FOL. Pray, grandsire, give me your blessing.

SIR B. Who? son Follywit? [_Kneeling._

FOL. This shews like kneeling after the play;[926] I

praying for my lord Owemuch and his good countess, our

honourable lady and mistress.

[_Aside._

SIR B. Rise, richer by a blessing; thou art welcome.

FOL. Thanks, good grandsire; I was bold to bring

Those gentlemen, my friends.

SIR B. They’re all welcome!

Salute you that side, and I’ll welcome this side.—

Sir, to begin with you.

HAR. Master Follywit!

FOL. I am glad ’tis our fortune so happily to meet, sir.

SIR B. Nay, then, you know me not, sir.

FOL. Sweet mistress Harebrain!

SIR B. You cannot be too bold, sir.

FOL. Our marriage known?

COUR. Not a word yet.

FOL. The better.

SIR B. Faith, son, would you had come sooner with these

gentlemen!

FOL. Why, grandsire?

SIR B. We had a play here.

FOL. A play, sir? no?

SIR B. Yes, faith! a pox a’ th’ author!

FOL. Bless us all! why, were they such vild[927] ones,

sir?

SIR B. I am sure villanous ones, sir.

FOL. Some raw, simple fools!

SIR B. Nay, by th’ mass, these were enough for thievish

knaves.

FOL. What, sir?

SIR B. Which way came you, gentlemen? you could not

choose but meet ’em.

FOL. We met a company with hampers after ’em.

SIR B. O, those were they, those were they! A pox hamper

’em!

FOL. Bless us all again!

SIR B. They have hampered me finely, sirrah.

FOL. How,[928] sir?

SIR B. How, sir? I lent the rascals properties[929] to

furnish out their play, a chain, a jewel, and a watch;

and they watched their time, and rid quite away with

’em.

FOL. Are they such creatures?

SIR B. Hark, hark, gentlemen! by this light, the watch

rings alarum in his pocket! there’s my watch come

again, or the very cousin-german to’t: whose is’t,

whose is’t? by th’ mass, ’tis he! hast thou one, son?

prithee, bestow it upon thy grand-sire; I now look for

mine again, i’faith: nay, come with a good will, or

not at all; I’ll give thee a better thing.—A prize, a

prize,[930] gentlemen!

[_Draws chain, &c. out of_ FOLLYWIT’S _pocket_.

HAR. Great or small?

SIR B. At once I’ve[931] drawn chain, jewel, watch,

and all.

PEN. B. By my faith, you have a fortunate hand, sir!

HAR. Nay, all to come at once!

MAW. A vengeance of this foolery!

FOL. Have I ’scaped the constable to be brought in by

the watch?

COUR. O destiny! have I married a thief, mother?

MOT. Comfort thyself; thou art beforehand with him,

daughter.

SIR B. Why, son, why, gentlemen, how long have you been

my lord Owemuch his servants, i’faith?

FOL. Faith, grandsire, shall I be true to you?

SIR B. I think ’tis time; thou’st been a thief

already.

FOL. I, knowing the day of your feast, and the natural

inclination you have to pleasure and pastime, presumed

upon your patience for a jest, as well to prolong your

days as——

SIR B. Whoop! why, then, you took my chain along with

you to prolong my days, did you?

FOL. Not so neither, sir;

And that you may be seriously assur’d

Of my hereafter stableness of life,

I have took another course.

SIR B. What?

FOL. Took a wife.

SIR B. A wife! ’s foot, what is she for a fool[932]

would marry thee, a madman? when was the wedding kept?

in Bedlam?

FOL. She’s both a gentlewoman and a virgin.

SIR B. Stop there, stop there: would I might see her!

FOL. You have your wish; she’s here.

SIR B. Ah, ha, ha, ha! this makes amends for all.

FOL. How now?

MAW. Captain, do you hear? is she your wife in earnest?

FOL. How then?

MAW. Nothing, but pity you, sir.

SIR B. Speak, son; is’t true?

Can you gull us, and let a quean gull you?

FOL. Ha!

COUR. What I have been is past; be that forgiven,

And have a soul true both to thee and heaven!

FOL. Is’t come about? tricks are repaid, I see.

SIR B. The best is, sirrah, you pledge none but me;

And since I drink the top, take her—and, hark,

I spice the bottom with a thousand mark.[933]

FOL. By my troth, she is as good a cup of nectar as any

bachelor needs to sip at.

Tut, give me gold, it makes amends for vice;

Maids without coin are caudles without spice.

SIR B. Come, gentlemen, to th’ feast; let not time

waste;

We’ve[934] pleas’d our ear, now let us please our taste.

Who lives by cunning, mark it, his fate’s cast;

When he has gull’d all, then is himself the last.

[_Exeunt omnes._[935]

--------------

_The Catch[936] for the Fifth Act, sung by_ SIR

BOUNTEOUS PROGRESS _to his guests_.

O for a bowl of fat canary,

Rich Aristippus,[937] sparkling sherry!

Some nectar else from Juno’s dairy;

O these draughts would make us merry!

O for a wench! I deal in faces,

And in other daintier things;

Tickled am I with her embraces;

Fine dancing in such fairy rings!

O for a plump, fat leg of mutton,

Veal, lamb, capon, pig, and cony!

None is happy but a glutton,

None an ass but who wants money.

Wines, indeed, and girls are good,

But brave victuals feast the blood:

For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer,

Jove would come down to surfeit here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE ROARING GIRL.

[Illustration: Man Smoking Pipe]

_The Roaring Girle. Or Moll Cut-Purse. As it hath

lately beene Acted on the Fortune-stage by the

Prince his Players. Written by T. Middleton and T.

Dekkar. Printed at London for Thomas Archer, and

are to be sold at his shop in Popes head-pallace,

neere the Royall Exchange._ 1611. 4to. On the

title-page is the woodcut, a fac-simile of which

is now given, representing Moll in her male dress,

with these words running along the inner margin,—

“_My case is alter’d, I must worke for my

liuing_.”

This drama has been reprinted in the sixth vol. of

the last two editions of Dodsley’s _Old Plays_.

_Roaring Boys_ was a cant term for the riotous,

quarrelsome blades of the time, who abounded in

London, and took pleasure in annoying its quieter

inhabitants. Of _Roaring Girls_, the heroine of

the present play was the choicest specimen. Her

real name was Mary Frith, though she was most

commonly known by that of Moll Cutpurse. According

to the author of her _Life_,[938] “she was born

A.D. 1589, in Barbican, at the upper end of

Aldersgate Street,” p. 3; but Malone,[939] more

correctly it should seem, has fixed her birth in

1584. “From the first entrance into a competency

of age,” she assumed the doublet, “and to her

dying day she would not leave it off, till the

infirmity and weaknesse of nature had brought her

a-bed to her last travail, changed it for a

wastcoat, and her pettycoats for a winding-sheet,”

_Life_, p. 18. She was distinguished in the

different characters of bully, prostitute,

procuress, fortune-teller, thief, pickpocket,

receiver of stolen goods, and forger of writings.

A letter from John Chamberlain to Mr. Carleton,

dated Feb. 11, 1611-12, gives the following

account of her doing penance: “The last Sunday

Moll Cutpurse, a notorious baggage that used to go

in man’s apparel, and challenged the field of

diverse gallants; was brought to the same place

[Paul’s Cross], where she wept bitterly, and

seemed very penitent; but it is since doubted she

was maudlin drunk, being discovered to have

tippel’d of three quarts of sack before she came

to her penance. She had the daintiest preacher or

ghostly father that ever I saw in the pulpit, one

Radcliffe of Brazen-Nose College in Oxford, a

likelier man to have led the revels in some inn of

court, than to be where he was. But the best is,

he did extreme badly, and so wearied the audience,

that the best part went away, and the rest tarried

rather to hear Moll Cutpurse than him.”[940] With

the preceding extract let us compare what the

“fair penitent” is made to say in the _Life_

already quoted: “Some promooting Apparitor, set on

by an adversary of mine, whom I could never

punctually know, cited me to appear in the Court

of the Arches, where was an Accusation exhibited

against me for wearing undecent and manly apparel.

I was advised by my Proctor to demur to the

Jurisdiction of the Court, as for a Crime, if

such, not cognizable there or elsewhere; but he

did it to spin out my Cause, and get my Mony; for

in the conclusion, I was sentenced there to stand

and do Penance in a White Sheet at Paul’s Cross,

during morning Sermon on a Sunday,” p. 69.

We are told that she robbed General Fairfax of 250

Jacobuses upon Hounslow Heath, shot him through

the arm, and killed two horses on which a couple

of his servants rode; and that being closely

pursued by some Parliamentarian officers quartered

at Hounslow, to whom Fairfax told the adventure,

and her horse failing her at Turnham Green, she

was apprehended and carried to Newgate, after

which she was condemned, but procured her pardon

by giving her adversary 2000 pounds![941] The

story seems to be not a little exaggerated.

Nor is the reader bound to believe the subjoined

anecdote; but, as Moll had a house of her own

“within 2 doors of the Globe Tavern in Fleet

Street, over against the Conduit,” _Life_, p. 47,

and appears to have acquired considerable property

by her various rogueries, the circumstance of her

supplying the wine is by no means improbable:

“After that unnatural and detestable Rebellion of

the Scots in 1638, upon his Majesties return home

to London, where preparation was made for his

Magnificent Entry, I was also resolved to show my

Loyal and Dutiful Respects to the King in as ample

manner as I could or might be permitted.... I was

resolved in my own account to beare a part in the

charge of this Solemnity; and therefore undertook

to supply Fleetstreet Conduit adjacent to my House

with Wine, to run continually for that triumphal

Day, which I performed with no less Expence then

Credit and delight, and the satisfaction of all

Comers and Spectators. And as the King passed by

me, I put out my Hand and caught Him by His, and

grasped it very hard, saying, _Welcome Home_

CHARLES! His Majesty smiled, and I beleeve took me

for some Mad Bold Beatrice or other, while the

people shouted and made a noyse, in part at my

Confidence and presumption, and in part for joy of

the King’s Return. The rest of that Day I spent in

jollity and carousing, and concluded the night

with Fireworks and Drink. This celebrated Action

of mine, it being the Town talk, made people look

upon me at another rate then formerly.” _Life_,

pp. 95-98.

A dropsy, from which she had long been suffering,

and which, it is said, would probably have carried

her off sooner if she had not indulged greatly in

the use of tobacco—(for she gloried in being the

first female smoker)—at last proved fatal to the

Roaring Girl. In the Memoir above cited, she is

represented as bidding adieu to the world “this

three score and fourteenth year of my age,” p.

169. A MS.[942] states that she died at her house

in Fleet Street, July 26, 1659; that she was

buried in the church of Saint Bridget’s; and that

she left twenty pounds by will, that the Conduit

might run with wine when King Charles the Second

should return. Granger says,[943] that her death

took place in her 75th year.

She is supposed to be the person alluded to in

Shakespeare’s _Twelfth Night_, where Sir Toby

exclaims, “Wherefore are these things hid?

wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them?

are they like to take dust, like _mistress Mall’s_

picture?” Act i. sc. 3.

On the books of the Stationers’ Company, August

1610, is entered “A Booke called the Madde Prancks

of Merry Mall of the Bankside, with her Walks in

Man’s Apparel, and to what Purpose. Written by

John Day.”[944]

In _Rubbe and A great Cast. Epigrams. By Thomas

Freeman, Gent._, 1614, 4to, is

“Epigram 90.

_Of Moll Cutpurse disguised going._

“They say Mol’s honest, and it may bee so,

But yet it is a shrewd presumption no:

To touch but pitch, ’tis knowne it will defile;

Moll weares the breech, what may she be the while?

Sure shee that doth the shadow so much grace,

What will shee when the substance comes in place?”

She figures in act ii. sc. 1 of Field’s _Amends

for Ladies_,[945] 1618, where she is thus

addressed:

——“Hence, lewd impudent!

I know not what to term thee, man or woman,

For Nature, shaming to acknowledge thee

For either, hath produc’d thee to the world

Without a sex: some say thou art a woman,

Others, a man; and many, thou art both

Woman and man; but I think rather, neither;

Or man and horse, as the old Centaurs were

feign’d.”

In _The Water-cormorant his Complaint against a

Brood of Land-cormorants_ (first printed, I

believe, in 1622), Taylor says,

“That if our Grand-fathers and Grand-dams should

Rise from the dead, and these mad times behold,

Amazed they halfe madly would admire

At our fantasticke gestures and attire;

And they would thinke that England in conclusion

Were a meere bable Babell of confusion;

That Muld-sack[946] for his most vnfashion’d

fashions

Is the fit patterne of their transformations;

And _Mary Frith_ doth teach them modesty,

For she doth keepe one fashion constantly,

And therefore she deserues a Matrons praise,

In these inconstant Moon-like changing dayes.”

p. 6.—_Works_, ed.

1630.

From _The Witch of Edmonton_ (by W. Rowley,

Dekker, and Ford, acted about 1623), we learn that

a certain dog, used in baiting bulls and bears,

was called _Moll Cutpurse_, after our heroine: act

v. sc. 1. Ford’s _Works_, by Gifford, vol. ii. p.

547.

She is thus mentioned in Brome’s _Court Beggar_,

acted 1632;

"CIT. Sprecious! How now! my fob has been fubd

to-day of six pieces, and a dozen shillings at

least.... My watch is gone out of my pocket too o’

th’ right side.... Ile go to honest _Moll_ about

it presently." Act ii. sc. 1. _Five New Playes_,

1653.

In the following couplet of Butler (the second

line of which Swift has transferred, with a slight

alteration, into his _Baucis and Philemon_), the

allusion is most probably to Moll Cutpurse, and

not, as Grey thinks, to Mary Carlton;

“A bold Virago, stout and tall,

As Joan of France, or _English Mall_.”

_Hudibras_, Part i. c. ii. 367.

With a quotation from a play called _The Feigned

Astrologer_, 1668, I conclude this notice of Mary

Frith;

“We cannot do that neither in quiet,

So many have found his lodging out:

And now, _Moll Cut-purse_, that oracle of felonie

Is dead, there’s not a pocket pickt,

But hee’s acquainted with it.” Act iv. sc. 2, p.

62.

Thomas Dekker, whose name is coupled with

Middleton’s on the title-page of _The Roaring

Girl_, was (as perhaps few readers require to be

told) a very prolific and popular dramatist: many

of his plays have perished.

TO THE COMIC PLAY-READERS, VENERY

AND LAUGHTER.

The fashion of play-making I can properly

compare to nothing so naturally as the alteration

in apparel; for in the time of the great

crop-doublet, your huge bombasted plays, quilted

with mighty words to lean purpose, were[947] only

then in fashion: and as the doublet fell, neater

inventions began to set up. Now, in the time of

spruceness, our plays follow the niceness of our

garments; single plots, quaint conceits, lecherous

jests, drest up in hanging sleeves: and those are

fit for the times and the termers.[948] Such a

kind of light-colour summer stuff, mingled with

divers colours, you shall find this published

comedy; good to keep you in an afternoon from dice

at home in your chambers: and for venery, you

shall find enough for sixpence,[949] but well

couched and[950] you mark it; for Venus, being a

woman, passes through the play in doublet and

breeches; a brave disguise and a safe one, if the

statute untie not her codpiece point. The book I

make no question but is fit for many of your

companies, as well as the person itself, and may

be allowed both gallery-room at the playhouse, and

chamber-room at your lodging. Worse things, I must

needs confess, the world has taxed her for than

has been written of her; but ’tis the excellency

of a writer to leave things better than he finds

’em; though some obscene fellow, that cares not

what he writes against others, yet keeps a

mystical bawdyhouse himself, and entertains

drunkards, to make use of their pockets and vent

his private bottle-ale at midnight,—though such a

one would have ript up the most nasty vice that

ever hell belched forth, and presented it to a

modest assembly, yet we rather wish in such

discoveries, where reputation lies bleeding, a

slackness of truth than fulness of slander.

THOMAS MIDDLETON.

PROLOGUE.

A play expected long makes the audience look

For wonders; that each scene should be a book,

Compos’d to all perfection: each one comes

And brings a play in’s head with him; up he sums

What he would of a roaring girl have writ;

If that he finds not here, he mews at it.

Only we [do] entreat you think our scene

Cannot speak high, the subject being but mean;

A roaring girl, whose notes till now ne’er were,

Shall fill with laughter our vast theatre.[951]

That’s all which I dare promise: tragic passion,

And such grave stuff, is this day out of fashion.

I see Attention sets wide ope her gates

Of hearing, and with covetous listening waits,

To know what girl this roaring girl should be,

For of that tribe are many. One is she

That roars at midnight in deep tavern-bowls,

That beats the watch, and constables controls;

Another roars i’ th’ daytime, swears, stabs, gives

braves,

Yet sells her soul to the lust of fools and

slaves:

Both these are suburb-roarers. Then there’s

beside[952]

A civil city-roaring girl, whose pride,

Feasting, and riding, shakes her husband’s state,

And leaves him roaring through an iron grate.

None of these roaring girls is ours; she flies

With wings more lofty; thus her character lies—

Yet what need characters, when to give a guess

Is better than the person to express?

But would you know who ’tis? would you hear her

name?

She’s call’d mad Moll; her life our acts proclaim.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SIR ALEXANDER WENGRAVE.

SEBASTIAN WENGRAVE, _his son_.

SIR GUY FITZALLARD.

SIR DAVY DAPPER.

JACK DAPPER, _his son_.

SIR ADAM APPLETON.

SIR THOMAS LONG.

SIR BEAUTEOUS GANYMEDE.

LORD NOLAND.

GOSHAWK.

LAXTON.

GREENWIT.

GALLIPOT, _an apothecary_.

TILTYARD, _a feather-seller_.

OPENWORK, _a sempster_.

NEATFOOT, _Sir A. Wengrave’s man_.

GULL, _page to Jack Dapper_.

TRAPDOOR.

TEARCAT.

_Coachman._

_Porter._

_Tailor._

CURTLEAX, _a sergeant_.

HANGER, _his yeoman_.

_Gentlemen, Cutpurses, &c._

MOLL, _the Roaring Girl_.

MARY FITZALLARD, _daughter to Sir Guy_.

MISTRESS GALLIPOT.

MISTRESS TILTYARD.

