PLEA. If I had had a mind to that lodging, I had ne'er come

hither; for when I have a mind to it, I'll marry without dispute,

for I fear nobody so much as a husband; and when I can conquer

that doubt, I'll marry at a minute's warning.

WID. No dispute now. Can you furnish us with a couple of beds?

WILD. Yes, yes.

WID. And have you e'er a woman in the house?

WILD. My sister's maid is here.

CARE. Madam, if you resolve to do us this honour, you shall find

clean linen, and your beds quickly ready.

WID. But where will my nephew and you, sir, lie to-night?

CARE. O, madam, we have acquaintance enough in the town.

WID. Well, sir, we'll accept this courtesy; and when you come

into Suffolk, you shall command my house.

WILD. Prythee, call Bess, and bid her bring sheets to make the

bed. I'll go and fetch in a pallet, 'tis as good a bed as the

other; and if you will stay the removing, we'll set up a

bedstead.

PLEA. No, a pallet, pray. But what shall we do for night-clothes,

aunt?

WILD. Why, what are those you bought, my sister?

WID. Is not that linen gone yet?

CARE. No, faith, madam, his man forgot it, till the carriers were

gone last week.

WILD. Will that serve?

PLEA. Yes, yes, pray do us the favour to let us have it, 'tis but

washing of it again.

WILD. Nay, it will serve: discourse no more; I'll fetch the

bundle; and, prythee, fetch the combs and looking-glasses I

bought the other day: for other necessaries that want a name the

wench shall furnish you with.

WID. Nay, but where is she, nephew?

WILD. I'll call her, if she be not gone to bed. It is an

ignorant young thing; I am to send her to my sister's in the

country; I have had such ado to put her in the fashion.

PLEA. What country is she? Prythee, Master Wild, let's see her.

WILD. I'll call her down.

[_Exit_ WILD.

SAD. Madam, now we see y' are safe, we'll kiss your hands, and

wait upon you to-morrow.

WID. It must be early then, sir, for I shall borrow my nephew's

coach, and be gone betimes into the country, to take a little

fresh air, and prevent the search.

CON. Pray, madam, be pleased to command ours.

WILD. No, sir, I humbly thank you; my nephew's will hold our

company.

CON. Your humble servant, Mistress Pleasant.

SAD. Your servant, madam.

PLEA. Good night, Master Constant.

WID. Sir, you'll excuse us, we have nobody here to light you

down.

CARE. Madam, I am here your servant as much as those who wear

your livery; and this house holds no other. We can be civil,

madam, as well as extravagant.

WID. Your humble servant, Master Careless.

CARE. Gentlemen, if you'll wait on my lady to her chamber, then

I'll wait upon you down.

SAD. You oblige us, sir.

[_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE V.

_Enter_ WILD, CAPTAIN, WANTON, PARSON, _and_ JOLLY.

CAPT. The plague!

WILD. The plague, as I live; and all my relation is truth, every

syllable. But, Mistress Wanton, now must you play your

masterpiece: be sure to blush, and appear but simple enough, and

all is well: thou wilt pass for as arrant a chambermaid as any in

the parish.

PAR. Hum! new plots?

CAPT. Let me put on a petticoat and a muffler, and I'll so

chambermaid it, and be so diligent with the clean smock and the

chamber-pot.[268] Now would I give all the shoes in my shop to

lie with 'em both.

WAN. Let me alone to fit them; I can make a scurvy curtsey

naturally: remember, I am an Essex woman, if they ask.

WILD. Come, come quickly, take those sweetmeats; bring the great

cake and knife, and napkins, for they have not supped; and,

Captain, make some lemonade, and send it by the boy to my

chamber; and, do you hear, Jolly, you must stay till we come, for

we must lie with you to-night.

JOLLY. We'll stay, but make haste then.

CAPT. And bring our cloaks and swords out with you.

WILD. I will, I will; but be quiet all.

PAR. Master Wild, I hope there is no plot in this.

CAPT. There's no jealousy, Master Parson, 'tis all serious, upon

my life. Come away with us.

[_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE VI.

_The tiring-room, curtains drawn, and they discourse. His

chamber, two beds, two tables, looking-glasses,

night-clothes, waistcoats, sweet-bags, sweetmeats, and

wine:_ WANTON _dressed like a chambermaid. All above, if

the scene can be so ordered._

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ MISTRESS PLEASANT, WILD _and_ CARELESS:

_the_ WIDOW _and_ MISTRESS PLEASANT _salute_ WANTON.

WILD. Faith, aunt, 'tis the first time I have had the honour to

see you in my house, and as a stranger I must salute you.

WID. As I live, nephew, I'm ashamed to put you to this trouble.

WILD. It is an obligation. Mistress Pleasant, I know you have not

supped; I pray you, be pleased to taste these sweetmeats, they

are of Sall's doing; but I understand not sweetmeats, the wine

I'll answer for; and, in a word, you are welcome: you are

Patrona,[269] and we are slaves.

CARE. Good rest and a pleasing dream your humble servant wishes

you.

WID. Good night, nephew; good night, Master Careless.

PLEA. Good night, Master Careless; your humble servant, Master

Wild.

[_Exeunt_ WILD _and_ CARELESS.

WID. Why, ay, here are men have some wit: by this good night, had

we lain at my servant's, we should have found the laced cap and

slippers that have been entailed upon the family these five

descents, advanced upon the cupboard's head instead of plate.

[_They sit down to undress them._

PLEA. They are a couple of the readiest youths too; how they run

and do all things with a thought! I love him for sending his

sister's maid. A pretty wench.

WID. Pray, let's go to bed; I am weary.

PLEA. You will not go to bed with those windows open: sweetheart,

prythee, shut them, and bring me hither--dost understand me? As I

live, 'tis a great while since I went to the play.

WID. It has been one of the longest days; a year of them would be

an age.

PLEA. O, do you grow weary? you'll break your covenant ere the

year go out.

[_The curtains are closed._

WID. Prythee, shut the windows, and come pin up my hair.

SCENE VII.

_Enter_ WILD, JOLLY, CARELESS, CAPTAIN, PARSON, _and_

FIDDLERS, _and one with a torch, with their cloaks and

their swords, putting them on_. _Enter_ WILD'S _man_.

WILD. See you wait diligently, and let them want nothing they

call for. Come, shall we go? 'tis very late.

CAPT. But how does Wanton carry it?

WILD. They saluted her; and Mistress Pleasant swore you might see

the country simplicity in her face.

PAR. A pox upon her, crafty gipsy!

CAPT. Why, art not thou glad to see she can be honest when she

will?

PAR. I'll show you all a trick for her within these few days, or

I'll miss my aim.

JOLLY. Come, let's go.

[_They all offer to go._

CAPT. I have a mind to stay till Wanton comes.

WILD. Stay a little, then, for 'twill not be long ere they be

abed.

CAPT. I hear Wanton's voice.

_Enter_ WANTON.

WILD. Are they abed?

WAN. Yes, and have so admired you and Master Careless, and abused

the lovers! Well, gentlemen, you are the wits of the time; but if

I might counsel--well, they might lie alone this night; but it

should go hard if I lay not with one of them within a month.

CARE. Were they so taken with their lodging?

WAN. All that can be said, they said: you are the friendliest

men, the readiest men, the handsomest men; men that had wit, and

could tell when to be civil, and when to be wild; and Mistress

What's-her-name, the younger, asked why Master Wild did not go

a-wooing to some rich heir; upon her conscience, she said, you

would speed.

CARE. Well, well, there's a time for all things: come, let's go.

[_They offer to depart._

WILD. Take a light. Good night, Wanton.

CAPT. D'ye hear, d'ye hear? let me speak with you.

[_They all come back again._

WILD. What's the business?

CAPT. I cannot get hence this night: but your good angels hang at

your heels, and if I can prevail, you shall stay.

WILD. What to do?

CAPT. What to do? why I'll be hanged, if all this company do not

guess.

JOLLY. Prythee, what should we stay for?

CAPT. For the widow and her niece. Are they worth the watching

for a' night?

WILD. Yes, certainly.

CAPT. Then take my counsel, and let me give it out y' are

married. You have new clothes come home this morning, and there's

that you spoke of I'll fetch from the tailor's; and here's a

parson shall rather give them his living than stay for a licence;

the fiddlers, too, are ready to salute 'em.

CARE. But if they refuse?

JOLLY. Which, upon my conscience, they will.

CAPT. As you hope, else you are laughed at for missing the widow.

Ned, follow my counsel; appear at her chamber-window in thy

shirt, and salute all that passes by. Let me alone to give it

out, and invite company, and provide dinner; then, when the

business is known, and I have presented all your friends at court

with ribands, she must consent, or her honour is lost, if you

have but the grace to swear it, and keep your own counsel.

CARE. By this hand, he has reason, and I'll undertake the widow.

WILD. It will incense them, and precipitate the business, which

is in a fair way now; and if they have wit, they must hate us for

such a treachery.

CAPT. If they have wit, they will love you: beside, if it come to

that, we two will swear we saw you married, and the parson shall

be sworn he did it. Priest, will you not swear?

PAR. Yes, anything; what is't, Captain?

WILD. If this jest could do it, yet 'tis base to gain a wife so

poorly. She came hither, too, for sanctuary; it would be an

uncivil and an unhospitable thing, and look as if I had not

merit enough to get a wife without stealing her from herself:

then, 'tis in mine own house.

CAPT. The better; nay, now I think on't, why came she hither? How

do you know the plague is there? all was well at dinner; I'll be

hanged if it be not a plot: the lovers, too, whom you abused at

dinner, are joined with them: a trick, a mere trick of wit to

abuse us! and to-morrow, when the birds are flown, they'll laugh

at you, and say, two country-ladies put themselves naked into the

hands of three travelled city wits, and they durst not lay hold

on them.

CARE. A pox upon these niceties!

WAN. If they have not some design upon you, hang me: why did they

talk so freely before me else?

CARE. Let's but try; we are not now to begin to make the world

talk; nor is it a new thing to them to hear we are mad fellows.

CAPT. If you get them, are they worth having?

WILD. Having? yes.

CAPT. If you miss them, the jest is good. Prythee, Ned, let me

prevail; 'tis but a mad trick.

WILD. If we would, how shall we get into the chamber?

WAN. Let me alone for that; I'll put on my country simplicity,

and carry in a chamber-pot; then, under pretence of bolting the

back-door, I'll open it--and yet I grudge them the sport so

honestly; for you wenchers make the best husbands: after you are

once married, one never sees you.

CAPT. I warrant thee, wench.

WAN. No, faith, I have observed it, they are still the doating'st

husbands, and then retreat and become justices of the peace, and

none so violent upon the bench as they against us poor sinners.

Yet I'll do it; for upon my conscience, the young gentlewoman

will fall upon her back, and thank me.

[_Exit_ WANTON.

CAPT. Away, go then, and leave your fooling; and in the morning,

Ned, get in, and plead naked with your hands in the bed.

PAR. And if they cry, put your lips in their mouths, and stop

them.

CAPT. Why, look you, you have the authority of the church too.

WILD. Well, I am now resolved: go you about your part, and make

the report strong.

CARE. And d'ye hear? be sure you set the cook at work, that if we

miss, we may have a good dinner and good wine to drink down our

grief.

CAPT. Miss! I warrant thee, 'twill thrive.

[_Exit_ CAPTAIN.

CARE. Nay, if I knock not down the widow, geld me, and come out

to-morrow complete uncle, and salute the company with, You are

welcome, gentlemen, and Good-morrow, nephew Ned.

WILD. Uncle Tom, good morrow, uncle Tom.

_Enter_ WANTON.

WAN. All's done; the door is open, and they're as still as

children's thoughts: 'tis time you made you ready, which is to

put off your breeches, for 'tis almost day. And take my counsel,

be sure to offer force enough, the less reason will serve:

especially you, Master Wild, do not put a maid to the pain of

saying, Ay.

WILD. I warrant thee, wench; let me alone.

CARE. We'll in and undress us, and come again, for we must go in

at the back-door.

WILD. I'll meet you. Is the Captain gone?

[_Exeunt_ WILD _and_ CARELESS.

