[Scene First. _Abington. Near Master Barneses House: The Orchard_[1618]]
_Enter_ MASTER GOURSEY _and his wife, and_ MASTER BARNES _and his wife,
with their two sonnes, and their two servants_.
_Maister Goursey._ Good maister Barnes, this entertaine of yours,
So full of courtesie and rich delight,
Makes me misdoubt my poore ability
In quittance of this friendly courtesie.
_M. Bar._ O master Goursey, neighbour amitie 5
Is such a jewell of high reckoned worth,
As for the attaine of it what would not I
Disburse, it is so precious in my thoughts!
_M. Gou._ Kinde sir, neere dwelling amity indeed
Offers the hearts enquiry better view 10
Then love thats seated in a farther soyle:
As prospectives[1619] the[1620] neerer that they be
Yeeld better judgement to the judging eye;
Thinges seene farre off are lessened in the eye,
When their true shape is seene being hard by. 15
_M. Bar._ True, sir, tis so; and truely I esteeme
Meere[1621] amity, familiar neighbourhood,
The cousen germaine unto wedded love.
_M. Gou._ I,[1622] sir, thers surely some aliance twixt them,
For they have both the off-spring from the heart: 20
Within the hearts bloud ocean still are found
Jewels of amity and jemmes of love.
_M. Bar._ I, master Goursey, I have in my time
Seene many shipwracks of true honesty;
But incident such dangers ever are 25
To them that without compass sayle so farre:
Why, what need men to swim when they may wade?
But leave this talke, enough of this is said:
And, master Goursey, in good faith, sir, wellcome;--
And, mistresse Goursey, I am much in debt 30
Unto your kindnes that would visit me.
_Mi. Gou._ O master Barnes, you put me but in minde
Of that which I should say; tis we that are
Indebted to your kindness for this cheere:
Which debt that we may repay, I pray lets have 35
Sometimes your company at our homely house.
_Mi. Bar._ That, mistresse Goursey, you shall surely have;
Heele[1623] be a bolde guest I warrant ye,
And boulder too with you then I would have him.
_Mis. Gou._ How doe ye meane he will be bolde with me? 40
_Mi. Bar._ Why, he will trouble you at home, forsooth,
Often call in, and aske ye how ye doe;
And sit and chat with you all day till night,
And all night too, if he might have his will.
_M. Bar._ I, wife, indeed, I thanke her for her kindnes; 45
She hath made me much good cheere passing that way.
_Mi. Bar._ Passing well done of her; she is a kinde wench.--
I thanke ye, mistresse Goursey, for my husband;
And if it hap your husband come our way
A hunting or such ordinary sportes, 50
Ile do as much for yours as you for mine.
_M. Gou._ Pray doe, forsooth.--Gods Lord, what meanes the woman?
She speakes it scornefully: i faith I care not;
Things are well spoken, if they be well taken.-- [_Aside._]
What, mistresse Barnes, is it not time to part? 55
_Mis. Bar._ Whats a clocke, sirra?
_Nicholas._ Tis but new strucke one.
_M. Gou._ I have some busines in the towne by three.
_M. Bar._ Till then lets walke into the orchard, sir.
What, can you play at tables?[1624] 60
_M. Gou._ Yes, I can.
_M. Bar._ What, shall we have a game?
_M. Gou._ And if you please.
_M. Bar._ I faith, content; weele spend an hower so.--
Sirra, fetch the tables.[1625] 65
_Nic._ I will, sir. _Exit._
_Phil._ Sirra Franke, whilst they are playing heere,
Weele to the greene to bowles.
_Fra._ Phillip, content.--Coomes, come hyther, sirra:
When our fathers part, call us upon the greene.-- 70
Phillip, come, a rubber,[1626] and so leave.
_Phil._ Come on. _Exeunt_ [PHILLIP _and_ FRANCIS].
_Coom._ Sbloud, I doe not like the humour of these springals; theil
spend all their fathers good at gamming. But let them trowle the
bowles upon the greene; Ile trowle the bowles in the buttery by
the leave of God and maister Barnes: and his men be good fellows,
so it is; if they be not, let them goe snick up.[1627] _Exit._ 77
_Enter_ NICHOLAS _with the tables_.
_M. Bar._ So, set them downe.--
Mistresse Goursey, how doe you like this game?
_Mi. Gou._ Well, sir. 80
_M. Bar._ Can ye play at it?
_Mis. Gou._ A little, sir.
_M. Bar._ Faith, so can my wife.
_M. Gou._ Why, then, master Barnes, and if you please,
Our wives shall try the quarrell twixt us two, 85
And weele looke on.
_M. Bar._ I am content.--What, woman,[1628] will you play?
_Mis. Gou._ I care not greatly.
_Mis. Bar._ Nor I, but that I thinke sheele play me false.
_M. Gou._ Ile see she shall not. 90
_Mis. Bar._ Nay, sir, she will be sure you shall not see,
You of all men shall not marke her hand;
She hath such close conveyance in her play.
_M. Gou._ Is she so cunning growne? Come, come, lets see.
_Mis. Gou._ Yea, mistris Barnes, will ye not house your jests, 95
But let them rome abroad so carelesly?
Faith, if your jealious tongue utter another,
Ile crosse ye with a jest, and ye were my mother.-- [_Aside._]
Come, shall we play?
_Mis. Bar._ I, what shall we play a game? 100
_Mis. Gou._ A pound a game.
_M. Gou._ How, wife?
_Mis. Gou._ Faith, husband, not a farthing lesse.
_M. Gou._ It is too much; a shilling were good game.
_M_[_is_]. _Gou._ No, weell be ill huswives once; 105
You have oft been ill husbands: lets alone.
_M. Bar._ Wife, will you play so much?
_Mis. Bar._ I would be loath to be so franke a gaimster
As mistresse Goursey is; and yet for once
Ile play a pound a game aswell as she. 110
_M. Bar._ Go to, youle have your will. _Offer to goe from them._
_Mis. Bar._ Come, ther's my stake.
_Mis. Gou._ And ther's mine.
_Mis. Bar._ Throw for the dice. Ill luck! they are yours.
_M. Bar._ Master Goursey, who sayes that gamings bad, 115
When such good angels[1629] walke twixt every cast?
_M. Gou._ This is not noble sport, but royall play.
_M. Bar._ It must be so where royals walke so fast.
_Mis. Bar._ Play right, I pray.
_Mi. Gou._ Why, so I doe. 120
_Mis. Bar._ Where stands your man?
_Mis. Gou._ In his right place.
_Mis. Bar._ Good faith, I thinke ye play me foule an ace.
_M. Bar._ No, wife, she playes ye true.
_Mis. Bar._ Peace, husband, peace; ile not be judged by you. 125
_Mis. Gou._ Husband, master Barnes, pray both goe walke;
We cannot play, if standers by doe talke.
_M. Gou._ Well, to your game; we will not trouble ye.
[GOURSEY _and_ BARNES] _goe from them_.
_Mi. Gou._ Where stands your man now?
_Mi. Bar._ Doth he not stand right? 130
_Mi. Gou._ It stands betweene the pointes.
_Mi. Bar._ And thats my spight.
But yet me thinkes the dice runnes much uneven,
That I throw but dewes ase and you eleven.
_Mis. Gou._ And yet you see that I cast downe the hill. 135
_Mi. Bar._ I, I beshrew ye, tis not with my will.
_Mis. Gou._ Do ye beshrew me?
_Mi. Bar._ No, I beshrew the dice,
That turne you up more at once then me at twise.
_Mi. Gou._ Well, you shall see them turne for you anon. 140
_Mi. Bar._ But I care not for them when your game is done.
_Mi. Gou._ My game! what game?
_Mi. Bar._ Your game, your game at tables.
_Mi. Gou._ Well, mistresse, well, I have red Æsops fables,
And know your morrals meaning well enough. 145
_Mi. Bar._ Loe, you'l be angry now! heres good stuffe.
[_Re-enter_ GOURSEY _and_ BARNES.]
_M. Gour._ How now, woman?[1630] who hath wonne the game?
_Mi. Gou._ No body yet.
_M. Bar._ Your wife's the fairest for't.[1631]
_Mi. Bar._ I, in your eye. 150
_Mi. Gou._ How do you meane?
_Mi. Bar._ He holds you fairer for't then I.