MISTRESS OPENWORK.

Scene, LONDON.

THE ROARING GIRL.

--------------

ACT I. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ SIR ALEXANDER WENGRAVE’S _House_.

_Enter_ MARY FITZALLARD _disguised like a sempster,

with a case for bands, and_ NEATFOOT _with her, a

napkin on his shoulder, and a trencher[953] in his

hand, as from table_.

NEAT. The young gentleman, our young master, sir

Alexander’s son, is it into his ears, sweet damsel,

emblem of fragility, you desire to have a message

transported, or to be transcendent?

MARY. A private word or two, sir; nothing else.

NEAT. You shall fructify in that which you come

for; your pleasure shall be satisfied to your full

contentation. I will, fairest tree of generation,

watch when our young master is erected, that is to

say, up, and deliver him to this your most white

hand.

MARY. Thanks, sir.

NEAT. And withal certify him, that I have culled out for

him, now his belly is replenished, a daintier bit or

modicum than any lay upon his trencher at dinner. Hath

he notion of your name, I beseech your chastity?

MARY. One, sir, of whom he bespake falling bands.[954]

NEAT. Falling bands? it shall so be given him. If you

please to venture your modesty in the hall amongst a

curl-pated company of rude serving-men, and take such as

they can set before you, you shall be most seriously and

ingeniously[955] welcome.

MARY. I have dined[956] indeed already, sir.

NEAT. Or will you vouchsafe to kiss the lip of a cup of

rich Orleans in the buttery amongst our waiting-women?

MARY. Not now, in truth, sir.

NEAT. Our young master shall then have a feeling of your

being here; presently it shall so be given him.

MARY. I humbly thank you, sir. [_Exit_ NEATFOOT.] But

that my bosom

Is full of bitter sorrows, I could smile

To see this formal ape play antic tricks;

But in my breast a poison’d arrow sticks,

And smiles cannot become me. Love woven slightly,

Such as thy false heart makes, wears out as lightly;

But love being truly bred i’ th’ soul, like mine,

Bleeds even to death at the least wound it takes,—

The more we quench this [fire], the less it slakes:

O me!

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN WENGRAVE _with_ NEATFOOT.

SEB. A sempster speak with me, sayest thou?

NEAT. Yes, sir; she’s there, _viva voce_ to deliver her

auricular confession.

SEB. With me, sweetheart? what is’t?

MARY. I have brought home your bands, sir.

SEB. Bands?—Neatfoot.

NEAT. Sir?

SEB. Prithee, look in; for all the gentlemen are upon

rising.

NEAT. Yes, sir; a most methodical attendance shall be

given.

SEB. And dost hear? if my father call for me, say I am

busy with a sempster.

NEAT. Yes, sir; he shall know it that you are busied

with a needle-woman.

SEB. In’s ear, good Neatfoot.

NEAT. It shall be so given him. [_Exit._

SEB. Bands? you’re mistaken, sweetheart, I bespake

none:

When, where, I prithee? what bands? let me see them.

MARY. Yes, sir; a bond[957] fast seal’d with solemn

oaths,

Subscrib’d unto, as I thought, with your soul;

Deliver’d as your deed in sight of heaven:

Is this bond cancellèd? have you forgot me?

SEB. Ha! life of my life, sir Guy Fitzallard’s

daughter?

What has transform’d my love to this strange shape?

Stay; make all sure [_shuts the door_]; so: now speak

and be brief,

Because the wolf’s at door that lies in wait

To prey upon us both. Albeit mine eyes

Are blest by thine, yet this so strange disguise

Holds me with fear and wonder.

MARY. Mine’s a loath’d sight;

Why from it are you banish’d else so long?

SEB. I must cut short my speech: in broken language

Thus much, sweet Moll; I must thy company shun;

I court another Moll: my thoughts must run

As a horse runs that’s blind round in a mill,

Out every step, yet keeping one path still.

MARY. Umph! must you shun my company? in one knot

Have both our hands by th’ hands of heaven been tied,

Now to be broke? I thought me once your bride;

Our fathers did agree on the time when:

And must another bedfellow fill my room?

SEB. Sweet maid, let’s lose no time; ’tis in heaven’s

book

Set down, that I must have thee; an oath we took

To keep our vows: but when the knight your father

Was from mine parted, storms began to sit

Upon my covetous father’s brow[s], which fell

From them on me. He reckon’d up what gold

This marriage would draw from him; at which he swore,

To lose so much blood could not grieve him more:

He then dissuades me from thee, call’d thee not fair,

And ask’d what is she but a beggar’s heir?

He scorn’d thy dowry of five thousand marks.[958]

If such a sum of money could be found,

And I would match with that, he’d not undo it,

Provided his bags might add nothing to it;

But vow’d, if I took thee, nay, more, did swear it,

Save birth, from him I nothing should inherit.

MARY. What follows then? my shipwreck?

SEB. Dearest, no:

Though wildly in a labyrinth I go,

My end is to meet thee: with a side-wind

Must I now sail, else I no haven can find,

But both must sink for ever. There’s a wench

Call’d Moll, mad Moll, or merry Moll; a creature

So strange in quality, a whole city takes

Note of her name and person: all that affection

I owe to thee, on her in counterfeit passion

I spend, to mad my father: he believes

I doat upon this Roaring Girl, and grieves

As it becomes a father for a son

That could be so bewitch’d: yet I’ll go on

This crooked way, sigh still for her, feign dreams

In which I’ll talk only of her: these streams

Shall, I hope, force my father to consent

That here I anchor, rather than be rent

Upon a rock so dangerous. Art thou pleas’d,

Because thou seest we’re waylaid, that I take

A path that’s safe, though it be far about?

MARY. My prayers with heaven guide thee!

SEB. Then I will on:

My father is at hand; kiss, and begone!

Hours shall be watch’d for meetings: I must now,

As men for fear, to a strange idol bow.

MARY. Farewell!

SEB. I’ll guide thee forth: when next we meet,

A story of Moll shall make our mirth more sweet.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SIR ALEX. WENGRAVE, SIR DAVY DAPPER, SIR ADAM

APPLETON, GOSHAWK, LAXTON, _and Gentlemen_.

ALL. Thanks, good sir Alexander, for our bounteous

cheer!

S. ALEX. Fie, fie, in giving thanks you pay too dear.

S. DAVY. When bounty spreads the table, faith, ’twere

sin,

At going off if thanks should not step in.

S. ALEX. No more of thanks, no more. Ay, marry, sir,

Th’ inner room was too close: how do you like

This parlour, gentlemen?

ALL. O, passing well!

S. ADAM. What a sweet breath the air casts here, so

cool!

GOS. I like the prospect best.

LAX. See how ’tis furnish’d!

S. DAVY. A very fair sweet room.

S. ALEX. Sir Davy Dapper,

The furniture that doth adorn this room

Cost many a fair grey groat ere it came here;

But good things are most cheap when they’re most dear.

Nay, when you look into my galleries,

How bravely they’re trimm’d up, you all shall swear

You’re highly pleas’d to see what’s set down there:

Stories of men and women, mix’d together

Fair ones with foul, like sunshine in wet weather;

Within one square a thousand heads are laid,

So close that all of heads the room seems made;

As many faces there, fill’d with blithe looks,

Shew like the promising titles of new books

Writ merrily, the readers being their own eyes,

Which seem to move and to give plaudities;

And here and there, whilst with obsequious ears

Throng’d heaps do listen, a cut-purse thrusts and leers

With hawk’s eyes for his prey; I need not shew him;

By a hanging, villanous look yourselves may know him,

The face is drawn so rarely: then, sir, below,

The very floor, as ’twere, waves to and fro,

And, like a floating island, seems to move

Upon a sea bound in with shores above.

ALL. These sights are excellent!

S. ALEX. I’ll shew you all:

Since we are met, make our parting comical.

_Re-enter_ SEBASTIAN WENGRAVE _with_ GREENWIT.

SEB. This gentleman, my friend, will take his leave,

sir.

S. ALEX. Ha! take his leave, Sebastian, who?

SEB. This gentleman.

S. ALEX. Your love, sir, has already given me some

time,

And if you please to trust my age with more,

It shall pay double interest: good sir, stay.

GREEN. I have been too bold.

S. ALEX. Not so, sir: a merry day

’Mongst friends being spent, is better than gold sav’d.—

Some wine, some wine! Where be these knaves I keep?

_Re-enter_ NEATFOOT _with several Servants_.

NEAT. At your worshipful elbow, sir.

S. ALEX. You’re kissing my maids, drinking, or fast

asleep.

NEAT. Your worship has given it us right.

S. ALEX. You varlets, stir!

Chairs, stools, and cushions!—

[_Servants bring in wine, and place chairs, &c._

Prithee, sir Davy Dapper,

Make that chair thine.

S. DAVY. ’Tis but an easy gift;

And yet I thank you for it, sir: I’ll take it.

S. ALEX. A chair for old sir Adam Appleton!

NEAT. A back friend to your worship.

S. ADAM. Marry, good Neatfoot,

I thank thee for’t; back friends sometimes are good.

S. ALEX. Pray, make that stool your perch, good master

Goshawk.

GOS. I stoop to your lure, sir.

S. ALEX. Son Sebastian,

Take master Greenwit to you.

SEB. Sit, dear friend.

S. ALEX. Nay, master Laxton—furnish master Laxton

With what he wants, a stone,—a stool, I would say,

A stool.

LAX. I had rather stand, sir.

S. ALEX. I know you had, good master Laxton: so, so.

[_Exeunt_ NEATFOOT _and Servants_.

Now here’s a mess of friends; and, gentlemen,

Because time’s glass shall not be running long,

I’ll quicken it with a pretty tale.

S. DAVY. Good tales do well

In these bad days, where vice does so excel.

S. ADAM. Begin, sir Alexander.

S. ALEX. Last day I met

An aged man, upon whose head was scor’d

A debt of just so many years as these

Which I owe to my grave: the man you all know.

ALL. His name, I pray you, sir.

S. ALEX. Nay, you shall pardon me:

But when he saw me, with a sigh that brake,

Or seem’d to break, his heart-strings, thus he spake:

O my good knight, says he, (and then his eyes

Were richer even by that which made them poor,

They’d spent so many tears they had no more),

O sir, says he, you know it! for you ha’ seen

Blessings to rain upon mine house and me:

Fortune, who slaves men, was my slave; her wheel

Hath spun me golden threads; for, I thank heaven,

I ne’er had but one cause to curse my stars.

I ask’d him then what that one caue might be.

ALL. So, sir.

S. ALEX. He paus’d: and as we often see

A sea so much becalm’d, there can be found

No wrinkle on his brow, his waves being drown’d

In their own rage; but when th’ imperious wind[s]

Use strange invisible tyranny to shake

Both heaven’s and earth’s foundation at their noise,

The seas, swelling with wrath to part that fray,

Rise up, and are more wild, more mad than they;

Even so this good old man was by my question

Stirr’d up to roughness; you might see his gall

Flow even in’s eyes; then grew he fantastical.

S. DAVY. Fantastical? ha, ha!

S. ALEX. Yes; and talk[’d] oddly.

S. ADAM. Pray, sir, proceed:

How did this old man end?

S. ALEX. Marry, sir, thus:

He left his wild fit to read o’er his cards;

Yet then, though age cast snow on all his hairs,

He joy’d, because, says he, the god of gold

Has been to me no niggard; that disease,

Of which all old men sicken, avarice,

Never infected me——

LAX. He means not himself, I’m sure. [_Aside._

S. ALEX. For, like a lamp

Fed with continual oil, I spend and throw

My light to all that need it, yet have still

Enough to serve myself: O but, quoth he,

Though heaven’s dew fall thus on this aged tree,

I have a son that,[959] like a wedge, doth cleave

My very heart-root!

S. DAVY. Had he such a son?

SEB. Now I do smell a fox strongly. [_Aside._

S. ALEX. Let’s see: no, master Greenwit is not yet

So mellow in years as he; but as like Sebastian,

Just like my son Sebastian, such another.

SEB. How finely, like a fencer,

My father fetches his by-blows to hit me!

But if I beat you not at your own weapon

Of subtilty—— [_Aside._

S. ALEX. This son, saith he, that should be

The column and main arch unto my house,

The crutch unto my age, becomes a whirlwind

Shaking the firm foundation.

S. ADAM. ’Tis some prodigal.

SEB. Well shot, old Adam Bell![960] [_Aside._

S. ALEX. No city-monster neither, no prodigal,

But sparing, wary, civil, and, though wifeless,

An excellent husband; and such a traveller,

He has more tongues in his head than some have teeth.

S. DAVY. I have but two in mine.

GOS. So sparing and so wary?

What, then, could vex his father so?

S. ALEX. O, a woman!

SEB. A flesh-fly, that can vex any man.

S. ALEX. A scurvy woman,

On whom the passionate old man swore he doated;

A creature, saith he, nature hath brought forth

To mock the sex of woman. It is a thing

One knows not how to name: her birth began

Ere she was all made: ’tis woman more than man,

Man more than woman; and, which to none can hap,

The sun gives her two shadows to one shape;

Nay, more, let this strange thing walk, stand, or sit,

No blazing star draws more eyes after it.

S. DAVY. A monster! ’tis some monster!

S. ALEX. She’s a varlet.

SEB. Now is my cue to bristle. [_Aside._

S. ALEX. A naughty pack.[961]

SEB. ’Tis false!

S. ALEX. Ha, boy?

SEB. ’Tis false!

S. ALEX. What’s false? I say she’s naught.

SEB. I say, that tongue

That dares speak so, but yours, sticks in the throat

Of a rank villain: set yourself aside——

S. ALEX. So, sir, what then?

SEB. Any here else had lied.—

I think I shall fit you. [_Aside._

S. ALEX. Lie?

SEB. Yes.

S. DAVY. Doth this concern him?

S. ALEX. Ah, sirrah-boy,

Is your blood heated? boils it? are you stung?

I’ll pierce you deeper yet.—O my dear friends,

I am that wretched father! this that son,

That sees his ruin, yet headlong on doth run.

S. ADAM. Will you love such a poison?

S. DAVY. Fie, fie.

SEB. You’re all mad.

S. ALEX. Thou’rt sick at heart, yet feel’st it not: of

all these,

What gentleman but thou, knowing his disease

Mortal, would shun the cure!—O master Greenwit,

Would you to such an idol bow?

GREEN. Not I, sir.

S. ALEX. Here’s master Laxton; has he mind to a woman

As thou hast?

LAX. No, not I, sir.

S. ALEX. Sir, I know it.

LAX. Their good parts are so rare, their bad so

common,

I will have nought to do with any woman.

S. DAVY. ’Tis well done, master Laxton.

S. ALEX. O thou cruel boy,

Thou wouldst with lust an old man’s life destroy!

Because thou see’st I’m half-way in my grave,

Thou shovel’st dust upon me: would thou might’st have

Thy wish, most wicked, most unnatural!

S. DAVY. Why, sir, ’tis thought sir Guy Fitzallard’s

daughter

Shall wed your son Sebastian.

S. ALEX. Sir Davy Dapper,

I have upon my knees woo’d this fond[962] boy

To take that virtuous maiden.

SEB. Hark you; a word, sir.

You on your knees have curs’d that virtuous maiden,

And me for loving her; yet do you now

Thus baffle[963] me to my face: wear not your knees

In such entreats; give me Fitzallard’s daughter.

S. ALEX. I’ll give thee rats-bane rather.

SEB. Well, then, you know

What dish I mean to feed upon.

S. ALEX. Hark, gentlemen! he swears

To have this cut-purse drab, to spite my gall.

ALL. Master Sebastian——

SEB. I am deaf to you all.

I’m so bewitch’d, so bound to my desires,

Tears, prayers, threats, nothing can quench out those

fires

That burn within me. [_Exit._

S. ALEX. Her blood shall quench it, then.— [_Aside._

Lose him not; O dissuade him, gentlemen!

S. DAVY. He shall be wean’d, I warrant you.

S. ALEX. Before his eyes

Lay down his shame, my grief, his miseries.

ALL. No more, no more; away!

[_Exeunt all but_ SIR ALEX. WENGRAVE.

S. ALEX. I wash a negro,

Losing both pains and cost: but take thy flight,

I’ll be most near thee when I’m least in sight.

Wild buck, I’ll hunt thee breathless: thou shalt run on,

But I will turn thee when I’m not thought upon.—

_Enter_ TRAPDOOR _with a letter_.

Now, sirrah, what are you? leave your ape’s tricks, and

speak.

TRAP. A letter from my captain to your worship.

S. ALEX. O, O, now I remember; ’tis to prefer thee into

my service.

TRAP. To be a shifter under your worship’s nose of a

clean trencher, when there’s a good bit upon’t.

S. ALEX. Troth, honest fellow—Hum—ha—let me see—

This knave shall be the axe to hew that down

At which I stumble; has a face that promiseth

Much of a villain: I will grind his wit,

And, if the edge prove fine, make use of it. [_Aside._

Come hither, sirrah: canst thou be secret, ha?

TRAP. As two crafty attorneys plotting the undoing

of their clients.

S. ALEX. Didst never, as thou’st walk’d about this

town,

Hear of a wench call’d Moll, mad, merry Moll?

TRAP. Moll Cutpurse, sir?

S. ALEX. The same; dost thou know her, then?

TRAP. As well as I know ’twill rain upon Simon

and Jude’s day next: I will sift all the taverns

i’ th’ city, and drink half pots with all the

watermen[964]

a’ th’ Bank-side, but, if you will, sir, I’ll find

her out.

S. ALEX. That task is easy; do’t then: hold thy hand

up.

What’s this? is’t burnt?

TRAP. No, sir, no; a little singed with making

fireworks.

S. ALEX. There’s money, spend it; that being spent,

fetch more. [_Gives money._

TRAP. O sir, that all the poor soldiers in England had

such a leader! For fetching, no water-spaniel is like

me.

S. ALEX. This wench we speak of strays so from her

kind,

Nature repents she made her: ’tis a mermaid

Has tol’d my son to shipwreck.

TRAP. I’ll cut her comb for you.

S. ALEX. I’ll tell out gold for thee, then. Hunt her

forth,

Cast out a line hung full of silver hooks

To catch her to thy company: deep spendings

May draw her that’s most chaste to a man’s bosom.

