SCENE II.

A SELECT COLLECTION

OF

OLD ENGLISH PLAYS.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY ROBERT DODSLEY

IN THE YEAR 1744.

_FOURTH EDITION._

NOW FIRST CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED, REVISED AND ENLARGED

WITH THE NOTES OF ALL THE COMMENTATORS,

AND NEW NOTES

BY

W. CAREW HAZLITT.

BENJAMIN BLOM, INC.

[Illustration]

New York

A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK.

_EDITION._

_A Woman is a Weather-cocke. A New Comedy. As it was acted

before the King in White-Hall. And diuers times Priuately at the

White-Friers, by the Children of her Maiesties Reuels. Written

by Nat: Field._ Si natura negat, faciat indagnatio [sic] versum.

_Printed at London, for Iohn Budge, and are to be sold at the

great South doore of Paules, and at Brittaines Bursse._ 1612.

4º.

The old copy is very carelessly printed, and nearly all the corruptions

and mistakes were retained in the former edition (1828).

[MR COLLIER'S PREFACE.]

Considering the celebrity that Nathaniel Field has acquired in

consequence of his connection with Massinger in writing "The Fatal

Dowry," it is singular that the two plays in which he was unaided by any

contemporary dramatist should not yet have been reprinted, if only to

assist the formation of a judgment as to the probable degree of

Massinger's obligation. "A Woman is a Weathercock" and its sequel,

"Amends for Ladies," are the productions of no ordinary poet. In comic

scenes Field excels Massinger, who was not remarkable for his success in

this department of the drama; and in those of a serious character he may

be frequently placed on a footing of equality.[1]

Reed was of opinion that Field the actor was not the same person who

joined Massinger in "The Fatal Dowry," and who wrote the two plays above

mentioned; but the discovery of Henslowe's MSS. shows that they were

intimately connected in authorship and misfortune. The joint letter of

Nathaniel Field, Rob. Daborne, and Philip Massinger to Henslowe,

soliciting a small loan to relieve them from temporary imprisonment, has

been so often republished (see Malone's Shakespeare, by Boswell, iii.

337) that it is unnecessary to repeat it here.[2] Field, who penned the

whole body of the letter, speaks in it of himself, both as an author and

as an actor. It is without date, and Malone conjectured that it was

written between 1612 and 1615. But from the Dedication to "A Woman is a

Weathercock," we should conclude that in 1612 Field was not distressed

for money. He there tells "any woman that hath been no weathercock" that

he "cared not for forty shillings," the sum then usually given by the

person to whom the play was inscribed. This assertion, perhaps, was only

a vain boast, while the fact might be, either that he could not get

anybody to patronise "so fameless a pen," or that, although he might not

just at that moment be in want of "forty shillings," he might stand in

need of it very soon afterwards, according to the customary irregular

mode of living of persons of his pursuits and profession.

It might be inferred from a passage in the address "to the Reader," that

"A Woman is a Weathercock"[3] was written some time before it was

printed; and from the dedication of the same play, we learn that Field's

"Amends for Ladies," if not then also finished, was fully contemplated

by the author under that title. An allusion to the Gunpowder Treason of

1605 is made in the first act of "A Woman is a Weathercock;" but it

could not have been produced so early.

Nathaniel Field was originally one of the Children of Queen Elizabeth's

Chapel. Malone tells us that he played in "Cynthia's Revels" in 1601;

but we have it on the authority of Ben Jonson himself, in the folio of

1616, that that "comical satire" was acted in 1600. In 1601 Field

performed in "The Poetaster," and in 1608 he appeared in "Epicæne,"

which purports to have been represented by the "Children of her

Majesty's Revels," for so those of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel were then

called. In 1600 Field was, perhaps, one of the younger children, for in

1609 all the names of the company but his own were changed, many no

doubt having outgrown their situations. He was, therefore, evidently a

very young man when he published his "Woman is a Weathercock" in 1612.

Only one edition of it is known, but "Amends for Ladies" was twice

published by the same stationer, viz., in 1618 and 1639. Mr Gifford

conjectured very reasonably that Field had assisted Massinger in writing

"The Fatal Dowry" before 1623.[4] He belonged to the Blackfriars

company, and Fleckno speaks of him as a performer of great

distinction.[5] According to the portrait in Dulwich College, he had

rather a feminine look, and early in his career undertook female parts,

which he afterwards abandoned, and obtained much celebrity as the hero

of Chapman's "Bussy d'Ambois," originally brought out in 1607. In a

prologue to the edition of 1641, Field is spoken of as the player "whose

action _first_ did give it name." It has also been supposed that he was

dead in 1641, because in the same prologue, it is asserted "Field is

gone," but the expression is equivocal. The probability seems to be that

he quitted the profession early, and in the address to "A Woman is a

Weathercock," he gives a hint that he will only be heard of in it "for a

year or two, and no more."[6]

"Amends for Ladies" will be found, on the whole, a superior performance

to "A Woman is a Weathercock," and if the order of merit only had been

consulted, it ought to have been first reprinted in this collection.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Mr Gifford, with that zeal for the author under his hands which

always distinguished him (and without a single reference to Field's

unassisted comedies which, in fact, have remained unnoticed by

everybody), attributes to Field, in "The Fatal Dowry," all that he

thinks unworthy his notion of Massinger. We are to recollect, however,

that Field continued one of the Children of the Revels as late as

1609, and that when "A Woman is a Weathercock" was printed in 1612, he

must have been scarcely of age.

[2] Two other letters from Field to Henslowe are printed for the first

time in Malone's Shakespeare, by Boswell, xxi. 395 and 404. One is

subscribed "Your loving and obedient son," and the other "Your loving

son," and both request advances of money; the first on a play, in the

writing of which Field was engaged with Robert Daborne, and the

second, in consequence of Field having been "taken on an execution of

£30." They have no dates, but others with which they are found are in

1613.

[3] It is tolerably clear that the drama was written in 1609. See the

allusion to the war in Cleveland, as then going on, at p. 28.

[4] Mr Gifford also states (Massinger, i. 67), that he joined Heminge

and Condell in the publication of the folio Shakespeare of 1623.

[5] Ben Jonson, in his "Bartholomew Fair," act v. sc. 3, couples him

with Burbage, and speaks of him as the "best actor" of the day. This

play was produced in 1614.

[6] Taylor the Water-poet, in his "Wit and Mirth," introduces a

supposed anecdote of "Master Field the player," which is only a pun

upon the word _post_, and that not made by Field. Taylor had it,

probably, from some earlier collection of jokes, and the compiler of

Hugh Peters' Jests, 1660, had it from Taylor, and told it of his hero.

TO ANY WOMAN THAT HATH BEEN NO WEATHERCOCK.

I did determine not to have dedicated my play to anybody, because forty

shillings I care not for![7] and above few or none will bestow on these

matters, especially falling from so fameless a pen as mine is yet. And

now I look up, and find to whom my dedication is, I fear I am as good as

my determination: notwithstanding, I leave a liberty to any lady or

woman, that dares say she hath been no weathercock, to assume the title

of patroness to this my book. If she have been constant, and be so, all

I will expect from her for my pains is that she will continue so but

till my next play be printed, wherein she shall see what amends I have

made to her and all the sex,[8] and so I end my epistle without a Latin

sentence.

N.F.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Malone, in his "History of the Stage," quotes this passage to show

that such was, in Field's day, the ordinary price of the dedication of

a play. Malone's Shakespeare, by Boswell, iii. 164.

[8] Referring to his "Amends for Ladies," first printed in 1618, and

afterwards in 1639.

TO THE READER.

Reader, the saleman swears you'll take it very ill, if I say not

something to you too. In troth, you are a stranger to me: why should I

write to you? you never writ to me, nor I think will not answer my

epistle. I send a comedy to you here, as good as I could then make; nor

slight my presentation, because it is a play; for I tell thee, reader,

if thou be'st ignorant, a play is not so idle a thing as thou art, but a

mirror of men's lives and actions; nor, be it perfect or imperfect, true

or false, is the vice or virtue of the maker. This is yet, as well as I

can, _qualis ego vel Cluvienus_. Thou must needs have some other

language than thy mother-tongue, for thou think'st it impossible for me

to write a play, that did not use a word of Latin, though he had enough

in him. I have been vexed with vile plays myself a great while, hearing

many; now I thought to be even with some, and they should hear mine too.

Fare thee well: if thou hast anything to say to me, thou know'st where

to hear of me for a year or two, and no more, I assure thee.

N.F.

TO HIS LOVED SON,[9] NAT. FIELD, AND HIS WEATHERCOCK WOMAN.

To many forms, as well as many ways,

Thy active muse turns like thy acted woman:

In which disprais'd inconstancy turns praise;

Th' addition being, and grace of Homer's seaman,

In this life's rough seas toss'd, yet still the same:

So turns thy wit, inconstancy to stay,

And stay t' inconstancy. And as swift Fame

Grows as she goes, in Fame so thrive thy play,

And thus to standing turn thy woman's fall:

Wit, turn'd to everything, proves stay in all.

GEORGE CHAPMAN.

[9] It was not unusual for elder poets to call the younger their

_sons_. Ben Jonson allowed this title to Randolph, Howell, and others.

Field also subscribes himself to old Henslowe the manager, "your

loving _son_."

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

COUNT FREDERICK.

SIR JOHN WORLDLY.

NEVILL.

SCUDMORE.

STRANGE.

PENDANT.

CAPTAIN POUTS.

SIR INNOCENT NINNY.

SIR ABRAHAM NINNY.

BELLAFRONT.

KATHERINE.

LUCIDA.

LADY NINNY.

MISTRESS WAGTAIL

_A Priest._

_A Page._

_Servants._

A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK.

ACT I., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ SCUDMORE, _as in his chamber in a morning, half-ready, reading a

letter_.

SCUD. _legit_. "Whereas you write, my fortune and my birth,

Made above yours, may be a real cause

That I must leave you, know, thou worthiest man,

Thou hast a soul whose plenteous wealth supplies

All the lean wants blind chance hath dealt to thee.

Yet could I think the gods from all their store,

Who ne'er knew indigence unto their will,

Would out of all their stock of virtue left,

Or out of all new graces they can make,

Make such another piece as Scudmore is,

Then might he justly fear; but otherwise

Sooner the masculine element of fire

Shall flame his pyramids down to the earth;

Sooner her mountains shall swell up to heaven,

Or softest April showers quench fires in hell:

Sooner shall stars from this circumference

Drop like false fiery exhalation,

Than I be false to vows made unto thee,

In whom aught near a fault I ne'er could see,

But that you doubted once my constancy.

Yours through the world, and to the end of time.

BELLAFRONT."

SCUD. _Loqui, ut raptus_. If what I feel I could express in words,

Methinks I could speak joy enough to men

To banish sadness from all love for ever!

O thou, that reconcil'st the faults of all

That frothy sex, and in thy single self

Confin'st--nay, hast engross'd, virtue enough

To frame a spacious world of virtuous women,

Hadst thou been the beginning of thy sex,

I think the devil in the serpent's skin

Had wanted cunning to o'ercome thy goodness,

And all had liv'd and died in innocency--

The white original creation! [_Knocking within._

Who's there? Come in.

_Enter_ NEVILL.

NEV. What, up already, Scudmore! Ne'er a wench

With thee? Not [e'en] thy laundress?

SCUD. Good morrow, my dear Nevill.

NEV. What's this? A letter? Sure, it is not so--

A letter written to Hieronimo.[10]

SCUD. By heaven! you must excuse me. Come, I know,

You will not wrong my friendship and your manners

To tempt me so.

NEV. Not for the world, my friend.

Farewell, good morrow. [_Exiturus._

SCUD. Nay, sir, neither must you

Depart in anger from this friendly hand.

I swear I love you better than all men,

Equally with all virtue in the world;

Yet this would be a key to lead you to

A prize of that importance----

NEV. Worthy friend,

I leave you not in anger: what d'ye mean?

Nor am I of that inquisitive nature fram'd

To thirst to know your private businesses.

Why, they concern not me: if they be ill

And dangerous, 'twould grieve me much to know 'em;

If good, they be so, though I know 'em not.

Nor would I do your love so gross a wrong

To covet to participate affairs

Of that near touch, which your assured love

Doth think not fit, or dares not trust me with.

SCUD. How sweetly does your friendship play with mine,

And with a simple subtlety steals my heart

Out of my bosom. By the holiest love

That ever made a story, you're a man

With all good so replete, that I durst trust you

Ev'n with this secret, were it singly mine.

NEV. I do believe you. Farewell, worthy friend.

SCUD. Nay, look you; this same fashion does not please me:

You were not wont to make your visitation

So short and careless.

NEV. 'Tis your jealousy

That makes you think so; for, by my soul,

You have given me no distaste by keeping from me

All things that might be burthenous, and oppress me.

In troth, I am invited to a wedding,

And the morn faster goes away from me,

Than I go toward it; and so, good morrow.

SCUD. Good morrow, sir: think I durst show it you.

NEV. Now, by my life, I not desire it, sir,

Nor ever lov'd these prying, listening men,

That ask of others' states and passages:

Not one among a hundred but proves false,

Envious, and slanderous, and will cut that throat

He twines his arms about. I love that poet,

That gave us reading[11] not to seek ourselves

Beyond ourselves. Farewell.

SCUD. You shall not go:

I cannot now redeem the fault I have made

To such a friend, but in disclosing all.

NEV. Now, if you love me, do not wrong me so.

I see you labour with some serious thing,

And think (like fairy's treasure) to reveal it,

Will cause it vanish; and yet to conceal it,

Will burst your breast: 'tis so delicious,

And so much greater than the continent.

SCUD. O! you have pierc'd my entrails with your words,

And I must now explain all to your eyes.

Read, and be happy in my happiness.

NEV. Yet think on't: keep thy secret and thy friend

Sure and entire. O, give not me the means

To become false hereafter! or thyself

A probable reason to distrust thy friend,

Though he be ne'er so true. I will not see't.

SCUD. I die, by heaven, if you deny again.

I starve for counsel: take it: look upon it.

If you do not, it is an equal plague,

As if it had been known and published.

For God's sake, read! but with this caution--

By this right hand, by this yet unstain'd sword.

Were you my father flowing in these waves,

Or a dear son exhausted out of them,

Should you betray this soul of all my hopes,

Like the two brethren (though love made 'em stars)

We must be never more seen both together.[12]

NEV. I read it fearless of the forfeiture;

Yet warn you, be as cautelous not to wound

My integrity with doubting[13] likelihoods,

From misreport; but first exquire the truth.

[_Legit_ NEVILL, SCUDMORE _aliquando respiciens_.

SCUD. Read, whilst I tell the story of my love,

And sound the truth of her heroic spirit,

Whom eloquence could never flatter yet,

Nor the best tongue of praises reach unto.

The maid there nam'd I met once on a green,

Near to her father's house: methought she show'd--

For I did look on her, indeed no eye

That ow'd a sensible member, but must dwell

A while on such an object:

The passing horses and the feeding kine

Stood still, and left their journeys and their food:

The singing birds were in contention,

Which should 'light nearest her; for her clear eyes

Deceiv'd even men, they were so like bright skies.

Near, in a rivulet, swam two beauteous swans,

Whiter than anything but her neck and hands,

Which they left straight to comfort her: a bull

Being baiting on the green for the swains' sport,

She walking toward it: the vex'd savage beast

Ceas'd bellowing, the snarling dogs were mute,

And had enough to do to look on her,

Whose face brought concord and an end of jars,

Though nature made 'em ever to have wars,

Had there been bears and lions, when she spake,

They had been charm'd too; for Grecian's lute

Was rustic music to her heavenly tongue,

Whose sweetness e'en cast slumbers on mine eyes,

Soft as content, yet would not let me sleep.

NEV. "Yours through the world, and to the end of time

BELLAFRONT."

Which Bellafront? rich Sir John Worldly's daughter?

SCUD. She is the food, the sleep, the air I live by.

NEV. O heaven! we speak like gods and do like dogs.

SCUD. What means my----

NEV. This day this Bellafront, the rich heir,

Is married unto Count Frederick,

And that's the wedding I was going to.

SCUD. I prythee, do not mock me. Married!

NEV. It is no matter to be play'd withal,

But even as true, as women all are false.

SCUD. O, that this stroke were thunder to my breast;

For, Nevill, thou hast spoke my heart in twain,

And with the sudden whirlwind of thy breath

Hast ravish'd me out of a temperate soil,

And set me under the red burning zone.

NEV. For shame! return thy blood into thy face.

Know'st not how slight a thing a woman is?

SCUD. Yes, and how serious too. Come! I'll t' the Temple:

She shall not damn herself for want of counsel.

NEV. O, prythee, run not thus into the streets!

Come, dress you better: so. Ah! yes,[14] thy clothes

Are, like thy mind, too much disordered.

How strangely is this tide turn'd! For a world,

I would not but have call'd here as I went.

Collect thy spirits: we will use all means

To check this black fate flying toward thee. Come!

If thou miscarriest, 'tis my day of doom.

SCUD. Yes--now I'm fine. Married! It may be so;

But, women, look to't: if she prove untrue,

The devil take you all, that are his due! [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ COUNT FREDERICK, _a tailor trussing him; attended by a page_.

C. FRED. Is Sir John Worldly up, boy?

BOY. No, my Lord.

C. FRED. Is my bride up yet?

BOY. No.

C. FRED. No! and the morn so fair?

_Enter_ PENDANT.

PEN. Good morrow, my thrice honoured and heroic lord.

BOY. Good morrow, your lord and master, you might say, for brevity sake.

[_Aside._

C. FRED. Thou'st a good tailor, and art very fine.

PEN. I thank your lordship.

BOY. Ay, you may thank his lordship indeed. [_Aside._

PEN. 'Fore God, this doublet sets in print, my lord;

And the hose excellent; the pickadel[15] rare.

BOY. He'll praise himself in trust with my lord's tailor.

For the next St George's suit.

C. FRED. O, good morrow, tailor;

I abhor bills in a morning.

PEN. Your honour says true:

Their knavery will be discern'd by daylight;

But thou may'st watch at night with bill in hand,

And no man dares find fault with it.

TAILOR. A good jest, i' faith. Good morrow to your lordship. A very

good jest.

[_Exit_ TAILOR.

C. FRED. I wonder my invited guests are so tardy. What's o'clock?

PEN. Scarce seven, my lord.

C. FRED. And what news, Pendant?

What think'st thou of my present marriage?

How shows the beauty to thee I shall wed?

PEN. Why, to all women like Diana among her nymphs.

BOY. There's all his reading. [_Aside._

PEN. A beauty of that pureness and delight,

That none is worthy of her but my lord,

My honourable lord.

C. FRED. But then her fortune,

Match'd with her beauty, makes her up a match.

PEN. By heaven, unmatchable!--for none fit but lords,

And yet for no lord fit but my good lord.

C. FRED. And that her sister, then, should love me too,

Is it not strange?

PEN. Strange? no, not strange at all.

By Cupid, there's no woman in the world

But must needs love you, doat, go mad for you.

If you vouchsafe reflection, 'tis a thing

That does it home: thus much reflection

Catches 'em up by dozens like wild fowl.

BOY. Now, ye shall taste the means, by which he eats. [_Aside._

PEN. Nature herself, having made you, fell sick

In love with her own work, and can no more

Make man so lovely, being diseas'd with love.

You are the world's minion, of a little man.

I'll say no more: I would not be a woman

For all has been got by them.

C. FRED. Why, man, why?

PEN. Heart! I should follow you like a young rank whore,

That runs proud of her love; pluck you by the sleeve,

Whoe'er were with you, in the open street,

With the impudency of a drunken oyster-wife;

Put on my fighting waistcoat and the ruff,

That fears no tearing; batter down the windows,

Where I suspected you might lie all night;

Scratch faces, like a wild-cat of Pick'd-hatch.[16]

C. FRED. Pendant, thou'lt make me doat upon myself.

PEN. Narcissus, by this hand, had far less cause.

C. FRED. How know'st thou that?

BOY. They were all one, my lord.

PEN. How do I know? I speak my conscience:

His beauties were but shadows to my lord.

Why, boy, his presence would enkindle sin

And longing thoughts in a devoted nun.

O foot! O leg! O hand! O body! face!

By Jove, it is a little man of wax.

C. FRED. Thou'rt a rare rascal: 'tis not for nothing

That men call thee my Commendations.

BOY. For nothing? no; he would be loth it should.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN POUTS.

C. FRED. Good morrow, and good welcome, Captain Pouts.

CAPT. POUTS. _Good morning to your honour, and all joy

Spring from this match, and the first year a boy!_

I commanded[17] these two verses o' purpose to salute your honour.

C. FRED. But how haps it, Captain, that your intended marriage with my

father-in-law's third daughter is not solemnised to-day?

PEN. My lord tells you true, Captain; it would have saved meat.

CAPT. POUTS. Faith, I know not. Mistress Kate likes me not; she says I

speak as if I had pudding in my mouth, and I answered her, if I had, it

was a white pudding,[18] and then I was the better armed for a woman;

for I had a case about me. So one laughed, and the other cried fie: the

third said I was a bawdy captain; and there was all I could get of them.

C. FRED. See, boy, if they be up yet: maids are long liers, I perceive.

BOY. How if they will not admit me, my lord.

C. FRED. Why, should they not admit you, my lord, you cannot commit with

'em, my lord.

BOY. Marry, therefore, my lord. [_Exit_ BOY.

C. FRED. But what should be the reason of her so sudden alteration? she

listened to thee once, ha?

PEN. Have you not heard, my lord, or do ye not know?

C. FRED. Not I, I swear.

PEN. Then you know nothing that is worth the knowing.

CAPT. POUTS. That's certain: he knows you.

PEN. There's a young merchant, a late suitor, that deals by wholesale,

and heir to land, well-descended, of worthy education, beholding to

nature.

C. FRED. O, 'tis young Strange.

CAPT. POUTS. Is't he that looks like an Italian tailor out of the lac'd

wheel?[19] that wears a bucket on his head?

C. FRED. That is the man: yet believe me, captain, it is a noble

sprightly citizen.

CAPT. POUTS. Has he money?

C. FRED. Infinitely wealthy.

CAPT. POUTS. Then, captain, thou art cast. Would I had gone to

Cleveland! Worldly loves money better than I love his daughter. I'll to

some company in garrison. Good bye.

C. FRED. Nay, ye shall dedicate this day to me.

We speak but by the way, man: ne'er despair;

I can assure you, she is yet as free as air.

PEN. And you may kill the merchant with a look:

I'd threaten him to death. My honor'd lord

Shall be your friend: go to, I say he shall:

You shall have his good word. Shall he, my lord?

C. FRED. 'Sfoot! he shall have my bond to do him good.

PEN. La! 'tis the worthiest lord in Christendom.

O captain, for some fourscore brave spirits, once

To follow such a lord in some attempt!

CAPT. POUTS. A hundred, sir, were better.

_Enter_ OLD SIR INNOCENT NINNY, MY LADY NINNY, SIR ABRAHAM, _and_

MISTRESS WAGTAIL.

C. FRED. Here's more guests.

CAPT. POUTS. Is that man and wife?

PEN. It is Sir Innocent Ninny: that's his lady,

And that Sir Abraham, their only son.

[_Count Frederick discoursing with Sir Innocent and Lady: Abraham

looking about._

CAPT. POUTS. But did that little old dried neat's tongue, that eel-skin,

get him?

PEN. So 'tis said, captain.

CAPT, POUTS. Methinks he in his lady should show like a needle in a

bottle of hay.

PEN. One may see by her nose what pottage she loves.

CAPT. POUTS. Is your name Abraham? Pray, who dwells in your mother's

backside,[20] at the sign of the aqua-vitæ bottle?

PEN. God's precious! Save you, Mistress Wagtail.

[_Pulls her by the sleeve._

WAG. Sweet Master Pendant.

ABRA. Gentlemen, I desire your better acquaintance. You must pardon my

father; he's somewhat rude, and my mother grossly brought up, as you may

perceive.

C. FRED. Young Master Abraham! cry ye mercy, sir.

ABRA. Your lordship's poor friend, and Sir Abraham Ninny.

The dub-a-dub of honour, piping hot

Doth lie upon my worship's shoulder-blade.

SIR INN. Indeed, my lord, with much cost and labour we have got him

knighted; and being knighted under favour, my lord, let me tell ye he'll

prove a sore knight, as e'er run at ring. He is the one and only Ninny

of our house.

L. NIN. He has cost us something, ere he came to this.

Hold up your head, Sir Abraham.

ABRA. Pish, pish, pish, pish!

C. FRED. D'ye hear how--

PEN. O my lord.

CAPT. POUTS. I had well hoped she could not have spoke, she is so

fat.

C. FRED. Long may'st thou wear thy knighthood; and thy spurs

Prick thee to honour on, and prick off curs.

ABRA. Sir Abraham thanks your honour, and I hope your lordship will

consider the simplicity of parents: a couple of old fools, my lord, and

I pray so take 'em.

OMNES. Ha! ha! ha!

ABRA. I must be fain to excuse you here: you'll be needs coming abroad

with me. If I had no more wit than you now, we should be finely laughed

at.

SIR INN. By'r lady, his worship says well: wife, we'll trouble him no

longer. With your honour's leave, I'll in and see my old friend Sir

John, your father that shall be.

L. NIN. I'll in, too, and see if your bride need no dressing.

[_Exeunt_ SIR INNOCENT _and lady_.[21]

C. FRED. 'Sfoot, as much as a tripe, I think:

Haste them, I pray. Captain, what thinkest thou

Of such a woman in a long sea voyage,

Where there were a dearth of victuals?

CAPT. POUTS. Venison, my lord, venison.

PEN. I'faith, my lord, such venison as a bear is.

CAPT. POUTS. Heart! she looks like a black bombard[22] with a pint pot

waiting upon it.

[_Exit_ MRS WAGTAIL.

C. FRED. What countrymen were your ancestors, Sir Abraham?

ABRA. Countrymen! they were no countrymen: I scorn it. They were

gentlemen all: my father is a Ninny, and my mother was a Hammer.

CAPT. POUTS. You should be a knocker, then, by the mother's side.

ABRA. I pray, my lord, what is yon gentleman? He looks so like a Saracen

that, as I am a Christian, I cannot endure him.

C. FRED. Take heed what you say, sir; he's a soldier.

PEN. If you cross him, he'll blow you up with gunpowder.

ABRA. In good faith, he looks as if he had had a hand in the

treason.[23] I'll take my leave.

C. FRED. Nay, good Sir Abraham, you shall not leave us.

PEN. My lord shall be your warrant.

ABRA. My lord shall be my warrant? Troth, I do not see that a lord's

warrant is better than any other man's, unless it be to lay one by the

heels. I shall stay here, and ha' my head broke, and then I ha' my

mends in my own hands; and then my lord's warrant will help me to a

plaister, that's all.

C. FRED. Come, come; captain, pray shake the hand of acquaintance with

this gentleman: he is in bodily fear of you.

CAPT. POUTS. Sir, I use not to bite any man.

ABRA. Indeed, sir, that would show you are no gentleman. I would you

would bid me be covered. I am a knight. I was knighted o'purpose to come

a-wooing to Mistress Lucida, the middle sister, Sir John Worldly's

second daughter, and she said she would have me, if I could make her a

lady, and I can do't now. O, here she comes.

_Enter_ SIR JOHN WORLDLY, MASTER STRANGE, KATE, _and_ LUCIDA _with a

willow garland_.

C. FRED. My bride will never be ready, I think. Here are the other

sisters.

PEN. Look you, my lord: there's Lucida wears the willow garland for you,

and will so go to church, I hear. And look you, captain, that's the

merchant.

ABRA. Now doth the pot of love boil in my bosom:

Cupid doth blow the fire; and----

I cannot rhyme to bosom; but I'll go reason with her.

SIR J. WOR. You'll make her jointure of that five hundred, you say, that

is your inheritance, Master Strange?

STRANGE. Sir, I will.

SIR J. WOR. Kate, do you love him?

KATE. Yes, faith, father, with all my heart.

SIR J. WOR. Take hands: kiss him. Her portion is four thousand.

Good morrow, my son Count: you stay long for your bride;

But this is the day that sells her, and she

Must come forth like my daughter and your wife.

I pray, salute this gentleman as your brother;

This morn shall make him so, and though, his habit

But speak him citizen, I know his worth

To be gentle in all parts. Captain!

CAPT. POUTS. Sir.

SIR J. WOR. Captain, I could have been contented well,

You should have married Kate.

KATE. So could not Kate. [_Aside._]

SIR J. WOR. You have an honourable title.

A soldier is a very honourable title:

A captain is a commander of soldiers;

But look you, captain; captains have no money;

Therefore the Worldlys must not match with captains.

CAPT. POUTS. So, sir, so.

SIR J. WOR. There are brave wars.

CAPT. POUTS. Where?

SIR J. WOR. Find them out, brave captain.

Win honour and get money; by that time

I'll get a daughter for my noble captain.

CAPT. POUTS. Good, sir, good.

SIR J. WOR. Honour is honour, but it is no money.

This is the tumbler, then, must catch the coney.

[_Aspiciens_ STRANGE.

CAPT. POUTS. Thou art an old[24] fellow. Are you a merchant, sir?

STRANGE. I shame not to say yes. Are you a soldier, sir?

ABRA. A soldier, sir? O God! Ay, he is a captain.

STRANGE. He may be so, and yet no soldier, sir;

For as many are soldiers, that are no captains,

So many are captains, that are no soldiers.

CAPT. POUTS. Right, sir: and as many are citizens that are no

cuckolds----

STRANGE. So many are cuckolds that are no citizens. What ail you,

sir, with your robustious looks?

CAPT. POUTS. I would be glad to see for my money: I have paid for my

standing.

STRANGE. You are the nobler captain, sir;

For I know many that usurp that name,

Whose standings pay for them.

CAPT. POUTS. You are a peddler.

STRANGE. You are a pot-gun.

CAPT. POUTS. Merchant, I would thou hadst an iron tail,

Like me.

C. FRED. Fie, captain! You are to blame.

PEN. Nay, God's will! You are to blame indeed, if my lord say so.

CAPT. POUTS. My lord's an ass, and you are another.

ABRA. Sweet Mistress Luce, let you and I withdraw:

This is his humour. Send for the constable!

CAPT. POUTS. Sirrah, I'll beat you with a pudding on the 'Change.

STRANGE. Thou dar'st as well kiss the wide-mouthed cannon

At his discharging, as perform as much

As thou dar'st speak; for, soldier, you shall know,

Some can use swords, that wear 'em not for show.

KATE. Why, captain, though ye be a man of war, you cannot subdue

affection. You have no alacrity in your eye, and you speak as if you

were in a dream. You are of so melancholy and dull a disposition, that

on my conscience you would never get children; nay, nor on my body

neither; and what a sin were it in me, and a most pregnant sign of

concupiscence, to marry a man that wants the mettle of generation, since

that is the blessing ordained for marriage, procreation the only end of

it. Besides, if I could love you, I shall be here at home, and you in

Cleveland abroad--I among the bold Britons, and you among the hot-shots.

SIR J. WOR. No more puffing, captain;

Leave batteries with your breath: the short is this.

This worthy count this morning makes my son,

And with that happy marriage this proceeds.

Worldly's my name, worldly must be my deeds.

CAPT. POUTS. I will pray for civil wars, to cut thy throat

Without danger, merchant. I will turn pirate,

But I'll be reveng'd on thee.

STRANGE. Do, captain, do:

A halter will take up our quarrel then.

CAPT. POUTS. 'Swounds! I'll be reveng'd upon ye all!

The strange adventure thou art now to make

In that small pinnace, is more perilous

Than any hazard thou could'st undergo.

Remember, a scorn'd soldier told thee so. [_Exit_ CAPTAIN POUTS.

STRANGE. Go, walk the captain, good Sir Abraham.

ABRA. Good faith, sir, I had rather walk your horse.

I will not meddle with him. I would not keep

Him company in his drink for a world.

SIR J. WOR. But

What good do you, Sir Abraham, on my daughter?

I could be e'en content, my Lucida

Would skip your wit and look upon your wealth,

And this one day let Hymen crown ye all.

ABRA. O no, she laughs at me and scorns my suit:

For she is wilder and more hard withal,

Than beast or bird, or tree, or stony wall.

KATE. Ha! God-a-mercy, old Hieronimo.[25]

ABRA. Yet she might love me for my lovely eyes.

C. FRED. Ay, but perhaps your nose she doth despise.

ABRA. Yet might she love me for my dimpled chin.

PEN. Ay, but she sees your beard is very thin.

ABRA. Yet might she love me for my proper body.

STRANGE. Ay, but she thinks you are an errant noddy.

ABRA. Yet might she love me, 'cause I am an heir.

SIR J. WOR. Ay, but perhaps she doth not like your ware.

ABRA. Yet might she love me in despite of all.

LUC. Ay, but indeed I cannot love at all.

SIR J. WOR. Well, Luce, respect Sir Abraham, I charge you.

LUC. Father, my vow is pass'd: whilst the earl lives,

I ne'er will marry, nor will pine for him.

It is not him I love now, but my humour;

But since my sister he hath made his choice,

This wreath of willow, that begirds my brows,

Shall never cease to be my ornament,

'Till he be dead, or I be married to him.

PEN. Life! my lord; you had best marry 'em all three. They'll never

be content else.

C. FRED. I think so, too.

SIR J. WOR. These are impossibilities. Come, Sir Abraham.

A little time will wear out this rash vow.

ABRA. Shall I but hope?

LUC. O, by no means. I cannot endure these round breeches: I am

ready to swoon at them.

KATE. The hose are comely.

LUC. And then his left leg: I never see it, but I think on a

plum-tree.

ABRA. Indeed, there's reason there should be some difference in my

legs, for one cost me twenty pounds more than the other.

LUC. In troth, both are not worth half the money.

C. FRED. I hold my life, one of them was broke, and cost so much the

healing.

ABRA. Right hath your lordship said; 'twas broke indeed

At foot-ball in the university.

PEN. I know he is in love by his verse-vein.

STRANGE. He cannot hold out on't: you shall hear.

ABRA. Well, since I am disdain'd, off garters blue!

Which signify Sir Abram's love was true;

Off, cypress black! for thou befits not me;

Thou art not cypress of the cypress-tree,

Befitting lovers. Out, green shoe-strings, out!

Wither in pocket, since my Luce doth pout.

Gush, eyes; thump, hand; swell, heart; buttons, fly open!

Thanks, gentle doublet, else my heart had broken.

Now to thy father's country house at Babram

Hide post; there pine and die, poor, poor Sir Abram.

OMNES. O doleful dump! [_Music plays._

SIR J. WOR. Nay, you shall stay the wedding. Hark, the music!

Your bride is ready.

C. FRED. Put spirit in your fingers! louder still,

And the vast air with your enchantments fill. [_Exeunt omnes._

FOOTNOTES:

[10] An allusion (one out of hundreds in our old plays) to "The

Spanish Tragedy," act iii., where Hieronimo finds a letter, and taking

it up, exclaims--

"What's here? A letter! Tush, it is not so--

A letter written to Hieronimo."

--[v. 68.]

[11] [Advice.]

[12] [Old copy, _again_.]

[13] [Old copy, _doubt on_.]

[14] [Old copy, _as_.]

[15] Cotgrave tells us that "_piccadilles_ are the several divisions

or pieces fastened together about the brim of the collar of a

doublet." They are mentioned over and over again in old plays, as by

Field himself (probably) in "The Fatal Dowry," act iv. sc. 1: "There's

a shoulder-piece cut, and the base of a _pickadille_ in _puncto_." A

_pickadel_ is spoken of in "Northward Ho!" sig. D 3, as part of the

dress of a female. See Gifford's Ben Jonson, v. 55, for the origin and

application of the word.

[16] A place notorious for prostitutes, often mentioned.

[17] [Ordered them to be made, not being a poet or verse writer

himself. Old copy, _commend_.]

[18] [Usually, a kind of sausage; but here it seems to have an

indelicate sense, which may be readily conjectured.]

[19] From this passage it should seem that Italian tailors in Field's

time wore peculiarly wide and stiff ruffs, like a _wheel_ of lace

round their necks. Nothing on the point is to be found in R. Armin's

"Italian Taylor and his Boy," 1609. The Tailor in "Northward Ho!"

1607, sig. D 3, speaks of "a Cathern (Katherine) _wheel_ farthingale,"

but the farthing-gale was a hoop for the petticoats.

[20] [_Backyard_ usually, but here the phrase seems to mean rather a

house in the rear.]

[21] The old stage direction here is only _Exit Inno_.

[22] _Bombard_ strictly means a piece of artillery, but it was

metaphorically applied to large vessels containing liquor: in this

sense it may be frequently found in Shakespeare and other dramatists

of his day.

[23] _i.e._, The gunpowder treason of 5th Nov. 1605.

[24] [Meaning, a character. _Old_ is frequently used in this sort of

sense.]

[25] Sir Abraham quotes from "The Spanish Tragedy," and Kate detects

his plagiarism; [but the passage in that drama is itself a quotation.

See vol. v.p. 36.]

ACT II., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ NEVILL, _like a parson_.

NEV. Thus for my friend's sake have I taken orders,

And with my reason and some hire beside

Won the known priest, that was to celebrate

This marriage, to let me assume his place;

And here's the character of his face and beard.

By this means, when my friend confronts the maid

At the church-door (where I appointed him

To meet him like myself; for this strange shape

He altogether is unwitting of),

If she (as one vice in that sex alone

Were a great virtue) to inconstancy past

Join impudency, and slight him to his face,

Showing a resolution to this match,

By this attempt it will be frustrate,

And so we have more time, though but 'till night,

To work, to speak with her, or use violence;

For both my blood and means are at his service.

The reason, too, I do this past his knowledge

Is, that his joy may be the more complete;

When being resolv'd she's married and gone,

I can resolve him otherwise. Thus I know

Good deeds show double that are timely done,

And joy that comes past expectation.

_Enter_ SCUDMORE _in tawny_.

Yonder he comes, dead in his melancholy.

I'll question him, and see if I can raise

His spirit from that it restless rests upon:

He cannot know me. Ho! good morrow, sir.

SCUD. Good morrow to no living thing but one,

And that is Nevill. O, the vows, the vows,

The protestations and becoming oaths,

Which she has utter'd to me!--so sweet, so many,--

As if she had been covetous not to leave

One word for other lovers, which I pitied:

She said indeed I did deserve 'em all.

Her lips made swearings sound of piety,

So sweet and prettily they came from her;

And yet this morn she's married to a lord.

Lord! lord! how often has she kiss'd this hand,

Lost herself in my eyes, play'd with my hair,

And made me (a sin I am not subject to)

Go away proud, improved by her favours;

And yet this morn she's married to a lord--

The bells were ringing as I came along.

NEV. Yes, sir; 'tis for the great marriage 'twixt----

SCUD. Pray, hold there; I know it too-too well.

The tokens and the letters I have still.

The dangers I have pass'd for her dear sake

By day and night, to satisfy her wishes!

That letter I so lately did receive,

And yet this morn she's married to a lord!

O memory, thou blessing to all men,

Thou art my curse and cause of misery,

That tell'st me what I have been in her eyes,

And what I am! As it is impossible

To find one good in the whole world of women--

But how I lose myself and the remembrance

Of my dear friend who said he would meet me here.

What is this priest, that walks before the church?

Why walk you here so early, sir?

NEV. I am appointed

Here to attend the coming of the brides,

Old Sir John Worldly's daughters.

SCUD. Are there two?

NEV. Yes, sir: the eldest marries Count Frederick.

SCUD. O!

NEV. The middlemost wears willow for his sake;

The youngest marries the rich merchant Strange.

SCUD. He is right worthy, and my well-known friend.

But, parson, if you marry Bellafront,

The horror of thy conscience shall exceed

A murderer's. Thou shalt not walk alone,

Nor eat nor sleep, but a sad lover's groans

And curses shall appear and fright thy soul.

I tell thee, priest, they're sights more terrible

Than ghosts or sprites, of which old wives tell tales.

Thou shalt run mad! thou shalt be damn'd indeed!

NEV. Now God forfend! the reason, sir, I pray?

SCUD. She is contracted, sir--nay, married

Unto another man, though it want form:

And such strange passages and mutual vows,

'Twould make your short hair start through your black cap

Should you but hear it!

NEV. Sir, I'll take no notice

Of things I do not know: the injur'd gentleman

May bring 'em after into the spiritual court,

And have a fair pull on't--a poor gentleman

(For so I take him by his being deceiv'd)

'Gainst a great count and an old wealthy knight.

SCUD. Thou Pancridge parson![26] O, for my friend Nevill!

Some wile or other might remove this priest,

And give us[27] breathing to cross their intent. [_Aside._

NEV. Alas! my dear friend. [_Aside._

SCUD. Sir, do but you refuse to join them.

NEV. Upon what acquaintance, sir?

They are great persons, and I mean to rise:

I hope in time to have three livings, man;

And this were not the way, I take it, sir.

SCUD. Why, look thee; there is gold.

NEV. O, by no means.

SCUD. I seldom knew't refus'd yet by thy coat,

But where it would have been a cause of good.

NEV. But look ye; you shall see, I'm a divine

Of conscience quite opposite to a lawyer:

I'll give you counsel, sir, without a fee.

This way they are to come; if you dare do't,

Challenge her as your own at the church-door:

I will not hinder you. [_Music plays._

SCUD. O, hark! they come.

Nevill, my friend! well, I must something do.

O, why should music, which joys every part,

Strike such sharp killing discords to my heart!

_Music. Enter_ SIR JOHN WORLDLY, _who meets the parson, and entertains

him_; COUNT FREDERICK, BELLAFRONT, STRANGE, KATHERINE, LUCIDA _with

willow_; PENDANT, SIR INNOCENT NINNY, LADY NINNY, MRS WAGTAIL, SIR

ABRAHAM _melancholy_. W.P.[28] _walk gravely afore all softly on_.

