This was Cassandra's loss, whom we allow

And hold a prophetess as true as thou

But not so well believ'd. Take heed, my blade,

Thy late predictions cannot retrograde,

And give thine erring notions such a check,

As they unlink that chain which decks thy neck.

Signs sometimes change their influence, we see:

I wish the like event befall not thee.

The golden number and saturnian line

Have been propitious to thee all thy time:

Thy says held oracles: thy observations

For death, war, weather, held by foreign nations

As positive maxims: yet one critical point

Will throw this artful fabric out o' joint.

Dog-days each year affords; if thou find none,

Thy fortune's clearer far than any one.

Let me then caution thee, divining Crinon,

Lest thy own bosom prove thy treach'rous Sinon,

Let not opinion make thy judgment err:

"The ev'ning conquest crowns the conqueror."

Hope of reward or one victorious field

Is no firm ground for any one to build.

May ill success clothe him with discontent,

That balanceth the cause by the event.

Next him ascend, Erigonus, whose art,

Richly embellish'd with a loyal heart,

Will not permit thy thoughts to stoop so low

As to pretend more than thy notions know,

Or can attain to. Thou hast ta'en content

With as much freedom under strait restraint,

As Pibrack in his paradox express'd,

Inwardly cheer'd when outwardly distress'd.

I have much mus'd, while thou convers'd with us

Of the gradations o' th' Celestial House,

Yet hadst none of thine own to shelter thee.

This was an humour that transported me:

To see a mind so large, and to discourse

As if he had got Fortunatus' purse!

This caus'd me think that we did greatly err

In holding thee a mere astrologer,

Though't be a sacred-secret speculation,

And highly meriting our admiration:

But rather some rare stoic, well content

With his estate, however the world went.

Yet when I saw thine artificial scheme

Exactly drawn, as none of more esteem,

I wonder'd much how such choice art could want,

Unless the whole world were grown ignorant.

I heard of late, what I did never dream,

Thy farming life had drawn thee to a team,

Preferring th' culture of an husbandman

Before a needful astrologian,

Who in this thankless age may pine and die,

Before he profit by astronomy.

For though I must confess an artist can

Contrive things better than another man,

Yet when the task is done, he finds his pains

Nought[161] but to fill his belly with his brains.

Is this the guerdon due to liberal arts,

T' admire the head, and then to starve the parts?

Timely prevention thou discreetly us'd,

Before the fruits of knowledge were abus'd.

"When learning has incurr'd a fearful damp,

To save our oil 'tis good to quench our lamp."

Rest, then, on thy enjoyments, and receive

What may preserve a life, reserve a grave.

This with convenience may supply thy store,

And lodge thee with content: what wouldst thou more?

While he who thirsts for gold, and does receive it,

Pules like a baby when he's forc'd to leave it.

For you, Liberius, I would have you look

For your improvement on your table-book;

Where you shall find how you bore once a name

Both in the rank of fortune and of fame;

But others, rising to a higher merit,

Darken'd that splendour which you did inherit,

Or those mistakes which caus'd you err so far,

As your late years have proved canicular.

To waste more paper I would never have you,

For I'm resolv'd your book will never save you,

Nor you from it receive a benefit.

Suppress, then, pray thee, thy leaf-falling wit;

Merlin's Collections will not serve thy turn,

Retire, retire, and slumber in thine[162] urn.

Dotage has chill'd thy brain: in silence sleep;

"He's wise enough that can his credit keep."

For you, Columba, and rare Peregrine,

It is your fate to nestle in a clime

Of disadvantage: Wisdom bids you build

Where you may dwell, and sow in such a field,

Where you may reap the harvest you have sown:

"Arts unimprov'd are to no purpose shown."

Those only may be truly said to know,

Whose knowledge pays their country what they owe;

And (with the bee) from labour never cease,

Till they have stor'd their hives with sweet increase.

Which thriving industry, infus'd by nature

In such a small political a creature,

Might by a native model render thee

Conducts of science in astrology:

[Sidenote: _Saltibus hirsutis haud spatiantur apes._]

For she accounts it as a fruitless toil

To browse on suckets in a barren soil.

For you, Alatus, mount with airy wing,

And to [your] scatter'd nest some feathers bring:

Though popular esteem afford delight,

It cannot satisfy the appetite.

Fame is a painted meat, and cannot feed

Nor sate the stomach when it stands in need.

This was mine own condition; while I liv'd,

I to the highest pitch of fame arriv'd;

All the Rialto sounded with my praise,

Yet silence shrouded this within few days;

For after some few funeral tears were shed,

My memory died, before tears went to bed.

Yea, in my lifetime, when my state grew low,

My fame found none she would conduct me to:

And let this caution thee. Though thou swell great

In men's conceit, this will not get thee meat.

"The only means to raise friends, fame, and store,

Is to make industry thy providor."

For Atro-Lucus Serands, they be such

I would not touch them, lest I should too much

Impeach their branded fames: one word for all--

As their disgrace is great, their knowledge small:

Let these demoniacs practise less in black,

It will discolour all their almanac.

But this was not my errand. I would know

How ladies with their husbands suit below.

Those frolic girls, I mean, and of none else,

Who were induc'd by mine and Crinon's spells

[MEPHISTOPHILUS _appears and resolves him_.

To choose strange bedfellows. Pray, tell me how,

Dear Mephistophilus, those wantons do.

MEPH. All out of joint: they've left their husbands' bed.

GAL. By this it seems they were not rightly wed;

There was no justice in't: for if there had,

Should they break loose, they would be judged mad.

But now mine hour approacheth; I must pass

Down to that vault where late I lodged was.

Fix, Mephistophilus, this on that gate,

That those who knew me may collect my fate.

[MEPHISTOPHILUS _having fixed this inscription on the portal

of the gate, they descend_.

INSCRIPTION.

_The Astronomical Anatomy in a shadowed physnomy, recommended to

posterity, dissected and presented in the empirical ghost of

D. Nicholas Gallerius._----_Facilis descensus Averni._

_Enter_ WATCH _distraughtedly, letting fall their lanthorns_.

WATCH. Spirits, spirits, spirits!

_Enter_ CONSTABLE, _rubbing his eyes_.

CON. Where, where, where?

WATCH. Here, there, and everywhere;

Now in the porter's lodge, then in the air!

CON. A _foutre_ for such ranging mawkins! I'll tell you,

fellow-officers--for I have been since my weaning sufficiently

schooled in the office of a constable--that we have no

legislative power (do you mark me?) to commit any person, be he

never so notorious a delinquent, if he fly or (as our falconers

say) mount up into th' air. We are not bound to follow him,

neither to attach nor commit him. And why? says the law. Because

it is not in our power to catch him. But if he strut in the

street, you may command him to come before me the Constable, as I

am the representative body of the duke; or before yourselves,

being the representative body of your Constable; and if the

person so taken remain under safe custody, and he fly, if you

overtake him by speed of foot, or by help of the bellman's

mongrel, you may by the law of arms lay him by th' heels.

[_Dismiss the_ WATCH, _and exeunt_.

SCENE VII.

_Enter_ SIR AMADIN PUNY, SIR JASPER SIMPLETON, SIR ARTHUR

HEARTLESS, SIR GREGORY SHAPELESS, SIR TRISTRAM SHORTTOOL,

SIR REUBEN SCATTERGOOD.

SIR REU. Doubt nothing, my fellow-knights of Hornsey; the plot is

so neatly and nimbly laid as it cannot but hold stitch.

ALL. But be the favourites' suits got, Sir Reuben?

SIR REU. They are brought to our lodgings already. To try a

conclusion, I have most fortunately made their pages our 'coys by

the influence of a white powder, which has wrought so powerfully

on their tender pulse, as they have engaged themselves ours back

and edge. _Sunt munera vincula servis._

SIR TRIS. 'Tis true, but how shall we pursue this project, that

we may act to purpose what your ingenuity has contrived?

SIR REU. Leave that to me; be it your care to follow my

direction, and if I make not these haxters as hateful to our

hussies as ever they were to us who were their husbands, set me

up for a Jack-a-Lent or a Shrove-cock for every boy to throw at!

The net is spread, and if they 'scape the noose, they must have

more eyes than their own to discover it.

SIR AMA. Excellent, excellent! I long till I be at work.

SIR REU. It will admit no delay, Sir Amadin, I assure you. We

have not overwatched this night to no purpose. This very morning

by times we must be fitted with our properties, and with a

scornful neglect pass by that rendezvous where our gamesome

ladies expect their youthful Platonics.

SIR GRE. Revenge to me 's far sweeter than to live.

ALL. To't, to't; for love's sake, let us to't.

SIR REU. The plot is laid with such industrious skill, If this

take not, I do not know what will.

[_Exeunt._

ACT IV., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ MADAM FRICASE, MADAM CAVEARE, MADAM JULIPPE, MADAM

JOCULETTE, MADAM MEDLAR, MADAM TINDER.

FRI. How tedious morns these be in our expectance

Of what we tender most?

CAV. Credit me, madam,

My marriage-day from th' rising sun to night

Seem'd not so long, though it was long enough--

As the slow-running course of this morn's visit.

JUL. Desires cannot endure protractive hours;

The poet has confirm'd our thoughts in this,

Placing our action far below our wish:

"Sooner quenched is love's fire

With fruition than desire."

JOC. That poet surely was neither Mantuan, Lucian, nor Claudian.

MED. No, sister; nor AlcA|us, EubA|us, nor Apuleius; but some cold

cucumber-spirit--Xenocrates, who never actually knew how to hug

his mistress.

TIN. This is the hour and place.

FRI. It is so; and no doubt but our feathered favourites have

overflown us.

SCENE II.

_Enter_ VINTRESS _and_ DRAWERS.

VIN. What do you lack, my princely beauties?

CAV. What your sex cannot furnish us with, my dainty Dabrides.

Did you entertain no gallants lately?

VIN. Not any, madam; but gallants are men of their words; they

will stand to their tacking upon occasion: will you be pleased,

noble ladies, in their absence to bestow yourselves in a room;

or, to procreate yourselves, take a turn in the garden?

MED. 'Slid, does she hold us for Andalusian studs,[163] that can

breed by the air, or procreate of ourselves?

FRI. Well, her meaning is good; we will accept her offer, and

take a walk or a cheerful repose at our pleasure: and in it let

each of us, for want of more real objects, entertain an imaginary

apprehension of their absent lover.

[_Knocking within._

DRAW. Anon, anon, sir; quick, quick as Erebus, good Jeremy! Uds

so, what a chattering they make? I verily think our old Tityre

Tu's and Bugle Blews are come to town, they keep such a damnable

quarter.

2D DRAW. They knock as they were madmen in the percullis. Quick,

quick; more attendants in the _Unicorn_. There goes none to the

_Antwerp_. The _Lion_ and the _Roebuck_[164] have not one drawer

to attend them. Who goes into the Ladies' Garden?[165]

1ST DRAW. We shall have a brave term, if we stir not our stumps

better.

[_Exeunt._

_The Ladies' Garden._--JULLIPPE, &c.

JUL. Th' Elysian groves so richly beautified,

Deck'd with the tufted verdure: watered

With crystal rills, and cloth'd above conceit

In native diap'ry: may emblems be

Of this delicious platform, where each sense

May sate its quest with sweet satiety.

JOC. And th' edifying sense with melody.

[_Voices of nightingales._

Hark, how that ev'ning quire of nightingales

[Sidenote: _Dum Philomela canit, spinum sub pectore figit: Crimen

ut incestus se meminisse dolet._]

Warble with shrillest notes, pricks at their breasts,

Tereus' incestuous crime; as if't had been

A fact inexpiable: wherein we doubt,

What we should do, if [we] were put unto't.

This is a garden, sure, of great frequent.

CAV. Lucullus nor the Roman Argentine

Had ne'er the like: nor with completer beauties

More gracefully embellish'd: it might be

Styl'd the Spring Garden for variety

Of all delights: balls, treats, and choice invites,

Address'd for amorous parliance; and indeed

To make the bargain up--you know my meaning.

FRI. Thou art a dang'rous beagle. What say you, ladies?

In this perpetual spring-like sweet retire,

To gratify her court'sy and conduct,

Who tender'd these respects: let's have a frolic--

A jovial frolic, till the Platonics come.

Whom we must chide, and with some discontent

Tax for their slowness.

ALL. The motion's wondrous good;

We all assent to't.

JOC. But in this assent

Scatter such freedom as it may appear

Our fortunes be our own: and that no eye

Of jealousy or parsimonious thrift

Can bound our humour. Let's call up the drawer.