TRAP. The gingling of golden bells, and a good fool with

a hobbyhorse, will draw all the whores i’ th’ town to

dance in a morris.

S. ALEX. Or rather, for that’s best (they say

sometimes

She goes in breeches), follow her as her man.

TRAP. And when her breeches are off, she shall follow

me.

S. ALEX. Beat all thy brains to serve her.

TRAP. Zounds, sir, as country wenches beat cream till

butter comes.

S. ALEX. Play thou the subtle spider; weave fine nets

To ensnare her very life.

TRAP. Her life?

S. ALEX. Yes; suck

Her heart-blood, if thou canst: twist thou but cords

To catch her, I’ll find law to hang her up.

TRAP. Spoke like a worshipful bencher!

S. ALEX. Trace all her steps: at this she-fox’s den

Watch what lambs enter; let me play the shepherd

To save their throats from bleeding, and cut hers.

TRAP. This is the goll[965] shall do’t.

S. ALEX. Be firm, and gain me

Ever thine own: this done, I entertain thee.

How is thy name?

TRAP. My name, sir, is Ralph Trapdoor, honest Ralph.

S. ALEX. Trapdoor, be like thy name, a dangerous step

For her to venture on; but unto me——

TRAP. As fast as your sole to your boot or shoe, sir.

S. ALEX. Hence, then; be little seen here as thou

canst;

I’ll still be at thine elbow.

TRAP. The trapdoor’s set.

Moll, if you budge, you’re gone: this me shall crown;

A roaring boy[966] the roaring girl puts down.

S. ALEX. God-a-mercy, lose no time. [_Exeunt._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_Three shops open in a rank: the first an apothecary’s

shop, the next a feather-shop, the third a

sempster’s shop_; MISTRESS GALLIPOT _in the first_,

MISTRESS TILTYARD _in the next_, OPENWORK _and_

MISTRESS OPENWORK _in the third_.

_Enter_ LAXTON, GOSHAWK, _and_ GREENWIT.

MIS. OPEN. Gentlemen, what is’t you lack?[967] what

is’t you buy? see fine bands and ruffs, fine lawns, fine

cambrics: what is’t you lack, gentlemen? what is’t you

buy?

LAX. Yonder’s the shop.

GOS. Is that she?

LAX. Peace.

GREEN. She that minces tobacco?[968]

LAX. Ay; she’s a gentlewoman born, I can tell you,

though it be her hard fortune now to shred Indian

pot-herbs.

GOS. O sir, ’tis many a good woman’s fortune, when her

husband turns bankrout,[969] to begin with pipes and set

up again.

LAX. And, indeed, the raising of the woman is the

lifting up of the man’s head at all times; if one

flourish, t’other will bud as fast, I warrant ye.

GOS. Come, thou’rt familiarly acquainted there, I grope

that.

LAX. And[970] you grope no better i’ th’ dark, you may

chance lie i’ th’ ditch when you’re drunk.

GOS. Go, thou’rt a mystical lecher!

LAX. I will not deny but my credit may take up an ounce

of pure smoke.

GOS. May take up an ell of pure smock! away, go! ’Tis

the closest striker![971] life, I think he commits

venery forty foot deep; no man’s aware on’t. I, like a

palpable smockster, go to work so openly with the

tricks of art, that I’m as apparently seen as a naked

boy in a phial;[972] and were it not for a gift of

treachery that I have in me, to betray my friend when

he puts most trust in me—mass, yonder he is too!—and

by his injury to make good my access to her, I should

appear as defective in courting as a farmer’s son the

first day of his feather, that doth nothing at court

but woo the hangings and glass windows for a month

together, and some broken waiting-woman for ever

after. I find those imperfections in my venery, that

were’t not for flattery and falsehood, I should want

discourse and impudence; and he that wants impudence

among women is worthy to be kicked out at bed’s feet.

He shall not see me yet. [_Aside._

GREEN. Troth, this is finely shred.

LAX. O, women are the best mincers.

MIS. G. ’Thad been a good phrase for a cook’s wife, sir.

LAX. But ’twill serve generally, like the front of a new

almanac, as thus:—calculated for the meridian of cooks’

wives, but generally for all Englishwomen.

MIS. G. Nay, you shall ha’t, sir; I have filled it for

you. [_She puts it to the fire._

LAX. The pipe’s in a good hand, and I wish mine always

so.

GREEN. But not to be used a’ that fashion.

LAX. O, pardon me, sir, I understand no French. I pray,

be covered. Jack, a pipe of rich smoke!

GOS. Rich smoke? that’s sixpence a pipe, is’t?

GREEN. To me, sweet lady.

MIS. G. Be not forgetful; respect my credit; seem

strange: art and wit make[973] a fool of suspicion;

pray, be wary.

LAX. Push![974] I warrant you.—Come, how is’t, gallants?

GREEN. Pure and excellent.

LAX. I thought ’twas good, you were grown so silent: you

are like those that love not to talk at victuals, though

they make a worse noise i’ th’ nose than a common

fiddler’s ’prentice, and discourse a whole supper with

snuffling.—I must speak a word with you anon.

MIS. G. Make your way wisely, then.

GOS. O, what else, sir? he’s perfection itself; full of

manners, but not an acre of ground belonging to ’em.

GREEN. Ay, and full of form; has ne’er a good stool in’s

chamber.

GOS. But above all, religious; he preyeth daily upon

elder brothers.

GREEN. And valiant above measure; has run three streets

from a sergeant.

LAX. Puh, puh. [_He blows tobacco in their faces._

GREEN. O, puh!

GOS. Ho, ho!

LAX. So, so.

MIS. G. What’s the matter now, sir?

LAX. I protest I’m in extreme want of money; if you can

supply me now with any means, you do me the greatest

pleasure, next to the bounty of your love, as ever poor

gentleman tasted.

MIS. G. What’s the sum would pleasure ye, sir? though

you deserve nothing less at my hands.

LAX. Why, ’tis but for want of opportunity, thou

knowest.—I put her off with opportunity still: by this

light, I hate her, but for means to keep me in fashion

with gallants; for what I take from her, I spend upon

other wenches; bear her in hand[975] still: she has wit

enough to rob her husband, and I ways enough to consume

the money. [_Aside._]—Why, how now? what, the chincough?

GOS. Thou hast the cowardliest trick to come before a

man’s face, and strangle him ere he be aware! I could

find in my heart to make a quarrel in earnest.

LAX. Pox, and[976] thou dost—thou knowest I never use to

fight with my friends—thou’ll but lose thy labour in’t.—

Jack Dapper!

_Enter_ JACK DAPPER _and_ GULL.

GREEN. Monsieur Dapper, I dive down to your ancles.

J. DAP. Save ye, gentlemen, all three in a peculiar

salute.

GOS. He were ill to make a lawyer; he despatches three

at once.

LAX. So, well said.—But is this[977] of the same

tobacco, mistress Gallipot?

MIS. G. The same you had at first, sir.

LAX. I wish it no better: this will serve to drink[978]

at my chamber.

GOS. Shall we taste a pipe on’t?

LAX. Not of this, by my troth, gentlemen, I have sworn

before you.

GOS. What, not Jack Dapper?

LAX. Pardon me, sweet Jack; I’m sorry I made such a rash

oath, but foolish oaths must stand: where art going,

Jack?

J. DAP. Faith, to buy one feather.

LAX. One feather? the fool’s peculiar still.

[_Aside._

J. DAP. Gull.

GULL. Master?

J. DAP. Here’s three halfpence for your ordinary, boy;

meet me an hour hence in Paul’s.[979]

GULL. How? three single halfpence? life, this will

scarce serve a man in sauce, a halp’orth of mustard, a

halp’orth of oil, and a halp’orth of vinegar,—what’s

left then for the pickle herring? This shews like small

beer i’ th’ morning after a great surfeit of wine

o’ernight: he could spend his three pound last night in

a supper amongst girls and brave bawdyhouse boys: I

thought his pockets cackled not for nothing: these are

the eggs of three pound, I’ll go sup ’em up presently.

[_Aside, and exit._

LAX. Eight, nine, ten angels:[980] good wench, i’faith,

and one that loves darkness well; she puts out a candle

with the best tricks of any drugster’s wife in England:

but that which mads her, I rail upon opportunity still,

and take no notice on’t. The other night she would needs

lead me into a room with a candle in her hand to shew me

a naked picture, where no sooner entered, but the

candle was sent of an errand: now, I not intending to

understand her, but, like a puny at the inns of venery,

called for another light innocently; thus reward I all

her cunning with simple mistaking. I know she cozens her

husband to keep me, and I’ll keep her honest as long as

I can, to make the poor man some part of amends. An

honest mind of a whoremaster! how think you amongst you?

What, a fresh pipe? draw in a third man?

GOS. No, you’re a hoarder, you engross by th’ ounces.

[_At the feather-shop._

J. DAP. Pooh, I like it not.

MIS. T. What feather is’t you’d have, sir?

These are most worn and most in fashion:

Amongst the beaver gallants, the stone riders,

The private stage’s audience, the twelvepenny-stool

gentlemen,[981]

I can inform you ’tis the general feather.

J. DAP. And therefore I mislike it: tell me of

general!

Now, a continual Simon and Jude’s rain

Beat all your feathers as flat down as pancakes!

Shew me—a—spangled feather.

MIS. T. O, to go a-feasting with;

You’d have it for a hench-boy,[982] you shall.

[_At the sempster’s shop._

OPEN. Mass, I had quite forgot!

His honour’s footman was here last night, wife;

Ha’ you done with my lord’s shirt?

MIS. O. What’s that to you, sir?

I was this morning at his honour’s lodging,

Ere such a snake as you crept out of your shell.

OPEN. O, ’twas well done, good wife!

MIS. O. I hold it better, sir,

Than if you had done’t yourself.

OPEN. Nay, so say I:

But is the countess’s smock almost done, mouse?[983]

MIS. O. Here lies the cambric, sir; but wants, I fear

me.

OPEN. I’ll resolve[984] you of that presently.

MIS. O. Heyday! O audacious groom!

Dare you presume to noble women’s linen?

Keep you your yard to measure shepherds’ holland:

I must confine you, I see that.

[_At the tobacco-shop._

GOS. What say you to this gear?[985]

LAX. I dare the arrant’st critic in tobacco

To lay one fault upon’t.

_Enter_ MOLL _in a frieze jerkin and a black

saveguard_.[986]

GOS. Life, yonder’s Moll!

LAX. Moll! which Moll?

GOS. Honest Moll.

LAX. Prithee, let’s call her.—Moll!

GOS. Moll, Moll!

GREEN. Pist, Moll![987]

MOLL. How now? what’s the matter?

GOS. A pipe of good tobacco, Moll?

MOLL. I cannot stay.

GOS. Nay, Moll, pooh, prithee, hark; but one word,

i’faith.

MOLL. Well, what is’t?

GREEN. Prithee, come hither, sirrah.

LAX. Heart, I would give but too much money to be

nibbling with that wench! life, sh’as the spirit of four

great parishes, and a voice that will drown all the

city! Methinks a brave captain might get all his

soldiers upon her, and ne’er be beholding[988] to a

company of Mile-end milksops, if he could come on and

come off quick enough: such a Moll were a marrow-bone

before an Italian; he would cry _buona roba_[989] till

his ribs were nothing but bone. I’ll lay hard siege to

her: money is that aquafortis that eats into many a

maidenhead; where the walls are flesh and blood, I’ll

ever pierce through with a golden augre. [_Aside._

GOS. Now, thy judgment, Moll? is’t not good?

MOLL. Yes, faith, ’tis very good tobacco.—How do you

sell an ounce?—Farewell.—God b’i’ you, mistress

Gallipot.

GOS. Why, Moll, Moll!

MOLL. I cannot stay now, i’faith: I am going to buy a

shag-ruff; the shop will be shut in presently.

GOS. ’Tis the maddest fantasticalest girl! I never knew

so much flesh and so much nimbleness put together.

LAX. She slips from one company to another, like a fat

eel between a Dutchman’s fingers.—I’ll watch my time for

her. [_Aside._

MIS. G. Some will not stick to say she is a man,

And some, both man and woman.

f LAX. That were excellent: she might first cuckold the

husband, and then make him do as much for the wife.

[_At the feather-shop._

MOLL. Save you; how does mistress Tiltyard?

J. DAP. Moll!

MOLL. Jack Dapper!

J. DAP. How dost, Moll?

MOLL. I’ll tell thee by and by; I go but to th’ next

shop.

J. DAP. Thou shalt find me here this hour about a

feather.

MOLL. Nay, and[990] a feather hold you in play a whole

hour, a goose will last you all the days of your life.—

Let me see a good shag-ruff. [_At the sempster’s

shop._

OPEN. Mistress Mary, that shalt thou, i’faith, and the

best in the shop.

MIS. O. How now? greetings! love-terms, with a pox,

between you! have I found out one of your haunts? I send

you for hollands, and you’re i’ th’ low countries, with

a mischief. I’m served with good ware by th’ shift; that

makes it lie dead so long upon my hands: I were as good

shut up shop, for when I open it I take nothing.

OPEN. Nay, and you fall a-ringing once, the devil cannot

stop you.—I’ll out of the belfry as fast as I can, Moll.

[_Retires._

MIS. O. Get you from my shop!

MOLL. I come to buy.

MIS. O. I’ll sell ye nothing; I warn ye my house and

shop.

MOLL. You, goody Openwork, you that prick out a poor

living,

And sew[991] many a bawdy skin-coat together;

Thou private pandress between shirt and smock;

I wish thee for a minute but a man,

Thou shouldst ne’er use more shapes; but as thou art,

I pity my revenge. Now my spleen’s up,

I would not mock it willingly.—

_Enter a Fellow, with a long rapier by his side._

Ha! be thankful;

Now I forgive thee.

MIS. O. Marry, hang thee, I never asked forgiveness in

my life.

MOLL. You, goodman swine’s face!

FEL. What, will you murder me?

MOLL. You remember, slave, how you abused me t’other

night in a tavern.

FEL. Not I, by this light!

MOLL. No, but by candle-light you did: you have tricks

to save your oaths; reservations have you? and I have

reserved somewhat for you [_strikes him_]. As you like

that, call for more; you know the sign again.

FEL. Pox on’t, had I brought any company along with me

to have borne witness on’t, ’twould ne’er have grieved

me; but to be struck and nobody by, ’tis my ill fortune

still. Why, tread upon a worm, they say ’twill turn

tail; but indeed a gentleman should have more manners.

[_Aside, and exit._

LAX. Gallantly performed, i’faith, Moll, and manfully! I

love thee for ever for’t: base rogue, had he offered but

the least counter-buff, by this hand, I was prepared for

him!

MOLL. You prepared for him? why should you be prepared

for him? was he any more than a man?

LAX. No, nor so much by a yard and a handful, London

measure.

MOLL. Why do you speak this then? do you think I cannot

ride a stone-horse, unless one lead him by th’ snaffle?

LAX. Yes, and sit him bravely; I know thou canst, Moll:

’twas but an honest mistake through love, and I’ll make

amends for’t any way. Prithee, sweet, plump Moll, when

shall thou and I go out a’ town together?

MOLL. Whither? to Tyburn, prithee?

LAX. Mass, that’s out a’ town indeed: thou hangest so

many jests upon thy friends still! I mean honestly to

Brainford,[992] Staines, or Ware.

MOLL. What to do there?

LAX. Nothing but be merry and lie together: I’ll hire a

coach with four horses.

MOLL. I thought ’twould be a beastly journey. You may

leave out one well; three horses will serve, if I play

the jade myself.

LAX. Nay, push,[993] thou’rt such another kicking wench!

Prithee, be kind, and let’s meet.

MOLL. ’Tis hard but we shall meet, sir.

LAX. Nay, but appoint the place then; there’s ten

angels[994] in fair gold, Moll: you see I do not trifle

with you; do but say thou wilt meet me, and I’ll have a

coach ready for thee.

MOLL. Why, here’s my hand, I’ll meet you, sir.

LAX. O good gold! [_Aside._]—The place, sweet Moll?

MOLL. It shall be your appointment.

LAX. Somewhat near Holborn, Moll.

MOLL. In Gray’s-Inn-Fields then.

LAX. A match.

MOLL. I’ll meet you there.

LAX. The hour?

MOLL. Three.

LAX. That will be time enough to sup at Brainford.

OPEN. I am of such a nature, sir, I cannot endure the

house when she scolds: sh’as a tongue will be heard

further in a still morning than Saint Antling’s

bell.[995] She rails upon me for foreign wenching, that

I being a freeman must needs keep a whore i’ th’

suburbs, and seek to impoverish the liberties. When we

fall out, I trouble you still to make all whole with my

wife.

GOS. No trouble at all; ’tis a pleasure to me to join

things together.

OPEN. Go thy ways, I do this but to try thy honesty,

Goshawk. [_Aside._]

[_At the feather-shop._

J. DAP. How likest thou this, Moll?

MOLL. O, singularly; you’re fitted now for a bunch.—He

looks for all the world, with those spangled feathers,

like a nobleman’s bed-post. The purity of your wench

would I fain try; she seems like Kent unconquered, and,

I believe, as many wiles are in her. O, the gallants of

these times are shallow lechers! they put not their

courtship home enough to a wench: ’tis impossible to

know what woman is throughly honest, because she’s ne’er

thoroughly tried; I am of that certain belief, there are

more queans in this town of their own making than of any

man’s provoking: where lies the slackness then? many a

poor soul would down, and there’s nobody will push ’em:

Women are courted, but ne’er soundly tried,

As many walk in spurs that never ride. [_Aside._

[_At the sempster’s shop._

MIS. O. O, abominable!

GOS. Nay, more, I tell you in private, he keeps a whore

i’ th’ suburbs.

MIS. O. O spittle[996] dealing! I came to him a

gentlewoman born: I’ll shew you mine arms when you

please, sir.

GOS. I had rather see your legs, and begin that way.

[_Aside._

MIS. O. ’Tis well known he took me from a lady’s

service, where I was well beloved of the steward: I had

my Latin tongue, and a spice of the French, before I

came to him; and now doth he keep a suburbian whore

under my nostrils?

GOS. There’s ways enough to cry quit with him: hark in

thine ear. [_Whispers her._

MIS. O. There’s a friend worth a million!

