Produced by Amy E Zelmer, Sue Asscher, and Robert Prince
EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR
(The Anglicized Edition)
By Ben Jonson
INTRODUCTION
THE greatest of English dramatists except Shakespeare, the first
literary dictator and poet-laureate, a writer of verse, prose, satire,
and criticism who most potently of all the men of his time affected the
subsequent course of English letters: such was Ben Jonson, and as such
his strong personality assumes an interest to us almost unparalleled, at
least in his age.
Ben Jonson came of the stock that was centuries after to give to the
world Thomas Carlyle; for Jonson's grandfather was of Annandale, over
the Solway, whence he migrated to England. Jonson's father lost his
estate under Queen Mary, "having been cast into prison and forfeited."
He entered the church, but died a month before his illustrious son was
born, leaving his widow and child in poverty. Jonson's birthplace was
Westminster, and the time of his birth early in 1573. He was thus nearly
ten years Shakespeare's junior, and less well off, if a trifle better
born. But Jonson did not profit even by this slight advantage. His
mother married beneath her, a wright or bricklayer, and Jonson was for a
time apprenticed to the trade. As a youth he attracted the attention of
the famous antiquary, William Camden, then usher at Westminster School,
and there the poet laid the solid foundations of his classical learning.
Jonson always held Camden in veneration, acknowledging that to him he
owed,
"All that I am in arts, all that I know:"
and dedicating his first dramatic success, "Every Man in His Humour,"
to him. It is doubtful whether Jonson ever went to either university,
though Fuller says that he was "statutably admitted into St. John's
College, Cambridge." He tells us that he took no degree, but was later
"Master of Arts in both the universities, by their favour, not his
study." When a mere youth Jonson enlisted as a soldier trailing his pike
in Flanders in the protracted wars of William the Silent against the
Spanish. Jonson was a large and raw-boned lad; he became by his own
account in time exceedingly bulky. In chat with his friend William
Drummond of Hawthornden, Jonson told how "in his service in the Low
Countries he had, in the face of both the camps, killed an enemy, and
taken 'opima spolia' from him;" and how "since his coming to England,
being appealed to the fields, he had killed his adversary which had hurt
him in the arm and whose sword was ten inches longer than his." Jonson's
reach may have made up for the lack of his sword; certainly his prowess
lost nothing in the telling. Obviously Jonson was brave, combative, and
not averse to talking of himself and his doings.
In 1592, Jonson returned from abroad penniless. Soon after he married,
almost as early and quite as imprudently as Shakespeare. He told
Drummond curtly that "his wife was a shrew, yet honest"; for some
years he lived apart from her in the household of Lord Albany. Yet two
touching epitaphs among Jonson's 'Epigrams', "On my first daughter," and
"On my first son," attest the warmth of the poet's family affections.
The daughter died in infancy, the son of the plague; another son grew up
to manhood little credit to his father whom he survived. We know nothing
beyond this of Jonson's domestic life.
How soon Jonson drifted into what we now call grandly "the theatrical
profession" we do not know. In 1593 Marlowe made his tragic exit from
life, and Greene, Shakespeare's other rival on the popular stage,
had preceded Marlowe in an equally miserable death the year before.
Shakespeare already had the running to himself. Jonson appears first in
the employment of Philip Henslowe, the exploiter of several troupes of
players, manager, and father-in-law of the famous actor, Edward Alleyn.
From entries in 'Henslowe's Diary', a species of theatrical account book
which has been handed down to us, we know that Jonson was connected with
the Admiral's men; for he borrowed 4 pounds of Henslowe, July 28, 1597,
paying back 3s. 9d. on the same day on account of his "share" (in what
is not altogether clear); while later, on December 3, of the same year,
Henslowe advanced 20s. to him "upon a book which he showed the plot unto
the company which he promised to deliver unto the company at Christmas
next." In the next August Jonson was in collaboration with Chettle and
Porter in a play called "Hot Anger Soon Cold." All this points to an
association with Henslowe of some duration, as no mere tyro would be
thus paid in advance upon mere promise. From allusions in Dekker's play,
"Satiromastix," it appears that Jonson, like Shakespeare, began life as
an actor, and that he "ambled in a leather pitch by a play-wagon" taking
at one time the part of Hieronimo in Kyd's famous play, "The Spanish
Tragedy." By the beginning of 1598, Jonson, though still in needy
circumstances, had begun to receive recognition. Francis Meres--well
known for his "Comparative Discourse of our English Poets with the
Greek, Latin, and Italian Poets," printed in 1598, and for his mention
therein of a dozen plays of Shakespeare by title--accords to Ben Jonson
a place as one of "our best in tragedy," a matter of some surprise, as
no known tragedy of Jonson from so early a date has come down to us.
That Jonson was at work on tragedy, however, is proved by the entries in
Henslowe of at least three tragedies, now lost, in which he had a
hand. These are "Page of Plymouth," "King Robert II. of Scotland,"
and "Richard Crookback." But all of these came later, on his return to
Henslowe, and range from August 1599 to June 1602.
Returning to the autumn of 1598, an event now happened to sever for
a time Jonson's relations with Henslowe. In a letter to Alleyn, dated
September 26 of that year, Henslowe writes: "I have lost one of my
company that hurteth me greatly; that is Gabriel [Spencer], for he is
slain in Hogsden fields by the hands of Benjamin Jonson, bricklayer."
The last word is perhaps Henslowe's thrust at Jonson in his displeasure
rather than a designation of his actual continuance at his trade up to
this time. It is fair to Jonson to remark however, that his adversary
appears to have been a notorious fire-eater who had shortly before
killed one Feeke in a similar squabble. Duelling was a frequent
occurrence of the time among gentlemen and the nobility; it was an
imprudent breach of the peace on the part of a player. This duel is the
one which Jonson described years after to Drummond, and for it Jonson
was duly arraigned at Old Bailey, tried, and convicted. He was sent to
prison and such goods and chattels as he had "were forfeited." It is
a thought to give one pause that, but for the ancient law permitting
convicted felons to plead, as it was called, the benefit of clergy,
Jonson might have been hanged for this deed. The circumstance that the
poet could read and write saved him; and he received only a brand of the
letter "T," for Tyburn, on his left thumb. While in jail Jonson became a
Roman Catholic; but he returned to the faith of the Church of England a
dozen years later.
On his release, in disgrace with Henslowe and his former associates,
Jonson offered his services as a playwright to Henslowe's rivals,
the Lord Chamberlain's company, in which Shakespeare was a prominent
shareholder. A tradition of long standing, though not susceptible
of proof in a court of law, narrates that Jonson had submitted the
manuscript of "Every Man in His Humour" to the Chamberlain's men and had
received from the company a refusal; that Shakespeare called him back,
read the play himself, and at once accepted it. Whether this story is
true or not, certain it is that "Every Man in His Humour" was accepted
by Shakespeare's company and acted for the first time in 1598, with
Shakespeare taking a part. The evidence of this is contained in the list
of actors prefixed to the comedy in the folio of Jonson's works, 1616.
But it is a mistake to infer, because Shakespeare's name stands first
in the list of actors and the elder Kno'well first in the 'dramatis
personae', that Shakespeare took that particular part. The order of a
list of Elizabethan players was generally that of their importance or
priority as shareholders in the company and seldom if ever corresponded
to the list of characters.
"Every Man in His Humour" was an immediate success, and with it Jonson's
reputation as one of the leading dramatists of his time was established
once and for all. This could have been by no means Jonson's earliest
comedy, and we have just learned that he was already reputed one of "our
best in tragedy." Indeed, one of Jonson's extant comedies, "The Case
is Altered," but one never claimed by him or published as his, must
certainly have preceded "Every Man in His Humour" on the stage. The
former play may be described as a comedy modelled on the Latin plays of
Plautus. (It combines, in fact, situations derived from the "Captivi"
and the "Aulularia" of that dramatist). But the pretty story of the
beggar-maiden, Rachel, and her suitors, Jonson found, not among the
classics, but in the ideals of romantic love which Shakespeare had
already popularised on the stage. Jonson never again produced so fresh
and lovable a feminine personage as Rachel, although in other respects
"The Case is Altered" is not a conspicuous play, and, save for the
satirising of Antony Munday in the person of Antonio Balladino and
Gabriel Harvey as well, is perhaps the least characteristic of the
comedies of Jonson.
"Every Man in His Humour," probably first acted late in the summer of
1598 and at the Curtain, is commonly regarded as an epoch-making play;
and this view is not unjustified. As to plot, it tells little more than
how an intercepted letter enabled a father to follow his supposedly
studious son to London, and there observe his life with the gallants of
the time. The real quality of this comedy is in its personages and in
the theory upon which they are conceived. Ben Jonson had theories about
poetry and the drama, and he was neither chary in talking of them nor in
experimenting with them in his plays. This makes Jonson, like Dryden
in his time, and Wordsworth much later, an author to reckon with;
particularly when we remember that many of Jonson's notions came for
a time definitely to prevail and to modify the whole trend of English
poetry. First of all Jonson was a classicist, that is, he believed in
restraint and precedent in art in opposition to the prevalent ungoverned
and irresponsible Renaissance spirit. Jonson believed that there was a
professional way of doing things which might be reached by a study of
the best examples, and he found these examples for the most part among
the ancients. To confine our attention to the drama, Jonson objected to
the amateurishness and haphazard nature of many contemporary plays, and
set himself to do something different; and the first and most striking
thing that he evolved was his conception and practice of the comedy of
humours.
As Jonson has been much misrepresented in this matter, let us quote his
own words as to "humour." A humour, according to Jonson, was a bias of
disposition, a warp, so to speak, in character by which
"Some one peculiar quality
Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw
All his affects, his spirits, and his powers,
In their confluctions, all to run one way."
But continuing, Jonson is careful to add:
"But that a rook by wearing a pied feather,
The cable hat-band, or the three-piled ruff,
A yard of shoe-tie, or the Switzers knot
On his French garters, should affect a humour!
O, it is more than most ridiculous."
Jonson's comedy of humours, in a word, conceived of stage personages
on the basis of a ruling trait or passion (a notable simplification
of actual life be it observed in passing); and, placing these typified
traits in juxtaposition in their conflict and contrast, struck the
spark of comedy. Downright, as his name indicates, is "a plain squire";
Bobadill's humour is that of the braggart who is incidentally, and with
delightfully comic effect, a coward; Brainworm's humour is the finding
out of things to the end of fooling everybody: of course he is fooled
in the end himself. But it was not Jonson's theories alone that made the
success of "Every Man in His Humour." The play is admirably written
and each character is vividly conceived, and with a firm touch based on
observation of the men of the London of the day. Jonson was neither in
this, his first great comedy (nor in any other play that he wrote),
a supine classicist, urging that English drama return to a slavish
adherence to classical conditions. He says as to the laws of the old
comedy (meaning by "laws," such matters as the unities of time and place
and the use of chorus): "I see not then, but we should enjoy the same
licence, or free power to illustrate and heighten our invention as they
[the ancients] did; and not be tied to those strict and regular forms
which the niceness of a few, who are nothing but form, would thrust upon
us." "Every Man in His Humour" is written in prose, a novel practice
which Jonson had of his predecessor in comedy, John Lyly. Even the word
"humour" seems to have been employed in the Jonsonian sense by Chapman
before Jonson's use of it. Indeed, the comedy of humours itself is only
a heightened variety of the comedy of manners which represents life,
viewed at a satirical angle, and is the oldest and most persistent
species of comedy in the language. None the less, Jonson's comedy
merited its immediate success and marked out a definite course in which
comedy long continued to run. To mention only Shakespeare's Falstaff
and his rout, Bardolph, Pistol, Dame Quickly, and the rest, whether in
"Henry IV." or in "The Merry Wives of Windsor," all are conceived in
the spirit of humours. So are the captains, Welsh, Scotch, and Irish
of "Henry V.," and Malvolio especially later; though Shakespeare never
employed the method of humours for an important personage. It was not
Jonson's fault that many of his successors did precisely the thing
that he had reprobated, that is, degrade the humour: into an oddity of
speech, an eccentricity of manner, of dress, or cut of beard. There was
an anonymous play called "Every Woman in Her Humour." Chapman wrote "A
Humourous Day's Mirth," Day, "Humour Out of Breath," Fletcher later,
"The Humourous Lieutenant," and Jonson, besides "Every Man Out of His
Humour," returned to the title in closing the cycle of his comedies in
"The Magnetic Lady or Humours Reconciled."
With the performance of "Every Man Out of His Humour" in 1599, by
Shakespeare's company once more at the Globe, we turn a new page in
Jonson's career. Despite his many real virtues, if there is one feature
more than any other that distinguishes Jonson, it is his arrogance; and
to this may be added his self-righteousness, especially under criticism
or satire. "Every Man Out of His Humour" is the first of three
"comical satires" which Jonson contributed to what Dekker called the
'poetomachia' or war of the theatres as recent critics have named
it. This play as a fabric of plot is a very slight affair; but as a
satirical picture of the manners of the time, proceeding by means of
vivid caricature, couched in witty and brilliant dialogue and sustained
by that righteous indignation which must lie at the heart of all
true satire--as a realisation, in short, of the classical ideal of
comedy--there had been nothing like Jonson's comedy since the days of
Aristophanes. "Every Man in His Humour," like the two plays that follow
it, contains two kinds of attack, the critical or generally satiric,
levelled at abuses and corruptions in the abstract; and the personal,
in which specific application is made of all this in the lampooning of
poets and others, Jonson's contemporaries. The method of personal attack
by actual caricature of a person on the stage is almost as old as the
drama. Aristophanes so lampooned Euripides in "The Acharnians" and
Socrates in "The Clouds," to mention no other examples; and in English
drama this kind of thing is alluded to again and again. What Jonson
really did, was to raise the dramatic lampoon to an art, and make out
of a casual burlesque and bit of mimicry a dramatic satire of literary
pretensions and permanency. With the arrogant attitude mentioned above
and his uncommon eloquence in scorn, vituperation, and invective, it
is no wonder that Jonson soon involved himself in literary and even
personal quarrels with his fellow-authors. The circumstances of the
origin of this 'poetomachia' are far from clear, and those who have
written on the topic, except of late, have not helped to make them
clearer. The origin of the "war" has been referred to satirical
references, apparently to Jonson, contained in "The Scourge of
Villainy," a satire in regular form after the manner of the ancients by
John Marston, a fellow playwright, subsequent friend and collaborator
of Jonson's. On the other hand, epigrams of Jonson have been discovered
(49, 68, and 100) variously charging "playwright" (reasonably identified
with Marston) with scurrility, cowardice, and plagiarism; though the
dates of the epigrams cannot be ascertained with certainty. Jonson's
own statement of the matter to Drummond runs: "He had many quarrels with
Marston, beat him, and took his pistol from him, wrote his 'Poetaster'
on him; the beginning[s] of them were that Marston represented him on
the stage."*
*The best account of this whole subject is to be
found in the edition of 'Poetaster' and 'Satiromastrix' by
J. H. Penniman in 'Belles Lettres Series' shortly to appear.
See also his earlier work, 'The War of the Theatres', 1892,
and the excellent contributions to the subject by H. C. Hart
in 'Notes and Queries', and in his edition of Jonson, 1906.
Here at least we are on certain ground; and the principals of the
quarrel are known. "Histriomastix," a play revised by Marston in 1598,
has been regarded as the one in which Jonson was thus "represented on
the stage"; although the personage in question, Chrisogonus, a poet,
satirist, and translator, poor but proud, and contemptuous of the common
herd, seems rather a complimentary portrait of Jonson than a caricature.
As to the personages actually ridiculed in "Every Man Out of His
Humour," Carlo Buffone was formerly thought certainly to be Marston,
as he was described as "a public scurrilous, and profane jester," and
elsewhere as "the grand scourge or second untruss [that is, satirist],
of the time" (Joseph Hall being by his own boast the first, and
Marston's work being entitled "The Scourge of Villainy"). Apparently we
must now prefer for Carlo a notorious character named Charles Chester,
of whom gossipy and inaccurate Aubrey relates that he was "a bold
impertinent fellow...a perpetual talker and made a noise like a drum in
a room. So one time at a tavern Sir Walter Raleigh beats him and seals
up his mouth (that is his upper and nether beard) with hard wax. From
him Ben Jonson takes his Carlo Buffone ['i.e.', jester] in 'Every Man
in His Humour' ['sic']." Is it conceivable that after all Jonson was
ridiculing Marston, and that the point of the satire consisted in an
intentional confusion of "the grand scourge or second untruss" with "the
scurrilous and profane" Chester?
We have digressed into detail in this particular case to exemplify the
difficulties of criticism in its attempts to identify the allusions in
these forgotten quarrels. We are on sounder ground of fact in recording
other manifestations of Jonson's enmity. In "The Case is Altered" there
is clear ridicule in the character Antonio Balladino of Anthony Munday,
pageant-poet of the city, translator of romances and playwright as well.
In "Every Man in His Humour" there is certainly a caricature of Samuel
Daniel, accepted poet of the court, sonneteer, and companion of men of
fashion. These men held recognised positions to which Jonson felt his
talents better entitled him; they were hence to him his natural enemies.
It seems almost certain that he pursued both in the personages of his
satire through "Every Man Out of His Humour," and "Cynthia's Revels,"
Daniel under the characters Fastidious Brisk and Hedon, Munday as
Puntarvolo and Amorphus; but in these last we venture on quagmire once
more. Jonson's literary rivalry of Daniel is traceable again and again,
in the entertainments that welcomed King James on his way to London, in
the masques at court, and in the pastoral drama. As to Jonson's personal
ambitions with respect to these two men, it is notable that he became,
not pageant-poet, but chronologer to the City of London; and that, on
the accession of the new king, he came soon to triumph over Daniel as
the accepted entertainer of royalty.