_Mi. Gou._ For what, forsooth?
_Mi. Bar._ Good gamster, for your game.
_M. Bar._ Well, try it out; t'is all but in the bearing.[1632] 155
_Mi. Bar._ Nay, if it come to bearing, shee'l be best.
_Mi. Gou._ Why you'r as good a bearer as the rest.
_Mi. Bar._ Nay, thats not so; you beare one man too many.
_Mi. Gou._ Better doe so then beare not any.
_Mi. Ba._ Beshrew me, but my wives jestes grow too bitter; 160
Plainer speeches for her were more [fit]ter:[1633]
Malice lyes inbowelled in her tongue,
And new hatcht hate makes every jest a wrong. [_Aside._]
_Mi. Go._ Looke ye, mistresse, now I hit yee.
_Mi. Bar._ Why, I, you never use to misse a blot,[1632] 165
Especially when it stands so faire to hit.
_Mi. Gou._ How meane ye, mistresse Barnes?
_Mi. Ba._ That mistresse Gourse's in the hitting vaine.
_Mi. Gou._ I hot[1634] your man.
_Mi. Bar._ I, I, my man, my man; but, had I knowne, 170
I would have had my man stood neerer home.
_Mi. Gou._ Why, had ye kept your man in his right place,
I should not then have hit him with an ase.
_Mis. Bar._ Right, by the Lord! a plague upon the bones!
_Mi. Gou._ And a hot mischiefe on the curser too! 175
_M. Bar._ How now, wife?
_M. Gour._ Why, whats the matter, woman?
_Mi. Gou._ It is no matter: I am----
_Mis. Bar._ I, you are----
_Mi. Gou._ What am I? 180
_Mis. Bar._ Why, thats as you will be ever.
_Mis. Gou._ That's every day as good as Barneses wife.
_Mi. Bar._ And better too: then what needs al this trouble?
A single horse is worse then that beares double.
_M. Bar._ Wife, go to, have regard to that you say; 185
Let not your words passe foorth the vierge of reason,
But keep within the bounds of modesty,
For ill report doth like a bayliffe stand,
To pound the straying and the wit-lost tongue,
And makes it forfeit into follies hands. 190
Well, wife, you know tis[1635] no honest part
To entertaine such guests with jestes and wronges:
What will the neighbring country vulgar say,
When as they heare that you fell out at dinner?
Forsooth,[1636] they'l call it a pot quarrell straight; 195
The best they'l name it, is a womans jangling.
Go too, be rulde, be rulde.
_Mi. Bar._ Gods Lord, be rulde, be rulde!
What, thinke ye I have such a babies wit,
To have a rods correction for my tongue? 200
Schoole infancie; I am of age to speake,
And I know when to speake: shall I be chid
For such a[1637]----
_Mi. Gou._ What a? nay, mistresse, speake it out;
I scorne your stopt compares: compare not me 205
To any but your equals, mistresse Barnes.
_M. Gou._ Peace, wife, be quiet.
_M. Bar._ O, perswade, perswade!--
Wife, mistresse Goursey, shall I winne your thoughts
To composition of some kind effects? 210
Wife, if you love your credit, leave this strife,
And come shake hands with mistresse Goursey heere.
_Mi. Ba._ Shall I shake hands? let her go shake her heeles;
She gets nor hands, nor friendship at my hands:
And so, sir, while I live I will take heed, 215
What guests I bid againe unto my house.
_M. Bar._ Impatient woman, will you be so stiffe
In this absurdnes?[1638]
_Mi. Ba._ I am impatient now I speake;
But, sir, Ile tell you more another time: 220
Go too, I will not take it as I have done. _Exit._
_Mis. Gou._ Nay, she might stay; I will not long be heere
To trouble her. Well, maister Barnes,
I am sorry that it was our happes to day,
To have our pleasures parted with this fray: 225
I am sorrie too for all that is amisse,
Especially that you are moov'de in this.
But be not so, tis but a womans jarre,
Their tongues are weapons, words there blowes of warre.
'Twas but a while we buffeted you saw, 230
And each of us was willing to withdraw;
There was no harme nor bloudshed you did see:
Tush, feare us not, for we shall well agree.
I take my leave, sir.--Come, kinde harted man,
That speakes his wife so faire, I, now and than; 235
I know you would not for an hundreth pound
That I should heare your voyces churlish sound;
I know you have a farre more milder tune
Then 'Peace, be quiet, wife'; but I have done.
Will ye go home? the doore directs the way; 240
But, if you will not, my dutie is to stay. [_Exit._]
_M. Bar._ Ha, ha! why, heres a right woman, is there not?
They both have din'de, yet see what stomacks they have!
_M. Gou._ Well, maister Barnes, we cannot do with all:[1639]
Let us be friends still. 245
_M. Bar._ O, maister Goursey, the mettell of our minds,
Having the temper of true reason in them,
Affoordes[1640] a better edge of argument
For the maintaine of our familiar loves
Then the soft leaden wit of women can; 250
Wherefore with all the parts of neighbour love
I impart[1641] my selfe to maister Goursey.
_M. Gou._ And with exchange of love I do receive it:
Then here weel part, partners of two curst wives.
_M. Ba._ Oh, where shall wee find a man so blest that is not?[1642]
But come; your businesse and my home affaires 256
Makes me deliver that unfriendly worde
Mongst friends--farewell.[1643]
_M. Gou._ Twentie farewels, sir.
_M. Bar._ But harke ye, maister Goursey; 260
Looke ye perswade at home as I will do:
What, man! we must not alwayes have them foes.
_M. Go._ If I can helpe it.
_M. Bar._ God helpe, God helpe!
Women are even untoward creatures still. _Exeunt._ 265
[Scene Second. _In front of Barneses House._]
_Enter_ PHILIP, FRANCIS, _and his_ BOY, _from bowling_.
_Phil._ Come on, Franke Goursey: you have good lucke to winne the
game.
_Fran._ Why, tell me, ist not good, that never playd before upon your
greene?
_Phil._ Tis good, but that it cost me ten good crownes; that makes
it worse.[1644] 6
_Fran._ Let it not greeve thee, man; come ore to us;
We will devise some game to make you win
Your money backe againe, sweet Philip.
_Phil._ And that shall be ere long, and if I live: 10
But tell me, Francis, what good horses have yee,
To hunt this sommer?
_Fra._ Two or three jades, or so.
_Phil._ Be they but jades?
_Fran._ No, faith; my wag string here 15
Did founder one the last time that he rid,
The best gray nag that ever I laid my leg over.
_Boy._ You meane the flea bitten?
_Fran._ Good sir, the same.
_Boy._ And was the same the best that ere you rid on? 20
_Fran._ I, was it, sir.
_Boy._ I faith, it was not, sir.
_Fran._ No! where had I one so good?
_Boy._ One of my colour, and a better too.
_Fran._ One of your colour! I nere remember him; 25
One of that colour!
_Boy._ Or of that complexion.
_Fran._ Whats that ye call complexion in a horse?
_Boy._ The colour, sir.
_Fran._ Set me a colour on your jest, or I will-- 30
_Boy._ Nay, good sir, hold your hands!
_Fran._ What, shal we have it?
_Boy._ Why, sir, I cannot paint.
_Fran._ Well, then, I can;[1645]
And I shall find a pensill for ye, sir. 35
_Boy._ Then I must finde the table, if you do.
_Fran._ A whoreson, barren, wicked urchen!
_Boy._ Looke how you chafe! you would be angry more,
If I should tell it you.
_Fran._ Go to, Ile anger ye, and if you do not. 40
_Boy._ Why, sir, the horse that I do meane
Hath a leg both straight and cleane,
That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flawe,
But is the best that ever ye saw;
A pretie rising knee, O knee! 45
It is as round as round may be;
The full flanke makes the buttock round:
This palfray standeth on no ground
When as my maister's on her backe,
If that he once do say but, ticke;[1646] 50
And if he pricke her, you shall see
Her gallop amaine, she is so free;
And if he give her but a nod,
She thinkes it is a riding rod;
And if hee'l have her softly go, 55
Then she trips it like a doe;
She comes so easie with the raine,
A twine thred turnes her backe againe;
And truly I did nere see yet
A horse play proudlier on the bit: 60
My maister with good managing
Brought her first unto the ring;[1647]
He likewise taught her to corvet,
To runne, and suddainlie to set;
Shee's cunning in the wilde goose race, 65
Nay, shee's apt to every pace;
And to proove her colour good,
A flea, enamourd of her blood,
Digd for chanels in her neck,
And there made many a crimson speck: 70
I thinke theres none that use to ride
But can her pleasant trot abide;
She goes so even upon the way,
She will not stumble in a day;
And when my maister-- 75
_Fra._ What do I?