MOLL. I’ll try one spear against your chastity, mistress

Tiltyard, though it prove too short by the burgh.[997]

[_Aside._

_Enter_ TRAPDOOR.

TRAP. Mass, here she is: I’m bound already to serve

her, though it be but a sluttish trick. [_Aside._]—Bless

my hopeful young mistress with long life and great

limbs; send her the upper hand of all bailiffs and their

hungry adherents!

MOLL. How now? what art thou?

TRAP. A poor ebbing gentleman, that would gladly wait

for the young flood of your service.

MOLL. My service? what should move you to offer your

service to me, sir?

TRAP. The love I bear to your heroic spirit and

masculine womanhood.

MOLL. So, sir! put case we should retain you to us, what

parts are there in you for a gentlewoman’s service?

TRAP. Of two kinds, right worshipful; moveable and

immoveable—moveable to run of errands, and immoveable to

stand when you have occasion to use me.

MOLL. What strength have you?

TRAP. Strength, mistress Moll? I have gone up into a

steeple, and stayed the great bell as’t has been

ringing; stopt a windmill going——

MOLL. And never struck down yourself?

TRAP. Stood as upright as I do at this present.

[MOLL _trips up his heels_.

MOLL. Come, I pardon you for this; it shall be no

disgrace to you: I have struck up the heels of the high

German’s size'[998] ere now. What, not stand?

TRAP. I am of that nature, where I love, I’ll be at my

mistress’ foot to do her service.

MOLL. Why, well said; but say your mistress should

receive injury, have you the spirit of fighting in you?

durst you second her?

TRAP. Life, I have kept a bridge myself, and drove seven

at a time before me!

MOLL. Ay?

TRAP. But they were all Lincolnshire bullocks, by my

troth. [_Aside._

MOLL. Well, meet me in Gray’s Inn Fields between three

and four this afternoon, and, upon better consideration,

we’ll retain you.

TRAP. I humbly thank your good mistresship.—I’ll crack

your neck for this kindness. [_Aside, & exit._

LAX. Remember three. [MOLL _meets_ LAXTON, _and_

MOLL. Nay, if I fail you, hang me.

LAX. Good wench, i’faith!

MOLL. Who’s this? [_then_ OPENWORK.

OPEN. ’Tis I, Moll.

MOLL. Prithee, tend thy shop and prevent bastards.

OPEN. We’ll have a pint of the same wine,[999] i’faith,

Moll. [_Exit with_ MOLL.] [_Bell rings._

GOS. Hark, the bell rings! come, gentlemen. Jack Dapper,

where shall’s all munch?

J. DAP. I am for Parker’s ordinary.

LAX. He’s a good guest to’m, he deserves his board; he

draws all the gentlemen in a term-time thither. We’ll be

your followers, Jack; lead the way.—Look you, by my

faith, the fool has feathered his nest well.

[_Exeunt_ JACK DAPPER, LAXTON, GOSHAWK, _and_ GREENWIT.

_Enter_ GALLIPOT, TILTYARD, _and Servants, with

water-spaniels and a duck_.

TILT. Come, shut up your shops. Where’s master

Openwork?

MIS. G. Nay, ask not me, master Tiltyard.

TILT. Where’s his water-dog? puh—pist[1000]—hur—hur—

pist!

GAL. Come, wenches, come; we’re going all to

Hogsdon.

MIS. G. To Hogsdon, husband?

GAL. Ay, to Hogsdon, pigsnie.[1001]

MIS. G. I’m not ready, husband.

GAL. Faith, that’s well—hum—pist—pist.—

[_Spits in the dog’s mouth._

Come, mistress Openwork, you are so long!

MIS. O. I have no joy of my life, master Gallipot.

GAL. Push,[1002] let your boy lead his water-spaniel

along, and we’ll shew you the bravest sport at Parlous

Pond.[1003]—Hey, trug, hey, trug, hey, trug![1004]

here’s the best duck in England, except my wife; hey,

hey, hey! fetch, fetch, fetch!—

Come, let’s away:[1005]

Of all the year this is the sportful’st day.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_A Street._

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN WENGRAVE.

SEB. If a man have a free will, where should the use

More perfect shine than in his will to love?

All creatures have their liberty in that,

_Enter behind_ SIR ALEX. WENGRAVE _listening._

Though else kept under servile yoke and fear;

The very bond-slave has his freedom there.

Amongst a world of creatures voic’d and silent,

Must my desires wear fetters?—Yea, are you

So near? then I must break with my heart’s truth,

Meet grief at a back way.—Well: why, suppose

The two-leav’d[1006] tongues of slander or of truth

Pronounce Moll loathsome; if before my love

She appear fair, what injury have I?

I have the thing I like: in all things else

Mine own eye guides me, and I find ’em prosper.

Life! what should ail it now? I know that man

Ne’er truly loves,—if he gainsay’t he lies,—

That winks and marries with his father’s eyes:

I’ll keep mine own wide open.

_Enter_ MOLL, _and a Porter with a viol on his back_.

S. ALEX. Here’s brave wilfulness!

A made match! here she comes; they met a’ purpose.

[_Aside._

POR. Must I carry this great fiddle to your chamber,

mistress Mary?

MOLL. Fiddle, goodman hog-rubber? Some of these porters

bear so much for others, they have no time to carry wit

for themselves.

POR. To your own chamber, mistress Mary?

MOLL. Who’ll hear an ass speak? whither else, goodman

pageant-bearer? They’re people of the worst memories!

[_Exit Porter._

SEB. Why, ’twere too great a burden, love, to have

them

Carry things in their minds and a’ their backs together.

MOLL. Pardon me, sir, I thought not you so near.

S. ALEX. So, so, so! [_Aside._

SEB. I would be nearer to thee, and in that fashion

That makes the best part of all creatures honest:

No otherwise I wish it.

MOLL. Sir, I am so poor to requite you, you must look

for nothing but thanks of me: I have no humour to marry;

I love to lie a’ both sides a’ th’ bed myself: and

again, a’ th’ other side, a wife, you know, ought to be

obedient, but I fear me I am too headstrong to obey;

therefore I’ll ne’er go about it. I love you so well,

sir, for your good will, I’d be loath you should repent

your bargain after; and therefore we’ll ne’er come

together at first. I have the head now of myself, and am

man enough for a woman: marriage is but a chopping and

changing, where a maiden loses one head, and has a worse

i’ th’ place.

S. ALEX. The most comfortablest answer from a roaring

girl

That ever mine ears drunk in! [_Aside._

SEB. This were enough

Now to affright a fool for ever from thee,

When ’tis the music that I love thee for.

S. ALEX. There’s a boy spoils all again! [_Aside._

MOLL. Believe it, sir, I am not of that disdainful

temper but I could love you faithfully.

S. ALEX. A pox on you for that word! I like you not

now,

You’re a cunning roarer, I see that already. [_Aside._

MOLL. But sleep upon this once more, sir; you may chance

shift a mind to-morrow: be not too hasty to wrong

yourself; never while you live, sir, take a wife

running; many have run out at heels that have done’t.

You see, sir, I speak against myself; and if every woman

would deal with their suitor so honestly, poor younger

brothers would not be so often gulled with old cozening

widows, that turn o’er all their wealth in trust to some

kinsman, and make the poor gentleman work hard for a

pension. Fare you well, sir.

SEB. Nay, prithee, one word more.

S. ALEX. How do I wrong this girl! she puts him off

still. [_Aside._

MOLL. Think upon this in cold blood, sir: you make as

much haste as if you were a-going upon a sturgeon

voyage. Take deliberation, sir; never choose a wife as

if you were going to Virginia.[1007]

SEB. And so[1008] we parted: my too-cursed fate!

S. ALEX. She is but cunning, gives him longer time

in’t. [_Aside._

_Enter Tailor._

TAI. Mistress Moll, mistress Moll! so ho, ho, so ho!

MOLL. There, boy, there, boy! what dost thou go

a-hawking after me with a red clout on thy finger?

TAI. I forgot to take measure on you for your new

breeches.

S. ALEX. Hoyda, breeches? what, will he marry a monster

with two trinkets? what age is this! if the wife go in

breeches, the man must wear long coats[1009] like a

fool. [_Aside._

MOLL. What fiddling’s here! would not the old pattern

have served your turn?

TAI. You change the fashion: you say you’ll have the

great Dutch slop,[1010] mistress Mary.

MOLL. Why, sir, I say so still.

TAI. Your breeches, then, will take up a yard more.

MOLL. Well, pray, look it be put in then.

TAI. It shall stand round and full, I warrant you.

MOLL. Pray, make ’em easy enough.

TAI. I know my fault now, t’other was somewhat stiff

between the legs; I’ll make these open enough, I warrant

you.

S. ALEX. Here’s good gear towards![1011] I have brought

up my son to marry a Dutch slop and a French doublet; a

codpiece daughter! [_Aside._

TAI. So, I have gone as far as I can go.

MOLL. Why, then, farewell.

TAI. If you go presently to your chamber, mistress Mary,

pray, send me the measure of your thigh by some honest

body.

MOLL. Well, sir, I’ll send it by a porter presently.

[_Exit._

TAI. So you had need, it is a lusty one; both of them

would make any porter’s back ache in England.

[_Exit._

SEB. I have examin’d the best part of man,

Reason and judgment; and in love, they tell me,

They leave me uncontroll’d: he that is sway’d

By an unfeeling blood, past heat of love,

His spring-time must needs err; his watch ne’er goes

right

That sets his dial by a rusty clock.

S. ALEX. [_coming forward_] So; and which is that

rusty clock, sir, you?

SEB. The clock at Ludgate, sir; it ne’er goes true.

S. ALEX. But thou go’st falser; not thy father’s cares

Can keep thee right: when that insensible work

Obeys the workman’s art, lets off the hour,

And stops again when time is satisfied:

But thou runn’st on; and judgment, thy main wheel,

Beats by all stops, as if the work would break,

Begun with long pains for a minute’s ruin:

Much like a suffering man brought up with care,

At last bequeath’d to shame and a short prayer.

SEB. I taste you bitterer than I can deserve, sir.

S. ALEX. Who has bewitch[’d] thee, son? what devil or

drug

Hath wrought upon the weakness of thy blood,

And betray’d all her hopes to ruinous folly?

O, wake from drowsy and enchanted shame,

Wherein thy soul sits, with a golden dream

Flatter’d and poison’d! I am old, my son;

O, let me prevail quickly!

For I have weightier business of mine own

Than to chide thee: I must not to my grave

As a drunkard to his bed, whereon he lies

Only to sleep, and never cares to rise:

Let me despatch in time; come no more near her.

SEB. Not honestly? not in the way of marriage?

S. ALEX. What sayst thou? marriage? in what place? the

Sessions-house?

And who shall give the bride, prithee? an indictment?

SEB. Sir, now ye take part with the world to wrong

her.

S. ALEX. Why, wouldst thou fain marry to be pointed

at?

Alas, the number’s great! do not o’erburden’t.

Why, as good marry a beacon on a hill,

Which all the country fix their eyes upon,

As her thy folly doats on. If thou long’st

To have the story of thy infamous fortunes

Serve for discourse in ordinaries and taverns,

Thou’rt in the way; or to confound thy name,

Keep on, thou canst not miss it; or to strike

Thy wretched father to untimely coldness,

Keep the left hand still, it will bring thee to’t.

Yet, if no tears wrung from thy father’s eyes,

Nor sighs that fly in sparkles from his sorrows,

Had power to alter what is wilful in thee,

Methinks her very name should fright thee from her,

And never trouble me.

SEB. Why, is the name of Moll so fatal, sir?

S. ALEX. Many one,[1012] sir, where suspect is

enter’d;

For, seek all London from one end to t’other,

More whores of that name than of any ten other.

SEB. What’s that to her? let those blush for

themselves:

Can any guilt in others condemn her?

I’ve vow’d to love her: let all storms oppose me

That ever beat against the breast of man,

Nothing but death’s black tempest shall divide us.

S. ALEX. O, folly that can doat on nought but shame!

SEB. Put case, a wanton itch runs through one name

More than another; is that name the worse,

Where honesty sits possest in’t? it should rather

Appear more excellent, and deserve more praise,

When through foul mists a brightness it can raise.

Why, there are of the devils honest gentlemen

And well descended, keep an open house,

And some a’ th’ good man’s[1013] that are arrant knaves.

He hates unworthily that by rote contemns,

For the name neither saves nor yet condemns;

And for her honesty, I’ve made such proof on’t

In several forms, so nearly watch’d her ways,

I will maintain that strict against an army,

Excepting you, my father. Here’s her worst,

Sh’as a bold spirit that mingles with mankind,

But nothing else comes near it: and oftentimes

Through her apparel somewhat shames her birth;

But she is loose in nothing but in mirth:

Would all Molls were no worse!

S. ALEX. This way I toil in vain, and give but

aim[1014]

To infamy and ruin: he will fall;

My blessing cannot stay him: all my joys

Stand at the brink of a devouring flood,

And will be wilfully swallow’d, wilfully.

But why so vain let all these tears be lost?

I’ll pursue her to shame, and so all’s crost.

[_Aside, and exit._

SEB. He’s gone with some strange purpose, whose effect

Will hurt me little if he shoot so wide,

To think I love so blindly: I but feed

His heart to this match, to draw on the other,

Wherein my joy sits with a full wish crown’d,

Only his mood excepted, which must change

By opposite policies, courses indirect;

Plain dealing in this world takes no effect.

This mad girl I’ll acquaint with my intent,

Get her assistance, make my fortunes known:

’Twixt lovers’ hearts she’s a fit instrument,

And has the art to help them to their own.

By her advice, for in that craft she’s wise,

My love and I may meet, spite of all spies. [_Exit._

ACT III. SCENE I.

_Gray’s Inn Fields._

_Enter_ LAXTON _and Coachman_.

LAX. Coachman.

COACH. Here, sir.

LAX. There’s a tester[1015] more; prithee drive thy

coach to the hither end of Marybone-park, a fit place

for Moll to get in.

COACH. Marybone-park, sir?

LAX. Ay, it’s in our way, thou knowest.

COACH. It shall be done, sir.

LAX. Coachman.

COACH. Anon, sir.

LAX. Are we fitted with good phrampel[1016] jades?

COACH. The best in Smithfield, I warrant you, sir.

LAX. May we safely take the upper hand of any coached

velvet cap, or tuftaffety jacket? for they keep a

vild[1017] swaggering in coaches now-a-days; the

highways are stopt with them.

COACH. My life for yours, and baffle[1018] ’em too, sir:

why, they are the same jades believe it, sir, that have

drawn all your famous whores to Ware.

LAX. Nay, then they know their business; they need no

more instructions.

COACH. They’re so used to such journeys, sir, I never

use whip to ’em; for if they catch but the scent of a

wench once, they run like devils. [_Exit._[1019]

LAX. Fine Cerberus! that rogue will have the start of a

thousand ones; for whilst others trot a’ foot, he’ll

ride prancing to hell upon a coach-horse. Stay, ’tis now

about the hour of her appointment, but yet I see her

not. [_The clock strikes three._] Hark! what’s this?

one, two, three: three by the clock at Savoy; this is

the hour, and Gray’s Inn Fields the place, she swore

she’d meet me. Ha! yonder’s two Inns-a’-court men with

one wench, but that’s not she; they walk toward

Islington out of my way. I see none yet drest like her;

I must look for a shag ruff, a freize jerken, a short

sword, and a safeguard,[1020] or I get none. Why, Moll,

prithee, make haste, or the coachman will curse us anon.

_Enter_ MOLL, _dressed as a man_.

MOLL. O, here’s my gentleman! If they would keep their

days as well with their mercers as their hours with

their harlots, no bankrout[1021] would give seven score

pound for a sergeant’s place; for would you know a

catchpoll rightly derived, the corruption of a citizen

is the generation of a sergeant. How his eye hawks for

venery! [_Aside._]—Come, are you ready, sir?

LAX. Ready? for what, sir?

MOLL. Do you ask that now, sir?

Why was this meeting ’pointed?

LAX. I thought you mistook me, sir: you seem to be some

young barrister;

I have no suit in law, all my land’s sold;

I praise heaven for’t, ’t has rid me of much trouble.

MOLL. Then I must wake you, sir; where stands the

coach?

LAX. Who’s this? Moll, honest Moll?

MOLL. So young, and purblind?

You’re an old wanton in your eyes, I see that.

LAX. Thou’rt admirably suited for the Three Pigeons at

Brainford.[1022] I’ll swear I knew thee not.

MOLL. I’ll swear you did not; but you shall know me

now.

LAX. No, not here; we shall be spied, i’faith; the coach

is better: come.

MOLL. Stay. [_Puts off her cloak._

LAX. What, wilt thou untruss a point,[1023] Moll?

MOLL. Yes; here’s the point [_Draws her sword._

That I untruss; ’t has but one tag, ’t will serve though

To tie up a rogue’s tongue.

LAX. How!

MOLL. There’s the gold

With which you hir’d your hackney, here’s her pace;

She racks hard, and perhaps your bones will feel it:

Ten angels[1024] of mine own I’ve put to thine;

Win ’em, and wear ’em.

LAX. Hold, Moll! mistress Mary——

MOLL. Draw, or I’ll serve an execution on thee,

Shall lay thee up till doomsday.

LAX. Draw upon a woman! why, what dost mean, Moll?

MOLL. To teach thy base thoughts manners: thou’rt one

of those

That thinks each woman thy fond flexible whore;

If she but cast a liberal[1025] eye upon thee,

Turn back her head, she’s thine; or amongst company

By chance drink first to thee, then she’s quite gone,

There is no means to help her: nay, for a need,

Wilt swear unto thy credulous fellow-lechers,

That thou art more in favour with a lady

At first sight than her monkey all her lifetime.

How many of our sex, by such as thou,

Have their good thoughts paid with a blasted name

That never deserv’d loosely, or did trip

In path of whoredom beyond cup and lip!

But for the stain of conscience and of soul,

Better had women fall into the hands

Of an act silent than a bragging nothing;

There is no mercy in’t. What durst move you, sir,

To think me whorish? a name which I’d tear out

From the high German’s throat,[1026] if it lay

leiger[1027] there

To despatch privy slanders against me.

