Transcriber's Note:
Underscores before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
in the original text.
Equal signs before and after a word or phrase indicate =bold=
in the original text.
Caret symbols indicate superscript text.
Small capitals have been converted to ALL CAPITALS.
Old or archaic spellings have been preserved.
In the text of the actual play, lowercase “s” has been replaced by
the “long s”, “ſ”. The capital letter “W” is often replaced with
“VV”, the letter “v” and the letter “u” are used interchangeably,
and the letters "i" and "j" are also used interchangeably.
Many of the characters names in the play have various spellings,
e.g., MERE-CRAFT and MERECRAFT, MEERECRAFT
EVER-ILL and EVERILL
FITZ-DOTTEREL and FITZDOTTEREL
PIT_FAL and PITFALL
DIVEL and DIVELL.
The footnotes in the actual play were added by the author as part of
his thesis. The references for these footnotes are the line numbers.
Since each scene begins the line numbers over at 1, these footnotes
have been collected at the end of each scene, and refer to the
appropriate line in the preceding scene.
YALE STUDIES IN ENGLISH
ALBERT S. COOK, EDITOR
XXIX
THE DEVIL IS AN ASS
BY BEN JONSON
Edited with Introduction, Notes, and Glossary
BY WILLIAM SAVAGE JOHNSON, Ph.D.
_Instructor in English in Yale University_
A Thesis presented to
the Faculty of the Graduate School of Yale University
in Candidacy for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1905
Copyright by William Savage Johnson, 1905
PRESS OF THE TUTTLE, MOREHOUSE & TAYLOR COMPANY
TO MY MOTHER
PREFACE
In _The Devil is an Ass_ Jonson may be studied, first, as a student;
secondly, as an observer. Separated by only two years from the
preceding play, _Bartholomew Fair_, and by nine from the following,
_The Staple of News_, the present play marks the close of an epoch in
the poet’s life, the period of his vigorous maturity. Its relations
with the plays of his earlier periods are therefore of especial
interest.
The results of the present editor’s study of these and other
literary connections are presented, partly in the Notes, and partly
in the Introduction to this book. After the discussion of the
purely technical problems in Sections A and B, the larger features
are taken up in Section C, I and II. These involve a study of the
author’s indebtedness to English, Italian, and classical sources, and
especially to the early English drama; as well as of his own dramatic
methods in previous plays. The more minute relations to contemporary
dramatists and to his own former work, especially in regard to
current words and phrases, are dealt with in the Notes.
As an observer, Jonson appears as a student of London, and a satirist
of its manners and vices; and, in a broader way, as a critic of
contemporary England. The life and aspect of London are treated, for
the most part, in the Notes; the issues of state involved in Jonson’s
satire are presented in historical discussions in Section C, III.
Personal satire is treated in the division following.
I desire to express my sincere thanks to Professor Albert S. Cook
for advice in matters of form and for inspiration in the work; to
Professor Henry A. Beers for painstaking discussion of difficult
questions; to Dr. De Winter for help and criticism; to Dr. John M.
Berdan for the privilege of consulting his copy of the Folio; to
Mr. Andrew Keogh and to Mr. Henry A. Gruener, for aid in bibliographical
matters; and to Professor George L. Burr for the loan of books from
the Cornell Library.
A portion of the expense of printing this book has been borne by the
Modern Language Club of Yale University from funds placed at its
disposal by the generosity of Mr. George E. Dimock of Elizabeth,
New Jersey, a graduate of Yale in the Class of 1874.
W. S. J.
YALE UNIVERSITY,
August 30, 1905.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION PAGE
A. EDITIONS OF THE TEXT xi
B. DATE AND PRESENTATION xvii
C. THE DEVIL IS AN ASS xix
I. THE DEVIL PLOT xx
1. The Devil in the pre-Shakespearian Drama xxii
2. Jonson’s Treatment of the Devil xxiii
3. The Influence of Robin Goodfellow
and of Popular Legend xxvi
4. Friar Rush and Dekker xxvii
5. The Novella of _Belfagor_ and the
Comedy of _Grim_ xxx
6. Summary xxxiv
7. The Figure of the Vice xxxiv
8. Jonson’s Use of the Vice xxxvii
II. THE SATIRICAL DRAMA xli
1. General Treatment of the Plot xli
2. Chief Sources of the Plot xlv
3. Prototypes of the leading Characters lii
4. Minor Sources liii
III. SPECIFIC OBJECTS OF SATIRE liv
1. The Duello liv
2. The Monopoly System lviii
3. Witchcraft lxii
IV. PERSONAL SATIRE lxv
Mrs. Fitzdottrel lxvi
Fitzdottrel lxx
Wittipol lxxi
Justice Eitherside lxxi
Merecraft lxxii
Plutarchus Guilthead lxxiii
The Noble House lxxiv
D. AFTER-INFLUENCE OF THE DEVIL IS AN ASS lxxiv
APPENDIX--EXTRACTS FROM THE CRITICS lxxvi
TEXT 1
NOTES 123
GLOSSARY 213
BIBILIOGRAPHY 237
INDEX 243
INTRODUCTION
A. EDITIONS OF THE TEXT
_The Devil is an Ass_ was first printed in 1631, and was probably put
into circulation at that time, either as a separate pamphlet or bound
with _Bartholomew Fair_ and _The Staple of News_. Copies of this
original edition were, in 1640-1, bound into the second volume of the
First Folio of Jonson’s collected works.[1] In 1641 a variant reprint
edition of _The Devil is an Ass_, apparently small, was issued
in pamphlet form. The play reappears in all subsequent collected
editions. These are: (1) the ‘Third Folio’, 1692; (2) a bookseller’s
edition, 1716 [1717]; (3) Whalley’s edition, 1756; (4) John
Stockdale’s reprint of Whalley’s edition (together with the works
of Beaumont and Fletcher), 1811; (5) Gifford’s edition, 1816; (6)
Barry Cornwall’s one-volume edition, 1838; (7) Lieut. Col. Francis
Cunningham’s three-volume reissue (with some minor variations) of
Gifford’s edition, 1871; (8) another reissue by Cunningham, in
nine volumes (with additional notes), 1875. The _Catalogue_ of the
British Museum shows that Jonson’s works were printed in two volumes
at Dublin in 1729. Of these editions only the first two call for
detailed description, and of the others only the first, second,
third, fifth, and eighth will be discussed.
=1631.= Owing to irregularity in contents and arrangement in
different copies, the second volume of the First Folio has been
much discussed. Gifford speaks of it as the edition of 1631-41.[2]
Miss Bates, copying from Lowndes, gives it as belonging to 1631,
reprinted in 1640 and in 1641.[3] Ward says substantially the
same thing.[4] In 1870, however, Brinsley Nicholson, by a careful
collation,[5] arrived at the following results. (1) The so-called
editions of the second volume assigned to 1631, 1640, and 1641 form
only a single edition. (2) The belief in the existence of ‘the
so-called first edition of the second volume in 1631’ is due to the
dates prefixed to the opening plays. (3) The belief in the existence
of the volume of 1641 arose from the dates of _Mortimer_ and the
_Discoveries_, ‘all the copies of which are dated 1641’, and of
the variant edition of _The Devil is an Ass_, which will next be
described. (4) The 1640 edition supplies for some copies a general
title-page, ‘R. Meighen, 1640’, but the plays printed in 1631 are
reprinted from the same forms. Hazlitt arrives at practically the
same conclusions.[6]
The volume is a folio by measurement, but the signatures
are in fours.
Collation: Five leaves, the second with the signature A_3 B-M in
fours. Aa-Bb; Cc-Cc_2 (two leaves); C_3 (one leaf); one leaf; D-I in
fours; two leaves. [N]-Y in fours; B-Q in fours; R (two leaves); S-X
in fours; Y (two leaves); Z-Oo in fours. Pp (two leaves). Qq; A-K in
fours. L (two leaves). [M]-R in fours. A-P in fours. Q (two leaves).
[R]-V in fours.
The volume opens with _Bartholomew Fayre_, which occupies pages
[1-10], 1-88 (pages 12, 13, and 31 misnumbered), or the first group
of signatures given above.
2. _The Staple of Newes_, paged independently, [1]-[76]
(pages 19, 22, and 63 misnumbered), and signatured independently
as in the second group above.
3. _The Diuell is an Asse_, [N]-Y, paged [91]-170 (pages 99, 132,
and 137 misnumbered). [N] recto contains the title page (verso blank).
N_2 contains a vignette and the persons of the play on the recto, a
vignette and the prologue on the verso. N_3 to the end contains the
play proper; the epilogue being on the last leaf verso.
One leaf (pages 89-90) is thus unaccounted for; but it is evident
from the signatures and pagination that _The Diuell is an Asse_ was
printed with a view to having it follow _Bartholomew Fayre_. These
three plays were all printed by I. B. for Robert Allot in 1631.
Hazlitt says that they are often found together in a separate volume,
and that they were probably intended by Jonson to supplement the
folio of 1616.[7]
Collation made from copy in the library of Yale University at
New Haven.
It was the opinion of both Whalley and Gifford that the publication
of _The Devil is an Ass_ in 1631 was made without the personal
supervision of the author. Gifford did not believe that Jonson
‘concerned himself with the revision of the folio, ... or, indeed,
ever saw it’. The letter to the Earl of Newcastle (_Harl. MS._ 4955),
quoted in Gifford’s memoir, sufficiently disproves this supposition,
at least so far as _Bartholomew Fair_ and _The Devil is an Ass_
are concerned. In this letter, written according to Gifford about 1632,
Jonson says: ‘It is the lewd printer’s fault that I can send your
lordship no more of my book. I sent you one piece before, The Fair,
... and now I send you this other morsel, The fine gentleman that
walks the town, The Fiend; but before he will perfect the rest I fear
he will come himself to be a part under the title of The Absolute
Knave, which he hath played with me’. In 1870 Brinsley Nicholson
quoted this letter in _Notes and Queries_ (4th S. 5. 574), and
pointed out that the jocular allusions are evidently to _Bartholomew
Fair_ and _The Devil is an Ass_.
Although Gifford is to some extent justified in his contempt for the
edition, it is on the whole fairly correct.
The misprints are not numerous. The play is overpunctuated.
Thus the words ‘now’ and ‘again’ are usually marked off by
commas. Occasionally the punctuation is misleading. The mark of
interrogation is generally, but not invariably, used for that of
exclamation. The apostrophe is often a metrical device, and indicates
the blending of two words without actual elision of either. The most
serious defect is perhaps the wrong assignment of speeches, though
later emendations are to be accepted only with caution. The present
text aims to be an exact reproduction of that of the 1631 edition.
1641. The pamphlet quarto of 1641 is merely a poor reprint of the
1631 edition. It abounds in printer’s errors. Few if any intentional
changes, even of spelling and punctuation, are introduced. Little
intelligence is shown by the printer, as in the change 5. I. 34 SN.
(references are to act, scene, and line) He flags] He stags. It is
however of some slight importance, inasmuch as it seems to have been
followed in some instances by succeeding editions (cf. the omission
of the side notes 2. I. 20, 22, 33, followed by 1692, 1716, and W;
also 2. I. 46 his] a 1641, f.).
The title-page of this edition is copied, as far as the quotation
from Horace, from the title-page of the 1631 edition. For the
wood-cut of that edition, however, is substituted the device of a
swan, with the legend ‘God is my helper’. Then follow the words:
‘Imprinted at London, 1641.’
Folio by measurement; signatures in fours.
Collation: one leaf, containing the title-page on the recto, verso
blank; second leaf with signature A_2 (?), containing a device (St.
Francis preaching to the birds [?]), and the persons of the play on
the recto, and a device (a saint pointing to heaven and hell) and the
prologue on the verso. Then the play proper; B-I in fours; K (one
leaf). The first two leaves are unnumbered; then 1-66 (35 wrongly
numbered 39).
1692. The edition of 1692[8] is a reprint of 1631, but furnishes
evidence of some editing. Most of the nouns are capitalized, and
a change of speaker is indicated by breaking the lines; obvious
misprints are corrected: e. g., 1. 1. 98, 101; the spelling is
modernized: e. g., 1. 1. 140 Tiborne] Tyburn; and the punctuation is
improved. Sometimes a word undergoes a considerable morphological
change: e. g., 1. 1. 67 Belins-gate] Billings-gate; 1. 6. 172, 175
venter] venture. Etymology is sometimes indicated by an apostrophe,
not always correctly: e. g., 2. 6. 75 salts] ’salts. Several changes
are uniform throughout the edition, and have been followed by all
later editors. The chief of these are: inough] enough; tother]
t’other; coozen] cozen; ha’s] has; then] than; ’hem] ’em (except G
sometimes); injoy] enjoy. Several changes of wording occur: e.g., 2.
1. 53 an] my; etc.
1716. The edition of 1716 is a bookseller’s reprint of 1692. It
follows that edition in the capitalization of nouns, the breaking up
of the lines, and usually in the punctuation. In 2. 1. 78-80 over two
lines are omitted by both editions. Independent editing, however, is
not altogether lacking. We find occasional new elisions: e. g., 1.
6. 121 I’have] I’ve; at least one change of wording: 2. 3. 25 where]
were; and one in the order of words: 4. 2. 22 not love] love not. In
4. 4. 75-76 and 76-78 it corrects two wrong assignments of speeches.
A regular change followed by all editors is wiues] wife’s.
1756. The edition of Peter Whalley, 1756, purports to be ‘collated
with all the former editions, and corrected’, but according to
modern standards it cannot be called a critical text. Not only
does it follow 1716 in modernization of spelling; alteration of
contractions: e. g., 2. 8. 69 To’a] T’a; 3. 1. 20 In t’one] Int’ one;
and changes in wording: e. g., 1. 1. 24 strengths] strength: 3. 6.
26 Gentleman] Gentlewoman; but it is evident that Whalley considered
the 1716 edition as the correct standard for a critical text, and
made his correction by a process of occasional restoration of the
original reading. Thus in restoring ‘Crane’, 1. 4. 50, he uses the
expression,--‘which is authorized by the folio of 1640.’ Again in 2.
1. 124 he retains ‘petty’ from 1716, although he says: ‘The edit.
of 1640, as I think more justly,--_Some_ pretty _principality_.’
This reverence for the 1716 text is inexplicable. In the matter of
capitalization Whalley forsakes his model, and he makes emendations
of his own with considerable freedom. He still further modernizes the
spelling; he spells out elided words: e. g., 1. 3. 15 H’ has] he has;
makes new elisions: e. g., 1. 6. 143 Yo’ are] You’re; 1. 6. 211 I am]
I’m; grammatical changes, sometimes of doubtful correctness: e. g.,
1. 3. 21 I’le] I’d; morphological changes: e. g., 1. 6. 121 To scape]
T’escape; metrical changes by insertions: e. g., 1. 1. 48 ‘to’; 4. 7.
38 ‘but now’; changes of wording: e. g., 1. 6. 195 sad] said; in the
order of words: e. g., 3. 4. 59 is hee] he is; and in the assignment
of speeches: e. g., 3. 6. 61. Several printer’s errors occur: e. g.,
2. 6. 21 and 24.
1816. William Gifford’s edition is more carefully printed than
that of Whalley, whom he criticizes freely. In many indefensible
changes, however, he follows his predecessor, even to the insertion
of words in 1. 1. 48 and 4. 7. 38, 39 (see above). He makes further
morphological changes, even when involving a change of metre: e.g.,
1. 1. 11 Totnam] Tottenham; 1. 4. 88 phantsie] phantasie; makes new
elisions: e. g., 1. 6. 226 I ha’] I’ve; changes in wording: e. g.,
2. 1. 97 O’] O!; and in assignment of speeches: e. g., 4. 4. 17. He
usually omits parentheses, and the following changes in contracted
words occur, only exceptions being noted in the variants: fro’]
from; gi’] give; h’] he; ha’] have; ’hem] them (but often ’em); i’]
in; o’] on, of; t’] to; th’] the; upo’] upon; wi’] with, will; yo’]
you. Gifford’s greatest changes are in the stage directions and
side notes of the 1631 edition. The latter he considered as of ‘the
most trite and trifling nature’, and ‘a worthless incumbrance’. He
accordingly cut or omitted with the utmost freedom, introducing new
and elaborate stage directions of his own. He reduced the number of
scenes from thirty-six to seventeen. In this, as Hathaway points out,
he followed the regular English usage, dividing the scenes according
to actual changes of place. Jonson adhered to classical tradition,
and looked upon a scene as a situation. Gifford made his alterations
by combining whole scenes, except in the case of Act 2. 3, which
begins at Folio Act 2. 7. 23 (middle of line); of Act 3. 2, which
begins at Folio Act 3. 5. 65 and of Act 3. 3, which begins at Folio
Act 3. 5. 78 (middle of line). He considered himself justified in
his mutilation of the side notes on the ground that they were not
from the hand of Jonson. Evidence has already been adduced to show
that they were at any rate printed with his sanction. I am, however,
inclined to believe with Gifford that they were written by another
hand. Gifford’s criticism of them is to a large extent just. The note
on ‘_Niaise_’, 1. 6. 18, is of especially doubtful value (see note).
1875. ‘Cunningham’s reissue, 1875, reprints Gifford’s text without
change. Cunningham, however, frequently expresses his disapproval of
Gifford’s licence in changing the text’ (Winter).
[1] The first volume of this folio appeared in 1616. A reprint of
this volume in 1640 is sometimes called the Second Folio. It should
not be confused with the 1631-41 Edition of the second volume.
[2] Note prefixed to _Bartholomew Fair_.
[3] _Eng. Drama_, p. 78.
[4] _Eng. Drama_ 2. 296.
[5] _N. & Q._ 4th Ser. 5. 573.
[6] _Bibliog. Col._, 2d Ser. p. 320.
[7] _Bibliog. Col._, p. 320. For a more detailed description of this
volume see Winter, pp. xii-xiii.
[8] For a collation of this edition, see Mallory, pp. xv-xvii.
B. DATE AND PRESENTATION
We learn from the title-page that this comedy was acted
in 1616 by the King’s Majesty’s Servants. This is further
confirmed by a passage in 1. 1. 80-81:
Now? As Vice stands this present yeere? Remember,
What number it is. _Six hundred_ and _sixteene_.
Another passage (1. 6. 31) tells us that the performance
took place in the Blackfriars Theatre:
Today, I goe to the _Black-fryers Play-house_.
That Fitzdottrel is to see _The Devil is an Ass_ we learn later
(3. 5. 38). The performance was to take place after dinner (3. 5. 34).
At this time the King’s Men were in possession of two theatres,
the Globe and the Blackfriars. The former was used in the summer,
so that _The Devil is an Ass_ was evidently not performed during
that season.[9] These are all the facts that we can determine with
certainty.
Jonson’s masque, _The Golden Age Restored_, was presented, according
to Fleay, on January 1 and 6. His next masque was _Christmas, his
Masque_, December 25, 1616. Between these dates he must have been
busy on _The Devil is an Ass_. Fleay, who identifies Fitzdottrel
with Coke, conjectures that the date of the play is probably late in
1616, after Coke’s discharge in November. If Coke is satirized either
in the person of Fitzdottrel or in that of Justice Eitherside (see
Introduction, pp. lxx, lxxii), the conjecture may be allowed to have
some weight.
In 1. 2. 1 Fitzdottrel speaks of Bretnor as occupying the position
once held by the conspirators in the Overbury case. Franklin, who
is mentioned, was not brought to trial until November 18, 1615.
Jonson does not speak of the trial as of a contemporary or nearly
contemporary event.
Act 4 is largely devoted to a satire of Spanish fashions. In 4. 2. 71
there is a possible allusion to the Infanta Maria, for whose marriage
with Prince Charles secret negotiations were being carried on at this
time. We learn that Commissioners were sent to Spain on November
9 (_Cal. State Papers, Dom. Ser._), and from a letter of January
1, 1617, that ‘the Spanish tongue, dress, etc. are all in fashion’
(_ibid._).
These indications are all of slight importance, but from their united
evidence we may feel reasonably secure in assigning the date of
presentation to late November or early December, 1616.
The play was not printed until 1631. It seems never to have been
popular, but was revived after the Restoration, and is given by
Downes[10] in the list of old plays acted in the New Theatre in Drury
Lane after April 8, 1663. He continues: ‘These being Old Plays,
were Acted but now and then; yet being well Perform’d were very
Satisfactory to the Town’. The other plays of Jonson revived by this
company were _The Fox_, _The Alchemist_, _Epicoene_, _Catiline_,
_Every Man out of his Humor_, _Every Man in his Humor_, and
_Sejanus_. Genest gives us no information of any later revival.
[9] Collier, _Annals_ 3. 275, 302; Fleay, _Hist._ 190.
[10] _Roscius Anglicanus_, p. 8.
C. THE DEVIL IS AN ASS
Jonson’s characteristic conception of comedy as a vehicle for the
study of ‘humors’ passed in _Every Man out of his Humor_ into
caricature, and in _Cynthia’s Revels_ and _Poetaster_ into allegory.
The process was perfectly natural. In the humor study each character
is represented as absorbed by a single vice or folly. In the
allegorical treatment the abstraction is the starting-point, and the
human element the means of interpretation. Either type of drama, by
a shifting of emphasis, may readily pass over into the other. The
failure of _Cynthia’s Revels_, in spite of the poet’s arrogant boast
at its close, had an important effect upon his development, and the
plays of Jonson’s middle period, from _Sejanus_ to _The Devil is an
Ass_, show more restraint in the handling of character, as well as
far greater care in construction. The figures are typical rather than
allegorical, and the plot in general centres about certain definite
objects of satire. Both plot and characterization are more closely
unified.
_The Devil is an Ass_ marks a return to the supernatural and
allegorical. The main action, however, belongs strictly to the type
of the later drama, especially as exemplified by _The Alchemist_.
The fanciful motive of the infernal visitant to earth was found to
be of too slight texture for Jonson’s sternly moral and satirical
purpose. In the development of the drama it breaks down completely,
and is crowded out by the realistic plot. Thus what promised at first
to be the chief, and remains in some respects the happiest, motive
of the play comes in the final execution to be little better than
an inartistic and inharmonious excrescence. Yet Jonson’s words to
Drummond seem to indicate that he still looked upon it as the real
kernel of the play.[11]
The action is thus easily divisible into two main lines; the
devil-plot, involving the fortunes of Satan, Pug and Iniquity, and
the satirical or main plot. This division is the more satisfactory,
since Satan and Iniquity are not once brought into contact with the
chief actors, while Pug’s connection with them is wholly external,
and affects only his own fortunes. He is, as Herford has already
pointed out, merely ‘the fly upon the engine-wheel, fortunate to
escape with a bruising’ (_Studies_, p. 320). He forms, however, the
connecting link between the two plots, and his function in the drama
must be regarded from two different points of view, according as it
shares in the realistic or the supernatural element.
[11] ‘A play of his, upon which he was accused, The Divell
is ane Ass; according to _Comedia Vetus_, in England the Divell
was brought in either with one Vice or other: the play done the Divel
caried away the Vice, he brings in the Divel so overcome with the
wickedness of this age that thought himself ane Ass. Παρεργους
[incidentally] is discoursed of the Duke of Drounland: the King
desired him to conceal it’.--_Conversations with William Drummond_,
Jonson’s _Wks._ 9. 400-1.
I. THE DEVIL-PLOT
Jonson’s title, _The Devil is an Ass_, expresses with perfect adequacy
the familiarity and contempt with which this once terrible personage
had come to be regarded in the later Elizabethan period. The poet, of
course, is deliberately archaizing, and the figures of devil and Vice
are made largely conformable to the purposes of satire. Several years
before, in the Dedication to _The Fox_,[12] Jonson had expressed his
contempt for the introduction of ‘fools and devils and those antique
relics of barbarism’, characterizing them as ‘ridiculous and exploded
follies’. He treats the same subject with biting satire in _The Staple
of News_.[13] Yet with all his devotion to realism in matters of petty
detail, of local color, and of contemporary allusion, he was, as we
have seen, not without an inclination toward allegory. Thus in _Every
Man out of his Humor_ the figure of Macilente is very close to a purely
allegorical expression of envy. In _Cynthia’s Revels_ the process was
perfectly conscious, for in the Induction to that play the characters
are spoken of as Virtues and Vices. In _Poetaster_ again we have the
purging of Demetrius and Crispinus. Jonson’s return to this field
in _The Devil is an Ass_ is largely prophetic of the future course
of his drama. The allegory of _The Staple of News_ is more closely
woven into the texture of the play than is that of _The Devil is an
Ass_; and the conception of Pecunia and her retinue is worked out with
much elaboration. In the Second Intermean the purpose of this play is
explained as a refinement of method in the use of allegory. For the old
Vice with his wooden dagger to snap at everybody he met, or Iniquity,
appareled ‘like Hokos Pokos, in a juggler’s jerkin’, he substitutes
‘vices male and female’, ‘attired like men and women of the time’. This
of course is only a more philosophical and abstract statement of the
idea which he expresses in _The Devil is an Ass_ (1. 1. 120 f.) of a
world where the vices are not distinguishable by any outward sign from
the virtues:
They weare the same clothes, eate the same meate,
Sleep i’ the self-same beds, ride i’ those coaches.
Or very like, foure horses in a coach,
As the best men and women.
_The New Inn_ and _The Magnetic Lady_ are also penetrated
with allegory of a sporadic and trivial nature. Jonson’s
use of devil and Vice in the present play is threefold. It
is in part earnestly allegorical, especially in Satan’s long
speech in the first scene; it is in part a satire upon the
employment of what he regarded as barbarous devices; and
it is, to no small extent, itself a resort for the sake of comic
effect to the very devices which he ridiculed.
Jonson’s conception of the devil was naturally very far from mediæval,
and he relied for the effectiveness of his portrait upon current
disbelief in this conception. Yet mediævalism had not wholly died out,
and remnants of the morality-play are to be found in many plays of
the Elizabethan and Jacobean drama. Rev. John Upton, in his _Critical
Observations on Shakespeare_, 1746, was the first to point out the
historical connection between Jonson’s Vice and devils and those of
the pre-Shakespearian drama. In modern times the history of the devil
and the Vice as dramatic figures has been thoroughly investigated, the
latest works being those of Dr. L.W. Cushman and Dr. E. Eckhardt,
at whose hands the subject has received exhaustive treatment. The
connection with Machiavelli’s novella of _Belfagor_ was pointed out
by Count Baudissin,[14] _Ben Jonson und seine Schule_, Leipzig 1836,
and has been worked out exhaustively by Dr. E. Hollstein in a Halle
dissertation, 1901. Dr. C.H. Herford, however, had already suggested
that the chief source of the devil-plot was to be found in the legend
of Friar Rush.
[12] _Wks._ 3. 158.
[13] _Wks._ 5. 105 f. Cf. also Shirley, Prologue to _The Doubtful Heir_.
[14] Count Baudissin translated two of Jonson’s comedies into German,
_The Alchemist_ and _The Devil is an Ass_ (_Der Dumme Teufel_).
1. _The Devil in the pre-Shakespearian Drama_
The sources for the conception of the devil in the mediæval drama
are to be sought in a large body of non-dramatic literature. In this
literature the devil was conceived of as a fallen angel, the enemy of
God and his hierarchy, and the champion of evil. As such he makes his
appearance in the mystery-plays. The mysteries derived their subjects
from Bible history, showed comparatively little pliancy, and dealt
always with serious themes. In them the devil is with few exceptions a
serious figure. Occasionally, however, even at this early date, comedy
and satire find place. The most prominent example is the figure of
Titivillus in the Towneley cycle.
In the early moralities the devil is still of primary importance, and
is always serious. But as the Vice became a more and more prominent
figure, the devil became less and less so, and in the later drama his
part is always subordinate. The play of _Nature_ (c. 1500) is the first
morality without a devil. Out of fifteen moralities of later date
tabulated by Cushman, only four are provided with this character.
The degeneration of the devil as a dramatic figure was inevitable. His
grotesque appearance, at first calculated to inspire terror, by its
very exaggeration produced, when once familiar, a wholly comic effect.
When the active comic parts were assumed by the Vice, he became a mere
butt, and finally disappears.
One of the earliest comic figures in the religious drama
is that of the clumsy or uncouth servant.[15] Closely allied
to him is the under-devil, who appears as early as _The
Harrowing of Hell_, and this figure is constantly employed
as a comic personage in the later drama.[16] The figure of
the servant later developed into that of the clown, and in
this type the character of the devil finally merged.[17]
[15] Eckhardt, p. 42 f.]
[16] _Ibid._, p. 67 f.]
[17] In general the devil is more closely related to the
clown, and the Vice to the fool. In some cases, however, the devil
is to be identified with the fool, and the Vice with the clown.
2. _Jonson’s Treatment of the Devil_
In the present play the devil-type is represented by the arch-fiend
Satan and his stupid subordinate, Pug. Of these two Satan received
more of the formal conventional elements of the older drama, while Pug
for the most part represents the later or clownish figure. As in the
morality-play Satan’s chief function is the instruction of his emissary
of evil. In no scene does he come into contact with human beings, and
he is always jealously careful for the best interests of his state. In
addition Jonson employs one purely conventional attribute belonging to
the tradition of the church- and morality-plays. This is the cry of
‘Ho, ho!’, with which Satan makes his entrance upon the stage in the
first scene.[18] Other expressions of emotion were also used, but ‘Ho,
ho!’ came in later days to be recognized as the conventional cry of the
fiend upon making his entrance.[19]
How the character of Satan was to be represented is of course
impossible to determine. The devil in the pre-Shakespearian drama was
always a grotesque figure, often provided with the head of a beast and
a cow’s tail.[20] In the presentation of Jonson’s play the ancient
tradition was probably followed. Satan’s speeches, however, are not
undignified, and too great grotesqueness of costume must have resulted
in considerable incongruity.
In the figure of Pug few of the formal elements of the
pre-Shakespearian devil are exhibited. He remains, of course, the
ostensible champion of evil, but is far surpassed by his earthly
associates, both in malice and in intellect. In personal appearance he
is brought by the assumption of the body and dress of a human being
into harmony with his environment. A single conventional episode,
with a reversal of the customary proceeding, is retained from the
morality-play. While Pug is languishing in prison, Iniquity appears,
Pug mounts upon his back, and is carried off to hell. Iniquity comments
upon it:
The Diuell was wont to carry away the euill;
But, now, the Euill out-carries the Diuell.
That the practice above referred to was a regular or even
a frequent feature of the morality-play has been disputed,
but the evidence seems fairly conclusive that it was common
in the later and more degenerate moralities. At any rate,
like the cry of ‘Ho, ho!’ it had come to be looked upon
as part of the regular stock in trade, and this was enough
for Jonson’s purpose.[21] This motive of the Vice riding the
devil had changed from a passive to an active comic part.
Instead of the devil’s prey he had become in the eyes of
the spectators the devil’s tormentor. Jonson may be looked
upon as reverting, perhaps unconsciously, to the original
and truer conception.
In other respects Pug exhibits only the characteristics of the
inheritor of the devil’s comedy part, the butt or clown. As we have
seen, one of the chief sources, as well as one of the constant modes
of manifestation, of this figure was the servant or man of low social
rank. Pug, too, on coming to earth immediately attaches himself to
Fitzdottrel as a servant, and throughout his brief sojourn on earth he
continues to exhibit the wonted stupidity and clumsy uncouthness of
the clown. He appears, to be sure, in a fine suit of clothes, but he
soon shows himself unfit for the position of gentleman-usher, and his
stupidity appears at every turn. The important element in the clown’s
comedy part, of a contrast between intention and accomplishment,
is of course exactly the sort of fun inspired by Pug’s repeated
discomfiture. With the clown it often takes the form of blunders
in speech, and his desire to appear fine and say the correct thing
frequently leads him into gross absurdities. This is brought out with
broad humor in 4. 4. 219, where Pug, on being catechized as to what
he should consider ‘the height of his employment’, stumbles upon the
unfortunate suggestion: ‘To find out a good _Corne-cutter_’. His
receiving blows at the hand of his master further distinguishes him
as a clown. The investing of Pug with such attributes was, as we have
seen, no startling innovation on Jonson’s part. Moreover, it fell
into line with his purpose in this play, and was the more acceptable
since it allowed him to make use of the methods of realism instead
of forcing him to draw a purely conventional figure. Pug, of course,
even in his character of clown, is not the unrelated stock-figure,
introduced merely for the sake of inconsequent comic dialogue and rough
horse-play. His part is important and definite, though not sufficiently
developed.
[18] In the Digby group of miracle-plays roaring by the devil is a
prominent feature. Stage directions in _Paul_ provide for ‘cryeing
and rorying’ and Belial enters with the cry, ‘Ho, ho, behold me’.
Among the moralities _The Disobedient Child_ may be mentioned.
[19] So in _Gammer Gurton’s Needle_, c 1562, we read: ‘But
Diccon, Diccon, did not the devil cry ho, ho, ho?’ Cf. also the
translation of Goulart’s Histories, 1607 (quoted by Sharp, p. 59):
‘The fellow--coming to the stove--sawe the Diuills in horrible
formes, some sitting, some standing, others walking, some ramping
against the walles, but al of them, assoone as they beheld him,
crying Hoh, hoh, what makest thou here?’
[20] Cf. the words of Robin Goodfellow in _Wily Beguiled_
(_O. Pl._, 4th ed., 9. 268): ‘I’ll put me on my great carnation-nose,
and wrap me in a rowsing calf-skin suit and come like some hobgoblin,
or some devil ascended from the grisly pit of hell’.
[21] Cushman points out that it occurs in only one drama,
that of _Like will to Like_. He attributes the currency of the notion
that this mode of exit was the regular one to the famous passage in
Harsnet’s _Declaration of Popish Impostures_ (p. 114, 1603): ‘It was
a pretty part in the old church-playes, when the nimble Vice would
skip up nimbly like a jackanapes into the devil’s necke, and ride the
devil a course, and belabour him with his wooden dagger, till he made
him roare, whereat the people would laugh to see the devil so
vice-haunted’. The moralities and tragedies give no indication of
hostility between Vice and devil. Cushman believes therefore that
Harsnet refers either to some lost morality or to ‘Punch and Judy’.
It is significant, however, that in ‘Punch and Judy’, which gives
indications of being a debased descendant of the morality, the devil
enters with the evident intention of carrying the hero off to hell.
The joke consists as in the present play in a reversal of the usual
proceeding. Eckhardt (p. 85 n.) points out that the Vice’s cudgeling
of the devil was probably a mere mirth-provoking device, and
indicated no enmity between the two. Moreover the motive of the
devil as an animal for riding is not infrequent. In the _Castle of
Perseverance_ the devil carries away the hero, Humanum Genus. The
motive appears also in Greene’s _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_ and
Lodge and Greene’s _Looking Glass for London and England_, and
especially in _Histriomastix_, where the Vice rides a roaring devil
(Eckhardt, pp. 86 f.). We have also another bit of evidence from
Jonson himself. In _The Staple of News_ Mirth relates her reminiscences
of the old comedy. In speaking of the devil she says: ‘He
would carry away the Vice on his back quick to hell in every play’.
3. _The Influence of Robin Goodfellow and of Popular Legend_
A constant element of the popular demonology was the belief in the
kobold or elfish sprite. This figure appears in the mysteries in
the shape of Titivillus, but is not found in the moralities. Robin
Goodfellow, however, makes his appearance in at least three comedies,
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_, 1593-4, _Grim, the Collier of Croyden_,
c 1600, and _Wily Beguiled_, 1606. The last of these especially
approaches Jonson’s conception. Here Robin Goodfellow is a malicious
intriguer, whose nature, whether human or diabolical, is left somewhat
in doubt. His plans are completely frustrated, he is treated with
contempt, and is beaten by Fortunatus. The character was a favorite
with Jonson. In the masque of _The Satyr_, 1603,[22] that character
is addressed as Pug, which here seems evidently equivalent to Puck or
Robin Goodfellow. Similarly Thomas Heywood makes Kobald, Hobgoblin,
Robin Goodfellow, and Pug practically identical.[23] Butler, in the
_Hudibras_,[24] gives him the combination-title of good ‘Pug-Robin’.
Jonson’s character of Pug was certainly influenced in some degree both
by the popular and the literary conception of this ‘lubber fiend’.
The theme of a stupid or outwitted devil occurred also both in ballad
literature[25] and in popular legend. Roskoff[26] places the change in
attitude toward the devil from a feeling of fear to one of superiority
at about the end of the eleventh century. The idea of a baffled devil
may have been partially due to the legends of the saints, where the
devil is constantly defeated, though he is seldom made to appear stupid
or ridiculous. The notion of a ‘stupid devil’ is not very common in
English, but occasionally appears. In the Virgilius legend the fiend
is cheated of his reward by stupidly putting himself into the physical
power of the wizard. In the Friar Bacon legend the necromancer delivers
an Oxford gentleman by a trick of sophistry.[27] In the story upon
which the drama of _The Merry Devil of Edmonton_ was founded, the devil
is not only cleverly outwitted, but appears weak and docile in his
indulgence of the wizard’s plea for a temporary respite. It may be said
in passing, in spite of Herford’s assertion to the contrary, that the
supernatural machinery in this play has considerably less connection
with the plot than in _The Devil is an Ass_. Both show a survival of
a past interest, of which the dramatist himself realizes the obsolete
character.
[22] Cf. also _Love Restored_, 1610-11, and the
character of Puck Hairy in _The Sad Shepherd_.
[23] _Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels_ 9.
[24] Part 3. Cant. 1, l. 1415.
[25] Cf. _Devil in Britain and America_, ch. 2.
[26] _Geschichte des Teufels_ 1. 316, 395.
[27] Hazlitt, _Tales_, pp. 39, 83.
4. _Friar Rush and Dekker_
It was the familiar legend of Friar Rush which furnished the groundwork
of Jonson’s play. The story seems to be of Danish origin, and first
makes its appearance in England in the form of a prose history
during the latter half of the sixteenth century. It is entered in
the _Stationer’s Register_ 1567-8, and mentioned by Reginald Scot in
1584.[28] As early as 1566, however, the figure of Friar Rush on a
‘painted cloth’ was a familiar one, and is so mentioned in _Gammer
Gurton’s Needle_.[29] The first extant edition dates from 1620, and has
been reprinted by W. J. Thoms.[30] The character had already become
partially identified with that of Robin Goodfellow,[31] and this
identification, as we have seen, Jonson was inclined to accept.
In spite of many variations of detail the kernel of the Rush story is
precisely that of Jonson’s play, the visit of a devil to earth with
the purpose of corrupting men. Both Rush and Pug assume human bodies,
the former being ‘put in rayment like an earthly creature’, while the
latter is made subject ‘to all impressions of the flesh’.
Rush, unlike his counterpart, is not otherwise bound to definite
conditions, but he too becomes a servant. The adventure is not of his
own seeking; he is chosen by agreement of the council, and no mention
is made of the emissary’s willingness or unwillingness to perform
his part. Later, however, we read that he stood at the gate of the
religious house ‘all alone and with a heavie countenance’. In the
beginning, therefore, he has little of Pug’s thirst for adventure,
but his object is at bottom the same, ‘to goe and dwell among these
religious men for to maintaine them the longer in their ungracious
living’. Like Pug, whose request for a Vice is denied him, he goes
unaccompanied, and presents himself at the priory in the guise of a
young man seeking service: ‘Sir, I am a poore young man, and am out of
service, and faine would have a maister’.[32]
Most of the remaining incidents of the Rush story could not be used
in Jonson’s play. Two incidents may be mentioned. Rush furthers the
amours of his master, as Pug attempts to do those of his mistress.
In the later history of Rush the motive of demoniacal possession is
worked into the plot. In a very important respect, however, the legend
differs from the play. Up to the time of discovery Rush is popular
and successful. He is nowhere made ridiculous, and his mission of
corruption is in large measure fulfilled. The two stories come together
in their conclusion. The discovery that a real devil has been among
them is the means of the friars’ conversion and future right living. A
precisely similar effect takes place in the case of Fitzdottrel.
The legend of Friar Rush had already twice been used
in the drama before it was adopted by Jonson. The play
by Day and Haughton to which Henslowe refers[33] is not
extant; Dekker’s drama, _If this be not a good Play, the
Diuell is in it_, appeared in 1612. Jonson in roundabout
fashion acknowledged his indebtedness to this play by the
closing line of his prologue.
If this Play doe not like, the Diuell is in’t.
Dekker’s play adds few new elements to the story. The first scene is
in the infernal regions; not, however, the Christian hell, as in the
prose history, but the classical Hades. This change seems to have
been adopted from Machiavelli. Three devils are sent to earth with
the object of corrupting men and replenishing hell. They return, on
the whole, successful, though the corrupted king of Naples is finally
redeemed.
In certain respects, however, the play stands closer to Jonson’s drama
than the history. In the first place, the doctrine that hell’s vices
are both old-fashioned and outdone by men, upon which Satan lays so
much stress in his instructions to Pug in the first scene, receives a
like emphasis in Dekker:
... ’tis thought
That men to find hell, now, new waies have sought,
As Spaniards did to the Indies.
and again:
... aboue vs dwell,
Diuells brauer, and more subtill then in Hell.[34]
and finally:
They scorne thy hell, hauing better of their owne.
In the second place Lurchall, unlike Rush, but in the same way
as Pug, finds himself inferior to his earthly associates. He
acknowledges himself overreached by Bartervile, and confesses:
I came to teach, but now (me thinkes) must learne.
A single correspondence of lesser importance may be added. Both devils,
when asked whence they come, obscurely intimate their hellish origin.
Pug says that he comes from the Devil’s Cavern in Derbyshire. Rufman
asserts that his home is Helvetia.[35]
[28] _Discovery_, p. 522.
[29] _O. Pl._, 4th ed., 3. 213.
[30] _Early Eng. Prose Romances_, London 1858.
[31] See Herford’s discussion, _Studies_, p. 305; also _Quarterly
Rev._ 22. 358. The frequently quoted passage from Harsnet’s
_Declaration_ (ch. 20, p. 134), is as follows: ‘And if that the bowle
of curds and cream were not duly set out for Robin Goodfellow, the
Friar, and Sisse the dairy-maide, why then either the pottage was
burnt the next day, or the cheese would not curdle’, etc. Cf. also
Scot, _Discovery_, p. 67: ‘Robin could both eate and drinke, as being
a cousening idle frier, or some such roge, that wanted nothing either
belonging to lecherie or knaverie, &c’.
[32] Cf. Pug’s words, 1. 3. 1 f.
[33] See Herford, p. 308.
[34] A similar passage is found in Dekker, _Whore of Babylon_,
_Wks._ 2. 355. The sentiment is not original with Dekker.
Cf. Middleton, _Black Book_, 1604:
. . . And were it number’d well,
There are more devils on earth than are in hell.
[35] Dekker makes a similar pun on Helicon in _News from
Hell_, _Non-dram Wks._ 2. 95.
5. _The Novella of Belfagor and the Comedy of Grim_
The relation between Jonson’s play and the novella attributed to
Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1522) has been treated in much detail by Dr.
Ernst Hollstein. Dr. Hollstein compares the play with the first known
English translation, that by the Marquis of Wharton in 1674.[36] It is
probable, however, that Jonson knew the novella in its Italian shape,
if he knew it at all.[37] The Italian text has therefore been taken as
the basis of the present discussion, while Dr. Hollstein’s results, so
far as they have appeared adequate or important, have been freely used.
... And were it number’d well,
There are more devils on earth than are in hell.
]
Both novella and play depart from the same idea, the visit of a devil
to earth to lead a human life. Both devils are bound by certain
definite conditions. Belfagor must choose a wife, and live with her ten
years; Pug must return at midnight. Belfagor, like Pug, must be subject
to ‘ogni infortunio nel quale gli uomini scorrono’.
In certain important respects Machiavelli’s story differs essentially
from Jonson’s. Both Dekker and Machiavelli place the opening scene in
the classical Hades instead of in the Christian hell. But Dekker’s
treatment of the situation is far more like Jonson’s than is the
novella’s. Herford makes the distinction clear: ‘Macchiavelli’s Hades
is the council-chamber of an Italian Senate, Dekker’s might pass for
some tavern haunt of Thames watermen. Dekker’s fiends are the drudges
of Pluto, abused for their indolence, flogged at will, and peremptorily
sent where he chooses. Machiavelli’s are fiends whose advice he
requests with the gravest courtesy and deference, and who give it
with dignity and independence’. Further, the whole object of the
visit, instead of being the corruption of men, is a mere sociological
investigation. Pug is eager to undertake his mission; Belfagor is
chosen by lot, and very loath to go. Pug becomes a servant, Belfagor a
nobleman.
But in one very important matter the stories coincide, that of the
general character and fate of the two devils. As Hollstein points out,
each comes with a firm resolve to do his best, each finds at once that
his opponents are too strong for him, each through his own docility
and stupidity meets repulse after repulse, ending in ruin, and each is
glad to return to hell. This, of course, involves the very essence of
Jonson’s drama, and on its resemblance to the novella must be based any
theory that Jonson was familiar with the latter.
Of resemblance of specific details not much can be made. The two
stories have in common the feature of demoniacal possession, but
this, as we have seen, occurs also in the Rush legend. The fact that
the princess speaks Latin, while Fitzdottrel surprises his auditors
by his ‘several languages’, is of no more significance. This is one
of the stock indications of witchcraft. It is mentioned by Darrel,
and Jonson could not have overlooked a device so obvious. Certain
other resemblances pointed out by Dr. Hollstein are of only the most
superficial nature. On the whole we are not warranted in concluding
with any certainty that Jonson knew the novella at all.
On the other hand, he must have been acquainted with
the comedy of _Grim, the Collier of Croydon_ (c 1600).
Herford makes no allusion to this play, and, though it was
mentioned as a possible source by A. W. Ward,[38] the subject
has never been investigated. The author of _Grim_ uses the
Belfagor legend for the groundwork of his plot, but handles
his material freely. In many respects the play is a close
parallel to _The Devil is an Ass_. The same respect for the
vices of earth is felt as in Dekker’s and Jonson’s plays.
Belphegor sets out to
... make experiment
If hell be not on earth as well as here.
The circumstances of the sending bear a strong resemblance to the
instructions given to Pug:
Thou shalt be subject unto human chance,
So far as common wit cannot relieve thee.
But whatsover happens in that time,
Look not from us for succour or relief.
This shalt thou do, and when the time’s expired,
Bring word to us what thou hast seen and done.
So in Jonson:
... but become subject
To all impression of the flesh, you take,
So farre as humane frailty: ...
But as you make your soone at nights relation,
And we shall find, it merits from the State,
You shall haue both trust from vs, and imployment.
Belphegor is described as ‘patient, mild, and pitiful’; and during his
sojourn on earth he shows little aptitude for mischief, but becomes
merely a butt and object of abuse. Belphegor’s request for a companion,
unlike that of Pug, is granted. He chooses his servant Akercock,
who takes the form of Robin Goodfellow. Robin expresses many of the
sentiments to be found in the mouth of Pug. With the latter’s monologue
(Text, 5. 2) compare Robin’s exclamation:
Zounds, I had rather be in hell than here.
Neither Pug (Text, 2. 5. 3-4) nor Robin dares to return without
authority:
What shall I do? to hell I dare not go,
Until my master’s twelve months be expir’d.
Like Pug (Text, 5. 6. 3-10) Belphegor worries over his reception in
hell:
How shall I give my verdict up to Pluto
Of all these accidents?
Finally Belphegor’s sensational disappearance through the
yawning earth comes somewhat nearer to Jonson than does
the Italian original. The English comedy seems, indeed,
to account adequately for all traces of the Belfagor story
to be found in Jonson’s play.
[36] A paraphrase of _Belfagor_ occurs in the Conclusion of
Barnaby Riche’s _Riche his Farewell to Militarie Profession_, 1581,
published for the Shakespeare Society by J. P. Collier, 1846. The
name is changed to Balthasar, but the main incidents are the same.
[37] Jonson refers to Machiavelli’s political writings in
_Timber_ (ed. Schelling, p. 38).
[38] _Eng. Dram. Lit._ 2. 606.
6. _Summary_
It is certain that of the two leading ideas of Jonson’s comedy, the
sending of a devil to earth with the object of corrupting men is
derived from the Rush legend. It is probable that the no less important
motive of a baffled devil, happy to make his return to hell, is due
either directly or indirectly to Machiavelli’s influence. This motive,
as we have seen, was strengthened by a body of legend and by the
treatment of the devil in the morality play.
7. _The Figure of the Vice_
It is the figure of the Vice which makes Jonson’s satire on the
out-of-date moralities most unmistakable. This character has been
the subject of much study and discussion, and there is to-day no
universally accepted theory as to his origin and development. In the
literature of Jonson’s day the term Vice is almost equivalent to
harlequin. But whether this element of buffoonery is the fundamental
trait of the character, and that of intrigue is due to a confusion
in the meaning of the word, or whether the element of intrigue is
original, and that of buffoonery has taken its place by a process of
degeneration in the Vice himself, is still a disputed question.
The theory of Cushman and of Eckhardt is substantially the same,
and may be stated as follows. Whether or not the Vice be a direct
descendant of the devil, it is certain that he falls heir to his
predecessor’s position in the drama, and that his development is
strongly influenced by that character. Originally, like the devil, he
represents the principle of evil and may be regarded as the summation
of the seven deadly sins. From the beginning, however, he possessed
more comic elements, much being ready made for him through the partial
degeneration of the devil, while the material of the moralities was
by no means so limited in scope as that of the mysteries. This comic
element, comparatively slight at first, soon began to be cultivated
intentionally, and gradually assumed the chief function, while the
allegorical element was largely displaced. In course of time the
transformation from the intriguer to the buffoon became complete.[39]
Moreover, the rapidity of the transformation was hastened by the
influence of the fool, a new dramatic figure of independent origin,
but the partial successor upon the stage of the Vice’s comedy part. As
early as 1570 the union of fool and Vice is plainly visible.[40] In
1576 we find express stage directions given for the Vice to fill in
the pauses with improvised jests.[41] Two years later a Vice plays the
leading rôle for the last time.[42] By 1584 the Vice has completely
lost his character of intriguer[43], and in the later drama he appears
only as an antiquated figure, where he is usually considered as
identical with the fool or jester.[44] Cushman enumerates the three
chief rôles of the Vice as the opponent of the Good; the corrupter of
man; and the buffoon.
The Vice, however, is not confined to the moralities, but appears
frequently in the comic interludes. According to the theory of Cushman,
the name Vice stands in the beginning for a moral and abstract idea,
that of the principle of evil in the world, and must have originated
in the moralities; and since it is applied to a comic personage in
the interludes, this borrowing must have taken place after the period
of degeneration had already begun. To this theory Chambers[45] offers
certain important objections. He points out that, although ‘vices in
the ordinary sense of the word are of course familiar personages in the
morals’, the term Vice is not applied specifically to a character in
‘any pre-Elizabethan moral interlude except the Marian _Respublica_’,
1553. Furthermore, ‘as a matter of fact, he comes into the interlude
through the avenue of the farce’. The term is first applied to the
leading comic characters in the farces of John Heywood, _Love_ and
_The Weather_, 1520-30. These characters have traits more nearly
resembling those of the fool and clown than those of the intriguer of
the moralities. Chambers concludes therefore that ‘the character of the
vice is derived from that of the domestic fool or jester’, and that
the term was borrowed by the authors of the moralities from the comic
interludes.
These two views are widely divergent, and seem at first wholly
irreconcilable. The facts of the case, however, are, I believe,
sufficiently clear to warrant the following conclusions: (1) The early
moralities possessed many allegorical characters representing vices
in the ordinary sense of the word. (2) From among these vices we may
distinguish in nearly every play a single character as in a preëminent
degree the embodiment of evil. (3) To this chief character the name of
Vice was applied about 1553, and with increasing frequency after that
date. (4) Whatever may have been the original meaning of the word, it
must have been generally understood in the moralities in the sense
now usually attributed to it; for (5) The term was applied in the
moralities only to a character in some degree evil. Chambers instances
_The Tide tarrieth for No Man_ and the tragedy of _Horestes_, where
the Vice bears the name of Courage, as exceptions. The cases, however,
are misleading. In the former, Courage is equivalent to ‘Purpose’,
‘Desire’, and is a distinctly evil character.[46] In the latter he
reveals himself in the second half of the play as Revenge, and although
he incites Horestes to an act of justice, he is plainly opposed to
‘Amyte’, and he is finally rejected and discountenanced. Moreover
he is here a serious figure, and only occasionally exhibits comic
traits. He cannot therefore be considered as supporting the theory
of the original identity of the fool and the Vice. (6) The Vice of
the comic interludes and the leading character of the moralities are
distinct figures. The former was from the beginning a comic figure or
buffoon;[47] the latter was in the beginning serious, and continued to
the end to preserve serious traits. With which of these two figures
the term Vice originated, and by which it was borrowed from the other,
is a matter of uncertainty and is of minor consequence. These facts,
however, seem certain, and for the present discussion sufficient: that
the vices of the earlier and of the later moralities represent the
same stock figure; that this figure stood originally for the principle
of evil, and only in later days became confused with the domestic
fool or jester; that the process of degeneration was continuous and
gradual, and took place substantially in the manner outlined by Cushman
and Eckhardt; and that, while to the playwright of Jonson’s day the
term was suggestive primarily of the buffoon, it meant also an evil
personage, who continued to preserve certain lingering traits from the
character of intriguer in the earlier moralities.
[39] Eckhardt, p. 195.
[40] In W. Wager’s _The longer thou livest, the more fool thou art_.
[41] In Wapull’s _The Tide tarrieth for No Man_.
[42] Subtle Shift in _The History of Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_.
[43] In Wilson’s _The Three Ladies of London_.
[44] He is so identified in Chapman’s _Alphonsus, Emperor of Germany_
c 1590 (_Wks._, ed. 1873, 3. 216), and in Stubbes’ _Anat._, 1583.
Nash speaks of the Vice as an antiquated figure as early as 1592
(_Wks._ 2. 203).
[45] _Med. Stage_, pp. 203-5.
[46] Eckhardt, p. 145.
[47] Sometimes he is even a virtuous character. See Eckhardt’s
remarks on _Archipropheta_, p. 170. Merry Report in Heywood’s
_Weather_ constantly moralizes, and speaks of himself as the servant
of God in contrast with the devil.
8. _Jonson’s Use of the Vice_
The position of the Vice has been discussed at some length because
of its very important bearing on Jonson’s comedy. It is evident,
even upon a cursory reading, that Jonson has not confined himself to
the conception of the Vice obtainable from a familiarity with the
interludes alone, as shown in Heywood’s farces or the comedy of _Jack
Juggler_. The character of Iniquity, though fully identified with the
buffoon of the later plays, is nevertheless closely connected in the
author’s mind with the intriguer of the old moralities. This is clear
above all from the use of the name Iniquity, from his association with
the devil, and from Pug’s desire to use him as a means of corrupting
his playfellows. Thus, consciously or unconsciously on Jonson’s part,
Iniquity presents in epitome the history of the Vice.
His very name, as we have said, links him with the morality-play. In
fact, all the Vices suggested, Iniquity, Fraud, Covetousness, and Lady
Vanity, are taken from the moralities. The choice of Iniquity was
not without meaning, and was doubtless due to its more general and
inclusive significance. In Shakespeare’s time Vice and Iniquity seem
to have been synonymous terms (see Schmidt), from which it has been
inferred that Iniquity was the Vice in many lost moralities.[48]
Of the original Vice-traits Iniquity lays vigorous claim to that of the
corrupter of man. Pug desires a Vice that he may ‘practice there-with
any play-fellow’, and Iniquity comes upon the stage with voluble
promises to teach his pupil to ‘cheat, lie, cog and swagger’. He offers
also to lead him into all the disreputable precincts of the city.
Iniquity appears in only two scenes, Act 1. Sc. 1 and Act 5. Sc. 6. In
the latter he reverses the usual process and carries away the devil to
hell. This point has already been discussed (p. xxiv).
Aside from these two particulars, Iniquity is far nearer to the fool
than to the original Vice. As he comes skipping upon the stage in the
first scene, reciting his galloping doggerel couplets, we see plainly
that the element of buffoonery is uppermost in Jonson’s mind. Further
evidence may be derived from the particularity with which Iniquity
describes the costume which he promises to Pug, and which we are
doubtless to understand as descriptive of his own. Attention should
be directed especially to the wooden dagger, the long cloak, and the
slouch hat. Cushman says (p. 125): ‘The vice enjoys the greatest
freedom in the matter of dress; he is not confined to any stereotyped
costume; ... the opinion that he is always or usually dressed in a
fool’s costume has absolutely no justification’. The wooden dagger, a
relic of the Roman stage,[49] is the most frequently mentioned article
of equipment. It is first found (1553-8) as part of the apparel of Jack
Juggler in a print illustrating that play, reproduced by Dodsley. It is
also mentioned in _Like Will to Like_, _Hickescorner_, _King Darius_,
etc. The wooden dagger was borrowed, however, from the fool’s costume,
and is an indication of the growing identification of the Vice with
the house-fool. That Jonson recognized it as such is evident from his
_Expostulation with Inigo Jones_:
No velvet suit you wear will alter kind;
A wooden dagger is a dagger of wood.
The long cloak, twice mentioned (1. 1. 51 and 85), is another
property borrowed from the fool. The natural fool usually wore a
long gown-like dress,[50] and this was later adopted as a dress for
the artificial fool. Muckle John, the court fool of Charles I., was
provided with ‘a long coat and suit of scarlet-colour serge’.[51]
Satan’s reply to Pug’s request for a Vice is, however, the most
important passage on this subject. He begins by saying that the Vice,
whom he identifies with the house fool, is fifty years out of date.
Only trivial and absurd parts are left for Iniquity to play, the
mountebank tricks of the city and the tavern fools. Douce (pp. 499
f.) mentions nine kinds of fools, among which the following appear:
1. The general domestic fool. 4. The city or corporation fool. 5.
Tavern fools. Satan compares Iniquity with each of these in turn. The
day has gone by, he says:
When euery great man had his _Vice_ stand by him,
In his long coat, shaking his wooden dagger.
Then he intimates that Iniquity may be able to play the
tavern fool:
Where canst thou carry him? except to Tauernes?
To mount vp ona joynt-stoole, with a _Iewes_-trumpe,
To put downe _Cokeley_, and that must be to Citizens?
And finally he compares him with the city fool:
Hee may perchance, in taile of a Sheriffes dinner,
Skip with a rime o’ the table, from _New-nothing_,
And take his _Almaine_-leape into a custard.
Thus not only does Jonson identify the Vice with the fool, but with the
fool in his senility. The characteristic functions of the jester in the
Shakespearian drama, with his abundant store of improvised jests, witty
retorts, and irresistible impudence, have no part in this character. He
is merely the mountebank who climbs upon a tavern stool, skips over the
table, and leaps into corporation custards.
Iniquity, then, plays no real part in the drama. His introduction is
merely for the purpose of satire. In _The Staple of News_ the subject
is renewed, and treated with greater directness:
‘_Tat._ I would fain see the fool, gossip; the fool is the
finest man in the company, they say, and has all the wit:
he is the very justice o’ peace o’ the play, and can commit
whom he will and what he will, error, absurdity, as the toy
takes him, and no man say black is his eye, but laugh at him’.
In _Epigram 115, On the Town’s Honest Man_, Jonson
again identifies the Vice with the mountebank, almost in
the same way as he does in _The Devil is an Ass_:
... this is one
Suffers no name but a description
Being no vicious person but the Vice
About the town; ...
At every meal, where it doth dine or sup,
The cloth’s no sooner gone, but it gets up,
And shifting of its faces, doth play more
Parts than the Italian could do with his door.
Acts old Iniquity and in the fit
Of miming gets the opinion of a wit.
[48] This designation for the Vice first appears in _Nice Wanton_,
1547-53, then in _King Darius_, 1565, and _Histriomastix_, 1599
(printed 1610).
[49] Wright, _Hist. of Caricature_, p. 106.
[50] Doran, p. 182.
[51] _Ibid._, p. 210.
II. THE SATIRICAL DRAMA
It was from Aristophanes[52] that Jonson learned to combine with
such boldness the palpable with the visionary, the material with the
abstract. He surpassed even his master in the power of rendering the
combination a convincing one, and his method was always the same. Fond
as he was of occasional flights of fancy, his mind was fundamentally
satirical, so that the process of welding the apparently discordant
elements was always one of rationalizing the fanciful rather than
of investing the actual with a far-away and poetic atmosphere. Thus
even his purely supernatural scenes present little incongruity. Satan
and Iniquity discuss strong waters and tobacco, Whitechapel and
Billingsgate, with the utmost familiarity; even hell’s ‘most exquisite
tortures’ are adapted in part from the homely proverbs of the people.
In the use of his sources three tendencies are especially noticeable:
the motivation of borrowed incidents; the adjusting of action on a
moral basis: the reworking of his own favorite themes and incidents.
[52] See Herford, p. 318.
1. _General Treatment of the Plot_
For the main plot we have no direct source. It represents, however,
Jonson’s typical method. It has been pointed out[53] that the
characteristic Jonsonian comedy always consists of two groups, the
intriguers and the victims. In _The Devil is an Ass_ the most purely
comic motive of the play is furnished by a reversal of the usual
relation subsisting between these two groups. Here the devil, who was
wont to be looked upon as arch-intriguer, is constantly ‘fooled off
and beaten’, and thus takes his position as the comic butt. Pug, in a
sense, represents a satirical trend. Through him Jonson satirizes the
outgrown supernaturalism which still clung to the skirts of Jacobean
realism, and at the same time paints in lively colors the vice of a
society against which hell itself is powerless to contend. It is only,
however, in a general way, where the devil stands for a principle, that
Pug may be considered as in any degree satirical. In the particular
incident he is always a purely comic figure, and furnishes the mirth
which results from a sense of the incongruity between anticipation and
accomplishment.
Fitzdottrel, on the other hand, is mainly satirical. Through him Jonson
passes censure upon the city gallant, the attendant at the theatre, the
victim of the prevalent superstitions, and even the pretended demoniac.
His dupery, as in the case of his bargain with Wittipol, excites
indignation rather than mirth, and his final discomfiture affords us
almost a sense of poetic justice. This character stands in the position
of chief victim.
In an intermediate position are Merecraft and Everill. They succeed in
swindling Fitzdottrel and Lady Tailbush, but are in turn played upon by
the chief intriguer, Wittipol, with his friend Manly. Jonson’s moral
purpose is here plainly visible, especially in contrast to Plautus,
with whom the youthful intriguer is also the stock figure. The motive
of the young man’s trickery in the Latin comedy is usually unworthy and
selfish. That of Wittipol, on the other hand, is wholly disinterested,
since he is represented as having already philosophically accepted the
rejection of his advances at the hands of Mrs. Fitzdottrel.
In construction the play suffers from overabundance of material.
