my fellows mightily enamoured of thee; and i' faith, you slave, now you're come, I'll bring you together: it's Peter Onion, the groom of the hall; do you know him?
Ant. No, not yet, I assure you.
Junip. O he is one as right of thy humour as may be, a plain simple rascal, a true dunce; marry he hath been a notable villain in his time: he is in love, sirrah, with a wench, and I have preferred thee to him; thou shalt make him some pretty paradox, or some allegory. How does my coat sit? well?
Ant. I, very well.
Oni. Nay, godso, fellow Juniper, come away.
Junip. Art thou there, mad slave? I come with a powder. Sirrah, fellow Onion, I must have you peruse this gentleman well, and do him good offices of respect and kindnesses, as instances shall be given.
Ant. Nay, good master Onion, what do you mean, I pray you, sir? you are too respective, in good faith.
Oni. I would not you should think so, sir; for though I have no learning, yet I honour a scholar in any ground of the earth, sir. Shall I request your name, sir?
Ant. My name is Antonio Balladino.
Oni. Balladino! you are not pageant poet to the city of Milan, sir, are you?
Ant. I supply the place, sir, when a worse cannot be had, sir.
Oni. I cry you mercy, sir; I love you the better for that, sir; by Jesu, you must pardon me, I knew you not; but I'll pray to be better acquainted with you, sir, I have seen of your works.
Ant. I am at your service, good master Onion; but concerning this maiden that you love, sir, what is she?
Oni. O did my fellow Juniper tell you? marry, sir, she is, as one may say, but a poor man's child indeed, and for mine own part, I am no gentleman born, I must confess; but my mind to me a kingdom is truly.
Ant. Truly a very good saying.
Oni. 'Tis somewhat stale; but that's no matter.
Ant. O 'tis the better; such things ever are like bread, which the staler it is, the more wholsome.
Oni. 'Tis but a hungry comparison, in my judgment.
Ant. Why I'll tell you, master Onion, I do use as much stale stuff, though I say it myself, as any man does in that kind, I am sure. Did you see the last pageant I set forth?
Oni. No faith, sir; but there goes a huge report on't.
Ant. Why you shall be one of my Mæcenasses; I'll give you one of the books; O you'll like it admirably.
Oni. Nay that's certain, I'll get my fellow Juniper to read it.
Ant. Read it, sir! I'll read it to you.
Oni. Tut, then I shall not chuse but like it.
Ant. Why look you, sir, I write so plain, and keep that old decorum, that you must of necessity like it: marry, you shall have some now (as for example, in plays) that will have every day new tricks, and write you nothing but humours; indeed this pleases the gentlemen, but the common sort they care not for't; they know not what to make on't; they look for good matter they, and are not edified with such toys.
Oni. You are in the right, I'll not give a halfpenny to see a thousand on 'em. I was at one the last term; but and ever I see a more roguish thing, I am a piece of cheese, and no Onion: nothing but kings and princes in it, the fool came not out a jot.
Ant. True, sir, they would have me make such plays; but as I tell 'em, and they'll give me twenty pounds a play, I'll not raise my vein.
Oni. No, it were a vain thing and you should, sir.
Ant. Tut, give me the penny, I care not for the gentlemen I; let me have a good ground, no matter for the pen, the plot shall carry it.
Oni. Indeed that's right, you are in print already for the best plotter.
Ant. I, I might as well have been put in for a dumb shew too.
Oni. I, marry, sir, I marle you were not.
Stand aside, sir, a while.
Enter an armed sewer, some half dozen in mourning coats following, and pass by with service. Enter Valentine.
Oni. How now, friend, what are you there? be uncovered. Would you speak with any man here?
Val. I, or else I must have returned you no answer.
Oni. Friend, you are somewhat too peremptory, let's crave your absence; nay, never scorn it, I am a little your better in this place.
Val. I do acknowledge it.
Oni. Do you acknowledge it? nay, then you shall go forth; I'll teach you how you shall acknowledge it another time; go, void, I must have the hall purged; no setting up of a rest here, pack, begone.
