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Read Ebook: Epicoene; Or The Silent Woman by Jonson Ben
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Ebook has 3217 lines and 55468 words, and 65 pages
Truth says, of old the art of making plays Was to content the people; and their praise Was to the poet money, wine, and bays.
But in this age, a sect of writers are, That, only, for particular likings care, And will taste nothing that is popular.
With such we mingle neither brains nor breasts; Our wishes, like to those make public feasts, Are not to please the cook's taste, but the guests'.
Yet, if those cunning palates hither come, They shall find guests' entreaty, and good room; And though all relish not, sure there will be some,
That, when they leave their seats, shall make them say, Who wrote that piece, could so have wrote a play, But that he knew this was the better way.
For, to present all custard, or all tart, And have no other meats, to bear a part. Or to want bread, and salt, were but course art.
The poet prays you then, with better thought To sit; and, when his cates are all in brought, Though there be none far-fet, there will dear-bought,
Be fit for ladies: some for lords, knights, 'squires; Some for your waiting-wench, and city-wires; Some for your men, and daughters of Whitefriars.
Nor is it, only, while you keep your seat Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eat A week at ord'naries, on his broken meat: If his muse be true, Who commends her to you.
ANOTHER.
ACT 1.
SCENE 1.1.
A ROOM IN CLERIMONT'S HOUSE.
ENTER CLERIMONT, MAKING HIMSELF READY, FOLLOWED BY HIS PAGE.
CLER: Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy?
PAGE: Yes, sir.
CLER: Let me hear it.
PAGE: You shall, sir, but i'faith let nobody else.
CLER: Why, I pray?
PAGE: It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir; besides me a perfect deal of ill-will at the mansion you wot of, whose lady is the argument of it; where now I am the welcomest thing under a man that comes there.
CLER: I think, and above a man too, if the truth were rack'd out of you.
PAGE: No, faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play with me, and throw me on the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and she kisses me with her oil'd face; and puts a peruke on my head; and asks me an I will wear her gown? and I say, no: and then she hits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me Innocent! and lets me go.
CLER: No marvel if the door be kept shut against your master, when the entrance is so easy to you--well sir, you shall go there no more, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, a fortnight hence. Sing, sir.
PAGE : Still to be neat, still to be drest--
TRUE: Why, here's the man that can melt away his time and never feels it! What between his mistress abroad, and his ingle at home, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle; he thinks the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well, sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute, or condemn'd to any capital punishment to-morrow, you would begin then to think, and value every article of your time, esteem it at the true rate, and give all for it.
CLER: Why what should a man do?
TRUE: Why, nothing; or that which, when it is done, is as idle. Harken after the next horse-race or hunting-match; lay wagers, praise Puppy, or Pepper-corn, White-foot, Franklin; swear upon Whitemane's party; speak aloud, that my lords may hear you; visit my ladies at night, and be able to give them the character of every bowler or better on the green. These be the things wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I for company.
CLER: Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come, the other are considerations, when we come to have gray heads and weak hams, moist eyes and shrunk members. We'll think on 'em then; and we'll pray and fast.
TRUE: Ay, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which our want of ability will not let us employ in evil!
CLER: Why, then 'tis time enough.
TRUE: Yes; as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to effect his business the last day. O, Clerimont, this time, because it is an incorporeal thing, and not subject to sense, we mock ourselves the fineliest out of it, with vanity and misery indeed! not seeking an end of wretchedness, but only changing the matter still.
CLER: Nay, thou wilt not leave now--
TRUE: See but our common disease! with what justice can we complain, that great men will not look upon us, nor be at leisure to give our affairs such dispatch as we expect, when we will never do it to ourselves? nor hear, nor regard ourselves?
CLER: Foh! thou hast read Plutarch's morals, now, or some such tedious fellow; and it shews so vilely with thee! 'fore God, 'twill spoil thy wit utterly. Talk me of pins, and feathers, and ladies, and rushes, and such things: and leave this Stoicity alone, till thou mak'st sermons.
TRUE: Well, sir; if it will not take, I have learn'd to lose as little of my kindness as I can. I'll do good to no man against his will, certainly. When were you at the college?
CLER: What college?
TRUE: As if you knew not!
CLER: No faith, I came but from court yesterday.
TRUE: Why, is it not arrived there yet, the news? A new foundation, sir, here in the town, of ladies, that call themselves the collegiates, an order between courtiers and country-madams, that live from their husbands; and give entertainment to all the wits, and braveries of the time, as they call them: cry down, or up, what they like or dislike in a brain or a fashion, with most masculine, or rather hermaphroditical authority; and every day gain to their college some new probationer.
CLER: Who is the president?
TRUE: The grave, and youthful matron, the lady Haughty.
CLER: A pox of her autumnal face, her pieced beauty! there's no man can be admitted till she be ready, now-a-days, till she has painted, and perfumed, and wash'd, and scour'd, but the boy here; and him she wipes her oil'd lips upon, like a sponge. I have made a song, I pray thee hear it, on the subject.
PAGE.
Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd; Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Then all the adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
TRUE: And I am clearly on the other side: I love a good dressing before any beauty o' the world. O, a woman is then like a delicate garden; nor is there one kind of it; she may vary every hour; take often counsel of her glass, and choose the best. If she have good ears, shew them; good hair, lay it out; good legs, wear short clothes; a good hand, discover it often; practise any art to mend breath, cleanse teeth, repair eye-brows; paint, and profess it.
CLER: How? publicly?
TRUE: The doing of it, not the manner: that must be private. Many things that seem foul in the doing, do please done. A lady should, indeed, study her face, when we think she sleeps; nor, when the doors are shut, should men be enquiring; all is sacred within, then. Is it for us to see their perukes put on, their false teeth, their complexion, their eye-brows, their nails? You see guilders will not work, but inclosed. They must not discover how little serves, with the help of art, to adorn a great deal. How long did the canvas hang afore Aldgate? Were the people suffered to see the city's Love and Charity, while they were rude stone, before they were painted and burnish'd? No: no more should Servants approach their mistresses, but when they are complete and finish'd.
CLER: Well said, my Truewit.
TRUE: And a wise lady will keep a guard always upon the place, that she may do things securely. I once followed a rude fellow into a chamber, where the poor madam, for haste, and troubled, snatch'd at her peruke to cover her baldness; and put it on the wrong way.
CLER: O prodigy!
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