Shakespeare, William. A Yorkshire Tragedy. Not So New as Lamentable
and True. In C.F. Tucker Brooke, ed., The Shakespeare Apocrypha
(Oxford, 1918).
ALL’S ONE,
OR, ONE OF THE FOUR PLAYS IN ONE, CALLED
A YORK-SHIRE TRAGEDY
AS IT WAS PLAYED BY THE KING’S MAJESTY’S PLAYERS.
Dramatis Personae.
Husband.
Master of a College.
Knight, a Justice of Peace.
Oliver,
Ralph,
Samuel, serving-men.
Other Servants, and Officers.
Wife.
Maid-servant.
A little Boy.
SCENE I. A room in Calverly Hall.
[Enter Oliver and Ralph, two servingmen.]
OLIVER.
Sirrah Ralph, my young Mistress is in such a pitiful passionate
humor for the long absence of her love—
RALPH.
Why, can you blame her? why, apples hanging longer on the tree
then when they are ripe makes so many fallings; viz., Mad
wenches, because they are not gathered in time, are fain to
drop of them selves, and then tis Common you know for every
man to take em up.
OLIVER.
Mass, thou sayest true, Tis common indeed: but, sirrah, is
neither our young master returned, nor our fellow Sam come
from London?
RALPH.
Neither of either, as the Puritan bawd says. Slidd, I hear
Sam: Sam’s come, her’s! Tarry! come, yfaith, now my nose
itches for news.
OLIVER.
And so does mine elbow.
[Sam calls within. Where are you there?]
SAM.
Boy, look you walk my horse with discretion; I have rid him
simply. I warrant his skin sticks to his back with very heat:
if a should catch cold and get the Cough of the Lungs I were
well served, were I not?
[Enter Sam. Furnisht with things from London.]
What, Ralph and Oliver.
AMBO.
Honest fellow Sam, welcome, yfaith! what tricks hast thou
brought from London?
SAM.
You see I am hangd after the truest fashion: three hats, and
two glasses, bobbing upon em, two rebato wires upon my breast,
a capcase by my side, a brush at my back, an Almanack in my
pocket, and three ballats in my Codpiece: nay, I am the true
picture of a Common servingman.
OLIVER.
I’ll swear thou art. Thou mayest set up when thou wilt.
There’s many a one begins with less, I can tell thee, that
proves a rich man ere he dies. But what’s the news from
London, Sam?
RALPH.
Aye, that’s well said; what’s the news from London, Sirrah?
My young mistress keeps such a puling for her love.
SAM.
Why, the more fool she; aye, the more ninny hammer she.
OLIVER.
Why, Sam, why?
SAM.
Why, he’s married to another Long ago.
AMBO.
Yfaith, ye jest.
SAM.
Why, did you not know that till now? why, he’s married, beats
his wife, and has two or three children by her: for you must
note that any woman bears the more when she is beaten.
RALPH.
Aye, that’s true, for she bears the blows.
OLIVER.
Sirrah Sam, I would not for two years wages, my young mistress
knew so much; she’d run upon the left hand of her wit, and
ne’er be her own woman again.
SAM.
And I think she was blest in her Cradle, that he never came
in her bed; why, he has consumed all, pawnd his lands, and
made his university brother stand in wax for him—There’s a
fine phrase for a scrivener! puh, he owes more then his skin’s
worth.
OLIVER.
Is’t possible?
SAM.
Nay, I’ll tell you moreover, he calls his wife whore as
familiarly as one would call Mal and Dol, and his children
bastards as naturally as can be.—But what have we here? I
thought twas somewhat puld down my breeches: I quite forgot
my two potingsticks. These came from London; now any thing
is good here that comes from London.
OLIVER.
Aye, far fetcht you know.
SAM.
But speak in your conscience, yfaith, have not we as good
Potingsticks ith Country as need to be put ith fire. The mind
of a thing’s all, and as thou saidst e’en now, far fetcht is
the best things for Ladies.
OLIVER.
Aye, and for waiting gentle women too.
SAM.
But, Ralph, what, is our beer sower this thunder?
OLIVER.
No, no, it holds countenance yet.
SAM.
Why, then, follow me; I’ll teach you the finest humor to be
drunk in’t; they call it knighting in London, when they drink
upon their knees.
AMBO.
Faith, that’s excellent. Come, follow me: I’ll give you all
the degrees ont in order.
[Exeunt.]