Val. I pray you, sir, is not your name Onion?
Oni. Your friend as you may use him, and master Onion; say on.
Val. Master Onion with a murrain; come, come, put off this lion's hide, your ears have discovered you. Why Peter! do not I know you, Peter?
Oni. Godso, Valentine?
Val. O can you take knowledge of me now, sir?
Oni. Good lord, sirrah, how thou art altered with thy travel!
Val. Nothing so much as thou art with thine office: but sirrah, Onion, is the count Ferneze at home?
Oni. I, bully, he is above, and the lord Paulo Ferneze his son, and madam Aurelia and madam Phœnixella his daughters; but O Valentine!
Val. How now, man! how dost thou?
Oni. Faith, sad, heavy, as a man of my coat ought to be.
Val. Why, man, thou wert merry enough even now.
Oni. True; but thou knowest
All creatures here sojourning upon this wretched earth,
Sometimes have a fit of mourning, as well as a fit of mirth.
O Valentine, mine old lady is dead, man.
Oni. I' faith.
Val. When died she?
Oni. Marry, to-morrow shall be three months; she was seen going to heaven, they say, about some five weeks agone: how now? trickling tears! ha!
Val. Faith thou hast made me weep with this news.
Oni. Why I have done but the part of an Onion: you must pardon me.
Enter the sewer, pass by with service again, the serving-men take knowledge of Valentine as they go. Juniper salutes him.
Junip. What, Valentine! fellow Onion, take my dish, I prithee. You rogue, sirrah, tell me how thou dost, sweet Ingle.
Val. Faith, Juniper, the better to see thee thus folick.
Junip. Nay, slid I am no changling, I am Juniper still. I keep the pristinate1; ha, you mad hieroglyphick, when shall we swagger?
Val. Hieroglyphick? what meanest thou by that?
Junip. Mean! Godso, is't not a good word, man? what, stand upon the meaning with your friends. Puh, abscond.
Val. Why but stay, stay; how long has this sprightly humour haunted thee?
Junip. Foh, humour, a foolish natural gift we have in the Æquinoxial.
Val. Natural, 'slid it may be supernatural all this.
Junip. Valentine, I prithee ruminate thyself welcome. What fortuna de la guerra.
Val. O how pitifully are these words forc'd,
As though they were pumpt out on's belly.
Junip. Sirrah, Ingle, I think thou hast seen all the strange countries in Christendom since thou went'st.
Val. I have seen some, Juniper.
Junip. You have seen Constantinople?
Val. I, that I have.
Junip. And Jerusalem, and the Indies, and Goodwin-sands, and the tower of Babylon, and Venice, and all?
Val. I, all: no, marle, and he have a nimble tongue, if he practise to vault thus from one side of the world to another.
Junip. O it's a most heavenly thing to travel, and see countries, especially at sea, and a man had a patent not to be sick.
Val. O sea-sick jest, and full of the scurvey.
1 I keep the PRISTINATE.]
Juniper was not designed to blunder in the expression; pristinate appears to be the true reading, and it means that he keeps his old humour and disposition, alluding to antiquum obtinet, in Terence.
Enter Juniper, Antonio, Sebastian, Martino, Vincentio, Balthasar and Christophero.
Seb. Valentine! welcome I faith; how dost, sirrah?
Mart. How do you, good Valentine?
Vinc. Troth, Valentine, I am glad to see you.
Balth. Welcome, sweet rogue.
Seb. Before god he never lookt better in his life.
Balth. And how is't, man? what alla coragio?
Val. Never better, gentlemen, I faith.
Junip. 'Swill, here comes the steward.
Chr. Why how now, fellows! all here, and nobody to wait above, now they are ready to rise? look up, one or two; signior Francisco Colonia's man, how does your good master?
[Exeunt Juniper, Martino, Vincentio.
Val. In health, sir; he will be here anon.
Chr. Is he come home then?
Val. I, sir, he is not past six miles hence; he sent me before to learn if count Ferneze were here, and return him word.