SCUDMORE _stands before, and a boy sings to the tuned music_.

_The Song._

_They that for worldly wealth do wed,

That buy and sell the marriage-bed,

That come not warm'd with the true fire,

Resolv'd to keep this vow entire,

Too soon find discontent:

Too soon shall they repent.

But, Hymen, these are no such lovers,

Which thy burning torch discovers.

Though they live, then, many a year,

Let each day as new appear

As this first; and delights

Make of all bridal nights.

Iö, Hymen! give consent

Bless'd are the marriages that ne'er repent._

C. FRED. How now! who's this?

PEN. Young Scudmore.

OMNES. 'Tis young Scudmore!

SCUD. Canst thou this holy church enter a bride,

And not a corse, meeting these eyes of mine?

BEL. Yes, by my troth: what are your eyes to me,

But grey ones, as they are to everybody.

[_To the rest._] The gentleman I do a little know:

He's frantic, sure! Forward, a' God's name, there!

LUC. Sister, this is not well, and will be worse.

SCUD. O, hold thy thunder fast!

C. FRED. What is the matter?

PEN. I'll ask, my lord. What is the matter, sir?

SIR J. WOR. Some idle words, my lord, 't may be, have pass'd

'Twixt Scudmore and my daughter heretofore;

But he has dreamt 'em things of consequence.

PEN. Pish! nothing else? set forward.

NEV. By your leave.

SCUD. Can there be such a soul in such a shape?

My love is subject of such misery,

Such strange impossibilities and misfortune,

That men will laugh at me, when I relate

The story of it, and conceive I lie.

Why, madam that shall be--lady in _posse_--do titles,

Honours, and fortunes make you so forgetful?

BEL. You are insolent--nay, strangely saucy, sir,

To wrong me in this public fashion.

SIR. J. WOR. Sirrah, go to: there's law.

SCUD. There is, indeed,

And conscience too: old Worldly, thou hast one;

But for the other, wild Virginia,

Black Afric, or the shaggy Scythia,

Must send it over as a merchandise,

Ere thou show any here.

PEN. My honour'd lord,

Say but the word, I'll force him from the door.

C. FRED. I say the word: do it.

SCUD. You, my lord's fine fool!

ABRA. Ay, he, sir?

SCUD. No! nor you, my lord's fool's fool.

SIR INN. 'Ware, boy: come back.

L. NIN. Come back, I say, Sir Abraham.

STRANGE. 'Tis such a forward child. [_Intrant Templum._[29]

SCUD. My passion and my cause of griefs so great,

That it hath drown'd all worthy parts in me;

As drink makes virtue useless in a man,

And with too much kills natural heat in him,

Or else I could not stand thus coldly tame,

And see them enter, but with my drawn sword

Should hale her by the hair unto the altar.

And sacrifice her heart to wronged love. [_Aside._

KATH. On my life, it is so.[30]

STRANGE. Worthy friend,

I am exceeding sorry to see this,

But cannot help it.

SCUD. I'll follow, and unfold all in the church.

Alas! to what end, since her mind is chang'd?

Had she been loyal, all the earthly lords

Could not have borne her so! what heinous sin

Hath she committed, God should leave her then?

I never dreamt of lying with my mother,

Nor wish'd my father's death, nor hated brothers;

Nor did betray trust, nor lov'd money better

Than an accepted friend--no such base thought

Nor act unnatural possess'd this breast.

Why am I thus rewarded?--women! women!

He's mad, by heaven, that thinks you anything

But sensual monsters, and is never wise

Nor good, but when he hates you, as I now.

I'll not come near one--none of your base sex

Shall know me from this time; for all your virtues

Are like the buzzes[31] growing in the fields,

So weakly fasten'd t' ye by nature's hand,

That thus much wind blows all away at once.

Ye fillers of the world with bastardy,

Worse than diseases ye are subject to,

Know, I do hate you all: will write against you,

And fight against you: I will eat no meat

Dress'd by a woman, old or young, nor sleep

Upon a bed made by their stallion[32] hands.

Yet once more I will see this feminine devil,

When I will look her dead, speak her to hell!

I'll watch my time this day to do't, and then

I'll be in love with death, and readier still

His mortal stroke to take, than he to kill.

[_Cornets. Exit_ SCUDMORE.

_Loud music. Enter, as from the church_, SIR JOHN WORLDLY, NEVILL, _like

the parson_; COUNT FREDERICK, BELLAFRONT, STRANGE, KATHERINE; SIR

INNOCENT NINNY, LADY NINNY, SIR ABRAHAM; LUCIDA, WAGTAIL, PENDANT.

C. FRED. Sweet is the love purchas'd with difficulty.

BEL. Then, this cross accident doth relish ours.

STRANGE. I rather think ours happier, my fair Kate, Where all is

smooth, and no rub checks our course.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN POUTS.

CAPT. POUTS. Are ye married?

C. FRED. Yes.

CAPT. POUTS. The devil dance at your wedding! But for you, I have

something else to say. Let me see: here are reasonable good store of

people. Know, all my beloved brethren (I speak it in the face of the

congregation), this woman I have lain with oftener----

OMNES. How!

L. NIN. Before God, you are a wicked fellow to speak on't in this

manner, if you have.

STRANGE. Lain with her?

CAPT. POUTS. Yes. Good morrow. God give ye joy.

[_Exit_ CAPTAIN POUTS.

SIR J. WOR. I am speechless with my anger. Follow him!

If it be true, let her be prov'd a whore:

If false, he shall abide the slander dearly.

ABRA. Follow that list: I will not meddle with him.

SIR J. WOR. Why speak'st not thou to reconcile those looks,

That fight stern battles in thy husband's face?

KATH. Thou art not so unworthy to believe him.

If I did think thou didst, I would not open

My lips to satisfy so base a thought,

Sprung from the slander of so base a slave.

STRANGE. It cannot be! I'll tell you by to-morrow.

I am no fool, Kate. I will find some time

To talk with this same captain. Pouts d'ye call him?

I'll be wi' ye to-night.

KATH. Sir, you shall not.

What stain my honour hath received by this

Base villain, all the world takes notice of.

Mark what I vow, and if I keep it not,

May I be so given o'er, to let this rogue

Perform his slander. Thou that wert ordained,

And in thy cradle mark'd to call me wife,

And in that title made as my defence,

Yet sufferedst him to go away with life,

Wounding my honour dead before thy face;

Redeem it on his head, and his own way,

Ev'n by the sword, his long profession,

And bring it on thy neck out of the field,

And set it clear amongst the tongues of men,

That all eyes may discern it slandered,

Or thou shalt ne'er enjoy me as a wife.

By this bright sun, thou shalt not! Nay, I'll think

As abjectly of thee as any mongrel

Bred in the city: such a citizen

As the plays flout still, and is made the subject

Of all the stages. Be this true or no,

'Tis thy best course to fight.

SIR J. WOR. Why, Kate, I say----

KATH. Pray, pardon me: none feels the smart but I.

'Tis thy best course to fight: if thou be'st still,

And like an honest tradesmen eat'st this wrong,

O, may thy spirit and thy state so fall,

Thy first-born child may come to the hospital.

STRANGE. Heaven, I desire thee, hear her last request,

And grant it too, if I do slack the first!

By thy assured innocency I swear,

Thou hast lost me half the honour I shall win

In speaking my intent. Come, let's to dinner.

KATH. I must not eat nor sleep, [but] weep,

Till it be done.

BEL. Sister, this resolution is not good:

Ill thrives that marriage that begins in blood.

KATH. Sister, inform yourself I have no ladyship

To gild my infamy, or keep tongues in awe.

If God love innocency, I am sure

He shall not lose in this action.

STRANGE. Nor is't the other's life

Can give her to the world my perfect wife,

But what I do conceive. It is not blood, then,

Which she requires, but her good name again;

And I will purchase it; for, by heaven, thou art

The excellent'st new-fashion'd maid in this,

That ever ear shall hear a tale told of.

OMNES. But hear ye.

STRANGE. Good [people], save your labours, for by heaven

I'll do it: if I do't not, I shall be pointed at,

Proclaim'd the grand rich cuckold of the town;

Nay, wittol, even by them are known for both.

SIR J. WOR. Take your revenge by law.

STRANGE. It will be thought

Your greatness and our money carries it:

For some say some men on the back of law

May ride and rule it like a patient ass,

And with a golden bridle in the mouth

Direct it unto anything they please.

Others report it is a spider's web,

Made to entangle the poor helpless flies,

Whilst the great spiders that did make it first,

And rule it, sit i' th' midst secure, and laugh.

My law in this shall only be my sword;

But, peradventure, not this month or two.

KATH. This month or two?

C. FRED. I'll be your second, then.

STRANGE. You proffer too much honour, my good lord.

PEN. And I will be your third.

ABRA. I'll not be fourth or fifth,

For the old proverb's good, which long hath been,

Says safest 'tis sleeping in a whole skin.

LUC. God-a-mercy, Nab, I'll ha' thee, and be but for thy manhood.

SIR INN. Wife, my Lady Ninny, do you hear your son? He speaks

seldom, but when he speaks----

LUC. He speaks proverbs, i' faith.

L. NIN. O, 'tis a pestilence knight, Mistress Lucida.

LUC. Ay, and a pocky.

KATH. This month or two! D'ye love me? not before?

It may be I will live so long Fame's whore!

[_Exit_ KATHERINE.

SIR J. WOR. What lowering star rul'd my nativity!

You'll come to dinner?

STRANGE. Yes.

C. FRED. Good morrow, brother.

Come, let's be merry in despite of all,

And make this day (as't should be) festival.

SIR J. WOR. This sour thwart beginning may portend

Good, and be crown'd with a delicious end.

[_Exeunt all but_ STRANGE.

STRANGE. So; I'll not see you, till my task be done:

So much false time I set to my intent,

Which instantly I mean to execute,

To cut off all means of prevention,

Which if they knew my day, they would essay.

Now for the merchant's honour. Hit all right:

Kate, your young Strange will lie with you to-night. [_Exit._

_Enter WAGTAIL; the_ PAGE, _stealing after her, conceals himself_.

WAG. What a stir is here made about lying with a gentlewoman! I have

been lain with a hundred, and a hundred times, and nothing has come

on't! but--hawk, hum! hawk, hum! O, O! Thus have I done for this month

or two--hawk, hum! [_Coughs and spits._]

PAGE. Ah! God's will, are you at it? You have acted your name too much,

sweet Mistress Wagtail. This was wittily, though somewhat knavishly

followed on me.

WAG. Umph! O' my conscience, I am peppered. Well, thou tumblest not for

nothing, for he dances as well that got thee, and plays as well on the

viol, and yet he must not father thee. I have better men. Let me

remember them, and here, in my melancholy, choose out one rich enough

to reward this my stale virginity, or fit enough to marry my little

honesty. Hawk, hawk! [_Coughs and spits._]

PAGE. She has a shrewd reach, I see that. What a casting she keeps.

Marry, my comfort is, we shall hear by and by who has given her the

casting-bottle.

WAG. Hawk, hawk, hawk! bitter, bitter! Pray God, I hurt not the babe.

Well, let me see, I'll begin with knights: _imprimis_, Sir John

Do't-well and Sir William Burn-it.

PAGE. A hot knight, by my faith; Do't-well and Burn-it too.

WAG. For old Sir Innocent Ninny, my master, if I speak my conscience,

look ye, I cannot directly accuse him. Much has he been about, but done

nothing. Marry, for Sir Abraham, I will not altogether 'quit him. Let me

see, there's four knights: now for gentlemen----

PAGE. And so she'll come down to the footmen.

WAG. Master Love-all, Master Liveby't, and Master Pendant. Hawk, hi'up,

hi'up!

PAGE. By this light, I have heard enough. Shall I hold your belly too,

fair maid of the fashion? [_Comes forward._

WAG. What say ye, Jack Sauce?

PAGE. O fie, ill-mutton! you are too angry. Why, look ye; I am my lord's

page, and you are my lady's gentlewoman: we should agree better; and I

pray, whither are you riding with this burthen in your dosser.[33]

WAG. Why, sir, out of town. I hope 'tis not the first time you have seen

a child carried out of town in a dosser for fear of the plague.

PAGE. You have answered me, I promise you: but who put it in, I pray?

WAG. Not you, sir, I know, by your asking.

PAGE. I, alas! I know that by my talent; for I remember thus much

philosophy of my school-masters, _ex nihilo nihil fit_. But come,

setting this duello of wit aside, I have overheard your confession and

your casting about for a father, and in troth, in mere charity, came in

to relieve you. In the scroll of beasts, horses and asses, that have fed

upon this common of yours, you named one Pendant: faith, wench, let him

be the father. He is a very handsome gentleman, I can tell you, in my

lord's favour. I'll be both secret and your friend to my lord. Let it be

him; he shall either reward thee bountifully, or marry thee.

WAG. Sir, you speak like an understanding young gentleman, and I

acknowledge myself much bound to you for your counsel.

PEN. (_Within_). Will, Will!

PAGE. My lord hath sent him to call me. Now I hold a wager on't, if thou

be'st not a fool, as most waiting-women are, thou'lt use him in his

kind.

_Enter_ PENDANT.

PEN. Why, Will, I say! Go; my lord calls extremely.

PAGE. Did not I say so? Come, this is but a trick to send me off, sir.

[_Exit_ PAGE.

PEN. A notable little rascal.

Pretty Mistress Wagtail, why d'ye walk so melancholy?

I sent him hence o' purpose. Come, shall's do?

WAG. Do! what would you do? You have done too much already.

PEN. What's the matter?

WAG. I am with child by you.

PEN. By me? Why, by me? A good jest, i' faith.

WAG. You'll find it, sir, in earnest.

PEN. Why, do you think I am such an ass to believe nobody has

meddled with you but I?

WAG. Do you wrong me so much to think otherwise?

Thus 'tis for a poor damsel like myself

To yield her honour and her youth to any,

Who straight conceives she does so unto many:

And as I have a soul to save, 'tis true.

PEN. Pray, do not swear. I do not urge you to't. 'Swounds, now I am

undone! You walk somewhat round. Sweetheart, has nobody been tampering

with you else? Think on't, for by this light, I am not worth the estate

of an apple-wife. I do live upon commending my lord, the Lord of Hosts

knows it, and all the world besides. For me to marry thee will undo thee

more,

And that thou may'st keep me, keep thee in fashion,

Sell thee to English, French, to Scot, and all,

Till I have brought thee to an hospital;

And there I leave you. Ha' you not heard nor read

Of some base slave that, wagging his fair head,

Does whistling at one end of his shop-walk,

Whilst some gay man doth vomit bawdy talk

In his wife's ears at the other? Such a rogue

Or worse shall I be; for look ye, Mistress Wagtail, I do live like a

chameleon upon the air, and not like a mole upon the earth. Land I have

none. I pray God send me a grave, when I am dead.

WAG. It's all one. I'll have you for your qualities.

PEN. For my good ones, they are altogether unknown, because they have

not yet been seen, nor ever will be, for they have no being. In plain

terms, as God help me, I have none.

WAG. How came you by your good clothes?

PEN. By undoing tailors; and then, my lord (like a snake) casts a suit

every quarter, which I slip into: therefore thou art worse than mad if

thou wilt cast away thyself upon me.

WAG. Why, what 'mends will you make me? can you give me some sum of

money to marry me to some tradesman, as the play says?

PEN. No, by my troth. But tell me this, has not Sir Abraham been

familiar with you?

WAG. Faith, not enough to make up a child.

PEN. Couldst be content to marry him?

WAG. Ay, by my troth, and thank ye, too.

PEN. Has he but kissed thee?

WAG. Yes; and something more beside that.

PEN. Nay, and there ha' been any jot of the thing, beside that, I'll

warrant thee, lay the child to him--

Stand stifly to it, leave the rest to me;

By that fool thou shalt save thy honesty. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Or "Pancras parson," a term of contempt for the convenient

clergymen of that day.

[27] The old copy reads, _And give up breathing to cross their

intent_.

[28] What is the meaning of these initials must be left to the

conjecture of the reader: perhaps _waits playing_, in reference to the

attendant musicians.

[29] _i.e._, All but Kate, Strange, and Scudmore enter the church.

Strange and Kate follow immediately, and leave Scudmore _solus_.

[30] [Referring to what Strange has said a little before, not to

Scudmore's speech, which is spoken aside.]

[31] [Gossamers.]

[32] [Old copies and former edits., _still given_, which appears to be

meaningless. The word substituted is not satisfactory, but it is the

most likely one which has occurred to me, and the term is employed by

our old playwrights rather more widely than at present.]

[33] _Dosser_ is used for a basket generally, but as it means

strictly a pannier for the back (from the Fr. _dossier_), it is here

used very inappropriately with reference to the burden Mrs Wagtail

carries before her. We have it in the modern sense of pannier in "The

Merry Devil of Edmonton"--

"The milkmaids' cuts shall turn the wenches off,

And lay their _dossers_ tumbling in the dust."

--[x. 224.]

ACT III., SCENE I.

_Enter_ STRANGE, _knocking at a door_.

STRANGE. Lies Captain Pouts here, pray?

_Enter a_ SERVINGMAN.

SER. Sir, he does.

STRANGE. I prythee, tell him here's a gentleman would speak with him.

SER. What may I call your name, sir?

STRANGE. No matter for my name.

SER. Troth, sir, the Captain is somewhat doubtful of strangers; and

being, as most captains are, a little in debt, I know he will not speak

with you, unless you send your name.

STRANGE. Tell him my name is Strange; that I am come

About that business he spake of to-day. [_Exit_ SERVANT.

To have sent a formal challenge by a gentleman,

He being to choose his time, might peradventure

Have made him shift himself the sooner over.

_Enter_ POUTS _above_.

CAPT. POUTS. Sir, I know your business. You are come to serve a warrant

or a citation: I will not speak with you; and get you gone quickly too,

or I may happen send a bullet through your mazzard. [_Exit._

STRANGE. Strange cross! past expectation! well, I'll try;

My other course may speed more happily. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Music. Enter with table-napkins_, COUNT FREDERICK, SIR JOHN WORLDLY,

NEVILL, PENDANT, SIR INNOCENT NINNY, LADY NINNY, SIR ABRAHAM. _Servants

with wine, plate, tobacco, and pipes._

SIR J. WOR. Sir, had you borne us company to church,

You had been the better welcome.

C. FRED. Faith, you had; I must needs say so too.

PEN. And I must needs say as my lord says.

NEV. Sir John, I thank you and my honour'd lord:

But I am sorry for this other news

Concerning Mistress Kate and my good friend.

SIR J. WOR. Tis certain true: he keeps his word well too!

He said he would come to dinner.

L. NIN. All we cannot get Mistress Katherine out of her chamber.

SIR J. WOR. O good old woman, she is top-shackled.

L. NIN. 'Tis pestilence sack and cruel claret: knight, stand to me,

knight, I say: up, a cold stomach! give me my aqua-vitæ bottle.

SIR INN. O Guiniver! as I am a justice of peace and quorum, 'twere a

good deed to commit thee. Fie, fie, fie!

ABRA. Why, alas! I cannot help this, and I should be hanged: she'll be

as drunk as a porter. I'll tell you, my lord, I have seen her so be-piss

the rushes, as she has danced at a wedding. Her belly and that aqua-vitæ

bottle have almost undone my father. Well, I think in conscience she is

not my natural-begotten mother.

OMNES. Ha, ha, ha!

NEV. Well said, my wise Sir Abraham.[34]

C. FRED. O, this music

And good wine is the soul of all the world.

SIR J. WOR. Come, will your lordship make one at primero,

Until your bride come forth?

NEV. You can play well, my lord.

C. FRED. Who, I?

PEN. Who? my lord? the only player at primero i' the court.

ABRA. I'd rather play at bowls.

PEN. My lord's for you for that, too: the only bowler in London that is

not a churchwarden.

NEV. Can he fence well, too, Master Pendant?

PEN. Who? my lord? the only fencer in Christendom. He'll hit you.

ABRA. He shall not hit me, I assure you, now.

NEV. Is he good at the exercise of drinking, sir?

PEN. Who? my lord? the only drunkard i' th' world--drinker, I would say.

ABRA. God-a-mercy for that.

NEV. I would he heard him.

ABRA. I know a better whoremaster than he.

NEV. O fie! no: none so good as my lord.

PEN. Hardly, by'r Lady, hardly.

C. FRED. How now! who's this?

_Enter_ SCUDMORE, _like a servingman, with a letter_.

SIR J. WOR. What would you?

SCUD. I would speak with the Lady Bellafront from the young Lady Lucy.

SIR J. WOR. You had best send in your letter; she is withdrawn.

SCUD. My lady gave me charge of the delivery, And I must do't myself, or

carry it back.

SIR J. WOR. A trusty servant. That way leads you to her.

C. FRED. This trust in servants is a jewel. Come,

Let us to bowls i' th' garden. [_Exeunt._

SCUD. Blessed fate!

[SCUDMORE _passeth one door, and entereth the other, where_

BELLAFRONT _sits asleep in a chair, under a taffata canopy_.

SCUD. O thou, whose words and actions seem'd to me

As innocent as this smooth sleep which hath

Lock'd up thy powers! Would thou hadst slept, when first

Thou sent'st and profferedst me beauty and love!

I had been ignorant, then, of such a loss.

Happy's that wretch, in my opinion,

That never own'd scarce jewels or bright sums:

He can lose nothing but his constant wants;

But speakless is his plague, that once had store,

And from superfluous state falls to be poor.

Such is my hell-bred hap! could nature make

So fair a superficies to enclose

So false a heart? This is like gilded tombs,

Compacted of jet pillars, marble stones,

Which hide from 's stinking flesh and rotten bones.

Pallas so sat (methinks) in Hector's tent.

But time, so precious and so dangerous,

Why do I lose thee? Madam, my lady, madam.

BEL. Believe me, my dear friend, I was enforc'd.

Ha! I had a dream as strange as thou art, fellow.

How cam'st thou hither? what's thy business?

SCUD. That letter, madam, tells you.

BEL. Letter? ha!

What, dost thou mock me? here is nothing writ.

SCUD. Can you read anything, then, in this face?

BEL. O basilisk! remove thee from my sight,

Or thy heart's blood shall pay thy rash attempt!

Ho! who attends us there?

SCUD. Stir not a foot,

And stop your clamorous acclamations,

Or, by the bitterness of my fresh wrongs,

I'll send your ladyship to the devil quick!

I know the hazard I do undergo,

And whatsoe'er after becomes of me,

I'll make you sure first. I am come to speak--

And speak I will freely--and to bring back

Your letters and such things you sent; and then

I'll ne'er see those deceiving eyes again.

BEL. O, I am sick of my corruption!

For God's sake, do not speak a word more to me.

SCUD. Not speak? yes, woman, I will roar aloud:

Call thee the falsest fair that ever breath'd;

Tell thee, that in this marriage thou hast drown'd

All virtue left to credit thy weak sex,

Which being (as 'twere) committed to thy trust,

Thou traitorously hast betray'd it thus!

Did I entice, or ever send thee gifts,

To allure thee to reflect a beam on me?

Nay, didst not thou thyself send and invent,

Past human wit, our means of intercourse?

Why dost thou then prove base unto thyself,

Perjur'd and impious? know, the good thou hast lost

In my opinion, doth outvalue far

The airy honours thou art married to.

BEL. O, peace! for you speak sharpness to my soul,

More torturous than hell's plagues to the damn'd.

For love's sake, hear me speak!

SCUD. For love's sake? no:

Love is my surfeit, and is turn'd in me

To a disease.

BEL. Tyrant! my knees shall beg,

Till they get liberty for my tongue to speak,

Drown'd, almost, in the rivers of mine eyes.

SCUD. What canst thou say? art thou not married?

BEL. Alas! I was enforc'd; first by the threats

Of a severe father, that in his hand

Did gripe my fortunes: next to that, the fame

Of your neglect and liberal-talking tongue,

Which bred my honour an eternal wrong.

SCUD. Pish! these are painted causes. Till this morn

He liv'd not in this land, that durst accuse

My integrity of such an ignorance.

But take your letters here, your paper vows,

Your picture and your bracelets; and if ever

I build again upon a woman's faith,

May sense forsake me! I will sooner trust

Dice or a reconciled enemy: O God!

What an internal joy my heart has felt,

Sitting at one of these same idle plays,

When I have seen a maid's inconstancy

Presented to the life! how my glad eyes

Have stole about me, fearing lest my looks

Should tell the company convented there

The mistress that I had free of such faults.

BEL. O, still retain her so! dear Scudmore, hear me.

SCUD. Retain thee so? it is impossible!

Art thou not married? 'tis impossible!

O no! I do despise thee, and will fly

As far on earth as to the Antipodes,

And by some learn'd magician, whose deep art

Can know thy residence on this hemisphere,

There I'll be plac'd, my feet just against thine,

To express the opposite nature, which our hearts

Must henceforth hold.

BEL. O, rather shoot me, friend,

Than let me hear thee speak such bitterness!

O, pity me! redeem me from the hell,

That in this marriage I am like to feel!

I'll rather fly to barren wildernesses,

And suffer all wants with thee, Scudmore, than

Live with all plenty in this husband's arms.

Thou shalt perceive I am not such a woman,

That is transported with vain dignities.

O, thy dear words have knock'd at my heart's gates,

And enter'd. They have pluck'd the devil's vizard

(That did deform this face, and blind my soul)

Off, and thy Bellafront presents herself,

Lav'd in a bath of contrite virginal tears:

Cloth'd in the original beauty that was thine!

Now, for thy love to God, count this not done:

Let time go back, and be as when before it,

Or from thy memory rase it for ever!

SCUD. Ha, ha! heart! was there ever such strange creatures fram'd?

Why dost thou speak such foolish, senseless things?

Can thy forsaking him redeem thy fault?

No, I will never mend an ill with worse.

Why, thy example will make women false,

When they shall hear it, that before were true;

For after ill examples we do fly,

But must be vow'd to deeds of piety.

O woman, woman, woman, woman, woman!

The cause of future and original sin,

How happy (had you not) should we have been!

False, where you kiss, but murdering in your ire;

Love all can woo, know all men you desire:

Ungrateful, yet most impudent to crave,

Torturous as hell, insatiate as the grave:

Lustful as monkeys, grinning in your ease,

Whom if we make not idols, we ne'er please:

More vainly proud than fools, as ignorant;

Baser than parasites: witches that enchant

And make us senseless, to think death or life

Is yours to give, when only our belief

Doth make you able to deceive us so:

Begot by drunkards to breed sin and woe;

As many foul diseases hide your veins,

As there are mischiefs coin'd in your quick brains:

Not quick in wit, fit to perform least good,

But to subvert whole states, shed seas of blood:

Twice as deceitful as are crocodiles,

For you betray both ways, with tears and smiles.

Yet questionless there are as good, as bad.

Hence! let me go.

BEL. Hear me, and thou shalt go.

I do confess I do deserve all this,

Have wounded all the faith my sex doth owe,

But will recover it, or pay my life.

Strive not to go, for you shall hear me first.

I charge thee, Scudmore, thou hard-hearted man,

Upon my knees-- [_Kneels._]

Thou most implacable man, since penitence

And satisfaction too gets not thy pardon,

I charge thee use some means to set me free, [_Rises again._]

Before the revels of this night have end.

Prevent my entering to this marriage-bed;

Or by the memory of Lucretia's knife,

Ere morn I'll die a virgin, though a wife. [_Exit._

SCUD. Pish! do: the world will have one mischief less.

[_Exit._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ SIR ABRAHAM NINNY, _throwing down his bowl_.

ABRA. Bowl they that list, for I will bowl no more.

Cupid, that little bowler, in my breast

Rubs at my heart, and will not let me rest.

[_Within: Rub, rub, fly, fly._[35]

Ay, ay, you may cry _Rub, fly_, to your bowls,

For you are free: love troubles not your jowls,

But from my head to heel, from heel to heart:

Behind, before, and roundabout I smart.

Then in this arbour, sitting all alone,

In doleful ditty let me howl my moan.

O boy![36] leave pricking, for I vail my bonnet:[37]

Give me but breath, while I do write a sonnet.

_Enter_ PENDANT.

PEN. I have lost my money, and Sir Abraham too. Yonder he sits at his

muse, by heaven, drowned in the ocean of his love. Lord! how he labours,

like a hard-bound poet whose brains had a frost in 'em. Now it comes.

ABRA. _I die, I sigh_.

PEN. What, after you are dead? very good.

ABRA. _I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel_.

PEN. Good; because she is hard-hearted.

ABRA. _I die_. [_Write._

PEN. He has died three times, and come again.

ABRA. ----_I sigh, thou precious stony jewel.

Wearing of silk, why art thou still so cruel_. [_Write._

PEN. O Newington conceit!

And quieting eke.[38]

ABRA. _Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish ditty_.

PEN. You say true, in troth, sir.

ABRA. _Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish dit-

Ty unto thee, pity both him and it_. [_Write._

PEN. _Ty unto thee:_ well, if she do not pity both, 'tis pity she

should live.

ABRA. _But if thou still wilt poor Sir Abraham frump,

Come, grim death, come! here give thy mortal thump_. [_Write._

So; now I'll read it together.

_I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel,

O, wherefore wear'st thou silk, yet art so cruel?

To thee thy Ninny sends this foolish dit-

Ty, and pity both him and it._[39]

_If thou deny, and still Sir Abraham frump,

Come, grim death, come! here give thy mortal thump._

Let me see, who shall I get now to set it to a dumpish note.

PEN. In good faith, I do not know; but nobody that is wise, I am sure of

that. It will be an excellent matter sung to the knacking of the tongs.

But to my business. God save thee, worthy and right worshipful Sir

Abraham! what, musing and writing? O, this love will undo us all, and

that made me prevent love, and undo myself. But what news of Mistress

Lucida? ha! will she not come off, nor cannot you come on, little

Abraham?

ABRA. Faith, I have courted her, and courted her; and she does, as

everybody else does, laughs at all I can do or say.

PEN. Laughs; why that's a sign she is pleased. Do you not know, when a

woman laughs, she's pleased?

ABRA. Ay, but she laughs most shamefully and most scornfully.

PEN. Scornfully! hang her, she's but a bauble.

ABRA. She's the fitter for my turn, sir; for they will not stick to say,

I am a fool, for all I am a knight.[40]

PEN. Love has made you witty, little Nab; but what a mad villain art

thou, a striker, a fiftieth part of Hercules, to get one wench with

child, and go a-wooing to another.

ABRA. With child! a good jest, i' faith: whom have I got with child?

PEN. Why, Mistress Wagtail is with child, and will be deposed 'tis

yours. She is my kinswoman, and I would be loth our house should suffer

any disgrace in her; if there be law in England, which there should be,

if we may judge by their consciences, or if I have any friends, the

wench shall take no wrong. I cannot tell: I think my lord will stick to

me.

ABRA. D'ye hear? talk not to me of friends, law, or conscience: if your

kinswoman say she is with child by me, your kinswoman is an errant

whore. Od's will, have you nobody to put your gulls upon but knights?

That Wagtail is a whore, and I'll stand to it.

PEN. Nay, you have stood to it already. But to call my cousin whore! you

have not a mind to have your throat cut, ha' you?

ABRA. Troth, no great mind, sir.

PEN. Recant your words, or die. [_Draws his sword._

ABRA. Recant? O, base! out, sword, mine honour keep:

Love, thou hast made a lion of a sheep.

PEN. But will you fight in this quarrel?

ABRA. I am resolved.

PEN. Heart! I have pulled an old house over my head: here's like to be a

tall fray. I perceive a fool's valianter than a knave at all times.

Would I were well rid of him: I had as lief meet Hector, God knows, if

he dare fight at all: they are all one to me; or, to speak more

modernly, with one of the roaring boys. [_Aside._

ABRA. Have you done your prayers?

PEN. Pray give me leave, sir: put up, an't please you. Are you sure my

cousin Wagtail is a whore?

ABRA. With sword in hand I do it not recant.

PEN. Well, it shall never be said Jack Pendant would venture his blood

in a whore's quarrel. But, whore or no whore, she is most desperately in

love with you: praises your head, your face, your nose, your eyes, your

mouth: the fire of her commendations makes the pot of your good parts

run over; and to conclude, if the whore have you not, I think the pond

at Islington will be her bathing-tub, and give an end to mortal misery.

But if she belie you----pray, put up, sir; she is an errant whore, and

so let her go.

ABRA. Does she so love me, say you?

PEN. Yes, yes: out of all question, the whore does love you abominable.

ABRA. No more of these foul terms: if she do love me,

That goes by fate, I know it by myself.

I'll not deny but I have dallied with her.

PEN. Ay, but hang her, whore; dallying will get no children.

ABRA. Another _whore_, and draw! Where is the girl?

PEN. Condoling her misfortune in the gallery;

Upon the rushes sitting all alone,

And for Sir Abraham's love venting her moan.

ABRA. I know not what to say: fate's above all.

Come, let's go overbear her. Be this true,

Welcome, my Wagtail: scornful Luce, adieu. [_Exit._

PEN. One way it takes yet. 'Tis a fool's condition,

Whom none can love, out of his penury

To catch most greedily at any wench

That gives way to his love, or feigns her own

First unto him: and so Sir Abraham now,

I hope, will buy the pool where I will fish.

Thus a quick knave makes a fat fool his dish. [_Exit._

_Enter_ CAPTAIN POUTS.

CAPT. POUTS. I have played the melancholy ass, and partly the knave, in

this last business, but as the parson said that got the wench with

child, "'Tis done now, sir; it cannot be undone, and my purse or I must

smart for it."

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SER. Your trunks are shipped, and the tide falls out about twelve

to-night.

CAPT. POUTS. I'll away. This law is like the basilisk, to see it first

is the death on't.[41] This night and, noble London, farewell; I will

never see thee more, till I be knighted for my virtues. Let me see, when

shall I return? and yet I do not think, but there are a great many

dubbed for their virtues; otherwise, how could there be so many poor

knights?[42]

_Enter_ STRANGE, _like a soldier, amazedly_.

What art thou? what's thy news?

STRANGE. 'Zoons; a man is fain to break open doors, ere he can get in

to you. I would speak with a general sooner.

CAPT. POUTS. Sir, you may: he owes less, peradventure; or if more, he is

more able to pay't. What art?

STRANGE. A soldier; one that lives upon this buff jerkin: 'twas made of

Fortunatus's pouch; and these are the points I stand upon. I am a

soldier.

CAPT. POUTS. A counterfeit rogue you are.

STRANGE. As true a rogue as thyself. Thou wrong'st me. Send your man

away: go to, I have strange and welcome business to impart. The merchant

is dead for shame: let's walk into the fields: send away your man.

CAPT. POUTS. How?

STRANGE. Here is a letter from the lusty Kate,

That tells you all: I must not give it you,

But upon some conditions. Let us walk,

And send away your man.

CAPT. POUTS. Go, sirrah, and bespeak supper at the Bear, and provide

oars: I'll see Gravesend to-night. [_Exit_ SERVANT.

STRANGE. The gentlewoman will run mad after you then. I'll tell you

more: let's walk. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[34] This remark, and a question below, in the old copy are given to

Luce; but Lucida is not upon the stage, and could not be there, as

Scudmore afterwards enters, pretending to be the bearer of a letter

from her. The name of _Nevill_ has been substituted for Luce, and at

least there is no impropriety in assigning what is said to him. Two

other speeches, attributed to her, obviously belong to Sir Abraham.

[35] The exclamations of the bowlers, whom Sir Abraham has just

quitted.

[36] [Addressing Cupid.]

[37] The French phrase is _avaler le bonnet_, _i.e._, to lower the

bonnet. The etymology of _avaler_ is disputed; but our _vale_, or as

it is usually spelt, _vail_, is from _avaler_.

[38] This was probably a hit at the sort of "_worsted_ conceits" in

plays represented at the old Newington theatre, which appears at one

time to have been under the management of Philip Henslowe.

[39] There is a blank in this line in the old copy. Sir Abraham seems

as fastidious as most versifiers, and it will be observed, that in

reading over his "sonnet" he makes a variety of alterations. Perhaps

the blank was left to show that he could not fill it up to his

satisfaction, not liking the line as it stood, when he first committed

it to paper--

"Ty _unto thee_, pity both him and it."

[40] Alluding to the _bauble_ or truncheon, usually with a head carved

at the top of it, part of the _insignia_ of the ancient licensed fool

or jester.

[41] Should we not read "is the death on us," or "of us?"

[42] This is one out of innumerable hits, in our old dramatists, at

the indiscriminate creation of knights by James I. Their poverty was a

constant subject of laughter. See Ben Jonson's "Alchemist," act ii.;

Chapman's "Monsieur d'Olive," act i., and "Widows' Tears," act iv.;

Barry's "Ram Alley," act i.; and Middleton's "Mad World, my Masters,"

act i., &c. Field's satire is as pungent as that of the best of them.

ACT IV., SCENE I.

_Enter_ SCUDMORE _and_ NEVILL.

I see great'st spirits[43] can serve to their own ends.

Were you the seeming servingman that pass'd by?

SCUD. By my sad heart, I was; and not a tittle

Of my relation to thee wrong or feign'd.

NEV. In troth you were to blame to venture so.

Mischiefs find us: we need not mischiefs seek.

SCUD. I am not tied to that opinion,[44]

They are like women, which do always shun

Their lovers and pursuers, and do follow

With most rank appetites them that do fly:

All mischief that I had is but one woman,

And that one woman all mischance to me:

Who speaks worst of them, there's[45] the best of men.

They are like shadows: mischiefs are like them.

Death fears me, for in troth I seek him out.

The sun is stale to me; to-morrow morn,

As this, 'twill rise: I see no difference.

The night doth visit me but in one robe,

She brings as many thoughts as she wears stars,

When she is pleasant, but no rest at all.

For what new strange thing should I covet life, then?

Is not she false, whom only I thought true?

Shall time to show his strength make Scudmore live,

Till (perish the vicious thought!) I love not thee,

Or thou, dear friend, remove thy heart from me?

NEV. Time is as weak for that, as he is old.

Take comfort, and attend this counsel, friend:

This match is neither sacred nor [is] sure;

Close fate annihilates what opinion makes,

And since she is resolved this night to die,

If you do not redeem her, give the means,

Or her blood (credit me) will spring heavier griefs.

Sorer and stranger, in thy oppressed heart,

Than her false love before. Besides, 'tis you,

My Scudmore, that are false, if you will not

Consent to let her make vows good, which were

But in a possibility to be broke.

This her repentance casts her vice quite off,

And if you leave her now, you take it on.

Nay, you incur a bloody mortal sin:

You do become an actual murderer.

If you neglect her, she will kill herself

This night by poison, knife, or other means.

God gives you power to cross her desperate will,

And if you save not, where you may, you kill.

SCUD. Why, can my noble and wise friend think still

That what a woman says her heart doth mean?

Can you believe that she will kill herself?

'Tis a full hour, since she spake the word,

And God forbid, that any woman's mind

Should not be chang'd and chang'd in a long hour.

She is by this time in her lordly arms,

And, like pleas'd Juno clasp'd by Jupiter,

Forgets the plaints of poor mortality:

Such state, such pride, as poets show her in,

Incens'd with Jove's loose 'scapes upon the earth,

She cast on me at our encountering.

As cold and heavy as a rock of ice,

In her love to me, which while I there stay'd,

My bitter and hot words resolv'd[46] a little:

Just as the sun doth ice I soften'd her,

And made her drown her fault in her own tears.

But think you she holds this flexible vein?

No, I'm remov'd, and she's congeal'd again.

NEV. How well does Scudmore speak ill for himself!

Wit's a disease that fit employment wants;

Therefore we see those happiest in best parts,

And fortunes under-born unto their merits,[47]

Grow to a sullen envy, hate, and scorn

Of their superiors; and at last, like winds,

Break forth into rebellious civil wars

Or private treasons: none so apt for these

As melancholy wits, fetter'd with need.

How free's the rustic swain from these assaults!

He never feels a passion all his life,

But when he cannot sleep, or hunger gripes;

And though he want reason, wit, art--nay, sense,

Is not so senseless to capitulate,

And ask God why he made not him as great

As that same foolish lord or that rich knave?

His brain with nothing does negotiate,

But his hard husbandry, which makes him live.

But have we worthy gifts, as judgment, learning,

Ingenious sharpness (which wise God indeed

Doth seldom give out of His equal hand,

But join'd with poverty, to make it even

With riches, which he clogs with ignorance),

We vent our blessing in profane conceits,

Foul bawdry, or strong arguments against

Ourselves,[48] and stark blindly hold it best

Rather to lose a soul than lose a jest.

SCUD. Ill terms my friend this wit in any man;

For that, but season'd with discretion,

Holds him in awe of all these blemishes

Frees him of envy, doth philosophise

His spirit, that he makes no difference

'Twixt man and man, 'twixt fortunes high and low,

But as the thicker they with virtues grow.

Freedom and bondage wit can make all one;

So 'twould by being left and being lov'd,

If I had any of it temper'd so.

But you have spoke all this, condemning me

For having wit to speak against myself,

But I'll be rul'd by you in all.

NEV. Then thus.

To-night by promise I do give a masque,

As to congratulate the bridal day,

In which the Count, Pendant, and the wise knight

Will be most worthy dancers: sir, you shall

Learn but my part, which I will teach you too,

As nimbly as the usher did teach me,

And follow my further directions.

Though I, i' th' morn, were [no][49] prodigious wight,

I'll give thee Bellafront in thine arms to-night.

SCUD. I am your property, my enginer.[50]

Prosper your purposes! shine, thou eye of heaven.

And make thy lowering morn a smiling even! [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN POUTS, _with a letter, and_ STRANGE, _like a soldier_.

STRANGE. O, these are Lambeth fields.