WAN. Yes, yes, he's gone.

JOLLY. Come, Master Parson, let us see the cook in readiness.

Where are the fiddlers? What will become of our plot? for the

coachman, Master Sad, and his friend, will stink of their jest if

this thrive.

PAR. They have slept all night, on purpose to play all day.

JOLLY. When the ribands and points come from the Exchange, pray

see the fiddlers have some; the rogues will play so out of tune

all day else, they will spoil the dancing, if the plot do take.

_Enter_ WILD _and_ CARELESS _in their shirts, with drawers

under, nightgowns on, and in slippers_.

WAN. Let's see them in the chamber first, and then I shall go

with some heart about the business. So, so, creep close and

quietly: you know the way; the widow lies in the high bed, and

the pallet is next the door.

[_They kneel at the door to go in; she shakes her coats over

them._

WILD. Must we creep?

WAN. Yes, yes, down upon your knees always, till you get a woman,

and then stand up for the cause: stay, let me shake my smock over

you for luck's sake.

JOLLY. Why so? I warrant you [I'll] thrive.

PAR. A pox take you, I'll pare your nails when I get you from

this place once.

WAN. Sweetheart, sweetheart, off with your shoes.

PAR. Ay, with all my heart, there's an old shoe after you.[270]

Would I gave all in my shop the rest were furnished with wives

too!

JOLLY. Parson, the sun is rising; go send in the fiddlers, and

set the cook on work; let him chop soundly.

PAR. I have a tithe-pig at home, I'll e'en sacrifice it to the

wedding.

[_Exit_ PARSON.

WAN. They will find them in good posture, they may take privy

marks, if they please; for they said it was so hot they could

endure no clothes, and my simplicity was so diligent to lay them

naked, and with such twists and turns fastened them to the feet,

I'll answer for't they find not the way into them in an hour.

_Enter_ SERVANT _and_ PARSON.

JOLLY. Why, then, they may pull up their smocks, and hide their

faces.

SER. Master Jolly, there was one without would speak with you.

JOLLY. Who was it?

SER. It is the lady that talks so well.

JOLLY. They say, indeed, she has an excellent tongue; I would she

had changed it for a face; 'tis she that has been handsome.

PAR. Who? not the poetess we met at Master Sad's?

JOLLY. Yes, the same.

PAR. Sure, she's mad.

JOLLY. Prythee, tell her I am gone to bed.

SER. I have done as well, sir: I told her Mistress Wanton was

here; at which discreetly, being touched with the guilt of her

face, she threw out a curse or two, and retreated.

WAN. Who is this you speak of? I will know who 'tis.

PAR. Why, 'tis she that married the Genoa merchant; they cozened

one another.

WAN. Who? Peg Driver, bugle-eyes?

JOLLY. The same, the same.

WAN. Why, she is ugly now?

PAR. Yes; but I have known her, by this hand, as fine a wench as

ever sinned in town or suburbs. When I knew her first, she was

the original of all the wainscoat chambermaids with brooms and

barefoot madams you see sold at Temple Bar and the Exchange.

WAN. Ah, th' art a devil! how couldst thou find in thy heart to

abuse her so? Thou lov'st antiquities too: the very memory that

she had been handsome should have pleaded something.

JOLLY. _Was handsome_ signifies nothing to me.

WAN. But she's a wit, and a wench of an excellent discourse.

PAR. And as good company as any's i' th' town.

JOLLY. Company! for whom? Leather-ears, his majesty of Newgate

watch? There her story will do well, while they louse themselves.

PAR. Well, you are curious now, but the time was when you skipped

for a kiss.

JOLLY. Prythee, parson, no more of wit and _was handsome_; but

let us keep to this text--[_He kisses_ WANTON]--and with joy

think upon thy little Wanton here, that's kind, soft, sweet, and

sound: these are epithets for a mistress, nor is there any

elegancy in a woman like it. Give me such a naked scene to study

night and day: I care not for her tongue, so her face be good. A

whore dressed in verse and set speeches tempts me no more to that

sweet sin, than the statute of whipping can keep me from it. This

thing we talked on, which retains nothing but the name of what

she was, is not only poetical in her discourse, but her tears and

her love, her health, nay, her pleasure, were all fictions, and

had scarce any live flesh about her, till I administered.

PAR. Indeed, 'tis time she sat out, and gave others leave to

play; for a reverend whore is an unseemly sight: besides it makes

the sin malicious, which is but venial else.

WAN. Sure, he'll make a case of conscience on't: you should do

well (sweetheart) to recommend her case to your brethren that

attend the committee of affection, that they may order her to be

sound and young again, for the good of the commonwealth.

ACT V., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ FIDDLERS, JOLLY, _and_ WANTON.

JOLLY. O, are you ready, are you ready?

FID. Yes, an't like your worship.

JOLLY. And did you bid the cook chop lustily, and make a noise?

FID. Yes, sir, he's at it.

WAN. I hear the captain.

_Enter the_ CAPTAIN.

JOLLY. Have you brought clothes and ribands?

CAPT. Yes, yes, all is ready: did you hear them squeak yet?

WAN. No, by this light: I think 'tis an appointment, and we have

been all abused.

CAPT. Give the fiddlers their ribands, and carry the rest in.

Mistress Wanton, you must play my lady's woman to-day, and mince

it to all that come, and hold up your head finely when they kiss

you: and take heed of swearing when you are angry, and pledging

whole cups when they drink to you.

WAN. I'll warrant you for my part.

CAPT. Go, get you in, then, and let your husband dip the

rosemary.[271]

JOLLY. Is all ready?

CAPT. All, all; some of the company are below already. I have so

blown it about, one porter is gone to the Exchange to invite

Master Wild's merchant to his wedding, and, by the way, to bid

two or three fruiterers to send in fruit for such a wedding;

another in my lady's name to Sall's for sweetmeats. I swore at

Bradborn in his shop myself, that I wondered he would disappoint

Master Wild for his points, and having so long warning: he

protested 'twas not his fault, but they were ready, and he would

send John with them presently. One of the watermen is gone to the

Melon garden; the other to Cook's, at the Bear, for some bottles

of his best wine; and thence to Gracious Street to the

poulterer's, and all with directions to send in provisions for

Master Wild's wedding. And who should I meet at the door but

apricock Tom and Mary, waiting to speak with her young master?

They came to beg that they might serve the feast. I promised them

they should, if they would cry it up and down the town, to bring

company, for Master Wild was resolved to keep open house.

JOLLY. Why, then, here will be witnesses enough.

CAPT. But who should I meet at the corner of the Piazza, but

Joseph Taylor:[272] he tells me there's a new play at the Friars

to-day, and I have bespoke a box for Master Wild and his bride.

JOLLY. And did not he wonder to hear he was married?

CAPT. Yes; but I told him 'twas a match his aunt made for him

when he was abroad.

JOLLY. And I have spread it sufficiently at court, by sending to

borrow plate for such a wedding.

_Enter a_ SERVANT.

SER. There's half a dozen coachfuls of company lighted: they call

for the bridelaces and points.

CAPT. Let the fiddlers play, then, and bid God give them joy by

the name of my Lady Careless and Mistress Wild.

FID. Where shall we play, sir?

JOLLY. Come with us, we'll show you the window.

SCENE II.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play in the tiring-room; and the stage

curtains are drawn, and discover a chamber, as it were,

with two beds, and the ladies asleep in them_, MASTER

WILD _being at_ MISTRESS PLEASANT'S _bedside, and_ MASTER

CARELESS _at the_ WIDOW'S. _The music awakes the_ WIDOW.

WID. Niece, niece, niece Pleasant.

[_She opens the curtain and calls her: she is under a canopy_.

PLEA. Ha! I hear you, I hear you; what would you have?

WID. Do you not hear the fiddlers?

PLEA. Yes, yes; but you have waked me from the finest dream----

WID. A dream! what was't, some knavery!

PLEA. Why, I know not, but 'twas merry; e'en as pleasing as some

sins. Well, I'll lie no more in a man's bed, for fear I lose more

than I get.

WID. Hark! that's a new tune.

PLEA. Yes, and they play it well. This is your janty nephew: I

would he had less of the father in him, I'd venture to dream out

my dream with him. O' my conscience, he's worth a dozen of my

dull servant; that's such a troublesome visitant, without any

kind of conveniency.

WID. Ay, ay, so are all of that kind; give me your subject-lover;

those you call servants are but troubles, I confess.

PLEA. What is the difference, pray, betwixt a subject and a

servant lover?

WID. Why, one I have absolute power over, the other's at large:

your servant-lovers are those who take mistresses upon trial,

and scarce give them a quarter's warning before they are gone.

PLEA. Why, what do you subject-lovers do?--I am so sleepy.

WID. Do! all things for nothing: then they are the diligentest

and the humblest things a woman can employ: nay, I ha' seen of

them tame, and run loose about a house. I had one once, by this

light, he would fetch and carry, go back, seek out; he would do

anything: I think some falconer bred him.

PLEA. By my troth, I am of your mind.

WID. He would come over for all my friends; but it was the

dogged'st thing to my enemies; he would sit upon's tail before

them, and frown like John-a-Napes when the Pope is named. He

heard me once praise my little spaniel bitch Smut for waiting,

and hang me if I stirred for seven years after, but I found him

lying at my door.

PLEA. And what became of him?

WID. Faith, when I married, he forsook me. I was advised since,

that if I would ha' spit in's mouth sometimes, he would have

stayed.

PLEA. That was cheap, but 'tis no certain way; for 'tis a general

opinion that marriage is one of the certain'st cures for love

that one can apply to a man that is sick of the sighings; yet if

you were to live about this town still, such a fool would do you

a world of service. I'm sure Secret will miss him, he would

always take such a care of her, h' has saved her a hundred walks

for hoods and masks.

WID. Yes, and I was certain of the earliest fruits and flowers

that the spring afforded.

PLEA. By my troth, 'twas foolishly done to part with him; a few

crumbs of your affections would have satisfied him, poor thing!

WID. Thou art in the right. In this town there's no living

without 'em; they do more service in a house for nothing than a

pair of those what-d'ye-call-'ems, those he-waiting-women beasts,

that custom imposes upon ladies.

PLEA. Is there none of them to be had now, think you? I'd fain

get a tame one to carry down into the country.

WID. Faith, I know but one breed of them about the town that's

right, and that's at the court; the lady that has them brings 'em

up all by hand: she breeds some of them from very puppies.

There's another wit too in the town that has of them; but hers

will not do so many tricks; good, sullen, diligent waiters those

are which she breeds, but not half so serviceable.

PLEA. How does she do it? is there not a trick in't?

WID. Only patience; but she has a heavy hand with 'em (they say)

at first, and many of them miscarry; she governs them with signs,

and by the eye, as Banks breeds his horse.[273] There are some,

too, that arrive at writing, and those are the right breed, for

they commonly betake themselves to poetry: and if you could light

on one of them, 'twere worth your money; for 'tis but using of

him ill, and praising his verses sometimes, and you are sure of

him for ever.

PLEA. But do they never grow surly, aunt?

WID. Not if you keep them from raw flesh; for they are a kind of

lion-lovers, and if they once taste the sweet of it, they'll turn

to their kind.

PLEA. Lord, aunt, there will be no going without one this summer

into the country: pray, let's inquire for one, either a he-one to

entertain us, or a she-one to tell us the story of her love; 'tis

excellent to bedward, and makes one as drowsy as prayers.

WID. Faith, niece, this parliament has so destroyed 'em, and the

Platonic humour, that 'tis uncertain whether we shall get one or

no. Your leading members in the lower house have so cowed the

ladies, that they have no leisure to breed any of late: their

whole endeavours are spent now in feasting, and winning close

committee men, a rugged kind of sullen fellows with implacable

stomachs and hard hearts, that make the gay things court and

observe them, as much as the foolish lovers use to do. Yet I

think I know one she-lover; but she is smitten in years o' th'

wrong side of forty. I am certain she is poor, too, and in this

lean age for courtiers she perhaps would be glad to run this

summer in our park.

PLEA. Dear aunt, let us have her. Has she been famous? has she

good tales, think you, of knights, such as have been false or

true to love, no matter which?