_Boy._ Nay, nothing, sir.
_Phil._ O, fie, Franke, fie!
Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now,
I must needs say; perswade him first to speake, 80
Then chide him for it!--Tell me, prettie wag,
Where stands this prawncer, in what inne or stable?
Or, hath thy maister put her out to runne,
Then, in what field, what champion[1648] feeds this courser,
This well paste, bonnie steed that thou so praisest? 85
_Boy._ Faith, sir, I thinke----
_Fran._ Villaine, what do yee thinke?
_Bay._ I thinke that you, sir, have bene askt by many,
But yet I never heard that yee tolde any.
_Phil._ Well, boy, then I will adde one more to many, 90
And aske thy maister where this jennet feeds.--
Come, Franke, tell me, nay, prethie, tell me, Franke,
My good horse-maister, tell me--by this light,
I will not steale her from thee; if I do,
Let me be held a felone to thy love. 95
_Fran._ No, Phillip, no.
_Phil._ What, wilt thou we[a]re a point[1649] but with one tag?
Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.
_Enter_ COMES.
_Com._ Swounds, where be these timber turners, these trowle the
bowles, these greene men, these-- 100
_Fran._ What, what, sir?
_Comes._ These bowlers, sir.
_Fra._ Well, sir, what say you to bowlers?
_Coo._ Why, I say they cannot be saved.
_Fra._ Your reason, sir? 105
_Coo._ Because they throw away their soules at every marke.
_Fra._ Their soules! how meane ye?
_Phi._ Sirra, he meanes the soule[1650] of our bowle.
_Fra._ Lord, how his wit holdes bias like a bowle!
_Coo._ Well, which is the bias? 110
_Fra._ This next to you.[1651]
_Coo._ Nay, turne it this way, then the bowle goes true.
_Boy._ Rub, rub!
_Coo._ Why rub?
_Boy._ Why, you overcast the marke, and misse the way. 115
_Coo._ Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play.
_Phi._ Dicke Coomes, me thinkes thou art[1652] very pleasant:
When[1653] gotst thou this mirrie humor?
_Coo._ In your fathers seller, the merriest place in th' house.
_Phi._ Then you have bene carowsing hard? 120
_Coo._ Yes, faith, 'tis our custome when your fathers men and
we meete.
_Phi._ Thou art very welcome thether, Dicke.
_Coo._ By God, I thanke ye, sir, I thanke ye, sir: by God, I have
a quart of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall
not a servingman in Barkeshire fight better for ye then I will do,
if you have any quarrell in hand: you shall have the maidenhead of
my new sword; I paide a quarters wages for't, by Jesus. 128
_Phi._ Oh, this meate failer Dicke!
How well t'as made the apparell of his wit, 130
And brought it into fashion of an honor!--
Prethe,[1654] Dicke Coomes, but tell me how thou doost?
_Coo._ Faith, sir, like a poore man at service.
_Phi._ Or servingman.
_Coo._ Indeede, so called by the vulgar. 135
_Phi._ Why, where the devill hadst thou that word?
_Coo._ Oh, sir, you have the most eloquenst ale in all the[1655]
world; our blunt soyle affoordes none such.
_Fra._ Phillip, leave talking with this drunken foole.--Say, sirra,
where's my father? 140
_Coo._ 'Marrie, I thanke ye for my verie good cheere.'--'O Lord, it is
not so much worth.'--'You see I am bolde with ye.'--'Indeed, you are
not so bolde as welcome; I pray yee, come oftner.'--'Truly, I shall
trouble ye.'--All these ceremonies are dispatcht betweene them, and
they are gone. 145
_Fra._ Are they so?
_Coo._ I, before God, are they.
_Fra._ And wherefore came not you to call me, then?
_Coo._ Because I was loth to change my game.
_Fra._ What game? 150
_Coo._ You were at one sort of bowles, as I was at another.
_Phi._ Sirra, he meanes the buttery bowles of beere.
_Coo._ By God, sir, we tickled it.
_Fra._ Why, what a swearing keepes this drunken asse!--
Canst thou not say but sweare at every word? 155
_Phi._ Peace, do not marre his humour, prethie, Franke.
_Coo._ Let him alone; hee's a springall, he knowes not what
belongs to an oath.
_Fra._ Sirra, be quiet, or I doe protest--
_Coo._ Come, come, what doe you protest? 160
_Fra._ By heaven, to crack your crowne.
_Coo._ To crack my crowne! I lay ye a crowne of that,
Lay it downe, and ye dare;
Nay, sbloud, ile venter a quarters wages of that.
Crack my crowne, quotha![1656] 165
_Fra._ Will[1657] ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me?
_Coo._ Urge yee, with a pox! who urges ye?
You might have said so much to a clowne,
Or one that had not been ore the sea to see fashions:
I have, I tell ye true; and I know what belongs to a man. 170
Crack my crowne, and ye can.
_Fra._ And I can, ye rascall! [_Offers to beat him._]
_Phi._ Hold, haire braine, holde! dost thou not see hees drunke?
_Coo._ Nay, let him come:
Though he be my masters sonne, I am my masters man, 175
And a man is a man in any ground of England.
Come, and he dares, a comes upon his death:
I will not budge an inche, no, sbloud, will I[1658] not.
_Fran._ Will ye not?
_Phi._ Stay, prithie, Franke.--Coomes, dost thou heare? 180
_Coo._ Heare me no heares:
Stand away, Ile trust none of you all.
If I have my backe against a cart wheele,
I would not care if the devill came.
_Phi._ Why, ye foole, I am your friend. 185
_Coo._ Foole on your face! I have a wife.
_Fra._ Shees a whore, then.
_Coo._ Shees as honest as Nan Lawson.
_Phi._ What she?
_Coo._ One of his whores. 190
_Phi._ Why, hath he so many?
_Coo._ I, as many as there be churches in London.
_Phil._ Why, thats a hundred and nine.
_Boy._ Faith, he lyes a hundred.
_Phi._ Then thou art a witnes to nine. 195
_Boy._ No, by God, Ile be witnes to none.
_Coo._ Now doe I stand like the George[1659] at Colbrooke.
_Boy._ No, thou standst like the Bull[1659] at S. Albones.
_Coo._ Boy, ye lye the hornes.[1660]
_Boy._ The bul's bitten; see how he buts! 200
_Phil._ Comes, Comes, put up,[1661] my friend and thou art friends.
_Coo._ Ile heare him say so first.
_Phil._ Franke, prethie doe; be friends, and tell him so.
_Fra._ Goe to, I am.
_Boy._ Put up, sir, and ye be a man, put up. 205
_Coom._ I am easily perswaded, boye.
_Phil._ Ah, ye mad slave!
_Coomes._ Come, come, a couple of whore-masters I found yee,
and so I leave yee. _Exit._
_Phil._ Loe, Franke, doost thou not see hees drunke, 210
That twits thee[1662] with thy disposition?
_Fra._ What disposition?
_Phil._ Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson.
_Fran._ Nay, then--
_Phil._ Goe to, ye wag, tis well: 215
If ever yee get a wife, i faith Ile tell.
Sirra, at home we have a servingman;
Hees[1663] not humord bluntly as Coomes is,
Yet his condition[1664] makes me often merrie:
Ile tell thee, sirra, hees a fine neate fellow, 220
A spruce slave; I warrant ye, heele[1665] have
His cruell[1666] garters crosse about the knee,
His woollen hose as white as the driven snowe,
His shooes dry leather neat, and tyed with red ribbins,
A nose-gay bound with laces in his hat, 225
Bridelaces, sir, in's hat--an all greene hat,[1667]
Greene coverlet for such a grasse greene wit.
'The goose that graseth on the greene,' quoth he,
'May I eate on when you shall buried be!'
All proverbes is his speech, hee's proverbs all. 230
_Fra._ Why speakes he proverbs?