"Cynthia's Revels," the second "comical satire," was acted in 1600, and,
as a play, is even more lengthy, elaborate, and impossible than "Every
Man Out of His Humour." Here personal satire seems to have absorbed
everything, and while much of the caricature is admirable, especially in
the detail of witty and trenchantly satirical dialogue, the central idea
of a fountain of self-love is not very well carried out, and the persons
revert at times to abstractions, the action to allegory. It adds to our
wonder that this difficult drama should have been acted by the Children
of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel, among them Nathaniel Field with whom Jonson
read Horace and Martial, and whom he taught later how to make plays.
Another of these precocious little actors was Salathiel Pavy, who died
before he was thirteen, already famed for taking the parts of old men.
Him Jonson immortalised in one of the sweetest of his epitaphs. An
interesting sidelight is this on the character of this redoubtable
and rugged satirist, that he should thus have befriended and tenderly
remembered these little theatrical waifs, some of whom (as we know) had
been literally kidnapped to be pressed into the service of the theatre
and whipped to the conning of their difficult parts. To the caricature
of Daniel and Munday in "Cynthia's Revels" must be added Anaides
(impudence), here assuredly Marston, and Asotus (the prodigal),
interpreted as Lodge or, more perilously, Raleigh. Crites, like
Asper-Macilente in "Every Man Out of His Humour," is Jonson's
self-complaisant portrait of himself, the just, wholly admirable, and
judicious scholar, holding his head high above the pack of the yelping
curs of envy and detraction, but careless of their puny attacks on his
perfections with only too mindful a neglect.
The third and last of the "comical satires" is "Poetaster," acted, once
more, by the Children of the Chapel in 1601, and Jonson's only avowed
contribution to the fray. According to the author's own account, this
play was written in fifteen weeks on a report that his enemies had
entrusted to Dekker the preparation of "Satiromastix, the Untrussing of
the Humorous Poet," a dramatic attack upon himself. In this attempt to
forestall his enemies Jonson succeeded, and "Poetaster" was an immediate
and deserved success. While hardly more closely knit in structure than
its earlier companion pieces, "Poetaster" is planned to lead up to
the ludicrous final scene in which, after a device borrowed from the
"Lexiphanes" of Lucian, the offending poetaster, Marston-Crispinus, is
made to throw up the difficult words with which he had overburdened his
stomach as well as overlarded his vocabulary. In the end Crispinus with
his fellow, Dekker-Demetrius, is bound over to keep the peace and never
thenceforward "malign, traduce, or detract the person or writings of
Quintus Horatius Flaccus [Jonson] or any other eminent man transcending
you in merit." One of the most diverting personages in Jonson's comedy
is Captain Tucca. "His peculiarity" has been well described by Ward as
"a buoyant blackguardism which recovers itself instantaneously from the
most complete exposure, and a picturesqueness of speech like that of a
walking dictionary of slang."
It was this character, Captain Tucca, that Dekker hit upon in his reply,
"Satiromastix," and he amplified him, turning his abusive vocabulary
back upon Jonson and adding "An immodesty to his dialogue that did not
enter into Jonson's conception." It has been held, altogether plausibly,
that when Dekker was engaged professionally, so to speak, to write
a dramatic reply to Jonson, he was at work on a species of chronicle
history, dealing with the story of Walter Terill in the reign of William
Rufus. This he hurriedly adapted to include the satirical characters
suggested by "Poetaster," and fashioned to convey the satire of his
reply. The absurdity of placing Horace in the court of a Norman king is
the result. But Dekker's play is not without its palpable hits at the
arrogance, the literary pride, and self-righteousness of Jonson-Horace,
whose "ningle" or pal, the absurd Asinius Bubo, has recently been shown
to figure forth, in all likelihood, Jonson's friend, the poet Drayton.
Slight and hastily adapted as is "Satiromastix," especially in a
comparison with the better wrought and more significant satire of
"Poetaster," the town awarded the palm to Dekker, not to Jonson; and
Jonson gave over in consequence his practice of "comical satire." Though
Jonson was cited to appear before the Lord Chief Justice to answer
certain charges to the effect that he had attacked lawyers and soldiers
in "Poetaster," nothing came of this complaint. It may be suspected that
much of this furious clatter and give-and-take was pure playing to the
gallery. The town was agog with the strife, and on no less an authority
than Shakespeare ("Hamlet," ii. 2), we learn that the children's company
(acting the plays of Jonson) did "so berattle the common stages...that
many, wearing rapiers, are afraid of goose-quills, and dare scarce come
thither."
Several other plays have been thought to bear a greater or less part
in the war of the theatres. Among them the most important is a college
play, entitled "The Return from Parnassus," dating 1601-02. In it a
much-quoted passage makes Burbage, as a character, declare: "Why here's
our fellow Shakespeare puts them all down; aye and Ben Jonson, too. O
that Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow; he brought up Horace, giving the
poets a pill, but our fellow Shakespeare hath given him a purge that
made him bewray his credit." Was Shakespeare then concerned in this
war of the stages? And what could have been the nature of this "purge"?
Among several suggestions, "Troilus and Cressida" has been thought by
some to be the play in which Shakespeare thus "put down" his friend,
Jonson. A wiser interpretation finds the "purge" in "Satiromastix,"
which, though not written by Shakespeare, was staged by his company,
and therefore with his approval and under his direction as one of the
leaders of that company.
The last years of the reign of Elizabeth thus saw Jonson recognised as
a dramatist second only to Shakespeare, and not second even to him as
a dramatic satirist. But Jonson now turned his talents to new fields.
Plays on subjects derived from classical story and myth had held the
stage from the beginning of the drama, so that Shakespeare was making
no new departure when he wrote his "Julius Caesar" about 1600.
Therefore when Jonson staged "Sejanus," three years later and with
Shakespeare'scompany once more, he was only following in the elder
dramatist's footsteps. But Jonson's idea of a play on classical history,
on the one hand, and Shakespeare's and the elder popular dramatists, on
the other, were very different. Heywood some years before had put five
straggling plays on the stage in quick succession, all derived from
stories in Ovid and dramatised with little taste or discrimination.
Shakespeare had a finer conception of form, but even he was contented
to take all his ancient history from North's translation of Plutarch and
dramatise his subject without further inquiry. Jonson was a scholar and
a classical antiquarian. He reprobated this slipshod amateurishness,
and wrote his "Sejanus" like a scholar, reading Tacitus, Suetonius,
and other authorities, to be certain of his facts, his setting, and
his atmosphere, and somewhat pedantically noting his authorities in the
margin when he came to print. "Sejanus" is a tragedy of genuine dramatic
power in which is told with discriminating taste the story of the
haughty favourite of Tiberius with his tragical overthrow. Our drama
presents no truer nor more painstaking representation of ancient
Roman life than may be found in Jonson's "Sejanus" and "Catiline his
Conspiracy," which followed in 1611. A passage in the address of the
former play to the reader, in which Jonson refers to a collaboration
in an earlier version, has led to the surmise that Shakespeare may have
been that "worthier pen." There is no evidence to determine the matter.
In 1605, we find Jonson in active collaboration with Chapman and Marston
in the admirable comedy of London life entitled "Eastward Hoe." In
the previous year, Marston had dedicated his "Malcontent," in terms
of fervid admiration, to Jonson; so that the wounds of the war of the
theatres must have been long since healed. Between Jonson and Chapman
there was the kinship of similar scholarly ideals. The two continued
friends throughout life. "Eastward Hoe" achieved the extraordinary
popularity represented in a demand for three issues in one year. But
this was not due entirely to the merits of the play. In its earliest
version a passage which an irritable courtier conceived to be derogatory
to his nation, the Scots, sent both Chapman and Jonson to jail; but the
matter was soon patched up, for by this time Jonson had influence at
court.
With the accession of King James, Jonson began his long and successful
career as a writer of masques. He wrote more masques than all his
competitors together, and they are of an extraordinary variety
and poetic excellence. Jonson did not invent the masque; for such
premeditated devices to set and frame, so to speak, a court ball had
been known and practised in varying degrees of elaboration long before
his time. But Jonson gave dramatic value to the masque, especially in
his invention of the antimasque, a comedy or farcical element of relief,
entrusted to professional players or dancers. He enhanced, as well, the
beauty and dignity of those portions of the masque in which noble lords
and ladies took their parts to create, by their gorgeous costumes and
artistic grouping and evolutions, a sumptuous show. On the mechanical
and scenic side Jonson had an inventive and ingenious partner in
Inigo Jones, the royal architect, who more than any one man raised
the standard of stage representation in the England of his day. Jonson
continued active in the service of the court in the writing of masques
and other entertainments far into the reign of King Charles; but,
towards the end, a quarrel with Jones embittered his life, and the two
testy old men appear to have become not only a constant irritation to
each other, but intolerable bores at court. In "Hymenaei," "The Masque
of Queens," "Love Freed from Ignorance," "Lovers made Men," "Pleasure
Reconciled to Virtue," and many more will be found Jonson's aptitude,
his taste, his poetry and inventiveness in these by-forms of the drama;
while in "The Masque of Christmas," and "The Gipsies Metamorphosed"
especially, is discoverable that power of broad comedy which, at court as
well as in the city, was not the least element of Jonson's contemporary
popularity.
But Jonson had by no means given up the popular stage when he turned to
the amusement of King James. In 1605 "Volpone" was produced, "The Silent
Woman" in 1609, "The Alchemist" in the following year. These comedies,
with "Bartholomew Fair," 1614, represent Jonson at his height, and for
constructive cleverness, character successfully conceived in the manner
of caricature, wit and brilliancy of dialogue, they stand alone in
English drama. "Volpone, or the Fox," is, in a sense, a transition play
from the dramatic satires of the war of the theatres to the purer comedy
represented in the plays named above. Its subject is a struggle of
wit applied to chicanery; for among its 'dramatis personae', from
the villainous Fox himself, his rascally servant Mosca, Voltore (the
vulture), Corbaccio and Corvino (the big and the little raven), to Sir
Politic Would-be and the rest, there is scarcely a virtuous character in
the play. Question has been raised as to whether a story so forbidding
can be considered a comedy, for, although the plot ends in the
discomfiture and imprisonment of the most vicious, it involves no moral
catastrophe. But Jonson was on sound historical ground, for "Volpone"
is conceived far more logically on the lines of the ancients' theory
of comedy than was ever the romantic drama of Shakespeare, however
repulsive we may find a philosophy of life that facilely divides the
world into the rogues and their dupes, and, identifying brains
with roguery and innocence with folly, admires the former while
inconsistently punishing them.
"The Silent Woman" is a gigantic farce of the most ingenious
construction. The whole comedy hinges on a huge joke, played by a
heartless nephew on his misanthropic uncle, who is induced to take to
himself a wife, young, fair, and warranted silent, but who, in the end,
turns out neither silent nor a woman at all. In "The Alchemist," again,
we have the utmost cleverness in construction, the whole fabric building
climax on climax, witty, ingenious, and so plausibly presented that we
forget its departures from the possibilities of life. In "The Alchemist"
Jonson represented, none the less to the life, certain sharpers of
the metropolis, revelling in their shrewdness and rascality and in the
variety of the stupidity and wickedness of their victims. We may object
to the fact that the only person in the play possessed of a scruple
of honesty is discomfited, and that the greatest scoundrel of all is
approved in the end and rewarded. The comedy is so admirably written and
contrived, the personages stand out with such lifelike distinctness
in their several kinds, and the whole is animated with such verve and
resourcefulness that "The Alchemist" is a new marvel every time it is
read. Lastly of this group comes the tremendous comedy, "Bartholomew
Fair," less clear cut, less definite, and less structurally worthy
of praise than its three predecessors, but full of the keenest and
cleverest of satire and inventive to a degree beyond any English comedy
save some other of Jonson's own. It is in "Bartholomew Fair" that we are
presented to the immortal caricature of the Puritan, Zeal-in-the-Land
Busy, and the Littlewits that group about him, and it is in this
extraordinary comedy that the humour of Jonson, always open to this
danger, loosens into the Rabelaisian mode that so delighted King James
in "The Gipsies Metamorphosed." Another comedy of less merit is "The
Devil is an Ass," acted in 1616. It was the failure of this play that
caused Jonson to give over writing for the public stage for a period of
nearly ten years.
"Volpone" was laid as to scene in Venice. Whether because of the success
of "Eastward Hoe" or for other reasons, the other three comedies declare
in the words of the prologue to "The Alchemist":
"Our scene is London, 'cause we would make known No country's mirth is
better than our own."
Indeed Jonson went further when he came to revise his plays for
collected publication in his folio of 1616, he transferred the scene
of "Every Man in His Humou r" from Florence to London also, converting
Signior Lorenzo di Pazzi to Old Kno'well, Prospero to Master Welborn,
and Hesperida to Dame Kitely "dwelling i' the Old Jewry."
In his comedies of London life, despite his trend towards caricature,
Jonson has shown himself a genuine realist, drawing from the life about
him with an experience and insight rare in any generation. A happy
comparison has been suggested between Ben Jonson and Charles Dickens.
Both were men of the people, lowly born and hardly bred. Each knew
the London of his time as few men knew it; and each represented it
intimately and in elaborate detail. Both men were at heart moralists,
seeking the truth by the exaggerated methods of humour and caricature;
perverse, even wrong-headed at times, but possessed of a true pathos and
largeness of heart, and when all has been said--though the Elizabethan
ran to satire, the Victorian to sentimentality--leaving the world better
for the art that they practised in it.
In 1616, the year of the death of Shakespeare, Jonson collected his
plays, his poetry, and his masques for publication in a collective
edition. This was an unusual thing at the time and had been attempted
by no dramatist before Jonson. This volume published, in a carefully
revised text, all the plays thus far mentioned, excepting "The Case is
Altered," which Jonson did not acknowledge, "Bartholomew Fair," and "The
Devil is an Ass," which was written too late. It included likewise a
book of some hundred and thirty odd 'Epigrams', in which form of brief
and pungent writing Jonson was an acknowledged master; "The Forest," a
smaller collection of lyric and occasional verse and some ten 'Masques'
and 'Entertainments'. In this same year Jonson was made poet laureate
with a pension of one hundred marks a year. This, with his fees and
returns from several noblemen, and the small earnings of his plays
must have formed the bulk of his income. The poet appears to have done
certain literary hack-work for others, as, for example, parts of the
Punic Wars contributed to Raleigh's 'History of the World'. We know
from a story, little to the credit of either, that Jonson accompanied
Raleigh's son abroad in the capacity of a tutor. In 1618 Jonson was
granted the reversion of the office of Master of the Revels, a post
for which he was peculiarly fitted; but he did not live to enjoy its
perquisites. Jonson was honoured with degrees by both universities,
though when and under what circumstances is not known. It has been said
that he narrowly escaped the honour of knighthood, which the satirists
of the day averred King James was wont to lavish with an indiscriminate
hand. Worse men were made knights in his day than worthy Ben Jonson.
From 1616 to the close of the reign of King James, Jonson produced
nothing for the stage. But he "prosecuted" what he calls "his wonted
studies" with such assiduity that he became in reality, as by report,
one of the most learned men of his time. Jonson's theory of authorship
involved a wide acquaintance with books and "an ability," as he put it,
"to convert the substance or riches of another poet to his own use."
Accordingly Jonson read not only the Greek and Latin classics down to
the lesser writers, but he acquainted himself especially with the Latin
writings of his learned contemporaries, their prose as well as their
poetry, their antiquities and curious lore as well as their more solid
learning. Though a poor man, Jonson was an indefatigable collector of
books. He told Drummond that "the Earl of Pembroke sent him 20 pounds
every first day of the new year to buy new books." Unhappily, in 1623,
his library was destroyed by fire, an accident serio-comically described
in his witty poem, "An Execration upon Vulcan." Yet even now a book
turns up from time to time in which is inscribed, in fair large Italian
lettering, the name, Ben Jonson. With respect to Jonson's use of his
material, Dryden said memorably of him: "[He] was not only a professed
imitator of Horace, but a learned plagiary of all the others; you track
him everywhere in their snow. ... But he has done his robberies so
openly that one sees he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades
authors like a monarch, and what would be theft in other poets is
only victory in him." And yet it is but fair to say that Jonson prided
himself, and justly, on his originality. In "Catiline," he not only uses
Sallust's account of the conspiracy, but he models some of the speeches
of Cicero on the Roman orator's actual words. In "Poetaster," he lifts
a whole satire out of Horace and dramatises it effectively for his
purposes. The sophist Libanius suggests the situation of "The Silent
Woman"; a Latin comedy of Giordano Bruno, "Il Candelaio," the relation
of the dupes and the sharpers in "The Alchemist," the "Mostellaria" of
Plautus, its admirable opening scene. But Jonson commonly bettered his
sources, and putting the stamp of his sovereignty on whatever bullion he
borrowed made it thenceforward to all time current and his own.
The lyric and especially the occasional poetry of Jonson has a peculiar
merit. His theory demanded design and the perfection of literary finish.
He was furthest from the rhapsodist and the careless singer of an
idle day; and he believed that Apollo could only be worthily served in
singing robes and laurel crowned. And yet many of Jonson's lyrics will
live as long as the language. Who does not know "Queen and huntress,
chaste and fair." "Drink to me only with thine eyes," or "Still to be
neat, still to be dressed"? Beautiful in form, deft and graceful in
expression, with not a word too much or one that bears not its part
in the total effect, there is yet about the lyrics of Jonson a
certain stiffness and formality, a suspicion that they were not quite
spontaneous and unbidden, but that they were carved, so to speak,
with disproportionate labour by a potent man of letters whose habitual
thought is on greater things. It is for these reasons that Jonson is
even better in the epigram and in occasional verse where rhetorical
finish and pointed wit less interfere with the spontaneity and emotion
which we usually associate with lyrical poetry. There are no such
epitaphs as Ben Jonson's, witness the charming ones on his own children,
on Salathiel Pavy, the child-actor, and many more; and this even though
the rigid law of mine and thine must now restore to William Browne of
Tavistock the famous lines beginning: "Underneath this sable hearse."
