VVhat you vvill. By Iohn Marston

ACT. 1.

SCAE. 1.

Enter Quadratus, Phylus following him with a lute, a Page going before Quadratus with a torch.

Phy.

O O I beseech you Sir reclaime his wits, My masters mad, starke mad, alasse for loue,

Qua.

For loue? nay and he be not mad for hate, Tis amiable fortune; I tell thee youth Right rare and geason: strang? mad for loue, O show me him Ile giue him reasons straight. So forcible so all inuincible, That it shall drag loue out: run mad for loue? What mortally exsistes, on which our hearts Should be inamored with such passion? For loue? come Phylus; come Ile haung his fate, In steed of loue Ile make him mad for hate. But troth say what straines his madnesse of?

Phy.

Phantasticall.

Qua.

Immure him, skonce him, barrecadoe him int, Phantasticall mad, thrice blessed heart; Why harke good Phylus: (o that thy narrow sence, Could but containe me now) all that exsists, Takes valuation from oppinion: A giddy minion now: pish, thy tast is dull, And canst not rellish me, come wher's Iacomo.

Enter Iacomo vnbraced and careles drest'

Phy.

Looke where he coms: O map of boundles wo!

Iaco.

You gleame is day, darknes, sleepe and feare, Dreames, and the vgly visions of the night Are beate to hell by the bright palme of light, Now romes the swaine and whissells vp the morne: Deepe Silence breakes: all things start vp with light, Only my hart, that endles night and day, Lies bed-red, crippeld by coy Lucea,

Qua.

There's a straine law.

Nay now I seee hee's madde most palpable, He speakes like a player, hah! poeticall.

Iaco.

The wanton spring lyes dallying with the earth, And powers fresh bloud in her decayed vaines, Looke how the new sapt branches are in childe With tender infants, how the Sunne drawes out, And shapes their moysture into thousand formes Of sprouting buddes, all things that show or breath, Are now instaur'd, sauing my wretched brest, That is eternally congeald with Ice Of froz'd, dispaire. O Celia, coy, to nice.

Qua.

Still saunce question mad?

Iaco.

O where doth Piety and Pitty rest?

Qua.

Fetch cordes he's irrecouerable, mad, ranke madde, He calls for strange Chymeras, fictions That haue no being since the curse of death Was throwne on man: Pitty and Piety, Whole daine conuerse with them? alas vaine head, Pitty and Piety are long since dead.

Iaco.

Ruine to Chaunce, and all that striue to stand, Like swolne Colosses on her tottering Base. Fortune is blinde—

Qua.

You lye, you lye, None but a mad man would terme Fortune blind, How can shee see to wound desert so right? Iust in the speeding place: to girt leud browes With honord wreath; ha? Fortune blinde? away, How can she hud-winkt then so rightly see, To starue rich worth and glut iniquitie?

Iaco.

O Loue!

Qua.

Loue? hang loue, It is the abiect out-cast of the world, Hate all things, hate the world, thy selfe, all men, Hate knowledge, striue not to be ouer-wise, ,,It drew distruction into Paradise, Hate Honor, Vertue, they are baites, That tice mens hopes to sadder fates, Hate beautie, euery ballad-monger,

Can cry his idle soppish humor Hate riches, wealthes a flattering Iacke, A dors to face, mewes hind thy backe. He that is poore is firmely sped, He neuer shall be flattered▪ All thinges are error, durt and nothing, Or pant with want or gorg'd to lothing, Loue onely hate, affect no higher Then praise of heauen, wine, a fire. Suck vp thy daies in silent breath, When their snuffs out come Sinior death. Now Sir adieu runne mad and twilt, The worst is this my rimes but spilt.

Iaco

Thy rimes are spilt who would not run ranke mad, To see a wandring French man riuall, nay Out-strip my sute. He kist my Celias cheeke,

Qua.

Why man I saw my dog euen kisse thy Celias lippes,

Iaco.

To morrow morne they goe to wed,

Qua.

Well then I know. Whether to morrow night they goe.

Iaco.

Say quick.

Qua

To bed

Iaco.

I will inuoke the triple Heccate, Make charmes as potent as the breath of Fate, But Ile confound the match,

Qua

Nay then good day, And you be coniuring once Ile slink away,

Exit Quadratus.

