The workes of Beniamin Ionson

Act II. Scene IIII.

DELIRO, MACILENTE, FIDO, FALLACE.

I'Le tell you by and by, sir. Welcome (good MACILENTE) to my house, To sojourne euen for euer: if my best In cares, and euery sort of good intreaty

Deliro cometh. His ho•• stre••es flowres.

May moue you stay with me.

MACI.

I thanke you, sir: And yet the muffled fates (had it pleas'd them) Might haue suppli'd me, from their owne full store, Without this word (I thanke you) to a foole. I see no reason, why that dog (call'd Chaunce) Should fawne vpon this fellow, more then me: I am a man, and I haue limmes, flesh, bloud, Bones, sinewes, and a soule, as well as he: My parts are euery way as good as his, If I said better? why, I did not lie. Nath'lesse, his wealth (but nodding on my wants) Must make me bow, and crie: (I thanke you, sir.)

DELI.

Dispatch, take heed your mistris see you not.

FIDO.

I warrant you, sir. I'le steale by her softly.

DELI.

Nay, gentle friend, be merry, raise your lookes Out of your bosome, I protest (by heauen) You are the man most welcome in the world.

MACI.

(I thanke you, sir,) I know my cue, I thinke.

FIDO.

With more per∣fumes and herbes.

Where wil you haue 'hem burne, sir?

DELI.

Here, good FIDO▪ What? shee did not see thee?

FIDO.

No, sir.

DELI.

That's well: Strew, strew, good FIDO, the freshest flowres, so.

MACI.

What meanes this, signior DELIRO? all this censing?

DELI.

Cast in more frankincense, yet more, well said. O, MACILENTE, I haue such a wife! So passing faire, so passing farre vnkind, But of such worth, and right to be vnkind, (Since no man can be worthy of her kindnesse.)

MACI.

What can there not?

DELI.

No, that is sure as death,

No man aliue! I doe not say, is not, But cannot possibly be worth her kindnesse! Nay, it is certain, let me doe her right. How, said I? doe her right? as though I could, As though this dull grosse tongue of mine could vtter The rare, the true, the pure, the infinite rights, That sit (as high as I can looke) within her!

MACI.

This is such dotage, as was neuer heard.

DELI.

Well, this must needs be granted.

MACI.

Granted, quoth you?

DELI.

Nay, MACILENTE; doe not so discredit The goodnesse of your iudgement to denie it, For I doe speake the very least of her. And I would craue, and beg no more of heauen, For all my fortunes here, but to be able To vtter first in fit termes, what shee is, And then the true ioyes I conceiue in her.

MACI.

Is't possible, shee should deserue so well, As you pretend?

DELI.

I, and shee knowes so well Her owne deserts, that (when I striue t'enioy them) Shee weighs the things I doe, with what shee merits: And (seeing my worth out-weigh'd so in her graces) Shee is so solemne, so precise, so froward, That no obseruance I can doe to her, Can make her kind to me: if shee find fault, I mend that fault; and then she saies, I faulted, That I did mend it. Now, good friend, aduise me, How I may temper this strange splene in her.

MACI.

You are too amorous, too obsequious, And make her too assur'd, shee may command you. When women doubt most of their husbands loues, They are most louing. Husbands must take heed They giue no gluts of kindnesse to their wiues, But vse them like their horses; whom they feed Not with a manger—full of meat together, But halfe a pecke at once: and keep them so Still with an appetite to that they giue them. He that desires to haue a louing wife, Must bridle all the shew of that desire: Be kind, not amorous; nor bewraying kindnesse, As if loue wrought, but considerate duty. " Offer no loue-rites, but let wiues still seeke them, " For when they come vnsought, they seldome like them.

DELI.