Jonson is unsurpassed, too, in the difficult poetry of compliment,
seldom falling into fulsome praise and disproportionate similtude, yet
showing again and again a generous appreciation of worth in others, a
discriminating taste and a generous personal regard. There was no man in
England of his rank so well known and universally beloved as Ben Jonson.
The list of his friends, of those to whom he had written verses, and
those who had written verses to him, includes the name of every man of
prominence in the England of King James. And the tone of many of these
productions discloses an affectionate familiarity that speaks for the
amiable personality and sound worth of the laureate. In 1619, growing
unwieldy through inactivity, Jonson hit upon the heroic remedy of a
journey afoot to Scotland. On his way thither and back he was hospitably
received at the houses of many friends and by those to whom his friends
had recommended him. When he arrived in Edinburgh, the burgesses met to
grant him the freedom of the city, and Drummond, foremost of Scottish
poets, was proud to entertain him for weeks as his guest at Hawthornden.
Some of the noblest of Jonson's poems were inspired by friendship.
Such is the fine "Ode to the memory of Sir Lucius Cary and Sir Henry
Moryson," and that admirable piece of critical insight and filial
affection, prefixed to the first Shakespeare folio, "To the memory of
my beloved master, William Shakespeare, and what he hath left us." to
mention only these. Nor can the earlier "Epode," beginning "Not to know
vice at all," be matchedin stately gravity and gnomic wisdom in its own
wise and stately age.
But if Jonson had deserted the stage after the publication of his folio
and up to the end of the reign of King James, he was far from inactive;
for year after year his inexhaustible inventiveness continued to
contribute to the masquing and entertainment at court. In "The Golden
Age Restored," Pallas turns from the Iron Age with its attendant
evils into statues which sink out of sight; in "Pleasure Reconciled to
Virtue," Atlas figures represented as an old man, his shoulders covered
with snow, and Comus, "the god of cheer or the belly," is one of the
characters, a circumstance which an imaginative boy of ten, named John
Milton, was not to forget. "Pan's Anniversary," late in the reign
of James, proclaimed that Jonson had not yet forgotten how to write
exquisite lyrics, and "The Gipsies Metamorphosed" displayed the old
drollery and broad humorous stroke still unimpaired and unmatchable.
These, too, and the earlier years of Charles were the days of the Apollo
Room of the Devil Tavern where Jonson presided, the absolute monarch of
English literary Bohemia. We hear of a room blazoned about with Jonson's
own judicious 'Leges Convivales' in letters of gold, of a company made
up of the choicest spirits of the time, devotedly attached to their
veteran dictator, his reminiscences, opinions, affections, and enmities.
And we hear, too, of valorous potations; but in the words of Herrick
addressed to his master, Jonson, at the Devil Tavern, as at the Dog, the
Triple Tun, and at the Mermaid,
"We such clusters had
As made us nobly wild, not mad,
And yet each verse of thine
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine."
But the patronage of the court failed in the days of King Charles,
though Jonson was not without royal favours; and the old poet returned
to the stage, producing, between 1625 and 1633, "The Staple of News,"
"The New Inn," "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last
doubtless revised from a much earlier comedy. None of these plays met
with any marked success, although the scathing generalisation of Dryden
that designated them "Jonson's dotages" is unfair to their genuine
merits. Thus the idea of an office for the gathering, proper dressing,
and promulgation of news (wild flight of the fancy in its time) was
an excellent subject for satire on the existing absurdities among the
newsmongers; although as much can hardly be said for "The Magnetic
Lady," who, in her bounty, draws to her personages of differing humours
to reconcile them in the end according to the alternative title, or
"Humours Reconciled." These last plays of the old dramatist revert to
caricature and the hard lines of allegory; the moralist is more than
ever present, the satire degenerates into personal lampoon, especially
of his sometime friend, Inigo Jones, who appears unworthily to have used
his influence at court against the broken-down old poet. And now disease
claimed Jonson, and he was bedridden for months. He had succeeded
Middleton in 1628 as Chronologer to the City of London, but lost the
post for not fulfilling its duties. King Charles befriended him, and
even commissioned him to write still for the entertainment of the court;
and he was not without the sustaining hand of noble patrons and devoted
friends among the younger poets who were proud to be "sealed of the
tribe of Ben."
Jonson died, August 6, 1637, and a second folio of his works, which
he had been some time gathering, was printed in 1640, bearing in its
various parts dates ranging from 1630 to 1642. It included all the plays
mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs, excepting "The Case is Altered;"
the masques, some fifteen, that date between 1617 and 1630; another
collection of lyrics and occasional poetry called "Underwoods, including
some further entertainments"; a translation of "Horace's Art of Poetry"
(also published in a vicesimo quarto in 1640), and certain fragments and
ingatherings which the poet would hardly have included himself. These
last comprise the fragment (less than seventy lines) of a tragedy called
"Mortimer his Fall," and three acts of a pastoral drama of much beauty
and poetic spirit, "The Sad Shepherd." There is also the exceedingly
interesting 'English Grammar' "made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of all
strangers out of his observation of the English language now spoken and
in use," in Latin and English; and 'Timber, or discoveries' "made upon
men and matter as they have flowed out of his daily reading, or had
their reflux to his peculiar notion of the times." The 'Discoveries',
as it is usually called, is a commonplace book such as many literary
men have kept, in which their reading was chronicled, passages that took
their fancy translated or transcribed, and their passing opinions noted.
Many passage of Jonson's 'Discoveries' are literal translations from the
authors he chanced to be reading, with the reference, noted or not, as
the accident of the moment prescribed. At times he follows the line
of Macchiavelli's argument as to the nature and conduct of princes; at
others he clarifies his own conception of poetry and poets by recourse
to Aristotle. He finds a choice paragraph on eloquence in Seneca the
elder and applies it to his own recollection of Bacon's power as an
orator; and another on facile and ready genius, and translates it,
adapting it to his recollection of his fellow-playwright,
Shakespeare. To call such passages--which Jonson never intended for
publication--plagiarism, is to obscure the significance of words.
To disparage his memory by citing them is a preposterous use of
scholarship. Jonson's prose, both in his dramas, in the descriptive
comments of his masques, and in the 'Discoveries', is characterised by
clarity and vigorous directness, nor is it wanting in a fine sense of
form or in the subtler graces of diction.
When Jonson died there was a project for a handsome monument to his
memory. But the Civil War was at hand, and the project failed. A
memorial, not insufficient, was carved on the stone covering his grave
in one of the aisles of Westminster Abbey:
"O rare Ben Jonson."
FELIX E. SCHELLING.
THE COLLEGE, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
The following is a complete list of his published works:--
DRAMAS. --
Every Man in his Humour, 4to, 1601;
The Case is Altered, 4to, 1609;
Every Man out of his Humour, 4to, 1600;
Cynthia's Revels, 4to, 1601;
Poetaster, 4to, 1602;
Sejanus, 4to, 1605;
Eastward Ho (with Chapman and Marston), 4to, 1605;
Volpone, 4to, 1607;
Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, 4to, 1609 (?), fol., 1616;
The Alchemist, 4to, 1612;
Catiline, his Conspiracy, 4to, 1611;
Bartholomew Fayre, 4to, 1614 (?), fol., 1631;
The Divell is an Asse, fol., 1631;
The Staple of Newes, fol., 1631;
The New Sun, 8vo, 1631, fol., 1692;
The Magnetic Lady, or Humours Reconcild, fol., 1640;
A Tale of a Tub, fol., 1640;
The Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, fol., 1641;
Mortimer his Fall (fragment), fol., 1640.
To Jonson have also been attributed additions to Kyd's Jeronymo, and
collaboration in The Widow with Fletcher and Middleton, and in the
Bloody Brother with Fletcher.
POEMS. --
Epigrams, The Forrest, Underwoods, published in fols., 1616,
1640;
Selections: Execration against Vulcan, and Epigrams, 1640;
G. Hor. Flaccus his art of Poetry, Englished by Ben Jonson,
1640;
Leges Convivialis, fol., 1692.
Other minor poems first appeared in Gifford's edition of Works.
PROSE. --
Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter, fol., 1641;
The English Grammar, made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of
Strangers, fol., 1640.
Masques and Entertainments were published in the early folios.
WORKS. --
Fol., 1616, vol. 2, 1640 (1631-41);
fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729;
edited by P. Whalley, 7 vols., 1756;
by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 vols., 1816, 1846;
re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 vols., 1871;
in 9 vols., 1875;
by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838;
by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series),
with Introduction by C. H. Herford, 1893, etc.;
Nine Plays, 1904; ed. H. C. Hart (Standard Library), 1906, etc;
Plays and Poems, with Introduction by H. Morley (Universal
Library), 1885;
Plays (7) and Poems (Newnes), 1905;
Poems, with Memoir by H. Bennett (Carlton Classics), 1907;
Masques and Entertainments, ed. by H. Morley, 1890.
SELECTIONS. --
J. A. Symonds, with Biographical and Critical Essay,
(Canterbury Poets), 1886;
Grosart, Brave Translunary Things, 1895;
Arber, Jonson Anthology, 1901;
Underwoods, Cambridge University Press, 1905;
Lyrics (Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher), the Chap Books,
No. 4, 1906;
Songs (from Plays, Masques, etc.), with earliest known setting,
Eragny Press, 1906.
LIFE. --
See Memoirs affixed to Works;
J. A. Symonds (English Worthies), 1886;
Notes of Ben Jonson Conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden;
Shakespeare Society, 1842;
ed. with Introduction and Notes by P. Sidney, 1906;
Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889.
EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR
TO THE MOST LEARNED, AND MY HONOURED FRIEND
MASTER CAMDEN
CLARENCIEUX
SIR,--There are, no doubt, a supercilious race in the world, who will
esteem all office, done you in this kind, an injury; so solemn a vice it
is with them to use the authority of their ignorance, to the crying down
of Poetry, or the professors: but my gratitude must not leave to correct
their error; since I am none of those that can suffer the benefits
conferred upon my youth to perish with my age. It is a frail memory
that remember s but present things: and, had the favour of the times so
conspired with my disposition, as it could have brought forth other, or
better, you had had the same proportion, and number of the fruits,
the first. Now I pray you to accept this; such wherein neither the
confession of my manners shall make you blush; nor of my studies,
repent you to have been the instructor: and for the profession of my
thankfulness, I am sure it will, with good men, find either praise or
excuse. Your true lover,
BEN JONSON.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
KNOWELL, an old Gentleman: OLIVER COB, a Water-bearer.
EDWARD KNOWELL, his Son. JUSTICE CLEMENT, an old merry
BRAINWORM, the Father's Man Magistrate.
GEORGE DOWNRIGHT, a plain Squire. ROGER FORMAL, his Clerk.
WELLBRED, his Half-Brother. Wellbred's Servant
KITELY, a merchant. DAME KITELY, KITELY'S Wife.
CAPTAIN BOBADILL, a Paul's Man. MRS. BRIDGET his Sister.
MASTER STEPHEN, a Country Gull. TIB Cob's Wife
MASTER MATHEW, the Town Gull.
THOMAS CASH, KITELY'S Cashier. Servants, etc.
SCENE,---LONDON
PROLOGUE.
Though need make many poets, and some such
As art and nature have not better'd much;
Yet ours for want hath not so loved the stage,
As he dare serve the ill customs of the age,
Or purchase your delight at such a rate,
As, for it, he himself must justly hate:
To make a child now swaddled, to proceed
Man, and then shoot up, in one beard and weed,
Past threescore years; or, with three rusty swords,
And help of some few foot and half-foot words,
Fight over York and Lancaster's king jars,
And in the tyring-house bring wounds to scars.
He rather prays you will be pleas'd to see
One such to-day, as other plays should be;
Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas,
Nor creaking throne comes down the boys to please;
Nor nimble squib is seen to make afeard
The gentlewomen; nor roll'd bullet heard
To say, it thunders; nor tempestuous drum
Rumbles, to tell you when the storm doth come;
But deeds, and language, such as men do use,
And persons, such as comedy would choose,
When she would shew an image of the times,
And sport with human follies, not with crimes.
Except we make them such, by loving still
Our popular errors, when we know they're ill.
I mean such errors as you'll all confess,
By laughing at them, they deserve no less:
Which when you heartily do, there's hope left then,
You, that have so grac'd monsters, may like men.
ACT I
SCENE I.---A Street.
Enter KNOWELL, at the door of his house.
Know.
A goodly day toward, and a fresh morning.--Brainworm!
Enter Brainworm.
Call up your young master: bid him rise, sir.
Tell him, I have some business to employ him.
Brai. I will, sir, presently.
Know.
But hear you, sirrah,
If he be at his book, disturb him not.
Brai. Very good, sir.
Know.
How happy yet should I esteem myself,
Could I, by any practice, wean the boy
From one vain course of study he affects.
He is a scholar, if a man may trust
The liberal voice of fame in her report,
Of good account in both our Universities,
Either of which hath favoured him with graces:
But their indulgence must not spring in me
A fond opinion that he cannot err.
Myself was once a student, and indeed,
Fed with the self-same humour he is now,
Dreaming on nought but idle poetry,
That fruitless and unprofitable art,
Good unto none, but least to the professors;
Which then I thought the mistress of all knowledge:
But since, time and the truth have waked my judgment.
And reason taught me better to distinguish T
he vain from the useful learnings.
Enter Master STEPHEN.
Cousin Stephen, What news with you, that you are here so early?
Step. Nothing, but e'en come to see how you do, unclo.
Know. That's kindly done; you are welcome, coz.
Step.
Ay, I know that, sir; I would not have come else.
How does my cousin Edward, uncle?
Know.
O, well, coz; go in and see; I doubt he be scarce stirring yet.
Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me, an he have e'er a book
of the science of hawking and hunting; I would fain borrow it.
Know. Why, I hope you will not a hawking now, will you?
Step. No, wusse; but I'll practise against next year, uncle. I have
bought me a hawk, and a hood, and bells and all; I lack nothing
but a book to keep it by.
Know. Oh, most ridiculous!
Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle:--Why, you know an a
man have not skill in the hawking and hunting languages now-a-days,
I'll not give a rush for him: they are more studied than the Greek,
or the Latin. He is for no gallant's company without them; and by
gadslid I scorn it, I, so I do, to be a consort for every humdrum:
hang them, scroyles! there's nothing in them i' the world. What do
you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company
with none but the archers of Finsbury, or the citizens that come a
ducking to Islington ponds! A fine jest, i' faith! 'Slid, a
gentleman mun shew himself like a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be
not angry; I know what I have to do, I trow. I am no novice.
Know.
You are a prodigal, absurd coxcomb, go to!
Nay, never look at me, 'tis I that speak;
Take't as you will, sir, I'll not flatter you.
Have you not yet found means enow to waste
That which your friends have left you, but you must
Go cast away your money on a buzzard,
And know not how to keep it, when you have done?
O, it is comely! this will make you a gentleman!
Well, cousin, well, I see you are e'en past hope
Of all reclaim:---ay, so; now you are told on't,
You look another way.
Step. What would you ha' me do?
Know.
What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman;
Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive;
That would I have you do: and not to spend
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,
Or every foolish brain that humours you.
I would not have you to invade each place,
Nor thrust yourself on all societies,
Till men's affections, or your own desert,
Should worthily invite you to your rank.
He that is so respectless in his courses,
Oft sells his reputation at cheap market.
Nor would I, you should melt away yourself
In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect
To make a blaze of gentry to the world,
A little puff of scorn extinguish it;
And you be left like an unsavoury snuff,
Whose property is only to offend.
I'd have you sober, and contain yourself,
Not that your sail be bigger than your boat;
But moderate your expenses now, at first,
As you may keep the same proportion still:
Nor stand so much on your gentility,
Which is an airy and mere borrow'd thing,
From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours,
Except you make, or hold it.
Enter a Servant.
Who comes here?
Serv. Save you, gentlemen!
Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our gentility, friend; yet you
are welcome: and I assure you mine uncle here is a man of a
thousand a year, Middlesex land. He has but one son in all the
world, I am his next heir, at the common law, master Stephen, as
simple as I stand here, if my cousin die, as there's hope he will:
I have a pretty living O' mine own too, beside, hard by here.
Serv. In good time, sir.
Step. In good time, sir! why, and in very good time, sir! You do
not flout, friend, do you?
Servo Not I, sir.
Step. Not you, sir! you were best not, sir; an you should; here be
them can perceive it, and that quickly too; go to: and they can
give it again soundly too, an need be.
Servo Why, sir, let this satisfy you; good faith, I had no such
intent.
Step. Sir, an I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that
presently.
Serv. Good master Stephen, so you may, sir, at your pleasure.
Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy companion! an you were out
O' mine uncle's ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon
my gentility neither, in't.
Know. Cousin, cousin, will this ne'er be left?
Step. Whoreson, basefellow! a mechanical serving-man! By this
cudgel, an 'twere not for shame, I would--
Know.
What would you do, you peremptory gull?
If you cannot be quiet, get you hence.
You see the honest man demeans himself
Modestly tow'rds you, giving no reply
To your unseason'd, quarrelling, rude fashion;
And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage
As void of wit, as of humanity.
Go, get you in; 'fore heaven, I am ashamed
Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me. [Exit Master Stephen.
Serv. I pray, sir, is this master Knowell's house?
Know. Yes, marry is it, sir.
Serv. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward
Knowell; do you know any such, sir, I pray you?
Know. I should forget myself else, sir.
Serv. Are you the gentleman? cry you mercy, sir: I was required by
a gentleman in the city, as I rode out at this end O' the town, to
deliver you this letter, sir.