Chr. Yes, my lord is here, and you may tell your master, he shall come very happily to take his leave of lord Paulo Ferneze, who is now instantly to depart, with other noble gentlemen, upon special service.
Val. I will tell him, sir.
Chr. I pray you do; fellows, make him drink.
Val. Sirs, what service is't they are employed in?
Seb. Why, against the French; they mean to have a fling at Milain again, they say.
Val. Who leads our forces, can you tell?
Seb. Marry, that does signior Maximilian, he is above now.
Val. Who! Maximilian of Vicenza?
Balt. I, he; do you know him?
Val. Know him! O yes, he's an excellent brave soldier.
Balt. I, so they say; but one of the most vain-glorious men in Europe.
Val. He is indeed marry exceeding valiant.
Seb. And that is rare.
Seb. Why, to see a vain-glorious man valiant.
Val. Well, he is so, I assure you.
Junip. What no farther yet! come on, you precious rascal, Sir Valentine, I'll give you a health i' faith; for the heavens, you mad Capricio, hold hook and line.
Enter lord Paulo Ferneze, his boy following him.
Boy. My lord.
Pau. Sirrah, go up to signior Angelo,
And pray him, if he can, devise some means
To leave my father, and come speak with me.
Boy. I will, my lord.
Pau. Well, heaven be auspicious in the event,
For I do this against my genius,
And yet my thoughts cannot propose a reason,
Why I should fear or faint thus in my hopes,
Of one so much endeared to my love.
Some spark it is, kindled within the soul,
Whose light yet breaks not to the outer sense,
That propagates this timorous suspect;
His actions never carried any face
Of change, or weakness; then I injure him
In being thus cold conceited of his faith.
O, here he comes.
Ang. How now, sweet lord, what's the matter?
Pau. Good faith his presence makes me half asham'd
Of my stray'd thoughts. Boy, bestow yourself.
Where is my father, signior Angelo?
Ang. Marry in the gallery, where your lordship left him.
Pau. That's well. Then, Angelo, I will be brief,
Since time forbids the use of circumstance.
How well you are receiv'd in my affection,
Let it appear by this one instance only,
That now I will deliver to your trust
The dearest secrets, treasur'd in my bosom.
Dear Angelo, you are not every man,
But one, whom my election hath design'd,
As the true proper object of my soul.
I urge not this t' insinuate my desert,
Or supple your try'd temper with soft phrases;
True friendship lothes such oily compliment;
But from the abundance of that love that flows
Through all my spirits, is my speech enforc'd.
Ang. Before your lordship do proceed too far,
Let me be bold to intimate thus much,
That whatsoe'er your wisdom hath t' expose,
Be it the weightiest and most rich affair
That ever was included in your breast,
My faith shall poise it, if not ——
Pau. O no more.
Those words have wrapt me with their sweet effects,
So freely breath'd, and so responsible
To that which I endeavour'd to extract,
Arguing a happy mixture of our souls.
Ang. Why, were there no such sympathy, sweet lord,
Yet the impressure of those amble favours
I have deriv'd from your unmatched spirit,
Would bind my faith to all observances.
Pau. How! favours, Angelo! O speak not of them,
They are mere paintings, and import no merit.
Looks my love well? thereon my hopes are plac'd;
Faith, that is bought with favours, cannot last.
Boy. My lord.
Pau. How now?
Boy. You are sought for all about the house within;
The count your father calls for you.
What cross events do meet my purposes?
Now will he violently fret and grieve
That I am absent. Boy, say I come presently.
Sweet Angelo, I cannot now insist
Upon particulars, I must serve the time,
The main of all this is, I am in love.
Ang. Why starts your lordship?
Pau. I thought I heard my father coming hitherward, list, ha?
Ang. I hear not any thing, it was but your imagination sure.
Ang. No, I assure your lordship.
Pau. I would work safely.
Ang. Why has he no knowledge of it then?
Pau. O no;
No creature yet partakes it but yourself
In a third person, and believe me, friend,
The world contains not now another spirit,
To whom I would reveal it. Hark! hark!