In thee I defy all men, their worst hates

And their best flatteries, all their golden witchcrafts,

With which they entangle the poor spirits of fools,

Distressed needle-women and trade-fallen wives;

Fish that must needs bite, or themselves be bitten:

Such hungry things as these may soon be took

With a worm fasten’d on a golden hook:

Those are the lecher’s food, his prey; he watches

For quarrelling wedlocks[1028] and poor shifting

sisters;

’Tis the best fish he takes. But why, good fisherman,

Am I thought meat for you, that never yet

Had angling rod cast towards me? ’cause, you’ll say,

I’m given to sport, I’m often merry, jest:

Had mirth no kindred in the world but lust,

O shame take all her friends then! but howe’er

Thou and the baser world censure my life,

I’ll send ’em word by thee, and write so much

Upon thy breast, ’cause thou shalt bear’t in mind,

Tell them ’twere base to yield where I have conquer’d;

I scorn to prostitute myself to a man,

I that can prostitute a man to me;

And so I greet thee.

LAX. Hear me——

MOLL. Would the spirits

Of all my sland[er]ers were clasp’d in thine,

That I might vex an army at one time! [_They fight._

LAX. I do repent me; hold!

MOLL. You’ll die the better Christian then.

LAX. I do confess I have wronged thee, Moll.

MOLL. Confession is but poor amends for wrong,

Unless a rope would follow.

LAX. I ask thee pardon.

MOLL. I’m your hir’d whore, sir!

LAX. I yield both purse and body.

MOLL. Both are mine,

And now at my disposing.

LAX. Spare my life!

MOLL. I scorn to strike thee basely.

LAX. Spoke like a noble girl, i’faith!—Heart, I think I

fight with a familiar,[1029] or the ghost of a fencer.

Sh’as wounded me gallantly. Call you this a lecherous

viage?[1030] here’s blood would have served me this

seven year in broken heads and cut fingers; and it now

runs all out together. Pox a’ the Three Pigeons![1031] I

would the coach were here now to carry me to the

chirurgeon’s. [_Aside, and exit._

MOLL. If I could meet my enemies one by one thus,

I might make pretty shift with ’em in time,

And make ’em know she that has wit and spirit,

May scorn

To live beholding[1032] to her body for meat;

Or for apparel, like your common dame,

That makes shame get her clothes to cover shame.

Base is that mind that kneels unto her body,

As if a husband stood in awe on’s wife:

My spirit shall be mistress of this house

As long as I have time in’t.—O,

_Enter_ TRAPDOOR.

Here comes my man that would be: ’tis his hour.

Faith, a good well-set fellow, if his spirit

Be answerable to his umbles:[1033] he walks stiff,

But whether he’ll stand to’t stiffly, there’s the point:

Has a good calf for’t; and ye shall have many a woman

Choose him she means to make her head by his calf:

I do not know their tricks in’t. Faith, he seems

A man without; I’ll try what he’s within.

TRAP. She told me Gray’s Inn Fields, ’twixt three and

four;

I’ll fit her mistress-ship with a piece of service:

I’m hir’d to rid the town of one mad girl.

[MOLL _jostles him_.

What a pox ails you, sir?

MOLL. He begins like a gentleman.

TRAP. Heart, is the field so narrow, or your eyesight—

Life, he comes back again!

MOLL. Was this spoke to me, sir?

TRAP. I cannot tell, sir.

MOLL. Go, you’re a coxcomb!

TRAP. Coxcomb?

MOLL. You’re a slave!

TRAP. I hope there’s law for you, sir.

MOLL. Yea, do you see, sir? [_Turns his hat._

TRAP. Heart, this is no good dealing! pray, let me know

what house you’re of.

MOLL. One of the Temple, sir. [_Fillips him._

TRAP. Mass, so methinks.

MOLL. And yet sometime I lie about Chick Lane.

TRAP. I like you the worse because you shift your

lodging so often: I’ll not meddle with you for that

trick, sir.

MOLL. A good shift; but it shall not serve your turn.

TRAP. You’ll give me leave to pass about my business,

sir?

MOLL. Your business? I’ll make you wait on me

Before I ha’ done, and glad to serve me too.

TRAP. How, sir? serve you? not if there were no more men

in England.

MOLL. But if there were no more women in England,

I hope you’d wait upon your mistress then?

TRAP. Mistress?

MOLL. O, you’re a tried spirit at a push, sir!

TRAP. What would your worship have me do?

MOLL. You a fighter!

TRAP. No, I praise heaven, I had better grace and more

manners.

MOLL. As how, I pray, sir?

TRAP. Life, ’thad been a beastly part of me to have

drawn my weapons upon my mistress; all the world would

’a cried shame of me for that.

MOLL. Why, but you knew me not.

TRAP. Do not say so, mistress; I knew you by your wide

straddle, as well as if I had been in your belly.

MOLL. Well, we shall try you further; i’ th’ mean time

We give you entertainment.

TRAP. Thank your good mistress-ship.

MOLL. How many suits have you?

TRAP. No more suits than backs, mistress.

MOLL. Well, if you deserve, I cast off this, next

week,

And you may creep into’t.

TRAP. Thank your good worship.

MOLL. Come, follow me to St. Thomas Apostle’s:

I’ll put a livery cloak upon your back

The first thing I do.

TRAP. I follow, my dear mistress. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

GALLIPOT’S _Shop_.

_Enter_ MISTRESS GALLIPOT _as from supper_, GALLIPOT

_following her_.

GAL. What, Pru! nay, sweet Prudence!

MIS. G. What a pruing keep you! I think the baby would

have a teat, it kyes[1034] so. Pray, be not so fond of

me, leave your city humours; I’m vexed at you, to see

how like a calf you come bleating after me.

GAL. Nay, honey Pru, how does your rising up before all

the table shew, and flinging from my friends so

uncivilly! fie, Pru, fie! come.

MIS. G. Then up and ride, i’faith!

GAL. Up and ride? nay, my pretty Pru, that’s far from my

thought, duck: why, mouse,[1035] thy mind is nibbling at

something; what is’t? what lies upon thy stomach?

MIS. G. Such an ass as you: hoyda, you’re best turn

midwife, or physician! you’re a ’pothecary already, but

I’m none of your drugs.

GAL. Thou art a sweet drug, sweetest Pru, and the more

thou art pounded, the more precious.

MIS. G. Must you be prying into a woman’s secrets, say

ye?

GAL. Woman’s secrets?

MIS. G. What! I cannot have a qualm come upon me, but

your teeth water[1036] till your nose hang over it!

GAL. It is my love, dear wife.

MIS. G. Your love? your love is all words; give me

deeds: I cannot abide a man that’s too fond over me,—so

cookish! Thou dost not know how to handle a woman in her

kind.

GAL. No, Pru? why, I hope I have handled—

MIS. G. Handle a fool’s head of your own,—fie, fie!

GAL. Ha, ha, ’tis such a wasp! it does me good now to

have her s[t]ing me, little rogue!

MIS. G. Now, fie, how you vex me! I cannot abide these

apron husbands;[1037] such cotqueans![1038] you overdo

your things, they become you scurvily.

GAL. Upon my life she breeds: heaven knows how I have

strained myself to please her night and day. I wonder

why we citizens should get children so fretful and

untoward in the breeding, their fathers being for the

most part as gentle as milch kine. [_Aside._]—Shall I

leave thee, my Pru?

MIS. G. Fie, fie, fie!

GAL. Thou shalt not be vexed no more, pretty, kind

rogue; take no cold, sweet Pru. [_Exit._

MIS. G. As your wit has done. Now, master Laxton, shew

your head; what news from you? would any husband suspect

that a woman crying, _Buy any scurvy-grass_, should

bring love-letters amongst her herbs to his wife? pretty

trick! fine conveyance! had jealousy a thousand eyes, a

silly woman with scurvy-grass blinds them all.

Laxton, with bays[1039]

Crown I thy wit for this, it deserves praise:

This makes me affect thee more, this proves thee wise:

’Lack, what poor shift is love forc’d to devise!—

To th’ point. [_Reads letter._] _O sweet creature_—a

sweet beginning!—_pardon my long absence, for thou shalt

shortly be possessed with my presence: though Demophoon

was false to Phyllis, I will be to thee as Pan-da-rus

was to Cres-sida;[1040] though Æneas made an ass of

Dido, I will die to thee ere I do so. O sweetest

creature, make much of me! for no man beneath the silver

moon shall make more of a woman than I do of thee:

furnish me therefore with thirty pounds; you must do it

of necessity for me; I languish till I see some comfort

come from thee. Protesting not to die in thy debt, but

rather to live, so as hitherto I have and will_,

_Thy true Laxton ever_.

Alas, poor gentleman! troth, I pity him.

How shall I raise this money? thirty pound!

’Tis thirty sure, a 3 before an 0;

I know his threes too well. My childbed linen,

Shall I pawn that for him? then if my mark

Be known, I am undone; it may be thought

My husband’s bankrout.[1041] Which way shall I turn?

Laxton, what with my own fears and thy wants,

I’m like a needle ’twixt two adamants.

_Re-enter_ GALLIPOT _hastily_.

GAL. Nay, nay, wife, the women are all up—Ha! how?

reading a’ letters? I smell a goose, a couple of capons,

and a gammon of bacon, from her mother out of the

country. I hold my life—steal, steal[1042]—— [_Aside._

MIS. G. O, beshrew your heart!

GAL. What letter’s that? I’ll see’t.

[MIS. G. _tears the letter_.

MIS. G. O, would thou hadst no eyes to see the downfal

Of me and thyself! I am for ever,

For ever I’m undone!

GAL. What ails my Pru?

What paper’s that thou tear’st?

MIS. G. Would I could tear

My very heart in pieces! for my soul

Lies on the rack of shame, that tortures me

Beyond a woman’s suffering.

GAL. What means this?

MIS. G. Had you no other vengeance to throw down,

But even in height of all my joys——

GAL. Dear woman——

MIS. G. When the full sea of pleasure and content

Seem’d to flow over me?

GAL. As thou desir’st

To keep me out of Bedlam, tell what troubles thee!

Is not thy child at nurse fallen sick, or dead?

MIS. G. O, no!

GAL. Heavens bless me! are my barns and houses

Yonder at Hockley-hole consum’d with fire?

I can build more, sweet Pru.

MIS. G. ’Tis worse, ’tis worse!

GAL. My factor broke? or is the Jonas sunk?

MIS. G. Would all we had were swallow’d in the waves,

Rather than both should be the scorn of slaves!

GAL. I’m at my wit’s end.

MIS. G. O my dear husband!

Where[1043] once I thought myself a fixed star,

Plac’d only in the heaven of thine arms,

I fear now I shall prove a wanderer.

O Laxton, Laxton! is it then my fate

To be by thee o’erthrown?

GAL. Defend me, wisdom,

From falling into frenzy! On my knees,

Sweet Pru, speak; what’s that Laxton, who so heavy

Lies on thy bosom?

MIS. G. I shall sure run mad!

GAL. I shall run mad for company then. Speak to me;

I’m Gallipot thy husband—Pru—why, Pru!

Art sick in conscience for some villanous deed

Thou wert about to act? didst mean to rob me?

Tush, I forgive thee: hast thou on my bed

Thrust my soft pillow under another’s head?

I’ll wink at all faults, Pru: ’las, that’s no more,

Than what some neighbours near thee have done before!

Sweet honey Pru, what’s that Laxton?

MIS. G. O!

GAL. Out with him!

MIS. G. O, he’s born to be my undoer!

This hand, which thou call’st thine, to him was given,

To him was I made sure[1044] i’ th’ sight of heaven.

GAL. I never heard this thunder.

MIS. G. Yes, yes, before

I was to thee contracted, to him I swore:

Since last I saw him,[1045] twelve months three times

told

The moon hath drawn through her light silver bow;

For o’er the seas he went, and it was said,

But rumour lies, that he in France was dead:

But he’s alive, O he’s alive! he sent

That letter to me, which in rage I rent;

Swearing with oaths most damnably to have me,

Or tear me from this bosom: O heavens, save me!

GAL. My heart will break; sham’d and undone for ever!

MIS. G. So black a day, poor wretch, went o’er thee

never!

GAL. If thou should’st wrestle with him at the law,

Thou’rt sure to fall. No odd slight?[1046] no

prevention?

I’ll tell him thou’rt with child.

MIS. G. Umh!

GAL. Or give out

One of my men was ta’en a-bed with thee.

MIS. G. Umh, umh!

GAL. Before I lose thee, my dear Pru,

I’ll drive it to that push.

MIS. G. Worse and worse still;

You embrace a mischief, to prevent an ill.

GAL. I’ll buy thee of him, stop his mouth with gold:

Think’st thou ’twill do?

MIS. G. O me! heavens grant it would!

Yet now my senses are set more in tune,

He writ, as I remember, in his letter,

That he in riding up and down had spent,

Ere he could find me, thirty pounds: send that;

Stand not on thirty with him.

GAL. Forty, Pru!

Say thou the word, ’tis done: we venture lives

For wealth, but must do more to keep our wives.

Thirty or forty, Pru?

MIS. G. Thirty, good sweet;

Of an ill bargain let’s save what we can:

I’ll pay it him with my tears; he was a man,

When first I knew him, of a meek spirit,

All goodness is not yet dried up, I hope.

GAL. He shall have thirty pound, let that stop all:

Love’s sweets taste best when we have drunk down gall.

_Enter_ TILTYARD, MISTRESS TILTYARD, GOSHAWK, _and_

MISTRESS OPENWORK.

God’s-so, our friends! come, come, smooth your cheek:

After a storm the face of heaven looks sleek.

TILT. Did I not tell you these turtles were together?

MIS. T. How dost thou, sirrah?[1047] why, sister

Gallipot——

MIS. O. Lord, how she’s chang’d!

GOS. Is your wife ill, sir?

GAL. Yes, indeed, la, sir, very ill, very ill, never

worse.

MIS. T. How her head burns! feel how her pulses work!

MIS. O. Sister, lie down a little; that always does me

good.

MIS. T. In good sadness,[1048] I find best ease in that

too. Has she laid some hot thing to her stomach?

MIS. G. No, but I will lay something anon.

TILT. Come, come, fools, you trouble her.—Shall’s go,

master Goshawk?

GOS. Yes, sweet master Tiltyard.—Sirrah Rosamond, I hold

my life Gallipot hath vext his wife.

MIS. O. She has a horrible high colour indeed.

GOS. We shall have your face painted with the same red

soon at night, when your husband comes from his rubbers

in a false alley: thou wilt not believe me that his

bowls run with a wrong bias.

MIS. O. It cannot sink into me that he feeds upon stale

mutton abroad, having better and fresher at home.

GOS. What if I bring thee where thou shalt see him stand

at rack and manger?

MIS. O. I’ll saddle him in’s kind, and spur him till he

kick again.

GOS. Shall thou and I ride our journey then?

MIS. O. Here’s my hand.

GOS. No more.—Come, master Tiltyard, shall we leap into

the stirrups with our women, and amble home?

TILT. Yes, yes.—Come, wife.

MIS. T. In troth, sister, I hope you will do well for

all this.

MIS. G. I hope I shall. Farewell, good sister. Sweet

master Goshawk.

GAL. Welcome, brother, most kindly welcome, sir.

ALL. Thanks, sir, for our good cheer.

[_Exeunt all but_ GALLIPOT _and_ MIS. GALLIPOT.

GAL. It shall be so: because a crafty knave

Shall not outreach me, nor walk by my door

With my wife arm in arm, as ’twere his whore,

I’ll give him a golden coxcomb, thirty pound.

Tush, Pru, what’s thirty pound? sweet duck, look

cheerly.

MIS. G. Thou’rt worthy of my heart, thou buy’st it

dearly.

_Enter_ LAXTON _muffled_.

LAX. Uds light, the tide’s against me; a pox of your

’pothecaryship! O for some glister to set him going!

’Tis one of Hercules’ labours to tread one of these city

hens, because their cocks are still crowing over them.

There’s no turning tail here, I must on. [_Aside._

MIS. G. O husband, see he comes!

GAL. Let me deal with him.

LAX. Bless you, sir.

GAL. Be you blest too, sir, if you come in peace.

LAX. Have you any good pudding tobacco, sir?

MIS. G. O, pick no quarrels, gentle sir! my husband

Is not a man of weapon, as you are;

He knows all, I have open’d all before him,

Concerning you.

LAX. Zounds, has she shewn my letters? [_Aside._

MIS. G. Suppose my case were yours, what would you do?

At such a pinch, such batteries, such assaults

Of father, mother, kindred, to dissolve

The knot you tied, and to be bound to him;

How could you shift this storm off?

LAX. If I know, hang me!

MIS. G. Besides a story of your death was read

Each minute to me.

LAX. What a pox means this riddling? [_Aside._

GAL. Be wise, sir; let not you and I be tost

On lawyers’ pens; they have sharp nibs, and draw

Men’s very heart-blood from them. What need you, sir,

To beat the drum of my wife’s infamy,

And call your friends together, sir, to prove

Your precontract, when sh’as confest it?

LAX. Umh, sir,

Has she confest it?

GAL. Sh’as, ’faith, to me, sir,

Upon your letter sending.

MIS. G. I have, I have.

LAX. If I let this iron cool, call me slave.

[_Aside._

Do you hear, you dame Prudence? think’st thou, vile

woman,

I’ll take these blows and wink?

MIS. GAL. Upon my knees. [_Kneeling._

LAX. Out, impudence!

GAL. Good sir——

LAX. You goatish slaves!

No wild fowl to cut up but mine?

GAL. Alas, sir,

You make her flesh to tremble; fright her not:

She shall do reason, and what’s fit.

LAX. I’ll have thee,

Wert thou more common than an hospital,

And more diseas’d.

GAL. But one word, good sir!

LAX. So, sir.

GAL. I married her, have lien with her, and got

Two children on her body; think but on that:

Have you so beggarly an appetite,

When I upon a dainty dish have fed

To dine upon my scraps, my leavings? ha, sir?

Do I come near you now, sir?

LAX. Byrlady,[1049] you touch me!

GAL. Would not you scorn to wear my clothes, sir?

LAX. Right, sir.

GAL. Then, pray, sir, wear not her; for she’s a

garment

So fitting for my body, I am loath

Another should put it on: you’ll undo both.