Instead of a single main line of action, which is given clear
precedence, there is rather a succession of elaborated episodes,
carefully connected and motivated, but not properly subordinated. The
plot is coherent and intricate rather than unified. This is further
aggravated by the fact that the chief objects of satire are imperfectly
understood by readers of the present day.
Jonson observes unity of time, Pug coming to earth in
the morning and returning at midnight. With the exception
of the first scene, which is indeterminate, and seems at
one moment to be hell, and the next London, the action is
confined to the City, but hovers between Lincoln’s Inn,
Newgate, and the house of Lady Tailbush. Unity of action
is of course broken by the interference of the devil-plot and
the episodic nature of the satirical plot. The main lines
of action may be discussed separately.
In the first act chief prominence is given to the intrigue
between Wittipol and Mrs. Fitzdottrel. This interest is
continued through the second act, but practically dropped
after this point. In Act 4 we find that both lovers have
recovered from their infatuation, and the intrigue ends by
mutual consent.
The second act opens with the episode of Merecraft’s plot to gull
Fitzdottrel. The project of the dukedom of Drownedland is given chief
place, and attention is centred upon it both here and in the following
scenes. Little use, however, is made of it in the motivation of
action. This is left for another project, the office of the Master of
Dependencies (quarrels) in the next act. This device is introduced in
an incidental way, and we are not prepared for the important place
which it takes in the development of the plot. Merecraft, goaded by
Everill, hits upon it merely as a temporary makeshift to extort money
from Fitzdottrel. The latter determines to make use of the office in
prosecuting his quarrel with Wittipol. In preparation for the duel,
and in accordance with the course of procedure laid down by Everill,
he resolves to settle his estate. Merecraft and Everill endeavor to
have the deed drawn in their own favor, but through the interference
of Wittipol the whole estate is made over to Manly, who restores it to
Mrs. Fitzdottrel. This project becomes then the real turning-point of
the play.
The episode of Guilthead and Plutarchus in Act 3 is only slightly
connected with the main plot. That of Wittipol’s disguise as a Spanish
lady, touched upon in the first two acts, becomes the chief interest of
the fourth. It furnishes much comic material, and the characters of
Lady Tailbush and Lady Eitherside offer the poet the opportunity for
some of his cleverest touches in characterization and contrast.[54] The
scene, however, is introduced for incidental purposes, the satirization
of foreign fashions and the follies of London society, and is
overelaborated. The catalogue of cosmetics is an instance of Jonson’s
intimate acquaintance with recondite knowledge standing in the way of
his art.
Merecraft’s ‘after game’ in the fifth act is of the nature of an
appendix. The play might well have ended with the frustration of his
plan to get possession of the estate. This act is introduced chiefly
for the sake of a satire upon pretended demoniacs and witch-finders. It
also contains the conclusion of the devil-plot.
_The Devil is an Ass_ will always remain valuable as a historical
document, and as a record of Jonson’s own attitude towards the abuses
of his times. In the treatment of Fitzdottrel and Merecraft among the
chief persons, and of Plutarchus Guilthead among the lesser, this
play belongs to Jonson’s character-drama.[55] It does not, however,
belong to the pure humor-comedy. Like _The Alchemist_, and in marked
contrast to _Every Man out of his Humor_, interest is sought in plot
development. In the scene between Lady Tailbush and Lady Eitherside,
the play becomes a comedy of manners, and in its attack upon state
abuses it is semi-political in nature. Both Gifford and Swinburne have
observed the ethical treatment of the main motives.
With the exception of Prologue and Epilogue, the doggerel couplets
spoken by Iniquity, Wittipol’s song (2. 6. 94), and some of the
lines quoted by Fitzdottrel in the last scene, the play is written
in blank verse throughout. Occasional lines of eight (2. 2. 122),
nine (2. 1. 1), twelve (1. 1. 33) or thirteen (1. 1. 113) syllables
are introduced. Most of these could easily be normalized by a slight
emendation or the slurring of a syllable in pronunciation. Many of
the lines, however, are rough and difficult of scansion. Most of the
dialogue is vigorous, though Wittipol’s language is sometimes affected
and unnatural (cf. Act 1. Sc. 1). His speech, 1. 6. 111-148, is
classical in tone, but fragmentary and not perfectly assimilated. The
song already referred to possesses delicacy and some beauty of imagery,
but lacks Jonson’s customary polish and smoothness.
As a work of art the play must rely chiefly upon the vigor of its
satiric dialogue and the cleverness of its character sketches. It lacks
the chief excellences of construction--unity of interest, subordination
of detail, steady and uninterrupted development, and prompt conclusion.
[53] Woodbridge, _Studies_, p. 33.
[54] Contrasted companion-characters are a favorite device with
Jonson. Compare Corvino, Corbaccio, and Voltore in _The Fox_, Ananias
and Tribulation Wholesome in _The Alchemist_, etc.
[55] It should be noticed that in the case of Merecraft the method
employed is the caricature of a profession, as well as the exposition
of personality.
2. _Chief Sources of the Plot_
The first source to be pointed out was that of Act 1. Sc. 4-6.[56]
This was again noticed by Koeppel, who mentions one of the
word-for-word borrowings, and points out the moralistic tendency in
Jonson’s treatment of the husband, and his rejection of the Italian
story’s licentious conclusion.[57] The original is from Boccaccio’s
_Decameron_, the fifth novella of the third day. Boccaccio’s title
is as follows: ‘Il Zima dona a messer Francesco Vergellesi un suo
pallafreno, e per quello con licenzia di lui parla alla sua donna, ed
ella tacendo, egli in persona di lei si risponde, e secondo la sua
risposta poi l’effetto segue’. The substance of the story is this. Il
Zima, with the bribe of a palfrey, makes a bargain with Francesco. For
the gift he is granted an interview with the wife of Francesco and in
the latter’s presence. This interview, however, unlike that in _The
Devil is an Ass_, is not in the husband’s hearing. To guard against any
mishap, Francesco secretly commands his wife to make no answer to the
lover, warning her that he will be on the lookout for any communication
on her part. The wife, like Mrs. Fitzdottrel, upbraids her husband,
but is obliged to submit. Il Zima begins his courtship, but, though
apparently deeply affected, she makes no answer. The young man then
suspects the husband’s trick (e poscia s’incominciò ad accorgere dell’
arte usata dal cavaliere). He accordingly hits upon the device of
supposing himself in her place and makes an answer for her, granting an
assignation. As a signal he suggests the hanging out of the window of
two handkerchiefs. He then answers again in his own person. Upon the
husband’s rejoining them he pretends to be deeply chagrined, complains
that he has met a statue of marble (una statua di marmo) and adds:
‘Voi avete comperato il pallafreno, e io non l’ho venduto’. Il Zima is
successful in his ruse, and Francesco’s wife yields completely to his
seduction.
A close comparison of this important source is highly instructive.
Verbal borrowings show either that Jonson had the book before him, or
that he remembered many of the passages literally. Thus Boccaccio’s
‘una statua di marmo’ finds its counterpart in a later scene[58] where
Mrs. Fitzdottrel says: ‘I would not haue him thinke hee met a statue’.
Fitzdottrel’s satisfaction at the result of the bargain is like that
of Francesco: ‘I ha’ kept the contract, and the cloake is mine’ (omai
è ben mio il pallafreno, che fu tuo). Again Wittipol’s parting words
resemble Il Zima’s: ‘It may fall out, that you ha’ bought it deare,
though I ha’ not sold it’.[59] In the mouths of the two heroes,
however, these words mean exactly opposite things. With Il Zima it is a
complaint, and means: ‘You have won the cloak, but I have got nothing
in return’. With Wittipol, on the other hand, it is an open sneer, and
hints at further developments. The display of handkerchiefs at the
window is another borrowing. Fitzdottrel says sarcastically:
... I’ll take carefull order,
That shee shall hang forth ensignes at the window.
Finally Wittipol, like Il Zima, suspects a trick when Mrs.
Fitzdottrel refuses to answer:
How! not any word? Nay, then, I taste a tricke in’t.
But precisely here Jonson blunders badly. In Boccaccio’s story the
trick was a genuine one. Il Zima stands waiting for an answer. When no
response is made he begins to suspect the husband’s secret admonition,
and to thwart it hits upon the device of answering himself. But in
Jonson there is no trick at all. Fitzdottrel does indeed require his
wife to remain silent, but by no means secretly. His command is placed
in the midst of a rambling discourse addressed alternately to his wife
and to the young men. There is not the slightest hint that any part
of this speech is whispered in his wife’s ear, and Wittipol enters
upon his courtship with full knowledge of the situation. This fact
deprives Wittipol’s speech in the person of Mrs. Fitzdottrel of its
character as a clever device, so that the whole point of Boccaccio’s
story is weakened, if not destroyed. I cannot refrain in conclusion
from making a somewhat doubtful conjecture. It is noticeable that while
Jonson follows so many of the details of this story with the greatest
fidelity he substitutes the gift of a cloak for that of the original
‘pallafreno’ (palfrey).[60] The word is usually written ‘palafreno’ and
so occurs in Florio. Is it possible that Jonson was unfamiliar with the
word, and, not being able to find it in a dictionary, conjectured that
it was identical with ‘palla’, a cloak?
In other respects Jonson’s handling of the story displays his
characteristic methods. Boccaccio spends very few words in description
of either husband or suitor. Jonson, however, is careful to make plain
the despicable character of Fitzdottrel, while Wittipol is represented
as an attractive and high-minded young man. Further than this, both
Mrs. Fitzdottrel and Wittipol soon recover completely from their
infatuation.
Koeppel has suggested a second source from the _Decameron_, Day 3,
Novella 3. The title is: ‘Sotto spezie di confessione e di purissima
coscienza una donna, innamorata d’un giovane, induce un solenne frate,
senza avvedersene egli, a dar modo che’l piacer di lei avessi intero
effetto’. The story is briefly this. A lady makes her confessor the
means of establishing an acquaintance with a young man with whom she
has fallen in love. Her directions are conveyed to him under the guise
of indignant prohibitions. By a series of messages of similar character
she finally succeeds in informing him of the absence of her husband
and the possibility of gaining admittance to her chamber by climbing a
tree in the garden. Thus the friar becomes the unwitting instrument of
the very thing which he is trying to prevent. So in Act 2. Sc. 2 and 6,
Mrs. Fitzdottrel suspects Pug of being her husband’s spy. She dares not
therefore send Wittipol a direct message, but requests him to cease his
attentions to her
At the Gentlemans chamber-window in _Lincolnes-Inne_ there,
That opens to my gallery.
Wittipol takes the hint, and promptly appears at the place indicated.
Von Rapp[61] has mentioned certain other scenes as probably of
Italian origin, but, as he advances no proofs, his suggestions may be
neglected. It seems to me possible that in the scene above referred
to, where the lover occupies a house adjoining that of his mistress,
and their secret amour is discovered by her servant and reported to
his master, Jonson had in mind the same incident in Plautus’ _Miles
Gloriosus_, Act. 2. Sc. 1 f.
The trait of jealousy which distinguishes Fitzdottrel was suggested
to some extent by the character of Euclio in the _Aulularia_, and a
passage of considerable length[62] is freely paraphrased from that
play. The play and the passage had already been used in _The Case is
Altered_.
Miss Woodbridge has noticed that the scene in which Lady Tailbush and
her friends entertain Wittipol disguised as a Spanish lady is similar
to Act 3. Sc. 2 of _The Silent Woman_, where the collegiate ladies call
upon Epicoene. The trick of disguising a servant as a woman occurs in
Plautus’ _Casina_, Acts 4 and 5.
For the final scene, where Fitzdottrel plays the part of a bewitched
person, Jonson made free use of contemporary books and tracts. The
motive of pretended possession had already appeared in _The Fox_
(_Wks._ 3. 312), where symptoms identical with or similar to those in
the present passage are mentioned--swelling of the belly, vomiting
crooked pins, staring of the eyes, and foaming at the mouth. The
immediate suggestion in this place may have come either through the
Rush story or through Machiavelli’s novella. That Jonson’s materials
can be traced exclusively to any one source is hardly to be expected.
Not only were trials for witchcraft numerous, but they must have formed
a common subject of speculation and discussion. The ordinary evidences
of possession were doubtless familiar to the well-informed man without
the need of reference to particular records. And it is of the ordinary
evidences that the poet chiefly makes use. Nearly all these are found
repeatedly in the literature of the period.
We know, on the other hand, that Jonson often preferred to get his
information through the medium of books. It is not surprising,
therefore, that Merecraft proposes to imitate ‘little Darrel’s tricks’,
and to find that the dramatist has resorted in large measure to this
particular source.[63]
The Darrel controversy was carried on through a number of years between
John Darrel, a clergyman (see note 5. 3. 6), on the one hand, and
Bishop Samuel Harsnet, John Deacon and John Walker, on the other. Of
the tracts produced in this controversy the two most important are
Harsnet’s _Discovery of the Fraudulent Practises of John Darrel_,[64]
1599, and Darrel’s _True Narration of the Strange and Grevous
Vexation by the Devil of 7 Persons in Lancashire and William Somers
of Nottingham_, ... 1600. The story is retold in Francis Hutchinson’s
_Historical Essay concerning Witchcraft_, London, 1720.
Jonson follows the story as told in these two books with considerable
fidelity. The accompaniments of demonic possession which Fitzdottrel
exhibits in the last scene are enumerated in two previous speeches.
Practically all of these are to be found in Darrel’s account:
... roule but wi’ your eyes,
And foam at th’ mouth. (Text, 5. 3. 2-3)
... to make your belly swell,
And your eyes turne, to foame, to stare, to gnash
Your teeth together, and to beate your selfe,
Laugh loud, and faine six voices. (5. 5. 25 f.)
They may be compared with the description given by Darrel: ‘He was
often seene ... to beate his head and other parts of his body against
the ground and bedstead. In most of his fitts, he did swell in his
body; ... if he were standing when the fit came he wold be cast
headlong upon the ground, or fall doune, drawing then his lips awry,
gnashing with his teeth, wallowing and foaming.... Presently after he
would laughe loud and shrill, his mouth being shut close’. (Darrel,
p. 181.) ‘He was also continually torne in very fearfull manner, and
disfigured in his face ... now he gnashed with his teeth; now he fomed
like to the horse or boare, ... not to say anything of his fearfull
staring with his eyes, and incredible gaping’. (Darrel, p. 183.) The
swelling, foaming, gnashing, staring, etc., are also mentioned by
Harsnet (pp. 147-8), as well as the jargon of languages (p. 165).
The scene is prepared before Merecraft’s appearance (Text, 5. 5. 40.
Cf. _Detection_, p. 92), and Fitzdottrel is discovered lying in bed
(Text, 5. 5. 39; 5. 8. 40). Similarly, Somers performed many of his
tricks ‘under a coverlet’ (_Detection_, p. 104). Sir Paul Eitherside
then enters and ‘interprets all’. This is imitated directly from
Harsnet, where we read: ‘So. [Somers] acting those gestures M. Dar.
did expound them very learnedlye, to signify this or that sinne that
raigned in Nott. [Nottingham].’ Paul’s first words are: ‘This is the
_Diuell_ speakes and laughes in him’. So Harsnet tells us that ‘M. Dar.
vpon his first comming vnto Som. affirmed that it was not So. that
spake in his fitts, but the diuell by him’. Both Fitzdottrel (Text, 5.
8. 115) and Somers (_Narration_, p. 182) talk in Greek. The devil in
Fitzdottrel proposes to ‘break his necke in jest’ (Text, 5. 8. 117),
and a little later to borrow money (5. 8. 119). The same threat is
twice made in the _True Narration_ (pp. 178 and 180). In the second of
these passages Somers is met by an old woman, who tries to frighten him
into giving her money. Otherwise, she declares, ‘I will throwe thee
into this pit, and breake thy neck’. The mouse ‘that should ha’ come
forth’ (Text, 5. 8. 144) is mentioned by both narrators (_Detection_,
p. 140; _Narration_, p. 184), and the pricking of the body with
pins and needles (Text, 5. 8. 49) is found in slightly altered form
(_Detection_, p. 135; _Narration_, p. 174). Finally the clapping of the
hands (Text. 5. 8. 76) is a common feature (_Narration_, p. 182). The
last mentioned passage finds a still closer parallel in a couplet from
the contemporary ballad, which Gifford quotes from Hutchinson (p. 249):
And by the clapping of his Hands
He shew’d the starching of our Bands.
Of the apparatus supplied by Merecraft for the imposture, the soap,
nutshell, tow, and touchwood (Text, 5. 3. 3-5), the bladders and
bellows (Text, 5. 5. 48), some are doubtless taken from Harsnet’s
_Discovery_, though Darrel does not quote these passages in the
_Detection_. We find, however, that Darrel was accused of supplying
Somers with black lead to foam with (_Detection_, p. 160), and Gifford
says that the _soap_ and _bellows_ are also mentioned in the ‘Bishop’s
book’.
Though Jonson drew so largely upon this source, many details are
supplied by his own imagination. Ridiculous as much of it may seem to
the modern reader, it is by no means overdrawn. In fact it may safely
be affirmed that no such realistic depiction of witchcraft exists
elsewhere in the whole range of dramatic literature.
[56] Langbaine, _Eng. Dram. Poets_, p. 289.
[57] _Quellen Studien_, p. 15.
[58] 2. 2. 69.
[59] Mentioned by Koeppel, p. 15.
[60] So spelled in 1573 ed. In earlier editions ‘palafreno’.
[61] _Studien_, p. 232.
[62] See note 2. 1. 168 f.
[63] Gifford points out the general resemblance. He uses Hutchinson’s
book for comparison.
[64] This book, so far as I know, is not to be found in any American
library. My knowledge of its contents is derived wholly from
Darrel’s answer, _A Detection of that sinnful, shamful, lying and
ridiculous Discours, of Samuel Harshnet, entituled: A Discoverie,
etc.... Imprinted 1600_, which apparently cites all of Harsnet’s more
important points for refutation. It has been lent me through the
kindness of Professor George L. Burr from the Cornell Library. The
quotations from Harsnet in the following pages are accordingly taken
from the excerpts in the _Detection_.
3. _Prototypes of the leading Characters_
The position of the leading characters has already been indicated. Pug,
as the comic butt and innocent gull, is allied to Master Stephen and
Master Matthew of _Every Man in his Humor_, Dapper of _The Alchemist_,
and Cokes of _Bartholomew Fair_. Fitzdottrel, another type of the gull,
is more closely related to _Tribulation Wholesome_ in _The Alchemist_,
and even in some respects to Corvino and Voltore in _The Fox_. Wittipol
and Manly, the chief intriguers, hold approximately the same position
as Wellbred and Knowell in _Every Man in his Humor_, Winwife and
Quarlous in _Bartholomew Fair_, and Dauphine, Clerimont, and Truewit in
_The Silent Woman_. Merecraft is related in his character of swindler
to Subtle in _The Alchemist_, and in his character of projector to Sir
Politick Wouldbe in _The Fox_.
The contemptible ‘lady of spirit and woman of fashion’ is one of
Jonson’s favorite types. She first appears in the persons of Fallace
and Saviolina in _Every Man out of his Humor_; then in _Cynthia’s
Revels_, where Moria and her friends play the part; then as Cytheris in
_Poetaster_, Lady Politick in _The Alchemist_, the collegiate ladies
in _The Silent Woman_, and Fulvia and Sempronia in _Catiline_. The same
affectations and vices are satirized repeatedly. An evident prototype
of Justice Eitherside is found in the person of Adam Overdo in
_Bartholomew Fair_. Both are justices of the peace, both are officious,
puritanical, and obstinate. Justice Eitherside’s denunciation of the
devotees of tobacco finds its counterpart in a speech in _Bartholomew
Fair_, and his repeated ‘I do detest it’ reminds one of Overdo’s
frequent expressions of horror at the enormities which he constantly
discovers.
4. _Minor Sources_
_The Devil is an Ass_ is not deeply indebted to the classics. Jonson
borrows twice from Horace, 1. 6. 131, and 2. 4. 27 f. The half dozen
lines in which the former passage occurs (1. 6. 126-132) are written in
evident imitation of the Horatian style. Two passages are also borrowed
from Plautus, 2. 1. 168 f., already mentioned, and 3. 6. 38-9. A single
passage (2. 6. 104 f.) shows the influence of Martial. These passages
are all quoted in the notes.
The source of Wittipol’s description of the ‘Cioppino’, and the mishap
attendant upon its use, was probably taken from a contemporary book
of travels. A passage in Coryat’s _Crudities_ furnishes the necessary
information and a similar anecdote, and was doubtless used by Jonson
(see note 4. 4. 69). Coryat was patronized by the poet. Similarly,
another passage in the _Crudities_ seems to have suggested the project
of the forks (see note 5. 4. 17).
A curious resemblance is further to be noted between several passages
in _The Devil is an Ass_ and _Underwoods 62_. The first draft of this
poem may have been written not long before the present play (see Fleay,
_Chron._ 1. 329-30) and so have been still fresh in the poet’s mind.
The passage _DA._ 3. 2. 44-6 shows unmistakably that the play was
the borrower, and not the poem. Gifford suggests that both passages
were quoted from a contemporary posture-book, but the passage in the
epigram gives no indication of being a quotation.
The chief parallels are as follows: _U. 62._ 10-14 and _DA._ 3. 3.
165-6; _U. 62._ 21-2 and _DA._ 3. 3. 169-72; _U. 62._ 25-6 and _DA._ 3.
2. 44-6; _U. 62._ 45-8 and _DA._ 2. 8. 19-22. These passages are all
quoted in the notes. In addition, there are a few striking words and
phrases that occur in both productions, but the important likenesses
are all noted above. In no other poem except _Charis_, _The Gipsies_,
and _Underwoods 36_,[65] where the borrowings are unmistakably
intentional, is there any thing like the same reworking of material as
in this instance.
III. SPECIFIC OBJECTS OF SATIRE
_The Devil is an Ass_ has been called of all Jonson’s plays since
_Cynthia’s Revels_ the most obsolete in the subjects of its satire.[66]
The criticism is true, and it is only with some knowledge of the abuses
which Jonson assails that we can appreciate the keenness and precision
of his thrusts. The play is a colossal exposé of social abuses. It
attacks the aping of foreign fashions, the vices of society, and above
all the cheats and impositions of the unscrupulous swindler. But we
miss its point if we fail to see that Jonson’s arraignment of the
society which permitted itself to be gulled is no less severe than that
of the swindler who practised upon its credulity. Three institutions
especially demand an explanation both for their own sake and for their
bearing upon the plot. These are the duello, the monopoly, and the
pretended demoniacal possession.
[65] See Introduction, Section C. IV.
[66] Swinburne, p. 65.
1. _The Duello_
The origin of private dueling is a matter of some obscurity. It was
formerly supposed to be merely a development of the judicial duel or
combat, but this is uncertain. Dueling flourished on the Continent,
and was especially prevalent in France during the reign of Henry III.
Jonson speaks of the frequency of the practice in France in _The
Magnetic Lady_.
No private duel seems to have occurred in England before the sixteenth
century, and the custom was comparatively rare until the reign of
James I. Its introduction was largely due to the substitution of the
rapier for the broadsword. Not long after this change in weapons
fencing-schools began to be established and were soon very popular.
Donald Lupton, in his _London and the Countrey carbonadoed_, 1632,
says they were usually set up by ‘some low-country soldier, who to
keep himself honest from further inconveniences, as also to maintain
himself, thought upon this course and practises it’.[67]
The etiquette of the duel was a matter of especial concern. The two
chief authorities seem to have been Jerome Carranza, the author of a
book entitled _Filosofia de las Armas_,[68] and Vincentio Saviolo,
whose _Practise_ was translated into English in 1595. It contained two
parts, the first ‘intreating of the vse of the rapier and dagger’, the
second ‘of honor and honorable quarrels’. The rules laid down in these
books were mercilessly ridiculed by the dramatists; and the duello was
a frequent subject of satire.[69]
By 1616 dueling must have become very common. Frequent references
to the subject are found about this time in the _Calendar of State
Papers_. Under date of December 9, 1613, we read that all persons who
go abroad to fight duels are to be censured in the Star Chamber. On
February 17, 1614, ‘a proclamation, with a book annexed’, was issued
against duels, and on February 13, 1617, the King made a Star Chamber
speech against dueling, ‘on which he before published a sharp edict’.
The passion for dueling was turned to advantage by a set of improvident
bravos, who styled themselves ‘sword-men’ or ‘masters of dependencies,’
a _dependence_ being the accepted name for an impending quarrel. These
men undertook to examine into the causes of a duel, and to settle or
‘take it up’ according to the rules laid down by the authorities on
this subject. Their prey were the young men of fashion in the city,
and especially ‘country gulls’, who were newly come to town and
were anxious to become sophisticated. The profession must have been
profitable, for we hear of their methods being employed by the ‘roaring
boys’[70] and the masters of the fencing schools.[71] Fletcher in _The
Elder Brother_, _Wks._ 10. 283, speaks of
... the masters of dependencies
That by compounding differences ’tween others
Supply their own necessities,
and Massinger makes similar comment in _The Guardian_, _Wks._, p. 343:
When two heirs quarrel,
The swordsmen of the city shortly after
Appear in plush, for their grave consultations
In taking up the difference; some, I know,
Make a set living on’t.
Another function of the office is mentioned by Ford in _Fancies Chaste
and Noble_, _Wks._ 2. 241. The master would upon occasion ‘brave’ a
quarrel with the novice for the sake of ‘gilding his reputation’, and
Massinger in _The Maid of Honor_, _Wks._, p. 190, asserts that he would
even consent ‘for a cloak with thrice-died velvet, and a cast suit’ to
be ‘kick’d down the stairs’. In _A King and No King_, B. & Fl., _Wks._
2. 310 f., Bessus consults with two of these ‘Gentlemen of the Sword’
in a ridiculous scene, in which the sword-men profess the greatest
scrupulousness in examining every word and phrase, affirming that they
cannot be ‘too subtle in this business’.
Jonson never loses an opportunity of satirizing these despicable
bullies, who were not only ridiculous in their affectations, but who
proved by their ‘fomenting bloody quarrels’ to be no small danger
to the state. Bobadill, who is described as a Paul’s Man, was in
addition a pretender to this craft. Matthew complains that Downright
has threatened him with the bastinado, whereupon Bobadill cries out
immediately that it is ‘a most proper and sufficient dependence’ and
adds: ‘Come hither, you shall chartel him; I’ll shew you a trick or
two, you shall kill him with at pleasure’.[72] Cavalier Shift, in
_Every Man out of his Humor_, among various other occupations has the
reputation of being able to ‘manage a quarrel the best that ever you
saw, for terms and circumstances’. We have an excellent picture of
the ambitious novice in the person of Kastrill in _The Alchemist_.
Kastrill, who is described as an ‘angry boy’, comes to consult Subtle
as to how to ‘carry a business, manage a quarrel fairly’. Face assures
him that Dr. Subtle is able to ‘take the height’ of any quarrel
whatsoever, to tell ‘in what degree of safety it lies’, ‘how it may be
borne’, etc.
From this description of the ‘master of dependencies’ the exquisite
humor of the passage in _The Devil is an Ass_ (3. 3. 60 f.) can be
appreciated. Merecraft assures Fitzdottrel that this occupation, in
reality the refuge only of the Shifts and Bobadills of the city, is a
new and important office about to be formally established by the state.
In spite of all their speaking against dueling, he says, they have
come to see the evident necessity of a public tribunal to which all
quarrels may be referred. It is by means of this pretended office that
Merecraft attempts to swindle Fitzdottrel out of his entire estate,
from which disaster he is saved only by the clever interposition of
Wittipol.
[67] Cf. also Gosson, _School of Abuse_, 1579; Dekker, _A Knight’s
Conjuring_, 1607; Overbury, _Characters_, ed. Morley, p. 66.
[68] See _New Inn_ 2. 2; _Every Man in_ 1. 5; B. & Fl.,
_Love’s Pilgrimage_, _Wks._ 11. 317, 320.
[69] Cf. _Albumazar_, _O. Pl._ 7. 185-6; _Rom. and Jul._ 2. 4.
26; _Twelfth Night_ 3. 4. 335; _L. L. L._ 1. 2. 183; Massinger,
_Guardian_, _Wks._, p. 346. Mercutio evidently refers to Saviolo’s
book and the use of the rapier in _Rom. and Jul._ 3. 1. 93. Here the
expression, ‘fight by the book’, first occurs, used again by B. &
Fl., _Elder Brother_, _Wks._ 10. 284; Dekker, _Guls Horne-booke_, ch.
4; _As You Like it_ 5. 4. Dekker speaks of Saviolo, _Non-dram.
Wks._ 1. 120.
[70] Overbury, ed. Morley, p. 72.
[71] _Ibid._, p. 66.
[72] _Every Man in_, _Wks._ 1. 35.
2. _The Monopoly System_
Jonson’s severest satire in _The Devil is an Ass_ is directed against
the projector. Through him the whole system of Monopolies is indirectly
criticised. To understand the importance and timeliness of this attack,
as well as the poet’s own attitude on the subject, it is necessary to
give a brief historical discussion of the system as it had developed
and then existed.
Royal grants with the avowed intention of instructing the English in
a new industry had been made as early as the fourteenth century,[73]
and the system had become gradually modified during the Tudor dynasty.
In the sixteenth century a capitalist middle class rose to wealth and
political influence. During the reign of Elizabeth a large part of
Cecil’s energies was directed toward the economic development of the
country. This was most effectually accomplished by granting patents to
men who had enterprise enough to introduce a new art or manufacture,
whether an importation from a foreign country or their own invention.
The capitalist was encouraged to make this attempt by the grant of
special privileges of manufacture for a limited period.[74] The
condition of monopoly did not belong to the mediaeval system, but was
first introduced under Elizabeth. So far the system had its economic
justification, but unfortunately it did not stop here. Abuses began to
creep in. Not only the manufacture, but the exclusive trade in certain
articles, was given over to grantees, and commodities of the most
common utility were ‘ingrossed into the hands of these blood-suckers
of the commonwealth.[75] A remonstrance of Parliament was made to
Elizabeth in 1597, and again in 1601, and in consequence the Queen
thought best to promise the annulling of all monopolies then existing,
a promise which she in large measure fulfilled. But the immense growth
of commerce under Elizabeth made it necessary for her successor, James
I., to establish a system of delegation, and he accordingly adapted
the system of granting patents to the existing needs.[76] Many new
monopolies were granted during the early years of his reign, but in
1607 Parliament again protested, and he followed Elizabeth’s example by
revoking them all. After the suspension of Parliamentary government in
1614 the system grew up again, and the old abuses became more obnoxious
than ever. In 1621 Parliament addressed a second remonstrance to James.
The king professed ignorance, but promised redress, and in 1624 all the
existing monopolies were abolished by the Statute 21 James I. c. 3. In
Parliament’s address to James ‘the tender point of prerogative’ was
not disturbed, and it was contrived that all the blame and punishment
should fall on the patentees.[77]
Of all the patents granted during this time, that which seems to have
most attracted the attention of the dramatists was one for draining the
Fens of Lincolnshire. Similar projects had frequently been attempted
during the sixteenth century. In the list of patents before 1597,
catalogued by Hulme, seven deal with water drainage in some form or
other. The low lands on the east coast of England are exposed to
inundation.[78] During the Roman occupation large embankments had been
built, and during the Middle Ages these had been kept up partly through
a commission appointed by the Crown, and partly through the efforts of
the monasteries at Ramsey and Crowland. After the dissolution of these
monasteries it became necessary to take up anew the work of reclaiming
the fen-land. An abortive attempt by the Earl of Lincoln had already
been made when the Statute 43 Eliz. c. 10. 11. was passed in the year
1601. This made legal the action of projectors in the recovery of marsh
land. Many difficulties, however, such as lack of funds and opposition
on the part of the inhabitants and neighbors of the fens, still stood
in their way. In 1605 Sir John Popham and Sir Thomas Fleming headed a
company which undertook to drain the Great Level of the Cambridgeshire
fens, consisting of more than 300,000 acres, at their own cost, on the
understanding that 130,000 acres of the reclaimed land should fall
to their share. The project was a complete failure. Another statute
granting a patent for draining the fens is found in the seventh year of
Jac. I. c. 20, and the attempt was renewed from time to time throughout
the reigns of James and Charles I. It was not, however, until the
Restoration that these efforts were finally crowned with success.
When the remonstrance was made to James in 1621, the object of the
petitioners was gained, as we have seen, by throwing all the blame upon
the patentees and projectors. Similarly, the dramatists often prefer
to make their attack, not by assailing the institution of monopolies,
but by ridicule of the offending subjects.[79] Two agents are regularly
distinguished. There is the patentee, sometimes also called the
projector, whose part it is to supply the funds for the establishment
of the monopoly, and, if possible, the necessary influence at Court;
and the actual projector or inventor, who undertakes to furnish his
patron with various projects of his own device.
Jonson’s is probably the earliest dramatic representation of the
projector. Merecraft is a swindler, pure and simple, whose schemes are
directed not so much against the people whom he aims to plunder by the
establishment of a monopoly as against the adventurer who furnishes
the funds for putting the project into operation:
... Wee poore Gentlemen, that want acres,
Must for our needs, turne fooles vp and plough _Ladies_.
Both Fitzdottrel and Lady Tailbush are drawn into these schemes so
far as to part with their money. Merecraft himself pretends that he
possesses sufficient influence at Court. He flatters Fitzdottrel, who
is persuaded by the mere display of projects in a buckram bag, by
demanding of him ‘his count’nance, t’appeare in’t to great men’
(2. 1. 39). Lady Tailbush is not so easily fooled, and Merecraft has
some difficulty in persuading her of the power of his friends at Court
(Act 4. Sc. 1).
Merecraft’s chief project, the recovery of the drowned lands, is also
satirized by Randolph:
I have a rare device to set Dutch windmills
Upon Newmarket Heath, and Salisbury Plain,
To drain the fens.[80]
and in _Holland’s Leaguer_, Act 1. Sc. 5 (cited by Gifford):
Our projector
Will undertake the making of bay salt,
For a penny a bushel, to serve all the state;
Another dreams of building waterworkes,
Drying of fenns and marshes, like the Dutchmen.
In the later drama the figure of the projector appears several times,
but it lacks the timeliness of Jonson’s satire, and the conception
must have been largely derived from literary sources. Jonson’s
influence is often apparent. In Brome’s _Court Beggar_ the patentee is
Mendicant, a country gentleman who has left his rustic life and sold
his property, in order to raise his state by court-suits. The projects
which he presents at court are the invention of three projectors. Like
Merecraft, they promise to make Mendicant a lord, and succeed only in
reducing him to poverty. The character of the Court Beggar is given in
these words: ‘He is a Knight that hanckers about the court ambitious
to make himselfe a Lord by begging. His braine is all Projects, and
his soule nothing but Court-suits. He has begun more Knavish suits at
Court, then ever the Kings Taylor honestly finish’d, but never thriv’d
by any: so that now hee’s almost fallen from a Palace Begger to a
Spittle one’.
In the _Antipodes_ Brome introduces ‘a States-man studious for the
Commonwealth, solicited by Projectors of the Country’. Brome’s list of
projects (quoted in Gifford’s edition) is a broad caricature. Wilson,
in the Restoration drama, produced a play called _The Projectors_, in
which Jonson’s influence is apparent (see Introduction, p. lxxv).
Among the _characters_, of which the seventeenth century writers were
so fond, the projector is a favorite figure. John Taylor,[81] the
water-poet, furnishes us with a cartoon entitled ‘The complaint of M.
Tenterhooke the _Projector_ and Sir _T_homas Dodger the Patentee’. In
the rimes beneath the picture the distinction between the projector,
who ‘had the Art to cheat the Common-weale’, and the patentee, who
was possessed of ‘tricks and slights to pass the seale’, is brought
out with especial distinctness. Samuel Butler’s character[82] of the
projector is of less importance, since it was not published until
1759. The real importance of Jonson’s satire lies in the fact that it
appeared in the midst of the most active discussion on the subject of
monopolies. Drummond says that he was ‘accused upon’ the play, and that
the King ‘desired him to conceal it’.[83] Whether the subject which
gave offense was the one which we have been considering or that of
witchcraft, it is, however, impossible to determine.
[73] Letters to John Kempe, 1331, Rymer’s _Foedera_; Hulme, _Law
Quarterly Rev._, vol. 12.
[74] Cunningham, _Eng. Industry_, Part I, p. 75.
[75] D’Ewes, _Complete Journal of the Houses of Lords and Commons_,
p. 646.
[76] Cunningham, p. 21.
[77] Craik 2. 24. Rushworth, _Collection_ 1. 24.
[78] For a more detailed account of the drainage of the Lincolnshire
fens see Cunningham, pp. 112-119.
[79] Cf. Dekker, _Non-dram. Wks._ 3. 367.
[80] _Muse’s Looking Glass_, _O. Pl._ 9. 180 (cited by Gifford).
[81] _Works_, 1641, reprinted by the Spenser Society.
[82] _Character Writings_, ed. Morley, p. 350.
[83] See p. xix.
3. _Witchcraft_
Witchcraft in Jonson’s time was not an outworn belief, but a living
issue. It is remarkable that the persecutions which followed upon this
terrible delusion were comparatively infrequent during the Middle
Ages, and reached their maximum only in the seventeenth century.
The first English Act against witchcraft after the Norman Conquest was
passed in 1541 (33 Hen. VIII. c. 8). This Act, which was of a general
nature, and directed against various kinds of sorceries, was followed
by another in 1562 (5 Eliz. c. 16). At the accession of James I. in
1603 was passed 1 Jac. I. c. 12, which continued law for more than a
century.
During this entire period charges of witchcraft were frequent. In
Scotland they were especially numerous, upwards of fifty being recorded
during the years 1596-7.[84] The trial of Anne Turner in 1615, in
which charges of witchcraft were joined with those of poisoning,
especially attracted the attention of Jonson. In 1593 occurred the
trial of the ‘three Witches of Warboys’, in 1606 that of Mary Smith,
in 1612 that of the earlier Lancashire Witches, and of the later
in 1633. These are only a few of the more famous cases. Of no less
importance in this connection is the attitude of the King himself.
In the famous _Demonology_[85] he allied himself unhesitatingly with
the cause of superstition. Witchcraft was of course not without
its opponents, but these were for the most part obscure men and of
little personal influence. While Bacon and Raleigh were inclining
to a belief in witchcraft, and Sir Thomas Browne was offering his
support to persecution, the cause of reason was intrusted to such
champions as Reginald Scot, the author of the famous _Discovery of
Witchcraft_, 1584, a work which fearlessly exposes the prevailing
follies and crimes. It is on this side that Jonson places himself. That
he should make a categorical statement as to his belief or disbelief
in witchcraft is not to be expected. It is enough that he presents
a picture of the pretended demoniac, that he makes it as sordid and
hateful as possible, that he draws for us in the person of Justice
Eitherside the portrait of the bigoted, unreasonable, and unjust judge,
and that he openly ridicules the series of cases which he used as the
source of his witch scenes (cf. Act. 5. Sc. 3).
To form an adequate conception of the poet’s satirical purpose in
this play one should compare the methods used here with the treatment
followed in Jonson’s other dramas where the witch motive occurs.
In _The Masque of Queens_, 1609, and in _The Sad Shepherd_, Jonson
employed the lore of witchcraft more freely, but in a quite different
way. Here, instead of hard realism with all its hideous details, the
more picturesque beliefs and traditions are used for purely imaginative
and poetical purposes.
_The Masque of Queens_ was presented at Whitehall, and dedicated to
Prince Henry. Naturally Jonson’s attitude toward witchcraft would here
be respectful. It is to be observed, however, that in the copious notes
which are appended to the masque no contemporary trials are referred
to. The poet relies upon the learned compilations of Bodin, Remigius,
Cornelius Agrippa, and Paracelsus, together with many of the classical
authors. He is clearly dealing with the mythology of witchcraft.
Nightshade and henbane, sulphur, vapors, the eggshell boat, and the
cobweb sail are the properties which he uses in this poetic drama.
The treatment does not differ essentially from that of Middleton and
Shakespeare.
In _The Sad Shepherd_ the purpose is still different. We have none of
the wild unearthliness of the masque. Maudlin is a witch of a decidedly
vulgar type, but there is no satirical intent. Jonson, for the purpose
of his play, accepts for the moment the prevailing attitude toward
witchcraft, and the satisfaction in Maudlin’s discomfiture doubtless
assumed an acquiescence in the popular belief. At the same time the
poetical aspect is not wholly forgotten, and appears with especial
prominence in the beautiful passage which describes the witch’s forest
haunt, beginning: ‘Within a gloomy dimble she doth dwell’. _The Sad
Shepherd_ and the masque are far more akin to each other in their
treatment of witchcraft than is either to _The Devil is an Ass_.
[84] See _Trials for Witchcraft 1596-7_, vol. 1, _Miscellany of the
Spalding Club_, Aberdeen, 1841.
[85] First appeared in 1597. _Workes_, fol. ed., appeared 1616, the
year of this play.
IV. PERSONAL SATIRE
The detection of personal satire in Jonson’s drama is difficult,
and at best unsatisfactory. Jonson himself always resented it as an
impertinence.[86] In the present case Fleay suggests that the motto,
_Ficta, voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris_, is an indication that we
are to look upon the characters as real persons. But Jonson twice took
the pains to explain that this is precisely the opposite of his own
interpretation of Horace’s meaning.[87] The subject of personal satire
was a favorite one with him, and in _The Magnetic Lady_ he makes the
sufficiently explicit statement: ‘A play, though it apparel and present
vices in general, flies from all particularities in persons’.
On the other hand we know that Jonson did occasionally indulge in
personal satire. Carlo Buffone,[88] Antonio Balladino,[89] and the
clerk Nathaniel[90] are instances sufficiently authenticated. Of these
Jonson advances a plea of justification: ‘Where have I been particular?
where personal? except to a mimic, cheater, bawd or buffoon, creatures,
for their insolencies, worthy to be taxed? yet to which of these so
pointingly, as he might not either ingenuously have confest, or wisely
dissembled his disease?’[91]
In only one play do we know that the principal characters represent
real people. But between _Poetaster_ and _The Devil is an Ass_ there
is a vast difference of treatment. In _Poetaster_ (1) the attitude is
undisguisedly satirical. The allusions in the prologues and notices
to the reader are direct and unmistakable. (2) The character-drawing
is partly caricature, partly allegorical. This method is easily
distinguishable from the typical, which aims to satirize a class.
(3) Jonson does not draw upon historical events, but personal
idiosyncrasies. (4) The chief motive is in the spirit of Aristophanes,
the great master of personal satire. These methods are what we should
naturally expect in a composition of this sort. Of such internal
evidence we find little or nothing in _The Devil is an Ass_. Several
plausible identifications, however, have been proposed, and these we
must consider separately.
The chief characters are identified by Fleay as follows: Wittipol is
Jonson. He has returned from travel, and had seen Mrs. Fitzdottrel
before he went. Mrs. Fitzdottrel is the Lady Elizabeth Hatton.
Fitzdottrel is her husband, Sir Edward Coke.
=Mrs. Fitzdottrel=. The identification is based upon a series of
correspondences between a passage in _The Devil is an Ass_ (2. 6.
57-113) and a number of passages scattered through Jonson’s works. The
most important of these are quoted in the note to the above passage. To
them has been added an important passage from _A Challenge at Tilt_,
1613. Fleay’s deductions are these: (1) _Underwoods 36_ and _Charis_
must be addressed to the same lady (cf. especially _Ch._, part 5). (2)
Charis and Mrs. Fitzdottrel are identical. The song (2. 6. 94 f.) is
found complete in the _Celebration of Charis_. In Wittipol’s preceding
speech we find the phrases ‘milk and roses’ and ‘bank of kisses’, which
occur in _Charis_ and in _U. 36_, and a reference to the husband who
is the ‘just excuse’ for the wife’s infidelity, which occurs in _U.
36_. (3) Charis is Lady Hatton. Fleay believes that _Charis_, part
1, in which the poet speaks of himself as writing ‘fifty years’, was
written c 1622-3; but that parts 2-10 were written c 1608. In reference
to these parts he says: ‘Written in reference to a mask in which
Charis represented Venus riding in a chariot drawn by swans and doves
(_Charis_, part 4), at a marriage, and leading the Graces in a dance
at Whitehall, worthy to be envied of the Queen (6), in which Cupid had
a part (2, 3, 5), at which Charis kissed him (6, 7), and afterwards
kept up a close intimacy with him (8, 9, 10). The mask of 1608, Feb.
9, exactly fulfils these conditions, and the Venus of that mask was
probably L. Elizabeth Hatton, the most beautiful of the then court
ladies. She had appeared in the mask of Beauty, 1608, Jan. 10, but
in no other year traceable by me. From the Elegy, G. 36, manifestly
written to the same lady (compare it with the lines in 5 as to “the
bank of kisses” and “the bath of milk and roses”), we learn that Charis
had “a husband that is the just excuse of all that can be done him”.
This was her second husband, Sir Edward Coke, to whom she was married
in 1593’.
Fleay’s theory rests chiefly upon (1) his interpretation of _The
Celebration of Claris_; (2) the identity of Charis and Mrs.
Fitzdottrel. A study of the poem has led me to conclusions of a very
different nature from those of Fleay. They may be stated as follows:
_Charis_ 1. This was evidently written in 1622-3. Jonson plainly says:
‘Though I now write fifty years’. Charis is here seemingly identified
with Lady Purbeck, daughter of Lady Hatton. Compare the last two lines
with the passage from _The Gipsies_. Fleay believes the compliments
were transferred in the masque at Lady Hatton’s request.
_Charis_ 4 and 7 have every mark of being insertions. (1) They are in
different metres from each other and from the other sections, which in
this respect are uniform. (2) They are not in harmony with the rest of
the poem. They entirely lack the easy, familiar, half jocular style
which characterizes the eight other parts. (3) Each is a somewhat
ambitious effort, complete in itself, and distinctly lyrical. (4) In
neither is there any mention of or reference to Charis. (5) It is
evident, therefore, that they were not written for the _Charis_ poem,
but merely interpolated. They are, then, of all the parts the least
valuable for the purpose of identification, nor are we justified in
looking upon them as continuing a definite narrative with the rest of
the poem. (6) The evident reason for introducing them is their own
intrinsic lyrical merit.
_Charis_ 4 was apparently written in praise of some pageant, probably a
court masque. The representation of Venus drawn in a chariot by swans
and doves, the birds sacred to her, may have been common enough. That
this is an accurate description of the masque of February 9, 1608 is,
however, a striking fact, and it is possible that the lady referred
to is the same who represented Venus in that masque. But (1) we do
not even know that Jonson refers to a masque of his own, or a masque
at all. (2) We have no trustworthy evidence that Lady Hatton was the
Venus of that masque. Fleay’s identification is little better than a
guess. (3) Evidence is derived from the first stanza alone. This does
not appear in _The Devil is an Ass_, and probably was not written at
the time. Otherwise there is no reason for its omission in that place.
It seems to have been added for the purpose of connecting the lyric
interpolation with the rest of the poem.
_Charis_ 5 seems to be a late production. (1) Jonson combines in this
single section a large number of figures used in other places. (2)
That it was not the origin of these figures seems to be intimated by
the words of the poem. Cupid is talking. He had lately found Jonson
describing his lady, and Jonson’s words, he says, are descriptive of
Cupid’s own mother, Venus. So Homer had spoken of her hair, so Anacreon
of her face. He continues:
By her looks I do her know
_Which you call_ my shafts.
The italicized words may refer to _U. 36._ 3-4. They correspond,
however, much more closely to _Challenge_, _2 Cup._ The ‘bath your
verse discloses’ (l. 21) may refer to _DA._ 2. 6. 82-3. _U. 36._ 7-8
or _Gipsies_ 15-6.
... the bank of kisses,
Where _you say_ men gather blisses
is mentioned in _U. 36._ 9-10. ‘The passages in _DA._ and _Gipsies_[92]
are less close. The ‘valley _called_ my nest’ may be a reference to
_DA._ 2. 6. 74 f. Jonson had already spoken of the ‘girdle ’bout her
waist’ in _Challenge_, _2 Cup._ _Charis_ 5 seems then to have been
written later than _U. 36_, _Challenge_, 1613, and probably _Devil is
an Ass_, 1616. The evidence is strong, though not conclusive.
_Charis_ 6 evidently refers to a marriage at Whitehall. That Cupid, who
is referred to in 2, 3, 5, had any part in the marriage of _Charis_ 6
is nowhere even intimated. That Charis led the Graces in a dance is
a conjecture equally unfounded. Jonson of course takes the obvious
opportunity (ll. 20, 26) of playing on the name Charis. That this
occasion was the same as that celebrated in 4 we have no reason to
believe. It applies equally well, for instance, to _A Challenge at
Tilt_, but we are by no means justified in so limiting it. It may have
been imaginary.
_Charis_ 7 was written before 1618, since Jonson quoted a part of it to
Drummond during his visit in Scotland (cf. _Conversations_ 5). It was
a favorite of the poet’s and this furnishes sufficient reason for its
insertion here. It is worthy of note that the two sections of _Charis_,
which we know by external proof to have been in existence before 1623,
are those which give internal evidence of being interpolations.
_Summary._ The poem was probably a late production and of composite
nature. There is no reason for supposing that the greater part was not
written in 1622-3. The fourth and seventh parts are interpolations.
The first stanza of the fourth part, upon which the identification
largely rests, seems not to have been written until the poem was put
together in 1622-3. If it was written at the same time as the other
two stanzas, we cannot expect to find it forming part of a connected
narrative. The events described in the fourth and sixth parts are not
necessarily the same. There is practically no evidence that Lady Hatton
was the Venus of 1608, or that _Charis_ is addressed to any particular
lady.
The other link in Fleay’s chain of evidence is of still weaker
substance. The mere repetition of compliments does not necessarily
prove the recipient to be the same person. In fact we find in these
very pieces the same phrases applied indiscriminately to Lady Purbeck,
Lady Frances Howard, Mrs. Fitzdottrel, perhaps to Lady Hatton, and even
to the Earl of Somerset. Of what value, then, can such evidence be?
Fleay’s whole theory rests on this poem, and biographical evidence is
unnecessary. It is sufficient to notice that Lady Hatton was a proud
woman, that marriage with so eminent a man as Sir Edward Coke was
considered a great condescension (_Chamberlain’s Letters_, Camden Soc.,
p. 29), and that an amour with Jonson is extremely improbable.
=Fitzdottrel.= Fleay’s identification of Fitzdottrel with Coke rests
chiefly on the fact that Coke was Lady Hatton’s husband. The following
considerations are added. Fitzdottrel is a ‘squire of Norfolk’. Sir
E. Coke was a native of Norfolk, and had held office in Norwich.
Fitzdottrel’s rôle as sham demoniac is a covert allusion to Coke’s
adoption of the popular witch doctrines in the Overbury trial. His
jealousy of his wife was shown in the same trial, where he refused to
read the document of ‘what ladies loved what lords’, because, as was
popularly supposed, his own wife’s name headed the list. Jonson is
taking advantage of Coke’s disgrace in November, 1616. He had flattered
him in 1613 (_U. 64_).
Our reasons for rejecting this theory are as follows: (1) The natural
inference is that Jonson would not deliberately attack the man whom
he had highly praised three years before. I do not understand Fleay’s
assertion that Jonson was always ready to attack the fallen. (2) The
compliment paid to Coke in 1613 (_U. 64_) was not the flattery of an
hour of triumph. The appointment to the king’s bench was displeasing to
Coke, and made at the suggestion of Bacon with the object of removing
him to a place where he would come less often into contact with the
king. (3) Fitzdottrel is a light-headed man of fashion, who spends his
time in frequenting theatres and public places, and in conjuring evil
spirits. Coke was sixty-four years old, the greatest lawyer of his
time, and a man of the highest gifts and attainments. (4) The attempted
parallel between Fitzdottrel, the pretended demoniac, and Coke, as
judge in the Overbury trial, is patently absurd. (5) If Lady Hatton had
not been selected for identification with Mrs. Fitzdottrel, Coke would
never have been dreamed of as a possible Fitzdottrel.
=Wittipol.= He is a young man just returned from travel, which
apparently has been of considerable duration. He saw Mrs. Fitzdottrel
once before he went, and upon returning immediately seeks her out.
How does this correspond to Jonson’s life? _The Hue and Cry_ was
played February 9, 1608. According to Fleay’s interpretation, this was
followed by an intimacy with Lady Hatton. Five years later, in 1613,
Drummond tells us that Jonson went to France with the son of Sir Walter
Raleigh. He returned the same year in time to compose _A Challenge at
Tilt_, December 27. Three years later he wrote _The Devil is an Ass_ at
the age of forty-three.
Wittipol intimates that he is Mrs. Fitzdottrel’s equal in years, in
fashion (1. 6. 124-5), and in blood (1. 6. 168). For Jonson to say this
to Lady Hatton would have been preposterous.
=Justice Eitherside.= Only the desire to prove a theory at all costs
could have prevented Fleay from seeing that Coke’s counterpart is
not Fitzdottrel, but Justice Eitherside. In obstinacy, bigotry, and
vanity this character represents the class of judges with which
Coke identified himself in the Overbury trial. Nor are these merely
class-traits. They are distinctly the faults which marred Coke’s career
from the beginning. It is certain that Coke is partially responsible
for this portraiture. Overbury was a personal friend of the poet, and
the trial, begun in the previous year, had extended into 1616. Jonson
must have followed it eagerly. On the other hand, it is improbable that
the picture was aimed exclusively at Coke. He merely furnished traits
for a typical and not uncommon character. As we have seen, it is in
line with Jonson’s usual practise to confine personal satire to the
lesser characters.
=Merecraft.= Fleay’s identification with Sir Giles Mompesson has very
little to commend it. Mompesson was connected by marriage with James
I.’s powerful favorite, George Villiers, later Duke of Buckingham. In
1616 he suggested to Villiers the creation of a special commission for
the purpose of granting licenses to keepers of inns and ale-houses.
The suggestion was adopted by Villiers; Mompesson was appointed to the
Commission in October, 1616, and knighted on November 18 of that year.
The patent was not sealed until March, 1617. His high-handed conduct
soon became unpopular, but he continued in favor with Villiers and
James, and his disgrace did not come until 1621.
It will readily be seen that Mompesson’s position and career conform
in no particular to those of Merecraft in the present play. Mompesson
was a knight, a friend of the king’s favorite, and in favor with
the king. Merecraft is a mere needy adventurer without influence at
court, and the associate of ruffians, who frequent the ‘Straits’ and
the ‘Bermudas’. Mompesson was himself the recipient of a patent (see
section III. 2). Merecraft is merely the projector who devises clever
projects for more powerful patrons. Mompesson’s project bears no
resemblance to those suggested by Merecraft, and he could hardly have
attracted any popular dislike at the time when _The Devil is an Ass_
was presented, since, as we have seen, his patent was not even sealed
until the following year. Finally, Jonson would hardly have attacked a
man who stood so high at court as did Mompesson in 1616.
It is evident that Jonson had particularly in mind those projectors
whose object it was to drain the fens of Lincolnshire. The attempts, as
we have seen, were numerous, and it is highly improbable that Jonson
wished to satirize any one of them more severely than another. In a
single passage, however, it seems possible that Sir John Popham (see
page lx) is referred to. In Act 4. Sc. 1 Merecraft speaks of a Sir John
Monie-man as a projector who was able to ‘jump a business quickly’
because ‘he had great friends’. That Popham is referred to seems not
unlikely from the fact that he was the most important personage who
had embarked upon an enterprise of this sort, that his scheme was one
of the earliest, that he was not a strict contemporary (d. 1607), and
that his scheme had been very unpopular. This is proved by an anonymous
letter to the king, in which complaint is made that ‘the “covetous
bloody Popham” will ruin many poor men by his offer to drain the fens’
(_Cal. State Papers_, Mar. 14?, 1606).
=Plutarchus Guilthead.= Fleay’s identification with Edmund Howes I am
prepared to accept, although biographical data are very meagre. Fleay
says: ‘Plutarchus Gilthead, who is writing the lives of the great
men in the city; the captain who writes of the Artillery Garden “to
train the youth”, etc. [3. 2. 45], is, I think, Edmond Howes, whose
continuation of Stow’s Chronicle was published in 1615.’
Howes’ undertaking was a matter of considerable ridicule to his
acquaintances. In his 1631 edition he speaks of the heavy blows and
great discouragements he received from his friends. He was in the habit
of signing himself ‘Gentleman’ and this seems to be satirized in 3. 1,
where Guilthead says repeatedly: ‘This is to make you a Gentleman’ (see
_N. & Q._ 1st Ser. 6. 199.).
=The Noble House.= Two proposed identifications of the ‘noble house’,
which pretends to a duke’s title, mentioned at 2. 4. 15-6. have been
made. The expenditure of much energy in the attempt to fix so veiled
an allusion is hardly worth while. Jonson of course depended upon
contemporary rumor, for which we have no data.
Cunningham’s suggestion that Buckingham is referred to is not
convincing. Buckingham’s father was Sir George Villiers of Brooksby in
Leicestershire. He was not himself raised to the nobility until August
27, 1616, when he was created Viscount Villiers and Baron Waddon. It
was not until January 5, 1617 (not 1616, as Cunningham says), that he
became Earl of Buckingham, and it is unlikely that before this time
any allusion to Villiers’ aspiration to a dukedom would have been
intelligible to Jonson’s audience.
Fleay’s theory that the ‘noble house’ was that of Stuart may be
accepted provisionally. Lodowick was made Earl of Richmond in 1613, and
Duke in 1623. He was acceptable to king and people, and in this very
year was made steward of the household.
[86] See Dedication to _The Fox_, Second Prologue to _The Silent
Woman_, Induction to _Bartholomew Fair_, _Staple of News_
(Second Intermean), _Magnetic Lady_ (Second Intermean).
[87] See the note prefixed to _Staple of News_, Act 3, and
the second Prologue for _The Silent Woman_.
[88] _Ev. Man in._
[89] _Case is Altered._
[90] _Staple of News._
[91] Dedication to _The Fox_.
[92] The passage from the _Gipsies_ especially finds a close parallel
in the fragment of a song in Marston’s _Dutch Courtezan_, 1605, _Wks._
2. 46:
Purest lips, soft banks of blisses,
Self alone deserving kisses.
Are not these lines from Jonson’s hand? This was the year of his
collaboration with Marston in _Eastward Ho_.
D. AFTER-INFLUENCE OF THE DEVIL IS AN ASS
A few instances of the subsequent rehandling of certain motives in
this play are too striking to be completely overlooked. John Wilson,
1627-c 1696, a faithful student and close imitator of Jonson, produced
in 1690 a drama called _Belphegor_, or _The Marriage of the Devil,
a Tragi-comedy_. While it is founded on the English translation of
Machiavelli’s novella, which appeared in 1674, and closely adheres
to the lines of the original, it shows clear evidence of Jonson’s
influence. The subject has been fully investigated by Hollstein (cf.
_Verhältnis_, pp. 22-24, 28-30, 35, 43, 50).
_The Cheats_, 1662, apparently refers to _The Devil is an Ass_ in
the _Prologue_. The characters of Bilboe and Titere Tu belong to the
same class of low bullies as Merecraft and Everill, but the evident
prototypes of these characters are Subtle and Face in _The Alchemist_.
A third play of Wilson’s, _The Projectors_, 1664, shows unmistakable
influence of _The Devil is an Ass_. The chief object of satire is
of course the same, and the character of Sir Gudgeon Credulous is
modeled after that of Fitzdottrel. The scenes in which the projects are
explained, 2. 1 and 3. 1, are similar to the corresponding passages in
Jonson. The _Aulularia_ of Plautus is a partial source, so that the
play in some features resembles _The Case is Altered_. In 2. 1 Wilson
imitates the passage in the _Aulularia_, which closes Act 2. Sc. 1 of
_The Devil is an Ass_ (see note 2. 1. 168).
Brome, Jonson’s old servant and friend, also handled the subject of
monopolies (see page lxi). Jonson’s influence is especially marked in
_The Court Beggar_. The project of perukes (_Wks._ 1. 192) should be
compared with Merecraft’s project of toothpicks.
Mrs. Susanna Centlivre’s _Busie Body_ uses the motives borrowed from
Boccaccio (see pp. xlv ff.). The scenes in which these appear must have
been suggested by Jonson’s play (Genest 2. 419), though the author
seems to have been acquainted with the _Decameron_ also. In Act. 1.
Sc. 1 Sir George Airy makes a bargain with Sir Francis Gripe similar
to Wittipol’s bargain with Fitzdottrel. In exchange for the sum of a
hundred guineas he is admitted into the house for the purpose of moving
his suit to Miranda. ‘for the space of ten minutes, without lett or
molestation’, provided Sir Francis remain in the same room, though out
of ear shot (2d ed., p. 8). In Act 2. Sc. 1 the bargain is carried out
in much the same way as in Boccaccio and in Jonson. Miranda remaining
dumb and Sir George answering for her.
In Act 3. Sc. 4 (2d ed., p. 38) Miranda in the presence of her
guardian sends a message by Marplot not to saunter at the garden gate
about eight o’clock as he has been accustomed to do, thus making an
assignation with him (compare _DA._ 2. 2. 52).
Other motives which seem to show some influence of _The Devil is an
Ass_ are Miranda’s trick to have the estate settled upon her, Charles’
disguise as a Spaniard, and Traffick’s jealous care of Isabinda. The
character of Marplot as comic butt resembles that of Pug.
The song in _The Devil is an Ass_ 2. 6. 94 (see note) was imitated by
Sir John Suckling.
APPENDIX EXTRACTS FROM THE CRITICS
GIFFORD: There is much good writing in this comedy. All the speeches
of Satan are replete with the most biting satire, delivered with an
appropriate degree of spirit. Fitzdottrel is one of those characters
which Jonson delighted to draw, and in which he stood unrivalled, a
_gull_, i. e., a confident coxcomb, selfish, cunning, and conceited.
Mrs. Fitzdottrel possesses somewhat more interest than the generality
of our author’s females, and is indeed a well sustained character. In
action the principal amusement of the scene (exclusive of the admirable
burlesque of witchery in the conclusion) was probably derived from the
mortification of poor Pug, whose stupid stare of amazement at finding
himself made an _ass_ of on every possible occasion must, if portrayed
as some then on the stage were well able to portray it, have been
exquisitely comic.
This play is strictly moral in its conception and conduct. Knavery and
folly are shamed and corrected, virtue is strengthened and rewarded,
and the ends of dramatic justice are sufficiently answered by the
simple exposure of those whose errors are merely subservient to the
minor interests of the piece.
