Godso, gentlemen, what do we forget?

What?

Are not we all enjoined as this day – Thursday, isʼt 231not? – ay, as that day to be at the linen-draperʼs house at 232dinner?

Signor Candido, the patient man.

Afore Jove, true; upon this day heʼs married.

I wonder that, being so stung with a wasp 236before, he dares venture again to come about the eaves 237amongst bees.

O, ʼtis rare sucking a sweet honey-comb. Pray 239heaven his old wife be buried deep enough that she rise 240not up to call for her dance. The poor fiddlersʼ instruments 241would crack for it; sheʼd tickle them. At any hand, letʼs try 242what mettle is in his new bride; if there be none, weʼll put 243in some. Troth, itʼs a very noble citizen – I pity he should 244marry again. Iʼll walk along, for it is a good old fellow.

I warrant the wives of Milan would give any 246fellow twenty thousand ducats that could but have the 247face to beg of the Duke that all the citizens in Milan 248might be bound to the peace of patience, as the 249linen-draper is.

O, fie uponʼt! ʼTwould undo all us that are 251courtiers; we should have no ho with the wenches, then.

My lordʼs come.

How now, what news?

None.

Your lady is with the Duke her father.

And weʼll to them both presently.

And weʼll to them both presently. Whoʼs that?

Signior Frescobaldo.

Frescobaldo? O, pray call him, and leave me; we 261two have business.

Ho, signor! Signor Frescobaldo! –

1.2.18263The lord Hippolito.

My noble lord, my lord Hippolito! The Dukeʼs 265son! His brave daughterʼs brave husband! How does 266your honoured lordship? Does your nobility remember so 267poor a gentleman as Signor Orlando Frescobaldo? Old, mad 268Orlando?

O sir, our friends – they ought to be unto us as our 270jewels, as dearly valued being locked up and unseen as when 271we wear them in our hands. I see, Frescobaldo, age hath not 272command of your blood; for all Timeʼs sickle has gone over 273you, you are Orlando still.

Why, my lord, are not the fields mown and cut 275down and stripped bare, and yet wear they not pied coats 276again? Though my head be like a leek, white, may not my 277heart be like the blade, green?

Scarce can I read stories on your brow

1.2.23279Which age hath writ there; you look youthful still.

I eat snakes, my lord, I eat snakes. 281My heart shall never have a wrinkle in it so long as I can cry 282‘hemʼ with a clear voice.

You are the happier man, sir.

Happy man? Iʼll give you, my lord, the true picture 285of a happy man. I was turning leaves over this morning, 286and found it. An excellent Italian painter drew it. If I have 287it in the right colours, Iʼll bestow it on your lordship.

Iʼll stay for it.

Itʼs very well. I thank you for this picture.

After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have 303my face drawn. 304For I am not covetous, 305am not in debt, 306sit neither at the Dukeʼs side, 307nor lie at his feet. 308Wenching and I have done. 309No man I wrong; no man I fear; no man I fee. 310I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonderʼs my 311home. 312I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save 313a winding-sheet, 314but like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me. 315I sowed leaves in my youth, and I reap now books in 316my age. 317I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll 318for me, if I prove a swan and go singing to my nest, why, so. 319If a crow, throw me out for carrion and pick out mine eyes. 320May not old Frescobaldo, my lord, be merry now? Ha?

You may. Would I were partner in your mirth.

I have a little, 323have all things. 324I have nothing – I have no wife, I have no child, have no 325chick. And why should not I be in my jocundary?

Is your wife, then, departed?

Sheʼs an old dweller in those high countries, 328yet not from me – [Pointing at his heart] 329here, sheʼs here – but before me; when a knave and a quean 330are married, they commonly walk like sergeants together, 331but a good couple are seldom parted.

You had a daughter too, sir, had you not?

O, my lord! This old tree had one branch, and 334but one branch, growing out of it. It was young, it was 335fair, it was straight. I pruned it daily, dressed it carefully, 336kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun. Yet, for all 337my skill in planting, it grew crooked; it bore crabs. I 338hewed it down. 339Whatʼs become of it I neither know nor care.

Then can I tell you whatʼs become of it:

1.2.49341That branch is withered.

That branch is withered. So ʼtwas long ago.

Her name, I think, was Bellafront. Sheʼs dead.

Ha? Dead?

Yes. What of her was left, not worth the keeping,

1.2.53346Even in my sight was thrown into a grave.

Dead! My last and best peace go with her! I see 348Deathʼs a good trencher-man: he can eat coarse, homely meat 349as well as the daintiest.

Why, Frescobaldo, was she homely?

O, my lord! A strumpet is one of the devilʼs vines; 352all the sins, like so many poles, are stuck upright out of 353hell to be her props, that she may spread upon them. And 354when sheʼs ripe, every slave has a pull at her; then must she 355be pressed. The young, beautiful grape sets the teeth of lust 356on edge; yet to taste that lickerish wine is to drink a manʼs 357own damnation. Is she dead?

