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,
[Exit Martino.
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.
Count.
Signior.
Max.
Preserve your patience, honourable
count.
Count.
Patience!
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
Enter Onion.
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 ser-
ving-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, do 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 presump-
tion;
Therefore, good signior —
Max.
Sweet lord, satisfy yourself, I am
not now to learn how to manage my affec-
tions; I have observed and know the dif-
ference between a base wretch and a true
man; I can distinguish them; the property
of the wretch is, he would hurt, and can-
not; of the man, he can hurt, and will
not.
1Ever 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.
Count.
Go to my merry daughter; O
these looks
Agree well with your habit, do they not?
Enter Juniper.
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 com-
punction; 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.
[ Exit.
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: <!-- wrapped over thus: [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, com-
fort 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.
[Exit Maximilian.
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 sup-
ply.
The time is envious of our longer stay.
Farewell, dear Rachel.
Rach.
Most dear lord, adieu,
Heaven and honour crown your deeds and you.
[Exit Rachel.
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.
Enter Jaques.
Pau.
Here comes her father. How dost
thou, good Jaques?
Ang.
God save thee, Jaques.
Jaq.
What should this mean? Rachel,
open the door.
[Exit Jaques.
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.
[Exeunt.