CAPT. POUTS. Strange murder'd on the weddingday by you,

At his own bride's appointment, for my sake?

STRANGE. As dead as charity.

CAPT. POUTS. This sounds not well.

STRANGE. 'Zoons! you may say as well I am the man,

As doubt he lives. A plague of your belief!

D'ye know this bloody ruff, which she has sent,

Lest you should be incredulous, and this ring

Which you have seen her wear.

CAPT. POUTS. I know the ring,

And I have seen the ruff about his neck.

This comes of enforc'd marriages. Where was't done?

And how escap'd you?

STRANGE. Sir, receive it briefly.

I am her kinsman, and being newly come

Over, and not intending to stay long,

Took this day to go see my cousin Worldly

(For so my name is), where I found all of them

So deeply drenched in the bridal cup,

That sleep had ta'en possession of their eyes.

Bacchus had given them such an overthrow,

Their bodies lay like slaughtered carcases;

One here, one there, making such antic faces,

As drunkenness had mock'd at drunkenness.

In troth, their postures and their sleep, like death

(For theirs was liker death than sober sleep),

Remember'd me of body-scatter'd fields,

After the bloody battles I have seen.

'Twas such a season, to make short my tale,

As fate had said, "Now murders may be done

And ne'er reveal'd." Approaching further, I

Lighted upon a chamber, where your love

Sat by this merchant, cast drunk on the bed--

She weeping and lamenting her mishap,

Assur'd both, of my daring and my trust,

Fell flat upon the ground, then rais'd herself,

Hung on my neck, then sunk down to my legs,

Told all things pass'd to-day, and never ceas'd,

Till I had ta'en life from that half-dead man

Before, whom straight I strangled with this rope.

CAPT. POUTS. You have show'd some kindness to me:

I must love you, sir. What did you with his body?

STRANGE. Having first,

By her direction, put on these his clothes,

That like the murder'd man the safelier

I might pass with her, being her husband's shape,

If any of the servants had been wak'd,

She show'd me to a necessary vault,

Within a closet in the chamber too,

And there I threw the body.

CAPT. POUTS. Whence this blood?

STRANGE. That she herself first let out of his veins;

Wherein she dipp'd the ruff about his neck,

And said, "Go, bear this ensign of my love,

To assure him what I dar'd for his dear sake."

CAPT. POUTS. Where is the maid?

STRANGE. Captain, a maid for you!

(But well you know, I hope, she is no maid)

But maid or no maid, she is at my mother's,

Whence I will bring her whither you'll appoint

To-night; and let this tide convey all hence,

For staying will be something perilous.

CAPT. POUTS. I will kill two men for you; till then

I owe my life to you, and if ever racks,

Strappadoes, wheel, or any torturous engine,

Even from the Roman yoke to the Scotch boot,[51]

Force me discover you or her to law,

Pray God the merchant may respire again.

But what a villain have I been to wrong her!

Did she not tell you how I injur'd her?

STRANGE. She said you challeng'd her, and publicly

Told you had lain with her; but truth's no wrong.

CAPT. POUTS. Truth! 'twas more false than hell, and you shall see me

(As well as I can repent of any sin)

Ask her forgiveness for wounding of her name,

And 'gainst the world recover her lost fame.

Kind soul! would I could weep to make amends!

Why, I did slander her at the church-door.

STRANGE. The more base villain thou. [_Strike him._

CAPT. POUTS. Ha! what's the news?

STRANGE. Thou unspeakable rascal! thou, a soldier!

A captain of the suburbs, a poor foist,[52]

That with thy slops and cat-a-mountain face,

Thy bladder-chops and thy robustious words,

Fright'st the poor whore, and terribly dost exact

A weekly subsidy, twelvepence apiece,

Whereon thou liv'st; and on my conscience,

Thou snapp'st besides with cheats and cutpurses.

CAPT. POUTS. Heart! this is some railing poet.

Why, you rogue!

STRANGE. Thou rogue--far worse than rogues--thou slanderer!

CAPT. POUTS. Thou worse than slanderous rogues; thou murderer!

STRANGE. 'Tis well-remember'd: I will cut thy throat,

To appease that merchant's soul, which ne'er will rest

Till some revenge be taken on thy tongue.

CAPT. POUTS. I'll kill thee first, and in thy vital flood

Wash my hands clean of that young merchant's blood. [_Fight._

STRANGE. You fight, as if you had fought afore.

I can still hold my sword: come on, sir.

CAPT. POUTS. 'Zoons! can you ward so well? I think you are

One of the noble science of defence.

STRANGE. True, o' th' science of noble defence I am,

That fight in safeguard of a virtuous name.

[_Cadit_ CAPTAIN POUTS.

CAPT. POUTS. O, now I understand you, and you stand over me. My

hurts are not mortal, but you have the better. If your name be

Worldly, be thankful for your fortune.

STRANGE. Give me thy sword, or I will kill thee.

CAPT. POUTS. Some wiser than some! I love my reputation well, yet I

am not so valiant an ass but I love my life better. There's my

sword.

STRANGE. Then get upon my back: come, all shall be well. I'll carry

thee unto a surgeon first, And then unto thy wench. Come, we are

friends.

CAPT. POUTS. God-a-mercy. 'Zoons! methinks I see myself in

Moorfields, upon a wooden leg, begging threepence.[53]

STRANGE. I thank thee, heaven, for my success in this.

To what perfection, is my business grown!

Seldom or never is right overthrown.

[_Exit with_ CAPTAIN POUTS _on his back_.

_Enter_ PENDANT, _and_ MISTRESS WAGTAIL _with work, sewing a purse_.

PEN. They say every woman has a springe to catch a woodcock: remember my

instructions, and let me see what a paradise thou canst bring this fool

into. Fifteen hundred a year, wench, will make us all merry; but a fool

to boot! why, we shall throw the house out at window. Let me see, there

are two things in this foolish, transitory world which should be

altogether regarded: profit and pleasure, or pleasure and profit--I know

not which to place first, for indeed they are twins, and were born

together. For profit, this marriage (God speed it!) marries you to it;

and for pleasure, if I help you not to that as cheap as any man in

England, call me cut.[54] And so remember my instructions, for I'll go

fetch Sir Abraham. [_Exit._

WAG. Your instructions! Nay, faith, you shall see I have as fruitful a

brain as a belly: you shall hear some additions of my own. My fantasy

even kicks like my bastard: well, boy, for I know thou art masculine,

neither thy father nor thy mother had any feminine quality but one, and

that was to take a good thing when it was proffered. When thou

inherit'st land, strange both to thy father and grandfather, and rid'st

in a coach, it may be thy father, an old footman, will be running by

thy side. But yonder comes the gentle knight and my squire.

_Enter SIR ABRAHAM and PENDANT stealing.[55]_

WAG. Unfortunate damsel! why dost thou love

Where thou hast sworn it never to reveal?

Maybe he would vouchsafe to look on thee.

Because he is a knight, is it thy terror?

Why, peradventure, he is Knighthood's Mirror[56].

PEN. D'ye hear, Sir Abraham?

ABRA. Yes, with standing tears.

WAG. Bevis[57] on Arundel, with Morglay in hand,

Near to my knight in prowess doth not stand.

They say Sir Bevis slew both boar and dragon,

My knight for that can drink up a whole flagon,

A thing as famous now amongst our men,

As killing monsters was accounted then.

'Tis not thy leg, no, were it twice as good,

Throws me into this melancholy mood;

Yet let me say and swear, in a cross-garter

Paul's never show'd to eyes a lovelier quarter.

ABRA. Ay, but all this while she does not name me: she may mean

somebody else.

PEN. Mean somebody else! you shall hear her name you by and by.

WAG. Courteous Sir Abraham.

PEN. La ye there!

WAG. O, thy very name,

Like to a hatchet, cleaves my heart in twain.

When first I saw thee in those little breeches,

I laugh'd for joy, but when I heard thy speeches,

I smil'd downright, for I was almost frantic,

A modern knight should be so like an antic

In words and deeds. Those pinken-eyes[58] of thine,

For I shall ne'er be blest to call them mine----

ABRA. Say not so, sweetheart.

WAG. How they did run, not rheumaticly run,

But round about the room, one over one!

That wide mouth? no, small: no, but middle-size,

That nose dominical, that head, like----wise.

PEN. Very good: d'ye mark that head likewise?

ABRA. She has an excellent wit.

PEN. I'll now into her, sir: observe what follows. Now, turtle, mourning

still for the party? for whom are you working that purse?

ABRA. For me, I warrant her. [_Aside._]

WAG. What news, good cousin? I hope you have not revealed my love.

PEN. Yes, faith, I have acquainted the knight with all; and thou may'st

be ashamed to abuse a gentleman so slanderously. He swears he ne'er lay

with you.

WAG. Lie with me? alas! no, I say not so, nor no man living; but there

was one night above the rest, that I dreamt he lay with me; and did you

ne'er hear of a child begot in a dream.

ABRA. By this light, that very night I dreamt she lay with me.

[_Aside._]

PEN. Ay, but Sir Abraham is no dreaming knight: in short, he contemns

you, he scorns you at his heels.

ABRA. By God, so he lies. I have the most ado to forbear, but that I

would hear a little more.

PEN. And has sent this halter. You may hang yourself, or you may cut

your throat: here's a knife, too.

WAG. Well, I will love him in despite of all,

Howe'er he uses me! 'tis not the shame

Of being examin'd or the fear of whipping----

PEN. Make as if thou wouldst kill thyself. [_Aside._]

WAG. ----should move me, would but he vouchsafe his love.

Bear him this purse, fill'd with my latest breath. [_Blows in it._

I lov'd thee, Abraham Ninny, even in death. [_Offers to stab._

ABRA. Hold! hold! thy knight commands thee for to hold.

I sent no halter. Poor soul, how it pants!

Take courage, look up.

PEN. Look, Sir Abraham in person comes to see you.

WAG. O, let me die, then, in his worship's arms!

ABRA. Live long and happy to produce thy baby:

I am thy knight, and thou shalt be my lady.

Frown, dad, fret, mother, so my love look cheerly:

Thou hast my heart, and thou hast bought it dearly;

And for your pains, if Abraham live t' inherit,

He will not be unmindful of your merit.

Wear thou this ring, whilst I thy labours task.

This purse wear in my cap, anon i' th' masque[59].

WAG. O happy woman!

ABRA. To supper let's, and merry be as may be.

PEN. Now, God send every wise knight such a lady. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[43] The word _spirit_ in our old poets was often pronounced as one

syllable, and hence, in fact, the corruption _sprite_. This line is

not measure without so reading it.

[44] This is the first line of Scudmore's answer; but in the old copy

that and the eighteen lines following it are given to Nevill.

[45] [Old copy, _then_.]

[46] See note to "Hamlet," act i. sc. 2, for a collection of instances

in which _resolve_ means _dissolve_. Probably the latest example is to

be found in Pope's "Homer"--

"The phantom said, then vanish'd from his sight,

_Resolves_ to air, and mixes with the night."

--"Iliad," b. ii.

In some recent editions it has been thought an improvement to alter

_resolves_ to _dissolves_.

[47] [Old copy, _under-born fortunes under their merits_.]

[48] [Old copy reads--

"Or in strange arguments against ourselves,

Foul bawdry, and stark," &c.]

[49] [Old copy, _a_.]

[50] The old word for engineer: so in Heywood's "Edward IV.,

Part II.," 1600, sig. M 3--

"But it was not you

At whom the fatal _enginer_ did aim."

Ben Jonson uses it in his "Cataline," act iii. sc. 4--

"The _enginers_ I told you of are working."

[51] A well-known instrument of torture.

[52] Dekker, in his "Bellman of London," sig. H 2, explains _foist_ to

be a pickpocket; and instances of the use of it in this sense, and as

a rogue and cheater, may be found in many of our old writers.

[53] It will be recollected that Brainworm, in "Every Man in his

Humour," is represented upon a wooden leg, begging in Moorfields, like

an old soldier. [See further in Hazlitt's "Popular Poetry," iv.

38-40.]

[54] This passage, among others, is quoted by Steevens in a note to

"Twelfth Night," to show that _cut_, which also means a _horse_, was

employed as a term of abuse. In "Henry IV., Part I.," Falstaff, for

the same purpose, uses _horse_ as synonymous with _cut:_ "Spit in my

face, and call me _horse_."

[55] [_i.e._, Furtively.]

[56] [An allusion to the romance entitled "The Mirror of Knighthood."]

[57] She has just referred to the well-known work "The Mirror of

Knighthood," and by _Bevis_ she means Bevis of Hampton. _Arundel_ was

the name of his horse, and _Morglay_ of his sword. Morglay is often

used for a sword in general.

[58] In the old copy it is printed _pinkanies_, and from what follows

it seems that the expression has reference to the redness of Sir

Abraham's eyes from soreness. The following passage is to the same

effect: "'Twould make a horse break his bridle to hear how the youth

of the village will commend me: 'O the pretty little _pinking nyes_ of

Mopsa!' says one: 'O the fine fat lips of Mopsa!' says

another."--Day's "Isle of Gulls," 1606, sig. D 4.

Shakespeare ("Antony and Cleopatra," act ii. sc. 7), speaks of "plumpy

Bacchus with _pink eyne;_" and Lodge, in "The Wounds of Civil War,"

has _pinky neyne_, [vii. 167.] In both these instances drinking is

supposed to have occasioned the redness.

ACT V., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ BELLAFRONT.

BEL. Titles and state, d'ye call it? O content!

Thou art both beauty, means, and all in marriage.

Joy dwells not in the princes' palaces:

They that envy 'em do not know their cares.

Were I the queen of gold, it could not buy

An hour's ease for my oppressed heart.

O, were this wedlock knot to tie again,

Not all the state and glory it contains,

Join'd with my father's fury, should enforce

My rash consent! but, Scudmore, thou shalt see

This false heart (in my death) most true to thee.

[_Shows a knife hanging by her side._

My lord, my father, all the company,

Did note my sudden sadness now at supper;

Yet came I out, and put on feigned mirth,

And mean to sit out this night's revels, too,

To avoid all suspect may grow in 'em,

Lest my behaviour should my intent reveal:

Our griefs, like love, we hardly can conceal[60].

Yon come my sisters. Are the masquers ready?

_Enter_ LUCIDA, _with her willow garland on, and_ KATHERINE.

LUC. They are gone to dress themselves. Master Nevill's come.

I would I had not vow'd to live a maid!

I am a little taken with that gentleman,

And yet if marriage be so full of ill,

Let me be married to my garland still.

KATH. In troth, thy state is happier much than ours.

Were never two like us unfortunate!

LUC. Thy case indeed I needs must pity much,

Because I think thy virtue slandered;

But for my lady sister, if she reap

Sad discontent, 'tis none's but her own fault:

I knew the passages 'twixt her and Scudmore.

BEL. Sister, I wonder you will name a man,

I think not on: he was no match for me.

Why d'ye blame me, that should rather blame

Your wandering eye, to love a man lov'd me?

LUC. Well, 'tis too late now to expostulate.

But, my poor little Kate, where is thy man?

KATH. Lost, lost, in troth: to-morrow I shall hear,

I make account, he's gone some five-years' voyage,

Till this disgrace of ours be overblown;

And for my Captain Pouts, by this time he

Is ten mile on the river toward Gravesend.

_Enter_ SIR JOHN WORLDLY _with_ SERVANTS, _with torches and cudgels_.

SIR J. WOR. Stand you two there. Sirrah, go you with me.

Why, how now, girls! here still? what, and your ladyship?

Away! away, I say: go take your places.

Some torches for my lady! You sirrah,

[_Exeunt_ BELLAFRONT, LUCIDA, KATE.

Is my Lady Ninny awake yet?[61]

SER. Yes, sir, she is awake, but she is scant sober: the first thing

she called for was her aqua-vitæ bottle.

SIR J. WOR. Who is with her?

SER. The good Sir Innocent and her gentlewoman.

SIR J. WOR. Go, tell 'em I desire their company,

The masque stays on 'em, say; and d'ye hear,

The sides of one o' th' chairs must be let out

For her great ladyship.

SER. Marry, shall it, sir. [_Exit_ SERVANT.

_Enter_ NEVILL, COUNT, PENDANT, _and_ SIR ABRAHAM, _in their masquing

robes;_ SIR ABRAHAM _gnawing on a capon's leg_.

NEV. Soul! man, leave eating now: look, look! you have all dropped o'

your suit.

ABRA. O sir, I was in love to-day, and could not eat; but here's one

knows the case is altered. Lend me but a handkerchief to wipe my mouth,

and I ha' done.

NEV. Soul! how this rascal stays with the rest of our things.

SIR J. WOR. How now, son Count? what, ready, Master Nevill?

NEV. All ready, ready; only we tarry for our vizards and our caps: I put

'em to a knave to do,[62] because I would have 'em the better done.

ABRA. If you put 'em to a knave, you are like to have 'em the worse

done.

NEV. Your wit is most active: I called him knave in regard of his long

stay, sir, not his work.

ABRA. But, d'ye hear, Master Nevill? did you bespeak a vizard with a

most terrible countenance for me?

NEV. A very devil's face: I fear nothing, but that it will fright the

women.

ABRA. I would it would. And a huge moustachio?[63]

NEV. A very Turk's.

ABRA. Excellent!

C. FRED. But do you think he will come at all?

OMNES. O, there he is.

SCUD. (_Within_). By your leave! stand back, by your leave!

_Enter_ SCUDMORE, _like a vizard-maker_.

Nothing can be done to-night, if I enter not.

2D SER. Stand back there, or I'll burn you.

SCUD. 'Twere but a whorish trick, sir.

3D SER. O sir, is't you? Heart! you will be kill'd.

SCUD. Marry, God forbid, sir.

NEV. Pray, forbear; let me speak to him. O, you use us very well.

SCUD. In good faith, I have been so troubled about this gentleman's

scurvy face (I take it), 'tis wonderful.

ABRA. Well, are you fitted now?

NEV. Fitted at all points.

C. FRED. Where are the caps?

SCUD. Here, sir.

PEN. Let me see mine.

C. FRED. Come, help me on with mine.

ABRA. This is a rare face to fright the maids i' th' country! Here now

I'll pin my purse. Come, help me on.

NEV. So, so, away! mine being on, I'll follow you.

OMNES. Pray, make haste.

[_Exeunt_ SIR JOHN WORLDLY, SIR ABRAHAM, COUNT, PENDANT.

NEV. So, that door's fast, and they are busied

About their charge. On with this robe of mine,

This vizard and this cap: help me a little. [_Change habits._

SCUD. At first change I must tell her who I am.

NEV. Right; 'tis agreed, I (leading of the masque)

Should dance with Bellafront.

SCUD. And at the second,

I come away with her, and leave them dancing,

And shall find you at the back door.

NEV. The rest,

That follows, is digested in my breast.

SER. What would you do I stand back,

Unless you can eat torches!

_Enter_ COUNT, PENDANT, SIR ABRAHAM, _in their masquing robes_.

C. FRED. Come, come! away for shame!

SCUD. 'Tis such a tedious rascal. So ha' wi' ye. [_Exeunt masquers._

SIR J. WOR. Thou hast well fitted 'em, though thou mad'st 'em stay.

NEV. I forbid any man to mend 'em, sir. Good night unto your

worship.

SIR J. WOR. Wilt not stay?

NEV. Alas, sir! I have another to set forth

This very night. By your leave, my masters.

[_Exit_ NEVILL _through them_.

2D SER. By your leave! by your leave! you'll let a man go out?

SIR J. WOR. Now, go with me, and let all in that will.

[_Exit_ SIR JOHN WORLDLY _with them, and run in three or four_.

SCENE II.

_Enter two or three, setting three or four chairs and four or five

stools. Loud music; in which time enter_ SIR JOHN WORLDLY, SIR INNOCENT,

BELLAFRONT, LUCIDA, KATE, _my_ LADY NINNY, MISTRESS WAGTAIL. _They seat

themselves_. LADY NINNY _offers at two or three chairs; at last finds

the great one; they point at her and laugh. As soon as she is set, she

drinks of her bottle. The music plays, and they enter. After one strain

of the music_, SCUDMORE _takes_ BELLAFRONT, _who seems unwilling to

dance_. COUNT _takes_ LUCIDA; PENDANT, KATE; SIR ABRAHAM, MISTRESS

WAGTAIL: SCUDMORE, _as they stand (the other courting too), whispers as

follows:_--

SCUD. I am your Scudmore. [_Soft music._

BEL. Ha!

SCUD. By heaven, I am.

Be rul'd by me in all things.

BEL. Even to death.

ABRA. 'Sfoot! Did you not know me by my purse?

WAG. I should ne'er have known you by that, for you wear it on your

head, and other folks in their pockets.

L. NIN. Which is my lord, I pray?

SIR J. WOR. The second man:

Young Nevill leads.

SIR INN. And where's Sir Abraham?

SIR J. WOR. He with the terrible visage.

L. NIN. Now, out upon him to disfigure himself so:

And 'twere not for my bottle, I should swoon.

[_Music, and they dance the second strain, in which_

SCUDMORE _goes away with_ BELLAFRONT.

OMNES SPECTATORES. Good, very good!

[_The other four dance another strain, honour and end._

C. FRED. But where's the bride and Nevill?

OMNES. Ha!

ABRA. 'Ware tricks!

SIR J. WOR. O, there they come: it was their parts to do so.

_Enter_ SCUDMORE _unvizarded_, BELLAFRONT, _with pistols and the right

Parson_.

C. FRED. This Nevill? This is Scudmore.

OMNES. How?

C. FRED. But here's my lady.

SCUD. No, my gentlewoman.

ABRA. 'Zoons! treason! I smell powder.

BEL. In short, know,

That I am married to this gentleman,

To whom I was contracted long ago.

This priest the inviolable knot hath tied.

What ease I find being unladified! [_Aside._]

C. FRED. What riddle's this?

SIR INN. 'Ware the last statute of two husbands.

SCUD. and BEL. Pish!

C. FRED. This is the very priest that married me:

Is it not, sister?

_Enter_ NEVILL, _like the Parson too_.

NEV. No.

ABRA. Lord bless us! here is conjuring!

Lend me your aqua-vitæ bottle, good mother.

SIR J. WOR. Heyday!

The world's turn'd upside down. I have heard and seen

Two or three benefices to one priest, or more,

But two priests to one benefice ne'er before.

PEN. Married not you the earl?

PAR. _Bona fide_, no.

SIR J. WOR. You did, then?

NEV. Yes.

C. FRED. I have the privilege, then?

SIR J. WOR. Right, you were married first.

SCUD. Sir John, you doat,

This is a devil in a parson's coat.

[NEVILL _puts off the Priest's weeds, and has a

devil's robe under_.

OMNES. A pretty emblem!

NEV. Who married her, or would have caus'd her marry,

To any man but this, no better was;

Let circumstances be examined.

Yet here's one more: and now I hope you all

Perceive my marrying not canonical. [_Slips off his devil's weeds._

OMNES. Nevill, whoop!

C. FRED. Heart! what a deal of knavery a priest's cloak can hide. If it

be not one of the honestest, friendliest cozenages that 'ere I saw, I am

no lord.

KATH. Life! I am not married, then, in earnest.

NEV. So, Mistress Kate, I kept you for myself.

SIR J. WOR. It boots not to be angry.

SIR INN. _and_ LADY. No, faith, Sir John.

_Enter_ STRANGE, _with_ POUTS _on his back_.

2D. SER. Whither will you go with your calf on your back, sir?

SIR J. WOR. Now, more knavery yet?

STRANGE. Prythee, forbear, or I shall do thee mischief.

By your leave, here is some sad to your merriment.

Know you this captain?

OMNES. Yes, very well.

KATH. O sister, here's the villain slander'd me.

STRANGE. You see he cannot stand to't.

ABRA. Is he hurt in the arm, too?

STRANGE. Yes.

ABRA. Why, then, by God's-lid, thou art a base rogue. I knew I should

live to tell thee so.

L. NIN. Sir Abraham, I say!

OMNES. Heaven is just.

CAPT. POUTS. What a rogue are you!

Is this the surgeon you would carry me to?

STRANGE. Confess your slander, and I will, I swear.

CAPT. POUTS. Nay, 'tis no matter, I'll cry quittance with you.

Forgive me, Mistress Kate, and know, all people,

I lied not with her, but belied her once;

And to my recantation that same soldier

Enforc'd my hand.

STRANGE. Yes, here 'tis, Mistress Kate.

[_They all look on the paper._

CAPT. POUTS. I see now how I am cheated. Love him well.

He has redeem'd your honour with his sword.

Sir J. Wor. But where is Strange my son? O, were he here,

He should be married new to make all sure.

KATH. O my divining spirit, he's gone to sea!

CAPT. POUTS. This cunning in her is exceeding good.

Your son--your husband Strange is murdered.

OMNES. How?

STRANGE. Peace, peace! For heaven's sake, peace!

Come, sir, I'll carry you to a surgeon.

Here's gold to stop thy throat. For God's sake, peace!

CAPT. POUTS. Sirrah, you have brought me to a surgeon already:

I'll be even with you.

KATH. Of all men living I could marry thee,

Were not my heart given to another man.

Sir, you did speak of Strange?

CAPT. POUTS. These women are as crafty as the devil.

Yes, I did speak of him: Sir John, my lord,

Know Strange is murder'd by that villain's hand,

And by his wife's consent.

OMNES. How?

SIR J. WOR. God forbid!

CAPT. POUTS. Search presently the closet and the vault,

There you shall find his body: 'tis too true.

The reason all may guess: her husband, wanting

Spirit to do on me what he hath done,

In hope to marry her, he hath murder'd him.

KATH. To marry me! No, villain: I do hate him

On this report worse than I do thyself;

And may the plagues and tortures of a land

Seize me if this be not an innocent hand.

SIR J. WOR. 'Fore God, 'tis most like truth.

Son Scudmore, pray

Look to this fellow: gentlemen, assist.

Torches! some torches! I'll go search myself.

SIR INN. I will assist you.

C. FRED. But I pray, sir, how came you unto this knowledge?

CAPT. POUTS. From his mouth.

STRANGE. I'll save your labour, and discover all.

Thou perjur'd villain, didst not swear thou wouldst not

Discover me?

CAPT. POUTS. I but swore in jest.

STRANGE. Nay, but remember, thou didst wish Strange living,

If ever thou didst tell.

CAPT. POUTS. Sir, all is true,[64]

And would my punishment would ease my conscience.

SIR J. WOR. To Newgate with him! hence! take her along.

Out, murderers! whore, thou art no child of mine!

Fetch constable and officers. Away!

STRANGE. Sir, do but hear me speak.

SIR J. WOR. Fetch officers!

CAPT. POUTS. Go fetch a surgeon.

STRANGE. Sir, you are then too violent. I will bail her.

[_Discovers himself._

KATH. O my dear Strange!

SIR J. WOR. My son!

SCUD., LUC., BEL. Brother!

OMNES. Young Strange!

CAPT. POUTS. Heart! I was never sick before: help me now to a

surgeon, or I shall swoon instantly.

[_As two lead him, he speaks._

Thou wert born a woman-citizen; fare thee well.

And farewell, love and women, ye diseases:

My horse and sword shall be my mistresses,

My horse I'll court, my sword shall lie with me. [_Exit._

STRANGE. The way to cure lust is to bleed, I see.

C. FRED. Tell him all, Scudmore, whilst I go a-wooing again. Sir John,

will you go along, and my two worshipful elders, I pray, be your

witnesses. Priest, go not you away. Heart! I have so ruminated on a

wife, that I must have one this night, or I shall run proud.[65]

[NEVILL, SCUDMORE, BELLAFRONT, STRANGE, KATHERINE, _whisper in

one part_. PENDANT, SIR ABRAHAM, _and_ WAGTAIL _in another_.

Mistress Lucida, you did once love me; if you do still, no more words,

but give me your hand. Why are ye doubtful?

ABRA. Ne'er look upon me, Mistress Lucida; time was, time is, and time's

pass'd. I'll none of you now: I am otherwise provided.

PEN. Well spoken, brazen-head![66] now or never, Sir Abraham.

ABRA. Then first, as duty binds, I crave consent

Of my two parents dear: if ay, say so;

If not, I'll ha' her, whether you will or no.

SIR INN. How? how?

L. NIN. I hope you will not.

ABRA. Ma'am, I am resolved: you have a humour of your aqua-vitæ bottle,

why should not I have a humour in a wife?

SIR J. WOR. An old man were a fitter match for her: He would make much

of her.

ABRA. Much on her? I know not what ye call much making on her, I am

sure I have made two on her.

PEN. And that an old man cannot do, I hope.

NEV. O thou beyond Lawrence of Lancashire.[67]

SIR INN. Come, come, you shall not.

ABRA. Speak not in vain; I am too sure to change,

For hand and heart are sure: _Ecce signum_.

And this have I done, and never lay with her.

SIR J. WOR. Nay, then, 'tis too late;

'Tis sure: 'tis vain to cross the will of fate.

SIR INN. _and_ LADY. Well, well, God bless you.

[ABRAHAM _and_ WAGTAIL _kneel_.

ABRA. Thanks, reverend couple, and God bless withal

The little Ninny that herein doth sprawl.

Parson, you shall despatch us presently:

Lord, how soberly you stand!

PAR. Now truly I could ne'er stand drunk in my life.

STRANGE. Strange and most fortunate, we must have a new Tuck then.

C. FRED. Is it a match?

LUC. 'Tis done.

C. FRED. Then Bacchus squeeze grapes with a plenteous hand.

Parson, you'll take some pains with us to-night.

Come, brothers, come: fly, willow, to the woods,

And, like the sea, for healths let's drink whole floods.

STRANGE. I consecrate my deed unto the city,

And hope to live myself to see the day,

It shall be shown to people in a play.

SCUD. And may all true love have like happy end.

Women, forgive me; men, admire my friend.

SIR J. WOR. On, parson, on; and, boy, outvoice the music.[68]

Ne'er was so much (what cannot heavenly powers?)

Done and undone, and done in twelve short hours. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[59] [See _post_.]

[60] The difficulty of concealing love has been the origin of a

humorous proverb in Italian. In Pulci's "Morgante Maggiore," iv. 38,

Rinaldo thus taunts the most sentimental of the Paladins, Oliver, when

he becomes enamoured of Florisena--

"_Vero è pur che l'uom non possa,_

_Celar per certo l'amore e la tossa._"

[See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 269.]

Franco Sacchetti, in his sixteenth novel, expressly tells us that it

was a proverb. _Perchè ben dice il proverbio, che l'amore e la tossa

non si puo celare mai._

[61] The question

"You, sirrah,

Is my Lady Ninny awake yet?"

is given in the old 4º to Scudmore, but it belongs to Sir John

Worldly. Scudmore is not on the stage.

[62] Old copy, _doing_.

[63] Old copy, _moustachios_.

[64] [The old copy and Collier give this speech to Strange.]

[65] [In the sense of _hot_, salacious.]

[66] An allusion to the well-known story of Friar Bacon and his brazen

head, which spoke three times, but was not attended to by his man

Miles. See Greene's "Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay," [in Dyce's edits,

of Greene, and the prose narrative in Thoms's Collection, 1828.]

[67] A boisterous, clownish character in the play of "The Lancashire

Witches," by Heywood and Brome. It was not printed until 1634. Either

Lawrence was a person who figured in that transaction, and whose name

is not recorded, or (which is not impossible) the play was written

very long before it was printed.

[68] Perhaps the play originally ended with a song by a boy, in which

the rest joined chorus.

AMENDS FOR LADIES.

_EDITIONS._

_Amends for Ladies. A Comedie. As it was acted at the Blacke-Fryers,

both by the Princes Servants, and the Lady Elizabeths. By Nat. Field.

London: Printed by G. Eld, for Math. Walbancke, and are to be sold at

his Shop at the new Gate of Grayes Inne, or at the old._ 1618. 4º.

_Amends for Ladies. With the merry prankes of Moll Cut-Purse, Or, the

humour of roaring: A Comedy full of honest mirth and wit. As it was

Acted at the Blacke-Fryers both by the Princes Servants and the Lady

Elizabeths. By Nath. Field. London, Printed by Io. Okes, for Math.

Walbancke, and are to be sold at his Shop at Grayes-Inne Gate._ 1639. 4º.

INTRODUCTION.

This excellent old comedy seems to have been deservedly popular on its

performance by two different companies at the Black Friars Theatre

before 1618, and it was twice printed. It is not easy to decide whether

the comic or the serious scenes are the best; although the first are not

without some of the coarseness which belonged to the manners of the age.

The language is generally well-chosen. Some passages are of the higher

order of poetry, and from them we may judge that Field was capable of

writing other parts of "The Fatal Dowry" than those which Mr Gifford, in

his just admiration of Massinger, was willing to assign to him. The

characters are numerous, varied, and well-distinguished.

The object of the play was to vindicate the female sex, attacked in

"Woman is a Weathercock;" and it is accomplished amply and happily in

the persons of the Maid, Wife, and Widow. The plot is threefold,

applying to each of them, but the incidents are interwoven with

ingenuity, and concluded without confusion. In several of our old plays,

husbands become, or endeavour to become, the instruments of the

dishonour of their wives. Middleton was too fond of incidents of this

odious kind, which are to be found in his "Chaste Maid in Cheapside,"

1630, and in "Anything for a Quiet Life," 1662;[69] but in both cases

the purpose of the husband was to profit by his own disgrace. In

Field's "Amends for Ladies," the husband only resorts to this expedient

to put his wife's fidelity to the test. This portion of the play was

borrowed, in several of its preliminary circumstances, from the novel of

the "Curioso Impertinente" in "Don Quixote;" but it would not have

accorded with Field's design of making amends to the fair sex that

Subtle should have met with the same success as Lothario. The attempt of

Bold in disguise upon the Widow was taken from an incident apparently

well known about the date when the play was written, and referred to in

it. The original of that part of the comedy which relates to Ingen and

the Lady Honour has not been found, and perhaps it was the invention of

the poet.

The two editions of this play in 1618 and 1639 do not materially vary,

although the difference between the title-pages might lead to the

supposition that "the merry pranks of Moll Cut-purse" and the "humour of

roaring" were new in the latter copy. It seldom happens that faith is to

be put in attractive changes of title-pages. Middleton and Rowley's

"Fair Quarrel" is, indeed, an instance to the contrary; for the edition

of 1622 contains a good deal of curious matter connected with the

manners of the times, promised in "the fore-front of the book," and not

found in the copy of 1617. In "Amends for Ladies," Moll Cut-purse only

appears in one scene. The variations between the impressions are errors

of the press, some of which are important of their kind, and such as

rendered a careful collation absolutely necessary.

It may here, perhaps, be worth while to place in one view the scanty and

scattered information regarding Mary Frith (_alias_ Moll Cut-purse), the

Roaring Girl. She was a woman who commonly dressed like a man, and

challenged several male opponents, bearing, during her life, the

character of a bully, a thief, a bawd, a receiver of stolen goods,

&c.[70] She appears to have been the daughter of a shoemaker, born in

1584, dead in 1659, and buried in what is now called St Bride's Church.

In February 1611-12, she did penance at Paul's Cross, but the

letter mentioning this fact, which is in the British Museum, does not

state for what offence. Among other daring exploits, she robbed, or

assisted in robbing, General Fairfax on Hounslow Heath, for which she

was sent to Newgate, but afterwards liberated without trial. The

immediate cause of her death was a dropsy, and she seems then to have

been possessed of property. She lived in her own house in Fleet Street,

next the Globe Tavern, and left £20 that the conduit might run wine on

the expected return of Charles II. Besides the comedy by Middleton and

Dekker [printed in the works of Middleton], John Day wrote "a book of

the mad pranks of Merry Moll of the Bankside." It was entered at

Stationers' Hall in 1610, and perhaps the play of which she is the

heroine was founded upon it. Another account of her life was printed in

1662, shortly after her decease. She is supposed to be alluded to by

Shakespeare in "Twelfth Night," act i. sc. 3, and obtained such "bad

eminence," in point of notoriety, that it is not surprising (according

to the evidence of the authors of "The Witch of Edmonton," act v. sc.

1), that some of the dogs at Paris Garden, used in baiting bulls and

bears, were named after her.

FOOTNOTES:

[69] [Although the printed copies bear the date here given, the plays

in question were written many years before, Middleton having probably

died in 1626.]

[70] She is the "honest Moll" alluded to by City-wit in R. Brome's

"Court Beggar," act ii. sc. 1, to whom he is to go for the recovery of

his purse, after he had had his pocket picked while looking at the

news in the window of "the _Coranto_ shop." He afterwards states that

she "deals in private for the recovery of such goods."

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.[71]

COUNT, _father of Lord Feesimple_.

LORD FEESIMPLE.

LORD PROUDLY.

SIR JOHN LOVE-ALL, _called Husband_.

SUBTLE, _his friend_.

INGEN, _in love with Lady Honour_.

FRANK, _his younger brother_.

BOLD, _in love with Lady Bright_.

WELLTRIED, _his friend_.

SELDOM, _a citizen_.

WHOREBANG, }

BOTS, }

} _Roarers_.

TEARCHAPS, }

SPILLBLOOD,}

PITTS, }

}_Serjeants_.

DONNER,}

_Page, Drawer, &c._

LADY HONOUR ,} {_Maid_,

LADY PERFECT,} _called_ {_Wife_.

LADY BRIGHT, } {_Widow_.

GRACE SELDOM.

MOLL CUT-PURSE.

[71] Neither of the old editions has a list of characters prefixed.

AMENDS FOR LADIES.

ACT I., SCENE 1.

_Enter the_ LADY HONOUR, _the_ LADY PERFECT, _the_ LADY BRIGHT.

MAID.[72] A wife the happiest state? It cannot be.

WIFE. Yes, such a wife as I, that have a man

As if myself had made him: such a one

As I may justly say, I am the rib

Belonging to his breast. Widow and maid,

Your lives compared to mine are miserable,

Though wealth and beauty meet in each of you.

Poor virgin, all thy sport is thought of love

And meditation of a man; the time

And circumstance, ere thou canst fix thy thoughts

On one thy fancy will approve.

MAID. That trouble

Already may be pass'd.

WIFE. Why, if it be,

The doubt he will not hold his brittle faith,

That he is not a competible choice,

And so your noble friends will cross the match,

Doth make your happiness uncertain still;

Or say, you married him? what he would prove.

Can you compare your state, then, to a wife?

MAID. Nay, all the freedom that a virgin hath

Is much to be preferr'd. Who would endure

The humours of so insolent[73] a thing

As is a husband? Which of all the herd

Runs not possess'd with some notorious vice,

Drinking or whoring, fighting, jealousy,

Even of a page at twelve or of a groom

That rubs horse-heels? Is it not daily seen,

Men take wives but to dress their meat, to wash

And starch their linen: for the other matter

Of lying with them, that's but when they please:

And whatsoe'er the joy be of the bed,

The pangs that follow procreation

Are hideous, or you wives have gull'd your husbands

With your loud shriekings and your deathful throes.

A wife or widow to a virgin's life!

WID. Why should the best of you think ye enjoy

The roost[74] and rule, that a free widow doth?

I am mine own commander, and the bliss

Of wooers and of each variety

Frequents me, as I were a maid. No brother

Have I to dice my patrimony away, as you,

My maiden-madam, may. No husband's death

Stand I in doubt on; for thanks be to heaven,

If mine were good, the grievous loss of him

Is not to come; if he were bad, he's gone,

And I no more embrace my injury.

But be yours ill, you nightly clasp your hate;

Or good--why, he may die or change his virtue.

And thou, though single, hast a bed-fellow

As bad as the worst husband--thought of one;

And what that is men with their wives do do,

And long expectance till the deed be done.

A wife is like a garment us'd and torn:

A maid like one made up, but never worn.

MAID. A widow is a garment worn threadbare,

Selling at second-hand, like broker's ware.

But let us speak of things the present time

Makes happy to us, and see what is best.

I have a servant then, the crown of men,

The fountain of humanity, the prize

Of every virtue, moral and divine;

Young, valiant, learned, well-born, rich, and shap'd,

As if wise Nature, when she fashion'd him,

Had meant to give him nothing but his form;

Yet all additions are conferr'd on him,

That may delight a woman: this same youth

To me hath sacrific'd his heart, yet I

Have check'd his suit, laugh'd at his worthy service,

Made him the exercise of my cruelty,

Whilst constant as the sun, for all these clouds,

His love goes on.

_Enter_ INGEN.

WID. Peace, here's the man you name.

WIFE. Widow, we'll stand aside.

INGEN. Good morrow to the glory of our age,

The Lady Perfect and the Lady Bright,

[_Meeting the Wife and Widow._[75]

The virtuous wife and widow; but to you,

The Lady Honour and my mistress,

The happiness of your wishes.

MAID. By this light,

I never heard one speak so scurvily,

Utter such stale wit, and pronounce so ill.

"But to you, my Lady Honour and my mistress,

The happiness of your wishes!"

INGEN. Stop your wit;

You would fain show these ladies, what a hand

You hold over your servant: 't shall not need;

I will express your tyranny well enough,

I have lov'd this lady since I was a child,

Since I could construe _Amo:_ now she says

I do not love her, 'cause I do not weep,

Lay mine arms o'er my heart, and wear no garters,

Walk with mine eyes in my hat, sigh and make faces

For all the poets in the town to laugh at.

Pox o' this howling love! 'tis like a dog

Shut out at midnight. Must love needs be powder'd,

Lie steep'd in brine, or will it not keep sweet?

Is it like beef in summer?

MAID. Did you ever

Hear one talk fustian like a butcher thus?

INGEN. 'Tis foolish, this same telling folks we love:

It needs no words, 'twill show itself in deeds;

And did I take you for an entertainer,

A lady that will wring one by the finger,

Whilst on another's toes she treads, and cries

"By gad, I love but one, and you are he,"

Either of them thinking himself the man,

I'd tell you in your ear, put for the business,

Which granted or denied, "Madam, God be wi' ye."