Iaco.

Boy could not Orpheus make the stones to daunce?

Phy,

Yes Sir.

Iaco.

Bir Lady a sweete touch: did he not bring Euridice out of hell with his lute.

Phy

So they say Sir,

Iaco.

And thou chanst bring Celias head out of the window with thy Lute, well hazard thy breath: looke Sir heares a ditty.

Tis fouly writ slight wit cross'd here and there, But where thou findst a blot, their fall a teare.

The Song.

Fie peace, peace, peace, it hath no passion int.

O melt thy breath in fluent softer tunes That euery note may seeme to tricle downe Like sad distilling teares and make: O God That I were but a Poet now t'expresse my thoughts Or a Musitian but to sing my thoughts Or any thing but what I am, sing't ore once more My greefes a boundles sea that hath no shore.

Hee Singes and is answered, from aboue a Willow garland is floung downe and the songe ceaseth.

Is this my fauor? am I crown'd with skorne? Then thus I manumit my slau'd condition. Celia but heare me execrate thy loue. By heauen that once was consious of my loue By all that is that knowes my all was thine I will perseu with detestation. Thawart without stretched vehemence of hate Thy wished Hymen: I will craze my braine But all disceauer all: thy hopes vnite What rage so violent as loue turn'd spight?

Enter Randolfo and Andrea with a supplication reading.

Ra.

Humbly complayning kissing the hands of your excelence your pore orators Randolfo and Andrea beseecheth forbidding of the dis∣honord match of their Neece Celia Widdow to their Brother— O twill do, twill do, it can not chuse but doe.

And

What should one say what should one do now; vmph If she do match with you same wandring knight Shee's but vndone, her estimation, wealth —

Iaco.

Nay sir her estimations mounted vp She shall be Ladi'd and sweete Madam'd now.

Ran.

Be Ladi'd ha, ha, O could she but recaule The honord Port of her deceased loue; But thinke whose wife she was, God wot no knights But one (that title of) was euen a Prince A Sultane Sollyman: thrice was he made In dangerous armes Venice prouidetore.

An.

He was a Marchant, but so bounteous Valiant, wise, learned, all so absolute That naughts, was valewed praisfull excellent

But in it was he most praisfull excellent.

Iaco.

O I shall nere forget how he went cloath'd He would maintaine't a base ill vs'd fashion To bind a Marchant to the sullen habit Of precise black, cheefly in Venice state. Where Marchants guilt the top And therefore should you haue him passe the bridge Vp the Rialto like a soldier (As still hee stood a Potestate at sea)

Ran.

In a black beuer felt, ash colour plaine A Florentine cloth of siluer Ierkin, sleeues White satten cut on tinsell, then long stocke.

Iaco.

French paines imbroder'd, Gold-smithes worke, O God! Me thinkes I see him now how he would walke: With what a iolly presence he would pace Round the Rialto. Well hee's soone forgot A straggling sir in his rich bed must sleepe Which if I can not crosse▪ Ile curse and weepe. Shall I be plaine as Truth, I loue your Sister My education birth and wealth deserues her I haue no crosse, no rub to stop my sute But Lauardur's a knight, that strikes all mute.

An.

I ther's the diuill, she must be Ladi'd now.

Iaco.

O ill nurs'd custome no soner is the wealthy Marchant dead His wife left great in faire possessions But giddie rumor graspes it twixt his teeth And shakes it bout our eares. Then thether flock A rout of crased fortunes whose crakt states Gape to be sodderd vp by the rich masse Of the deceased labores, and now and then The troupe of I beseech and I protest And beleeue it sweete, is mix'd with too or three Hopefull, well stockt, neat clothed Cytizens

Ran.

But as we see the sonne of a Diuine Seldome proues Preacher, or a Lawiers sonne Rarely a pleader, (for they striue to Run A various fortune from their Auncestors) So tis right geason for the Marchantes widow,

To be the Cytizens lou'd second spouse.

Iaco.