_Phi._ Because he would speake truth,
And proverbes, youle confesse, are olde said sooth.
_Fra._ I like this well, and one day Ile see him:
But shall we part? 235
_Phil._ Not yet, Ile bring you somewhat on your way,
And as we goe, betweene your boy and you
Ile know where that [brave][1668] praunser stands at levery.
_Fra._ Come, come, you shall not.
_Phil._ I faith, I wil. _Exeunt._ 240
[Scene Third.[1669] _Barneses Garden._]
_Enter_ MASTER BARNES and his WIFE.
_M. Bar._ Wife, in my minde to day you were too blame,
Although my patience did not blame ye for it:
Me thought the rules of love and neighbourhood
Did not direct your thoughts; all indirect[1670]
Were your proceedings in the entertaine 5
Of them that I invited to my house.
Nay, stay, I doe not chide, but counsell, wife,
And in the mildest manner that I may:
You neede not viewe me with a servants eye,
Whose vassaile[1671] sences tremble at the looke 10
Of his displeased master. O my wife,
You are my selfe! when selfe sees fault in selfe,
Selfe is sinne obstinate, if selfe amend not:
Indeede, I sawe a fault in thee my selfe,
And it hath set a foyle upon thy fame, 15
Not as the foile doth grace the diamond.
_Mi. Bar._ What fault, sir, did you see in me to day?
_M. Bar._ O, doe not set the organ of thy voice
On such a grunting key of discontent!
Doe not deforme the beautie of thy tongue 20
With such mishapen answeres. Rough wrathfull words
Are bastards got by rashnes in the thoughts:
Faire demeanors are vertues nuptiall babes,
The off-spring of the well instructed soule;
O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife! 25
So seeme not barren of good courtesie.
_Mi. Bar._ So; have ye done?
_M. Bar._ I, and I had done well,
If you would do what I advise for well.
_Mi. Bar._ Whats that? 30
_M. Bar._ Which is, that you would be good friendes
With mistresse Goursey.[1672]
_Mi. Bar._ With mistresse Goursey!
_M. Bar._ I, sweet wife.
_Mis. Bar._ Not so, sweet husband. 35
_M. Bar._ Could you but shew me any grounded cause.
_Mis. Bar._ The grounded cause I ground because I wil not.
_M. Bar._ Your will hath little reason, then, I thinke.
_Mi. Bar._ Yes, sir, my[1673] reason equalleth my will.
_M. Bar._ Lets heare your reason, for your will is great. 40
_Mi. Bar._ Why, for I will not.
_M. Bar._ Is all your reason 'for I will not,' wife?
Now, by my soule, I held yee for more wise,
Discreete, and of more temperature in sence,
Then in a sullen humour to affect[1674] 45
That womans[1675] will borne, common, scholler phrase:
Oft have I heard a timely married girle,
That newly left to call her mother mam,
Her father dad, but yesterday come from
'Thats my good girle, God send thee a good husband!' 50
And now being taught to speake the name of husband,
Will, when she would be wanton in her will,
If her husband aske her why, say 'for I will.'
Have I chid men for[1676] unmanly choyse,
That would not fit their yeares? have I seene thee 55
Pupell[1677] such greene yong things, and with thy counsell
Tutor their wits? and art thou now infected
With this disease of imperfection?
I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame.
_Mi. Bar._ A shame on her that makes thee rate me so! 60
_M. Bar._ O black mouth'd rage, thy breath is boysterous,
And thou makst vertue shake at this high storme!
Shees[1678] of good report; I know thou knowst it.
_Mi. Bar._ She is not, nor I know not, but I know
That thou dost love her, therefore thinkst her so; 65
Thou bearst with her, because she beares with thee.
Thou mayst be ashamed to stand in her defence:
She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man
To stand in her defence against thy wife.
If I catch her in my walke, now, by Cockes[1679] bones, 70
Ile scratch out both her eyes.
_M. Bar._ O God!
_Mi. Bar._ Nay, never say 'O God' for the matter:
Thou art the cause; thou badst her to my house,
Onely to bleare the eyes of Goursey, didst not? 75
But I wil send him word, I warrant thee,
And ere I sleepe to[o]; trust upon it, sir. _Exit._
_M. Bar._ Me thinkes this is a mighty fault in her;
I could be angry with her: O, if I be so,
I shall but put a linke unto a torche, 80
And so give greater light to see her fault.
Ile rather smother it in melancholly:
Nay, wisedome bids me shunne that passion;
Then I will studie for a remedy.
I have a daughter,--now, heaven invocate, 85
She be not of like spirit as her mother!
If so, sheel be a plague unto her husband,
If that he be not patient and discreet,
For that I hold the ease of all such trouble.
Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband, 90
For I would see how she could demeane her selfe
In that estate; it may be, ill enough,--
And, so God shall help me, well remembred now!
Franke Goursey is his fathers sonne and heyre,
A youth that in my heart I have good hope on; 95
My sences say a match, my soule applaudes
The motion: O, but his lands are great,
Hee will looke high; why, I will straine my selfe
To make her dowry equall with his land.
Good faith, and twere a match, twould be a meanes 100
To make their mothers friends. Ile call my daughter,
To see how shees disposde to marriage.--
Mall, where are yee?
_Enter_ MALL.
_Mall._ Father, heere I am.
_M. Bar._ Where is your mother? 105
_Mal._ I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she
Went walking both together to the garden.
_M. Ba._ Dost thou heare me, girle? I must dispute with thee.
_Mal._ Father, the question, then, must not be hard,
For I am very weake in argument. 110
_M. Bar._ Well, this it is; I say tis good to marry.
_Mal._ And this say I, tis not good to marry.
_M. Bar._ Were it not good, then all men would not marry;
But now they doe.
_Mal._ Marry, not all; but it is good to marry. 115
_M. Bar._ Is it both good and bad? how can this be?
_Mal._ Why, it is good to them that marry well;
To them that marry ill, no greater hell.
_M. Bar._ If thou mightst marry well, wouldst thou agree?
_Mall._ I cannot tell; heaven must appoint for me. 120
_M. Bar._ Wench, I am studying for thy good, indeed.
_Mall._ My hopes and dutie wish your thoughts good speed.
_M. Bar._ But tell me, wench, hast thou a minde to marry?
_Mall._ This question is too hard for bashfulnes;
And, father, now ye pose my modestie. 125
I am a maide, and when ye aske me thus,
I like a maide must blush, looke pale and wan,
And then looke pale[1680] againe; for we change colour
As our thoughts change. With true fac'd passion
Of modest maidenhead I could adorne me, 130
And to your question make a sober cursie
And with close clipt civilitie be silent;
Or els say 'no, forsooth,' or 'I, forsooth.'
If I said 'no, forsooth,' I lyed, forsooth:
To lye upon my selfe were deadly sinne, 135
Therefore I will speake truth, and shame the divell.
Father, when first I heard you name a husband,
At that same very name my spirits quickned.
Dispaire before had kild them, they were dead:
Because it was my hap so long to tarry, 140
I was perswaded I should never marry;
And, sitting sowing, thus upon the ground
I fell in traunce of meditation;
But comming to my selfe, 'O Lord,' said I,
'Shall it be so? must I unmarryed dye?' 145
And being angry, father, farther said,
'Now, by saint Anne, I will not dye a maide!'
Good faith, before I came to this ripe groath,
I did accuse the labouring time of sloath:
Me thought the yeere did run but slow about, 150
For I thought each yeare ten I was without.
Being foureteene and toward the other[1681] yeare,
Good Lord, thought I, fifteene will nere be heere!
For I have heard my mother say that then
Prittie maides were fit for handsome men: 155
Fifteene past, sixeteene, and seventeene too,
What, thought I, will not this husband do?
Will no man marry me? have men forsworne
Such beauty and such youth? shall youth be worne,
As rich mens gownes, more with age then use? 160
Why, then I let restrained[1682] fansie loose,
And bad it gaze for pleasure; then love swore me
To doe what ere my mother did before me;
Yet, in good faith, I was[1683] very loath,
But now it lyes in you to save my oath: 165
If I shall have a husband, get him quickly,
For maides that weares corke[1684] shooes may step awry.
_M. Bar._ Beleeve me, wench, I doe not repprehend[1685] thee,
But for this pleasant answere do commend thee.
