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WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN:

A TRAGEDY. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON.

LIVIA, the Duke's creature, cajoles a poor Widow with the appearance of Hospitality and neighbourly Attentions, that she may get her Daughter-in-Law (who is left in the Mother's care in the Son's absence) into her trains, to serve the Duke's pleasure.

LIVIA. WIDOW. A Gentleman, LIVIA's Guest.

Liv. Widow, come, come, I have a great quarrel to you,

Faith I must chide you that you must be sent for ;
You make yourself so strange, never come at us,
And yet so near a neighbour, and so unkind;
Troth, you 're to blame; you cannot be more welcome
To any house in Florence, that I'll tell you.

Wid. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, madam.

Liv. How can you be so strange then? I sit here Sometimes whole days together without company, When business draws this gentleman from home, And should be happy in society

Which I so well affect as that of yours.

I know you 're alone too; why should not we
Like two kind neighbours then supply the wants
Of one another, having tongue-discourse,
Experience in the world, and such kind helps,
To laugh down time and meet age merrily?

Wid. Age, madam! you speak mirth: 'tis at my door, But a long journey from your Ladyship yet.

Liv. My faith, I'm nine and thirty, every stroke, And 'tis a general observation [wench: 'Mongst knights; wives, or widows, we account our

selves

Then old, when young men's eyes leave looking at us. Come, now I have thy company, I'll not part with it Till after supper.

Wid. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam.

Liv. I swear you shall stay supper; we have no strangers, woman,

None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman
And the young heir his ward; you know your company.
Wid. Some other time I will make bold with you,
Liv. Faith she shall not go.
[madam.

Do you think I'll be forsworn?

Wid. 'Tis a great while

Till supper time; I'll take my leave then now, madam, And come again in the evening, since your ladyship Will have it so.

Liv. In the evening! by my troth, wench,

I'll keep you while I have you; you've great business
To sit alone at home: I wonder strangely [sure,
What pleasure you take in 't. Were 't to me now,
I should be ever at one neighbour's house
Or other all day long; having no charge,
Or none to chide you, if you go, or stay,

Who may live merrier, aye, or more at heart's ease?
Come, we'll to chess or draughts, there are an hundred

tricks

To drive out time till supper, never fear 't, wench.

[A Chess-board is set. Wid. I'll but make one step home, and return straight, madam.

Liv. Come, I'll not trust you, you make more excuses To your kind friends than ever I knew any. What business can you have, if you be sure

You've lock'd the doors? and, that being all you have, I know you're careful on 't: one afternoon

So much to spend here! say I should entreat you now
To lie a night or two, or a week, with me,

Or leave your own house for a month together;
It were a kindness that long neighbourhood
And friendship might well hope to prevail in :
Would you deny such a request? i' faith

Speak truly and freely.

Wid. I were then uncivil, madam.

[nights

Liv. Go to then, set your men: we'll have whole Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench.

Wid. As good now tell her then, for she will know it; I've always found her a most friendly lady. [Aside. Liv. Why, widow, where 's your mind?

Wid. Troth, even at home, madam.
To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman
Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable,
Especially to young bloods.

Liv. Another excuse.

Wid. No, as I hope for health, madam, that's a

Please you to send and see.

Liv. What gentlewoman? pish.

Wid. Wife to my son indeed.

Liv. Now I beshrew you.

Could you be so unkind to her and me,

[truth;

To come and not bring her? faith, 'tis not friendly.
Wid. I fear'd to be too bold.

Liv. Too bold! Oh what's become Of the true hearty love was wont to be 'Mongst neighbours in old time?

Wid. And she 's a stranger, madam.

Liv. The more should be her welcome: when is In better practice, than when 'tis employ'd [courtesy In entertaining strangers. I could chide ye in faith. Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman, alone too! Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go. Wid. Please you command one of your servants, Liv. Within there.[madam.

Attend the gentlewoman.

BRANCHA resists the DUKE's attempt.

Bran. Oh treachery to honor!

Duke. Prithee tremble not.

I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting
Under a loving hand that makes much on 't.
Why art so fearful?

Bran. Oh my extremity !

My Lord, what seek you?

* This is one of those scenes which has the air of being an immediate transcript from life. Livia the "good neighbour" is as real a creature as one of Chaucer's characters. She is such another jolly Housewife as the Wife of Bath.

Duke. Love.

Bran. 'Tis gone already :

I have a husband.

Duke. That's a single comfort;

Take a friend to him.

Bran. That's a double mischief;

Or else there's no religion.

Duke. Do not tremble

At fears of thy own making.
Bran. Nor, great lord,

Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin,
Because they fear not you; me they must fright;
Then am I best in health should thunder speak
And none regard it, it had lost the name,

And were as good be still. I'm not like those
That take their soundest sleeps in greatest tempests;
Then wake I most, the weather fearfullest,

And call for strength to virtue.

Winding Sheet.

to have a being, and to live 'mongst men, Is a fearful living and a poor one; let a man truly think on 't.

To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years

Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots:
Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers,
When even the very sheets they commit sin in
May prove for aught they know all their last garments.

Great Men's looks.

Did not the duke look up? methought he saw us.-
That's every one's conceit that sees a duke,
If he look stedfastly, he looks straight at them :
When he perhaps, good careful gentleman,
Never minds any, but the look he casts

Is at his own intentions, and his object

Only the public good.

Weeping in Love.

Why should those tears be fetch'd forth! cannot love Be even as well express'd in a good look,

But it must see her face still in a fountain?
It shews like a country maid dressing her head
By a dish of water: come, 'tis an old custom
To weep for love.

I did but chide in jest: the best loves use it
Sometimes; it sets an edge upon affection.
When we invite our best friends to a feast,
'Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before 'em ;
There's something sharp and salt, both to whet appetite,
And make 'em taste their wine well: so methinks,
After a friendly sharp and savory chiding,

A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape.

Wedlock.

O thou the ripe time of man's misery, wedlock;
When all his thoughts like over-laden trees
Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in jealousies.
O that's a fruit that ripens hastily,

After 'tis knit to marriage; it begins,

As soon as the sun shines upon the bride,
A little to shew color.

Marrying the Adulteress, the Husband dead.
Is not sin sure enough to wretched man,
But he must bind himself in chains to 't? worse!
Must marriage, that immaculate robe of honor,
That renders Virtue glorious, fair, and fruitful,
To her great master, be now made the garment
Of leprosy and foulness? is this penitence,
To sanctify hot lust? what is it otherways
Than worship done to devils? is this the best
Amends that sin can make after her riots!
As if a drunkard, to appease heaven's wrath,
Should offer up his surfeit for a sacrifice :
If that be comely, then lust's offerings are
On wedlock's sacred altar.