ALB. Furbo, this is no place Fit to consider curious points of business: Come, let's away, I'll hear't at large above.
Ronca, stay you below, and entertain him With a loud noise, of my deep skill in art; Thou know'st my rosy[239] modesty cannot do it.
Harpax, up you, and from my bedchamber, Where all things for our purposes are ready, Second each beck and nod, and word of ours.
You know my meaning?
HAR. Yes, yes.
FUR. Yes, sir.
[FURBO _goes out singing, Fa la la, Pandolfo's ours_.
SCENE II.
RONCA, PANDOLFO, CRICCA.
RON. There's old Pandolfo, amorous as youthful May, And grey as January: I'll attend him here.
PAN. Cricca, I seek thy aid, not thy cross counsel; I am mad in love with Flavia, and must have her: Thou spend'st thy reasons to the contrary, Like arrows 'gainst an anvil: I love Flavia, And must have Flavia.
CRI. Sir, you have no reason; She's a young girl of sixteen, you of sixty.
PAN. I have no reason, nor spare room for any.
Love's harbinger hath chalk'd upon my heart, And with a coal writ on my brain, for Flavia;[240]
This house is wholly taken up for Flavia.
Let reason get a lodging with her wit: Vex me no more, I must have Flavia.
CRI. But, sir, her brother Lelio, under whose charge She's now after her father's death, sware boldly, Pandolfo never shall have Flavia.
PAN. His father, ere he went to Barbary, Promis'd her me: who, be he live or dead, Spite of a list[241] of Lelios, Pandolfo Shall enjoy Flavia.
CRI. Sir, y' are too old.
PAN. I must confess, in years about threescore, But in tough strength of body four-and-twenty, Or few[242] months less. Love of Young Flavia, More powerful than Medea's drugs, renews All decay'd parts of man: my arteries, Blown full with youthful spirits, move the blood To a new business: my wither'd nerves grow plump And strong, longing for action. Hence, thou poor prop Of feebleness and age! walk with such sires, [_Throws away his staff._]
As with cold palsies shake away their strength, And lose their legs with cureless gouts. Pandolfo New-moulded is for revels, masques and music. Cricca, String my neglected lute, and from my armoury Scour my best sword, companion of my youth, Without which I seem naked.
CRI. Your love, sir, like strong water To a deplor'd sick man, quicks your feeble limbs For a poor moment; but, after one night's lodging, You'll fall so dull and cold, that Flavia Will shriek, and leap from bed as from a sepulchre.
Shall I speak plainer, sir? she'll cuckold you-- Alas! she'll cuckold you.
PAN. What, me! a man of known discretion; Of riches, years, and this grey gravity?
I'll satisfy'r with gold, rich clothes, and jewels.
CRI. Were't not far fitter urge your son Eugenio To woo her for himself?
PAN. Cricca, begone!
Touch no more there: I will and must have Flavia.
Tell Lelio, if he grant m' his sister Flavia, I'll give my daughter to him in exchange.
Begone, and find me here within this half-hour.
SCENE III
RONCA, PANDOLFO.
RON. 'Tis well that servant's gone: I shall the easier Wind up his master to my purposes.
PAN. Sure, this some novice of th' artillery, That winks and shoots: sir, prime your piece anew, The powder's wet. [_Knocks at the door._
RON. A good ascendant:[243] bless me, sir, are you frantic?
PAN. Why frantic? are not two knocks the lawful courses To open doors and ears?
RON. Of vulgar men and houses.
PAN. Whose lodging's this? is't not the astrologer's?
RON. His lodging! no: 'tis the learn'd frontisterion[244]
Of most divine Albumazar.
PAN. Good sir, If the door break, a better shall redeem it.
RON. How! all your land, sold at a hundred years' purchase, Cannot repair the damage of one poor rap: To thunder at the frontisterion Of great Albumazar!
PAN. Why, man, what harm?
RON. Sir, you must know my master's heavenly brain, Pregnant with mysteries of metaphysics, Grows to an embryo of rare contemplation Which, at full time brought forth, excels by far The armed fruit of Vulcan's midwif'ry, That leap'd from Jupiter's mighty cranium.
PAN. What of all this?
RON. Thus: one of your bold thunders may abortive, And cause that birth miscarry, that might have prov'd An instrument of wonders, greater and rarer Than Apollonius the magician wrought.[245]
PAN. Are you your master's countryman?
RON. Yes; why ask you?
PAN. Then must I get an interpreter for your language.
RON. You need not; With a wind-instrument my master made, In five days you may breathe ten languages, As perfect as the devil or himself.
PAN. When may I speak with him?
RON. When't please the stars.
He pulls you not a hair, nor pares a nail, Nor stirs a foot, without due figuring The horoscope. Sit down awhile, and't please you, I see the heavens incline to his approach.
PAN. What's this, I pray you?
RON. An engine to catch stars, A mace to arrest such planets as have lurk'd Four thousand years under protection Of Jupiter and Sol.
PAN. Pray you, speak English.