WID. She cannot want cause to curse the sex: handsome, witty,

well-born, and poor in court, cannot want the experience how

false young men can be: her beauty has had the highest fame; and

those eyes, that weep now unpitied, have had their envy and a

dazzling power.

PLEA. And that tongue, I warrant you, which now grows hoarse with

flattering the great law-breakers, once gave law to princes: was

it not so, aunt? Lord, shall I die without begetting one story?

WID. Penthesilea nor all the cloven knights the poets treat of,

yclad in mightiest petticoats, did her excel for gallant deeds,

and with her honour still preserved her freedom. My brother loved

her; and I have heard him swear Minerva might have owned her

language; an eye like Pallas, Juno's wrists, a Venus for shape,

and a mind chaste as Diana; but not so rough: never uncivilly

cruel, nor faulty kind to any; no vanity, that sees more than

lovers pay, nor blind to a gallant passion. Her maxim was, he

that could love, and tell her so handsomely, was better company,

but not a better lover, than a silent man. Thus all passions

found her civility, and she a value from all her lovers. But

alas! niece, this _was_ (which is a sad word)--_was_ handsome and

_was_ beloved are abhorred sounds in women's ears.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play again_.

PLEA. Hark! the fiddlers are merry still. Will not Secret have

the wit to find us this morning, think you?

FID. [_Within._] God give you joy, Master Careless! God give

your ladyship joy, my Lady Wild!

WID. What did the fellows say? God give me joy?

PLEA. As I live, I think so.

FID. God give you joy, Mistress Pleasant Wild!

WID. This is my nephew: I smell him in this knavery.

PLEA. Why did they give me joy by the name of Mistress Wild? I

shall pay dear for a night's lodging if that be so; especially

lying alone. By this light, there is some knavery afoot.

[_All the company confused without, and bid God give them

joy._

JOLLY. Rise, rise, for shame; the year's afore you.

CAPT. Why, Ned Wild; why, Tom, will you not rise and let's in?

What, is it not enough to steal your wedding overnight, but lock

yourselves up in the morning too? All your friends stay for

points here, and kisses from the brides.

WILD. A little patience! you'll give us leave to dress us?

[_The women squeak when they speak_.

CARE. Why, what's o'clock, captain?

CAPT. It's late.

CARE. Faith, so it was before we slept.

WID. Why, nephew, what means this rudeness? As I live, I'll fall

out with you. This is no jest.

WILD. No, as I live, aunt, we are in earnest; but my part lies

here, and there's a gentleman will do his best to satisfy you.

[_They catch the women in their arms._] And, sweet Mistress

Pleasant, I know you have so much wit as to perceive this

business cannot be remedied by denials. Here we are, as you see,

naked,[274] and thus have saluted hundreds at the window that

passed by, and gave us joy this morning.

PLEA. Joy! of what? what do you mean?

CARE. Madam, this is visible; and you may coy it, and refuse to

call me husband, but I am resolved to call you wife, and such

proofs I'll bring as shall not be denied.

[CARELESS _kisses the_ WIDOW.

WID. Promise yourself that; see whether your fine wits can make

it good. You will not be uncivil?

CARE. Not a hair, but what you give, and that was in the contract

before we undertook it; for any man may force a woman's body, but

we have laid we will force your mind.

WILD. But that needs not, for we know by your discourse last

night and this morning, we are men you have no aversion to; and I

believe, if we had taken time, and wooed hard, this would have

come o' course; but we had rather win you by wit, because you

defied us.

WID. 'Tis very well, if it succeed.

CARE. And, for my part, but for the jest of winning you, and this

way, not ten jointures should have made me marry.

WID. This is a new way of wooing.

CARE. 'Tis so, madam; but we have not laid our plot so weakly,

though it were sudden, to leave it in anybody's power but our own

to hinder it.

PLEA. Do you think so?

WILD. We are secure enough, if we can be true to ourselves.

CARE. Yet we submit in the midst of our strength, and beg you

will not wifully spoil a good jest by refusing us. By this hand,

we are both sound, and we'll be strangely honest, and never in

ill humours; but live as merry as the maids, and divide the year

between the town and the country. What say you, is't a match?

Your bed is big enough for two, and my meat will not cost you

much: I'll promise nothing but one heart, one purse betwixt us,

and a whole dozen of boys. Is't a bargain?

WID. Not if I can hinder it, as I live.

WILD. Faith, Mistress Pleasant, he hath spoken nothing but

reason, and I'll do my best to make it good: come, faith, teach

my aunt what to do, and let me strike the bargain upon your lips.

PLEA. No, sir, not to be half a queen; if we should yield now,

your wit would domineer for ever: and still in all disputes

(though never so much reason on our side) this shall be urged as

an argument of your master-wit to confute us. I am of your aunt's

mind, sir, and, if I can hinder it, it shall be no match.

WILD. Why, then know it is not in your powers to prevent it.

WID. Why? we are not married yet.

CARE. No, 'tis true.

Wid. By this good light, then, I'll be dumb for ever hereafter,

lest I light upon the words of marriage by chance.

PLEA. 'Tis hard, when our own acts cannot be in our own power,

gentlemen.

WILD. The plot is only known to four: the minister, and two that

stood for fathers, and a simple country maid that waited upon you

last night, which plays your chambermaid's part.

PLEA. And what will all these do?

WILD. Why, the two friends will swear they gave you, the parson

will swear he married you, and the wench will swear she put us to

bed.

WID. Have you men to swear we are married?

PLEA. And a parson to swear he did it?

BOTH. Yes.

WID. And a wench that will swear she put us to bed?

BOTH. Yes, by this good light, and witness of reputation.

PLEA. Dare they or you look us in the face, and swear this?

CARE. Yes, faith; and all but those four know no other but really

it is so; and you may deny it, but I'll make master constable put

you to bed, with this proof, at night.

WID. Pray, let's see these witnesses.

WILD. Call in the four only.

[_Exit_ CARELESS.

PLEA. Well, this shall be a warning to me. I say nothing, but if

ever I lie from home again----

WILD. I'll lie with you.

PLEA. 'Tis well. I daresay we are the first women, if this take,

that ever were stolen against their wills.

WILD. I'll go call the gentlemen.

[_Exit_ WILD.

WID. I that have refused a fellow that loved me these seven

years, and would have put off his hat, and thanked me to come to

bed, to be beaten with watchmen's staves into another's!--for, by

this good light, for aught that I perceive, there's no keeping

these out at night.

PLEA. And unless we consent to be their wives to-day, master

justice will make us their whores at night. O, O, what would not

I give to come off? not that I mislike them, but I hate they

should get us thus.

_Enter_ WILD, JOLLY, CAPTAIN, CARELESS, PARSON, WANTON, _with

rosemary in their hands, and points in their hats_.

CARE. Follow. Will not you two swear we were married last night?

JOLLY _and_ CAPT. Yes, by this light, will we.

WILD. Will you not swear you married us?

PAR. Yea, verily.

CARE. And come hither, pretty one: will not you swear you left us

all abed last night, and pleased?

WAN. Yes, forsooth; I'll swear anything your worship shall

appoint me.

WID. But, gentleman, have you no shame, no conscience? Will you

swear false for sport?

JOLLY. By this light, I'll swear, if it be but to vex you:

remember you refused me. That [_Aside_] is contrary to covenants,

though, with my brace of lovers: what will they do with their

coachman's plot? But 'tis no matter, I have my ends; and, so they

are cosened, I care not who does it.

CAPT. And faith, madam, I have sworn many times false to no

purpose; and I should take it ill, if it were mine own case, to

have a friend refuse me an oath upon such an occasion.

PLEA. And are you all of one mind?

PAR. Verily, we will all swear.

PLEA. Will you verily? What shall we do, aunt?

[PLEASANT _laughs_.

WID. Do you laugh? by this light, I am heartily angry.

PLEA. Why, as I live, let's marry them, aunt, and be revenged.

WID. Marry! Where's the parson?

CAPT. Here, here, master parson, come and do your office.

PLEA. That fellow! no, by my troth, let's be honestly joined, for

luck's sake: we know not how soon we may part.

WILD. What shall we do for a parson? Captain, you must run and

fetch one.

CAPT. Yes, yes: but, methinks, this might serve turn: by this

hand, he's a Marshall and a Case,[275] by sire and dam; pray, try

him: by this light, he comes of the best preaching-kind in Essex.

WID. Not I, as I live; that were a blessing in the devil's name.

PAR. A pox on your wedding! give me my wife, and let me be gone.

CAPT. Nay, nay, no choler, parson. The ladies do not like the

colour of your beard![276]

PAR. No, no, fetch another, and let them escape with that trick,

then they'll jeer your beards blue, i' faith.

CARE. By this hand, he's in the right; either this parson, or

take one another's words: to bed now, and marry when we rise.

PLEA. As I live, you come not here till you are married; I have

been nobody's whore yet, and I will not begin with my husband.

WILD. Will you kiss upon the bargain, and promise before these

witnesses not to spoil our jest, but rise and go to church?

PLEA. And what will Master Constant and Master Sad say?

CAPT. Why, I'll run and invite them to the wedding, and you shall

see them expire in their own garters.

JOLLY. No, no, ne'er fear't, their jest is only spoiled.

CAPT. Their jest! what jest?

JOLLY. Faith, now you shall know it, and the whole plot. In the

first place, your coachman is well, whose death we, by the help

of Secret, contrived, thinking by that trick to prevent this

danger, and carry you out of town.

CAPT. But had they this plot?

Jolly. Yes, faith, and see how it thrives! They'll fret like

carted bawds when they hear this news.

PLEA. Why, aunt, would you have thought Master Sad a plotter?

well, 'tis some comfort we have them to laugh at.

WID. Nay, faith, then, gentlemen, give us leave to rise, and I'll

take my venture if it be but for revenge on them.

CARE. Gentlemen, bear witness.

CAPT. Come, come away, I'll get the points. I'm glad the

coachman's well; the rogue had like to have spoiled our comedy.

[_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE III.

_Enter the_ LADY LOVEALL, MASTER SAD _and_ CONSTANT,

_undressed, and buttoning themselves as they go_.

SAD. Married?

CON. And to them?

LOVE. Ay, married, if you prevent it not: catched with a trick,

an old stale trick; I have seen a ballad on't.

SAD. We shall go near to prevent 'em. Boy, my sword.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. Whither so fast?

SAD. You guess.

CAPT. If you mean the wedding, you come too late.

CON. Why, are they married?

CAPT. No, but lustily promised.

SAD. We may come time enough to be revenged, though----

CAPT. Upon whom? yourselves, for you are only guilty. Who carried

them thither last night? who laid the plot for the coachman?

SAD. Why, do they know it?

LOVE. Well, you'll find the poet a rogue, 'tis he that has

betrayed you; and if you'll take my counsel, be revenged upon

him.

CON. Nay, we were told he did not love us.

CAPT. By my life, you wrong him: upon my knowledge, the poet

meant you should have them.

SAD. Why, who had the power to hinder, then?

CAPT. I know not where the fault lies directly: they say the wits

of the town would not consent to't; they claim a right in the

ladies as orphan wits.

CON. The wits! hang 'em in their strong lines.

CAPT. Why, ay, such a clinch as that has undone you, and upon my

knowledge 'twere enough to hinder your next match.

SAD. Why, what have they to do with us?

CAPT. I know not what you have done to disoblige them, but they

crossed it: there was amongst 'em too a pair of she-wits,

something stricken in years; they grew in fury at the mention of

it, and concluded you both with an authority out of a modern

author: besides, 'tis said you run naturally into the

sixpenny-room, and steal sayings, and a discourse more than your

pennyworth of jests every term. Why, just now you spit out one

jest stolen from a poor play, that has but two more in five acts;

what conscience is there in't, knowing how dear we pay poets for

our plays?

CON. 'Twas madam with the ill face, one of those whom you refused

to salute the other day at Chipp's house: a cheesecake had saved

all this.

LOVE. Why do you not make haste about your business, but lose

time with this babbler?

SAD. Madam, will you give us leave to make use of your coach?

LOVE. You may command it, sir: when you have done, send him to

the Exchange, where I'll despatch a little business, and be with

you immediately.