I must confesse, love doth thee mighty wrong, 170
But I will see thee have thy right ere long;
I know a young man, whom I holde most fit
To have thee both for living and for wit:
I will goe write about it presentle.
_Mall._ Good father, do. [_Exit_ BARNES.]
O God, me thinkes I should 175
Wife it as fine as any woman could!
I could carry a porte to be obayde,
Carry a maistering eye upon my maide,
With 'Minion, do your businesse, or Ile make yee,'
And to all house authoritie be take me. 180
O God, would I were married! be my troth,
But if I be not, I sweare Ile keepe my oath.
_Ent._ MI. BA.
[_Mi. Ba._] How now, minion, wher have you bin gadding?
_Mall._ Forsooth, my father called me forth to him.
_Mi. Bar._ Your father! and what said he too ye, I pray? 185
_Mall._ Nothing, forsooth.
_Mi. Bar._ Nothing! that cannot be; something he said.
_Mall._ I, somthing that as good as nothing was.
_Mi. Bar._ Come, let me heare that somthing nothing, then.
_Mal._ Nothing but of a husband for me, mother. 190
_Mi. Bar._ A husband! that was something: but what husband?
_Mall._ Nay, faith, I know not, mother: would I did!
_Mis. Bar._ I, 'would ye did'! i faith, are ye so hasty?
_Mall._ Hasty, mother! why, how olde am I?
_Mis. Ba._ To yong to marry.
_Mal._ Nay, by the masse, ye lie. 195
Mother, how olde were you when you did marry?
_Mis. Ba._ How olde so ere I was, yet you shall tarry.
_Mall._ Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, harke!
The priest forgets that ere he was a clarke:
When you were at my yeeres, Ile holde my life, 200
Your minde was to change maidenhead for wife.
Pardon me, mother, I am of your minde,
And, by my troth, I take it but by kinde.[1686]
_Mis. Bar._ Do ye heare, daughter? you shal stay my leasure.
_Mall._ Do you heare, mother? would you stay fro pleasure 205
When ye have minde to it? Go to, there's no wrong
Like this, to let maides lye alone so long:
Lying alone they muse but in their beds
How they might loose their long kept maiden heads.
This is the cause there is so many scapes, 210
For women that are wise will not lead apes
In hell:[1687] I tel yee, mother, I say true;--
Therefore, come, husband, maiden head, adew! _Exit._
_Mis. Bar._ Well, lustie guts, I meane to make ye stay,
And set some rubbes in your mindes smothest way.[1688] 215
_Enter_ PHILIP.
_Phi._ Mother--
_Mi. Ba._ How now, sirra, where have ye bin walking?
_Phil._ Over the meades, halfe way to Milton,[1689] mother,
To beare my friend Franke Goursey company.
_Mi. Ba._ Wher's your blew coat,[1690] your sword and buckler, sir?
Get you such like habite for a servingman, 221
If you will waight upon the brat of Goursey.
_Phil._ Mother, that you are moov'd, this maks me wonder,
When I departed I did leave yee friends:
What undigested jarre hath since betided? 225
_Mi. Bar._ Such as almost doth choake thy mother, boy,
And stifles her with the conceit of it;
I am abusde, my sonne, by Gourseys wife.
_Phil._ By mistresse Goursey?
_Mi. Bar._ Mistresse flurt, yon[1691] foule strumpet, 230
Light a love, short heeles! Mistresse Goursey
Call her againe, and thou wert better no.
_Phil._ O my deare mother,[1692] have some patience!
_Mis. Bar._ I, sir, have patience, and see your father
To rifle up the treasure of my love, 235
And play the spend-thrift upon such an harlot!
This same will make me have patience, will it not?
_Phili._ This same is womens most impatience:
Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say
That you have found my father temperate, 240
And ever free from such affections.
_Mi. Bar._ I, till[1693] my too much love did glut his thoughts,
And make him seek for change.
_Phi._ O, change your minde!
My father beares more cordiall love to you. 245
_Mi. B._ Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Gourseys wife,
Not me.
_Phil._ Now, I sweare, mother, you are much too blame;
I durst be sworne he loves you as his soule.
_Mi. Bar._ Wilt thou be pampered by affection? 250
Will nature teach thee such vilde[1694] perjurie?
Wilt thou be sworne, I, forsworne,[1695] carelesse boy?
And if thou swearst, I say he loves me not.
_Phil._ He loves ye but too well, I sweare,
Unlesse ye knew much better how to use him. 255
_Mi. Bar._ Doth he so, sir? thou unnaturall boy!
'Too well,' sayest thou? that word shall cost thee[1696] somwhat:
O monstrous! have I brought thee up to this?
'Too well'! O unkinde, wicked, and degenerate,
Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother? 260
Well, God will plague thee fort, I warrant thee:
Out on thee, villaine, fie upon thee, wretch!
Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say!
_Phil._ This ayre is pleasant, and doth please me well,
And here I will stay. 265
_Mi. Bar._ Wilt thou, stubborne villaine?
_Enter_ M. BAR.
_M. Bar._ How now, whats the matter?
_Mi. Bar._ Thou setst thy sonne to scoffe and mocke at me:
Ist not sufficient I am wrongd of thee,
But he must be an agent to abuse me? 270
Must I be subject to my cradle too?
O God, O God amend it! [_Exit._]
_M. Ba._ Why, how now, Phillip? is this true, my sonne?
_Phil._ Deare father, she is much impatient:
Nere let that hand assist me in my need, 275
If I more said then that she thought amisse
To thinke that you were so licentious given;
And thus much more, when she inferd it more,
I swore an oath you lov'd her but too well:
In that as guiltie I do hold my selfe, 280
Now that I come to more considerate triall:
I know my fault; I should have borne with her:
Blame me for rashnesse, then, not for want of dutie.
_M. Ba._ I do absolve thee; and come hether, Phillip:
I have writ a letter unto master Goursey, 285
And I will tell thee the contents thereof;
But tell me first, thinkst thou Franke Goursey loves thee?
_Phil._ If that a man devoted to a man,
Loyall, religious in loves hallowed vowes,
If that a man that is soule laboursome 290
To worke his owne thoughts to his friends delight,
May purchase good opinion with his friend,
Then I may say, I have done this so well,
That I may thinke Franke Goursey loves me well.
_M. Ba._ Tis well; and I am much deceived in him, 295
And if he be not sober, wise, and valliant.
_Phi._ I hope my father takes me for thus wise,
I will not glew my selfe in love to one
That hath not some desert of vertue in him:
What ere you thinke of him, beleeve me, father, 300
He will be answerable to your thoughts
In any quallity commendable.
_M. Bar._ Thou chearst my hopes in him; and, in good faith,
Thoust[1697] made my love complete unto thy friend:
Phillip, I love him, and I love him so. 305
I could affoorde him a good wife I know.
_Phi._ Father, a wife!
_M. Bar._ Phillip, a wife.
_Phil._ I lay my life, my sister.
_M. Bar._ I, in good faith. 310
_Phil._ Then, father, he shall have her; he shall, I sweare.
_M. Bar._ How canst thou say so, knowing not his minde?
_Phi._ All is one for that; I will goe to him straight.
Father, if you would seeke this seaven yeares day,
You could not[1698] finde a fitter match for her; 315
And he shall have her, I sweare he shall;
He were as good be hang'd as once deny her.
I faith, Ile to him.[1699]
_M. Bar._ Hairebraine, hairebraine, stay!
As yet we do not know his fathers[1700] minde: 320
Why, what will master Goursey say, my sonne,
If we should motion it without his knowledge?
Go to, hees a wise and discreet gentleman,
And that expects[1701] from me all honest parts;
Nor shall he faile his expectation; 325
First I doe meane to make him privy to it:
Phillip, this letter is to that effect.
_Phil._ Father, for Gods[1702] sake send it quickly, then:
Ile call your man.--What, Hugh! wheres Hugh, there, ho?
_M. Bar._ Phillip, if this would proove a match, 330
It were the only meanes that could be found
To make thy mother frends with Mist[resse] Gou[rsey].
_Phil._ How, a match! Ile warrant ye, a match.
My sister's faire, Franke Goursie he is rich;
Her[1703] dowrie too will be sufficient; 335
Franke's yong,[1704] and youth is apt to love;
And, by my troth, my sisters maiden head
Standes like a game at tennis,--if the ball
Hit into the hole, or hazard, farewell all!
