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  • Title: The Honest Whore, Part 2 (Quarto 1, 1630)
  • Editor: Joost Daalder
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-490-5

    Copyright Digital Renaissance Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: Thomas Dekker
    Editor: Joost Daalder
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Honest Whore, Part 2 (Quarto 1, 1630)

    Hip. Your bu sines, sir, to me?
    Ant. Yes my good Lord.
    140 Hip. Presently sir; are you Mathaeos wife.
    Bela. That mo st vnfortunate woman.
    Hip. I'm sorry these stormes are fallē on him, I loue Mathaeo.
    And any good shall doe him, hee and I.
    Haue sealed two bonds of friend ship, which are strong
    145In me, how euer Fortune does him wrong;
    He speakes here hee's condemned. Is't so?
    Bel. Too true.
    Hip. What was he whom he killed? Oh, his name's here;
    old Iacomo, sonne to the Florentine Iacomo, a dog, that to
    150meet profit, would to the very eyelids wade in blood of his
    owne children. Tell Mathaeo, the Duke my father hardly
    shall deny his signed pardon, 'twas faire fight, yes if rumors
    tongue goe true, so writes he here.
    To morrow morning I returne from Court,
    155Pray be you here then. Ile haue done sir straight:
    But in troth say, are you Mathaeos wife?
    You haue forgot me.
    Bel. No, my Lord.
    Hip. Your Turner,
    160That made you smooth to run an euen byas,
    You know I loued you when your very soule
    Was full of discord: art not a good wench still?
    Bel. Vmph, whē I had lo st my way to heauen, you shewed it:
    I was new borne that day. Enter Lodouico.
    165 Lod. S'foot, my Lord, your Lady askes if you haue not left
    your Wench yet? When you get in once, you neuer haue
    done: come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her
    packing, come.
    Hip. Ride softly on before, Ile oretake you.
    170 Lod. Your Lady sweares she'll haue no riding on before,
    without ye.
    Hip. Prethee good Lodonico.
    Lod. My Lord pray ha sten.
    Hip. I come: to morrow let me see you, fare you well:
    175commend me to Mathaeo: pray one word more: Does not
    your father liue about the Court?
    Bel. I thinke he does, but such rude spots of shame
    Stick on my cheeke, that he scarce knowes my name.
    Hip. Orlando Friscabaldo, Is't not?
    180 Bel. Yes my Lord.
    Hip. What does he for you?
    Bel. All he should: when Children
    From duty start, Parents from loue may swarue.
    He nothing does: for nothing I deserue.
    185 Hip. Shall I ioyne him vnto you, and re store you
    to wonted grace?
    Bel. It is impo s sible. Exit Bellaf.
    Hip. It shall be put to tryall: fare you well:
    The face I would not looke on I sure then 'twas rare,
    190When in despight of griefe, 'tis still thus faire.
    Now, sir, your bu sine s s e with me.
    Ant. I am bold to expre s s e my loue and duty to your
    Lord ship in these few leaues.
    Hip. A Booke!
    195 Ant. Yes my good Lord.
    Hip. Are you a Scholler?
    Ant. Yes, my Lord, a poore one.
    Hip. Sir, you honor me.
    Kings may be Schollers Patrons, but faith tell me,
    200To how many hands be sides hath this bird flowne,
    How many partners share with me?
    An. Not one in troth, not one: your name I held more deare,
    I'm not (my Lord) of that low Character.
    Hip. Your name I pray?
    205 Ant. Antonio Georgio.
    Hip. Of Millan?
    Ant. Yes my Lord.
    Hip. Ile borrow leaue
    To read you o're, and then we'll talke: till then
    210Drinke vp this gold, good wits should loue good wine,
    This of your loues, the earne st that of mine.
    How now, sir, where's your Lady, not gone yet?
    Enter Bryan.
    Bryan. I fart di Lady is runne away from dee, a mighty
    215deale of ground, she sent me backe for dine owne sweet
    face, I pray dee come my Lord away, wut tow goe now?
    Hip. Is the Coach gone?
    Saddle my Horse the sorrell.