[_Exeunt all but the_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. So, this fire is kindled; put it out that can. What would

not I give for a peeper's place at the meeting? I'll make haste,

and it shall go hard, but I'll bear my part of the mirth too.

[_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_Enter_ WIDOW, PLEASANT, CARELESS, WILD, PARSON, JOLLY,

WANTON, _and_ SECRET: _the_ FIDDLERS _play as they

come in_.

PAR. Master Jolly, I find I am naturally inclined to mirth this

day, and methinks my corns ache more than my horns; and to a man

that has read Seneca, a cuckold ought to be no grief, especially

in this parish, where I see such droves of St Luke's clothing.

There's little Secret too, th' allay of waiting-woman, makes me

hope she may prove metal of the parson's standard. Find a way to

rid me of Wanton, and I'll put in to be chaplain to this merry

family: if I did not inveigle formal Secret, you should hang me.

I know the trick on't; 'tis but praying to, and preaching of the

waiting-woman, then carefully seeing her cushion laid, with her

book and leaf turned down, does it, with a few anagrams,

acrostics, and her name in the register of my Bible: these charm

the soft-souled sinner: then sometimes to read a piece of my

sermon, and tell her a Saturday where my text shall be, spells

that work more than philtres.

JOLLY. If you can be serious, we'll think of this at leisure. See

how they eye Wanton!

CARE. What! consulting, parson? let us be judges betwixt you.

D'ye hear, Jack? if he offers ready money, I counsel, as a

friend, take it; for, by this light, if you refuse it, your wife

will not. D'ye see those gay petticoats?

PAR. Yes, if you mean my wife's.

CARE. You know they're his, and she only wears 'em for his

pleasure: and 'tis dangerous to have a wife under another man's

petticoats. What if you should find his breeches upon her?

PAR. Are not you married too? take care that yours does not wear

the breeches, another kind of danger, but as troublesome as that,

or sore eyes; and if she get but a trick of taking as readily as

she's persuaded to give, you may find a horn at home. I have seen

a cuckold of your complexion; if he had had as much hoof as horn,

you might have hunted the beast by his slot.[277]

PLEA. How fine she is! and, by this light, a handsome wench.

Master Jolly, I am easier persuaded to be reconciled to your

fault than any man's I have seen of this kind: her eyes have more

arguments in 'em than a thousand of those that seduce the world;

hang me, if those quivers be not full of darts; I could kiss that

mouth myself. Is this she my aunt quarrelled with you for?

JOLLY. The same, selfsame: and, by this hand, I was barbarous to

her, for your aunt's sake; and had I not 'scaped that mischief of

matrimony, by this light, I had never seen her again. But I was

resolved not to quit her till I was sure of a wife, for fear of

what has followed. Had I been such an ass to have left her upon

the airy hopes of a widow's oaths, what a case had I been in now!

You see your aunt's provided of a man. Bless him, and send him

patience! 'Twould have been fine to have seen me walking, and

sighing upon cold hunting, seeking my whore again, or forced to

make use of some common mercenary thing, that sells sin and

diseases, crimes, penance, and sad repentance together! Here's

consolation and satisfaction in Wanton, though a man lose his

meal with the widow. And faith, be free--how do you like my girl?

Rid thee of her! What does she want now, pray, but a jointure, to

satisfy any honest man? Speak your conscience, ladies: don't you

think a little repentance hereafter will serve for all the small

sins that good-nature can act with such a sinner?

PAR. Pray, sir, remember she's my wife, and be so civil to us

both, as to forget these things.

JOLLY. For that, Jack, we'll understand hereafter. 'Tis but a

trick of youth, man, and her jest will make us both merry, I

warrant thee.

PAR. Pray, sir, no more of your jests, nor your Jack. Remember my

coat and calling. This familiarity, both with my wife and myself,

is not decent: your clergy with Christian names are scarce held

good Christians.

WID. I wonder at nothing so much as Master Jolly's mirth to-day!

Where lies his part of the jest? Cosened or refused by all, not a

fish that stays in's net.

JOLLY. No; what's this? [JOLLY _hugs_ WANTON.] Show me a fairer

in all your streams. Nor is this my single joy, who am pleased to

find you may be cosened; rejoice to see you may be brought to lie

with a man for a jest. Let me alone to fit you with a trick too.

CARE. Faith, it must be some new trick; for thou art so beaten at

the old one, 'twill neither please thee nor her; besides, I mean

to teach her that myself.

PLEA. I shall never be perfectly quiet in my mind till I see

somebody as angry as myself: yet I have some consolation, when I

think on the wise plot that killed the coachman. How the plague,

red cross, and halbert has cut their fingers that designed it!

their anger will be perfect. Secret says they are coming, and

that the Lady Loveall has given 'em the alarm.

_Enter_ SAD _and_ CONSTANT.

WILD. And see where the parties come!--storms and tempests in

their minds! their looks are daggers.

PLEA. Servant, what, you're melancholy, and full of wonder! I see

you have met the news.

SAD. Yes, madam; we have heard a report that will concern both

your judgment and your honour.

PLEA. Alas, sir! we're innocent; 'tis mere predestination.

CON. All weddings, Master Sad, you know, go by chance, like

hanging.

PLEA. And, I thank my stars, I have 'scaped hanging. To ha' been

his bride had been both.

CON. This is not like the promise you made us yesterday.

WID. Why, truly, servant, I scarce know what I do yet. The fright

of the plague had so possessed my mind with fear, that I could

think and dream of nothing last night but of a tall black man

that came and kissed me in my sleep, and slapped his whip in mine

ears. 'Twas a saucy ghost, not unlike my coachman that's dead,

and accused you of having a hand in his murder, and vowed to

haunt me till I was married. I told my niece the dream.

PLEA. Nay, the ghost sighed, and accused Secret and Master Sad of

making him away. Confess, faith, had you a hand in that bloody

jest?

WID. Fie, servant! Could you be so cruel as to join with my woman

against me?

CON. 'Tis well, ladies. Why a pox do you look at me? This was

your subtle plot; a pox on your clerk's wit! You said the jest

would beget a comedy when 'twas known, and so I believe 'twill.

SAD. Madam, I find you have discovered our design, whose chief

end was to prevent this mischief, which I doubt not but you'll

both live to repent your share of, before you have done

travelling to the Epsoms, Bourbonne,[278] and the Spaws, to cure

those travelled diseases these knights-errant have with curiosity

sought out for you. 'Tis true, they are mischiefs that dwell in

pleasant countries, yet those roses have their thorns; and I

doubt not but these gentlemen's wit may sting as well as please

sometime; and you may find it harder to satisfy their travelled

experience than to have suffered our home-bred ignorance.

CARE. Hark, if he be not fallen into a fit of his cousin! these

names of places he has stolen out of her receipt-book: amongst

all whose diseases find me any so dangerous, troublesome, or

incurable as a fool; a lean, pale, sighing, coughing fool, that's

rich and poor both; being born to an estate, without a mind or

heart capable to use it; of a nature so miserable, he grudges

himself meat; nay, they say, he eats his meals twice: a fellow

whose breath smells of yesterday's dinner, and stinks as if he

had eat all our suppers over again. I would advise you, Master

Sad, to sleep with your mouth open to air it, or get the brewer

to tun it. Foh! an empty justice, that stinks of the lees and

casks, and belches Littleton and Plowden's cases! Dost thou think

any woman, that has wit or honour, would kiss that bung-hole? By

this light, his head and belly look as blue and lank as French

rabbits or stale poultry! Alas, sir! my lady would have a husband

to rejoice with; no green-tailed lecturer, to stand sentry at his

bedside, while his nasty soul scours through him, sneaking out at

the back-door! These, sir, are diseases which neither the Spaw or

Bath can cure: your garters and willow are a more certain remedy.

CON. Well, sir, I find our plot's betrayed, and we have patience

left. 'Tis that damned captain has informed.

SAD. Yet 'tis one comfort, madam, that you have missed that man

of war, that knight of Finsbury. His dowager, with ale and

switches, would ha' bred a ballad.

PLEA. Faith, sir, you see what a difficulty it is in this age for

a woman to live honest, though she have a proper man for her

husband; therefore, it behoves us to consider whom we choose.

JOLLY. The lady has reason: for, being allowed but one, who would

choose such weasels as we see daily married? that are all head

and tail, crooked, dirty, sordid vermin, predestined for

cuckolds, painted snails, with houses on their backs, and horns

as big as Dutch cows! Would any woman marry such? Nay, can any

woman be honest that let's such hodmandods crawl o'er her virgin

breast and belly, or suffer 'em to leave their slimy paths upon

their bodies only for jointures? Out! 'tis mercenary and base!

The generous heart has only the laws of nature and kindness in

her view, and when she will oblige, Friend is all the ties that

Nature seeks; who can both bear and excuse those kind crimes.

And, I believe, one as poor as the despised captain and neglected

courtier may make a woman as happy in a friendship as Master Sad,

who has as many faults as we have debts: one whose father had no

more credit with Nature than ours had with Fortune; whose soul

wears rags as well as the captain's body.

SAD. Nay, then, I'll laugh; for I perceive y' are angrier than

we. Alas! h' has lost both ventures--Wanton and the widow.

JOLLY. Both; and neither so unlucky as to be thy wife. Thy face

is hanged with blacks already: we may see the bells toll in thy

eyes. A bride and a wedding-shirt, a sexton and a winding-sheet.

A scrivener to draw up jointures, a parson to make thy will, man.

By this light, he's as chap-fallen as if he had lain under the

table all night.

CARE. Faith, Master Sad, he's parlously in the right. Ne'er think

of marrying in this dull clime. Wedlock's a trade you'll ne'er go

through with. Wives draw bills upon sight, and 'twill not be for

your credit to protest them. Rather follow my counsel, and marry

_A la Venetiano_, for a night and away; a pistole jointure does

it: then, 'tis but repenting in the morning, and leave your woman

and the sin both i' th' bed. But if you play the fool, like your

friends, and marry in serious earnest, you may repent it too, as

they do; but where's the remedy?

[_This is spoken a little aside._

WID. What was't you said, sir? Do you repent?

CARE. By this hand, widow, I don't know: but we have pursued a

jest a great way. Parson, are you sure we are married?

PAR. Yes, I warrant you, for their escaping.

CARE. Their escaping! Fool, thou mistakest me; there's no fear of

that! But I would fain know if there be no way for me to get out

of this noose? no hole to hide a man's head in from this wedlock?

PAR. Not any, but what I presume she'll show you anon.

CARE. Hum! now do I feel all my fears flowing in upon me. Wanton

and Mistress Pleasant both grow dangerously handsome. A thousand

graces in each I never observed before. Now, just now, when I

must not taste, I begin to long for some of their plums.

WID. Is this serious, sir!

CARE. Yes, truly, widow, sadly serious. Is there no way to get

three or four mouthfuls of kisses from the parson's wife?

WID. This is sad, sir, upon my wedding-day, to despise me for

such a common thing.

SAD. As sad as I could wish. This is a jest makes me

laugh.--Common! No, madam, that's too bitter; she's forest only,

where the royal chase is as free as fair.

WAN. Were not you a widow to-day?

SAD. Yes, faith, girl, and as foolish a one as ever coach jumbled

out of joint.

WAN. Stay, then, till to-morrow, and tell me the difference

betwixt us.

SAD. I hope thou'lt prove a she-prophet. Could I live to see thee

turn honest wife, and she the wanton widow!

WAN. I cannot but laugh, to see how easy it is to lose or win the

opinion of the world. A little custom heals all; or else what's

the difference betwixt a married widow and one of us? Can any

woman be pure, or worth the serious sighing of a generous heart,

that has had above one hand laid upon her? Is there place to

write above one lover's name with honour in her heart? 'Tis

indeed for one a royal palace; but if it admits of more, an

hospital or an inn at best, as well as ours: only off from the

road and less frequented.

PLEA. Shrewdly urged.