_Ma. Bar._ How now, where's Hugh? 340
[_Enter_ NICHOLAS.]
_Phil._ Why, what doth this proverbial with us?
Why, where's Hugh?
_M. Bar._ Peace, peace.
_Phil._ Where's Hugh, I say?
_M. Bar._ Be not so hasty, Phillip. 345
_Phil._ Father, let me alone,
I doe it but to make my selfe some sport.
This formall foole, your man, speakes naught but proverbs,
And speake men what they can to him, hee'l answere
With some rime,[1705] rotten sentence, or olde saying, 350
Such spokes[1706] as the ancient of the parish use,
With, 'neighbour, tis an olde proverbe and a true,
Goose giblets are good meate, old sacke better then new';
Then saies another, 'neighbour, that is true';
And when each man hath drunke his gallon round, 355
A penny pot, for thats the olde mans gallon,
Then doth he licke his lips, and stroke his beard
That's glewed together with his slavering droppes
Of yesty ale, and when he scarce can trim
His gouty fingers, thus hee'l phillip it, 360
And with a rotten hem say, 'hey, my hearts,
Merry go sorrie! cocke and pye, my heartes!'
But then their saving penny proverbe comes,
And that is this, 'they that will to the wine,
Berlady[1707] mistresse, shall lay theyr penny to mine.' 365
This was one of this penny-fathers[1708] bastards,
For, on my lyfe, he was never begot
Without the consent of some great proverb-monger.
_M. Bar._ O, ye are a wag.
_Phil._ Well, now unto my busines. 370
Swounds, will that mouth, thats made of olde sed sawes
And nothing else, say nothing to us now?
_Nich._ O master Phillip, forbeare; you must not leape over the
style before you come at it; haste makes waste; softe fire makes
sweete malt; not too fast for falling; there's no hast to hang true
men. 376
_Phil._ Father, we ha'te, ye see, we ha'te. Now will I see if my
memorie will serve for some proverbs too. O,--a painted cloath were
as wel worth a shilling as a theefe woorth a halter; well, after
my heartie commendations, as I was at the making hereof; so it is,
that I hope as you speed, so you're sure; a swift horse will tire,
but he that trottes easilie will indure. You have most learnedly
proverbde it, commending the vertue of patience or forbearance, but
yet, you know, forbearance is no quittance.
_Nich._ I promise yee, maister Philip, you have spoken as true as
steele. 386
_Phil._ Father, theres a proverbe well applied.
_Nich._ And it seemeth unto me, I, it seemes to me, that you,
maister Phillip, mocke me: do you not know, _qui mocat mocabitur_?
mocke age, and see how it will prosper. 390
_Phil._ Why, ye whoresen proverb-booke bound up in follio,
Have yee no other sence to answer me
But every worde a proverbe? no other English?
Well, Ile fulfill a proverb on thee straight.
_Nich._ What is it, sir? 395
_Phil._ Ile fetch my fist from thine eare.
_Nich._ Beare witnesse he threatens me!
_Phil._ Father, that same is the cowards common proverbe.--But
come, come, sirra, tell me where Hugh is. 399
_Nich._ I may, and I will; I need not except I list; you shall not
commaund me, you give me neither meate, drinke, nor wages; I
am your fathers man, and a man's a man, and a have but a hose
on his head; do not misuse me so, do not; for though he that is
bound must obay, yet he that will not tarrie, may[1709] runne away, so
he may. 405
_M. Bar._ Peace, Nicke, Ile see he shall use thee well;
Go to, peace, sirra: here, Nicke, take this letter,
Carrie it to him to whom it is directed.
_Nich._ To whom is it?
_M. Bar._ Why, reade it: canst thou read? 410
_Nich._ Forsooth, though none of the best, yet meanly.
_M. Bar._ Why, dost thou not use it?
_Nich._ Forsooth, as use makes perfectnes, so seldome seene is
soone forgotten.
_M. Bar._ Well said: but goe; it is to master Goursey. 415
_Phil._ Now, sir, what proverbe have ye to deliver a letter?
_Nich._ What need you to care? who speakes to you? you may
speake when you are spoken to, and keep your winde to coole your
pottage. Well, well, you are my maisters sonne, and you looke
for his lande; but they that hope for dead mens shooes, may hap to
go barefoote: take heed; as soone goes the yong sheep to the pot
as the olde. I pray God save my maysters life, for sildome comes
the better! 423
_Phil._ O, he hath given it me! Farewell, proverbes.
_Nich._ Farewell, frost.[1710] 425
_Phil._ Shal I fling an old shoe after ye?
_Nich._ No; you should say, God send faire weather after me!
_Phil._ I meane for good lucke.
_Nich._ A good lucke on ye! _Exit._
_M. Bar._ Alas, poore foole, he uses all his wit! 430
Phillip, in faith[1711] this mirth hath cheered thought,
And cussend it of his right play of passion.
Goe after Nick, and, when thou thinkst hees there,
Go in and urge to that which I have writ:
Ile in these meddowes make a cerckling walke, 435
And in my meditation conjure so,
As that same[1712] fend of thought, selfe-eating anger,
Shall by my spels of reason[1713] vanish quite:
Away, and let me heare from thee to night.
_Phil._ To night! yes, that you shall: but harke ye, father; 440
Looke that you my sister waking keepe,
For Franke I sweare shall kisse her ere I sleepe. _Exeunt._
[Scene Fourth. _The Court-yard of Master Gourseys House at Milton._]
_Enter_ FRANKE _and_ BOY.
_Frank._ I am very dry with walking ore the greene.--
Butler, some beere!--Sirra, call the butler.
_Bo._ Nay, faith, sir, we must have some smith to give the butler
a drench, or cut him in the forehead, for he hath got a horses
desease, namely the staggers; to night hees a good huswife, he
reeles al that he wrought to day; and he were good now to play at
dice, for he castes[1714] excellent well. 7
_Fran._ How meanst thou? is he drunke?
_Boy._ I cannot tell; but I am sure hee hath more liquor in him
then a whole dicker[1715] of hydes; hees sockt throughly, i faith. 10
_Fran._ Well, goe and call him; bid him bring me drinke.
_Boy._ I will, sir. _Exit._
_Fran._ My mother powtes, and will looke merrily
Neither upon my father nor on me:
He saies she fell out with mistresse Barnes to day; 15
Then I am sure they'l not be quickly friends.
Good Lord, what kinde of creatures women are!
Their love is lightly wonne and lightly lost;
And then their hate is deadly and extreame:
He that doth take a wyfe betakes himselfe 20
To all the cares and troubles of the world.
Now her disquietnes doth grieve my father,
Greeves me, and troubles all the house besides.--
What, shall I have some drinke? [_Horn sounded within_]--How now? a
horne!
Belike the drunken slave[1716] is fallen asleepe, 25
And now the boy doth wake him with his horne.
[_Enter_ BOY.]
How now, sirra, wheres the butler?
_Boy._ Mary, sir, where he was even now, a sleepe; but I wakt
him, and when he wakt, he thought he was in mayster Barnses
buttery, for he stretcht himselfe thus, and yauning said, 'Nicke,
honest Nicke, fill a fresh bowle of ale; stand to it, Nicke, and
thou beest a man of Gods making, stand to it'; and then I winded
my horne, and hees horne-mad. 33
_Enter_ HODGE.
_Hodg._ Boy, hey! ho, boy! and thou beest a man, draw.--O,
heres a blessed mooneshine, God be thanked!--Boy, is not this
goodly weather for barley? 36
_Boy._ Spoken like a right maulster, Hodge: but doost thou heare?
thou art not drunke.
_Hod._ No, I scorne that, i faith.
_Boy._[1717] But thy fellow Dicke Coomes is mightily drunke. 40
_Hod._ Drunke! a plague on it, when a man cannot carrie his
drinke well! sbloud, Ile stand to it.
_Boy._ Hold, man; see and thou canst stand first.
_Hodge._ Drunke! hees a beast, and he be drunke; theres no man
that is a sober man will be drunk; hees a boy, and he be drunke.