(Servants within.) Signior Paulo! lord Ferneze!
Ang. A pox upon those brazen-throated slaves,
What are they mad, trow?
Pau. Alas, blame not them,
Their services are (clock-like) to be set
Backward and forward, at their lord's command.
You know my father's wayward, and his humour
Must not receive a check; for then all objects
Feed both his grief and his impatience.
And those affections in him are like powder,
Apt to enflame with every little spark,
And blow up reason; therefore, Angelo, peace.
Count. Why this is rare, is he not in the garden?
Chr. I know not, my lord.
Count. See, call him.
Pau. He is coming this way, let's withdraw a little.
Servants within. Signior Paulo! lord Ferneze! lord Paulo!
Enter count Ferneze, Maximilian, Aurelia, Phœnixella, Sebastian, Balthasar.
Count. Where should he be, trow? did you look in the armory?
Seb. No, my lord.
Count. No, why there; O who would keep such drones?
[Exeunt Sebastian and Balthasar. Enter Martino.
How now, have you found him?
Mart. No, my lord.
Count. No, my lord! I shall have shortly all my family
Speak nought but, No, my lord. Where is Christophero?
Enter Christophero. Look how he stands! you sleepy knave,
What is he not in the garden?
Chr. No, my good lord.
Count. Your good lord? O how this smells of fennel;
You have been in the garden it appears: well, well.
Enter Sebastian, Balthasar.
Balth. We cannot find him, my lord.
Seb. He is not in the armory.
Count. He is not, he is no where, is he?
Max. Count Ferneze.
Max. Preserve your patience, honourable count.
A saint would lose his patience, to be crost
As I am, with a sort of motly brains,
See, see, how like a nest of rooks they stand
Gaping at one another!
Now, Diligence, what news bring you?
Oni. An't please your honour.
Count. Tut, tut, leave pleasing of my honour, Diligence, you double with me, come.
Oni. How! does he find fault with please his honour? 'Swounds it has begun a serving-man's speech ever since I belonged to the blue order1: I know not how it may shew now I am in black; but —
Count. What's that you mutter, sir? will you proceed?
Oni. An't like your good lordship.
Count. Yet more; god's precious!
Oni. What, does not this like him neither?
Count. What say you, sir knave?
Oni. Marry I say your lordship were best to set me to school again, to learn how to deliver a message.
Count. What do you take exceptions at me then?
Oni. Exception! I take no exceptions; but by god's so your humours ——
Count. Go to, you are a rascal, hold your tongue.
Oni. Your lordship's poor servant, I.
Count. Tempt not my patience.
Oni. Why I hope I am no spirit, am I?
Max. My lord, command your steward to correct the slave.
Oni. Correct him! 'sblood come you and correct him, and you have a mind to it. Correct him! that's a good jest, i' faith: the steward and you both come and correct him.
Count. Nay, see, away with him; pull his cloth over his ears.
Oni. Cloth! tell me of your cloth, here's your cloth; nay, and I mourn a minute longer, I am the rottenest Onion that ever spake with a tongue.
[They thrust him out.
Max. What call you your hind, count Ferneze?
Count. His name is Onion, signior.
Max. I thought him some such saucy companion.
Count. Signior Maximilian.
Max. Sweet lord.
Count. Let me intreat you, you would not regard
Any contempt flowing from such a spirit,
So rude, so barbarous.
Max. Most noble count, under your favour —
Count. Why I'll tell you, signior,
He'll bandy with me word for word; nay more,
Put me to silence, strike me perfect dumb,
And so amaze me, that oft-time I know not
Whether to check or cherish his presumption;
Therefore, good signior —
Max. Sweet lord, satisfy yourself, I am not now to learn how to manage my affections; I have observed and know the difference between a base wretch and a true man; I can distinguish them; the property of the wretch is, he would hurt, and cannot; of the man, he can hurt, and will not.
Count. Go to my merry daughter; O these looks
Agree well with your habit, do they not?