[_They ring the bell._

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAW. Your pleasures, madams?

ALL. What hast within, boy?

DRAW. Cakes, creams, stewed prunes, olivets, tongues, tarts,

and----

CAV. What else, you Jack-of-all-trades! Doth your mistress take

us, you nitty-napry rascal, for her bordella's blouses?[166]

Bring us here pistachio nuts,

Strengthening oringo roots.

Quince, peach, and preserv'd apricock,

With the stones pendant to't.[167]

With such incentive and salacious cates,

As quicken hours, and sharpen appetite.

DRAW. You shall, you shall, madam;--on my life, these be the

ladies of the New Dress; they'll never be satisfied.

[_Aside._

[_Exit._

CAV. Let us imagine ourselves now to be planted in the Sparagus

Garden, where if we want anything, it is our own fault. A fair

alimony needs no pawn; it will discharge a tavern-bill at any

time.

SCENE III.

_Enter again the_ VINTRESS _and_ DRAWER _with wine and fruit_.

VIN. How is it, noble ladies? Your honours shall want no rarities

that our storehouse may afford you.

CAV. A glass of muscadella for me. Here, Madam Fricase, to Monsieur

Florello!

[_Drinks._

FRI. This court'sy, madam, must not beget in you a forgetfulness

of Caranto.

CAV. So nearly he's unbosomed, you need not fear it.

JUL. Nectarella for me. Here, princely Joculette, to your

Salibrand!

[_Drinks._

JOC. Meantime, remember loyal Palisado.

JUL. No individual can be well forgot.

MED. Medea shall be mine. This, Madam Tinder, to your Tillyvally!

[_Drinks._

TIN. First to your own Morisco! So, this health's gone round.

FRI. Now when our throats are clear, let's join together

In some choice musical air.

ALL. Agreed, agreed,

What shall we have?

FRI. What may enliven love,

And feather fancy with Icarian wings.

ALL. We must be mounting then. Your subject, madam?

FRI. _Le Drollere Amaranto._

ALL. Dainty airs,

And lines to suit them: we shall follow you.

SONG, _in various Airs_.

_What shall we poor ladies do,

Match'd to shallops without brains,

Whose demains_[168] _are in grains,

And their wits in madding veins,

Stor'd with Neapolitan mains?

Give us sprightly sprigs of manhood,

None of these swads nor airy squibs,

Who would fain do, but cannot._

[_They alter the air upon the close of every stanza._

_Poor ladies, how we dwindle?

Who can spin without a spindle?

Valour never learn'd to tremble,

But in Cupid's dalliance nimble.

Little good does that stud with a stallion,

Fancies alien, weakly jointed,

Meanly mann'd, worse appointed,

Who would do, if he knew how,

But, alas! he would, but cannot._

_Penelope, though she were chaste,

Yet she bade her spouse make haste,

Lest by his sojourning long

She might chance to change her song,

And do her Ulysses wrong;

What then may we, who matched be

With these haggards madly manned,

Who would gladly do, but cannot?_

_Shall our youthful hopes decline;

Fade and perish in their prime:

And like forc'd Andromeda

Estrang'd from fancy's law!

Shall we wives and widows be,

Bound unto a barren tree?_

_Ushers come and apple-squires

To complete our free desires:

Platonics there be store

Fitly fram'd and train'd to man it.

Bavin once set afire

Will not so soon expire;

Let's never stay with such as they,

Who gladly would, but cannot._

_Shall we love, live, and feel no heat

While our active pulses beat?

Shall we hug none of our own,

But such as drop from th' frigid zone?

Let's rather suit old love adieu,

And i' th' requests suit for some new

Who have the heart to man it.

Tell us not this nor tell us that;

A kid is better than a cat,

And though he show, we know not what,

He cannot._

FRI. As I'm a virgin, ladies, bravely performed!

Once more Frontiniac, and then a walk.

[_She drinks._

This wine wants flavour, sapour, odour, vigour;

Taste it, dear madam, 'tis as pall and flat

As a sear fly-flap.

DRAW. Our last year's vintage, madam, was but small.

CAV. It seems so by your measure: this would never

Quicken the spirit nor inflame the blood.

[_One of the Ladies, looking out, discovers their deserted

Knights attired like their favourites, with their cloaks

over their faces._

LADY. They come, they come, they come!

ALL. Let's entertain them with a joint neglect.

SCENE IV.

_As their husbands pass along, they take occasion of

discourse one with another._

KNIGHTS. Let us pass by them with regardless scorn.

SIR REU. Pox on these overacting prostitutes!

They sate mine appetite.

[_They interchange these expresses as they pass by their

Ladies' room._

SIR TRIS. Fancy so fed

Begets a surfeit, ere it gets to bed.

SIR GRE. Ere I Platonic turn or Confidant,

Or an officious servant to a puss,

Whose honour lies at stake, let me become

A scorn to my relations.

SIR ART. Or when I

Engage my person, like a profess'd bolt,

To vindicate a mistress, who for sale

Would set her soul at hazard, may my grave

Be in the kennel, and the scavenger

The penman of my epitaph!

SIR JAS. Or I

Embrace a monkey for a mass of treasure.

SIR AMA. May never down seize on this downless chin,

When I become an usher to her sin.

SIR REU. So, let them chaw of this. Our scene is done,

We'll leave the rest to their digestion:

We must return those Adamites their clothes

To make their visits in, or they're lost men;

But it were strange, should they recruit again.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE V.

FRI. How is it, ladies?

CAV. Sure, we're in a dream.

Whence comes this strangeness?

JUL. From the too much freedom

Of our affection: had we kept them still,

At a discreeter distance, we had play'd

The wiser falc'ners, and caus'd them stoop

Unto our lure with eager appetite.

Fruits offer'd are least valu'd: got by stealth

Or by surprise, they're precious.

JOC. Shall we sleep

With this affront?

MED. Our spirits were remiss,

Should we not pay them home in their own coin.

TIN. Let Tinder lose her name, her family,

And alimony (which she values most),

If Tilly suffer not for this disgrace.

ALL. We vow the like: revenge may be excus'd,

For love resolves to hate when 'tis abus'd.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE VI.

_The Favourites appear to their half-bodies in their shirts,

in rooms above._

FLO. Why, you whoreson rogue! where's my suit? As I hope for

mercy, I am half-persuaded that this slip-halter has pawned my

clothes.

CAR. Nay, as our rooms be near, our fates are all alike. If my

visit be admitted, I must present it naked.

JOC. When she sees her Salibrand so unmodiously accoutred, she

will jeer him out of his periwig, and render him an Adamite

cap-a-pie.

PAL. Never were servants without a dress less suitable to ladies

of the New Dress.

SAL. We shall be held for salemen, or Knights of the White

Livery, if we encounter them thus habited.

MOR. Nay, rather for Knights o' th' Post, who had forfeited their

broked suits for want of swearing.

TIL. Nay, for tumblers, truckers, or scullermen: Plato, in all

his Commonweal, had never such naked followers.

[_Their pages bring their clothes._

FLO. Now, you hemp-strings, had you no time to nim us, but when

we were upon our visits?

PAGES. Your suits, sir, were not without employment. They were

seam-rent, and stood in need of stitching.

ALL. Go to, rogues, you will never hang well together till you be

stitched in a halter.

[_They attire themselves._

PAGES. Well, we got more clear gains by this shift than you will

by your visit.

[_Aside._

CAR. We trench too much upon these ladies' patience:

Better too late than never; let us haste

To crown their longing hopes with our attendance:

Delays in visits quicken our desires,

And in their objects kindle secret fires.

[_They come down buttoning themselves._

[Sidenote: _Fastus in Antidotum frigoris, processit et urget

Insolitos motus, lepidA|que Cupidinis A|stus, Vestibus amictus

laceratis, alget et ardet._--Solin.]

FLO. 'Tis high meridian! we've lost the time

Of our appointed treatment.[169]

CAR. Let's contrive

Some neat evasion covertly disguis'd

To bear the face of truth.

SAL. It would do well,

Let's mould it as we go unto the garden.[170]

MOR. 'Twere vain to call; they're long ere this dismiss'd.[171]

PAL. And with incens'd spirits; which t' allay

Were a receipt worth purchase.

TIL. Th' wound's so green,

It must admit a cure. Our confidence

Prepares us best admittance; go along.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE VII.

_Enter the_ ALIMONY LADIES _at the other door_.

FLO. How opportunely doth this season meet To give us freedom in

our intercourse!

MOR. There is a secret influence, no doubt, Design'd to second us

in our desires.

[_They go towards their Ladies._

FLO. Madam!

FRI. We were mad dames indeed, should we give freedom to such

injurious favourites.

CAR. This is stormy language; I ever thought our late neglect

would nettle them.

[_Aside._

FRI. You can affront us, sir, and with your wit

Take a deep draught of Lethe and forget!

FLO. Forget! 'Slid, I did ne'er affront you.

FRI. No?

Nor with a screw'd contemptuous look pass by us

When we were at our treat? and with a scorn

Not only slight us, but impeach our fame?

FLO. I call the heavens to witness, never I!

FRI. Perfidious wretch! this did I hear and see,

And such records cannot deluded be.

Your words, sir, are regist'red.

FLO. Pray, let's hear them.

FRI. You begun first with what your ulcerous flesh,

If I be not deceiv'd, infected is.

[_The Favourites, as they appeared to their half-bodies in

the preceding scene: so the deserted Knights become

spectators of those public affronts done them by their

Ladies: only presenting themselves, and so withdrawing._

HUS. Hah, hah, hah! how neatly be these widgeons catcht in their

own springes!

TRILLO _from the gallery_.

Bravely continued, Timon, as I live;

Each subtle strain deserves a laurel sprig.

FRI. "Pox on these overacting prostitutes

They sate mine appetite."

CAR. What might I say,

That should disrelish Madam Caveare?

CAV. You rant it bravely, sir. "Fancy so fed

Begets a surfeit ere it gets to bed."

JUL. You, Palisado, stand more resolute;

"Ere I Platonic turn or Confidant,

Or an officious servant to a puss

Whose honour lies at stake, let me become

A scorn to my relations."

JOC. "Or when I"

(Thus I deblazon you, base Salibrand)

"Engage my person, like a profess'd bolt

To vindicate a mistress, who for sale

Would set her soul at hazard, may my grave

Be in the kennel, and the scavenger

The penman of my epitaph."

MED. "Or I"

(Thus you renounce your Medlar, Don Morisco)

"Embrace a monkey for a mass of treasure."

TIN. Nor would Sir Tilly be one hair behind

In scornful dereliction of our sex.

"May never down seize on his downless chin,

When he becomes an usher to our sin."

FLO. The devil's a witch, and has impostur'd them.

ALL PLA. Do you believe all this!

LADIES. As we do you,

Stains to true love and all society!

Henceforth observe your distance, as you tender

Fame, freedom, life: else we do vow revenge

Shall dog you at the heels.

FLO. So, we are lost;

We must go cast about for some new aA"rie:

For these be fledg'd and flown.

CAR. By this prevention

I'll hate a mistress of such rare invention.

PAL. It seems their spleens for picking quarrels sought,

In pressing what we neither spake nor thought.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE VIII.

_Enter Two Seville Merchants._

1ST MER. Our Duke Eugenio is safe return'd,

Laden with trophies, spoils, and victories.

2D MER. Those Hectors, too, who launched forth for Tunis,

Have shown their valour, and enrich'd their fortunes,

Which languish'd in despair before this voyage,

Above expectance; rich rixdollars are

Sown like Pactolus' sand: their pockets cramm'd

With Indian ore.

1ST MER. What will not prowess do,

Where hope of honour, promise of reward,

Or country's fame--th' attractiv'st lure of all--

Give spirit to men's actions?

2D MER. This appears

Instanc'd in them to life:[172] for by their hazard,

Successfully completed, foreign sails

Ne'er came so richly fraughted.

1ST MER. It were well

The rest of our stout myrmidons, whose courage

Stands for the wall, or in a tavern quarrel

Or an highway's surprise, to raise a stock

To feed their debauch'd visits, were so employ'd

It would secure our commerce.

2D MER. This good duke

Will regulate, no doubt, his state-affairs

With that composure, as no fruitless weed

Shall promise to itself long nourishment

Within the coast of Seville. What means this?

[_A noise of clarions, surdons, fifes, plausulets, within._

MESSENGER. The Duke's approaching in triumphant state.

HERALD. Make clear the way; room for his excellence!