HERFORD (_Studies in the Literary Relations of England and Germany_,
pp. 318-20): Jonson had in fact so far the Aristophanic quality of
genius, that he was at once a most elaborate and minute student of the
actual world, and a poet of the airiest and boldest fancy, and that he
loved to bring the two rôles into the closest possible combination. No
one so capable of holding up the mirror to contemporary society without
distorting the slenderest thread of its complex tissue of usages; no
one, on the other hand, who so keenly delighted in startling away
the illusion or carefully undermining it by some palpably fantastic
invention. His most elaborate reproductions of the everyday world are
hardly ever without an infusion of equally elaborate caprice,--a leaven
of recondite and fantastic legend and grotesque myth, redolent of old
libraries and antique scholarship, furtively planted, as it were, in
the heart of that everyday world of London life, and so subtly blending
with it that the whole motley throng of merchants and apprentices,
gulls and gallants, discover nothing unusual in it, and engage with the
most perfectly matter of fact air in the business of working it out.
The purging of Crispinus in the _Poetaster_, the Aristophanic motive
of the _Magnetic Lady_, even the farcical horror of noise which is the
mainspring of the _Epicœne_, are only less elaborate and sustained
examples of this fantastic realism than the adventure of a Stupid
Devil in the play before us. Nothing more anomalous in the London of
Jonson’s day could be conceived; yet it is so managed that it loses
all its strangeness. So perfectly is the supernatural element welded
with the human, that it almost ceases to appear supernatural. Pug, the
hero of the adventure, is a pretty, petulant boy, more human by many
degrees than the half fairy Puck of Shakespeare, which doubtless helped
to suggest him, and the arch-fiend Satan is a bluff old politician,
anxious to ward off the perils of London from his young simpleton of a
son, who is equally eager to plunge into them. The old savage horror
fades away before Jonson’s humanising touch, the infernal world loses
all its privilege of peculiar terror and strength, and sinks to the
footing of a mere rival state, whose merchandise can be kept out of the
market and its citizens put in the Counter or carted to Tyburn.
A. W. WARD (_Eng. Dram. Lit._, pp. 372-3): The oddly-named comedy
of _The Devil is an Ass_, acted in 1616, seems already to exhibit a
certain degree of decay in the dramatic powers which had so signally
called forth its predecessor. Yet this comedy possesses a considerable
literary interest, as adapting both to Jonson’s dramatic method, and
to the general moral atmosphere of his age, a theme connecting itself
with some of the most notable creations of the earlier Elizabethan
drama.... The idea of the play is as healthy as its plot is ingenious;
but apart from the circumstance that the latter is rather slow in
preparation, and by no means, I think, gains in perspicuousness as it
proceeds, the design itself suffers from one radical mistake. Pug’s
intelligence is so much below par that he suffers as largely on account
of his clumsiness as on account of his viciousness, while remaining
absolutely without influence upon the course of the action. The comedy
is at the same time full of humor, particularly in the entire character
of Fitzdottrel.
SWINBURNE (_Study of Ben Jonson_, pp. 65-7): If _The Devil is an Ass_
cannot be ranked among the crowning masterpieces of its author, it is
not because the play shows any sign of decadence in literary power or
in humorous invention. The writing is admirable, the wealth of comic
matter is only too copious, the characters are as firm in outline or as
rich in color as any but the most triumphant examples of his satirical
or sympathetic skill in finished delineation and demarcation of humors.
On the other hand, it is of all Ben Jonson’s comedies since the date
of _Cynthia’s Revels_ the most obsolete in subject of satire, the most
temporary in its allusions and applications: the want of fusion or even
connection (except of the most mechanical or casual kind) between the
various parts of its structure and the alternate topics of its ridicule
makes the action more difficult to follow than that of many more
complicated plots: and, finally, the admixture of serious sentiment and
noble emotion is not so skilfully managed as to evade the imputation of
incongruity. [The dialogue between Lady Tailbush and Lady Eitherside
in Act 4. Sc. 1 has some touches ‘worthy of Molière himself.’ In Act
4. Sc. 3 Mrs. Fitzdottrel’s speech possesses a ‘a noble and natural
eloquence,’ but the character of her husband is ‘almost too loathsome
to be ridiculous,’ and unfit ‘for the leading part in a comedy of
ethics as well as of morals.’] The prodigality of elaboration lavished
on such a multitude of subordinate characters, at the expense of all
continuous interest and to the sacrifice of all dramatic harmony, may
tempt the reader to apostrophize the poet in his own words:
You are so covetous still to embrace
More than you can, that you lose all.
Yet a word of parting praise must be given to Satan: a small part as
far as extent goes, but a splendid example of high comic imagination
after the order of Aristophanes, admirably relieved by the low comedy
of the asinine Pug and the voluble doggrel by the antiquated Vice.
TEXT
EDITOR’S NOTE
The text here adopted is that of the original edition of 1631.
No changes of reading have been made; spelling, punctuation,
capitalization, and italics are reproduced. The original pagination
is inserted in brackets; the book-holder’s marginal notes are inserted
where 1716 and Whalley placed them. In a few instances modern type has
been substituted for archaic characters. The spacing of the contracted
words has been normalized.
1641 = Pamphlet folio of 1641.
1692 = The Third Folio, 1692.
1716 = Edition of 1716 (17).
W = Whalley’s edition, 1756.
G = Gifford’s edition, 1816.
SD. = Stage directions at the beginning of a scene.
SN. = Side note, or book-holder’s note.
om. = omitted.
ret. = retained.
f. = and all later editions.
G§ = a regular change. After a single citation only
exceptions are noted. See Introduction, page xvi.
Mere changes of spelling have not been noted in the variants.
All changes of form and all suggestive changes of punctuation have
been recorded.
THE DIUELL IS AN ASSE:
A COMEDIE ACTED IN THE YEARE, 1616.
_BY HIS MAIESTIES_ SERVANTS.
The Author BEN: IONSON.
HOR. _de_ ART. POET.
_Ficta voluptatis Cauſâ, ſint proxima veris._
[DEVICE OF A GRIFFIN’S HEAD ERASED]
_LONDON_.
Printed by _I. B._ for ROBERT ALLOT, and are
to be ſold at the ſigne of the _Beare_, in _Pauls_
Church-yard. 1631.
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY.
SATAN. _The great diuell._ [93]
PVG. _The leſſe diuell._
INIQVITY. _The Vice._
FITZ-DOTTRELL. _A Squire of_ Norfolk.
Miſtreſſe FRANCES. _His wife._ 5
MEERE-CRAFT. _The Proiector._
EVERILL. _His champion._
WITTIPOL. _A young Gallant._
MANLY. _His friend._
INGINE. _A Broaker._ 10
TRAINES. _The Proiectors man._
GVILT-HEAD. _A Gold-ſmith._
PLVTARCHVS. _His ſonne._
Sir POVLE EITHER-SIDE. _A Lawyer, and Iuſtice._
Lady EITHER-SIDE. _His wife._ 15
Lady TAILE-BVSH. _The Lady Proiectreſſe._
PIT-FALL. _Her woman._
AMBLER. _Her Gentlemanvſher._
SLEDGE. _A Smith, the conſtable._
SHACKLES. _Keeper of Newgate._ 20
SERIEANTS.
_The Scene_, LONDON.
The Prologue.
_The_ DIVELL _is an_ Aſſe. _That is, to day,
The name of what you are met for, a new Play.
Yet, Grandee’s, would you were not come to grace
Our matter, with allowing vs no place.
Though you preſume_ SATAN _a ſubtill thing, 5
And may haue heard hee’s worne in a thumbe-ring;
Doe not on theſe preſumptions, force vs act,
In compaſſe of a cheeſe-trencher. This tract
Will ne’er admit our_ vice, _becauſe of yours.
Anone, who, worſe then you, the fault endures 10
That your ſelues make? when you will thruſt and ſpurne,
And knocke vs o’ the elbowes, and bid, turne;
As if, when wee had ſpoke, wee muſt be gone,
Or, till wee ſpeake, muſt all runne in, to one,
Like the young adders, at the old ones mouth? 15
Would wee could ſtand due_ North; _or had no_ South,
_If that offend: or were_ Muſcouy _glaſſe,
That you might looke our_ Scenes _through as they paſſe.
We know not how to affect you. If you’ll come
To ſee new Playes, pray you affoord vs roome, 20
And ſhew this, but the ſame face you haue done
Your deare delight, the_ Diuell _of_ Edmunton.
_Or, if, for want of roome it muſt miſ-carry,
’Twill be but Iuſtice, that your cenſure tarry,
Till you giue ſome. And when ſixe times you ha’ ſeen’t, 25
If this_ Play _doe not like, the Diuell is in’t._
[93] Dramatis Personæ 1716, f. G places the women’s names after those
of the men.
[94] 1, 2 Devil 1692, f.
[95] 4 Fabian Fitzdottrel G
[96] 5 Mrs. Frances Fitzdottrel G || His wife] om. G
[97] 9 Eustace Manly G
[98] 10 Engine 1716, f.
[99] 12 Thomas Gilthead G
[100] 15 His wife] om. G
[101] 18 Gentleman-usher to lady Tailbush G
[102] 21 Serjeants, officers, servants, underkeepers, &c. G
[103] 22 The] om. 1716, W
[104] The Prologue.] follows the title-page 1716, W
[105] 5 _subtle_ 1692 f.
[106] 10 than 1692, f. passim in this sense. Anon 1692, f.
[107] 12 o’] on G§
[108] 14 till] ’till 1716
[109] 25 ha’] have G§
THE DIVELL IS AN ASSE. [95]
ACT. I. SCENE. I.
DIVELL. PVG. INIQVITY.
Hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, &c.
To earth? and, why to earth, thou foooliſh Spirit?
What wold’ſt thou do on earth?
PVG. For that, great Chiefe!
As time ſhal work. I do but ask my mon’th.
Which euery petty _pui’nee Diuell_ has; 5
Within that terme, the Court of _Hell_ will heare
Some thing, may gaine a longer grant, perhaps.
SAT. For what? the laming a poore Cow, or two?
Entring a Sow, to make her caſt her farrow?
Or croſſing of a Mercat-womans Mare, 10
Twixt this, and _Totnam_? theſe were wont to be
Your maine atchieuements, _Pug_, You haue ſome plot, now,
Vpon a tonning of Ale, to ſtale the yeſt,
Or keepe the churne ſo, that the buttter come not;
Spight o’ the houſewiues cord, or her hot ſpit? 15
Or ſome good Ribibe, about _Kentiſh_ Towne,
Or _Hogſden_, you would hang now, for a witch,
Becauſe ſhee will not let you play round _Robbin_:
And you’ll goe ſowre the Citizens Creame ’gainſt Sunday?
That ſhe may be accus’d for’t, and condemn’d, 20
By a _Middleſex_ Iury, to the ſatisfaction
Of their offended friends, the _Londiners_ wiues
Whoſe teeth were ſet on edge with it? Fooliſh feind,
Stay i’ your place, know your owne ſtrengths, and put not
Beyond the ſpheare of your actiuity. 25
You are too dull a Diuell to be truſted [96]
Forth in thoſe parts, _Pug_, vpon any affayre
That may concerne our name, on earth. It is not
Euery ones worke. The ſtate of _Hell_ muſt care
Whom it imployes, in point of reputation, 30
Heere about _London_. You would make, I thinke
An Agent, to be ſent, for _Lancaſhire_,
Proper inough; or ſome parts of _Northumberland_,
So yo’ had good inſtructions, _Pug_.
PVG. _O Chiefe!_
You doe not know, deare _Chiefe_, what there is in mee. 35
Proue me but for a fortnight, for a weeke,
And lend mee but a _Vice_, to carry with mee,
To practice there-with any play-fellow,
And, you will ſee, there will come more vpon’t,
Then you’ll imagine, pretious _Chiefe_.
SAT. What _Vice_? 40
What kind wouldſt th’ haue it of?
PVG. Why, any _Fraud_;
Or _Couetouſneſſe_; or Lady _Vanity_;
Or old _Iniquity_: I’ll call him hither.
INI. What is he, calls vpon me, and would ſeeme to lack a _Vice_?
Ere his words be halfe ſpoken, I am with him in a trice; 45
Here, there, and euery where, as the Cat is with the mice:
True _vetus Iniquitas_. Lack’ſt thou Cards, friend, or Dice?
I will teach thee cheate, Child, to cog, lye, and ſwagger,
And euer and anon, to be drawing forth thy dagger:
To ſweare by Gogs-nownes, like a lusty _Iuuentus_, 50
In a cloake to thy heele, and a hat like a pent-houſe.
Thy breeches of three fingers, and thy doublet all belly,
With a Wench that shall feede thee, with cock-ſtones and gelly.
PVG. Is it not excellent, _Chiefe_? how nimble he is!
INI. Child of hell, this is nothing! I will fetch thee a leape 55
From the top of _Pauls_-ſteeple, to the Standard in _Cheepe_:
And lead thee a daunce, through the ſtreets without faile,
Like a needle of _Spaine_, with a thred at my tayle.
We will ſuruay the _Suburbs_, and make forth our ſallyes,
Downe _Petticoate-lane_, and vp the _Smock-allies_, 60
To _Shoreditch_, _Whitechappell_, and so to Saint _Kathernes_.
To drinke with the _Dutch_ there, and take forth their patternes:
From thence, wee will put in at _Cuſtome-houſe_ key there,
And ſee, how the Factors, and Prentizes play there,
Falſe with their Maſters; and gueld many a full packe, 65
To ſpend it in pies, at the _Dagger_, and the _Wool-ſacke_.
PVG. Braue, braue, _Iniquity_! will not this doe, _Chiefe_?
INI. Nay, boy, I wil bring thee to the Bawds, and the Royſters,
At _Belins-gate_, feaſting with claret-wine, and oyſters,
From thence ſhoot the _Bridge_, childe, to the Cranes
i’ the _Vintry_, 70
And ſee, there the gimblets, how they make their entry!
Or, if thou hadſt rather, to the _Strand_ downe to fall,
’Gainſt the Lawyers come dabled from _Weſtminſter-hall_ [97]
And marke how they cling, with their clyents together,
Like Iuie to Oake; so Veluet to Leather: 75
Ha, boy, I would ſhew thee.
PVG. Rare, rare!
DIV. Peace, dotard,
And thou more ignorant thing, that ſo admir’ſt.
Art thou the ſpirit thou ſeem’ſt? ſo poore? to chooſe
This, for a _Vice_, t’aduance the cauſe of _Hell_,
Now? as Vice ſtands this preſent yeere? Remember, 80
What number it is. _Six hundred_ and _ſixteene_.
Had it but beene _fiue hundred_, though ſome _ſixty_
Aboue; that’s _fifty_ yeeres agone, and _ſix_,
(When euery great man had his _Vice_ ſtand by him,
In his long coat, ſhaking his wooden dagger) 85
I could conſent, that, then this your graue choice
Might haue done that with his Lord _Chiefe_, the which
Moſt of his chamber can doe now. But _Pug_,
As the times are, who is it, will receiue you?
What company will you goe to? or whom mix with? 90
Where canſt thou carry him? except to Tauernes?
To mount vp ona joynt-ſtoole, with a _Iewes_-trumpe,
To put downe _Cokeley_, and that muſt be to Citizens?
He ne’re will be admitted, there, where _Vennor_ comes.
Hee may perchance, in taile of a Sheriffes dinner, 95
Skip with a rime o’ the Table, from _New-nothing_,
And take his _Almaine_-leape into a cuſtard,
Shall make my Lad _Maioreſſe_, and her ſiſters,
Laugh all their hoods ouer their shoulders. But,
This is not that will doe, they are other things 100
That are receiu’d now vpon earth, for Vices;
Stranger, and newer: and chang’d euery houre.
They ride ’hem like their horſes off their legges,
And here they come to _Hell_, whole legions of ’hem,
Euery weeke tyr’d. Wee, ſtill ſtriue to breed, 105
And reare ’hem vp new ones; but they doe not ſtand,
When they come there: they turne ’hem on our hands.
And it is fear’d they haue a ſtud o’ their owne
Will put downe ours. Both our breed, and trade
VVill ſuddenly decay, if we preuent not. 110
Vnleſſe it be a _Vice_ of quality,
Or faſhion, now, they take none from vs. Car-men
Are got into the yellow ſtarch, and Chimney-ſweepers
To their tabacco, and ſtrong-waters, _Hum_,
_Meath_, and _Obarni_. VVe muſt therefore ayme 115
At extraordinary ſubtill ones, now,
When we doe ſend to keepe vs vp in credit.
Not old _Iniquities_. Get you e’ne backe, Sir,
To making of your rope of ſand againe.
You are not for the manners, nor the times: [98] 120
They haue their _Vices_, there, moſt like to _Vertues_;
You cannnot know ’hem, apart, by any difference:
They weare the ſame clothes, eate the ſame meate,
Sleepe i’ the ſelfe-ſame beds, rid i’ thoſe coaches.
Or very like, foure horſes in a coach, 125
As the beſt men and women. Tiſſue gownes,
Garters and roſes, foureſcore pound a paire,
Embroydred ſtockings, cut-worke ſmocks, and ſhirts,
More certaine marks of lechery, now, and pride,
Then ere they were of true nobility! 130
But _Pug_, ſince you doe burne with ſuch deſire
To doe the Common-wealth of Hell ſome ſeruice;
I am content, aſſuming of a body,
You goe to earth, and viſit men, a day.
But you muſt take a body ready made, _Pug_, 135
I can create you none: nor ſhall you forme
Your ſelfe an aery one, but become ſubiect
To all impreſſion of the fleſh, you take,
So farre as humane frailty. So, this morning,
There is a handſome Cutpurſe hang’d at _Tiborne_, 140
Whoſe ſpirit departed, you may enter his body:
For clothes imploy your credit, with the Hangman,
Or let our tribe of Brokers furniſh you.
And, looke, how farre your ſubtilty can worke
Thorow thoſe organs, with that body, ſpye 145
Amongſt mankind, (you cannot there want vices,
And therefore the leſſe need to carry ’hem wi’ you)
But as you make your ſoone at nights relation,
And we ſhall find, it merits from the State,
Your ſhall haue both truſt from vs, and imployment. 150
PVG. Most gracious _Chiefe_!
DIV. Onely, thus more I bind you,
To ſerue the firſt man that you meete; and him
I’le ſhew you, now: Obserue him. Yon’ is hee,
_He ſhewes_ Fitz-dottrel _to him, comming forth_.
You ſhall ſee, firſt, after your clothing. Follow him:
But once engag’d, there you muſt ſtay and fixe;
Not ſhift, vntill the midnights cocke doe crow.
PVG. Any conditions to be gone.
DIV. Away, then. 157
[110] SD. DIVELL] _Devil_, 1692 || _Satan_ 1716, W || DIVELL ...]
_Enter_ SATAN _and_ PUG. G
[111] 1 &c. om. G
[112] 9 entering G
[113] 10 Market 1641, 1692, 1716 || market W, G
[114] 11 Tottenham G
[115] 15 Housewive’s 1716 || housewife’s W, f.
[116] 23 with’t W, G
[117] 24 i’] in G§ || strength 1692, f.
[118] 30 employs W, G
[119] 33 enough 1692, f.
[120] 34 you ’ad 1716 you had W, G
[121] 38 there with 1692, f.
[122] 41 th’] thou G Why any, Fraud, 1716 Why any: Fraud, W, G
[123] 43 I’ll ...] _Sat._ I’ll ... W, G] _Enter_ INIQUITY. G
[124] 48 cheate] to cheat W [to] cheat G
[125] 57 Dance 1716 || dance 1641. W, G
[126] 69 _Billings-gate_ 1692 _Billingsgate_ 1716 Billingsgate
W Billinsgate G
[127] 76 thee.] thee--G || DIV.] Dev. 1692 || _Sat._ 1716, f.
[128] 79 t’] to G
[129] 84 5 () om. G§
[130] 98 Lady 1692, 1716 lady W, G
[131] 101 Vices 1641, 1692, 1716, G vices W
[132] 103 ’hem] ’em 1692, 1716, W passim them G§
[133] 106 ’hem om. G stand,] stand; G
[134] 107 there:] there W there, G
[135] 116 subtle 1692, f.
[136] 120 manner G
[137] 128 Embrothered 1641 Embroider’d 1716, f. stockins 1641
[138] 130 [_Exit Iniq._ G
[139] 137 airy 1692, f. passim
[140] 139 human W, G
[141] 140 _Tyburn_ 1692, f. passim
[142] 142 employ W, G
[143] 146, 7 () ret. G
[144] 147 wi’] with G§
[145] 150 employment W, G
[146] 151, 157 DIV.] _Dev._ 1692 _Sat._ 1716, f.
[147] 153 now] new 1716
[148] 153 SN.] _Shews him Fitzdottrel coming out of his
house at a distance._ G
[149] 157 _Exeunt severally._ G
ACT. I. SCENE. II.
FITZ-DOTTRELL.
I, they doe, now, name _Bretnor_, as before, [97]
They talk’d of _Greſham_, and of Doctor _Fore-man_,
_Francklin_, and _Fiske_, and _Sauory_ (he was in too)
But there’s not one of theſe, that euer could
Yet ſhew a man the _Diuell_, in true ſort. 5
They haue their chriſtalls, I doe know, and rings,
And virgin parchment, and their dead-mens ſculls
Their rauens wings, their lights, and _pentacles_,
With _characters_; I ha’ ſeene all theſe. But--
Would I might ſee the _Diuell_. I would giue 10
A hundred o’ theſe pictures, to ſee him
Once out of picture. May I proue a cuckold,
(And that’s the one maine mortall thing I feare)
If I beginne not, now, to thinke, the Painters
Haue onely made him. ’Slight, he would be ſeene, 15
One time or other elſe. He would not let
An ancient gentleman, of a good houſe,
As moſt are now in _England_, the _Fitz-Dottrel’s_
Runne wilde, and call vpon him thus in vaine,
As I ha’ done this twelue mone’th. If he be not, 20
At all, why, are there Coniurers? If they be not,
Why, are there lawes againſt ’hem? The beſt artiſts
Of _Cambridge_, _Oxford_, _Middlesex_, and _London_,
_Essex_, and _Kent_, I haue had in pay to raiſe him,
Theſe fifty weekes, and yet h’appeares not. ’Sdeath, 25
I ſhall ſuſpect, they, can make circles onely
Shortly, and know but his hard names. They doe ſay,
H’will meet a man (of himſelfe) that has a mind to him.
If hee would ſo, I haue a minde and a halfe for him:
He ſhould not be long abſent. Pray thee, come 30
I long for thee. An’ I were with child by him,
And my wife too; I could not more. Come, yet,
_He expreſſes a longing to ſee the Diuell_
Good _Beelezebub_. Were hee a kinde diuell,
And had humanity in him, hee would come, but
To ſaue ones longing. I ſhould vſe him well, 35
I ſweare, and with reſpect (would he would try mee)
Not, as the Conjurers doe, when they ha’ rais’d him.
Get him in bonds, and ſend him poſt, on errands.
A thouſand miles, it is prepoſterous, that; [100]
And I beleeue, is the true cauſe he comes not. 40
And hee has reaſon. Who would be engag’d,
That might liue freely, as he may doe? I ſweare,
They are wrong all. The burn’t child dreads the fire.
They doe not know to entertaine the _Diuell_.
I would ſo welcome him, obſerue his diet, 45
Get him his chamber hung with _arras_, two of ’hem,
I’ my own houſe; lend him my wiues wrought pillowes:
And as I am an honeſt man, I thinke,
If he had a minde to her, too; I should grant him,
To make our friend-ſhip perfect. So I would not 50
To euery man. If hee but heare me, now?
And ſhould come to mee in a braue young ſhape,
And take me at my word? ha! Who is this?
[150] SD. ACT. I. om. 1716, f. (as regularly, after SC. I. of each
act.) ACT ...] SCENE II. _The street before Fitzdottrel’s House.
Enter_ FITZDOTTREL. G
[151] 12 picture, 1641
[152] 17 a] as W [as] G || good] good a G
[153] 21, 22 comma om. after ‘why’ and ‘Why’ 1692 f.
[154] 25 h’] he G
[155] 26 circle 1641
[156] 30 Prithee G
[157] 31 An’] an G
[158] 32 SN. _expresseth_ 1692, 1716, W || SN. om. G
ACT. I. SCENE. IIJ.
PVG. FITZ-DOTTRELL.
Sir, your good pardon, that I thus preſume
Vpon your priuacy. I am borne a Gentleman,
A younger brother; but, in ſome diſgrace,
Now, with my friends: and want ſome little meanes,
To keepe me vpright, while things be reconcil’d. 5
Pleaſe you, to let my ſeruice be of vſe to you, Sir.
FIT. Seruice? ’fore hell, my heart was at my mouth,
Till I had view’d his ſhooes well: for, thoſe roſes
Were bigge inough to hide a clouen foote.
_Hee lookes and ſuruay’s his feet: ouer and ouer._
No, friend, my number’s full. I haue one ſeruant, 10
Who is my all, indeed; and, from the broome
Vnto the bruſh: for, iuſt so farre, I truſt him.
He is my Ward-robe man, my Cater, Cooke,
Butler, and Steward; lookes vnto my horſe:
And helpes to watch my wife. H’has all the places, 15
That I can thinke on, from the garret downward,
E’en to the manger, and the curry-combe.
PVG. Sir, I ſhall put your worſhip to no charge,
More then my meate, and that but very little,
I’le ſerue you for your loue.
FIT. Ha? without wages? 20
I’le harken o’ that eare, were I at leaſure.
But now, I’m buſie. ’Pr’y the, friend forbeare mee,
And’ thou hadſt beene a _Diuell_, I ſhould ſay [101]
Somewhat more to thee. Thou doſt hinder, now,
My meditations.
PVG. Sir, I am a _Diuell_. 25
FIT. How!
PVG. A true _Diuell_, S^r.
FIT. Nay, now, you ly:
Vnder your fauour, friend, for, I’ll not quarrell.
I look’d o’ your feet, afore, you cannot coozen mee,
Your ſhoo’s not clouen, Sir, you are whole hoof’d.
_He viewes his feete againe._
PVG. Sir, that’s a popular error, deceiues many: 30
But I am that, I tell you.
FIT. What’s your name?
PVG. My name is _Diuell_, S^r.
FIT. Sai’ſt thou true.
PVG. in-deed, S^r.
FIT. ’Slid! there’s ſome _omen_ i’ this! what countryman?
PVG. Of _Derby-ſhire_, S^r. about the _Peake_.
FIT. That Hole
Belong’d to your Anceſtors?
PVG. Yes, _Diuells_ arſe, S^r. 35
FIT. I’ll entertaine him for the name ſake. Ha?
And turne away my tother man? and ſaue
Foure pound a yeere by that? there’s lucke, and thrift too!
The very _Diuell_ may come, heereafter, as well.
Friend, I receiue you: but (withall) I acquaint you, 40
Aforehand, if yo’ offend mee, I muſt beat you.
It is a kinde of exerciſe, I vſe.
And cannot be without.
PVG. Yes, if I doe not
Offend, you can, ſure.
FIT. Faith, _Diuell_, very hardly:
I’ll call you by your ſurname, ’cauſe I loue it. 45
[159] 46 ’hem] ’em G
[160] 47 Wife’s 1716 wife’s W, G passim
[161] 53 word?--_Enter_ PUG _handsomely shaped and apparelled_. G
[162] SD. on. G
[163] 9 SN. on. G || _Aside._ G
[164] 13 m’acater W
[165] 15 He has W, G
[166] 17 Even G
[167] 21 I’d W, G
[168] 22 I am G ’Prythe 1692 ’Prithee 1716, W Prithee G
[169] 23 An’ 1716, W An G || hadſt] hast 1692, 1716
[170] 26 Sir 1641. f. passim
[171] 28 cozen 1692, f. passim
[172] 29 SN. om. G
[173] 31 that, I] that I 1692, f.
[174] 37 t’other 1692, f.
[175] 39 [_Aside._ G
[176] 41 you W, G
ACT. I. SCENE. IIII.
INGINE. WITTIPOL. MANLY.
FITZDOTTRELL. PVG.
Yonder hee walkes, Sir, I’ll goe lift him for you.
WIT. To him, good _Ingine_, raiſe him vp by degrees,
Gently, and hold him there too, you can doe it.
Shew your ſelfe now, a _Mathematicall_ broker.
ING. I’ll warrant you for halfe a piece.
WIT. ’Tis done, S^r. 5
MAN. Is’t poſſible there ſhould be ſuch a man?
WIT. You ſhall be your owne witneſſe, I’ll not labour
To tempt you paſt your faith.
MAN. And is his wife
So very handſome, ſay you?
WIT. I ha’ not ſeene her,
Since I came home from trauell: and they ſay, 10
Shee is not alter’d. Then, before I went,
I ſaw her once; but ſo, as ſhee hath ſtuck
Still i’ my view, no obiect hath remou’d her.
MAN. ’Tis a faire gueſt, Friend, beauty: and once lodg’d [102]
Deepe in the eyes, ſhee hardly leaues the Inne. 15
How do’s he keepe her?
WIT. Very braue. Howeuer,
Himselfe be fordide, hee is ſenſuall that way.
In euery dreſſing, hee do’s ſtudy her.
MAN. And furniſh forth himselfe ſo from the _Brokers_?
WIT. Yes, that’s a hyr’d ſuite, hee now has one, 20
To ſee the _Diuell_ is an _Aſſe_, to day, in:
(This _Ingine_ gets three or foure pound a weeke by him)
He dares not miſſe a new _Play_, or a _Feaſt_,
What rate ſoeuer clothes be at; and thinkes
Himſelfe ſtill new, in other mens old.
MAN. But ſtay, 25
Do’s he loue meat ſo?
WIT. Faith he do’s not hate it.
But that’s not it. His belly and his palate
Would be compounded with for reaſon. Mary,
A wit he has, of that ſtrange credit with him,
’Gainſt all mankinde; as it doth make him doe 30
Iuſt what it liſt: it rauiſhes him forth,
Whither it pleaſe, to any aſſembly’or place,
And would conclude him ruin’d, ſhould hee ſcape
One publike meeting, out of the beliefe
He has of his owne great, and Catholike ſtrengths, 35
In arguing, and diſcourſe. It takes, I ſee:
H’has got the cloak vpon him.
Ingine _hath won_ Fitzdottrel, _to ’ſay on the cloake_.
FIT. A faire garment,
By my faith, _Ingine_!
ING. It was neuer made, Sir,
For three ſcore pound, I aſſure you: ’Twill yeeld thirty.
The pluſh, Sir, coſt three pound, ten ſhillings a yard! 40
And then the lace, and veluet.
FIT. I ſhall, _Ingine_,
Be look’d at, pretitly, in it! Art thou ſure
The _Play_ is play’d to day?
ING. O here’s the bill, S^r.
_Hee giues him the_ Play-_bill_.
I’, had forgot to gi’t you.
FIT. Ha? the _Diuell_!
I will not loſe you, Sirah! But, _Ingine_, thinke you, 45
The Gallant is ſo furious in his folly?
So mad vpon the matter, that hee’ll part
With’s cloake vpo’ theſe termes?
ING. Truſt not your _Ingine_,
Breake me to pieces elſe, as you would doe
A rotten _Crane_, or an old ruſty _Iacke_, 50
That has not one true wheele in him. Doe but talke with him.
FIT. I ſhall doe that, to ſatisfie you, _Ingine_,
And my ſelfe too. With your leaue, Gentlemen.
_Hee turnes to_ Wittipol.
Which of you is it, is ſo meere Idolater
To my wiues beauty, and ſo very prodigall 55
Vnto my patience, that, for the ſhort parlee?
Of one ſwift houres quarter, with my wife,
He will depart with (let mee ſee) this cloake here
The price of folly? Sir, are you the man?
WIT. I am that vent’rer, Sir.
FIT. Good time! your name 60
Is _Witty-pol_?
WIT. The ſame, S^r.
FIT. And ’tis told me, [103]
Yo’ haue trauell’d lately?
WIT. That I haue, S^r.
FIT. Truly,
Your trauells may haue alter’d your complexion;
But ſure, your wit ſtood ſtill.
WIT. It may well be, Sir.
All heads ha’ not like growth.
FIT. The good mans grauity, 65
That left you land, your father, neuer taught you
Theſe pleaſant matches?
WIT. No, nor can his mirth,
With whom I make ’hem, put me off.
FIT. You are
Reſolu’d then?
WIT. Yes, S^r.
FIT. Beauty is the _Saint_,
You’ll ſacrifice your ſelfe, into the ſhirt too? 70
WIT. So I may ſtill cloth, and keepe warme your wiſdome?
FIT. You lade me S^r!
WIT. I know what you wil beare, S^r.
FIT. Well, to the point. ’Tis only, Sir, you ſay,
To ſpeake vnto my wife?
WIT. Only, to ſpeake to her.
FIT. And in my preſence?
WIT. In your very preſence. 75
FIT. And in my hearing?
WIT. In your hearing: ſo,
You interrupt vs not.
FIT. For the ſhort ſpace
You doe demand, the fourth part of an houre,
I thinke I ſhall, with ſome conuenient ſtudy,
And this good helpe to boot, bring my ſelfe to’t. 80
_Hee ſhrugs himſelfe vp in the cloake._
WIT. I aske no more.
FIT. Pleaſe you, walk to’ard my houſe,
Speake what you liſt; that time is yours: My right
I haue departed with. But, not beyond,
A minute, or a ſecond, looke for. Length,
And drawing out, ma’aduance much, to theſe matches. 85
And I except all kiſſing. Kiſſes are
Silent petitions ſtill with willing _Louers_.
WIT. _Louers?_ How falls that o’ your phantſie?
FIT. Sir.
I doe know ſomewhat. I forbid all lip-worke.
WIT. I am not eager at forbidden dainties. 90
Who couets vnfit things, denies him ſelfe.
FIT. You ſay well, Sir, ’Twas prettily ſaid, that ſame,
He do’s, indeed. I’ll haue no touches, therefore,
Nor takings by the armes, nor tender circles
Caſt ’bout the waſt, but all be done at diſtance. 95
Loue is brought vp with thoſe ſoft _migniard_ handlings;
His pulſe lies in his palme: and I defend
All melting ioynts, and fingers, (that’s my bargaine)
I doe defend ’hem, any thing like action.
But talke, Sir, what you will. Vſe all the _Tropes_ 100
And _Schemes_, that Prince _Quintilian_ can afford you:
And much good do your _Rhetoriques_ heart. You are welcome, Sir.
_Ingine_, God b’w’you.
WIT. Sir, I muſt condition
To haue this Gentleman by, a witneſſe.
FIT. Well,
I am content, ſo he be ſilent.
MAN. Yes, S r. 105
FIT. Come _Diuell_, I’ll make you roome, ſtreight.
But I’ll ſhew you
Firſt, to your Miſtreſſe, who’s no common one,
You muſt conceiue, that brings this game to ſee her. [104]
I hope thou’ſt brought me good lucke.
PVG. I ſhall do’t. Sir.
[177] SD. ACT. ...] _Enter, behind_, ENGINE, _with a cloke on his
arm_, WITTIPOL, _and_ MANLY. G
[178] 5 [_Engine goes to Fitzdottrel and takes him aside._ G
[179] 19 _Broker_ 1692, 1716 broker W
[180] 20 on 1641, f.
[181] 28 Marry 1692, f.
[182] 32 whether 1716
[183] 36 SN. ’say] say 1641, f. SN. om. G
[184] 37 _Fitz._ [_after saying on the cloke._] G
[185] 42 prettily 1641. f.
[186] 44 I’, had] I’d 1716 I had W, G gi’t] give it G
[187] 48 upon 1716, f.
[188] 50 _Cain_ 1692 _Cane_ 1716
[189] 51 with him] with W
[190] 53 too. [_comes forward._] G SN. om. G
[191] 60 venturer G
[192] 62 You G§
[193] 70 comma om. after ‘selfe’ 1692, f. to W, G
[194] 80 SN. _Hee_ om. G
[195] 82 is om. 1641
[196] 85 may W, G
[197] 88 phant’sie W phantasy G o’ret. G
[198] 99 comma om. W, G
[199] 102 [_Opens the door of his house._ G
[200] 103 b’w’] be wi’ G
[201] 108 this om. 1641
[202] 109 [_They all enter the house._ G
ACT. I. SCENE. V.
VVITTIPOL. MANLY.
_Ingine_, you hope o’ your halfe piece? ’Tis there, Sir.
Be gone. Friend _Manly_, who’s within here? fixed?
Wittipol _knocks his friend o’ the breſt_.
MAN. I am directly in a fit of wonder
What’ll be the iſſue of this conference!
WIT. For that, ne’r vex your ſelfe, till the euent. 5
How like yo’ him?
MAN. I would faine ſee more of him.
WIT. What thinke you of this?
MAN. I am paſt degrees of thinking.
Old _Africk_, and the new _America_,
With all their fruite of Monſters cannot ſhew
So iuſt a prodigie.
WIT. Could you haue beleeu’d, 10
Without your ſight, a minde ſo ſordide inward,
Should be ſo ſpecious, and layd forth abroad,
To all the ſhew, that euer ſhop, or ware was?
MAN. I beleeue any thing now, though I confeſſe
His _Vices_ are the moſt extremities 15
I euer knew in nature. But, why loues hee
The _Diuell_ ſo?
WIT. O S^r! for hidden treaſure,
Hee hopes to finde: and has propos’d himſelfe
So infinite a Maſſe, as to recouer,
He cares not what he parts with, of the preſent, 20
To his men of Art, who are the race, may coyne him.
Promiſe gold-mountaines, and the couetous
Are ſtill moſt prodigall.
MAN. But ha’ you faith,
That he will hold his bargaine?
WIT. O deare, Sir!
He will not off on’t. Feare him not. I know him. 25
One baſeneſſe ſtill accompanies another.
See! he is heere already, and his wife too.
MAN. A wondrous handſome creature, as I liue!
[203] SD. ACT. ...] om. SCENE III. _A Room in_ FITZDOTTREL’S _House_.
_Enter_ WITTIPOL, MANLY, _and_ ENGINE. G
[204] 2 SN.] gone. [_Exit Engine._] || fixed! [_knocks him on the
breast._ G
[205] 4 ’ll] will G
ACT. I. SCENE. VI. [105]
FITZ-DOTTRELL. Miſtreſſe FITZ-DOTTRELL.
WITTIPOL. MANLY.
Come wife, this is the Gentleman. Nay, bluſh not.
M^rs. FI. Why, what do you meane Sir? ha’ you your reaſon?
FIT. Wife,
I do not know, that I haue lent it forth
To any one; at leaſt, without a pawne, wife:
Or that I’haue eat or drunke the thing, of late, 5
That ſhould corrupt it. Wherefore gentle wife,
Obey, it is thy vertue: hold no acts
Of diſputation.
M^rs. FI. Are you not enough
The talke, of feaſts, and meetingy, but you’ll ſtill
Make argument for freſh?
FIT. Why, carefull wedlocke, 10
If I haue haue a longing to haue one tale more
Goe of mee, what is that to thee, deare heart?
Why ſhouldſt thou enuy my delight? or croſſe it?
By being ſolicitous, when it not concernes thee?
M^rs. FI. Yes, I haue ſhare in this. The ſcorne will fall 15
As bittterly on me, where both are laught at.
FIT. Laught at, ſweet bird? is that the ſcruple? Come, come,
Thou art a _Niaiſe_.
_A_ Niaiſe _is a young Hawke, tane crying out of the neſt._
Which of your great houſes,
(I will not meane at home, here, but abroad)
Your families in _France_, wife, ſend not forth 20
Something, within the ſeuen yeere, may be laught at?
I doe not ſay ſeuen moneths, nor ſeuen weekes,
Nor ſeuen daies, nor houres: but ſeuen yeere wife.
I giue ’hem time. Once, within ſeuen yeere,
I thinke they may doe ſomething may be laught at. 25
In _France_, I keepe me there, ſtill. Wherefore, wife,
Let them that liſt, laugh ſtill, rather then weepe
For me; Heere is a cloake coſt fifty pound, wife,
Which I can ſell for thirty, when I ha’ ſeene
All _London_ in’t, and _London_ has ſeene mee. 30
To day, I goe to the _Black-fryers Play-houſe_,
Sit ithe view, ſalute all my acquaintance,
Riſe vp betweene the _Acts_, let fall my cloake,
Publiſh a handſome man, and a rich ſuite
(As that’s a ſpeciall end, why we goe thither, 35
All that pretend, to ſtand for’t o’ the _Stage_)
The Ladies aske who’s that? (For, they doe come [106]
To ſee vs, _Loue_, as wee doe to ſee them)
Now, I ſhall loſe all this, for the falſe feare
Of being laught at? Yes, wuſſe. Let ’hem laugh, wife, 40
Let me haue ſuch another cloake to morrow.
And let ’hem laugh againe, wife, and againe,
And then grow fat with laughing, and then fatter,
All my young Gallants, let ’hem bring their friends too:
Shall I forbid ’hem? No, let heauen forbid ’hem: 45
Or wit, if’t haue any charge on ’hem. Come, thy eare, wife,
Is all, I’ll borrow of thee. Set your watch, Sir,
Thou, onely art to heare, not ſpeake a word, _Doue_,
To ought he ſayes. That I doe gi’ you in precept,
No leſſe then councell, on your wiue-hood, wife, 50
Not though he flatter you, or make court, or _Loue_
(As you muſt looke for theſe) or ſay, he raile;
What ere his arts be, wife, I will haue thee
Delude ’hem with a trick, thy obſtinate ſilence;
I know aduantages; and I loue to hit 55
Theſe pragmaticke young men, at their owne weapons.
Is your watch ready? Here my ſaile beares, for you:
Tack toward him, ſweet _Pinnace_, where’s your watch?
_He diſpoſes his wife to his place, and ſets his watch._
WIT. I’le ſet it. Sir, with yours.
M^rs. FI. I muſt obey.
MAN. Her modeſty ſeemes to ſuffer with her beauty, 60
And ſo, as if his folly were away,
It were worth pitty.
FIT. Now, th’are right, beginne, Sir.
But firſt, let me repeat the contract, briefely.
_Hee repeats his contract againe._
I am, Sir, to inioy this cloake, I ſtand in,
Freely, and as your gift; vpon condition 65
You may as freely, ſpeake here to my ſpouſe,
Your quarter of an houre alwaies keeping
The meaſur’d diſtance of your yard, or more,
From my ſaid Spouſe: and in my ſight and hearing.
This is your couenant?
WIT. Yes, but you’ll allow 70
For this time ſpent, now?
FIT. Set ’hem ſo much backe.
WIT. I thinke, I ſhall not need it.
FIT. Well, begin, Sir,
There is your bound, Sir. Not beyond that ruſh.
WIT. If you interrupt me, Sir, I ſhall diſcloake you.
Wittipol _beginnes_.
The time I haue purchaſt, Lady, is but ſhort; 75
And, therefore, if I imploy it thriftily,
I hope I ſtand the neerer to my pardon.
I am not here, to tell you, you are faire,
Or louely, or how well you dreſſe you, Lady,
I’ll ſaue my ſelfe that eloquence of your glaſſe, 80
Which can ſpeake these things better to you then I.
And ’tis a knowledge, wherein fooles may be
As wiſe as a _Count Parliament_. Nor come I,
With any preiudice, or doubt, that you [107]
Should, to the notice of your owne worth, neede 85
Leaſt reuelation. Shee’s a ſimple woman,
Know’s not her good: (who euer knowes her ill)
And at all caracts. That you are the wife,
To ſo much blaſted fleſh, as ſcarce hath ſoule,
In ſtead of ſalt, to keepe it ſweete; I thinke, 90
Will aske no witneſſes, to proue. The cold
Sheetes that you lie in, with the watching candle,
That ſees, how dull to any thaw of beauty,
Pieces, and quarters, halfe, and whole nights, ſometimes,
The Diuell-giuen _Elfine_ Squire, your husband, 95
Doth leaue you, quitting heere his proper circle,
For a much-worſe i’ the walks of _Lincolnes Inne_,
Vnder the Elmes, t’expect the feind in vaine, there
Will confeſſe for you.
FIT. I did looke for this geere.
WIT. And what a daughter of darkneſſe, he do’s make you, 100
Lock’d vp from all ſociety, or object;
Your eye not let to looke vpon a face,
Vnder a Conjurers (or ſome mould for one,
Hollow, and leane like his) but, by great meanes,
As I now make; your owne too ſenſible ſufferings, 105
Without the extraordinary aydes,
Of ſpells, or ſpirits, may aſſure you, Lady.
For my part, I proteſt ’gainſt all ſuch practice,
I worke by no falſe arts, medicines, or charmes
To be said forward and backward.
FIT. No, I except: 110
WIT. Sir I ſhall ease you.
_He offers to diſcloake him._
FIT. Mum.
WIT. Nor haue I ends, Lady,
Vpon you, more then this: to tell you how _Loue_
Beauties good Angell, he that waits vpon her
At all occaſions, and no leſſe then _Fortune_,
Helps th’ aduenturous, in mee makes that proffer, 115
Which neuer faire one was ſo fond, to loſe;
Who could but reach a hand forth to her freedome:
On the firſt ſight, I lou’d you: ſince which time,
Though I haue trauell’d, I haue beene in trauell
More for this second blessing of your eyes 120
Which now I’haue purchas’d, then for all aymes elſe.
Thinke of it, Lady, be your minde as actiue,
As is your beauty: view your object well.
Examine both my faſhion, and my yeeres;
Things, that are like, are ſoone familiar: 125
And Nature ioyes, ſtill in equality.
Let not the ſigne o’ the husband fright you, Lady.
But ere your ſpring be gone, inioy it. Flowers,
Though faire, are oft but of one morning. Thinke,
All beauty doth not laſt vntill the _autumne_. 130
You grow old, while I tell you this. And ſuch, [108]
As cannot vſe the preſent, are not wiſe.
If Loue and Fortune will take care of vs,
Why ſhould our will be wanting? This is all.
What doe you anſwer, Lady?
_Shee stands mute._
FIT. Now, the sport comes. 135
Let him ſtill waite, waite, waite: while the watch goes,
And the time runs. Wife!
WIT. How! not any word?
Nay, then, I taſte a tricke in’t. Worthy Lady,
I cannot be ſo falſe to mine owne thoughts
Of your preſumed goodneſſe, to conceiue 140
This, as your rudeneſſe, which I ſee’s impos’d.
Yet, ſince your cautelous _Iaylor_, here ſtands by you,
And yo’ are deni’d the liberty o’ the houſe,
Let me take warrant, Lady, from your ſilence,
(Which euer is interpreted conſent) 145
To make your anſwer for you: which ſhall be
To as good purpoſe, as I can imagine,
And what I thinke you’ld ſpeake.
FIT. No, no, no, no.
WIT. I ſhall reſume, S^r.
MAN. Sir, what doe you meane?
_He ſets_ M^r. Manly, _his friend, in her place_.
WIT. One interruption more, Sir, and you goe 150
Into your hoſe and doublet, nothing ſaues you.
And therefore harken. This is for your wife.
MAN. You muſt play faire, S^r.
WIT. Stand for mee, good friend.
_And ſpeaks for her._
Troth, Sir, tis more then true, that you haue vttred
Of my vnequall, and ſo ſordide match heere, 155
With all the circumſtances of my bondage.
I haue a husband, and a two-legg’d one,
But ſuch a moon-ling, as no wit of man
Or roſes can redeeme from being an Aſſe.
H’is growne too much, the ſtory of mens mouthes, 160
To ſcape his lading: ſhould I make’t my ſtudy,
And lay all wayes, yea, call mankind to helpe,
To take his burden off, why, this one act
Of his, to let his wife out to be courted,
And, at a price, proclaimes his aſinine nature 165
So lowd, as I am weary of my title to him.
But Sir, you ſeeme a Gentleman of vertue,
No leſſe then blood; and one that euery way
Lookes as he were of too good quality,
To intrap a credulous woman, or betray her: 170
Since you haue payd thus deare, Sir, for a viſit,
And made ſuch venter, on your wit, and charge
Meerely to ſee mee, or at moſt to ſpeake to mee,
I were too ſtupid; or (what’s worſe) ingrate
Not to returne your venter. Thinke, but how, 175
I may with ſafety doe it; I ſhall truſt
My loue and honour to you, and preſume;
You’ll euer huſband both, againſt this huſband; [109]
Who, if we chance to change his liberall eares,
To other enſignes, and with labour make 180
A new beaſt of him, as hee ſhall deſerue,
Cannot complaine, hee is vnkindly dealth with.
This day hee is to goe to a new play, Sir.
From whence no feare, no, nor authority,
Scarcely the _Kings_ command, Sir, will reſtraine him, 185
Now you haue fitted him with a _Stage_-garment,
For the meere names ſake, were there nothing elſe:
And many more ſuch iourneyes, hee will make.
Which, if they now, or, any time heereafter,
Offer vs opportunity, you heare, Sir, 190
Who’ll be as glad, and forward to imbrace,
Meete, and enioy it chearefully as you.
I humbly thanke you, Lady.
_Hee ſhifts to his owne place againe_
FIT. Keepe your ground Sir.
WIT. Will you be lightned?
FIT. Mum.
WIT. And but I am,
By the ſad contract, thus to take my leaue of you 195
At this ſo enuious distance, I had taught
Our lips ere this, to ſeale the happy mixture
Made of our ſoules. But we muſt both, now, yeeld
To the neceſſity. Doe not thinke yet, Lady,
But I can kiſſe, and touch, and laugh, and whiſper, 200
And doe those crowning court-ſhips too, for which,
Day, and the publike haue allow’d no name
But, now, my bargaine binds me. ’Twere rude iniury,
T’importune more, or vrge a noble nature,
To what of it’s owne bounty it is prone to: 205
Elſe, I ſhould ſpeake--But, Lady, I loue ſo well,
As I will hope, you’ll doe ſo to. I haue done, Sir.
FIT. Well, then, I ha’ won?
WIT. Sir, And I may win, too.
FIT. O yes! no doubt on’t. I’ll take carefull order,
That ſhee ſhall hang forth enſignes at the window, 210
To tell you when I am abſent. Or I’ll keepe
Three or foure foote-men, ready ſtill of purpoſe,
To runne and fetch you, at her longings, Sir.
I’ll goe beſpeake me ſtraight a guilt caroch,
For her and you to take the ayre in. Yes, 215
Into _Hide-parke_, and thence into _Black-Fryers_,
Viſit the painters, where you may ſee pictures,
And note the propereſt limbs, and how to make ’hem.
Or what doe you ſay vnto a middling Goſſip
To bring you aye together, at her lodging? 220
Vnder pretext of teaching o’ my wife
Some rare receit of drawing _almond_ milke? ha?
It shall be a part of my care. Good Sir, God b’w’you.
I ha’ kept the contract, and the cloake is mine.
WIT. Why, much good do’t you S^r; it may fall out, [110] 225
That you ha’ bought it deare, though I ha’ not ſold it.
FIT. A pretty riddle! Fare you well, good Sir.
Wife, your face this way, looke on me: and thinke
Yo’ haue had a wicked dreame, wife, and forget it.
_Hee turnes his wife about._
MAN. This is the ſtrangeſt motion I ere ſaw. 230
FIT. Now, wife, ſits this faire cloake the worſe vpon me,
For my great ſufferings, or your little patience? ha?
They laugh, you thinke?
M^rs. FI. Why S^r. and you might ſee’t.
What thought, they haue of you, may be ſoone collected
By the young Genlemans ſpeache.
FIT. Youug Gentleman? 235
Death! you are in loue with him, are you? could he not
Be nam’d the Gentleman, without the young?
Vp to your Cabbin againe.
M^rs. FI. My cage, yo’ were beſt
To call it?
FIT. Yes, ſing there. You’ld faine be making
_Blanck Manger_ with him at your mothers! I know you. 240
Goe get you vp. How now! what ſay you, _Diuell_?
[206] SD. om. _Enter_ FITZDOTTRELL, _with Mrs._ FRANCES _his wife_. G
[207] 9 Meetings 1692, 1716 meetings 1641, W, G
[208] 11 I haue] I’ve W haue a] a 1641. f.
[209] 18 SN. om. G
[210] 19 () ret. G
[211] 32 i’ the 1641, 1692, 1716, W in the G
[212] 44 ’hem] ’em G
[213] 46 ’t] it G || ’hem] ’em G
[214] 49 gi’] give G
[215] 51 though 1641, f.
[216] 52 () om. G
[217] 58 SN.] _He disposes his wife to her place._ G
[218] 59 [_Aside._ G
[219] 63 th’art 1641, 1692, 1716 they are W, G SN. om. G
[220] 64 enjoy 1692, f.
[221] 74 SN. om. G
[222] 76 employ W, G
[223] 83 came W
[224] 88 characts 1692 Characts 1716
[225] 99 jeer W, G
[226] 115 adventrous 1692, 1716 advent’rous W || th’] the G
[227] 117 forth] out 1641
[228] 121 I’ haue] I have 1692 I’ve 1716, f.
[229] 127 o’] of G
[230] 134, 5 misplaced t adjusted 1692. f.
[231] 135 SN. om. G
[232] 139 my G
[233] 143 you’re 1716, W you are G
[234] 149, 153 SN. [_Sets Manly in his place, and speaks for the lady._
(after ‘friend.’ 153) G
[235] 154 utt’red 1692 utter’d 1716, f.
[236] 160 He’s 1716, f.
[237] 161 T’ escape W To ’scape 1716
[238] 172, 5 venture 1692, f.
[239] 182 dealt 1692, f.
[240] 187 nothing] no things 1692, 1716
[241] 191 embrace 1692, f.
[242] 193 SN. om. 1641, 1692, 1716 || _Hee_ om. G
[243] 194 lighten’d 1716, f.
[244] 195 sad] said W, G
[245] 211 I am] I’m W
[246] 223 be wi’ G
[247] 224 is mine] is mine owne 1641 is mine own
1692 ’s mine own 1716, W, G
[248] 226 I ha’] I’ve G [_Exit._ G
[249] 229 Ya’ have 1692 You’ve 1716 You W, G SN. om. G
[250] 230 [_Exit._ G
[251] 235 Youug] Young 1641, f. || Gentlmans 1641 Gentleman’s 1692,
1716 gentleman’s W, G
[252] 240 him] it 1641
[253] 241 up.--[_Exit Mrs. Fitz. Enter_ PUG. G
ACT. I. SCENE. VII.
PVG. FITZDOTTREL. INGINE.
Heere is one _Ingine_, Sir, deſires to ſpeake with you.
FIT. I thought he brought ſome newes, of a broker! Well,
Let him come in, good _Diuell_: fetch him elſe.
O, my fine _Ingine_! what’s th’affaire? more cheats?
ING. No Sir, the Wit, the Braine, the great _Proiector_, 5
I told you of, is newly come to towne.
FIT. Where, _Ingine_?
ING. I ha’ brought him (H’is without)
Ere hee pull’d off his boots, Sir, but ſo follow’d,
For buſineſſes:
FIT. But what is a _Proiector_?
I would conceiue.
ING. Why, one Sir, that proiects 10
Wayes to enrich men, or to make ’hem great,
By ſuites, by marriages, by vndertakings:
According as he ſees they humour it.
FIT. Can hee not coniure at all?
ING. I thinke he can, Sir.
(To tell you true) but, you doe know, of late, 15
The State hath tane ſuch note of ’hem, and compell’d ’hem,
To enter ſuch great bonds, they dare not practice.
FIT. ’Tis true, and I lie fallow for’t, the while!
ING. O, Sir! you’ll grow the richer for the reſt.
FIT. I hope I ſhall: but _Ingine_, you doe talke 20
Somewhat too much, o’ my courſes. My Cloake-cuſtomer
Could tell mee ſtrange particulars.
ING. By my meanes? [111]
FIT. How ſhould he haue ’hem elſe?
ING. You do not know, S^r,
What he has: and by what arts! A monei’d man, Sir,
And is as great with your _Almanack-Men_, as you are! 25
FIT. That Gallant?
ING. You make the other wait too long, here:
And hee is extreme punctuall.
FIT. Is he a gallant?
ING. Sir, you ſhall ſee: He’is in his riding ſuit,
As hee comes now from Court. But heere him ſpeake:
Miniſter matter to him, and then tell mee. 30
[254] SD. om. G
[255] 3 _Exit Pug. Re-enter_ ENGINE. G
[256] 4 th’] the G§
[257] 7 H’is] he’s 1716, f. () ret. G
[258] 9 businesse 1641
[259] 12 undertaking 1641
[260] 16 ’hem] ’em G
[261] 21 o’ ret. G
[262] 27 a om. 1692, 1716, W
[263] 28 He’is] He’s 1716 he’s W, G
[264] 30 [_Exeunt._ G
ACT. IJ. SCENE. I.
MEER-CRAFT. FITZ-DOTTREL. INGINE.
TRAINES. PVG.
Sir, money’s a whore, a bawd, a drudge;
Fit to runne out on errands: Let her goe.
_Via pecunia!_ when ſhe’s runne and gone,
And fled and dead; then will I fetch her, againe,
With _Aqua-vitæ_, out of an old Hogs-head! 5
While there are lees of wine, or dregs of beere,
I’le neuer want her! Coyne her out of cobwebs,
Duſt, but I’ll haue her! Raiſe wooll vpon egge-ſhells,
Sir, and make graſe grow out o’ marro-bones.
To make her come. (Commend mee to your Miſtreſſe, 10
_To a waiter._
Say, let the thouſand pound but be had ready,
And it is done) I would but ſee the creature
(Of fleſh, and blood) the man, the _prince_, indeed,
That could imploy ſo many millions
As I would help him to.
FIT. How, talks he? millions? 15
MER. (I’ll giue you an account of this to morrow.)
Yes, I will talke no leſſe, and doe it too;
_To another._
If they were _Myriades_: and without the _Diuell_,
By direct meanes, it ſhall be good in law.
ING. Sir. [112]
MER. Tell M^r. _Wood-cock_, I’ll not faile to meet him 20
_To a third._
Vpon th’ _Exchange_ at night. Pray him to haue
The writings there, and wee’ll diſpatch it. Sir,
_He turnes to_ Fitz-dottrel.
You are a Gentleman of a good preſence,
A handſome man (I haue conſidered you)
As a fit ſtocke to graft honours vpon: 25
I haue a proiect to make you a _Duke_, now.
That you muſt be one, within ſo many moneths,
As I ſet downe, out of true reaſon of ſtate,
You ſha’ not auoyd it. But you muſt harken, then.
ING. Harken? why S^r, do you doubt his eares? Alas! 30
You doe not know Maſter _Fitz-dottrel_.
FIT. He do’s not know me indeed. I thank you, _Ingine_,
For rectifying him.
MER. Good! Why, _Ingine_, then
_He turnes to_ Ingine.
I’le tell it you. (I see you ha’ credit, here,
And, that you can keepe counſell, I’ll not queſtion.) 35
Hee ſhall but be an vndertaker with mee,
In a moſt feaſible bus’neſſe. It shall cost him
Nothing.
ING. Good, S^r.
MER. Except he pleaſe, but’s count’nance;
(That I will haue) t’appeare in’t, to great men,
For which I’ll make him one. Hee ſhall not draw 40
A ſtring of’s purſe. I’ll driue his pattent for him.
We’ll take in Cittizens, _Commoners_, and _Aldermen_,
To beare the charge, and blow ’hem off againe,
Like ſo many dead flyes, when ’tis carryed.
The thing is for recouery of drown’d land, 45
Whereof the _Crowne’s_ to haue his moiety,
If it be owner; Elſe, the _Crowne_ and Owners
To ſhare that moyety: and the recouerers
T’enioy the tother moyety, for their charge.
ING. Thorowout _England_?
MER. Yes, which will ariſe 50
To eyghteene _millions_, ſeuen the firſt yeere:
I haue computed all, and made my ſuruay
Vnto an acre. I’ll beginne at the Pan,
Not, at the skirts: as ſome ha’ done, and loſt,
All that they wrought, their timber-worke, their trench, 55
Their bankes all borne away, or elſe fill’d vp
By the next winter. Tut, they neuer went
The way: I’ll haue it all.
ING. A gallant tract
Of land it is!
MER. ’Twill yeeld a pound an acre.
Wee muſt let cheape, euer, at firſt. But Sir, 60
This lookes too large for you, I ſee. Come hither,
We’ll haue a leſſe. Here’s a plain fellow, you ſee him,
Has his black bag of papers, there, in Buckram,
Wi’ not be ſold for th’Earledome of _Pancridge_: Draw,
Gi’ me out one, by chance. Proiect. 4. _Dog-skinnes?_ 65
Twelue thouſand pound! the very worſt, at firſt. [113]
FIT. Pray, you let’s ſee’t Sir.
MER. ’Tis a toy, a trifle!
FIT. Trifle! 12. thouſand pound for dogs-skins?
MER. Yes,
But, by my way of dreſſing, you muſt know, Sir,
And med’cining the leather, to a height 70
Of improu’d ware, like your _Borachio_
Of _Spaine_, Sir. I can fetch nine thouſand for’t--
ING. Of the Kings glouer?
MER. Yes, how heard you that?
ING. Sir, I doe know you can.
MER. Within this houre:
And reſerue halfe my ſecret. Pluck another; 75
See if thou haſt a happier hand: I thought ſo.
_Hee pluckes out the 2. Bottle-ale._
The very next worſe to it! Bottle-ale.
Yet, this is two and twenty thouſand! Pr’y thee
Pull out another, two or three.
FIT. Good, ſtay, friend,
By bottle-ale, two and twenty thouſand pound? 80
MER. Yes, Sir, it’s caſt to penny-hal’penny-farthing,
O’ the back-ſide, there you may ſee it, read,
I will not bate a _Harrington_ o’ the ſumme.
I’ll winne it i’ my water, and my malt,
My furnaces, and hanging o’ my coppers, 85
The tonning, and the ſubtilty o’ my yeſt;
And, then the earth of my bottles, which I dig,
Turne vp, and ſteepe, and worke, and neale, my ſelfe,
To a degree of _Porc’lane_. You will wonder,
At my proportions, what I will put vp 90
In ſeuen yeeres! for ſo long time, I aske
For my inuention. I will ſaue in cork,
In my mere ſtop’ling, ’boue three thouſand pound,
Within that terme: by googing of ’hem out
Iuſt to the ſize of my bottles, and not ſlicing, 95
There’s infinite loſſe i’ that. What haſt thou there?
O’ making wine of raiſins: this is in hand, now,
_Hee drawes out another_. Raiſines.
ING. Is not that ſtrange, S^r, to make wine of raiſins?
MER. Yes, and as true a wine, as the wines of _France_,
Or _Spaine_, or _Italy_, Looke of what grape 100
My raiſin is, that wine I’ll render perfect,
As of the _muſcatell_ grape, I’ll render _muſcatell_;
Of the _Canary_, his; the _Claret_, his;
So of all kinds: and bate you of the prices,
Of wine, throughout the kingdome, halfe in halfe. 105
ING. But, how, S^r, if you raiſe the other commodity, Rayſins?
MER. Why, then I’ll make it out of blackberries:
And it ſhall doe the ſame. ’Tis but more art,
And the charge leſſe. Take out another.