WAN. And though the sins of my family threw me into want, and

made me subject to the treachery of that broken faith, to whose

perjury I owe all my crimes, yet still I can distinguish betwixt

that folly and this honour, which must tell you: _He or she, that

would be thought twice so, was never once a lover._

CON. Parson, thou art fitted! a whore and apothegms! What sport

will she make us under a tree with a salad and sayings in the

summer!

WILD. Come, Wanton, no fury; you see my aunt's angry.

WAN. So am I, sir, and yet can calmly reason this truth. Married

widows, though chaste to the law and custom, yet their second

Hymens make that, which was but dyeing in the first husband's

bed, a stain in the second's sheets; where all their kindness and

repeated embraces want their value, because they're sullied, and

have lost their lustre.

SAD. By this light, I'll go to school to Wanton; she has opened

my eyes, and I begin to believe I have 'scaped miraculously. By

this hand, wench, I was within an inch of being married to this

danger; for what can we call these second submissions, but a

tolerated lawful mercenariness which though it be a rude and

harsh expression, yet your carriage deserves it?

PLEA. Fie, Master Sad! pray leave being witty. I fear 'tis a

mortal sin to begin in the fifth act of your days: upon an old

subject, too--abusing of widows because they despise you!

WID. Alas, niece! let him alone: he may come in for his share:

the parson, that has so oft received 'em, will not refuse him

tithes there in charity.

WAN. That or conveniency, interest or importunity, may by your

example prevail: but 'tis not fair play, madam, to turn your

lover to the common, as you call it, now he's rid lean in your

service. Take heed, Master Careless, and warning, Master Sad; you

see how fit for the scavenger's team your lady leaves her lovers!

CARE. Such a lecture, before I had married, would ha' made me

have considered of this matter. Dost thou hear, Wanton? Let us

forgive one another being married, for that folly has made us

guilty alike.

WAN. And I would fain know the difference betwixt ours and a

wedding crime, which is worst: to let love, youth, and

good-humour betray us to a kindness, or to be gravely seduced by

some aunt or uncle, without consideration of the disparity of

age, birth, or persons, to lie down before a jointure. Ladies,

you may flatter yourselves; but the ingenuous part of the world

cannot deny but such minds, had they been born where our faults

are not only tolerated but protected, would have listened to the

same things: interest counsels thereto.

CARE. Parson, what boot betwixt our wives? either come to a

price, or draw off your doxy.

PAR. Propose, propose: here will be mirth anon.

SAD. Yes, yes, propose, while I break it to your lady. Madam, you

see, here's a proper man to be had, and money to boot. What,

dumb?

WAN. No, she's only thinking. Faith, madam, try 'em both

to-night, and choose to-morrow.

WILD. Come, no more of this. Aunt, take my word for your husband,

that have had more experience of him than all these: 'tis true he

will long for these girls, as children do for plums; and when h'

has done, make a meal upon cheese. And you must not wonder nor

quarrel at what he says in his humour, but judge him by his

actions; and when he is in his fit, and raves most, put him into

your bed, and fold him close in your arms, aunt: if he does not

rise as kind and as good a husband as he that sings psalms best,

hang me? Why, you're a fool, aunt: a widow, and dislike a longing

bridegroom! I thought you had known better. Do you love a spurred

horse rather than a ducker, that neighs and scrapes? I would not

say this, but that I know him. Let him not go out of your sight,

for he's now in season--a ripe, mature husband. No delays: if you

let him hang longer upon hope, his fruit will fall alone.

WID. You are merry, sir; but if I had known this humour----

WILD. You'd ha' kissed him first; but, being ignorant, let me

make you blush. Come, a kiss, and all's friends. [_She kisses_

CARELESS, _and he kisses her twice_.] How now, sir, again! again!

PLEA. Aunt, look to yourself.

CARE. Um! By this light, sweetheart, and I thank thee. Nay,

widow, there's no jesting with these things--[_Kisses her

again_]--nay, I am a lion in my love. Aware, puss, if you flatter

me, for I shall deceive you.

PAR. Since all are cosened, why should I be troubled at my

fortune? Faith, gentlemen, what will you two give for a wife

betwixt you?

CON. Faith, they're mischiefs dear bought, though a man get 'em

for nothing.

PAR. I'm almost of his mind; and if other people find no more

pleasure in a married life than I upon my wedding-day, I'd pass

my time in the Piazza with the mountebank, and let him practise

upon my teeth, and draw 'em too, ere he persuades the words of

matrimony out of my mouth again. Ay, ay, Master Constant, you may

laugh, you ha' missed a wife; would I were in your case, the

world should see how cheerfully I should bear such an affliction.

CON. Jack, I ha' made my peace at home: and by seeing others

shipwrecked, will avoid the danger, and here resolve never to

sigh again for any woman: they're weeds grow in every hedge; and

transplanting of 'em thus to our beds gives certain trouble,

seldom pleasure, never profit.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

PAR. See where the enemy comes! Now, if you be wise, arm, and

unite against him as a common foe. He's come from his old lady,

designing a reconciliation. The rogue's provident, and would fain

have a nest for his age to rest in. Buff and feathers do well in

the youth and heat of thirty; but in the winter of old age

captain at threescore, lame and lean, may lie with the almanac

out of date.

CAPT. The parson's grown witty, and prophesies upon the strength

of bridecake. If I guess aright, thou'lt be hanged: for 'tis a

truth, I have been endeavouring to make it appear her fears were

mistaken in me; but I find the witch more implacable than the

devil. The waiting-woman is harder to forgive [for] her part than

my lady. Faithful will not be reconciled: the merciless bawd is

all fire and sword, no quarter. Bless me from an old

waiting-woman's wrath! She'll never forgive me the disappointing

her of a promise when I was drunk. Her lady and she are coming,

but in such a fury, I would not have the storm find you out in

the street: therefore I counsel you to avoid the boys, and take

shelter in the next house.

WILD. No, let's home, and with all diligence get our dinner to

defend us; and let the porter dispute it at the wicket, till she

signs articles of peace.

OMNES. Agreed.

[CARELESS _is kind to the_ WIDOW. _As he goes out_, WILD _and_

PLEASANT _go together_; JOLLY _and the_ PARSON'S _wife go

together_.

WILD. See how they pair now! 'Tis not threescore year will part

'em, now he has tasted a kiss or two.

JOLLY. Parson, I'll be your brideman.

PAR. 'Tis well, sir; I shall ha' my time too.

JOLLY. Ay, by this hand. Nay, we'll share fairly.

CAPT. That's but reason, Wanton; and since he grows tame, use him

kindly, for my sake.

PAR. Can any of you digest sponge and arsenic?

CAPT. Arsenic! what's that?

PAR. An Italian salad, which I'll dress for you, by Jove, ere

I'll walk in my canonical coat lined with horn. Death! if I

suffer this, we shall have that damned courtier pluck on his

shoes with the parson's musons. Fine, i' faith! none but the

small Levite's brow to plant your shoeing-horn seed in? How now?

[_As he is going off, the_ CAPTAIN _stays him_.

CAPT. Prythee, Jack, stay, and say something to the gentlemen by

way of epilogue. Thou art a piece of scurvy poet thyself;

prythee, oblige the author, and give us a line or two in praise

of his play.

PAR. I oblige him! hang him and all his friends, and hurt nobody.

Yes, I am likely to speak for him. You see how I ha' been used

to-day betwixt you. I shall find a time to be revenged. Let go my

cloak; I have a province within of mine own to govern: let me go.

CAPT. Who, thy wife? Faith, stay and give them an opportunity;

thy pain will be the sooner over. You see, 'tis a thing resolved

betwixt 'em; and now thou'rt satisfied in the matter, be wise and

silent; who knows what good she may do thee another time? I dare

say, if she had as many souls in her as she had men, she'd bring

thee a cure of herself.

PAR. Let me go, or I shall be as troublesome as you are

injurious, for all your titles, sir.

CAPT. Lend me your cloak then, to appear more decent; you'd not

ha' me present epilogue in buff,[279] whoreson dunce, with a red

nose?

PAR. Sir, my business is praying, not epilogues.

CAPT. With that face? By this light, 'tis a scandal to see it

flaming so near the altar: thou look'st as if thou'dst cry _Tope_

in the face of the congregation, instead of _Amen_.

PAR. Thou'rt an ass, 'tis proper there; 't has zeal and fervour

in't, and burns before the altar like the primitive lamps.

CAPT. I cry thee mercy. By this light, he'll make it sacrilege

anon to steal his nose! thou'lt entitle the altar to that coal.

Was't not kindled _ex voto_? Nay, I will have your cloak.

PAR. Take it; would 'twere Nessus's shirt, for you and your

poet's sake.

[_Exit_ PARSON.

CAPT. What, does the rogue wish 'twere made of nettles?[280]

[CAPTAIN _puts on his cloak, and addresses himself to speak

the epilogue, and is interrupted by_ LADY LOVEALL, _and_

FAITHFUL _her woman, who, in haste and full of anger,

pull him by the cloak_.

LOVE. By your favour, sir, did you see any company pass this way?

CAPT. None but the three brides, and they are gone just before

you. Hark! the music will guide you.

[_The music plays._

LOVE. Is it certain, then, they're married?

CAPT. Yes, lady; I saw the church's rites performed.

FAITH. Why does your ladyship lose time in talking with this

fellow? don't you know him, madam? 'tis the rascally captain, hid

in a black cloak. I know you, sirrah.

LOVE. She has reason; now I mark him better, I should know that

false face too. See, Faithful, there are those treacherous eyes

still.

CAPT. Alas! you mistake me, madam, I am Epilogue now. The

captain's within, and as a friend, I counsel you not to incense

the gentlemen against the poet, for he knows all your story, and

if you anger him, he'll put it in a play; but if you'll do

friendly offices, I'll undertake, instead of your pearl you lost,

to help you to the jewel; the Scotch Dictionary will tell you the

value of it. Let them go alone, and fret not at their loss. Stay,

and take my counsel: it shall be worth three revenges.

LOVE. Well, what is't, sir?

CAPT. They say you have a great power over the parson: if you can

prevail with him to express his anger in some satiric comedy (for

the knave has wit, and they say his genius lies that way), tell

him 'tis expected he should be revenged upon the illiterate

courtier that made this play. If you can bring this business

about, I may find a way, as Epilogue, to be thankful, though the

captain abused you to-day. Think on't: Stephen[281] is as

handsome, when the play is done, as Master Wild was in the scene.

LOVE. There's something of reason in what he says. [_Aside._]

But, my friend, how shall one believe you? you that were such a

rascal to-day in buff, is it to be hoped you can be honest only

with putting on a black cloak? Well, I'll venture once again; and

if I have any power, he shall sting the malicious rascal, and I

think he is fit for such a business. I'm sure he has the worst

tongue, and a conscience that neither honour nor truth binds; and

therefore 'tis to be believed, if he will rail in public, he may

be even with your poet. I will clothe and feed him and his muse

this seven years, but I will plague him. Secret tells me, 'twas

your poet too that pawned me to-day in the tavern.

CAPT. By my faith, did he; nay, 'twas he that told me of your

friendship with Jolly.

LOVE. I wonder the parson has been so long silent; a man of his

coat and parts to be beaten with a pen by one that speaks sense

by rote, like parrots! one that knows not why sense is sense, but

by the sound! one that can scarce read, nay, not his own hand!

Well, remember your promise.

CAPT. Leave it to me, he is yours; and if our plot take, you

shall have all your shares in the mirth, but not the profit of

the play; and the parson more than his tithe, a second day.

LOVE. We will discourse of this some other time. And pray

despatch what 'tis you have to say to this noble company, that I

may be gone; for those gentlemen will be in such fury if I stay,

and think, because we are alone, God knows what.

CAPT. 'Tis no matter what they think; 'tis not them we are to

study now, but these guests, to whom pray address yourself

civilly, and beg that they would please to become fathers, and

give those brides within. What say you, gentlemen, will you lend

your hands to join them? The match, you see, is made. If you

refuse, Stephen misses the wench, and then you cannot justly

blame the poet; for, you know, they say that alone is enough to

spoil the play.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: THE REBELLION

[1] [This play was reprinted in 1654, 4^o, but not again till it

was included in the "Ancient British Drama," 1810, 3 vols. 8^o,

with a curious mixture of old and modern spelling, a series of

the most atrocious blunders, and without any attention to the

punctuation; in fact, the text of 1810 is almost unintelligible.]