Beleeue me, MACILENTE, this is gospell. O, that a man were his owne man so much, To rule himselfe thus. I will striue i'faith,

To be more strange and carelesse: yet, I hope I haue now taken such a perfect course, To make her kind to me, and liue contented, That I shall find my kindnesse well return'd, And haue no need to fight with my affections. Shee (late) hath found much fault with euery roome Within my house; one was too big (shee said) Another was not furnisht to her mind, And so through all: all which, now, I haue alter'd. Then here, shee hath a place (on my backe-side) Wherein shee loues to walke; and that (shee said) Had some ill smels about it. Now, this walke Haue I (before shee knowes it) thus perfum'd With herbes, and flowres, and laid in diuers places, (AS 'twere on altars, consecrate to her) Perfumed gloues, and delicate chaines of amber, To keepe the aire in awe of her sweet nostrils: This haue I done, and this I thinke will please her. Behold, shee comes.

FALL.

Here's a sweet stinke indeed: What, shall I euer be thus crost, and plagu'd? And sicke of husband? O, my head doth ake, As it would cleaue asunder with these fauours, All my room's alter'd, and but one poore walke That I delighted in, and that is made So fulsome with perfumes, that I am fear'd (My braine doth sweat so) I haue caught the plague.

DELI.

Why (gentle wife) is now thy walke too sweet? Thou said'st of late, it had sowre aires about it, And found'st much fault, that I did not correct it.

FALL.

Why, and I did find fault, sir?

DELI.

Nay, deare wife; I know, thou hast staid, thou hast lou'd perfumes, No woman better.

FALL.

I, long since perhaps, But now that sense is alter'd: you would haue me (Like to a puddle, or a standing poole) To haue no motion, nor no spirit within me. No, I am like a pure, and sprightly riuer, That moues for euer, and yet still the same; Or fire, that burnes much wood, yet still one flame.

DELI.

But yesterday, I saw thee at our garden, Smelling on roses, and on purple flowres, And since, I hope, the humour of thy sense Is nothing chang'd.

FALL.

Why, those were growing flowres, And these, within my walke, are cut and strew'd.

DELI.

But yet they haue one sent.

FALL.

I! haue they so?

In your grosse iudgement. If you make no difference Betwixt the sent of growing flowres, and cut ones, You haue a sense to taste lamp-oile, yfaith. And with such iudgement haue you chang'd the chambers, Leauing no roome, that I can ioy to be in, In all your house: and now my walke, and all, You smoke me from, as if I were a foxe, And long, belike, to driue me quite away. Well, walke you there, and I'le walke where I list.

DELI.

What shall I doe? Ô, I shall neuer please her,

MACI.

Out on thee, dotard! what starre rul'd his birth? That brought him such a starre? blind Fortune still Bestowes her gifts on such as cannot vse them: How long shall I liue, ere I be so happy, To haue a wi••e of this exceeding forme?

DELI.

Away, with 'hem, would I had broke a ioynt,

〈◊〉〈◊〉 bea••es all away.

When I deuis'd this, that should so dislike her. Away, beare all away.

FALL.

I, doe: for feare Ought that is there should like her. O, this man, How cunningly he can conceale himselfe! As though he lou'd? nay, honour'd, and ador'd?

DELI.

Why, my sweet heart?

FALL.

Sweetheart! Ô! better still! And asking, why? wherefore? and looking strangely, As if he were as white as innocence. Alas, you'r simple, you: you cannot change, Looke pale at pleasure, and then red with wonder: No, no, not you! 'tis pitty o'your naturalls. I did but cast an amorous eye, e'en now, Vpon a paire of gloues, that somewhat lik't me, And straight he noted it, and gaue command, All should be ta'ne away.

DELI.

Be they nay bane then. What, sirra, FIDO, bring in those gloues againe, You tooke from hence.

FALL.

S'body, sir, but doe not, Bring in no gloues, to spite me: if you doe—

DELI.

Ay, me, most wretched; how am I misconstru'd?

MACI.

O, how shee tempts my heart-strings, with her eye, To knit them to her beauties, or to breake? What mou'd the heauens, that they could not make Me such a woman? but a man, a beast, That hath no blisse like to others. Would to heauen (In wreake of my misfortunes) I were turn'd To some faire water-Nymph, that (set vpon The deepest whirle-pit of the rau'nous seas,)

My adamantine eyes might head-long hale This iron world to me, and drowne it all.

GREX.

COR.

Behold, behold, the translated gallant.

MIT.

O, he is welcome.