FIT. No, good Sir.
Saue you the trouble, I’le not looke, nor heare 110
Of any, but your firſt, there; the _Drown’d-land_:
If’t will doe, as you ſay.
MER. Sir, there’s not place,
To gi’ you demonſtration of theſe things. [114]
They are a little to ſubtle. But, I could ſhew you
Such a neceſſity in’t, as you muſt be 115
But what you pleaſe: againſt the receiu’d hereſie,
That _England_ beares no Dukes. Keepe you the land, S^r,
The greatneſſe of th’ eſtate ſhall throw’t vpon you.
If you like better turning it to money,
What may not you, S^r, purchaſe with that wealth? 120
Say, you ſhould part with two o’ your millions,
To be the thing you would, who would not do’t?
As I proteſt, I will, out of my diuident,
Lay, for ſome pretty principality,
In _Italy_, from the Church: Now, you perhaps, 125
Fancy the ſmoake of _England_, rather? But--
Ha’ you no priuate roome, Sir, to draw to,
T’enlarge our ſelues more vpon.
FIT. O yes, _Diuell_!
MER. Theſe, Sir, are bus’neſſes, aske to be carryed
With caution, and in cloud.
FIT. I apprehend, 130
They doe ſo, S^r. _Diuell_, which way is your Miſtreſſe?
PVG. Aboue, S^r. in her chamber.
FIT. O that’s well.
Then, this way, good, Sir.
MER. I ſhall follow you; _Traines_,
Gi’ mee the bag, and goe you preſently,
Commend my ſeruice to my Lady _Tail-buſh_. 135
Tell her I am come from Court this morning; ſay,
I’haue got our bus’neſſe mou’d, and well: Intreat her,
That ſhee giue you the four-ſcore Angels, and ſee ’hem
Diſpos’d of to my Councel, Sir _Poul Eytherſide_.
Sometime, to day, I’ll waite vpon her Ladiſhip, 140
With the relation.
ING. Sir, of what diſpatch,
He is! Do you marke?
MER. _Ingine_, when did you ſee
My couſin _Euer-ill_? keepes he ſtill your quarter?
I’ the _Bermudas_?
ING. Yes, Sir, he was writing
This morning, very hard.
MER. Be not you knowne to him,
That I am come to Towne: I haue effected 146
A buſineſſe for him, but I would haue it take him,
Before he thinks for’t.
ING. Is it paſt?
MER. Not yet.
’Tis well o’ the way.
ING. O Sir! your worſhip takes
Infinit paines.
MER. I loue Friends, to be actiue: 150
A ſluggish nature puts off man, and kinde.
ING. And ſuch a bleſſing followes it.
MER. I thanke
My fate. Pray you let’s be priuate, Sir?
FIT. In, here.
MER. Where none may interrupt vs.
FIT. You heare, _Diuel_,
Lock the ſtreete-doores faſt, and let no one in 155
(Except they be this Gentlemans followers)
To trouble mee. Doe you marke? Yo’ haue heard and ſeene
Something, to day; and, by it, you may gather
Your Miſtreſſe is a fruite, that’s worth the ſtealing
And therefore worth the watching. Be you ſure, now [115]
Yo’ haue all your eyes about you; and let in 161
No lace-woman; nor bawd, that brings French-maſques,
And cut-works. See you? Nor old croanes, with wafers,
To conuey letters. Nor no youths, diſguis’d
Like country-wiues, with creame, and marrow-puddings. 165
Much knauery may be vented in a pudding,
Much bawdy intelligence: They’are ſhrewd ciphers.
Nor turne the key to any neyghbours neede;
Be’t but to kindle fire, or begg a little,
Put it out, rather: all out, to an aſhe, 170
That they may ſee no ſmoake. Or water, ſpill it:
Knock o’ the empty tubs, that by the ſound,
They may be forbid entry. Say, wee are robb’d,
If any come to borrow a ſpoone, or ſo.
I wi’ not haue good fortune, or gods bleſſing 175
Let in, while I am buſie.
PVG. I’le take care, Sir:
They ſha’ not trouble you, if they would.
FIT. Well, doe ſo.
[265] SD. MEER. ...] _A Room in_ Fitzdottrel’s _House.
Enter_ FITZDOTTREL, ENGINE, _and_ MEERCRAFT, _followed by_
TRAINS _with a bag, and three or four Attendants_. G
[266] 1 ’s] is G
[267] 10 SN. _To_ ...] [_To 1 Attendant._] G
[268] 12 done. [_Exit 1 Attend._] G
[269] 14 employ W, G
[270] 15 How, talks] How talks 1716, f.
[271] 17 SN.] [_To 2 Attendant._] [_Exit 2 Atten._ G || talke]
take 1641, 1716, f.
[272] 18 _Myriads_ 1716 Myriads W myriads G
[273] 20 SN. om. 1641, 1692. 1716, W [_to 3 Atten._] G || M^r.]
master G passim
[274] 22 it. [_Exit 3 Atten._] G || SN. om. 1641, f.
[275] 24 () om. W
[276] 28 reasons G
[277] 29 sha’] shall G
[278] 33 SN. om. 1641. f.
[279] 34 it om. 1641
[280] 34, 35, 39 () ret. G
[281] 44 ’tis] it is G
[282] 46 his] a 1641, f.
[283] 50 Throughout 1641, 1692, 1716, W Thoroughout G
[284] 53 an] my 1692, f.
[285] 62 fellow, [_points to Trains_] G
[286] 64 Wi’] Will W, G
[287] 65 chance. [_Trains gives him a paper out of the bag._] G ||
Project; foure 1641 Project: four 1692, 1716 Project four; W Project
four: G || Dog-skinnes] dogs-skins 1641 Dogs Skins 1692, 1716 dogs
skins W Dogs’ skins G
[288] 67 see’t] see it G
[289] 68 MER. Yes,] included in line 69 1692, 1716, W
[290] 69 my om. 1641
[291] 76 SN. _Hee_ ...] [_Trains draws out another._]
(after ‘hand:’ 76) G
[292] 78 Pr’y thee] Pry’thee W Prithee G
[293] 78-80 Pr’y thee--pound? om. 1692, 1716
[294] 81 hal’] half G
[295] 89 Proc’lane 1641 porcelane G
[296] 93 above G
[297] 97 O’] O! G || SN.] [_Trains draws out another._] G
[298] 99 a om. 1641
[299] 103 Of the] Of 1641
[300] 114 subtile 1692, 1716, W
[301] 115 in’t] in it G
[302] 123 Dividend 1716 dividend W, G
[303] 124 petty 1692, 1716, W
[304] 131 so om. G sir.--_Enter_ PUG. G
[305] 137 entreat W, G
[306] 141 relation. [_Exit Trains._ G
[307] 142 mark? [_Aside to Fitz._ G
[308] 150 love] love, 1716, W
[309] 154 us. [_Exeunt Meer. and Engine._ G
[310] 157, 161 Yo’haue] You’ve 1716, W
[311] 169 ’t] it G
[312] 175 will G§ good fortune, gods blessing] G capitalizes throughout.
[313] 177 _Exit._ G SD. om. G
ACT. II. SCENE. II.
PVG. Miſtreſſe FITZDOTTRELL.
I haue no ſingular ſeruice of this, now?
Nor no ſuperlatiue Maſter? I ſhall wiſh
To be in hell againe, at leaſure? Bring,
A _Vice_ from thence? That had bin ſuch a ſubtilty,
As to bring broad-clothes hither: or tranſport 5
Freſh oranges into _Spaine_. I finde it, now:
My _Chiefe_ was i’ the right. Can any feind
Boaſt of a better _Vice_, then heere by nature,
And art, th’are owners of? Hell ne’r owne mee,
But I am taken! the fine tract of it 10
Pulls mee along! To heare men ſuch profeſſors
Growne in our ſubtleſt _Sciences_! My firſt _Act_, now,
Shall be, to make this Maſter of mine cuckold:
The primitiue worke of darkneſſe, I will practiſe!
I will deſerue ſo well of my faire Miſtreſſe, 15
By my diſcoueries, firſt; my counſells after;
And keeping counſell, after that: as who,
So euer, is one, I’le be another, ſure,
I’ll ha’ my ſhare. Most delicate damn’d fleſh!
Shee will be! O! that I could ſtay time, now, [116] 20
Midnight will come too faſt vpon mee, I feare,
To cut my pleaſure--
M^rs. FI. Looke at the back-doore,
_Shee ſends_ Diuell _out_.
One knocks, ſee who it is.
PVG. Dainty _ſhe-Diuell_!
M^rs. FI. I cannot get this venter of the cloake,
Out of my fancie; nor the Gentlemans way, 25
He tooke, which though ’twere ſtrange, yet ’twas handſome,
And had a grace withall, beyond the newneſſe.
Sure he will thinke mee that dull ſtupid creature,
Hee ſaid, and may conclude it; if I finde not
Some thought to thanke th’ attemp. He did preſume, 30
By all the carriage of it, on my braine,
For anſwer; and will ſweare ’tis very barren,
If it can yeeld him no returne. Who is it?
Diuell _returnes_.
PVG. Miſtreſſe, it is, but firſt, let me aſſure
The excellence, of Miſtreſſes, I am, 35
Although my Maſters man, my Miſstreſſe ſlaue,
The ſeruant of her ſecrets, and ſweete turnes,
And know, what fitly will conduce to either.
M^rs. FI. What’s this? I pray you come to your ſelfe and thinke
What your part is: to make an anſwer. Tell, 40
Who is it at the doore?
PVG. The Gentleman, M^rs,
Who was at the cloake-charge to ſpeake with you,
This morning, who expects onely to take
Some ſmall command’ments from you, what you pleaſe,
Worthy your forme, hee ſaies, and gentleſt manners. 45
M^rs. FI. O! you’ll anon proue his hyr’d man, I feare,
What has he giu’n you, for this meſſage? Sir,
Bid him put off his hopes of ſtraw, and leaue
To ſpread his nets, in view, thus. Though they take
Maſter _Fitz-dottrell_, I am no ſuch foule, 50
Nor faire one, tell him, will be had with ſtalking.
And wiſh him to for-beare his acting to mee,
At the Gentlemans chamber-window in _Lincolnes-Inne_ there,
That opens to my gallery: elſe, I ſweare
T’acquaint my huſband with his folly, and leaue him 55
To the iuſt rage of his offended iealouſie.
Or if your Maſters ſenſe be not ſo quicke
To right mee, tell him, I ſhall finde a friend
That will repaire mee. Say, I will be quiet.
In mine owne houſe? Pray you, in thoſe words giue it him. 60
PVG. This is ſome foole turn’d!
_He goes out._
M^rs. FI. If he be the Maſter,
Now, of that ſtate and wit, which I allow him;
Sure, hee will vnderſtand mee: I durſt not
Be more direct. For this officious fellow,
My husbands new groome, is a ſpie vpon me, 65
I finde already. Yet, if he but tell him
This in my words, hee cannot but conceiue [117]
Himſelfe both apprehended, and requited.
I would not haue him thinke hee met a _ſtatue_:
Or ſpoke to one, not there, though I were ſilent. 70
How now? ha’ you told him?
PVG. Yes.
M^rs. FI. And what ſaies he?
PVG. Sayes he? That which my ſelf would ſay to you, if I durſt.
That you are proude, ſweet Miſtreſſe? and with-all,
A little ignorant, to entertaine
The good that’s proffer’d; and (by your beauties leaue) 75
Not all ſo wiſe, as ſome true politique wife
Would be: who hauing match’d with ſuch a _Nupſon_
(I ſpeake it with my Maſters peace) whoſe face
Hath left t’accuſe him, now, for’t doth confeſſe him,
What you can make him; will yet (out of ſcruple, 80
And a ſpic’d conſcience) defraud the poore Gentleman,
At leaſt delay him in the thing he longs for,
And makes it hs whole ſtudy, how to compaſſe,
Onely a title. Could but he write _Cuckold_,
He had his ends. For, looke you--
M^rs. FI. This can be 85
None but my husbands wit.
PVG. My pretious M^rs.
M. FI. It creaks his _Ingine_: The groome neuer durſt
Be, elſe, so ſaucy--
PVG. If it were not clearely,
His worſhipfull ambition; and the top of it;
The very forked top too: why ſhould hee 90
Keepe you, thus mur’d vp in a back-roome, Miſtreſſe,
Allow you ne’r a caſement to the ſtreete,
Feare of engendering by the eyes, with gallants,
Forbid you paper, pen and inke, like Rats-bane.
Search your halfe pint of _muſcatell_, leſt a letter 95
Be ſuncke i’ the pot: and hold your new-laid egge
Againſt the fire, leſt any charme be writ there?
Will you make benefit of truth, deare Miſtreſſe,
If I doe tell it you: I do’t not often?
I am ſet ouer you, imploy’d, indeed, 100
To watch your ſteps, your lookes, your very breathings,
And to report them to him. Now, if you
Will be a true, right, delicate ſweete Miſtreſſe,
Why, wee will make a _Cokes_ of this _Wiſe Maſter_,
We will, my Miſtreſſe, an abſolute fine _Cokes_, 105
And mock, to ayre, all the deepe diligences
Of ſuch a ſolemne, and effectuall Aſſe,
An Aſſe to ſo good purpoſe, as wee’ll vſe him.
I will contriue it ſo, that you ſhall goe
To _Playes_, to _Maſques_, to _Meetings_, and to _Feaſts_. 110
For, why is all this Rigging, and fine Tackle, Miſtris,
If you neat handſome veſſells, of good ſayle,
Put not forth euer, and anon, with your nets
Abroad into the world. It is your fiſhing. [118]
There, you ſhal chooſe your friends, your ſeruants, Lady,
Your ſquires of honour; I’le conuey your letters, 116
Fetch anſwers, doe you all the offices,
That can belong to your bloud, and beauty. And,
For the variety, at my times, although
I am not in due _ſymmetrie_, the man 120
Of that proportion; or in rule
Of _phyſicke_, of the iuſt complexion:
Or of that truth of _Picardill_, in clothes,
To boaſt a ſoueraignty o’re Ladies: yet
I know, to do my turnes, ſweet Miſtreſſe. Come, kiſſe--
M^rs. FI. How now!
PVG. Deare delicate Miſt. I am your ſlaue, 126
Your little _worme_, that loues you: your fine _Monkey_;
Your _Dogge_, your _Iacke_, your _Pug_, that longs to be
Stil’d, o’ your pleaſures.
M^rs. FIT. Heare you all this? Sir, Pray you,
Come from your ſtanding, doe, a little, ſpare 130
_Shee thinkes her huſband watches._
Your ſelfe, Sir, from your watch, t’applaud your _Squire_,
That ſo well followes your inſtructions!
[314] 5 cloths G
[315] 9 they’re 1716, f. || never G
[316] 18 I will G
[317] 22 pleasure--_Enter Mrs._ FITZDOTTREL. SN. om. G
[318] 23 [_Aside and exit._ G
[319] 24 venture 1692, f.
[320] 26 it was G
[321] 30 attempt 1641, f.
[322] 33 SN.] _Re-enter_ PUG. G
[323] 34 it is,] it is--W
[324] 41 it om. 1692, f. || M^rs] Mistresse 1641 Mistris 1692 Mistress
1716 mistress W, G
[325] 48 put 1641, f.
[326] 59 Period om. after ‘quiet’ 1716, f.
[327] 61 SN.] [_Exit._ G
[328] 70 _Re-enter_ PUG. G
[329] 78, 80, 81 () ret. G
[330] 79 ’t] it G
[331] 84 hs] his 1641, f.
[332] 86 M^rs. as in 2. 2. 41 || wit. [_Aside._ G
[333] 88 saucy. [_Aside_. G
[334] 91 black Room 1716
[335] 93 engendring 1641
[336] 100 employ’d 1716, f.
[337] 112 your G
[338] 123 _Piccardell_ 1641
[339] 126 Mist.] as in 2. 2. 41
[340] 130 _Mrs. Fitz._ [_aloud_]
[341] 131 SN. om. G
ACT. II. SCENE. III.
FITZ-DOTTRELL. Miſtreſſe FITZ-DOTTREL. PVG.
How now, ſweet heart? what’s the matter?
M^rs. FI. Good!
You are a ſtranger to the plot! you ſet not
Your fancy _Diuell_, here, to tempt your wife,
With all the inſolent vnciuill language,
Or action, he could vent?
FIT. Did you so, _Diuell_? 5
M^rs. FIT. Not you? you were not planted i’ your hole to heare him,
Vpo’ the ſtayres? or here, behinde the hangings?
I doe not know your qualities? he durſt doe it,
And you not giue directions?
FIT. You shall ſee, wife,
Whether he durſt, or no: and what it was, 10
I did direct.
_Her huſband goes out, and enters presently with a
cudgell vpon him._
PVG. Sweet Miſtreſſe, are you mad?
FIT. You moſt mere Rogue! you open manifeſt Villaine!
You Feind apparant you! you declar’d Hel-hound!
PVG. Good S^r.
FIT. Good Knaue, good Raſcal, and good Traitor.
Now, I doe finde you parcel-_Diuell_, indeed. 15
Vpo’ the point of truſt? I’ your firſt charge?
The very day o’ your probation?
To tempt your Miſtreſſe? You doe ſee, good wedlocke,
How I directed him.
M^rs. FIT. Why, where S^r? were you? [119]
FIT. Nay, there is one blow more, for exerciſe: 20
_After a pause. He ſtrikes him againe_
I told you, I ſhould doe it.
PVG. Would you had done, Sir.
FIT. O wife, the rareſt man! yet there’s another
To put you in mind o’ the laſt, ſuch a braue man, wife!
Within, he has his proiects, and do’s vent ’hem,
_and againe._
The gallanteſt! where you _tentiginous_? ha? 25
Would you be acting of the _Incubus_?
Did her ſilks ruſtling moue you?
PVG. Gentle Sir.
FIT. Out of my ſight. If thy name were not _Diuell_,
Thou ſhouldſt not ſtay a minute with me. In,
Goe, yet ſtay: yet goe too. I am reſolu’d. 30
What I will doe: and you ſhall know’t afore-hand.
Soone as the Gentleman is gone, doe you heare?
I’ll helpe your liſping. Wife, ſuch a man, wife!
Diuell _goes out_.
He has ſuch plots! He will make mee a _Duke_!
No leſſe, by heauen! ſix Mares, to your coach, wife! 35
That’s your proportion! And your coach-man bald!
Becauſe he ſhall be bare, inough. Doe not you laugh,
We are looking for a place, and all, i’ the map
What to be of. Haue faith, be not an Infidell.
You know, I am not eaſie to be gull’d. 40
I ſweare, when I haue my _millions_, elſe. I’ll make
Another _Dutcheſſe_: if you ha’ not faith.
M^rs. FI. You’ll ha’ too much, I feare, in theſe falſe ſpirits.
FIT. Spirits? O, no such thing! wife! wit, mere wit!
This man defies the _Diuell_, and all his works! 45
He dos’t by _Ingine_, and deuiſes, hee!
He has his winged ploughes, that goe with ſailes,
Will plough you forty acres, at once! and mills.
Will ſpout you water, ten miles off! All _Crowland_
Is ours, wife; and the fens, from vs, in _Norfolke_, 50
To the vtmoſt bound of _Lincoln-ſhire_! we haue view’d it,
And meaſur’d it within all; by the ſcale!
The richeſt tract of land, Loue, i’ the kingdome!
There will be made ſeuenteene, or eighteene _millions_;
Or more, as’t may be handled! wherefore, thinke, 55
Sweet heart, if th’ haſt a fancy to one place,
More then another, to be _Dutcheſſe_ of;
Now, name it: I will ha’t what ere it coſt,
(If’t will be had for money) either here, 59
Or’n _France_, or _Italy_.
M^rs. FI. You ha’ ſtrange phantaſies!
[342] SD. om. _Enter_ FITZDOTTREL. G
[343] 1 ’s] is G
[344] 2 set] see W
[345] 7 upon G§
[346] 10, 11 Whether ... direct.] All in line 10. 1692, 1716
[347] 11 SN.] [_Exit. Re-enter_ FITZDOTTREL _with a cudgel_. G
[348] 18 mistress! [_Beats Pug._ G
[349] 20 SN.] [_Strikes him again._ G
[350] 22, 23 yet ... last] euclosed by () W, G
[351] 23 o’ ret. G
[352] 25 where] were 1716, W Were G
[353] 24 SN.] [_Beats him again._] G
[354] 33 SN.] [_Exit Pug._] G
[355] 46 _Engine_ 1716 Engine W engine G
[356] 51 bounds 1692, f. || of] in G
[357] 56 th’] thou G
[358] 58 have ’t G
[359] 60 Or’n] Or’in 1692 Or in 1716, f.
ACT. II. SCENE. IV.
MERE-CRAFT. FITZ-DOTTRELL.
INGINE.
Where are you, Sir?
FIT. I ſee thou haſt no _talent_ [120]
This way, wife. Vp to thy gallery; doe, _Chuck_,
Leaue vs to talke of it, who vnderſtand it.
MER. I thinke we ha’ found a place to fit you, now, Sir.
_Gloc’ſter_.
FIT. O, no, I’ll none!
MER. Why, S^r?
FIT. Tis fatall. 5
MER. That you ſay right in. _Spenſer_, I thinke, the younger,
Had his laſt honour thence. But, he was but _Earle_.
FIT. I know not that, Sir. But _Thomas_ of _Woodſtocke_,
I’m ſure, was _Duke_, and he was made away,
At _Calice_; as _Duke Humphrey_ was at _Bury_: 10
And _Richard_ the third, you know what end he came too.
MER. By m’faith you are cunning i’ the _Chronicle_, Sir.
FIT. No, I confeſſe I ha’t from the _Play-bookes_,
And thinke they’are more _authentique_.
ING. That’s ſure, Sir.
MER. What ſay you (to this then)
_He whiſpers him of a place._
FIT. No, a noble houſe. 15
Pretends to that. I will doe no man wrong.
MER. Then take one propoſition more, and heare it
As paſt exception.
FIT. What’s that?
MER. To be
_Duke_ of thoſe lands, you ſhall recouer; take
Your title, thence, Sir, _Duke_ of the _Drown’d lands_, 20
Or _Drown’d-land_.
FIT. Ha? that laſt has a good ſound!
I like it well. The _Duke_ of _Drown’d-land_?
ING. Yes;
It goes like _Groen-land_, Sir, if you marke it.
MER. I,
And drawing thus your honour from the worke,
You make the reputation of that, greater; 25
And ſtay’t the longer i’ your name.
FIT. ’Tis true.
_Drown’d-lands_ will liue in _Drown’d-land_!
MER. Yes, when you
Ha’ no foote left; as that muſt be, Sir, one day.
And, though it tarry in your heyres, some _forty_,
_Fifty_ deſcents, the longer liuer, at laſt, yet, 30
Muſt thruſt ’hem out on’t: if no quirk in law,
Or odde _Vice_ o’ their owne not do’it firſt.
Wee ſee thoſe changes, daily: the faire lands,
That were the _Clyents_, are the _Lawyers_, now:
And thoſe rich Mannors, there, of good man _Taylors_, 35
Had once more wood vpon ’hem, then the yard,
By which th’ were meaſur’d out for the laſt purchaſe. [121]
Nature hath theſe viciſſitudes. Shee makes
No man a ſtate of perpetuety, Sir.
FIT. Yo’ are i’ the right. Let’s in then, and conclude. 40
_Hee ſpies_ Diuell.
I my ſight, againe? I’ll talke with you, anon.
[360] SD. ACT. ...] om. _Enter_ MEERCRAFT _and_ ENGINE. G
[361] 3 [_Exit Mrs. Fitz._ G
[362] 6 comma after ‘thinke’ om. 1692, f.
[363] 12 m’] my W, G
[364] 13 have it G
[365] 14,18 ’s] is W, G
[366] 15 SN.] [_whispers him._] G
[367] 15 period after ‘house’ om. 1716, f.
[368] 26 ’t] it G
[369] 32 do’t 1641
[370] 37 th’] they G
[371] 40 You’re 1716, W || SN.] _Re-enter_ PUG. G
[372] 41 [_Exeunt Fitz. Meer. and Engine._ G || I] I’ 1716, W In G
ACT. II. SCENE. V.
PVG.
Svre hee will geld mee, if I stay: or worſe,
Pluck out my tongue, one o’ the two. This Foole,
There is no truſting of him: and to quit him,
Were a contempt againſt my _Chiefe_, paſt pardon.
It was a ſhrewd diſheartning this, at firſt! 5
Who would ha’ thought a woman ſo well harneſs’d,
Or rather well-capariſon’d, indeed,
That weares ſuch petticoates, and lace to her ſmocks,
Broad ſeaming laces (as I ſee ’hem hang there)
And garters which are loſt, if ſhee can ſhew ’hem, 10
Could ha’ done this? _Hell!_ why is ſhee ſo braue?
It cannot be to pleaſe _Duke Dottrel_, ſure,
Nor the dull pictures, in her gallery,
Nor her owne deare reflection, in her glaſſe;
Yet that may be: I haue knowne many of ’hem, 15
Beginne their pleaſure, but none end it, there:
(That I conſider, as I goe a long with it)
They may, for want of better company,
Or that they thinke the better, ſpend an houre;
Two, three, or foure, diſcourſing with their ſhaddow: 20
But ſure they haue a farther ſpeculation.
No woman dreſt with ſo much care, and ſtudy,
Doth dreſſe her ſelfe in vaine. I’ll vexe this _probleme_,
A little more, before I leaue it, ſure.
[373] SD. om. G
[374] 5 disheartening G
[375] 9 () ret. G
[376] 17 () ret. G
[377] 24 [_Exit._ G
ACT. IJ. SCENE. VI.
WITTIPOL. MANLY. Miſtreſſe FITZ-DOTTREL.
PVG.
This was a fortune, happy aboue thought, [122]
That this ſhould proue thy chamber: which I fear’d
Would be my greateſt trouble! this muſt be
The very window, and that the roome.
MAN. It is.
I now remember, I haue often ſeene there 5
A woman, but I neuer mark’d her much.
WIT. Where was your ſoule, friend?
MAN. Faith, but now, and then,
Awake vnto thoſe obiects.
WIT. You pretend ſo.
Let mee not liue, if I am not in loue
More with her wit, for this direction, now, 10
Then with her forme, though I ha’ prais’d that prettily,
Since I ſaw her, and you, to day. Read thoſe.
_Hee giues him a paper, wherein is the copy of a Song._
They’ll goe vnto the ayre you loue ſo well.
Try ’hem vnto the note, may be the muſique
Will call her ſooner; light, ſhee’s here. Sing quickly. 15
M^rs. FIT. Either he vnderſtood him not: or elſe,
The fellow was not faithfull in deliuery,
Of what I bad. And, I am iuſtly pay’d,
That might haue made my profit of his ſeruice,
But, by miſ-taking, haue drawne on his enuy, 20
And done the worſe defeate vpon my ſelfe.
Manly _ſings_, Pug _enters perceiues it_.
How! Muſique? then he may be there: and is sure.
PVG. O! Is it ſo? Is there the enter-view?
Haue I drawne to you, at laſt, my cunning _Lady_?
The _Diuell_ is an _Aſſe_! fool’d off! and beaten! 25
Nay, made an inſtrument! and could not ſent it!
Well, ſince yo’ haue ſhowne the malice of a woman,
No leſſe then her true wit, and learning, Miſtreſſe,
I’ll try, if little _Pug_ haue the malignity
To recompence it, and ſo ſaue his danger. 30
’Tis not the paine, but the diſcredite of it,
The _Diuell_ ſhould not keepe a body intire.
WIT. Away, fall backe, ſhe comes.
MAN. I’ll leaue you, Sir,
The Maſter of my chamber. I haue buſineſſe.
WIT. M^rs!
M^rs. FI. You make me paint, S^r.
WIT. The’are faire colours, 35
_Lady_, and naturall! I did receiue
Some commands from you, lately, gentle _Lady_, [123]
_This Scene is acted at two windo’s as out of_
_two contiguous buildings._
But ſo perplex’d, and wrap’d in the deliuery,
As I may feare t’haue miſ-interpreted:
But muſt make ſuit ſtill, to be neere your grace. 40
M^rs. FI. Who is there with you, S^r?
WIT. None, but my ſelfe.
It falls out. _Lady_, to be a deare friends lodging.
Wherein there’s ſome conſpiracy of fortune
With your poore ſeruants bleſ affections.
M^rs. FI. Who was it ſung?
WIT. He, _Lady_, but hee’s gone, 45
Vpon my entreaty of him, ſeeing you
Approach the window. Neither need you doubt him,
If he were here. He is too much a gentleman.
M^rs. FI. Sir, if you iudge me by this ſimple action,
And by the outward habite, and complexion 50
Of eaſineſſe, it hath, to your deſigne;
You may with Iuſtice, ſay, I am a woman:
And a ſtrange woman. But when you ſhall pleaſe,
To bring but that concurrence of my fortune,
To memory, which to day your ſelfe did vrge: 55
It may beget ſome fauour like excuſe,
Though none like reaſon.
WIT. No, my tune-full Miſtreſſe?
Then, ſurely, _Loue_ hath none: nor _Beauty_ any;
Nor _Nature_ violenced, in both theſe:
With all whoſe gentle tongues you ſpeake, at once. 60
I thought I had inough remou’d, already,
That ſcruple from your breſt, and left yo’ all reaſon;
When, through my mornings perſpectiue I ſhewd you
A man ſo aboue excuſe, as he is the cauſe,
Why any thing is to be done vpon him: 65
And nothing call’d an iniury, miſ-plac’d.
I’rather, now had hope, to ſhew you how _Loue_
By his acceſſes, growes more naturall:
And, what was done, this morning, with ſuch force
Was but deuis’d to ſerue the preſent, then. 70
That ſince _Loue_ hath the honour to approach
_He grows more familiar in his Court-ſhip._
Theſe ſiſter-ſwelling breſts; and touch this ſoft,
And roſie hand; hee hath the skill to draw
Their _Nectar_ forth, with kiſſing; and could make
More wanton ſalts, from this braue promontory, 75
Downe to this valley, then the nimble _Roe_;
_playes with her paps, kiſſeth her hands, &c._
Could play the hopping _Sparrow_, ’bout theſe nets;
And ſporting _Squirell_ in theſe criſped groues;
Bury himſelfe in euery _Silke-wormes_ kell,
Is here vnrauell’d; runne into the ſnare, 80
Which euery hayre is, caſt into a curle,
To catch a _Cupid_ flying: Bath himselfe
In milke, and roſes, here, and dry him, there;
Warme his cold hands, to play with this ſmooth, round, [124]
And well torn’d chin, as with the _Billyard_ ball; 85
Rowle on theſe lips, the banks of loue, and there
At once both plant, and gather kiſſes. _Lady_,
Shall I, with what I haue made to day here, call
All ſenſe to wonder, and all faith to ſigne
The myſteries reuealed in your forme? 90
And will _Loue_ pardon mee the blasphemy
I vtter’d, when I ſaid, a glaſſe could ſpeake
This beauty, or that fooles had power to iudge it?
_Doe but looke, on her eyes! They doe light--
All that_ Loue’s _world comprizeth! 95
Doe but looke on her hayre! it is bright,
As_ Loue’s _ſtarre, when it riſeth!
Doe but marke, her fore-head’s ſmoother,
Then words that ſooth her!
And from her arched browes, ſuch a grace 100
Sheds it ſelfe through the face;
As alone, there triumphs to the life,
All the gaine, all the good, of the elements ſtrife!_
_Haue you ſeene but a bright Lilly grow,
Before rude hands haue touch’d it? 105
Haue you mark’d but the fall of the Snow,
Before the ſoyle hath ſmuch’d it?
Haue you felt the wooll o’ the Beuer?
Or Swans downe, euer?
Or, haue ſmelt o’ the bud o’ the Bryer? 110
Or the Nard i’ the fire?
Or, haue taſted the bag o’ the Bee?
O, ſo white! O, ſo ſoft! O, ſo ſweet is ſhee!_
[378] SD. ACT. ...] om. SCENE II. Manly’s _Chambers in Lincoln’s Inn,
opposite_ Fitzdottrel’s _House. Enter_ WITTIPOL _and_ MANLY. G
[379] 12 SN.] [_Gives him the copy of a song._ G
[380] 15 _Mrs._ FITZDOTTREL _appears at a window of her house fronting
that of Manly’s Chambers_. G
[381] 21 worst W || SN. _enters_] _enters and_ 1716, W || Manly ...]
_Manly sings. Enter_ PUG _behind_. G
[382] 23 interview W, G
[383] 24 least W
[384] 27 you’ve 1716, W
[385] 32 entire W, G || [_Aside and exit._ G
[386] 33 I’ll] I W, G
[387] 34 [_Exit_. G
[388] 35 M^rs!] Mis! 1641 the rest as in 2. 2. 41 || They’re 1716, W
they are G || _Mrs. Fitz._ [_advances to the window._] G
[389] 35, 36 The’are ... receiue] one line 1692, 1716, W
[390] 37 SN. om. G
[391] 39 t’] to 1692, f.
[392] 62 y’all 1716, W
[393] 64 he’s W, G
[394] 71, 76 SN. om. G
[395] 75 ’salts 1692 ’saults 1716
[396] 81 is, cast] is cast 1716, W
[397] 88 I’ve W
[398] 98 head’s] head 1641
[399] 100 a om. 1641
[400] 106 of the] the 1641
[401] 108, 112 o’] of W
[402] 108 Beuer] beaver W, G
[403] 110 smelt o’ret. G
ACT. II. SCENE. VII.
FITZ-DOTTRELL. WITTIPOL. PVG.
_Her huſband appeares at her back._
Is shee ſo, Sir? and, I will keepe her ſo.
If I know how, or can: that wit of man
Will doe’t, I’ll goe no farther. At this windo’
She ſhall no more be _buz’d_ at. Take your leaue on’t.
If you be ſweet meates, wedlock, or ſweet fleſh, 5
All’s one: I doe not loue this _hum_ about you.
A flye-blowne wife is not ſo proper, In: [125]
For you, S^r, looke to heare from mee.
_Hee ſpeakes out of his wiues window._
WIT. So, I doe, Sir.
FIT. No, but in other termes. There’s no man offers
This to my wife, but paies for’t.
WIT. That haue I, Sir.
FIT. Nay, then, I tell you, you are.
WIT. What am I, Sir? 11
FIT. Why, that I’ll thinke on, when I ha’ cut your throat.
WIT. Goe, you are an _Aſſe_.
FIT. I am reſolu’d on’t, Sir.
WIT. I thinke you are.
FIT. To call you to a reckoning.
WIT. Away, you brokers blocke, you property. 15
FIT. S’light, if you ſtrike me, I’ll ſtrike your Miſtreſſe.
_Hee ſtrikes his wife._
WIT. O! I could ſhoote mine eyes at him, for that, now;
Or leaue my teeth in’him, were they cuckolds bane,
Inough to kill him. What prodigious,
Blinde, and moſt wicked change of fortune’s this? 20
I ha’ no ayre of patience: an my vaines
Swell, and my ſinewes ſtart at iniquity of it.
I ſhall breake, breake.
_The_ Diuell _ſpeakes below_.
PVG. This for the malice of it,
And my reuenge may paſſe! But, now, my conſcience
Tells mee, I haue profited the cauſe of Hell 25
But little, in the breaking-off their loues.
Which, if some other act of mine repaire not,
I ſhall heare ill of in my accompt.
Fitz-dottrel _enters with his wife as come downe_.
FIT. O, Bird!
Could you do this? ’gainſt me? and at this time, now?
When I was ſo imploy’d, wholly for you, 30
Drown’d i’ my care (more, then the land, I ſweare,
I’haue hope to win) to make you peere-leſſe? ſtudying,
For footemen for you, fine pac’d huiſhers, pages,
To ſerue you o’ the knee; with what Knights wife,
To beare your traine, and ſit with your foure women 35
In councell, and receiue intelligences,
From forraigne parts, to dreſſe you at all pieces!
Y’haue (a’moſt) turn’d my good affection, to you;
Sowr’d my ſweet thoughts; all my pure purpoſes:
I could now finde (i’ my very heart) to make 40
Another, _Lady Dutcheſſe_; and depoſe you.
Well, goe your waies in. _Diuell_, you haue redeem’d all.
I doe forgiue you. And I’ll doe you good.
[404] SD. om. SN.] FITZ-DOTTRELL _appears at his Wife’s back_. G
[405] 8 SN. om. G || you,] you, you, W, G
[406] 11 are.] are--W, G
[407] 13 Sir.] Sir--Ed.
[408] 16 I will W, G
[409] 16 SN.] [_Strikes Mrs. Fitz. and leads her out._ G
[410] 17 my 1641
[411] 22 th’iniquity G
[412] 23 SN. om [_Exit._ SCENE III. _Another Room in_ Fitzdottrel’s
_House. Enter_ PUG. G
[413] 28 in om. 1641 || SN.] _Enter_ FITZDOTTREL _and his wife_. G
[414] 30 employ’d 1716, f.
[415] 31, 32 () ret. G
[416] 38 You’ve 1716, f. || almost W, G
[417] 42 [_Exit Mrs. Fitz._] G
[418] 43 [_Exit Pug._ G
ACT. II. SCENE. VIIJ.
MERE-CRAFT. FITZ-DOTTREL. INGINE.
TRAINES.
Why ha you theſe excurſions? where ha’ you beene, Sir? [126]
FIT. Where I ha’ beene vex’d a little, with a toy!
MER. O Sir! no toyes muſt trouble your graue head,
Now it is growing to be great. You muſt
Be aboue all thoſe things.
FIT. Nay, nay, ſo I will. 5
MER. Now you are to’ard the Lord, you muſt put off
The man, Sir.
ING. He ſaies true.
MER. You muſt do nothing
As you ha’ done it heretofore; not know,
Or ſalute any man.
ING. That was your bed-fellow,
The other moneth.
MER. The other moneth? the weeke. 10
Thou doſt not know the priueledges, _Ingine_,
Follow that Title; nor how ſwift: To day,
When he has put on his Lords face once, then--
FIT. Sir, for theſe things I ſhall doe well enough,
There is no feare of me. But then, my wife is 15
Such an vntoward thing! ſhee’ll neuer learne
How to comport with it. I am out of all
Conceipt, on her behalfe.
MER. Beſt haue her taught, Sir.
FIT. Where? Are there any Schooles for _Ladies_? Is there
An _Academy_ for women? I doe know, 20
For men, there was: I learn’d in it, my ſelfe,
To make my legges, and doe my poſtures.
ING. Sir.
Doe you remember the conceipt you had--
O’ the Spaniſh gowne, at home?
Ingine _whiſpers_ Merecraft, Merecraft _turnes to_ Fitz-dottrel.
MER. Ha! I doe thanke thee,
With all my heart, deare _Ingine_. Sir, there is 25
A certaine _Lady_, here about the Towne,
An _Engliſh_ widdow, who hath lately trauell’d,
But ſhee’s call’d the _Spaniard_; cauſe ſhe came
Lateſt from thence: and keepes the _Spaniſh_ habit.
Such a rare woman! all our women heere, 30
That are of ſpirit, and faſhion flocke, vnto her,
As to their Preſident; their _Law_; their _Canon_;
More then they euer did, to _Oracle-Foreman_.
Such rare receipts ſhee has, Sir, for the face;
Such _oyles_; such _tinctures_; such _pomatumn’s_; 35
Such _perfumes_; _med’cines_; _quinteſſences_, _&c._
And ſuch a Miſtreſſe of behauiour; [127]
She knowes, from the _Dukes_ daughter, to the Doxey,
What is their due iuſt: and no more!
FIT. O Sir!
You pleaſe me i’ this, more then mine owne greatneſſe, 40
Where is ſhee? Let vs haue her.
MER. By your patience,
We muſt vſe meanes; caſt how to be acquainted--
FIT. Good, S^r, about it.
MER. We muſt think how, firſt.
FIT. O!
I doe not loue to tarry for a thing,
When I haue a mind to’t. You doe not know me. 45
If you doe offer it.
MER. Your wife muſt ſend
Some pretty token to her, with a complement,
And pray to be receiu’d in her good graces,
All the great _Ladies_ do’t.
FIT. She ſhall, ſhe ſhall,
What were it beſt to be?
MER. Some little toy, 50
I would not haue it any great matter, Sir:
A _Diamant_ ring, of _forty_ or _fifty_ pound,
Would doe it handſomely: and be a gift
Fit for your wife to ſend, and her to take.
FIT. I’ll goe, and tell my wife on’t, ſtreight. 55
Fitz-dottrel _goes out_.
MER. Why this
Is well! The clothes we’haue now: But, where’s this _Lady_?
If we could get a witty boy, now, _Ingine_;
That were an excellent cracke: I could inſtruct him,
To the true height. For any thing takes this _dottrel_.
ING. Why, Sir your beſt will be one o’ the players! 60
MER. No, there’s no truſting them. They’ll talke on’t,
And tell their _Poets_.
ING. What if they doe? The ieſt
will brooke the Stage. But, there be ſome of ’hem
Are very honeſt Lads. There’s _Dicke Robinſon_
A very pretty fellow, and comes often 65
To a Gentlemans chamber, a friends of mine. We had
The merrieſt ſupper of it there, one night,
The Gentlemans Land-lady invited him
To’a Goſſips feaſt. Now, he Sir brought _Dick Robinſon_,
Dreſt like a Lawyers wife, amongſt ’hem all; 70
(I lent him cloathes) but, to ſee him behaue it;
And lay the law; and carue; and drinke vnto ’hem;
And then talke baudy: and ſend frolicks! o!
It would haue burſt your buttons, or not left you
A ſeame.
MER. They ſay hee’s an ingenious youth! 75
ING. O Sir! and dreſſes himſelfe, the beſt! beyond
Forty o’ your very _Ladies_! did you ne’r ſee him?
MER. No, I do ſeldome ſee thoſe toyes. But thinke you,
That we may haue him?
ING. Sir, the young Gentleman
I tell you of, can command him. Shall I attempt it? 80
MER. Yes, doe it.
_Enters againe._
FIT. S’light, I cannot get my wife
To part with a ring, on any termes: and yet,
The ſollen _Monkey_ has two.
MER. It were ’gainst reaſon
That you ſhould vrge it; Sir, ſend to a Gold-ſmith, [128]
Let not her loſe by’t.
FIT. How do’s ſhe loſe by’t? 85
Is’t not for her?
MER. Make it your owne bounty,
It will ha’ the better ſucceſſe; what is a matter
Of _fifty_ pound to you, S^r.
FIT. I’haue but a hundred
_Pieces_, to ſhew here; that I would not breake--
MER. You ſhall ha’ credit, Sir. I’ll ſend a ticket 90
Vnto my Gold-ſmith. Heer, my man comes too,
To carry it fitly. How now, _Traines_? What birds?
Traines _enters_.
TRA. Your Couſin _Euer-ill_ met me, and has beat mee,
Becauſe I would not tell him where you were:
I thinke he has dogd me to the houſe too.
FIT. Well-- 95
You ſhall goe out at the back-doore, then, _Traines_.
You muſt get _Guilt-head_ hither, by ſome meanes:
TRA. ’Tis impoſſible!
FIT. Tell him, we haue _veniſon_,
I’ll g’ him a piece, and ſend his wife a _Pheſant_.
TRA. A Forreſt moues not, till that _forty_ pound, 100
Yo’ had of him, laſt, be pai’d. He keepes more ſtirre,
For that ſame petty ſumme, then for your bond
Of _ſixe_; and _Statute_ of _eight_ hundred!
FIT. Tell him
Wee’ll hedge in that. Cry vp _Fitz-dottrell_ to him,
Double his price: Make him a man of mettall. 105
TRA. That will not need, his bond is current inough.
[419] SD. ACT. ...] om. _Enter_ MEERCRAFT _and_ ENGINE. G || II]
III 1641
[420] 6,7 Now ... Sir.] “Now ... sir.” W
[421] 24 SN.] [_whispers Meercraft._] G
[422] 28 she is W, G
[423] 29 and om. 1641
[424] 31 fashion flocke,] fashion, flock 1692, f.
[425] 36 &c.] _et caetera_; G
[426] 45 to it G
[427] 49 do it G
[428] 52 _Diamond_ 1692, 1716 diamond W, G passim
[429] 55 SN.] [_Exit._ G
[430] 61 of it G
[431] 64 _Dick_ 1692, 1716 Dick W Dickey G
[432] 66 friend W, G
[433] 69 T’a 1716, W
[434] 81 SN....] Fit.... 1716 Fitz-dottrel ... W
_Re-enter_ FITZDOTTREL. G
[435] 83 sullen 1692, f.
[436] 85, 6 ’t] it G
[437] 92 SN.] _Enter_ TRAINS. G
[438] 95, 103 FIT.] _Meer._ W, G
[439] 98 ’T] It G
[440] 99 gi’ 1716, W give G [_Exit._ G
[441] 106 [_Exeunt._ G
ACT. III. SCENE. I. [129]
GVILT-HEAD. PLVTARCHVS.
All this is to make you a Gentleman:
I’ll haue you learne, Sonne. Wherefore haue I plac’d you
With S^r. _Poul Either-ſide_, but to haue ſo much Law
To keepe your owne? Beſides, he is a _Iuſtice_,
Here i’ the Towne; and dwelling, Sonne, with him, 5
You ſhal learne that in a yeere, ſhall be worth twenty
Of hauing ſtay’d you at _Oxford_, or at _Cambridge_,
Or ſending you to the _Innes_ of _Court_, or _France_.
I am call’d for now in haſte, by Maſter _Meere-craft_
To truſt Maſter _Fitz-dottrel_, a good man: 10
I’haue inquir’d him, eighteene hundred a yeere,
(His name is currant) for a diamant ring
Of forty, ſhall not be worth thirty (thats gain’d)
And this is to make you a Gentleman!
PLV. O, but good father, you truſt too much!
GVI. Boy, boy, 15
We liue, by finding fooles out, to be truſted.
Our ſhop-bookes are our paſtures, our corn-grounds,
We lay ’hem op’n for them to come into:
And when wee haue ’hem there, wee driue ’hem vp
In t’one of our two Pounds, the _Compters_, ſtreight, 20
And this is to make you a Gentleman!
Wee Citizens neuer truſt, but wee doe coozen:
For, if our debtors pay, wee coozen them;
And if they doe not, then we coozen our ſelues.
But that’s a hazard euery one muſt runne, 25
That hopes to make his Sonne a Gentleman!
PLV. I doe not wiſh to be one, truely, Father.
In a deſcent, or two, wee come to be
Iuſt ’itheir ſtate, fit to be coozend, like ’hem.
And I had rather ha’ tarryed i’ your trade: 30
For, ſince the _Gentry_ ſcorne the Citty ſo much, [130]
Me thinkes we ſhould in time, holding together,
And matching in our owne tribes, as they ſay,
Haue got an _Act_ of _Common Councell_, for it,
That we might coozen them out of _rerum natura_. 35
GVI. I, if we had an _Act_ firſt to forbid
The marrying of our wealthy heyres vnto ’hem:
And daughters, with ſuch lauiſh portions.
That confounds all.
PLV. And makes a _Mungril_ breed, Father.
And when they haue your money, then they laugh at you: 40
Or kick you downe the ſtayres. I cannot abide ’hem.
I would faine haue ’hem coozen’d, but not truſted.
[442] SD. ACT. ... I. ...] ACT. ... I. _A Room in_ Fitzdottrel’s
_House. Enter_ THOMAS GILTHEAD _and_ PLUTARCHUS. G
[443] 3 to om. 1692 t’ 1716 || _Poul_] _Pould_ 1641
[444] 9 I’m W, G
[445] 12 () ret. G
[446] 15 Boy, boy] Boy, by 1692
[447] 20 two om. 1692, 1716 || Int’one 1716, W into one G
[448] 29 i’ their 1716, W in their G
ACT. III. SCENE. II.
MERE-CRAFT. GVILT-HEAD.
FITZ-DOTTRELL. PLVTARCHVS.
O, is he come! I knew he would not faile me.
Welcome, good _Guilt-head_, I muſt ha’ you doe
A noble Gentleman, a courteſie, here:
In a mere toy (ſome pretty Ring, or Iewell)
Of fifty, or threeſcore pound (Make it a hundred, 5
And hedge in the laſt forty, that I owe you,
And your owne price for the Ring) He’s a good man, S^r,
And you may hap’ ſee him a great one! Hee,
Is likely to beſtow hundreds, and thouſands,
Wi’ you; if you can humour him. A great prince 10
He will be ſhortly. What doe you ſay?
GVI. In truth, Sir
I cannot. ’T has beene a long vacation with vs?
FIT. Of what, I pray thee? of wit? or honesty?
Thoſe are your Citizens long vacations.
PLV. Good Father do not truſt ’hem.
MER. Nay, _Thom. Guilt-head_. 15
Hee will not buy a courteſie and begge it:
Hee’ll rather pay, then pray. If you doe for him,
You muſt doe cheerefully. His credit, Sir,
Is not yet proſtitute! Who’s this? thy ſonne?
A pretty youth, what’s his name?
PLV. _Plutarchus_, Sir, 20
MER. _Plutarchus!_ How came that about?
GVI. That yeere S^r,
That I begot him, I bought _Plutarch’s_ liues,
And fell ſ’ in loue with the booke, as I call’d my ſonne
By’his name; In hope he ſhould be like him:
And write the liues of our great men!
MER. I’ the City? [131] 25
And you do breed him, there?
GVI. His minde, Sir, lies
Much to that way.
MER. Why, then, he is i’ the right way.
GVI. But, now, I had rather get him a good wife,
And plant him i’ the countrey; there to vſe
The bleſſing I ſhall leaue him:
MER. Out vpon’t! 30
And loſe the laudable meanes, thou haſt at home, heere,
T’aduance, and make him a young _Alderman_?
Buy him a Captaines place, for ſhame; and let him
Into the world, early, and with his plume,
And Scarfes, march through _Cheapſide_, or along _Cornehill_,
And by the vertue’of thoſe, draw downe a wife 36
There from a windo’, worth ten thouſand pound!
Get him the poſture booke, and’s leaden men,
To ſet vpon a table, ’gainst his Miſtreſſe
Chance to come by, that hee may draw her in, 40
And ſhew her _Finsbury_ battells.
GVI. I haue plac’d him
With Iustice _Eytherſide_, to get so much law--
MER. As thou haſt conſcience. Come, come, thou doſt wrong
Pretty _Plutarchus_, who had not his name,
For nothing: but was borne to traine the youth 45
Of _London_, in the military truth--
That way his _Genius_ lies. My Couſin _Euerill_!
[449] SD. ACT. ...] _Enter_ MEERCRAFT. G
[450] 7 ring. [_Aside to Gilthead._
[451] 15 Tom G
[452] 20 ’s] is G
[453] 23 so in W, G
[454] 27 he’s W, G
[455] 45,6 to ... truth] in italics G
[456] 47 lies.--_Enter_ EVERILL.
ACT. III. SCENE. IIJ.
EVER-ILL. PLVTARCHVS. GVILT-HEAD.
MERE-CRAFT. FITZDOTTRELL.
O, are you heere, Sir? ’pray you let vs whiſper.
PLV. Father, deare Father, truſt him if you loue mee.
GVI. Why, I doe meane it, boy; but, what I doe,
Muſt not come eaſily from mee: Wee muſt deale
With _Courtiers_, boy, as _Courtiers_ deale with vs. 5
If I haue a _Buſineſſe_ there, with any of them,
Why, I muſt wait, I’am ſure on’t, Son: and though
My _Lord_ diſpatch me, yet his worſhipfull man--
Will keepe me for his ſport, a moneth, or two,
To ſhew mee with my fellow Cittizens. 10
I muſt make his traine long, and full, one quarter;
And helpe the ſpectacle of his greatneſſe. There,
Nothing is done at once, but iniuries, boy:
And they come head-long! an their good turnes moue not, [124]
Or very ſlowly.
PLV. Yet ſweet father, truſt him. 15
GVI. VVell, I will thinke.
EV. Come, you muſt do’t, Sir.
I am vndone elſe, and your _Lady Tayle-buſh_
Has ſent for mee to dinner, and my cloaths
Are all at pawne. I had ſent out this morning,
Before I heard you were come to towne, ſome twenty 20
Of my epiſtles, and no one returne--
Mere-craft _tells him of his faults_.
MER. VVhy, I ha’ told you o’ this. This comes of wearing
Scarlet, gold lace, and cut-works! your fine gartring!
VVith your blowne roſes, Couſin! and your eating
_Pheſant_, and _Godwit_, here in _London_! haunting 25
The _Globes_, and _Mermaides_! wedging in with _Lords_,
Still at the table! and affecting lechery,
In veluet! where could you ha’ contented your ſelfe
With cheeſe, ſalt-butter, and a pickled hering,
I’ the Low-countries; there worne cloth, and fuſtian! 30
Beene ſatisfied with a leape o’ your Hoſt’s daughter,
In garriſon, a wench of a ſtoter! or,
Your _Sutlers_ wife, i’ the leaguer, of two blanks!
You neuer, then, had runne vpon this flat,
To write your letters miſſiue, and ſend out 35
Your priuy ſeales, that thus haue frighted off
All your acquaintance; that they ſhun you at diſtance,
VVorse, then you do the Bailies!
EV. Pox vpon you.
I come not to you for counſell, I lacke money.
_Hee repines._
MER. You doe not thinke, what you owe me already?
EV. I? 40
They owe you, that meane to pay you. I’ll beſworne,
I neuer meant it. Come, you will proiect,
I ſhall vndoe your practice, for this moneth elſe:
You know mee.
_and threatens him._
MER. I, yo’ are a right ſweet nature!
EV. Well, that’s all one!
MER. You’ll leaue this Empire, one day? 45
You will not euer haue this tribute payd,
Your ſcepter o’ the ſword?
EV. Tye vp your wit,
Doe, and prouoke me not--
MER. Will you, Sir, helpe,
To what I ſhall prouoke another for you?
EV. I cannot tell; try me: I thinke I am not 50
So vtterly, of an ore vn-to-be-melted,
But I can doe my ſelfe good, on occaſions.
_They ioyne._
MER. Strike in then, for your part. M^r. _Fitz-dottrel_
If I tranſgreſſe in point of manners, afford mee
Your beſt conſtruction; I muſt beg my freedome 55
From your affayres, this day.
FIT. How, S^r.
MER. It is
In ſuccour of this Gentlemans occaſions,
My kinſ-man--
Mere-craft _pretends_ buſineſſe.
FIT. You’ll not do me that affront, S^r.
MER. I am ſory you ſhould ſo interpret it,
But, Sir, it ſtands vpon his being inueſted 60
In a new _office_, hee has ſtood for, long: [133]
Mere-craft _describes the_ office _of_ Dependancy.
_Maſter_ of the _Dependances_! A place
Of my proiection too, Sir, and hath met
Much oppoſition; but the State, now, ſee’s
That great neceſſity of it, as after all 65
Their writing, and their ſpeaking, againſt _Duells_,
They haue erected it. His booke is drawne--
For, ſince, there will be differences, daily,
’Twixt Gentlemen; and that the roaring manner
Is growne offenſiue; that thoſe few, we call 70
The ciuill men o’ the ſword, abhorre the vapours;
They ſhall refer now, hither, for their _proceſſe_;
And ſuch as treſſpaſe ’gainſt the rule of _Court_,
Are to be fin’d--
FIT. In troth, a pretty place!
MER. A kinde of arbitrary _Court_ ’twill be, Sir. 75
FIT. I ſhall haue matter for it, I beleeue,
Ere it be long: I had a diſtaſt.
MER. But now, Sir,
My learned councell, they muſt haue a feeling,
They’ll part, Sir, with no bookes, without the hand-gout
Be oyld, and I muſt furniſh. If’t be money, 80
To me ſtreight. I am Mine, _Mint_ and _Exchequer_.
To ſupply all. What is’t? a hundred pound?
EVE. No, th’ _Harpey_, now, ſtands on a hundred pieces.
MER. Why, he muſt haue ’hem, if he will. To morrow, Sir,
Will equally ſerue your occaſion’s,---- 85
And therefore, let me obtaine, that you will yeeld
To timing a poore Gentlemans diſtreſſes,
In termes of hazard.--
FIT. By no meanes!
MER. I muſt
Get him this money, and will.--
FIT. Sir, I proteſt,
I’d rather ſtand engag’d for it my ſelfe: 90
Then you ſhould leaue mee.
MER. O good S^r. do you thinke
So courſely of our manners, that we would,
For any need of ours, be preſt to take it:
Though you be pleas’d to offer it.
FIT. Why, by heauen,
I meane it!
MER. I can neuer beleeue leſſe. 95
But wee, Sir, muſt preſerue our dignity,
As you doe publiſh yours. By your faire leaue, Sir.
_Hee offers to be gone._
FIT. As I am a Gentleman, if you doe offer
To leaue mee now, or if you doe refuſe mee, 99
I will not thinke you loue mee.
MER. Sir, I honour you.
And with iuſt reaſon, for theſe noble notes,
Of the nobility, you pretend too! But, Sir--
I would know, why? a motiue (he a ſtranger)
You ſhould doe this?
(EVE. You’ll mar all with your fineneſſe)
FIT. Why, that’s all one, if ’twere, Sir, but my fancy. 105
But I haue a _Buſineſſe_, that perhaps I’d haue
Brought to his _office_.
MER. O, Sir! I haue done, then;
If hee can be made profitable, to you. [134]
FIT. Yes, and it ſhall be one of my ambitions
To haue it the firſt _Buſineſſe_? May I not? 110
EVE. So you doe meane to make’t, a perfect _Buſineſſe_.
FIT. Nay, I’ll doe that, aſſure you: ſhew me once.
MER. S^r, it concernes, the firſt be a perfect _Buſineſſe_,
For his owne honour!
EVE. I, and th’ reputation
Too, of my place.
FIT. Why, why doe I take this courſe, elſe? 115
I am not altogether, an _Aſſe_, good Gentlemen,
Wherefore ſhould I conſult you? doe you thinke?
To make a ſong on’t? How’s your manner? tell vs.
MER. Doe, ſatisfie him: giue him the whole courſe.
EVE. Firſt, by requeſt, or otherwiſe, you offer 120
Your _Buſineſſe_ to the _Court_: wherein you craue:
The iudgement of the _Maſter_ and the _Aſsiſtants_.
FIT. Well, that’s done, now, what doe you vpon it?
EVE. We ſtreight S^r, haue recourſe to the ſpring-head;
Viſit the ground; and, ſo diſcloſe the nature: 125
If it will carry, or no. If wee doe finde,
By our proportions it is like to proue
A ſullen, and blacke _Bus’neſſe_ That it be
Incorrigible; and out of, treaty; then.
We file it, a _Dependance_!
FIT. So ’tis fil’d. 130
What followes? I doe loue the order of theſe things.
EVE. We then aduiſe the party, if he be
A man of meanes, and hauings, that forth-with,
He ſettle his eſtate: if not, at leaſt
That he pretend it. For, by that, the world 135
Takes notice, that it now is a _Dependance_.
And this we call, Sir, _Publication_.
FIT. Very ſufficient! After _Publication_, now?
EVE. Then we grant out our _Proceſſe_, which is diuers;
Eyther by _Chartell_, Sir, or _ore-tenus_, 140
Wherein the Challenger, and Challengee
Or (with your _Spaniard_) your _Prouocador_,
And _Prouocado_, haue their ſeuerall courſes--
FIT. I haue enough on’t! for an hundred pieces?
Yes, for two hundred, vnder-write me, doe. 145
Your man will take my bond?
MER. That he will, ſure.
But, theſe ſame Citizens, they are ſuch ſharks!
There’s an old debt of forty, I ga’ my word
For one is runne away, to the _Bermudas_,
And he will hooke in that, or he wi’ not doe. 150
_He whiſpers_ Fitz-dottrell _aſide_.
FIT. Why, let him. That and the ring, and a hundred pieces,
Will all but make two hundred?
MER. No, no more, Sir.
What ready _Arithmetique_ you haue? doe you heare?
_And then_ Guilt-head.
A pretty mornings worke for you, this? Do it,
You ſhall ha’ twenty pound on’t.
GVI. Twenty pieces? [135] 155
(PLV. Good Father, do’t)
MER. You will hooke ſtill? well,
Shew vs your ring. You could not ha’ done this, now
With gentleneſſe, at firſt, wee might ha’ thank’d you?
But groane, and ha’ your courteſies come from you
Like a hard ſtoole, and ſtinke? A man may draw 160
Your teeth out eaſier, then your money? Come,
Were little _Guilt-head_ heere, no better a nature,
I ſhould ne’r loue him, that could pull his lips off, now!
_He pulls_ Plutarchus _by the lips_.
Was not thy mother a Gentlewoman?
PLV. Yes, Sir.
MER. And went to the Court at _Chriſtmas_,
and S^t. _Georges-tide_? 165
And lent the Lords-men, chaines?
PLV. Of gold, and pearle, S^r.
MER. I knew, thou muſt take, after ſome body!
Thou could’ſt not be elſe. This was no ſhop-looke!
I’ll ha’ thee Captaine _Guilt-head_, and march vp,
And take in _Pimlico_, and kill the buſh, 170
At euery tauerne! Thou shalt haue a wife,
If ſmocks will mount, boy. How now? you ha’ there now
Some _Briſto-ſtone_, or _Corniſh_ counterfeit
You’ld put vpon vs.
_He turns to old_ Guilt-head.
GVI. No, Sir I aſſure you:
Looke on his luſter! hee will ſpeake himſelfe! 175
I’le gi’ you leaue to put him i’ the Mill,
H’is no great, large ſtone, but a true _Paragon_,
H’has all his corners, view him well.
MER. H’is yellow.
GVI. Vpo’ my faith, S^r, o’ the right black-water,
And very deepe! H’is ſet without a foyle, too. 180
Here’s one o’ the yellow-water, I’ll ſell cheape.
MER. And what do you valew this, at? thirty pound?
GVI. No, Sir, he cost me forty, ere he was ſet.
MER. Turnings, you meane? I know your _Equinocks_:
You’are growne the better Fathers of ’hem o’ late. 185
Well, where’t muſt goe, ’twill be iudg’d, and, therefore,
Looke you’t be right. You ſhall haue fifty pound for’t.
_Now to_ Fitz-dottrel.
Not a deneer more! And, becauſe you would
Haue things diſpatch’d, Sir, I’ll goe preſently,
Inquire out this _Lady_. If you thinke good, Sir. 190
Hauing an hundred pieces ready, you may
Part with thoſe, now, to ſerue my kinſmans turnes,
That he may wait vpon you, anon, the freer;
And take ’hem when you ha’ ſeal’d, a game, of _Guilt-head_.
FIT. I care not if I do!
MER. And diſpatch all, 195
Together.
