[Enter wife in a riding suit with a servingman.]
SERVINGMAN.
Faith, mistress, If it might not be presumption
In me to tell you so, for his excuse
You had small reason, knowing his abuse.
WIFE.
I grant I had; but, alas,
Why should our faults at home be spread abroad?
Tis grief enough within doors. At first sight
Mine Uncle could run o’er his prodigal life
As perfectly, as if his serious eye
Had numbered all his follies:
Knew of his mortgaged lands, his friends in bonds,
Himself withered with debts: And in that minute
Had I added his usage and unkindness,
Twould have confounded every thought of good:
Where now, fathering his riots on his youth,
Which time and tame experience will shake off,
Guessing his kindness to me (as I smoothd him
With all the skill I had) though his deserts
Are in form uglier then an unshaped Bear,
He’s ready to prefer him to some office
And place at Court, A good and sure relief
To all his stooping fortunes: twill be a means, I hope
To make new league between us, and redeem
His vertues with his lands.
SERVINGMAN.
I should think so, mistress. If he should not now be kind
to you and love you, and cherish you up, I should think the
devil himself kept open house in him.
WIFE.
I doubt not but he will now: prethe, leave me; I think I
hear him coming.
SERVINGMAN.
I am gone.
[Exit.]
WIFE.
By this good means I shall preserve my lands,
And free my husband out of usurers hands:
Now there is no need of sale, my Uncle’s kind,
I hope, if ought, this will content his mind.—
Here comes my husband.
[Enter Husband.]
HUSBAND.
Now, are you come? where’s the money? let’s see the money.
Is the rubbish sold, those wiseakers your lands? why, when?
the money! where ist? powr’t down, down with it, down with it:
I say powr’t oth ground! lets see’t, lets see’t.
WIFE.
Good sir, keep but in patience and I hope
My words shall like you well: I bring you better
Comfort then the sale of my Dowrie.
HUSBAND.
Ha, whats that?
WIFE.
Pray, do not fright me, sir, but vouchsafe me hearing: my
Uncle, glad of your kindness to me and mild usage—for so I
made it to him—has in pity of your declining fortunes,
provided a place for you at Court of worth and credit, which
so much overjoyed me—
HUSBAND.
Out on thee, filth! over and over-joyed, [spurns her] when I’m
in torments? Thou pollitick whore, subtiller then nine Devils,
was this thy journey to Nuncke, to set down the history of me,
of my state and fortunes? Shall I that Dedicated my self to
pleasure, be now confind in service to crouch and stand like
an old man ith hams, my hat off? I that never could abide to
uncover my head ith Church? base slut! this fruit bears thy
complaints.
WIFE.
Oh, heaven knows
That my complaints were praises, and best words
Of you and your estate: only my friends
Knew of our mortgaged Lands, and were possest
Of every accident before I came.
If thou suspect it but a plot in me
To keep my dowrie, or for mine own good
Or my poor childrens: (though it suits a mother
To show a natural care in their reliefs)
Yet I’ll forget my self to calm your blood:
Consume it, as your pleasure counsels you,
And all I wish e’en Clemency affords:
Give me but comely looks and modest words.
HUSBAND.
Money, hore, money, or I’ll—
[Draws his dagger.]
[Enters a servant very hastily.]
What the devil? how now? thy hasty news?
[To his man.]
SERVINGMAN.
May it please you, sir—
[Servant in a fear.]
HUSBAND.
What? May I not look upon my dagger? Speak villain, or I will
execute the point on thee: quick, short.
SERVINGMAN.
Why, sir, a gentleman from the University stays below to speak
with you.
HUSBAND.
From the University? so! University—
That long word runs through me.
[Exit.]
WIFE.
Was ever wife so wretchedly beset?
[Wife alone.]
Had not this news stept in between, the point
Had offered violence unto my breast.
That which some women call great misery
Would show but little here: would scarce be seen
Amongst my miseries. I may Compare
For wretched fortunes with all wives that are.
Nothing will please him, until all be nothing.
He calls it slavery to be preferd,
A place of credit a base servitude.
What shall become of me, and my poor children,
Two here, and one at nurse, my pretty beggers?
I see how ruin with a palsy hand
Begins to shake the auncient seat to dust:
The heavy weight of sorrow draws my lids
Over my dankish eyes: I can scarce see:
Thus grief will last; it wakes and sleeps with me.
[Exit.]