Know. To me, sir! What do you mean? pray you remember your
court'sy. [Reads.] To his most selected friend, master Edward
Knowell. What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?
Nay, pray you be covered.
Serv. One master Wellbred, sir.
Know. Master Wellbred! a young gentleman, is he not?
Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister; the rich
merchant in the Old Jewry.
Know. You say very true.---Brainworm! [Enter Brainworm.
Brai. Sir.
Know. Make this honest friend drink here: pray you, go in.
[Exeunt Brainworm and Servant.
This letter is directed to my son;
Yet I am Edward Knowell too, and may,
With the safe conscience of good manners, use
The fellow's error to my satisfaction.
Well, I will break it ope (old men are curious),
Be it but for the style's sake and the phrase;
To see if both do answer my son's praises,
Who is almost grown the idolater
Of this young Wellbred. What have we here?
What's this? [Reads]
Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forsworn all thy friends in the
Old Jewry? or dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit there? yet,
if thou dost, come over, and but see our frippery; change an old
shirt for a whole smock with us: do not conceive that antipathy
between us and Hogsden, as was between Jews and hogs-flesh. Leave
thy vigilant father alone, to number over his green apricots,
evening and morning, on the north-west wall: an I had been his son,
I had saved him the labour long since, if taking in all the young
wenches that pass by at the back-door, and codling every kernel of
the fruit for them, would have served, But, pr'ythee, come over to
me quickly this morning; I have such a present for thee!--our
Turkey company never sent the like to the Grand Signior.
One is a rhymer, sir, of your own batch, your own leaven;
but doth think himself poet-major of the town, willing to be shewn,
and worthy to be seen. The other--I will not venture his
description with you, till you come, because I would have you make
hither with an appetite. If the worst of 'em be not worth your
journey draw your bill of charges, as unconscionable as any
Guildhall verdict will give it you, and you shall be allowed your
viaticum. From the Windmill.
From the Bordello it might come as well,
The Spittle, or Pict-hatch. Is this the man
My son hath sung so, for the happiest wit,
The choicest brain, the times have sent us forth!
I know not what he may be in the arts,
Nor what in schools; but, surely, for his manners,
I judge him a profane and dissolute wretch;
Worse by possession of such great good gifts,
Being the master of so loose a spirit.
Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ
In such a scurrilous manner to a friend!
Why should he think I tell my apricots,
Or play the Hesperian dragon with my fruit,
To watch it? Well, my son, I had thought you
Had had more judgment to have made election
Of your companions, than t' have ta'en on trust
Such petulant, jeering gamesters, that can spare
No argument or subject from their jest.
But I perceive affection makes a fool
Of any man too much the father.---Brainworm!
Enter BRAINWORM.
Brai. Sir.
Know. Is the fellow gone that brought this letter?
Brai. Yea, sir, a pretty while since.
Know. And where is your young master?
Brai. In his chamber, sir.
Know. He spake not with the fellow, did he?
Brai. No, sir, he saw him not.
Know. Take you this letter, and deliver it my son;
but with no notice that I have opened it, on your life.
Brai. O Lord, sir! that were a jest indeed. [Exit.
Know.
I am resolved I will not stop his journey,
Nor practise any violent means to stay
The unbridled course of youth in him; for that
Restrain'd, grows more impatient; and in kind
Like to the eager, but the generous greyhound,
Who ne'er so little from his game withheld,
Turns head, and leaps up at his holder's throat.
There is a way of winning more by love,
And urging of tho modesty, than fear:
Force works on servile natures, not the free.
He that's compell'd to goodness may be good,
But 'tis but for that fit; where others, drawn
By softness and example, get a habit.
Then, if they stray, but warn them, and the same
They should for virtue have done, they'll do for shame. [Exit.
SCENE II.-A Room in KNOWELL.'S House.
Enter E. KNOWELL, with a letter in his hand, followed by
BRAINWORM.
E. Know. Did he open it, say'st thou?
Brai. Yes, O' my word, sir, and read the contents.
E. Know. That scarce contents me. What countenance, prithee, made
he in the reading of it? was he angry, or pleased?
Brai. Nay, sir, I saw him not read it, nor open it, I assure your
worship.
E. Know. No! how know'st thou then that he did either?
Brai. Marry, sir, because he charged me, on my life, to tell nobody
that he open'd it; which, unless he had done, he would never fear
to have it revealed.
E. Know. That's true: well, I thank thee, Brainworm.
Enter STEPHEN.
Step. O, Brainworm, didst thou not see a fellow here in
what-sha-call-him doublet? he brought mine uncle a letter e'en now.
Brai. Yes, master Stephen; what of him?
Step. O, I have such a mind to beat him--where is he, canst thou
tell?
Brai. Faith, he is not of that mind: he is gone, master Stephen.
Step. Gone! which way? when went he? how long since?
Brai. He is rid hence; he took horse at the street-door.
Step. And I staid in the fields! Whoreson scanderbag rogue! O that
I had but a horse to fetch him back again!
Brai. Why, you may have my master's gelding, to save your longing,
sir.
Step. But I have no boots, that's the spite on't.
Brai. Why, a fine wisp of hay, roll'd hard, master Stephen.
Step. No, faith, it's no boot to follow him now: let him e'en go
and hang. Prithee, help to truss me a little: he does so vex me--
Brai. You'll be worse vexed when you are trussed, master Stephen.
Best keep unbraced, and walk yourself till you be cold; your choler
may founder you else.
Step. By my faith, and so I will, now thou tell'st me on't: how
dost thou like my leg, Brainworm?
Brai. A very good leg, master Stephen; but the woollen stocking
does not commend it so well.
Step. Foh! the stockings be good enough, now summer is coming on,
for the dust: I'll have a pair of silk against winter, that I go to
dwell in the town. I think my leg would shew in a silk hose--
Brai. Believe me, master Stephen, rarely well.
Step. In sadness, I think it would: I have a reasonable good leg.
Brai. You have an excellent good leg, master Stephen; but I can not
stay to praise it longer now, and I am very sorry for it.
[Exit.
Step. Another time will serve, Brainworm. Gramercy for this.
E. Know. Ha, ha, ha.
Step. 'Slid, I hope he laughs not at me; an he do--
E. Know. Here was a letter indeed, to be intercepted by a man's
father, and do him good with him! He cannot but think most
virtuously, both of me, and the sender, sure, that make the careful
costermonger of him in our familiar epistles. Well, if he read this
with patience I'll be gelt, and troll ballads for master John
Trundle yonder, the rest of my mortality. It is true, and likely,
my father may have as much patience as another man, for he takes
much physic; and oft taking physic makes a man very patient. But
would your packet, master Wellbred, had arrived at him in such a
minute of his patience! then we had known the end of it, which now
is doubtful, and threatens--[Sees Master Stephen.] What, my wise
cousin! nay, then I'll furnish our feast with one gull more toward
the mess. He writes to me of a brace, and here's one, that's three:
oh, for a fourth, Fortune, if ever thou' It use thine eyes, I
entreat thee--
Step. Oh, now I see who he laughed at: he laughed at somebody in
that letter. By this good light, an he had laughed at me--
E. Know. How now, cousin Stephen, melancholy?
Step. Yes, a little: I thought you had laughed at me, cousin.
E. Know. Why, what an I had, coz? what would you have done?
Step. By this light, I would have told mine uncle.
E. Know. Nay, if you would have told your uncle, I did laugh at
you, coz.
Step. Did you, indeed?
E. Know. Yes, indeed.
Step. Why then
E. Know. What then?
Step. I am satisfied; it is sufficient.
E. Know. Why, be so, gentle coz: and, I pray you, let me entreat a
courtesy of you. I am sent for this morning by a friend in the Old
Jewry, to come to him; it is but crossing over the fields to
Moorgate: Will you bear me company? I protest it is not to draw you
into bond or any plot against the state, coz.
Step. Sir, that's all one an it were; you shall command me twice so
far as Moorgate, to do you good in such a matter. Do you think I
would leave you? I protest--
E. Know. No, no, you shall not protest, coz.
Step. By my fackings, but I will, by your leave:--I'll protest more
to my friend, than I'll speak of at this time.
E. Know. You speak very well, coz.
Step. Nay, not so neither, you shall pardon me: but I speak to
serve my turn.
E. Know. Your turn, coz! do you know what you say? A gentleman
of your sorts, parts, carriage, and estimation, to talk of your
turn in this company, and to me alone, like a tankard-bearer
at a conduit! fie! A wight that, hitherto, his every step
hath left the stamp of a great foot behind him, as every word
the savour of a strong spirit, and he! this man! so graced, gilded,
or, to use a more fit metaphor, so tenfold by nature, as not ten
housewives' pewter, again a good time, shews more bright to the
world than he! and he! (as I said last, so I say again, and still
shall say it) this man! to conceal such real ornaments as these,
and shadow their glory, as a milliner's wife does her wrought
stomacher, with a smoaky lawn, or a black cyprus! O, coz! it cannot
be answered; go not about it: Drake's old ship at Deptford may
sooner circle the world again. Come, wrong not the quality of your
desert, with looking downward, coz; but hold up your head, so: and
let the idea of what you are be portrayed in your face, that men
may read in your physnomy, here within this place is to be seen the
true, rare, and accomplished monster, or miracle of nature, which
is all one. What think you of this, coz?
Step. Why, I do think of it: and I will be more proud, and
melancholy, and gentlemanlike, than I have been, I'll insure you.
E. Know. Why, that's resolute, master Stephen!--Now, if I can but
hold him up to his height, as it is happily begun, it will do well
for a suburb humour: we may hap have a match with the city, and
play him for forty pound.--Come, coz.
Step. I'll follow you.
E. Know. Follow me! you must go before.
Step. Nay, an I must, I will. Pray you shew me, good cousin.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.-The Lane before Cob's House.
Enter Master MATHEW:
Mat. I think this be the house: what ho!
Enter COB.
Cob. Who's there? O, master Mathew! give your worship good morrow.
Mat. What, Cob! how dost thou, good Cob? dost thou inhabit here,
Cob?
Cob. Ay, sir, I and my lineage have kept a poor house here, in Our
days.
Mat. Thy lineage, monsieur Cob! what lineage, what lineage?
Cob. Why, sir, an ancient lineage, and a princely. Mine ance'try
came from a king's belly, no worse man; and yet no man either, by
your worship's leave, I did lie in that, but herring, the king of
fish (from his belly I proceed), one of the monarchs of the world,
I assure you. The first red herring that was broiled in Adam and
Eve's kitchen, do I fetch my pedigree from, by the harrot's book.
His cob was my great, great, mighty great grandfather.
Mat. Why mighty, why mighty, I pray thee?
Cob. O, it was a mighty while ago, sir, and a mighty great cob.
Mat. How know'st thou that?
Cob. How know I! why, I smell his ghost ever and anon.
Mat. Smell a ghost! O unsavoury jest! and the ghost of a herring
cob?
Cob. Ay, sir: With favour of your worship's nose, master Mathew,
why not the ghost of a herring cob, as well as the ghost of Rasher
Bacon?
Mat. Roger Bacon, thou would'st say.
Cob. I say Rasher Bacon. They were both broiled on the coals; and a
man may smell broiled meat, I hope! you are a scholar, upsolve me
that now.
Mat. O raw ignorance!--Cob, canst thou shew me of a gentleman, one
captain Bobadill, where his lodging is?
Cob. O, my guest, sir, you mean.
Mat. Thy guest! alas, ha, ha, ha!
Cob. Why do you laugh, sir? do you not mean captain Bobadill?
Mat. Cob, pray thee advise thyself well; do not wrong the
gentleman, and thyself too. I dare be sworn, he scorns thy house;
he! he lodge in such a base obscure place as thy house! Tut, I know
his disposition so well, he would not lie in thy bed if thou'dst
give it him.
Cob. I will not give it him though, sir. Mass, I thought somewhat
was in it, we could not get him to bed all night: Well, sir, though
he lie not on my bed, he lies on my bench: an't please you to go
up, sir, you shall find him with two cushions under his head, and
his cloak wrapped about him, as though he had neither won nor lost,
and yet, I warrant, he ne'er cast better in his life, than he has
done to-night.
Mat. Why, was he drunk?
Cob. Drunk, sir! you hear not me say so: perhaps he swallowed a
tavern-token, or some such device, sir, I have nothing to do
withal. I deal with water and not with wine--Give me my tankard
there, ho!--God be wi' you, sir. It's six o'clock: I should have
carried two turns by this. What ho! my stopple! come.
Enter Tib with a water-tankard.
Mat. Lie in a water-bearer's house! a gentleman of his havings!
Well, I'll tell him my mind.
Cob. What, Tib; shew this gentleman up to the captain.[Exit Tib
with Master Mathew.] Oh, an my house were the Brazen-head now!
faith it would e'en speak Moe fools yet. You should have some now
would take this master Mathew to be a gentleman, at the least. His
father's an honest man, a worshipful fishmonger, and so forth; and
now does he creep and wriggle into acquaintance with all the brave
gallants about the town, such as my guest is (O, my guest is a fine
man!), and they flout him invincibly. He useth every day to a
merchant's house where I serve water, one master Kitely's, in the
Old Jewry; and here's the jest, he is in love with
my master's sister, Mrs. Bridget, and calls her mistress; and there
he will sit you a whole afternoon sometimes, reading of these same
abominable, vile (a pox on 'em! I cannot abide them), rascally
verses, poetrie, poetrie, and speaking of interludes; 'twill make a
man burst to hear him. And the wenches, they do so jeer, and ti-he
at him--Well, should they do so much to me, I'd forswear them all,
by the foot of Pharaoh! There's an oath! How many water-bearers
shall you hear swear such an oath? O, I have a guest--he teaches
me-he does swear the legiblest of any man christened: By St.
George! the foot of Pharaoh! the body of me! as I am a gentleman
and a soldier! such dainty oaths! and withal he does take this same
filthy roguish tobacco, the finest and cleanliest! it would do a
man good to see the fumes come forth at's tonnels.--Well, he owes
me forty shillings, my wife lent him out of her purse, by sixpence
at a time, besides his lodging: I would I had it! I shall have it,
he says, the next action. Helterskelter, hang sorrow, care'll kill
a cat, up-tails all, and a louse for the hangman.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.-A Room in COB'S House.
BOBADILL discoved lying on a bench.
Bob. Hostess, hostess!
Enter TIB.
Tib. What say you, sir?
Bob. A cup of thy small beer, sweet hostess.
Tib. Sir, there's a gentleman below would speak with you.
Bob. A gentleman! 'odso, I am not within.
Tib. My husband told him you were, sir.
Bob. What a plague-what meant he?
Mat. [below.] Captain Bobadill!
Bob. Who's there!-Take away the bason, good hostess;--Come up, sir.
Tib. He would desire you to come up, cleanly house, here!
Enter MATHEW.
Mat. Save you, sir; save you, captain!
Bob. Gentle master Mathew! Is it you, sir? down.
Mat. Thank you, good captain; you may see I am somewhat audacious.
Bob. Not so, sir. I was requested to supper last night by a sort of
gallants, where you were wished for, and drunk to, I assure you.
Mat. Vouchsafe me, by whom, good captain?
Bob. Marry, by young Wellbred, and others.--Why, hostess, stool
here for this gentleman.
Mat. No haste, sir, 'tis very well.
Bob. Body O' me! it was so late ere we parted last night, I can
scarce open my eyes yet; I was but new risen, as you came; how
passes the day abroad, sir? you can tell.
Mat. Faith, some half hour to seven; Now, trust me, you have an
exceeding fine lodging here, very neat, and private.
Bob. Ay, sir: sit down, I pray you. Master Mathew, in any case
possess no gentlemen of our acquaintance with notice of my lodging.
Mat. Who? I, sir; no.
Bob. Not that I need to care who know it, for the cabin is
convenient; but in regard I would not be too popular, and generally
visited, as some are.
Mat. True, captain, I conceive you.
Bob. For, do you see, sir, by the heart of valour in me, except it
be to some peculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am
extraordinarily engaged, as yourself, or so, I could not extend
thus far.
Mat. O Lord, sir! I resolve so.
Bob. I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, above all the
tumult and roar of fortune. What new book have you there? What! Go
by, Hieronymo?
Mat. Ay: did you ever see it acted? Is't not well penned?
[While Master Mathew reads, Bobadill makes himself ready.
Bob. Well penned! I would fain see all the poets of these times pen
such another play as that was: they'll prate and swagger, and keep
a stir of art and devices, when, as I am a gentleman, read 'em,
they are the most shallow, pitiful, barren fellows, that live upon
the: face of the earth again.
Mat. Indeed here are a number of fine speeches in this book. O
eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears! there's a conceit!
fountains fraught with tears! O life, no life, but lively form of
death! another. O world, no world, but mass of public wrongs! a
third. Confused and fill'd with murder and misdeeds! a fourth. O,
the muses! Is't not excellent? Is't not simply the best that ever
you heard, captain? Ha! how do you like it?
Bob. 'Tis good.
Mat.
To thee, the purest object to my sense,
The most refined essence heaven covers,
Send I these lines, wherein I do commence
The happy state of turtle-billing lovers.
If they prove rough, unpolish'd, harsh, and rude,
Haste made the waste: thus mildly I conclude.
Bob. Nay, proceed, proceed. Where's this?
Mat. This, sir! a toy of mine own, in my non-age; the infancy of my
muses. But when will you come and see my study? good faith, I can
shew you some very good things I have done of late.--That boot
becomes your leg passing well, captain, methinks.
Bob. So, so; it's the fashion gentlemen now use.
Mat. Troth, captain, and now you speak of the fashion, master
Wellbred's elder brother and I are fallen out exceedingly: This
other day, I happened to enter into some discourse of a hanger,
which, I assure you, both for fashion and workmanship, was most
peremptory beautiful and gentlemanlike: yet he condemned, and cried
it down for the most pied and ridiculous that ever he saw.