    Bryan. A pox a de Horses nose, he is a lowsy rascally
    220fellow, when I came to gird his belly, his scuruy guts rum-
    bled, di Horse farted in my face, and dow knowe st, an Iri sh -
    man cannot abide a fart, but I haue saddled de Hobby-horse,
    di fine Hobby is ready, I pray dee my good sweet Lord, wit
    tow goe now, and I will runne to de Deuill before dee?
    225 Hip. Well, sir, I pray lets see you Ma ster Scholler.
    Bry. Come I pray dee, wut come sweet face? Goe. Exeunt.
    Enter Lodouico, Carolo, A stolpho, Bercaldo.
    Lod. Gods so, Gentlemen, what doe we forget?
    Omnes. What?
    230 Lod. Are not we all enioyned as this day, Thursday is't
    not? I as that day to be at the Linnen-drapers house at din-
    ner?
    Car. Signior Candido, the patient man.
    A sto. Afore Ioue, true, vpon this day hee's married.
    235 Berc. I wonder, that being so stung with a Waspe be-
    fore, he dares venture againe to come about the eaues a-
    mong st Bees.
    Lod. Oh 'tis rare sucking a sweet Hony-combe; pray
    Heauen his old wife be buried deepe enough, that she rise
    240not vp to call for her daunce, the poore Fidlers In struments
    would cracke for it, shee'd tickle them: at any hand lets try
    what mettle is in his new Bride, if there be none, we'll put
    in some; troth it's a very noble Citizen, I pitty he should
    marry againe, Ile walke along, for it is a good old fellow.
    245 Caro. I warrant, the Wiues of Millan would giue any
    fellow twenty thousand Duckets, that could but haue the
    face to beg of the Duke, that all the Citizens in Millan
    might be bound to the peace of patience, as the Linnen-
    draper is.
    250 Lod. Oh fy vpon't, 'twould vndoe all vs that are Courti-
    ers, we should haue no whoe with the wenches then.
    Enter Hipollito.
    Omnes. My Lord's come.
    Hip. How now, what newes?
    255 Omnes. None.
    Lod. Your Lady is with the Duke her Father.
    Hip. And we'll to them both presently, whoe's that?
    Enter Orlaudo Friscobaldo.
    Omnes. Signior Friscabaldo.
    260 Hip. Friscabaldo, oh! pray call him, and leaue me, wee
    two haue bu sine s s e.
    Car. Ho Signior! Signior Friscabaldo.
    The Lord Hipollito. Exeunt.
    Orla. My Noble Lord: my Lord Hipollito! the Dukes
    265Sonne! his braue Daughters braue Husband! how does
    your honord Lord ship! does your Nobility remember so
    poore a Gentleman as Signior Orlando Friscabaldo! old mad
    Orlando!
    Hip. Oh sir, our friēds! they ought to be vnto vs as our Iew-
    270els, as dearely valued, being locked vp, & vnseene, as when
    we weare them in our hands. I see, Friscabaldo, age hath not command of your blood, for all Times sickle has gone ouer
    you, you are Orlando still.
    Orl, Why my Lord, are not the fields mowen and cut
    275downe, and stript bare, and yet weare they not pide coates
    againe? tho my head be like a Leeke, white: may not my
    heart be like the blade, greene?
    Hip. Scarce can I read the Stories on your brow,
    Which age hath writ there, you looke youthfull still.
    280 Orla. I eate Snakes, my Lord, I eate Snakes.
    My heart shall neuer haue a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry
    Hem with a cleare voice.
    Hip. You are the happier man, sir.
    Orla. Happy man! Ile giue you (my Lord) the true picture
    285of a happy man; I was turning leaues ouer this morning,
    and found it, an excellent Italian Painter drew it, If I haue
    it in the right colours, Ile be stow it on your Lord ship.
    Hip. I stay for it.
    Orla. He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore,
    290He that at noone-day walkes by a prison doore,
    He that 'ith Sunne is neither beame nor moate,
    He that's not mad after a Petticoate,
    He for whom poore mens curses dig no graue,
    He that is neither Lords nor Lawyers slaue,
    295He that makes This his Sea, and That his Shore,
    He that in's Coffin is richer then before,
    He that counts Youth his Sword, and Age his Staffe,
    He whose right hand carues his owne Epitaph,
    He that vpon his death-bead is a Swan,
    300And Dead, no Crow, he is a happy man.
