Digital Renaissance Editions

About this text

  • 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    Not Peer Reviewed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)

    The Honest Whore.
    240not vp to call for her daunce, the poore Fidlers Instruments
    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.
    245Caro. 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.
    250Lod. 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?
    255Omnes. 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.
    260Hip. Friscabaldo, oh! pray call him, and leaue me, wee
    two haue businesse.
    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 Lordship! does your Nobility remember so
    poore a Gentleman as Signior Orlando Friscabaldo! old mad
    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