Never did Seville show more like herself

Nor beautifi'd with a more graceful presence

Since her foundation.

ACT V., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ DUKE, _trumpets and drums sounding, colours

victoriously displayed. Field-Officers with Soldiers

martially ordered in rank and file_.

HER. What a majesty

Without all servile affectation

His personating presence, cloth'd with state

And princely posture, seems to represent!

ALL. Conquest and affability contend

Which to his count'nance may pretend most right.

His spirit's too evenly poised to be transported

With the success of fortune. Let us hear him.

DUKE. Safely arriv'd, thanks to the pow'rs above,

Here are we come: our enemies subdu'd,

Our wrongs redress'd, our merchants satisfi'd:

No foreign force t' oppose us. Thus has time

Crown'd our addresses with triumphant palms,

And by just war begot a thankful peace.

ALL. Long live Eugenio, Seville's governor!

DUKE. Our constant care shall gratify your love.

Meantime, let these brave soldiers sharers be

In our success: whom you and we're to hold

Such joint assistants in our victories,

As their redoubted prowess merits fame,

And competent rewards to recompense

Their noble service: for (believe it, friends)

Never were hazards better seconded,

Nor by their valour to a period

Sooner reduced; so prosperous was our fight

In dark'ning those who took away our light.

And having now compos'd these broils abroad,

We're to look homeward, and redress those wrongs

Which nestle in the bosom of our state:

So much more dang'rous, because connivance

Has wrought them into habits. These, we fear,

Pretend a privilege, because the face

Of greatness gives them count'nance. But our laws

Must be no spider-webs, to take small flies,

And let the great ones 'scape. We have resolv'd

"Greatness shall be no subterfuge to guilt."

This must we act with speed, and closely too;

For secrecy, wing'd with celerity,

Be the two wheels which manage moral states

And martial actions. After short repose,

These we'll chastise; and by a due survey,

As just complaints shall be exhibited,

Measure our censure to the peccants' crime.

Nor must we spin our time: we have design'd

Our very next day for aggrievances

Of court and city, where our absence might

Admit, perchance, more freedom to offend.

"The only way to salve a deep disease

Is to give what may cure, not what may please.

Wherein delays prove worst: artists apply

Receipts, before distempers grow too high."

[_Exit, tubis et tympanis sonantibus; conspicuo aulicorum et

stratiotum coetu comitante._

ALL. Under such guardians may we live and die.

[_Exeunt plebeii._

SCENE II.

_Enter a Regiment of_ TREPANNERS _and_ TARPAULINS, _with drum

and colours, gallantly marching in their victorious

return and prosperous success from Tunis_.

1ST OFF. Sa-sa.

2D OFF. Ran-tan.

3D OFF. Tara-tantara. Thus far from the Isle of Canary. Is not

this better, my boys, than trepanning an old drolling friar for a

sequestered bond?--Hey boys, here be those Indian rats that cant

and chirp in my pocket, as if after a long apprenticeship they

sought to be made freemen.

[_He shakes his pocket._

But I must not yet enlarge them.

2D OFF. O ye pitiful simpletons, who spend your days in throwing

cudgels at Jack-a-Lents or Shrove-cocks!

3D OFF. Nay, in making gooselings in embers: and starting as if

they were planet-struck at the weak report of a pot-gun.

1ST OFF. My wish shall be for all that puisne pen-feathered aA"rie

of buzzardism[173] and stanielry:[174]

"_That such as they who love to stay to suck their mamma's teat,

May live at home, but ne'er find one to give them clothes or meat._"

LANCEPRES. Come along, wags; let's in a frolic way march to our

old friends in new suits, and reserve a screwed look for a

threepenny ordinary.

2D OFF. Along, along! but utter not too much language, honest

pockets, till a question be asked you.

[_He shakes his pocket._

ALL. Hey for a fee-farm rent in Tunis!

[_Exeunt capering._

SCENE III.

_Enter two_ COUNTRY BOORS.

HUS. Content thee, content thee, Christabel.

WIFE. Yes, surely, that's a trim word; but when, trow you, had I

it? As I am an honest woman, I have been this goodman Fumbler's

wife so many years, and he never yet gave me content. 'Tis such a

dry pilchard, he deserves nothing more than basting.

HUS. Fie, Christabel! fie, for shame! hold thy trattles; is it my

fault if thou be barren?

WIFE. Barren, you cods-head! Lies the fault there, you island

cur! Nay, all the parish will witness for me that I was not

barren before I met with you. Barren, stitchel![175] that shall

not serve thy turn. In plain terms, Jocelin, since thou cannot

content me one way, thou shalt another.

HUS. What would my duck have?

WIFE. What, my drake, the law will give me.

HUS. Law!

WIFE. Yes, you wizard.[176] I have already fed a glib-tongued

parrot, with a coif on his head, that will trounce you.

HUS. What have I done, my malmsey?

WIFE. Nay, your doing nothing, you dumpling, has brought you into

this pickle. The short and the long on't is this, I will have

ale-money.[177]

HUS. Ale-money! what means my chicken by that?

WIFE. I have been neither so long nor ill taught by my betters,

but I know the meaning of ale-money well enough. My land'slady

Joculette, God bless her! is matched to as handsome a frolic

youngster as one can see on a summer's day; yet she dislikes him,

and has recovered a good stock of ale-money. I love to follow the

example of my betters. Set your heart at rest, Jocelin; I must

and will have ale-money.

HUS. Thou shalt have anything, my coney Christabel, so thou wilt

rest contented.

WIFE. Nay, husband, you know well that I am forced many nights to

go to rest weakly contented. But, if I chance to trudge to court,

I mean to lie all open; you shall hear. I intend not to lay

leaves on my wounds. The duke, I hear, is a merciful man, and

will not suffer any of his poor subjects to fall short of their

due.

HUS. Well, girl, thou shalt find me ready to appear before his

grace at any time.

WIFE. You'll have a gracious bargain on't then, doubtless. Trust

me, Jocelin, you will distemper all our ladies at court, if you

push at the gate with your ram-horns.

HUS. She's possessed, sure.

WIFE. No, not yet; but I mean shortly to be possessed of my

ale-money. You shall play no more the sharking foist with me, you

fumbling fiddler, you. I hope I have friends at court that will

take course that I may have my whole due; and then _foutre_ for

Jocelin!

[_Exit._

HUS. Well, the thought is ta'en. I see one must thank God for a

shrew as well as for a sheep, though the sheep have more wool on

his back, and affords a more savoury repast at the board. Hanging

and wedding go by destiny, and I hold the former to be the

happier destiny of the twain; yet he that will practise the art

of swinging in a halter, either to please or cross a shrew's

humour, let him hang like a puppy without hope of pity, and die

intestate to make his wife heir on't, till some nimble younker

become his successor, and, stumbling on his grave, laugh at the

cuckoldly slave.

[_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_Enter the cashiered_ CONFIDANTS, _in a discontented posture_.

FLO. Summoned to appear! for what? What have we done?

CAR. Incensed those humorous scornful ladies.

Thence rose the ground, I durst wager my beaver on't;

They ought us a spite, and their information has done't.

PAL. This falls pat on their resolves: for those disdainful

wenches, in the heat of their passion, vowed jointly that revenge

should kick up our heels.

SAL. Our heels are not so short, though theirs be. Should they

pursue this information, it would dart highly on their dishonour.

MOR. Honour! what may that be in this age, but an airy title?

These _bona-robas_ have not lost the art of ingratiating, nor

deluding their servants. There be chimneys enough at court to

convey their smoke. Beauty and confidence keep strong sentinels

in love's army. They cannot want solicitors in a place of

liberty.

TIL. Let them hold to't! Their complaints are but squibs in the

air. Such whifflers are below my scorn, and beneath my spite.

Let's bravely on: I should account his fate

The worst of ills, that's foil'd by woman's hate.

FLO. Yet 'twas Alcides' heavy fate, and he

Was stronger far than twenty such as we.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE V.

_Enter the_ ALIMONY LADIES.

FRI. Convened to court! Some masque or princely ball, I'll gage

mine honour on't. We must be employed, sisters.

CAV. And usefully too, I hope.

JUL. I see well the court can do nothing without our city

revellers. Trust me, I am with child till I get to't: but my

desires are enlivened for a sight of my lord especially.

JOC. Or your special lord, madam. We smell your meaning. As I am

virtuous, he deserves your smile, or whatsoever may most endear

him. I have known none at any time court love with a more

graceful nor accurate presence. He can be both seriously amorous

and amorously serious.

MED. Surely, Lady Joculette, you set him at a rate far above th'

market? you value him not as if you meant to sell.

JOC. No, nor buy neither. I have no property in such a rich

pennyworth; for, if I had, I should wish----

MED. I know what, madam.

JOC. Good now! thy conceit?

MED. Shall I freely unbosom me?

ALL. Pray thee, madam; do, madam!

MED. You would wish that, his puny baker-legs had more Essex[178]

growth in them, for else they would make ill butcher's ware!

JOC. Thou art a shrewd wench, trust me.

TIN. Well, ladies, I know a new-minted lord, that can act the

Spanish Don, with a peaked beard and a starched look, to an hair.

FRI. O Madam Tinder, I guess where you are; but he wants a little

of your spirit. He can cringe and caress better than he dare

fight. A lady's honour might perish under such a feverish

champion.

CAR. For love's sake, let's make haste. Nothing will be done till

we come.

_Enter_ CHRISTABEL _with a crutch_.

CHRIS. Good madam landlady, take lame Christabel along with you;

she means to have a bout for her ale-money.

JOC. We shall not want, then, for handsome attendance.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE VI.

_Enter_ GENTLEMAN-USHER.

G.-USHER. Give way! make present way for his excellence and his

consuls.

_Enter_ DUKE EUGENIO _and his Consuls. After them the

deserted_ KNIGHTS; _the_ PLATONIC CONFIDANTS; _the_

ALIMONY LADIES; _the_ TUNIS ENGAGERS.

DUKE. As we have view'd and clear'd our foreign coasts,

We're now to prune those wild luxurious sprays,

Which give impede unto this spreading vine,

Our flow'ry Seville, whose succeeding fame,

Acquir'd by civil[179] discipline, exacts

Our care and yours, grave councillors of state.

'Tis not enough with balms to close the skin,

And leave the wound t' exulcerate within;

For he, whose care's to cure the core without

And searcheth not the bottom, spoils the root.

Let's first then look on vices, which put on

The face of virtue; and where modesty

(Merely dissembled) cloth'd with taking beauty,

Arms itself strongly 'gainst all opposition.

Nay, what retains ofttimes such influence

On reverend scarlet, as it darks the light

Of judgment; and makes elders fix their eyes

On rare-light objects, which so strangely takes,

As they make judges vice's advocates.

But here's none such, I hope. Our state is free,

And so our patriots and state-consuls be.

Complaints inform us, and we wond'red much

At th' first perusal, how a feminine nature,

So sweetly pleasing, should be so deprav'd.

FRI. What means the duke?

[_Aside._

CAR. I relish not th' discourse.

[_Aside._

DUKE. Have we not here some ladies o'th' New Dress,

So newly styl'd, and in their honour soil'd,

Who have deserted whom they ought to love?

LADIES. Is this the court masque, and the ball we

look'd for?

[_Aside._

DUKE. Be you those ladies?

CHRIS. I am one of them, forsooth.

LADIES. We are the same, so like your excellence.

And now redress'd.

DUKE. We understand no less:

Your alimonies signed by our court!

CHRIS. They have not signed mine, if't please your dukeship.

Truly, I am a very impudent, lame woman, and my husband a feeble,

weak-doing man. Your grace must needs grant me ale-money.

DUKE. See what examples, ladies, you have given

To simple women! I shall here propose

Two tenders to your choice: either receive

(And with a conjugal endearment, too)

Your late-deserted husbands, or prepare

The remainder of your days to entertain

A strict monastic life. Your sentence's pass'd:

Choose which you please.

JOC. I never shall endure

A cloister'd life, unless I had a friar; Sir Gregory Shapeless

shall be my Platonic.

MED. Rather than none, I'll take Sir Tristram Shorttool.

JUL. I for Sir Arthur Heartless.

CAV. I must put on my nightgown for Sir Jasper Simpleton.

FRI. Sir Amadin Puny then must be my joy,

Who will be still, I think, a puny boy.

TIN. Well, since we are to this condition grown,

'Tis better far to use our own than none.

While I, of youthful favourites bereft,

Will live with Scattergood, if aught be left.