MAID. Come, these are daily slanders that you raise

On our infirm and unresisting sex:

You never met, I'm sure, with such a lady.

INGEN. O, many, by this light. I've seen a chamber

Frequented like an office of the law:

Clients succeed at midnight one another,

Whilst the poor madam hath been so distress'd

Which of her lovers to show most countenance to,

That her dull husband has perceiv'd her wiles.

MAID. Nay, perhaps taught her: many of those husbands

Are base enough to live upon't.

INGEN. I have seen another of 'em

Cheat, by this light, at cards, and set her women

To talk to the gentlemen that play'd,

That, so distracted, they might oversee.

MAID. O, fie upon ye! I dare swear you lie.

INGEN. Do not, fair mistress; you will be forsworn.

MAID. You men are all foul-mouth'd: I warrant, you

Talk thus of me and other ladies here

Because we keep the city.

INGEN. O, profane!

That thought would damn me. Will you marry yet?

MAID. No, I will never marry.

INGEN. Shall we then

Couple unlawfully? for indeed this marrying

Is but proclaiming what we mean to do;

Which may be done privately in civil sort,

And none the wiser; and by this white hand,

The rack, strappado, or the boiling boot[76]

Should never force me tell to wrong your honour.

MAID. May I believe this?

INGEN. Let it be your creed.

MAID. But if you should prove false? Nay, ne'er unhang

Your sword, except you mean to hang yourself.

Why, where have you been drinking? 'sfoot, you talk

Like one of these same rambling boys that reign

In Turnbull Street.[77]

INGEN. How do you know?

MAID. Indeed, my knowledge is but speculative,

Not practic there; I have it by relation

From such observers as yourself, dear servant.

I must profess I did think well of thee,

But get thee from my sight, I never more

Will hear or see thee, but will hate thee deadly,

As a man-enemy, or a woman turn'd.

Ladies, come forth.

_Enter_ WIDOW, WIFE.

See, sir, what courtesy

You have done to me: a strange praise of you

Had newly left my lips just as you enter'd,

And how you have deserv'd it with your carriage!

Villain! thou hast hurt mine honour to these friends,

For what can they imagine but some ill

Hath pass'd betwixt us by thy broad discourse?

Were my case theirs, by virgin chastity,

I should condemn them. Hence! depart my sight!

INGEN. Madam, but hear me. O, that these were men,

And durst but say or think you ill for this!

I have so good a cause upon my side

That I would cut their hearts out of their breasts,

And the thoughts out of them that injur'd you.

But I obey your hest, and for my penance

Will run a course never to see you more:

And now I lose you, may I lose the light,

Since in that beauty dwelt my day or night. [_Exit_ INGEN.

WID. Is this the virtuous youth?

WIFE. Your happiness?

WID. Wherein you thought your seat so far[78] 'bove ours.

MAID. If one man could be good, this had been he.

See, here come all your suitors and your husband;

And, room for laughter! here's the Lord Feesimple.

What gentlewoman does he bring along?

_Enter_ HUSBAND, _embracing_ SUBTLE; _the_ LORD FEESIMPLE, _with young_

BOLD _like a waiting gentlewoman, and_ WELLTRIED. WELLTRIED, HUSBAND,

_and_ SUBTLE, _talk with_ WIFE.

FEE. One-and-thirty good morrows to the fairest, wisest, richest widow

that ever conversation coped withal.

WID. Threescore and two unto the wisest lord

That ever was train'd in university.

FEE. O courteous, bounteous widow! she has outbid me thirty-one good

morrows at a clap.

WELL. But, my Lord Feesimple, you forget the business imposed on you.

FEE. Gentlewoman, I cry thee mercy; but 'tis a fault in all lords, not

in me only: we do use to swear by our honours, and as we are noble, to

despatch such a business for such a gentleman; and we are bound, even by

the same honours we swear by, to forget it in a quarter of an hour, and

look as if we had never seen the party when we meet next, especially if

none of our gentlemen have been considered.

WELL. Ay, but all yours have, for you keep none, my lord: besides,

though it stands with your honour to forget men's businesses, yet it

stands not with your honour if you do not do a woman's.

FEE. Why then, madam, so it is that I request your ladyship to accept

into your service this gentlewoman. For her truth and honesty I will be

bound; I have known her too long to be deceived. This is the second time

I have seen her. [_Aside._]

MAID. Why, how now, my lord! a preferrer of gentlewomen to service, like

an old knitting-woman? where hath she dwelt before?

FEE. She dwelt with young Bold's sister, he that is my corrival in your

love. She requested me to advance her to you, for you are a dubbed lady;

so is not she yet.

WELL. But now you talk of young Bold--when did you see him, lady?

WID. Not this month, Master Welltried.

I did conjure him to forbear my sight;

Indeed, swore if he came, I'd be denied.

But 'tis strange you should ask for him: ye two

Were wont never to be asunder.

WELL. Faith, madam, we never were together, but

We differ'd on some argument or other;

And doubting lest our discord might at length

Breed to some quarrel, I forbear him too.

FEE. He quarrel? Bold? hang him, if he durst have quarrelled, the world

knows he's within a mile of an oak has put him to't, and soundly. I

never cared for him in my life, but to see his sister: he's an ass,

pox! an arrant ass; for do you think any but an arrant ass would offer

to come a-wooing where a lord attempts? He quarrel!--he dares not

quarrel.

WELL. But he dares fight, my lord, upon my knowledge:

And rail no more, my lord, behind his back,

For if you do, my lord, blood must ensue. [_Draws._

FEE. O, O, my honour dies! I am dead. [_Swoons._

WELL. Ud's light, what's the matter? wring him by the nose.

WID. A pair of riding spurs, now, were worth gold.

MAID. Pins are as good. Prick him, prick him.

FEE. O, O!

WIFE. He's come again. Lift him up.

OMNES. How fares your lordship?

FEE. O friends, you have wrong'd my spirit to call it back:

I was ev'n in Elysium at rest.

WELL. But why, sir, did you swoon?

FEE. Well, though I die, Mister Welltried, before all these I do forgive

you, because you were ignorant of my infirmity. O sir! is't not up yet?

I die again! Put up, now, whilst I wink, or I do wink for ever.

WELL. 'Tis up, my lord; ope your eyes: but I pray, tell me, is this

antipathy 'twixt bright steel and you natural, or how grew it.

FEE. I'll tell you, sir: anything bright and edged works thus strongly

with me. Your hilts, now, I can handle as boldly, look you else.

HUS.[79] Nay, never blame my lord, Master Well-tried, for I know a

great many will swoon at the sight of a shoulder of mutton or a quarter

of lamb. My lord may be excused, then, for a naked sword.

WELL. This lord and this knight in dog-collars would make a fine brace

of beagles.

MAID. But, on my faith, 'twas mightily over-seen of your father, not to

bring you up to foils--or if he had bound you 'prentice to a cutler or

an ironmonger.

FEE. Ha, pox! hang him, old gouty fool! He never brought me up to any

lordly exercise, as fencing, dancing, tumbling, and such like; but,

forsooth, I must write and read, and speak languages, and such base

qualities, fit for none but gentlemen. Now, sir, would I tell him,

"Father, you are a count, I am a lord. A pox o' writing and reading, and

languages! Let me be brought up as I was born."

SUB. But how, my lord, came you first not to endure the sight of steel?

FEE. Why, I'll tell you, sir. When I was a child, an infant, an

innocent[80]--

MAID. 'Twas even now. [_Aside._]

FEE. I being in the kitchen, in my lord my father's house, the cook was

making minced pies: so, sir, I standing by the dresser, there lay a heap

of plums. Here was he mincing: what did me I, sir, being a notable

little witty coxcomb, but popped my hand just under his chopping-knife,

to snatch some raisins, and so was cut o'er the hand, and never since

could I endure the sight of any edge-tool.

WID. Indeed, they are not fit for you, my lord. And now you are all so

well satisfied in this matter, pray, ladies, how like you this my

gentlewoman?

MAID. In troth, madam, exceedingly well, I. If you be provided, pray,

let me have her.

WIFE. It should be my request, but that I am full.

WID. What can you do? What's her name, my lord?

FEE. Her name? I know not. What's her name, Master Welltried?

WEL. Her name? 'Slid, tell my lady your name.

BOLD. Mistress Mary Princox, forsooth.

WID. Mistress Mary Princox. She has wit, I perceive that already.

Methinks she speaks as if she were my lord's brood.

BOLD. Brood, madam? 'Tis well known I am a gentlewoman. My father was a

man of five hundred per annum, and he held something _in capite_ too.

WEL. So does my lord something.

FEE. Nay, by my troth, what I hold _in capite_ is worth little or

nothing.

BOLD. I have had apt breeding, however, my misfortune now makes me

submit myself to service; but there is no ebb so low, but hath his tide

again. When our days are at worst, they will mend in spite of the

frowning destinies, for we cannot be lower than earth; and the same

blind dame that hath cast her blear eyes hitherto upon my occasions may

turn her wheel, and at last wind them up with her white hand to some

pinnacle that prosperously may flourish in the sunshine of promotion.

FEE. O mouth, full of agility! I would give twenty marks now to any

person that could teach me to convey my tongue (_sans_ stumbling) with

such dexterity to such a period. For her truth and her honesty I am

bound before, but now I have heard her talk, for her wit I will be bound

body and goods.

WID. Ud's light, I will not leave her for my hood. I never met with one

of these eloquent old gentlewomen before. What age are you, Mistress

Mary Princox?

BOLD. I will not lie, madam. I have numbered fifty-seven summers, and

just so many winters have I passed.

SUB. But they have not passed you; they lie frozen in your face.

BOLD. Madam, if it shall please you to entertain me, so; if not, I

desire you not to misconstrue my goodwill. There's no harm done; the

door's as big as it was, and your ladyship's own wishes crown your

beauty with content. As for these frumping gallants, let them do their

worst. It is not in man's power to hurt me. 'Tis well known I come not

to be scoffed. A woman may bear and bear, till her back burst. I am a

poor gentlewoman, and since virtue hath nowadays no other companion but

poverty, I set the hare's head unto the goose giblets, and what I want

one way, I hope I shall be enabled to supply the other.

FEE. An't please God, that thou wert not past children.

WID. Is't even so, my lord? Nay, good Princox, do not cry. I do

entertain you. How do you occupy? What can you use?

BOLD. Anything fit to be put into the hands of a gentlewoman.

WID. What are your qualities?

BOLD. I can sleep on a low stool. If your ladyship be talking in the

same room with any gentleman, I can read on a book, sing love-songs,

look up at the loover light,[81] hear and be deaf, see and be blind, be

ever dumb to your secrets, swear and equivocate, and whatsoever I spy,

say the best.

WID. O rare crone, how art thou endued! But why did Master Bold's sister

put you away?

BOLD. I beseech you, madam, to neglect that desire: though I know your

ladyship's understanding to be sufficient to partake, or take in, the

greatest secret can be imparted, yet----

WID. Nay, prythee, tell the cause. Come, here's none but friends.

BOLD. Faith, madam, heigho! I was (to confess truly) a little foolish in

my last service to believe men's oaths, but I hope my example, though

prejudicial to myself, will be beneficial to other young gentlewomen in

service. My mistress's brother (the gentleman you named even now--Master

Bold), having often attempted my honour, but finding it impregnable,

vowed love and marriage to me at the last. I, a young thing and raw,

being seduced, set my mind upon him, but friends contradicting the

match, I fell into a grievous consumption; and upon my first recovery,

lest the intended sacred ceremonies of nuptials should succeed, his

sister, knowing this, thought it fit in her judgment we should be

farther asunder, and so put me out of her service.

OMNES. Ha, ha, ha!

WID. God-a-mercy for this discovery, i' faith.

O man, what art thou when thy cock is up?

Come, will your lordship walk in? 'tis dinner-time.

_Enter hastily_ SELDOM, _with papers on his arm_.

OMNES. Who's this? who's this?

MAID. This is our landlord, Master Seldom, an exceeding wise citizen, a

very sufficient understanding man, and exceeding rich.

OMNES. Miracles are not ceased.

WID. Good morrow, landlord. Where have you been sweating?

SEL. Good morrow to your honours: thrift is industrious. Your ladyship

knows we will not stick to sweat for our pleasures: how much more ought

we to sweat for our profits! I am come from Master Ingen this morning,

who is married, or to be married; and though your ladyship did not

honour his nuptials with your presence, he hath by me sent each of you a

pair of gloves, and Grace Seldom, my wife, is not forgot. [_Exit._

OMNES. God give him joy, God give him joy. [_Exeunt._[82]

MAID. Let all things most impossible change now!

O perjur'd man! oaths are but words, I see.

But wherefore should not we, that think we love

Upon full merit, that same worth once ceasing,

Surcease our love too, and find new desert?

Alas! we cannot; love's a pit which, when

We fall into, we ne'er get out again:

And this same horrid news which me assaults,

I would forget: love blanches blackest faults.

O, what path shall I tread for remedy

But darkest shades, where love with death doth lie! [_Exit._

_Manent_ HUSBAND, WIFE, SUBTLE.

WIFE. Sir, I have often heard my husband speak

Of your acquaintance.

HUS. Nay, my virtuous wife,

Had it been but acquaintance, this his absence

Had not appear'd so uncouth: but we two

Were school-fellows together, born and nurs'd,

Brought up, and liv'd since, like the Gemini:

Had but one suck: the tavern or the ordinary,

Ere I was married, that saw one of us

Without the other, said we walk'd by halves.

Where, dear--dear friend, have you been all this while?

SUB. O most sweet friend, the world's so vicious,

That had I with such familiarity

Frequented you, since you were married,

Possess'd and us'd your fortunes as before,

As in like manner you commanded mine,

The deprav'd thoughts of men would have proclaim'd

Some scandalous rumours from this love of ours,

As saying mine reflected on your lady;

And what a wound had that been to our souls,

When only friendship should have been the ground

To hurt her honour and your confident peace,

Spite of mine own approv'd integrity?

HUS. Wife, kiss him, bid him welcome: pox o' th' world!

Come, come, you shall not part from me in haste.

I do command thee use this gentleman

In all things like myself: if I should die,

I would bequeath him in my will to thee.[83]

WIFE. Sir, you are most welcome, and let scandalous tongues

No more deter you: I dare use you, sir,

With all the right belonging to a friend,

And what I dare, I dare let all men see.

My conscience, rather than men's thoughts, be free.

HUS. Will you look in? We'll follow you. [_Exit_ WIFE.

Now, friend,

What think you of this lady?

SUB. Why, sweet friend,

That you are happy in her: she is fair,

Witty, and virtuous, and was rich to you.

Can there be an addition to a wife?

HUS. Yes, constancy; for 'tis not chastity

That lives remote, from all attempters free,

But there 'tis strong and pure, where all that woo

It doth resist,[84] and turns them virtuous too.

Therefore, dear friend, by this, love's masculine kiss,

By all our mutual engagements pass'd,

By all the hopes of amity to come,

Be you the settler of my jealous thoughts,

And make me kill my fond suspect of her

By assurance that she is loyal, otherwise

That she is false; and then, as she's past cure,

My soul shall ever after be past care.

That you are fittest for this enterprise,

You must needs understand; since, prove she true

In this your trial, you (my dearest friend).

Whom only rather than the world besides,

I would have satisfied of her virtue, shall see[85]

And best conceal my folly. Prove she weak,

'Tis better you should know't than any man,

Who can reform her, and do me no wrong.

Chemical metals, and bright gold itself,

By sight are not distinguish'd, but by th' test:

Thought makes good wives, but trial makes the best.

To the unskilful owner's eyes alike

The Bristow sparkles as the diamond,[86]

But by a lapidary the truth is found--

Come, you shall not deny me.

SUB. Do not wrong

So fair a wife, friend, and so virtuous,

Whose good name is a theme unto the world:

Make not a wound with searching, where was none.

Misfortune still such projects doth pursue;

He makes a false wife that suspects a true.

Yet since you so importune, give me leave

To ruminate awhile, and I will straight

Follow, and give you an answer.

HUS. You must do it. [_Exit._

SUB. Assure yourself, dear coxcomb, I will do't,

Or strangely be denied. All's as I wish'd;

This was my aim, although I have seem'd strange.

I know this fellow now to be an ass,

A most unworthy husband, though in view

He bear himself thus fair; she knows this too,

Therefore the stronger are my hopes to gain her;

And, my dear friend, that will have your wife tried,

I'll try her first, then trust her, if I can;

And, as you said most wisely, I hope to be

Both touchstone to your wife and lapidary. [_Exit._

FOOTNOTES:

[72] The Lady Honour is called _Maid_, the Lady Perfect _Wife_, and

the Lady Bright _Widow_.

[73] The 2d edit. reads _excellent_ for _insolent_.

[74] Edits., _rest_.

[75] They retire soon afterwards, but the _exit_ is not marked.

[76] In his "Woman is a Weathercock," Field has already mentioned

these instruments of torture in conjunction with some others, and to a

similar import: what he here calls _the boiling boot_ he there terms

_the Scotch boot;_ but they were probably the same thing, in the one

case, hot oil or water supplying the place of wedges in the latter

instance.

[77] _Turnbull_ Street was sometimes spelt _Turnball_ Street, and

sometimes (as Field himself gives it in another part of this play)

_Turnbole_ Street. It was situated between Cow Cross and Clerkenwell

Green, and is celebrated by many of our old dramatists as the

residence of ruffians, thieves, and prostitutes. Its proper name was

_Turnmill_ Street. See Stow's "Survey," 1599, p. 12.

[78] The later copy spoils the measure by omitting the words _so far_.

[79] Elsewhere in this play he is merely called _Husband_, though

before this speech in the old copies _Knight_ is inserted. It

afterwards appears that such is his rank.

[80] The word _innocent_ was used of old sometimes as synonymous with

_fool_, as in the following passage--

"Nay, God forbid ye shoulde do so,

for he is but an _innocent_, lo,

In manner of a _fole_."

--"Int. of the Four Elements" [i. 42].

[81] _i.e._, Skylight, [See vol. viii. p. 320].

[82] That is, all but Lady Honour, Lady Perfect, the Husband, and

Subtle.

[83] Ought we not rather to read--

"I would bequeath _thee_ in my will to _him_?"

[84] The second 4º reads _consist_.

[85] [Old copies, _be_.]

[86] The second 4º has this line--

"The Bristow sparkles _are as_ diamond."

The meaning is evident.

ACT II., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ SELDOM _[and] his wife_ GRACE, _working as in their shop_.

GRACE. Husband, these gloves are not fit for my wearing; I'll put 'em

into the shop, and sell 'em: you shall give me a plain pair for them.

SEL. This is wonderful, wonderful! this is thy sweet care and judgment

in all things: this goodness is not usual in our wives. Well, Grace

Seldom, that thou art fair is nothing, that thou art well-spoken is

nothing, that thou art witty is nothing, that thou art a citizen's wife

is nothing; but, Grace, that thou art fair, that thou art well-spoken,

that thou art witty, that thou art a citizen's wife, and that thou art

honest, I say--and let any man deny it that can, it is something, it is

something; I say, it is Seldom's something, and for all the sunshine of

my joy, mine eyes must rain upon thee.

_Enter_ MOLL CUT-PURSE, _with a letter_.

MOLL. By your leave, Master Seldom, have you done the hangers I bespake

for the knight?

SEL. Yes, marry have I, Mistress _hic_ and _hæc;_[87] I'll fetch 'em to

you. [_Exit._

MOLL. Zounds! does not your husband know my name? if it had been

somebody else, I would have called him cuckoldy slave.

GRACE. If it had been somebody else, perhaps you might.

MOLL. Well, I may be even with him; all's clear. Pretty rogue, I have

longed to know thee this twelve months, and had no other means but this

to speak with thee. There's a letter to thee from the party.

GRACE. What party?

MOLL. The knight, Sir John Love-all.

GRACE. Hence, lewd impudent!

I know not what to term thee, man or woman,

For, Nature, shaming to acknowledge thee

For either, hath produc'd thee to the world

Without a sex: some say thou art a woman,

Others a man: and many, thou art both

Woman and man, but I think rather neither,

Or man and horse, as the old centaurs were feign'd.

MOLL. Why, how now, Mistress What-lack-ye? are you so fine, with a pox?

I have seen a woman look as modestly as you, and speak as sincerely, and

follow the friars as zealously,[88] and she has been as sound a jumbler

as e'er paid for't: 'tis true, Mistress Fi'penny, I have sworn to leave

this letter.

GRACE. D'ye hear, you Sword-and-target (to speak in your own key), Mary

Ambree, Long Meg.[89]

Thou that in thyself, methinks, alone

Look'st like a rogue and whore under a hedge;

Bawd, take your letter with you, and begone,

When next you come, my husband's constable,

And Bridewell is hard by: you've a good wit,

And can conceive----

_Enter_ SELDOM, _with hangers_.

SEL. Look you, here are the hangers.

MOLL. Let's see them.

Fie, fie! you have mistook me quite,

They are not for my turn. B'w'ye, Mistress Seldom. [_Exit._

_Enter_ LORD PROUDLY.

GRACE. Here's my Lord Proudly.

PROUDLY. My horse, lackey! is my sister Honour above?

SEL. I think her ladyship, my lord, is not well, and keeps her

chamber.

PROUDLY. All's one, I must see her: have the other ladies dined?

GRACE. I think not, my lord.

PROUDLY. Then I'll take a pipe of tobacco here in your shop, if it be

not offensive. I would be loth to be thought to come just at

dinner-time. [_To his servant_] Garçon! fill, sirrah.

_Enter_ PAGE, _with a pipe of tobacco_.

What said the goldsmith for the money?

[SELDOM, _having fetched a candle, walks off at the other

end of the shop_. LORD PROUDLY _sits by his wife_.

PAGE. He said, my lord, he would lend no man money that he durst not

arrest.

PROUDLY. How got that wit into Cheapside, trow? He is a cuckold. Saw

you my lady to-day? hat says she? [_Takes tobacco._

PAGE. Marry, my lord, she said her old husband had a great payment to

make this morning, and had not left her so much as a jewel.

PROUDLY. A pox of her old cat's chaps! The teeth she had

Have made a transmigration into hair:

She hath a bigger beard than I, by this light.

[LORD _whispers to_ GRACE.

SEL. This custom in us citizens is good:

Thus walking off, when men talk with our wives;

It shows us courteous and mannerly.

Some count it baseness; he's a fool that does so.

It is the highest point of policy,

Especially when we have virtuous wives.

GRACE. Fie, fie! you talk uncivilly, my lord.

PROUDLY. Uncivilly, mew! Can a lord talk uncivilly? I think you, a

finical taffata pipkin, may be proud I'll sit so near it. Uncivilly,

mew!

GRACE. Your mother's cat has kittened in your mouth, sure.

PROUDLY. Prythee, but note yon fellow. Does he not walk and look as if

he did desire to be a cuckold?

GRACE. But you do not look as if you could make him one. Now they have

dined, my lord.

_Enter_ LORD FEESIMPLE _and_ WELLTRIED.

FEE. God save your lordship.

PROUDLY. How dost thou, coz? Hast thou got any more wit yet?

FEE. No, by my troth, I have

But little money with that little wit I have,

And the more wit ever the less money;

Yet as little as I have of either,

I would give something that I durst but quarrel:

I would not be abus'd thus daily as I am.

WELL. Save you, my lord.

PROUDLY. Good Master Welltried, you can inform me: pray, how ended the

quarrel betwixt young Bold and the other gentleman?

WELL. Why, very fairly, my lord; on honourable terms. Young Bold was

injured and did challenge him, fought in the field, and the other gave

him satisfaction under his hand. I was Bold's second, and can show it

here.

PROUDLY. 'Tis strange there was no hurt done, yet I hold

The other gentleman far the better man.

WELL. So do not I.

PROUDLY. Besides, they say the satisfaction that walks in the ordinaries

is counterfeit.

WELL. He lies that say so, and I'll make it good.

And for I know my friend is out of town,

What man soever wrongs him is my foe.

I say he had full satisfaction,

Nay, that which we may call submission;

That the other sought peace first; and who denies this,

Lord, knight or gentleman: English, French or Scot,

I'll fight and prove it on him with my sword.

FEE. No, sweet Master Welltried, let's have no fighting, till (as you

have promised) you have rid me from this foolish fear, and taught me to

endure to look upon a naked sword.

WELL. Well, and I'll be as good as my word.

FEE. But do you hear, cousin Proudly? They say my old father must marry

your sister Honour, and that he will disinherit me, and entail all his

lordships on her and the heir he shall beget on her body. Is't true or

not?

PROUDLY. There is such a report.

FEE. Why, then I pray God he may die an old cuckoldy slave.

O world, what art thou? where is parent's love?

Can he deny me for his natural child?

Yet see (O fornicator!) old and stiff,

Not where he should be, that's my comfort yet.

As for you, my lord, I will send to you as soon as

I dare fight, and look upon steel; which, Master

Welltried (I pray) let be with all possible speed.

PROUDLY. What d'ye this afternoon?

FEE. Faith, I have a great mind to see Long Meg and the Ship at the

Fortune.[90]

PROUDLY. Nay, i' faith, let's up and have a rest at primero.

WELL. Agreed, my lord; and toward the evening I'll carry you to the

company.

FEE. Well, no more words.

[_Exeunt_ LORD PROUDLY, LORD FEESIMPLE, _and_ WELLTRIED.[91]

GRACE. I wonder, sir, you will walk so, and let anybody sit prating to

your wife. Were I a man, I'd thrust 'em out o' th' shop by the head and

shoulders.

SEL. There were no policy in that, wife; so should I lose my custom. Let

them talk themselves weary, and give thee love-tokens--still I lose not

by it.

Thy chastity's impregnable, I know it.

Had I a dame, whose eyes did swallow youth,

Whose unchaste gulf together did take in

Masters and men, the footboys and their lords,

Making a gallimaufry in her blood,

I would not walk thus then: but, virtuous wife,

He that in chaste ears pours his ribald talk

Begets hate to himself, and not consent;

And even as dirt, thrown hard against a wall,

Rebounds and sparkles in the thrower's eyes,

So ill words, utter'd to a virtuous dame,

Turn and defile the speaker with red shame. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ HUSBAND _and_ WIFE.

HUS. Zounds! you're a whore; though I entreat him fair

Before his face, in compliment or so,

I not esteem him truly as this rush.

There's no such thing as friendship in the world,

And he that cannot swear, dissemble, lie,

Wants knowledge how to live, and let him die.

WIFE. Sir, I did think you had esteem'd of him,

As you made show; therefore I us'd him well,

And yet not so, but that the strictest eye

I durst have made a witness of my carriage.

HUS. Plague o' your carriage! why, he kiss'd your hand,

Look'd babies in your eyes, and wink'd and pink'd.

You thought I had esteem'd him! 'Sblood. you whore!

Do not I know that you do know you lie?

When didst thou hear me say and mean one thing?

O, I could kick you now, and tear your face,

And eat thy breasts like udders.

WIFE. Sir, you may,

But if I know what hath deserv'd all this,

I am no woman: 'cause he kiss'd my hand

Unwillingly?

HUS. A little louder, pray.

WIFE. You are a base fellow, an unworthy man,

As e'er poor gentlewoman match'd withal.

Why should you make such show of love to any

Without the truth? thy beastly mind is like

Some decay'd tradesman, that doth make his wife

Entertain those for gain he not endures.

Pish! swell and burst: I had rather with thy sword

Be hew'd to pieces, than lead such a life.

Out with it, valiant sir: I hold you for

A drawer upon women, not on men.

I will no more conceal your hollow heart,

But e'en report you as you are in truth.

HUS. This is call'd marriage. Stop your mouth, you whore.

WIFE. Thy mother was a whore, if I be one.

HUS. You know there's company in the house.

_Enter_ SUBTLE.

Sweet friend, what, have you writ your letter?

SUB. Tis done, dear friend: I have made you stay too long;

I fear you'll be benighted.

HUS. Fie! no, no.

Madam and sweetest wife, farewell; God bless us.

Make much of Master Subtle here, my friend, [_Kisses her._

Till my return, which may be ev'n as't happens,

According as my business hath success. [_Exit._

SUB. How will you pass the time now, fairest mistress?

WIFE. In troth, I know not: wives without their husbands,

Methinks, are low'ring days.

SUB. Indeed, some wives

Are like dead bodies in their husbands' absence.

WIFE. If any wife be, I must needs be so,

That have a husband far above all men;

Untainted with the humours others have,

A perfect man, and one that loves you truly:

You see the charge he left of your good usage.

SUB. Pish! he's an ass, I know him; a stark ass,

Of a most barbarous condition,

False-hearted to his friend, rough unto you;

A most dissembling and perfidious fellow.

I care not if he heard me: this I know,

And will make good upon him with my sword,

Or any for him--for he will not fight.

WIFE. Fie, servant! you show small civility

And less humanity: d'ye requite

My husband's love thus ill? for what d'ye think

Of me, that you will utter to my face

Such harsh, unfriendly, slanderous injuries

Even of my husband? Sir, forbear, I pray,

My ears or your own tongue: I am no house-wife

To hear my husband's merit thus deprav'd.

SUB. His merit is a halter, by this light.

You think he's out of town now; no such matter:

But gone aside, and hath importun'd me

To try your chastity.

WIFE. It cannot be.

Alas! he is as free from jealousy,

And ever was, as confidence itself.

I know he loves me too-too heartily

To be suspicious, or to prove my truth.

SUB. If I do feign in ought, ne'er may I purchase

The grace I hope for! and, fair mistress,

If you have any spirit, or wit, or sense,

You will be even with such a wretched slave.

Heaven knows I love you as the air I draw!

Think but how finely you may cuckold him,

And safely, too, with me, who will report

To him, that you are most invincible,

Your chastity not to be subdu'd by man.

WIFE. When you know I'm a whore?

SUB. A whore? fie! no;

That you have been kind, or so: your whore doth live

In Pickt-hatch,[92] Turnbull Street.

WIFE. Your whore lives there! [_Aside._]

Well, servant, leave me to myself awhile:

Return anon; but bear this hope away,

'T shall be with you, if I at all do stray. [_Exit_ SUBTLE.

Why, here's right wordly[93] friendship! ye're well-met.

O men! what are you? why is our poor sex

Still made the disgrac'd subjects in these plays

For vices, folly, and inconstancy:

When, were men look'd into with such critical eyes

Of observation, many would be found

So full of gross and base corruption,

That none (unless the devil himself turn'd writer)

Could feign so badly to express them truly?

Some wives that had a husband now, like mine,

Would yield their honours up to any man:

Far be it from my thoughts! O, let me stand,

Thou God of marriage and chastity,

An honour to my sex! no injury

Compel the virtue of my breast to yield!

It's not revenge for any wife to stain

The nuptial bed, although she be yok'd ill.

Who falls, because her husband so hath done,

Cures not his wound, but in herself makes one. [_Exit_ WIFE.

SCENE III.

_Enter_ INGEN, _reading a letter; sits down in a chair, and stamps with

his foot; to him a_ SERVANT.

INGEN. Who brought this letter?

SER. A little Irish footboy, sir:

He stays without for an answer.

INGEN. Bid him come in. Lord!

What deep dissemblers are these females all.

How far unlike a friend this lady us'd me,

And here how like one mad in love she writes.

_Enter_ MAID, _like an Irish footboy, with a dart,[94] gloves in her

pocket, and a handkerchief_.

So bless me, heaven, but thou art the prettiest boy

That e'er ran by a horse! hast thou dwelt long

With thy fair mistress?

MAID. I came but this morning, sir.

INGEN. How fares thy lady, boy?

MAID. Like to a turtle that hath lost her mate,

Drooping she sits; her grief, sir, cannot speak.

Had it a voice articulate, we should know

How and for what cause she suffers; and perhaps--

But 'tis unlikely--give her comfort, sir.

Weeping she sits, and all the sound comes from her

Is like the murmur of a silver brook,

Which her tears truly would make there about her,

Sat she in any hollow continent.

INGEN. Believe me, boy, thou hast a passionate tongue,

Lively expression, or thy memory

Hath carried thy lesson well away.

But wherefore mourns thy lady?

MAID. Sir, you know,

And would to God I did not know myself!

INGEN. Alas! it cannot be for love to me.

When last I saw her, she revil'd me, boy,

With bitterest words, and wish'd me never more

To approach her sight; and for my marriage now

I do sustain it as a penance due

To the desert that made her banish me.

MAID. Sir, I dare swear, she did presume no words,

Nor dangers had been powerful to restrain

Your coming to her, when she gave the charge--

But are you married truly?

INGEN. Why, my boy,

Dost think I mock myself? I sent her gloves.

MAID. The gloves she has return'd you, sir, by me,

And prays you give them to some other lady,

That you'll deceive next, and be perjured to.

Sure, you have wrong'd her: sir, she bad me tell you,

She ne'er thought goodness dwelt in many men,

But what there was of goodness in the world,

She thought you had it all; but now she sees

The jewel she esteem'd is counterfeit;

That you are but a common man yourself--

A traitor to her and her virtuous love;

That all men are betrayers, and their breasts

As full of dangerous gulfs as is the sea,

Where any woman, thinking to find harbour,

She and her honour are precipitated,

And never to be brought with safety off.

Alas, my hapless lady desolate!

Distress'd, forsaken virgin!

INGEN. Sure, this boy

Is of an excellent nature who, so newly

Ta'en to her service, feels his mistress' grief,

As he and they were old familiar friends.

Why weep'st thou, gentle lad?

MAID. Who hath one tear,

And would not save't from all occasions,

From brothers' slaughters and from mothers' deaths,

To spend it here for my distressed lady?

But, sir, my lady did command me beg

To see your wife, that I may bear to her

The sad report. What creature could make you

Untie the hand fast pledged unto her?

INGEN. Wife, wife, come forth! now, gentle boy, be judge,

_Enter_ INGEN'S BROTHER, _like a woman, masked_. INGEN _kisses her_.

If such a face as this, being paid with scorn

By her I did adore, had not full power

To make me marry.

MAID. By the God of love,

She's a fair creature, but faith, should be fairer.

My lady, gentle mistress, one that thought

She had some interest in this gentleman,

(Who now is only yours) commanded me

To kiss your white hand, and to sigh and weep,

And wish you that content she should have had

In the fruition of her love you hold.

She bad me say, God give you joy, to both;

Yet this withal (if ye were married):

No one her footsteps ever more should meet,

Nor see her face but in a winding-sheet.

BRO. Alas, poor lady! faith, I pity her,

And, but to be i' th' same state, could forego

Anything I possess to ease her woe.

MAID. Love's blessing light upon thy gentle soul!

Men rail at women, mistress, but 'tis we

Are false and cruel, ten times more unkind;

You are smoother far and of a softer mind.

Sir, I have one request more.

INGEN. Gentle lad,

It must be one of a strange quality

That I deny thee: both thy form and mind

Inform me that thy nurture hath been better,

Than to betray thee to this present life.

MAID. 'Tis, that you would vouchsafe to entertain me.

My feet do tremble under me to bear

My body back unto my uncouth lady,

To assure her grief. What heart so hard would owe

A tongue to tell so sad a tale to her?

Alas! I dare not look upon her eyes,

Where wronged love sits like the basilisk.

And, sure, would kill me for my dire report:

Or rather should not I appear like death,

[_Holding up his dart._

When every word I spake shot through her heart

More mortally than his unsparing dart.

BRO. Let me speak for the boy.

INGEN. To what end, love?

No, I will sue to him to follow me.

In troth, I love thy sweet condition,

And may live to inform thy lady of thee.

Come in; dry, dry thine eyes, respite thy woe;

The effects of causes[95] crown or overthrow.

SCENE IV.

_Enter_ LORD PROUDLY, LORD FEESIMPLE, WELLTRIED, SELDOM, WIDOW, BOLD

_pinning in a ruff_, WIFE.

PROUDLY. 'Slight, what should be become of her? you swear

She pass'd not forth of doors, and i' th' house she is not?

WID. Did you not see her, Princox?

PROUDLY. This same bawd

Has brought her letters from some younger brother,

And she is stolen away.

BOLD. Bawd! I defy you.

Indeed, your lordship thinks you may make bawds

Of whom you please. I'll take my oath upon a book,

Since I met her in the necessary house i' th' morning,

I ne'er set eye on her.

GRACE. She went not out of doors.

PROUDLY. Sure, she has an invisible ring.

FEE. Marry, she's the honester woman, for some of their rings are

visible enough, the more shame for them, still say I. Let the pond at

Islington be searched: go to, there's more have drowned themselves for

love this year than you are aware of.

PROUDLY. Pish! you are a fool.

WELL. 'Sheart! call him fool again.

FEE. By this light, and I will, as soon as ever you have showed me the

Swaggerers.[96]

WIFE. Her clothes are all yonder, my lord.

GRACE. And even those same she had on to-day.

PROUDLY. Madam, where is your husband?

WIFE. Rid into the country.

FEE. O' my conscience, rid into France with your sister.

OMNES. Away, away; for shame!

FEE. Why, I hope she is not the first lady that has ran away with other

women's husbands.

WELL. It may be she's stolen out to see a play.

PROUDLY. Who should go with her, man?

WID. Upon my life, you'll hear of her at Master Ingen's house: some

love pass'd betwixt them, and we heard that he was married to-day to

another.

PROUDLY. 'Sheart! I'll go see. [_Exit_ LORD PROUDLY.

WELL. Come to the Swaggerers.

FEE. Mercy upon me! a man or a--Lord now?

[_Exeunt_ LORD FEESIMPLE, WELLTRIED.

OMNES. Here's a coil with a lord and his sister.

WID. Princox, hast not thou pinned in that ruff yet? ha! how thou

fumblest!

BOLD. Troth, madam, I was ne'er brought up to it; 'tis chambermaid's

work, and I have ever lived gentlewoman, and been used accordingly.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[87] In reference to her female sex and male attire.

[88] These words contain an allusion to Blackfriars as a common

residence of the Puritans. The Widow subsequently refers to the same

circumstance, when in act iii. she asks Bold: "Precise and learned

Princox, dost thou not go to Blackfriars." That Blackfriars, although

the play-house was there, was crowded with Puritans may be proved by

many authorities.

[89] Two celebrated English heroines. The achievements of Mary Ambree

at the siege of Ghent, in 1584, are celebrated in a ballad which goes

by her name in Percy's "Reliques," ii. 239, edit. 1812. She is

mentioned by Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and many other dramatists; some of

whom were her contemporaries. Dr Percy conjectured that the "English

Mall" of Butler was the same female soldier, but he probably alluded

to Mall or Moll Cut-purse who forms a character in this play. Long Meg

is Long Meg of Westminster, also a masculine lady of great notoriety,

and after whom a cannon in Dover Castle, and a large flagstone in the

cloisters of Westminster Abbey are still called. Her life and "merry

pranks" were detailed in a pamphlet dated in [1582], and reprinted

[from a later edition] in 1816. It is conjectured that she was dead in

1594, but she is often spoken of in our old writers. It will be seen

by a subsequent note that Long Meg was the heroine of a play which has

not survived.

[90] It is tolerably evident that two plays (one called "Long Meg,"

and the other "The Ship"), and not one with a double title, are here

intended to be spoken of. This may seem to disprove Malone's assertion

("Shakespeare" by Boswell, iii. 304), that only one piece was

represented on one day. By Henslowe's Diary it appears that "Longe

Mege of Westminster" was performed at Newington in February 1594, and,

according to Field, it must have continued for some time popular.

Nothing is known of a dramatic piece of that date called "The Ship."

It may have been only a jig, often given at the conclusion of plays.

[Compare p. 136.]

[91] The second edition misprints this stage direction, _Enter Lord_.

[92] A noted and often-mentioned purlieu, the resort and residence of

prostitutes, &c. See "Merry Wives of Windsor," act i. sc. 2, where

enough, and more than enough, is said upon the subject. Turnbull

Street has been already mentioned.

[93] [_i.e._, Worldly.]

[94] It seems to have been the custom to employ the Irish as lackeys

or footmen at this period. R. Brathwaite, in his "Time's Curtaine

Drawne," 1621, speaking of the attendants of a courtier, mentions "two

_Irish_ lacquies" as among them. The _dart_ which, according to this

play, and Middleton and Rowley's "Faire Quarrel" (edit. 1622), they

carried, was perhaps intended as an indication of the country from

which they came, as being part of the accoutrements of the native

Irish: thus, in the description of the dumb show preceding act ii. of

"The Misfortunes of Arthur," we find the following passage: "After

which there came a man bareheaded with long black shagged hair down to

his shoulders, apparaled with an Irish jacket and shirt, having an

Irish dagger by his side and a _dart_ in his hand" [iv. 279]. The

_shirt_ in our day seldom forms part of the dress of the resident

Irish. [George Richardson] wrote a tract called "The Irish Footman ['s

Poetry," 1641, in defence of Taylor the Water-poet.]

[95] The second 4º has it _the effects of pauses_, which, if not

nonsense, is very like it.

[96] [_i.e._, The roaring boys, who are introduced a little later in

the play.]

ACT III., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ HUSBAND _and_ SUBTLE.

SUB. She's a rare wife, believe it, sir: were all such,

We never should have false inheritors.

HUS. Pish! friend, there is no woman in the world

Can hold out in the end, if youth, shape, wit,

Met in one subject, do assault her aptly;

For failing once, you must not faint, but try

Another way: the paths of women's minds

Are crooked and diverse; they have byways

To lead you to the palace of their pleasures,

And you must woo discreetly. First, observe

The disposition of her you attempt:

If she be spriteful and heroical,

Possess her that you are valiant, and have spirit:

Talk nothing but of beating every man,

That is your hinderance; though you do not do it,

Or dare not, 'tis no matter. Be she free

And of a liberal soul, give bounteously

To all the servants; let your angels fly

About the room, although you borrow'd 'em.

