Act the Fourth
Scene I A Room in Sir Harry’s House
Enter Sir Harry, Haringfield, Gratiana, with others.
Sir Harry.
I am satisfied, good Master Haringfield,
Touching your friend; and since I see you have left
His dangerous company, I limit43 you
To be a welcome guest unto my table.
Haringfield.
You have been always noble.
Enter Taber.
Sir Harry.
Taber, the news with thee?
Taber.
May it please thee, right worshipful, to understand that there are some at the gate who dance a turn or two without, and desire to be admitted to speak with you within.
Sir Harry.
The scholar, is it not?
Taber.
Nay, sir, there are two scholars, and they are spouting Latin one against the other; and in my simple judgment the stranger is the better scholar, and is somewhat too hard for Sir Boniface: for he speaks louder, and that you know is ever the sign of the most learning, and he also hath a great desire to serve your worship.
Sir Harry.
Two scholars! my house hath not place for two.
Thus it shall be. Taber, admit them both;
We, though unlearned, will hear them two dispute,
And he that of the two seems the best read
Shall be received, the other quite cashiered.
Haringfield.
In that you show but justice: in all persons
Merit should be regarded.
Enter Taber, ushering in Sir Boniface, and Sencer, disguised like a pedant.
Sir Boniface.
Venerabiles magistri, absint vobis capistri.
Sencer.
Et tu, domine calve, iterum atque iterum salve. Amo amas amavi. Sweet lady, Heaven save ye!
Sir Harry.
This approves him to be excellent, but I thank my breeding I understand not a word.
You tongue-men, you whose wealth lies in your brains,
Not in your budgets, hear me. Be it known,
My house affords room for one schoolmaster,
But not for more; and I am thus resolved:
Take you that side, gentle Sir Boniface,
And, sir, possess you that.
He of you two in arguing proves the best,
To him will I subscribe. Are you agreed?
Sir Boniface.
Nec animo, nec corde, nec utroque.
Sencer.
No more of that nec corde. Noble knight, he wishes you nec corde; think of that.
Sir Harry.
A cord about my neck, Sir Boniface!
Speak, do you use me well?
Sir Boniface.
Domine, cur rogas?
Sencer.
Is this to be endured,—to call a knight
Cur, rogue and ass?
Sir Harry.
I find myself abused.
Haringfield.
Yet patience, good Sir Harry, and hear more.
Pray, Sir Boniface, of what university were you of?
Sir Boniface.
I was student in Brazenose.
Haringfield.
A man might guess so much by your pimples.
And of what place were you?
Sencer.
Petrus dormit securus; I was, sir, of Peterhouse.44
Sir Boniface.
Natus eram in Woxford, and I proceeded45 in Oxford.
Sencer.
Est mihi bene nostrum, thou wouldst say, in Gotham; for my part, Sir Harry, I can read service and marry, Que genus et flexum, though I go in Genes46 fustian; scalpellum et charta, I was not brought up at plough and cart; I can teach Qui mihi, and neither laugh nor tee-hee; sed as in presenti, if your worship at this present, Iste, ista, istud, will do me any good, to give me legem pone in gold or in money, Piper atque papaver, I’ll deserve it with my labour.
Haringfield.
But when go you to dispute?
Sir Boniface.
Nominativo hic prediculus, his words are most ridiculous; but tu thou, qui the which, deridest those that be rich, construe hanc sententiam, construe me this sentence: Est modus in rebus, sunt certi denique fines.
Sencer.
Est modus in rebus, there is mud in the rivers; sunt certi denique fines, and certain little fishes.
Sir Harry.
I warrant you he hath his answer ready.
Sir Boniface.
Dii boni boni.
Haringfield.
He’ll give you more bones than those to gnaw on, Sir Boniface.
Sencer.
Kartere Moosotropos poluphiltate phile poetatis Tes Logikes retoon, ouch elachiste sophoon. That is as much as to say, in our materna lingua, I will make you, Sir Boniface, confess yourself an ass in English, speak open and broad words, for want of Latin, and denique entreat me to resolve such questions as I shall ask you in our modern tongue.
Sir Harry.
Confess himself an ass? speak obscene words?
After entreat thee to resolve thy questions?
Do that; possess the place.
Sencer.
Di do and dum: no more words but mum:
Sir Boniface.
Noble Sir Harry, numquam sic possit?
Sir Harry.
Sir Boniface is sick already and calls for a posset; no marvel, being so threatened.
Sencer.
You, Boniface, decline me I am a no after the first conjugation, amo amavi, vocito vocitavi, Titubo Titubavi?
Sir Boniface.
I am not the preceptor to a pupil,
But can decline it; mark, Sir Timothy.
I am a no.
Sencer.
Bene bene.
Sir Boniface.
I am an as.
Sencer.
Most true, most true, vos estis, ut ego sum testis, that what he confessed is as true as the pestis.
Sir Harry.
This scholar works by magic; he hath made him confess himself an ass.
Sir Boniface.
Per has meas manus, vir, tu es insanus.
Sencer.
I’ll make him fret worse yet. Sir Boniface, quid est grammatica?
Sir Boniface.
Grammatica est ars.
Sir Harry.
Fie, fie! no more of these words, good Sir Boniface.
Sencer.
Attend again, proceed me with this verse of reverend Cato: Si deus est animus.
Sir Boniface.
Nobis ut carmina dicunt.
Taber.
Di—— quotha! out on him for a beastly man!
Sir Harry.
I would not have him teach my children so for more than I am worth.
Sir Boniface.
O! but reverend Sir Harry, you must subaudi.
Sir Harry.
I’ll never be so bawdy whilst I live, nor any of mine, I hope.
Sir Boniface.