SIR REU. Nay, madam, but it were not amiss if you knew first

whether Scattergood will live with you, or no. Release your

alimony, and I'll resign my right in your propriety;[180] and in

my widowed life mourn in sack: lo, infinitely.[181]

DUKE. This juncto must be fix'd on firmer ground;

Coolness of fancy acts not on the object

Which it pretends to love. Join hearts to hands,

And in this second contract reunite

What was so long divided. Love's a cement

Admits no other allay but itself

To work upon th' affections. [_To the husbands._] Be it yours

(For virile spirits should be so demean'd),

With pleasing candour to remit what's pass'd,

And with mild glosses to interpret thus

In their defence still to the better sense;

"Their frailties in your ladies wrought these failings,

Which pious pity should commiserate,

And seal it with indulgence. [_To the ladies._] Then intend

Your office, madams: which is to redeem

Your late-abused time: which may be deem'd

Richly recover'd, being once redeem'd."

LADIES. May all our actions close with discontent

When we oppose their humours.

KNIGHTS. Say and hold;

And this act of oblivion shall be sign'd.

[_They salute, and take hands._

DUKE. This does content us highly; powers above

Makes lovers' breach renewal of their love.[182]

CHRIS. And must Christabel, too, pack home to her husband without

her ale-money?

DUKE. Or to thy death an aged prioress!

CHRIS. Nay, but by your good favour I'll meddle with none of your

priorities; I'll rather go mumble a crust at home, and chuck my

old Jocelin.

DUKE. Nor is this all; our sentence must extend

Unto those ladies' favourites, whose hours,

Strangely debauch'd, make spoil of women's honours.

LADIES. We hate them worse than hell.

FAVOURITES. Good your grace, we are reclaim'd.

DUKE. That's but an airy note.

When practical, we'll hold it cordial.

Meantime, we do adjudge you to the quarries;

Where you shall toil, till a relation give

Test of your reformation. Look on those

Tunis-engagers, who were timely drawn

From their trepanning course, and by their hazard,

Secur'd through valour, rais'd their ruin'd fortunes

Above expectance! When your work is done,

We shall find like adventures[183] for your spirits

To grapple with, and rear your blanch'd repute.

Leave interceding, for we are resolv'd.

Now, conscript consuls, whose direction gives

Life to our laws, we cannot choose but wonder

How your impartial judgments should submit

(As if they had been biassed) to grant

These alimonies to their loose demands.

Sure, such decrees would not have relish'd well

Your jealous palates, had you so been used.

"Wives to desert your beds, impeach your fames,

In public courts discover your defects,

Nay, to belie your weakness, and recover

For all these scandals alimonious wages

To feed their boundless riot!"

CONSUL. They're annull'd;

Our courts will not admit them.

DUKE. 'Tis well done,

For gentlemen t' engage their state and fame,

And beds of honour, were a juggling game.

So we dismiss you. May the palms of peace

Crown Seville's state with safety and increase.

Whereto when our reluctant actions give

The least impede, may we no longer live!

[_Exeunt omnes. Trumpets sounding._

EPILOGUE

_You see our Ladies now are vanished,

And gone, perchance, unto their husbands' bed,

Convinc'd of guilt; where if they cannot tame

Their loose desires, but still retain the name

Of Alimony Ladies, you shall hear,

They will not forfeit what they hold so dear--

Prohibited delights; and in that stain

With blushless dalliance visit you again.

Nor shall we build on these our confidence

Who give less reins to reason than to sense:

Yet for redemption of their husbands' lands,

Seal our acquittance with your graceful hands._

_Naviter incumbens calamo, sine merce laboro;

Merce carens vates nomine verus ero._

_HA|c thalami socias alimonia fecit iniquas;

"Haud aries uni sufficit unus ovi."_--Arnold.

FINIS.

* * * * *

THE PARSON'S WEDDING.

_EDITION._

_The Parson's Wedding, A Comedy. The Scene London. Written at

Basil in Switzerland: by Thomas Killigrew. Dedicated to the

Lady Vrsvla Bartv [Bertie] Widow. London: Printed by J. M.

for Henry Herringman...._ 1663.

This forms part of the collected edition of the works in folio,

mentioned presently.

[PREFACE TO THE FORMER EDITION.]

THOMAS KILLIGREW, one of the sons of Sir Robert Killigrew,

Chamberlain to the Queen, was born at Hanworth, in the county of

Middlesex, in the month of February 1611.[184] Although his

writings are not wanting in those requisites which confer

reputation on an author, yet [we are permitted to conclude that

it was chiefly to his conversational and social qualities, that

Killigrew owed his ascendancy at Charles II.'s court--first

abroad, and afterwards in England. Hence Sir John Denham was

probably led to write those lines--

"Had Cowley ne'er spoke, Killigrew ne'er writ,

Combin'd in one, they'd made a matchless wit."

But, as we know, for at least two generations the Killigrews were

all men and women of genius, and were as remarkable, too, for

their physical as for their intellectual graces. Killigrew] seems

to have been early intended for the court; and to qualify him for

rising there, every circumstance of his education appears to have

been adapted. In the year 1635, while upon his travels, he

chanced to be at London, and an eyewitness of the celebrated

imposture of exorcising the devil out of several nuns belonging

to a convent in that town. Of this transaction he wrote a very

minute and accurate account,[185] still in MS. in the Pepysian

Library at Magdalen College, Cambridge. He was appointed

page-of-honour to King Charles I., and faithfully adhered to his

cause until the death of his master, after which he attended his

son in his exile, to whom he was highly acceptable, on account of

his social and convivial qualifications. He married Mrs Cicilia

Crofts, one of the maids-of-honour to Queen Henrietta. With this

lady he had a dispute on the subject of jealousy, at which Thomas

Carew was present, and wrote a poem, introduced into the masque

of "Coelum Britannicum," and afterwards a copy of verses on

their nuptials, printed in his works.[186]

[It appears from the original documents still preserved, that

Killigrew was with Prince Charles at Paris in April 1647, and

obtained from him a licence to travel, dated April 23. In 1649 he

had a grant from James, Duke of York, of the office of Gentleman

of the Bed-chamber; and from 1649 to 1652 he was engaged in

diplomatic negotiations at Vienna and Florence. His papers, as

well as those which he addressed to the Republic of Venice, are

extant. Speaking of his mission to Venice], "Although," says Lord

Clarendon,[187] "the king was much dissuaded from it, but

afterwards his majesty was prevailed upon, only to gratify him

(Killigrew) that in that capacity he might borrow money of

English merchants for his own subsistence; which he did, and

nothing to the honour of his master, but was at last compelled to

leave the Republic for his vicious behaviour, of which the

Venetian ambassador complained to the king, when he came

afterwards to Paris." On his return from Venice, Sir John Denham

wrote a copy of verses, printed in his works,[188] bantering the

foibles of his friend Killigrew who, from his account, was as

little sensible to the inconveniences of exile as his royal

master. [But the curious preface to Killigrew's Plays where,

under the thin veil of levity, so strong a vein of seriousness

seems to be perceptible, tells a different story, perhaps. He

wishes the public as much leisure to read his plays as he had to

write them--a banishment of twenty years. One of the documents

connected with the Killigrews which have come down to us, shows

that in 1660 Thomas received the freedom of the city of

Maastricht, in Holland. This was perhaps a parting compliment,

when he prepared to return to England with his royal companion in

exile. At the Restoration] he was appointed Groom of the

Bedchamber, and became so great a favourite with his majesty,

that he was admitted into his company on terms of the most

unrestrained familiarity, and at times when audience was refused

to the first ministers, and even on the most important occasions.

It does not appear that he availed himself of his interest with

the king, either to amass a fortune, or to advance himself in the

state. We do not find that he obtained any other preferment than

the post of Master of the Revels, which he held with that of

Groom of the Bed-chamber. Oldys [very foolishly and absurdly]

says he was king's jester at the same time; but although he

might, and certainly did entertain his majesty in that capacity,

it can scarce be imagined to have been in consequence of any

appointment of that kind. He died at Whitehall on the 19th of

March 1682,[189] having in 1664 published a collected edition of

his plays, viz.:--

1. The Prisoners: a Tragi-Comedy. Written at London, and acted at

the Phoenix in Drury Lane.

2. Claracilla: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Rome, and acted at the

Phoenix in Drury Lane. [Dedicated to his dear sister, the Lady

Shannon.][190]

3. The Princess; or, Love at First Sight: a Tragi-Comedy. Written

in Naples. [Dedicated to his dear Niece, the Lady Anne Wentworth,

wife to the Lord Lovelace.]

4. The Parson's Wedding.

5. The Pilgrim: a Tragedy. Written in Paris.

6. The First Part of Cicilia and Clorinda; or, Love in Arms: a

Tragi-Comedy. Written in Turin.

7. The Second Part of Cicilia and Clorinda; or, Love in Arms: a

Tragi-Comedy. Written in Florence.

8. Thomaso; or the Wanderer: a Comedy. Written in Madrid.

9. The Second Part of Thomaso; or, The Wanderer. Written in

Madrid.

10. The First Part of Bellamira, her Dream; or, The Love of

Shadows: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Venice.

11. The Second Part of Bellamira, her Dream; or, The Love of

Shadows: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Venice.

Thomas Killigrew had two brothers, both dramatic writers, viz.,

Sir William Killigrew,[191] author of Ormasdes, Pandora,

Selindra, and The Siege of Urbin;[192] and Dr Henry Killigrew, a

clergyman, author of a play called The Conspiracy, printed in 4^o,

1638, and afterwards altered, and printed in folio, 1653, under

the title of Pallantus and Eudora.

Dr Henry Killigrew was father to Mrs Ann Killigrew, a young lady

celebrated for her wit, beauty, and virtue, and who was the

writer of several poems, very highly esteemed by Dryden.

_DRAMATIS PERSONA†._

MASTER CARELESS, _a gentleman and a wit_.

MASTER WILD, _a gentleman, nephew to the Widow_.

MASTER JOLLY, _a humorous gentleman, and a courtier_.

CAPTAIN, _a leading wit, full of designs_.

PARSON, _a wit also, but overreached by the Captain and his

Wanton_.

MASTER CONSTANT, } _two dull suitors to the lady Widow and_

MASTER SAD, } _Mistress Pleasant_.

CROP, _the Brownist, a scrivener_.

LADY WILD, _a rich (and somewhat youthful) widow_.

MISTRESS PLEASANT, _a handsome young gentlewoman, of a good

fortune_.

MISTRESS SECRET, _her (indifferent honest) woman_.

LADY LOVEALL, _an old stallion-hunting widow_.

FAITHFUL, _her (errant honest) woman_.

MISTRESS WANTON, _the Captain's livery punk, married to the

Parson by confederacy_.

_Bawds_, _Servants_, _Drawers_, _Fiddlers_.

THE PARSON'S WEDDING.[193]

ACT I., SCENE 1.

_Enter the_ CAPTAIN _in choler, and_ WANTON.

CAPT. No more; I'll sooner be reconciled to want or sickness than

that rascal: a thing that my charity made sociable; one that when

I smiled would fawn upon me, and wag his stern, like starved

dogs; so nasty, the company cried foh! upon him, he stunk so of

poverty, ale, and bawdry. So poor and despicable, when I relieved

him, he could not avow his calling for want of a cassock, but

stood at corners of streets and whispered gentlemen in the ear as

they passed, and so delivered his wants like a message; which

being done, the rogue vanished, and would dive at Westminster

like a dabchick, and rise again at Temple-gate. The ingenuity of

the rascal, his wit being snuffed by want, burnt clear then, and

furnished him with a bawdy jest or two, to take the company; but

now the rogue shall find he has lost a patron.

WAN. As I live, if I had thought you would have been in such a

fury, you should never have known it.

CAPT. Treacherous rogue! he has always railed against thee to me,

as a danger his friendship ought to give me warning of, and

nightly cried, Yet look back, and hunt not, with good-nature and

the beauties of thy youth, that false woman; but hear thy friend,

that speaks from sad experience.

WAN. Did he say this?

CAPT. Yes, and swears ye are as unsatiate as the sea, as

covetous, and as ungrateful: that you have your tempests too, and

calms more dangerous than it.

WAN. Was the slave so eloquent in his malice?

CAPT. Yes, faith, and urged you (for your part) were never

particular, and seldom sound.

WAN. Not sound! why, he offered to marry me, and swore he thought

I was chaste, I was so particular; and proved it, that consent

was full marriage by the first institution, and those that love

and lie together, and tell, have fulfilled all ceremonies now.