If she be witty, so must your discourse:

Get wit, what shift soe'er you make for it,

Though't cost you all your land; and then a song

Or two is not amiss, although you buy 'em:

There's many in the town will furnish you.

SUB. But still, I tell you, you must use her roughly.

Beat her face black and blue, take all her clothes,

And give them to some punk: this will be ground

For me to work upon.

HUS. All this I have done.

I have left her now as bare that, should I die,

Her fortune, o' my conscience, would be

To marry some tobacco-man: she has nothing

But an old black-work waistcoat, which would serve

Exceeding well to sit i' th' shop, and light

Pipes for the lousy footmen. And, sweet friend,

First here's a jewel to present her; then,

Here is a sonnet writ against myself,

Which as thine own thou shalt accost her with.

Farewell, and happy success attend thee! [_Exit._

SUB. Ha, ha, ha! [_He reads._

_Fairest, still wilt thou be true_

_To man so false to thee?_

_Did he lend a husband's due,_

_Thou didst owe him loyalty;_

_But will curses, wanton[97] blows_

_Breed no change in thy white soul?_

_Be not a fool to thy first vows,_

_Since his first breach doth thy faith control._

_No beauty else could be so chaste;_

_Think not thou honour'st woman then,_

_Since by thy conscience all disgrac'd_

_Are robb'd of the dear loves of men._

_Then grant me my desire, that vow to prove_

_A real husband, his adulterate love."_

Took ever man more pains to be a cuckold!

O monstrous age, where men themselves, we see,

Study and pay for their own infamy.

SCENE II.

_Enter_ INGEN, MAID, LORD PROUDLY, BROTHER _like a woman: swords drawn_.

PROUDLY. Give me my sister! I'll have her forth thy heart.

INGEN. No earthly lord can pull her out of that,

Till he have pluck'd my heart first out. My lord,

Were't not inhospitable, I could wrong you here

In my own house. I am so full of woe

For your lost sister, that by all my joys

Hoped for in her, my heart weeps tears of blood:

A whiter virgin and a worthier

Had ne'er creation; Leda's swan was black

To her virginity and immaculate thoughts.

PROUDLY. Where hast thou hid her? give her me again;

For, by the God of vengeance, be she lost,

The female hate shall spring betwixt our names

Shall never die, while one of either house

Survives: our children shall, at seven years old,

Strike knives in one another.

INGEN. Let hell gape

And take me quick, if I know where she is;

But am so charg'd with sorrow for her loss,

Being the cause of it (as no doubt I am),

That I had rather fall upon my sword

[_Offering to kill himself._

Than breathe a minute longer.

BRO. O sir! hold.

PROUDLY. Thou shalt not need; I have a sword to bathe

In thy false blood, inhumane murderer.

MAID. Good sir, be pacified: I'll go, I'll run

Many a mile to find your sister out.

She never was so desperate of grace

By violence to rob herself of life,

And so her soul endanger. Comfort, sir;

She's but retired somewhere, on my life.

INGEN. Prythee, let me alone--

[_To his brother._

Do I stand to defend that wretched life,

That is in doubt of hers? here, worthy lord,

Behold a breast fram'd of thy sister's love;

Hew it, for thou shalt strike but on a stock,

Since she is gone that was the cause it liv'd.

PROUDLY. Out, false dissembler! art not married?

INGEN. No; behold it is my younger brother dress'd;

[_Plucks of his head-tire._

A man, no woman, that hath gull'd the world,

Intended for a happier event

Than this that follow'd, that she now is gone.

O fond experiments of simple man!

Fool to thy fate, since all thy project, meant

But mirth, is now converted unto death.

MAID. O, do not burst me, joy! that modesty [_Aside._

Would let me show myself to finish all!

PROUDLY. Nay, then thou hast my sister somewhere, villain!

'Tis plain now thou wilt steal thy marriage.

She is no match for thee, assure thyself.

If all the law in England or my friends

Can cross it, 't shall not be.

INGEN. Would 'twere so well,

And that I knew the lady to be safe!

Give me no ill-words. Sir, this boy and I

Will wander like two pilgrims till we find her.

If you do love her as you talk, do so:

The love or grief that is express'd in words,

Is slight and easy; 'tis but shallow woe

That makes a noise; deep'st waters stillest go.

I love her better than thy parents did,

Which is beyond a brother.

PROUDLY. Slave! thou liest.

INGEN. Zounds! [_About to strike._

BRO. Kill him!

MAID. O, hold! Sir, you dishonour much your brother

To counsel him 'gainst hospitality

To strike in his own house.

INGEN. You, lord insolent, I will fight with you:

Take this as a challenge, and set your time.

PROUDLY. To-morrow morning, Ingen;

'Tis that I covet, and provoke thee for.

BRO. Will you not strike him now?

INGEN. No; my good boy

Is both discreet and just in his advice.

Thy glories are to last but for a day:

Give me thy hand;

To-morrow morning thou shalt be no lord.

PROUDLY. To-morrow noon thou shalt not be at all.

INGEN. Pish! why should you think so? have not I arms,

A soul as bold as yours, a sword as true?

I do not think your honour in the field,

Without your lordship's liveries, will have odds.

PROUDLY. Farewell, and let's have no excuses, pray.

[_Exit_ PROUDLY.

INGEN. I warrant you. Pray, say your prayers to-night,

And bring an[98] inkhorn w' ye, to set your hand to

A satisfactory recantation. [_Exit._

MAID. O wretched maid! whose sword can I pray for?

But by the other's loss I must find death.

O odious brother, if he kill my love!

O bloody love, if he should kill my brother!

Despair on both sides of my discontent

Tells me no safety rests but to prevent. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ BOLD _like_ PRINCOX.

WID. What's o'clock, Princox?

BOLD. Bedtime, an't please you, madam.

WID. Come, undress me. Would God had made me a man!

BOLD. Why, madam?

WID. Because

I would have been in bed as soon as they.

We are so long unpinning and unlacing.

BOLD. Yet many of us, madam, are quickly undone sometime: but herein we

have the advantage of men, though they can be abed sooner than we, it's

a great while, when they are abed, ere they can get up.

WID. Indeed, if they be well-laid, Princox, one cannot get them up again

in haste.

BOLD. O God! madam, how mean you that? I hope you know, ill things taken

into a gentlewoman's ears are the quick corrupters of maiden modesty. I

would be loth to continue in any service unfit for my virgin estate, or

where the world should take any notice of light behaviour in the lady I

follow; for, madam, the main point of chastity in a lady is to build the

rock of a good opinion amongst the people by circumstances, and a fair

show she must make. _Si non caste, tamen caute_, madam; and though wit

be a wanton, madam, yet I beseech your ladyship, for your own credit

and mine, let the bridle of judgment be always in the chaps of it, to

give it head or restrain it, according as time and place shall be

convenient.

WID. Precise and learned Princox, dost not thou go to Blackfriars?

BOLD. Most frequently, madam, unworthy vessel that I am to partake or

retain any of the delicious dew that is there distilled.

WID. But why shouldst thou ask me, what I meant e'en now? I tell thee,

there's nothing uttered but carries a double sense,[99] one good, one

bad; but if the hearer apply it to the worst, the fault lies in his or

her corrupt understanding, not in the speaker; for to answer your Latin,

_pravis omnia prava_. Believe me, wench, if ill come into my fancy, I

will purge it by speech: the less will remain within. A pox of these

nice-mouthed creatures! I have seen a narrow pair of lips utter as broad

a tale as can be bought for money. Indeed, an ill tale unuttered is like

a maggot in a nut, it spoils the whitest kernel.

BOLD. You speak most intelligently, madam.

WID. Hast not done yet? Thou art an old fumbler, I perceive. Methinks

thou dost not do things like a woman.

BOLD. Madam, I do my endeavour, and the best can do no more; they that

could do better, it may be would not, and then 'twere all one. But

rather than be a burthen to your ladyship, I protest sincerely, I would

beg my bread; therefore I beseech you, madam, to hold me excused, and

let my goodwill stand for the action.

WID. Let thy goodwill stand for the action? If goodwill would do it,

there's many a lady in this land would be content with her old lord; and

thou canst not be a burthen to me, without thou lie upon me, and that

were preposterous in thy sex. Take no exceptions at what I say. Remember

you said _stand_ even now. There was a word for one of your coat,

indeed!

BOLD. I swear, madam, you are very merry. God send you good luck. Has

your ladyship no waters that you use at bedtime?

WID. No, in troth, Princox.

BOLD. No complexion!

WID. None but mine own, I swear. Didst thou ever use any?

BOLD. No, indeed, madam; now and then a piece of scarlet, or so; a

little white and red ceruse; but, in troth, madam, I have an excellent

receipt for a nightmask as ever you heard.

WID. What is it?

BOLD. Boar's grease one ounce; Jordan almonds, blanched and ground, a

quartern; red rosewater, half a pint; mare's urine, newly covered, half

a score drops.

WID. Fogh! no more of thy medicine, if thou lovest me. Few of our

knights-errant, when they meet a fair lady-errant in a morning, would

think her face had lain so plastered all night. Thou hast had some

apothecary to thy sweetheart. But, leaving this face-physic (for, by my

troth, it may make others have good ones, but it makes me a scurvy one),

which of all the gallants in the town wouldst thou make a husband of, if

thou mightst have him for thy choosing?

BOLD. In troth, madam, but you'll say I speak blindly, but let my love

stand aside----

WID. I think it not fit, indeed, your love should stand in the middle.

BOLD. I say, Master Bold. O, do but mark him, madam; his leg, his hand,

his body, and all his members stand in print.

WID. Out upon thee, Princox! No. Methinks Welltried's a handsome fellow.

I like not these starched gallants: masculine faces and masculine

gestures please me best.

BOLD. How like you Master Pert?

WID. Fie upon him! when he is in his scarlet clothes, he looks like a

man of wax, and I had as lief have a dog o' wax: I do not think but he

lies in a case o' nights. He walks as if he were made of gins[100]--as

if Nature had wrought him in a frame: I have seen him sit discontented a

whole play, because one of the purls of his band was fallen out of his

reach to order again.[101]

BOLD. Why, Bold, madam, is clean contrary.

WID. Ay, but that's as ill: each extreme is alike vicious; his careful

carelessness is his study. He spends as much time to make himself

slovenly, as the other to be spruce. His garters hang over upon the

calves of his legs, his doublet unbuttoned, and his points untrussed;

his hair in's eyes like a drunkard, and his hat, worn on the[102]

hinder-part of his head, as if he cared more for his memory than his

wit, makes him look as if he were distracted. Princox, I would have you

lie with me: I do not love to lie alone.

BOLD. With all my heart, madam.

WID. Are you clean-skinned?

BOLD. Clean-skinned, madam? there's a question! do you think I have the

itch? I am an Englishwoman: I protest, I scorn the motion.

WID. Nay, prythee, Princox, be not angry: it's a sign of honesty, I can

tell you.

BOLD. Faith, madam, I think 'tis but simple honesty that dwells at the

sign of the scab.

WID. Well, well, come to bed, and we'll talk further of all these

matters. [_Exit._

BOLD. Fortune, I thank thee; I will owe thee eyes

For this good turn! now is she mine indeed.

Thou hast given me that success my project hop'd.

Off, false disguise, that hast been true to me,

And now be Bold, that thou may'st welcome be. [_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_Enter_ WHOREBANG, BOTS,[103] TEARCHAPS, SPILLBLOOD, _and_ DRAWER:

_several patches on their faces_.

TEAR. Damn me, we will have more wine, sirrah, or we'll down into the

cellar, and drown thee in a butt of Malmsey, and hew all the hogsheads

in pieces.

WHORE. Hang him, rogue! shall he die as honourable as the Duke of

Clarence? by this flesh, let's have wine, or I will cut thy head off,

and have it roasted and eaten in Pie Corner next Bartholomew-tide.

DRAWER. Gentlemen, I beseech you consider where you are--Turnbull

Street--a civil place: do not disturb a number of poor gentlewomen.

Master Whorebang, Master Bots, Master Tearchaps, and Master Spillblood,

the watch are abroad.

SPILL. The watch! why, you rogue, are not we kings of Turnbull?

DRAWER. Yes, marry are ye, sir: for my part, if you'll be quiet, I'll

have a sign made of ye, and it shall be called the four kings of

Turnbull.

BOTS. Will you fetch us wine?

WHORE. And a whore, sirrah?

DRAWER. Why, what d'ye think of me? am I an infidel, a Turk, a pagan, a

Saracen? I have been at Bess Turnup's, and she swears all the

gentlewomen went to see a play at the Fortune,[104] and are not come in

yet, and she believes they sup with the players.

TEAR. Damn me, we must kill all those rogues: we shall never keep a

whore honest for them.

BOTS. Go your ways, sirrah. We'll have but a gallon apiece, and an ounce

of tobacco.

DRAWER. I beseech you, let it be but pottles.[105]

SPILL. 'Sheart! you rogue. [_Exit_ DRAWER.

_Enter_ WELLTRIED _and_ LORD FEESIMPLE.

WHORE. Master Welltried! welcome as my soul.

_Enter_ DRAWER, _with wine, plate and tobacco_.

BOTS. Noble lad, how dost thou?

SPILL. As welcome as the tobacco and the wine, boy.

TEAR. Damn me, thou art.

FEE. Bless me (save you, gentlemen), they have not one face among 'em! I

could wish myself well from them: from them: I would I had put out

something upon my return; I had as lief be at Barmuthoes.[106]

WELL. Pray, welcome this gentleman.

SPILL. Is he valiant? [_Aside._

WELL. Faith, he's a little faulty that way; somewhat of a bashful and

backward nature, yet I have brought him amongst you, because he hath a

great desire to be fleshed.

[_Aside._

FEE. Yes, faith, sir, I have a great desire to be fleshed; now Master

Welltried said he would bring me to the only fleshmongers in the town.

WELL. Sir, he cannot endure the sight of steel. [_Aside._

WHORE. Not steel? zounds! [_Claps his sword over the table._

FEE. Now I am going! [_Faints._

BOTS. Here's to you, sir. I'll fetch you again with a cup of sack.

FEE. I pledge you, sir, and begin to you in a cup of claret.

WELL. Hark you, my lord: what will you say if I make you beat all these

out of the room?

[_Aside._

FEE. What will I say? why, I say it is impossible; 'tis not in mortal

man.

[_Aside._]

WELL. Well, drink apace: if any brave you, outbrave him; I'll second

you. They are a company of cowards, believe me.

[_Aside._]

FEE. By this light, I would they were else: if I thought so, I would be

upon the jack[107] of one of 'em instantly, that same little Damn me.

But, Master Welltried, if they be not very valiant, or dare not fight,

how came they by such cuts and gashes, and such broken faces? [_Aside._]

WELL. Why, their whores strike 'em with cans and glasses, and

quart-pots: if they have nothing by 'em, they strike 'em with the pox,

and you know that will lay one's nose as flat as a basket-hilt dagger.

[_Aside._]

FEE. Well, let me alone. [_Aside._]

TEAR. This bully dares not drink.

FEE. Dare I not, sir?

WELL. Well said; speak to him, man.

FEE. You had best try me, sir.

SPILL. We four will drink four healths to four of the seven deadly sins,

pride, drunkenness, wrath, and lechery.

FEE. I'll pledge 'em, and I thank you; I know 'em all. Here's one.

WHORE. Which of the sins?

FEE. By my troth, even to pride.

WELL. Why, well said; and in this do not you only pledge your mistress's

health, but all the women's in the world.

FEE. So: now this little cup to wrath, because he and I are strangers.

TEAR. Brave boy! damn me, he shall be a roarer.

FEE. Damn me, I will be a roarer, or't shall cost me a fall.

BOTS. The next place that falls, pray, let him have it.

FEE. Well, I have two of my healths to drink yet--lechery and

drunkenness, which even shall go together.

WELL. Why, how now, my lord, a moralist?

BOTS. Damn me, art thou a lord? what virtues hast thou?

FEE. Virtues? enough to keep e'er a damn-me company in England: methinks

you should think it virtue enough to be a lord.

WHORE. Will not you pledge these healths, Master Welltried? we'll have

no observers.

WELL. Why, Monsieur Whorebang? I am no playmaker[108], and, for pledging

your healths, I love none of the four you drank to so well.

SPILL. Zounds! you shall pledge me this.

WELL. Shall I?

FEE. What's the matter? dost hear, Master Welltried, use thine own

discretion; if thou wilt not pledge him, say so, and let me see if e'er

a damn-me of 'em all will force thee.

SPILL. Puff! will your lordship take any tobacco? you lord with the

white face.

BOTS. Heart! he cannot put it through his nose.

FEE. Faith, you have ne'er a nose to put it through; d'ye hear I blow

your face, sirrah.

TEAR. You'll pledge me, sir?

WELL. Indeed, I will not.

FEE. Damn me, he shall not then.[109]

TEAR. Lord, use your own words, _damn me_ is mine; I am known by it all

the town o'er, d'ye hear?

FEE. It is as free for me as you, d'ye hear, Patch?[110]

TEAR. I have paid more for't.

WELL. Nay, I'll bear him witness in a truth: his soul lies for't,[111]

my lord.

SPILL. Welltried, you are grown proud since you got good clothes and

have followed your lord.

[_Strikes, and they scuffle._

WHORE. I have known you lousy, Welltried.

WELL. Roarer, you lie. [_Draw and fight; throw pots and stools._

DRAWER. O Jesu!

ALL SWAGGERERS. Zounds! cleave or be cleft: pell-mell: slash arms and

legs.

FEE. Heart! let me alone with 'em.

[_Break off, and exeunt all the_ SWAGGERERS.

WELL. Why, now thou art a worthy wight, indeed, a Lord of Lorn.[112]

FEE. I am a madman: look, is not that one of their heads?

WELL. Fie! no, my lord.

FEE. Damn me, but 'tis; I would not wish you to cross me a'purpose: if

you have anything to say to me, so--I am ready.

WELL. O brave lord! many a roarer thus is made by wine. Come, it is one

of their heads, my lord.

FEE. Why so, then, I will have my humour. If you love me, let's go break

windows somewhere.

WELL. Drawer, take your plate. For the reckoning there's some of their

cloaks: I will be no shot-log to such.

DRAWER. God's blessing o' your heart for thus ridding the house of them.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[97] [Old copy, _wants, and_.]

[98] [Old copy, _no_.]

[99] Both the old copies read, _that carries a double sense_, but it

is clearly a misprint.

[100] The Widow means that Master Pert walks as if he were made of

_wires_, and _gins_ were usually composed of wire.

[101] So in "The Fatal Dowry," Liladam exclaims, "Uds light! my lord,

one of the purls of your band is, without all discipline, fallen out

of his rank," act ii. sc. 2. These little phrases may assist in

tracing the authorship of different parts of a play by distinct

authors.

[102] [Old copy, _his_.]

[103] [This name, given to one of the _roarers_, is a corruption of

_pox_. We often meet with the form in the old plays.]

[104] The _Fortune_ Theatre [in Golden Lane] was built in 1599 by

Edward Allen, the founder of Dulwich College, at an expense of £520,

and in the Prologue of Middleton and Dekker's "Roaring Girl" it is

called "a _vast_ theatre." It was eighty feet square, and was consumed

by fire in 1621.

[105] A pottle was half a gallon.

[106] He means that he wishes he had _insured_ his return, as he would

as willingly be at the Bermudas, or (as it was then called) "The Isle

of Devils." In a note on "the still vexed Barmoothes" ("Tempest," act

i. sc. 2), it is shown that _the Bermudas_ was a cant name for the

privileged resort of such characters as Whorebang and his companions.

The notions entertained by our ancestors of the Bermudas is distinctly

shown in the following extract from Middleton's "Anything for a Quiet

Life," 1662, act v.; [Dyce's edit., iv. 499.] _Chamlet_ is troubled

with a shrewish wife, and is determined to leave England and go

somewhere else. He says--

"The place I speak of has been kept with thunder,

With frightful lightnings' amazing noises;

But now (the enchantment broke) 'tis the land of peace,

Where hogs and tobacco yield fair increase. . .

Gentlemen, fare you well, I am for the Bermudas."

[107] "The _jack_, properly, is a coat of mail, but it here means a

buff _jacket_ or _jerkin_ worn by soldiers or pretended soldiers."

[108] These words have reference, perhaps, to Middleton and Rowley's

curious old comedy of manners, "A Faire Quarrel," 1617 and 1622. The

second edition contains "new additions of Mr Chaugh, and Trimtram's

_roaring_." These two persons, empty pretenders to courage, set up a

sort of academy for instruction in the art and mystery of _roaring_ or

bullying, and much of the piece is written in ridicule of it and its

riotous professors. Whorebang calls these playmakers _observers_, as

if suspecting that Welltried and Feesimple came among them for the

purpose of making notes for a play. In Webster and Rowley's "Cure for

a Cuckold," 1661, act iv. sc. 1, there is another allusion to the

"Faire Quarrel," where Compass uses the words _Tweak_ and

_Bronstrops_, adding, "I learnt that name in a play." Chaugh and

Trimtram, in the "Faire Quarrel," undertake also to give lessons in

the _cant_ and _slang_ of the time. In other respects, excepting as a

picture of the manners of the day, that play possesses little to

recommend it.

[109] In both the old copies this remark is erroneously given to

Tearchaps.

[110] _Patch_ and _fool_ are synonymous in old writers. Feesimple

alludes also to the patch on the face of Tearchaps.

[111] That is, his soul _lies in pawn_ for employing the oath.

[112] [The hero of an early heroic ballad so called. See Hazlitt,

in _v_.]

ACT IV., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ WIDOW _undressed, a sword in her hand; and_ BOLD _in his shirt,

as started from bed_.

WID. Uncivil man! if I should take thy life,

It were not to be weigh'd with thy attempt.

Thou hast for ever lost me.

BOLD. Madam, why?

Can love beget loss? Do I covet you

Unlawfully? Am I an unfit man

To make a husband of? Send for a priest;

First consummate the match, and then to bed

Without more trouble.

WID. No, I will not do't.

BOLD. Why, you confess'd to me (as your gentlewoman)[113]

I was the man your heart did most affect;

That you did doat upon my mind and body.

WID. So, by the sacred and inviolate knot

Of marriage, I do; but will not wed thee.

BOLD. Why, yet enjoy me now. Consider, lady,

That little but bless'd time I was in bed,

Although I lay as by my sister's side,

The world is apt to censure otherwise:

So, 'tis necessity that we marry now.

WID. Pish! I regard not at a straw the world.

Fame from the tongues of men doth injury

Oft'ner than justice; and as conscience

Only makes guilty persons, not report,

(For show we clear as springs unto the world,

If our own knowledge do not make us so,

That is no satisfaction to ourselves),

So stand we ne'er so leprous to men's eye,

It cannot hurt heart-known integrity.

You have trusted to that fond opinion,

This is the way to have a widowhood,

By getting to her bed.[114] Alas! young man,

Shouldst thou thyself tell thy companions

Thou hast dishonour'd me (as you men have tongues

Forked and venom'd 'gainst our subject sex);

It should not move me, that know 'tis not so:

Therefore depart. Truth be my virtuous shield.

BOLD. Few widows would do thus.

WID. All modest would.

BOLD. To be in bed, and in possession

Even of the mark I aim'd at, and go off

Foil'd and disgrac'd! Come, come, you'll laugh at me

Behind my back; publish I wanted spirit,

And mock me to the ladies; call me child,

Say you denied me but to try the heat

And zeal of my affection toward you,

Then clapp'd up with a rhyme; as for example--

_He coldly loves retires for one vain trial,

For we are yielding when we make denial._

WID. Servant, I make no question, from this time

You'll hold a more reverent opinion

Of some that wear long coats; and 'tis my pride

To assure you that there are amongst us good,

And with this continency. If you go away,

I'll be so far from thinking it defect,

That I will hold you worthiest of men.

BOLD. 'Sheart! I am Tantalus: my long'd-for fruit

Bobs at my lips, yet still it shrinks from me.

Have not I that, which men say never fails

To o'ercome any, opportunity?[115]

Come, come; I am too cold in my assault.

By all the virtues that yet ever were

In man or woman, I with reverence

Do love thee, lady, but will be no fool

To let occasion slip her foretop from me.

WID. You will fail this way too. Upon my knees

I do desire thee to preserve thy virtues,

And with my tears my honour: 'tis as bad

To lose our worths to them, or to deceive

Who have held worthy opinions of us,

As to betray trust. All this I implore

For thine own sake, not mine: as for myself,

If thou be'st violent, by this stupid night

And all the mischiefs her dark womb hath bred,

I'll raise the house; I'll cry a rape.

BOLD. I hope

You will not hang me: that were murder, lady,

A greater sin than lying with me, sure.

WID. Come, flatter not yourself with argument.

I will exclaim: the law hangs you, not I;

Or if I did, I had rather far confound

The dearest body in the world to me,

Than that that body should confound my soul.

BOLD. Your soul? alas! mistress, are you so fond

To think her general destruction

Can be procur'd by such a natural act,

Which beasts are born to, and have privilege in?

Fie, fie! if this could be, far happier

Are insensitive[116] souls in their creation

Than man, the prince of creatures. Think you, heaven

Regards such mortal deeds, or punisheth

Those acts for which he hath ordained us?

WID. You argue like an atheist: man is never

The prince of creatures, as you call him now,

But in his reason; fail that, he is worse

Than horse, or dog, or beast of wilderness;

And 'tis that reason teacheth us to do

Our actions unlike them: then, that which you

Termed in them a privilege beyond us,

The baseness of their being doth express,

Compar'd to ours: horses, bulls and swine

Do leap their dams; because man does not so,

Shall we conclude his making[117] happiless?

BOLD. You put me down--yet will not put me down.

I am too gentle: some of you, I have heard,

Love not these words, but force; to have it done,

As they sing prick-song, ev'n at the first sight.

WID. Go to: keep off; by heaven and earth, I'll call else!

BOLD. How, if nobody hear you?

WID. If they do not,

I'll kill you with mine own hand; never stare:

Or failing that, fall on this sword myself.

BOLD. O widow wonderful! if thou be'st not honest,

Now God forgive my mother and my sisters.

Think but how finely, madam, undiscover'd

For ever I[118] might live: all day your gentlewoman

To do you service, but all night your man

To do you service: newness of the trick,

If nothing else, might stir ye.

WID. 'Tis a stale one,

And was done in the Fleet ten years ago.

Will you begone? the door is open for you.

BOLD. Let me but tarry till the morning, madam,

To send for clothes. Shall I go naked home?

WID. 'Tis best time now; it is but one o'clock,

And you may go unseen: I swear, by heaven,

I would spend all the night to sit and talk w' ye,

If I durst trust you: I do love you so.

My blood forsakes my heart now you depart.

BOLD. 'Sheart! will you marry me hereafter, then?

WID. No, you are too young, and I am much too old;

Ay, and unworthy, and the world will say,

We married not for love. Good morrow, servant. [_Exit_ WIDOW.

BOLD. Why so: these women are the errantest jugglers in the world: the

wry-legged fellow is an ass to 'em. Well, I must have this widow,

what-e'er come on't. Faith, she has turned me out of her service very

barely. Hark, what's here? music?

_Enter_ SUBTLE _with a paper, and his_ BOY _with a cloak_.

SUB. [_Reads._] "Rise, lady mistress, rise,

The night hath tedious been;

No sleep hath fallen into my eyes,

Nor slumbers made me sin.

Is not she a saint, then say,

Thought of whom keeps sin away?

"Rise, madam, rise and give me light,

Whom darkness still will cover,

And ignorance, darker than night,

Till thou smile on thy lover.

All want day, till thy beauty rise,

For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes!"[119]

Now sing it, sirrah. [_The song sung by the_ BOY.

SUB. 'Sfoot, who's this? young Master Bold! God save you; you are an

early stirrer.

BOLD. You say true, Master Subtle, I have been early up,

But, as God help me, I was never the near.[120]

SUB. Where have you been, sir?

BOLD. What's that to you, sir? at a woman's labour?

SUB. Very good: I ne'er took you for a man-midwife[121] before.

BOLD. The truth is, I have been up all night at dice, and lost my

clothes. Good morrow, Master Subtle. Pray God the watch be broke up: I

thank you for my music.

[_Exit._

SUB. 'Tis palpable, by this air: her husband being abroad, Bold has lain

with her, and is now conveyed out of doors. Is this the Lady Perfect,

with a pox? The truth is, her virtuous chastity began to make me make a

miracle of her still holding out to me, notwithstanding her husband's

most barbarous usage of her; but now, indeed, 'tis no marvel, since

another possesses her.

Well, madam, I will go find out your cuckold;

I'll be reveng'd on you, and tell a tale

Shall tickle him. This is a cheat in love

Not to be borne: another to beguile

Me of the game I play'd for all this while. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ WELLTRIED, _and_ BOLD _putting on his doublet;_ FEESIMPLE

_asleep on a bed, as in_ BOLD'S _chamber_.

WELL. You see, we made bold with your lodging: indeed, I did assure

myself you were fast for this night.

BOLD. But how the devil came this fool in your company?

WELL. 'Sfoot, man, I carried him last night among the roarers to flesh

him; and, by this light, he got drunk, and beat 'em all.

BOLD. Why, then he can endure the sight of a drawn sword now?

WELL. O God, sir, I think in my conscience he will eat steel shortly. I

know not how his conversion will hold after this sleep; but, in an hour

or two last night, he was grown such a little damn-me, that I protest I

was afraid of the spirit that I myself had raised in him. But this

other matter--of your expulsion thus, mads me to the heart. Were you in

bed with her?

BOLD. In bed, by heaven.

WELL. I'll be hanged, if you were not busy too soon: you should have let

her slept first.

BOLD. Zounds! man, she put her hand to my breasts, and swore I was no

maid: now I, being eager to prove her words true, took that hint, and

would violently have thrust her hand lower, when her thought, being

swifter than my strength, made her no sooner imagine that she was

betrayed, but she leaps out of the bed, whips me down a sword that hung

by, and, as if fortitude and justice had met to assist her, spite of all

argument, fair or foul, she forced me away.

WELL. But is it possible thou shouldst have no more wit? wouldst thou

come away upon any terms but sure ones, having night, her chamber, and

herself naked in thine arms? By that light, if I had a son of fourteen,

whom I had helped thus far, that had served me so, I would breech

him.[122]

BOLD. 'Sheart! what would you have me done?

WELL. Have done? done? done twice at least.

BOLD. Have played Tarquin, and ravished her?

WELL. Pish! Tarquin was a blockhead: if he had had any wit and could

have spoke, Lucrece had never been ravished; she would have yielded, I

warrant thee, and so will any woman.

BOLD. I was such an erroneous heretic to love and women as thou art,

till now.

WELL. God's precious! it makes me mad when I think on't. Was there ever

such an absurd trick! now will she abuse thee horribly, say thou art a

faint-hearted fellow, a milksop, and I know not what, as indeed thou

art.

BOLD. Zounds! would you had been in my place.

WELL. Zounds! I would I had, I would have so jumbled her honesty.

Wouldst thou be held out at stave's end with words? dost thou not know a

widow's a weak vessel, and is easily cast, if you close.

BOLD. Welltried, you deal unfriendly.

WELL. By this light, I shall blush to be seen in thy company.

BOLD. Pray, leave my chamber.

WELL. Pox upon your chamber!

I care not for your chamber nor yourself,

More than you care for me.

BOTS. 'Sblood! I as little for you.

WELL. Why, fare you well.

BOTS. Why, fare well. Yet, Welltried,[123] I prythee, stay:

Thou know'st I love thee.

WELL. 'Sheart! I love you as well;

But for my spleen or choler, I think I have

As much as you.

BOTS. Well, friend,

This is the business you must do for me.

Repair unto the widow, where give out,

To-morrow morn I shall be married:

Invite her to the wedding. I have a trick

To put upon this lord, too, whom I made

My instrument to prefer me.

WELL. What shall follow

I will not ask, because I mean[124] to see't.

The jars 'twixt friends still keeps their friendship sweet.

[_Exit._

FEE. [_waking_.] Why, Welltried, you rogue! what's that? a vision?

BOLD. Why, how now, my lord? whom do you call rogue? The gentleman you

name is my friend. If you were wise, I should be angry.

FEE. Angry with me? why, damn me, sir, and you be, out with your sword.

It is not with me, I tell you, as it was yesterday; I am fleshed, man,

I. Have you anything to say to me?

BOLD. Nothing but this: how many do you think you have slain last night?

FEE. Why, five; I never kill less.

BOLD. There were but four. My lord, you had best provide yourself and

begone; three you have slain stark dead.

FEE. You jest!

BOLD. It is most true. Welltried is fled.

FEE. Why, let the roarers meddle with me another time: as for flying, I

scorn it; I killed 'em like a man. When did you ever see a lord hang for

anything? We may kill whom we list. Marry, my conscience pricks me. Ah!

plague a' this drink! what things it makes us do! I do no more remember

this now than a puppy-dog.

O bloody lord, that art bedaub'd with gore!

Vain world, adieu, for I will roar no more.

BOLD. Nay, stay, my lord: I did but try the tenderness of your

conscience. All this is nothing so; but, to sweeten the tale I have for

you, I foretold you this feigned mischance.

FEE. It is a tale belonging to the widow.

BOLD. I think you are a witch.

FEE. My grandmother was suspected.

BOLD. The widow has desired you by me to meet her to-morrow morning at

church in some unknown disguise, lest any suspect it; for, quoth she,

Long hath he held me fast in his moist hand,

Therefore I will be his in nuptial band.

FEE. Bold, I have ever taken you to be my friend. I am very wise now and

valiant; if this be not true, damn me, sir, you are the son of a whore,

and you lie, and I will make it good with my sword.

BOLD. I am whate'er you please, sir, if it be not true. I will go with

you to the church myself. Your disguise I have thought on. The widow is

your own. Come, leave your fooling.

FEE. _If this be true, thou little boy Bold,_ [_Cantat._

_So true, as thou tell'st to me,_

_To-morrow morn, when I have the widow,_

_My dear friend shall thou be_.[125] [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ MAID, _like the footboy;_ SELDOM _with_ PITTS _and_ DONNER, _a

couple of serjeants_.

MAID. Sir, 'tis most true, and in this shall you be

Unlike to other citizens, that arrest

To undo gentlemen: your clemency here,

Perchance, saves two lives: one from the other's sword,

The other from the law's. This morn they fight,

And though your debtor be a lord, yet should he

Miscarry, certainly your debt were lost.

SEL. Dost thou serve the Lord Proudly?

MAID. Sir, I do.

SEL. Well, such a boy as thou is worth more money

Than thy lord owes me. 'Tis not for the debt

I do arrest him, but to end this strife,

Which both may lose my money and his life.

_Enter_ LORD PROUDLY, _with a riding-rod_.

PROUDLY. My horse there! Zounds! I would not for the world

He should alight before me in the field;

My name and honour were for ever lost.

SEL. Good morrow to your honour. I do hear

Your lordship this fair morning is to fight,

And for your honour: did you never see

The play where the fat knight, hight Oldcastle,

Did tell you truly what his honour was?[126]

PROUDLY. Why, how now, good man flatcap,

"what-d'ye-lack?"[127]

Whom do you talk to, sirrah?

1ST SER. We arrest you.

PROUDLY. Arrest me, rogue? I am a lord, ye curs,

A parliament man.

2D SER. Sir, we arrest you, though.

PROUDLY. At whose suit?

SEL. At mine, sir.

PROUDLY. Why, thou base rogue! did not I set thee up,

Having no stock but thy shop and fair wife?[128]

SEL. Into my house with him!

MAID. Away with him! away with him!

PROUDLY. A plot, a trick, by heaven! See, Ingen's footboy:

'Tis by his master's means. O coward slave!

I'll put in bail, or pay the debt.

SEL. Ay, ay, ay; we'll talk with you within--thrust him in.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ INGEN _looking on his sword, and bending it; his brother like a

man_.[129]

INGEN. If I miscarry, Frank, I prythee see

All my debts paid: about five hundred pounds

Will fully satisfy all men;[130] and my land,

And what I else possess, by Nature's right

And thy descent, Frank, I make freely thine.

BRO. I know you do not think I wish you dead

For all the benefit: besides, your spirit's

So opposite to counsel to avert

Your resolution, that I save my breath,

Which would be lost in vain, to expire and spend

Upon your foe, if you fall under him.

INGEN. Frank, I protest, you shall do injury

Upon my foe, and much disturbance too

Unto my soul departing, die I here

Fairly, and on my single enemy's sword,

If you should not let him go off untouch'd.

Now, by the master of thy life and mine,

I love thee, boy, beyond any example,

As well as thou dost me; but should I go

Thy second to the field, as thou dost mine,

And if thine enemy kill'd thee like a man,

I would desire never to see him more,

But he should bear himself off with those wounds

He had receiv'd from thee, from that time safe

And without persecution by the law;

For what hap is our foe's might be our own,

And no man's judgment sits in justice' place,

But weighing other men's as his own case.

BRO. He has the advantage of you, being a lord;

For should you kill him, you are sure to die,

And by some lawyer with a golden tongue,

That cries for right (ten angels on his side),

Your daring meet him call'd presumption:

But kill he you, he and his noble friends

Have such a golden snaffle for the jaws

Of man-devouring Pythagorean law,

They'll rein her stubborn chaps ev'n to her tail:

And (though she have iron teeth to meaner men),

So master her, that, who displeas'd her most,

She shall lie under like a tired jade;

For small boats on rough seas are quickly lost,

But ships ride safe, and cut the waves that tost.

INGEN. Follow what may, I am resolv'd, dear brother.

This monster valour, that doth feed on men,

Groans in me for my reputation.

This charge I give thee, too--if I do die,

Never to part from the young boy which late

I entertain'd, but love him for my sake.

And for my mistress, the Lady Honour,

Whom to deceive I have deceiv'd myself,

If she be dead, pray God I may give up

My life a sacrifice on her brother's sword;

But if thou liv'st to see her, gentle brother:

If I be slain, tell her I died, because

I had transgressed against her worthy love--

This sword is not well-mounted; let's see thine.

_Enter_ MAID, _like a footboy_.

MAID. Your staying, sir, is in vain, for my Lord Proudly,

Just at his taking horse to meet you here,

At Seldom's suit (the citizen) was arrested

Upon an action of two hundred pounds.

I saw it, sir; 'tis true.

INGEN. O scurvy lord!

It had been a cleanlier shift than this to have had

It hinder'd by command, he being a lord.

But I will find him.

_Enter_ LORD PROUDLY.

PROUDLY. You see, valiant sir, I have got loose

For all your stratagem. O rogue! are you there?

[PROUDLY _stabs his sister_.

INGEN. Most ignoble lord!

[INGEN _stabs_ PROUDLY _in the left arm_.

PROUDLY. Coward! thou didst this,

That I might be disabled for the fight,

Or that thou mightst have some excuse to shun me,

But 'tis my left arm thou hast lighted on.

I have no second: here are three of you.

If all do murder me, your consciences

Will more than hang you, damn you. Come, prepare!

INGEN. Brother, walk off, and take the boy away.

Is he hurt much?

BRO. Nothing, or very little. [PROUDLY _thrusts the boy out_.

INGEN. I'll bind your wound up first: your loss of blood

May sooner make you faint.

PROUDLY. Ingen, thou art

A worthy gentleman: for this courtesy,

Go to, I'll save thy life. Come on, sir! [_A pass or two._

I'll cut your codpiece point, sir, with this thrust,

And then down go your breeches.

INGEN. Your lordship's merry. [_Pass._

I had like to have spoil'd your cutwork band.

_Enter_ MAID, _like a footboy, running;_ BROTHER _after her;_ MAID

_kneels betwixt them_.

MAID. O master, hold your hand! my lord, hold yours,

Or let your swords meet in this wretched breast!

Yet you are both well; what blood you have lost,

Give it as for the injury you did,

And now be friends.

PROUDLY. 'Sheart! 'tis a loving rogue.

INGEN. Kind boy, stand up: 'tis for thy wound he bleeds;

My wrong is yet unsatisfied.

PROUDLY. Hence! away! It is a sister's loss that whets my sword.

MAID. O, stay, my lord! behold your sister here.

[_Discovers herself._

Bleeding by your hand: servant, see your mistress

Turn'd to thy servant, running by thy horse;

Whose meaning 'twas[131] to have prevented this,

But all in vain.

BRO. O noble lady!

INGEN. Most worthy pattern of all womenkind!

PROUDLY. Ingen, I am satisfied; put up your sword.

Sister, you must with me: I have a husband,

The Lord Feesimple's father, old, but rich.

This gentleman is no match for you: kneel not.

That portion of yours I have consum'd!

Thus marrying, you shall never come to want.

MAID. O sweet my lord, my brother! do not force me

To break my faith, or to a loathed bed.

INGEN. Force you he shall not: brother, bear her hence.

She is my wife, and thou shalt find my cause

Ten times improv'd now.

PROUDLY. O, have at you, sir. [_Pass._

MAID. Hold, hold, for heaven's sake! was e'er wretched lady

Put to this hazard? Sir, let me speak

But one word with him, and I'll go with you,

And undergo whatever you command.

PROUDLY. Do't quickly, for I love no whispering,

'Tis strange to see you, madam, with a sword!

You should have come hither in your lady's clothes.

MAID. Well, as you please, my lord: you are witness,

Whatsoe'er before

Hath pass'd betwixt us, thus I do undo.

Were not I mad to think thou couldst love me,

That wouldst have slain my brother.

PROUDLY. Say'st true, sister?

INGEN. O, thou fair creature! wilt thou be as false

As other ladies?

MAID. Thou art my example.

I'll kiss thee once: farewell for ever. Come, my lord, now

Match me, with whom you please--a tumbler.

