SCENE III.
Another room in the same.
Enter Wife* note, and a Servant.
Ser.
'Faith, mistress, if it might not be presumption
In me to tell you so, for his excuse
You had small reason, knowing his abuse.
Wife.
I grant I had; but alas,
Why should our faults at home be spread abroad?
'Tis grief enough within doors. At first sight
Mine uncle could run o'er his prodigal life
As perfectly as if his serious eye
Had number'd all his follies:
Knew of his mortgag'd lands, his friends in bonds,
Himself wither'd with debts9 note
; and in that minute
Had I added his usage and unkindness,
'Twould have confounded every thought of good:
Where now, fathering his riots on his youth,
Which time and tame experience will shake off,—
Guessing his kindness to me, (as I smooth'd him1 note
With all the skill I had, though his deserts
-- 648 --
Are in form uglier than an unshap'd bear2 note
,)
He's ready to prefer him to some office
And place at court; a good and sure relief
To all his stooping fortunes. 'Twill be a means, I hope,
To make new league between us, and redeem
His virtues with his lands.
Ser.
I should think so, mistress. If he should not
now be kind to you, and love you, and cherish you
up, I should think the devil himself kept open house
in him.
Wife.
I doubt not but he will. Now pr'ythee leave
me; I think I hear him coming.
Ser.
I am gone.
[Exit.
Wife.
By this good means I shall preserve my lands,
And free my husband out of usurers' hands.
Now there's no need of sale; my uncle's kind:
I hope, if aught, this will content his mind.
Here comes my husband.
Enter Husband.
Hus.
Now, are you come? Where's the money?
Let's see the money. Is the rubbish sold? those
wise-acres, your lands? Why when? The money?
Where is it? Pour it down; down with it, down
with it: I say pour't on the ground; let's see it, let's
see it.
Wife.
Good sir, keep but in patience, and I hope
my words shall like you well3 note. I bring you better
comfort than the sale of my dowry.
Hus.
Ha! What's that?
Wife.
Pray do not fright me, sir, but vouchsafe
me hearing. My uncle, glad of your kindness to me
-- 649 --
and mild usage (for so I made it to him), hath in pity
of your declining fortunes, provided a place for you
at court, of worth and credit; which so much overjoy'd
me—
Hus.
Out on thee, filth! over and overjoy'd, when
I'm in torment? [Spurns her.] Thou politick whore4 note
,
subtiler than nine devils, was this thy journey to
nunck? to set down the history of me, of my state
and fortunes? Shall I that dedicated myself to pleasure,
be now confin'd in service? to crouch and stand5 note
like an old man i'the hams6 note
, my hat off? I that
could never abide to uncover my head i'the church?
Base slut! this fruit bear thy complaints.
Wife.
O, heaven knows
That my complaints were praises, and best words,
Of you and your estate. Only, my friends
Knew of your mortgag'd lands, and were possess'd
Of every accident before I came.
If you suspect it but a plot in me,
To keep my dowry, or for mine own good,
Or my poor children's, (though it suits a mother
To show a natural care in their reliefs,)
Yet I'll forget myself to calm your blood:
Consume it, as your pleasure counsels you.
-- 650 --
And all I wish even clemency affords;
Give me but pleasant looks* note, and modest words.
Hus.
Money, whore, money, or I'll—
[Draws a dagger.
Enter a Servant hastily.
What the devil! How now! thy hasty news7 note
?
Ser.
May it please you, sir—
Hus.
What! may I not look upon my dagger?
Speak, villain, or I will execute the point on thee8 note
:
Quick, short.
Ser.
Why, sir, a gentleman from the university
stays below to speak with you.
[Exit.
Hus.
From the university? so; university:—that
long word runs through me.
[Exit.
Wife.
Was ever wife so wretchedly beset?
Had not this news stepp'd in between, the point
Had offer'd violence unto my breast.
That which some women call great misery,
Would show but little here; would scarce be seen
Among my miseries. I may compare
For wretched fortunes, with all wives that are.
Nothing will please him, until all be nothing.
He calls it slavery to be preferr'd;
A place of credit, a base servitude.
What shall become of me, and my poor children,
Two here, and one at nurse? my pretty beggars!
I see how Ruin with a palsied hand
Begins to shake this ancient seat to dust9 note
:
-- 651 --
The heavy weight of sorrow draws my lids
Over my dankish eyes1 note
: I can scarce see;
Thus grief will last* note;—it wakes and sleeps with me.
[Exit.
Edmond Malone [1780], Supplement to the edition of Shakspeare's plays published in 1778 By Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. In two volumes. Containing additional observations by several of the former commentators: to which are subjoined the genuine poems of the same author, and seven plays that have been ascribed to him; with notes By the editor and others (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10911].