CAPT. Did he offer to marry thee?

WAN. Yes, yes.

CAPT. If ever then I deserved from thee, or if thou be'st dear to

thyself, as thou hast anything thou hop'st shall be safe or sound

about thee, I conjure thee, take my counsel: marry him, to

afflict him.

WAN. Marry him?

CAPT. If I have any power, I shall prevail. Thou know'st he has a

fat benefice, and leave me to plague him till he give it me to be

rid of thee.

WAN. Will you not keep me then?

CAPT. I keep thee! prythee, wilt thou keep me? I know not why men

are such fools to pay: we bring as much to the sport as women.

Keep thee! I'd marry thee as soon; why, _that's wedding sin_: no,

no keeping, I: that you are not your own, is all that prefers you

before wives.

WAN. I hope this is not real.

CAPT. Art thou such a stranger to my humour? why, I tell thee I

should hate thee if I could call thee mine, for I loathe all

women within my knowledge; and 'tis six to four, if I knew thy

sign, I'd come there no more. A strange mistress makes every

night a new; and these are your pleasing sins. I had as lief be

good, as sin by course.

WAN. Then I am miserable.

CAPT. Not so, if you'll be instructed, and let me pass like a

stranger when you meet me.

WAN. But have you these humours?

CAPT. Yes, faith; yet, if you will observe them, though you marry

him, I may perchance be your friend: but you must be sure to be

coy; for to me the hunting is more pleasant than the quarry.[194]

WAN. But, if I observe this, will you be my friend hereafter?

CAPT. Firm as the day. Hark, I hear him [_The_ PARSON _calls

within_.]; I knew he would follow me. I gave him a small touch

that wakened his guilt. Resolve to endear yourself to him, which

you may easily do by taking his part when I have vexed him. No

dispute; resolve it, or, as I live, here I disclaim thee for

ever.

WAN. 'Tis well; something I'll do.

[_Exit_ WANTON.

CAPT. Open the door, I say, and let me in: your favourite and his

tithes shall come no more here.

_Enter_ PARSON.

PAR. Yes, but he shall; 'tis not you, nor your braced drum, shall

fright me hence, who can command the souls of men. I have read

divine Seneca: thou know'st nothing but the earthly part, and

canst cry to that, Faces about.[195]

CAPT. Thou read Seneca! thou steal'st his cover to clothe thee,

naked and wicked, that for money wouldst sell the share of the

Twelve, and art allowed by all that know thee fitter to have been

Judas than Judas was, for treachery.

PAR. Rail, do rail, my illiterate captain, that can only abuse by

memory; and should I live till thou couldst read my sentence, I

should never die.

CAPT. No, ungrateful, live till I destroy thee; and, thankless

wretch, did all my care of thee deserve nothing but thy malice

and treacherous speaking darkly still? with thy fine, _No, not

he_, when any malicious discourse was made of me; and by thy

false faint, _No, faith; confess_, in thy denials, whilst thy

smiling excuses stood a greater and more dangerous evidence

against me than my enemies' affidavits could have done.

PAR. I'll lie for never a lean soldier of you all.

CAPT. I have for thee, slave, when I have been wondered at for

keeping company with such a face: but they were such as knew thee

not; all which thy looks deceived, as they did me: they are so

simple, they'd cosen a jury, and a judge that had wit would swear

thou liedst, should thou confess what I know to be true, and

award Bedlam for thee; 'tis so strange and so new a thing to find

so much Rogue lodge at the sign of the Fool.

PAR. Leave this injurious language, or I'll lay off my cassock;

for nothing shall privilege your bragger's tongue to abuse me, a

gentleman, and a soldier ancienter than thyself.

CAPT. Yes, thou wert so: and now I think on't, I'll recount the

cause which, it may be, thou hast forgot, through thy variety of

sins. It was a hue-and-cry that followed thee a scholar, and

found thee a soldier.

PAR. Thou liest: thou and Scandal have but one tongue; hers

dwells with thy coward's teeth.

CAPT. O, do you rage? nay, I'll put the cause in print too: I am

but a scurvy poet, yet I'll make a ballad shall tell how like a

faithful disciple you followed your poor whore till her martyrdom

in the suburbs.

PAR. I'll be revenged for this scandal.

CAPT. Then shall succeed thy flight from the university,

disguised into captain, only the outside was worse buff, and the

inside more atheist than they; furnished with an insolent faith,

uncharitable heart, envious as old women, cruel and bloody as

cowards: thus armed at all points, thou went'st out, threatening

God, and trembling at men.

PAR. I'll be revenged, thou poor man of war, I'll be revenged.

_Enter_ WANTON.

WAN. And why so bitter? Whose house is this? Who dares tell this

story?

CAPT. Why, sweet, hath he not treacherously broke into our

cabinet, and would have stol'n thee thence? by these hilts, I'll

hang him; and then I can conclude my ballad with _take warning,

all Christian people, by the same_: I will, you lean slave; I'll

prosecute thee, till thou art fain to hide in a servitor's gown

again, and live upon crumbs with the robin redbreasts that haunt

the hall (your old messmates). Do you snarl? I'll do't, I will,

and put thee to fight with the dogs for the bones that but smell

of meat--those that your hungry students have polished with their

teeth.

WAN. If you do this, good captain, lieutenant, and company (for

all your command, I think, is within your reach)--I say, if you

dare do this, I shall sing a song of one that bad stand,[196] and

made a carrier pay a dear rent for a little ground upon his

majesty's highway.

CAPT. How now, Mistress Wanton! what's this? what's this?

PAR. This! 'tis matter for a jury; I'll swear, and positively.

I'll hang thee, I'll do't, by this hand: let me alone to swear

the jury out of doubt.

CAPT. But you are in jest, Mistress Wanton, and will confess (I

hope) this is no truth.

WAN. Yes, sir, as great a truth as that you are in your

unpaid-for scarlet. Fool! didst think I'd quit such a friend and

his staid fortune, to rely upon thy dead pay and hopes of a

second covenant?

CAPT. His fortune! what is't? th' advowson of Tyburn deanery?

PAR. No, nor rents brought in by long staff-speeches, that ask

alms with frowns, till thy looks and speech have laid violent

hands upon men's charity.

WAN. Let him alone; I'll warrant, he'll never be indicted of

drawing anything but his tongue against a man.

CAPT. Very good.

PAR. Dear Mistress Wanton, you have won my heart, and I shall

live to doat upon you for abusing this impetuous captain. Will

you listen to my old suit? will you marry me, and vex him? say,

dare you do't without more dispute?

CAPT. 'Twas a good question; she that dares marry thee, dares do

anything: she may as safely lie with the great bell upon her, and

his clapper is less dangerous than thine.

WAN. Why, I pray?

CAPT. What a miserable condition wilt thou come to? his wife

cannot be an honest woman; and if thou shouldst turn honest,

would it not vex thee to be chaste and poxed[197]--a saint

without a nose? what calendar will admit thee by[198] an

incurable slave that's made of rogue's flesh? consider that.

WAN. Why, that's something yet; thou hast nothing but a few scars

and a little old fame to trust to; and that scarce thatches your

head.

CAPT. Nay, then I see thou art base, and this plot not accident.

And now I do not grudge him thee; go together, 'tis pity to part

you, whore and parson, as consonant----

WAN. As whore and captain.

CAPT. Take her, I'll warrant her a breeder. I'll prophesy she

shall lie with thy whole congregation, and bring an heir to thy

parish; one that thou may'st enclose the common by his title, and

recover it by common law.

PAR. That's more than thy dear dam could do for thee, thou son of

a thousand fathers, all poor soldiers: rogues that ought

mischiefs, no midwives, for their birth. But I cry thee mercy, my

patron has an estate of old iron by his side, with the farm of

old ladies he scrapes a dirty living from.

WAN. He earn from an old lady: hang him, he's only wicked in his

desires; and for adultery he cannot be condemned, though he

should have the vanity to betray himself. God forgive me for

belying him so often as I have done; the weak-chined slave hired

me once to say I was with child by him.

CAPT. This is pretty. Farewell; and may the next pig thou

farrow'st have a promising face, without the dad's fool or

gallows in't, that all may swear, at first sight, that's a

bastard; and it shall go hard, but I'll have it called mine. I

have the way; 'tis but praising thee, and swearing thou art

honest before I am asked: you taught me the trick.

PAR. Next levy I'll preach against thee, and tell them what a

piece you are. Your drum and borrowed scarf shall not prevail;

nor shall you win with charms, half-ell long (hight ferret

riband) the youth of our parish, as you have done.[199]

CAPT. No, lose no time: prythee, study and learn to preach, and

leave railing against the surplice, now thou hast preached

thyself into linen. Adieu, Abigail! adieu, heir-apparent to Sir

Oliver Mar-text! to church, go; I'll send a beadle shall sing

your epithalamium.

PAR. Adieu, my captain of a tame band. I'll tell your old lady

how you abused her breath, and swore you earned your money harder

than those that dig in the mines for't. [_Exit_ CAPTAIN.] A fart

fill thy sail, captain of a galley foist.[200] He's gone: come,

sweet, let's to church immediately, that I may go and take my

revenge: I'll make him wear thin breeches.

WAN. But if you should be such a man as he says you are, what

would my friends say when they hear I have cast myself away?

PAR. He says! hang him, lean, mercenary, provand[201] rogue: I

knew his beginning, when he made the stocks lousy, and swarmed so

with vermin, we were afraid he would have brought that curse

upon the country. He says! but what matters what he says? a rogue

by sire and dam! his father was a broad, fat pedlar, a

what-do-you-lack, sir? that haunted good houses, and stole more

than he bought: his dam was a gipsy, a pilfering, canting Sybil

in her youth, and she suffered in her old age for a witch. Poor

Stromwell, the rogue was a perpetual burthen to her, she carried

him longer at her back than in her belly; he dwelt there, till

she lost him one night in the great frost upon our common, and

there he was found in the morning candied in ice--a pox of their

charity that thawed him! You might smell a rogue then in the bud:

he is now run away from his wife.

WAN. His wife?

PAR. Yes, his wife; why, do you not know he's married according

to the rogues' liturgy? a left-handed bridegroom. I saw him take

the ring from a tinker's dowager.

WAN. Is this possible?

PAR. Yes, most possible, and you shall see how I'll be revenged

on him: I will immediately go seek the ordinance against

reformadoes.

WAN. What ordinance?

PAR. Why, they do so swarm about the town, and are so destructive

to trade and all civil government, that the state has declared no

person shall keep above two colonels and four captains (of what

trade soever) in his family; for now the war is done, broken

breech, woodmonger, ragman, butcher, and linkboy (comrades that

made up the ragged regiment in this holy war), think to return

and be admitted to serve out their times again.

WAN. Your ordinance will not touch the captain, for he is a known

soldier.

PAR. He a captain! an apocryphal modern one, that went convoy

once to Brentford with those troops that conducted the

contribution-puddings in the late holy war, when the city ran mad

after their russet Levites, apron-rogues with horn hands. Hang

him, he's but the sign of a soldier; and I hope to see him hanged

for that commission, when the king comes to his place again.

WAN. You abuse him now he's gone; but----

PAR. Why, dost thou think I fear him? No, wench, I know him too

well for a cowardly slave, that dares as soon eat his fox,[202]

as draw it in earnest: the slave's noted to make a conscience of

nothing but fighting.

WAN. Well, if you be not a good man and a kind husband----

PAR. Thou knowest the proverb, as happy as the parson's wife

during her husband's life.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ MISTRESS PLEASANT, WIDOW WILD, _her aunt, and_

SECRET, _her woman, above in the music-room, as dressing

her: a glass, a table, and she in her night-clothes_.

PLEA. Secret, give me the glass, and see who knocks.

WID. Niece, what, shut the door? as I live, this music was meant

to you: I know my nephew's voice.

PLEA. Yes, but you think his friend's has more music in't.

WID. No, faith, I can laugh with him, or so, but he comes no

nearer than my lace.

PLEA. You do well to keep your smock betwixt.

WID. Faith, wench, so wilt thou, and thou be'st wise, from him

and all of them; and, be ruled by me, we'll abuse all the sex,

till they put a true value upon us.

PLEA. But dare you forbid the travelled gentlemen, and abuse them

and your servant, and swear, with me, not to marry in a

twelvemonth, though a lord bait the hook, and hang out the sign

of a court Cupid, whipped by a country widow? then I believe we

may have mirth cheaper than at the price of ourselves, and some

sport with the wits that went to lose themselves in France.