Your letter, as she said, complain’d you had spent,

In quest of her, some thirty pound; I’ll pay it:

Shall that, sir, stop this gap up ’twixt you two?

LAX. Well, if I swallow this wrong, let her thank you:

The money being paid, sir, I am gone:

Farewell. O women, happy’s he trusts none!

MIS. G. Despatch him hence, sweet husband.

GAL. Yes, dear wife:

Pray, sir, come in: ere master Laxton part,

Thou shalt in wine drink to him.

MIS. G. With all my heart.— [_Exit_ GALLIPOT.

How dost thou like my wit?

LAX. Rarely: that wile,

By which the serpent did the first woman beguile,

Did ever since all women’s bosoms fill;

You’re apple-eaters all, deceivers still. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_Holborn._

_Enter_ SIR ALEX. WENGRAVE, SIR DAVY DAPPER, _and_ SIR

ADAM APPLETON _on one side, and_ TRAPDOOR _on the

other_.

S. ALEX. Out with your tale, sir Davy, to sir Adam:

A knave is in mine eye deep in my debt.

S. DAVY. Nay, if he be a knave, sir, hold him fast.

[SIR D. DAPPER _and_ SIR A. APPLETON _talk apart_.

S. ALEX. Speak softly; what egg is there hatching now?

TRAP. A duck’s egg, sir, a duck that has eaten a frog; I

have cracked the shell, and some villany or other will

peep out presently: the duck that sits is the bouncing

ramp,[1050] that roaring girl my mistress; the drake

that must tread is your son Sebastian.

S. ALEX. Be quick.

TRAP. As the tongue of an oyster-wench.

S. ALEX. And see thy news be true.

TRAP. As a barber’s every Saturday night. Mad Moll——

S. ALEX. Ah——

TRAP. Must be let in, without knocking, at your back

gate.

S. ALEX. So.

TRAP. Your chamber will be made bawdy.

S. ALEX. Good.

TRAP. She comes in a shirt of mail.

S. ALEX. How? shirt of mail?

TRAP. Yes, sir, or a male shirt; that’s to say, in man’s

apparel.

S. ALEX. To my son?

TRAP. Close to your son: your son and her moon will be

in conjunction, if all almanacs lie not; her black

saveguard[1051] is turned into a deep slop, the holes of

her upper body to button-holes, her waistcoat to a

doublet, her placket[1052] to the ancient seat of a

cod-piece, and you shall take ’em both with standing

collars.

S. ALEX. Art sure of this?

TRAP. As every throng is sure of a pick-pocket; as sure

as a whore is of the clients all Michaelmas term, and of

the pox after the term.

S. ALEX. The time of their tilting?

TRAP. Three.

S. ALEX. The day?

TRAP. This.

S. ALEX. Away; ply it, watch her.

TRAP. As the devil doth for the death of a bawd; I’ll

watch her, do you catch her.

S. ALEX. She’s fast: here weave thou the nets. Hark.

TRAP. They are made.

S. ALEX. I told them thou didst owe me money: hold it

up; maintain’t.

TRAP. Stiffly, as a puritan does contention.—Pox, I owe

thee not the value of a halfpenny halter.

S. ALEX. Thou shalt be hang’d in it ere thou ’scape

so:

Varlet, I’ll make thee look th[o]rough a grate!

TRAP. I’ll do’t presently, through a tavern grate:

drawer! pish. [_Exit._

S. ADAM. Has the knave vex’d you, sir?

S. ALEX. Ask’d him my money,

He swears my son receiv’d it. O, that boy

Will ne’er leave heaping sorrow’s on my heart,

Till he has broke it quite!

S. ADAM. Is he still wild?

S. ALEX. As is a Russian bear.

S. ADAM. But he has left

His old haunt with that baggage?

S. ALEX. Worse still and worse;

He lays on me his shame, I on him my curse.

S. DAVY. My son, Jack Dapper, then shall run with him

All in one pasture.

S. ADAM. Proves your son bad too, sir?

S. DAVY. As villany can make him: your Sebastian

Doats but on one drab, mine on a thousand;

A noise of fiddlers,[1053] tobacco, wine, and a whore,

A mercer that will let him take up more,

Dice, and a water-spaniel with a duck,—O

Bring him a-bed with these: when his purse gingles,

Roaring boys[1054] follow at’s tail, fencers and

ningles,[1055]

Beasts Adam ne’er gave name to; these horse-leeches suck

My son; he being drawn dry, they all live on smoke.

S. ALEX. Tobacco?

S. DAVY. Right: but I have in my brain

A windmill going that shall grind to dust

The follies of my son, and make him wise,

Or a stark fool. Pray lend me your advice.

S. ALEX. } That shall you, good sir Davy.

S. ADAM. }

S. DAVY. Here’s the springe

I ha’ set to catch this woodcock in: an action

In a false name, unknown to him, is enter’d

I’ th’ Counter to arrest Jack Dapper.

S. ALEX. } Ha, ha, he!

S. ADAM. }

S. DAVY. Think you the Counter cannot break him?

S. ADAM. Break him?

Yes, and break’s heart too, if he lie there long.

S. DAVY. I’ll make him sing a counter-tenor sure.

S. ADAM. No way to tame him like it; there he shall

learn

What money is indeed, and how to spend it.

S. DAVY. He’s bridled there.

S. ALEX. Ay, yet knows not how to mend it.

Bedlam cures not more madmen in a year

Than one of the Counters[1056] does; men pay more dear

There for their wit than any where: a Counter!

Why, ’tis an university, who not sees?

As scholars there, so here men take degrees,

And follow the same studies all alike.

Scholars learn first logic and rhetoric;

So does a prisoner: with fine honey’d speech

At’s first coming in he doth persuade, beseech

He may be lodg’d with one that is not itchy,

To lie in a clean chamber, in sheets not lousy;

But when he has no money, then does he try,

By subtle logic and quaint sophistry,

To make the keepers trust him.

S. ADAM. Say they do.

S. ALEX. Then he’s a graduate.

S. DAVY. Say they trust him not.

S. ALEX. Then is he held a freshman and a sot,

And never shall commence;[1057] but being still barr’d,

Be expuls’d from the Master’s side[1058] to th’

Two-penny ward,

Or else i’ th’ Hole beg plac’d.[1059]

S. ADAM. When then, I pray,

Proceeds a prisoner?

S. ALEX. When, money being the theme,

He can dispute with his hard creditors’ hearts,

And get out clear, he’s then a master of arts.

Sir Davy, send your son to Wood Street college,

A gentleman can no where get more knowledge.

S. DAVY. There gallants study hard.

S. ALEX. True, to get money.

S. DAVY. Lies[1060] by th’ heels, i’faith: thanks,

thanks; I ha’ sent

For a couple of bears shall paw him.

S. ADAM. Who comes yonder?

S. DAVY. They look like puttocks;[1061] these should

be they.

_Enter_ CURTLEAX _and_ HANGER.

S. ALEX. I know ’em,

They are officers; sir, we’ll leave you.

S. DAVY. My good knights,

Leave me; you see I’m haunted now with sprites.[1062]

S. ALEX. ] Fare you well, sir. [Exeunt.

S. ADAM. ]

CUR. This old muzzle-chops should be he by the fellow’s

description.—Save you, sir.

S. DAVY. Come hither, you mad varlets; did not my man

tell you I watched here for you?

CUR. One in a blue coat,[1063] sir, told us, that in

this place an old gentleman would watch for us; a thing

contrary to our oath, for we are to watch for every

wicked member in a city.

S. DAVY. You’ll watch then for ten thousand: what’s thy

name, honesty?

CUR. Sergeant Curtleax I, sir.

S. DAVY. An excellent name for a sergeant, Curtleax:

Sergeants indeed are weapons of the law;

When prodigal ruffians far in debt are grown,

Should not you cut them, citizens were o’erthrown.

Thou dwell’st hereby in Holborn, Curtleax?

CUR. That’s my circuit, sir; I conjure most in that

circle.

S. DAVY. And what young toward whelp is this?

HAN. Of the same litter; his yeoman, sir; my name’s

Hanger.

S. DAVY. Yeoman Hanger:

One pair of shears sure cut out both your coats;

You have two names most dangerous to men’s throats;

You two are villanous loads on gentlemen’s backs;

Dear ware this Hanger and this Curtleax!

CUR. We are as other men are, sir; I cannot see but he

who makes a shew of honesty and religion, if his claws

can fasten to his liking, he draws blood: all that live

in the world are but great fish and little fish, and

feed upon one another; some eat up whole men, a sergeant

cares but for the shoulder of a man. They call us knaves

and curs; but many times he that sets us on worries more

lambs one year than we do in seven.

S. DAVY. Spoke like a noble Cerberus! is the action

entered?

HAN. His name is entered in the book of unbelievers.

S. DAVY. What book’s that?

CUR. The book where all prisoners’ names stand; and not

one amongst forty, when he comes in, believes to come

out in haste.

S. DAVY. Be as dogged to him as your office allows you

to be.

BOTH. O sir!

S. DAVY. You know the unthrift, Jack Dapper?

CUR. Ay, ay, sir, that gull, as well as I know my

yeoman.

S. DAVY. And you know his father too, sir Davy Dapper?

CUR. As damned a usurer as ever was among Jews: if he

were sure his father’s skin would yield him any money,

he would, when he dies, flay it off, and sell it to

cover drums for children at Bartholomew fair.

S. DAVY. What toads are these to spit poison on a man to

his face! [_Aside._]—Do you see, my honest rascals?

yonder Greyhound is the dog he hunts with; out of that

tavern Jack Dapper will sally: sa, sa; give the counter;

on, set upon him!

BOTH. We’ll charge him upo’ th’ back, sir.

S. DAVY. Take no bail; put mace[1064] enough into his

caudle; double your files, traverse your ground.

BOTH. Brave, sir.

S. DAVY. Cry arm, arm, arm!

BOTH. Thus, sir.

S. DAVY. There, boy, there, boy! away: look to your

prey, my true English wolves; and so I vanish.

[_Exit._

CUR. Some warden of the sergeants begat this old fellow,

upon my life: stand close.

HAN. Shall the ambuscado lie in one place?

CUR. No; nook thou yonder. [_They retire._

_Enter_ MOLL _and_ TRAPDOOR.

MOLL. Ralph.

TRAP. What says my brave captain male and female?

MOLL. This Holborn is such a wrangling street!

TRAP. That’s because lawyers walk[1065] to and fro in’t.

MOLL. Here’s such jostling, as if every one we met were

drunk and reeled.

TRAP. Stand, mistress! do you not smell carrion?

MOLL. Carrion? no; yet I spy ravens.

TRAP. Some poor, wind-shaken gallant will anon fall into

sore labour, and these men-midwives[1066] must bring him

to bed i’ the counter: there all those that are great

with child with debts lie in.

MOLL. Stand up.

TRAP. Like your new Maypole.

HAN. Whist, whew!

CUR. Hump, no.

MOLL. Peeping? it shall go hard, huntsmen, but I’ll

spoil your game. They look for all the world like two

infected malt-men coming muffled up in their cloaks in a

frosty morning to London.

TRAP. A course, captain; a bear comes to the stake.

_Enter_ JACK DAPPER _and_ GULL.

MOLL. It should be so, for the dogs struggle to be let

loose.

HAN. Whew!

CUR. Hemp.

MOLL. Hark, Trapdoor, follow your leader.

J. DAP. Gull.

GULL. Master?

J. DAP. Didst ever see such an ass as I am, boy?

GULL. No, by my troth, sir; to lose all your money, yet

have false dice of your own; why, ’tis as I saw a great

fellow used t’other day; he had a fair sword and

buckler, and yet a butcher dry beat him with a cudgel.

TRAP.[1067] Honest servant, fly!

MOLL. Fly, master Dapper! you’ll be arrested else.

J. DAP. Run, Gull, and draw.

GULL. Run, master; Gull follows you.

[_Exeunt_ DAPPER _and_ GULL.

CUR. [MOLL _holding him_] I know you well enough; you’re

but a whore to hang upon any man!

MOLL. Whores, then, are like sergeants; so now hang

you.—Draw, rogue, but strike not: for a broken pate

they’ll keep their beds, and recover twenty marks[1068]

damages.

CUR. You shall pay for this rescue.—Run down Shoe Lane

and meet him.

TRAP. Shu! is this a rescue, gentlemen, or no?

MOLL. Rescue? a pox on ’em! Trapdoor, let’s away;

[_Exeunt_ CURTLEAX _and_ HANGER.’s

I’m glad I’ve done perfect one good work to-day.

If any gentleman be in scrivener’s bands,

Send but for Moll, she’ll bail him by these hands.

[_Exeunt._

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ SIR ALEX. WENGRAVE’S _House_.

_Enter_ SIR ALEX. WENGRAVE.

S. ALEX. Unhappy in the follies of a son,

Led against judgment, sense, obedience,

And all the powers of nobleness and wit!

_Enter_ TRAPDOOR.

O wretched father!—Now, Trapdoor, will she come?

TRAP. In man’s apparel, sir; I’m in her heart now,

And share in all her secrets.

S. ALEX. Peace, peace, peace!

Here, take my German watch,[1069] hang’t up in sight,

That I may see her hang in English for’t.

TRAP. I warrant you for that now, next sessions rids

her, sir. This watch will bring her in better than a

hundred constables. [_Hangs up the watch._

S. ALEX. Good Trapdoor, sayst thou so? thou cheer’st my

heart

After a storm of sorrow. My gold chain too;

Here, take a hundred marks[1070] in yellow links.

TRAP. That will do well to bring the watch to light,

sir;

And worth a thousand of your headborough’s lanterns.

S. ALEX. Place that a’ the court-cupboard;[1071] let

it lie

Full in the view of her thief-whorish eye.

TRAP. She cannot miss it, sir; I see’t so plain,

That I could steal’t myself.

[_Places the chain._

S. ALEX. Perhaps thou shalt too,

That or something as weighty: what she leaves

Thou shalt come closely in and filch away,

And all the weight upon her back I’ll lay.

TRAP. You cannot assure that, sir.

S. ALEX. No? what lets[1072] it?

TRAP. Being a stout girl, perhaps she’ll desire

pressing;

Then all the weight must lie upon her belly.

S. ALEX. Belly or back I care not, so I’ve one.

TRAP. You’re of my mind for that, sir.

S. ALEX. Hang up my ruff-band with the diamond at it;

It may be she’ll like that best.

TRAP. It’s well for her, that she must have her choice;

he thinks nothing too good for her. [_Aside._]—If you

hold on this mind a little longer, it shall be the first

work I do to turn thief myself; [’t]would do a man good

to be hanged when he is so well provided for.

[_Hangs up the ruff-band._

S. ALEX. So, well said; all hangs well: would she hung

so too!

The sight would please me more than all their

glisterings.

O that my mysteries[1073] to such straits should run,

That I must rob myself to bless my son! [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN WENGRAVE, MARY FITZALLARD _disguised

as a Page, and_ MOLL _in her male dress_.

SEB. Thou’st done me a kind office, without touch

Either of sin or shame; our loves are honest.

MOLL. I’d scorn to make such shift to bring you together

else.

SEB. Now have I time and opportunity

Without all fear to bid thee welcome, love!

[_Kisses Mary._

MARY. Never with more desire and harder venture!

MOLL. How strange this shews, one man to kiss another!

SEB. I’d kiss such men to choose, Moll;

Methinks a woman’s lip tastes well in a doublet.

MOLL. Many an old madam has the better fortune then,

Whose breaths grew stale before the fashion came:

If that will help ’em, as you think ’twill do,

They’ll learn in time to pluck on the hose[1074] too.

SEB. The older they wax, Moll, troth I speak

seriously,

As some have a conceit their drink tastes better

In an outlandish cup than in our own,

So methinks every kiss she gives me now

In this strange form is worth a pair of two.

Here we are safe, and furthest from the eye

Of all suspicion; this is my father’s chamber,

Upon which floor he never steps till night:

Here he mistrusts me not, nor I his coming;

At mine own chamber he still pries unto me,

My freedom is not there at mine own finding,

Still check’d and curb’d; here he shall miss his

purpose.

MOLL. And what’s your business, now you have your

mind, sir?

At your great suit I promis’d you to come:

I pitied her for name’s sake, that a Moll

Should be so crost in love, when there’s so many

That owe[1075] nine lays[1076] a-piece, and not so

little.

My tailor fitted her; how like you his work?

SEB. So well, no art can mend it, for this purpose:

But to thy wit and help we’re chief in debt,

And must live still beholding.[1077]

MOLL. Any honest pity

I’m willing to bestow upon poor ring-doves.

SEB. I’ll offer no worse play.

MOLL. Nay, and[1078] you should, sir,

I should draw first, and prove the quicker man.

SEB. Hold, there shall need no weapon at this meeting;

But ’cause thou shalt not loose thy fury idle,

Here take this viol, run upon the guts,

And end thy quarrel singing.

[_Takes down, and gives her, a viol._

MOLL. Like a swan above bridge;[1079]

For look you here’s the bridge, and here am I.

SEB. Hold on, sweet Moll!

MARY. I’ve heard her much commended, sir, for one

That was ne’er taught.

MOLL. I’m much beholding to ’em.

Well, since you’ll needs put us together, sir,

I’ll play my part as well as I can: it shall ne’er

Be said I came into a gentleman’s chamber,

And let his instrument hang by the walls.

SEB. Why, well said, Moll, i’faith; it had been a shame

for that gentleman then that would have let it hung

still, and ne’er offered thee it.

MOLL. There it should have been still then for Moll;

For though the world judge impudently of me,

I never came into that chamber yet

Where I took down the instrument myself.

SEB. Pish, let ’em prate abroad; thou’rt here where thou

art known and loved; there be a thousand close dames

that will call the viol[1080] an unmannerly instrument

for a woman, and therefore talk broadly of thee, when

you shall have them sit wider to a worse quality.

MOLL. Push,[1081]

I ever fall asleep and think not of ’em, sir;

And thus I dream.

SEB. Prithee, let’s hear thy dream, Moll.

MOLL [_sings_].

_I dream there is a mistress,

And she lays out the money_;

_She goes unto her sisters,

She never comes at any._

_Re-enter_ SIR ALEXANDER _behind_.