Bob. Squire Downright, the half brother, was't not?
Mat. Ay, sir, he.
Bob. Hang him, rook! he! why he-has no more judgment than a malt
horse: By St. George, I wonder you'd lose a thought upon such an
animal; the most peremptory absurd clown of Christendom, this day,
he is holden. I protest to you, as I am a gentleman and a soldier,
I ne'er changed with his like. By his discourse, he should eat
nothing but hay; he was born for the manger, pannier, or
pack-saddle. He has not so much as a good phrase in his belly, but
all old iron and rusty proverbs: a good commodity for some smith to
make hob-nails of.
Mat. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with his manhood still,
where he comes: he brags he will give me the bastinado, as I hear.
Bob. How! he the bastinado! how came he by that word, trow?
Mat. Nay, indeed, he said cudgel me; I termed it so, for my more
grace.
Bob. That may be: for I was sure it was none of his word; but when,
when said he so?
Mat. Faith, yesterday, they say; a young gallant, a friend of mine,
told me so.
Bob. By the foot of Pharaoh, an 'twere my case now, I should send
him a chartel presently. The bastinado! a most proper and
sufficient dependence, warranted by the great Caranza. Come hither,
you shall chartel him; I'll shew you a trick or two you shall kill
him with at pleasure; the first stoccata, if you will, by this air.
Mat. Indeed, you have absolute knowledge in the mystery, I have
heard, sir.
Bob. Of whom, of whom, have you heard it, I beseech you?
Mat. Troth, I have heard it spoken of divers, that you have very
rare, and un-in-one-breath-utterable skill, sir.
Bob. By heaven, no, not I; no skill in the earth; some small
rudiments in the science, as to know my time, distance, or so. I
have professed it more for noblemen and gentlemen's use, than mine
own practice, I assure you.--Hostess, accommodate us with another
bed-staff here quickly. Lend us another bed-staff--the woman does
not understand the words of action.--Look you, sir: exalt not your
point above this state, at any hand, and let your poniard maintain
your defence, thus:--give it the gentleman, and leave us. [Exit Tib.]
So, sir. Come on: O, twine your body more about, that you may
fall to a more sweet, comely, gentlemanlike guard; so! indifferent:
hollow your body more, sir, thus: now, stand fast O' your left leg,
note your distance, keep your due proportion of time--oh, you
disorder your point most i rregularly.
Mat. How is the bearing of it now, sir?
Bob. O, out of measure ill: a well-experienced hand would pass upon
you at pleasure.
Mat. How mean you, sir, pass upon me?
Bob. Why, thus, sir,--make a thrust at me--[Master Mathew pushes at
Bobadill] come in upon the answer, control your point, and make a
full career at the body: The best-practised gallants of the time
name it the passado; a most desperate thrust, believe it.
Mat. Well, come, sir.
Bob. Why, you do not manage your weapon with any facility or grace
to invite me. I have no spirit to play with you; your dearth of
judgment renders you tedious.
Mat. But one venue, sir.
Bob. Venue! fie; the most gross denomination as ever I heard: O,
the stoccata, while you live, sir; note that.--Come, put on your
cloke, and we'll go to some private place where you are acquainted;
some tavern, or so--and have a bit. I'll send for one of these
fencers, and he shall breathe you, by my direction; and then I will
teach you your trick: you shall kill him with it at the first, if
you please. Why, I will learn you, by the true judgment of the eye,
hand, and foot, to control any enemy's point in the world. Should
your adversary confront you with a pistol, 'twere nothing, by this
hand! you should, by the same rule, control his bullet, in a line,
except it were hail shot, and spread. What money have you about
you, master Mathew?
Mat. Faith, I have not past a two shilling or so.
Bob. 'Tis somewhat with the least; but come; we will have a bunch
of radish and salt to taste our wine, and a pipe of tobacco to
close the orifice of the stomach: and then we'll call upon young
Wellbred: perhaps we shall meet the Corydon his brother there, and
put him to the question.
ACT II
SCENE I.-The Old Jewry. A Hall in KITELY'S House.
Enter KITELY, CASH, and DOWNRIGHT.
Kit.
Thomas, come hither.
There lies a note within upon my desk;
Here take my key: it is no matter neither.---
Where is the boy?
Cash. Within, sir, in the warehouse.
Kit.
Let him tell over straight that Spanish gold,
And weigh it, with the pieces of eight. Do you
See the delivery of those silver stuffs
To Master Lucar: tell him, if he will,
He shall have the grograns, at the rate I told him,
And I. will meet him on the Exchange anon.
Cash. Good, sir. [Exit.
Kit. Do you see that fellow, brother Downright?
Dow. Ay, what of him?
Kit. He is a jewel, brother.
I took him of a child up at my door,
And christen'd him, gave him mine own name, Thomas:
Since bred him at the Hospital; where proving
A toward imp, I call'd him home, and taught him
So much, as I have made him my cashier,
And giv'n him, who had none, a surname, Cash:
And find him in his place so full of faith,
That I durst trust my life into his hands.
Dow.
So would not I in any bastard's, brother,
As it is like he is, although I knew
Myself his father. But you said you had somewhat
To tell me, gentle brother: what is't, what is't?
Kit.
Faith, I am very loath to utter it,
As fearing it may hurt your patience:
But that I know your judgment is of strength,
Against the nearness of affection---
Dow.
What need this circumstance? pray you, be direct.
Kit.
I will not say how much I do ascribe
Unto your friendship, nor in what regard
I hold your love; but let my past behaviour,
And usage of your sister, [both] confirm
How well I have been affected to your---
Dow.
You are too tedious; come to the matter, the matter.
Kit.
Then, without further ceremony, thus.
My brother Wellbred, sir, I know not how,
Of late is much declined in what he was,
And greatly alter'd in his disposition.
When he came first to lodge here in my house,
Ne'er trust me if I were not proud of him:
Methought he bare himself in such a fashion,
So full of man, and sweetness in his carriage,
And what was chief, it shew'd not borrow'd in him,
But all he did became him as his own,
And seem'd as perfect, proper, and possest,
As breath with life, or colour with the blood.
But now, his course is so irregular,
So loose, affected, and deprived of grace,
And he himself withal so far fallen off
From that first place, as scarce no note remains,
To tell men's judgments where he lately stood.
He's grown a stranger to all due respect,
Forgetful of his friends; and not content
To stale himself in all societies,
He makes my house here common as a mart,
A theatre, a public receptacle
For giddy humour, and deceased riot;
And here, as in a tavern or a stews,
He and his wild associates spend their hours,
In repetition of lascivious jests,
Swear, leap, drink, dance, and revel night by night,
Control my servants; and, indeed, what not?
Dow. 'Sdeins, I know not what I should say to him, in the whole
world! He values me at a crack'd three-farthings, for aught I see.
It will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone. I have
told him enough, one would think, if that would serve; but counsel
to him is as good as a shoulder of mutton to a sick horse. Well!
he knows what to trust to, for George: let him spend, and spend,
and domineer, till his heart ake; an he think to be relieved by
me, when he is got into one O' your city pounds, the counters, he
has the wrong sow by the ear, i'faith; and claps his dish at the
wrong man's door: I'll lay my hand on my halfpenny, ere I part
with it to fetch him out, I'll assure him.'
Kit. Nay, good brother, let it not trouble you thus.
Dow. 'Sdeath! he mads me; I could eat my very spur leathers for
anger! But, why are you so tame? why do you not speak to him, and
tell him how he disquiets your house?
Kit.
O, there are divers reasons to dissuade me.
But, would yourself vouchsafe to travail in it
(Though but with plain and easy circumstance),
It would both come much better to his sense,
And savour less of stomach, or of passion.
You are his elder brother, and that title
Both gives and warrants your authority,
Which, by your presence seconded, must breed
A kind of duty in him, and regard:
Whereas, if I should intimate the least,
It would but add contempt to his neglect,
Heap worse on ill, make up a pile of hatred,
That in the rearing would come tottering down,
And in the ruin bury all our love.
Nay, more than this, brother; if I should speak,
He would be ready, from his heat of humour,
And overflowing of the vapour in him,
To blow the ears of his familiars
With the false breath of telling what disgraces,
And low disparagement's, I had put upon him.
Whilst they, sir, to relieve him in the fable,
Make their loose comments upon every word,
Gesture, or look, I use; mock me all over,
From my flat cap unto my shining shoes;
And, out of their impetuous rioting phant'sies,
Beget some slander that shall dwell with me.
And what would that be, think you? marry, this:
They would give out, because my wife is fair,
Myself but lately married; and my sister '.
Here sojourning a virgin in my house,
That I were jealous I---nay, as sure as death,
That they would say: and, how that I had quarrell'd,
My brother purposely, thereby to find
An apt pretext to banish them my house.
Dow. Mass, perhaps so; they're like enough to do it.
Kit.
Brother, they would, believe it; so should I,
Like one of these penurious quack-salvers,
But set the bills up to mine own disgrace,
And try experiments upon myself;
Lend scorn and envy opportunity
To stab my reputation and good name--
Enter Master MATHEW struggling with BOBADILL.
Mat. I will speak to him.
Bob. Speak to him! away! By the foot of Pharaoh, you shall not! you
shall not do him that grace.--The time of day to you, gentleman O'
the house. Is master Wellbred stirring?
Dow. How then? what should he do?
Bob. Gentleman of the house, it is to you: is he within, sir?
Kit. He came not to his lodging to-night, sir, I assure you.
Dow. Why, do you hear? you!
Bob.
The gentleman citizen hath satisfied me;
I'll talk to no scavenger. [Exeunt Bob. and Mat.
Dow. How! scavenger! stay, sir, stay!
Kit. Nay, brother Downright.
Dow. 'Heart! stand you away, an you love me.
Kit. You shall not follow him now, I pray you, brother, good faith
you shall not; I will overrule you.
Dow. Ha! scavenger! well, go to, I say little: but, by this good
day (God forgive me I should swear), if I put it up so, say I am
the rankest cow that ever pist. 'Sdeins, an I swallow this, I'll
ne'er draw my sword in the sight of Fleet-street again while I
live; I'll sit in a barn with madge-howlet, and catch mice first.
Scavenger! heart!--and I'll go near to fill that huge tumbrel-slop
of yours with somewhat, an I have good luck: your Garagantua breech
cannot carry it away so.
Kit. Oh, do not fret yourself thus: never think on't.
Dow. These are my brother's consorts, these! these are his
camerades, his walking mates! he's a gallant, cavaliero too,
right hangman cut! Let me not live, an I could not find in my heart
to swinge the whole gang of 'em, one after another, and begin with
him first. I am grieved it should be said he is my brother, and
take these courses: Well, as he brews, so shall he drink, for
George, again. Yet he shall hear on't, and that tightly too, an I
live, i'faith.
Kit.
But, brother, let your reprehension, then,
Run in an easy current, not o'er high
Carried with rashness, or devouring choler;
But rather use the soft persuading way,
Whose powers will work more gently, and compose
The imperfect thoughts you labour to reclaim;
More winning, than enforcing the consent.
Dow. Ay, ay, let me alone for that, I warrant you.
Kit.
How now! [Bell rings.] Oh, the bell rings to breakfast.
Brother, I pray you go in, and bear my wife company till I come;
I'll but give order for some despatch of business to my servants.
[Exit Downright. Enter COB, with his tankard.
Kit.
What, Cob! our maids will have you by the back, i'faith, for
coming so late this morning.
Cob.
Perhaps so, sir; take heed somebody have not them by the belly,
for walking so late in the evening. [Exit.
Kit.
Well; yet my troubled spirit's somewhat eased,
Though not reposed in that security
As I could wish: but I must be content,
Howe'er I set a face on't to the world.
Would I had lost this finger at a venture,
So Wellbred had ne'er lodged within my house.
Why't cannot be, where there is such resort
Of wanton gallants, and young revellers,
That any woman should be honest long.
Is't like, that factious beauty will preserve
The public weal of chastity unshaken,
When such strong motives muster, and make head
Against her single peace? No, no: beware.
When mutual appetite doth meet to treat,
And spirits of one kind and quality
Come once to parley in the pride of blood,
It is no slow conspiracy that follows.
Well, to be plain, if I but thought the time
Had answer'd their affections, all the world
Should not persuade me but I were a cuckold.
Marry, I hope they have not got that start;
For opportunity hath balk'd them yet,
And shall do still, while I have eyes and ears
To attend the impositions of my heart.
My presence shall be as an iron bar,
'Twixt the conspiring motions of desire:
Yea, every look or glance mine eye ejects
Shall check occasion, as one doth his slave,
When he forgets the limits of prescription.
Enter Dame KITELY and BRIDGET.
Dame K. Sister Bridget, pray you fetch down the rose-water,
above in the closet.---
[Exit Bridget.
Sweet-heart, will you come in to breakfast?
Kit. An she have overheard me now!---
Dame K. I pray thee, good muss, we stay for you.
Kit. By heaven, I would not for a thousand angels.
Dame K. What ail you, sweet-heart? are you not well? speak, good
muss.
Kit. Troth my head akes extremely on a sudden.
Dame K. [putting her hand to his forehead.] O, the Lord!
Kit. How now! What?
Dame K. Alas, how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth it is
this new disease. There's a number are troubled withal. For love's
sake, sweetheart, come in, out of the air.
Kit.
How simple, and how subtle are her answers!
A new disease, and many troubled with it?
Why true; she heard me, all the world to nothing.
Dame K. I pray thee, good sweet-heart, come in; the air will do you
harm, in troth.
Kit. The air! she has me in the wind.--Sweet-heart, I'll come to
you presently; 'twill away, I hope.
Dame K. Pray Heaven it do. [Exit.
Kit.
A new disease! I. know not, new or old,
But it may well be call'd poor mortals' plague;
For, like a pestilence, it doth infect
The houses of the brain. First it begins
Solely to work upon the phantasy,
Filling her seat with such pestiferous air,
As soon corrupts the judgment; and from thence,
Sends like contagion to the memory:
Still each to other giving the infection.
Which as a subtle vapour spreads itself
Confusedly through every sensive part,
Till not a thought or motion in the mind
Be free from the black poison of suspect.
Ah! but what misery is it to know this?
Or, knowing it, to want the mind's erection
In such extremes? Well, I will once more strive,
In spite of this black cloud, myself to be,
And shake the fever off that thus shakes me. [Exit.
SCENE II.---Moorfields.
Enter BRAINWORM disguised like a maimed Soldier.
Brai. 'Slid, I cannot choose but laugh to see myself translated
thus, from a poor creature to a creator; for now must I create an
intolerable sort of lies, or my present profession loses the grace:
and yet the lie, to a man of my coat, is as ominous a fruit as the
fico. O, sir, it holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly
in vilest estimation, that inwardly is most dear to us: so much for
my borrowed shape. Well, the troth is, my old master intends to
follow my young master, dry-foot, over Moorfields to London, this
morning; now, I knowing of this hunting-match, or rather conspiracy,
and to insinuate with my young master (for so must we that are blue
waiters, and men of hope and service do, or perhaps we may wear
motley at the year's end, and who wears motley, you know), have got
me afore in this disguise, determining here to lie in ambuscado,
and intercept him in the mid-way. If I can but get his cloke, his
purse, and his hat, nay, any thing to cut him off, that is, to stay
his journey, Veni, vidi, vici, I may say with captain Caesar, I am
made for ever, i'faith. Well, now I must practise to get the true
garb of one of these lance-knights, my arm here, and my--Odso! my
young master, and his cousin, master Stephen, as I am true
counterfeit man of war, and no soldier!
Enter E. KNOWELL and STEPHEN.
E. Know. So, sir! and how then, coz?
Step. 'Sfoot! I have lost my purse, I think.
E. Know. How! lost your purse? where? when had you it?
Step. I cannot tell; stay.
Brai. 'Slid, I am afraid they will know me: would I could get by
them!
E. Know. What, have you it?
Step. No; I think I was bewitched, I-- [Cries.
E. Know. Nay, do not weep the loss: hang it, let it go.
Step. Oh, it's here: No, an it had been lost, I had not cared, but
for a jet ring mistress Mary sent me.
E. Know. A jet ring! O the poesie, the poesie?
Step. Fine, i'faith.
Though Fancy sleep,
My love is deep.
Meaning, that though I did not fancy her, yet she loved me dearly.
E. Know. Most excellent!
Step. And then I sent her another, and my poesie was,
The deeper the sweeter,
I'll be judg'd by St. Peter.
E. Know. How, by St. Peter? I do not conceive that.
Step. Marry, St. Peter, to make up the metre.
E. Know. Well, there the saint was your good patron, he help'd you
at your need; thank him, thank him.
Brai. I cannot take leave on 'em so; I will venture, come what
will. [Comes forward.] Gentlemen, please you change a few crowns
for a very excellent blade here? I am a poor gentleman, a soldier,
one that, in the better state of my fortunes, scorned so mean a
refuge; but now it is the humour of necessity to have it so. You
seem to be gentlemen well affected to martial men, else I should
rather die with silence, than live with shame: however, vouchsafe
to remember it is my want speaks, not myself; this condition agrees
not with my spirit--
E. Know. Where hast thou served?
Brai. May it please you, sir, in all the late wars of Bohemia,
Hungary, Dalmatia, Poland, where not, sir? I have been a poor
servitor by sea and land any time this fourteen years, and followed
the fortunes of the best commanders in Christendom. I was twice,
shot at the taking of Aleppo, once at the relief of Vienna; I have
been at Marseilles, Naples, and the Adriatic gulf, a
gentleman-slave in the gallies, thrice; where I was most
dangerously shot in the head, through both the thighs; and yet,
being thus maimed, I am void of maintenance, nothing left me but my
scars, the noted marks of my resolution.
Step. How will you sell this rapier, friend?