Junip. Tut, let me alone. By your favour, this is the gentleman, I think: sir, you appear to be an honourable gentleman, I understand, and could wish (for mine own part) that things were conden't otherwise than they are: but (the world knows) a foolish fellow, somewhat proclive and hasty, he did it in a prejudicate humour; marry now, upon better computation, he wanes, he melts, his poor eyes are in a cold sweat. Right noble signior, you can have but compunction; I love the man, tender your compassion.
Max. Doth any man here understand this fellow?
Junip. O god, sir, I may say frustra to the comprehension of your intellection.
Max. Before the lord, he speaks all riddle, I think. I must have a comment, ere I can conceive him.
Count. Why he sues to have his fellow Onion pardon'd,
And you must grant it, signior.
Max. O with all my soul, my lord; is that his motion?
Junip. I, sir, and we shall retort these kind favours with all alacrity of spirit we can, sir, as may be most expedient, as well for the quality as the cause; till when, in spite of this compliment, I rest a poor cobler, servant to my honourable lord here, your friend and Juniper.
Max. How, Juniper!
Count. I, signior.
Max. He is a sweet youth, his tongue has a happy turn when he sleeps.
Enter Paulo Ferneze, Francisco Colonia, Angelo, Valentine.
Count. I, for then it rests. O, sir, you're welcome:
Why God be thanked, you are found at last:
Signior Colonia, truly you are welcome,
I am glad to see you, sir, so well return'd.
Franc. I gladly thank your honour;
Yet indeed I'm sorry for such cause of heaviness
As has possest your lordship in my absence.
Count. O Francisco, you knew her what she was.
Franc. She was a wise and honourable lady.
Count. I, was she not? well, weep not, she is gone.
Passion's dull'd eye can make two griefs of one.
Whom death marks out, virtue nor blood can save;
Princes, as beggars, all must feed the grave.
Max. Are your horse ready, lord Paulo?
Pau. I, signior, they stay for us at the gate.
Max. Well, 'tis good. Ladies, I will take my leave of you, Be your fortunes, as yourselves, fair. Come, let us to horse, Count Ferneze, I bear a spirit full of thanks for all your honourable courtesies.
Count. Sir, I could wish the number and value of them more, in respect of your deservings. But, signior Maximilian, I pray you a word in private.
Aur. I faith, brother, you are fitted for a general yonder. Beshrew my heart (if I had Fortunatus' hat here) and I would not wish myself a man, and go with you, only t'enjoy his presence.
Pau. Why do you love him so well, sister?
Aur. No, by my troth; but I have such an odd pretty apprehension of his humour, methinks, that I am e'en tickled with the conceit of it. O he is a fine man.
Ang. And methinks another may be as fine as he.
Aur. O Angelo! do you think I do urge my comparison against you? no, I am not so ill bred as to be a depraver of your worthiness: believe me, if I had not some hope of your abiding with us, I should never desire to go out of black whilst I lived; but learn to speak i' the nose, and turn puritan presently.
Ang. I thank you, lady, I know you can flout.
Aur. Come, do you take it so? I faith you wrong me.
Franc. I, but madam,
Thus to disclaim in all the effects of pleasure,
May make your sadness seem so much affected,
And then the proper grace of it is lost.
Phœn. Indeed, sir, if I did put on this sadness
Only abroad, and in society,
And were in private merry, and quick humour'd,
Then might it seem affected, and abhorr'd;
But as my looks appear, such is my spirit,
Drown'd up with confluence of grief and melancholy,
That, like to rivers, run through all my veins,
Quenching the pride and fervour of my blood.
Max. My honourable lord, no more.
There is the honour of my blood engag'd
For your son's safety.
Count. Signior, blame me not
For tending his security so much;
He is mine only son, and that word only
Hath, with its strong and repercussive sound,
Struck my heart cold, and given it a deep wound.
Max. Why but stay, I beseech you, had your lordship ever any more sons than this?
Count. Why have not you known it, Maximilian?
Max. Let my sword fail me then.