FIT. There, th’are iuſt: a hundred pieces!
I’ ha’ told ’hem ouer, twice a day, theſe two moneths.
_Hee turnes ’hem out together.
And_ Euerill _and hee fall to ſhare_.
MER. Well, go, and ſeale, then, S^r, make your returne
As ſpeedy as you can.
EVE. Come gi’ mee.
MER. Soft, Sir.
EVE. Mary, and faire too, then. I’ll no delaying, Sir. 200
MER. But, you will heare?
EVE. Yes, when I haue my diuident.
MER. Theres forty pieces for you.
EVE. What is this for? [136]
MER. Your halfe. You know, that _Guilt-head_ muſt ha’ twenty.
EVE. And what’s your ring there? ſhall I ha’ none o’ that?
MER. O, thats to be giuen to a _Lady_! 205
EVE. Is’t ſo?
MER. By that good light, it is.
EV. Come, gi’ me
Ten pieces more, then.
MER. Why?
EV. For _Guilt-head_? Sir,
Do’you thinke, I’ll ’low him any ſuch ſhare:
MER. You muſt.
EVE. Muſt I? Doe you your muſts, Sir, I’ll doe mine,
You wi’ not part with the whole, Sir? Will you? Goe too. 210
Gi’ me ten pieces!
MER. By what law, doe you this?
EVE. E’n Lyon-law, Sir, I muſt roare elſe.
MER. Good!
EVE. Yo’ haue heard, how th’ _Aſſe_ made his diuiſions, wiſely?
MER. And, I am he: I thanke you.
EV. Much good do you, S^r.
MER. I ſhall be rid o’ this tyranny, one day?
EVE. Not,
While you doe eate; and lie, about the towne, here; 216
And coozen i’ your bullions; and I ſtand
Your name of credit, and compound your buſineſſe;
Adiourne your beatings euery terme; and make
New parties for your proiects. I haue, now, 220
A pretty taſque, of it, to hold you in
Wi’ your_ Lady Tayle-buſh_: but the toy will be,
How we ſhall both come off?
MER. Leaue you your doubting.
And doe your portion, what’s aſſign’d you: I
Neuer fail’d yet.
EVE. With reference to your aydes? 225
You’ll ſtill be vnthankfull. Where ſhall I meete you, anon?
You ha’ ſome feate to doe alone, now, I ſee;
You wiſh me gone, well, I will finde you out,
And bring you after to the audit.
MER. S’light!
There’s _Ingines_ ſhare too, I had forgot! This raigne 230
Is too-too-vnſuportable! I muſt
Quit my ſelfe of this vaſſalage! _Ingine!_ welcome.
[457] SD. om. G
[458] 1 [_takes Meer. aside._ G
[459] 7 I’m 1716, W I am G
[460] 16 think. [_They walk aside._ G
[461] 17 I’m 1716 I am W
[462] 21 SN. om. G
[463] 23 gartering W, G
[464] 32 Storer 1716 storer W, G
[465] 33 Sulters 1641
[466] 38 Bayliffs 1716 bailiffs W, G
[467] 39,43 SN. om. G
[468] 44 you’re 1716, W
[469] 52 _Enter_ FITZDOTTREL. || SN. om. G
[470] 53 part. [_They go up to Fitz._] G
[471] 57, 61 SN. om. G
[472] 68 since 1641, f.
[473] 90 I had G
[474] 97 SN. _Hee_ om. G
[475] 103 () ret. G
[476] 104 _Ever._ [_Aside to Meer._]
[477] 106 ’d] would G
[478] 114 the W
[479] 123 ’s] is G
[480] 127 our] your 1641
[481] 148 gave G
[482] 149 to] into 1641
[483] 150 SN.] [_Aside to Fitz._ G he wi’] he’ll G
[484] 153 SN.] [_Aside to Gilthead._ G
[485] 159 you] your 1641, f.
[486] 163 SN.] [_Pulls him by the lips._ G
[487] 165 George-G
[488] 166 Lords-] lords W lords’ G
[489] 173 Bristol stone W, G
[490] 174 SN. _He_, _old_ om. G
[491] 177 He is W, G
[492] 178 He has W, G
[493] 178, 180 He’s W, G
[494] 184 equivokes W, G
[495] 185 You’re 1716, W You are G || ’hem] ’em G || o’ ret. G
[496] 186 where it G
[497] 187 SN.] [_To Fitz._] G
[498] 188 dencer 1641 Denier 1716 denier W, G
[499] 196 they’re just a 1716, W they are just a G
[500] 197 SN.] [_Turns them out on table._ G
[501] 199 can. [_Exeunt Fitzdottrel, Gilthead, and Plutarchus._] me.
[_They fall to sharing_. G
[502] 201 Dividend 1716 dividend W, G
[503] 204 o’ ret. G
[504] 205 that is G
[505] 206 Is it W, G
[506] 208 allow 1692, f.
[507] 209 you om. 1692, 1716, W
[508] 212 E’n] Even G
[509] 213 You’ve 1716, W
[510] 218 your om. 1641
[511] 223 you om. 1641
[512] 227 to doe] to be done 1641
[513] 229 audit. [_Exit._ G
[514] 232 vassalage!--_Enter_ ENGINE, _followed by_ WITTIPOLL. G
ACT. IIJ. SCENE. IV.
MERE-CRAFT. INGINE. VVITTIPOL.
How goes the cry?
ING. Excellent well!
MER. Wil’t do?
VVhere’s _Robinſon_?
ING. Here is the Gentleman, Sir.
VVill vndertake t’himſelfe. I haue acquainted him.
MER. VVhy did you ſo?
ING. VVhy, _Robinſon_ would ha’ told him,
You know. And hee’s a pleaſant wit! will hurt 5
Nothing you purpoſe. Then, he’is of opinion,
That _Robinſon_ might want audacity, [129]
She being ſuch a gallant. Now, hee has beene,
In _Spaine_, and knowes the faſhions there; and can
Diſcourſe; and being but mirth (hee ſaies) leaue much, 10
To his care:
MER. But he is too tall!
_He excepts at his ſtature._
ING. For that,
He has the braueſt deuice! (you’ll loue him for’t)
To ſay, he weares _Cioppinos_: and they doe ſo
In _Spaine_. And _Robinſon’s_ as tall, as hee.
MER. Is he ſo?
ING. Euery iot.
MER. Nay, I had rather 15
To truſt a Gentleman with it, o’ the two.
ING. Pray you goe to him, then, Sir, and ſalute him.
MER. Sir, my friend _Ingine_ has acquainted you
With a ſtrange _buſineſſe_, here.
WIT. A merry one, Sir.
The _Duke_ of _Drown’d-land_, and his _Dutcheſſe_?
MER. Yes, Sir. 20
Now, that the _Coniurers_ ha’ laid him by,
I ha’ made bold, to borrow him a while;
WIT. With purpoſe, yet, to put him out I hope
To his beſt vſe?
MER. Yes, Sir.
WIT. For that ſmall part,
That I am truſted with, put off your care: 25
I would not loſe to doe it, for the mirth,
Will follow of it; and well, I haue a fancy.
MER. Sir, that will make it well.
WIT. You will report it ſo.
Where muſt I haue my dreſſing?
ING. At my houſe, Sir.
MER. You ſhall haue caution, Sir, for what he yeelds, 30
To ſix pence.
WIT. You ſhall pardon me. I will ſhare, Sir,
I’ your ſports, onely: nothing i’ your purchaſe.
But you muſt furniſh mee with complements,
To th’ manner of _Spaine_; my coach, my _guarda duenn’as_;
MER. _Ingine’s_ your _Pro’uedor_. But, Sir, I muſt 35
(Now I’haue entred truſt wi’ you, thus farre)
Secure ſtill i’ your quality, acquaint you
With ſomewhat, beyond this. The place, deſign’d
To be the _Scene_, for this our mery matter,
Becauſe it muſt haue countenance of women, 40
To draw diſcourse, and offer it, is here by,
At the _Lady Taile-buſhes_.
WIT. I know her, Sir.
And her Gentleman _huiſher_.
MER. M^r _Ambler_?
WIT. Yes, Sir.
MER. Sir, It ſhall be no ſhame to mee, to confeſſe
To you, that wee poore Gentlemen, that want acres, 45
Muſt for our needs, turne fooles vp, and plough _Ladies_
Sometimes, to try what glebe they are: and this
Is no vnfruitefull piece. She, and I now,
Are on a proiect, for the fact, and venting
Of a new kinde of _fucus_ (paint, for _Ladies_) 50
To ſerue the kingdome: wherein ſhee her ſelfe
Hath trauell’d, ſpecially, by way of ſeruice
Vnto her ſexe, and hopes to get the _Monopoly_,
As the reward of her inuention. [138]
WIT. What is her end, in this?
EV. Merely ambition, 55
Sir, to grow great, and court it with the ſecret:
Though ſhee pretend ſome other. For, ſhe’s dealing,
Already, vpon caution for the ſhares,
And M^r. _Ambler_, is hee nam’d _Examiner_
For the ingredients; and the _Register_ 60
Of what is vented; and ſhall keepe the _Office_.
Now, if ſhee breake with you, of this (as I
Muſt make the leading thred to your acquaintance,
That, how experience gotten i’ your being
Abroad, will helpe our buſinesse) thinke of ſome 65
Pretty additions, but to keep her floting:
It may be, ſhee will offer you a part,
Any ſtrange names of--
WIT. S^r, I haue my inſtructions.
Is it not high time to be making ready?
MER. Yes, Sir.
ING. The foole’s in ſight, _Dottrel_.
MER. Away, then. 70
[515] SD. om. G
[516] 1 ’t] it G
[517] 3 t’] ’t 1716, W it G
[518] 6 he’s 1692, f.
[519] 7 want] have 1641
[520] 11 SN. om. G
[521] 12 () ret. G
[522] 17 you to go 1716, W
[523] 35 _Provedore_ 1716 provedore W provedoré G
[524] 43 Usher 1716 usher W, G
[525] 47 Sometime 1692, 1716, W
[526] 55 EV.] _Meer._ 1716, f.
[527] 59 is hee] he is W, G
[528] 62, 65 () ret. G
[529] 70 [_Exeunt Engine and Wittipol._ G
ACT. IIJ. SCENE. V.
MERE-CRAFT. FITZ-DOTTREL. PVG.
Return’d ſo ſoone?
FIT. Yes, here’s the ring: I ha’ ſeal’d.
But there’s not ſo much gold in all the row, he ſaies--
Till’t come fro’ the Mint. ’Tis tane vp for the gameſters.
MER. There’s a ſhop-ſhift! plague on ’hem.
FIT. He do’s ſweare it.
MER. He’ll ſweare, and forſweare too, it is his trade, 5
You ſhould not haue left him.
FIT. S’lid, I can goe backe,
And beat him, yet.
MER. No, now let him alone.
FIT. I was ſo earneſt, after the maine _Buſineſſe_,
To haue this ring, gone.
MER. True, and ’tis time.
I’haue learned, Sir, ſin’ you went, her _Ladi-ſhip_ eats 10
With the _Lady Tail-buſh_, here, hard by.
FIT. I’ the lane here?
MER. Yes, if you’had a ſeruant, now of prefence,
Well cloth’d, and of an aëry voluble tongue,
Neither too bigge, or little for his mouth,
That could deliuer your wiues complement; 15
To ſend along withall.
FIT. I haue one Sir,
A very handſome, gentleman-like-fellow,
That I doe meane to make my _Dutcheſſe Vſher_--
I entertain’d him, but this morning, too:
I’ll call him to you. The worſt of him, is his name! 20
MER. She’ll take no note of that, but of his meſſage. [139]
_Hee ſhewes him his_ Pug.
FIT. _Diuell!_ How like you him, Sir. Pace, go a little.
Let’s ſee you moue.
MER. He’ll ſerue, S^r, giue it him:
And let him goe along with mee, I’ll helpe
To preſent him, and it.
FIT. Looke, you doe ſirah, 25
Diſcharge this well, as you expect your place.
Do’you heare, goe on, come off with all your honours.
_Giues him inſtructions._
I would faine ſee him, do it.
MER. Truſt him, with it;
FIT. Remember kiſſing of your hand, and anſwering
With the _French_-time, in flexure of your body. 30
I could now ſo inſtruct him--and for his words--
MER. I’ll put them in his mouth.
FIT. O, but I haue ’hem
O’ the very _Academies_.
MER. Sir, you’ll haue vſe for ’hem,
Anon, your ſelfe, I warrant you: after dinner,
When you are call’d.
FIT. S’light, that’ll be iuſt _play_-time. 35
_He longs to ſee the_ play.
It cannot be, I muſt not loſe the _play_!
MER. Sir, but you muſt, if ſhe appoint to ſit.
And, ſhee’s preſident.
FIT. S’lid, it is the _Diuell_.
_Becauſe it is the_ Diuell.
MER. And, ’twere his Damme too, you muſt now apply
Your ſelfe, Sir, to this, wholly; or loſe all. 40
FIT. If I could but ſee a piece--
MER. S^r. Neuer think on’t.
FIT. Come but to one act, and I did not care--
But to be ſeene to riſe, and goe away,
To vex the Players, and to puniſh their _Poet_--
Keepe him in awe!
MER. But ſay, that he be one, 45
Wi’ not be aw’d! but laugh at you. How then?
FIT. Then he ſhall pay for his’dinner himſelfe.
MER. Perhaps,
He would doe that twice, rather then thanke you.
Come, get the _Diuell_ out of your head, my _Lord_,
(I’ll call you ſo in priuate ſtill) and take 50
Your _Lord-ſhip_ i’ your minde. You were, ſweete _Lord_,
_He puts him in mind of his quarrell._
In talke to bring a _Buſineſſe_ to the _Office_.
FIT. Yes.
MER. Why ſhould not you, S^r, carry it o’ your ſelfe,
Before the _Office_ be vp? and ſhew the world,
You had no need of any mans direction; 55
In point, Sir, of ſufficiency. I ſpeake
Againſt a kinſman, but as one that tenders
Your graces good.
FIT. I thanke you; to proceed--
MER. To _Publications_: ha’ your _Deed_ drawne preſently.
And leaue a blancke to put in your _Feoffees_ 60
One, two, or more, as you ſee cauſe--
FIT. I thank you
Heartily, I doe thanke you. Not a word more,
I pray you, as you loue mee. Let mee alone.
That I could not thinke o’ this, as well, as hee?
O, I could beat my infinite blocke-head--! 65
_He is angry with himſelfe._
MER. Come, we muſt this way.
PVG. How far is’t.
MER. Hard by here
Ouer the way. Now, to atchieue this ring,
From this ſame fellow, that is to aſſure it; [140]
_He thinkes how to coozen the bearer, of the ring._
Before hee giue it. Though my _Spaniſh Lady_,
Be a young Gentleman of meanes, and ſcorne 70
To ſhare, as hee doth ſay, I doe not know
How ſuch a toy may tempt his _Lady-ſhip_:
And therefore, I thinke beſt, it be aſſur’d.
PVG. Sir, be the _Ladies_ braue, wee goe vnto?
MER. O, yes.
PVG. And ſhall I ſee ’hem, and ſpeake to ’hem? 75
MER. What elſe? ha’ you your falſe-beard about you? _Traines._
_Questions his man._
TRA. Yes.
MER. And is this one of your double Cloakes?
TRA. The beſt of ’hem.
MER. Be ready then. Sweet _Pitfall_!
[530] SD. ACT. ...] _Re-enter_ FITZDOTTREL. G
[531] 3 Till it G || from G§
[532] 8 comma after ‘earnest’ om. 1716, f.
[533] 9 it is W, G
[534] 10 since G
[535] 14 or] nor W, G
[536] 21, 27, 35 SN. om. G
[537] 22 Devil!--_Enter_ PUG. G
[538] 27 Do’you] D’you 1692, 1716, W
[539] 30 in] and W, G
[540] 31 now] not 1641
[541] 38 she is W, G
[542] 39 And,] An G
[543] 38, 51 SN. om. G
[544] 47 Then] That 1692, 1716 || for’s 1692, f.
[545] 50 () ret. G
[546] 53 o’] on G
[547] 59 publication G
[548] 60 leave me a 1692, 1716, W
[549] 65 SN.] [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _The Lane near the Lady_
Tailbush’s _House. Enter_ MEERCRAFT _followed by_ PUG. G
[550] 67 way. [_They cross over._] G
[551] 68 SN. om. G || is] is, W, G
[552] 73 [_Aside._ G
[553] 76 else? _Enter_ TRAINS. || SN. om. G
[554] 78 then. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _A Hall in Lady_ Tailbush’s
_House_. _Enter_ MEERCRAFT _and_ PUG, _met by_ PITFALL. G
ACT. IIJ. SCENE. VI.
MERE-CRAFT. PITFALL. PVG.
TRAINES.
Come, I muſt buſſe--
_Offers to kiſſe._
PIT. Away. MER. I’ll ſet thee vp again.
Neuer feare that: canſt thou get ne’r a bird?
No _Thruſhes_ hungry? Stay, till cold weather come,
I’ll help thee to an _Ouſell_, or, a _Field-fare_.
Who’s within, with Madame?
PIT. I’ll tell you straight. 5
_She runs in, in haſte: he followes._
MER. Pleaſe you ſtay here, a while Sir, I’le goe in.
PVG. I doe ſo long to haue a little venery,
While I am in this body! I would taſt
Of euery ſinne, a little, if it might be
After the māner of man! _Sweet-heart!_
PIT. What would you, S^r? 10
Pug _leaps at_ Pitfall’s _comming in_.
PVG. Nothing but fall in, to you, be your Black-bird,
My pretty pit (as the Gentleman ſaid) your _Throſtle_:
Lye tame, and taken with you; here’is gold!
To buy you ſo much new ſtuffes, from the ſhop,
As I may take the old vp--
TRA. You muſt send, Sir. 15
The Gentleman the ring.
Traine’s _in his falſe cloak, brings a falſe
meſſage, and gets the ring_.
PVG. There ’tis. Nay looke,
Will you be fooliſh, _Pit_.
PIT. This is ſtrange rudeneſſe.
PVG. Deare _Pit_.
PIT. I’ll call, I ſweare.
Mere-craft _followes preſently, and askes for it_.
MER. Where are you, S^r?
Is your ring ready? Goe with me.
PVG. I ſent it you.
MER. Me? When? by whom?
PVG. A fellow here, e’en now, 20
Came for it i’ your name.
MER. I ſent none, ſure.
My meaning euer was, you ſhould deliuer it,
Your ſelfe: So was your Maſters charge, you know.
_Ent._ Train’s _as himſelfe againe_.
What fellow was it, doe you know him?
PVG. Here,
But now, he had it.
MER. Saw you any? _Traines_? 25
TRA. Not I.
PVG. The Gentleman ſaw him.
MER. Enquire.
PVG. I was ſo earneſt vpon her, I mark’d not!
_The_ Diuell _confeſſeth himſelfe coozen’d_.
My diuelliſh _Chiefe_ has put mee here in flesh, [141]
To ſhame mee! This dull body I am in,
I perceiue nothing with! I offer at nothing, 30
That will ſucceed!
TRA. Sir, ſhe ſaw none, ſhe ſaies.
PVG. _Satan_ himſelfe, has tane a ſhape t’abuſe me.
It could not be elſe.
MER. This is aboue ſtrange!
Mere-craft _accuſeth him of negligence_.
That you ſhould be ſo retchleſſe. What’ll you do, Sir?
How will you anſwer this, when you are queſtion’d? 35
PVG. Run from my fleſh, if I could: put off mankind!
This’s ſuch a ſcorne! and will be a new exerciſe,
For my _Arch-Duke_! Woe to the ſeuerall cudgells,
Muſt suffer, on this backe! Can you no ſuccours? Sir? 39
_He asketh ayde._
MER. Alas! the vſe of it is ſo preſent.
PVG. I aske,
Sir, credit for another, but till to morrow?
MER. There is not ſo much time, Sir. But how euer,
The lady is a noble Lady, and will
(To ſaue a Gentleman from check) be intreated
Mere-craft _promiſeth faintly, yet comforts him_.
To ſay, ſhe ha’s receiu’d it.
PVG. Do you thinke ſo? 45
Will ſhee be won?
MER. No doubt, to ſuch an office,
It will be a Lady’s brauery, and her pride.
PVG. And not be knowne on’t after, vnto him?
MER. That were a treachery! Vpon my word,
Be confident. Returne vnto your maſter, 50
My _Lady Preſident_ ſits this after-noone,
Ha’s tane the ring, commends her ſeruices
Vnto your _Lady-Dutcheſſe_. You may ſay
She’s a ciuill _Lady_, and do’s giue her
All her reſpects, already: Bad you, tell her 55
She liues, but to receiue her wiſh’d commandements,
And haue the honor here to kiſſe her hands:
For which ſhee’ll ſtay this houre yet. Haſten you
Your _Prince_, away.
PVG. And Sir, you will take care
Th’ excuſe be perfect?
MER. You confeſſe your feares. 60
_The_ Diuel _is doubtfull_.
Too much.
PVG. The ſhame is more, I’ll quit you of either.
[555] SD. om.
[556] 1 SN.] [_Offers to kiss her._ G
[557] 5 SN. [_Exit hastily._ (after 5) [_Exit._ (after 6) G
[558] 10 SN.] Sweetheart! _Re-enter_ PITFALL. || sir?
[_Pug runs to her._ G
[559] 16 SN.] _Enter_ TRAINS _in his false beard and cloke_.
(after ’vp--’15) [_Exit Trains._] (after ‘tis’ 16) G
[560] 18 SN. _Enter_ MEERCRAFT. G
[561] 21 for’t W
[562] 23 SN.] _Re-enter_ TRAINS _dressed as at first_. G
[563] 26 Gentlewoman 1716 gentlewoman W, G
[564] 27, 33, 39 SN. om. G
[565] 31 succeed! [_Aside._ G
[566] 33 else! [_Aside._ G
[567] 34 ’ll] will G
[568] 37 ’s] is G
[569] 39 back! [_Aside._] G
[570] 44 entreated W, G
[571] 45 has 1692, f. passim
[572] 44, 60 SN. om. G
[573] 60 period om. 1716, f.
[574] 61 I’ll ...] _Meer._ I’ll ... W, G
[575] 61 [_Exeunt_ G
ACT. IIIJ. SCENE. I. [142]
TAILE-BVSH. MERE-CRAFT. MANLY.
A Pox vpo’ referring to _Commiſsioners_,
I’had rather heare that it were paſt the ſeales:
Your _Courtiers_ moue ſo Snaile-like i’ your _Buſineſſe_.
Wuld I had begun wi’ you.
MER. We muſt moue,
_Madame_, in order, by degrees: not iump. 5
TAY. Why, there was S^r. _Iohn Monie-man_ could iump
A _Buſineſſe_ quickely.
MER. True, hee had great friends,
But, becauſe ſome, ſweete _Madame_, can leape ditches,
Wee muſt not all ſhunne to goe ouer bridges.
The harder parts, I make account are done: 10
_He flatters her._
Now, ’tis referr’d. You are infinitly bound
Vnto’the _Ladies_, they ha’ so cri’d it vp!
TAY. Doe they like it then?
MER. They ha’ ſent the _Spaniſh-Lady_,
To gratulate with you--
TAY. I must ſend ’hem thankes
And ſome remembrances.
MER. That you muſt, and viſit ’hem. 15
Where’s _Ambler_?
TAY. Loſt, to day, we cannot heare of him.
MER. Not _Madam_?
TAY. No in good faith. They ſay he lay not
At home, to night. And here has fall’n a _Buſineſſe_
Betweene your Couſin, and Maſter _Manly_, has
Vnquieted vs all.
MER. So I heare, _Madame_. 20
Pray you how was it?
TAY. Troth, it but appeares
Ill o’ your Kinſmans part. You may haue heard,
That _Manly_ is a ſutor to me, I doubt not:
MER. I gueſs’d it, _Madame_.
TAY. And it ſeemes, he truſted
Your Couſin to let fall some faire reports 25
Of him vnto mee.
MER. Which he did!
TAY. So farre
From it, as hee came in, and tooke him rayling
Againſt him.
MER. How! And what said _Manly_ to him?
TAY. Inough, I doe aſſure you: and with that ſcorne
Of him, and the iniury, as I doe wonder 30
How _Euerill_ bore it! But that guilt vndoe’s
Many mens valors.
MER. Here comes _Manly_.
MAN. _Madame_, [143]
I’ll take my leaue--
Manly _offers to be gone_.
TAY. You ſha’ not goe, i’ faith.
I’ll ha’ you ſtay, and ſee this _Spaniſh_ miracle,
Of our _Engliſh Ladie_.
MAN. Let me pray your _Ladiſhip_, 35
Lay your commands on me, some other time.
TAY. Now, I proteſt: and I will haue all piec’d,
And friends againe.
MAN. It will be but ill ſolder’d!
TAY. You are too much affected with it.
MAN. I cannot
_Madame_, but thinke on’t for th’ iniuſtice.
TAY. Sir, 40
His kinſman here is ſorry.
MER. Not I, _Madam_,
I am no kin to him, wee but call Couſins,
Mere-craft _denies him_.
And if wee were, Sir, I haue no relation
Vnto his crimes.
MAN. You are not vrged with ’hem.
I can accuſe, Sir, none but mine owne iudgement, 45
For though it were his crime, ſo to betray mee:
I am ſure, ’twas more mine owne, at all to truſt him.
But he, therein, did vſe but his old manners,
And fauour ſtrongly what hee was before.
TAY. Come, he will change!
MAN. Faith, I muſt neuer think it. 50
Nor were it reaſon in mee to expect
That for my ſake, hee ſhould put off a nature
Hee ſuck’d in with his milke. It may be _Madam_,
Deceiuing truſt, is all he has to truſt to:
If ſo, I ſhall be loath, that any hope 55
Of mine, ſhould bate him of his meanes.
TAY. Yo’ are ſharp, Sir.
This act may make him honeſt!
MAN. If he were
To be made honeſt, by an act of _Parliament_,
I ſhould not alter, i’ my faith of him.
TAY. _Eyther-ſide!_
Welcome, deare _Either-ſide_! how haſt thou done, good wench?
_She spies the_ Lady Eyther-ſide.
Thou haſt beene a ſtranger! I ha’ not ſeene thee, this weeke. 61
[576] SD. IIIJ] VI. 1641 TAILE. ...] _A room in Lady_ TAILBUSH’S
_House. Enter Lady_ TAILBUSH _and_ MEERCRAFT. G
[577] 10 SN. om. G
[578] 32 valours. _Enter_ MANLY. G
[579] 33 SN. om. G
[580] 42 SN. om. G
[581] 43 wee] he G
[582] 47 I’m 1716, W
[583] 56 Y’are 1716, W
[584] 59 him. _Enter Lady_ EITHERSIDE.
[585] 60 SN. om. G
ACT. IIIJ. SCENE. II.
EITHERSIDE. {_To them_
Ever your ſeruant, _Madame_.
TAY. Where hast ’hou beene? [144]
I did ſo long to ſee thee.
EIT. Viſiting, and ſo tyr’d!
I proteſt, _Madame_, ’tis a monſtrous trouble!
TAY. And ſo it is. I ſweare I muſt to morrow,
Beginne my viſits (would they were ouer) at _Court_. 5
It tortures me, to thinke on ’hem.
EIT. I doe heare
You ha’ cauſe, Madam, your ſute goes on.
TAY. Who told thee?
EYT. One, that can tell: M^r. _Eyther-ſide_.
TAY. O, thy huſband!
Yes, faith, there’s life in’t, now: It is referr’d.
If wee once ſee it vnder the ſeales, wench, then, 10
Haue with ’hem for the great _Carroch_, ſixe horſes,
And the two _Coach-men_, with my _Ambler_, bare,
And my three women: wee will liue, i’ faith,
The examples o’ the towne, and gouerne it.
I’le lead the faſhion ſtill.
EIT. You doe that, now, 15
Sweet _Madame_.
TAY. O, but then, I’ll euery day
Bring vp ſome new deuice. Thou and I, _Either-ſide_,
Will firſt be in it. I will giue it thee;
And they ſhall follow vs. Thou ſhalt, I ſweare,
Weare euery moneth a new gowne, out of it. 20
EITH. Thanke you good _Madame_.
TAY. Pray thee call mee _Taile-buſh_
As I thee, _Either-ſide_: I not loue this, _Madame_.
ETY. Then I proteſt to you, _Taile-buſh_, I am glad
Your _Buſineſſe_ ſo ſucceeds.
TAY. Thanke thee, good _Eyther-ſide_.
ETY. But Maſter _Either-ſide_ tells me, that he likes 25
Your other _Buſineſſe_ better.
TAY. Which?
EIT. O’ the Tooth-picks.
TAY. I neuer heard on’t.
EIT. Aske M^r. _Mere-craft_.
MER. _Madame?_ H’is one, in a word, I’ll truſt his malice,
With any mans credit, I would haue abus’d!
Mere-craft _hath whiſper’d with the while_.
MAN. Sir, if you thinke you doe pleaſe mee, in this, 30
You are deceiu’d!
MER. No, but becauſe my _Lady_,
Nam’d him my kinſman; I would ſatisfie you,
What I thinke of him: and pray you, vpon it
To iudge mee!
MAN. So I doe: that ill mens friendſhip,
Is as vnfaithfull, as themſelues.
TAY. Doe you heare? 35
Ha’ you a _Buſineſſe_ about Tooth-picks?
MER. Yes, _Madame_.
Did I ne’r tell’t you? I meant to haue offer’d it
Your _Lady-ſhip_, on the perfecting the pattent. [145]
TAY. How is’t!
MER. For ſeruing the whole ſtate with Tooth-picks;
_The_ Proiect _for_ Tooth-picks.
(Somewhat an intricate _Buſineſſe_ to diſcourſe) but-- 40
I ſhew, how much the Subiect is abus’d,
Firſt, in that one commodity? then what diſeaſes,
And putrefactions in the gummes are bred,
By thoſe are made of adultrate, and falſe wood?
My plot, for reformation of theſe, followes. 45
To haue all Tooth-picks, brought vnto an _office_,
There ſeal’d; and ſuch as counterfait ’hem, mulcted.
And laſt, for venting ’hem to haue a booke
Printed, to teach their vſe, which euery childe
Shall haue throughout the kingdome, that can read, 50
And learne to picke his teeth by. Which beginning
Earely to practice, with ſome other rules,
Of neuer ſleeping with the mouth open, chawing
Some graines of _maſticke_, will preſerue the breath
Pure, and ſo free from taynt--ha’ what is’t? ſaiſt thou?
Traines _his man whiſpers him_.
TAY. Good faith, it ſounds a very pretty _Bus’neſſe_! 56
EIT. So M^r. _Either-ſide_ ſaies, _Madame_.
MER. The _Lady_ is come.
TAY. Is ſhe? Good, waite vpon her in. My _Ambler_
Was neuer ſo ill abſent. _Either-ſide_,
How doe I looke to day? Am I not dreſt, 60
Spruntly?
_She lookes in her glaſſe._
EIT. Yes, verily, _Madame_.
TAY. Pox o’ _Madame_, Will you not leaue that?
EIT. Yes, good _Taile-buſh_.
TAY. So?
Sounds not that better? What vile _Fucus_ is this,
Thou haſt got on?
EIT. ’Tis _Pearle_.
TAY. _Pearle?_ _Oyſter-ſhells_:
As I breath, _Either-side_, I know’t. Here comes 65
(They say) a wonder, ſirrah, has beene in _Spaine_!
Will teach vs all; ſhee’s ſent to mee, from _Court_.
To gratulate with mee! Pr’y thee, let’s obſerue her,
What faults ſhe has, that wee may laugh at ’hem,
When ſhe is gone.
EIT. That we will heartily, _Tail-buſh_. 70
Wittipol _enters_.
TAY. O, mee! the very _Infanta_ of the _Giants_!
[586] SD. om. G
[587] 1 thou 1692, f.
[588] 22 not loue] love not 1716, f.
[589] 26 O’] O, 1641
[590] 27 on’t] of it G
[591] 28 Madam! [_Aside to Manly._] G || He is G
[592] 29 SN. _with him the_ 1692, 1716, W SN. om. G
[593] 37 tell it G
[594] 39 is it G || SN. om. G
[595] 40 an] in 1641
[596] 42 disease W
[597] 44 adulterate G
[598] 53 chewing 1716, f.
[599] 55 SN.] taint--_Enter_ TRAINS, _and whispers him_. G
[600] 58 in. [_Exit Meercraft._] G
[601] 61 SN.] _She_ om. G || o’ ret. G
[602] 68 Prythee 1692 Prithee 1716 prithee W, G
[603] 70 SN.] _Re-enter_ MEERCRAFT, _introducing_ WITTIPOL _dressed
as a Spanish Lady_. G
ACT. IIIJ. SCENE. IJI.
MERE-CRAFT. WITTIPOL. } to them.
Wittipol _is dreſt like a_ Spaniſh Lady.
MER. Here is a noble _Lady_, _Madame_, come, [146]
From your great friends, at _Court_, to ſee your _Ladi-ſhip_:
And haue the honour of your acquaintance.
TAY. Sir.
She do’s vs honour.
WIT. Pray you, ſay to her _Ladiſhip_,
It is the manner of _Spaine_, to imbrace onely, 5
Neuer to kiſſe. She will excuſe the cuſtome!
_Excuſes him ſelfe for not kiſſing._
TAY. Your vſe of it is law. Pleaſe you, ſweete, _Madame_,
To take a ſeate.
WIT. Yes, _Madame_. I’haue had
The fauour, through a world of faire report
To know your vertues, _Madame_; and in that 10
Name, haue deſir’d the happineſſe of preſenting
My ſeruice to your _Ladiſhip_!
TAY. Your loue, _Madame_,
I muſt not owne it elſe.
WIT. Both are due, _Madame_,
To your great vndertakings.
TAY. Great? In troth, _Madame_,
They are my friends, that thinke ’hem any thing: 15
If I can doe my ſexe (by ’hem) any ſeruice,
I’haue my ends, _Madame_.
WIT. And they are noble ones,
That make a multitude beholden, _Madame_:
The common-wealth of _Ladies_, muſt acknowledge from you.
EIT. Except ſome enuious, _Madame_.
WIT. Yo’ are right in that, _Madame_, 20
Of which race, I encountred ſome but lately.
Who (’t ſeemes) haue ſtudyed reaſons to diſcredit
Your _buſineſſe_.
TAY. How, ſweet _Madame_.
WIT. Nay, the parties
Wi’ not be worth your pauſe--Moſt ruinous things, _Madame_,
That haue put off all hope of being recouer’d 25
To a degree of handſomeneſſe.
TAY. But their reaſons, _Madame_?
I would faine heare.
WIT. Some _Madame_, I remember.
They ſay, that painting quite deſtroyes the face--
EIT. O, that’s an old one, _Madame_.
WIT. There are new ones, too.
Corrupts the breath; hath left ſo little ſweetneſſe 30
In kiſſing, as ’tis now vſ’d, but for faſhion:
And ſhortly will be taken for a puniſhment.
Decayes the fore-teeth, that ſhould guard the tongue;
And ſuffers that runne riot euer-laſting!
And (which is worſe) ſome _Ladies_ when they meete 35
Cannot be merry, and laugh, but they doe ſpit
In one anothers faces!
MAN. I ſhould know
This voyce, and face too:
Manly _begins to know him_.
VVIT. Then they ſay, ’tis dangerous [147]
To all the falne, yet well diſpos’d _Mad-dames_,
That are induſtrious, and deſire to earne 40
Their liuing with their ſweate! For any diſtemper
Of heat, and motion, may diſplace the colours;
And if the paint once runne about their faces,
Twenty to one, they will appeare ſo ill-fauour’d,
Their ſeruants run away, too, and leaue the pleaſure 45
Imperfect, and the reckoning all vnpay’d.
EIT. Pox, theſe are _Poets_ reaſons.
TAY. Some old _Lady_
That keepes a _Poet_, has deuis’d theſe ſcandales.
EIT. Faith we muſt haue the _Poets_ baniſh’d, _Madame_,
As Maſter _Either-ſide_ ſaies.
MER. Maſter _Fitz-dottrel_? 50
And his wife: where? _Madame_, the _Duke_ of _Drown’d-land_,
That will be ſhortly.
VVIT. Is this my _Lord_?
MER. The ſame.
[604] SD. om. G
[605] 1 SN. is om. 1692, 1716, W || For G see 70 above.
[606] 5 embrace 1716, f.
[607] 6 SN. om. G
[608] 16 ’em G
[609] 20 Yo’] Y’ 1716, W
[610] 22 ’t] it G
[611] 38 SN.] [_Aside._ G
[612] 39 _Mad-dams_ 1692, 1716 mad-dams W mad-ams G
[613] 46 also G
[614] 51 wife! _Wit._ Where? _Enter Mr. and Mrs._ FITZDOTTREL,
_followed by_ PUG. _Meer._ [_To Wit._] Madam, G
ACT. IIIJ. SCENE. IV.
FITZ-DOTTREL. Miſtreſſe FITZ-DOTTRELL.
PVG. } _to them._
Your ſeruant, _Madame_!
VVIT. How now? Friend? offended,
That I haue found your haunt here?
Wittipol _whiſpers with_ Manly.
MAN. No, but wondring
At your ſtrange faſhion’d venture, hither.
VVIT. It is
To ſhew you what they are, you ſo purſue.
MAN. I thinke ’twill proue a med’cine againſt marriage;
To know their manners.
VVIT. Stay, and profit then. 6
MER. The _Lady_, _Madame_, whose _Prince_ has brought her, here,
To be inſtructed.
_Hee preſents Miſtreſſe_ Fitz-dottrel.
VVIT. Pleaſe you ſit with vs, _Lady_.
MER. That’s _Lady-Preſident_.
FIT. A goodly woman!
I cannot ſee the ring, though.
MER. Sir, ſhe has it. 10
TAY. But, _Madame_, theſe are very feeble reaſons!
WIT. So I vrg’d _Madame_, that the new complexion,
Now to come forth, in name o’ your _Ladiſhip’s fucus_,
Had no _ingredient_--
TAY. But I durſt eate, I aſſure you.
WIT. So do they, in _Spaine_.
TAY. Sweet _Madam_ be ſo liberall, 15
To giue vs ſome o’ your _Spaniſh Fucuſes_!
VVIT. They are infinit, _Madame_.
TAY. So I heare, they haue
VVater of _Gourdes_, of _Radiſh_, the white _Beanes_,
Flowers of _Glaſſe_, of _Thiſtles_, _Roſe-marine_.
Raw _Honey_, _Muſtard-ſeed_, and Bread dough-bak’d, 20
The crums o’ bread, _Goats-milke_, and whites of _Egges_,
_Campheere_, and _Lilly-roots_, the fat of _Swannes_,
Marrow of _Veale_, white _Pidgeons_, and pine-_kernells_, [148]
The ſeedes of _Nettles_, _perse’line_, and _hares gall_.
_Limons_, thin-skind--
EIT. How, her _Ladiſhip_ has ſtudied 25
Al excellent things!
VVIT. But ordinary, _Madame_.
No, the true rarities, are th’ _Aluagada_,
And _Argentata_ of Queene _Isabella_!
TAY. I, what are their _ingredients_, gentle _Madame_?
WIT. Your _Allum Scagliola_, or _Pol-dipedra_; 30
And _Zuccarino_; _Turpentine_ of _Abezzo_,
Wash’d in nine waters: _Soda di leuante_,
Or your _Ferne_ aſhes; _Beniamin di gotta_;
_Graſſo di ſerpe_; _Porcelletto marino_;
Oyles of _Lentiſco_; _Zucche Mugia_; make 35
The admirable _Verniſh_ for the face,
Giues the right luſter; but two drops rub’d on
VVith a piece of ſcarlet, makes a _Lady_ of ſixty
Looke at ſixteen. But, aboue all, the water
Of the white _Hen_, of the _Lady Eſtifanias_! 40
TAY. O, I, that ſame, good _Madame_, I haue heard of:
How is it done?
VVIT. _Madame_, you take your _Hen_,
Plume it, and skin it, cleanſe it o’ the inwards:
Then chop it, bones and all: adde to foure ounces
Of _Carrauicins_, _Pipitas_, _Sope_ of _Cyprus_, 45
Make the decoction, ſtreine it. Then diſtill it,
And keep it in your galley-pot well glidder’d:
Three drops preſerues from wrinkles, warts, ſpots, moles,
Blemiſh, or Sun-burnings, and keepes the skin
_In decimo ſexto_, euer bright, and ſmooth, 50
As any looking-glaſſe; and indeed, is call’d
The Virgins milke for the face, _Oglio reale_;
A Ceruſe, neyther cold or heat, will hurt;
And mixt with oyle of _myrrhe_, and the red _Gilli-flower_
Call’d _Cataputia_; and flowers of _Rouiſtico_; 55
Makes the beſt _muta_, or dye of the whole world.
TAY. Deare _Madame_, will you let vs be familiar?
WIT. Your _Ladiſhips_ ſeruant.
MER. How do you like her.
FIT. Admirable!
But, yet, I cannot ſee the ring.
_Hee is iealous about his_ ring, _and_ Mere-craft _deliuers it._
PVG. Sir.
MER. I muſt
Deliuer it, or marre all. This foole’s ſo iealous. 60
_Madame_--Sir, weare this ring, and pray you take knowledge,
’Twas ſent you by his wife. And giue her thanks,
Doe not you dwindle, Sir, beare vp.
PVG. I thanke you, Sir.
TAY. But for the manner of _Spaine_! Sweet, _Madame_, let vs
Be bold, now we are in: Are all the _Ladies_, 65
There, i’ the faſhion?
VVIT. None but _Grandee’s_, _Madame_,
O’ the claſp’d traine, which may be worne at length, too,
Or thus, vpon my arme.
TAY. And doe they weare
_Cioppino’s_ all?
VVIT. If they be dreſt in _punto_, _Madame_.
EIT. Guilt as thoſe are? _madame?_
WIT. Of Goldſmiths work, _madame_; [149] 70
And ſet with diamants: and their _Spaniſh_ pumps
Of perfum’d leather.
TAI. I ſhould thinke it hard
To go in ’hem, _madame_.
WIT. At the firſt, it is, _madame_.
TAI. Do you neuer fall in ’hem?
WIT. Neuer.
EI. I ſweare, I ſhould
Six times an houre.
WIT. But you haue men at hand, ſstill,
To helpe you, if you fall?
EIT. Onely one, madame, 76
The _Guardo-duennas_, ſuch a little old man,
As this.
EIT. Alas! hee can doe nothing! this!
WIT. I’ll tell you, madame,
I ſaw i’ the _Court_ of _Spaine_ once,
A _Lady_ fall i’ the Kings ſight, along, 80
And there ſhee lay, flat ſpred, as an _Vmbrella_,
Her hoope here crack’d; no man durſt reach a hand
To helpe her, till the _Guarda-duenn’as_ came,
VVho is the perſon onel’ allow’d to touch
A _Lady_ there: and he but by this finger. 85
EIT. Ha’ they no ſeruants, _madame_, there? nor friends?
WIT. An _Eſcudero_, or ſo _madame_, that wayts
Vpon ’hem in another Coach, at diſtance,
And when they walke, or daunce, holds by a hand-kercher,
Neuer preſumes to touch ’hem.
EIT. This’s ſciruy! 90
And a forc’d grauity! I doe not like it.
I like our owne much better.
TAY. ’Tis more _French_,
And _Courtly_ ours.
EIT. And taſts more liberty.
VVe may haue our doozen of viſiters, at once,
Make loue t’vs.
TAY. And before our husbands?
EIT. Huſband? 95
As I am honeſt, _Tayle-buſh_ I doe thinke
If no body ſhould loue mee, but my poore husband,
I ſhould e’n hang my ſelfe.
TAY. Fortune forbid, wench:
So faire a necke ſhould haue ſo foule a neck-lace.
EIT. ’Tis true, as I am handſome!
WIT. I receiu’d, _Lady_, 100
A token from you, which I would not bee
Rude to refuſe, being your firſt remembrance.
(FIT. O, I am ſatisfied now!
MER. Do you ſee it, Sir.)
WIT. But ſince you come, to know me, neerer, _Lady_,
I’ll begge the honour, you will weare for mee, 105
It muſt be ſo.
Wittipol _giues it Miſtreſſe_ Fitz-dottrel.
M^rs. FIT. Sure I haue heard this tongue.
MER. What do you meane, S^r?
Mere-craft _murmures,_
WIT. Would you ha’ me mercenary?
We’ll recompence it anon, in ſomewhat elſe.
_He is ſatisfied, now he ſees it._
FIT. I doe not loue to be gull’d, though in a toy.
VVife, doe you heare? yo’ are come into the Schole, wife,
VVhere you may learne, I doe perceiue it, any thing! 111
How to be fine, or faire, or great, or proud,
Or what you will, indeed, wife; heere ’tis taught.
And I am glad on’t, that you may not ſay,
Another day, when honours come vpon you, 115
You wanted meanes. I ha’ done my parts: beene,
Today at fifty pound charge, firſt, for a ring, [150]
_He vpbraids her, with his Bill of coſts._
To get you entred. Then left my new _Play_,
To wait vpon you, here, to ſee’t confirm’d.
That I may ſay, both to mine owne eyes, and eares, 120
Senſes, you are my witneſſe, ſha’ hath inioy’d
All helps that could be had, for loue, or money--
M^rs. FIT. To make a foole of her.
FIT. Wife, that’s your malice,
The wickedneſſe o’ you nature to interpret
Your husbands kindeſſe thus. But I’ll not leaue; 125
Still to doe good, for your deprau’d affections:
Intend it. Bend this ſtubborne will; be great.
TAY. Good _Madame_, whom do they vſe in meſſages?
WIT. They comonly vſe their ſlaues, _Madame_.
TAI. And do’s your _Ladiſhip_.
Thinke that ſo good, _Madame_?
WIT. no, indeed, _Madame_; I, 130
Therein preferre the faſhion of _England_ farre,
Of your young delicate Page, or diſcreet Vſher.
FIT. And I goe with your _Ladiſhip_, in opinion,
Directly for your Gentleman-vſher.
There’s not a finer _Officer_ goes on ground. 135
WIT. If hee be made and broken to his place, once.
FIT. Nay, ſo I preſuppoſe him.
WIT. And they are fitter
Managers too, Sir, but I would haue ’hem call’d
Our _Eſcudero’s_.
FIT. Good.
WIT. Say, I ſhould ſend
To your _Ladiſhip_, who (I preſume) has gather’d 140
All the deare ſecrets, to know how to make
_Paſtillos_ of the _Dutcheſſe_ of _Braganza_,
_Coquettas_, _Almoiauana’s_, _Mantecada’s_,
_Alcoreas_, _Muſtaccioli_; or ſay it were
The _Peladore_ of _Isabella_, or _balls_ 145
Againſt the itch, or _aqua nanfa_, or _oyle_
Of _Ieſſamine_ for gloues, of the _Marqueſſe Muja_:
Or for the head, and hayre: why, theſe are _offices_.
FIT. Fit for a gentleman, not a ſlaue. They onely
Might aske for your _pineti_, _Spaniſh_-cole, 150
To burne, and ſweeten a roome; but the _Arcana_
Of _Ladies_ Cabinets--
FIT. Should be elſe-where truſted.
Yo’ are much about the truth. Sweet honoured _Ladies_,
_He enters himſelfe with the_ Ladies.
Let mee fall in wi’ you. I’ha’ my female wit,
As well as my male. And I doe know what ſutes 155
A _Lady_ of ſpirit, or a woman of faſhion!
WIT. And you would haue your wife ſuch.
FIT. Yes, _Madame_, aërie,
Light; not to plaine diſhoneſty, I meane:
But, ſomewhat o’ this ſide.
WIT. I take you, Sir.
H’has reaſon _Ladies_. I’ll not giue this ruſh 160
For any _Lady_, that cannot be honeſt
Within a thred.
TAY. Yes, _Madame_, and yet venter
As far for th’other, in her Fame--
WIT. As can be;
Coach it to _Pimlico_; daunce the _Saraband_; [151]
Heare, and talke bawdy; laugh as loud, as a larum; 165
Squeake, ſpring, do any thing.
EIT. In young company, _Madame_.
TAY. Or afore gallants. If they be braue, or _Lords_,
A woman is ingag’d.
FIT. I ſay ſo, _Ladies_,
It is ciuility to deny vs nothing.
PVG. You talke of a _Vniuerſity_! why, _Hell_ is 170
A Grammar-ſchoole to this!
_The_ Diuell _admires him_.
EIT. But then,
Shee muſt not loſe a looke on ſtuffes, or cloth, _Madame_.
TAY. Nor no courſe fellow.
WIT. She muſt be guided, _Madame_
By the clothes he weares, and company he is in;
Whom to ſalute, how farre--
FIT. I ha’ told her this. 175
And how that bawdry too, vpo’ the point,
Is (in it ſelfe) as ciuill a diſcourſe--
WIT. As any other affayre of fleſh, what euer.
FIT. But ſhee will ne’r be capable, ſhee is not
So much as comming, _Madame_; I know not how 180
She loſes all her opportunities
With hoping to be forc’d. I’haue entertain’d
_He ſhews his_ Pug.
A gentleman, a younger brother, here,
Whom I would faine breed vp, her _Eſcudero_,
Againſt ſome expectation’s that I haue, 185
And ſhe’ll not countenance him.
WIT. What’s his name?
FIT. _Diuel_, o’ _Darbi-ſhire_.
EIT. Bleſſe us from him!
TAY. _Diuell?_
Call him _De-uile_, ſweet _Madame_.
M^rs. FI. What you pleaſe, _Ladies_.
TAY. _De-uile’s_ a prettier name!
EIT. And ſounds, me thinks,
As it came in with the _Conquerour_--
MAN. Ouer ſmocks! 190
What things they are? That nature ſhould be at leaſure
Euer to make ’hem! my woing is at an end.
Manly _goes out with indignation_.
WIT. What can he do?
EIT. Let’s heare him.
TAY. Can he manage?
FIT. Pleaſe you to try him, _Ladies_. Stand forth, _Diuell_.
PVG. Was all this but the preface to my torment? 195
FIT. Come, let their _Ladiſhips_ ſee your honours.
EIT. O,
Hee makes a wicked leg.
TAY. As euer I ſaw!
WIT. Fit for a _Diuell_.
TAY. Good _Madame_, call him _De-uile_.
WIT. _De-uile_, what property is there moſt required
I’ your conceit, now, in the _Eſcudero_? 200
_They begin their_ Catechiſme.
FIT. Why doe you not speake?
PVG. A ſetled diſcreet paſe, _Madame_.
WIT. I thinke, a barren head, Sir, Mountaine-like,
To be expos’d to the cruelty of weathers--
FIT. I, for his Valley is beneath the waſte, _Madame_,
And to be fruitfull there, it is ſufficient. 205
Dulneſſe vpon you! Could not you hit this?
PVG. Good Sir--
_He ſtrikes him._
WIT. He then had had no barren head.
You daw him too much, in troth, Sir.
FIT. I muſt walke
With the _French_ ſticke, like an old vierger for you.
PVG. O, _Chiefe_, call mee to _Hell_ againe, and free mee. 210
_The_ Diuell _prayes_.
FIT. Do you murmur now?
PVG. Not I, S^r.
WIT. What do you take [152]
M^r. _Deuile_, the height of your employment,
In the true perfect _Eſcudero_?
FIT. When?
What doe you anſwer?
PVG. To be able, _Madame_,
Firſt to enquire, then report the working, 215
Of any _Ladies_ phyſicke, in ſweete phraſe.
WIT. Yes, that’s an act of elegance, and importance.
But what aboue?
FIT. O, that I had a goad for him.
PVG. To find out a good _Corne-cutter_.
TAY. Out on him!
EIT. Moſt barbarous!
FIT. Why did you doe this, now? 220
Of purpoſe to diſcredit me? you damn’d _Diuell_.
PVG. Sure, if I be not yet, I ſhall be. All
My daies in _Hell_, were holy-daies to this!
TAY. ’Tis labour loſt, _Madame_?
EIT. H’is a dull fellow
Of no capacity!
TAI. Of no diſcourſe! 225
O, if my _Ambler_ had beene here!
EIT. I, _Madame_;
You talke of a man, where is there ſuch another?
WIT. M^r. _Deuile_, put caſe, one of my _Ladies_, heere,
Had a fine brach: and would imploy you forth
To treate ’bout a conuenient match for her. 230
What would you obſerue?
PVG. The color, and the ſize, _Madame_.
WIT. And nothing elſe?
FIT. The Moon, you calfe, the Moone!
WIT. I, and the Signe.
TAI. Yes, and receits for proneneſſe.
WIT. Then when the _Puppies_ came, what would you doe?
PVG. Get their natiuities caſt!
WIT. This’s wel. What more? 235
PVG. Conſult the _Almanack-man_ which would be leaſt?
Which cleanelieſt?
WIT. And which ſilenteſt? This’s wel, _madame_!
WIT. And while ſhe were with puppy?
PVG. Walke her out,
And ayre her euery morning!
WIT. Very good!
And be induſtrious to kill her fleas? 240
PVG. Yes!
WIT. He will make a pretty proficient.
PVG. Who,
Comming from _Hell_, could looke for ſuch Catechiſing?
The _Diuell_ is an _Aſſe_. I doe acknowledge it.
FIT. The top of woman! All her ſexe in abſtract!
Fitz-dottrel _admires_ Wittipol.
I loue her, to each ſyllable, falls from her. 245
TAI. Good _madame_ giue me leaue to goe aſide with him!
And try him a little!
WIT. Do, and I’ll with-draw, _Madame_,
VVith this faire _Lady_: read to her, the while.
TAI. Come, S^r.
PVG. Deare _Chiefe_, relieue me, or I periſh.
_The_ Diuel _praies again_.
WIT. _Lady_, we’ll follow. You are not iealous Sir? 250
FIT. O, _madame_! you ſhall ſee. Stay wife, behold,
I giue her vp heere, abſolutely, to you,
She is your owne. Do with her what you will!
_He giues his wife to him, taking him to be a_ Lady.
Melt, caſt, and forme her as you ſhall thinke good!
Set any ſtamp on! I’ll receiue her from you 255
As a new thing, by your owne ſtandard!
VVIT. Well, Sir!
[615] SD. om. G
[616] 1 _Wit._ [_Takes Manly aside._]
[617] 2 SN. om. G wondering G
[618] 8 SN. _Hee_ om. G
[619] 13 o’] of W
[620] 14 had] has W, G
[621] 17 hear. _Wit._ They G
[622] 22 Camphire 1716, f.
[623] 32, 3 _leuante ... di_ om. 1641
[624] 34 _Grosia_ 1641
[625] 35 _Zucchi_ 1641
[626] 36 varnish G
[627] 39 at] as 1716, f.
[628] 43 o’ ret. G
[629] 53 or] nor W, G
[630] 59 SN. om. G
[631] 60 [_Aside._ G
[632] 61 Madam--[_whispers Wit._] G
[633] 63 up. [_Aside to Pug._ G
[634] 70 EIT.] _Lady T._ G
[635] 71 Diamonds 1692, 1716 diamonds W, G
[636] 75 WIT. ...] speech given to TAI. 1716, f.
[637] 76 EIT. ...] speech given to WIT. 1716, f.
[638] 77 guarda W, G
[639] 78 this. [_Points to Trains._ G
[640] 79 in the 1716, f.
[641] 84 onl’ 1692, 1716 only W, G
[642] 89 dance 1692, f. || Handkerchief 1716 handkerchief W, G
[643] 90 This is W, G
[644] 94 dozen 1692, f.
[645] 103 now! [_Aside to Meer._ G
[646] 106 SN.] [_Gives the ring to Mrs. Fitzdottrel._ G Surely 1641
tongue. [_Aside._ G
[647] 107 SN.] [_Aside to Wit._ G
[648] 108 SN. om. [_Exeunt Meer, and Trains_ G
[649] 110 heare? [_Takes Mrs. Fitz. aside._] G You’re 1716, W into]
in 1641 schoole 1641 School 1692, 1716 school W, G
[650] 117 SN. om. G
[651] 118 left] let 1641 entered W enter’d G
[652] 120 owne om. G
[653] 121 sha’] she’ 1692 she 1716, f. enjoy’d 1692, f.
[654] 124 your 1641, f.
[655] 125 kindnesse 1641 Kindness 1692, 1716 kindness W, G
[656] 147 Marquess 1692, 1716 marquess W
[657] 149 FIT.] _Eith._ 1716, W _Wit._ They G
[658] 153 SN. om. G || You’re 1716, W
[659] 160 He ’as 1716, W
[660] 162 venture 1692, f.
[661] 164 dance 1641, f.
[662] 168 engag’d W engaged G
[663] 171 SN.] [_Aside._ G
[664] 176 baudery 1641
[665] 182 SN. om. G
[666] 192 SN.] [_Aside, and exit with indignation._ G || Wooing 1692,
1716 wooing W, G
[667] 195 [_Aside._ G
[668] 196 Ladiship 1641
[669] 200, 210 SN. om. G
[670] 201 pase] pause 1641
[671] 207 SN.] [_Fit strikes Pug._ W || _He_ om. G
[672] 208 draw 1716
[673] 209 Virger W verger G
[674] 210 [_Aside._ G
[675] 212 Divele 1641
[676] 223 [_Aside._ G
[677] 224 He’s 1716, W He is G
[678] 229 employ 1692, f.
[679] 235, 237 This’s] This is 1716, f.
[680] 237 cleanliest 1692, f. silent’st 1692. f.
[681] 238 WIT. om. 1692, f.
[682] 242 such] such a W, G
[683] 243 [_Aside._ G
[684] 244 SN.] [_Aside, and looking at Wittipol._ G
[685] 249 SN.] [_Aside._ G
[686] 253 SN. om. G
[687] 256 [_Exit Wit._ Well, sir! [_Exeunt Wittipol with Mrs. Fitz.
and Tailbush and Eitherside with Pug._ G
ACT. IIIJ. SCENE. V.
MERE-CRAFT. FITZ-DOTTREL. PIT-FAL.
EVER-ILL. PLVTARCHUS.
But what ha’ you done i’ your _Dependance_, ſince? [153]
FIT. O, it goes on, I met your Couſin, the _Maſter_--
MER. You did not acquaint him, S^r?
FIT. Faith, but I did, S^r.
And vpon better thought, not without reaſon!
He being chiefe _Officer_, might ha’ tane it ill, elſe, 5
As a _Contempt_ againſt his Place, and that
In time Sir, ha’ drawne on another _Dependance_.
No, I did finde him in good termes, and ready
To doe me any ſeruice.
MER. So he said, to you?
But S^r, you do not know him.
FIT. VVhy, I presum’d 10
Becauſe this _bus’neſſe_ of my wiues, requir’d mee,
I could not ha’ done better: And hee told
Me, that he would goe preſently to your _Councell_,
A Knight, here, i’ the Lane--
MER. Yes, _Iuſtice Either-ſide_.
FIT. And get the _Feoffment_ drawne,
with a letter of _Atturney_, 15
For _liuerie_ and _ſeiſen_!
MER. That I knowe’s the courſe.
But Sir, you meane not to make him _Feoffee_?
FIT. Nay, that I’ll pauſe on!
MER. How now little _Pit-fall_.
PIT. Your Couſin Maſter _Euer-ill_, would come in--
But he would know if Maſter _Manly_ were heere. 20
MER. No, tell him, if he were, I ha’ made his peace!
Mere-craft _whiſpers againſt him_.
Hee’s one, Sir, has no State, and a man knowes not,
How such a trust may tempt him.
FIT. I conceiue you.
EVE. S^r. this ſame deed is done here.
MER. Pretty _Plutarchus_?
Art thou come with it? and has Sir _Paul_ view’d it? 25
PLV. His hand is to the draught.
MER. VVill you step in, S^r.
And read it?
FIT. Yes.
EVE. I pray you a word wi’ you.
Eueril _whiſpers against_ Mere-craft.
Sir _Paul Eitherside_ will’d mee gi’ you caution,
Whom you did make _Feoffee_: for ’tis the truſt
O’ your whole State: and though my Cousin heere 30
Be a worthy Gentleman, yet his valour has
At the tall board bin queſtion’d: and we hold
Any man ſo impeach’d, of doubtfull honesty!
I will not iuſtiſie this; but giue it you
To make your profit of it: if you vtter it, 35
I can forſweare it!
FIT. I beleeue you, and thanke you, Sir.
[688] SD. V] III. 1641 ACT. ...] SCENE II. _Another Room in the same.
Enter_ MEERCRAFT _and_ FITZDOTTREL. G
[689] 5 taken G
[690] 9 service 1641, W, G Service 1692, 1716
[691] 18 on. _Enter_ PITFALL. G
[692] 20 Mr. 1692, 1716 mr. W
[693] 21 [_Exit Pitfall._ SN. om. G
[694] 23 _Enter_ EVERILL _and_ PLUTARCHUS. G
[695] 25 _Poul_ 1692, 1716 Poul W
[696] 27 SN.] [_Aside to Fitz._ G
[697] 28 give 1641, G _Paul_] as in 4.5.25
[698] 36 [_Exeunt._ G
ACT. IIIJ. SCENE. VI.
VVITTIPOL. Mistresse FITZ-DOTTREL.
MANLY. MERE-CRAFT.
Be not afraid, ſweet _Lady_: yo’ are truſted [154]
To loue, not violence here; I am no rauiſher,
But one, whom you, by your faire truſt againe,
May of a ſeruant make a moſt true friend.
M^rs. FI. And ſuch a one I need, but not this way: 5
Sir, I confeſſe me to you, the meere manner
Of your attempting mee, this morning tooke mee,
And I did hold m’inuention, and my manners,
Were both engag’d, to giue it a requitall;
But not vnto your ends: my hope was then, 10
(Though interrupted, ere it could be vtter’d)
That whom I found the Maſter of ſuch language,
That braine and ſpirit, for ſuch an enterpriſe,
Could not, but if thoſe ſuccours were demanded
To a right vſe, employ them vertuouſly! 15
And make that profit of his noble parts,
Which they would yeeld. S^r, you haue now the ground,
To exerciſe them in: I am a woman:
That cannot ſpeake more wretchedneſſe of my ſelfe,
Then you can read; match’d to a maſſe of folly; 20
That euery day makes haſte to his owne ruine;
The wealthy portion, that I brought him, ſpent;
And (through my friends neglect) no ioynture made me.
My fortunes ſtanding in this precipice,
’Tis _Counſell_ that I want, and honeſt aides: 25
And in this name, I need you, for a friend!
Neuer in any other; for his ill,
Muſt not make me, S^r, worſe.
Manly, _conceal’d this while, ſhews himſelf_.
MAN. O friend! forſake not
The braue occaſion, vertue offers you,
To keepe you innocent: I haue fear’d for both; 30
And watch’d you, to preuent the ill I fear’d.