WID. Come, no dissembling, lest I tell your servant, when he

returns, how much you're taken with the last new fashion.

SEC. Madam, 'tis almost noon; will you not dress yourself to-day?

WID. She speaks as if we were boarders; prythee, wench, is not

the dinner our own I sure, my cook shall lay by my own roast till

my stomach be up!

PLEA. But there may be company, and they will say we take too

long time to trim. Secret, give me the flowers my servant sent

me: he sware 'twas the first the wench made of the kind.

WID. But when he shall hear you had music sent you to-day, 'twill

make him appear in his old clothes.

PLEA. Marry, I would he would take exception, he should not want

ill-usage to rid me of his trouble. As I live, custom has made

me so acquainted with him, that I now begin to think him not so

displeasing as at first; and if he fall out with me, I must with

him, to secure myself. Sure, aunt, he must find sense and reason

absent; for when a question knocks at his head, the answer tells

that there is nobody at home. I asked him th' other day if he did

not find a blemish in his understanding, and he sware a great

oath, not he. I told him 'twas very strange, for fool was so

visible an eyesore, that neither birth nor fortune could

reconcile to me.

WID. Faith, methinks his humour is good, and his purse will buy

good company; and I can laugh, and be merry with him sometimes.

PLEA. Why, pray, aunt, take him to yourself, and see how merry we

will be. I can laugh at anybody's fool but mine own.

WID. By my troth, but that I have married one fool already, you

should not have him. Consider, he asks no portion, and yet will

make a great jointure. A fool with these conveniences, a kind,

loving fool, and one that you may govern, makes no ill husband,

niece. There are other arguments, too, to bid a fool welcome,

which you will find without teaching. Think of it, niece: you may

lay out your affection to purchase some dear wit or judgment of

the city, and repent at leisure a good bargain in this fool.

PLEA. Faith, aunt, fools are cheap in the butchery and dear in

the kitchen; they are such unsavoury, insipid things, that there

goes more charge to the sauce than the fool is worth, ere a woman

can confidently serve him, either to her bed or board. Then, if

he be a loving fool, he troubles all the world a-days, and me all

night.

SEC. Friendship-love, madam, has a remedy for that.

PLEA. See if the air of this place has not inclined Secret to be

a bawd already! No, Secret, you get no gowns that way, upon my

word. If I marry, it shall be a gentleman that has wit and

honour, though he has nothing but a sword by his side: such a one

naked is better than a fool with all his trappings, bells, and

baubles.

WID. Why, as I live, he's a handsome fellow, and merry: mine is

such a sad soul, and tells me stories of lovers that died in

despair, and of the lamentable end of their mistresses (according

to the ballad), and thinks to win me by example.

PLEA. Faith, mine talks of nothing but how long he has loved me;

and those that know me not think I am old, and still finds new

causes (as he calls them) for his love. I asked him the other

day, if I changed so fast, or no.

WID. But what think'st thou, Secret? my nephew dances well, and

has a handsome house in the Piazza.

PLEA. Your nephew! not I, as I live; he looks as if he would be

wooed. I'll warrant you, he'll never begin with a woman, till he

has lost the opinion of himself; but since you are so courteous,

I'll speak to his friend, and let him know how you suffer for

him.

WID. Him! marry, God bless all good women from him. Why, he talks

as if the dairymaid and all her cows could not serve his turn.

Then they wear such bawdy breeches, 'twould startle an honest

woman to come in their company, for fear they should break, and

put her to count from the fall of them; for I'll warrant the year

of the Lord would sooner out of her head than such a sight.

PLEA. I am not such an enemy now to his humour as to your

nephew's. He rails against our sex, and thinks, by beating down

the price of a woman, to make us despair of merchants; but if I

had his heartstrings tied on a true-lover's knot, I would so firk

him, till he found physic in a rope.

SEC. He's a scurvy-tongued fellow, I am sure of that; and if I

could have got a staff, I had marked him.

WID. What did he do to thee, Secret?

PLEA. Why, he swore he had a better opinion of her than to think

she had her maidenhead; but if she were that fool, and had

preserved the toy, he swore he would not take the pains of

fetching it, to have it. I confess, I would fain be revenged on

them, because they are so blown up with opinion of their wit.

WID. As I live, my nephew travels still: the sober, honest Ned

Wild will not be at home this month.

PLEA. What say you? will you abuse them and all the rest, and

stand to my first proposition?

WID. Yes, faith, if it be but to bury my servant Sad; for he

cannot last above another fall. And how, think you, will your

servant take it?

PLEA. Mine! O, God help me, mine's a healthy fool. I would he

were subject to pine, and take things unkindly: there were some

hope to be rid of him; for I'll undertake to use him as ill as

anybody.

WID. As I live, I am easily resolved: for if I would marry, I

know neither who nor what humour to choose.

SEC. By my troth, madam, you are hard to please, else the

courtier might have served turn.

WID. Serve turn! Prythee, what haste, Secret, that I should put

myself to bed with one I might make a shift with? When I marry,

thou shalt cry, _Ay marry, madam, this is a husband!_ without

blushing, wench, and none of your so-so husbands. Yet he might

have[203] overcome my aversion, I confess.

PLEA. Overcome! I think so: he might have won a city his way; for

when he saw you were resolved he should not eat with you, he

would set himself down as if he meant to besiege us, and had

vowed never to rise till he had taken us in; and because our sex

forbad force, he meant to do it by famine. Yet you may stay, and

miss a better market; for, hang me, I am of Secret's opinion, he

had but two faults--a handsome fellow, and too soon denied.

WID. 'Tis true, he was a handsome fellow, and a civil, that I

shall report him; for as soon as it was given him to understand I

desired he would come no more, I never saw him since, but by

chance.

PLEA. Why did you forbid him?

WID. There were divers exceptions; but that which angered me then

was, he came with the king's letters patents, as if he had been

to take up a wife for his majesty's use.

PLEA. Alas! was that all? Why, 'tis their way at court, a common

course among them. And was it not one the king had a great care

of? When my mother was alive, I had such a packet from the court:

directed unto me: I bid them pay the post, and make the fellow

drink; which he took as ill as I could wish, and has been ever

since such a friendly enemy----

WID. Nay, as I live, she was for the captain too: his scarf and

feather won her heart.

SEC. Truly, madam, never flatter yourself; for the gentleman did

not like you so well as to put you to the trouble of saying no.

PLEA. Lord, how I hated and dreaded that scarf and buff-coat!

SEC. Why, Mistress Pleasant, a captain is an honourable charge.

WID. Prythee, Secret, name them no more. Colonel and captain,

commissioner, free-quarters, ordnance and contribution. When Buff

utters these words, I tremble and dread the sound: it frights me

still when I do but think on them. Cud's body, they're twigs of

the old rod, wench, that whipped us so lately.

PLEA. Ay, ay, and they were happy days, wench, when the captain

was a lean poor humble thing, and the soldier tame, and durst not

come within the city for fear of a constable and a whipping-post.

They know the penal statutes give no quarter. Then Buff was out

of countenance, and skulked from alehouse to alehouse, and the

city had no militia but the sheriff's men. In those merry days, a

bailiff trod the streets with terror, when all the chains in the

city were rusty but Master Sheriff's; when the people knew no

evil but the constable and his watch. Now every committee has as

much power and as little manners, and examines with as much

ignorance, impertinence, and authority, as a constable in the

king's key.

[_People talking without._

WID. See who's that so loud?

SEC. The men you talked of, newly come to town.

[_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ JACK CONSTANT, WILL SAD, JOLLY, _and a_ FOOTMAN:

_they comb their heads and talk_.[204]

JOLLY. Remember our covenants, get them that can all friends; and

be sure to despatch the plot to carry them into the country, lest

the brace of newcome monsieurs get them.

CON. Those flesh-flies! I'll warrant thee from them: yet 'twas

foolishly done of me to put on this gravity. I shall break out,

and return to myself, if you put me to a winter's wooing.

SAD. A little patience does it, and I am content to suffer

anything, till they're out of town. Secret says they think my

pale face proceeds from my love.

JOLLY. Does she? That shall be one hint to advance your designs

and my revenge: for so she be cosened, I care not who does it,

for scorning me, who (by this hand) lov'd her parlously.

FOOT. Sir, what shall I do with the horses?

SAD. Carry them to Brumsted's.

FOOT. What shall I do with your worship's?

JOLLY. Mine? Take him, hamstring him, kill him, anything to make

away with him; lest, having such a conveniency, I be betrayed to

another journey into the country. Gentlemen, you are all welcome

to my country house. Charing Cross, I am glad to see thee, with

all my heart.

CON. What! not reconciled to the country yet?

SAD. He was not long enough there to see the pleasure of it.

JOLLY. Pleasure! what is't called? walking, or hawking, or

shooting at butts?

CON. You found other pleasures, or else the story of the meadow

is no gospel.

JOLLY. Yes, a pox upon the necessity! Here I could as soon have

taken the cow as such a milk-maid.

SAD. The wine and meat's good, and the company.

JOLLY. When, at a Tuesday meeting, the country comes into a match

at two-shillings rubbers, where they conclude at dinner what

shall be done this parliament, railing against the court and

Pope, after the old Elizabeth-way of preaching, till they are

drunk with zeal; and then the old knight of the shire from the

board's end, in his coronation breeches, vies clinches with a

silenced minister--a rogue that railed against the reformation,

merely to be eased of the trouble of preaching.

CON. Nay, as I live, now you are to blame, and wrong him. The

man's a very able man.

JOLLY. You'll be able to say so one day, upon your wife's report.

I would he were gelt, and all that hold his opinion: by this good

day, they get more souls than they save.

SAD. And what think you of the knight's son? I hope he's a fine

gentleman, when his green suit and his blue stockings are on; and

the welcomest thing to Mistress Abigail, but Tib and Tom in the

stock.[205]

JOLLY. Who, Master Jeffrey? Hobbinol the second! By this life,

'tis a very veal, and he licks his nose like one of them. By his

discourse you'd guess he had eaten nothing but hay. I wonder he

doth not go on all four too, and hold up his leg when he stales.

He talks of nothing but the stable. The cobbler's blackbird at

the corner has more discourse. He has not so much as the family

jest which these Corydons use to inherit. I posed him in Booker's

prophecies,[206] till he confessed he had not mastered his

almanac yet.

CON. But what was that you whispered to him in the hall?

JOLLY. Why, the butler and I, by the intercession of Marchbeer,

had newly reconciled him to his dad's old codpiece corslet in the

hall, which, when his zeal was up, he would needs throw down,

because it hung upon a cross.

CON. But what think you of my neighbour? I hope her charity takes

you.

JOLLY. Yes, and her old waiting-woman's devotion: she sighed in

the pew behind me. A Dutch skipper belches not so loud or so

sour. My lady's miserable sinner with the white eyes, she does so

squeeze out her prayers, and so wring out, _Have mercy upon us_.

I warrant her she has a waiting-woman's sting in her conscience.

She looks like a dirty-souled bawd.

CON. Who? is this my Lady Freedom's woman that he describes?

JOLLY. The same, the independent lady. I have promised to send

her a cripple or two by the next carrier. Her subject-husband

would needs show me his house one morning. I never visited such

an hospital: it stank like Bedlam, and all the servants were

carrying poultices, juleps, and glisters, and several remedies

for all diseases but his. The man sighed to see his estate

crumbling away. I counselled him either to give or take an ounce

of ratsbane, to cure his mind.

CON. She is my cousin; but he made such a complaint to me, I

thought he had married the company of Surgeons' Hall: for his

directions to me for several things for his wife's use were

fitter for an apothecary's shop than a lady's closet.

JOLLY. I advised him to settle no jointure but her old stills and

a box of instruments upon her. She hates a man with all his

limbs: a wooden leg, a crutch, and _fistula in ano_, wins her

heart. Her gentleman-usher broke his leg last dogdays merely to

have the honour to have her set it. A foul, rank rogue! and so

full of salt humours, that he posed a whole college of old women

with a gangrene, which spoiled the jest, and his ambling before

my lady, by applying a handsaw to his gart'ring-place; and now

the rogue wears booted bed-staves, and destroys all the young

ashes to make him legs.

SAD. I never saw such a nasty affection: she would ha' done well

in the incurable--a handmaid to have waited on the cripples.