    Hip. It's very well, I thanke you for this Picture.
    Orla. After this Picture (my Lord) doe I striue to haue
    my face drawne:
    For I am not couetous,
    305Am not in debt,
    Sit neither at the Dukes side,
    Nor lie at his feete.
    Wenching and I haue done, no man I wrong,
    No man I feare, no man I fee;
    310I take heed how farre I walke, because I know yonders my
    home.
    I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away saue
    a winding sheete:
    But like a good man, to leaue Orlando behind me.
    315I sowed leaues in my Youth, and I reape now Bookes in
    my Age.
    I fill this hand, and empty this, and when the bell shall toll
    for me, if I proue a Swan & go singing to my ne st, why so?
    If a Crow! throw me out for carrion, & pick out mine eyes,
    320May not old Friscabaldo (my Lord) be merry now! ha?
    Hip. You may, would I were partner in your mirth.
    Orla. I haue a little,
    Haue all things;
    I haue nothing; I haue no wife, I haue no child, haue no
    325 chick, and why should not I be in my Iocundare?
    Hip. Is your wife then departed?
    Orla. She's an old dweller in those high Countries,
    Yet not from me,
    Here, she's here: but before me, when a Knaue and a Queane
    330are married, they commonly walke like Serieants together:
    but a good couple are seldome parted.
    Hip. You had a Daughter too sir, had you not?
    Orla. Oh my Lord! this old Tree had one Branch, (and
    but one Branch growing out of it) It was young, it was
    335faire, it was straight; I prumde it daily, dre st it carefully,
    kept it from the winde, help'd it to the Sunne, yet for all
    my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore Crabs; I
    hewed it downe,
    What's become of it, I neither know, nor care.
    340 Hip. Then can I tell you whats become of it;
    That Branch is witherd.
    Orl. So 'twas long agoe.
    Hip. Her name I thinke was Bellafront, she's dead.
    Orlando. Ha? dead?
    345 Hip. Yes, what of her was left, not worth the keeping,
    Euen in my sight was throwne into a Graue.
    Orl. Dead! my la st and be st peace goe with her, I see
    deaths a good trencherman, he can eat course homely meat,
    as well as the daintie st.
    350 Hip. Why, Friscabaldo, was she homely?
    Orla. O my Lord! a Strumpet is one of the Deuils Vines;
    all the sinnes like so many Poles are stucke vpright out of
    hell, to be her props, that she may spread vpon them. And
    when she's ripe, euery Slaue has a pull at her, then mu st she
    355be pre st. The yong beautifull Grape sets the teeth of Lu st
    on edge, yet to ta ste that lickri sh Wine, is to drinke a mans
    owne damnation. Is she dead?
    Hip. Shee's turned to earth.
    Orla. Wod she were turn'd to heauen; Vmh, is she dead!
    360I am glad the world has lo st one of his Idols; no Whore-
    monger will at midnight beat at the doores; In her graue
    sleepe all my shame, and her owne; and all my sorrowes,
    and all her sinnes.
    Hip. I'm glad you are wax, not marble; you are made
    365Of mans be st temper, there are now good hopes
    That all these heapes of
    Ice about your heart,
    By which a fathers loue was frozen vp,
    Are thawed in these sweet showres fetcht from your eyes,
    370We are ne'r like Angels till our pa s sion dyes,
    She is not dead, but liues vnder worse fate,
    I thinke she's poore, and more to clip her wings,
    Her Husband at this houre lies in the Iayle,
    For killing of a man, to saue his blood,
    375Ioyne all your force with mine: mine shall be showne,
    The getting of his life preserues your owne.
    Orla. In my daughter you will say! does she liue then?
    I am sorry I wa sted teares vpon a Harlot, but the be st is I
    haue a handkercher to drinke them vp, sope can wa sh them
    380all out agen.
    Is she poore?
    Hip. Tru st me, I thinke she is.