But, ſince the weaker ſide hath ſo aſſur’d mee,
Let not the ſtronger fall by his owne vice,
Or be the leſſe a friend, cauſe vertue needs him.
WIT. Vertue ſhall neuer aske my ſuccours twice; 35
Moſt friend, moſt man: your _Counſells_ are commands:
Lady, I can loue _goodnes_ in you, more [155]
Then I did _Beauty_; and doe here intitle
Your vertue, to the power, vpon a life
You ſhall engage in any fruitfull ſeruice, 40
Euen to forfeit.
MER. _Madame_: Do you heare, Sir,
Mere-craft _takes_ Wittipol _aſide,_
& _moues a proiect for himſelfe_.
We haue another leg-ſtrain’d, for this _Dottrel_.
He’ha’s a quarrell to carry, and ha’s cauſ’d
A deed of _Feoffment_, of his whole eſtate
To be drawne yonder; h’ha’ſt within: And you, 45
Onely, he meanes to make _Feoffee_. H’is falne
So deſperatly enamour’d on you, and talkes
Moſt like a mad-man: you did neuer heare
A _Phrentick_, ſo in loue with his owne fauour!
Now, you doe know, ’tis of no validity 50
In your name, as you ſtand; Therefore aduiſe him
To put in me. (h’is come here:) You ſhall ſhare Sir.
[699] SD. SCENE III _Another Room in the same. Enter_ WITTIPOL,
_and Mrs._ FITZDOTTREL. G
[700] 1 Yo’] you W
[701] 4 MANLY _enters behind_. G
[702] 8 m’] W, G
[703] 28 SN.] [_comes forward._] G
[704] 40 faithfull 1641
[705] 41 SN.] _Enter_ MEERCRAFT. (after ‘forfeit.’)
_Aside to Wittipol._ (after ‘Sir,’) G
[706] 42 leg-strain’d] hyphen om. 1692, f.
[707] 43 He’] H’ 1692, 1716
[708] 45 h’ om. 1641 he W, G
[709] 46 H’is] He’s 1716, W He is G
[710] 49 phrenetic G
[711] 52 me!--_Enter_ FITZDOTTREL, EVERILL, _and_ PLUTARCHUS. G || h’is
He’s 1716, f.
ACT. IV. SCENE. VIJ.
WITTIPOL. Miſtreſſe FITZ-DOTTREL.
MANLY. MERE-CRAFT.
FITZ-DOTTRELL. EVERILL.
PLVTARCHVS.
FIT. _Madame_, I haue a ſuit to you; and afore-hand,
I doe beſpeake you; you muſt not deny me,
I will be graunted.
WIT. Sir, I muſt know it, though.
FIT. No _Lady_; you muſt not know it: yet, you muſt too.
For the truſt of it, and the fame indeed, 5
Which elſe were loſt me. I would vfe your name,
But in a _Feoffment_: make my whole eſtate
Ouer vnto you: a trifle, a thing of nothing,
Some eighteene hundred.
WIT. Alas! I vnderſtand not
Thoſe things Sir. I am a woman, and moſt loath, 10
To embarque my ſelfe--
FIT. You will not ſlight me, _Madame_?
WIT. Nor you’ll not quarrell me?
FIT. No, ſweet _Madame_, I haue
Already a _dependance_; for which cauſe
I doe this: let me put you in, deare _Madame_,
I may be fairely kill’d.
WIT. You haue your friends, Sir, 15
About you here, for choice.
EVE. She tells you right, Sir.
_Hee hopes to be the man._
FIT. Death, if ſhe doe, what do I care for that?
Say, I would haue her tell me wrong.
WIT. Why, Sir, [156]
If for the truſt, you’ll let me haue the honor
To name you one.
FIT. Nay, you do me the honor, _Madame_: 20
Who is’t?
WIT. This Gentleman:
_Shee deſignes_ Manly.
FIT. O, no, sweet _Madame_,
H’is friend to him, with whom I ha’ the _dependance_.
WIT. Who might he bee?
FIT. One _Wittipol_: do you know him?
WIT. Alas Sir, he, a toy: This Gentleman
A friend to him? no more then I am Sir! 25
FIT. But will your _Ladyſhip_ vndertake that, _Madame_?
WIT. Yes, and what elſe, for him, you will engage me.
FIT. What is his name?
VVIT. His name is _Euſtace Manly_.
FIT. VVhence do’s he write himſelfe?
VVIT. of _Middle-ſex_, _Eſquire_.
FIT. Say nothing, _Madame_. _Clerke_, come hether 30
VVrite _Euſtace Manly_, Squire o’ _Middle-ſex_.
MER. What ha’ you done, Sir?
VVIT. Nam’d a gentleman,
That I’ll be anſwerable for, to you, Sir.
Had I nam’d you, it might ha’ beene ſuſpected:
This way, ’tis ſafe.
FIT. Come Gentlemen, your hands, 35
For witnes.
MAN. VVhat is this?
EVE. You ha’ made _Election_
Eueril _applaudes it_.
Of a moſt worthy _Gentleman_!
MAN. VVould one of worth
Had ſpoke it: whence it comes, it is
Rather a ſhame to me, then a praiſe.
EVE. Sir, I will giue you any Satisfaction. 40
MAN. Be ſilent then: “falſhood commends not truth”.
PLV. You do deliuer this, Sir, as your deed.
To th’ vſe of M^r. _Manly_?
FIT. Yes: and Sir--
VVhen did you ſee yong _Wittipol_? I am ready,
For proceſſe now; Sir, this is _Publication_. 45
He ſhall heare from me, he would needes be courting
My wife, Sir.
MAN. Yes: So witneſſeth his Cloake there.
FIT. Nay good Sir,--_Madame_, you did vndertake--
Fitz-dottrel _is ſuſpicious of_ Manly _ſtill_.
VVIT. VVhat?
FIT. That he was not _Wittipols_ friend.
VVIT. I heare S^r. no confeſſion of it.
FIT. O ſhe know’s not; 50
Now I remember, _Madame_! This young _Wittipol_,
VVould ha’ debauch’d my wife, and made me _Cuckold_,
Through a caſement; he did fly her home
To mine owne window: but I think I ſou’t him,
And rauifh’d her away, out of his pownces. 55
I ha’ ſworne to ha’ him by the eares: I feare
The toy, wi’ not do me right.
VVIT. No? that were pitty!
VVhat right doe you aske, Sir? Here he is will do’t you?
Wittipol _diſcouers himſelfe_.
FIT. Ha? _Wittipol_?
VVIT. I Sir, no more _Lady_ now,
Nor _Spaniard_!
MAN. No indeed, ’tis _Wittipol_. 60
FIT. Am I the thing I fear’d?
VVIT. A _Cuckold_? No Sir,
But you were late in poſſibility,
I’ll tell you ſo much.
MAN. But your wife’s too vertuous!
VVIT. VVee’ll ſee her Sir, at home, and leaue you here,
To be made _Duke o’ Shore-ditch_ with a proiect. [157] 65
FIT. Theeues, rauiſhers.
VVIT. Crie but another note, Sir,
I’ll marre the tune, o’ your pipe!
FIT. Gi’ me my deed, then.
_He would haue his_ deed _again_.
VVIT. Neither: that ſhall be kept for your wiues good,
VVho will know, better how to vſe it.
FIT. Ha’
To feaſt you with my land?
VVIT. Sir, be you quiet, 70
Or I ſhall gag you, ere I goe, conſult
Your Maſter of dependances; how to make this
A ſecond buſineſſe, you haue time Sir.
VVitipol _bafflees him, and goes out_.
FIT. Oh!
VVhat will the ghoſt of my wiſe Grandfather,
My learned _Father_, with my worſhipfull _Mother_, 75
Thinke of me now, that left me in this world
In ſtate to be their _Heire_? that am become
A _Cuckold_, and an _Aſſe_, and my wiues Ward;
Likely to looſe my land; ha’ my throat cut:
All, by her practice!
MER. Sir, we are all abus’d! 80
FIT. And be ſo ſtill! VVho hinders you, I pray you,
Let me alone, I would enioy my ſelfe,
And be the _Duke o’ Drown’d-Land_, you ha’ made me.
MER. Sir, we muſt play an _after-game_ o’ this.
FIT. But I am not in caſe to be a _Gam-ſter_: 85
I tell you once againe--
MER. You muſt be rul’d
And take some counſell.
FIT. Sir, I do hate counſell,
As I do hate my wife, my wicked wife!
MER. But we may thinke how to recouer all:
If you will act.
FIT. I will not think; nor act; 90
Nor yet recouer; do not talke to me?
I’ll runne out o’ my witts, rather then heare;
I will be what I am, _Fabian Fitz-Dottrel_,
Though all the world ſay nay to’t.
MER. Let’s follow him.
[712] SD. om. G
[713] 3 granted 1692, f.
[714] 16 SN. om. G
[715] 21 SN. _She_ om. W _She_ ...] [_Pointing to Manly._ G
[716] 22 He’s 1716, f.
[717] 30 [_To Plutarchus._ G || hither 1692, f.
[718] 32 sir? [_Aside to Wit._ G
[719] 36 SN. om. G
[720] 38 it! but now whence W, G
[721] 39 to] unto W, G
[722] 43 [_To Manly._ G
[723] 48 SN. om. G
[724] 49 VVIT. _What._ 1641
[725] 53 Thorow 1692 Thorough 1716, f.
[726] 54 sou’t] fou’t 1692 fought 1716, W sous’d G
[727] 58 SN. Wittipol om. G
[728] 67 SN. om. G
[729] 69 Ha! 1692, f.
[730] 73 SN.] [_Baffles him, and exit with Manly._ G
[731] 82 injoy 1641
[732] 94 to’t. [_Exit._ G || Let’s Let us W, G || him. [_Exeunt._ G
ACT. V. SCENE. I. [158]
AMBLER. PITFALL. MERE-CRAFT.
Bvt ha’s my Lady miſt me?
PIT. Beyond telling!
Here ha’s been that infinity of ſtrangers!
And then ſhe would ha’ had you, to ha’ ſampled you
VVith one within, that they are now a teaching;
And do’s pretend to your ranck.
AMB. Good fellow _Pit-fall_, 5
Tel M^r. _Mere-craft_, I intreat a word with him.
Pitfall _goes out_.
This most vnlucky accident will goe neare
To be the loſſe o’ my place; I am in doubt!
MER. VVith me? what ſay you M^r _Ambler_?
AMB. Sir,
I would beſeech your worſhip ſtand betweene 10
Me, and my _Ladies_ diſpleaſure, for my abſence.
MER. O, is that all? I warrant you.
AMB. I would tell you Sir
But how it happened.
MER. Brief, good Maſter _Ambler_,
Put your selfe to your rack: for I haue taſque
Of more importance.
Mere-craft _ſeemes full of buſineſſe_.
AMB. Sir you’ll laugh at me? 15
But (ſo is _Truth_) a very friend of mine,
Finding by conference with me, that I liu’d
Too chaſt for my complexion (and indeed
Too honeſt for my place, Sir) did aduiſe me
If I did loue my ſelfe (as that I do, 20
I muſt confeſſe)
MER. Spare your _Parentheſis_.
AMB. To gi’ my body a little euacuation--
MER. Well, and you went to a whore?
AMB. No, S^r. I durſt not
(For feare it might arriue at ſome body’s eare,
It ſhould not) truſt my ſelfe to a common houſe; 25
Ambler _tels this with extraordinary ſpeed_.
But got the Gentlewoman to goe with me,
And carry her bedding to a _Conduit-head_,
Hard by the place toward _Tyborne_, which they call
My L. Majors _Banqueting-houſe_. Now Sir, This morning
Was _Execution_; and I ner’e dream’t on’t 30
Till I heard the noiſe o’ the people, and the horſes;
And neither I, nor the poore Gentlewoman [159]
Durſt ſtirre, till all was done and paſt: ſo that
I’ the _Interim_, we fell a ſleepe againe.
_He flags_.
MER. Nay, if you fall, from your gallop, I am gone S^r. 35
AMB. But, when I wak’d, to put on my cloathes, a ſute,
I made new for the action, it was gone,
And all my money, with my purſe, my ſeales,
My hard-wax, and my table-bookes, my ſtudies,
And a fine new deuiſe, I had to carry 40
My pen, and inke, my ciuet, and my tooth-picks,
All vnder one. But, that which greiu’d me, was
The Gentlewoman’s ſhoes (with a paire of roſes,
And garters, I had giuen her for the buſineſſe)
So as that made vs ſtay, till it was darke. 45
For I was faine to lend her mine, and walke
In a rug, by her, barefoote, to Saint _Giles’es_.
MER. A kind of Iriſh penance! Is this all, Sir?
AMB. To ſatisfie my _Lady_.
MER. I will promiſe you, S^r.
AMB. I ha’ told the true _Diſaſter_.
MER. I cannot ſtay wi’ you 50
Sir, to condole; but gratulate your returne.
AMB. An honeſt gentleman, but he’s neuer at leiſure
To be himſelfe: He ha’s ſuch tides of buſineſſe.
[733] SD. AMBLER ...] _A Room in_ Tailbush’s _House.
Enter_ AMBLER _and_ PITFALL. G
[734] 6 entreat W, G || SN.] [_Exit Pitfall._ G
[735] 8 _Enter_ MEERCRAFT. G
[736] 12 that] this 1641
[737] 14 a tasque 1641
[738] 15 SN. om. G
[739] 16 () ret. G.
[740] 25 SN. Ambler om. G
[741] 29 Mayor’s 1716, f.
[742] 30 never W, G
[743] 34 SN. _slags_ 1641
[744] 43, 4 (with ... garters,) W || () ret. G
[745] 51, 3 [_Exit._ G
ACT. V. SCENE. II.
PVG. AMBLER.
O, Call me home againe, deare _Chiefe_, and put me
To yoaking foxes, milking of Hee-goates,
Pounding of water in a morter, lauing
The ſea dry with a nut-ſhell, gathering all
The leaues are falne this _Autumne_, drawing farts 5
Out of dead bodies, making ropes of ſand,
Catching the windes together in a net,
Muſtring of ants, and numbring atomes; all
That hell, and you thought exquiſite torments, rather
Then ſtay me here, a thought more: I would ſooner 10
Keepe fleas within a circle, and be accomptant
A thouſand yeere, which of ’hem and how far
Out leap’d the other, then endure a minute
Such as I haue within. There is no hell
To a _Lady_ of faſhion. All your torture there 15
Are paſtimes to it. ’T would be a refreſhing [160]
For me, to be i’ the fire againe, from hence.
Ambler _comes in, & ſuruayes him_.
AMB. This is my ſuite, and thoſe the ſhoes and roſes!
PVG. Th’ haue such impertinent vexations,
A generall Councell o’ _diuels_ could not hit-- 20
Pug _perceiues it, and ſtarts_.
Ha! This is hee, I tooke a ſleepe with his _Wench_,
And borrow’d his cloathes. What might I doe to balke him?
AMB. Do you heare, S^r?
PVG. Answ. him but not to th’purpoſe
AMB. What is your name, I pray you Sir.
PVG. Is’t ſo late Sir?
_He anſwers quite from the purpoſe._
AMB. I aske not o’ the time, but of your name, Sir. 25
PVG. I thanke you, Sir. Yes it dos hold Sir, certaine.
AMB. Hold, Sir? what holds? I muſt both hold, and talke to you
About theſe clothes.
PVG. A very pretty lace!
But the _Taylor_ coſſend me.
AMB. No, I am coſſend
By you! robb’d.
PVG. Why, when you pleaſe Sir, I am 30
For three peny _Gleeke_, your man.
AMB. Pox o’ your _gleeke_,
And three pence. Giue me an anſwere.
PVG. Sir,
My maſter is the beſt at it.
AMB. Your maſter!
Who is your Maſter.
PVG. Let it be friday night.
AMB. What ſhould be then?
PVG. Your beſt ſongs _Thom. o’ Bet’lem_ 35
AMB. I thinke, you are he. Do’s he mocke me trow, from purpoſe?
Or do not I ſpeake to him, what I meane?
Good Sir your name.
PVG. Only a couple a’ _Cocks_ Sir,
If we can get a _Widgin_, ’tis in ſeaſon.
AMB. He hopes to make on o’ theſe _Scipticks_ o’ me 40
_For_ Scepticks.
(I thinke I name ’hem right) and do’s not fly me.
I wonder at that! ’tis a ſtrange confidence!
I’ll prooue another way, to draw his anſwer.
[746] SD.] SCENE II. _Another Room in the Same. Enter_ PUG. G
[747] 8 mustering G numbering G
[748] 17 SN.] _Enter_ AMBLER, _and surveys him_. G
[749] 18 [_Aside._ G
[750] 19 They’ve W They have G
[751] 20 SN. om. 1641 [_sees Ambler._] G
[752] 22,3 [_Aside._ G
[753] 23 him om. 1641
[754] 24, 40 SN. om. G
[755] 31 o’ ret. G
[756] 35 _Tom_ 1641, G || o’ ret. G || _Bethlem_ 1716, G Bethlem W
[757] 38 a’] o’ 1692, 1716, W of G
[758] 40 on] one 1641, f.
[759] 41 () ret. G
[760] 43 [_Exeunt severally._ G
ACT. V. SCENE. IIJ.
MERE-CRAFT. FITZ-DOTTREL.
EVERILL. PVG.
It is the eaſieſt thing Sir, to be done.
As plaine, as fizzling: roule but wi’ your eyes,
And foame at th’ mouth. A little caſtle-ſoape
Will do’t, to rub your lips: And then a nutſhell,
With toe, and touch-wood in it to ſpit fire, 5
Did you ner’e read, Sir, little _Darrels_ tricks,
With the boy o’ _Burton_, and the 7. in _Lancaſhire,
Sommers_ at _Nottingham_? All theſe do teach it.
And wee’ll giue out, Sir, that your wife ha’s bewitch’d you: [161]
_They repaire their old plot_.
EVE. And practiſed with thoſe two, as _Sorcerers_. 10
MER. And ga’ you potions, by which meanes you were
Not _Compos mentis_, when you made your _feoffment_.
There’s no recouery o’ your ſtate, but this:
This, Sir, will ſting.
EVE. And moue in a Court of equity.
MER. For, it is more then manifeſt, that this was 15
A plot o’ your wiues, to get your land.
FIT. I thinke it.
EVE. Sir it appeares.
MER. Nay, and my coſſen has knowne
Theſe gallants in theſe ſhapes.
EVE. T’haue don ſtrange things, Sir.
One as the _Lady_, the other as the _Squire_.
MER. How, a mans honeſty may be fool’d! I thought him 20
A very _Lady_.
FIT. So did I: renounce me elſe.
MER. But this way, Sir, you’ll be reueng’d at height.
EVE. Vpon ’hem all.
MER. Yes faith, and ſince your Wife
Has runne the way of woman thus, e’en giue her--
FIT. Loſt by this hand, to me, dead to all ioyes 25
Of her deare _Dottrell_, I ſhall neuer pitty her:
That could, pitty her ſelfe.
MER. Princely reſolu’d Sir,
And like your ſelfe ſtill, in _Potentiâ_.
[761] SD.] SCENE III. _A Room in_ Fitzdottrel’s _House.
Enter_ MEERCRAFT, FITZDOTTREL, _and_ EVERILL. G
[762] 2 Roll 1692, 1716 roll W, G
[763] 9 SN. om. G
[764] 11 gave G
[765] 13 estate 1641
[766] 18 shapes--G
[767] 27 could not pity W could [not] pity G
ACT. V. SCENE. IV.
MERE-CRAFT, &c. _to them_. GVILT-HEAD.
SLEDGE. PLVTARCHVS. SERIEANTS.
_Gvilt-head_ What newes?
FIT. O Sir, my hundred peices:
Let me ha’ them yet.
Fitz-dottrel _aſkes for his money_.
GVI. Yes Sir, officers
Arreſt him.
FIT. Me?
SER. I arreſt you.
SLE. Keepe the peace,
I charge you gentlemen.
FIT. Arreſt me? Why?
GVI. For better ſecurity, Sir. My ſonne _Plutarchus_ 5
Aſſures me, y’are not worth a groat.
PLV. Pardon me, _Father_,
I said his worſhip had no foote of Land left:
And that I’ll iuſtifie, for I writ the deed.
FIT. Ha’ you theſe tricks i’ the citty?
GVI. Yes, and more.
Arreſt this gallant too, here, at my ſuite. 10
_Meaning_ Mere-craft.
SLE. I, and at mine. He owes me for his lodging
Two yeere and a quarter.
MER. Why M. _Guilt-head_, Land-Lord,
Thou art not mad, though th’art _Constable_
Puft vp with th’ pride of the place? Do you heare, Sirs.
Haue I deſeru’d this from you two? for all 15
My paines at _Court_, to get you each a patent.
GVI. For what?
MER. Vpo’ my proiect o’ the _forkes_,
SLE. _Forkes?_ what be they? [162]
_The_ Project _of forks_.
MER. The laudable vſe of forkes,
Brought into cuſtome here, as they are in _Italy_,
To th’ ſparing o’ _Napkins_. That, that ſhould haue made 20
Your bellowes goe at the forge, as his at the fornace.
I ha’ procur’d it, ha’ the Signet for it,
Dealt with the _Linnen-drapers_, on my priuate,
By cause, I fear’d, they were the likelyeſt euer
To ſtirre againſt, to croſſe it; for ’twill be 25
A mighty ſauer of _Linnen_ through the kingdome
(As that is one o’ my grounds, and to ſpare waſhing)
Now, on you two, had I layd all the profits.
_Guilt-head_ to haue the making of all thoſe
Of gold and ſiluer, for the better perſonages; 30
And you, of thoſe of _Steele_ for the common ſort.
And both by _Pattent_, I had brought you your ſeales in.
But now you haue preuented me, and I thanke you.
Sledge _is brought about_.
SLE. Sir, I will bayle you, at mine owne ap-perill.
MER. Nay chooſe.
PLV. Do you ſo too, good Father. 35
_And_ Guilt-head _comes_.
GVI. I like the faſhion o’ the proiect, well,
The forkes! It may be a lucky one! and is not
Intricate, as one would ſay, but fit for
Plaine heads, as ours, to deale in. Do you heare
_Officers_, we diſcharge you.
MER. Why this ſhewes 40
A little good nature in you, I confeſſe,
But do not tempt your friends thus. Little _Guilt-head_,
Aduiſe your ſire, great _Guilt-head_ from theſe courſes:
And, here, to trouble a great man in reuerſion,
For a matter o’ fifty on a falſe _Alarme_, 45
Away, it ſhewes not well. Let him get the pieces
And bring ’hem. Yo’ll heare more elſe.
PLV. _Father._
[768] SD. MERE. ... _them_] _To them._ Mere-craft &c. 1692
MERE-CRAFT, &c. om. 1716. W
[769] ACT. ...] _Enter_ GILTHEAD, PLUTARCHUS, SLEDGE, _and_ Serjeants. G
[770] 2 SN. om. G
[771] 3 SER.] I _Serj._ G
[772] 6 y’] you W, G
[773] 10 SN.] [_Points to Meercraft._ G
[774] 13 th’] thou W, G
[775] 18 SN. om. G
[776] 23, 4 private Bie, ’cause 1692, 1716 private, Because W, G
[777] 27 to] so 1641
[778] 33, 5 SN. om. G
[779] 37, 8 Not intricate (l. 38) G
[780] 40 you. [_Exeunt Serjeants._ G
[781] 45 on] in W, G
[782] 47 You’ll 1692, 1716 You’ll W || _Exeunt Gilt. and Plut.
Enter_ AMBLER, _dragging in_ PUG. G
ACT. V. SCENE. V.
AMBLER. {_To them._
O Maſter _Sledge_, are you here? I ha’ been to ſeeke you.
You are the _Conſtable_, they ſay. Here’s one
That I do charge with _Felony_, for the ſuite
He weares, Sir.
MER. Who? M. _Fitz-Dottrels_ man?
Ware what you do, M. _Ambler_.
AMB. Sir, theſe clothes 5
I’ll ſweare, are mine: and the ſhooes the gentlewomans
I told you of: and ha’ him afore a _Iuſtice_, [163]
I will.
PVG. My maſter, Sir, will paſſe his word for me.
AMB. O, can you ſpeake to purpoſe now?
FIT. Not I,
If you be ſuch a one Sir, I will leaue you 10
To your _God fathers_ in Law. Let twelue men worke.
Fitz-dottrel _diſclaimes him_.
PVG. Do you heare Sir, pray, in priuate.
FIT. well, what ſay you?
Briefe, for I haue no time to looſe.
PVG. Truth is, Sir,
I am the very _Diuell_, and had leaue
To take this body, I am in, to ſerue you; 15
Which was a _Cutpurſes_, and hang’d this Morning.
And it is likewiſe true, I ſtole this ſuite
To cloth me with. But Sir let me not goe
To priſon for it. I haue hitherto
Loſt time, done nothing; ſhowne, indeed, no part 20
O’ my _Diuels_ nature. Now, I will ſo helpe
Your malice, ’gainst theſe parties; ſo aduance
The buſineſſe, that you haue in hand of _witchcraft_,
And your _poſſeſſion_, as my ſelfe were in you.
Teach you ſuch tricks, to make your belly ſwell, 25
And your eyes turne, to foame, to ſtare, to gnaſh
Your teeth together, and to beate your ſelfe,
Laugh loud, and faine ſix voices--
FIT. Out you Rogue!
You moſt infernall counterfeit wretch! Auant!
Do you thinke to gull me with your _Æſops Fables_? 30
Here take him to you, I ha’ no part in him.
PVG. Sir.
FIT. Away, I do diſclaime, I will not heare you.
_And ſends him away._
MER. What ſaid he to you, Sir?
FIT. Like a lying raskall
Told me he was the _Diuel_.
MER. How! a good ieſt!
FIT. And that he would teach me, ſuch fine _diuels_ tricks 35
For our new reſolution.
EVE. O’ pox on him,
’Twas excellent wiſely done, Sir, not to truſt him.
Mere-craft _giues the instructions to him and the reſt_.
MER. Why, if he were the Diuel, we ſha’ not need him,
If you’ll be rul’d. Goe throw your ſelfe on a bed, Sir,
And faine you ill. Wee’ll not be ſeene wi’ you, 40
Till after, that you haue a fit: and all
Confirm’d within. Keepe you with the two _Ladies_
And perſwade them. I’ll to _Iuſtice Either-ſide_,
And poſſeſſe him with all. _Traines_ ſhall ſeeke out _Ingine_,
And they two fill the towne with’t, euery cable 45
Is to be veer’d. We muſt employ out all
Our _emiſſaries_ now; Sir, I will ſend you
_Bladders_ and _Bellowes_. Sir, be confident,
’Tis no hard thing t’out doe the _Deuill_ in:
A Boy o’ thirteene yeere old made him an _Aſſe_ 50
But t’toher day.
FIT. Well, I’ll beginne to practice;
And ſcape the imputation of being _Cuckold_,
By mine owne act.
MER. yo’ are right.
EVE. Come, you ha’ put
Your ſelfe to a ſimple coyle here, and your freinds, [164]
By dealing with new _Agents_, in new plots. 55
MER. No more o’ that, ſweet couſin.
EVE. What had you
To doe with this ſame _Wittipol_, for a _Lady_?
MER. Queſtion not that: ’tis done.
EVE. You had ſome ſtraine
’Boue E-_la_?
MER. I had indeed.
EVE. And, now, you crack for’t.
MER. Do not vpbraid me.
EVE. Come, you muſt be told on’t; 60
You are ſo couetous, ſtill, to embrace
More then you can, that you looſe all.
MER. ’Tis right.
What would you more, then Guilty? Now, your ſuccours.
[783] SD. om. G
[784] 5 _Ambler. Enter_ FITZDOTTREL. G
[785] 11 SN. om. G
[786] 12 private. [_Takes him aside._ G
[787] 28 loud] round 1716
[788] 32 SN.] [_Exit Sledge with Pug._ G
[789] 36 O’] O W O, G
[790] 37 SN. om. G
[791] 42 [_to Everill._ G
[792] 43 I will G
[793] 45 two] to 1641
[794] 46 imploy 1641
[795] 49 t’ ret. G
[796] 51 t’tother 1692 t’other 1716. f.
[797] 53 You’re 1716, W right. || [_Exit Fitz._ G
[798] 61 imbrace 1641
[799] 63 [_Exeunt._ G
ACT. V. SCENE. VJ.
SHAKLES. PVG. INIQUITY. DIVEL.
Pug _is brought to_ New-gate.
Here you are lodg’d, Sir, you muſt ſend your garniſh,
If you’ll be priuat.
PVG. There it is, Sir, leaue me.
To _New-gate_, brought? How is the name of _Deuill_
Diſcredited in me! What a loſt fiend
Shall I be, on returne? My _Cheife_ will roare 5
In triumph, now, that I haue beene on earth,
A day, and done no noted thing, but brought
That body back here, was hang’d out this morning.
Well! would it once were midnight, that I knew
My vtmoſt. I thinke Time be drunke, and ſleepes; 10
He is ſo ſtill, and moues not! I doe glory
Now i’ my torment. Neither can I expect it,
I haue it with my fact.
_Enter_ Iniquity _the_ Vice.
INI. _Child_ of hell, be thou merry:
Put a looke on, as round, boy, and red as a cherry.
Caſt care at thy poſternes; and firke i’ thy fetters, 15
They are ornaments, _Baby_, haue graced thy betters:
Looke vpon me, and hearken. Our _Cheife_ doth ſalute thee,
And leaſt the coldyron ſhould chance to confute thee,
H’hath ſent thee, _grant-paroll_ by me to ſtay longer
A moneth here on earth, againſt cold _Child_, or honger. 20
PVG. How? longer here a moneth?
ING. Yes, boy, till the _Seſſion_,
That ſo thou mayeſt haue a triumphall egreſſion.
PVG. In a cart, to be hang’d.
ING. No, _Child_, in a Carre,
The charriot of Triumph, which moſt of them are.
And in the meane time, to be greazy, and bouzy, 25
And naſty, and filthy, and ragged and louzy,
With dam’n me, renounce me, and all the fine phraſes;
That bring, vnto _Tiborne_, the plentifull gazes.
PVG. He is a _Diuell_! and may be our _Cheife_! [165]
The great Superiour _Diuell_! for his malice: 30
_Arch-diuel_! I acknowledge him. He knew
What I would ſuffer, when he tie’d me vp thus
In a rogues body: and he has (I thanke him)
His tyrannous pleaſure on me, to confine me
To the vnlucky carkaſſe of a _Cutpurſe_, 35
wherein I could do nothing.
_The great_ Deuill _enters, and vpbraids
him with all his dayes worke_.
DIV. Impudent fiend,
Stop thy lewd mouth. Doeſt thou not ſhame and tremble
To lay thine owne dull damn’d defects vpon
An innocent caſe, there? Why thou heauy ſlaue!
The ſpirit, that did poſſeſſe that fleſh before 40
Put more true life, in a finger, and a thumbe,
Then thou in the whole Maſſe. Yet thou rebell’ſt
And murmur’ſt? What one profer haſt thou made,
Wicked inough, this day, that might be call’d
Worthy thine owne, much leſſe the name that ſent thee? 45
Firſt, thou did’ſt helpe thy ſelfe into a beating
Promptly, and with’t endangered’ſt too thy tongue:
A _Diuell_, and could not keepe a body intire
One day! That, for our credit. And to vindicate it,
Hinderd’ſt (for ought thou know’ſt) a deed of darkneſſe: 50
Which was an act of that egregious folly,
As no one, to’ard the _Diuel_, could ha’ thought on.
This for your acting! but for suffering! why
Thou haſt beene cheated on, with a falſe beard,
And a turn’d cloake. Faith, would your predeceſſour 55
The _Cutpurſe_, thinke you, ha’ been ſo? Out vpon thee,
The hurt th’ haſt don, to let men know their ſtrength,
And that the’are able to out-doe a _diuel_
Put in a body, will for euer be
A ſcarre vpon our Name! whom haſt thou dealt with, 60
Woman or man, this day, but haue out-gone thee
Some way, and moſt haue prou’d the better fiendes?
Yet, you would be imploy’d? Yes, hell ſhall make you
_Prouinciall_ o’ the _Cheaters_! or _Bawd-ledger_,
For this ſide o’ the towne! No doubt you’ll render 65
A rare accompt of things. Bane o’ your itch,
And ſcratching for imployment. I’ll ha’ brimſtone
To allay it ſure, and fire to ſindge your nayles off,
But, that I would not ſuch a damn’d diſhonor
Sticke on our ſtate, as that the _diuell_ were hang’d; 70
And could not ſaue a body, that he tooke
From _Tyborne_, but it muſt come thither againe:
You ſhould e’en ride. But, vp away with him--
Iniquity _takes him on his back_.
INI. Mount, dearling of darkneſſe, my ſhoulders are broad:
He that caries the fiend, is ſure of his loade. 75
The _Diuell_ was wont to carry away the euill; [166]
But, now, the Euill out-carries the _Diuell_.
[800] SD. VJJ VII. W ACT. ...] SCENE IV. _A Cell in Newgate.
Enter_ SHAKLES, _with_ PVG _in chains_. G
[801] 2 [_Exit Shackles._
[802] SN. (after ‘fact.’ 13) _the_ Vice om. G
[803] 12 i’] in W
[804] 18 the] our 1692, 1716
[805] 19 parole G
[806] 22 maist 1692 may’st 1716 mayst W, G
[807] 36 SN.] _Enter_ SATAN. G DIV.] _Sat._ G
[808] 37 Dost 1692, 1716
[809] 44 enough 1692, f.
[810] 48 entire W, G
[811] 57 th’] thou G
[812] 58 the’are] they are 1641, G the’are are 1692 they’re 1716, W
[813] 63 employ’d W, G
[814] 67 employment W, G
[815] 64 Cheaters] _heaters_ 1641
[816] 77 [_Exeunt._ [_A loud explosion, smoke, &c._ G
ACT. V. SCENE. VIJ.
SHAKLES. KEEPERS.
_A great noise is heard in_ New-gate,
_and the Keepers come out affrighted_.
O mee!
KEE. 1. What’s this?
2. A piece of Iustice Hall
Is broken downe.
3. Fough! what a ſteeme of brimſtone
Is here?
4. The priſoner’s dead, came in but now!
SHA. Ha? where?
4. Look here.
KEE. S’lid, I ſhuld know his countenance!
It is _Gill-Cut-purſe_, was hang’d out, this morning! 5
SHA. ’Tis he!
2. The _Diuell_, ſure, has a hand in this!
3. What ſhall wee doe?
SHA. Carry the newes of it
Vnto the _Sherifes_.
1. And to the _Iuſtices_.
4. This ſtrange!
3. And ſauours of the _Diuell_, ſtrongly!
2. I’ ha’ the _ſulphure_ of _Hell-coale_ i’ my noſe. 10
1. Fough.
SHA. Carry him in.
1. Away.
2. How ranke it is!
[817] SD.] _Enter_ SHAKLES, _and the_ Under-keepers, _affrighted_. G
[818] 3 Is here?] part of line 2 W
[819] 9 This is 1716, f.
[820] 11 [_Exeunt with the body._ G
ACT. V. SCENE. VIII.
Sir POVLE. MERE-CRAFT. EVER-ILL.
TRAINES. PITFALL. FITZ-DOTTREL.
{_To them_}
VVITTIPOL. MANLY. Miſtreſſe FITZ-DOTTREL.
INGINE. _To them_} GVILT-HEAD.
SLEDGE. _to them_} SHACKLES.
_The Iuſtice comes out wondring, and the reſt informing him._
This was the notableſt Conſpiracy,
That ere I heard of.
MER. Sir, They had giu’n him potions,
That did enamour him on the counterfeit _Lady_--
EVE. Iuſt to the time o’ deliuery o’ the deed--
MER. And then the witchcraft ’gan’t’ appeare, for ſtreight 5
He fell into his fit.
EVE. Of rage at firſt, Sir,
Which ſince, has ſo increaſed.
TAY. Good S^r. _Poule_, ſee him,
And puniſh the impoſtors.
POV. Therefore I come, _Madame_.
EIT. Let M^r. _Etherſide_ alone, _Madame_.
POV. Do you heare?
Call in the Conſtable, I will haue him by: 10
H’is the Kings _Officer_! and ſome Cittizens, [167]
Of credit! I’ll diſcharge my conſcience clearly.
MER. Yes, Sir, and ſend for his wife.
EVE. And the two _Sorcerers_,
By any meanes!
TAY. I thought one a true _Lady_,
I ſhould be ſworne. So did you, _Eyther-ſide_? 15
EIT. Yes, by that light, would I might ne’r ſtir elſe, _Tailbuſh_.
TAY. And the other a ciuill Gentleman.
EVE. But, _Madame_,
You know what I told your _Ladyſhip_.
TAY. I now ſee it:
I was prouiding of a banquet for ’hem.
After I had done inſtructing o’ the fellow 20
_De-uile_, the Gentlemans man.
MER. Who’s found a thiefe, _Madam_.
And to haue rob’d your Vsher, Maſter _Ambler_,
This morning.
TAY. How?
MER. I’ll tell you more, anon.
FIT. Gi me ſome _garlicke, garlicke, garlicke, garlicke_.
_He beginnes his fit._
MER. Harke the poore Gentleman, how he is tormented! 25
FIT. _My wife is a whore, I’ll kiſſe her no more: and why?
Ma’ſt not thou be a Cuckold, as well as I?
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, &c._
POV. That is the _Diuell_ ſpeakes, and laughes in him.
_The Iuſtice interpret all:_
MER. Do you thinke ſo, S^r.
POV. I diſcharge my conſcience. 30
FIT. _And is not the Diuell good company? Yes, wis._
EVE. How he changes, Sir, his voyce!
FIT. _And a Cuckold is
Where ere hee put his head, with a_ a _Wanion,
If his hornes be forth, the Diuells companion!
Looke, looke, looke, elſe._
MER. How he foames!
EVE. And ſwells! 35
TAY. O, me! what’s that there, riſes in his belly!
EIT. A ſtrange thing! hold it downe:
TRA. PIT. We cannot, _Madam_.
POV. ’Tis too apparent this!
FIT. _Wittipol, Wittipol._
Wittipol, _and_ Manly _and_ Mistr. Fitz-dottrel _enter_.
WIT. How now, what play ha’ we here.
MAN. What fine, new matters?
WIT. The _Cockſcomb_, and the _Couerlet_.
MER. O ſtrang impudēce! 40
That theſe ſhould come to face their ſinne!
EVE. And out-face
_Iuſtice_, they are the parties, Sir.
POV. Say nothing.
MER. Did you marke, Sir, vpon their comming in,
How he call’d _Wittipol_.
EVE. And neuer ſaw ’hem.
POV. I warrant you did I, let ’hem play a while. 45
FIT. _Buz, buz, buz, buz._
TAY. Laſſe poore Gentleman!
How he is tortur’d!
M^rs. FI. Fie, Maſter _Fitz-dottrel_!
What doe you meane to counterfait thus?
FIT. _O, ô,_
_His wife goes to him._
_Shee comes with a needle, and thruſts it in,_
_Shee pulls out that, and ſhee puts in a pinne,_ 50
_And now, and now, I doe not know how, nor where,_
_But ſhee pricks mee heere, and ſhee pricks me there: ôh, ôh:_
POV. Woman forbeare.
WIT. What, S^r?
POV. A practice foule
For one ſo faire:
WIT. Hath this, then, credit with you?
MAN. Do you beleeue in’t?
POV. Gentlemen, I’ll diſcharge
My conſcience. ’Tis a cleare conſpiracy! 56
A darke, and diuelliſh practice! I deteſt it!
WIT. The _Iuſtice_ ſure will proue the merrier man! [168]
MAN. This is moſt ſtrange, Sir!
POV. Come not to confront
Authority with impudence: I tell you,
I doe deteſt it. Here comes the Kings _Conſtable_,
And with him a right worſhipfull _Commoner_;
My good friend, Maſter _Guilt-head_! I am glad
I can before ſuch witneſſes, profeſſe
My conſcience, and my deteſtation of it. 65
Horible! moſt vnaturall! Abominable!
EVE. You doe not tumble enough.
MER. Wallow, gnaſh:
_They whiſper him._
TAY. O, how he is vexed!
POV. ’Tis too manifeſt.
EVE. Giue him more ſoap to foame with, now lie ſtill.
_and giue him ſoape to act with._
MER. And act a little.
TAY. What do’s he now, S^r.
POV. Shew
The taking of _Tabacco_, with which the _Diuell_
Is ſo delighted.
FIT. _Hum!_
POV. And calls for _Hum_.
You takers of ſtrong _Waters_, and _Tabacco_,
Marke this.
FIT. _Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow_, &c.
POV. That’s _Starch_! the _Diuells_ Idoll of that colour. 75
He ratifies it, with clapping of his hands.
The proofes are pregnant.
GVI. How the _Diuel_ can act!
POV. He is the Maſter of _Players_! Master _Guilt-head_,
And _Poets_, too! you heard him talke in rime!
I had forgot to obſerue it to you, ere while! 80
TAY. See, he ſpits fire.
POV. O no, he plaies at _Figgum_,
The _Diuell_ is the Author of wicked _Figgum_--
_Sir_ Poule _interprets_ Figgum _to be a Iuglers game_.
MAN. Why ſpeake you not vnto him?
WIT. If I had
All innocence of man to be indanger’d,
And he could ſaue, or ruine it: I’ld not breath 85
A ſyllable in requeſt, to ſuch a foole,
He makes himſelfe.
FIT. _O they whiſper, whiſper, whiſper.
Wee ſhall haue more, of Diuells a ſcore,
To come to dinner, in mee the ſinner._
EYT. Alas, poore Gentleman!
POV. Put ’hem aſunder. 90
Keepe ’hem one from the other.
MAN. Are you phrenticke, Sir,
Or what graue dotage moues you, to take part
VVith so much villany? wee are not afraid
Either of law, or triall; let vs be
Examin’d what our ends were, what the meanes? 95
To worke by, and poſſibility of thoſe meanes.
Doe not conclude againſt vs, ere you heare vs.
POV. I will not heare you, yet I will conclude
Out of the circumſtances.
MAN. VVill you ſo, Sir?
POV. Yes, they are palpable:
MAN. Not as your folly: 100
POV. I will diſcharge my conſcience, and doe all
To the _Meridian_ of Iuſtice:
GVI. You doe well, Sir.
FIT. _Prouide mee to eat, three or foure diſhes o’ good meat,
I’ll feaſt them, and their traines, a Iuſtice head and braines
Shall be the firſt._
POV. The _Diuell_ loues not Iuſtice, [169]
There you may ſee.
FIT. _A ſpare-rib O’ my wife, 106
And a whores purt’nance! a_ Guilt-head _whole_.
POV. Be not you troubled, Sir, the _Diuell_ ſpeakes it.
FIT. _Yes, wis, Knight, ſhite, Poule, Ioule, owle, foule,
troule, boule._
POV. _Crambe_, another of the _Diuell’s_ games! 110
MER. Speake. Sir, ſome _Greeke_, if you can. Is not the _Iuſtice_
A ſolemne gameſter?
EVE. Peace.
FIT. Οὶ μοὶ, κακοδαιμων,
Καὶ τρισκακοδαίμων, καὶ τετράκις, καὶ πεντάκις,
Καὶ δοδεκάκις, καὶ μυριάκις.
POV. Hee curſes.
In _Greeke_, I thinke.
EVE. Your _Spaniſh_, that I taught you. 115
FIT. _Quebrémos el ojo de burlas_,
EVE. How? your reſt--
Let’s breake his necke in ieſt, the _Diuell_ ſaies.
FIT. _Di grátia, Signòr mio ſe haúete denári fataméne parte._
MER. What, would the _Diuell_ borrow money?
FIT. _Ouy,
Ouy Monſieur, ùn pàuure Diable! Diablet in!_ 120
POV. It is the _diuell_, by his ſeuerall langauges.
_Enter the_ Keeper _of_ New-gate.
SHA. Where’s S^r. _Poule Ether-ſide_?
POV. Here, what’s the matter?
SHA. O! ſuch an accident falne out at _Newgate_, Sir:
A great piece of the priſon is rent downe!
The _Diuell_ has beene there, Sir, in the body-- 125
Of the young _Cut-Purſe_, was hang’d out this morning,
But, in new clothes, Sir, euery one of vs know him.
Theſe things were found in his pocket.
AMB. Thoſe are mine, S^r.
SHA. I thinke he was commited on your charge, Sir.
For a new felony.
AMB. Yes.
SHA. Hee’s gone, Sir, now, 130
And left vs the dead body. But withall, Sir,
Such an infernall ſtincke, and ſteame behinde,
You cannot ſee S^t. _Pulchars Steeple_, yet.
They ſmell’t as farre as _Ware_, as the wind lies, 134
By this time, ſure.
FIT. Is this vpon your credit, friend?
Fitz-dottrel _leaues counterfaiting_.
SHA. Sir, you may ſee, and ſatisfie your ſelfe.
FIT. Nay, then, ’tis time to leaue off counterfeiting.
Sir I am not bewitch’d, nor haue a _Diuell_:
No more then you. I doe defie him, I,
And did abuſe you. Theſe two Gentlemen 140
Put me vpon it. (I haue faith againſt him)
They taught me all my tricks. I will tell truth,
And ſhame the _Feind_. See, here, Sir, are my bellowes,
And my falſe belly, and my _Mouſe_, and all
That ſhould ha’ come forth?
MAN. Sir, are not you aſham’d
Now of your ſolemne, ſerious vanity? 146
POV. I will make honorable amends to truth.
FIT. And ſo will I. But theſe are _Coozeners_, ſtill;
And ha’ my land, as plotters, with my wife:
Who, though ſhe be not a witch, is worſe, a whore. 150
MAN. Sir, you belie her. She is chaſte, and vertuous,
And we are honeſt. I doe know no glory [170]
A man ſhould hope, by venting his owne follyes,
But you’ll ſtill be an _Aſſe_, in ſpight of prouidence.
Pleaſe you goe in, Sir, and heare truths, then iudge ’hem:
And make amends for your late raſhneſſe; when, 156
You ſhall but heare the paines and care was taken,
To ſaue this foole from ruine (his _Grace_ of _Drown’d-land_)
FIT. My land is drown’d indeed--
POV. Peace.
MAN. And how much
His modeſt, and too worthy wife hath ſuffer’d 160
By miſ-conſtruction, from him, you will bluſh,
Firſt, for your owne beliefe, more for his actions!
His land is his: and neuer, by my friend,
Or by my ſelfe, meant to another vſe,
But for her ſuccours, who hath equall right. 165
If any other had worſe counſells in’t,
(I know I ſpeake to thoſe can apprehend mee)
Let ’hem repent ’hem, and be not detected.
It is not manly to take ioy, or pride
In humane errours. (wee doe all ill things, 170
They doe ’hem worſt that loue ’hem, and dwell there,
Till the plague comes) The few that haue the ſeeds
Of goodneſſe left, will ſooner make their way
To a true life, by ſhame, then puniſhment.
_THE END_.
[821] SD. Sir] To them.] Sir 1692 _to them_ om. 1692, 1716, W
ACT. . . .] SCENE V. _A Room in_ Fitzdottrel’s _House_. FITZDOTTREL
_discovered in bed; Lady_ EITHERSIDE, TAILBUSH, AMBLER, TRAINS, _and_
PITFALL, _standing by him. Enter Sir_ PAUL EITHERSIDE, MEERCRAFT,
_and_ EVERILL. G
[822] 1 SN. _and_] _at_ 1692, 1716, W The ...] om. G
[823] 4 time o’ ret. G
[824] 11 H’is] He’s 1716, f.
[825] 14 means. [_Exit Ambler._ G
[826] 20 o’] of W
[827] 21 Who is G
[828] 28 _ha_, om. W _ha, &c._ om. G
[829] 29 SN. _interprets_ 1692, 1716, W _The_ ...] om. G
[830] 33 a om. 1641, f.
[831] 38 SN. Wittipol, _and ... enter_] _Enter_ WITTIPOL, ... G
[832] 40 strange 1641, f.
[833] 43 their] our W
[834] 48 SN. _His wife_ om. G
[835] 58 prove to be the merrier? 1641
[836] 60 impudence] insolence 1641
[837] 61 it.--_Re-enter_ AMBLER, _with_ SLEDGE _and_ GUILTHEAD. G
[838] 69 with [_To Meer._] G
[839] SN. _him_ om. 1641
[840] SN. om. G
[841] 73 strong om. 1641
[842] 74 &c. om. G
[843] 82 SN. _to be_ om. 1641
[844] SN. om. G
[845] 84 endanger’d W, G
[846] 86 foole] fellow 1641
[847] 87 He makes himselfe] I’d rather fall 1641 O they whisper,
they whisper, whisper, &c. 1641
[848] 91 phrenetic G
[849] 108 you om. W
[850] 110 _Crambe_] Crambo W. G
[851] 111 can. [_Aside to Fitz._] G
[852] 112 =κακοδάμων= 1692, 1716
[853] 113 =τισ= 1692, 1716
[854] 114 =δωδεκάκις= W, G
[855] 115 _Aside to Fitz._ G
[856] 119 FIT. _Ouy_,] in line 120, 1692, f.
[857] 121 SN.] _Enter_ SHACKLES, _with the things found on the body
of the Cut-purse_. G
[858] 128 Those] These W
[859] 135 SN.] _Fitz._ [_starts up_.] G
[860] 141 () ret. G
[861] 145 not you] you not W, G
[862] 148 Coozners 1641 _Cozeners_ 1692, 1716 cozeners W, G
[863] 166 in it G
[864] 167 () ret. G
[865] 170 human 1692, f.
[866] 174 [_He comes forward for the Epilogue._ G
[867] 175 ‘The End.’ after line 6 1692 om. 1716 W, G
The Epilogue.
_Thus, the_ Proiecter, _here, is ouer-throwne.
But I have now a_ Proiect _of mine owne,
If it may paſſe: that no man would inuite
The_ Poet _from vs, to ſup forth to night, 5
If the_ play _pleaſe. If it diſpleaſant be,
We doe preſume, that no man will: nor wee._
[868] 1 ‘The Epilogue.’ om. G
[869] 7 [_Exeunt._ G
NOTES
The present edition includes whatever has been considered of value
in the notes of preceding editions. It has been the intention in
all cases to acknowledge facts and suggestions borrowed from such
sources, whether quoted verbatim, abridged, or developed. Notes
signed W. are from Whalley, G. from Gifford, C. from Cunningham.
For other abbreviations the Bibliography should be consulted.
Explanations of words and phrases are usually found only in the
Glossary. References to this play are by act, scene, and line of the
Text; other plays of Jonson are cited from the Gifford-Cunningham
edition of 1875. The references are to play, volume and page.
TITLE-PAGE.
=THE DIUELL IS AN ASSE.= ‘Schlegel, seizing with great felicity upon
an untranslateable German idiom, called the play _Der dumme Teufel_
[Schlegel’s _Werke_, ed. Böcking, 6. 340]--a title which must be
allowed to be twice as good as that of the English original. The
phrase ‘the Devil is an ass’ appears to have been proverbial.
See Fletcher’s _The Chances_, Act 5. Sc. 2:
Dost thou think
The devil such an ass as people make him?’
--Ward, _Eng. Drama_ 2. 372.
A still more important passage occurs in Dekker’s _If this be not a
good Play_, a partial source of Jonson’s drama:
_Scu._ Sweete-breads I hold my life, that diuels an asse.
--Dekker, _Wks._ 3. 328.
Jonson uses it again in _The Staple of News_, _Wks._ 5. 188:
The conjurer cozened him with a candle’s end; he was an ass.
Dekker (_Non-dram. Wks._ 2. 275) tells us the jest of a citizen
who was told that the ‘Lawyers get the Diuell and all: What an
Asse, replied the Citizen is the diuell? If I were as he I would
get some of them.’
=HIS MAIESTIES SERVANTS.= Otherwise known as the
_King’s Company_, and popularly spoken of as the _King’s Men_. For
an account of this company see Winter, ed. _Staple of News_, p. 121;
and Fleay, _Biog. Chron._ 1. 356-7; 2. 403-4.
=Ficta voluptatis=, etc. The quotation is from Horace,
_De Art. Poet._, line 338. Jonson’s translation is:
Let what thou feign’st for pleasure’s sake, be near
The truth.
Jonson makes use of this quotation again in his note ‘To the
Reader’ prefixed to Act 3 of _The Staple of News_.
=I. B.= Fleay speaks of this printer as J. Benson (_Biog. Chron_. 1.
354). Benson did not ‘take up freedom’ until June 30, 1631 (_Sta.
Reg._ 3. 686). Later he became a publisher (1635-40; _Sta. Reg._ 5.
lxxxiv). I. B. was also the printer of _Bartholomew Fair_ and _Staple
of News_. J. Benson published a volume of Jonson’s, containing
_The Masque of the Gypsies_ and other poems, in 1640 (_Brit. Museum
Cat._ and Yale Library). In the same year he printed the _Art of
Poetry_, 12mo, and the _Execration against Vulcan_, 4to (cf. _Pub. of
Grolier Club_, N. Y. 1893, pp. 130, 132). The evidence that I. B. was
Benson is strong, but not absolutely conclusive.
=ROBERT ALLOT.= We find by Arber’s reprint of the
_Stationer’s Register_ that Robert Allot ‘took up freedom’ Nov. 7,
1625. He must have begun publishing shortly after, for under the
date of Jan. 25, 1625-6 we find that Mistris Hodgettes ‘assigned
over unto him all her estate,’ consisting of the copies of certain
books, for the ‘some of forty-five pounds.’ The first entry of a
book to Allot is made May 7, 1626. In 1630 Master Blount ‘assigned
over unto him all his estate and right in the copies’ of sixteen of
Shakespeare’s plays. In 1632 Allot brought out the Second Folio
of Shakespeare’s works. On Sept. 7, 1631 _The Staple of News_ was
assigned to him. The last entry of a book in his name is on Sept.
12, 1635. The first mention of ‘Mistris Allott’ is under the date of
Dec. 30, 1635. Under date of July 1, 1637 is the record of the
assignment by Mistris Allott of certain books, formerly the estate
of ‘Master Roberte Allotts deceased.’ Among these books are ‘37.
_Shakespeares Workes_ their part. 39. _Staple of Newes_ a Play.
40. _Bartholomew fayre_ a Play.’ I have been able to find no record
of _The Devil is an Ass_ in the _Stationer’s Register_.
=the Beare.= In the Shakespeare folio of 1632 Allot’s sign reads
‘the Black Beare.’ The first mention of the shop in the _London
Street Directory_ is in 1575, among the ‘Houses round the Churchyard.’
=Pauls Church-yard.= ‘Before the Fire, which destroyed the old
Cathedral, St. Paul’s Churchyard was chiefly inhabited by stationers,
whose shops were then, and until the year 1760, distinguished by
signs.’--Wh-C.
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY.
=GVILT-HEAD, A Gold-smith.= The goldsmiths seem to have
been a prosperous guild. (See Stow, _Survey_, ed. Thoms, p. 114.)
At this time they performed the office of banking, constituting the
intermediate stage between the usurer and the modern banker. ‘The
goldsmiths began to borrow at interest in order to lend out to
traders at a higher rate. In other words they became the connecting
link between those who had money to lend and those who wished
to borrow for trading purposes, or it might be to improve their
estates. No doubt at first the goldsmiths merely acted as guardians
of their clients’ hoards, but they soon began to utilize those hoards
much as bankers now make use of the money deposited with
them.’--_Social England_ 3. 544.
=AMBLER.= Jonson uses this name again in _Neptune’s Triumph_,
_Wks._ 8. 32:
Grave master Ambler, news-master o’ Paul’s,
Supplies your capon.
It reappears in _The Staple of News_.
=Her Gentlemanvsher.= For an exposition of the character and
duties of the gentleman-usher see the notes to 4. 4. 134. 201, 215.
=Newgate.= ‘This gate hath of long time been a gaol, or prison
for felons and trespassers, as appeareth by records in the reign of
King John, and of other kings.’--Stow, _Survey_, ed. Thoms, p. 14.
THE PROLOGUE.
=1 The DIVELL is an Asse.= ‘This is said by the prologue pointing
to the _title_ of the play, which as was then the custom, was
painted in large letters and placed in some conspicuous part of the
stage.’--G.
Cf. _Poetaster_, _After the second sounding_: ‘What’s here? THE
ARRAIGNMENT!’ Also _Wily Beguiled_: _Prol._ How now, my
honest rogue? What play shall we have here to-night?
_Player._ Sir, you may look upon the title.
_Prol._ What, _Spectrum_ once again?’
Jonson often, but not invariably, announces the title of
the play in the prologue or induction. Cf. _Every Man out_,
_Cynthia’s Revels_, _Poetaster_, and all plays subsequent
to _Bart. Fair_ except _Sad Shep_.
=3 Grandee’s.= Jonson uses this affected form of address
again in _Timber_, ed. Schelling. 22. 27
=4 allowing vs no place.= As Gifford points out, the prologue is a
protest against the habit prevalent at the time of crowding the stage
with stools for the accommodation of the spectators.
Dekker in Chapter 6 of _The Guls Horne-booke_ gives the gallant full
instructions as to the behavior proper to the play-house. The youth
is advised to wait until ‘the quaking prologue hath (by rubbing) got
culor into his cheekes’, and then ‘to creepe from behind the Arras,’
and plant himself ‘on the very Rushes where the Commedy is to daunce,
yea, and vnder the state of Cambises himselfe.’ Sir John Davies makes
a similar allusion _(Epigrams_, ed. Grosart, 2. 10). Jonson makes
frequent reference to the subject. Cf. _Induction_ to _The Staple
of News_, _Every Man out_, _Wks._ 2. 31; _Prologue_ to _Cynthia’s
Revels_, _Wks._ 2. 210, etc.
=5 a subtill thing.= I. e., thin, airy, spiritual, and so not
occupying space.
=6 worne in a thumbe-ring.= ‘Nothing was more common, as we learn
from Lilly, than to carry about familiar spirits, shut up in rings,
watches, sword-hilts, and other articles of dress.’--G.
I have been unable to verify Gifford’s statement from Lilly,
but the following passage from Harsnet’s _Declaration_ (p. 13)
confirms it: ‘For compassing of this treasure, there was a
consociation betweene 3 or 4 priests, _deuill-coniurers_, and
4 _discouerers_, or _seers_, reputed to carry about with them,
their familiars in rings, and glasses, by whose suggestion they
came to notice of those golden hoards.’
Gifford says that thumb-rings of Jonson’s day were set with jewels
of an extraordinary size, and that they appear to have been ‘more
affected by magistrates and grave citizens than necromancers.’ Cf.
_I Henry IV_ 2. 4: ‘I could have crept into any alderman’s thumb-ring.’
Also _Witts Recreat._, _Epig._ 623:
He wears a hoop-ring on his thumb; he has
Of gravidad a dose, full in the face.
Glapthorne, _Wit in a Constable_, 1639, 4. 1: ‘An alderman--I may
say to you, he has no more wit than the rest of the bench, and that
lies in his thumb-ring.’
=8 In compasse of a cheese-trencher.= The figure seems forced
to us, but it should be remembered that trenchers were a very
important article of table equipment in Jonson’s day. They were
often embellished with ‘posies,’ and it is possible that Jonson was
thinking of the brevity of such inscriptions. Cf. Dekker, _North-Ward
Hoe_ 3. 1 (_Wks._ 3. 38): ‘Ile have you make 12. poesies for a dozen
of cheese trenchers.’ Also _Honest Whore_, Part I, Sc. 13; and
Middleton, _Old Law_ 2. 1 (_Wks._ 2. 149); _No Wit, no Help like a
Woman’s_ 2. 1 (_Wks._ 4. 322).
=15 Like the young adders.= It is said that young adders, when
frightened, run into their mother’s mouth for protection.
=16 Would wee could stand due North.= I. e., be as infallible as
the compass.
=17 Muscouy glasse.= Cf. Marston, _Malcontent_, _Wks_. 1. 234: ‘She
were an excellent lady, but that her face peeleth like Muscovy
glass.’ Reed (_Old Plays_ 4. 38) quotes from Giles Fletcher‘s _Russe
Commonwealth_, 1591, p. 10: ‘In the province of Corelia, and about
the river Duyna towards the North-sea, there groweth a soft rock
which they call Slude. This they cut into pieces, and so tear it
into thin _flakes, which naturally it is apt for_, and so use it for
glasse lanthorns and such like. It giveth both inwards and outwards
a clearer light then glasse, and for this respect is better than
either glasse or horne; for that it neither breaketh like glasse, nor
yet will burne like the lanthorne.’ Dekker _(Non-dram. Wks._ 2. 135)
speaks of a ‘Muscouie Lanthorne.’ See Gloss.
=22 the Diuell of Edmunton.= _The Merry Devil of Edmunton_ was
acted by the King’s Men at the Globe before Oct. 22, 1607. It has
been conjecturally assigned to Shakespeare and to Drayton. Hazlitt
describes it as ‘perhaps the first example of sentimental comedy
we have’ (see _O. Pl._, 4th ed., 10. 203 f.). Fleay, who believes
Drayton to be the author, thinks that the ‘Merry devil’ of _The
Merchant of Venice_ 2. 3, alludes to this play (_Biog. Chron._ 1.
151 and 2. 213). There were six editions in the 17th century, all in
quarto--1608, 1612, 1617, 1626, 1631, 1655. Middleton, _The Black
Book_, _Wks._ 8. 36, alludes to it pleasantly in connection with
_A Woman kill’d with Kindness_. Genest mentions it as being revived
in 1682. Cf. also _Staple of News_, 1st Int.
=26 If this Play doe not like=, etc. Jonson refers to Dekker’s play
of 1612 (see Introduction, p. xxix). On the title-page of this play
we find _If it be not good, The Diuel is in it_. At the head of Act.
1, however, the title reads _If this be not a good play_, etc.
ACT I.
=1. 1. 1 Hoh, hoh=, etc. ‘Whalley is right in saying that this is
the conventional way for the devil to make his appearance in the old
morality-plays. Gifford objects on the ground that ‘it is not the roar
of terror; but the boisterous expression of sarcastic merriment at the
absurd petition of Pug;’ an objection, the truth of which does not
necessarily invalidate Whalley’s statement. Jonson of course adapts the
old conventions to his own ends. See Introduction, p. xxiii.
=1. 1. 9 Entring a Sow, to make her cast her farrow?= Cf. Dekker,
etc., _Witch of Edmonton_ (_Wks._ 4. 423): ‘_Countr._ I’ll be sworn,
_Mr. Carter_, she bewitched Gammer _Washbowls_ sow, to cast her Pigs
a day before she would have farried.’
=1. 1. 11 Totnam.= ‘The first notice of Tottenham Court, as a place
of public entertainment, contained in the books of the parish of St.