_She says she went to th’ Burse[1082] for patterns;

You shall find her at Saint Kathern’s,

And comes home with never a penny._

SEB. That’s a free mistress, faith!

S. ALEX. Ay, ay, ay,

Like her that sings it; one of thine own choosing.

[_Aside._

MOLL. But shall I dream again?

[_Sings._] _Here comes a wench will brave ye;

Her courage was so great,

She lay with one o’ the navy,

Her husband lying i’ the Fleet.

Yet oft with him she cavell’d;[1083]

I wonder what she ails:

Her husband’s ship lay gravell’d,

When her’s could hoise up sails:

Yet she began, like all my foes,

To call whore first; for so do those—

A pox of all false tails!_

SEB. Marry, amen, say I!

S. ALEX. So say I too. [_Aside._

MOLL. Hang up the viol now, sir: all this while

I was in a dream; one shall lie rudely then;

But being awake, I keep my legs together.

A watch? what’s a’ clock here?

S. ALEX. Now, now she’s trapt! [_Aside._

MOLL. Between[1084] one and two; nay, then I care not. A

watch and a musician are cousin-germans in one thing,

they must both keep time well, or there’s no goodness in

’em; the one else deserves to be dashed against a wall,

and t’other to have his brains knocked out with a

fiddle-case.

What! a loose chain and a dangling diamond?

Here were a brave booty for an evening thief now:

There’s many a younger brother would be glad

To look twice in at a window for’t,

And wriggle in and out, like an eel in a sand-bag.

O, if men’s secret youthful faults should judge ’em,

’Twould be the general’st execution

That e’er was seen in England!

There would be but few left to sing the ballads,

There would be so much work: most of our brokers

Would be chosen for hangmen; a good day for them;

They might renew their wardrobes of free cost then.

SEB. This is the roaring wench must do us good.

MARY. No poison, sir, but serves us for some use;

Which is confirm’d in her.

SEB. Peace, peace—

’Foot, I did hear him sure, where’er he be.

MOLL. Who did you hear?

SEB. My father;

’Twas like a sigh[1085] of his: I must be wary.

S. ALEX. No? wilt not be? am I alone so wretched

That nothing takes? I’ll put him to his plunge[1086]

for’t.

[_Aside._

SEB. Life! here he comes.—Sir, I beseech you take it;

Your way of teaching does so much content me,

I’ll make it four pound; here’s forty shillings, sir—

I think I name it right—help me, good Moll—

Forty in hand. [_Offering money._

MOLL. Sir, you shall pardon me:

I’ve more of the meanest scholar I can teach;

This pays me more than you have offer’d yet.

SEB. At the next quarter,

When I receive the means my father ’lows me,

You shall have t’other forty.

S. ALEX. This were well now,

Were’t to a man whose sorrows had blind eyes;

But mine behold his follies and untruths

With two clear glasses. [_Aside—then coming forward._]

How now?

SEB. Sir?

S. ALEX. What’s he there?

SEB. You’re come in good time, sir; I’ve a suit to

you;

I’d crave your present kindness.

S. ALEX. What’s he there?

SEB. A gentleman, a musician, sir; one of excellent

fingering.

S. ALEX. Ay, I think so;—I wonder how they ’scap’d her.

[_Aside._

SEB. Has the most delicate stroke, sir.

S. ALEX. A stroke indeed!—I feel it at my heart.

[_Aside._

SEB. Puts down all your famous musicians.

S. ALEX. Ay,—a whore may put down a hundred of ’em.

[_Aside._

SEB. Forty shillings is the agreement, sir, between

us:

Now, sir, my present means mounts but to half on’t.

S. ALEX. And he stands upon the whole?

SEB. Ay, indeed does he, sir.

S. ALEX. And will do still; he’ll ne’er be in other

tale.

SEB. Therefore I’d stop his mouth, sir, and[1087] I

could.

S. ALEX. Hum, true; there is no other way indeed;—

His folly hardens, shame must needs succeed.—

[_Aside._

Now, sir, I understand you profess music.

MOLL. I’m a poor servant to that liberal science, sir.

S. ALEX. Where is’t you teach?

MOLL. Right against Clifford’s Inn.

S. ALEX. Hum, that’s a fit place for’t: you’ve many

scholars?

MOLL. And some of worth, whom I may call my masters.

S. ALEX. Ay, true, a company of whoremasters.

[_Aside._

You teach to sing too?

MOLL. Marry, do I, sir.

S. ALEX. I think you’ll find an apt scholar of my son,

Especially for prick-song.

MOLL. I’ve much hope of him.

S. ALEX. I’m sorry for’t, I have the less for that.

[_Aside._

You can play any lesson?

MOLL. At first sight, sir.

S. ALEX. There’s a thing call’d the Witch; can you

play that?

MOLL. I would be sorry any one should mend me in’t.

S. ALEX. Ay, I believe thee; thou’st so bewitch’d my

son,

No care will mend the work that thou hast done.

I have bethought myself, since my art fails,

I’ll make her policy the art to trap her.

Here are four angels[1088] mark’d with holes in them

Fit for his crack’d companions: gold he’ll give her;

These will I make induction to her ruin,

And rid shame from my house, grief from my heart.

[_Aside._

Here, son, in what you take content and pleasure,

Want shall not curb you; pay the gentleman

His latter half in gold. [_Gives money._

SEB. I thank you, sir.

S. ALEX. O may the operation on’t end three;

In her, life, shame in him, and grief in me!

[_Aside, and exit._

SEB. Faith, thou shalt have ’em; ’tis my father’s

gift:

Never was man beguil’d with better shift.

MOLL. He that can take me for a male musician,

I can’t choose but make him my instrument,

And play upon him. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Before_ GALLIPOT’S _Shop_.

_Enter_ MISTRESS GALLIPOT _and_ MISTRESS OPENWORK.

MIS. G. Is, then, that bird of yours, master Goshawk,

so wild?

MIS. O. A Goshawk? a puttock;[1089] all for prey: he

angles for fish, but he loves flesh better.

MIS. G. Is’t possible his smooth face should have

wrinkles in’t, and we not see them?

MIS. O. Possible? why, have not many handsome legs in

silk stockings villanous splay feet, for all their great

roses?[1090]

MIS. G. Troth, sirrah,[1091] thou sayst true.

MIS. O. Didst never see an archer, as thou’st walked by

Bunhill, look a-squint when he drew his bow?

MIS. G. Yes, when his arrows have fline[1092] toward

Islington, his eyes have shot clean contrary towards

Pimlico.

MIS. O. For all the world so does master Goshawk double

with me.

MIS. G. O, fie upon him! if he double once, he’s not for

me.

MIS. O. Because Goshawk goes in a shag-ruff band, with a

face sticking up in’t which shews like an agate set in a

cramp ring,[1093] he thinks I’m in love with him.

MIS. G. ’Las, I think he takes his mark amiss in thee!

MIS. O. He has, by often beating into me, made me

believe that my husband kept a whore.

MIS. G. Very good.

MIS. O. Swore to me that my husband this very morning

went in a boat, with a tilt over it, to the Three

Pigeons[1094] at Brainford, and his punk with him under

his tilt.

MIS. G. That were wholesome.

MIS. O. I believed it; fell a-swearing at him, cursing

of harlots; made me ready to hoise up sail and be there

as soon as he.

MIS. G. So, so.

MIS. O. And for that voyage Goshawk comes hither

incontinently:[1095] but, sirrah, this water-spaniel

dives after no duck but me; his hope is having me at

Brainford, to make me cry quack.

MIS. G. Art sure of it?

MIS. O. Sure of it? my poor innocent Openwork came in as

I was poking my ruff:[1096] presently hit I him i’ the

teeth with the Three Pigeons; he forswore all, I up and

opened all; and now stands he in a shop hard by, like a

musket on a rest,[1097] to hit Goshawk i’ the eye, when

he comes to fetch me to the boat.

MIS. G. Such another lame gelding offered to carry me

through thick and thin,—Laxton, sirrah,—but I am rid of

him now.

MIS. O. Happy is the woman can be rid of ’em all! ’las,

what are your whisking gallants to our husbands, weigh

’em rightly, man for man?

MIS. G. Troth, mere shallow things.

MIS. O. Idle, simple things, running heads; and yet let

’em run over us never so fast, we shopkeepers, when

all’s done, are sure to have ’em in our pursenets[1098]

at length; and when they are in, lord, what simple

animals they are! then they hang the head——

MIS. G. Then they droop——

MIS. O. Then they write letters——

MIS. G. Then they cog[1099]——

MIS. O. Then deal they underhand with us, and we must

ingle[1100] with our husbands a-bed; and we must swear

they are our cousins, and able to do us a pleasure at

court.

MIS. G. And yet, when we have done our best, all’s but

put into a riven dish;[1101] we are but frumped[1102] at

and libelled upon.

MIS. O. O, if it were the good Lord’s will there were a

law made, no citizen should trust any of ’em all!

_Enter_ GOSHAWK.

MIS. G. Hush, sirrah! Goshawk flutters.

GOS. How now? are you ready?

MIS. O. Nay, are you ready? a little thing, you see,

makes us ready.

GOS. Us? why, must she make one i’ the voyage?

MIS. O. O, by any means! do I know how my husband will

handle me?

GOS. ’Foot, how shall I find water to keep these two

mills going? [_Aside._]—Well, since you’ll needs be

clapped under hatches, if I sail not with you both till

all split,[1103] hang me up at the mainyard and duck

me.—It’s but liquoring them both soundly, and then you

shall see their cork-heels fly up high, like two swans

when their tails are above water, and their long necks

under water diving to catch gudgeons. [_Aside._]—Come,

come, oars stand ready; the tide’s with us; on with

those false faces; blow winds, and thou shalt take thy

husband casting out his net to catch fresh salmon at

Brainford.[1104]

MIS. G. I believe you’ll eat of a cod’s head of your own

dressing before you reach half way thither.

[_Aside_—_She and_ MISTRESS O. _mask themselves_.

GOS. So, so, follow close; pin as you go.

_Enter_ LAXTON _muffled_.

LAX. Do you hear?

MIS. G. Yes, I thank my ears.

LAX. I must have a bout with your ’pothecaryship.

MIS. G. At what weapon?

LAX. I must speak with you.

MIS. G. No.

LAX. No? you shall.

MIS. G. Shall? away, souced sturgeon! half fish, half

flesh.

LAX. Faith, gib,[1105] are you spitting? I’ll cut your

tail, puss-cat, for this.

MIS. G. ’Las, poor Laxton, I think thy tail’s cut

already! your worst.

LAX. If I do not—— [_Exit._

GOS. Come, ha’ you done?

_Enter_ OPENWORK.

’S foot, Rosamond, your husband!

OPEN. How now? sweet master Goshawk! none more

welcome;

I’ve wanted your embracements: when friends meet,

The music of the spheres sounds not more sweet

Than does their conference. Who’s this? Rosamond?

Wife? how now, sister?

GOS. Silence, if you love me!

OPEN. Why mask’d?

MIS. O. Does a mask grieve you, sir?

OPEN. It does.

MIS. O. Then you’re best get you a mumming.[1106]

GOS. ’Sfoot, you’ll spoil all!

MIS. G. May not we cover our bare faces with masks,

As well as you cover your bald heads with hats?

OPEN. No masks; why they’re thieves to beauty, that

rob eyes

Of admiration in which true love lies.

Why are masks worn? why good? or why desir’d?

Unless by their gay covers wits are fir’d

To read the vildest[1107] looks: many bad faces,

Because rich gems are treasur’d up in cases,

Pass by their privilege current; but as caves

Damn misers’ gold, so masks are beauties’ graves.

Men ne’er meet women with such muffled eyes,

But they curse her that first did masks devise,

And swear it was some beldam. Come, off with’t.

MIS. O. I will not.

OPEN. Good faces mask’d are jewels kept by

sprites;[1108]

Hide none but bad ones, for they poison men’s sights;

Shew, then, as shopkeepers do their broider’d stuff,

By owl-light; fine wares can’t be open enough.

Prithee, sweet Rose, come, strike this sail.

MIS. O. Sail?

OPEN. Ha!

Yes, wife, strike sail, for storms are in thine eyes.

MIS. O. They’re here, sir, in my brows, if any rise.

OPEN. Ha, brows?—What says she, friend? pray, tell me

why

Your two flags[1109] were advanc’d; the comedy,

Come, what’s the comedy?

MIS. G.[1110] _Westward ho._[1111]

OPEN. How?

MIS. O. ’Tis _Westward ho_, she says.

GOS. Are you both mad?

MIS. O. Is’t market-day at Brainford, and your ware

Not sent up yet?

OPEN. What market-day? what ware?

MIS. O. A pie with three pigeons in’t: ’tis drawn,

And stays your cutting up.

GOS. As you regard my credit——

OPEN. Art mad?

MIS. O. Yes, lecherous goat, baboon!

OPEN. Baboon? then toss me in a blanket.

MIS. O. Do I it well?

MIS. G. Rarely.

GOS. Belike, sir, she’s not well; best leave her.

OPEN. No;

I’ll stand the storm now, how fierce soe’er it blow.

MIS. O. Did I for this lose all my friends, refuse

Rich hopes and golden fortunes, to be made

A stale[1112] to a common whore?

OPEN. This does amaze me.

MIS. O. O God, O God! feed at reversion now?

A strumpet’s leaving?

OPEN. Rosamond!

GOS. I sweat; would I lay in Cold Harbour![1113]

[_Aside._

MIS. O. Thou’st struck ten thousand daggers through my

heart!

OPEN. Not I, by heaven, sweet wife!

MIS. O. Go, devil, go; that which thou swear’st by

damns thee!

GOS. ’S heart, will you undo me?

MIS. O. Why stay you here? the star by which you sail

Shines yonder above Chelsea; you lose your shore;

If this moon light you, seek out your light whore.

OPEN. Ha!

MIS. G. Push,[1114] your western pug![1115]

GOS. Zounds, now hell roars!

MIS. O. With whom you tilted in a pair of oars

This very morning.

OPEN. Oars?

MIS. O. At Brainford, sir.

OPEN. Rack not my patience.—Master Goshawk,

Some slave has buzz’d this into her, has he not?

I run a tilt in Brainford with a woman?

’Tis a lie!

What old bawd tells thee this? ’s death, ’tis a lie!

MIS. O. ’Tis one [who] to thy face shall justify

All that I speak.

OPEN. Ud’soul, do but name that rascal!

MIS. O. No, sir, I will not.

GOS. Keep thee there, girl, then! [_Aside._

OPEN.[1116] Sister, know you this varlet?

MIS. G. Yes.

OPEN. Swear true;

Is there a rogue so low damn’d? a second Judas?—

A common hangman, cutting a man’s throat,

Does it to his face,—bite me behind my back?

A cur dog? swear if you know this hell-hound.

MIS. G. In truth, I do.

OPEN. His name?

MIS. G. Not for the world;

To have you to stab him.

GOS. O brave girls, worth gold![1117] [_Aside._

OPEN. A word, honest master Goshawk.

[_Drawing his sword._

GOS. What do you mean, sir?

OPEN. Keep off, and if the devil can give a name

To this new fury, holla it through my ear,

Or wrap it up in some hid character.

I’ll ride to Oxford, and watch out mine eyes,

But I will hear the Brazen Head[1118] speak, or else

Shew me but one hair of his head or beard,

That I may sample it. If the fiend I meet

In mine own house, I’ll kill him; [in] the street,

Or at the church-door,—there, ’cause he seeks t’ untie

The knot God fastens, he deserves most to die.

MIS. O. My husband titles him!

OPEN. Master Goshawk, pray, sir,

Swear to me that you know him, or know him not,

Who makes me at Brainford to take up a petticoat

Besides my wife’s.

GOS. By heaven, that man I know not!

MIS. O. Come, come, you lie!

GOS. Will you not have all out?

By heaven, I know no man beneath the moon

Should do you wrong, but if I had his name,

I’d print it in text letters.

MIS. O. Print thine own then:

Did’st not thou swear to me he kept his whore?

MIS. G. And that in sinful Brainford they’d commit

That which our lips did water at, sir,—ha?

MIS. O. Thou spider that hast woven thy cunning web

In mine own house t’ ensnare me! hast not thou

Suck’d nourishment even underneath this roof,

And turn’d it all to poison, spitting it

On thy friend’s face, my husband, (he as ’twere

sleeping,)

Only to leave him ugly to mine eyes,

That they might glance on thee?

MIS. G. Speak, are these lies?

GOS. Mine own shame me confounds!

OPEN.[1119] No more; he’s stung.

Who’d think that in one body there could dwell

Deformity and beauty, heaven and hell?

Goodness I see is but outside; we all set

In rings of gold stones that be counterfeit:

I thought you none.

GOS. Pardon me!

OPEN. Truth I do:

This blemish grows in nature, not in you;

For man’s creation stick[s] even moles in scorn

On fairest cheeks.—Wife, nothing’s perfect born.

MIS. O. I thought you had been born perfect.

OPEN. What’s this whole world but a gilt rotten pill?

For at the heart lies the old core still.

I’ll tell you, master Goshawk, ay, in your eye

I have seen wanton fire; and then, to try

The soundness of my judgment, I told you

I kept a whore, made you believe ’twas true,

Only to feel how your pulse beat; but find

The world can hardly yield a perfect friend.

Come, come, a trick of youth, and ’tis forgiven;

This rub put by, our love shall run more even.

MIS. O. You’ll deal upon men’s wives no more?

GOS. No; you teach me

A trick for that.

MIS. O. Troth, do not; they’ll o’erreach thee.

OPEN. Make my house yours, sir, still.

GOS. No.

OPEN. I say you shall:

Seeing thus besieg’d it holds out, ’twill never fall.

_Enter_ GALLIPOT, _followed by_ GREENWIT _disguised as a

sumner;[1120] and_ LAXTON _muffled aloof off_.[1121]

OPEN. } How now?

GOS., _&c._[1122] }

GAL. With me, sir?

GREEN. You, sir. I have gone snuffling[1123] up and down

by your door this hour, to watch for you.

MIS. G. What’s the matter, husband?

GREEN. I have caught a cold in my head, sir, by sitting

up late in the Rose tavern; but I hope you understand my

speech.

GAL. So, sir.