[2] [See further in Walpole's "Anecdotes," edit. 1862, pp. 400-1;

but a comedy entitled "Tom Essence," printed in 1677, is there

ascribed to his pen.]

[3] [He has commendatory verses to Chamberlain's "Jocabella,"

1640, and the same writer's "Swaggering Damsel," printed in that

year.]

[4] [Respecting the Ducie family, see Lysons's "Environs of

London," first edit., iv. 327; Walpole's "Anecdotes of Painting,"

edit. 1862, p. 401; and "Inedited Poetical Miscellanies," 1870.]

[5] [A well-known poet and playwright]

[6] [Probably Charles Gerbier, author of "Elogium Heronium,"

1651, and other works.]

[7] [The dramatist.]

[8] [It is difficult to appropriate these initials, unless they

belong to Robert Wild.]

[9] [The author of "Nocturnal Lucubrations," 1637, the

"Swaggering Damsel," 1640, &c.]

[10] [Thomas Jordan, the well-known poet and pageant-writer.]

[11] [John Gough, author of the "Strange Discovery," 1640.]

[12] [Possibly Edward Benlowes.]

[13] [The author of these wretched lines was the well-known

pageant-writer.]

[14] [The writer of these lines does not seem to be otherwise

known.]

[15] [This writer is not otherwise known.]

[16] [Editor of "A. B. D." printed (with old copy) _commandy the

all_.]

[17] [Evadne alludes, of course, to the old nurse.]

[18] [The editor of the "A. B. D." printed _atticke_.]

[19] [Probably an intentional corruption (with old copy).]

[20] [Former edit., _confess_.]

[21] [_Her._--Old copy and "A. B. D."]

[22] [Former edit., _their_.]

[23] [He alludes to the helmets or casquets of Fulgentio, Alerzo,

and Pandolpho, plumed with ostrich feathers.]

[24] [He evidently leaves the stage, yet his _Exit_ is not

marked.]

[25] [Former edit., _our_.]

[26] [Former edit., _Assended_.]

[27] [Former edit., prints this passage thus--

"See, how he strugles, as if some visions

Had assum'd a shape fuller of horrour

Than his troubled thoughts."]

[28] [Former edit., _strangling_.]

[29] [_i.e., Cum suis._]

[30] [_Slick_ is not obsolete in the sense of smooth, _clean_; it

appears to be identical with _sleek_, and in the present place

carries the meaning of softness.]

[31] [_i.e._, Medoro, the character so called in the "Orlando

Furioso." Trotter has just called Giovanno _Orlando_, which was,

by the way, a common name for any mad-brained person, and often

occurs in poems and plays.]

[32] [Shaken me by the nape of the neck; from _nudder_, the

nape.]

[33] [The pin of the wheel by which Antonio was to be executed.

Aurelia pretends to desire to tread it herself.]

[34] [St. James.]

[35] [_i.e._, The customary garb.]

[36] [_i.e._, An astrologer and a physician.]

[37] [Former edition, _vorke_.]

[38] [This gibberish is left much as it stands in the old copy.]

[39] [The editor of 1810 printed deliberately _sweet must seat me

easie_.]

[40] [Old copy has _as plain--'tis true_.]

[41] [Here used, apparently, in the sense of something of no

value, and from the context it may be surmised that _vermin_ is

intended.]

[42] [Old copy, _a resurrection_.]

[43] [_i.e._, Vermin.]

[44] [Former edit., _flower_.]

[45] [He quotes a passage from the "First Part of Hieronimo,"

1605.]

[46] [Former edit., _And_.]

[47] [_i.e._, The left remnant of thy days.]

[48] [Former edit., _unto_.]

[49] ["This strange jumble (which it seems was acted with

applause) may be taken as the most singular specimen extant of

the serious mock-heroic. There is nothing in "The Tailors" itself

so ludicrous as the serious parts in which the tailors appear.

Nevertheless there are a few happy passages in the play."--_MS.

note in a copy of the former edit._]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: LUST'S DOMINION or THE LACIVIOUS QUEEN.

[50] "History of English Dram. Poetry," iii. p. 97.

[51] The curtain in front of the old theatres divided in the

middle, and was drawn to the sides; but it may save further

explanation to add here that, "beside the principal curtain, they

sometimes used others as substitutes for scenes."--_Malone._

[52] [Former edit., _sick, heavy, and_.]

[53] [Old copy, _I'll lay there away_.]

[54] [The Moor pretends that he meant to refer to the dead King.]

[55] [Edits., _That seeing_.]

[56] [Old copy, _Here_.]

[57] [The edits., give this speech to Balthazar, but he was not

present when the arrangement with the friars was concluded.]

[58] [Bowing.]

[59] In the original this speech is given to Alvero; but it is

evidently an error, as he does not enter till some time after.

[60] In the original it runs, _This music was prepar'd thine

ears_. An omission was evident. I trust the right reading is

restored.--_Dilke._

[61]

"And none of you will bid the winter come,

To thrust his icy fingers in my maw."

--"King John," act v. sc. 7.

[62] In the original this is given to Alvero, but evidently in

error.

[63] _i.e._, Unchaste.

[64] Muskets.

[65] "The mark at which an arrow is shot, which used to be

painted white."--_Johnson._

[66] [An abbreviated form of _God's sonties_, which again is a

corruption, though of what is rather doubtful; probably, however,

of _God's saints_.]

[67] [Edits., _See_.]

[68] [Hamstring me.]

[69] _Under show of shrift_, or, in other words, as coming to

hear me confess.

[70] Thirty masses on the same account.

[71] Despatch.

[72] Strut.

[73] [Edits., give these words to Eleazar.]

[74] With force, vigour, energy, vehemence.

[75] In the original the remainder of this play is jumbled

together in strange confusion.

[76] [Edits., _rowls_.]

[77] [Nemesis.]

[78] [Old copies, _they_.]

[79] For that piece of mockery.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: ANDROMANA or THE MERCHANT'S WIFE

[80] [It is, however, printed in the "Ancient British Drama,"

1810, and it formed part of the original edition of Dodsley,

1744.]

[81] [Edits., _hangs_.]

[82] [Old copy, _quait_.]

[83] [Edits., _my son_.]

[84] [Edits., _And_.]

[85] [Edits., _There to try it with him_.]

[86] [Old copy, _at first_.]

[87] [Edits., _were_.]

[88] [Edits., _now_.]

[89] [Edits., _word or two_, which seems to be a redundancy, both

in the metre and sense.]

[90] [Edits., _not to_.]

[91] [Edits., _and could_.]

[92] [Edits., _And shew_.]

[93] [Edit. 1810 prints _Consequently distate_.]

[94] _Mischievously_ or _wickedly_. So in "All's Well that Ends

Well," act iv. sc. 5--

"A shrewd knave and an _unhappy_."

See also Mr Steevens's note on "Henry VIII.," act i. sc. 4.

[95] A tragedy by Sir John Denham, acted at Blank Friars, and

printed in folio, 1642.

[96] [A very common phrase, in the sense of _accorded_,

_agreed_.]

[97] [_i.e._, No skill in physiognomy.]

[98] [Edits., _so much_.]

[99] [Edits., _fright_.]

[100] [Edits., _I must confess, had I_.]

[101] [Edits., _Friends here, been_.]

[102] [Edits., _I wish that he might live, my lords_.]

[103] [Edits., _the_.]

[104] [Edits., _upon_.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: LADY ALIMONY

[105] [The author of a curious satire on the female sex, printed

in 1616. See Hazlitt, in _v._]

[106] [Ingenuously.]

[107] [Notwithstanding the explanation found in Nares and

Halliwell, it appears to me that this term is here, at least,

intended in the sense of _bully_ or _ruffian_, especially when we

compare the next speech of the Messenger.]

[108] [Literally, an inferior kind of hawk, but here used to

signify a coward, a poor creature.]

[109] [This term, borrowed from the old romance so called, is

frequently employed in the sense of an adventurer or

knight-errant.]

[110] [This word seems here to signify an infinitessimal

quantity, a cypher, a nonentity, in which sense it is apparently

unglossed.]

[111] [Figgaries.]

[112] [Query, a page who walks behind a lady in the street.

Compare Halliwell in _v._]

[113] [Sheldrake, or shieldrake.]

[114] [A play on the similarity of sound between _meddler_ and

_medlar_.]

[115] [Tobacco. Old copy, _mundungo's_.]

[116] [Old copy, _her_.]

[117] [Old copy, _him_.]

[118] [Old copy, _Ciens_.]

[119] [Old copy, _with_.]

[120] [Old copy, _century_.]

[121] [An equivoque may be intended.]

[122] [Old copy, _Apozems_. Perhaps the boy means _pozzets_.]

[123] [Old copy, _masquerellas_.]

[124] [Capricious, fanciful.]

[125] [Old copy, _breath'd_.]

[126] [Old copy, _not my sad fate t' observe_.]

[127] [Old copy, _Gothsemay_.]

[128] [Moustachoes.]

[129] [Loose, scattered.]

[130] [Sporter, if indeed it is not to be taken in an obscene

sense, as suggested by one of the interpretations in Nares.]

[131] [See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 301.]

[132] [Trifling.]

[133] [Of course a play on the similarity between _folio_ and

_foolio_.]

[134] [Old copy, _small to_.]

[135] [Old copy, _all that was all_.]

[136] [See Nares, arts, _lave-eared_, and _loave-ears_.]

[137] [Old copy, _hair_. See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," p. 392.]

[138] [Literally, to lie on the ground, like game; but it is here

used in the sense _to lie_.]

[139] [This passage seems to corroborate the explanation already

given of this word.]

[140] [Old copy, _Nor_.]

[141] [Old copy, _that endeared_.]

[142] [Leopard.]

[143] [More usually spelt _carricks_.]

[144] [Successful.]

[145] [The two Citizens appear to retire only, while the events

occupying the two next scenes take place, after which they come

forward again.]

[146] [Attempt, enterprise.]

[147] [A not unusual form of Algiers.]

[148] [_i.e._, Is that thy cue.]

[149] [Old copy, _land prisado_. See Dyce's Middleton, iii. 532.]

[150] [Old copy, _Elose_.]

[151] [Old copy, _out a_.]

[152] [This song is not noticed in Mr Halliwell's "Early Naval

Ballads," 1841.]

[153] [Staunch.]

[154] [In 1641 appeared a tract entitled "The Brothers of the

Blade answerable to the Sisters of the Scabbard," &c., but the

phrase was, no doubt, older.]

[155] [Old copy, _yet_.]

[156] [An allusion to the well-known practice of chalking up

scores at taverns. See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 386.]

[157] [Housewife. Perhaps it had already, however, become in

vogue in a contemptuous sense.]

[158] [An obvious imitation of Shakespeare's Dogberry.]

[159] [The island of Bermuda was formerly supposed to be

enchanted, and was sometimes called by the sailors the Isle of

Devils. This is a curious passage: the writer had perhaps in his

recollection the speech of Ariel in the "Tempest," act i. sc. 2.

The old copy has _Barmondes_. See Hunter's "New Illustrations of

Shakespeare," i. 149.]

[160] [Without weapons.]

[161] [Old copy, _Sought_.]

[162] [Old copy, _mine_.]

[163] [Mares.]

[164] [The names of rooms in the tavern.]

[165] [Perhaps a portion of the garden reserved for lady-guests.]

[166] [Light skirt. Compare Halliwell in _v._]

[167] [An indelicate equivoque.]

[168] [Probably the same as _demaynes_, possessions. See

Halliwell in _v._]

[169] [Entertainment.]

[170] [The Spring Garden.]

[171] [Dispersed.]

[172] [_i.e._, To the life.]

[173] [Cowardice.]

[174] [A word formed from _staniel_, a base kind of hawk, and

thence used figuratively as a term of contempt.]

[175] [Nares quotes this passage only for the word; compare

Halliwell, _v._ Stichall.]

[176] [Wiseacre.]

[177] [Alimony.]

[178] [_i.e._, More calf.]

[179] [A play is intended on the words _Seville_ and _civil_.]