O! Propria quæ maribus.
Sir Harry.
Ay, Boniface, it is those marrow-bones
That make you talk so broadly!
Sir Boniface.
Venerabilis vir, homo ille est ebrius.
Sir Harry.
What doth he mean by that?
Sencer.
He saith I can speak Hebrew.
Sir Harry.
I believe’t:
But if Sir Boniface still con these lessons,
He’ll speak the French tongue perfect.
Sencer.
Now to the last; I’ll task Sir Boniface
But with an easy question. Tell me, sir,
What’s Latin for this earth?
Sir Boniface.
Facile and easy, more fit for the pupil than the preceptor. What’s Latin for this earth? Tellus.
Sencer.
Tell you? no, sir, it belongs to you to tell me.
Sir Boniface.
I say tellus is Latin for the earth.
Sencer.
And I say, I will not tell you what is Latin for the earth, unless you yield me victor.
Sir Harry.
You have no reason: good Sir Timothy,
The place is yours.
Haringfield.
He hath deserved it well.
Sencer.
But I’ll deserve it better: why, this fellow
Is frantic; you shall hear me make him speak
Idly and without sense. I’ll make him say
His nose was husband to a Queen.
[He whispers Sir Harry.
Sir Harry.
Sir Timothy, not possible.
Taber.
He will not speak it for shame.
Sencer.
That you shall hear. Magister Boniface.
Sir Boniface.
Quid ais, domine Timothy?
Sencer.
Who was Pasiphe’s husband, Queen of Crete?
Sir Boniface.
Who knows not that? Why, Minos was her husband.
Sencer.
That his nose was; did I not tell you so?
Sir Boniface.
I say that Minos was.
Sencer.
That his nose was—ha, ha!
Sir Harry.
I’ll not believe it.—
Sir Boniface, there are a brace of angels;
You are not for my turn. Sir Timothy,
You are the man shall read unto my daughter
The Latin tongue, in which I am ignorant.
Confess yourself an ass; speak bawdy words;
And after to talk idly! Hence, away!
You shall have my good word, but not my pay.
Sir Boniface.
Opus est usus; Sir Timothy, you abuse us.
I swear by a noun, had I thy hose down,
Qui, quæ, quod, I would so smoke thee with the rod,
Ille, illa, illud, until I fetched blood.
But, nobiles vaiete, remain in quiete.
[Exeunt Sir Boniface and Taber.
Sir Harry.
Sir Timothy, there is some gold in earnest,
I like you well; take into your tuition
My daughter Gratiana. [Re-enter Taber.] The news, Taber?
Taber.
Of another gallant, noble sir, that pretends to have business both with you and my mistress.
Sir Harry.
Admit him.
Enter Young Chartley very gallant, with Gratiana.
Taber.
Lusty Juventus,47 will it please you to draw near?
Young Chartley.
Noble knight, whilst you peruse that [Hands Sir Harry a letter], sweet lady, tell me how you like this? [Kisses Gratiana.
Gratiana.
You press so suddenly upon me, sir,
I know not what to answer.
Sencer.
[Aside.] Mad Chartley! what makes Desperation here?
Young Chartley.
To the word wooer let me add the name speeder; my father hath written to your father, and the cause of his writing at this present is to let you understand that he fears you have lived a maid too long; and therefore, to prevent all diseases incident to the same, as the green sickness and others, he sent me, like a skilful physician, to take order with you against all such maladies. If you will not credit me, list but how fervently my father writes in my behalf.
Sir Harry.
[Reads.] “He is my only son, and she, I take it, your only daughter. What should hinder then to make a match between them?” Well, ’tis well, ’tis good, I like it. “I will make her jointure three hundred pounds a year.”
Young Chartley.
How say you by that, sweet lady? three hundred pounds a year, and a proper man to boot?
Sir Harry.
All’s good, I like it; welcome, Master Chartley.
Thou, Gratiana, art no child of mine
Unless thou bidst him welcome. This I presume
To be your father’s hand?
Young Chartley.
[Aside.] But I’ll be sworn he never writ it.
Sir Harry.
And this his seal at arms?
Young Chartley.
Or else I understand it very poorly. But, lady,
In earnest of further acquaintance, receive this chain,
These jewels, hand and heart.
Sir Harry.
Refuse no chain nor jewels, heart nor hand,
But in exchange of these bestow thyself,
Thine own dear self, upon him.
Gratiana.
Myself on him, whom I till now ne’er saw?
Well, since I must, your will’s to me a law.
Sencer.
Nay, then, ’tis time to speak. Shall I stand here waiting like a coxcomb, and see her given away before my face? Stay your hand, Sir Harry; and let me claim my promise.
Sir Harry.
My promise I’ll perform, Sir Timothy;
You shall have all your wages duly paid.
Sencer.
I claim fair Gratiana by your promise.
No more Sir Timothy, but Sencer now.
You promised me when you received my service,
And with your liberal hand did wage my stay,
To endow me freely with your daughter’s love.
That promise now I claim.
Sir Harry.
Mere cozenage, knavery:
I tied myself to no conditions
In which such guile is practised. Come, son Chartley:
To cut off all disasters incident
To these proceedings, we will solemnise
These nuptial rites with all speed possible.
Young Chartley.
Farewell, good Sir Timothy; farewell, learned Sir Timothy.
[Exeunt all but Sencer.
Sencer.
Why, and farewell, learned Sir Timothy.
For now Sir Timothy and I am two:
Boast on, brag on, exalt, exalt thyself,
Swim in a sea of pleasure and content
Whilst my bark suffers wreck! I’ll be revenged.
Chartley, I’ll cry vindicta for this scorn;
Next time thou gorest, it must be with thy horn. [Exit.