GREEN. I cite you by the name of Hippocrates Gallipot,

and you by the name of Prudence Gallipot, to appear upon

_Crastino_,—do you see?—_Crastino sancti Dunstani_, this

Easter term, in Bow Church.

GAL. Where, sir? what says he?

GREEN. Bow, Bow Church, to answer to a libel of

precontract on the part and behalf of the said Prudence

and another: you’re best, sir, take a copy of the

citation, ’tis but twelvepence.

OPEN. } A citation!

GOS., _&c._ }

GAL. You pocky-nosed rascal, what slave fees you to

this?

LAX. [_coming forward_] Slave? I ha’ nothing to do with

you; do you hear, sir?

GOS. Laxton, is’t not? What fagary[1124] is this?

GAL. Trust me, I thought, sir, this storm long ago

Had been full laid, when, if you be remember’d,[1125]

I paid you the last fifteen pound, besides

The thirty you had first; for then you swore——

LAX. Tush, tush, sir, oaths,—

Truth, yet I’m loath to vex you—tell you what,

Make up the money I had an hundred pound,

And take your bellyful of her.

GAL. An hundred pound?

MIS. G. What, a hundred pound? he gets none: what, a

hundred pound?

GAL. Sweet Pru, be calm; the gentleman offers thus:

If I will make the moneys that are past

A hundred pound, he will discharge all courts,

And give his bond never to vex us more.

MIS. G. A hundred pound? ’Las, take, sir, but

threescore!

Do you seek my undoing?

LAX. I’ll not ’bate one sixpence.—

I’ll maul you, puss, for spitting.

MIS. G. Do thy worst.—

Will fourscore stop thy mouth?

LAX. No.

MIS. G. You’re a slave;

Thou cheat, I’ll now tear money from thy throat.—

Husband, lay hold on yonder tawny-coat.[1126]

GREEN. Nay, gentlemen, seeing your women are so hot, I

must lose my hair[1127] in their company, I see.

[_Takes off his false hair._

MIS. O. His hair sheds off, and yet he speaks not so

much in the nose as he did before.

GOS. He has had the better chirurgeon.—Master Greenwit,

is your wit so raw as to play no better a part than a

sumner’s?

GAL. I pray, who plays _A knack to know an honest

man_,[1128] in this company?

MIS. G. Dear husband, pardon me, I did dissemble,

Told thee I was his precontracted wife,

When letters came from him for thirty pound:

I had no shift but that.

GAL. A very clean shift,

But able to make me lousy: on.

MIS. G. Husband, I pluck’d,

When he had tempted me to think well of him,

Gelt feathers[1129] from thy wings, to make him fly

More lofty.

GAL. A’ the top of you, wife: on.

MIS. G. He having wasted them, comes now for more,

Using me as a ruffian doth his whore,

Whose sin keeps him in breath. By heaven, I vow,

Thy bed he ne’er wrong’d more than he does now!

GAL. My bed? ha, ha! like enough; a shop-board will

serve

To have a cuckold’s coat cut out upon:

Of that we’ll talk hereafter.—You’re a villain.

LAX. Hear me but speak, sir, you shall find me none.

OPEN. } Pray, sir, be patient, and hear him.

GOS., _&c._ }

GAL. I’m muzzl’d for biting, sir; use me how you will.

LAX. The first hour that your wife was in my eye,

Myself with other gentlemen sitting by

In your shop tasting smoke, and speech being us’d,

That men who’ve fairest wives are most abus’d,

And hardly scape[1130] the horn, your wife maintain’d

That only such spots in city dames were stain’d

Justly but by men’s slanders: for her own part,

She vow’d that you had so much of her heart,

No man, by all his wit, by any wile

Never so fine-spun, should yourself beguile

Of what in her was yours.

GAL. Yet, Pru, ’tis well.—

Play out your game at Irish,[1131] sir: who wins?

MIS. O. The trial is when she comes to bearing.[1132]

LAX. I scorn’d one woman thus should brave all men,

And, which more vex’d me, a she-citizen;

Therefore I laid siege to her: out she held,

Gave many a brave repulse, and me compell’d

With shame to sound retreat to my hot lust:

Then, seeing all base desires rak’d up in dust,

And that[1133] to tempt her modest ears, I swore

Ne’er to presume again: she said, her eye

Would ever give me welcome honestly;

And, since I was a gentleman, if’t run low,

She would my state relieve, not to o’erthrow

Your own and hers: did so; then seeing I wrought

Upon her meekness, me she set at nought;

And yet to try if I could turn that tide,

You see what stream I strove with; but, sir, I swear

By heaven, and by those hopes men lay up there,

I neither have nor had a base intent

To wrong your bed! what’s done, is merriment:

Your gold I pay back with this interest,

When I’d most power to do’t, I wrong’d you least.

GAL. If this no gullery be, sir——

OPEN. } No, no, on my life!

GOS., _&c._ }

GAL. Then, sir, I am beholden—not to you, wife,—

But, master Laxton, to your want of doing

Ill, which it seems you have not.—Gentlemen,

Tarry and dine here all.

OPEN. Brother, we’ve a jest,

As good as yours, to furnish out a feast.

Gal. We’ll crown our table with’t.—Wife, brag no more

Of holding out: who most brags is most whore.

[_Exeunt._

ACT V. SCENE I.

_A Street._

_Enter_ JACK DAPPER, MOLL, SIR BEAUTEOUS GANYMEDE, _and_

SIR THOMAS LONG.

J. DAP. But, prithee, master captain Jack, be plain and

perspicuous with me; was it your Meg of Westminster’s

courage[1134] that rescued me from the Poultry

puttocks[1135] indeed?

MOLL. The valour of my wit, I ensure you, sir, fetched

you off bravely, when you were i’ the forlorn hope among

those desperates. Sir Beauteous Ganymede here, and sir

Thomas Long, heard that cuckoo, my man Trapdoor, sing

the note of your ransom from captivity.

S. BEAU. Uds so, Moll, where’s that Trapdoor?

MOLL. Hanged, I think, by this time: a justice in

this town, that speaks nothing but _make a mittimus,

away with him to Newgate_, used that rogue like a

firework,[1136] to run upon a line betwixt him and

me.

ALL. How, how?

MOLL. Marry, to lay trains of villany to blow up my

life: I smelt the powder, spied what linstock[1137]

gave fire to shoot against the poor captain of the

galley-foist,[1138] and away slid I my man like a

shovel-board shilling.[1139] He strouts[1140] up and

down the suburbs, I think, and eats up whores, feeds

upon a bawd’s garbage.

S. THO. Sirrah, Jack Dapper——

J. DAP. What sayst, Tom Long?

S. THO. Thou hadst a sweet-faced boy, hail-fellow with

thee, to your little Gull: how is he spent?

J. DAP. Troth, I whistled the poor little buzzard off a’

my fist, because, when he waited upon me at the

ordinaries, the gallants hit me i’ the teeth still, and

said I looked like a painted alderman’s tomb, and the

boy at my elbow like a death’s head.—Sirrah Jack, Moll——

MOLL. What says my little Dapper?

S. BEAU. Come, come; walk and talk, walk and talk.

J. DAP. Moll and I’ll be i’ the midst.

MOLL. These knights shall have squires’ places belike

then: well, Dapper, what say you?

J. DAP. Sirrah captain, mad Mary, the gull my own

father, Dapper Sir Davy, laid these London

boot-halers,[1141] the catchpolls, in ambush to set upon

me.

ALL. Your father? away, Jack!

J. DAP. By the tassels of this handkercher, ’tis true:

and what was his warlike stratagem, think you? he

thought, because a wicker cage tames a nightingale, a

lousy prison could make an ass of me.

ALL. A nasty plot!

J. DAP. Ay, as though a Counter, which is a park in

which all the wild beasts of the city run head by head,

could tame me!

MOLL. Yonder comes my lord Noland.

_Enter_ LORD NOLAND.

ALL. Save you, my lord.

L. NOL. Well met, gentlemen all.—Good sir Beauteous

Ganymede, sir Thomas Long,—and how does master Dapper?

J. DAP. Thanks, my lord.

MOLL. No tobacco, my lord?

L. NOL. No, faith, Jack.

J. DAP. My lord Noland, will you go to Pimlico with us?

we are making a boon voyage to that nappy land of

spice-cakes.

L. NOL. Here’s such a merry ging,[1142] I could find in

my heart to sail to the world’s end with such company:

come, gentlemen, let’s on.

J. DAP. Here’s most amorous weather, my lord.

ALL. Amorous weather! [_They walk._

J. DAP. Is not amorous a good word?

_Enter_ TRAPDOOR _disguised as a poor soldier with a

patch over one eye, and_ TEARCAT _all in tatters_.

TRAP. Shall we set upon the infantry, these troops of

foot? Zounds, yonder comes Moll, my whorish master and

mistress! would I had her kidneys between my teeth!

TEAR. I had rather have a cow-heel.

TRAP. Zounds, I am so patched up, she cannot discover

me: we’ll on.

TEAR. _Alla corago_[1143] then!

TRAP. Good your honours and worships, enlarge the ears

of commiseration, and let the sound of a hoarse military

organ-pipe penetrate your pitiful bowels, to extract out

of them so many small drops of silver as may give a hard

straw-bed lodging to a couple of maimed soldiers.

J. DAP. Where are you maimed?

TEAR. In both our nether limbs.

MOLL. Come, come, Dapper, let’s give ’em something:

’las, poor men! what money have you? by my troth, I love

a soldier with my soul.

S. BEAU. Stay, stay; where have you served?

S. THO. In any part of the Low Countries?

TRAP. Not in the Low Countries, if it please your

manhood, but in Hungary against the Turk at the siege of

Belgrade.

L. NOL. Who served there with you, sirrah?

TRAP. Many Hungarians, Moldavians, Vallachians, and

Transylvanians, with some Sclavonians; and retiring

home, sir, the Venetian galleys took us prisoners, yet

freed us, and suffered us to beg up and down the

country.

J. DAP. You have ambled all over Italy, then?

TRAP. O sir, from Venice to Roma, Vecchia,

Bononia,[1144] Romagna, Bologna, Modena, Piacenza,

and Tuscana, with all her cities, as Pistoia,

Volterra,[1145] Montepulciano, Arezzo; with the

Siennois, and divers others.

MOLL. Mere rogues! put spurs to ’em once more.

J. DAP. Thou lookest like a strange creature, a fat

butter-box, yet speakest English: what art thou?

TEAR. _Ich, mine here? ich bin den ruffling Tearcat, den

brave soldado; ich bin dorich all Dutchlant gereisen;

der schellum das meer ine beasa ine woert gaeb, ich

slaag um stroakes on tom cop; dastich den hundred touzun

divel halle, frollich, mine here._

S. BEAU. Here, here; let’s be rid of their

jobbering.[1146]

[_About to give money._

MOLL. Not a cross,[1147] sir Beauteous.—You base rogues,

I have taken measure of you better than a tailor can;

and I’ll fit you, as you, monster with one eye, have

fitted me.

TRAP. Your worship will not abuse a soldier?

MOLL. Soldier? thou deservest to be hanged up by that

tongue which dishonours so noble a profession: soldier?

you skeldering[1148] varlet! hold, stand; there should

be a trapdoor here abouts.

[_Pulls off his patch._

TRAP. The balls of these glasiers[1149] of mine, mine

eyes, shall be shot up and down in any hot piece of

service for my invincible mistress.

J. DAP. I did not think there had been such knavery in

black patches[1150] as now I see.

MOLL. O sir, he hath been brought up in the Isle of

Dogs,[1151] and can both fawn like a spaniel, and bite

like a mastiff, as he finds occasion.

L. NOL. What are you, sirrah? a bird of this feather

too?

TEAR. A man beaten from the wars, sir.

S. THO. I think so, for you never stood to fight.

J. DAP. What’s thy name, fellow soldier?

TEAR. I am called by those that have seen my valour,

Tearcat.

ALL. Tearcat?

MOLL. A mere whip-jack,[1152] and that is, in the

commonwealth of rogues, a slave that can talk of

sea-fight, name all your chief pirates, discover more

countries to you than either the Dutch, Spanish, French,

or English ever found out; yet indeed all his service is

by land, and that is to rob a fair, or some such

venturous exploit. Tearcat? ’foot, sirrah, I have your

name, now I remember me, in my book of horners; horns

for the thumb,[1153] you know how.

TEAR. No indeed, captain Moll, for I know you by sight,

I am no such nipping Christian,[1154] but a maunderer

upon the pad,[1155] I confess; and meeting with honest

Trapdoor here, whom you had cashiered from bearing arms,

out at elbows, under your colours, I instructed him in

the rudiments of roguery, and by my map made him sail

over any country you can name, so that now he can

maunder better than myself.

J. DAP. So, then, Trapdoor, thou art turned soldier now?

TRAP. Alas, sir, now there’s no wars, ’tis the safest

course of life I could take!

MOLL. I hope, then, you can cant, for by your cudgels,

you, sirrah, are an upright man.[1156]

TRAP. As any walks the highway, I assure you.

MOLL. And, Tearcat, what are you? a wild rogue,[1157] an

angler,[1158] or a ruffler?[1159]

TEAR. Brother to this upright man, flesh and blood;

ruffling Tearcat is my name, and a ruffler is my style,

my title, my profession.

MOLL. Sirrah, where’s your doxy? halt not with me.

ALL. Doxy, Moll? what’s that?

MOLL. His wench.

TRAP. My doxy? I have, by the salomon,[1160] a doxy

that carries a kinchin mort in her slate[1161] at her

back, besides my dell and my dainty wild dell,[1162]

with all whom I’ll tumble this next darkmans in the

strommel,[1163] and drink ben baufe, and eat a fat

gruntling cheat, a cackling cheat, and a quacking

cheat.

J. DAP. Here’s old[1164] cheating!

TRAP. My doxy stays for me in a bousing ken,[1165] brave

captain.

MOLL. He says his wench stays for him in an ale-house.—

You are no pure rogues![1166]

TEAR. Pure rogues? no, we scorn to be pure rogues; but

if you come to our lib ken or our stalling ken,[1167]

you shall find neither him nor me a queer cuffin.[1168]

MOLL. So, sir, no churl of you.

TEAR. No, but a ben cove, a brave cove, a gentry cuffin.

L. NOL. Call you this canting?

J. DAP. Zounds, I’ll give a school-master half-a-crown

a-week, and teach me this pedlar’s French.[1169]

TRAP. Do but stroll, sir, half a harvest with us, sir,

and you shall gabble your bellyful.

MOLL. Come, you rogue, cant with me.

S. THO. Well said, Moll.—Cant with her, sirrah, and you

shall have money, else not a penny.

TRAP. I’ll have a bout, if she please.

MOLL. Come on, sirrah!

TRAP. Ben mort,[1170] shall you and I heave a bough,

mill a ken, or nip a bung, and then we’ll couch a

hogshead under the ruffmans, and there you shall wap

with me, and I’ll niggle with you.

MOLL. Out, you damned impudent rascal!

TRAP. Cut benar[1171] whids, and hold your fambles and

your stamps.

L. NOL. Nay, nay, Moll, why art thou angry? what was his

gibberish?

MOLL. Marry, this, my lord, says he: _Ben mort_, good

wench, _shall you and I heave a bough,[1172] mill a ken,

or nip a bung_? shall you and I rob a house, or cut a

purse?

ALL. Very good.

MOLL. _And then we’ll couch a hogshead under the

ruffmans_; and then we’ll lie under a hedge.

TRAP. That was my desire, captain, as ’tis fit a soldier

should lie.

MOLL. _And there you shall wap with me, and I’ll niggle

with you_,—and that’s all.

S. BEAU. Nay, nay, Moll, what’s that wap?

J. DAP. Nay, teach me what niggling is; I’d fain be

niggling.

MOLL. Wapping and niggling is all one, the rogue my man

can tell you.

TRAP. ’Tis fadoodling, if it please you.

S. BEAU. This is excellent! One fit more, good Moll.

MOLL. Come, you rogue, sing with me.

_Song by_ MOLL _and_ TEARCAT.[1173]

_A gage[1174] of ben rom-bouse

In a bousing ken of Rom-vile,

Is benar than a caster,

Peck, pennam, lay, or popler,

Which we mill in deuse a vile.

O I wud lib all the lightmans,

O I wud lib all the darkmans,

By the salomon, under the ruffmans,

By the salomon, in the hartmans,

And scour the queer cramp ring,

And couch till a palliard dock’d my dell,

So my bousy nab might skew rom-bouse well.

Avast to the pad, let us bing;

Avast to the pad, let us bing._

ALL. Fine knaves, i’faith!

J. DAP. The grating of ten new cart-wheels, and the

gruntling of five hundred hogs coming from Rumford

market, cannot make a worse noise than this canting

language does in my ears. Pray, my lord Noland, let’s

give these soldiers their pay.

S. BEAU. Agreed, and let them march.

L. NOL. Here, Moll. [_Gives money._

MOLL. Now I see that you are stalled to the rogue,[1175]

and are not ashamed of your professions: look you, my

lord Noland here and these gentlemen bestow[1176] upon

you two two boards[1177] and a half, that’s two

shillings sixpence.

TRAP. Thanks to your lordship.

TEAR. Thanks, heroical captain.

MOLL. Away!

TRAP. We shall cut ben whids[1178] of your masters and

mistress-ship wheresoever we come.

MOLL. You’ll maintain, sirrah, the old justice’s plot to

his face?

TRAP. Else trine me on the cheats,[1179]—hang me.

MOLL. Be sure you meet me there.

TRAP. Without any more maundering,[1180] I’ll do’t.—

Follow, brave Tearcat.

TEAR. _I præ, sequor_; let us go, mouse.[1181]

[_Exeunt_ TRAPDOOR _and_ TEARCAT.

L. NOL. Moll, what was in that canting song?

MOLL. Troth, my lord, only a praise of good drink, the

only milk which these wild beasts love to suck, and thus

it was:

_A rich cup of wine,

O it is juice divine!

More wholesome for the head

Than meat, drink, or bread:

To fill my drunken pate

With that, I’d sit up late;

By the heels would I lie,

Under a lowsy hedge die,

Let a slave have a pull

At my whore, so I be full

Of that precious liquor_:

and a parcel of such stuff, my lord, not worth the

opening.

_Enter a Cutpurse very gallant,[1182] with four or five

others, one having a wand._