I must do this, else had they fought again.

PROUDLY. Mine own best sister! Farewell, Master Ingen.

[_Exeunt_ PROUDLY _and_ MAID.

BRO. O ancient truth! to be denied of no man:

An eel by the tail's held surer than a woman. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[113] The second edit. reads, _as your a gentlewoman_, but Bold means

that the Widow confessed to him when he was disguised as her

gentlewoman. The first edit. warrants this interpretation.

[114] [He refers to the common proverb. See Hazlitt, p. 191-2; and

Dodsley, x. 306.]

[115] "O opportunity, thy guilt is great," &c.

--Shakespeare's "Lucrece," [Dyce's edit, 1868, viii. 312.]

[116] [Old copy, _sensitive_.]

[117] [Mating.]

[118] [Old copy, _you and I_.]

[119] The concluding thought of this pretty song has been in request

by many poets of all countries: Eustachio Manfredi has carried it to

an extreme that would seem merely absurd, but for the grace of the

expression of his sonnet, _Il primo albor non appariva ancora_.

Appended to "The Fatal Dowry" is "a dialogue between a man and a

woman" which commences with it, and which we may therefore assign to

Field.

[120] [An allusion to the proverb.]

[121] _Man_ omitted in the second edit.

[122] Flog him.

[123] [Edits., _you_. _Welltried_.]

[124] [Edits., _meant_.]

[125] [These lines appear to be taken from some song of "Little Boy

Blue."]

[126] This passage has been adduced by Dr Farmer to show that Falstaff

was originally called by Shakespeare _Oldcastle_, according to the

tradition mentioned by Rowe, and supported by Fuller in his

"Worthies," and by other authorities. The point is argued at great

length in Malone's Shakespeare by Boswell, xvi. 410, _et seq._, and

the decisions of the learned have been various; but the balance of

evidence is undoubtedly in favour of the opinion that Shakespeare made

the change, perhaps to avoid the confusion of his very original

character with the mere fat buffoon of the old play of "Henry V.," a

point not adverted to in the discussion. Field's testimony seems

tolerably decisive.

[127] Citizens and apprentices were called in derision _flatcaps_ and

_what-d'ye-lacks_ in reference to their dress and occupation.

[128] [Edits., _fair shop and wife_.]

[129] [_i.e._, a servant.]

[130] _Will satisfy all men_, in the second edition.

[131] [Edits., _means it_.]

ACT V., SCENE I.

_Enter_ SUBTLE, _with_ HUSBAND.

SUB. She is not to be cast.

HUS. It cannot be:

Had you a wife, and I were in your case,

I would be hang'd even at the chamber-door,

Where I attempted, but I'd lay her flat.

SUB. Why, tell me truly, would it please you best,

To have her remain chaste or conquered?

HUS. O friend, it would do me good at the heart

To have her overcome: she does so brag,

And stand upon her chastity, forsooth.

SUB. Why, then, in plain terms, sir, the fort is mine:

Your wife has yielded; _up-tails_ is her song.

The deed is done. Come now, be merry, man.

HUS. Is the deed done indeed? Come, come, you jest.

Has my wife yielded? is _up-tails_ her song?

Faith, come to[132] prose: how got you to the matter first, ha?

Pish! you are so bashful now----

SUB. Why, by my troth, I'll tell you, because you are my friend;

otherwise you must note, it is a great hurt to the art of whoremastery

to discover; besides, the skill was never mine o' th' price.

HUS. Very good; on, sir.

SUB. At the first she was horrible stiff against me; then, sir, I took

her by the hand, which I kissed.

HUS. Good, sir.

SUB. And I called her pretty rogue, and I thrust my finger betwixt her

breasts, and I made lips. At last, I pulled her by the chin to me, and I

kissed her.

HUS. Hum!--very good.

SUB. So at the first she kissed very strangely, close and untoward. Then

said I to her, think but upon the wrongs, the intolerable wrongs, the

rogue your husband does you.

HUS. Ay, that was very good: what said she to you then, sir?

SUB. Nay, I went on. First, quoth I, think how he hath used you--left

you no means, given all your clothes to his punks; struck you, turned

your grey eyes into black ones, but yet----

HUS. A pretty conceit!

SUB. Quoth I, these things are nothing in the rascal: think but what a

base whoremaster the rascal is.

HUS. Did you call me rascal so often, are you sure?

SUB. Yes, and oftener; for, said I, none comes amiss to the rogue. I

have known him, quoth I, do three lousy beggars under hedges in the

riding of ten mile, and I swore this too.

HUS. 'Twas very well; but you did lie. On, pray.

SUB. Pish! one must lie a little. Now, sir, by this time she began to

kiss somewhat more openly and familiarly, her resistance began to

slacken, and my assault began to stiffen. The more her bulwark decayed,

the more my battery fortified. At last, sir, a little fumbling being

passed to make the conquest more difficult, she perceiving my

artillery[133] mounted, falls me flat upon her back, cries me out

aloud--

Alas! I yield. Use me not roughly, friend;

My fort that, like Troy town, ten years hath stood

Besieg'd and shot at, did remain unwon;

But now 'tis conquer'd. So the deed was done.

HUS. Then came the hottest service. Forward with your tale, sir.

SUB. Nay,

_Cætera quis nescit? lassi requievimus ambo:

Proveniant medii sic mihi sæpe dies_.[134]

HUS. Which is as much as to say I am a cuckold in all languages! But

sure, 'tis not so? it is impossible my wife should yield.

SUB. Heyday! ev'n now it was impossible she should hold out, and now it

is impossible she should yield. Stay you but here, and be an ear-witness

to what follows. I'll fetch your wife. [_Aside._] I know he will not

stay.

[_Exit._

HUS. Good faith, sir, but he will.

I do suspect some knavery in this.

Here will I hide myself; when thought as gone,

If they do ought unfitting, I will call

Witness, and straightway sue [for] a divorce. [_Aside. Exit._

_Enter_ WIFE _and_ SUBTLE.

SUB. I knew he would not stay. Now, noble mistress,

I claim your promise.

WIFE. What was that, good servant?

SUB. That you would lie with me.

WIFE. If with any man--

But, prythee, first consider with thyself,

If I should yield to thee, what a load thy conscience

Would bear about it; for I wish quick thunder

May strike me, if I yet have lost the truth,

Or whiteness of the hand I gave in church:

And 'twill not be thy happiness (as thou think'st)

That thou alone shouldst make a woman fall,

That did resist all else; but to thy soul

A bitter corrosive, that thou didst stain

Virtue that else had stood immaculate.

Nor speak I this as yielding unto thee,

For 'tis not in thy power, wert thou the sweet'st

Of nature's children and the happiest,

To conquer me, nor in mine own to yield;

And thus it is with every pious wife.

Thy daily railing at my absent husband

Makes me endure thee worse; for let him do

The most preposterous, ill-relishing things.

To me they seem good, since my husband does 'em.

Nor am I to revenge or govern him:

And thus it should be with all virtuous wives.

SUB. Pox o' this virtue and this chastity!

Do you [not] know, fair mistress, a young gentleman

About this town called Bold? Where did he lie

Last night, sweet mistress? O, O! are you catch'd?

I saw him slip out of the house this morn,

As naked as this truth; and for this cause

I have told your husband that you yielded to me,

And he, I warrant you, will blaze it thoroughly.

As good do now, then, as be thought to do.

WIFE. No, 'twill not be yet. Thou injurious man!

How wilt thou right me in my husband's thoughts,

That on a false surmise and spite hast told

A tale to breed incurable discontent?

Bold was that old wench that did serve the widow,

And thinking by this way to gain her love,

Miss'd of his purpose, and was thus cashier'd;

Nor cares she to proclaim it to the world.

SUB. Zounds! I have wrong'd you, mistress, on my knees

[_Kneels._

I ask you pardon, and will nevermore

Attempt your purity, but neglect all things

Till that foul wrong I have bred in your knight

I have expell'd, and set your loves aright.

_Enter_ HUSBAND.

HUS. Which now is done already. Madam, wife, [_Kneels._

Upon my knees with weeping eyes, heav'd hands,

I ask thy pardon. O sweet, virtuous creature!

I prythee, break my head.

WIFE. Rise, rise, sir, pray.

You have done no wrong to me--at least, I think so:

Heaven hath prevented all my injury.

I do forgive, and marry you anew.

Come, we are all invited to the weddings:

The Lady Honour and the old rich Count,

Young Bold unto another gentlewoman:

We and the widow are invited thither.

Embrace and love henceforth more really,

Not so like worldlings.

HUS. Here then ends all strife.

Thus false friends are made true by a true wife. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.[135]

_Enter old_ COUNT, _wrapped in furs; the_ LADY HONOUR, _dressed like a

bride; the_ LORD PROUDLY, WELLTRIED, BOLD, _leading_ FEESIMPLE _like a

lady masqued;_ HUSBAND, WIFE, SUBTLE, WIDOW; _to them_ BROTHER, _with a

letter;_[136] SELDOM _with his wife_.

BRO. Health and all joy unto this fair assembly.

My brother, who last tide is gone for France,

A branch of willow feathering his hat,

Bad me salute you, lady, and present you

With this same letter written in his blood.

He prays no man, for his sake, evermore

To credit woman, nor no lady ever

To believe man; so either sex shall rest

Uninjur'd by the other. This is all,

And this I have deliver'd.

PROUDLY. Ay, and well.

You pronounce rarely, did you never play?

BRO. Yes, that I have--the fool, as some lords do.

WELL. Set forward there.

COUNT. O, O, O! a pox o' this cold!

WELL. A cold o' this pox, you might say, I am afraid.

MAID. How full of ghastly wounds this letter shows.

O, O! [_Swoons._

PROUDLY. Look to my sister.

BOLD. 'Sheart! the lady swoons.

WIFE. Strong water there.

FEE. If strong breath would recover her, I am for her.

COUNT. Alas, good lady! hum, hum, hum. [_Coughs perpetually._

SUB. He has fetch'd her again with coughing.

MAID. Convey me to my bed; send for a priest

And a physician; your bride, I fear,

Instead of epithalamions shall need

A dirge or epitaph. O, lead me in:

My body dies for my soul's perjur'd sin.

[_Exeunt_ MAID, GRACE, WIFE, HUSBAND, SUBTLE.

BOLD. Hymen comes towards us in a mourning robe.

WELL. I hope, friend, we shall have the better day.

PROUDLY. I'll fetch the parson and physician.

[_Exit_ LORD PROUDLY.

BRO. They are both ready for you. [_Exit_ BROTHER.

WELL. Madam, this is the gentlewoman

Who, something bashful, does desire your pardon,

That she does not unmask.

WID. Good Master Welltried,

I would not buy her face; and for her manners,

If they were worse, they shall not displease me.

WELL. I thank your ladyship.

FEE. Look how the old ass, my father, stands: he looks like the bear in

the play; he has killed the lady with his very sight.[137] As God help

me, I have the most to do to forbear unmasking me, that I might tell him

his own, as can be.

BOLD. Fie! by no means. The widow comes towards you.

COUNT. O, O, O, O!

WID. Servant, God give you joy; and, gentlewoman

Or lady, as full joy I wish to you:

Nor doubt that I will hinder you your love,

But here am come to do all courtesy

To your fair self, and husband that shall be.

FEE. I thank you heartily.

WELL. 'Sheart! speak smaller, man.

FEE. I thank you heartily.

COUNT. You're going to this gear too, Master Bold?

Um, um, um!

BOLD. Not to your coughing[138] gear,

My lord. Though I be not so old or rich

As your lordship, yet I love a young wench as well.

WELL. As well as my lord? nay by my faith,

That you do not love a young wench as well as he:

I wonder you will be unmannerly to say so.

COUNT. Faith, Master Welltried, troth is I love them well, but they love

not me, um, um. You see what ill-luck I have with them, um, um. A pox o'

this cold, still say I.

WELL. Where got you this cold, my lord? it can get in nowhere, that I

can see, but at your nostrils or eyes; all the other parts are so

barricadoed with fur.

FEE. It got

In at his eyes, and made that birdlime there,

Where Cupid's wings do hang entangled.

COUNT. Is this your wife, that, um, um, um--shall be?

Master Bold, I'll be so bold as kiss her.

[WIDOW _and_ BOLD _whisper aside_.

FEE. Sir, forbear: I have one bold enough to kiss my lips. O old

coxcomb! kiss thine own natural son: 'tis worse than a Justice's lying

with his own daughter. But, Master Welltried, when will the widow break

this matter to me? [COUNT _sits in a chair, and falls asleep_.

WELL. Not till the very close of all: she dissembles it yet, because my

lord, your father, is here, and her other suitor Bold.

FEE. That's all one; he's o' th' plot o' my side.

WID. 'Tis needless, Master Bold; but I will do

Anything you require to satisfy you.

Why should you doubt I will forbid the banns,

For so your friend here told me? I should rather

Doubt that you will not marry.

BOLD. Madam, by heaven,

As fully I am resolv'd to marry now,

And will too, if you do not hinder it,

As ever lover was; only because

The world has taken notice of some passage

'Twixt you and me, and then to satisfy

My sweetheart here, who (poor soul!) is afraid,

To have some public disgrace put upon her,

I do require some small thing at your hands.

WID. Well, I will do it; and this profess besides;

Married, you shall as welcome be to me

As mine own brother; and yourself, fair lady,

Even as myself, both to my board and bed.

WELL. Ah, ah! how like you that?

FEE. Now she begins.

Abundant thanks unto your widowhood.

Zounds! my father's asleep on's wedding-day:

I wonder'd, where his cough was all this while.

_Enter_ INGEN, _like a doctor: a_ PARSON, BROTHER, LORD PROUDLY, SELDOM,

MISTRESS SELDOM, HUSBAND, WIFE, _and_ SUBTLE.

INGEN. I pray, forbear the chamber: noise does hurt her;

Her sickness I guess rather of the mind

Than of her body, for her pulse beats well;

Her vital functions not decay'd a whit,

But have their natural life and operation.

My lord, be cheer'd, I have an ingredient

About me shall make her well, I doubt not.

In, master parson: it shall be yours to[139] pray;

The soul's physician should have still the way.

[_Exit_ INGEN; PARSON _shuts the door_.

WID. How cheers she, pray?

WIFE. In troth, exceeding ill.

MRS SEL. A very weak woman indeed she is, and surely I think cannot

'scape it.

HUS. Did you mark how she eyed the physician?

WIFE. O God, ay, she is very loth to die.

MRS SEL. Ay; that's ne'er the better sign, I can tell you.

SUB. And when the parson came to her, she turned

Away, and still let the physician hold

Her by the hand.

BOLD. But see what thought the bridegroom takes.

My conscience knows, now, this is

A most preposterous match; yet for the commodity,

We wink at all inconveniency.

My lord! my lord!

COUNT. Um, um, um! I beshrew you for waking of me; now shall I have such

a fit of coughing, um, um!--

BOLD. O hapless wife, that shall have thee, that either must let thee

sleep continually, or be kept waking herself by the cough.

WID. You have a proper gentleman to your son, my lord: he were fitter

for this young lady than you.

WELL. D'ye mark that again?

FEE. O sweet widow!

COUNT. He a wife! he a fool's head of his own.

FEE. No, of my father's.

COUNT. What should he do with a ---- um, um!

WIFE. What, with a cough? why, he would spit, and that's more than you

can do.

PROUDLY. Your bride, my lord, is dead.

COUNT. Marry, ev'n God be with her; grief will not help it: um, um, um!

BRO. A most excellent spouse.

PROUDLY. How fares she, master doctor?

Zounds! what's here?

BOLD, WID., WELL., FEE. Heyday!

HUS., WIFE, SEL., MRS SEL., SUB. How now?

[_Looking in at the window._

FEE. Look, look! the parson joins the doctor's hand and hers: now the

doctor kisses her, by this light! [_Omnes whoop._] Now goes his gown

off. Heyday! he has red breeches on. Zounds! the physician is got o' th'

top of her: belike, it is the mother she has. Hark! the bed creaks.[140]

PROUDLY. 'Sheart, the door's fast! break 'em open! We are betrayed.

BRO. No breaking open doors: he that stirs first,

[_Draws and holds out a pistol._

I'll pop a leaden pill into his guts,

Shall purge him quite away. No haste, good friends:

When they have done what's fit, you shall not need

To break the door; they'll open it themselves.

[_A curtain drawn, a bed discovered:_ INGEN

_with his sword in his hand and a pistol:

the lady in her petticoat: the_ PARSON.

PROUDLY. Thy blood, base villain, shall answer this.

[_The brothers set back to back._

I'll dye thy nuptial bed in thy heart's gore.

INGEN. Come, come, my lord; 'tis not so easily done.

You know it is not. Forgive[141] this my attempt

Upon your sister; before God and man

She was my wife, and ne'er a bedrid gout

Shall have my wench to get diseases on.

PROUDLY. Well may'st thou term her so, that has consented

Even with her will to be dishonoured.

INGEN. Not so, yet have I lain with her--

MAID. But first,

Witness this priest, we both were married.

PRIEST. True it is, Domine;

Their contract's run into a marriage,

And that, my lord, into a carriage.

PROUDLY. I will undo thee, priest.

PRIEST. It is too late. I am undone

Already [by] wine and tobacco. I defy thee,

Thou temporal lord: perdy, thou never shalt

Keep me in jail, and hence springs my reason:

My act is neither felony nor treason.

FEE. Ay, sir; but you do not know what kindred she may have.

OMNES. Come, come, there is no remedy.

WIFE. And weigh't right,

In my opinion, my honour'd lord,

And everybody's else, this is a match,

Fitter ten thousand times than your intent.

OMNES. Most certain 'tis.

WID. Besides, this gentleman

Your brother-in-law['s] well-parted and fair-mean'd;

And all this come about (you must conceive)

By your own sister's wit, as well as his.

INGEN. Come, come, 'tis but getting of me knighted, my lord, and I

shall become your brother well enough.

PROUDLY. Brother, your hand. Lords may have projects still,

But there's a greater Lord will have his will.

BOLD. This is despatch, Now, madam, is the time,

For I long to be at it. Your hand, sweetheart.

FEE. Now, boys.

WID. My lord and gentlemen, I crave your witness,

To what I now shall utter. 'Twixt this gentleman and myself

There have been some love-passages, from which

Here I do free him, and [he] take this lady----[142]

WELL. La ye! and pray him take this lady.

WID. Which with a mother's love I give to him,

And wish all joy may crown their marriage.

BOLD. Nay, madam, yet she is not satisfied.

[BOLD _gives her a ring, and she puts it on her thumb_.

WID. Further, before ye all I take this ring,

As an assumpsit, by the virtue of which

I bind myself in all my lands and goods,

That in his choice I'll be no hindrance;

Or by forbidding banns, or claiming him

Myself for mine, but let the match go on

Without my check, which he intendeth now:

And once again I say, I bind myself.

BOLD. Then, once again I say, widow, thou'rt mine!

Priest, marry us: this match I did intend:

Ye all are witnesses; if thou hinder it,

Widow, your lands and goods are forfeit mine.

WID. Ha! nay, take me too, since there's no remedy.

Your widow (without goods) sells scurvily.

OMNES. Whoop! God give you joy.

COUNT. 'Slight! I am cosened of all sides; I had good hope of the widow

myself; but now I see everybody leaves me, saving um, um, um!

BOLD. Troth, my lord, and that will stick by you, I warrant.

WID. But how, sir, shall we salve this gentlewoman?

BOLD. Hang her, whore.

WELL. Fie! you are too uncivil.

FEE. Whore in thy face, I do defy thy taunts.

BOLD. Nay, hold, fair lady: now I think upon't,

The old Count has no wife; let's make a match.

OMNES. If he be so contented.

COUNT. With all my heart.

BOLD. Then kiss your spouse.

COUNT. 'Sfoot! she has a beard. How now! my son?

OMNES. 'Tis the Lord Feesimple! [FEESIMPLE _unmasks_.

FEE. Father, lend me your sword. You and I are made a couple of fine

fools, are we not? If I were not valiant now, and meant to beat 'em all,

here would lie a simple disgrace upon us, a Feesimple one, indeed. Mark

now, what I'll say to 'em. D'ye hear me, my masters? Damn me, ye are all

the son of a whore, and ye lie, and I will make it good with my sword.

This is called roaring, father.

SUB. I'll not meddle with you, sir.

PROUDLY. You are my blood.

WELL. And I flesh'd you, you know.

BOLD. And I have a charge coming, I must not fight now.

FEE. Has either of you anything to say to me?

HUS. Not we, sir.

FEE. Then have I something to say to you.

Have you anything to say to me?

BRO. Yes, marry have I, sir.

FEE. Then I have nothing to say to you, for that's the fashion. Father,

if you will come away with your cough, do. Let me see, how many

challenges I must get writ. You shall hear on me, believe it.

PROUDLY. Nay, we'll not now part angry: stay the feasts,

That must attend the weddings. You shall stay.

FEE. Why, then, all friends. I thought you would not have had the

manners to bid us stay dinner neither.

HUS. Then all are friends: and lady-wife, I crown

Thy virtues with this wreath, that 't may be said,

There's a good wife.

BOLD. A widow.

INGEN. And a maid. [_They set garlands on their heads._

WIFE. Yet mine is now approv'd the happiest life,

Since each of you hath chang'd to be a wife. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[132] [Edits., _in_.]

[133] _Readiness_, second edit.

[134] Ovid. "Amor." lib. i. el. 5.

[135] In the old copies, by an error, act v. is said again to begin

here; it is in fact the second scene of the last act.

[136] The old stage direction states that Subtle enters, _with a

letter_, but the words have been misplaced, and should have followed

_Brother_, who delivers it to the Lady Honour.

[137] This refers, no doubt, to the scene in the old "most pleasant

comedy of 'Mucedorus,'" 1598, when Amadine is pursued by the bear,

[vii. 208.]

[138] Old copies, _couching_.

[139] Edits., _I_.

[140] In the margin, opposite what Feesimple says, are inserted the

words _Pistols for Bro._, meaning merely to remind the keeper of the

properties that at this point it was necessary that Frank, the

brother, should be provided with pistols.

[141] [Edits., _For_.]

[142] Old copies read--

"'Twixt this gentleman

There have been some love-passages, and myself,

Which here I free him, and take this lady."

GREEN'S TU QUOQUE;

OR,

THE CITY GALLANT.

_EDITIONS._

(1.) _Greenes Tu quoque, Or, the Cittie Gallant. As it hath beene diuers

times acted by the Queenes Maiesties Seruants. Written by Io. Cooke

Gent. Printed at London for Iohn Trundle. 1614. 4º. Woodcut on title._

(2.) _Greenes Tu quoque, Or the Cittie Gallant ... Printed at London for

Thomas Dewe and are to be sold at his Shop in Saint Dunstons Church-yard

in Fleetstreet. 1622. 4º._

(3.) _Greenes Tu Quoque, Or, the Cittie Gallant. As it hath beene divers

times acted by the Queenes Majesties Servants. Written by Jo. Cooke

Gent. Printed at London by M. Flesher. 4º_.[143]

[143] This edition, without a date, was obviously printed after that

of 1614, although it has been hitherto placed first on the list of

editions, as if it might be that mentioned by Chetwood, and supposed

to have been published in 1599.--_Collier._ [Mr Collier does not cite

the 4º of 1622.]

INTRODUCTION.

John Cook, the author of this play, is totally unknown. No contemporary

writer has taken the least notice of him, nor has any biographer since

given the slightest account of his life. All that we are informed of is,

that he wrote the following dramatic performance. Langbaine,[144] and

the writers since, ascribe the first title of it to the excellent

performance of Thomas Green in the part of Bubble, whose universal

repartee to all compliments is _Tu quoque_. Green was both a writer and

actor,[145] and with great probability[146] is supposed to have been a

relation of Shakespeare's, and the person by whom he was introduced to

the theatre. He was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, which is ascertained by

the following lines,[147] spoken by him in one of the old comedies, in

the character of a clown:--

"I prattled poesy in my nurse's arms,

And, born where late our swan of Avon sung,

In Avon's streams we both of us have lav'd,

And both came out together."

This passage is quoted by Chetwood from the "Two Maids of Moreclack,"

where it is not to be found, though it seems to be a genuine extract;

and the writer, by whom it was produced, had perhaps forgotten whence he

transcribed it. Heywood, who published this play, says in the preface to

it:--"As for Master Greene, all that I will speak of him (and that

without flattery) is this: there was not an actor of his nature in his

time of better ability in performance of what he undertook, more

applauded by the audience, of greater grace at the court, or of more

general love in the city." From this preface it appears Green was dead

when it was written, and Oldys[148] says there are three epitaphs upon

him in Braithwaite's "Remains after Death," 1618, by which it seems that

he died after being newly arrived from sea.[149] He was the author of "A

Poets Vision and a Princes Glorie. Dedicated to the high and mightie

Prince James, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland," 4º,

1603; and some verses prefixed to [the reprint in octavo of] Drayton's

poem on the Barons' Wars. I have seen only two editions of this comedy,

one without a date, and the other in 1614, which I apprehend was about

the time it was originally published. Chetwood, upon whom no dependence

is to be had with respect to dates, asserts it was printed in 1599.[150]

As it is said to have been acted by the Queen's servants, it probably

appeared on the stage in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. [There is an

entry in the office-book of the Master of the Revels under date of

Twelfth Night, 1624, showing that "the masque being put off, and the

Prince only there," Tu Quoque, "by the Queen of Bohemia's servants, was

acted in its stead."[151]] Langbaine says it was revived after the

Restoration at the theatre in Little Lincoln's-Inn-Fields.

"Green's Tu Quoque" is mentioned in "The World's Folly," by I. H., 1615,

which contains a general attack on the stage. It would also seem, from

the subsequent passage, as if Green the actor had performed the part of

a baboon:--

"'Vos quoque' *[or, 'Tu quoque,' opposite the asterisk in the margin]

and you also who, with Scylla-barking, Stentor-throated bellowings,

flash-choaking squibbles of absurd vanities into the nosthrils of your

spectators; barbarously diverting nature and defacing Gods owne image by

metamorphosing humane shape* [_Greenes Baboon_ in the margin opposite

the asterisk] into bestiall forme."

FOOTNOTES:

[144] P. 73.

[145] He was an actor at the Red Bull Theatre, as appears by a rather

curious scene in the course of this play, where Green is spoken of by

name--

"GERALDINE. Why then we'll go to the Red Bull: they say Green's

a good clown.

BUBBLE. Green! Green's an ass.

SCATTERGOOD. Wherefore do you say so?

BUBBLE. Indeed. I ha' no reason; for they say he is as like me

as ever he can look."

There seems every probability that the play when originally produced

had some other title, until the excellence of Green's performance, and

his mode of delivering _Tu quoque_, gave it his name. It could

scarcely be brought out in the first instance under the appellation of

"Green's 'Tu Quoque,'" before it was known how it would succeed, and

how his acting would tell in the part of Bubble. In this respect

perhaps Langbaine was mistaken.--_Collier._ [It appears likely that

the title under which the piece was originally brought on the stage

was simply _The City Gallant_.]

[146] "Attempt to Ascertain the Order of Shakespeare's Plays," by Mr

Malone, p. 275. [See Dyce's "Shakespeare," 1868, i. 114, 115. There

seems to be some confusion between two persons of the name of Green,

living at this time, one an actor and the author of a little poem

printed in 1603, the other a relation to Shakespeare, and clerk to the

corporation of Stratford.]

[147] "The British Theatre," p. 9.

[148] MSS. additions to Langbaine, p. 73.

[149] The following are the epitaphs mentioned by Oldys, from

Braithwaite's Remains--

"_Upon an actor now of late deceased: and upon his action Tu Quoque:

and first upon his travel._

Hee whom this mouldered clod of earth doth hide,

New come from sea, made but one face and dide.

_Upon his creditors._

His debtors now no fault with him can finde,

Sith he has paid to nature all's behinde.

_Upon his fellow actors._

What can you crave of your poore fellow more?

He does but what _Tu Quoque_ did before:

Then give him dying, actions second wreath,

That second'd him in action and in death."

In actorem Mimicum cui vix parem cernimus superstitem.

_Quæcunque orta sunt occidunt_. Sallust.

Ver vireat quod te peperit (viridissima proles)

Quæque tegit cineres, ipsa virescat humus.

Transis ab exiguis nunquam periture theatris

Ut repetas sacri pulchra theatru Jovis

--"Remains after Death," 8vo. 1618, Sig. G 5.

[150] Heywood speaks of it as "just published in print." The date of

his epistle "to the Reader," however, may be older than 1614, the year

of the earliest printed copy now known.--_Collier._ [Heywood merely

says that he was "in the way just when this play was to be published

in print."]

[151] [Mr Collier's addition.]

TO THE READER

To gratulate the love and memory of my worthy friend the author, and my

entirely beloved fellow the actor, I could not choose, being in the way

just when this play was to be published in print, but to prefix some

token of my affection to either in the frontispiece of the book. For the

gentleman that wrote it, his poem itself can better speak his praise

than any oratory from me. Nor can I tell whether this work was divulged

with his consent or no; but, howsoever, it hath passed the test of the

stage with so general an applause, pity it were but it should likewise

have the honour of the press. As for Master Green, all that I will speak

of him (and that without flattery) is this (if I were worthy to

censure), there was not an actor of his nature, in his time, of better

ability in performance of what he undertook, more applauded by the

audience, of greater grace at the court, or of more general love in the

city: and so with this brief character of his memory I commit him to his

rest.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

UPON THE DEATH OF THOMAS GREEN.

How fast bleak Autumn changeth Flora's dye!

What yesterday was Green, now's sear and dry.

W.R.[152]

[152] Probably William Rowley.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SIR LIONEL RASH.} { FOX.

OLD GERALDINE. } { GATHERSCRAP.

GERALDINE. } { BASKETHILT.

WILL RASH. } { SPRINKLE.

SPENDALL. } { PRISONERS.

STAINES. } { DRAWERS, _&c._

BUBBLE. } {

LONGFIELD. } { WOMEN.

BALANCE. } {

SCATTERGOOD. } { GERTRUDE.

NINNIHAMMER. } { JOYCE.

MASTER BLANK. } { PHILLIS.

PURSENET. } { WIDOW.

LODGE. } { SWEATMAN, _a bawd_.

HOLDFAST. } { NAN TICKLEMAN, _a whore_.

THE CITY GALLANT.

_A mercer's shop discovered_, GERTRUDE _working in it;_ SPENDALL

_walking by the shop_. MASTER BALANCE _walking over the stage.

After him_ LONGFIELD _and_ GERALDINE.

SPEND. What lack you, sir? fair stuffs or velvets?

BAL. Good morrow, Frank.

SPEND. Good morrow, Master Balance.

GERA. Save you, Master Longfield.

LONG. And you, sir. What business draws you towards this end o' th'

town?

GERA. Faith, no great serious affairs; only a stirring humour to walk,

and partly to see the beauties of the city: but it may be you can

instruct me. Pray, whose shop's this?

LONG. Why, 'tis Will Rash's father's: a man you are well acquainted

with.

_Enter a_ WENCH _with a basket of linen_.

GERA. As with yourself: and is that his sister?

LONG. Marry, is it, sir?

GERA. Pray, let us walk: I would behold her better.

WENCH. Buy some coifs, handkerchiefs, or very good bonelace, mistress?

GERT. None.

WENCH. Will you buy any handkerchiefs, sir?

SPEND. Yes. Have you any fine ones?

WENCH. I'll show you choice: please you look, sir?

SPEND. How now! what news?

WENCH. Mistress Tickleman has sent you a letter, and expects your

company at night: and entreats you to send her an angel, whether you can

come, or whether you cannot.

[SPENDALL _reads_.

_Sweet rascal; if your love be as earnest as your protestation, you will

meet me this night at supper: you know the rendezvous. There will be

good company; a noise of choice fiddlers;[153] a fine boy with an

excellent voice; very good songs, and bawdy; and, which is more, I do

purpose myself to be exceeding merry; but if you come not, I shall pout

myself sick, and not eat one bit to-night,_

_Your continual close friend_,

NAN TICKLEMAN.

_I pray send me an angel by the bearer, whether

ye can come, or whether ye cannot._

SPEND. What's the price of these two?

WENCH. Half a crown, in truth.

SPEND. Hold thee; there's an angel, and commend me to my delight; tell

her I will not fail her, though I lose my freedom by't. [_Aside._

WENCH. I thank you, sir. Buy any fine handkerchiefs?

[_Exit_ WENCH.

LONG. You are taken, sir, extremely: what's the object?

GERA. She's wondrous fair.

LONG. Nay, and your thoughts be on wenching, I'll leave you.

GERA. You shall not be so unfriendly; pray, assist me:

We'll to the shop, and cheapen stuffs or satins.

SPEND. What lack you, gentlemen? fine stuffs, velvets, or satins? pray,

come near.

GERA. Let me see a good satin.

SPEND. You shall, sir. What colour?

GERA. Faith, I am indifferent. What colour most affects you, lady?

GERT. Sir!

GERA. Without offence, fair creature, I demand it.

GERT. Sir, I believe it; but I never did

Tie my affection unto any colour.

GERA. But my affection, fairest, is fast tied

Unto the crimson colour of your cheek.

GERT. You relish too much courtier, sir.

LONG. What's the price of this?

SPEND. Fifteen,[154] indeed, sir.

LONG. You set a high rate on't; it had need be good.

SPEND. Good! if you find a better i' th' town, I'll give you mine for

nothing. If you were my own brother, I'd put it into your hands. Look

upon't; 'tis close-wrought, and has an excellent gloss.

LONG. Ay, I see't.

SPEND. Pray, sir, come into the next room: I'll show you that of a lower

price shall perhaps better please you.

LONG. This fellow has an excellent tongue: sure, he was brought up in

the Exchange.

SPEND. Will you come in, sir?

LONG. No; 'tis no matter, for I mean to buy none.

GERA. Prythee, walk in; what you bargain for, I'll discharge.

LONG. Say so? fall to your work, I'll be your chapman.

[_Exeunt_ SPENDALL, LONGFIELD.

GERA. Why do you say I flatter?

GERT. Why! you do;

And so do all men when they women woo.

GERA. Who looks on heaven, and not admires the work?

Who views a well-cut diamond does not praise

The beauty of the stone? if these deserve

The name of excellent, I lack a word

For thee, which merit'st more--

More than the tongue of man can attribute.

GERT. This is pretty poetry: good fiction, this.

Sir, I must leave you.

GERA. Leave with me first some comfort.

GERT. What would you crave?

GERA. That which I fear you will not let me have.

GERT. You do not know my bounty. Say what 'tis?

GERA. No more, fair creature, than a modest kiss.

GERT. If I should give you one, would you refrain,

On that condition, ne'er to beg again?

GERA. I dare not grant to that.

GERT. Then't seems you have,

Though you get nothing, a delight to crave.

One will not hurt my lip, which you may take,

Not for your love, but for your absence sake.

So farewell, sir. [_Exit_ GERTRUDE.

GERA. O, fare thee well, fair regent of my soul!

Never let ill sit near thee, unless it come

To purge itself. Be, as thou ever seemest,

An angel of thy sex, born to make happy

The man that shall possess thee for his bride.

_Enter_ SPENDALL _and_ LONGFIELD.

SPEND. Will you have it for thirteen shillings and sixpence? I'll fall

to as low a price as I can, because I'll buy your custom.

LONG. How now, man? what, entranced?

GERA. Good sir, ha' you done?

LONG. Yes, faith, I think as much as you, and 'tis just nothing. Where's

the wench?

GERA. She's here, sir, here.

[_Points to his heart._

LONG. Ud's pity! unbutton, man, thou'lt stifle her else.

GERA. Nay, good sir, will you go?

LONG. With all my heart; I stay but for you.

SPEND. Do you hear, sir?

LONG. What say you?

SPEND. Will you take it for thirteen?

LONG. Not a penny more than I bid. [_Exeunt_ GERALDINE _and_ LONGFIELD.

SPEND. Why, then, say you might have had a good bargain. Where's this

boy to make up the wares? Here's some ten pieces opened, and all to no

purpose.

_Enter_ BOY.

BOY. O Frank! shut up shop, shut up shop!

SPEND. Shut up shop, boy? Why?

BOY. My master is come from the court knighted, and bid us; for he says

he will have the first year of the reign of his knighthood kept holiday:

here he comes.

_Enter_ SIR LIONEL RASH.

SPEND. God give your worship joy, sir.

SIR L. RASH. O Frank! I have the worship now in the right kind; the

sword of my knighthood sticks still upon my shoulders, and I feel the

blow in my purse; it has cut two leather bags asunder. But all's one,

honour must be purchased. I will give over my city coat, and betake

myself to the court jacket. As for trade, I will deal in't no longer; I

will seat thee in my shop, and it shall be thy care to ask men what

they lack: my stock shall be summed up, and I will call thee to an

account for it.

SPEND. My service, sir, never deserved so much;

Nor could I ever hope so large a bounty

Could spring out of your love.

SIR L. RASH. That's all one.

I do love to do things beyond men's hopes.

To-morrow I remove into the Strand:

There for this quarter dwell, the next at Fulham.

He that hath choice, may shift; the whilst shalt thou

Be master of this house, and rent it free.

SPEND. I thank you, sir.

SIR L. RASH. To-day I'll go dine with my Lord Mayor,

To-morrow with the sheriffs, and next day

With th' aldermen. I will spread the ensign

Of my knighthood over the face of the city,

Which shall strike as great a terror to my enemies

As ever Tamerlane [did] to the Turks.

Come, Frank, come in with me, and see the meat,

Upon the which my knighthood first shall eat. [_Exeunt omnes._

_Enter_ STAINES.

STAINES. There is a devil has haunted me these three years, in likeness

of an usurer: a fellow that in all his life never ate three groat loaves

out of his own purse, nor ever warmed him but at other men's fires;

never saw a joint of mutton in his own house these four-and-twenty

years, but always cosened the poor prisoners, for he always bought his

victuals out of the alms-basket; and yet this rogue now feeds upon

capons, which my tenants send him out of the country; he is landlord,

forsooth, over all my possessions. Well, I am spent; and this rogue has

consumed me. I dare not walk abroad to see my friends, for fear the

serjeants should take acquaintance of me: my refuge is Ireland or

Virginia:[155] necessity cries out, and I will presently to West

Chester.

_Enter_ BUBBLE.

How now, Bubble! hast thou pack'd up all thy things?

Our parting-time is come: nay, prythee, do not weep.

BUB. Affection, sir, will burst out.

STAINES. Thou hast been a faithful servant to me. Go to thy uncle, he'll

give thee entertainment: tell him, upon the stony rock of his merciless

heart my fortunes suffer shipwreck.

BUB. I will tell him he is an usuring rascal, and one that would do the

commonwealth good if he were hanged.

STAINES. Which thou hast cause to wish for; thou art his heir, my

affectionate Bubble.

BUB. But, master, wherefore should we be parted?

STAINES. Because my fortunes are desperate, thine are hopeful.

BUB. Why, but whither do you mean to go, master?

STAINES. Why, to sea.

BUB. To sea! Lord bless us, methinks I hear of a tempest already. But

what will you do at sea?

STAINES. Why, as other gallants do that are spent, turn pirate.

BUB. O master, have the grace of Wapping before your eyes, remember a

high tide;[156] give not your friends cause to wet their handkerchiefs.

Nay, master, I'll tell you a better course than so; you and I will go

and rob my uncle; if we 'scape, we'll domineer together; if we be taken,

we'll be hanged together at Tyburn; that's the warmer gallows of the

two.

_Enter_ MESSENGER.

MES. By your leave, sir, whereabouts dwells one Master Bubble?

BUB. Do you hear, my friend? do you know Master Bubble, if you do see

him?

MES. No, in truth, do I not.

BUB. What is your business with Master Bubble?

MES. Marry, sir, I come with welcome news to him.

BUB. Tell it, my friend: I am the man.

MES. May I be assured, sir, that your name is Master Bubble?

BUB. I tell thee, honest friend, my name is Master Bubble, Master

Bartholomew Bubble.

MES. Why then, sir, you are heir to a million; for your uncle, the rich

usurer, is dead.

BUB. Pray thee, honest friend, go to the next haberdasher's, and bid him

send me a new melancholy hat, and take thou that for thy labour.

MES. I will, sir. [_Exit._

_Enter another_ MESSENGER _hastily, and knocks_.

BUB. Umh. umh, umh!

STAINES. I would the news were true: see how my little Bubble is blown

up with't!

BUB. Do you hear, my friend; for what do you knock there?

2D MES. Marry, sir, I would speak with the worshipful Master Bubble.

BUB. The worshipful! and what would you do with the worshipful Master

Bubble? I am the man.

2D MES. I cry your worship mercy then: Master Thong, the belt-maker,

sent me to your worship, to give you notice that your uncle is dead, and

that you are his only heir. [_Exit._

BUB. Thy news is good, and I have look'd for't long;

Thanks unto thee, my friend, and goodman Thong.

_Enter_ MASTER BLANK.

STAINES. Certainly this news is true; for see another: by this light,

his scrivener! Now, Master Blank, whither away so fast?

BLANK. Master Staines, God save you. Where is your man?

STAINES. Why, look you, sir; do you not see him?

BLANK. God save the right worshipful Master Bubble; I bring you heavy

news with a light heart.

BUB. What are you?

BLANK. I am your worship's poor scrivener.

BUB. He is an honest man, it seems, for he hath both his ears.

BLANK. I am one that your worship's uncle committed some trust in for

the putting out of his money, and I hope I shall have the putting out of

yours.

BUB. The putting out of mine! Would you have the putting out of my

money?

BLANK. Yea, sir.

BUB. No, sir, I am old enough to put out my own money.

BLANK. I have writings of your worship's.

STAINES. As thou lov'st thy profit, hold thy tongue; thou and I will

confer. [_Aside._]

BUB. Do you hear, my friend? Can you tell me when and how my uncle died?