[180] [Property.]

[181] [Perhaps we should read _lo, infinitely_ as spoken aside,

and possibly the author wrote _infinite lie_.]

[182] [An adaptation of the often-quoted _Amantium irA|_, &c.]

[183] [Old copy, _adventurers_.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: THE PARSON'S WEDDING

[184] "Sidney Papers," vi. 373.--_Gilchrist._

[185] No. 8383.

[186] Carew's Poems, [edit. Hazlitt, pp. 103-4.]

[187] "Life of Lord Clarendon," p. 116.

[188] P. 41, edit. 1719. The stanza which relates particularly to

his authorship is the following:--

"But who says he was not

A man of much plot

May repent the false accusation;

Having plotted and penn'd

Six plays, to attend

The Farce of his negotiation."

--_Collier._

[189] Query; Lysons says 1684.--_Gilchrist._

[190] [Both these plays were printed in 12^o, 1641, with verses

prefixed by H. Bennet, afterwards the celebrated Earl of

Arlington, Robert Waring, and William Cartwright.]

[191] An account of Sir W. Killigrew will be found in Restituta,

ii. 130. The three first of his plays here mentioned were

published together in 8^o in 1664 or 1665, for the title-pages

bear both these dates. Pandora was "not approved upon the stage

as a tragedy," and therefore the author turned it into a comedy,

and Waller wrote some lines upon the change.--_Collier._

[192] A play called The Imperial Tragedy has also been assigned

to him upon no adequate authority.--_Collier._

[193] This play was originally represented wholly by women. See

Wright's "Historia Histrionica," 1690, _post_, and Grainger's

"Hist. Engl." iv. On this occasion a Prologue and Epilogue were

spoken by Mrs Marshall (of whom see "Memoires de Grammont," p.

202, edit. 4^o. Strawberry Hill), which are printed in "Covent

Garden Drollery," 1672, p. 3.--_Gilchrist._

[194] _i.e._, The game. _Quarry_ is a term both of hunting and

falconry. The allusion here is to the former. _Quarrie_ (as

referring to the latter), according to Latham's explanation, "is

taken for the fowle which is flowne at, and slaine at any time,

especially when young hawks are flowne thereunto."

[195] So in "Every Man in his Humour," act iii. sc. 1--

"Good captain _faces about_."

And in Fletcher's "Scornful Lady," act v.--

"Cutting Morecraft _faces about_."

And again, in "The Knight of the Burning Pestle," Ralph,

exercising his men, says--

"Double your files: as you were; _faces about_."

[196] The exclamation of a highwayman on stopping a passenger, as

many examples would prove. It is only noticed now for the sake of

mentioning an ingenious turn given to it in Middleton's

"Phoenix," 1607, where one of the characters justifies robbery

by observing, "As long as drunkenness is a vice, _stand_ is a

virtue."--_Collier._

[197] [The folio reads _Paxat_.]

[198] [? By the side of.]

[199] [The Parson is describing the Captain as a recruiting

officer.]

[200] A _galley foist_ was the name of a pleasure-boat, or one

used on particular days for pomp and state. The Lord Mayor's and

Companies' barges were sometimes formerly called "The City Galley

Foists." See Wood's "South-East View of the City and part of

Southwark, as it appeared about the year 1599."

[201] [Common. See Nares, edit. 1859, in _v._] This epithet of

contempt is of frequent occurrence: _provand_, as all the

commentators on "Romeo and Juliet," act ii. sc. 1, agree, means

_provision_. In Massinger's "Maid of Honour," act i. sc. 1, we

meet with it applied to a sword, and Mr. Gifford explains it to

mean there _plain, unornamented_, such a sword as the troops were

provided with....--_Collier._

[202] A _fox_ was formerly a cant word for a sword. So in Ben

Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," act ii. sc. 6: "What would you have,

sister, of a fellow that knows nothing but a basket-hilt and an

_old fox_ in't?" Again, in "Philaster," by Beaumont and Fletcher,

act iv.--

"I made my father's _old fox_ fly about his ears."

And in "Henry V.," by Shakespeare, act iv. sc. 4--

"Thou diest on point of _fox_."

See Steevens's note on the latter passage, where many passages of

our ancient writers are produced to prove the explanation.

[203] [Old copy, _half_.]

[204] This custom, strange as it would now appear, was the

constant practice of gentlemen in the 17th century. When on

visits, either of ceremony or business, or even in company of

ladies and at public places, their constant amusement was to comb

their hair or wigs, and the fashion continued until the reign of

Queen Anne. Dryden alludes to it in the Prologue to "Almanzor and

Almahide"--

"But, as when vizard masque appears in pit

Straight every man, who thinks himself a wit,

Perks up; and managing _his comb_ with grace,

With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face."

And Mincing, in "The Way of the World," says--

"The gentlemen stay but to _comb_, madam, and will wait on you."

These instances I am indebted for to Mr Steevens.--_Reed._

To the above instances may be added the following, which will

show that the fashion mentioned in the text kept its ground a

considerable length of time.

"How we rejoic'd to see 'em in our pit!

What difference, methought, there was

Betwixt a country gallant and a wit.

When you did _order perriwig with comb_,

They only us'd four fingers and a thumb."

--Epilogue to "The Wrangling Lovers," 1677.

"He looked, indeed, and sighed and set his cravat-string, and

sighed again, and _combed his perriwig_: sighed a third time, and

then took snuff, I guess to shew the whiteness of his

hand."--"The Fortune Hunters," act i. sc. 2, 1689.

"How have I shook and trembling stood with awe,

When here, behind the scenes, I've seen 'em draw

----A _comb_; that dead-doing weapon to the heart,

And turn each powder'd hair into a dart."

--Prologue to "The Relapse," 1697.

[205] Terms at the game of gleek, which she is supposed to love

immoderately.--_Pegge._

[206] William Lilly gives the following account of John Booker,

the person here mentioned:--He "was born in Manchester, in the

year 1601; was in his youth well instructed in the Latin tongue,

which he understood very well. He seemed, from his infancy, to be

designed for astrology; for, from the time he had any

understanding, he would be always poring on and studying

almanacks. He came to London at fitting years, and served an

apprenticeship to an haberdasher in Lawrence Lane, London: but

either wanting stock to set up, or disliking the calling, he left

his trade, and taught to write, at Hadley, in Middlesex, several

scholars in that school. He wrote singularly well both secretary

and Roman. In process of time he served Sir Christopher Clethero,

Knight, alderman of London, as his clerk, being a city justice of

peace. He also was clerk to Sir Hugh Hammersley, alderman of

London: both which he served with great credit and estimation,

and, by that means, became not only well known, but as well

respected, of the most eminent citizens of London, even to his

dying day.

"He was an excellent proficient in astrology; whose excellent

verses upon the twelve months, framed according to the

configurations of each month, being blessed with success

according to his predictions, procured him much reputation all

over England. He was a very honest man; abhorred any deceit in

the art he studied; had a curious fancy in judging of thefts, and

as successful in resolving love-questions. He was no mean

proficient in astronomy; he understood much in physic; was a

great admirer of the antimonial cup; not unlearned in chymistry,

which he loved well, but did not practise. He died in 1667."

[207] The etymology of this word is doubted; but as it was not

used in English until about the time of the Restoration, it is

most probably from the French _gentil_, and not from the

Teutonic.--_Collier._ [The word is sometimes, but incorrectly,

spelt _jaunty_.]

[208] A _bay-window_ is a [recess of a square or polygonal form,

serving as a window, and is strictly distinct from a

_bow_-window, the name of which indicates its character and

shape; the two are often confounded.] The term frequently occurs

in ancient writers. So in the "Second Part of Antonio and

Melida," by Marston, act i. sc. 3--

"Three times I grasp'd at shades:

And thrice deluded by erroneous sense,

I forc'd my thoughts make stand; when, lo! I op'd

A large _bay-window_, thorough which the night

Struck terror to my soul."

Again, in "Cynthia's Revels," act iv. sc. 3: "In which time

(retiring myself into a _bay-window_) the beauteous lady

Annabel," &c.

And in "A Chast Mayd in Cheape-side," by Middleton, 1630, p. 62--

"In troth a match, wench:

We are simply stock'd with cloth of tissue, cushions,

To furnish out _bay-windows_."

[209] So in the epilogue to "Evening Love, or the Mock

Astrologer," by Dryden--

"Up starts a _Monsieur_, new come o'er; and warm

In the _French stoop_, and the pull back o' th' arm;

Morbleu, dit il," &c.]

[210] [The sign of an inn there. See x. 212.]

[211] The manner in which houses were marked in which the plague

was raging.--_Collier._

[212] The usual manner in which ladies formerly addressed their

lovers. See Ben Jonson's "Every Man in his Humour," act iv. sc.

2, and "Every Man out of his Humour," act iii. sc. 9; Massinger's

"Fatal Dowry," act ii. sc. 2; "Bashful Lover," act iv. sc. 1; "A

Very Woman," act i. sc. 1; Shakespeare's "Two Gentlemen of

Verona," act ii. sc. 1, and the same is to be seen in most of the

dramatic productions of the times.--_Reed._

This title, which was a mark of favouritism tolerated by married

women towards unmarried gentlemen in the reigns of James and

Charles, is found in almost every old play. The plot of Chapman's

"Monsieur D'Olive," turns upon the not very unnatural jealousy of

a husband towards this equivocal service in a friend. See [the

new edition of Chapman's plays.]--_Gilchrist._

[213] [A translation from the French by the Honourable Walter

Montague, 8^o, 1656.]

[214] [Medlars.]

[215] The weight of a wedding-ring, in Middleton's time (a little

earlier than that of Killigrew), may be seen by the following

part of a dialogue from his "Chaste Maid in Cheapside," 1630, p.

7--

"TOUCHWOOD, _jun_. I would have a wedding-ring made for a

gentlewoman, with all speed that may be.

"YELLOWHAMMER. Of what _weight_, sir?

"TOUCHWOOD, _jun_. Of some _half ounce_."

--_Collier._

[216] A _gredaline petticoat_ is probably a petticoat _puckered_,

or _crumpled_, from the French word _grediller_. See Cotgrave. In

Boyer's Dictionary it is explained, _Gris de lin, sorte de

couleur_.

[217] Paulo Purganti's wife has the same sentiment. She

"thought the nation ne'er wou'd thrive,

Till all the whores were burnt alive."

--_Prior._

[218] [Pearl here, and in three or four other places below, is

used as a plural, _quasi_ a rope of pearl.]

[219] Or lief.

[220] [_i.e._, On all sides, both by the bye and the main

passages.]

[221] [Old copy, _your_.]

[222] See note to "Albumazar" [xi. 328].

[223] [Old copy, _your_.]

[224] [Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 343, and note to Tomkis's

"Albumazar," xi. 334-5.]

[225] [Platonic lovers.]

[226] [A very ancient office at the court; but here, of course,

intended in another sense.]

[227] This word is seldom used as a verb: as an adjective it is

not uncommon. See note to "Cornelia," [v. 230]. In this place it

ought to be understood as "_was haught_ among the men." It was

anciently printed _hault_ and _halty_, to be nearer the

etymology: thus in Wilson's "Rhetorique," 1558, fol. 9, in the

eulogy upon the Duke of Suffolk and his brother, we are told that

they were "_hault_ without hate, kynde without crafte:" and in

"The Orator, handling a hundred severall Discourses," by L. Piot

[_i.e._, Anthony Munday], Decl. 81, p. 327, "for to say the

truth, every _haulty_ spirit are in that like unto women, who do

for the most part covet after that which they are forbidden to

touch."--_Collier._

[228] Bows. So in the "Wonderful Yeare, 1603" [attributed to

Dekker]: "Janus (that beares two faces under one hood) made a

very mannerly _lowe legge_," &c. And again--

"He calls forth one by one, to note their graces;

Whilst they _make legs_, he copies out their faces."

--_Ibid._

[229] [Pother.]

[230] _Outcry_ was the ancient term for _an auction_. As in

Massinger's "City Madam," act i. sc. 3--

"The goods of this poor man sold at an _out-cry_.

His wife turn'd out of doors, his children forc'd

To beg their bread."