_Boy._ No, hees a man as thou art. 46
_Hodge._ Thus tis when a man will not be ruled by his friends: I
bad him keepe under the lee, but he kept downe the weather two
bowes; I tolde him hee would be taken with a plannet,[1718] but the
wisest of us all may fall. 50
_B._ True, Hodge. _Boy trip him._
_Hod._ Whope! lend me thy hand, Dicke, I am falne into a wel;
lend me thy hand, I shall be drowned else.
_Boy._ Hold fast by the bucket, Hodge.
_Hodg._ A rope on it! 55
_Boy._ I, there is a rope on it; but where art thou, Hodge?
_Hodge._ In a well; I prethie, draw up.
_Boy._ Come, give up thy bodie; wind up, hoyst.
_Hodg._ I am over head and eares.
_Boy._ In all, Hodge, in all. 60
_Fran._ How loathsome is this beast mans shape to me,
This mould of reason so unreasonable![1719]
Sirra, why doost thou trip him downe, seeing hees drunke?
_Boy._ Because, sir, I would have drunkards cheape.[1720]
_Fran._ How meane ye? 65
_Boy._ Why, they say that, when any thing hath a fall it is cheape;
and so of drunkards.
_Fran._ Go to, helpe him up [_Knocking without_]: but, harke, who
knockes? [BOY _goes to the gate, and returns_.]
_Bo._ Sir heeres one of maister Barnsies men with a letter to my olde
maister. 71
_Fran._ Which of them is it?
_Boy._ They call him Nicholas, sir.
_Fran._ Go, call him in. [_Exit_ BOY.]
_Enter_ COOMES.
_Coom._ By your leave, ho! How now, young maister, how ist?
_Fran._ Looke ye, sirra, where your fellow lies; 76
Hees in a fine taking, is he not?
_Coom._ Whope, Hodge! where art thou, man, where art thou?
_Hodge._ O, in a well.
_Co._ In a well, man! nay, then, thou art deepe in understanding.
_Fran._ I, once to day you were almost so, sir. 81
_Coom._ Who, I! go to, young maister, I do not like this humor in
ye, I tell ye true; give every man his due, and give him no more:
say I was in such a case! go to, tis the greatest indignation that
can be offered to a man; and, but a mans more godlier given, you
were able to make him sweare out his heart bloud. What though that
honest Hodge have cut his finger heere? or, as some say, cut a
feather? what thogh he be mump, misled, blind, or as it were? tis
no consequent to me: you know I have drunke all the ale-houses in
Abington drie, and laide the tappes on the tables when I had done:
sbloud, Ile challenge all the true rob-pots in Europe to leape up
to the chinne in a barrell of beere, and if I cannot drinke it
down to my foote ere I leave, and then set the tap in the midst of
the house, and then turne a good turne on the toe on it, let me be
counted nobodie, a pingler,[1721]--nay, let me be[1722] bound to
drinke nothing but small beere seven yeares after; and I had as
leefe be hanged. 97
_Enter_ NICHOLAS.
_Fran._ Peace, sir, I must speake with one.--Nicholas, I think, your
name is.
_Nich._ True as the skinne betweene your browes. 100
_Fran._ Well, how doth thy maister?
_Nich._ Forsooth, live, and the best doth no better.
_Fran._ Where is the letter he hath sent me?
_Nich._ _Ecce signum!_ heere it is.
_Fran._ Tis right as Phillip said, tis a fine foole [_Aside_].-- 105
This letter is directed to my father;
Ile carrie it to him.--Dick Coomes, make him drinke. _Exit._
_Coom._ I, Ile make him drunke,[1723] and he will.
_Nich._ Not so, Richard; it is good to be merrie and wise. 109
_Dick._[1724] Well, Nicholas, as thou art Nicholas, welcome; but as
thou art Nicholas and a boone companion, ten times welcome.
Nicholas, give me thy hand: shall we be merrie? and wee shall,
say but we shall, and let the first word stand.
_Nich._ Indeed, as long lives the merrie man as the sad; an ownce of
debt will not pay a pound of care. 115
_Coom._ Nay, a pound of care will not pay an ownce of debt.
_Nich._ Well, tis a good horse never stumbles: but who lies here?
_Coom._ Tis our Hodge, and I thinke he lies asleep: you made him drunk
at your house to day; but Ile pepper some of you fort.
_Nic._ I, Richard, I know youle put a man over the shooes, and if
you can; but hees a foole wil take more then wil do him good.
_Coom._ Sbloud, ye shall take more then will doe yee good, or Ile
make ye clap under the table. 123
_Nich._ Nay, I hope, as I have temperance to forbeare drinke, so have
I patience to endure drinke: Ile do as company doth; for when a man
doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done. 126
_Coomes._ Ha, my resolved Nicke, frolagozene![1725] Fill the potte,
hostesse; swounes, you whore! Harry Hooke's a rascall. Helpe me but
carry my fellow Hodge in, and weele crushe it, i faith.
_Exeunt._
[Scene Fifth. _In front of Gourseys House._]
_Enter_ PHILLIP.
_Phil._ By this, I thinke, the letter is delivered,
And twill be shortly time that I step in,
And wooe their favours for my sisters fortune:
And yet I need not; she may doe as well,
But yet not better, as the case doth stand 5
Betweene our mothers; it may make them friends;
Nay, I would sweare that she would doe as well,
Were she a stranger to one quality,
But they are so acquainted, theil nere part.
Why, she will floute the devill, and make blush 10
The boldest face of man that ever man saw;
He that hath best opinion of his wit,
And hath his braine pan fraught with bitter jestes
Or of his owne, or stolne, or how so ever,
Let him stand nere so high in his owne conceite, 15
Her wit's a sunne that melts him downe like butter,
And makes him sit at table pancake wise,
Flat, flat, [God knowes][1726] and nere a word to say;
Yet sheele not leave him then, but like a tyrant
Sheele persecute the poore wit-beaten man, 20
And so bebang him with dry bobs and scoffes,
When he is downe, most cowardly, good faith,
As I have pittied the poore patient.
There came a farmers sonne a wooing to her,
A proper man, well landed too he was, 25
A man that for his wit need not to aske
What time a yeere twere good to sow his oates
Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reape,
To plowe his fallowes, or to fell his trees,
Well experienst thus each kinde of way; 30
After a two monthes labour at the most,
And yet twas well he held it out so long,
He left his love, she had so laste his lips
He could say nothing to her but 'God be with yee'!
Why, she, when men have din'd and call for cheese, 35
Will straight maintaine jests bitter to disgest;
And then some one will fall to argument,
Who, if he over master her with reason,
Then sheele begin to buffet him with mockes.
Well, I doe doubt Frances hath so much spleene, 40
Theil nere agree; but I will moderate.
By this time tis time, I thinke, to enter:
This is the house; shall I knocke? no; I will not
Waite while[1727] one comes out to answere;
Ile in, and let them be as bolde with us. _Exit._ 45
[Scene Sixth. _A Room in Gourseys House._]
_Enter_ MASTER GOURSEY, _reading a letter_.
_M. Gour._ _If that they like, her dowry shall be equall
To your sonnes wealth or possibility:
It is a meanes to make our wives good friendes,
And to continue friendship twixt us two._[1728]
Tis so, indeed: I like this motion, 5
And it hath my consent, because my wife[1729]
Is sore infected and hart sick with hate;
And I have sought the Galen of advice,
Which oneley tels me this same potion
To be most soveraigne for her sicknes cure. 10
_Enter_ FRANKE _and_ PHILLIP.
Heere comes my sonne, conferring with his friend.--
Fraunces, how do you like your friends discourse?
I know he is persuading to this motion.
_Fra._ Father, as matter that befits a friend,
But yet not me, that am too young to marry. 15
_M. Gou._ Nay, if thy minde be forward with thy yeares,
The time is lost thou tarriest. Trust me, boy,[1729]
This match is answerable to thy birth;
Her bloud and portion give each other grace;
These indented lines promise a sum, 20
And I do like the valew: if it hap
Thy liking to accord to my consent,
It is a match. Wilt thou goe see the maide?
_Fra._ Nere. Trust me, father, the shape[1730] of marriage,
Which I doe see in others, seeme[s][1731] so severe, 25
I dare not put my youngling liberty
Under the awe of that instruction;
And yet I graunt the limmits of free youth
Going astray are often restrainde by that.