BLANK. Yes, sir; he died this morning, and he was killed by a butcher.

BUB. How! by a butcher?

BLANK. Yes indeed, sir; for going this morning into the market to

cheapen meat, he fell down stark dead, because a butcher asked him four

shillings for a shoulder of mutton.

BUB. How, stark dead! and could not _aqua vitæ_ fetch him again?

BLANK. No, sir; nor _rosa solis_ neither; and yet there was trial made

of both.

BUB. I shall love _aqua vitæ_ and _rosa solis_ the better while I live.

[_Aside._

STAINES. Will it please your worship to accept of my poor service? you

know my case is desperate; I beseech you that I may feed upon your

bread, though it be of the brownest, and drink of your drink, though it

may be of the smallest; for I am humble in body and dejected in mind,

and will do your worship as good service for forty shillings a year as

another shall for three pounds.

BUB. I will not stand with you for such a matter, because you have been

my master; but otherwise I will entertain no man without some knight's

or lady's letter for their behaviour. Gervase, I take it, is your

Christian name?

STAINES. Yes, if it please your worship.

BUB. Well, Gervase, be a good servant, and you shall find me a dutiful

master; and because you have been a gentleman, I will entertain you for

my tutor in behaviour. Conduct me to my palace.

[_Exeunt omnes._

_Enter_ GERALDINE, _as in his study, reading_.

GERA. _As little children love to play with fire,

And will not leave till they themselves do burn;

So did I fondly dally with desire,

Until love's flame grew hot; I could not turn,

Nor well avoid, but sigh, and sob, and mourn,

As children do, when as they feel the pain,

Till tender mothers kiss them whole again._

Fie! what unsavoury stuff is this! but she,

Whose mature judgment can distinguish things,

Will thus conceit: tales, that are harshest told,

Have smoothest meanings, and to speak are bold.

It is the first-born sonnet of my brain;

Why[157] suck'd a white leaf from my black-lipp'd pen

So sad employment?

_Enter_ WILL RASH _and_ LONGFIELD.

Yet the dry paper drinks it up as deep,

As if it flow'd from Petrarch's cunning quill.

W. RASH. How now! what have we here? a sonnet and a satire, coupled

together like my lady's dog and her monkey?

_As little children, &c._

GERA. Prythee, away: by the deepest oath that can be sworn, thou shalt

not read it; by our friendship I conjure thee! prythee, let go.

W. RASH. Now, in the name of Cupid, what want'st thou? a pigeon, a dove,

a mate, a turtle? Dost thou love fowl, ha?

_O no; she's fairer thrice than is the queen,_

_Who beauteous Venus called is by name._

Prythee, let me know what she is thou lovest, that I may shun her if I

should chance to meet her.

LONG. Why, I'll tell you, sir, what she is, if you do not know.

W. RASH. No, not I, I protest.

LONG. Why, 'tis your sister.

W. RASH. How! my sister?

LONG. Yes, your eldest sister.

W. RASH. Now God bless the man: he had better choose a wench that has

been bred and born in an alley: her tongue is a perpetual motion;

thought is not so swift as it is; and, for pride, the woman that had her

ruff poked by the devil is but a puritan to her.[158] Thou couldst never

have fastened thy affection on a worse subject; she'll flout faster

than a court waiting-woman in progress[159]; any man that comes in the

way of honesty does she set her mark upon, that is, a villanous jest;

for she is a kind of poetess, and will make ballads upon the calves of

your legs. I prythee, let her alone, she'll never make a good wife for

any man, unless it be a leather-dresser; for perhaps he in time may turn

her.

GERA. Thou hast a privilege to utter this:

But, by my life, my own blood could not 'scape

A chastisement for thus profaning her

Whose virtues sit above men's calumnies.

Had mine own brother spoke thus liberally,[160]

My fury should have taught him better manners.

LONG. No more words, as you fear a challenge.

W. RASH. I may tell thee in thine ear, I am glad to hear what I do; I

pray God send her no worse husband, nor he no worse wife.

Do you hear, love, will you take your cloak and rapier,

And walk abroad into some wholesome air?

I do much fear thy infection: good counsel,

I see, will do no good on thee; but pursue the end,

And to thy thoughts I'll prove a faithful friend. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SPENDALL, NAN TICKLEMAN, SWEATMAN, PURSENET, _and a_ DRAWER.

SPEND. Here's a spacious room to walk in: sirrah, set down the candle,

and fetch us a quart of ipocras[161], and so we'll part.

SWEAT. Nay, faith, son, we'll have a pottle; let's ne'er be covetous in

our young days.

SPEND. A pottle, sirrah; do you hear?

DRAWER. Yes, sir, you shall.

SPEND. How now, wench! how dost?

TICKLE. Faith, I am somewhat sick; yet I should be well enough if I had

a new gown.

SPEND. Why, here's my hand; within these three days thou shalt have one.

SWEAT. And will you, son, remember me for a new forepart? by my troth,

my old one is worn so bare, I am ashamed anybody should see't.

SPEND. Why, did I ever fail of my promise?

SWEAT. No, in sincerity, didst thou not.

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAWER. Here's a cup of rich ipocras. [_Exit._

SPEND. Here, sister, mother, and Master Pursenet: nay, good sir, be not

so dejected; for, by this wine, to-morrow I will send you stuff for a

new suit, and as much as shall line you a cloak clean through.

PURSE. I thank you, and shall study to deserve----

SPEND. Here, boy, fill, and hang that curmudgeon, that's good for nobody

but himself.

PURSE. Heroicly spoken, by this candle! 'tis pity thou wert not made a

lord.

SPEND. A lord? by this light, I do not think but to be Lord Mayor of

London before I die, and have three pageants carried before me, besides

a ship and an unicorn. 'Prentices may pray for that time; for whenever

it happens, I will make another Shrove Tuesday[162] for them.

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAWER. Young Master Rash has sent you a quart of Malaga[163].

SPEND. Master Rash! zounds! how does he know that I am here?

DRAWER. Nay, I know not, sir.

SPEND. Know not! it comes through you and your rascally glib-tongued

companions. 'Tis my master's son: a fine gentleman he is, and a boon

companion: I must go see him.

[_Exit_ SPENDALL.

SWEAT. Boy, fill us a cup of your malaga, we'll drink to Master Spendall

in his absence: there's not a finer spirit of a citizen within the

walls. Here, Master Pursenet, you shall pledge him.

PURSE. I'll not refuse it, were it puddle: by Styx, he is a bountiful

gentleman, and I shall report him so. Here, Mistress Tickleman, shall I

charge you?

TICKLE. Do your worst, serjeant: I'll pledge my young Spendall a whole

sea, as they say: fa, la, la, la, la! Would the music were here again; I

do begin to be wanton. Ipocras, sirrah, and a dry biscuit! Here, bawd, a

carouse!

SWEAT. Bawd, i' faith! you begin to grow light i' the head. I pray no

more such words; for, if you do, I shall grow into distempers.

TICKLE. Distempers! hang your distempers; be angry with me, and thou

dar'st. I pray, who feeds you, but I? who keeps thy feather-beds from

the brokers, but I? 'tis not your sausage-face, thick, clouted[164]

cream-rampallion[165] at home, that snuffles in the nose like a decayed

bagpipe.

PURSE. Nay, sweet Mistress Tickleman, be concordant; reverence

antiquity.

_Enter_ RASH, LONGFIELD, _and_ SPENDALL.

RASH. Save you, sweet creatures of beauty, save you: how now, old

Beelzebub, how dost thou?

SWEAT. Beelzebub! Beelzebub in thy face!

SPEND. Nay, good words, Mistress Sweatman: he's a young gallant; you

must not weigh what he says.

RASH. I would my lamentable complaining lover had been here: here had

been a supersedeas for his melancholy; and, i' faith, Frank, I am glad

my father has turned over his shop to thee. I hope I, or any friend of

mine, shall have so much credit with thee, as to stand in thy books for

a suit of satin.

SPEND. For a whole piece, if you please; any friend of yours shall

command me to the last remnant.

RASH. Why, God-a-mercy, Frank; what, shall's to dice?

SPEND. Dice or drink: here's forty crowns: as long as that will

last--anything.

RASH. Why, there spoke a gingling boy.

SPEND. A pox of money! 'tis but rubbish; and he that hoards it up is but

a scavenger. If there be cards i' the house, let's go to primero.

RASH. Primero! why, I thought thou hadst not been so much gamester as to

play at it.

SPEND. Gamester! to say truth, I am none; but what is it I will not be

in good company? I will fit myself to all humours; I will game with a

gamester, drink with a drunkard, be civil with a citizen, fight with a

swaggerer, and drab with a whoremaster.

_Enter a_ SWAGGERER, _puffing_.

RASH. An excellent humour, i' faith.

LONG. Zounds! what have we here?

SPEND. A land-porpoise, I think.

RASH. This is no angry, nor no roaring boy, but a blustering boy: now,

Æolus defend us! what puffs are these?

SWAG. I do smell a whore.

DRAWER. O gentlemen, give him good words; he's one of the roaring boys.

SWAG. Rogue!

DRAWER. Here, sir.

SWAG. Take my cloak, I must unbuckle; my pickled oysters work; puff,

puff!

SPEND. Puff, puff!

SWAG. Dost thou retort--in opposition stand?

SPEND. Out, you swaggering rogue! zounds, I'll kick him out of the room!

[_Beats him away._

TICKLE. Out, alas! their naked tools are out.

SPEND. Fear not, sweetheart; come along with me. [_Exeunt omnes._

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _sola_.

GERT. Thrice-happy days they were, and too soon gone,

When as the heart was coupled with the tongue;

And no deceitful flattery or guile

Hung on the lover's tear-commixed smile.

Could women learn but that imperiousness,

By which men use to stint our happiness,

When they have purchas'd us for to be theirs

By customary sighs and forced tears:

To give us bits of kindness, lest we faint,

But no abundance that we ever want,

And still are begging; which too well they know

Endears affection, and doth make it grow:

Had we these sleights, how happy were we then,

That we might glory over lovesick men!

But arts we know not, nor have any skill

To feign a sour look to a pleasing will;

_Enter_ JOYCE.

Nor couch a secret love in show of hate:

But, if we like, must be compassionate.

Yet I will strive to bridle and conceal

The hid affection which my heart doth feel.

JOYCE. Now the boy with the bird-bolt[166] be praised! Nay, faith,

sister, forward: 'twas an excellent passion.[167] Come, let's hear, what

is he? If he be a proper man, and have a black eye, a smooth chin, and a

curled pate, take him, wench; if my father will not consent, run away

with him, I'll help to convey you.

GERT. You talk strangely, sister.

JOYCE. Sister, sister, dissemble not with me, though you do mean to

dissemble with your lover. Though you have protested to conceal your

affection, by this tongue, you shall not; for I'll discover all, as soon

as I know the gentleman.

GERT. Discover! what will you discover?

JOYCE. Marry, enough, I'll warrant thee. First and foremost, I'll tell

him thou read'st love-passions in print, and speakest every morning

without book to thy looking-glass: next, that thou never sleepest till

an hour after the bellman: that, as soon as thou art asleep, thou art in

a dream, and in a dream thou art the kindest and comfortablest

bed-fellow for kissings and embracings: by this hand, I cannot rest for

thee: but our father----

_Enter_ SIR LIONEL.

SIR LIONEL. How now! what are you two consulting on? On husbands? You

think you lose time, I am sure; but hold your own a little, girls; it

shall not be long ere I'll provide for you: and for you, Gertrude, I

have bethought myself already.

Whirlpit, the usurer, is late deceas'd:

A man of unknown wealth, which he has left

Unto a provident kinsman, as I hear,

That was once servant to that unthrift Staines.

A prudent gentleman they say he is,

And, as I take it, called Master Bubble.

JOYCE. Bubble! [_She makes a grimace._

SIR LIONEL. Yes, nimble-chaps; what say you to that?

JOYCE. Nothing; but that I wish his Christian name were Water.[168]

GERT. Sir, I'm at your disposing; but my mind

Stands not as yet towards marriage.

Were you so pleas'd, I would a little longer

Enjoy the quiet of a single bed.

SIR LIONEL. Here's the right trick of them all: let a man

Be motion'd to 'em, they could be content

To lead a single life, forsooth: when the harlots

Do pine and run into diseases,

Eat chalk and oatmeal, cry and creep in corners,

Which are manifest tokens of their longings;

And yet they will dissemble. [_Aside._] But, Gertude,

As you do owe me reverence, and will pay it,

Prepare yourself to like this gentleman,

Who can maintain thee in thy choice of gowns,

Of tires, of servants, and of costly jewels;

Nay for a need, out of his easy nature,

May'st draw him to the keeping of a coach

For country, and caroch[169] for London:

Indeed, what might'st thou not?

_Enter a_ SERVANT.

SER. Sir, here's one come from Master Bubble.

To invite you to the funeral of his uncle.

SIR LIONEL. Thank the messenger, and make him drink.

Tell him, I will not fail to wait the corse:

Yet stay, I will go talk with him myself.

Gertrude, think upon what I have told you,

And let me, ere it be long, receive your answer.

[_Exeunt_ SIR LIONEL _and_ SERVANT.

JOYCE. Sister, sister!

GERT. What say you, sister?

JOYCE. Shall I provide a cord?

GERT. A cord! what to do?

JOYCE. Why, to let thee out at the window. Do not I know that thou wilt

run away with the gentleman for whom you made the passion, rather than

endure this same Bubble that my father talks of? 'Twere good you would

let me be of your counsel, lest I break the neck of your plot.

GERT. Sister, [you] know I love thee,

And I'll not think a thought thou shalt not know.

I love a gentleman, that answers me

In all the rights of love as faithfully:

Has woo'd me oft with sonnets and with tears:

Yet I seem still to slight him. Experience tells,

The jewel that's enjoy'd is not esteem'd;

Things hardly got are always highest deem'd.

JOYCE. You say well, sister; but it is not good to linger out too long;

continuance of time will take away any man's stomach in the world. I

hope the next time that he comes to you I shall see him.

GERT. You shall.

JOYCE. Why, go to then: you shall have my opinion of him. If he deserve

thee, thou shalt delay him no longer; for if you cannot find in your

heart to tell him you love him, I'll sigh it out for you. Come, we

little creatures must help one another. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ GERALDINE.

GERA. How cheerfully things look in this place!

'Tis always spring-time here; such is the grace

And potency of her who has the bliss

To make it still Elysium where she is.

Nor doth the king of flames in's golden fires,

After a tempest, answer men's desires,

When as he casts his comfortable beams

Over the flowery fields and silver streams,

As her illustrate beauty strikes in me,

And wraps my soul up to felicity.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _and_ JOYCE _aloft_.

JOYCE. Do you hear, sir?

GERT. Why, sister, what will you do?

JOYCE. By my maidenhead, an oath which I ne'er took in vain, either go

down and comfort him, or I'll call him up and disclose all. What, will

you have no mercy, but let a proper man, that might spend the spirit of

his youth upon yourself, fall into a consumption? for shame, sister!

GERT. You are the strangest creature--what would you have me do?

JOYCE. Marry, I would have you go to him, take him by the hand, and

gripe him; say, You are welcome, I love you with all my heart, you are

the man must do the feat; and take him about the neck, and kiss upon the

bargain.

GERT. Fie, how you talk! 'tis mere immodesty;

The common'st strumpet would not do so much.

JOYCE. Marry, the better; for such as are honest

Should still do what the common strumpet will not.

Speak, will you do it?

GERT. I'll lose his company for ever first.

JOYCE. Do you hear, sir? here is a gentlewoman would speak with you.

GERT. Why, sister! pray, sister----

JOYCE. One that loves you with all her heart, yet is ashamed to confess

it.

GERT. Good sister, hold your tongue: I will go down to him.

JOYCE. Do not jest with me; for, by this hand, I'll either get him up,

or go down myself, and read the whole history of your love to him.

GERT. If you forbear to call, I will go down.

JOYCE. Let me see your back, then; and hear you, do not use him

scurvily: you were best unset all your tyrannical looks, and bid him

lovingly welcome, or, as I live, I'll stretch out my voice again. Ud's

foot, I must take some pains, I see, or we shall never have this gear

cotten;[170] but, to say truth, the fault is in my melancholy monsieur;

for if he had but half so much spirit as he has flesh, he might have

boarded her by this. But see, yonder she marches; now a passion on his

side of half an hour long: his hat is off already, as if he were begging

one poor pennyworth of kindness.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _below_.

GERA. Shall I presume, fair mistress, on your hand to lay my unworthy

lip?

JOYCE. Fie upon him! I am ashamed to hear him; you shall have a country

fellow at a maypole go better to his work. He had need to be constant,

for he is able to spoil as many maids as he shall fall in love withal.

GERT. Sir, you profess love unto me; let me entreat you it may appear

but in some small request.

GERA. Let me know it, lady, and I shall soon effect it.

GERT. But for this present to forbear this place, Because my father is

expected here.

GERA. I am gone, lady.

JOYCE. Do you hear, sir?

GERA. Did you call?

JOYCE. Look up to the window.

GERA. What say you, gentlewoman?

GERT. Nay, pray sir, go; it is my sister calls to hasten you.

JOYCE. I call to speak with you; pray, stay a little.

GERA. The gentlewoman has something to say to me.

GERT. She has nothing. I do conjure you, as you love me, stay not.

[_Exit_ JOYCE.

GERA. The power of magic cannot fasten me; I am gone.

GERT. Good sir, look back no more, what voice e'er call you.

Imagine going from me, you were coming,

And use the same speed, as you love my safety.

[_Exit_ GERALDINE.

Wild-witted sister, I have prevented you:

I will not have my love yet open'd to him.

By how much longer 'tis, ere it be known,

By so much dearer 'twill be when 'tis purchas'd.

But I must use my strength to stop her journey,

For she will after him: and see, she comes.

_Enter_ JOYCE _below_.

Nay, sister, you are at farthest.

JOYCE. Let me go, you were best;

For if you wrestle with me, I shall throw you.

Passion! come back, fool; lover, turn again,

And kiss your bellyful;

For here she is will stand you, do your worst.

Will you let me go?

GERT. Yes, if you'll stay.

JOYCE. If I stir a foot, hang me; you shall come together yourselves,

and be naught. Do what you will; for if e'er I trouble myself again, let

me want help in such a case when I need.

GERT. Nay, but prythee, sister, be not angry.

JOYCE. I will be angry. Ud's foot! I cannot endure such foolery, I! Two

bashful fools that would couple together, and yet ha' not the faces.

GERT. Nay, prythee, sweet sister!

JOYCE. Come, come, let me go. Birds, that want the use of reason and

speech, can couple together in one day; and yet you, that have both,

cannot conclude in twenty.

GERT. Why, what good would it do you to tell him?

JOYCE. Do not talk to me, for I am deaf to anything you say. Go, weep

and cry.

GERT. Nay, but sister---- [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ STAINES _and_ DRAWER _with wine_.

STAINES. Drawer, bid them make haste at home.

Tell them they are coming from church.

DRAWER. I will, sir. [_Exit_ DRAWER.

STAINES. That I should live to be a serving-man! a fellow which scalds

his mouth with another man's porridge; brings up meat for other men's

bellies, and carries away the bones for his own; changes his clean

trencher for a foul one, and is glad of it. And yet did I never live so

merry a life when I was my master's master as now I do, being man to my

man. And I will stand to't, for all my former speeches, a serving-man

lives a better life than his master; and thus I prove it: The saying is,

the nearer the bone the sweeter the flesh; then must the serving-man

needs eat the sweeter flesh, for he always picks the bones. And again,

the proverb says, the deeper the sweeter. There has the serving-man the

advantage again, for he drinks still in the bottom of the pot. He fills

his belly, and never asks what's to pay; wears broadcloth, and yet dares

walk Watling Street,[171] without any fear of his draper. And for his

colours, they are according to the season; in the summer, he is

apparelled (for the most part) like the heavens, in blue; in winter,

like the earth, in frieze.

_Enter_ BUBBLE, SIR LIONEL LONGFIELD, _and_ SPRINKLE.

But see, I am prevented in my encomium. I could have maintained this

theme this two hours.

SIR LIONEL. Well, God rest his soul, he is gone, and we must all follow

him.

BUB. Ay, ay, he's gone, Sir Lionel, he's gone.

SIR LIONEL. Why, though he be gone, what then? 'Tis not you that can

fetch him back again, with all your cunning. It must be your comfort

that he died well.

BUB. Truly, and so it is. I would to God I had e'en another uncle that

would die no worse; surely I shall weep again, if I should find my

handkerchief.

LONG. How now! what are these, onions?

BUB. Ay, ay, Sir Lionel, they are my onions; I thought to have had them

roasted this morning for my cold. Gervase, you have not wept to-day;

pray, take your onions. Gentlemen, the remembrance of death is sharp,

therefore there is a banquet within to sweeten your conceits. I pray,

walk in, gentlemen, walk you in; you know I must needs be melancholy,

and keep my chamber. Gervase, usher them to the banquet.

STAINES. I shall, sir. Please you, Sir Lionel?

SIR LIONEL. Well, Master Bubble, we'll go in and taste of your

bounty.

In the meantime, you must be of good cheer.

[GENTLEMEN _and_ GERVASE _go out_.

BUB. If grief take not away my stomach, I will have good cheer, I

warrant you. Sprinkle!

SPRIN. Sir.

BUB. Had the women puddings to their dole?[172]

SPRIN. Yes, sir.

BUB. And how did they take 'em?

SPRIN. Why, with their hands. How should they take 'em?

BUB. O thou Hercules of ignorance! I mean, how were they satisfied?

SPRIN. By my troth, sir, but so-so; and yet some of them had two.

BUB. O insatiable women, whom two puddings would not satisfy! But

vanish, Sprinkle; bid your fellow Gervase come hither.

[_Exit_ SPRINKLE.

And off, my mourning-robes: grief, to the grave,

For I have gold, and therefore will be brave:[173]

In silks I'll rattle it of every colour,

And, when I go by water, scorn a sculler.

_Enter_ STAINES.

In black carnation velvet I will cloak me,

And when men bid God save me, cry, _Tu quoque_.

It is needful a gentleman should speak Latin sometimes, is it not,

Gervase?

STAINES. O, very graceful, sir; your most accomplished gentlemen are

known by it.

BUB. Why, then will I make use of that little I have upon times and

occasions. Here, Gervase, take this bag, and run presently to the

mercer's; buy me seven ells of horse-flesh-coloured taffata, nine yards

of yellow satin, and eight yards of orange-tawny velvet. Then run to

the tailor's, the haberdasher's, the sempster's, the cutler's, the

perfumer's, and to all trades whatsoever, that belong to the making up

of a gentleman; and, amongst the rest, let not the barber be forgotten:

and look that he be an excellent fellow, and one that can snap his

fingers with dexterity.[174]

STAINES. I shall fit you, sir.

BUB. Do so, good Gervase: it is time my beard were corrected, for it is

grown so saucy, as it begins to play with my nose.

STAINES. Your nose, sir, must endure it; for it is in part the fashion.

BUB. Is it in fashion? why, then my nose shall endure it, let it tickle

his worst.

STAINES. Why, now y' are i' the right, sir; if you will be a true

gallant, you must bear things resolute. As thus, sir; if you be at an

ordinary, and chance to lose your money at play, you must not fret and

fume, tear cards, and fling away dice, as your ignorant gamester or

country-gentleman does; but you must put on a calm, temperate action,

with a kind of careless smile in contempt of fortune, as not being able

with all her engines to batter down one piece of your estate, that your

means may be thought invincible. Never tell your money: nor what you

have won, nor what you have lost. If a question be made, your answer

must be: What I have lost, I have lost; what I have won, I have won. A

close heart and free hand make a man admired: a testern or a shilling to

a servant that brings you a glass of beer, binds his hands to his lips:

you shall have more service of him than his master; he will be more

humble to you than a cheater before a magistrate.

BUB. Gervase, give me thy hand: I think thou hast more wit than I, that

am thy master; and for this speech only I do here create thee my

steward. I do long, methinks, to be at an ordinary: to smile at fortune,

and to be bountiful. Gervase, about your business, good Gervase, whilst

I go and meditate upon a gentleman-like behaviour. I have an excellent

gait already, Gervase, have I not?

STAINES. Hercules himself, sir, had never a better gait.

BUB. But despatch, Gervase: the satin and the velvet must be thought

upon, and the _Tu quoque_ must not be forgotten; for whensoever I give

arms, that shall be my motto. [_Exit_ BUBBLE.

STAINES. What a fortune had I thrown upon me when I preferred myself

into this fellow's service! Indeed, I serve myself, and not him; for

this gold here is my own, truly purchased: he has credit, and shall run

i' th' books for't. I'll carry things so cunningly, that he shall not be

able to look into my actions. My mortgage I have already got into my

hands: the rent he shall enjoy awhile, till his riot constrain him to

sell it; which I will purchase with his own money. I must cheat a

little: I have been cheated upon. Therefore I hope the world will a

little the better excuse me. What his uncle craftily got from me, I will

knavishly recover of him. To come by it, I must vary shapes, and my

first shift shall be in satin.

Proteus, propitious be to my disguise,

And I shall prosper in my enterprise. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SPENDALL, PURSENET, _and a_ BOY _with rackets_.

SPEND. A rubber, sirrah.

BOY. You shall, sir.

SPEND. And bid those two men you said would speak with me come in.

BOY. I will, sir. [_Exit_ BOY.

SPEND. Did I not play this set well?

_Enter_ BLANK _and another_.

PURSE. Excellent well: by Phaeton, by Erebus, it went as if it had cut

the line.

BLANK. God bless you, sir.

SPEND. Master Blank, welcome.

BLANK. Here's the gentleman's man, sir, has brought the money.

SER. Will't please you tell it, sir?

SPEND. Have you the bond ready, Master Blank?

BLANK. Yes, sir.

SPEND. 'Tis well. Pursenet, help to tell--10, 11, 12.

What time have you given?

BLANK. The thirteenth of the next month.

SPEND. 'Tis well: here's light gold.

SER. 'Twill be the less troublesome to carry.

SPEND. You say well, sir; how much hast thou told?

PURSE. In gold and silver, here is twenty pounds.

BLANK. 'Tis right, Master Spendall, I'll warrant you.

SPEND. I'll take your warrant, sir, and tell no farther.

Come, let me see the condition of this obligation.

PURSE. A man may win from him that cares not for't.

This royal Cæsar doth regard no cash;

Has thrown away as much in ducks and drakes,

As would have bought some 50,000 capons. [_Aside._]

SPEND. 'Tis very well; so lend me your pen.

PURSE. This is the captain of brave citizens;

The Agamemnon of all merry Greeks.

A Stukeley or a Sherley for his spirit,[175]

Bounty and royalty to men-at-arms.

BLANK. You give this as your deed?

SPEND. Marry do I, sir.

BLANK. Pleaseth this gentleman to be a witness?

SPEND. Yes, marry shall he. Pursenet, your hand.

PURSE. My hand is at thy service, noble Brutus.

SPEND. There's for your kindness, Master Blank.

BLANK. I thank you, sir.

SPEND. There's for your pains. [_To_ SERVANT.]

SER. I thank you, sir. [_Exit._]

BLANK. I'll take my leave of you.[176]

SPEND. What, must you be gone too, Master Blank?

BLANK. Yes, indeed, sir; I must to the Exchange. [_Exit._

SPEND. Farewell to both. Pursenet,

Take that twenty pounds, and give it Mistress Sweatman:

Bid her pay her landlord and apothecary,

And let her butcher and her baker stay;

They're honest men, and I'll take order with them.

PURSE. The butcher and the baker then shall stay.

SPEND. They must, till I am somewhat stronger pursed.

PURSE. If this be all, I have my errand perfect.

[_Exit_ PURSENET.

SPEND. Here, sirrah, here's for balls; there's for yourself.

BOY. I thank your worship.

SPEND. Commend me to your mistress. [_Exit._

BOY. I will, sir. In good faith, 'tis the liberall'st gentleman that

comes into our court: why, he cares no more for a shilling than I do for

a box o' th' ear, God bless him. [_Exit._

_Enter_ STAINES _gallant_, LONGFIELD, _and a_ SERVANT.

STAINES. Sirrah, what o'clock is't?

SER. Past ten, sir.

STAINES. Here will not be a gallant seen this hour.

SER. Within this quarter, sir, and less: they meet here as soon as at

any ordinary in th' town.

STAINES. Hast any tobacco?

SER. Yes, sir.

STAINES. Fill.

LONG. Why, thou report'st miracles, things not to be believed: I protest

to thee, hadst thou not unripped thyself to me, I should never have

known thee.

STAINES. I tell you true, sir; I was so far gone, that desperation

knocked at my elbow, and whispered news to me out of Barbary.[177]

LONG. Well, I am glad so good an occasion stay'd thee at home.

And may'st thou prosper in thy project, and go on

With best success of thy invention.

STAINES. False dice say amen; for that's my induction:

I do mean to cheat to-day without respect of persons.

When saw'st thou Will Rash?

LONG. This morning at his chamber; he'll be here.

STAINES. Why, then, do thou give him my name and character, for my aim

is wholly at my worshipful master.

LONG. Nay, thou shalt take another into him: one that laughs out his

life in this ordinary, thanks any man that wins his money: all the while

his money is losing, he swears by the cross of this silver; and, when it

is gone, he changeth it to the hilts of his sword.

_Enter_ SCATTERGOOD _and_ NINNIHAMMER.

STAINES. He'll be an excellent coach-horse for my captain.

SCAT. Save you, gallants, save you.

LONG. How think you now? have I not carved him out to you?

STAINES. Thou hast lighted me into his heart; I see him thoroughly.

SCAT. Ninnihammer!

NIN. Sir.

SCAT. Take my cloak and rapier also: I think it be early. Gentlemen,

what time do you take it to be?

STAINES. Inclining to eleven, sir.

SCAT. Inclining! a good word. I would it were inclining to twelve, for

by my stomach it should be high noon. But what shall we do, gallants?

shall we to cards till our company come?

LONG. Please you, sir.

SCAT. Harry, fetch some cards; methinks 'tis an unseemly sight to see

gentlemen stand idle. Please you to impart your smoke?

LONG. Very willingly, sir.

SCAT. In good faith, a pipe of excellent vapour.

LONG. The best the house yields.

SCAT. Had you it in the house? I thought it had been your own: 'tis not

so good now as I took it to be.[178] Come, gentlemen, what's your game?

STAINES. Why, gleek; that's your only game.

SCAT. Gleek let it be, for I am persuaded I shall gleek some of you.

Cut, sir.

LONG. What play we? twelvepence gleek?

SCAT. Twelvepence? a crown: ud's foot! I will not spoil my memory for

twelvepence.

LONG. With all my heart.

STAINES. Honour.

SCAT. What is't, hearts?

STAINES. The king! what say you?

LONG. You must speak, sir.

SCAT. Why, I bid thirteen.

STAINES. Fourteen.

SCAT. Fifteen.

STAINES. Sixteen.

LONG. Sixteen, seventeen.

STAINES. You shall ha't for me.

SCAT. Eighteen.

LONG. Take it to you, sir.

SCAT. Ud's life! I'll not be outbraved.

STAINES. I vie it.

LONG. I'll none of it.

SCAT. Nor I.

STAINES. Give me a murnival of aces and a gleek of queens.

LONG. And me a gleek of knaves.

SCAT. Ud's life! I'm gleeked this time.

_Enter_ WILL RASH.

STAINES. Play.

W. RASH. Equal fortunes befall you, gallants.

SCAT. Will Rash: well, I pray see what a vile game I have.

W. RASH. What's your game--gleek?

SCAT. Yes, faith, gleek; and I have not one court card but the knave of

clubs.

W. RASH. Thou hast a wild hand, indeed. Thy small cards show like a

troop of rebels, and the knave of clubs their chief leader.

SCAT. And so they do, as God save me: by the cross of this silver, he

says true.

_Enter_ SPENDALL.

STAINES. Pray, play, sir.

LONG. Honour.

W. RASH. How go the stocks, gentlemen? what's won or lost?

STAINES. This is the first game.

SCAT. Yes, this is the first game; but, by the cross of this silver,

here's all of five pounds.

SPEND. Good day to you, gentlemen.

W. RASH. Frank, welcome, by this hand; how dost, lad?

SPEND. And how does thy wench, faith?

W. RASH. Why, fat and plump, like thy geldings; thou giv'st them both

good provender, it seems. Go to, thou art one of the madd'st wags of a

citizen i' th' town: the whole company talks of thee already.

SPEND. Talk! why, let 'em talk; ud's foot! I pay scot and lot, and all

manner of duties else, as well as the best of 'em. It may be they

understand I keep a whore, a horse, and a kennel of hounds; what's that

to them? no man's purse opens for it but mine own; and so long my hounds

shall eat flesh, my horse bread, and my whore wear velvet.

W. RASH. Why, there spoke a courageous boy.

SPEND. Ud's foot! shall I be confined all the days of my life to walk

under a pent-house? No, I'll take my pleasure whilst my youth affords

it.

SCAT. By the cross of these hilts, I'll never play at gleek again,

whilst I have a nose on my face: I smell the knavery of the game.

SPEND. Why, what's the matter? who has lost?

SCAT. Marry, that have I. By the hilts of my sword, I have lost forty

crowns in as small time almost as a man might tell it.

SPEND. Change your game for dice: we are a full number for Novem.[179]

SCAT. With all my heart. Where's Master Ambush the broker? Ninnihammer.

NIN. Sir.

SCAT. Go to Master Ambush, and bid him send me twenty marks upon this

diamond.

_Enter_ BUBBLE.

NIN. I will, sir.

LONG. Look ye, to make us merrier, who comes here?

W. RASH. A fresh gamester? Master Bubble, God save you.

BUB. _Tu quoque_.

STAINES. Save you, sir.

BUB. _Et tu quoque_.

LONG. Good Master Bubble.

BUB. _Et tu quoque_.

SCAT. Is your name Master Bubble?

BUB. Master Bubble is my name, sir.

SCAT. God save you, sir.

BUB. _Et tu quoque_.

SCAT. I would be better acquainted with you.

BUB. And I with you.

SCAT. Pray, let us salute again.

BUB. With all my heart, sir.

LONG. Behold yonder the oak and the ivy, how they embrace.

W. RASH. Excellent acquaintance! they shall be the Gemini.

BUB. Shall I desire your name, sir.

SCAT. Master Scattergood.

BUB. Of the Scattergoods of London.

SCAT. No indeed, sir. Of the Scattergoods of Hampshire.

BUB. Good Master Scattergood.

STAINES. Come, gentlemen, here's dice.

SCAT. Please you, advance to the table?

BUB. No indeed, sir.

SCAT. Pray, will you go?

BUB. I will go, sir, over the world for your sake, but in courtesy I

will not budge a foot.

_Enter_ NINNIHAMMER.

NIN. Here is the cash you sent me for: and, Master Rash, here is a

letter from one of your sisters.

SPEND. I have the dice; set, gentlemen.

LONG. From which sister?

W. RASH. From the madcap, I know by the hand.

SPEND. For me, six.

OMNES. And six that.

STAINES. Nine; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8: eighteen shillings.

SPEND. What's yours, sir?

SCAT. Mine's a baker's dozen. Master Bubble, tell your money.

BUB. In good faith, I am but a simple gamester, and do not know what to

do.

SCAT. Why, you must tell your money, and he'll pay you.

BUB. My money! I do know how much my money is, but he shall not pay me;

I have a better conscience than so: what, for throwing the dice twice?

i' faith, he should have but a hard bargain of it.

W. RASH. Witty rascal! I must needs away.

LONG. Why, what's the matter?

W. RASH. Why, the lovers cannot agree: thou shalt along with me, and

know all.

LONG. But first let me instruct thee in the condition of this gentleman:

whom dost thou take him to be?

W. RASH. Nay, he's a stranger, I know him not.

LONG. By this light, but you do, if his beard were off: 'tis Staines.

W. RASH. The devil it is as soon! and what's his purpose in this

disguise?

LONG. Why, cheating; do you not see how he plays upon his worshipful

master and the rest?

W. RASH. By my faith, he draws apace.

SPEND. A pox upon these dice! give's a fresh bale.[180]

BUB. Ha, ha! the dice are not to be blamed; a man may perceive this is

no gentlemanly gamester, by his chafing. Do you hear, my friend? fill me

a glass of beer, and there's a shilling for your pains.

DRAWER. Your worship shall, sir.

W. RASH. Why, how now, Frank! what hast lost?

SPEND. Fifteen pounds and upwards: is there never an honest fellow?

AMB. What, do you lack money, sir?

SPEND. Yes, canst furnish me?

AMB. Upon a sufficient pawn, sir.

SPEND. You know my shop; bid my man deliver you a piece of three-pile

velvet, and let me have as much money as you dare adventure upon't.

AMB. You shall, sir.

SPEND. A pox of this luck! it will not last [for] ever. Play, sir, I'll

set you.

W. RASH. Frank, better fortune befall thee; and, gentlemen, I must take

my leave, for I must leave you.

SCAT. Must you needs be gone?

W. RASH. Indeed I must.

BUB. _Et tu quoque?_

LONG. Yes, truly.

SCAT. At your discretions, gentlemen.

W. RASH. Farewell. [_Exeunt_ RASH _and_ LONGFIELD.

STAINES. Cry you mercy, sir. I am chanced with you all. Gentlemen: here

I have 7, here 7, and here 10.

SPEND. 'Tis right, sir, and ten that.

BUB. And nine that.

STAINES. Two fives at all. [_Draws all._

BUB. One and five that.

SPEND. Hum! and can a suit of satin cheat so grossly? By this light,

there's nought on one die but fives and sixes. I must not be thus

gulled. [_Aside._

BUB. Come, Master Spendall, set.

SPEND. No, sir, I have done.

SCAT. Why, then let us all leave, for I think dinner's near ready.

DRAWER. Your meat's upon the table.

SCAT. On the table! come, gentlemen, we do our stomachs wrong. Master

Bubble, what have you lost.

BUB. That's no matter: what I have lost, I have lost; nor can I choose

but smile at the foolishness of the dice.

STAINES. I am but your steward, gentlemen; for after dinner I may

restore it again.

BUB. Master Scattergood, will you walk in?

SCAT. I'll wait upon you, sir. Come, gentlemen, will you follow?

[_Exeunt._

_Manent_ SPENDALL _and_ STAINES.

STAINES. Yes, sir, I'll follow you.

SPEND. Hear you, sir, a word.

STAINES. Ten, if you please.

SPEND. I have lost fifteen pounds.

STAINES. And I have found it.

SPEND. You say right; found it you have, indeed,

But never won it. Do you know this die?

STAINES. Not I, sir.

SPEND. You seem a gentleman, and you may perceive

I have some respect unto your credit

To take you thus aside. Will you restore

What you have drawn from me unlawfully?

STAINES. Sirrah, by your outside you seem a citizen,

Whose cock's-comb I were apt enough to break,

But for the law. Go, y' are a prating jack:

Nor is't your hopes of crying out for clubs

Can save you from my chastisement, if once

You shall but dare to utter this again.

SPEND. You lie; you dare not.

STAINES. Lie! nay, villain, now

Thou tempt'st me to thy death.

SPEND. Soft, you must buy it dearer;

The best blood flows within you is the price.

STAINES. Dar'st thou resist? thou art no citizen.

SPEND. I am a citizen.

STAINES. Say thou art a gentleman, and I am satisfied;

For then I know thou'lt answer me in field.

SPEND. I'll say directly what I am, a citizen;

And I will meet thee in the field as fairly

As the best gentleman that wears a sword.[181]

STAINES. I accept it: the meeting-place?

SPEND. Beyond the Maze in Tuttle.[182]

STAINES. What weapon?

SPEND. Single rapier.

STAINES. The time?

SPEND. To-morrow.

STAINES. The hour?

SPEND. 'Twixt nine and ten.

STAINES. 'Tis good; I shall expect you. Farewell.

SPEND. Farewell, sir. [_Exeunt omnes._

_Enter_ WILL RASH, LONGFIELD, _and_ JOYCE.

W. RASH. Why, I commend thee, girl; thou speak'st as thou think'st. Thy

tongue and thy heart are relatives; and thou wert not my sister, I

should at this time fall in love with thee.

JOYCE. You should not need, for, and you were not my brother, I should

fall in love with you, for I love a proper man with my heart, and so

does all the sex of us, let my sister dissemble never so much. I am out

of charity with these nice and squeamish tricks. We were born for men,

and men for us; and we must together.

W. RASH. This same plain-dealing is a jewel in thee.

JOYCE. And let me enjoy that jewel, for I love plain-dealing with my

heart.

W. RASH. Th' art a good wench, i' faith. I should never be ashamed to

call thee sister, though thou shouldst marry a broom-man. But your

lover, methinks, is over-tedious.

_Enter_ GERALDINE.

JOYCE. No, look ye, sir; could you wish a man to come better upon his

cue?[183] Let us withdraw.

W. RASH. Close, close, for the prosecution of the plot, wench. See, he

prepares.

JOYCE. Silence.

GERA. The sun is yet wrapp'd in Aurora's arms,

And, lull'd with her delight, forgets us[184] creatures.

Awake, thou god of heat,

I call thee up, and task[185] thee for thy slowness.

Point all thy beams through yonder flaring glass,

And raise a beauty brighter than thyself. [_Music._

Musicians, give each instrument a tongue,

To breathe sweet music in the ears of her

To whom I send it as a messenger.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _aloft_.

GERT. Sir, your music is so good, that I must say I like it: but the

bringer so ill-welcome, that I could be content to lose it. If you

played for money, there 'tis; if for love, here's none; if for goodwill,

I thank you, and, when you will, you may be gone.

