Every Man in His Humour Part 3

SER. Signior Prospero.

LOR. SE. Signior Prospero? A young gentleman of the family of Strozzi, is he not?

SER. Ay, sir, the same: Signior Th.o.r.ello, the rich Florentine merchant married his sister.

[ENTER MUSCO.]

LOR. SE. You say very true. -- Musco.

MUS. Sir.

LOR. SE. Make this gentleman drink here.

I pray you go in, sir, an't please you.

[EXEUNT.]

Now (without doubt) this letter's to my son.

Well, all is one: I'll be so bold as read it, Be it but for the style's sake, and the phrase; Both which (I do presume) are excellent, And greatly varied from the vulgar form, If Prospero's invention gave them life.

How now! what stuff is here?

"Sir Lorenzo, I muse we cannot see thee at Florence: 'Sblood, I doubt, Apollo hath got thee to be his Ingle, that thou comest not abroad, to visit thine old friends: well, take heed of him; he may do somewhat for his household servants, or so; But for his Retainers, I am sure, I have known some of them, that have followed him, three, four, five years together, scorning the world with their bare heels, and at length been glad for a s.h.i.+ft (though no clean s.h.i.+ft) to lie a whole winter, in half a sheet cursing Charles'

wain, and the rest of the stars intolerably. But (quis contra diuos?) well; Sir, sweet villain, come and see me; but spend one minute in my company, and 'tis enough: I think I have a world of good jests for thee: oh, sir, I can shew thee two of the most perfect, rare and absolute true Gulls, that ever thou saw'st, if thou wilt come.

'Sblood, invent some famous memorable lie, or other, to flap thy Father in the mouth withal: thou hast been father of a thousand, in thy days, thou could'st be no Poet else: any scurvy roguish excuse will serve; say thou com'st but to fetch wool for thine Ink-horn. And then, too, thy Father will say thy wits are a wool- gathering. But it's no matter; the worse, the better.

Anything is good enough for the old man. Sir, how if thy Father should see this now? what would he think of me?

Well, (how ever I write to thee) I reverence him in my soul, for the general good all Florence delivers of him.

Lorenzo, I conjure thee (by what, let me see) by the depth of our love, by all the strange sights we have seen in our days, (ay, or nights either), to come to me to Florence this day. Go to, you shall come, and let your Muses go spin for once. If thou wilt not, 's hart, what's your G.o.d's name? Apollo? Ay, Apollo. If this melancholy rogue (Lorenzo here) do not come, grant, that he do turn Fool presently, and never hereafter be able to make a good jest, or a blank verse, but live in more penury of wit and invention, than either the Hall-Beadle, or Poet Nuntius."

Well, it is the strangest letter that ever I read.

Is this the man, my son so oft hath praised To be the happiest, and most precious wit That ever was familiar with Art?

Now, by our Lady's blessed son, I swear, I rather think him most unfortunate In the possession of such holy gifts, Being the master of so loose a spirit.

Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ With so profane a pen unto his friend?

The modest paper e'en looks pale for grief, To feel her virgin-cheek defiled and stained With such a black and criminal inscription.

Well, I had thought my son could not have strayed So far from judgment as to mart himself Thus cheaply in the open trade of scorn To jeering folly and fantastic humour.

But now I see opinion is a fool, And hath abused my senses. -- Musco.

[ENTER MUSCO.]

MUS. Sir.

LOR. SE. What, is the fellow gone that brought this letter?

MUS. Yes sir, a pretty while since.

LOR. SE. And where's Lorenzo?

MUS. In his chamber, sir.

LOR. SE. He spake not with the fellow, did he?

MUS. No, sir, he saw him not.

LOR. SE. Then, Musco, take this letter, and deliver it unto Lorenzo: but, sirrah, on your life take you no knowledge I have opened it.

MUS. O Lord, sir, that were a jest indeed.

[EXIT MUS.]

LOR. SE. I am resolv'd I will not cross his journey, Nor will I practise any violent means To stay the hot and l.u.s.ty course of youth.

For youth restrained straight grows impatient, And, in condition, like an eager dog, Who, ne'er so little from his game withheld, Turns head and leaps up at his master's throat.

Therefore I'll study, by some milder drift, To call my son unto a happier shrift.

[EXIT.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

ENTER LORENZO JUNIOR, WITH MUSCO.

MUS. Yes, sir, on my word he opened it, and read the contents.

LOR. JU. It scarce contents me that he did so. But, Musco, didst thou observe his countenance in the reading of it, whether he were angry or pleased?

MUS. Why, sir, I saw him not read it.

LOR. JU. No? how knowest thou then that he opened it?

MUS. Marry, sir, because he charg'd me on my life to tell n.o.body that he opened it, which, unless he had done, he would never fear to have it revealed.

LOR. JU. That's true: well, Musco, hie thee in again, Lest thy protracted absence do lend light, [ENTER STEPHANO.]

To dark suspicion: Musco, be a.s.sured I'll not forget this thy respective love.

STEP. Oh, Musco, didst thou not see a fellow here in a what-sha-call-him doublet; he brought mine uncle a letter even now?

MUS. Yes, sir, what of him?

STEP. Where is he, canst thou tell?

MUS. Why, he is gone.

STEP. Gone? which way? when went he? how long since?

MUS. It's almost half an hour ago since he rode hence.

STEP. Wh.o.r.eson scanderbag rogue; oh that I had a horse; by G.o.d's lid, I'd fetch him back again, with heave and ho.

MUS. Why, you may have my master's bay gelding, an you will.

STEP. But I have no boots, that's the spite on it.

MUS. Then it's no boot to follow him. Let him go and hang, sir.

STEP. Ay, by my troth; Musco, I pray thee help to truss me a little; nothing angers me, but I have waited such a while for him all unlac'd and untrussed yonder; and now to see he is gone the other way.