Brai. Generous sir, I refer it to your own judgment; you are a
gentleman, give me what you please.
Step. True, I am a gentleman, I know that, friend; but what though!
I pray you say, what would you ask?
Brai. I assure you, the blade may become the side or thigh of the
best prince in Europe.
E. Know. Ay, with a velvet scabbard, I think.
Step. Nay, an't be mine, it shall have a velvet scapbard, coz,
that's flat; I'd not wear it, as it is, an you would give me an
angel,
Brai. At your worship's pleasure, sir; nay, 'tis a most pure
Toledo.
Step. I had rather it were a Spaniard. But tell me, what shall I
give you for it? An it had a silver hilt
E. Know. Come, come, you shall not buy it: hold, there's a
shilling, fellow; take thy rapier.
Step. Why, but I will buy it now, because you say so; and there's
another shilling, fellow; I scorn to be out-bidden. What, shall I
walk with a cudgel, like Higginbottom, and may have a rapier for
money.
E. Know. You may buy one in the city.
Step. Tut! I'll buy this i' the field, so I will: I have a mind
to't, because 'tis a field rapier. Tell me your lowest price.
E. Know. You shall not buy it, I. say.
Step. By this money, but I will, though I give more than 'tis
worth.
E. Know. Come away, you are a fool.
Step. Friend, I am a fool, that's granted; but I'll have it, for
that word's sake. Follow me for your money.
Brai. At your service, sir.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.---Another Part of Moorfields.
Enter KNOWELL.
Know.
I cannot lose the thought yet of this letter,
Sent to my son; nor leave t' admire the change
Of manners, and the breeding of our youth
Within the kingdom, since myself was one---
When I was young, he lived not in the stews
Durst have conceived a scorn, and utter'd it,
On a gray head; age was authority
Against a buffoon, and a man had then
A certain reverence paid unto his years,
That had none due unto his life: so much
The sanctity of some prevail'd for others.
But now we all are fallen; youth, from their fear,
And age, from that which bred it, good example.
Nay, would ourselves were not the first, even parents,
That did destroy the hopes in our own children;
Or they not learn'd our vices in their cradles,
And suck'd in our ill customs with their milk;
Ere all their teeth be born, or they can speak,
We make their palates cunning; the first words
We form their tongues with, are licentious jests:
Can it call whore? cry bastard? O, then, kiss it!
A witty child! can't swear? the father's darling!
Give it two plums. Nay, rather than't shall learn
No bawdy song, the mother herself will teach it!---
But this is in the infancy, the days
Of the long coat; when it puts on the breeches,
It will put off all this: Ay, it is like,
When it is gone into the bone already!
No, no; this dye goes deeper than the coat,
Or shirt, or skin; it stains into the liver,
And heart, in some; and, rather than it should not,
Note what we fathers do! look how we live!
What mistresses we keep! at what expense,
In our sons' eyes! where they may handle our gifts,
Hear our lascivious courtships, see our dalliance,
Taste of the same provoking meats with us,
To ruin of our states! Nay, when our own
Portion is fled, to prey on the remainder,
We call them into fellowship of vice;
Bait 'em with the young chamber-maid, to seal,
And teach 'em all bad ways to buy affliction.
This is one path: but there are millions more,
In which we spoil our own, with leading them.
Well, I thank heaven, I never yet was he
That travell'd with my son, before sixteen,
To shew him the Venetian courtezans;
Nor read the grammar of cheating I had made,
To my sharp boy, at twelve; repeating still
The rule, Get money; still, get money, boy;
No matter by what means; money will do
More, boy, than my lord's letter. Neither have I
Drest snails or mushrooms curiously before him,
Perfumed my sauces, and taught him how to make them;
Preceding still, with my gray gluttony,
At all the ord'naries, and only fear'd
His palate should degenerate, not his manners.
These are the trade of fathers now; however,
My son, I hope, hath met within my threshold
None of these household precedents, which are strong,
And swift, to rape youth to their precipice.
But let the house at home be ne'er so clean
Swept, or kept sweet from filth, nay dust and cobwebs,
If he will live abroad with his companions,
In dung and leystals, it is worth a fear;
Nor is the danger of conversing less
Than all that I have mention'd of example.
Enter BRAIN WORM, disguised as before.
Brai. My master! nay, faith, have at you; I am flesh'd now, I have
sped so well. [Aside.] Worshipful sir, I beseech you, respect the
estate of a poor soldier; lam ashamed of this base course of
life,--God's my comfort--but extremity provokes me to't: what
remedy?
Know. I have not for you, now.
Brai. By the faith I bear unto truth, gentleman, it is no ordinary
custom in me, but only to preserve manhood. I protest to you, a man
I have been: a man I may be, by your sweet bounty.
Know. Pray thee, good friend, be satisfied.
Brai. Good sir, by that hand, you may do the part of a kind
gentleman, in lending a poor soldier the price of two cans of beer,
a matter of small value: the king of heaven shall pay you, and I
shall rest thankful: Sweet worship--
Know. Nay, an you be so importunate
Brai. Oh, tender sir! need will have its course: I was not made to
this vile use. Well, the edge of the enemy could not have abated me
so much: it's hard when a man hath served in his prince's cause,
and be thus. [Weeps.] Honourable worship, let me derive a small
piece of silver from you, it shall not be given in the course of
time. By this good ground, I was fain to pawn my rapier last night
for a poor supper; I had suck'd the hilts long before, am a pagan
else: Sweet honour--
Know.
Believe me, I am taken with some wonder,
To think a fellow of thy outward presence,
Should, in the frame and fashion of his mind,
Be so degenerate, and sordid-base.
Art thou a man? and sham'st thou not to beg,
To practise such a servile kind of life?
Why, were thy education ne'er so mean,
Having thy limbs, a thousand fairer courses
Offer themselves to thy election.
Either the wars might still supply thy wants,
Or service of some virtuous gentleman,
Or honest labour; nay, what can I name,
But would become thee better than to beg:
But men of thy condition feed on sloth,
As cloth the beetle on the dung she breeds in;
Nor caring how the metal of your minds
Is eaten with the rust of idleness.
Now, afore me, whate'er he be, that should
Relieve a person of thy quality,
While thou insist'st in this loose desperate course,
I would esteem the sin not thine, but his.
Brai. Faith, sir, I would gladly find some other course, if so---
Know.
Ay,
You'd gladly find it, but you will not seek it.
Brai. Alas, sir, where should a man seek? in the wars; there's no
ascent by desert in these days; but--and for service, would it
were as soon purchased, as wished for! the air's my comfort.---
[Sighs.]---l know what I would say.
Know. What's thy name?
Brai. Please you, Fitz-Sword, sir.
Know. Fitz-Sword!
Say that a man should entertain thee now,
Wouldst thou be honest, humble, just, and true?
Brai. Sir, by the place and honour of a soldier---
Know. Nay, nay, I like not these affected oaths; speak plainly,
man, what think'st thou of my words?
Brai. Nothing, sir, but wish my fortunes were as happy as my
service should be honest.
Know.
Well, follow me; I'll prove thee, if thy deeds
Will carry a proportion to thy words. [Exit.
Brai. Yes, sir, straight; I'll but garter my hose. Oh that my belly
were hoop'd now, for I am ready to burst with laughing! never was
bottle or bagpipe fuller. 'Slid, was there ever seen a fox in years
to betray himself thus! now shall I be possest of all his counsels;
and, by that conduit, my young master. Well, he is resolved to
prove my honesty; faith, and I'm resolved to prove his patience:
Oh, I shall abuse him intolerably. This small piece of service will
bring him clean out of love with the soldier for ever. He will
never come within the sign of it, the sight of a cassock, or a
musket-rest again. He will hate the musters at Mile-end for it, to
his dying day. It's no matter, let the world think me a bad
counterfeit, if I cannot give him the slip at an instant: why, this
is better than to have staid his journey: well, I'll follow him.
Oh, how I long to be employed!
[Exit.
ACT III
SCENE I.-The Old Jewry. A Room in the Windmill Tavern.
Enter Master MATHEW, WELLBRED, and BOBADILL.
Mat. Yes, faith, sir, we were at your lodging to seek you too.
Wel; Oh, I came not there to-night.
Bob. Your brother delivered us as much.
Wel. Who, my brother Downright?
Bob. He. Mr. Wellbred, I know not in what kind you hold me; but let
me say to you this: as sure as honour, I esteem it So much out of
the sunshine of reputation, to throw the least beam of regard upon
such a--
Wel. Sir, I must hear no ill words of my brother.
Bob. I protest to you, as I have a thing to be saved about me, I
never saw any gentlemanlike part--
Wel. Good captain, faces about to some other discourse.
Bob. With your leave, sir, an there were no more men living upon
th' face of the earth, I should not fancy him, by St. George!
Mat. Troth, nor I; he is of a rustical cut, I know not how: he doth
not carry himself like a gentleman of fashion.
Wel. Oh, master Mathew, that's a grace peculiar but to a few, quos
aequus amavit Jupiter.
Mat. I understand you, sir.
Wel. No question, you do,--or do you not, sir.
Enter E. KNOWELL and Master STEPHEN.
Ned Knowell! by my soul, welcome: how dost thou, sweet spirit, my
genius? 'Slid, I shall love Apollo and the mad Thespian girls the
better, while I live, for this, my dear Fury; now, I see there's
some love in thee. Sirrah, these be the two I writ to thee of: nay,
what a drowsy humour is this now! why dost thou not speak?
E. Know. Oh, you are a fine gallant; you sent me a rare letter.
Wel. Why, was't not rare?
E. Know. Yes, I'll be sworn, I was ne'er guilty of reading the
like; match it in all Pliny, or Symmachus's epistles, and I'll have
my judgment burn'd in the ear for a rogue: make much of thy vein,
for it is inimitable. But I marle what camel it was, that had the
carriage of it; for, doubtless, he was no ordinary beast that
brought it.
Wel. Why?
E. Know. Why, say'st thou! why, dost thou think that any reasonable
creature, especially in the morning, the sober time of the day too,
could have mistaken my father for me?
Wel. 'Slid, you jest, I hope.
E. Know. Indeed, the best use we can turn it to, is to make a jest
on't; now: but I'll assure you, my father had the full view of your
flourishing style some hour before I saw it.
Wel. What a dull slave was this! but, sirrah, what said he to it,
i'faith?
E. Know. Nay, I know not what he said; but I have a shrewd guess
what he thought.
Wel. What, what?
E. Know. Marry, that thou art some strange, dissolute young fellow,
and I--a grain or two better, for keeping thee company.
Wel. Tut! that thought is like the moon in her last quarter, 'twill
change shortly: but, sirrah, I pray thee be acquainted with my two
hang-by's here; thou wilt take exceeding pleasure in them if thou
hear'st 'em once go; my wind-instruments; I'll wind them up--But
what strange piece of silence is this, the sign of the Dumb Man?
E. Know. Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine, one that may make your music
the fuller, an he please; he has his humour, sir.
Wel. Oh, what is't, what is't?
E. Know. Nay, I'll neither do your judgment nor his folly that
wrong, as to prepare your apprehension: I'll leave him to the mercy
of your search; if you can take him, so!
Wel. Well, captain Bobadill, master Mathew, pray you know this
gentleman here; he is a friend of mine, and one that will deserve
your affection. I know not your name, sir, [to Stephen.] but I
shall be glad of any occasion to render me more familiar to you.
Step. My name is master Stephen, sir; I am this gentleman's own
cousin, sir; his father is mine uncle, sir: I am somewhat
melancholy, but you shall command me, sir, in whatsoever is
incident to a gentleman.
Bob. Sir, I must tell you this, I am no general man; but for master
Wellbred's sake, (you may embrace it at what height of favour you
please,) I do communicate with you, and conceive you to be a
gentleman of some parts; I love few words.
E. Know. And I fewer, sir; I have scarce enough to thank you.
Mat. But are you, indeed, sir, so given to it?
Step. Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to melancholy.
Mat. Oh, it's your only fine humour, sir: your true melancholy
breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, diver
times, sir, and then do I no more but take pen and paper,
presently, and overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets at
a sitting.
E. Know. Sure he utters them then by the gross. [Aside.
Step. Truly, sir, and I love such things out of measure.
E. Know. I'faith, better than in measure, I'll undertake.
Mat. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study, it's at your
service.
Step. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold I warrant you; have you a
stool there to be melancholy upon?
Mat. That I have, sir, and some papers there of mine own doing, at
idle hours, that you'll say there's some sparks of wit in 'em, when
you see them,
Wel. Would the sparks would kindle once, and become a fire amongst
them! I might see self-love burnt for her heresy. [Aside.
Step. Cousin, is it well? am I melancholy enough?
E. Know, Oh ay, excellent.
Wel. Captain Bobadill, why muse you so?
E. Know. He is melancholy too.
Bob. Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honourable piece of
service, was performed to-morrow, being St. Mark's day, shall be
some ten years now.
E. Know. In what place, captain?
Bob. Why, at the beleaguering of Strigonium, where, in less than
two hours, seven hundred resolute gentlemen, as any were in Europe,
lost their lives upon the breach. I'll tell you, gentlemen, it was
the first, but the best leaguer that ever I beheld with these eyes,
except the taking in of--what do you call it?--last year, by the
Genoways; but that, of all other, was the most fatal and dangerous
exploit that ever I was ranged in, since I first bore arms before
the face of the enemy, as I am a gentleman and a soldier!
Step. So! I had as lief as an angel I could swear as well as that
gentleman.
E. Know. Then, you were a servitor at both, it seems; at
Strigonium, and what do you call't?
Bob. O lord, sir! By St. George, I was the first man that entered
the breach; and had I not effected it with resolution, I had been
slain if I had had a million of lives.
E. Know. 'Twas pity you had not ten; a cat's and your own, i'faith.
But, was it possible?
Mat. Pray you mark this discourse, sir.
Step. So I do.
Bob. I assure' you, upon my reputation, 'tis true, and you shall
confess.
E. Know. You must bring me to the rack, first. [Aside.
Bob. Observe me judicially, sweet sir; they had planted me three
demi-culverins just in the mouth of the breach; now, sir, as we
were to give on, their master-gunner (a man of no mean skill and
mark, you must think,) confronts me with his linstock, ready to
give fire; I, spying his intendment, discharged my petronel in his
bosom, and with these single arms, my poor rapier, ran violently
upon the Moors that guarded the ordnance, and put them pell-mell,
to the sword.
Wel. To the sword! To the rapier, captain.
E. Know. Oh, it was a good figure observed, sir: but did you all
this, captain, without hurting your blade?
Bob. Without any impeach O' the earth: you shall perceive, sir.
[Shews his rapier.] It is the most fortunate weapon that ever rid
on poor gentleman's thigh. Shall I tell you, sir? You talk of
Morglay, Excalibur, Durindana, or so; tut! I lend no credit to that
is fabled of 'em: I know the virtue of mine own, and therefore I
dare the boldlier maintain it.
Step. I marle whether it be a Toledo or no.
Bob. A most perfect Toledo, I assure you, sir. Step. I have a
countryman of his here.
Mat. Pray you, let's see, sir; yes, faith, it is.
Bob. This a Toledo! Pish!
Step. Why do you pish, captain?
Bob. A Fleming, by heaven! I'll buy them for a guilder a-piece. An
I would have a thousand of them.
E. Know. How say you, cousin? I told you thus much.
Wel. Where bought you it, master Stephen?
Step. Of a scurvy rogue soldier: a hundred of lice go with him! He
swore it was a Toledo.
Bob. A poor provant rapier, no better.
Mat. Mass, I think it be indeed, now I look on't better.
E. Know. Nay, the longer you look on't, the worse. Put it up, put
it up.
Step. Well, I will put it up; but by--I have forgot the captain's
oath, I thought to have sword! by it,--an e'er I meet him--
Wel. O, it is past help now, sir; you must have patience.
Step. Whoreson, coney-hatching rascal! I could eat the very hilts
for anger.
E. Know. A sign of good digestion; you have an ostrich stomach,
Cousin.
Step. A stomach! would I had him here, you should see an I had a
stomach.
Wel. It's better as it is.--Come, gentlemen, shall we go?
Enter BRAINWORM, disguised as before.
E. Know. A miracle, cousin; look here, look here!
Step. Oh--'Od's lid. By your leave, do you know me, sir?
Brai. Ay, sir, I know you by sight.
Step. You sold me a rapier, did you not?
Brai. Yes, marry did I, sir.
Step. You said it was a Toledo, ha?
Brai. True, I did so.
Step. But it is none.
Brai. No, sir, I confess it; it is none.
Step. Do you confess it? Gentlemen, bear witness, he has confest
it:--'Od's will, an you had not confest it.===
E. Know. Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear! Step. Nay, I have done,
cousin.
Wel. Why, you have done like a gentleman; he has confest it, what
would you more?
Step. Yet, by his leave, he is a rascal, under his favour, do you
see.
E. Know. Ay, by his leave, he is, and under favour: a pretty piece
of civility! Sirrah, how dost thou like him?
Wel. Oh, it's a most precious fool, make much on him: I can compare
him to nothing more happily than a drum; for every one may play
upon him.
E. Know. No, no, a child's whistle were far the fitter.
Brai. Shall I intreat a word with you?
E. Know. With me, sir? you have not another Toledo to sell, have
you?
Brai. You are conceited, sir: Your name is Master Knowell, as I
take it?
E. Know. You are in the right; you mean not to proceed in the
catechism, do you?
Brai. No, sir; I am none of that coat.
E. Know. Of as bare a coat, though: well, say, sir.
Brai. [taking E. Know. aside.] Faith, sir, I am but servant to the
drum extraordinary, and indeed, this smoky varnish being washed
off, and three or four patches removed, I appear your worship's in
reversion, after the decease of your good father, Brainworm.