But mistresse wedlocke, to my scholler thoughts, 30
Will be too curst, I feare. O, should she snip
My pleasure ayming minde, I shall be sad,
And sweare, when I did marry, I was mad!
_M. Gour._ But, boy, let my experience teach thee this--
Yet, in good faith, thou speakst not much amisse;-- 35
When first thy mothers fame to me did come,
Thy grandsire thus then came to me his sonne,
And even my words to thee to me he said,
And as to me thou saist to him I said,
But in a greater huffe and hotter bloud,-- 40
I tell ye, on youthes tip-toes then I stood:
Saies he (good faith, this was his very say),
'When I was yong, I was but reasons foole,
And went to wedding as to wisdomes schoole;
It taught me much, and much I did forget, 45
But, beaten much, by it I got some wit;
Though I was shackled from an often scoute,[1732]
Yet I would wanton it when I was out;
Twas comfort, old acquaintance then to meete,
Restrained liberty attainde is sweet.' 50
Thus said my father to thy father,[1733] sonne,
And thou maist doe this too,[1734] as I have done.
_Phi._ In faith, good counsell, Franke: what saist thou to it?
_Fra._ Phillip, what should I say?
_Phil._ Why, eyther I or no. 55
_Fra._ O, but which rather?
_Phil._ Why, that which was persuaded by thy father.
_Fra._ Thats I, then,[1735] I: O, should it fall out ill!
Then I, for I am guilty of that ill,--
Ile not be guilty, no. 60
_Phi._ What, backeward gone!
_Fra._ Phillip, no whit backward; that is, on.
_Phi._ On, then.
_Fra._ O, stay!
_Phil._ Tush, there is no good lucke in this delay: 65
Come, come, late commers, man, are shent.
_Fra._ Heigh ho, I feare I shall repent!
Well, which waye, Phillip?[1736]
_Phi._ Why, this way.
_Fra._ Canst thou tell,
And takest upon thee to be my guide to hell?-- 70
But which way, father?
_M. Gour._ That way.
_Fran._ I, you know;
You found the way to sorrow long agoe.
Father, God boye ye:[1737] you have sent your sonne
To seeke on earth an earthly day of doome, 75
Where I shall be adjudged,[1738] alacke the ruthe,
To penance for the follies of my youth!
Well, I must goe, but, by my troth, my minde
Is not love capable to[1739] that kinde.
O, I have lookt upon this mould of men, 80
As I have done upon a lyons den!
Praised I have the gallant beast I saw,
Yet wisht me no acquaintance with his pawe:
And must I now be grated with them? well,
Yet I may hap to proove a Daniell; 85
And, if I doe, sure it would make me laugh,
To be among wilde beastes and yet be safe.
Is there a remedy to abate their rage?
Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage.
I, but how catch them? marry, in your hand 90
Carrie me foorth a burning fire brand,
For with his sparkling shine, olde rumor saies,
A fire brand the swiftest runner fraies:
This I may doe; but, if it proove not so,
Then man goes out to seeke his adjunct woe. 95
Phillip, away! and, father, now adew!
In quest of sorrow I am sent by you
_M. Gou._ Returne the messenger of joy, my sonne.
_Fran._ Sildome in this world such a worke is done.
_Phi._ Nay, nay, make hast, it will be quicklie night. 100
_Fra._ Why, is it not good to wooe by candle light?
_Phil._ But, if we make not haste theile be abed.
_Fran._ The better, candels out and curtans spred.
_Exeunt_ [FRANCIS _and_ PHILLIP].
_M. Gour._ I know, though that my sons years be not many,
Yet he hath wit to wooe as well as any. 105
Here comes my wife: I am glad my boy is gone
_Enter_ MISTRESSE GOURSEY.
Ere she came hether.--How now, wife? how ist?
What, are ye yet in charity and love
With mistresse Barnes?
_Mi. Gou._ With mistris Barnes! why mistris[1740] Barnes, I pray?
_M. Gou._ Because she is your neighbour and---- 111
_Mi. Gou._ And what?
And a jealous slandering spitefull queane she is,
One that would blur my reputation
With her approbrious mallice, if she could. 115
She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame:
Tis knowne that I have lived in honest name
All my life time, and bin your right true wife.
_M. Gour._ I entertaine no other thought, my wife,
And my opinion's sound of your behaviour. 120
_Mis. Gou._ And my behaviour is as sound as it;
But her ill speeches seekes to rot my credit,
And eate it with the worme of hate and mallice.
_M. Gou._ Why, then, preserve it you by patience.
_Mi. Gou._ By patience! would ye have me shame my selfe,
And cussen my selfe to beare her injuries? 126
Not while her eyes be open will I yeelde
A word, a letter, a sillables valew,
But equall and make even her wrongs to me
To her againe. 130
_M. Gou._ Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame.
_Mi. Gou._ Am I too blame, sir? pray, what letters this?
[_Snatches the letter._]
_M. Gou._ There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife,
Rudelie to snatch it from me. Give it me.
_Mi. Gou._ You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it. 135
_M. Gou._ Give me it, then, and I will read it to you.
_Mi. Gou._ No, no, it shall not need: I am a scholler
Good enough to read a letter, sir.
_M. Gou._ Gods passion, if she knew but the contents,
Sheele seeke to crosse this match! she shall not read it.--[_Aside._]
Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me. 141
_Mi. Gou._ Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it.
_M. Gou._ What, will you moove me to impatience, then?
_Mi. Gou._ Tut, tell not me of your impatience;
But since you talke, sir, of impatience, 145
You shall not have the letter, by this light,
Till I have read it; soule, ile burne it first!
_M. Gou._ Go to, ye move me, wife; give me the letter;
In troth, I shall growe angry, if you doe not.
_Mi. Gou._ Grow to the house top with your anger, sir! 150
Nere tell me, I care not thus much for it.
_M. Gour._ Well, I can beare enough, but not too much.
Come, give it me; twere best you be persuaded;
By God--ye make me sweare--now God forgive me!--
Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it; 155
Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart.
_Mis. Gou._ Hart me no hearts, you shall not have it, sir,
No, you shall not; nere looke so big,
I will not be affraide at your great lookes;
You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it. 160
_M. Gou._ Shall I not have[1741] it? in troth, Ile try that:
Minion, Ile hav'te; shall I not hav'te?--I am loath--
Go too, take pausment, be advisde--
In faith, I will; and stand not long upon it--
A woman of your yeares! I am ashamde 165
A couple of so long continuance
Should thus--Gods foote--I crye God hartely mercy!--
Go to, ye vex me; and Ile vexe ye for it;
Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad
To tender it on your knees; heare ye, I will, I will. 170
What, worse and worse stomacke! true, i[1742] faith!
Shall I be crost by you in my olde age?
And where I should have greatest comfort to,
A nursse of you?--nursse in the divels name!--
Go to, mistris; by Gods pretious deere, 175
If ye delaie--
_Mi. Gou._ Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit
Are you in, husband! so inrag'd, so moov'd,
And for so slight a cause, to read a letter!
Did this letter, love, conteine my death, 180
Should you denie my sight of it, I would not
Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger,
But willinglie yeeld me a patient
Unto the doome that your displeasure gave.
Heere is the letter; not for that your incensment 185
[_Gives back the letter._]
Makes me make offer of it, but your health,
Which anger, I doe feare, hath crasd,
And viper like hath suckt away the bloud
That wont was to be cheerefull in this cheeke:
How pale yee looke! 190
_M. Gou._ Pale! can yee blame me for it? I tell you true,
An easie matter could not thus have moov'd me.
Well, this resignement, and so foorth--but, woman,
This fortnight shall I not forget yee for it.--
Ha, ha, I see that roughnes can doe somewhat! 195
I did not thinke, good faith, I could have set
So sower a face upon it, and to her,
My bed embracer, my right bosome friend.
I would not that she should have seene the letter,
As poore a man as I am, by my troth, 200
For twenty pound: well, I am glad I have it.-- [_Aside._]
Ha, heres adoe about a thing of nothing!
What, stomack, ha! tis happy you come downe. _Exit._
_Mi. Gou._ Well, craftie[1743] fox, Ile hunt ye, by my troth:
Deale ye so closely? Well, I see his drift: 205
He would not let me see the letter, least
That I should crosse the match; and I will crosse it.--
_Enter_ COMES.[1744]