JOLLY. She converses with naked men, and handles all their

members, though never so ill affected, and calls the fornication

charity. All her discourse to me was flat bawdry, which I could

not chide, but spoke as flat as she, till she rebuked me, calling

mine beastliness, and hers natural philosophy. By this day, if I

were to marry, I would as soon have chosen a drawn whore out of

mine own hospital, and cure the sins of her youth, as marry a

she-chirurgeon--one that, for her sins in her first husband's

days, cures all the crimes of her sex in my time. I would have

him call her Chiron, the Centaur's own daughter: a chirurgeon by

sire and dam, Apollo's own colt. She's red-haired too, like that

bonny beast with the golden mane and flaming tail.

SAD. You had a long discourse with her, Jolly: what was't about?

JOLLY. I was advising her to be divorced, and marry the man in

the almanac: 'twould be fine pastime for her to lick him whole.

SAD. By this day, I never saw such a mule as her husband is, to

bear with her madness. The house is a good house, and well

furnished.

JOLLY. Yes; but 'tis such a sight to see great French beds full

of found children, sons of bachelors, priests' heirs, Bridewell

orphans: there they lie by dozens in a bed, like sucking rabbits

in a dish, or a row of pins; and then they keep a whole dairy of

milch-whores to suckle them.

SAD. She is successful; and that spoils her, and makes her deaf

to counsel. I bad him poison two or three, to disgrace her; for

the vanity and pride of their remedies make those women more

diligent than their charity.

JOLLY. I asked him why he married her; and he confessed, if he

had been sound, he had never had her.

CON. He confessed she cured him of three claps before he married

her.

JOLLY. Yes, and I believe some other member (though then

ill-affected) pleaded more than his tongue; and the rogue is like

to find her business still, for he flies at all. My God, I owe

thee thanks for many things; but 'tis not the least I am not her

husband nor a country gentleman, whither, I believe, you cannot

easily seduce me again, unless you can persuade London to stand

in the country. To Hyde Park, or so, I may venture upon your

Lady-fair days, when the filly foals of fifteen come kicking in,

with their manes and tails tied up in ribands, to see their eyes

roll and neigh, when the spring makes their blood prick them: so

far I am with you, by the way of a country gentleman and a

beer-drinker.

SAD. For all this dislike, Master Jolly, your greatest

acquaintance lies amongst country gentlemen.

JOLLY. Ay, at London: there your country gentlemen are good

company; where to be seen with them is a kind of credit. I come

to a mercer's shop in your coach: _Boy, call your master_: he

comes bare; I whisper him, _Do you know the Constants and the

Sads of Norfolk_? _Yes, yes_, he replies, and strokes his beard.

_They are good men_, cry I. _Yes, yes. No more; cut me off three

suits of satin._ He does it, and in the delivery whispers, _Will

these be bound? Pish! drive on, coachman; speak with me

to-morrow._

CON. And what then?

JOLLY. What then? why, come again next day.

SAD. And what if the country gentleman will not be bound?

JOLLY. Then he must fight.

SAD. I would I had known that, before I had signed your bond: I

would have set my sword sooner than my seal to it.

JOLLY. Why, if thou repent, there's no harm done: fight rather

than pay it.

SAD. Why, do you think I dare not fight?

JOLLY. Yes, but I think thou hast more wit than to fight with me;

for if I kill thee, 'tis a fortune to me, and others will sign in

fear: and if thou shouldst kill me, anybody that knows us would

swear 'twere very strange, and cry, There's God's just judgment

now upon that lewd youth, and thou procur'st his hangman's place

at the rate of thy estate.

CON. By this hand, he is in the right; and, for mine, I meant to

pay when I signed. Hang it, never put good fellows to say,

_Prythee, give me a hundred pounds._

SAD. 'Tis true, 'tis a good janty[207] way of begging; yet, for

being killed if I refuse it--would there were no more danger in

the widow's unkindness than in your fighting, I would not

mistrust my design.

JOLLY. Why, ay, there's a point now in nicety of honour. I should

kill you for her, for you know I pretended first; and it may be,

if I had writ sad lines to her, and hid myself in my cloak, and

haunted her coach--it may be in time she would have sought me.

Not I, by this hand, I'll not trouble myself for a wench; and

married widows are but customary authorised wenches.

CON. Being of that opinion, how canst thou think of marrying one?

JOLLY. Why, faith, I know not: I thought to rest me, for I was

run out of breath with pleasure, and grew so acquainted with sin,

I would have been good, for variety: in these thoughts 'twas my

fortune to meet with this widow--handsome, and of a clear fame.

CON. Didst love her?

JOLLY. Yes, faith: I had love, but not to the disease that makes

men sick; and I could have loved her still, but that I was angry

to have her refuse me for a fault I told her of myself; so I went

no more.

SAD. Did she forbid you but once?

JOLLY. Faith, I think I slipped a fair opportunity: a handsome

wench and three thousand pounds _per annum_ in certainty, besides

the possibility of being saved.

CON. Which now you think desperate?

[WIDOW _and_ PLEASANT _looking out at a window_.

PLEA. That is you: cross or pile, will you have him yet, or no?

WID. Peace! observe them.

JOLLY. Faith, no, I do not despair; but I cannot resolve.

_Enter_ WILD, CARELESS, _and the_ CAPTAIN, _going in haste;

he comes in at the middle door_.

WID. Who are those?

CARE. Captain, whither in such haste? What, defeated? Call you

this a retreat, or a flight from your friends?

PLEA. Your nephew, and his governor, and his friend! Here will be

a scene! Sit close, and we may know the secret of their hearts.

WID. They have not met since they returned: I shall love this

bay-window.[208]

CAPT. Prythee, let me go: there's mischief a-broiling; and if

thou shak'st me once more, thou wilt jumble a lie together I have

been hammering this hour.

CARE. A pox upon you! a-studying lies?

CAPT. Why, then they are no lies, but something in the praise of

an old lady's beauty: what do you call that?

JOLLY. Who are those?

[_They spy each other._

SAD. Is't not the captain and my friend?

[JOLLY _salutes them; then he goes to the_ CAPTAIN _to

embrace him: the_ CAPTAIN _stands in a French posture_,[209]

_and slides from his old way of embracing._

JOLLY. Ned Wild! Tom Careless! what ail'st thou? dost thou scorn

my embraces?

CAPT. I see you have never been abroad, else you would know how

to put a value upon those, whose careful observation brought home

the most exquisite garb and courtship that Paris could sell us.

JOLLY. A pox on this fooling, and leave off ceremony!

CAPT. Why, then, agreed: off with our masks, and let's embrace

like the old knot.

[_They embrace._

JOLLY. Faith, say where have you spent these three years'

time?--in our neighbour France? or have you ventured o'er the

Alps, to see the seat of the CA|sars?

SAD. And can tell us ignorant (doomed to walk upon our own land),

how large a seat the goddess fixed her flying Trojans in.

CON. Yes, yes, and have seen and drunk (perhaps) of Tiber's

famous stream.

JOLLY. And have been where. A†neas buried his trumpeter and his

nurse. Tom looks as if he had sucked the one, and had a battle

sounded by the other, for joy to see our nation ambitious not to

be understood or known, when they come home.

CAPT. So, now I'm welcome home: this is freedom, and these are

friends, and with these I can be merry; for, gentlemen, you must

give me leave to be free too.

JOLLY. So you will spare us miserable men, condemned to London

and the company of a Michaelmas term, and never travelled those

countries that set mountains on fire a-purpose to light us to our

lodging.

WILD. Why, this is better than to stay at home, and lie by

hearsay, wearing out yourselves and fortunes like your clothes,

to see her that hates you for being so fine; then appearing at a

play, dressed like some part of it, while the company admire the

mercer's and the tailor's work, and swear they have done their

parts to make you fine gentlemen.

CARE. Then leap out of your coach, and throw your cloak over your

shoulder, the casting-nets to catch a widow, while we have seen

the world, and learned her customs.

CAPT. Yes, sir, and returned perfect monsieurs.

SAD. Yes, even to their diseases. I confess my ignorance; I

cannot amble, nor ride like St George at Waltham.[210]

JOLLY. Yet, upon my conscience, he may be as welcome with a trot

as the other with his pace. And faith, Jack (to be a little

free), tell me, dost thou not think thou hadst been as well to

pass here, with that English nose thou carriedst hence, as with

the French tongue thou hast brought home?

[_The_ CAPTAIN _has a patch over his nose_.

CAPT. It is an accident, and to a soldier 'tis but a scar. 'Tis

true, such a sign upon Master Jolly's face had been as ill as a

_red cross_, and _Lord have mercy upon us_,[211] at his

lodging-door, to have kept women out of court.

JOLLY. For aught you know of the court.

CAPT. I know the court, and thee, and thy use, and how you serve

but as the handsomest movables; a kind of implement above-stairs,

and look much like one of the old court-servants in the hangings.

WILD. But that they move and look fresher, and your apparel more

modern.

CARE. Yes, faith, their office is the same, to adorn the room,

and be gazed on. Alas! he's sad: courage, man, these

riding-clothes will serve thee at the latter day.

CAPT. Which is one of their grievances; for nothing troubles them

more than to think they must appear in a foul winding-sheet, and

come undressed.

JOLLY. Gentlemen, I am glad to find you know the court: we know a

traveller too, especially when he is thus changed and exchanged,

as your worships, both in purse and person, and have brought home

foreign visages and inscriptions.

CON. Why, that's their perfection: their ambition to have it

said: There go those that have profitably observed the vices of

other countries, and made them their own; and the faults of

several nations, at their return, are their parts.

JOLLY. Why, there's Jack Careless--he carried out as good

staple-manners as any was in Suffolk, and now he is returned with

a shrug, and a trick to stand crooked, like a scurvy bow unbent;

and looks as if he would maintain oil and salads against a chine

of beef. I knew a great beast of this kind; it haunted the court

much, and would scarcely allow us (fully reduced to civility) for

serving up mutton in whole joints.

CON. What, silent?

SAD. Faith, the captain is in a study.

JOLLY. Do, do, con the rivers and towns perfectly, captain: thou

may'st become intelligencer to the people, and lie thy two sheets

a week in Corrantos too.

CON. And could you not make friends at court to get their

pictures cut ugly, in the corner of a map, like the old

navigators?

JOLLY. We'll see, we'll see.

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ PLEASANT _above_.

WID. I'll interrupt them. Servant, you're welcome to town. How

now, nephew? what, dumb? where are all our travelled tongues?

JOLLY. Servant![212] who doth she mean? by this hand, I disclaim

the title!

PLEA. Captain, Secret has taken notes, and desires you would

instruct her in what concerns a waiting-woman and an old lady.

CAPT. Very good! yet this shall not save your dinner.

WID. Nay, while you are in this humour, I'll not sell your

companies; and though Master Jolly be incensed, I hope he will do

me the favour to dine with me.

JOLLY. Faith, lady, you mistake me if you think I am afraid of a

widow; for I would have the world know I dare meet her anywhere,

but at bed.

[_Exit_ JOLLY.

WILD. No more, aunt, we'll come: and if you will give us good

meat, we'll bring good humours and good stomachs.

[WIDOW _shuts the curtain_.

CARE. By this day, I'll not dine there: they take a pleasure to

raise a spirit that they will not lay. I'll to Banks's.

CAPT. A pox forbid it! you shall not break company, now you know

what we are to do after dinner.

CARE. I will consent, upon condition you forbid the spiritual

nonsense the age calls Platonic love.

CAPT. I must away too; but I'll be there at dinner. You will join

in a plot after dinner?

WILD. Anything, good, bad, or indifferent, for a friend and

mirth.

[_Exeunt all but the_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. I must go and prevent the rogue's mischief with the old

lady.

[_Exit_ CAPTAIN.

ACT II., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ JOLLY _and the old lady_ LOVEALL.

LOVE. Away, unworthy, false, ungrateful! with what brow dar'st

thou come again into my sight, knowing how unworthy you have

been, and how false to love?

JOLLY. No, 'tis you are unworthy, and deserve not those truths of

love I have paid here; else you would not believe every report

that envy brings, and condemn, without hearing me, whom you have

so often tried and found faithful.

LOVE. Yes, till I, too credulous, had pity on your tears; till I

had mercy, you durst not be false.

JOLLY. Nor am not yet.

LOVE. What dost thou call false? Is there a treachery beyond what

thou hast done? When I had given my fame, my fortune, myself, and

my husband's honour, all in one obligation, a sacrifice to that

passion which thou seem'dst to labour with despair of, to tell

and brag of a conquest o'er a woman, fooled by her passion, and

lost in her love to thee? unworthy----

[_She turns away her head._

JOLLY. By this day, 'tis as false as he that said it. Hang him,

son of a bachelor! a slave that, envying my fortune in such a

happiness as your love and chaste embraces, took this way to ruin

it. Come, dry your eyes, and let the guilty weep: if I were

guilty, I durst as soon approach a constable drunk, as come here.

