SCENE IV.
Another apartment in the same.
Enter Husband and the Master of a College.
Hus.
Please you draw near, sir; you're exceeding
welcome.
Mast.
That's my doubt; I fear I come not to be
welcome.
Hus.
Yes, howsoever.
Mast.
'Tis not my fashion, sir, to dwell in long
circumstance, but to be plain and effectual2 note
; therefore
to the purpose. The cause of my setting forth
was piteous and lamentable. That hopeful young
gentleman your brother, whose virtues we all love
dearly, through your default and unnatural negligence
-- 652 --
lies in bond executed for your debt,—a prisoner;
all his studies amazed3 note
, his hope struck dead,
and the pride of his youth muffled in these dark clouds
of oppression.
Hus.
Umph, umph, umph!
Mast.
O you have kill'd the towardest hope of all
our university: wherefore, without repentance and
amends, expect ponderous and sudden judgments to
fall grievously upon you. Your brother, a man who
profited in his divine employments, and might have
made ten thousand souls fit for heaven4 note, is now by your
careless courses cast into prison, which you must answer
for; and assure your spirit it will come home
at length.
Hus.
O God! oh!
Mast.
Wise men think ill of you; others speak ill
of you; no man loves you: nay, even those whom
honesty condemns, condemn you: And take this
from the virtuous affection I bear your brother; never
look for prosperous hour, good thoughts, quiet
sleep5 note
, contented walks, nor any thing that makes
man perfect6 note, till you redeem him. What is your
-- 653 --
answer? How will you bestow him? Upon desperate
misery, or better hopes?—I suffer till I hear your
answer.
Hus.
Sir, you have much wrought with me; I
feel you in my soul: you are your art's master7 note. I
never had sense till now; your syllables have cleft
me8 note
. Both for your words and pains I thank you.
I cannot but acknowledge grievous wrongs done to
my brother; mighty, mighty, mighty, mighty
wrongs. Within, there.
Enter a Servant.
Hus.
Fill me a bowl of wine9 note. [Exit Servant.]
Alas, poor brother bruis'd with an execution for
my sake!
Mast.
A bruise indeed makes many a mortal sore,
Till the grave cure them.
Re-enter Servant with wine.
Hus.
Sir, I begin to you; you've chid your welcome.
Mast.
I could have wish'd it better for your sake.
I pledge you, sir:—To the kind man in prison.
Hus.
Let it be so. Now, sir, if you please to
spend but a few minutes in a walk about my grounds
below, my man here shall attend you. I doubt not
but by that time to be furnish'd of a sufficient answer,
and therein my brother fully satisfied.
Mast.
Good sir, in that the angels would be pleas'd,
-- 654 --
And the world's murmurs calm'd; and I should say,
I set forth then upon a lucky day.
[Exeunt Master and Servant.
Hus.
O thou confused man! Thy pleasant sins have
undone thee1 note
; thy damnation has beggar'd thee.
That heaven should say we must not sin, and yet
made women2 note! give our senses way to find pleasure,
which being found, confounds us! Why should we
know those things so much misuse us? O, would
virtue had been forbidden! We should then have
prov'd all virtuous; for 'tis our blood to love what
we are forbidden3 note
. Had not drunkenness been forbidden4 note,
what man would have been fool to a beast,
and zany to a swine5 note,—to show tricks in the mire?
What is there in three dice6 note, to make a man draw
thrice three thousand acres into the compass of a little
round table, and with the gentleman's palsy in the
-- 655 --
hand shake out his posterity7 note
thieves or beggars?
'Tis done; I have don't i'faith: terrible, horrible
misery!—How well was I left8 note! Very well, very
well. My lands show'd like a full moon about me;
but now the moon's in the last quarter,—waning,
waning; and I am mad to think that moon was
mine; mine and my father's, and my fore-fathers';
generations, generations.—Down goes the house of
us; down, down it sinks. Now is the name a beggar;
begs in me. That name which hundreds of
years has made this shire famous, in me and my
posterity runs out. In my seed five are made miserable
besides myself: my riot is now my brother's
gaoler, my wife's sighing, my three boys' penury,
and mine own confusion.
Why sit my hairs upon my cursed head?
[Tears his hair.
Will not this poison scatter them9 note
? O, my brother's
In execution among devils that
Stretch him and make him give* note; and I in want,
-- 656 --
Not able for to live, nor to redeem him!
Divines and dying men may talk of hell,
But in my heart her several torments dwell1 note
;
Slavery and misery. Who, in this case,
Would not take up money upon his soul?
Pawn his salvation, live at interest?
I, that did ever in abundance dwell,
For me to want, exceeds the throes of hell2 note
.
Enter a little boy with a top and scourge.
Son.
What ail you, father? Are you not well? I
cannot scourge my top as long as you stand so. You
take up all the room with your wide legs. Puh!
you cannot make me afraid with this; I fear no vizards,
nor bugbears3 note.
[He takes up the child by the skirts of his long coat with one hand, and draws his dagger with the other.
Hus.
Up, sir, for here thou hast no inheritance left* note.
Son.
O, what will you do, father? I am your
white boy.
Hus.
Thou shalt be my red boy; take that.
[Strikes him.
-- 657 --
Son.
O, you hurt me, father.
Hus.
My eldest beggar,
Thou shalt not live to ask an usurer bread4 note
;
To cry at a great man's gate; or follow,
Good your honour, by a coach; no, nor your brother:
'Tis charity to brain you.
Son.
How shall I learn, now my head's broke5 note?
Hus.
Bleed, bleed,
[Stabs him.
Rather than beg. Be not thy name's disgrace:
Spurn thou thy fortunes first; if they be base,
Come view thy second brother's. Fates! My children's blood
Shall spin into your faces6 note
; you shall see,
How confidently we scorn beggary!
[Exit with his Son.
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].
