EPICENE
A monologue from the
play by Ben
Jonson
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NOTE: This monologue is reprinted
from Epicene (1605). |
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- TRUEWIT: I'll tell you, sir, the monstrous hazards
you shall run with a wife--for your friends are careful after
your soul's health and would have you know the danger; but you
may do your pleasure for all of them. If, after you are married,
your wife do run away with a vaulter, or the Frenchman that walks
upon ropes, or him that dances the jig, or a fencer for his skill
at his weapon, why, it is not their fault; they have discharged
their consciences, when you know what may happen. If she be fair,
young, and vegetous, no sweetmeats ever drew more flies; all
the yellow doublets and great roses i' the town will be there.
If foul and crooked, she'll be with them, and buy those doublets
and roses, sir. If rich, and you marry her dowry, not her, she'll
reign in your house as imperious as a widow. If noble, all her
kindred will be your tyrants. If fruitful, as proud as May and
humorous as April; she must have her doctors, her midwives, her
nurses, her longings every hour, though it be for the dearest
morsel of man. If learned, there was never such a parrot; all
your patrimony will be too little for the guests that must be
invited to hear her speak Latin and Greek; and you must lie with
her in those languages too, if you will please her. You begin
to sweat, sir--but this is not half, i' faith! You may do your
pleasure, notwithstanding, as I said before, but if you love
your wife, or rather, dote on her, sir, O how she'll torture
you, and take pleasure i' your torments! You shall lie with her,
but it must always be for this jewel, or that pearl--every half-hour's
pleasure must be bought anew, and with the same pain and charge
you wooed her at first. Then you must keep what servants she
please, what company she will; that friend must not visit you
without her licence; and him she loves most, she will seem to
hate eagerliest, to decline your jealousy; or feign to be jealous
of you first, and for that cause go live with her friend, or
cousin at the College, that can instruct her in all the mysteries
of writing letters, corrupting servants, taming spies; where
she must have that rich gown for such a great day, a new one
for the next, a richer for the third; be served in silver; have
the chamber filled with a succession of grooms, footmen, ushers,
and other messengers, besides embroiderers, jewellers, tire-women,
sempsters, feather-men, perfumers; be a stateswoman, know all
the news, what was done at Salisbury, what at the Bath, what
at court, what in progress; and then her going in disguise to
that conjurer, where the first question is how soon you shall
die? next, if her present servant love her? next, what precedence
she shall have by her next match? and sets down the answers,
and believes 'em above the scriptures. Nay, perhaps she'll study
the art. Yes, sir, and then come reeking home of vapour and sweat
... God be w' you, sir. One thine more, which I had almost forgot.
This too, with whom you are to marry, may have made a conveyance
of her virginity aforehand, as your wise widows do of their states,
before they marry, in trust to some friend, sir. Who can tell?
Or if she have not done it yet, she may do, upon the wedding
day, or the night before, and antedate you cuckold. The like
has been heard of in nature. 'Tis no devised, impossible thing,
sir. God be w' you. I'll be bold to leave this rope with you,
sir, for a remembrance. [He produces a noose.] Farewell!
MORE
MONOLOGUES BY BEN JONSON |
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