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| Character | Hipolito | |
|---|---|---|
| Gender | Male | |
| Age Range(s) | Young Adult (20-35), Adult (36-50) | |
| Type of monologue / Character is | In love, Crying, Depressed, Lamenting, Frustrated, Insecure, Afraid | |
| Type | Dramatic | |
| Year | 1604 | |
| Period | 17th Century | |
| Genre | Romance, Drama, Comedy | |
| Description | Hipolito contemplates a portrait of Infelice | |
| Location | ACT IV, Scene 1 | |
Summary
The play is set in Milan and has 3 main storylines. In the first the Duke of Milan has feigned his daughter Infelice's death so that she can end her relationship with Hipolito, who he detests since he is the son of an old enemy. Hipolito however, can't get over it, and decides not to pursue any other women. Eventually he learns of the set up by the Duke of Milan, he is reunited with Infelice and they get married.
Another storyline is about a prostitute, Bellafront, falling in love with Hipolito. She tries several times to seduce him but Hipolito scorns her and rejects her. She gives up her life as a prostitute, pretends to be mad and eventually helps Hipolito be reunited with Infelice.
In this scene we are in Hipolito's room. He has asked his servant to keep women away from his room because he wants to keep his promise and doesn't want to be tempted. He then picks up a portrait of Infelice and laments her death. He then picks up a skull and ponders about death.
Another storyline is about a prostitute, Bellafront, falling in love with Hipolito. She tries several times to seduce him but Hipolito scorns her and rejects her. She gives up her life as a prostitute, pretends to be mad and eventually helps Hipolito be reunited with Infelice.
In this scene we are in Hipolito's room. He has asked his servant to keep women away from his room because he wants to keep his promise and doesn't want to be tempted. He then picks up a portrait of Infelice and laments her death. He then picks up a skull and ponders about death.
Written by Administrator
| Excerpt |
|---|
| HIPOLITO [Taking up her picture] My Infelice's face: her brow, her eye, The dimple on her cheek, and such sweet skill Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown, These lips look fresh and lively as her own, Seeming to move and speak. 'Las! Now I see The reason why fond women love to buy Adulterate complexion: here 'tis read False colours last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue, Of all that was past woman's excellence In her white bosom, look, a painted board Circumscribes all! Earth can no bliss afford. Nothing of her, but this? This cannot speak, It has no lap for me to rest upon, No lip worth tasting: here the worms will feed, As in her coffin. Hence then, idle art: True love's best pictur'd in a true love's heart. Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead, So that thou liv'st twice, twice art buried. Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What's here? [Taking up the skull] Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemy's. 'Las! Say it were: I need not fear him now. For all his braves, his contumelious breath, His frowns (tho' dagger-pointed), all his plots (Tho' ne'er so mischievous), his Italian pills, His quarrels, and that common fence, his law: See, see, they're all eaten out; here's not left one! How clean they're pick'd away! To the bare bone! How mad are mortals then to rear great names On tops of swelling houses! Or to wear out Their fingers' ends in dirt to scrape up gold! Not caring, so that sumpter-horse the back Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what coarse, Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul! Yet after all their gayness looks thus foul. What fools are men to build a garish tomb, Only to save the carcass whilst it rots, To maintain 't long in stinking, make good carrion, But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound, For good deeds keep men sweet long above ground, And must all come to this: fools, wise, all hither; Must all heads thus at last be laid together. Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman, After this fashion, not like this: these colours In time kissing but air will be kiss'd off, But here's a fellow; that which he lays on, Till doomsday, alters not complexion. Death's the best painter then. They that draw shapes And live by wicked faces are but God's apes: They come but near the life, and there they stay. This fellow draws life too: his art is fuller; The pictures which he makes are without colour. |