Gile’s-in-the-Fields, occurs under the year 1645 (Wh-C.). Jonson,
however, as early as 1614 speaks of ‘courting it to Totnam to eat
cream’ (_Bart. Fair_, Act 1. Sc. 1, _Wks._ 4. 362). George Wither,
in the _Britain’s Remembrancer_, 1628, refers to the same thing:
And Hogsdone, Islington, and Tothnam-court,
For cakes and cream had then no small resort.
Tottenham Fields were until a comparatively recent date a favorite
place of entertainment.
=1. 1. 13 a tonning of Ale=, etc. Cf. _Sad Shep._, _Wks._ 6. 276:
The house wives tun not work, nor the milk churn.
=1. 1. 15 Spight o’ the housewiues cord, or her hot spit.=
‘There be twentie severall waies to make your butter come, which
for brevitie I omit; as to bind your cherne with a rope, to
thrust thereinto a red hot spit, &c.’--Scot, _Discovery_, p. 229.
=1. 1. 16, 17 Or some good Ribibe ... witch.= This seems
to be an allusion, as Fleay suggests, to Heywood’s _Wise-Woman
of Hogsdon_. The witch of that play declares her dwelling to
be in ‘Kentstreet’ (Heywood’s _Wks._ 5. 294). A ribibe meant
originally a musical instrument, and was synonymous with rebec.
By analogy, perhaps, it was applied to a shrill-voiced old
woman. This is Gifford’s explanation. The word occurs again
in Skelton’s _Elynour Rummyng_, l. 492, and in Chaucer, _The
Freres Tale_, l. 1377: ‘a widwe, an old ribybe.’ Skeat offers
the following explanation: ‘I suspect that this old joke, for
such it clearly is, arose in a very different way [from that
suggested by Gifford], viz. from a pun upon _rebekke_, a fiddle,
and _Rebekke_, a married woman, from the mention of Rebecca in
the marriage-service. Chaucer himself notices the latter in E. 1704.’
=1. 1. 16 Kentish Towne.= Kentish Town, Cantelows, or Cantelupe
town is the most ancient district in the parish of Pancras. It was
originally a small village, and as late as the eighteenth century a
lonely and somewhat dangerous spot. In later years it became noted
for its Assembly Rooms. In 1809 Hughson (_London_ 6. 369) called it
‘the most romantic hamlet in the parish of Pancras.’ It is now a part
of the metropolis. See Samuel Palmer’s _St. Pancras_, London, 1870.
=1. 1. 17 Hogsden.= Stow (_Survey_, ed. Thoms, p. 158) describes
Hogsden as a ‘large street with houses on both sides.’ It was a
prebend belonging to St. Paul’s. In Hogsden fields Jonson killed
Gabriel Spenser in a duel in 1598. These fields were a great
resort for the citizens on a holiday. The eating of cream there is
frequently mentioned. See the quotation from Wither under note 1. 1.
11, and _Alchemist_, _Wks._ 4. 155 and 175:
----Ay, he would have built
The city new; and made a ditch about it
Of silver, should have run with cream from Hogsden.
Stephen in _Every Man in_ dwelt here, and so was forced to associate
with ‘the archers of Finsbury, or the citizens that come a-ducking
to Islington ponds.’ Hogsden or Hoxton, as it is now called, is
to-day a populous district of the metropolis.
=1. 1. 18 shee will not let you play round Robbin.= The expression
is obscure, and the dictionaries afford little help. Round-robin
is a common enough phrase, but none of the meanings recorded is
applicable in this connection. Some child’s game, played in a circle,
seems to be referred to, or the expression may be a cant term for
‘play the deuce.’ Robin is a name of many associations, and its
connection with Robin Hood, Robin Goodfellow, and ‘Robert’s Men’
(‘The third old rank of the Canting crew.’--Grose.) makes such an
interpretation more or less probable.
M. N. G. in _N. & Q._ 9th Ser. 10. 394 says that ‘when a man does
a thing in a circuitous, involved manner he is sometimes said “to
go all round Robin Hood’s barn to do it.”’ ‘Round Robin Hood’s
barn’ may possibly have been the name of a game which has been
shortened to ‘round Robin.’
=1. 1. 21 By a Middlesex Iury.= ‘A reproof no less severe than
merited. It appears from the records of those times, that many
unfortunate creatures were condemned and executed on charges of the
rediculous nature here enumerated. In many instances, the judge was
well convinced of the innocence of the accused, and laboured to
save them; but such were the gross and barbarous prejudices of the
juries, that they would seldom listen to his recommendations; and
he was deterred from shewing mercy, in the last place by the brutal
ferociousness of the people, _whose teeth were set on edge with’t_,
and who clamoured tumultuously for the murder of the accused.’--G.
=1. 1. 32 Lancashire.= This, as Gifford says, ‘was the very hot-bed
of witches.’ Fifteen were brought to trial on Aug. 19, 1612, twelve
of whom were convicted and burnt on the day after their trial ‘at the
common place of execution near to Lancaster.’ The term ‘Lancashire
Witches’ is now applied to the beautiful women for which the country
is famed. The details of the Lancaster trial are contained in Potts’
_Discoverie_ (Lond. 1613), and a satisfactory account is given by
Wright in his _Sorcery and Magic_.
=1. 1. 33 or some parts of Northumberland.= The first witch-trial
in Northumberland, so far as I have been able to ascertain,
occurred in 1628. This was the trial of the Witch of Leeplish.
=1. 1. 37 a Vice.= See Introduction, pp. xxxiv f.
=1. 1. 38 To practice there-with any play-fellow.= See variants.
The editors by dropping the hyphen have completely changed the
sense of the passage. Pug wants a vice in order that he may corrupt
his play-fellows _there-with_.
=1. 1. 41 ff. Why, any Fraud;=
=Or Couetousnesse; or Lady Vanity;=
=Or old Iniquity.=
Fraud is a character in Robert Wilson’s _The Three Ladies of London_,
printed 1584, and _The Three Lords and Three Ladies of London_, c
1588, printed 1590. Covetousness appears in _Robin Conscience_, c
1530, and is applied to one of the characters in _The Staple of
News_, _Wks._ 5. 216. Vanity is one of the characters in _Lusty
Juventus_ (see note 1. 1. 50) and in _Contention between Liberality
and Prodigality_, printed 1602 (_O. Pl._ 4th ed., 8. 328). She seems
to have been a favorite with the later dramatists, and is frequently
mentioned (_I Henry IV._ 2. 4; _Lear_ 2. 2; _Jew of Malta_ 2. 3,
Marlowe’s _Wks._ 2. 45). Jonson speaks of her again in _The Fox_,
_Wks._ 3. 218. For Iniquity see Introduction, p. xxxviii.
The change in punctuation (see variants), as well as that two lines
below, was first suggested by Upton in a note appended to his
_Critical Observations on Shakespeare_. Whalley silently adopted
the reading in both cases.
=1. 1. 43 I’ll call him hither.= See variants. Coleridge, _Notes_, p.
280, says: ‘That is, against all probability, and with a (for Jonson)
impossible violation of character. The words plainly belong to Pug,
and mark at once his simpleness and his impatience.’ Cunningham says
that he arrived independently at the same conclusion, and points out
that it is plain from Iniquity’s opening speech that _he_ understood
the words to be Pug’s.
=1. 1. 49 thy dagger.= See note 1. 1. 85.
=1. 1. 50 lusty Iuuentus.= The morality-play of _Lusty Juventus_
was written by R. Wever about 1550. It ‘breathes the spirit of the
dogmatic reformation of the Protector Somerset,’ but ‘in spite of its
abundant theology it is neither ill written, nor ill constructed’
(Ward, _Eng. Drama_ 1. 125). It seems to have been very popular,
and the expression ‘a lusty Juventus’ became proverbial. It is used
as early as 1582 by Stanyhurst, _Aeneis_ 2 (Arber). 64 and as late
as Heywood’s _Wise Woman of Hogsdon_ (c 1638), where a gallant is
apostrophised as Lusty Juventus (Act 4). (See Nares and _NED_.)
Portions of the play had been revived not many years before this
within the tragedy of _Thomas More_ (1590, acc. to Fleay 1596) under
the title of _The Mariage of Witt and Wisedome_. ‘By dogs precyous
woundes’ is one of the oaths used by Lusty Juventus in the old play,
and may be the ‘Gogs-nownes’ referred to here (_O. Pl._, 4th ed.,
2. 84). ‘Gogs nowns’ is used several times in _Like will to Like_
(_O. Pl._, 4th ed., 3. 327, 331, etc.).
=1. 1. 51 In a cloake to thy heele.= See note 1. 1. 85.
=1. 1. 51 a hat like a pent-house.= ‘When they haue walkt thorow the
streetes, weare their hats ore their eye-browes, like pollitick
penthouses, which commonly make the shop of a Mercer, or a Linnen
Draper, as dark as a roome in Bedlam.’ Dekker, _West-ward Hoe_,
_Wks._ 2. 286.
With your hat penthouse-like o’er the slope of your eyes.
--_Love’s Labour’s Lost_ 3. 1. 17.
Halliwell says (_L. L. L._, ed. Furness, p. 85): ‘An open shed
or shop, forming a protection against the weather. The house
in which Shakespeare was born had a penthouse along a portion
of it.’ In Hollyband’s _Dictionarie_, 1593, it is spelled
‘pentice,’ which shows that the rime to ‘Juventus’ is probably
not a distorted one.
=1. 1. 52 thy doublet all belly.= ‘Certaine I am there was neuer any
kinde of apparell euer inuented that could more disproportion the
body of man then these Dublets with great bellies, ... stuffed with
foure, fiue or six pound of Bombast at the least.’--Stubbes, _Anat._,
Part 1, p. 55.
=1. 1. 54 how nimble he is!= ‘A perfect idea of his activity may be
formed from the incessant skipping of the modern Harlequin.’--G.
=1. 1. 56 the top of Pauls-steeple.= As Gifford points out, Iniquity
is boasting of an impossible feat. St. Paul’s steeple had been
destroyed by fire in 1561, and was not yet restored. Several attempts
were made and money collected. ‘James I. countenanced a sermon at
_Paul’s Cross_ in favor of so pious an undertaking, but nothing was
done till 1633 when reparations commenced with some activity, and
Inigo Jones designed, at the expense of Charles I., a classic portico
to a Gothic church.’--Wh-C.
Lupton, _London Carbonadoed_, 1632, writes: ‘The head of St. Paul’s
hath twice been troubled with a burning fever, and so the city, to
keep it from a third danger, lets it stand without a head.’ Gifford
says that ‘the Puritans took a malignant pleasure in this mutilated
state of the cathedral.’ Jonson refers to the disaster in his
_Execration upon Vulcan_, _U. 61_, _Wks._ 8. 408. See also Dekker,
_Paules Steeples complaint_, _Non-dram. Wks._ 4. 2.
=1. 1. 56 Standard in Cheepe.= This was a water-stand or conduit
in the midst of the street of West Cheaping, where executions were
formerly held. It was in a ruinous condition in 1442, when it was
repaired by a patent from Henry VI. Stow (_Survey_, ed. Thoms, p.
100) gives a list of famous executions at this place, and says that
‘in the year 1399, Henry IV. caused the blanch charters made by
Richard II. to be burnt there.’
=1. 1. 58 a needle of Spaine.= Gifford, referring to Randolph’s
_Amyntos_ and Ford’s _Sun’s Darling_, points out that ‘the best
needles, as well as other sharp instruments, were, in that age, and
indeed long before and after it, imported from Spain.’ The tailor’s
needle was in cant language commonly termed a _Spanish pike_.
References to the Spanish needle are frequent. It is mentioned by
Jonson in _Chloridia_, _Wks._ 8. 99; by Dekker, _Wks._ 4. 308; and by
Greene, _Wks._ 11. 241. Howes (p. 1038) says: ‘The making of Spanish
Needles, was first taught in England by Elias Crowse, a Germane,
about the eight yeare of Queene Elizabeth, and in Queen Maries time,
there was a Negro made fine Spanish Needles in Cheape-side, but would
neuer teach his Art to any.’
=1. 1. 59 the Suburbs.= The suburbs were the outlying districts
without the walls of the city. Cf. Stow, _Survey_, ed. Thoms, p. 156
f. They were for the most part the resort of disorderly persons. Cf.
B. & Fl., _Humorous Lieut._ 1. 1.; Massinger, _Emperor of the East_
1. 2.; Shak., _Jul. Caes._ 2. 1; and Nares, _Gloss_. Wheatley (ed.
_Ev. Man in_, p. 1) quotes Chettle’s _Kind Harts Dreame_, 1592: ‘The
suburbs of the citie are in many places no other but dark dennes for
adulterers, thieves, murderers, and every mischief worker; daily
experience before the magistrates confirms this for truth.’ Cf. also
Glapthorne, _Wit in a Constable_, _Wks._, ed. 1874, 1. 219:
----make safe retreat
Into the Suburbs, there you may finde cast wenches.
In _Every Man in_, _Wks._ 1. 25, a ‘suburb humour’ is spoken of.
=1. 1. 60 Petticoate-lane.= This is the present Middlesex
Street, Whitechapel. It was formerly called Hog Lane and was
beautified with ‘fair hedge-rows,’ but by Stow’s time it had
been made ‘a continual building throughout of garden houses and
small cottages‘ (_Survey_, ed. 1633, p. 120 b). Strype tells us
that the house of the Spanish Ambassador, supposedly the famous
Gondomar, was situated there (_Survey_ 2. 28). In his day the
inhabitants were French Protestant weavers, and later Jews of a
disreputable sort. That its reputation was somewhat unsavory as
early as Nash’s time we learn from his _Prognostication_
(_Wks._ 2. 149):
‘If the Beadelles of Bridewell be carefull this Summer, it may
be hoped that Peticote lane may be lesse pestered with ill aires
than it was woont: and the houses there so cleere clensed, that
honest women may dwell there without any dread of the whip and
the carte.’ Cf. also _Penniless Parliament, Old Book Collector’s
Misc._ 2. 16: ‘Many men shall be so venturously given, as they
shall go into Petticoat Lane, and yet come out again as honestly
as they went first in.’
=1. 1. 60 the Smock-allies.= Petticoat Lane led from the
high street, Whitechapel, to _Smock Alley_ or Gravel Lane.
See Hughson 2. 387.
=1. 1. 61 Shoreditch.= Shoreditch was formerly notorious for the
disreputable character of its women. ‘To die in Shoreditch’ seems
to have been a proverbial phrase, and is so used by Dryden in _The
Kind Keeper_, 4to, 1680. Cf. Nash, _Pierce Pennilesse_, _Wks._ 2. 94:
‘Call a Leete at _Byshopsgate_, & examine how euery second house in
_Shorditch_ is mayntayned; make a priuie search in _Southwarke_, and
tell mee how many Shee-Inmates you fin de: nay, goe where you will in
the Suburbes, and bring me two Virgins that haue vowd Chastity and
Ile builde a Nunnery.’ Also _ibid._, p. 95; Gabriel Harvey, _Prose
Wks._, ed. Grosart. 2. 169; and Dekker, _Wks._ 3. 352.
=1. 1. 61 Whitechappell.= ‘Till within memory the district north
of the High Street was one of the very worst localities in London;
a region of narrow and filthy streets, yards and alleys, many of
them wholly occupied by thieves’ dens, the receptacles of stolen
property, gin-spinning dog-holes, low brothels, and putrescent
lodging-houses,--a district unwholesome to approach and unsafe for
a decent person to traverse even in the day-time.’--Wh-C.
=1. 1. 61, 2 and so to Saint Kathernes.=
=To drinke with the Dutch there, and take forth their patternes.=
Saint Kathernes was the name of a hospital and precinct without
London. The hospital was said to have been founded by Queen
Matilda, wife of King Stephen. In _The Alchemist_ (_Wks._ 4.
161), Jonson speaks of its having been used ‘to keep the better
sort of mad-folks.’ It was also employed as a reformatory for
fallen women, and it is here that Winifred in _Eastward Ho_ (ed.
Schelling, p. 84) finds an appropriate landing-place.
From this hospital there was ‘a continual street, or filthy
strait passage, with alleys of small tenements, or cottages,
built, inhabited by sailors’ victuallers, along by the river of
Thames, almost to Radcliff, a good mile from the Tower.’--Stow,
ed. Thoms, p. 157.
The precinct was noted for its brew-houses and low drinking
places. In _The Staple of News_ Jonson speaks of ‘an ale-wife in
Saint Katherine’s, At the Sign of the Dancing Bears’ (_Wks._ 5.
226). The same tavern is referred to in the _Masque of Augurs_
as well as ‘the brew-houses in St. Katherine’s.’ The sights of
the place are enumerated in the same masque.
The present passage seems to indicate that the precinct was largely
inhabited by Dutch. In the _Masque of Augurs_ Vangoose speaks a sort
of Dutch jargon, and we know that a Flemish cemetery was located here
(see Wh-C). Cf. also Sir Thomas Overbury’s _Character of A drunken
Dutchman resident in England_, ed. Morley, p. 72: ‘Let him come over
never so lean, and plant him but one month near the brew-houses of
St. Catherine’s and he will be puffed up to your hand like a bloat
herring.’ Dutch weavers had been imported into England as early as
the reign of Edward III. (see Howes, p. 870 a), and in the year 1563
great numbers of Netherlanders with their wives and children fled
into England owing to the civil dissension in Flanders (Howes, p.
868 a). They bore a reputation for hard drinking (cf. _Like will to
Like_, _O. Pl._ 3. 325; Dekker, _Non-dram. Wks._ 3. 12; Nash,
_Wks._ 2. 81, etc.).
The phrase ‘to take forth their patternes’ is somewhat obscure, and
seems to have been forced by the necessity for a rhyme. Halliwell
says that ‘take forth’ is equivalent to ‘learn,’ and the phrase seems
therefore to mean ‘take their measure,’ ‘size them up,’ with a view
to following their example. It is possible, of course, that actual
patterns of the Dutch weavers or tailors are referred to.
=1. 1. 63 Custome-house key.= This was in Tower Street
on the Thames side. Stow (ed. Thoms, pp. 51. 2) says that the
custom-house was built in the sixth year of Richard II. Jonson
mentions the place again in _Every Man in_, _Wks._ 1. 69.
=1. 1. 66 the Dagger, and the Wool-sacke.= These were two
ordinaries or public houses of low repute, especially famous
for their pies. There were two taverns called the ‘Dagger,’ one
in Holborn and one in Cheapside. It is probably to the former
of these that Jonson refers. It is mentioned again in the
_Alchemist_ (_Wks._ 4. 24 and 165) and in Dekker’s _Satiromastix_
(_Wks._ 1. 200). Hotten says that the sign of a dagger was
common, and arose from its being a charge in the city arms.
The Woolsack was without Aldgate. It was originally a
wool-maker’s sign. Machyn mentions the tavern in 1555; and it is
alluded to in Dekker, _Shoemaker’s Holiday_, _Wks._ 1. 61. See
Wh-C. and Hotten’s _History of Signboards_, pp. 325 and 362.
=1. 1. 69 Belins-gate.= Stow (ed. Thoms, p. 78) describes
Belins-gate as ‘a large water-gate, port or harborough.’ He
mentions the tradition that the name was derived from that of
Belin, King of the Britons, but discredits it. Billingsgate is
on the Thames, a little below London Bridge, and is still the
great fish-market of London.
=1. 1. 70 shoot the Bridge.= The waterway under the old
London Bridge was obstructed by the narrowness of the arches,
by cornmills built in some of the openings, and by the great
waterworks at its southern end. ‘Of the arches left open some
were too narrow for the passage of boats of any kind. The widest
was only 36 feet, and the resistance caused to so large a body
of water on the rise and fall of the tide by this contraction of
its channel produced a fall or rapid under the bridge, so that
it was necessary to “ship oars” to _shoot the bridge_, as it was
called,--an undertaking, to amateur watermen especially, not
unattended with danger. “With the flood-tide it was impossible,
and with the ebb-tide dangerous to pass through or _shoot_ the
arches of the bridge.” In the latter case prudent passengers
landed above the bridge, generally at the _Old Swan Stairs_, and
walked to some wharf, generally _Billingsgate_, below it.’--Wh-C.
=1. 1. 70 the Cranes i’ the Vintry.= These were ‘three strong cranes of
timber placed on the Vintry wharf by the Thames to crane up wine there
(Stow, ed. Thoms, p. 00). They were situated in Three Cranes’ lane, and
near by was the famous tavern mentioned as one of the author’s favorite
resorts (_Bart. Fair_ 1. 1, _Wks._ 4. 356). Jonson speaks of it again
in _The Silent Woman_, _Wks._ 3. 376, and in the _Masque of Augurs_.
Pepys visited the place on January 23, 1662, and describes the best
room as ‘a narrow dogg-hole’ in which he and his friends were crammed
so close ‘that it made me loath my company and victuals, and a sorry
dinner it was too.’ Cf. also Dekker, (_Non-dram. Wks._ 8. 77).
=1. 1. 72 the Strand.= This famous street was formerly the road between
the cities of Westminster and London. That many lawyers lived in this
vicinity we learn from Middleton (_Father Hubburd’s Tales_, _Wks._ 8.
77).
=1. 1. 73 Westminster-hall.= It was once the hall of the
King’s palace at Westminster, originally built by William Rufus.
The present hall was formed 1397-99. Here the early parliaments
were held. ‘This great hall hath been the usual place of
pleadings, and ministration of justice.’--Stow, ed. Thoms,
p. 174.
=1. 1. 75 so Veluet to Leather.= Velvet seems to have
been much worn by lawyers. Cf. Overbury, _Characters_, p. 72:
‘He loves his friend as a counsellor at law loves the velvet
breeches he was first made barrister in.’
=1. 1. 85 In his long coat, shaking his wooden dagger.=
See Introduction, pp. xxxviii f.
=1. 1. 93 Cokeley.= Whalley says that he was the master of
a puppet show, and this has been accepted by all authorities
(Gifford, ed.; Nares, _Gloss_.; Alden, ed. of _Bart. Fair_).
He seems, however, to have been rather an improviser like
Vennor, or a mountebank with a gift of riming. He is mentioned
several times by Jonson: _Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 422, 3: ‘He has
not been sent for, and sought out for nothing, at your great
city-suppers, to put down Coriat and Cokely.’ _Epigr._129; _To
Mime_, _Wks._ 8. 229:
Or, mounted on a stool, thy face doth hit
On some new gesture, that’s imputed wit?
--Thou dost out-zany Cokely, Pod; nay Gue:
And thine own Coryat too.
=1. 1. 94 Vennor.= Gifford first took Vennor to be a juggler, but
corrected his statement in the _Masque of Augurs_, _Wks._ 7. 414.
He says: ‘Fenner, whom I supposed to be a juggler, was a rude kind
of _improvisatore_. He was altogether ignorant; but possessed a
wonderful facility in pouring out doggrel verse. He says of himself,
Yet, without boasting, let me boldly say
I’ll rhyme with any man that breathes this day
Upon a subject, in _extempore_, etc.
He seems to have made a wretched livelihood by frequenting city
feasts, &c., where, at the end of the entertainment, he was called in
to mount a stool and amuse the company by stringing together a
number of vile rhymes upon any given subject. To this the quotation
alludes. Fenner is noticed by the duchess of Newcastle: “For
the numbers every schoolboy can make them on his fingers, and for
the _rime_, Fenner would put down Ben Jonson, and yet neither boy
nor Fenner so good poets.” This, too, is the person meant in the
Cambridge answer to Corbet’s satire:
A ballad late was made,
But God knows who the penner;
Some say the rhyming sculler,
And others say ’twas Fenner. p. 24.
Fenner was so famed for his faculty of rhyming, that James, who,
like Bartholomew Cokes, would willingly let no raree-show escape
him, sent for him to court. Upon which Fenner added to his other
titles that of his “Majesty’s Riming Poet.” This gave offense to
Taylor, the Water poet, and helped to produce that miserable
squabble printed among his works, and from which I have principally
derived the substance of this note.’--G.
‘In Richard Brome’s _Covent Garden Weeded_ (circ. 1638), we
have: “Sure ’tis Fenner or his ghost. He was a riming souldier.”
(p. 42.)’--C.
The controversy referred to may be found in the Spenser Society’s
reprint of the 1630 folio of Taylor’s _Works_, 1869, pp. 304-325.
Here may be gathered a few more facts regarding the life of
Fenner (or Fennor as it should be spelled), among them that he
was apprenticed when a boy to a blind harper. In the quarrel, it
must be confessed, Fennor does not appear markedly inferior to his
derider either in powers of versification or in common decency. The
quarrel between the poets took place in October, 1614, and Fennor’s
admittance to court seems to be referred to in the present passage.
=1. 1. 95 a Sheriffes dinner.= This was an occasion of considerable
extravagance. Entick (_Survey_ 1. 499) tells us that in 1543 a
sumptuary law was passed ‘to prevent luxurious eating or feasting
in a time of scarcity; whereby it was ordained, that the lord-mayor
should not have more than seven dishes at dinner or supper,’ and ‘an
alderman and sheriff no more than six.’
=1. 1. 96 Skip with a rime o’ the Table, from New-nothing.= What is
meant by _New-nothing_ I do not know. From the construction it would
seem to indicate the place from which the fool was accustomed to take
his leap, but it is possible that the word should be connected with
_rime_, and may perhaps be the translation of a Greek or Latin title
for some book of _facetiae_ published about this time. Such wits as
Fennor and Taylor doubtless produced many pamphlets, the titles of
which have not been recorded. In 1622 Taylor brought out a collection
of verse called ‘Sir Gregory Non-sense His Newes from no place,’ and
it may have been this very book in manuscript that suggested Jonson’s
title. In the play of _King Darius_, 1106, one of the actors says:
‘I had rather then my new nothing, I were gon.’
=1. 1. 97 his Almaine-leape into a custard.= ‘In the earlier days,
when the city kept a fool it was customary for him at public
entertainments, to leap into a large bowl of custard set on
purpose.’--W. Whalley refers also to _All’s well that Ends Well_
2. 5: ‘You have made a shift to run into it, boots and all, like
him that leapt into the custard.’
Gifford quotes Glapthorne, _Wit in a Const._:
The custard, with the four and twenty nooks
At my lord Mayor’s feast.
He continues: ‘Indeed, no common supply was required; for, besides
what the Corporation (great devourers of custard) consumed on the
spot, it appears that it was thought no breach of city manners to
send, or take some of it home with them for the use of their ladies.’
In the excellent old play quoted above, Clara twits her uncle with
this practise:
Now shall you, sir, as ’tis a frequent custom,
‘Cause you’re a worthy alderman of a ward,
Feed me with custard, and perpetual white broth
Sent from the lord Mayor’s feast.’
Cunningham says: ‘Poets of a comparatively recent date continue to
associate mayors and custards.’ He Quotes Prior _(Alma_, Cant. 1) and
a letter from Bishop Warburton to Hurd (Apr. 1766): ‘I told him (the
Lord Mayor) in what I thought he was defective--that I was greatly
disappointed to see no custard at table. He said that they had been
so ridiculed for their custard that none had ventured to make its
appearance for some years.’ Jonson mentions the ‘quaking custards’
again in _The Fox_, _Wks._ 3. 164., and in _The Staple of News_,
_Wks._ 5. 196, 7.
An Almain-leap was a dancing leap. ‘Allemands were danced here a few
years back’ (Nares). Cunningham quotes from Dyce: ‘Rabelais tells us
that Gargantua “wrestled, ran, jumped, not at three steps and a leap,
... nor yet at the Almane’s, for, said Gymnast, these jumps are for the
wars altogether unprofitable and of no use.” _Rabelais_, Book 1, C. 23.’
Bishop Barlow, _Answer to a Catholike Englishman_, p. 231, Lond.
1607, says: ‘Now heere the Censurer makes an Almaine leape, skipping
3 whole pages together’ (quoted in _N. & Q._ 1st Ser. 10. 157).
=1. 1. 97 their hoods.= The French hood was still worn by
citizens’ wives. Thus in the _London Prodigal_, ed. 1709:
No _Frank_, I’ll have thee go like a _Citizen_
In a Garded Gown, and a _French_ Hood.
When Simon Eyre is appointed sheriff, his wife immediately inquires
for a ‘Fardingale-maker’ and a ‘French-hood maker’ (Dekker, _Wks._
1. 39). Strutt says that French hoods were out of fashion by the middle
of the 17th century (_Antiq._ 3. 93). See the frequent references to
this article of apparel in _Bart. Fair_. It is interesting to notice
that the hoods are worn at dinner.
=1. 1. 106, 7.= The readings of ‘Whalley and Gifford are distinctly
inferior to the original.
=1. 1. 112, 3 Car-men Are got into the yellow starch.= Starch was
introduced in the age of Elizabeth to meet the needs of the huge
Spanish ruff which had come into favor some years before (see
_Soc. Eng._, p. 386). It was frequently colored. In Middleton and
Rowley’s _World Tossed at Tennis_ five different colored starches are
personified. Stubbes says that it was ‘of all collours and hues.’
Yellow starch must have come into fashion not long before this play
was acted, for in the _Owle’s Allmanacke_, published in 1618, it is
said: ‘Since yellow bandes and saffroned chaperoones came vp, is not
above two yeeres past.’ This, however, is not to be taken literally,
for the execution of Mrs. Turner took place Nov. 14, 1615. Of her
we read in Howell’s Letters 1. 2: ‘Mistress _Turner_, the first
inventress of _yellow Starch_, was executed in a Cobweb Lawn Ruff
of that colour at _Tyburn_; and with her I believe that _yellow
Starch_, which so much disfigured our Nation, and rendered them so
ridiculous and fantastic, will receive its Funeral.’ Sir S. D’Ewes
_(Autobiog._ 1. 69) says that from that day it did, indeed, grow
‘generally to be detested and disused.’ _The Vision of Sir Thomas
Overbury_, 1616 (quoted in Amos, _Great Oyer_, p. 50) speaks of
----that fantastic, ugly fall and ruff
Daub’d o’er with that base starch of yellow stuff
as already out of fashion. Its popularity must have returned,
however, since Barnaby Riche in the _Irish Hubbub_,1622, p.
40, laments that ‘yellow starcht bands’ were more popular than
ever, and he prophesies that the fashion ‘shortly will be as
conversant amongst taylors, tapsters, and tinkers, as now they
have brought tobacco.’
D’Ewes also in describing the procession of King James from Whitehall
to Westminster, Jan. 30, 1620, says that the king saw one window
‘full of gentlewomen or ladies, all in yellow bandes,’ whereupon he
called out ‘A pox take yee,’ and they all withdrew in shame. In _The
Parson’s Wedding_, printed 1664, _O. Pl._ 11. 498, it is spoken of as
out of fashion. Yellow starch is mentioned again in 5. 8. 74. 5, and
a ballad of ‘goose-green starch and the devil’ is mentioned in _Bart.
Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 393. Similarly, Nash speaks in _Pierce Pennilesse_,
_Wks._ 2. 44. of a ‘Ballet of Blue starch and poaking stick.’
See also Dodsley’s note on _Albumazar_, _O. Pl._ 7. 132.
=1. 1. 113, 4 Chimney-sweepers To their tabacco.= See the quotation
from Riche in the last note and note 5. 8. 71.
=1. 1. 114, 5 Hum, Meath, and Obarni.= Hum is defined B. E. _Dict.
Cant. Crew, Hum_ or _Humming Liquor_, Double Ale, Stout, Pharoah.
It is mentioned in Fletcher’s _Wild Goose Chase_ 2. 3 and Heywood’s
_Drunkard_. p. 48. Meath or mead is still made in England. It was
a favorite drink in the Middle Ages, and consisted of a mixture
of honey and water with the addition of a ferment. Harrison,
_Description of England_, ed. Furnivall, 1. 161, thus describes it:
‘There is a kind of swish swash made also in Essex, and diuerse other
places, with honicombs and water, which the [homelie] countrie wiues,
putting some pepper and a little other spice among, call mead, verie
good in mine opinion for such as loue to be loose bodied [at large,
or a little eased of the cough,] otherwise it differeth so much from
the true metheglin, as chalke from cheese.’
Obarni was long a crux for the editors and dictionaries. Gifford
(_Wks._ 7. 226) supplied a part of the quotation from _Pimlyco or
Runne Red-Cap_, 1609, completed by James Platt, Jun. (_N. & Q._
9th Ser. 3. 306). in which ‘Mead Obarne and Mead Cherunk’ are
mentioned as drinks
----that whet the spites
Of Russes and cold Muscovites.
Mr. Platt first instanced the existing Russian word _obarni_ or
_obvarnyi_ (see Gloss.), meaning ‘boiling, scalding,’ and C. C. B.
(_N. & Q._ 9. 3. 413) supplied a quotation from the account of the
voyage of Sir Jerome Bowes in 1583 (Harris’s _Travels_ 1. 535), in
which ‘Sodden Mead’ appears among the items of diet supplied by the
Emperor to the English Ambassador. The identification was completed
with a quotation given by the _Stanford Dict._: ‘1598 Hakluyt _Voy._
1. 461 One veather of sodden mead called _Obarni_.’
=1. 1. 119 your rope of sand.= This occupation is mentioned
again in 5. 2. 6.
=1. 1. 126 Tissue gownes.= Howes, p. 869. tells us that John Tuce,
‘dweling neere Shorditch Church’, first attained perfection in the
manufacture of cloth of tissue.
=1. 1. 127 Garters and roses.= Howes, p. 1039, says that ‘at this
day (1631) men of meane rancke weare Garters, and shooe Roses, of
more than fiue pound price.’ Massinger, in the _City Madam_, _Wks._,
p. 334, speaks of ‘roses worth a family.’ Cf. also John Taylor’s
_Works_, 1630 (quoted in _Hist. Brit. Cost_.):
Weare a farm in shoe-strings edged with gold
And spangled garters worth a copyhold.
=1. 1. 128 Embroydred stockings.= ‘Then haue they nether-stocks to
these gay hosen, not of cloth (though neuer so fine) for that is
thought to base, but of _Iarnsey_ worsted, silk, thred, and such
like, or els at the least of the finest yarn _that_ can be, and so
curiouslye knit with open seam down the leg, with quirks and clocks
about the ancles, and sometime (haply) interlaced with gold or siluer
threds, as is wonderful to behold.’--Stubbes, _Anat._, Part 1, p. 57.
The selling of stockings was a separate trade at this time, and great
attention was paid to this article of clothing. Silk stockings are
frequently mentioned by the dramatists. Cf. Stephen Gosson, _Pleasant
Quippes_:
These worsted stockes of bravest die, and silken garters
fring’d with gold;
These corked shooes to beare them hie makes them to trip
it on the molde;
They mince it with a pace so strange,
Like untam’d heifers when they range.
=1. 1. 128 cut-worke smocks, and shirts.= Cf. B. & Fl.,
_Four Plays in One_:
----She show’d me gownes, head tires,
Embroider’d waistcoats, smocks seamed with cutworks.
=1. 1. 135 But you must take a body ready made.= King James in his
_Dæmonologie_ (_Wks._, ed. 1616, p. 120) explains that the devil,
though but of air, can ‘make himself palpable, either by assuming any
dead bodie, and vsing the ministerie thereof, or else by deluding as
well their sence of feeling as seeing.’
=1. 1. 143 our tribe of Brokers.= Cf. _Ev. Man in_, _Wks._ 1. 82:
‘_Wel._ Where got’st thou this coat, I marle?
_Brai._ Of a Hounsditch man, sir, one of the devil’s
near kinsmen, a broker.’
The pawnbrokers were cordially hated in Jonson’s time. Their
quarter was Houndsditch. Stow says: ‘there are crept in among
them [the inhabitants of Houndsditch] a base kinde of vermine,
wel-deserving to bee ranked and numbred with them, whom our old
Prophet and Countryman, _Gyldas_, called _Ætatis atramentum_,
the black discredit of the Age, and of place where they are suffered
to live.... These men, or rather monsters in the shape of men,
professe to live by lending, and yet will lend nothing but upon
pawnes;’ etc.
Nash speaks of them in a similar strain: ‘Fruits shall be greatly eaten
with Catterpillers; as Brokers, Farmers and Flatterers, which feeding
on the sweate of other mens browes, shall greatlye hinder the beautye
of the spring.’--_Prognostication_, _Wks._2. 145. ‘They shall crie out
against brokers, as Jeremy did against false prophets.’ _Ibid._ 2. 162.
=1. 1. 148 as you make your soone at nights relation.= Cf.
Dekker, _Satiromastix_, _Wks._ 1. 187: ‘Shee’l be a late
sturrer soone at night sir,’ and _ibid._ 223:
By this faire Bride remember soone at night.
=1. 2. 1 ff. I, they doe, now=, etc. ‘Compare this
exquisite piece of sense, satire, and sound philosophy in 1616
with Sir M. Hale’s speech from the bench in a trial of a witch
many years afterwards.’--Coleridge, _Notes_, p. 280.
=1. 2. 1 Bretnor.= An almanac maker (fl. 1607-1618). A list
of his works, compiled from the catalogue of the British Museum,
is given in the _DNB_. He is mentioned twice by Middleton:
This farmer will not cast his seed i’ the ground
Before he look in Bretnor.
--_Inner-Temple Masque_, _Wks._ 7. 211.
‘_Chough._ I’ll not be married to-day, Trimtram: hast e’er an almanac
about thee? this is the nineteenth of August, look what day of the
month ’tis.
_Trim._ ’Tis tenty-nine indeed, sir. [_Looks in almanac._
_Chough._ What’s the word? What says Bretnor?
_Trim._ The word is, sir, _There’s a hole in her coat_.’
--Middleton, _A Fair Quarrel_, _Wks._ 4. 263.
Fleay identifies him with Norbret, one of the astrologers in
Beaumont and Fletcher’s _Rollo, Duke of Normandy_.
=1. 2. 2 Gresham.= A pretended astrologer, contemporary with Forman,
and said to be one of the associates of the infamous Countess of
Essex and Mrs. Turner in the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury. Arthur
Wilson mentions him in _The Life of James I._, p. 70:
‘Mrs. _Turner_, the Mistris of the _Work_, had lost both her
supporters. _Forman_, her first prop, drop’t away suddenly by death;
and _Gresham_ another rotten _Engin_ (that succeded him) did not hold
long: She must now bear up all her self.’
He is mentioned twice in Spark’s _Narrative History of King James_,
Somer’s _Tracts_ 2. 275: ‘Dr. Forman being dead, Mrs. Turner wanted
one to assist her; whereupon, at the countesses coming to London, one
Gresham was nominated to be entertained in this businesse, and, in
processe of time, was wholly interested in it; this man was had in
suspition to have had a hand in the Gunpowder plot, he wrote so near
it in his almanack; but, without all question, he was a very skilful
man in the mathematicks, and, in his latter time, in witchcraft, as
was suspected, and therefore the fitter to bee imployed in those
practises, which, as they were devilish, so the devil had a hand
in them.’
_Ibid._ 287: ‘Now Gresham growing into years, having spent much time
in many foule practises to accomplish those things at this time,
gathers all his babies together, _viz._ pictures in lead, in wax, in
plates of gold, of naked men and women with crosses, crucifixes, and
other implements, wrapping them all up together in a scarfe, crossed
every letter in the sacred word Trinity, crossed these things very
holily delivered into the hands of one Weston to bee hid in the earth
that no man might find them, and so in Thames-street having finished
his evill times he died, leaving behind him a man and a maid, one
hanged for a witch, and the other for a thief very shortly after.’
In the ‘Heads of Charges against Robert, Earl of Somerset’,
drawn up by Lord Bacon, we read: ‘That the countess laboured
Forman and Gresham to inforce the Queen by witchcraft to favour
the countess’ (Howell’s _State Trials_ 2. 966). To this King
James replied in an ‘Apostyle,’ _Nothing to Somerset_. This
exhausts the references to Gresham that I have been able to
find. See note on Savory, 1. 2. 3.
=1. 2. 2. Fore-man.= Simon Foreman, or Forman (1552-1611)
was the most famous of the group of quacks here mentioned. He
studied at Oxford, 1573-1578, and in 1579 began his career as
a necromancer. He claimed the power to discover lost treasure,
and was especially successful in his dealings with women. A
detailed account of his life is given in the _DNB_. and a short
but interesting sketch in _Social England_ 4. 87. The chief
sources are Wm. Lilly’s _History_ and a diary from 1564 to 1602,
with an account of Forman’s early life, published by Mr. J. O.
Halliwell-Phillipps for the Camden Soc., 1843.
He is mentioned again by Jonson in _Silent Woman_, _Wks._ 3.
413: ‘_Daup._ I would say, thou hadst the best philtre in the
world, and couldst do more than Madam Medea, or Doctor Foreman.’
In _Sir Thomas Overbury’s Vision_ (Harl. Ms., vol. 7, quoted in
D’Ewes’ _Autobiog._, p. 89) he is spoken of as ‘that fiend in
human shape.’
=1. 2. 3 Francklin.= Francklin was an apothecary, and
procured the poison for Mrs. Turner (see Amos, _Great Oyer_. p.
97). He was one of the three persons executed with Mrs. Turner.
Arthur Wilson, in his _Life of James I._ (p. 70), describes him
as ‘a swarthy, sallow, crooked-backt fellow, who was to be the
_Fountain_ whence these bitter waters came.’ See also Somer’s
_Tracts_ 2. 287. The poem already quoted furnishes a description
of Francklin:
A man he was of stature meanly tall.
His body’s lineaments were shaped, and all
His limbs compacted well, and strongly knit.
Nature’s kind hand no error made in it.
His beard was ruddy hue, and from his head
A wanton lock itself did down dispread
Upon his back; to which while he did live
Th’ ambiguous name of _Elf-lock_ he did give.
--Quoted in Amos. p. 50.
=1. 2. 3 Fiske.= ‘In this year 1633, I became acquainted with
Nicholas Fiske, licentiate in physick, who was borne in Suffolk, near
Framingham [Framlingham] Castle, of very good parentage.... He was a
person very studious, laborious, and of good apprehension.... He was
exquisitely skilful in the art of directions upon nativities, and had
a good genius in performing judgment thereupon.... He died about the
seventy-eighth year of his age, poor.’--Lilly, _Hist._, p. 42 f.
Fiske appears as La Fiske in _Rollo, Duke of Normandy_, and is also
mentioned by Butler, _Hudibr_., Part 2, Cant. 3. 403:
And nigh an ancient obelisk
Was rais’d by him, found out by _Fisk_.
=1. 2. 3 Sauory.= ‘And therefore, she fearing that her
lord would seek some public or private revenge against her, by
the advice of the before-mentioned Mrs. Turner, consulted and
practised with Doctor Forman and Doctor Savory, two conjurers,
about the poisoning of him.’--D’Ewes, _Autobiog._ 1. 88. 9.
He was employed after the sudden death of Dr. Forman. Wright
(_Sorcery and Magic_, p. 228) says that the name is written
Lavoire in some manuscripts. ‘Mrs. Turner also confessed, that
Dr. Savories was used in succession, after Forman, and practised
many sorceries upon the Earle of Essex his person.’--Spark,
_Narrative History_, Somer’s _Tracts_ 2. 333.
In the _Calendar of State Papers_ the name of ‘Savery’ appears
four times. Under date of Oct. 16, 1615, we find Dr. Savery
examined on a charge of ‘spreading Popish Books.’ ‘Savery
pretends to be a doctor, but is probably a conjurer.’ And again
under the same date he is interrogated as to his relations with
Mrs. Turner and Forman. Under Oct. 24 he replies to Coke. ‘Oct.
?’ we find Dr. Savery questioned as to his ‘predictions of
troubles and alterations in Court.’ This is the last mention
of him.
Just what connection Gresham and Savory had with the Overbury
plot is a difficult matter to determine. Both are spoken of as
following Forman immediately, and of neither is any successor
mentioned except the actual poisoner, Franklin. It seems
probable that Gresham was the first to be employed after Forman,
and that his own speedy death led to the selection of Savory.
How the latter managed to escape a more serious implication in
the trial it is difficult to conceive.
=1. 2. 6-9 christalls, ... characters.= As in other fields,
Jonson is well versed in magic lore. Lumps of crystal were one
of the regular means of raising a demon. Bk. 15, Ch. 16 of
Scot’s _Discovery of Witchcraft_, 1584, is entitled: ‘To make a
spirit appear in a christall’, and Ch. 12 shows ‘How to enclose
a spirit in a christall stone.’
Lilly (_History_, p. 78) speaks of the efficacy of ‘a
constellated ring’ in sickness, and they were doubtless
considered effective in more sinister dealings. Jonson has
already spoken of the devil being carried in a thumb-ring
(see note P. 6).
Charms were usually written on parchment. In Barrett’s _Magus_,
Bk. 2, Pt. 3. 109, we read that the pentacle should be drawn
‘upon parchment made of a kid-skin, or virgin, or pure clean
white paper.’
That parts of the human body belonged to the sorcerer’s
paraphernalia is shown by the Statute 1 Jac. I. c. xii, which
contains a clause forbidding conjurors to ‘take up any dead
man woman or child out of his her or their grave ... or the
skin bone or any other parte of any dead person, to be imployed
or used in any manner of Witchcrafte Sorcerie Charme or
Inchantment.’
The wing of the raven, as a bird of ill omen, may be an
invention of Jonson’s own. The lighting of candles within the
magic circle is mentioned below (note 1. 2. 26).
Most powerful of all was the pentacle, of which Scot’s
_Discovery_ (Ap. II, p. 533, 4) furnishes an elaborate
description. This figure was used by the Pythagorean school as
their seal, and is equivalent to the pentagram or five-pointed
star (see _CD._).
Dekker (_Wks._ 2. 200) connects it with the Periapt as a ‘potent
charm,’ and Marlowe speaks of it in _Hero and Leander_,
_Wks._ 3. 45:
A rich disparent pentacle she wears,
Drawn full of circles and strange characters.
It will be remembered that the inscription of a pentagram on the
threshold prevents the escape of Mephistopheles in Goethe’s _Faust_.
The editors explain its potency as due to the fact that it is
resolvable into three triangles, and is thus a triple sign of the
Trinity.
Cunningham says that the pentacle ‘when delineated upon the body of a
man was supposed to point out the five wounds of the Saviour.’ W. J.
Thoms (_Anecdotes_, Camden Soc., 1839, p. 97) speaks of its presence
in the western window of the southern aisle of Westminster Abbey, an
indication that the monks were versed in occult science.
=1. 2. 21 If they be not.= Gifford refers to Chrysippus, _De
Divinatione,_ Lib. 1. § 71: ‘This is the very syllogism by which that
acute philosopher triumphantly proved the reality of augury.’
=1. 2. 22 Why, are there lawes against ’hem?= It was
found necessary in 1541 to pass an act (33 Hen. VIII. c. 8) by
which--‘it shall be felony to practise, or cause to be practised
conjuration, witchcrafte, enchantment, or sorcery, to get
money: or to consume any person in his body, members or goods;
or to provoke any person to unlawful love; or for the despight
of Christ, or lucre of money, to pull down any cross; or to
declare where goods stolen be.’ Another law was passed 1 Edward
VI. c. 12 (1547). 5 Elizabeth. c. 16 (1562) gives the ‘several
penalties of conjuration, or invocation of wicked spirits, and
witchcraft, enchantment, charm or sorcery.’ Under Jas. I, anno
secundo (vulgo primo), c. 12, still another law was passed,
whereby the second offense was declared a felony. The former act
of Elizabeth was repealed. This act of James was not repealed
until 9 George II. c. 5.
_Social England_, p. 270, quotes from Ms. Lansdowne, 2. Art.
26, a deposition from William Wicherley, conjurer, in which he
places the number of conjurers in England in 1549 above five
hundred. A good idea of the character of the more disreputable
type of conjurer can be got from Beaumont and Fletcher’s
_Fair Maid of the Inn_. See especially Act 5, Sc. 2.
=1. 2. 26 circles.= The magic circle is one of the things
most frequently mentioned among the arts of the conjurer. Scot
(_Discovery_, p. 476) has a long satirical passage on the
subject, in which he enjoins the conjurer to draw a double
circle with his own blood, to divide the circle into seven
parts and to set at each division a ‘candle lighted in a
brazen candlestick.’
=1. 2. 27 his hard names.= A long list of the ‘diverse
names of the divell’ is given in _The Discovery_, p. 436,
and another in the Second Appendix, p. 522.
=1. 2. 31, 2 I long for thee. An’ I were with child by him, ...
I could not more.= The expression is common enough. Cf.
_Eastward Hoe_: ‘Ger. As I am a lady, I think I am with child
already, I long for a coach so.’ Dekker, _Shomakers Holiday_,
_Wks._ 1. 17: ‘I am with child till I behold this huffecap.’ The
humors of the longing wife are a constant subject of ridicule.
See _Bart. Fair_, Act 1, and Butler’s _Hudibras_, ed. 1819,
3. 78 and note.
=1. 2. 39 A thousand miles.= ‘Neither are they so much
limited as Tradition would have them; for they are not at all
shut up in any separated place: but can remove millions of miles
in the twinkling of an eye.’--Scot, _Discovery_, Ap. II, p. 493.
=1. 2. 43 The burn’t child dreads the fire.= Jonson is fond of
proverbial expressions. Cf. 1. 6. 125; 1. 6. 145; 5. 8. 142, 3, etc.
=1. 3. 5 while things be reconcil’d.= In Elizabethan
English both _while_ and _whiles_ often meant ‘up to the time
when’, as well as ‘during the time when’ (d. a similar use of
‘dum’ in Latin and of ἕ ος in Greek).--Abbot, §137.
For its frequent use in this sense in Shakespeare see Schmidt
and note on _Macbeth_ 3. 1. 51, Furness’s edition. Cf. also
Nash, _Prognostication_, _Wks._ 2. 150: ‘They shall ly in their
beds while noon.’
=1. 3. 8, 9 those roses Were bigge inough to hide a clouen
foote.= Dyce (_Remarks_, p. 289) quotes Webster, _White
Devil_, 1612:
--why, ’tis the devil;
I know him by a great rose he wears on’s shoe,
To hide his cloven foot.
Cunningham adds a passage from Chapman, _Wks._ 3. 145:
_Fro._ Yet you cannot change the old fashion (they say)
And hide your cloven feet.
_Oph._ No! I can wear roses that shall spread quite
Over them.
Gifford quotes Nash, _Unfortunate Traveller_, _Wks._ 5. 146: ‘Hee
hath in eyther shoo as much taffaty for his tyings, as would serue
for an ancient.’ Cf. also Dekker, _Roaring Girle_, _Wks._ 3. 200:
‘Haue not many handsome legges in silke stockins villanous splay feet
for all their great roses?’
=1. 3. 13 My Cater.= Whalley changes to ‘m’acter’ on the authority
of the _Sad Shep._ (vol. 4. 236):
--Go bear ’em in to Much
Th’ acater.
The form ‘cater’, however, is common enough. Indeed, if we are
to judge from the examples in Nares and _NED._, it is much the
more frequent, although the present passage is cited in both
authorities under the longer form.
=1. 3. 21 I’le hearken.= W. and G. change to ‘I’d.’ The
change is unnecessary if we consider the conditional clause
as an after-thought on the part of Fitzdottrel. For a similar
construction see 3. 6. 34-6.
=1. 3. 27 Vnder your fauour, friend, for, I’ll not
quarrell.= ‘This was one of the qualifying expressions, by
which, “according to the laws of the duello”, the lie might be
given, without subjecting the speaker to the absolute necessity
of receiving a challenge.’--G.
Leigh uses a similar expression. Cf. note 2. 1. 144. It occurs
several times in _Ev. Man in_:
‘_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!’
--_Wks._ 1. 68.
‘_Down._ ’Sdeath! you will not draw then?
_Bob._ Hold, hold! under thy favour forbear!’
--_Wks._ 1. 117.
‘_Clem._ Now, sir, what have you to say to me?
_Bob._ By your worship’s favour----.’
--_Wks._ 1. 140.
I have not been able to confirm Gifford’s assertion.
=1. 3. 30 that’s a popular error.= Gifford refers to _Othello_
5. 2. 286:
_Oth._ I look down towards his feet,--but that’s a fable.--
If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee.
Cf. also _The Virgin Martyr_, Dekker’s _Wks._ 4. 57:
--Ile tell you what now of the Divel;
He’s no such horrid creature, cloven footed,
Black, saucer-ey’d, his nostrils breathing fire,
As these lying Christians make him.
=1. 3. 34 Of Derby-shire, S^r. about the Peake.= Jonson seems to have
been well acquainted with the wonders of the Peak of Derbyshire. Two of
his masques, _The Gipsies Metamorphosed_, acted first at Burleigh on
the Hill, and later at Belvoir, Nottinghamshire, and _Love’s Welcome
at Welbeck_, acted in 1633 at Welbeck, Nottinghamshire, the seat of
William Cavendish, Earl of Newcastle, are full of allusions to them.
The Devil’s Arse seems to be the cavern now known to travellers as the
_Peak_ or _Devil’s Cavern_. It is described by Baedeker as upwards of
2,000 feet in extent. One of its features is a subterranean river known
as the Styx. The origin of the cavern’s name is given in a coarse song
in the _Gypsies Met._ (_Wks._ 7. 357), beginning:
Cocklorrel would needs have the Devil his guest,
And bade him into the Peak to dinner.
In _Love’s Welcome_ Jonson speaks again of ‘Satan’s sumptuous Arse’,
_Wks._ 8. 122.
=1. 3. 34, 5. That Hole.
Belonged to your Ancestors?= Jonson frequently omits the relative
pronoun. Cf. 1. 5. 21; 1. 6. 86, 87; 3. 3. 149; 5. 8. 86, 87.
=1. 3. 38 Foure pound a yeere.= ‘This we may suppose to have
been the customary wages of a domestic servant.’--C. Cunningham
cites also the passage in the _Alchemist_, _Wks._ 4. 12;
‘You were once ... the good, Honest, plain, livery-three-pound-thrum,
that kept Your master’s worship’s house,’ in which he takes the
expression ‘three-pound’ to be the equivalent of ‘badly-paid’.
=1. 4. 1 I’ll goe lift him.= Jonson is never tired of punning on
the names of his characters.
=1. 4. 5 halfe a piece.= ‘It may be necessary to observe,
once for all, that the _piece_ (the double sovereign) went for
two and twenty shillings.’--G. Compare 3. 3. 83, where a
hundred pieces is evidently somewhat above a hundred pounds.
By a proclamation, Nov. 23, 1611, the piece of gold called the
Unitie, formerly current at twenty shillings was raised to the
value of twenty two shillings (S. M. Leake, _Eng. Money_ 2.
276). Taylor, the water-poet, tells us that Jonson gave him ‘a
piece of gold of two and twenty shillings to drink his health
in England’ (_Conversations_, quoted in Schelling’s _Timber_,
p. 105). In the _Busie Body_ Mrs. Centlivre uses _piece_ as
synonymous with _guinea_ (2d ed., pp. 7 and 14).
=1. 4. 31 Iust what it list.= Jonson makes frequent use of the
subjunctive. Cf. 1. 3. 9; 1. 6. 6; 5. 6. 10; etc.
=1. 4. 43 Ô here’s the bill, S^r.= Collier says that the
use of play-bills was common prior to the year 1563 (Strype,
_Life of Grindall,_ ed. 1821, p. 122). They are mentioned in
_Histriomastix_, 1610; _A Warning for Fair Women_, 1599, etc.
See Collier, _Annals_ 3. 382 f.
=1. 4. 50 a rotten Crane.= Whalley restores the right
reading, correctly explained as a pun on Ingine’s name.
=1. 4. 60 Good time!= Apparently a translation of the Fr.
_A la bonne heure_, ‘very good’, ‘well done!’ etc.
=1. 4. 65 The good mans gravity.= Cf. Homer, _Il._, Γ 105:
ἄξετε δὲ Πριάμοιο Βίην.
Shak., _Tempest_ 5. 1: ‘First, noble friend, let me embrace
thine age.’ _Catiline_ 3. 2.: ‘Trouble this good shame (good and
modest lady) no farther.’
=1. 4. 70 into the shirt.= Cf. Dekker, _Non-dram. Wks._ 2.
244: ‘Dice your selfe into your shirt.’
=1. 4. 71 Keepe warme your wisdome?= Cf. _Cyn. Rev._,
_Wks._ 2. 241: ‘_Madam, your whole self cannot but be perfectly
wise; for your hands have wit enough to keep themselves warm._’
Gifford’s note on this passage is: ‘This proverbial phrase is
found in most (sic) of our ancient dramas. Thus in _The Wise
Woman of Hogsden_: “You are the wise woman, are you? You _have
wit to keep yourself warm enough_, I warrant you”’. Cf. also
_Lusty Juventus_, p. 74: ‘Cover your head; For indeed you have
need to keep in your wit.’
=1. 4. 72 You lade me.= ‘This is equivalent to the modern
phrase, you do not spare me. You lay what imputations you please
upon me.’--G.
The phrase occurs again in 1. 6. 161, where Wittipol calls
Fitzdottrel an ass, and says that he cannot ‘scape his lading’.
‘You lade me’, then, seems to mean ‘You make an ass of me’.
The same use of the word occurs in Dekker, _Olde Fortunatus_,
_Wks._ 1. 125: ‘I should serue this bearing asse rarely now, if
I should load him’. And again in the works of Taylor, the Water Poet,
p. 311: ‘My Lines shall load an Asse, or whippe an Ape.’ Cf.
also _Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 421: ‘Yes, faith, I have my
lading, you see, or shall have anon; you may know whose beast I am
by my burden.’
=1. 4. 83, 4 But, not beyond=,
=A minute, or a second, looke for=. The omission of the comma after
_beyond_ by all the later editors destroys the sense. Fitzdottrel
does not mean that Wittipol cannot have ‘beyond a minute’, but that
he cannot have a minute beyond the quarter of an hour allowed him.
=1. 4. 96 Migniard.= ‘Cotgrave has in his dictionary,
“_Mignard_--migniard, prettie, quaint, neat, feat, wanton, dainty,
delicate.” In the _Staple of News_ [_Wks._ 5. 221] Jonson tries
to introduce the substantive _migniardise_, but happily without
success.’--G.
=1. 4. 101 Prince Quintilian.= The reputation of this famous
rhetorician (c 35-c 97 A. D.) is based on his great work entitled
_De Instiutione Oratoria Libri_ XII. The first English edition seems
to have been made in 1641, but many Continental editions had preceded
it. The title Prince seems to be gratuitous on Jonson’s part. He is
mentioned again in _Timber_ (ed. Schelling, 57. 29 and 81. 4).
=1. 5. 2= Cf. _New Inn_, _Wks._ 5. 323:
‘_Host._ What say you, sir? where are you, are you within?
(_Strikes_ LOVEL _on the breast_.)’
=1. 5. 8, 9. Old Africk, and the new America,
With all their fruite of Monsters.= Cf. Donne,
_Sat._, _Wks._ 2. 190 (ed. 1896):
Stranger ...
Than Afric’s monsters, Guiana’s rarities.
Brome, _Queen’s Exchange_, _Wks._ 3. 483: ‘What monsters are bred
in _Affrica_?’ Glapthorne, _Hollander_, _Wks._, 1874, 1. 81: ‘If
_Africke_ did produce no other monsters,’ etc. The people of London
at this time had a great thirst for monsters. See Alden, _Bart.
Fair_, p. 185, and Morley, _Memoirs of Bartholomew Fair_.
=1. 5. 17 for hidden treasure.= ‘And when he is appeared, bind him
with the bond of the dead above written: then saie as followeth.
I charge thee N. by the father, to shew me true visions in this
christall stone, if there be anie treasure hidden in such a place N.
& wherein it now lieth, and how manie foot from this peece of earth,
east, west, north, or south.’--Scot, _Discovery_, p. 355.
Most of the conjurers pretended to be able to recover stolen
treasure. The laws against conjurers (see note 1. 2. 6) contained
clauses forbidding the practice.
=1. 5. 21 his men of Art.= A euphemism for conjurer.
Cf. B. & Fl., _Fair Maid of the Inn_ 2. 2:
‘_Host._ Thy master, that lodges here in my Osteria,
is a rare man of art; they say he’s a witch.
_Clown._ A witch? Nay, he’s one step of the ladder to
preferment higher; he’s a conjurer.’
=1. 6. 10 wedlocke.= Wife; a common latinism of the period.
=1. 6. 14 it not concernes thee?= A not infrequent word-order in
Jonson. Cf. 4. 2. 22.
=1. 6. 18 a Niaise.= Gifford says that the side note ‘could scarcely
come from Jonson; for it explains nothing. A niaise (or rather
an _eyas_, of which it is a corruption) is unquestionably a young hawk,
but the niaise of the poet is the French term for, “a simple, witless,
inexperienced gull”, &c. The word is very common in our old
writers.’
The last statement is characteristic of Gifford. It would have been
well in this case if he had given some proof of his assertion. The
derivation _an eyas_ › _a nyas_ is probably incorrect. The _Centary
Dictionary_ gives ‘_Niaise_, _nyas_ (and corruptly _eyas_, by
misdivision of _a nias_).’ The best explanation I can give of the side
note is this. The glossator takes the meaning ‘simpleton’ for granted.
But Fitzdottrel has just said ‘Laught at, sweet bird?’ In explanation
the side note is added. This, perhaps, does not help matters much and,
indeed, I am inclined to believe with Gifford that the side notes are
by another hand than Jonson’s. See Introduction, pp. xiii, xvii.
=1. 6. 29, 30. When I ha’ seene
All London in’t, and London has seene mee.=
Gifford compares Pope:
Europe he saw, and Europe saw him too.
=1. 6. 31 Black-fryers Play-house.= This famous theatre was founded
by James Burbage in 1596-7. The Burbages leased it to Henry Evans
for the performances of the Children of the Chapel, and the King’s
Servants acted there after the departure of the children. In 1619
the Lord Mayor and the Council of London ordered its discontinuance,
but the players were able to keep it open on the plea that it was a
private house. In 1642 ‘public stage plays’ were suppressed, and on
Aug. 5, 1655, Blackfriars Theatre was pulled down and tenements were
built in its place. See Wh-C.
Nares, referring to Shirley’s _Six New Playes_, 1653, says that
‘the Theatre of Black-Friars was, in Charles I.’s time at least
considered, as being of a higher order and more respectability
than any of those on the Bank-side.’
=1. 6. 33 Rise vp between the Acts.= See note 3. 5. 43.
=1. 6. 33, 4 let fall my cloake,
Publish a handsome man, and a rich suite.= The gallants of this
age were inordinately fond of displaying their dress, or ‘publishing
their suits.’ The play-house and ‘Paul’s Walk,’ the nave of St.