You know I am your slave.

LOVE. You swore so, and honour made me leave to triumph over your

miseries.

JOLLY. Do you repent that I am happy? if you do, command my

death.

LOVE. Nay, never weep, or sit sadly: I am friends, so you will

only talk and discourse; for 'tis your company I only covet.

JOLLY. No, you cannot forgive, because you have injur'd me: 'tis

right woman's justice, accuse first; and harder to reconcile when

they are guilty than when they are innocent; or else you would

not turn from me thus.

LOVE. You know your youth hath a strong power over me: turn those

bewitching eyes away; I cannot see them with safety of mine

honour.

JOLLY. Come, you shall not hide your face: there's a charm in it

against those that come burnt with unchaste fires; for let but

your eyes or nose drop upon his heart, it would burn it up, or

quench it straight.

LOVE. No cogging, you have injured me; and now, though my love

plead, I must be deaf; my honour bids me; for you will not fear

again to prove unworthy, when you find I am so easy to forgive.

Why, you will not be uncivil?

[JOLLY _kisses her, and she shoves him away with her mouth_.

JOLLY. So, the storm is laid! I must have those pearls. She

shoved me away with her mouth! I'll to her again.

[_Aside._]

LOVE. Where are you? what do you take me for? why, you will not

be uncivil?

[_Still as he offers to touch her, she starts as if he

plucked up her coats._

JOLLY. Uncivil! by thy chaste self I cannot, chick: thou hast

such a terror, such a guard in those eyes, I dare not approach

thee, nor can I gaze upon so much fire. Prythee, sirrah, let me

hide me from their power here.

LOVE. You presume upon the weakness of our sex. What shall I say

or do, tyrant love?

JOLLY. There's a charm in those pearls! pull them off: if they

have a frost in them, let me wear them, and then we are both

safe.

LOVE. I would you had taken them sooner! I had then been

innocent, and might with whiteness have worn my love, which I

shall ne'er outlive.

JOLLY. Dear, do not too fast pour in my joys, lest I too soon

reach my heaven.

LOVE. Begone, then, lest we prove (having gained that height)

this sad truth in love, _The first minute after noon is night._

JOLLY. Part now? the gods forbid! take from me first this load of

joys you have thrown upon me, for 'tis a burthen harder to bear

than sadness. I was not born till now; this my first night, in

which I reap true bliss.

LOVE. No, no, I would it had been your first night, then your

falsehood had not given argument for these tears; and I hate

myself to think I should be such a foolish fly thus again to

approach your dangerous flame.

JOLLY. Come, divert these thoughts. I'll go see your closet.

LOVE. No, no, I swear you shall not.

JOLLY. You know I am going out of town for two days.

LOVE. When you return, I'll show it you; you will forget me else

when you are gone, and at court.

JOLLY. Can your love endure delays; or shall business thee from

thence remove? These were your own arguments. Come, you shall

show it me.

LOVE. Nay, then I perceive what unworthy way your love would

find. Ye gods, are all men false?

JOLLY. As I live, you shall. Stay: come, you ought to make me

amends for slandering of me. Hang me, if ever I told; and he that

reports it is the damnedst rogue in a country. Come, I say----

[_He pulls her bodkin, that is tied in a piece of black

bobbin._

LOVE. Ah! as I live, I will not, I have sworn. Do not pull me: I

will not be damned, I have sworn.

[_He pulls her, and says this._

JOLLY. As I live I'll break your bodkin then. A weeping tyrant!

Come, by this good day, you shall be merciful.

LOVE. Why, you will not be uncivil! You will not force me, will

you? As I live, I will not.

JOLLY. Nay, an' you be wilful, I can be stubborn too.

[_He pulls still._

LOVE. Hang me, I'll call aloud. Why, Nan! Nay, you may force me;

but, as I live, I'll do nothing.

[_Exeunt ambo._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. A pox upon you, are you earthed? The rogue has got her

necklace of pearl; but I hope he will leave the rope to hang me

in. How the pox came they so great? I must have some trick to

break his neck, else the young rogue will work me out. 'Tis an

excellent old lady, but I dare not call her so: yet would she

were young enough to bear, we might do some good for our heirs,

by leaving such a charitable brood behind. She's a woman after

the first kind; 'tis but going into her, and you may know her.

Then she'll oblige so readily, and gives with greater thanks than

others receive; takes it so kindly to be courted. I am now to

oblige her (as she calls it) by professing young Wild's love, and

desiring an assurance she's sensible of his sufferings; which

though it be false and beyond my commission, yet the hopes of

such a new young thing, that has the vogue of the town for

handsomest, 'twill so tickle her age, and so blow up her vanity,

to have it said he is in love with her, and so endear her to me

for being the means, that the parson's malice will be able to

take no root. She comes: I must not be seen.

_Enter_ LOVEALL _and_ JOLLY.

LOVE. Give me that letter; I'll swear you shall not read it.

JOLLY. Take it; I'll away. What time shall I call you? in the

evening? There's a play at court to-night.

LOVE. I would willingly be there, but your ladies are so

censorious and malicious to us young ladies in the town,

especially to me, because the wits are pleased to afford me a

visit or so: I could be content else to be seen at court. Pray,

what humour is the queen of? The captain of her guard I know.

JOLLY. The queen! Who's that knocks at the back-door?

[_The_ CAPTAIN _knocks_.

LOVE. Smoothe my band; I know not. Go down that way, and look you

be not false; if you should be false, I'll swear I should spoil

myself with weeping.

JOLLY. Farewell! In the evening I'll call you.

[_Exit_ JOLLY.

LOVE. Who's there? Captain, where have you been all this while? I

might sit alone, I see, for you, if I could not find conversation

in books.

[_She takes a book in her hand, and sits down._

CAPT. Faith, madam, friends newly come to town engaged me; and my

stay was civility rather than desire. What book's that?

LOVE. I'll swear he was a witch that writ it; for he speaks my

thoughts, as if he had been within me: the original, they say,

was French.

CAPT. O, I know it; 'tis the _Accomplished Woman_:[213] yourself

he means by this, while you are yourself.

LOVE. Indeed, I confess, I am a great friend to conversation, if

we could have it without suspicion; but the world's so apt to

judge, that 'tis a prejudice to our honour now to salute a man.

CAPT. Innocence, madam, is above opinion, and your fame's too

great to be shook with whispers.

LOVE. You are ever civil, and therefore welcome. Pray, what news

is there now in town? for I am reclused here. Unless it be yours,

I receive no visits; and I'll swear, I charged the wench to-day

not to let you in: I wonder she let you come.

CAPT. Faith, madam, if it had been my own business, I should not

have ventured so boldly; but the necessity that forces me to come

concerns my friend, against whom if your mercy be now bounded

with those strict ties of honour and cold thoughts which I have

ever found guard your heart, my friend, a young and handsome man,

is lost, is lost in his prime, and falls like early blossoms. But

methinks you should not prove the envious frost to destroy this

young man, this delicate young man, that has whole bundles of

boys in his breeches: yet if you be cruel, he and they die, as

useless as open-arses[214] gathered green.

[_She must be earnest in her looks all the time he speaks,

desirous to know who he speaks of._

LOVE. Good captain, out with the particular. What way can my

charity assist him? You know by experience I cannot be cruel:

remember how I fetched you out of a swoon, and laid you in my own

bed.

CAPT. That act preserved a life that has always been laboured in

your service, and, I dare say, your charity here will find as

fruitful a gratitude.

LOVE. But I hope he will not be so uncivil as you were: I'll

swear I could have hanged you for that rape, if I would have

followed the law; but I forgave you upon condition you would do

so again. But what's this young man you speak of?

CAPT. Such is my love to you and him, that I cannot prefer mine

own particular before your content, else I'd have poisoned him,

ere I'd have brought him to your house.

LOVE. Why, I pray?

CAPT. Because he's young, handsome, and of sound parts: that I am

sure will ruin me here.

LOVE. His love may make all these beauties; else I have an honour

will defend me against him, were he as handsome as young Wild.

CAPT. Why, ay, there it is: that one word has removed all my

fears and jealousies with a despair; for that's the man whose

love, life, and fortune lies at your feet; and, if you were

single, by lawful means he would hope to reach what now he

despairs of.

LOVE. Let him not despair; love is a powerful pleader, and youth

and beauty will assist him; and if his love be noble, I can meet

it, for there's none that sacrifices more to friendship-love than

I.

CAPT. My friend's interest makes me rejoice at this. Dare you

trust me to say this to him, though it be not usual! Pray, speak:

nay, you are so long still a-resolving to be kind! Remember,

charity is as great a virtue as chastity, and greater, if we will

hear nature plead: for the one may make many maids, the other can

but preserve one. But I know you will be persuaded; let it be my

importunity that prevailed. Shall I bring him hither one evening?

LOVE. Why do you plead thus? Pray, be silent, and when you see

him, tell him he has a seat here, and I----

[_She turns away._

CAPT. Out with it; what is't? Shall he call you mistress, and his

Platonic?

LOVE. Away, away! Me?

CAPT. No niceness; is't a match?

LOVE. Lord, would I were as worthy as willing (pray tell him so):

he shall find me one of the humblest mistresses that ever he was

pleased to honour with his affections.

CAPT. Dare you write this to him, and honour me with bearing it?

I confess I am such a friend to friendship-love too, that I

would even bring him on my back to a midnight's meeting.

LOVE. If you will stay here, I'll go in and write it.

[_She's going out, he calls her._

CAPT. Madam, I forgot to ask your ladyship one question.

LOVE. What was't?

CAPT. There happened a business last night betwixt Master Wild

and one Jolly, a courtier, that brags extremely of your favour. I

swear, if it had not been for friends that interposed themselves,

there had been mischief, for Master Wild was extreme zealous in

your cause.

LOVE. Such a rascal I know. Villain, to bring my name upon the

stage, for a subject of his quarrels! I'll have him cudgelled.

CAPT. And I'll answer he deserved it; for the quarrel ended in a

bet of a buck-hunting-nag, that some time to-day he would bring a

necklace and chain of pearl of yours (not stol'n, but freely

given) to witness his power.

LOVE. Did the vain rascal promise that?

CAPT. Yes, but we laugh'd at it.

LOVE. So you might; and as I live, if the necklace were come from

stringing, I'd send them both to Master Wild, to wear as a

favour, to assure him I am his, and to put the vain slave out of

countenance.

CAPT. Ay, marry, such a timely favour were worth a dozen letters,

to assure him of your love, and remove all the doubts the other's

discourse may put into his head: and, faith, I'd send him the

chain now, and in my letter promise him the necklace: he'll

deserve such a favour.

LOVE. I'll go in and fetch it immediately: will you favour me to

deliver it?

CAPT. I'll wait upon your ladyship.

LOVE. I'll swear you shall not go in: you know I foreswore being

alone with you.

[_She goes, and he follows her; she turns, and bids him stay._

CAPT. Hang me, I'll go in. Does my message deserve to wait an

answer at the door.

LOVE. Ay, but you'll be naught.

CAPT. O, ne'er trust me if I break.

LOVE. If you break, some such forfeit you'll lose. Well, come in

for once.

CAPT. You are so suspicious.

LOVE. I'll swear I have reason for't: you are such another man.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ WANTON _and_ BAWD.

WAN. Is he gone?

BAWD. Yes, he's gone to the old lady's, high with mischief.

WAN. Fare him well, easy fool: how the trout strove to be

tickled! And how does this ring become me, ha! They are fine kind

of things, these wedding-rings.

[_She plays with the wedding-ring upon her finger._

BAWD. Besides the good custom of putting so much gold in

'em,[215] they bring such conveniences along.

WAN. Why, ay; now I have but one to please, and if I please him,

who dares offend me? and that wife's a fool that cannot make her

husband one.

BAWD. Nay, I am absolutely of opinion it was fit for you to

marry. But whether he be a good husband or no----

WAN. A pox of a good husband! give me a wise one; they only make

the secure cuckolds, the cuckold in grain: for dye a husband that

has wit but with an opinion thou art honest, and see who dares

wash the colour out. Now your fool changes with every drop, doats

with confidence in the morning, and at night jealous even to

murder, and his love (Lord help us!) fades like my gredaline

petticoat.[216]