E. Know. Brainworm'! 'Slight, what breath of a conjurer hath blown
thee hither in this shape?
Brai. The breath of your letter, sir, this morning; the same that
blew you to the Windmill, and your father after you.
E. Know. My father!
Brai. Nay, never start, 'tis true; he has followed you over the
fields by the foot, as you would do a hare in the snow.
E. Know. Sirrah Wellbred, what shall we do, sirrah? my father is
come over after me.
Wel. Thy father! Where is he?
Brai. At justice Clement's house, in Coleman-street, where he but
stays my return; and then--
Wel. Who's this? Brainworm!
Brai. The same, sir.
Wel. Why how, in the name of wit, com'st thou transmuted thus?
Brai. Faith, a device, a device; nay, for the love of reason,
gentlemen, and avoiding the danger, stand not here; withdraw, and
I'll tell you all.
Wel. But art thou sure he will stay thy return?
Brai. Do I live, sir? what a question is that!
Wel. We'll prorogue his expectation, then, a little: Brainworm,
thou shalt go with us.--Come on, gentlemen.==-Nay, I pray thee,
sweet Ned, droop not; 'heart, an our wits be so wretchedly dull,
that one old plodding brain can outstrip us all, would we were e'en
prest to make porters of, and serve out the remnant of our days in
Thames-street, or at Custom-house key, in a civil war against the
carmen!
Brai. Amen, amen, amen, say I. [Exeunt.
SCENE II---The Old Jewry. KITELY'S Warehouse.
Enter KITELY and CASH.
Kit. What says he, Thomas? did you speak with him?
Cash. He will expect you, sir, within this half hour.
Kit. Has he the money ready, can you tell?
Cash. Yes, sir, the money was brought in last night.
Kit.
O, that is well; fetch me my cloak, my cloak!--- [Exit Cash.
Stay, let me see, an hour to go and come;
Ay, that will be the least; and then 'twill be
An hour before I can dispatch with him,
Or very near; well, I will say two hours.
Two hours! ha! things never dreamt of yet,
May be contrived, ay, and effected too,
In two hours' absence; well, I will not go.
Two hours! No, fleering Opportunity,
I will not give your subtilty that scope.
Who will not judge him worthy to be robb'd,
That sets his doors wide open to a thief,
And shews the felon where his treasure lies?
Again, what earthly spirit but will attempt
To taste the fruit of beauty's golden tree,
When leaden sleep seals up the dragon's eyes?
I will not go. Business, go by for once.
No, beauty, no; you are of too good caract,
To be left so, without a guard, or open,
Your lustre, too, 'll inflame at any distance,
Draw courtship to you, as a jet doth straws;
Put motion in a stone, strike fire from ice,
Nay, make a porter leap you with his burden.
You must be then kept up, close, and well watch'd,
For, give you opportunity, no quick-sand
Devours or swallows swifter! He that lends
His wife, if she be fair, or time or place,
Compels her to be false. I will not go!
The dangers are too many;---and then the dressing
Is a most main attractive! Our great heads
Within this city never were in safety
Since our wives wore these little caps: I'll change 'em;
I'll change 'em straight in mine: mine shall no more
Wear three-piled acorns, to make my horns ake.
Nor will I go; I am resolved for that.
Re-enter CASH with a cloak.
Carry in my cloak again. Yet stay. Yet do, too:
I will defer going, on all occasions.
Cash.
Sir, Snare, your scrivener, will be there with the bonds.
Kit.
That's true: fool on me! I had clean forgot it;
I must go. What's a clock?
Cash. Exchange-time, sir.
Kit.
'Heart, then will Wellbred presently be here too,
With one or other of his loose consorts.
I am a knave, if I know what to say,
What course to take, or which way to resolve.
My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass,
Wherein my imaginations run like sands,
Filling up time; but then are turn'd and turn'd:
So that I know not what to stay upon,
And less, to put in act.---It shall be so.
Nay, I dare build upon his secrecy,
He knows not to deceive me.---Thomas!
Cash. Sir.
Kit.
Yet now I have bethought me too, I will not.---
Thomas, is Cob within?
Cash. I think he be, sir.
Kit.
But he'll prate too, there is no speech of him.
No, there were no man on the earth to Thomas,
If I durst trust him; there is all the doubt.
But should he have a clink in him, I were gone.
Lost in my fame for ever, talk for th' Exchange!
The manner he hath stood with, till this present,
Doth promise no such change: what should I fear then?
Well, come what will, I'll tempt my fortune once.
Thomas---you may deceive me, but, I hope---
Your love to me is more---
Cash. Sir, if a servant's
Duty, with faith, may be call'd love, you are
More than in hope, you are possess'd of it.
Kit.
I thank you heartily, Thomas: give me your hand:
With all my heart, good Thomas. I have, Thomas,
A secret to impart unto you---but,
When once you have it, I must seal your lips up;
So far I tell you, Thomas.
Cash. Sir, for that---
Kit.
Nay, hear me out. Think I esteem you, Thomas,
When I will let you in thus to my private.
It is a thing sits nearer to my crest,
Than thou art 'ware of, Thomas; if thou should'st
Reveal it, but---
Cash. How, I reveal it?
Kit. Nay,
I do not think thou would'st; but if thou should'st,
'Twere a great weakness.
Cash. A great treachery:
Give it no other name.
Kit. Thou wilt not do't, then?
Cash.
Sir, if I do, mankind disclaim me ever!
Kit.
He will not swear, he has some reservation,
Some conceal'd purpose, and close meaning sure;
Else, being urg'd so much, how should he choose
But lend an oath to all this protestation?
He's no precisian, that I'm certain of,
Nor rigid Roman Catholic: he'll play
At fayles, and tick-tack; I have heard him swear.
What should I think of it? urge him again,
And by some other way! I will do so.
Well, Thomas, thou hast sworn not to disclose:---
Yes, you did swear?
Cash.
Not yet, sir, but I will,
Please you---
Kit.
No, Thomas, I dare take thy word,
But, if thou wilt swear, do as thou think'st; good;
I am resolv'd without It; at thy pleasure.
Cash.
By my soul's safety then, sir, I protest,
My tongue shall ne'er take knowledge of a word
Deliver'd me in nature of your trust.
Kit.
It is too much; these ceremonies need not:
I know thy faith to be as firm as rock.
Thomas, come hither, near; we cannot be
Too private in this business. So it is,---
Now he has sworn, I dare the safelier venture. [Aside.
I have of late, by divers observations---
But whether his oath can bind him, yea, or no,
Being not taken lawfully? ha! say you?
I will ask council ere I do proceed:---- [Aside.
Thomas, it will be now too long to stay,
I'll spy some fitter time soon, or to-morrow.
Cash. Sir, at your pleasure.
Kit. I will think:-and, Thomas,
I pray you search the books 'gainst my return,
For the receipts 'twixt me and Traps.
Cash. I will, sir.
Kit.
And hear you, if your mistress's brother, Wellbred,
Chance to bring hither any gentleman,
Ere I come back, let one straight bring me word.
Cash. Very well, sir.
Kit.
To the Exchange, do you hear?
Or here in Coleman-street, to justice Clement's.
Forget it not, nor be not out of the way.
Cash. I will not, sir.
Kit. I pray you have a care on't.
Or, whether he come or no, if any other,
Stranger, or else; fail not to send me word.
Cash. I shall not, sir.
Kit. Be it your special business
Now to remember it.
Cash. Sir, I warrant you.
Kit.
But, Thomas, this is not the secret, Thomas,
I told you of.
Cash. No, sir; I do suppose it.
Kit. Believe me, it is not.
Cash. Sir, I do believe you.
Kit.
By heaven it is not, that's enough: but, Thomas,
I would not you should utter it, do you see,
To any creature living; yet I care not.
Well, I must hence. Thomas, conceive thus much;
It was a trial of you, when I meant
So deep a secret to you, I mean not this,
But that I have to tell you; this is nothing, this.
But, Thomas, keep this from my wife, I charge you,
Lock'd up in silence, midnight, buried here.---
No greater hell than to be slave to fear. [Exit.
Cash.
Lock'd up in silence, midnight, buried here!
Whence should this flood of passion, trow, take head? ha!
Best dream no longer of this running humour,
For fear I sink; the violence of the stream
Already hath transported me so far,
That I can feel no ground at all: but soft---
Oh, 'tis our water-bearer: somewhat has crost him now.
Enter COB, hastily.
Cob. Fasting-days! what tell you me of fasting days? 'Slid, would
they were all on a light fire for me! they say the whole world
shall be consumed with fire one day, but would I had these
Ember-weeks and villanous Fridays burnt in the mean time, and
then--
Cash. Why, how now, Cob? what moves thee to this choler, ha?
Cob. Collar, master Thomas! I scorn your collar, I, sir; I am none
O' your cart-horse, though I carry and draw water. An you offer to
ride me with your collar or halter either, I may hap shew you a
jade's trick, sir.
Cash. O, you'll slip your head out of the collar? why, goodman Cob,
you mistake me.
Cob. Nay, I have my rheum, and I can be angry as well as another,
sir.
Cash. Thy rheum, Cob! thy humour, thy humour--thou misstak'st.
Cob. Humour! mack, I think it be so indeed; what is that humour?
some rare thing, I warrant.
Cash. Marry I'll tell thee, Cob: it is a gentlemanlike monster,
bred in the special gallantry of our time, by affectation; and fed
by folly.
Cob. How! must it be fed?
Cash. Oh ay, humour is nothing if it be not fed: didst thou never
hear that? it's a common phrase, feed my humour.
Cob. I'll none on it: humour, avaunt! I know you not, be gone! let
who will make hungry meals for your monstership, it shall not be I.
Feed you, quoth he! 'slid, I have much ado to feed myself;
especially on these lean rascally days too; an't had been any other
day but a fasting-day--a plague on them all for me! By this light,
one might have done the commonwealth good service, and have drown'd
them all in the flood, two or three hundred thousand years ago. O,
I do stomach them hugely. I have a maw now, and 'twere for sir
Bevis his horse, against them.
Cash. I pray thee, good Cob, what makes thee so out of love with
fasting days?
Cob. Marry, that which will make any man out of love with 'em, I
think; their bad conditions, an you will needs know. First they are
of a Flemish breed, I am sure on't, for they raven up more butter
than all the days of the week beside; next, they stink of fish and
leek-porridge miserably; thirdly, they'll keep a man devoutly
hungry all day, and at night send him supperless to bed.
Cash. Indeed, these are faults, Cob.
Cob. Nay, an this were all, 'twere something; but they are the only
known enemies to my generation. A fasting-day no sooner comes, but
my lineage goes to wrack; poor cobs! they smoak for it, they are
made martyrs O' the gridiron, they melt in passion: and your maids
to know this, and yet would have me turn Hannibal, and eat my own
flesh and blood. My princely coz, [pulls out a red herring] fear
nothing; I have not the heart to devour you, an I might be made as
rich as king Cophetua. O that I had room for my tears, I could weep
salt-water enough now to preserve the lives of ten thousand
thousand of my kin! But I may curse none but these filthy
almanacks; for an't were not for them, these days of persecution
would never be known. I'll be hang'd an some fish-monger's son do
not make of 'em, and puts in more fasting-days than he should do,
because he would utter his father's dried stock--fish and stinking
conger.
Cash. 'Slight peace! thou'lt be beaten like a stock-fish else:
here's master Mathew.
Enter WELLIBRED, E. KNOWELL, BRAINWORM,
MATHEW, BOBADILL, and STEPHEN.
Now must I look out for a messenger to my master.
[Exit with Cob.
Wel, Beshrew me, but it was an absolute good jest, and exceedingly
well carried!
E. Know. Ay, and our ignorance maintain'd it as well, did it not?
Wel. Yes, faith; but was it possible thou shouldst not know him? I
forgive master Stephen, for he is stupidity itself.
E. Know. 'Fore God, not I, an I might have been join'd patten with
one of the seven wise masters for knowing him. He had so writhen
himself into the habit of one of your poor infantry, your decayed;
ruinous, worm-eaten gentlemen of the round; such as have vowed to
sit on the skirts of the city, let your provost and his half-dozen
of halberdiers do what they can; and have translated begging out of
the old hackney-pace to a fine easy amble, and made it run as
smooth off the tongue as a shove-groat shilling. Into the likeness
of one of these reformados had he moulded himself so perfectly,
observing every trick of their action, as, varying the accent,
swearing with an emphasis, indeed, all with so special and
exquisite a grace, that, hadst thou seen him, thou wouldst have
sworn he might have been sergeant-major, if not lieutenant-colonel
to the regiment.
Wel. Why, Brainworm, who would have thought thou hadst been such an
artificer?
E. Know. An artificer! an architect. Except a man had studied
begging all his life time, and been a weaver of language from his
infancy for the cloathing of it, I never saw his rival.
Wel. Where got'st thou this coat, I marle?
Brai. Of a Hounsditch man, sir, one of the devil's near kinsmen, a
broker.
Wel. That cannot be, if the proverb hold; for 'A crafty knave needs
no broker.'
Brai. True, sir; but I did need a broker, ergo--
Wel. Well put off:--no crafty knave, you'll say.
E. Know. Tut, he has more of these shifts.
Brai. And yet, where I have one the broker has ten, sir.
Reenter CASH
Cash. Francis! Martin! ne'er a one to be found now? what a spite's
this!
Wel. How now, Thomas? Is my brother Kitely within?
Cash. No, sir, my master went forth e'en now; but master Downright
is within.--Cob! what, Cob! Is he gone too?
Wel. Whither went your master, Thomas, canst thou tell?
Cash. I know not: to justice Clement's, I think, sir--Cob!
[Exit
E. Know. Justice Clement! what's he? Wel.
Why, dost thou not know him? He is a city-magistrate, a justice
here, an excellent good lawyer, and a great scholar; but the only
mad, merry old fellow in Europe. I shewed him you the other day.
E. Know. Oh, is that he? I remember him now. Good faith, and he is
a very strange presence methinks; it shews as if he stood out of
the rank from other men: I have heard many of his jests in the
University. They say he will commit a man for taking the wall of
his horse.
Wel. Ay, or wearing his cloak on one shoulder, or serving of God;
any thing, indeed, if it come in the way of his humour.
Re-enter CASH.
Cash. Gasper! Martin! Cob! 'Heart, where should they be trow?
Bob. Master Kitely's man, pray thee vouchsafe us the lighting of
this match.
[Exit.
Cash. Fire on your match! no time but now to vouchsafe?--Francis!
Cob!
Bob. Body O' me! here's the remainder of seven pound since
yesterday was seven-night. 'Tis your right Trinidado: did you never
take any master Stephen?
Step. No, truly, sir; but I'll learn to take it now, since you
commend it so.
Bob. Sir, believe me, upon my relation for what I tell you, the
world shall not reprove. I have been in the Indies, where this herb
grows, where neither myself, nor a dozen gentlemen more of my
knowledge, have received the taste of any other nutriment in the
world, for the space of one and twenty weeks, but the fume of this
simple only: therefore, it cannot be, but 'tis most divine.
Further, take it in the nature, in the true kind; so, it makes an
antidote, that, had you taken the most deadly poisonous plant in
all Italy, it should expel it, and clarify you, with as much ease
as I speak. And for your green wound,--your Balsamum and your St.
John's wort, are all mere gulleries and trash to it, especially
your Trinidado: your Nicotian is good too. I could say what I know
of the virtue of it, for the expulsion of rheums, raw humours,
crudities, obstructions, with a thousand of this kind; but I
profess myself no quack-salver. Only thus much; by Hercules, I do
hold it, and will affirm it before any prince in Europe, to be the
most sovereign and precious weed that ever the earth tendered to
the use of man.
E. Know. This speech would have done decently in a tobacco-trader's
mouth.
Re-enter CASH with COB.
Cash. At justice Clement's he is, in the middle of Coleman-street.
Cob. Oh, oh!
Bob. Where's the match I gave thee, master Kitely's man?
Cash. Would his match and he, and pipe and all, were at Sancto
Domingo! I had forgot it.
[Exit.
Cob. 'Od's me, I marle what pleasure or felicity they have in
taking this roguish tobacco. It's good for nothing but to choke a
man, and fill him full of smoke and embers: there were four died
out of one house last week with taking of it, and two more the bell
went for yesternight; one of them, they say, will never scape it;
he voided a bushel of soot yesterday, upward and downward. By the
stocks, an there were no wiser men than I, I'd have it present
whipping, man or woman, that should but deal with a tobacco pipe:
why, it will stifle them all in the end, as many as use it; it's
little better than ratsbane or rosaker.
[Bobadill beats him.
All. Oh, good captain, hold, hold!
Bob. You base cullion, you!
Re-enter CASH.
Cash. Sir, here's your match. Come, thou must needs be talking too,
thou'rt well enough served.
Cob. Nay, he will not meddle with his match, I warrant you: well,
it shall be a dear beating, an I live.
Bob. Do you prate, do you murmur?
E. Know. Nay, good captain, will you regard the humour of a fool?
Away, knave.
Wel. Thomas, get him away. [Exit Cash with Cob.
Bob. A whoreson filthy slave, a dung-worm, an excrement! Body O'
Caesar, but that I scorn to let forth so mean a spirit, I'd have
stabb'd him to the earth.
Wel. Marry, the law forbid, sir!
Bob. By Pharaoh's foot, I would have done it.
Step. Oh, he swears most admirably! By Pharaoh's foot! Body O'
Caesar!--I shall never do it, sure. Upon mine honour, and by St.
George!--No, I have not the right grace.
Mat. Master Stephen, will you any? By this air, the most divine
tobacco that ever I drunk.
[Practises at the post.
As I am a gentleman! By-- [Exeunt Bob. and Mat.
Step. None, I thank you, sir. O, this gentleman does it rarely,
too: but nothing like the other. By this air!
