DELI. Dispatch! take heed your mistress see you not.

FIDO. I warrant you, sir, I'll steal by her softly.

[EXIT.

DELI. Nay, gentle friend, be merry; raise your looks Out of your bosom: I protest, by heaven, You are the man most welcome in the world.

MACI. I thank you, sir. -- I know my cue, I think.

[ASIDE.

RE-ENTER FIDO, WITH MORE PERFUMES AND FLOWERS.

FIDO. Where will you have them burn, sir?

DELI. Here, good Fido.

What, she did not see thee?

FIDO. No, sir.

DELI. That is well Strew, strew, good Fido, the freshest flowers; so!

MACI. What means this, signior Deliro? all this censing?

DELI. Cast in more frankincense, yet more; well said. -- O Macilente, I have such a wife!

So pa.s.sing fair! so pa.s.sing-fair-unkind!

But of such worth, and right to be unkind, Since no man can be worthy of her kindness --

MACI. What, can there not?

DELI. No, that is as sure as death, No man alive. I do not say, is not, But cannot possibly be worth her kindness, Nay, it is certain, let me do her right.

How, said I? do her right! as though I could, As though this dull, gross tongue of mine could utter The rare, the true, the pure, the infinite rights.

That sit, as high as I can look, within her!

MACI. This is such dotage as was never heard.

DELI. Well, this must needs be granted.

MACI. Granted, quoth you?

DELI. Nay, Macilente, do not so discredit The goodness of your judgment to deny it.

For I do speak the very least of her: And I would crave, and beg no more of Heaven, For all my fortunes here, but to be able To utter first in fit terms, what she is, And then the true joys I conceive in her.

MACI. Is't possible she should deserve so well, As you pretend?

DELI. Ay, and she knows so well Her own deserts, that, when I strive t'enjoy them, She weighs the things I do, with what she merits; And, seeing my worth out-weigh'd so in her graces, She is so solemn, so precise, so froward, That no observance I can do to her Can make her kind to me: if she find fault, I mend that fault; and then she says, I faulted, That I did mend it. Now, good friend, advise me, How I may temper this strange spleen in her.

MACI. You are too amorous, too obsequious, And make her too a.s.sured she may command you.

When women doubt most of their husbands' loves, They are most loving. Husbands must take heed They give no gluts of kindness to their wives, But use them like their horses; whom they feed But half a peck at once; and keep them so Still with an appet.i.te to that they give them.

He that desires to have a loving wife, Must bridle all the show of that desire: Be kind, not amorous; nor bewraying kindness, As if love wrought it, but considerate duty.

Offer no love rites, but let wives still seek them, For when they come unsought, they seldom like them.

DELI. Believe me, Macilente, this is gospel.

O, that a man were his own man so much, To rule himself thus. I will strive, i'faith, To be more strange and careless; yet I hope I have now taken such a perfect course, To make her kind to me, and live contented, That I shall find my kindness well return'd, And have no need to fight with my affections.

She late hath found much fault with every room Within my house; one was too big, she said, Another was not furnish'd to her mind, And so through all; all which, now, I have alter'd.

Then here, she hath a place, on my back-side, Wherein she loves to walk; and that, she said, Had some ill smells about it: now, this walk Have I before she knows it, thus perfumed With herbs, and flowers; and laid in divers places, As 'twere on altars consecrate to her, Perfumed gloves, and delicate chains of amber, To keep the air in awe of her sweet nostrils: This have I done, and this I think will please her.

Behold, she comes.

ENTER FALLACE.

FAL. Here's a sweet stink indeed!

What, shall I ever be thus crost and plagued, And sick of husband? O, my head doth ache, As it would cleave asunder, with these savours!

All my rooms alter'd, and but one poor walk That I delighted in, and that is made So fulsome with perfumes, that I am fear'd, My brain doth sweat so, I have caught the plague!

DELI. Why, gentle wife, is now thy walk too sweet?

Thou said'st of late, it had sour airs about it, And found'st much fault that I did not correct it.

FAL. Why, an I did find fault, sir?

DELI. Nay, dear wife, I know thou hast said thou has loved perfumes, No woman better.

FAL. Ay, long since, perhaps; But now that sense is alter'd: you would have me, Like to a puddle, or a standing pool, To have no motion nor no spirit within me.

No. I am like a pure and sprightly river, That moves for ever, and yet still the same; Or fire, that burns much wood, yet still one flame.

DELI. But yesterday, I saw thee at our garden, Smelling on roses, and on purple flowers; And since, I hope, the humour of thy sense Is nothing changed.

FAL. Why, those were growing flowers, And these within my walk are cut and strewed.

DELI. But yet they have one scent.

FAL. Ay! have they so?

In your gross judgment. If you make no difference Betwixt the scent of growing flowers and cut ones, You have a sense to taste lamp oil, i'faith: And with such judgment have you changed the chambers, Leaving no room, that I can joy to be in, In all your house; and now my walk, and all, You smoke me from, as if I were a fox, And long, belike, to drive me quite away: Well, walk you there, and I'll walk where I list.

DELI. What shall I do? O, I shall never please her.

MACI. Out on thee, dotard! what star ruled his birth, That brought him such a Star? blind Fortune still Bestows her gifts on such as cannot use them: How long shall I live, ere I be so happy To have a wife of this exceeding form?

[ASIDE.

DELI. Away with 'em! would I had broke a joint When I devised this, that should so dislike her.

Away, bear all away.

[EXIT FIDO, WITH FLOWERS, ETC.

FAL. Ay, do; for fear Aught that is there should like her. O, this man, How cunningly he can conceal himself, As though he loved, nay, honour'd and ador'd! --

DELI. Why, my sweet heart?

FAL. Sweet heart! O, better still!

And asking, why? wherefore? and looking strangely, As if he were as white as innocence!

Alas, you're simple, you: you cannot change, Look pale at pleasure, and then red with wonder; No, no, not you! 'tis pity o' your naturals.

I did but cast an amorous eye, e'en now, Upon a pair of gloves that somewhat liked me, And straight he noted it, and gave command All should be ta'en away.

DELI. Be they my bane then!

What, sirrah, Fido, bring in those gloves again You took from hence.