Sheʼs turned to earth.

Would she were turned to heaven! Umnh, is she dead? 360I am glad the world has lost one of his idols; no 361whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors. In her grave 362sleep all my shame and her own, and all my sorrows 363and all her sins.

Iʼm glad you are wax, not marble. You are made

1.2.60365Of manʼs best temper. There are now good hopes

1.2.61366That all those heaps of 367ice about your heart

1.2.62368By which a fatherʼs love was frozen up

1.2.63369Are thawed in these sweet showʼrs fetched from your eyes;

1.2.64370We are neʼer like angels till our passion dies.

1.2.65371She is not dead, but lives under worse fate:

1.2.66372I think sheʼs poor, and, more to clip her wings,

1.2.67373Her husband at this hour lies in the jail

1.2.68374For killing of a man. To save his blood,

1.2.69375Join all your force with mine. Mine shall be shown;

1.2.70376The getting of his life preserves your own.

In my daughter, you will say. Does she live, then? 378I am sorry I wasted tears upon a harlot. But the best is I 379have a handkercher to drink them up; soap can wash them 380all out again. 381Is she poor?

Trust me, I think she is.

Then sheʼs a right strumpet. I neʼer knew any of 384their trade rich two years together. Sieves can hold no 385water, nor harlots hoard up money. They have many vents, 386too many sluices to let it out; taverns, tailors, bawds, 387panders, fiddlers, swaggerers, fools, and knaves do all 388wait upon a common harlotʼs trencher. She is the 389gallipot to which these drones fly – not for love to the pot, but 390for the sweet sucket within in, her money, her money.

I almost dare pawn my word her bosom gives 392warmth to no such snakes. When did you see her?

Not seventeen summers.

Is your hate so old?

Older. It has a white head and shall never die till 396she be buried; 397her wrongs shall be my bedfellow.

Work yet his life, since in it lives her fame.

No, let him hang, and half her infamy departs out 400of the world. I hate him for her; he taught her first to taste 401poison. I hate her for herself, because she refused my 402physic.

Nay, but, Frescobaldo –

I detest her, I defy both; sheʼs not mine, sheʼs –

Hear her but speak.

I love no mermaids; Iʼll not be caught with a 407quail-pipe!

Youʼre now beyond all reason.

I am, then, a beast. Sir, I had rather be a beast and not 410dishonour my creation than be a doting father and, like Time, 411be the destruction of mine own brood.

Isʼt dotage to relieve your child being poor?

Isʼt fit for an old man to keep a whore?

ʼTis charity too.

ʼTis charity too. ʼTis foolery. Relieve her!

1.2.89416Were her cold limbs stretched out upon a bier

1.2.90417I would not sell this dirt under my nails

1.2.91418To buy her an hourʼs breath, nor give this hair

1.2.92419Unless it were to choke her.

Fare you well, for Iʼll trouble you no more.

And fare you well, sir.

1.2.94.2Go thy ways; we have few 422lords of thy making, that love wenches for their honesty. – 423ʼLas, my girl! Art thou poor? Poverty dwells next door 424to despair; thereʼs but a wall between them. Despair is 425one of hellʼs catchpoles, and lest that devil arrest her Iʼll 426to her. Yet she shall not know me. She shall drink of my 427wealth as beggars do of running water, freely, yet never 428know from what fountainʼs head it flows. Shall a silly 429bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and 430can a father see his child starve? That were hard. The 431pelican does it, and shall not I? Yes, I will victual the camp 432for her, but it shall be by some stratagem. That knave there, 433her husband, will be hanged, I fear. Iʼll keep his neck out 434of the noose if I can; he shall not know how.

1.2.94.4436How now, knaves, whither wander you?

To seek your worship.

Stay, which of you has my purse? What money 439have you about you?

Some fifteen or sixteen pounds, sir.

Give it me. I think I have some gold about me. Yes, 442itʼs well. [Exchanging money] Leave my lodging at court, and get you home. [To 1 Servingman] 443Come, sir, though I never turned any man out of doors, yet Iʼll 444be so bold as to pull your coat over your ears.

What do you mean to do, sir?

Hold thy tongue, knave; [Exchanging garments] take thou my cloak. I hope I 447play not the paltry merchant in this bartering. Bid the 448steward of my house sleep with open eyes in my absence, 449and to look to all things. Whatsoever I command by letters 450to be done by you, see it done. So, does it sit well?

As if it were made for your worship.

You proud varlets, you need not be ashamed to 453wear blue, when your master is one of your fellows. Away! 454Do not see me.

This is excellent.

I should put on a worse suit, too; perhaps I will. 457My vizard is on; now to this masque. [Touching his beard] Say I should shave off 458this honour of an old man, or tie it up shorter? Well, I will 459spoil a good face for once. My beard being off, how should 460I look? Even like