Variety of obiectes please vs still One dish though nere so cookt doth quickly fill. When diuerse cates the pallats scence delight And with fresh fast creates new appetite Therefore my widdow she casheers the blackes For sweares turnes of the furd-gownes, and suruaies The bedrowle of her sutors thinkes and thinkes, And straight her questing thoughts springs vp a knight, Haue after then a maine the gam's a foote The match clapt vp, tut tis the knight must do't.

Ran.

Then must my pretty peate be Fan'd and Coach'd.

Iaco

Muffd Mask'd and Ladied, with my more then most sweete Madam, But how long doth this perfume of sweete Madam last? Faith tis but a wash sent. My Riotous sir Beginnes to crack Gestes on his Ladies front, Touches her new stampt gentry, takes a glut Keepes out, abandons home, and spends and spends Till stock be melted, then sir takes vp heere Takes vp there, till no where ought is left. Then for the Low-countries, hay for the French And so (to make vp rime) god night sweete wench.

Ran.

By blessednesse weele stop this fatall lot.

Iaco.

But how▪ but how?

Ran.

Why stay lets thinke a plot.

An.

Was not Albano Beletzo honorable rich?

Ran.

Not peer'd in Venice, for birth, fortune loue.

An.

Tis skarce three monthes since fortune gaue him dead.

Ran.

In the blacke fight in the Venetian gulfe.

An.

You hold a truth.

Ran.

Now what a gigglet is this Celia?

An.

To match so suddaine so vnworthely?

Ran.

Why she might haue —

An.

Who might not Celia haue? The passionate mamord Iacomo.

Iaco.

The passionate mamord Iacomo.

An.

Of honord linage, and not meanly rich.

Ran.

The sprightfull Piso, the great Florentine, Aurelius Tuber.

And.

And to leaue these all, And wed a wandring Knight Sir Lauerdure, A God knowes what?

Ran.

Brother she shall not, shal our blood be moungreld with the corruption of a stragling French?

And.

Saint Marke she shall not,

Iaco.

She shall not fathers by; our brother soules.

Ran.

Good day.

Iaco.

Wish me good day? it stands in idle stead, My Celias lost, all my good daies are dead.

The Cornets sound a florish.

Harke Lorenzo Celso the loose Venice Duke, Is going to bed▪ tis now a forward morne Fore he take rest. O strange transformed sight, When Princes make night day the day there night.

And

Come weele peticion him,

Iaco.

Away away, He skornes all plaints makes iest of serious sute.

Ran.

Fall out as't twill I am resolued to do't.

The Cornets sound.

Enter the Duke coppled with a Lady, two cooples more with them, the men hauing tobacco pipes in their hands, the woemen sitt, they daunce a round. The Petition is deliuered vp by Ran∣dolfo, the Duke lightes his tobacco pipe with it and goes out dauncing.

Ran.

Saint Marke Saint Marke.

Iaco.

Did not I tell you, loose no more rich time, What can one get but mier from a swine?

And.

Lets worke a crosse, weele fame it all aboute The French mans gelded.

Ran.

O thats absolute.

Iaco.

Fie ont away, she knowes to well tis false, I feare it to well. No no I hau't will strongly doe't, Who knowes Francisco Soranza?

Ran.

Pish, pish, why what of him?

Iaco.

Is he not wondrous like your decea'sd kinsman Albano.

And.

Exceedingly the strangest neerly like In voice, in gesture face in—

Ran.

Nay he hath Albanos imperfection too, And stuttes when he is vehemently mou'd.

Iaco.

Obserue me then, him would I haue disguis'd, Most perfect like Albano: giuing out, Albano sau'd by swimming (as in faith 'Tis knowne he swome most strangely) rumor him, This morne arriu'd in Venice, heere to lurke As hauing heard the for-ward Nuptials, T'obserue his wifes most infamous lewd hast And to reuenge—

Ran.

I hau't, I hau't, I hau't, 'twill be inuincible.

Iaco.

By this meanes now some little time we catch, For better hopes at least disturbe the match.

And.

Ile to Francisco.

Ran.

Brother Adrian You haue our brothers picture, shape him to it.

And.

Precise in each but Tassell, feare it not.

Ran.

Saint Marke then prosper once, our hopefull plot.

Iaco.

Good soules, good day, I haue not slept last night, Ile take a nap, then pell mell broach all spight.

Exeunt.