Brai. [pointing to Master Stephen.] Master, glance, glance! master
Wellbred!
Step. As I have somewhat to be saved, I protest--
Wel. You are a fool; it needs no affidavit.
E. Know. Cousin, will you any tobacco?
Step. I, sir! Upon my reputation--
E. Know. How now, cousin!
Step. I protest, as I am a gentleman, but no soldier, indeed--
Wel. No, master Stephen! As I remember, your name is entered in the
artillery-garden.
Step. Ay, sir, that's true. Cousin, may I swear, as I am a soldier,
by that?
E. Know. O yes, that you may; it is all you have for your money.
Step. Then, as I am a gentleman, and a soldier, it is "divine
tobacco!"
Wel. But soft, where's master Mathew! Gone?
Brai. No, sir; they went in here.
Wel. O let's follow them: master Mathew is gone to salute his
mistress in verse; we shall have the happiness to hear some of his
poetry now; he never comes unfinished.--Brainworm!
Step. Brainworm! Where? Is this Brainworm?
E. Know. Ay, cousin; no words of it, upon your gentility.
Step. Not I, body of me! By this air! St. George! and the foot of
Pharaoh!
Wel. Rare! Your cousin's discourse is simply drawn out with oaths.
E. Know. 'Tis larded with them; a kind of French dressing, if you
love it.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III-Coleman-Street. A Room in Justice CLEMENT'S House.
Enter KITELY and COB.
Kit. Ha! how many are there, say'st thou?
Cob. Marry, sir, your brother, master Wellbred--
Kit. Tut, beside him: what strangers are there, man?
Cob. Strangers? let me see, one, two; mass; I know not well,--
there are so many.
Kit. How! so many?
Cob. Ay, there's some five or six of them at the most.
Kit.
A swarm, a swarm!
Spite of the devil...how they sting my head
With forked stings, thus wide and large!
But, Cob, How long hast thou been coming hither, Cob?
Cob. A little while, sir.
Kit. Didst thou come running?
Cob. No, sir.
Kit.
Nay, then I am familiar with thy haste.
Bane to my fortunes! what meant I to marry?
I, that before was rank'd in such content,
My mind at rest too, in so soft a peace,
Being free master of mine own free thoughts,
And now become a slave? What! never sigh;
Be of good cheer, man; for thou art a cuckold:
'Tis done, 'tis done! Nay, when such flowing-store,
Plenty itself, falls into my wife's lap,
The cornucopiae will be mine, I know.--But, Cob,
What entertainment had they? I am sure
My sister and my wife would bid them welcome: ha?
Cob. Like enough, sir; yet I heard not a word of it.
Kit.
No;
Their lips were seal'd with kisses, and the voice,
Drown'd in a flood of joy at their arrival,
Had lost her motion, state and faculty.--
Cob,
Which of them was it that first kiss'd my wife,
My sister, I should say?--My wife, alas!
I fear not her: ha! who was it say'st thou?
Cob. By my troth, sir, will you have the truth of it?
Kit. Oh, ay, good Cob, I pray thee heartily.
Cob. Then I am a vagabond, and fitter for Bridewell than your
worship's company, if I saw any body to be kiss'd, unless they
would have kiss'd the post in the middle of the warehouse; for
there I left them all at their tobacco, with a pox!
Kit. How! were they not gone in then ere thou cam'st?
Cob. O no, sir.
Kit. Spite of the devil! what do I stay here then? Cob, follow me.
[Exit.
Cob. Nay, soft and fair; I have eggs on the spit; I cannot go yet,
sir. Now am I, for some five and fifty reasons, hammering,
hammering revenge: oh for three or four gallons of vinegar, to
sharpen my wits! Revenge, vinegar revenge, vinegar and mustard
revenge! Nay, an he had not lien in my house, 'twould never have
grieved me; but being my guest, one that, I'll be sworn, my wife
has lent him her smock off her back, while his own shirt has been
at washing; pawned her neck-kerchers for clean bands for him; sold
almost all my platters, to buy him tobacco; and he to turn monster
of ingratitude, and strike his lawful host! Well, I hope to raise
up an host of fury for't: here comes justice Clement.
Enter Justice CLEMENT, KNOWELL, and FORMAL.
Clem. What's master Kitely gone, Roger?
Form. Ay, sir.
Clem. 'Heart O' me! what made him leave us so abruptly?--How now,
sirrah! what make you here? what would you have, ha?
Cob. An't please your worship, I am a poor neighbour of your
worship's--
Clem. A poor neighbour of mine! Why, speak, poor neighbour.
Cob. I dwell, sir, at the sign of the Water-tankard, hard by the
Green Lattice: I have paid scot and lot there any time this
eighteen years.
Clem. To the Green Lattice?
Cob. No, sir, to the parish: Marry, I have seldom scaped scot-free
at the Lattice.
Clem. O, well; what business has my poor neighbour with me?
Cob. An't like your worship, I am come to crave the peace of your
worship.
Clem. Of me, knave! Peace of me, knave! Did I ever hurt thee, or
threaten thee, or wrong thee, ha?
Cob. No, sir; but your worship's warrant for one that has wrong'd
me, sir: his arms are at too much liberty, I would fain have them
bound to a treaty of peace, an my credit could compass it with your
worship.
Clem. Thou goest far enough about for't, I am sure.
Kno. Why, dost thou go in danger of thy life for him, friend?
Cob. No, sir; but I go in danger of my death every hour, by his
means; an I die within a twelve-month and a day, I may swear by the
law of the land that he killed me.
Clem. How, how, knave, swear he killed thee, and by the law? What
pretence, what colour hast thou for that?
Cob. Marry, an't please your worship, both black and blue; colour
enough, I warrant you. I have it here to shew your worship.
Clem. What is he that gave you this, sirrah?
Cob. A gentleman and a soldier, he says, he is, of the city here.
Clem. A soldier of the city! What call you him?
Cob. Captain Bobadill.
Clem. Bobadill! and why did he bob and beat you, sirrah? How began
the quarrel betwixt you, ha? speak truly, knave, I advise you.
Cob. Marry, indeed, an't please your worship, only because I spake
against their vagrant tobacco, as I came by them when they were
taking on't; for nothing else.
Clem. Ha! you speak against tobacco? Formal, his name.
Form. What's your name, sirrah?
Cob. Oliver, sir, Oliver Cob, sir.
Clem. Tell Oliver Cob he shall go to the jail, Formal.
Form. Oliver Cob, my master, justice Clement, says you shall go to
the jail.
Cob. O, I beseech your worship, for God's sake, dear master
justice!
Clem. 'Sprecious! an such drunkards and tankards as you are, come
to dispute of tobacco once, I have done: away with him!
Cob, O, good master justice! Sweet old gentleman! [To Knowell.
Know. "Sweet Oliver," would I could do thee any good!--justice
Clement, let me intreat you, sir.
Clem. What! a thread-bare rascal, a beggar, a slave that never
drunk out of better than piss-pot metal in his life! and he to
deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so generally received in
the courts of princes, the chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet
ladies, the cabins of soldiers!--Roger, away with him! 'Od's
precious--I say, go to.
Cob. Dear master justice, let me be beaten again, I have deserved
it: but not the prison, I beseech you.
Know. Alas, poor Oliver!
Clem. Roger, make him a warrant:--he shall not go, but I fear the
knave.
Form. Do not stink, sweet Oliver, you shall not go; my master will
give you a warrant.
Cob. O, the Lord maintain his worship, his worthy worship!
Clem. Away, dispatch him. [Exeunt Formal and Cob;] How now, master
Knowell, in dumps, in dumps! Come, this becomes not.
Know. Sir, would I could not feel my cares.
Clem. Your cares are nothing: they are like my cap, soon put on,
and as soon put off. What! your son is old enough to govern
himself: let him run his course, it's the only way to make him a
staid man. If he were an unthrift, a ruffian, a drunkard, or a
licentious liver, then you had reason; you had reason to take care:
but, being none of these, mirth's my witness, an I had twice so
many cares as you have, I'd drown them all in a cup of sack. Come,
come, let's try it: I muse your parcel of a soldier returns not all
this while.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV
SCENE I---A Room in KITELY'S House.
Enter DOWNRIGTIT and Dame KITELY.
Dow. Well, sister, I tell you true; and you'll find it so in the
end.
Dame K. Alas, brother, what would you have me to do? I cannot help
it; you see my brother brings them in here; they are his friends.
Dow. His friends! his fiends. 'Slud! they do nothing but haunt him
up and down like a sort of unlucky spirits, and tempt him to all
manner of villainy that can be thought of. Well, by this light, a
little thing would make me play the devil with some of them: an
'twere not more for your husband's sake than anything else, I'd
make the house too hot for the best on 'em; they should say, and
swear, hell were broken loose, ere they went hence. But, by God's
will, 'tis nobody's fault but yours; for an you had done as you
might have done, they should have been parboiled, and baked too,
every mother's son, ere they should have come in, e'er a one of
them.
Dame K. God's my life! did you ever hear the like? what a strange
man is this! Could I keep out all them, think you? I should put
myself against half a dozen men, should I? Good faith, you'd mad
the patien'st body in the world; to hear you talk so, without any
sense or reason.
Enter Mistress BRIDGET, Master MATHEW, and BOBADILL;
followed, at a distance, by WELLBRED, E. KNOWELL,
STEPHEN, and BRAINWORM.
Brid.
Servant, in troth you are too prodigal
Of your wit's treasure, thus fu pour it forth
Upon so mean a subject as my worth.
Mat. You say well, mistress, and I mean as well.
Dow. Hoy-day, here is stuff!
Wel. O, now stand close; pray Heaven, she can get him to read! he
should do it of his own natural impudency.
Brid. Servant, what is this same, I pray you?
Mat. Marry, an elegy, an elegy, an odd toy--
Dow. To mock an ape withal! O, I could sew up his mouth, now.
Dame K. Sister, I pray you let's hear it.
Dow. Are you rhyme-given too?
Mat. Mistress, I'll read it if you please.
Brid. Pray you do, servant.
Dow. O, here's no foppery! Death! I can endure the stocks better.
[Exit.
E. Know. What ails thy brother? can he not hold his water at
reading of a ballad?
Wel. O, no; a rhyme fu him is worse than cheese, or a bag-pipe; but
mark; you lose the protestation.
Mat. Faith, I did it in a humour; I know not how it is; but please
you come near, sir. This gentleman has judgment, he knows how to
censure of a--pray you, sir, you can judge?
Step. Not I, sir; upon my reputation, and by the foot of Pharaoh!
Wel. O, chide your cousin for swearing.
E. Know. Not I, so long as he does not forswear himself.
Bob. Master Mathew, you abuse the expectation of your dear
mistress, and her fair sister: fie! while you live avoid this
prolixity.
Mat. I shall, sir, well; incipere dulce.
E. Know. How, insipere duke! a sweet thing to be a fool, indeed!
Wel. What, do you take incipere in: that sense?
E. Know. You do not, you! This was your villainy, to gull him with
a motte.
Wel. O, the benchers' phrase: pauca verba, pauca verba!
Mat.
Rare creature, let me speak without offence,
Would God my rude words had the influence
To rule thy thoughts, as thy fair looks do mine,
Then shouldst thou be his prisoner, who is thine.
E. Know. This is Hero and Leander.
Wel. O, ay: peace, we shall have more of this.
Mat.
Be not unkind and fair: misshapen stuff
Is of behaviour boisterous and rough.
Wel. How like you that, sir? [Master Stephen shakes his head.
E. Know. 'Slight, he shakes his head like a bottle, to feel an there
be any brain in it.
Mat. But observe the catastrophe, now:
And I in duty will exceed all other,
As you in beauty do excel Love's mother.
E. Know. Well, I'll have him free of the wit-brokers, for he
utters nothing but stolen remnants.
Wel. O, forgive it him.
E. Know. A filching rogue, hang him!---and from the dead! it's
worse than sacrilege.
WELLBRED, E. KNOWELL, and Master STEPHEN, come forward.
Wel. Sister, what have you here, verses? pray you let's see: who
made these verses? they are excellent good.
Mat. O, Master Wellbred, 'tis your disposition to say so, sir. They
were good in the morning: I made them ex tempore this morning.
Wel. How! ex tempore?
Mat. Ay, would I might be hanged else; ask Captain Bobadill: he saw
me write them, at the--pox on it!--the Star, yonder.
Brai. Can he find in his heart to curse the stars so?
E. Know. Faith, his are even with him; they have curst him enough
already.
Step. Cousin, how do you like this gentleman's verses?
E. Know. O, admirable! the best that ever I heard, coz.
Step. Body O' Caesar, they are admirable! the best that I ever
heard, as I am a soldier!
Re-enter DOWNRIGHT.
Dow. I am vext, I can hold ne'er a bone of me still: 'Heart, I
think they mean to build and breed here.
Wet. Sister, you have a simple servant here, that crowns your
beauty with such encomiums and devices; you may see what it is to
be the mistress of a wit, that can make your perfections so
transparent, that every blear eye may look through them, and see
him drowned over head and ears in the deep well of desire: Sister
Kitely. I marvel you get you not a servant that can rhyme, and do
tricks too.
Dow. O monster! impudence itself! tricks!
Dame K. Tricks, brother! what tricks?
Brid. Nay, speak, I pray you what tricks?
Dame K. Ay, never spare any body here; but say, what tricks.
Brid. Passion of my heart, do tricks!
Wel. 'Slight, here's a trick vied and revied! Why, you monkeys,
you, what a cater-wauling do you keep! has he not given you rhymes
and verses and tricks?
Dow. O, the fiend!
Wel. Nay, you lamp of virginity, that take it in snuff so, come,
and cherish this tame poetical fury in your servant; you'll be
begg'd else shortly for a concealment: go to, reward his muse. You
cannot give him less than a shilling in conscience, for the book he
had it out of cost him a teston at least. How now, gallants! Master
Mathew! Captain! what, all sons of silence, no spirit?
Dow. Come, you might practise your ruffian tricks somewhere else,
and not here, I wuss; this is no tavern or drinking-school, to vent
your exploits in.
Wel. How now; whose cow has calved?
Dow. Marry, that has mine, sir.
Nay, boy, never look askance at me for the matter; I'll tell you of
it, I, sir; you and your companions mend yourselves when I have
done.
Wel. My companions!
Dow. Yes, sir, your companions, so I say; I am not afraid of you,
nor them neither; your hang-byes here. You must have your poets and
your potlings, your soldados and foolados to follow you up and down
the city; and here they must come to domineer and swagger. Sirrah,
you ballad-singer, and slops your fellow there, get you out, get
you home; or by this steel, I'll cut off your ears, and that
presently.
Wel. 'Slight, stay, let's see what he dare do; cut off his ears!
cut a whetstone. You are an ass, do you see; touch any man here,
and by this hand I'll run my rapier to the hilts in you.
Dow. Yea, that would I fain see, boy.
[They all draw.
Dame K. O Jesu! murder! Thomas! Gasper!
Brid. Help, help! Thomas!
Enter CASH and some of the house to part them.
E. Know. Gentlemen, forbear, I pray' you.
Bob. Well, sirrah, you Holofernes; by my hand, I will pink your
flesh full of holes with my rapier for this; I will, by this good
heaven! nay, let him come, let him come, gentlemen; by the body of
St. George, I'll not kill him.
[Offer to fight again, and are parted.
Gash. Hold, hold, good gentlemen. Dow. You whoreson, bragging
coystril!
Enter KITELY.
Kit.
Why, how now! what's the matter, what's the stir here?
Whence springs the quarrel? Thomas! where is he?
Put up your weapons, and put off this rage:
My wife and sister, they are the cause of this.
What, Thomas! where is the knave?
Gash. Here, sir.
Wel. Come, let's go: this is one of my brother's ancient humours,
this.
Step. I am glad nobody was hurt by his ancient humour.
[Exeunt Wellbred, Stephen, E. Knowell, Bobadill, and Brainworm.
Kit. Why, how now, brother, who enforced this brawl?
Dow. A sort of lewd rake-hells, that care neither for God nor the
devil And they must come here to read ballads, and roguery, and
trash! I'll mar the knot of 'em ere I sleep, perhaps; especially
Bob there, he that's all manner of shapes: and songs and sonnets,
his fellow.
Brid.
Brother, indeed you are too violent,
Too sudden in your humour: and you know
My brother Wellbred's temper will not bear
Any reproof, chiefly in such a presence,
Where every slight disgrace he should receive
Might wound him in opinion and respect.
Dow. Respect! what talk you of respect among such, as have no spark
of manhood, nor good manners? 'Sdeins, I am ashamed to hear you'!
respect!
[Exit.
Brid.
Yes, there was one a civil gentleman,
And very worthily demeaned himself.
Kit. O, that was some love of yours, sister.
Brid.
A love of mine! I would it were no worse, brother;
You'd pay my portion sooner than you think for.
Dame K. Indeed he seem'd to be a gentleman of a very exceeding
fair disposition, and of excellent good parts.
[Exeunt Dame Kitely and Bridget.
Kit.
Her love, by heaven! my wife's minion.
Fair disposition! excellent good parts!
Death! these phrases are intolerable.
Good parts! how should she know his parts?
His parts! Well, well, well, well, well, well;
It is too plain, too clear: Thomas, come hither.
What, are they gone?
Cash. Ay, sir, they went in.
My mistress and your sister--
Kit. Are any of the gallants within?
Cash. No, sir, they are all gone.
Kit. Art thou sure of it---?
Cash. I can assure you, sir.
Kit. What gentleman was that they praised so, Thomas?
Cash. One, they call him Master Knowell, a handsome young
gentleman, sir.
Kit.
Ay, I thought so; my mind gave me as much:
I'll die, but they have hid him in the house,
Somewhere, I'll go and search; go with me, Thomas:
Be true to me, and thou shalt find me a master.
[Exeunt.