And again in Middleton's "Chast Mayd in Cheape-side" [Dyce's

edit. iv. 58:]

"I'll sell all at an _out-cry_."

Again in Ben Jonson's "Catiline," act ii. sc. 3--

"Their houses, and fine gardens, given away,

And their goods, under the spear at _outcry_."

Upon which last passage Mr Whalley observes, that "the Roman way

of selling things by auction was setting up a spear; and hence

the phrase _sub hasta vendere_."

[231] See Evans's "Collection of Old Ballads," i. 292.

The story of Whittington and his Cat, though under different

names, is common to various languages. Messrs Grim have pointed

it out in German, and it is given in Italian as one of [the

"Facetie" of the] celebrated Arlotto under the following title:

"_Il Piovano, a un prete che fece mercantia di palle, dice la

novella della gatte._" He relates it of a _mercante Genovese

avventurato il quale navigando fu portato dalla fortuna a una

isola lontanissima_. The story was probably borrowed in English

and assigned to Whittington: it is noticed in "Eastward Hoe" as

"the famous fable of Whittington and his Puss." This play was

written soon after 1603, and the ballad in Evans's collection is

[certainly in its present form] not so old. The "Novella" was

printed in Italy [soon after 1500]; and Arlotto, to whom it is

attributed, died in 1483.

[232] [Old copy, _Hope, a half peny_, &c. This appears to be an

allusion to the proverb,

"At the west-gate came Thornton in,

With a hop, a halfpenny, and a lamb's skin."

See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," p. 78. Thornton was a merchant of

Newcastle.]

[233] [In the modern editions, this speech improperly makes part

of the next scene.]

[234] [The folio reads _Mistress_.]

[235] An _aunt of the suburbs_ was synonymous with _bawd_. See

[Dyce's Middleton, i. 444.]

[236] [From the context, evidently a place of entertainment, a

kind of restaurant. Perhaps the modern Glass-House Street may fix

the site.]

[237] _i.e._, The bill of the mortality by the plague. The

theatres were sometimes closed, in consequence of the prevalence

of the disease. Such was the case in the latter end of the reign

of Elizabeth. See note to Nash's "Summer's Last Will and

Testament [viii. 15]."--_Collier._

[238] [The folio reads _hogough_.]

[239] [In old copy this word forms part of the next sentence.]

[240] [Probably a tavern so called.]

[241] [The weight inserted in a bowl.]

[242] This probably is the same tavern mentioned in "A Match at

Midnight," act i.: "My master means the _sign of the Devil_,"

&c.--_Collier._

[243] [_i.e._, It is presumed, put a quart of sack into your head

at my expense. He afterwards gives him an angel. A _half-moon_

was an old cant term for a wig. See Dyce's Middleton, ii. 382.]

[244] _i.e._, _Who_ can that be? In this manner the word _who_ is

pronounced in some parts of the kingdom, particularly in the

county of Kent.--_Pegge._

[245] _i.e._, The Tailor, who very suddenly got drunk, and as

suddenly drowsy.--_Collier._

[246] Jolly makes his _exit_ at the same time, and returns again

where his entrance is marked.--_Collier._

[247] [Probably Faithful's Christian name was _Moll_, which Jolly

pronounces _Mull_.]

[248] [See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 141.]

[249] [This word was perhaps then, as now, understood in a cant

sense.]

[250] [A crowd had assembled outside, it appears, inquisitive to

know what was going on within.]

[251] [Old copy, _thy_.]

[252] [A proverbial expression for a simpleton.]

[253] [In how stately a fashion she carries herself.]

[254] [Drunken, from the Dutch _op zee_, which means literally

_at sea_, and thence drunk, like our own _half-seas-over_.]

[255] [Summoner.]

[256] [A play on words.]

[257] [Alluding to the common expression, Fools have fortune.]

[258] [The folio, _you he_.]

[259] Alluding to the acts of Oliver Cromwell's parliament for

punishing adultery, incest, and fornication; by which it was

declared that the two former should be punishable with death on

the first offence, and the latter upon the second conviction.

"These acts," an excellent writer (Mr Barrington on the Statutes)

observes, "could not have continued long unrepealed, _even if

Charles II._ had not succeeded to the throne." It has been

doubted whether there were any instances of carrying them into

execution, notwithstanding the rigidness of the times wherein

they were enacted. A newspaper, however, of that period furnishes

an example which, from the extraordinary circumstances attending

it, may perhaps be considered as not unworthy of being preserved.

In _Mercurius Politicus_, No. 168, from Thursday, Aug. 25, to

Thursday, Sept. 1, 1653, p. 2700, is the following passage:--"At

Monmouth Assize an old man of _eighty-nine years_ was put to

death for adultery, committed with a woman above _sixty_."

[260] [Lindabrides is a character in the "Mirror of Knighthood,"

once a famous romance. The name was afterwards applied to women

of a certain class. She is mentioned in act ii. of "A Match at

Midnight."]

[261] [Dragged.]

[262] This incident is borrowed from the Italian, and it is

employed by many of their novelists. It also forms the eighth

story of "Les Comptes du Monde adventureux," printed at [Paris in

1555, and a translation from the Italian.] Casti founded his tale

of "La Celia" upon it, with the variation of making the old woman

a negress; but in this change he was not original. Richard Brome

employed it in his "Novella," acted at the Blackfriars Theatre

thirty years before Killigrew's play was published.--_Collier._

[263] [A hit at some of the frivolous poetry of an earlier

period. See Hazlitt's "Handbook" _v._ Lenton.]

[264] The _sickness_ was the common name for the plague. See

Gifford's Ben Jonson, iii. 353, iv. 9, &c.--_Collier._

[265] This alludes to one of the regulations made to prevent the

spreading of the plague. When a house became infected, the

officers empowered for that purpose immediately placed a guard

before it, which continued there night and day, to prevent any

person going from thence until the expiration of forty days. At

the same time, _red crosses, of a foot long_ were painted on the

doors and windows, with the words LORD HAVE MERCY UPON US, in

great letters, wrote over them, to caution all passengers to

avoid infected places.

In a collection of epigrams, entitled, "More Fools Yet," written

by R. S. (Roger Sharpe), 1610, 4^o, is the following--

"Rusticus, an honest country swayne,

Whose education simple was, and plaine,

Having survey'd the citie round about,

Emptyed his purse, and so went trudging out.

But by the way he saw, and much respected,

A doore belonging to a house infected;

Whereon was plac't (as 'tis the custome still)

_Lord have mercy upon us!_ This sad bill

The sot perusde; and having read, he swore,

All London was, ungodly, but that doore.

Here dwells some vertue yet, sayes he; for this

A most devout religious saying is:

And thus he wisht (with putting off his hatte)

That every doore had such a bill as that."

[266] Robert Gomersall, in 1628, published a poem, in three

cantos, called "The Levite's Revenge." It arrived at a second

edition in 1633, and seems to have been popular.--_Collier._

[267] This is probably meant to ridicule John Ball, a celebrated

puritan divine, born in 1585, and died in 1640, after publishing

many religious controversial works.--_Collier._

[268] It seems doubtful whether the preceding part of this speech

does not belong to Wanton.--_Collier._

[269] [Mistress.]

[270] _To fling an old shoe_ after a person to produce good luck

is a custom still spoken of, and hardly yet disused. It is

mentioned in many writers: as in "The Wild Goose Chase," act ii.

sc. 1--

"If ye see us close once,

Begone, and leave me to my fortune suddenly,

For I am then determined to do wonders.

Farewell, _and fling an old shoe_."

[271] See note to "A Match at Midnight" [xiii. 81].

[272] One of the original actors in the plays of Shakespeare. See

an account of him in Wright's "Historia Histrionica" _infrAc_,

vol. xv.

[273] Banks, who was famous for a horse, which was taught to show

tricks, and perform several feats of art, to the great admiration

of the virtuoso spectator. This celebrated horse is mentioned by

several writers of Queen Elizabeth's time, as Ben Jonson, in

"Every Man out of his Humour," act iv. sc. 6: "He keeps more ado

with this monster than ever _Banks_ did with his horse, or the

fellow with the elephant."

Again, in "Jack Drum's Entertainment," sig. B 3: "It shall be

chronicled next after the death of _Bankes his horse_."

Again, in Dekker's "Satiromastix," 1602: "I'll teach thee to turn

me into _Bankes_ his horse, and to tell gentlemen I am a juggler,

and can show tricks."

And in Dekker's "Wonderfull Yeare," 1603: "These are those ranck

riders of art, that have so spur gal'd your lustie wing'd

Pegasus, that now he begins to be out of flesh, and (even only

for provander sake) is glad to show tricks like _Bankes_ his

curtall."

See Digby "On Bodies," c. 37, p. 393. Sir Walter Raleigh's

"History of the World," 1st part, p. 178. Gayton's "Notes on Don

Quixote," part 4, p. 289.

[274] [_i.e._, Without their upper garments.]

[275] Stephen Marshall and Thomas Case, two of the most

celebrated divines among the Presbyterians. Marshall was the

person who preached the famous sermon before the House of

Commons, Feb. 13, 1641, from Judges v. 23, "Curse ye Meroz," &c.

This sermon is mentioned by Lord Clarendon. Both these sectaries

are noticed by Butler. See Dr Grey's edition of "Hudibras," p. 3,

c. i., l. 884; p. 3, c. ii., l. 636, and the notes.

[276] [Perhaps a play on _choler_ and _colour_ is intended here.]

[277] _Slot_, in hunting, means the print of the foot on the

ground. See Todd's Johnson.--_Collier._

[278] [Bourbonne-les-Bains, in the Haute Marne.]

[279] Prologues and epilogues were formerly spoken in _black

cloaks_.

[280] [He misunderstands the Parson's classical allusion to

Nessus.]

[281] [The name of the actor who filled the part of Wild.]

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Minor punctuation errors have been corrected without comment.

2. A list of spelling corrections and other notes appears at the

end of this e-text.

3. A Table of Contents does not appear in the original text. A

brief Table of Contents has been created for this e-text.

4. All end-of-line stage directions have been moved onto their

own lines and indented by a consistent amount under the dialogue.

5. Footnotes have been numbered sequentially and moved to the end

of this e-text. Markers have been added indicating where

footnotes for a particular play begin.

6. Sidenotes in Latin appear in "Lady Alimony". When these notes

fell within an unbroken paragraph the paragraph has been broken

and the Sidenote placed directly ABOVE the sentence where they

appeared ADJACENT in the original text.

7. Spelling corrections:

p. 69, "emnity" to "enmity" (2) (that fatal enmity)

p. 132, "ElA(C)azar" (1) to "Eleazar" (60) (Until my Eleazar)

p. 186, "philip" (1) to "Philip" (88) (can I Philip him)

p. 253, "ememy's" to "enemy's" (36) (an enemy's advice)

p. 371, "KILLLGREW" to "KILLIGREW" (20) (THOMAS KILLIGREW)

p. 510, "aud" to "and" (envy and a dazzling power)

Footnote [265] "entituled" to "entitled" (3) (epigrams, entitled)

There are a number of spelling variants between the various

authors, all of which have been retained.

There are a number of Word variants retained throughout the

text, sometimes occuring within the SAME play (and often the

same speaker), these include hyphenations, apostrophe's and

accented characters.

8. OTHER CORRECTIONS and NOTES:

p. 212, corrected SCENE IV. to SCENE VI. For reference, Scene IV

is on p. 205 and Scene V is on p. 209.

p. 301, added Footnote Anchor [125] missing in original text.

p. 353, changed ACT VIII. to SCENE VIII., this is correctly

Scene VIII of the FOURTH ACT of this play. ACT V. begins on the

next page.

p. 374, Footnote 189; corrected subscripted "point" character to

superscripted to conform with other instances. (printed in 12^o,

1641)

p. 451, added Footnote Anchor [239] missing in original text.

Words using the [OE] or [oe] ligature in the original text, for

which "oe" has been substituted:

C[oe]lum to Coelum

c[oe]tu to Coetu

[OE]dipus to Oedipus

Ph[oe]bus to Phoebus

Ph[oe]nix to Phoenix