    Orla. Then she's a right Strumpet; I ne'r knew any of
    their trade rich two yeeres together; Siues can hold no
    385water, nor Harlots hoord vp money; they haue many vents,
    too many sluces to let it out; Tauernes, Taylors, Bawds,
    Panders, Fidlers, Swaggerers, Fooles and Knaues, doe all
    waite vpon a common Harlots trencher: she is the Gally-
    pot to which these Drones flye: not for loue to the pot, but
    390for the sweet sucket within it, her money, her money.
    Hip. I almo st dare pawne my word, her bosome giues
    warmth to no such Snakes; when did you see her?
    Orla. Not seuenteene Summers.
    Hip. Is your hate so old?
    395 Orla. Older; it has a white head, and shall neuer dye till
    she be buried,
    Her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.
    Hip. Worke yet his life, since in it liues her fame.
    Orla. No, let him hang, and halfe her infamy departs out
    400of the world: I hate him for her; he taught her fir st to ta ste poyson; I hate her for her selfe, because she refused my Phy sicke.
    Hip. Nay but Friscabaldo.
    Orl. I dete st her, I defie both, she's not mine, she's.
    405 Hip. Heare her but speake.
    Orl. I loue no Maremaides, Ile not be caught with a quaill
    pipe.
    Hip. Y'are now beyond all reason.
    Orl. I am then a Bea st. Sir, I had rather be a bea st, and not
    410di shonor my creation, then be a doting father, & like Time,
    be the de struction of mine owne broode.
    Hip. Is't dotage to relieue your child being poore?
    Orl. Is't fit for an old man to keepe a whore?
    Hip. 'Tis charity too.
    415 Orl. 'Tis foolery; releeue her!
    Were her cold limbes stretcht out vpon a Beere,
    I would not sell this durt vnder my nailes
    To buy her an houres breath, nor giue this haire,
    Vnle s s e it were to choke her.
    420 Hip. Fare you well, for Ile trouble you no more. Exit.
    Orl. And fare you well sir, goe thy waies, we haue few
    Lords of thy making, that loue wenches for their hone sty;
    Las my Girle! art thou poore? pouerty dwells next doore
    to despaire, there's but a wall betweene them; despaire is
    425one of hells Catch-poles; and le st that Deuill arre st her, Ile
    to her, yet she shall not know me; she shall drinke of my
    wealth, as beggers doe of running water, freely, yet neuer
    know from what Fountaines head it flowes. Shall a silly
    bird picke her owne bre st to nouri sh her yong ones, and
    430can a father see his child starue? That were hard; The Peli-
    can does it, and shall not I. Yes, I will victuall the Campe
    for her, but it shall be by some stratagem; that knaue there
    her husband will be hanged I feare, Ile keepe his necke out
    of the nooze if I can, he shall not know how.
    435 Enter two Seruing-men.
    Orl. How now knaues, whither wander you?
    1. To seeke your Wor ship.
    Orl. Stay, which of you has my purse, what money
    haue you about you?
    440 2. Some fifteene or sixteene pounds, sir.
    Orl. Giue it me, I thinke I haue some gold about me; yes,
    it's well; leaue my Lodging at Court, and get you home.
    Come sir, tho I neuer turned any man out of doores, yet Ile
    be so bold as to pull your Coate ouer your eares.
    445 1. What doe you meane to doe sir?
    Orl. Hold thy tongue knaue, take thou my Cloake, I hope I
    play not the paltry Merchant in this bartring; bid the
    Steward of my house, sleepe with open eyes in my absence,
    and to looke to all things, whatsoeuer I command by Letters
    450to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well?
    2. As if it were made for your Wor ship.
    Orl. You proud Varlets, you need not bee a shamed to
    weare blue, when your Ma ster is one of your fellowes; away,
    doe not see me.
    455 Both. This is excellent. Exeunt.
    Orl. I should put on a worse suite too; perhaps I will.
    My Vizard is on, now to this maske. Say I should shaue off
    this Honor of an old man, or tye it vp shorter; Well, I will
    spoyle a good face for once. My beard being off, how should
    460I looke? euen like
    A Winter Cuckoo, or vnfeatherd Owle;
    Yet better lose this haire, then lose her soule. Exit.