Count. I had one other, younger born than this,
By twice so many hours as would fill
The circle of a year, his name Camillo,
Whom in that black and fearful night I lost,
('Tis now a nineteen years agone at least,
And yet the memory of it sits as fresh
Within my brain as 'twere but yesterday)
It was the night wherein the great Chamont,
The general of France, surpriz'd Vicenza;
Methinks the horror of that clamorous shout
His soldiers gave when they attain'd the wall,
Yet tingles in mine ears: methinks I see
With what amazed looks, distracted thoughts,
And minds confus'd, we, that were citizens,
Confronted one another; every street
Was fill'd with bitter self-tormenting cries,
And happy was that foot that first could press
The flow'ry champain, bordering on Verona.
Here I (employ'd about my dear wife's safety,
Whose soul is now in peace) lost my Camillo,
Who sure was murder'd by the barbarous soldiers,
Or else I should have heard — my heart is great,
Sorrow is faint, and passion makes me sweat.
Max. Grieve not, sweet Count, comfort your spirits, you have a son, a noble gentleman, he stands in the face of honour; for his safety let that be no question; I am master of my fortune, and he shall share with me. Farewell, my honourable lord: ladies, once more adieu. For yourself, madam, you are a most rare creature, I tell you so, be not proud of it, I love you.
Come, lord Paulo, to horse.
Pau. Adieu, good signior Francisco; farewell, sister.
Sound a tucket, and as they pass every one severally departs; Maximilian, Paulo Ferneze, and Angelo remain.
Ang. How shall we rid him hence?
Pau. Why well enough. Sweet signior Maximilian,
I have some small occasion to stay,
If it may please you but take horse afore,
I'll overtake you ere your troops be rang'd.
Max. Your motion doth taste well; lord Ferneze, I go.
Pau. Now if my love, fair Rachel, were so happy
As to look forth. See fortune doth me grace
Enter Rachel. Before I can demand. How now, love?
Where is your father?
Rach. Gone abroad, my lord.
Pau. That's well.
Rach. I, but I fear he'll presently return.
Are you now going, my most honour'd lord?
Pau. I, my sweet Rachel,
Ang. Before god she is a sweet wench.
Pau. Rachel, I hope I shall not need to urge
The sacred purity of our affects,
As if it hung in trial or suspence;
Since in our hearts, and by our mutual vows,
It is confirm'd and seal'd in sight of heaven.
Nay, do not weep; why stare you? fear not, love,
Your father cannot be return'd so soon.
I prithee do not look so heavily;
Thou shalt want nothing.
Rach. No! is your presence nothing?
I shall want that, and wanting that, want all;
For that is all to me.
Pau. Content thee, sweet,
I have made choice here of a constant friend,
This gentleman; on whose zealous love
I do repose more, than on all the world,
Thy beauteous self excepted; and to him
Have I committed my dear care of thee,
As to my genius, or my other soul.
Receive him, gentle love, and what defects
My absence proves, his presence shall supply.
The time is envious of our longer stay.
Farewell, dear Rachel.
Rach. Most dear lord, adieu,
Heaven and honour crown your deeds and you.
Paul. Faith tell me, Angelo, how dost thou like her?
Ang. Troth, well, my lord; but shall I speak my mind?
Pau. I prithee do.
Ang. She is deriv'd too meanly to be wife
To such a noble person in my judgment.
Pau. Nay, then thy judgment is too mean, I fear:
Didst thou ne'er read, in difference of good,
'Tis more to shine in virtue than in blood.
Ang. Come, you are so sententious, my lord.
Pau. Here comes her father. How dost thou, good Jaques?
Ang. God save thee, Jaques.
Jaq. What should this mean? Rachel, open the door.
Ang. 'Sblood how the poor slave looks, as though
He had been haunted by the spirit Lar,
Or seen the ghost of some great Satrapas
In an unsavory sheet.
Pau. I muse he spake not, belike he was amaz'd,
Coming so suddenly, and unprepared.
Well, let's go.
1 Ever since I belonged to the BLUE ORDER.] i.e. Ever since I have been a servant. Blue coats were the usual livery of servants, and anciently a blue hood was the customary mark of guilt.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:56