Paul’s Cathedral, were favorite places for accomplishing this. The
fourth chapter of Dekker’s _Guls Horne-booke_ is entitled ‘How a
Gallant should behaue himselfe in Powles walkes.’ He bids the gallant
make his way directly into the middle aisle, ‘where, in view of all,
you may publish your suit in what manner you affect most, either with
the slide of your cloake from the one shoulder, and then you must
(as twere in anger) suddenly snatch at the middle of the inside (if
it be taffata at the least) and so by that meanes your costly lining
is betrayd,’ etc. A little later on (_Non-dram. Wks._ 2. 238) Dekker
speaks of ‘Powles, a Tennis-court, or a Playhouse’ as a suitable
place to ‘publish your clothes.’ Cf. also _Non-dram. Wks._ 4. 51.
Sir Thomas Overbury gives the following description of ‘a
Phantastique:’ ‘He withers his clothes on a stage as a salesman is
forced to do his suits in Birchin Lane; and when the play is done, if
you mark his rising, ’tis with a kind of walking epilogue between the
two candles, to know if his suit may pass for current.’ Morley, p. 73.
Stephen Gosson (_School of Abuse_, p. 29) says that ‘overlashing
in apparel is so common a fault, that the verye hyerlings of
some of our plaiers, which stand at reversion of vi^s by
the weeke, jet under gentlemens noses in sutes of silke.’
=1. 6. 37, 8 For, they doe come
To see vs, Loue, as wee doe to see them.= Cf. _Induction_ to _The
Staple of News_, _Wks._ 5. 151: ‘Yes, on the stage; we are persons
of quality, I assure you, and women of fashion, and come to see
and to be seen.’ _Silent Woman_, _Wks._ 3. 409: ‘and come abroad
where the matter is frequent, to court, ... to plays, ...
thither they come to shew their new tires too, to see, and to
be seen.’ Massinger, _City Madam_, _Wks._, p. 323:
_Sir. Maur._ Is there aught else
To be demanded?
_Anne._ ... a fresh habit,
Of a fashion never seen before, to draw,
The gallants’ eyes, that sit upon the stage, upon me.
Gosson has much to say on the subject of women frequenting the
theatre. There, he says (p. 25). ‘everye man and his queane are first
acquainted;’ and he earnestly recommends all women to stay away from
these ‘places of suspition’ (pp. 48 f.).
=1. 6. 40 Yes, wusse.= _Wusse_ is a corruption of _wis_, OE. _gewis_,
certainly. Jonson uses the forms _I wuss_ (_Wks._ 1. 102), _I wusse_
(_Wks._ 6. 146), and _Iwisse_ (_Wks._ 2. 379. the fol. reading;
Gifford changing to _I wiss_), in addition to the present form. In
some cases the word is evidently looked upon as a verb.
=1. 6. 58 sweet Pinnace.= Cf. 2. 2. 111 f. A woman is often compared
to a ship. Nares cites B. & Fl., _Woman’s Pr._ 2. 6:
This pinck, this painted foist, this cockle-boat.
Cf. also _Stap. of News_, _Wks._ 5. 210:
She is not rigg’d, sir; setting forth some lady
Will cost as much as furnishing a fleet.--
Here she is come at last, and like a galley
Gilt in the prow.
Jonson plays on the names of Pinnacia in the _New Inn_, _Wks._ 5. 384:
‘_Host._ Pillage the Pinnace....
_Lord B._ Blow off her upper deck.
_Lord L._ Tear all her tackle.’
Pinnace, when thus applied to a woman, was almost always used with a
conscious retention of the metaphor. Dekker is especially fond of the
word. _Match me in London_, _Wks._ 4. 172:
--There’s a Pinnace
(Was mann’d out first by th’ City), is come to th’ Court,
New rigg’d.
Also Dekker, _Wks._ 4. 162; 3. 67, 77, 78.
When the word became stereotyped into an equivalent for procuress or
prostitute, the metaphor was often dropped. Thus in _Bart. Fair_,
_Wks._ 4. 386: ‘She hath been before me, punk, pinnace and bawd,
any time these two and twenty years.’ Gifford says on this passage:
‘The usual gradation in infamy. A _pinnace_ was a light vessel built
for speed, generally employed as a tender. Hence our old dramatists
constantly used the word for a person employed in love messages, a
go-between in the worst sense, and only differing from a bawd in not
being stationary.’ A glance at the examples given above will show,
however, that the term was much more elastic than this explanation
would indicate.
The dictionaries give no suggestion of the origin of the metaphor.
I suspect that it may be merely a borrowing from classical usage.
Cf. _Menaechmi_ 2. 3. 442:
Ducit lembum dierectum nauis praedatoria.
In _Miles Gloriosus_ 4. 1. 986, we have precisely the same
application as in the English dramatists: ‘Haec celox (a swift
sailing vessel) illiust, quae hinc agreditur, internuntia.’
=1. 6. 62 th’ are right.= Whalley’s interpretation is, of
course, correct. See variants.
=1. 6. 73 Not beyond that rush.= Rushes took the place of
carpets in the days of Elizabeth. Shakespeare makes frequent
reference to the custom (see Schmidt). The following passage from
Dr. Bulleyne has often been quoted: ‘Rushes that grow upon dry
groundes be good to strew in halles, chambers and galleries, to
walk upon, defending apparel, as traynes of gownes and kertles
from dust.’ Cf. also _Cyn. Rev._ 2. 5; _Every Man out_ 3. 3.
=1. 6. 83 As wise as a Court Parliament.= Jonson refers
here, I suppose, to the famous Courts or Parliaments of Love,
which were supposed to have existed during the Middle Ages (cf.
Skeat, _Chaucer’s Works_ 7. lxxx).
Cunningham calls attention to the fact that Massinger’s
_Parliament of Love_ was not produced until 1624. Jonson depicts
a sort of mock Parliament of Love in the _New Inn_, Act 4.
=1. 6. 88 And at all caracts.= ‘I. e., to the nicest point,
to the minutest circumstance.’--G. See Gloss. and cf. _Every Man
in_, _Wks._ 1. 70.
=1. 6. 89, 90 as scarce hath soule, In stead of salt.= Whalley
refers to _Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 446, 7: ‘Talk of him to have a
soul! ’heart, if he have any more than a thing given him instead of
salt, only to keep him from stinking. I’ll be hang’d afore my time.’
Gifford quotes the passage from B. & Fl., _Spanish Curate_:
--this soul I speake of,
Or rather salt, to keep this heap of flesh
From being a walking stench.
W. furnishes a Latin parallel: ‘Sus vero quid habet praeter escam?
cui quidem, ne putresceret, animam ipsam pro sale datam dicit esse
Chrysippus.’--Cic. _De Natura Deor_, lib. 2.
It is to these passages that Carlyle refers in his _Past and
Present_: ‘A certain degree of soul, as Ben Jonson reminds us,
is indispensable to keep the very body from destruction of the
frightfulest sort; to ‘save us,’ says he, ’the expense of salt.’
Bk. 2, Ch. 2.
‘In our and old Jonson’s dialect, man has lost the _soul_ out of
him; and now, after the due period,--begins to find the want of
it.... Man has lost his soul, and vainly seeks antiseptic salt.’
(Simpson in _N. & Q._, 9th Ser. 4. 347, 423.)
To the same Latin source Professor Cook (_Mod. Lang. Notes_,
Feb., 1905) attributes the passage in _Rabbi Ben Ezra_ 43-45:
What is he but a brute
Whose flesh has soul to suit,
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?
and Samuel Johnson’s ‘famous sentence recorded by Boswell under June
19, 1784: “Talking of the comedy of _The Rehearsal_, he said: ‘It has
not wit enough to keep it sweet.’”’
=1. 6. 97 the walks of Lincolnes Inne.= One of the famous Inns
of Court (note 3.1.8). It formerly pertained to the Bishops of
Chichester (Stow, _Survey_, ed. 1633, p. 488a). The gardens ‘were
famous until the erection of the hall, by which they were curtailed
and seriously injured’ (Wh-C.). The Tatler (May 10, 1709, no. 13)
speaks of Lincoln’s Inn Walks.
=1. 6. 99 I did looke for this geere.= See variants. Cunningham says:
‘In the original it is _geere_, and so it ought still to stand. Gear
was a word with a most extended signification. Nares defines it,
“matter, subject, or business in general!” When Jonson uses the word
_jeer_ he spells it quite differently. The _Staple of News_ was first
printed at the same time as the present play, and in the beginning of
Act IV. Sc. 1, I find: “_Fit._ Let’s _ieere_ a little. _Pen._ Ieere?
what’s that?”’
It is so spelt regularly throughout _The Staple of News_, but in
_Ev. Man in_ 1. 2 (fol. 1616), we find: ‘Such petulant, geering
gamsters that can spare No ... subject from their jest.’ The
fact is that both words were sometimes spelt _geere_, as well
as in a variety of other ways. The uniform spelling in _The
Staple of News_, however, seems to indicate that this is the
word _gear_, which fits the context, fully as well as, perhaps
better than Gifford’s interpretation. A common meaning is ‘talk,
discourse’, often in a depreciatory sense. See Gloss.
=1. 6. 125 Things, that are like, are soone familiar.=
‘Like will to like’ is a familiar proverb.
=1. 6. 127 the signe o’ the husband.= An allusion to the
signs of the zodiac, some of which were supposed to have a
malign and others a beneficent influence.
=1. 6. 131 You grow old, while I tell you this.=
Hor. [_Carm._ I. II. 8 f.]:
Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
Aetas, carpe diem.--G.
Whalley suggested:
Fugit Hora: hoc quod loquor, inde est.
--Pers. _Sat._ 5.
=1. 6. 131, 2 And such
As cannot vse the present, are not wise.=
Cf. _Underwoods_ 36. 21:
To use the present, then, is not abuse.
=1. 6. 138 Nay, then, I taste a tricke in’t.= Cf. ‘I do
taste this as a trick put on me.’ _Ev. Man in_, _Wks._ 1. 133.
See Introduction, p. xlvii.
=1. 6. 142 cautelous.= For similar uses of the word cf.
Massinger, _City Madam_, _Wks._, p. 321, and B. & Fl., _Elder
Brother_, _Wks._ 10. 275. Gifford gives an example from Knolles,
_Hist. of the Turks,_ p. 904.
=1. 6. 149 MAN. Sir, what doe you meane?
153 MAN. You must play faire, S^r.= ‘I am not certain about
the latter of these two speeches, but it is perfectly unquestionable
that the former _must_ have been spoken by the husband
Fitzdottrel.’--C.
Cunningham may be right, but the change is unnecessary if
we consider Manly’s reproof as occasioned by Fitzdottrel’s
interruption.
=1. 6. 158, 9 No wit of man=
=Or roses can redeeme from being an Asse.= ‘Here is an allusion to
the metamorphosis of Lucian into an _ass_; who being brought into
the theatre to shew tricks, recovered his human shape by eating some
_roses_ which he found there. See the conclusion of the treatise,
_Lucius, sive Asinus_.’--W.
See Lehman’s edition, Leipzig, 1826, 6. 215. As Gifford says,
the allusion was doubtless more familiar in Jonson’s day than
in our own. The story is retold in Harsnet’s _Declaration_
(p. 102), and Lucian’s work seems to have played a rather important
part in the discussion of witchcraft.
=1. 6. 161 To scape his lading.= Cf. note 1. 4. 72.
=1. 6. 180 To other ensignes.= ‘I. e., to horns, the
Insignia of a cuckold.’--G.
=1. 6. 187 For the meere names sake.= ‘I. e. the name of
the play.’--W.
=1. 6. 195 the sad contract.= See variants. W. and G. are
doubtless correct.
=1. 6. 214 a guilt caroch.= ‘There was some distinction
apparently between _caroch_ and _coach_. I find in
Lord Bacon’s will, in which he disposed of so much imaginary
wealth, the following bequest: “I give also to my wife my four
coach geldings, and my best caroache, and her own coach mares and
caroache.”’--C.
Minsheu says that a carroch is a great coach. Cf. also Taylor’s
_Wks._, 1630:
No coaches, or carroaches she doth crave.
_Rom Alley_, _O. Pl._, 2d ed., 5. 475:
No, nor your jumblings,
In horslitters, in coaches or caroches.
_Greene’s Tu Quoque_, _O. Pl._, 2d ed., 7. 28:
May’st draw him to the keeping of a coach
For country, and carroch for London.
Cf. also Dekker, _Non-dram. Wks._ 1. 111. Finally the matter is
settled by Howes (p. 867), who gives the date of the introduction
of coaches as 1564, and adds: ‘Lastly, euen at this time, 1605,
began the ordinary use of Caroaches.’ In _Cyn. Rev._, _Wks._ 2. 281,
Gifford changes _carroch_ to _coach_.
=1. 6. 216 Hide-parke.= Jonson speaks of coaching in Hyde Park in the
_Prologue to the Staple of News_, _Wks._ 5. 157, and in _The World
in the Moon_, _Wks._ 7. 343. Pepys has many references to it in his
_Diary_. ‘May 7, 1662. And so, after the play was done, she and The
Turner and Mrs. Lucin and I to the Parke; and there found them out,
and spoke to them; and observed many fine ladies, and staid till all
were gone almost.’
‘April 22, 1664. In their coach to Hide Parke, where great plenty of
gallants, and pleasant it was, only for the dust.’
Ashton in his _Hyde Park_ (p. 59) quotes from a ballad in the British
Museum (c 1670-5) entitled, _News from Hide Park_, In which the
following lines occur:
Of all parts of _England_, Hide-park hath the name,
For Coaches and Horses, and Persons of fame.
=1. 6. 216, 7 Black-Fryers, Visit the Painters.= A church,
precinct, and sanctuary with four gates, lying between Ludgate
Hill and the Thames and extending westward from Castle Baynard
(St. Andrew’s Hill) to the Fleet river. It was so called from
the settlement there of the Black or Dominican Friars in 1276.
Sir A. Vandyck lived here 1632-1641. ‘Before Vandyck, however,
Blackfriars was the recognized abode of painters. Cornelius
Jansen (d. 1665) lived in the Blackfriars for several years.
Isaac Oliver, the miniature painter, was a still earlier
resident.’ Painters on glass, or glass stainers, and collectors
were also settled here.--Wh-C.
=1. 6. 219 a middling Gossip.= ‘A go-between, an
_internuntia_, as the Latin writers would have called her.’--W.
=1. 6. 224 the cloake is mine.= The reading in the folio
belonging to Dr. J. M. Berdan of Yale is: ‘the cloake is mine
owne.’ This accounts for the variant readings.
=1. 6. 230 motion.= Spoken derogatively, a ‘performance.’
Lit., a puppet-show. The motion was a descendent of the
morality, and exceedingly popular in England at this time.
See Dr. Winter, _Staple of News_, p. 161; Strutt, _Sports and
Pastimes_, p. 166 f.; Knight, _London_ 1. 42. Jonson makes
frequent mention of the motion. _Bartholomew Fair_ 5. 5 is
largely devoted to the description of one, and _Tale Tub_ 5. 5
presents a series of them.
=1. 7. 4 more cheats?= See note on _Cheaters_, 5. 6. 64,
and Gloss.
=1. 7. 16 The state hath tane such note of ’hem.=
See note 1. 2. 22.
=1. 7. 25 Your Almanack-Men.= An excellent account of the
Almanac-makers of the 17th century is given by H. R. Plomer in
_N. & Q._,6th Ser. 12. 243, from which the following is abridged:
‘Almanac-making had become an extensive and profitable trade
in this country at the beginning of the 17th century, and with
the exception of some fifteen or twenty years at the time of
the Rebellion continued to flourish until its close. There
were three distinct classes of almanacs published during the
seventeenth century--the common almanacs, which preceded and
followed the period of the Rebellion, and the political and
satirical almanacs that were the direct outcome of that event.
‘The common almanacs came out year after year in unbroken
uniformity. They were generally of octavo size and consisted
of two parts, an almanac and a prognostication. Good and evil
days were recorded, and they contained rules as to bathing,
purging, etc., descriptions of the four seasons and rules to
know the weather, and during the latter half of the century an
astrological prediction and “scheme” of the ensuing year.
‘In the preceding century the makers of almanacs were “Physitians and
Preests”, but they now adopted many other titles, such as “Student in
Astrology”, “Philomath”, “Well Willer to the Mathematics.” The majority
of them were doubtless astrologers, but not a few were quack doctors,
who only published their almanacs as advertisements.’ (Almanac, a
character in _The Staple of News_, is described as a ‘doctor in
physic.’)
Among the more famous almanac-makers the names of William Lilly, John
Partridge and Bretnor may be mentioned. For the last see note 2. 1.
1, and B. & Fl., _Rollo, Duke of Normandy_, where Fiske and Bretnor
appear again. Cf. also _Alchemist_, _Wks._ 4. 41; _Every Man out_,
_Wks._ 2. 39-40; _Mag. La._, _Wks._ 6. 74, 5. In Sir Thomas Overbury’s
_Character_ of _The Almanac-Maker_ (Morley, p. 56) we read: ‘The verses
of his book have a worse pace than ever had Rochester hackney; for his
prose, ’tis dappled with ink-horn terms, and may serve for an almanac;
but for his judging at the uncertainty of weather, any old shepherd
shall make a dunce of him.’
ACT II.
=2. 1. 1 Sir, money’s a whore=, etc. Coleridge, _Notes_,
p. 280. emends: ‘Money, sir, money’s a’, &c. Cunningham, on the
other hand, thinks that ‘the 9-syllable arrangement is quite in
Jonson’s manner, and that it forces an emphasis upon every word
especially effective at the beginning of an act.’ See variants.
Money is again designated as a whore in the _Staple of News_
4. 1: ‘Saucy Jack, away: Pecunia is a whore.’ In the same
play Pennyboy, the usurer, is called a ‘money-bawd.’ Dekker
(_Non-dram. Wks._ 2. 137) speaks of keeping a bawdy-house for
Lady Pecunia. The figure is a common one.
=2. 1 .3 Via.= This exclamation is quite common among the dramatists
and is explained by Nares as derived from the Italian exclamation
_via!_ ‘away, on!’ with a quibble on the literal of L. _via_, a way.
The _Century Dictionary_ agrees substantially with this derivation.
Abundant examples of its use are given by the authorities quoted, to
which may be added _Merry Devil of Edmonton_ 1. 2. 5, and Marston,
_Dutch Courtezan_, _Wks._ 2. 20:
O, yes, come, _via_!--away, boy--on!
=2. 1. 5 With Aqua-vitae.= Perhaps used with especial reference to
line 1, where he has just called money a bawd Compare:
O, ay, as a bawd with aqua-vitae.
--Marston, _The Malcontent_, _Wks_. 1. 294.
‘Her face is full of those red pimples with drinking Aquauite,
the common drinke of all bawdes.’--Dekker, _Whore of Babylon_,
_Wks._ 2. 246.
=2. 1. 17. See variants.= Line 15 shows that the original
reading is correct.
=2. 1. 19 it shall be good in law.= See note 1. 2. 22.
=2. 1. 20 Wood-cock.= A cant term for a simpleton or dupe.
=2. 1. 21 th’ Exchange.= This was the first Royal Exchange,
founded by Sir Thomas Gresham in 1566, opened by Queen Elizabeth
in 1570-1, and destroyed in the great fire of 1666 (Wh-C.).
Howes (1631) says that it was ‘plenteously stored with all kinds
of rich wares and fine commodities,’ and Paul Hentzner (p. 40)
speaks of it with enthusiasm.
It was a favorite lounging-place, especially in the evening.
Wheatley quotes Hayman, _Quodlibet_, 1628, p. 6:
Though little coin thy purseless pockets line,
Yet with great company thou’rt taken up;
For often with Duke Humfray thou dost dine,
And often with Sir Thomas Gresham sup.
‘We are told in _London_ and _Country Carbonadoed_, 1632, that at the
exchange there were usually more coaches attendant than at church
doors.’ Cf. also _Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 357: ‘I challenge all
Cheapside to shew such another: Moor-fields, Pimlico-path, Or the
Exchange, in a summer evening.’ Also _Ev. Man in_, _Wks._ 1. 39.
=2. 1. 30 do you doubt his eares?= Ingine’s speech is capable of a
double interpretation. Pug has already spoken of the ‘liberal ears’ of
his asinine master.
=2. 1. 41 a string of’s purse.= Purses, of course, used to
be hung at the girdle. A thief was called a cut-purse. See the
amusing scene in _Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 5. 406.
=2. 1. 53, 4 at the Pan, Not, at the skirts.= ‘_Pan_ is not
easily distinguished from _skirt_. Both words seem to refer to
the outer parts, or extremities. Possibly Meercraft means--on
a broader scale, on a more extended front.’--G.
‘The pan is evidently the deepest part of the swamp, which
continues to hold water when the _skirts_ dry up, like the hole
in the middle of the tray under a joint when roasting, which
collects all the dripping. Meercraft proposed to grapple with
the main difficulty at once.’--C.
I had already arrived at the same conclusion before reading
Cunningham’s note. The _NED._ gives: ‘Pan. A hollow or depression in
the ground, esp. one in which water stands.
1594 Plat, _Jewell-ho_ 1. 32 Of all Channels, Pondes, Pooles,
Riuers, and Ditches, and of all other pannes and bottomes
whatsoeuer.’
_Pan_, however, is also an obsolete form of _pane_, a cloth
or skirt. The use is evidently a quibble. The word _pan_ suggested
to Jonson the word _skirt_, which he accordingly employed not
unaptly.
=2. 1. 63 his black bag of papers, there, in Buckram.= The
buckram bag was the usual sign of the pettifogger. Cf. Marston,
_Malcontent_, _Wks._ 1. 235:
_Pass._ Ay, as a pettifogger by his buckram bag.
Dekker, _If this be not a good Play_, _Wks._ 3. 274: ‘We must all
turn pettifoggers and in stead of gilt rapiers, hang buckram bags at
our girdles.’ Nash refers to the same thing in _Pierce Pennilesse_,
_Wks._ 2. 17.
=2. 1. 64 th’ Earledome of Pancridge.= Pancridge is a corruption
of Pancras. The Earl of Pancridge was ‘one of the “Worthies” who
annually rode to Mile End, or the Artillery Ground, in the ridiculous
procession called _Arthurs Shew_’ (G.). Cf. _To Inigo Marquis
Would-be_, _Wks._ 8. 115:
Content thee to be Pancridge earl the while.
_Tale Tub_, _Wks._ 6. 175:
--next our St. George,
Who rescued the king’s daughter, I will ride;
Above Prince Arthur.
_Clench._ Or our own Shoreditch duke.
_Med._. Or Pancridge earl.
_Pan._ Or Bevis or Sir Guy.
For _Arthur’s Show_ see Entick’s _Survey_ 1. 497; Wh-C. 1. 65;
and Nares 1. 36. Cf. note 4. 7. 65·
=2. 1. 71, 2 Your Borachio Of Spaine.= ‘“_Borachio_ (says
Min-shieu) is a bottle commonly of a pigges skin, with the hair
inward, dressed inwardly with rozen, to keep wine or liquor
sweet:”--Wines preserved in these bottles contract a peculiar
flavour, and are then said _to taste of the borachio_.’--G.
Florio says: ‘a boracho, or a bottle made of a goates skin such
as they vse in Spaine.’ The word occurs somewhat frequently
(see _NED._) and apparently always with this meaning, or in the
figurative sense of ‘drunkard’. It is evident, however, from
Engine’s question, ‘Of the King’s glouer?’ either that it is
used here in a slightly different sense, or more probably that
Merecraft is relying on Fitzdottrel’s ignorance of the subject.
Spanish leather for wearing apparel was at this time held in
high esteem. See note 4. 4. 71, 2.
=2. 1. 83 a Harrington.= ‘In 1613, a patent was granted to John
Stanhope, lord Harrington, Treasurer of the Chambers, for the
coinage of royal farthing tokens, of which he seems to have availed
himself with sufficient liberality. Some clamour was excited on the
occasion: but it speedily subsided; for the Star Chamber kept a
watchful eye on the first symptoms of discontent at these pernicious
indulgences. From this nobleman they took the name of Harrington
in common conversation.’--G.
‘Now (1613) my lord Harrington obtained a patent from the
King for the making of Brasse Farthings, a thing that brought with
it some contempt through lawfull.’--Sparke, _Hist. Narration_,
Somer’s _Tracts_ 2. 294.
A reference to this coin is made in _Drunken Barnaby’s Journal_
in the _Oxoniana_ (quoted by Gifford) and in Sir Henry Wotton’s
Letters (p. 558, quoted by Whalley). Cf. also _Mag. La._, _Wks._
6. 89: ‘I will note bate you a single Harrington,’ and _ibid._,
_Wks._ 6. 43.
=2. 1. 102 muscatell.= The grape was usually called
_muscat_. So in Pepys’ _Diary_, 1662: ‘He hath also sent each of
us some anchovies, olives and muscatt.’ The wine was variously
written _muscatel_, _muscadel_, and _muscadine_. Muscadine and
eggs are often mentioned together (cf. Text, 2. 2. 95-96; _New
Inn_ 3. 1; Middleton, _Wks._ 2. 290; 3. 94; and 8. 36), and were
used as an aphrodisiac (Bullen). Nares quotes Minsheu: ‘Vinum
muscatum, quod moschi odorem referat; for the sweetnesse and
smell it resembles muske.’
=2. 1. 116, 7 the receiu’d heresie, That England beares no Dukes.=
‘I know not when this _heresy_ crept in. There was apparently some
unwillingness to create dukes, as a title of honour, in the Norman
race; probably because the Conqueror and his immediate successors were
dukes of Normandy, and did not choose that a subject should enjoy
similar dignities with themselves. The first of the English who bore
the title was Edward the black prince, (son of Edward III.) who was
created duke of Cornwall, by charter, as Collins says, in 1337. The
dignity being subsequently conferred on several of the blood-royal,
and of the nobility, who came to untimely ends, an idea seems to have
been entertained by the vulgar, that the title itself was ominous. At
the accession of James I. to the crown of this country, there was, I
believe, no English peer of ducal dignity.’--G.
The last duke had been created in the reign of Henry VIII., who made
his illegitimate son the Duke of Richmond, and Charles Brandon, who
married his sister Mary, Duke of Suffolk. After the attainder and
execution of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, in 1572, there was no duke
in England except the king’s sons, until the creation of the Duke of
Richmond in 1623. (See _New Int. Cyc._ 6. 349.)
=2. 1. 144 Bermudas.= ‘This was a cant term for some places in
the town with the same kind of privilege as the mint of old, or the
purlieus of the Fleet.’--W.
‘These _streights_ consisted of a nest of obscure courts,
alleys, and avenues, running between the bottom of St. Martin’s
Lane, Half-moon, and Chandos-street. In Justice Overdo’s time,
they were the receptacles of fraudulent debtors, thieves and
prostitutes.’--G. (Note on _Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 407.)
‘On Wednesday at the Bermudas Court, Sir Edwin Sandys fell foul
of the Earl of Warwick. The Lord Cavendish seconded Sandys and
the Earl told the Lord, “By his favour he believed he lied.”
Hereupon, it is said, they rode out yesterday, and, as it is
thought, gone beyond sea to fight.--_Leigh to Rev. Joseph Mede_,
July 18, 1623.’ (Quoted Wh-C. 1. 169.) So in _Underwoods_,
_Wks._ 8. 348:
turn pirates here at land,
Have their Bermudas and their Streights i’ the Strand.
_Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 407: “The Streights, or the Bermudas,
where the quarrelling lesson is read.”
It is evident from the present passage and the above quotations that
ruffians like Everill kept regular quarters in the ‘Bermudas’, where
they might be consulted with reference to the settlement of affairs
of honor.
=2. 1. 151 puts off man, and kinde.= ‘I. e., human nature.’--G. Cf.
_Catiline_, _Wks._ 4. 212:
--so much, that kind
May seek itself there, and not find.
=2. 1. 162 French-masques.= ‘Masks do not appear as ordinary
articles of female costume in England previous to the reign of
Queen Elizabeth.... French masks are alluded to by Ben Jonson
in _The Devil is an Ass_. They were probably the half masks
called in France ‘loups,’ whence the English term ‘loo masks.’
Loo masks and whole as wind do blow,
And Miss abroad’s disposed to go.
_Mundus Muliebris_, 1690.
--Planché _Cycl. of Costume_ 1. 365.
‘Black masks were frequently worn by ladies in public in the
time of Shakespeare, particularly, and perhaps universally at
the theatres.’--Nares.
=2. 1. 163 Cut-works.= A very early sort of lace deriving
its name from the mode of its manufacture, the fine cloth on
which the pattern was worked being cut away, leaving the design
perfect. It is supposed to have been identical with what was
known as Greek work, and made by the nuns of Italy in the
twelfth century. It was introduced into England during the
reign of Queen Elizabeth, and continued in fashion during those
of James I. and Charles I. Later it fell under the ban of the
Puritans, and after that period is rarely heard of. (Abridged
from Planché, _Cycl._)
=2. 1. 168 ff. nor turne the key=, etc. Gifford points out that the
source of this passage is Plautus, _Aulularia_ [ll. 90-100]:
Caue quemquam alienum in aedis intromiseris.
Quod quispiam ignem quaerat, extingui uolo,
Ne causae quid sit quod te quispiam quaeritet.
Nam si ignis uiuet, tu extinguere extempulo,
Tum aquam aufugisse dicito, si quis petet.
Cultrum, securim, pistillum, mortarium,
Quae utenda uasa semper uicini rogant,
Fures uenisse atque abstulisse dicito.
Profecto in aedis meas me absente neminem
Volo intromitti, atque etiam hoc praedico tibi,
Si Bona Fortuna ueniat, ne intromiseris.
Jonson had already made use of a part of this passage:
Put out the fire, kill the chimney’s heart,
That it may breathe no more than a dead man.
_Case is Altered_ 2. 1, _Wks._ 6. 328.
Wilson imitated the same passage in his _Projectors_, Act 2, Sc.
1: ‘Shut the door after me, bolt it and bar it, and see you let
no one in in my absence. Put out the fire, if there be any, for
fear somebody, seeing the smoke, may come to borrow some! If
any one come for water, say the pipe’s cut off; or to borrow a
pot, knife, pestle and mortar, or the like, say they were stole
last night! But harke ye! I charge ye not to open the door to
give them an answer, but whisper’t through the keyhole! For, I
tell you again, I wilt have nobody come into my house while I’m
abroad! No; no living soul! Nay, though Good Fortune herself
knock at a door, don’t let her in!’
=2. 2. 1 I haue no singular seruice=, etc. I. e., This is
the sort of thing I must become accustomed to, if I am to
remain on earth.
=2. 2. 49, 50 Though they take Master Fitz-dottrell, I am no
such foule.= Gifford points out that the punning allusion of
_foul_ to _fowl_ is a play upon the word dottrel. ‘The dotterel
(Fuller tells us) is avis γελοτοποιος a mirth-making bird,
so ridiculously mimical, that he is easily caught, or rather
catcheth himself by his over-active imitation. As the fowler
stretcheth forth his arms and legs, stalking towards the bird,
so the bird extendeth his legs and wings, approaching the fowler
till he is surprised in the net.’--G.
This is what is alluded to in 4. 6. 42. The use of the metaphor is
common. Gifford quotes Beaumont & Fletcher. _Bonduca_ and _Sea Voyage_.
Many examples are given in Nares and the _NED._, to which may be added
_Damon and Pithias_, _O. Pl._ 4. 68; Nash, _Wks._ 3. 171; and Butler’s
_Character of a Fantastic_ (ed. Morley, p. 401): ‘He alters his gait
with the times, and has not a motion of his body that (like a dottrel)
he does not borrow from somebody else.’ Nares quotes _Old Couple_ (_O.
Pl._, 4th ed., 12. 41):
_E._ Our Dotterel then is caught?
_B._ He is and just
As Dotterels use to be: the lady first
Advanc’d toward him, stretch’d forth her wing, and he
Met her with all expressions.
It is uncertain whether the sense of ‘bird’ or ‘simpleton’ is
the original. _Dottrel_ seems to be connected with _dote_ and
_dotard_. The bird is a species of plover, and Cunningham says
that ‘Selby ridicules the notion of its being more stupid than
other birds.’ In _Bart. Fair_ (_Wks._ 4. 445) we hear of the
‘sport call’d Dorring the Dotterel.’
=2. 2. 51 Nor faire one.= The dramatists were fond of
punning on _foul_ and _fair_. Cf. _Bart. Fair_ passim.
=2. 2. 77 a Nupson.= Jonson uses the word again in _Every
Man in_, _Wks._ 1. 111: ‘O that I were so happy as to light on
a nupson now.’ In _Lingua_, 1607, (_O. Pl._, 4th ed., 9. 367,
458) both the forms _nup_ and _nupson_ are used. The etymology
is uncertain. The _Century Dictionary_ thinks _nup_ may be a
variety of _nope_. Gifford thinks it may be a corruption of
Greek νηπ.
=2. 2. 78 with my Master’s peace.= ‘I. e. respectfully,
reverently: a bad translation of _cum pace domini_.’--G.
=2. 2. 81 a spic’d conscience.= Used again in _Sejanus_,
_Wks._ 3. 120, and _New Inn_, _Wks._ 5. 337.
=2. 2. 90 The very forked top too.= Another reference to the
horned head of the cuckold. Cf. 1. 6. 179, 80.
=2. 2. 93 engendering by the eyes.= Cf. Song in _Merch. of V._
3. 2. 67: ‘It is engender’d in the eyes.’
=2. 2. 98 make benefit.= Cf. _Every Man in_, _Wks._ 1. 127.
=2. 2. 104 a Cokes.= Cf. Ford, _Lover’s Melancholy_, _Wks._
2. 80: ‘A kind of cokes, which is, as the learned term [it], an
ass, a puppy, a widgeon, a dolt, a noddy, a----.’ Cokes is the
name of a foolish coxcomb in _Bart. Fair_.
=2. 2. 112 you neat handsome vessells.= Cf. note 1. 6. 57.
=2. 2. 116 your squires of honour.= This seems to be
equivalent to the similar expression ‘squire of dames.’
=2. 2. 119-125 For the variety at my times, ... I know, to
do my turnes, sweet Mistresse.= I. e., when for variety you turn
to me, I will be able to serve your needs. Pug, of course, from the
delicate nature of the subject, chooses to make use of somewhat
ambiguous phrases.
=2. 2. 121.= Thos. Keightley, _N. & Q._ 4. 2. 603,
proposes to read:
Of that proportion, or in the rule.
=2. 2. 123 Picardill.= Cotgrave gives: ‘Piccadilles: Piccadilles;
the severall divisions or peeces fastened together about the brimme
of the collar of a doublet, &c.’ Gifford says: ‘With respect to the
_Piccadil_, or, as Jonson writes it, Picardil, (as if he supposed the
fashion of wearing it be derived from Picardy,) the term is simply a
diminutive of picca (Span. and Ital.) a spear-head, and was given to
this article of foppery, from a fancied resemblance of its stiffened
plaits to the bristled points of those weapons. Blount thinks, and
apparently with justice, that Piccadilly took its name from the sale
of the “small stiff collars, so called”, which was first set on foot
in a house near the western extremity of the present street, by one
Higgins, a tailor.’
As Gifford points out, ‘Pug is affecting modesty, since he had
not only assumed a handsome body, but a fashionable dress, “made
new” for a particular occasion.’ See 5. 1. 35, 36.
Jonson mentions the _Picardill_ again in the _Challenge at
Tilt_, _Wks._ 7. 217, and in the _Epistle to a Friend_,
_Wks._ 8. 356. For other examples see Nares, _Gloss_.
=2. 2. 127 f. your fine Monkey=; etc. These are all common
terms of endearment. The monkey is frequently mentioned as a
lady’s pet by the dramatists. See _Cynthia’s Revels_, passim, and
Mrs. Centlivre’s _Busie Body_.
=2. 3. 36, 7 and your coach-man bald! Because he shall be bare.=
See note to 4. 4. 202.
=2. 3. 45 This man defies the Diuell.= See 2. 1. 18.
=2. 3. 46 He dos’t by Ingine.= I. e., wit, ingenuity, with a
possible reference to the name of Merecraft’s agent.
=2. 3. 49 Crowland.= Crowland, or Croyland is an ancient town
and parish of Lincolnshire, situated in a low flat district, about
eight miles north-east from Peterborough. The origin of Crowland was
in a hermitage founded in the 7th century by St. Guthlac. An abbey
was founded in 714 by King Ethelbald, which was twice burnt and
restored.
=2. 4. 6 Spenser, I thinke, the younger.= Thomas (1373-1400)
was the only member of the Despenser family who was an Earl of
Gloucester. The person referred to here, however, is Hugh le
Despenser, the younger baron, son of Hugh le Despenser, the elder.
He married Eleanor, daughter of Gilbert of Clare, Earl of Gloucester,
and sister and coheiress of the next Earl Gilbert. After the
death of the latter, the inheritance was divided between the husbands
of his three sisters, and Despenser was accordingly sometimes called
Earl of Gloucester.
Despenser was at first on the side of the barons, but later joined
the King’s party. In 1321 a league was formed against him, and he
was banished, but was recalled in the following year. In the
Barons’ rising of 1326 he was taken prisoner, brought to Hereford,
tried and put to death.
=2. 4. 8 Thomas of Woodstocke.= Thomas of Woodstock, Earl
of Buckingham (1355-97), the youngest son of Edward III., was
made Duke of Gloucester by his nephew, Richard II., in 1385, and
later acquired an extraordinary influence, dominating the affairs of
England for several years. By his high-handed actions he incurred
Richard’s enmity. He was arrested July 10, 1397, and conveyed to
Calais, where he was murdered in the following September by the
king’s order.
=2. 4. 10 Duke Humphrey.= Humphrey, called the Good Duke
Humphrey (1391-1447), youngest son of Henry IV., was created
Duke of Gloucester and Earl of Pembroke in 1414. During the
minority of Henry VI. he acted as Protector of the kingdom. His
career was similar to that of Thomas of Woodstock. In 1447 he
was arrested at Bury by order of Henry VI., who had become king
in 1429. Here he died in February, probably by a natural death,
although there were suspicions of foul play.
=2. 4. 11 Richard the Third.= Richard III. (1452-1485), Duke of
Gloucester and King of England, was defeated and slain in the battle
of Bosworth Field, 1485.
=2. 4. 12-4 MER. By ... authentique.= This passage has been
the occasion of considerable discussion. The subject was first
approached by Malone. In a note to an essay on _The Order of
Shakespeare’s Plays_ in his edition of Shakespeare’s works (ed.
1790, 3. 322) he says: ‘In _The Devil’s an Ass_, acted in 1616,
all his historical plays are obliquely censured.’
Again in a dissertation on _Henry VI._: ‘The malignant Ben, does
indeed, in his _Devil’s an Ass_, 1616, sneer at our author’s
historical pieces, which for twenty years preceding had been in high
reputation, and probably were _then_ the only historical dramas that
had possession of the theatre; but from the list above given, it is
clear that Shakespeare was not the _first_ who dramatized our old
chronicles; and that the principal events of English History were
familiar to the ears of his audience, before he commenced a writer
for the stage.’ Malone here refers to quotations taken from Gosson
and Lodge. Both these essays were reprinted in Steevens’ edition, and
Malone’s statements were repeated in the edition by Dr. Chalmers.
In 1808 appeared Gilchrist’s essay, _An Examination of the
Charges ... of Ben Jonson’s enmity,_ etc. _towards Shakespeare_.
This refutation, strengthened by Gifford’s _Proofs of Ben
Jonson’s Malignity_, has generally been deemed conclusive.
Gifford’s note on the present passage is written with much
asperity. He was not content, however, with an accurate
restatement of Malone’s arguments. He changes the italics in
order to produce an erroneous impression, printing thus: ‘which
were probably then the _only historical dramas on the stage_:
He adds: ‘And this is advanced in the very face of his own
arguments, to prove that there were scores, perhaps hundreds, of
others on it at the time.’ This is direct falsification. There
is no contradiction in Malone’s arguments. What he attempted
to prove was that Shakespeare had had predecessors in this
field, but that in 1616 his plays held undisputed possession
of the stage. Gifford adds a passage from Heywood’s _Apology
for Actors_, 1612, which is more to the point: ‘Plays have
taught the unlearned the knowledge of many famous _histories_,
instructed such as cannot read in the discovery of our _English
Chronicles_: and what man have you now of that weake capacity
that being possest of their true use, cannot discourse of any
notable thing recorded even from _William the Conqueror_, until
this day?’
This passage seems to point to the existence of other historical plays
_contemporary_ with those of Shakespeare. Besides, Jonson’s words
seem sufficiently harmless. Nevertheless, although I am not inclined
to accept Malone’s charge of ‘malignity’, I cannot agree with Gifford
that the reference is merely a general one. I have no doubt that the
‘Chronicle,’ of which Merecraft speaks, is Hall’s, and the passage
the following: ‘It semeth to many men, that the name and title of
Gloucester, hath been vnfortunate and vnluckie to diuerse, whiche
for their honor, haue been erected by creacion of princes, to that
stile and dignitie, as Hugh Spencer, Thomas of Woodstocke, sonne to
kyng Edward the third, and this duke Humfrey, which thre persones,
by miserable death finished their daies, and after them kyng Richard
the iii. also, duke of Gloucester, in ciuill warre was slaine and
confounded: so y^t this name of Gloucester, is take for an vnhappie
and vnfortunate stile, as the prouerbe speaketh of Seianes horse,
whose rider was euer unhorsed, and whose possessor was euer brought to
miserie.’ Hall’s _Chronicle_, ed. 1809, pp. 209-10. The passage in ‘the
Play-bookes’ which Jonson satirizes is at the close of _3 Henry VI._ 2.
6:
_Edw._ Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester,
And George, of Clarence: Warwick, as ourself,
Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.
_Rich._ Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester;
For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.
The last line, of course, corresponds to the _’Tis fatal_ of
Fitzdottrel. Furthermore it may be observed that Thomas of
Woodstock’s death at Calais is referred to in Shakespeare’s _K.
Rich. II._; Duke Humphrey appears in _2 Henry IV._; _Henry V._;
and _1_ and _2 Henry VI._; and Richard III. in _2_ and _3 Henry
VI._ and _K. Rich. III._ _3 Henry VI._ is probably, however, not
of Shakespearean authorship.
=2. 4. 15 a noble house.= See Introduction, p. lxxiv.
=2. 4. 23 Groen-land.= The interest in Greenland must have been
at its height in 1616. Between 1576 and 1622 English explorers
discovered various portions of its coast; the voyages of Frobisher,
Davis, Hudson and Baffin all taking place during that period.
Hakluyt’s _Principall Navigations_ appeared in 1589, Davis’s _Worldes
Hydrographical Description_ in 1594, and descriptions of Hudson’s
voyages in 1612-3. The usual spelling of the name seems to have
been _Groenland_, as here. I find the word spelled also _Groineland_,
_Groenlandia_, _Gronland_, and _Greneland_ (see Publications of the
Hakluyt Society). Jonson’s reference has in it a touch of sarcasm.
=2. 4. 27 f. Yes, when you=, etc. The source of this passage is
Hor., _Sat._ 2. 2. 129 f.:
Nam propriae telluris erum natura neque illum
Nec me nec quemquam statuit; nos expulit ille,
Ilium aut nequities, aut vafri inscitia juris
Postremo expellet certe vivacior haeres.
Nunc ager Umbreni sub nomine, nuper Ofelli
Dictus, erit nulli proprius, sed cadet in usum
Nunc mihi, nunc alii.
Gifford quotes a part of the passage and adds: ‘What follows is
admirably turned by Pope:
Shades that to Bacon might retreat afford,
Become the portion of a booby lord;
And Helmsley, once proud Buckingham’s delight,
Slides to a scrivener, or city knight.’
A much closer imitation is found in Webster, _Devil’s Law Case_,
_Wks._ 2. 37:
Those lands that were the clients art now become
The lawyer’s: and those tenements that were
The country gentleman’s, are now grown
To be his tailor’s.
=2. 4. 32 not do’it first.= Cf. 1. 6. 14 and note.
=2. 5. 10 And garters which are lost, if shee can shew ’hem.=
Gifford thinks the line should read: ‘can not shew’. Cunningham gives
a satisfactory explanation: ‘As I understand this it means that if a
gallant once saw the garters he would never rest until he obtained
possession of them, and they would thus be _lost_ to the family.
Garters thus begged from the ladies were used by the gallants as
_hangers_ for their swords and poniards. See _Every Man out of his
Humour_, _Wks._ 2. 81: “O, I have been graced by them beyond all aim
of affection: this is her garter my dagger hangs in;” and again p.
194. We read also in _Cynthia’s Revels_, _Wks._ 2. 266, of a gallant
whose devotion to a lady in such that he
Salutes her pumps,
Adores her hems, her skirts, her knots, her curls,
_Will spend his patrimony for a garter_,
Or the least feather in her bounteous fan.’
Gifford’s theory that ladies had some mode of displaying their
garters is contradicted by the following:
_Mary._ These roses will shew rare: would ’twere in fashion
That the garters might be seen too!
--Massinger, _City Madam_, _Wks._, p. 317.
Cf. also _Cynthia’s Revels_, _Wks._ 2. 296.
=2. 5. 14 her owne deare reflection, in her glasse.= ‘They must haue
their looking glasses caryed with them wheresoeuer they go, ... no
doubt they are the deuils spectacles to allure vs to pride, and
consequently to distruction for euer.’--Stubbes, _Anat._, Part 1, P. 79.
=2. 6. 21 and done the worst defeate vpon my selfe.= _Defeat_ is often
used by Shakespeare in this sense. See Schmidt, and compare _Hamlet_ 2.
2. 598:
--A king
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damn’d defeat was made.
=2. 6. 32 a body intire.= Cf. 5. 6. 48.
=2. 6. 35 You make me paint.= Gifford quotes from the _Two Noble
Kinsmen_:
How modestly she blows and paints the sun
With her chaste blushes.
=2. 6. 37 SN.= ‘Whoever has noticed the narrow streets or
rather lanes of our ancestors, and observed how story projected
beyond story, till the windows of the upper rooms almost touched
on different sides, will easily conceive the feasibility of
everything which takes place between Wittipol and his mistress,
though they make their appearance in different houses.’--G.
I cannot believe that Jonson wished to represent the two houses
as on opposite sides of the street. He speaks of them as
‘contiguous’, which would naturally mean side by side. Further
than this, one can hardly imagine even in the ‘narrow lanes of
our ancestors’ so close a meeting that the liberties mentioned
in 2. 6. 76 SN. could be taken.
=2. 6. 53 A strange woman.= In _Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 395,
Justice Overdo says: ‘Rescue this youth here out of the hands
of the lewd man and _the strange woman_.’ Gifford explains in a
note: ‘The scripture phrase for an immodest woman, a prostitute.
Indeed this acceptation of the word is familiar to many
languages. It is found in the Greek; and we have in Terence--pro
_uxore habere hanc_ peregrinam: upon which Donatus remarks, _hoc
nomine etiam_ meretrices _nominabantur_.’
=2. 6. 57-113 WIT. No, my tune-full Mistresse?= etc.
This very important passage is the basis of Fleay’s theory of
identification discussed in section D. IV. of the Introduction.
The chief passages necessary for comparison are quoted below.
A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS:
In Ten Lyric Pieces.
V.
His Discourse with Cupid.
Noblest Charis, you that are
Both my fortune and my star,
And do govern more my blood,
Than the various moon the flood,
Hear, what late discourse of you, 5
Love and I have had; and true.
’Mongst my Muses finding me,
Where he chanced your name to see
Set, and to this softer strain;
Sure, said he, if I have brain, 10
This, here sung, can be no other,
By description, but my Mother!
So hath Homer praised her hair;
So Anacreon drawn the air
Of her face, and made to rise 15
Just about her sparkling eyes,
Both her brows bent like my bow.
By her looks I do her know,
Which you call my shafts. And see!
Such my Mother’s blushes be, 20
As the bath your verse discloses
In her cheeks, of milk and roses;
Such as oft I wanton in:
And, above her even chin,
Have you placed the bank of kisses, 25
Where, you say, men gather blisses,
Ripen’d with a breath more sweet,
Than when flowers and west-winds meet.
Nay, her white and polish’d neck,
With the lace that doth it deck, 30
Is my mother’s: hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a chain!
And between each rising breast,
Lies the valley call’d my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings 35
After flight; and put new stings
To my shafts: her very name
With my mother’s is the same.
I confess all, I replied,
And the glass hangs by her side, 40
And the girdle ’bout her waist,
All is Venus, save unchaste.
But alas, thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best
Of her sex: but couldst thou, Love, 45
Call to mind the forms that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.
For this beauty yet doth hide
Something more than thou hast spied. 50
Outward grace weak love beguiles:
She is Venus when she smiles:
But she’s Juno when she walks,
And Minerva when she talks.
UNDERWOODS XXXVI.
_AN ELEGY_.
By those bright eyes, at whose immortal fires
Love lights his torches to inflame desires;
By that fair stand, your forehead, whence he bends
His double bow, and round his arrows sends;
By that tan grove, your hair, whose globy rings 5
He flying curls, and crispeth with his wings;
By those pure baths your either cheek discloses,
Where he doth steep himself in milk and roses;
And lastly, by your lips, the bank of kisses,
Where men at once may plant and gather blisses: 10
Ten me, my lov’d friend, do you love or no?
So well as I may tell in verse, ’tis so?
You blush, but do not:--friends are either none,
Though they may number bodies, or but one.
I’ll therefore ask no more, but bid you love, 15
And so that either may example prove
Unto the other; and live patterns, how
Others, in time, may love as we do now.
Slip no occasion; as time stands not still,
I know no beauty, nor no youth that will. 20
To use the present, then, is not abuse,
You have a husband is the just excuse
Of all that can be done him; such a one
As would make shift to make himself alone
That which we can; who both in you, his wife, 25
His issue, and all circumstance of life,
As in his place, because he would not vary,
Is constant to be extraordinary.
THE GIPSIES METAMORPHOSED
_The Lady Purbeck’s Fortune, by the_
_Gip._ Help me, wonder, here’s a book, 2
Where I would for ever look:
Never yet did gipsy trace
Smoother lines in hands or face:
Venus here doth Saturn move 5
That you should be Queen of Love;
And the other stars consent;
Only Cupid’s not content;
For though you the theft disguise,
You have robb’d him of his eyes. 10
And to shew his envy further:
Here he chargeth you with murther:
Says, although that at your sight,
He must all his torches light;
Though your either cheek discloses 15
Mingled baths of milk and roses;
Though your lips be banks of blisses,
Where he plants, and gathers kisses;
And yourself the reason why,
Wisest men for love may die; 20
You will turn all hearts to tinder,
And shall make the world one cinder.
_From_
A CHALLENGE AT TILT,
AT A MARRIAGE.
_2 Cup._ What can I turn other than a Fury itself to see thy
impudence? If I be a shadow, what is substance? was it not I that
yesternight waited on the bride into the nuptial chamber, and,
against the bridegroom came, made her the throne of love? had I
not lighted my torches in her eyes, planted my mother’s roses in 5
her cheeks; were not her eye-brows bent to the fashion of my bow,
and her looks ready to be loosed thence, like my shafts? had I not
ripened kisses on her lips, fit for a Mercury to gather, and made
her language sweeter than his upon her tongue? was not the girdle
about her, he was to untie, my mother’s, wherein all the joys and 10
delights of love were woven?
_1 Cup._ And did not I bring on the blushing bridegroom to taste
those joys? and made him think all stay a torment? did I not
shoot myself into him like a flame, and made his desires and his
graces equal? were not his looks of power to have kept the night 15
alive in contention with day, and made the morning never wished
for? Was there a curl in his hair, that I did not sport in, or a
ring of it crisped, that might not have become Juno’s fingers? his
very undressing, was it not Love’s arming? did not all his kisses
charge? and every touch attempt? but his words, were they not 20
feathered from my wings, and flew in singing at her ears, like
arrows tipt with gold?
In the above passages the chief correspondences to be noted are
as follows:
1. _Ch._ 5. 17; _U._ 36. 3-4; _Challenge_ 6. Cf.
also _Ch._ 9. 17:
Eyebrows bent, like Cupid’s bow.
2. _Ch._ 5. 25-6; _U._ 36. 9-10; _DA._ 2. 6. 86-7;
_Gipsies_ 17-8; _Challenge_ 8.
3. _Ch._ 5. 21-2; _U._ 36. 7-8; _DA._ 2. 6. 82-3;
_Gipsies_ 15-6; _Challenge_ 5-6.
4. _Ch._ 5. 41; _Challenge_ 9-10.
5. _U._ 36. 5-6; _DA._ 2. 6. 77-82; _Challenge_ 17-8. Cf.
also _Ch._ 9. 9-12:
Young I’d have him too, and fair,
Yet a man; with crisped hair,
Cast in thousand snares and rings,
For love’s fingers, and his wings.
6. _U._ 36. 21; _DA._ 1. 6. 132.
7· _U._ 36. 1-2; _Gipsies_ 13-4; _Challenge_ 5.
8. _U._ 36. 22-3; _DA._ 2. 6. 64-5
9. _DA._ 2. 6. 84-5; _Ch._ 9. 19-20:
Even nose, and cheek withal,
Smooth as is the billiard-ball.
10. _Gipsies_ 19-20; _Ch._ 1. 23-4:
Till she be the reason, why,
All the world for love may die.
=2. 6. 72 These sister-swelling brests.= ‘This is an
elegant and poetical rendering of the _sororiantes mammae_ of
the Latins, which Festus thus explains: _Sororiare puellarum
mammae dicuntur, cum primum tumescunt_.’--G.
=2. 6. 76 SN.= ‘Liberties very similar to these were, in the poet’s
time, permitted by ladies, who would have started at being told that
they had foregone all pretensions to delicacy.’--G.
The same sort of familiarity is hinted at in Stubbes, _Anatomy
of Abuses_ (Part 1, p. 78). Furnivall quotes _Histriomastix_
(Simpson’s _School of Shak._ 2. 50) and _Vindication of Top
Knots_, Bagford Collection, 1. 124, in illustration of the
subject. Gosson’s _Pleasant Quippes_ (1595) speaks of ‘these
naked paps, the Devils ginnes.’ Cf. also _Cyn. Rev._, _Wks._
2. 266, and _Case is A._, _Wks._ 6. 330. It seems to have been
a favorite subject of attack at the hands of both Puritans and
dramatists.
=2. 6. 76 Downe to this valley.= Jonson uses a similar
figure in _Cyn. Rev._, _Wks._ 2. 240 and in _Charis_
(see note 2. 6. 57).
=2. 6. 78 these crisped groues.= So Milton, _Comus_, 984:
‘Along the crisped shades and bowers.’ Herrick, _Hesper., Cerem.
Candlemas-Eve_: ‘The crisped yew.’
=2. 6. 85 well torn’d.= Jonson’s usual spelling. See
_Timber_, ed. Schelling, 64. 33; 76. 22. etc.
=2. 6. 85 Billyard ball.= Billiards appears to have been an
out-of-door game until the sixteenth century. It was probably
introduced into England from France. See J. A. Picton, _N. &
Q._. 5. 5. 283. Jonson uses this figure again in _Celeb. Charis_
9. 19-20.
=2. 6. 92 when I said, a glasse could speake=, etc. Cf.
1. 6. 80 f.
=2. 6. 100 And from her arched browes=, etc. Swinburne
says of this line: ‘The wheeziest of barrel-organs, the most
broken-winded of bagpipes, grinds or snorts out sweeter music
than that.’--_Study of Ben Jonson_, p. 104.
=2. 6. 104 Have you seene.= Sir John Suckling (ed. 1874, p.
79) imitates this stanza:
Hast thou seen the down in the air
When wanton blasts have tossed it?
Or the ship on the sea,
When ruder winds have crossed it?
Hast thou marked the crocodile’s weeping,
Or the fox’s sleeping?
Or hast viewed the peacock in his pride,
Or the dove by his bride
When he courts for his lechery?
O, so fickle, O, so vain, O, so false, so false is she!
=2. 6. 104 a bright Lilly grow.= The figures of the lily, the snow,
and the swan’s down have already been used in _The Fox_, _Wks._ 3.
195. The source of that passage is evidently Martial, _Epig._ 1. 115:
Loto candidior puella cygno,
Argento, nive, lilio, ligustro.
In this place Jonson seems to have more particularly in mind _Epig._
5. 37:
Puella senibus dulcior mibi cygnis ...
Cui nec lapillos praeferas Erythraeos, ...
Nivesque primas liliumque non tactum.
=2. 7. 2, 3 that Wit of man will doe’t.= There is evidently
an ellipsis of some sort before _that_ (cf. Abbott, §284).
Perhaps ‘provided’ is to be understood.
=2. 7. 4 She shall no more be buz’d at.= The metaphor is
carried out in the words that follow, _sweet meates_ 5, _hum_
6, _flye-blowne_ 7. ‘Fly-blown’ was a rather common term of
opprobrium. Cf. Dekker, _Satiromastix_, _Wks._ 1. 195: ‘Shal
distaste euery vnsalted line, in their fly-blowne Comedies.’
Jonson is very fond of this metaphor, and presses it beyond all
endurance in _New Inn_, Act 2. Sc. 2, _Wks._ 5. 344, 5, etc.
=2. 7. 13 I am resolu’d on’t, Sir.= See variants. Gifford
points out the quibble on the word _resolved_. See Gloss.
=2. 7. 17 O! I could shoote mine eyes at him.= Cf. _Fox_,
_Wks._ 3. 305: ‘That I could shoot mine eyes at him, like
gun-stones!’
=2. 7. 22.= See variants. The _the_ is probably absorbed by
the preceding dental. Cf. 5. 7. 9.
=2. 7. 33 fine pac’d huishers.= See note 4. 4. 201.
=2. 7. 38 turn’d my good affection.= ‘Not diverted or
changed its course; but, as appears from what follows, soured
it. The word is used in a similar sense by Shakespeare:
Has friendship such a faint and _milky_ heart,
It turns in less than two nights!
_Timon_, 3. 2.’--G.
=2. 8. 9, 10 That was your bed-fellow.= Ingine, perhaps in
anticipation of Fitzdottrel’s advancement, employs a term usually
applied to the nobility. Cf. _K. Henry V._ 2. 2. 8:
Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow,
Whom he had cloy’d and grac’d with princely favors.
Steevens in a note on the passage points out that the familiar
appellation of _bedfellow_, which appears strange to us, was
common among the ancient nobility.’ He quotes from _A Knack
to know a Knave_, 1594; _Look about you_, 1600; _Cynthia’s
Revenge_, 1613; etc., where the expression is used in the sense
of ‘intimate companion’ and applied to nobles. Jonson uses the
term _chamberfellow_ in _Underwoods_, _Wks._ 8. 353.
=2. 8. 20 An Academy.= With this passage compare _U._ 62,
_Wks._ 8. 412:
--There is up of late
The Academy, where the gallants meet--
What! to make legs? yes, and to smell most sweet:
All that they do at plays. O but first here
They learn and study; and then practice there.
Jonson again refers to ‘the Academies’ (apparently schools of
deportment or dancing schools) in 3. 5. 33.
=2. 8. 33 Oracle-Foreman.= See note 1. 2. 2.
=2. 8. 59 any thing takes this dottrel.= See note 2. 2. 49-50.
=2. 8. 64 Dicke Robinson.= Collier says: ‘This player may have
been an original actor in some of Shakespeare’s later dramas, and
he just outlived the complete and final suppression of the stage.’
His death and the date at which it occurred have been matters of
dispute.
His earliest appearance in any list of actors is at the end of
Jonson’s _Catiline_, 1611, with the King’s Majesty’s Servants.
He was probably the youngest member of the company, and
doubtless sustained a female part. Gifford believes that he took
the part of Wittipol in the present play, though this is merely
a conjecture. ‘The only female character he is known to have
filled is the lady of Giovanus in _The Second Maiden’s Tragedy_,
but at what date is uncertain; neither do we know at what period
he began to represent male characters.’ Of the plays in which
he acted, Collier mentions Beaumont and Fletcher’s _Bonduca_,
_Double Marriage_, _Wife for a Month_, and _Wild Goose Chase_
(1621); and Webster’s _Duchess of Malfi_, 1622.
His name is found in the patent granted by James I. in 1619 and
in that granted by Charles I. in 1625. Between 1629 and 1647 no
notice of him occurs, and this is the last date at which we hear of
him. ‘His name follows that of Lowin in the dedication to the folio
of Beaumont and Fletcher’s works, published at that time.’--Collier,
_Memoirs_, p. 268.
Jonson not infrequently refers to contemporary actors. Compare
the _Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy_, _Ep._ 120; the speech of Venus
in _The Masque of Christmas_, _Wks._ 7. 263; and the reference
to Field and Burbage in _Bart. Fair_ 5. 3.
=2. 8. 73 send frolicks!= ‘_Frolics_ are couplets,
commonly of an amatory or satirical nature, written on small
slips of paper, and wrapt round a sweetmeat. A dish of them is
usually placed on the table after supper, and the guests amuse
themselves with sending them to one another, as circumstances
seem to render them appropriate: this is occasionally productive
of much mirth. I do not believe that the game is to be found in
England; though the drawing on Twelfth Night may be thought to
bear some kind of coarse resemblance to it. On the continent I
have frequently been present at it.’--G.
The _NED._ gives only one more example, from R. H. _Arraignm._
_Whole Creature XIV._ § 2. 244 (1631) ‘Moveable as Shittlecockes
... or as Frolicks at Feasts, sent from man to man, returning
againe at last, to the first man.’
=2. 8. 74, 5 burst your buttons, or not left you seame.=
Cf. _Bart. Fair_, _Wks._ 4. 359: ‘he breaks his buttons,
and cracks seams at every saying he sobs out.’
=2. 8. 95, 103.= See variants.
=2. 8. 100 A Forrest moues not.= ‘I suppose Trains means,
“It is in vain to tell him of venison and pheasant, the right
to the bucks in a whole forest will not move him.”’--C.
=2. 8. 100 that forty pound.= See 3. 3. 148.
=2. 8. 102 your bond Of Sixe; and Statute of eight
hundred!= I. e., of six, and eight hundred pounds. ‘Statutes
merchant, statutes staple, and recognizances in the nature of
a statute staple were acknowledgements of debt made in writing
before officers appointed for that purpose, and enrolled of
record. They bound the lands of the debtor; and execution
was awarded upon them upon default in payment without the
ordinary process of an action. These securities were originally
introduced for the encouragement of trade, by providing a sure
and speedy remedy for the recovery of debts between merchants,
and afterwards became common assurances, but have now become
obsolete.’--S. M. Leake, _Law of Contracts_, p. 95.
Two of Pecunia’s attendants in _The Staple of News_ are
_Statute_ and _Band_ (i. e. Bond, see _U._ 34).
The two words are often mentioned together. In Dekker’s
_Bankrouts Banquet_ (_Non-dram. Wks._ 3. 371)
statutes are served up to the bankrupts.
Trains is evidently trying to impress Fitzdottrel with the
importance of Merecraft’s transactions.