GERA. Leave me not entranc'd; sing not my death;

Thy voice is able to make satyrs tame,

And call rough winds to her obedience.

GERT. Sir, sir, our ears itch not for flattery.

Here you besiege my window, and[186] I dare not

Put forth myself to take the gentle air,

But you are in the fields, and volley out

Your woes, your plaints, your loves, your injuries.

GERA. Since you have heard, and know them, give redress;

True beauty never yet was merciless.

GERT. Sir, rest thus satisfied; my mind was never woman, never altered;

nor shall it now begin: so fare you well.

[_Exit_ GERTRUDE.

W. RASH. 'Sfoot, she plays the terrible tyrannising Tamberlane over him.

This it is to turn Turk; from a most absolute, complete gentleman to a

most absurd, ridiculous, and fond lover. [_Aside._]

LONG. O, when a woman knows the power and authority of her eye!----

[_Aside._]

JOYCE. Fie upon her! she's good for nothing then, no more than a jade

that knows his own strength. The window is clasped; now, brother,

pursue your project, and deliver your friend from the tyranny of my

domineering sister. [_Aside._]

W. RASH. Do you hear, you drunkard in love? Come into us, and be ruled.

You would little think that the wench that talked so scurvily out of the

window there is more enamoured on thee than thou on her. Nay, look you

now: see if he turn not away, slighting our good counsel. I am no

Christian if she do not sigh, whine, and grow sick for thee. Look you,

sir: I will bring you in good witness against her.

JOYCE. Sir, you are

My brother's friend, and I'll be plain with you.

You do not take the course to win my sister,

But indirectly go about the bush; you come

And fiddle here, and keep a coil in verse;

Hold off your hat, and beg to kiss her hand;

Which makes her proud.

But, to be short; in two lines, thus it is--

Who most doth love, must seem most to neglect it;

For those that show most love, are least respected.

LONG. A good observation, by my faith.

W. RASH. Well, this instruction comes too late now.

Stand you close, and let me prosecute my invention.--[187]

Sister, O sister! wake, arise, sister.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _above_.

GERT. How now, brother; why call you with such terror?

W. RASH. How can you sleep so sound, and hear such groans,

So horrid and so tedious to the ear, that I

Was frighted hither by the sound? O sister,

Here lies a gentleman that lov'd you too dearly

And himself too ill, as by his death appears.

I can report no farther without tears.

Assist me now. [_Aside to_ LONGFIELD.

LONG. When he came first, death startled in his eyes;

His hand had not forsook the dagger-hilt,

But still he gave it strength, as if he fear'd

He had not sent it home unto his heart.

GERT. Enough, enough!

If you will have me live, give him no name;

Suspicion tells me 'tis my Geraldine:

But be it whom it will, I'll come to him,

To suffer death as resolute as he. [_Exit_ GERTRUDE.

W. RASH. Did not I tell you 'twould take?

Down, sir, down.[188]

GERA. I guess what you'd have me do.

LONG. O, for a little blood to besprinkle him!

W. RASH. No matter for blood, I'll not suffer her to come near him till

the plot have ta'en his full height.

GERA. A scarf o'er my face, lest I betray myself.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _below_.

W. RASH. Here, here, lie still, she comes.

Now, Mercury, be propitious.

GERT. Where lies this spectacle of blood?

This tragic scene?

W. RASH. Yonder lies Geraldine.

GERT. O, let me see him with his face of death!

Why do you stay me from my Geraldine?

W. RASH. Because, unworthy as thou art, thou shalt not see

The man now dead, whom living thou didst scorn.

The worst part that he had deserv'd thy best;

But yet contemn'd, deluded, mock'd, despis'd by you,

Unfit for aught but for the general work

Which you were made for, man's creation.

GERT. Burst not my heart, before I see my love,

Brother, upon my knees, I beg your leave,

That I may see the wound of Geraldine:

I will embalm his body with my tears,

And carry him unto his sepulchre.

From whence I'll never rise, but be interr'd

In the same dust he shall be buried in.

LONG. I do protest she draws sad tears from me.

I prythee, let her see her Geraldine. [_Aside._

GERT. Brother, if e'er you lov'd me as a sister,

Deprive me not the sight of Geraldine.

W. RASH. Well, I am contented you shall touch his lips,

But neither see his face nor yet his wound.

GERT. Not see his face?

W. RASH. Nay, I have sworn it to the contrary:

Nay, hark you, farther yet.

GERT. What now?

W. RASH. But one kiss--no more.

GERT. Why, then, no more.

W. RASH. Marry, this liberty I'll give you:

If you intend to make any speech of repentance

Over him, I am content, so it be short.

GERT. What you command is law, and I obey.

JOYCE. Peace, give ear to the passion. [_Aside._]

GERT. Before I touch thy body, I implore

Thy discontented ghost to be appeas'd.

Send not unto me, till I come myself;

Then shalt thou know how much I honour'd thee,

O, see the colour of his coral lip

Which, in despite of death, lives full and fresh,

As when he was the beauty of his sex!

'Twere sin worthy the worst of plagues to leave thee;

Not all the strength and policy of man

Shall snatch me from thy bosom.

LONG. Look, look; I think she'll ravish him! [_Aside._

W. RASH. Why, how now, sister?

GERT. Shall we have both one grave; here I am chain'd;

Thunder nor earthquakes shall e'er shake me off.

W. RASH. No? I'll try that. [_Aside._] Come, dead man, awake! up with

your bag and baggage, and let's have no more fooling.

GERT. And lives my Geraldine?

W. RASH. Live! faith, ay;

Why should he not? he was never dead

That I know on.

GERA. It is no wonder Geraldine should live,

Though he had emptied all his vital spirits.

The lute of Orpheus spake not half so sweet,

When he descended to th' infernal vaults,

To fetch again his fair Eurydice,

As did thy sweet voice unto Geraldine.

GERT. I'll exercise that voice, since it doth please

My better self, my constant Geraldine.

JOYCE. Why so, la, here's an end of an old song!

Why could not this have been done before,

I pray?

GERT. O, y' are a goodly sister, this is your plot.

Well, I shall live one day to requite you.

JOYCE. Spare me not: for wheresoever I set my affection, although it be

upon a collier, if I fall back, unless it be in the right kind, bind me

to a stake, and let me be burned to death with charcoal.

W. RASH. Well, thou art a mad wench, and there's no more to be done at

this time, but, as we brought you together, so to part you: you must not

lie at rack and manger; there be those within that will forbid the

banns: time must shake good-fortune by the hand before you two must be

great; 'specially you, sister. Come, leave swearing.

GERT. Must we then part?

W. RASH. Must you part! why, how think you? ud's foot! I do think we

shall have as much to do to get her from him as we had to bring her to

him. This love of women is of strange quality, and has more tricks than

a juggler. [_Aside._]

GERT. But this, and then farewell.

GERA. Thy company[189] is heaven, thy absence hell.

W. RASH. Lord, who'd think it? [_Aside._]

JOYCE. Come, wench. [_Exeunt omnes._

_Enter_ SPENDALL _and_ STAINES. _Tothill Fields_.

SPEND. This ground is firm and even, I'll go no farther.

STAINES. This be the place then; and prepare you, sir;

You shall have fair play for your life of me,

For, look, sir, I'll be open-breasted to you.

SPEND. Shame light on him that thinks

His safety lieth in a French doublet.

Nay, I would strip myself, would comeliness

Give sufferance to the deed, and fight with thee

As naked as a Mauritanian Moor.

STAINES. Give me thy hand; by my heart, I love thee.

Thou art the highest-spirited citizen

That ever Guildhall took notice of.

SPEND. Talk not what I am, until you have tried me.

STAINES. Come on, sir. [_They fight._

SPEND. Now, sir, your life is mine.

STAINES. Why then, take it, for I'll not beg it of thee.

SPEND. Nobly resolv'd, I love thee for those words.

Here, take thy arms again, and, if thy malice

Have spent itself like mine, then let us part

More friendly than we met at first encounter.

STAINES. Sir, I accept

This gift of you, but not your friendship,

Until I shall recover 't with my honour.

SPEND. Will you fight again, then?

STAINES. Yes.

SPEND. Faith, thou dost well, then,

Justly to whip my folly. But come, sir.

STAINES. Hold: y' are hurt, I take it.

SPEND. Hurt! where? zounds, I feel it not.

STAINES. You bleed, I am sure.

SPEND. 'Sblood, I think you wear a cat's-claw upon your rapier's

point:

I am scratched indeed: but, small as 'tis,

I must have blood for blood.

STAINES. Y' are bent to kill, I see.

SPEND. No, by my hopes; if I can 'scape that sin,

And keep my good name, I'll never offer't.

STAINES. Well, sir, your worst.

SPEND. We both bleed now, I take it;

And, if the motion may be equal thought

To part with clasp'd hands, I shall first subscribe.

STAINES. 'Twere unmanliness in me to refuse

The safety of us both; my hand shall never fall

From such a charitable motion.

SPEND. Then join we both, and here our malice ends:

Though foes we came to th' field, we'll depart friends.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SIR LIONEL _and a_ SERVANT.

SIR LIONEL. Come, come, follow me, knave, follow me; I have the best

nose i' the house, I think: either we shall have rainy weather, or the

vault's unstopped. Sirrah, go see; I would not have my guests smell out

any such inconvenience. Do you hear, sirrah Simon?

SER. Sir.

SIR LIONEL. Bid the kitchen-maid scour the sink, and make clean her

backside, for the wind lies just upon't.

SER. I will, sir.

SIR LIONEL. And bid Anthony put on his white fustian doublet, for he

must wait to-day. [_Exit_ SERVANT.] It doth me so much good to stir and

talk, to place this and displace that, that I shall need no

apothecaries' prescriptions. I have sent my daughter this morning as far

as Pimlico,[190] to fetch a draught of Derby ale,[191] that it may

fetch a colour in her cheeks: the puling harlotry looks so pale, and it

is all for want of a man, for so their mother would say (God rest her

soul) before she died. [_Exit._

_Enter_ BUBBLE, SCATTERGOOD, STAINES, _and_ SERVANT.

SER. Sir, the gentlemen are come already.

SIR LIONEL. How, knave? the gentlemen?

SER. Yes, sir: yonder they are.

SIR LIONEL. God's precious! we are too tardy: let one be sent presently

to meet the girls, and hasten their coming home quickly. How, dost thou

stand dreaming! [_Exit_ SERVANT.] Gentlemen, I see you love me, you are

careful of your hour; you may be deceived in your cheer, but not in your

welcome.

BUB. Thanks, and _Tu quoque_ is a word for all.

SCAT. A pretty concise room; Sir Lionel, where are your daughters?

SIR LIONEL. They are at your service, sir, and forthcoming.

BUB. God's will, Gervase! how shall I behave myself to the gentlewomen?

STAINES. Why, advance yourself toward them with a comely step; and in

your salute be careful you strike not too high nor too low: and

afterward, for your discourse, your _Tu quoque_ will bear you out.

BUB. Nay, and that be all, I care not, for I'll set a good face on't,

that's flat: and for my nether parts, let them speak for themselves.

Here's a leg; and ever a baker in England show a better, I'll give him

mine for nothing.

STAINES. O, that's a special thing that I must caution you of.

BUB. What, sweet Gervase?

STAINES. Why, for commending yourself: never, whilst you live, commend

yourself; and then you shall have the ladies themselves commend you.

BUB. I would they would else.

STAINES. Why, they will, I'll assure you, sir; and the more vilely you

speak of yourself, the more will they strive to collaud you.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _and_ JOYCE.

BUB. Let me alone to dispraise myself: I'll make myself the errantest

coxcomb within a whole country.

SIR LIONEL. Here come the gipsies, the sun-burnt girls,

Whose beauties will not utter them alone;

They must have bags, although my credit crack for't.

BUB. Is this the eldest, sir?

SIR LIONEL. Yes, marry is she, sir.

BUB. I'll kiss the youngest first, because she likes me best.[192]

SCAT. Marry, sir, and whilst you are there, I'll be here. [_Kisses the

elder._] O delicious touch! I think in conscience her lips are lined

quite through with orange-tawny velvet.

BUB. They kiss exceeding well; I do not think but they have been brought

up to't. I will begin to her, like a gentleman, in a set speech. Fair

lady, shall I speak a word with you?

JOYCE. With me, sir?

BUB. With you, lady;--this way,--a little more,--

So, now 'tis well; umh--

Even as a drummer,--or a pewterer----

JOYCE. Which of the two, no matter,

For one beats on a drum, t'other a platter.

BUB. In good faith, sweet lady, you say true;

But pray, mark me farther: I will begin again.

JOYCE. I pray, sir, do.

BUB. Even as a drummer, as I said before,

Or as a pewterer----

JOYCE. Very good, sir.

BUB. Do--do--do.

JOYCE. What do they do?

BUB. By my troth, lady, I do not know; for to say truth, I am a kind

of an ass.

JOYCE. How, sir? an ass?

BUB. Yes, indeed, lady.

JOYCE. Nay, that you are not.

BUB. So God ha' me, I am, lady: you never saw

An erranter ass in your life.

JOYCE. Why, here's a gentleman, your friend, will not say so.

BUB. I' faith, but he shall: how say you, sir? Am not I an ass?

SCAT. Yes, by my troth, lady, is he. Why, I'll say anything my

brother

Bubble says. [_Aside._]

GERT. Is this the man my father chose for me,

To make a husband of? O God, how blind

Are parents in our loves! so they have wealth,

They care not to what things they marry us.

BUB. Pray, look upon me, lady.

JOYCE. So I do, sir.

BUB. Ay, but look upon me well, and tell me if ever you saw any man

look so scurvily as I do?

JOYCE. The fellow, sure, is frantic. [_Aside._]

BUB. You do not mark me.

JOYCE. Yes, indeed, sir.

BUB. Ay, but look upon me well:

Did you ever see a worse-timber'd leg?

JOYCE. By my faith, 'tis a pretty four-square leg.

BUB. Ay, but your four-square legs are none of the best. O Gervase,

Gervase! [_Aside._]

STAINES. Excellent well, sir.

BUB. What say you now to me, lady? Can you find

E'er a good inch about me?

JOYCE. Yes, that I can, sir.

BUB. Find it and take it, sweet lady. There I think I bobbed her,

Gervase. [_Aside._]

JOYCE. Well, sir, disparage not yourself so:

For, if you were the man you'd make yourself,

Yet out of your behaviour and discourse

I could find cause enough to love you.

BUB. Ah! now she comes to me. [_Aside._] My behaviour! alas, alas! 'tis

clownical; and my discourse is very bald--bald; you shall not hear me

break a good jest in a twelvemonth.

JOYCE. No, sir? why, now you break a good jest.

BUB. No, I want the _bon jour_ and the _Tu quoques_ which yonder

gentleman has. There's a bob for him too. [_Aside._] There's a

gentleman, an you talk of a gentleman!

JOYCE. Who, he? he's a coxcomb, indeed.

BUB. We are sworn brothers, in good faith, lady.

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SCAT. Yes, in truth, we are sworn brothers, and do mean to go both

alike, and to have horses alike.

JOYCE. And they shall be sworn brothers, too?

SCAT. If it please them, lady.

SER. Master Balance the goldsmith desires to speak with you.

SIR LIONEL. Bid him come, knave.

SCAT. I wonder, Sir Lionel, your son, Will Rash, is not here.

SIR LIONEL. Is he of your acquaintance, sir?

SCAT. O, very familiar: he struck me a box o' th' ear once, and from

thence grew my love to him.

_Enter_ BALANCE.

SIR LIONEL. It was a sign of virtue in you, sir; but he'll be here at

dinner. Master Balance, what makes you so strange? Come, you're welcome;

what's the news?

BAL. Why, sir, the old news: your man Francis riots still;

And little hope of thrift there is in him.

Therefore I come to advise your worship

To take some order while there's something left:

The better part of his best ware's consum'd.

SIR LIONEL. Speak softly, Master Balance.

But is there no hope of his recovery?

BAL. None at all, sir; for he's already laid to be arrested by some

that I know.

SIR LIONEL. Well, I do suffer for him, and am loth

Indeed to do what I'm constrain'd to do:

Well, sir, I mean to seize on what is left.

And, hark ye--one word more. [_Whispers._

JOYCE. What heinous sin has yonder man committed,

To have so great a punishment, as wait

Upon the humours of an idle fool?

A very proper fellow, good leg, good face,

A body well-proportioned; but his mind

Bewrays he never came of generous kind.

_Enter_ WILL RASH _and_ GERALDINE.

SIR LIONEL. Go to; no more of this at this time.

What, sir, are you come?

W. RASH. Yes, sir; and have made bold to bring a guest along.

SIR LIONEL. Master Geraldine's son of Essex?

GERA. The same, sir.

SIR LIONEL. You're welcome, sir; when will your father be in town?

GERA. 'Twill not be long, sir.

SIR LIONEL. I shall be glad to see him when he comes.

GERA. I thank you, sir.

SIR LIONEL. In the meantime, you're welcome; pray, be not strange. I'll

leave my son amongst you, gentlemen. I have some business. Hark you,

Master Balance--Dinner will soon be ready. One word more----

[_Exeunt_ SIR LIONEL _and_ BALANCE.

W. RASH. And how does my little Asinus and his _Tu quoque_, here? O, you

pretty sweet-faced rogues! that for your countenances might be Alexander

and Lodwick.[193] What says the old man to you! will't be a match?

shall we call brothers?

SCAT. I' faith, with all my heart: if Mistress Gertrude will, we will be

married to-morrow.

BUB. 'Sfoot, if Mistress Joyce will, we'll be married to-night.

W. RASH. Why, you courageous boys, and worthy wenches made out of wax!

But what shall's do when we have dined? shall's go see a play?

SCAT. Yes, faith, brother, if it please you: let's go see a play at the

Globe.

BUB. I care not; any whither, so the clown have a part; for, i' faith, I

am nobody without a fool.

GERA. Why, then, we'll go to the Red Bull: they say Green's a good

clown.

BUB. Green! Green's an ass.

SCAT. Wherefore do you say so?

BUB. Indeed, I ha' no reason; for they say he is as like me as ever he

can look.

SCAT. Well, then, to the Bull.

W. RASH. A good resolution!--continue it: nay, on.

BUB. Not before the gentlewomen; not I, never.

W. RASH. O, while you live, men before women: custom hath placed it so.

BUB. Why, then, custom is not so mannerly as I would be.

[_Exeunt_ BUBBLE _and_ SCATTERGOOD.

W. RASH. Farewell, Master Scattergood. Come, lover, you're too busy

here. I must tutor ye: cast not your eye at the table on each other; my

father will spy you without spectacles; he is a shrewd observer. Do you

hear me?

GERA. Very well, sir.

W. RASH. Come, then, go we together; let the wenches alone. Do you see

yonder fellow?

GERA. Yes; prythee, what is he?

W. RASH. I'll give you him within: he must

Not now be thought on; but you shall know him.

[_Exeunt_ WILL RASH _and_ GERALDINE.

GERT. I have observ'd my sister, and her eye

Is much inquisitive after yond' fellow;

She has examin'd him from head to foot:

I'll stay and see the issue. [_Withdraws a little._]

JOYCE. To wrastle 'gainst the stream of our affection,

Is to strike air, or buffet with the wind

That plays upon us. I have striv'd to cast

This fellow from my thoughts, but still he grows

More comely in my sight: yet [is] a slave,

Unto one worse-condition'd than a slave.

They are all gone; here's none but he and I:

Now I will speak to him--and yet I will not.

O, I [do] wrong myself; I will suppress

That insurrection love hath train'd in me,

And leave him as he is. Once my bold spirit

Had vow'd to utter all my thoughts to him,

On whom I settled my affection,

And why retires it now?

STAINES. Fight, love, on both sides; for on me thou strik'st

Strokes that have beat my heart into a flame.

She hath sent amorous glances from her eye,

Which I have back return'd as faithfully.

I would make to her, but these servile robes

Curb that suggestion, till some fitter time

Shall bring me more persuadingly unto her. [_Aside._

JOYCE. I wonder why he stays; I fear he notes me,

For I have publicly betray'd myself

By too much gazing on him. I will leave him. [_Aside._

GERT. But you shall not: I'll make you speak to him

Before you go. Do you hear, sir?

JOYCE. What mean you, sister?

GERT. To fit you in your kind, sister. Do you remember

How you once tyrannis'd o'er me?

JOYCE. Nay, prythee, leave this jesting; I am out of the vein.[194]

GERT. Ay, but I am in. Go and speak to your lover.

JOYCE. I'll first be buried quick.

GERT. How! ashamed? 'Sfoot, I trow, "if I had set my affection on a

collier, I'd ne'er fall back, unless it were in the right kind: if I

did, let me be tied to a stake, and burnt to death with charcoal."[195]

JOYCE. Nay, then, we shall have't.

GERT. Yes, marry shall you, sister: will you speak to him?

JOYCE. No.

GERT. Do you hear, sir? here's a gentlewoman would speak with you.

JOYCE. Why, sister! I pray, sister----

GERT. One that loves you with all her heart, yet is ashamed to confess

it.

STAINES. Did you call, ladies?

JOYCE. No, sir; here's no one called.

GERT. Yes, sir, 'twas I; I called to speak with you.

JOYCE. My sister's somewhat frantic; there's no regard to be had unto

her clamours. Will you yet leave? I' faith, you'll anger me.

GERT. Passion: "come back, fool; lover, turn again and kiss your

bellyful; here's one will stand ye."[196]

STAINES. What does this mean, trow?

JOYCE. Yet is your humour spent?

GERT. Come, let me go: "birds that want the use of reason and of speech

can couple together in one day; and yet you, that have both, cannot

conclude in twenty."[197] Now, sister, I am even with you, my venom is

spit. As much happiness may you enjoy with your lover as I with mine.

And droop not, wench, nor never be ashamed of him; the man will serve

the turn, though he be wrapped in a blue coat, I'll warrant him; come.

JOYCE. You are merrily disposed, sister. [_Exeunt wenches._

STAINES. I needs

Must prosper: fortune and love work for me.

Be moderate, my joys; for, as you grow

To your full height, so Bubble's waxeth low. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SPENDALL, SWEATMAN, _and_ TICKLEMAN.

TICKLE. Will my sweet Spendall be gone, then?

SPEND. I must, upon promise; but I'll be here at supper: therefore,

Mistress Sweatman, provide us some good cheer.

SWEAT. The best the market will yield.

SPEND. Here's twenty shillings; I protest I have left myself but a crown

for my spending-money: for indeed I intend to be frugal, and turn good

husband.

TICKLE. Ay, marry will you; you'll to play again and lose your money,

and fall to fighting; my very heart trembles to think on it; how, if you

had been killed in the quarrel? of my faith, I had been but a dead

woman.

SPEND. Come, come, no more of this; thou dost but dissemble.

TICKLE. Dissemble! do not you say so; for if you do,

God is my judge, I'll give myself a gash.

SPEND. Away, away; prythee, no more. Farewell.

TICKLE. Nay, buss first; well,

There's no adversity in the world shall part us.

SPEND. Thou art a loving rascal; farewell.

SWEAT. You will not fail supper?

SPEND. You have my word; farewell. [_Exit._

_The street. Enter_ SERJEANTS.

1ST SER. Sir, we arrest you.

SPEND. Arrest me! at whose suit?

2D SER. Marry, there's suits enough against you, I'll warrant you.

1ST SER. Come, away with him.

SPEND. Stay, hear me a word.

2D SER. What do you say?

SWEATMAN'S _house. Another part of the street_.

_Enter_ PURSENET.

TICKLE. How now, Pursenet? why com'st in such haste?

PURSE. Shut up your doors, and bar young Spendall out;

And let him be cashier'd your company.

He's turn'd bankrout; his wares are seiz'd on;

And's shop shut up.

TICKLE. How! his ware seized on? Thou dost but jest, I hope.

PURSE. What this tongue doth report, these eyes have seen;

It is no Æsop's fable that I tell;

But it is true, as I am faithful pander.

SWEAT. Nay, I did ever think the prodigal would prove

A bankrupt: but, hang him, let him rot

In prison; he comes no more within these doors,

I warrant him.

TICKLE. Come hither! I would he would but offer it;

We'll fire him out, with a pox to him.

SPEND. Will you do it?

To carry me to prison but undoes me.

1ST SER. What say you, fellow Gripe, shall we take his forty shillings?

2D SER. Yes, faith; we shall have him again within this week. [_Aside._

1ST SER. Well, sir, your forty shillings; and we'll have some compassion

on you.

SPEND. Will you but walk with me unto that house,

And there you shall receive it.

SER. What, where the women are?

SPEND. Yes, sir.

[_They walk together to the house._

SWEAT. Look yonder, if the ungracious rascal be not coming hither

betwixt two serjeants: he thinks, belike, that we'll relieve him; let us

go in and clap the doors against him.

PURSE. It is the best course, Mistress Tickleman.

TICKLE. But I say no, you shall not stir a foot;

For I will talk with him.

SPEND. Nan, I am come,

Even in the minute that thou didst profess

Kindness unto me, to make trial of it.

Adversity, thou seest, lays hands upon me:

But forty shillings will deliver me.

TICKLE. Why, you impudent rogue, do you come to me for money?

Or do I know you? what acquaintance, pray,

Hath ever pass'd betwixt yourself and me?

SER. Zounds, do you mock us, to bring us to these women, that do not

know you?

SWEAT. Yes, in good sooth (officers, I take't you are)

He's a mere stranger here; only in charity

Sometimes we have reliev'd him with a meal.

SPEND. This is not earnest in you? Come, I know,

My gifts and bounty cannot so soon be buried.

Go, prythee, fetch forty shillings.

TICKLE. Talk not to me, you slave, of forty shillings;

For by this light that shines, ask it again,

I'll send my knife of an errand in your guts.

A shameless rogue, to come to me for money!

SWEAT. Is he your prisoner, gentlemen?

SER. Yes, marry is he.

SWEAT. Pray, carry him then to prison, let him smart for't:

Perhaps 'twill tame the wildness of his youth,

And teach him how to lead a better life.

He had good counsel here, I can assure you,

And if he would have took it.

PURSE. I told him still myself what would ensue.

SPEND. Furies break loose in me: serjeants, let me go;

I'll give you all I have to purchase freedom

But for a lightning while, to tear yond whore,

Bawd, pander, and in them the devil; for there's

His hell, his local habitation;

Nor has he any other place.[198]

SER. No, sir, we'll take no bribes.

[_Takes_ SPENDALL'S _cloak_.

SPEND. Honest serjeants, give me leave to unlade

A heart o'ercharg'd with grief; as I have a soul,

I'll not break from you. [_They loose him._]

Thou strumpet, that wert born to ruin me,[199]

My fame and fortune, be subject to my curse,

And hear me speak it. May'st thou in thy youth

Feel the sharp whip, and in thy beldam age

The cart: when thou art grown to be

An old upholster unto venery,

(A bawd, I mean, to live by feather-beds)

May'st thou be driven to sell all thou hast,

Unto thy _aqua-vitæ_ bottle (that's the last

A bawd will part withal) and live so poor

That, being turn'd forth thy house, may'st die at door!

SER. Come, sir, ha' you done?

SPEND. A little farther give me leave, I pray;

I have a charitable prayer to end with.

May the French cannibal[200] eat into thy flesh,

And pick thy bones so clean, that the report

Of thy calamity may draw resort

Of all the common sinners in the town,

To see thy mangl'd carcass; and that then

They may upon't turn honest; bawd, say amen. [_Exit._

SWEAT. Out upon him, wicked villain, how he blasphemes!

PURSE. He will be damn'd for turning heretic.

TICKLE. Hang him, bankrout rascal, let him talk in prison,

The whilst we'll spend his goods; for I did never

Hear that men took example by each other.

SWEAT. Well, if men did rightly consider't, they should find that whores

and bawds are profitable members in a commonwealth; for indeed, though

we somewhat impair their bodies, yet we do good to their souls; for I am

sure, we still bring them to repentance.

PURSE. By Dis, and so we do.

SWEAT. Come, come, will you dis before? thou art one of them that I

warrant thee will, be hanged, before thou wilt repent. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ WILL RASH, STAINES, _and_ GERALDINE.

W. RASH. Well, this love is a troublesome thing. Jupiter, bless me out

of his fingers; there's no estate can rest for him: he runs through all

countries, will travel through the Isle of Man in a minute; but never is

quiet till he comes into Middlesex, and there keeps his Christmas: 'tis

his habitation, his mansion, from whence he'll never out till he be

fired.

GERA. Well, do not tyrannise too much, lest one day he make you know his

deity, by sending a shaft out of a sparkling eye shall strike so deep

into your heart, that it shall make you fetch your breath short again.

W. RASH. And make me cry, _O eyes, no eyes, but two celestial

stars!_[201] A pox on't, I'd as lief hear a fellow sing through the

nose. How now, wench?

_Enter_ GERTRUDE.

GERT. Keep your station: you stand as well for the encounter as may be:

she is coming on; but as melancholy as a bass-viol in concert.

W. RASH. Which makes thee as sprightly as the treble. Now dost thou play

thy prize: here's the honourable science, one against another. Do you

hear, lover; the thing is done you wot of; you shall have your wench

alone without any disturbance; now if you can do any good, why so; the

silver game be yours; we'll stand by and give aim,[202] and halloo, if

you hit the clout.

STAINES. 'Tis all the assistance I request of you.

Bring me but opportunely to her presence,

And I desire no more; and if I cannot win her,

Let me lose her.

GERT. Well, sir, let me tell you, perhaps you undertake

A harder task than yet you do imagine.

STAINES. A task! what, to win a woman, and have opportunity? I would

that were a task, i' faith, for any man that wears his wits about him.

Give me but half an hour's conference with the coldest creature of them

all; and if I bring her not into a fool's paradise, I'll pull out my

tongue, and hang it at her door for a draw-latch. Ud's foot! I'd ne'er

stand thrumming of caps for the matter; I'll quickly make trial of her.

If she love to have her beauty praised, I'll praise it; if her wit, I'll

commend it; if her good parts, I'll exalt them. No course shall 'scape

me; for to whatsoever I saw her inclined, to that would I fit her.

W. RASH. But you must not do thus to her; for she's a subtle, flouting

rogue, that will laugh you out of countenance, if you solicit her

seriously. No, talk me to her wantonly, slightly, and carelessly, and

perhaps so you may prevail as much with her as wind does with a

sail--carry her whither thou wilt, bully.

_Enter_ JOYCE.

STAINES. Well, sir, I'll follow your instruction.

W. RASH. Do so: and see, she appears. Fall you two off from us; let us

two walk together.

JOYCE. Why did my inquiring eye take in this fellow,

And let him down so easy to my heart,

Where, like a conqueror, he seizes on it,

And beats all other men out of my bosom?

W. RASH. Sister, you're well met. Here's a gentleman desires to be

acquainted with you.

JOYCE. See, the servingman is turned a gentleman! That villanous wench,

my sister, has no mercy. She and my brother have conspired together to

play upon me; but I'll prevent their sport; for, rather than my tongue

shall have scope to speak matter to give them mirth, my heart shall

break. [_Aside._]

W. RASH. You have your desire, sir; I'll leave you;

Grapple with her as you can. [_Aside. Exit._]

STAINES. Lady, God save you.--

She turns back upon the motion;

There's no good to be done by praying for her,

I see that; I must plunge into a passion:

Now for a piece of Hero and Leander;

'Twere excellent, and (praise be to my memory),

It has reach'd half a dozen lines for the purpose:

Well, she shall have them--

"One is no number, maids are nothing, then,[203]

Without the sweet society of men.

Wilt thou live single still? one shalt thou be,

Though never singling Hymen couple thee.

Wild savages, that drink of running springs,

Think water far excels all earthly things:

But they that daily taste neat wine, despise it.

Virginity, albeit some highly prize it,

Compar'd with marriage, had you tried them both,

Differs as much as wine and water doth."

No? Why then, have at you in another kind.

"By the faith of a soldier, lady, I do reverence the ground that you

walk upon. I will fight with him that dares say you are not fair; stab

him that will not pledge your health, and with a dagger pierce a

vein,[204] to drink a full health to you; but it shall be on this

condition, that you shall speak first." Ud's foot! if I could but get

her to talk once half my labour were over; but I'll try her in another

vein. "What an excellent creature is a woman without a tongue! but what

a more excellent creature is a woman that has a tongue, and can hold her

peace! but how much more excellent and fortunate a creature is that man

that has that woman to his wife!" This cannot choose but mad her; and if

anything make a woman talk, 'tis this. It will not do, though, yet. I

pray God they have not gulled me. But I'll try once again--"When will

that tongue take liberty to talk? Speak but one word, and I'm satisfied:

Or do but say but mum, and I am answer'd." No sound? no accent? Is there

no noise in women? Nay, then without direction I ha' done. I must go

call for help. [_Leaves her._

W. RASH. How! not speak?

STAINES. Not a syllable. Night nor sleep is not more silent. She's as

dumb as Westminster Hall in the long vacation.

W. RASH. Well, and what would you have me do?

STAINES. Why, make her speak.

W. RASH. And what then?

STAINES. Why, let me alone with her.

W. RASH. Ay, so you said before; give you but opportunity, and let you

alone--you'd desire no more. But come, I'll try my cunning for you; see

what I can do. How do you, sister? I am sorry to hear you are not well.

This gentleman tells me you have lost your tongue; I pray, let's see. If

you can but make signs whereabout you lost it, we'll go and look for't.

In good faith, sister, you look very pale; in my conscience, 'tis for

grief. Will you have any comfortable drinks sent for? This is not the

way [_aside_]; come, walk, seem earnest in discourse, cast not an eye

towards her, and you shall see weakness work itself.

JOYCE. My heart is swoll'n so big that it must vent,

Or it will burst. [_Aside._] Are you a brother?

W. RASH. Look to yourself, sir;

The brazen head has spoke,[205] and I must leave you.

JOYCE. Has shame that power in him, to make him fly,

And dare you be so impudent to stand

Just in the face of my incensed anger?

What are you? why do you stay? who sent for you?

You were in garments yesterday, befitting

A fellow of your fashion: has a crown

Purchased that shining satin of the brokers?

Or is't a cast suit of your goodly master's?

STAINES. A cast suit, lady?

JOYCE. You think it does become you? Faith, it does not.

A blue coat[206] with a badge does better with you.

Go, untruss your master's points, and do not dare

To stop your nose when as his worship stinks:

'T has been your breeding.

STAINES. Ud's life! this is excellent: now she talks. [_Aside._

JOYCE. Nay, were you a gentleman, and (which is more)

Well-landed, I should hardly love you;

For, for your face, I never saw a worse:

It looks as if 'twere drawn with yellow ochre

Upon black buckram; and that hair

That's on your chin looks not like beard,

But as if't had been smear'd with shoemakers' wax.

STAINES. Ud's foot! she'll make me out of love with myself.

[_Aside._

JOYCE. How dares your baseness once aspire unto

So high a fortune, as to reach at me?

Because you have heard that some have run away

With butlers, horsekeepers, and their father's clerks,

You, forsooth, cocker'd with your own suggestion,

Take heart upon't, and think me (that am meet,

And set up for your master) fit for you.

STAINES. I would I could get her now to hold her tongue. [_Aside_

JOYCE. Or, 'cause sometimes as I have pass'd along,

And have return'd a courtesy for your hat,

You, as the common trick is, straight suppose

'Tis love (sir reverence, which makes the word more beastly).

STAINES. Why, this is worse than silence. [_Aside._

JOYCE. But we are fools, and in our reputations

We find the smart on't:

Kindness is termed lightness in our sex;

And when we give a favour or a kiss,

We give our good names too.

STAINES. Will you be dumb again?

JOYCE. Men you are call'd, but you're a viperous brood,

Whom we in charity take into our bosoms,

And cherish with our heart; for which you sting us.

STAINES. Ud's foot! I'll fetch him that wak'd your tongue,

To lay it down again. [_Fetches_ WILL RASH.

W. RASH. Why, how now, man?

STAINES. O, relieve me, or I shall lose my hearing!

You have rais'd a fury up into her tongue:

A parliament of women could not make

Such a confused noise as that she utters.

W. RASH. Well, what would you have me do?

STAINES. Why, make her hold her tongue.

W. RASH. And what then?

STAINES. Why, then, let me alone again.

W. RASH. This is very good, i' faith: first give thee but opportunity,

and let thee alone; then make her but speak, and let thee alone; now

make her hold her tongue, and then let thee alone By my troth, I think

I were best to let thee alone indeed: but come, follow me; the wild cat

shall not carry it so away. Walk, walk, as we did.

JOYCE. What, have you fetched your champion? What can he do?

Not have you nor himself from out the storm

Of my incensed rage: I will thunder into your ears

The wrongs that you have done an innocent maid:

O, you're a couple of sweet----what shall I call you?

Men you are not; for, if you were,

You would not offer this unto a maid.

Wherein have I deserved it at your hands?

Have I not been always a kind sister to you, and in signs and tokens

showed it? Did I not send money to you at Cambridge, when you were but a

freshman? wrought you purses and bands; and since you came to th'

inns-o'-court, a fair pair of hangers? Have you not taken rings from me,

which I have been fain to say I have lost when you had pawned them; and

yet was never beholden to you for a pair of gloves?

W. RASH. A woman's tongue, I see, is like a bell,

That, once being set agoing, goes itself.

JOYCE. And yet you, to join with my sister against me, send one here to

play upon me, whilst you laugh and leer, and make a pastime on me. Is

this brotherly done? No, it is barbarous; and a Turk would blush to

offer it to a Christian. But I will think on't, and have it written in

my heart, when it hath slipped your memories.

W. RASH. When will your tongue be weary?

JOYCE. Never.

W. RASH. How! never? Come, talk, and I'll talk with you:

I'll try the nimble footmanship of your tongue;

And if you can out-talk me, your's be the victory.

[_Here they two talk and rail what they list;

and then_ WILL RASH _speaks to_ STAINES.

ALL SPEAK. Ud's foot! dost thou stand by, and do nothing?

Come, talk, and drown her clamours.

[_Here they all three, talk, and_ JOYCE _gives over,

weeping, and Exit_.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _and_ GERALDINE.

GERA. Alas! she's spent, i' faith: now the storm's over.

W. RASH. Ud's foot! I'll follow her, as long as I have any breath.

GERT. Nay, no more now, brother; you have no compassion; you see she

cries.

STAINES. If I do not wonder she could talk so long, I am a villain. She

eats no nuts, I warrant her; 'sfoot, I am almost out of breath with that

little I talked: well, gentle brothers, I might say (for she and I must

clap hands upon't) a match for all this. Pray, go in; and, sister, salve

the matter, collogue with her again, and all shall be well: I have a

little business that must be thought upon, and 'tis partly for your

mirth, therefore let me not (though absent) be forgotten: farewell.

W. RASH. We will be mindful of you, sir; fare you well.

GERA. How now, man! what, tired, tired?

W. RASH. Zounds, and you had talked as much as I did, you would be

tired, I warrant. What, is she gone in? I'll to her again, whilst my

tongue is warm: and if I thought I should be used to this exercise, I

would eat every morning an ounce of licorish.[207] [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ LODGE, _the master of the prison, and_ HOLDFAST, _his man_.

LODGE. Have you summed up those reckonings?

HOLD. Yes, sir.

LODGE. And what is owing me?

HOLD. Thirty-seven pound, odd money.

LODGE. How much owes the Frenchman?

HOLD. A fortnight's commons.

LODGE. Has Spendall any money?

HOLD. Not any, sir; and he has sold all his clothes.

_Enter_ SPENDALL.

LODGE. That fellow would waste millions if he had 'em:

Whilst he has money, no man spends a penny.

Ask him money, and if he say he has none,

Be plain with him, and turn him out o' th' ward.

[_Exit_ LODGE.

HOLD. I will, sir. Master Spendall, my master has sent to you for money.

SPEND. Money! why does he send to me? Does he think I have the

philosopher's stone, or I can clip, or coin? How does he think I can

come by money?

HOLD. Faith, sir, his occasions are so great, that he must have money,

or else he can buy no victuals.

SPEND. Then we must starve, belike. Ud's foot, thou see'st I have

nothing left that will yield me two shillings.

HOLD. If you have no money, you'd best remove into some cheaper ward.

SPEND. What ward should I remove in?

HOLD. Why, to the twopenny ward; it's likeliest to hold out with your

means; or, if you will, you may go into the hole, and there you may

feed, for nothing.

SPEND. Ay, out of the alms-basket, where charity appears in likeness of

a piece of stinking fish, such as they beat bawds with when they are

carted.

HOLD. Why, sir, do not scorn it; as good men as yourself have been glad

to eat scraps out of the alms-basket.

SPEND. And yet, slave, thou in pride wilt stop thy nose,

Screw, and make faces, talk contemptibly of it,

And of the feeders, surly groom.

_Enter_ FOX.

HOLD. Well, sir, your malapertness will get you nothing.--Fox!

FOX. Here.

HOLD. A prisoner to the hole: take charge of him, and use him as

scurvily as thou canst. You shall be taught your duty, sir, I warrant

you.

SPEND. Hence, slavish tyrants, instruments of torture!

There is more kindness yet in whores than you;

For when a man hath spent all, he may go

And seek his way, they'll kick him out of doors,

Not keep him in as you do, and enforce him

To be the subject of their cruelty.

You have no mercy; but be this your comfort,

The punishment and tortures which you do

Inflict on men, the devils shall on you.

HOLD. Well, sir, you may talk, but you shall see the end, and who shall

have the worst of it.

[_Exit_ HOLDFAST.

SPEND. Why, villain, I shall have the worst, I know it,

And am prepar'd to suffer like a stoic;

Or else (to speak more properly) like a stock;

For I have no sense left. Dost thou think I have?

FOX. Zounds, I think he's mad.

SPEND. Why, thou art in the right; for I am mad, indeed,

And have been mad these two years. Dost thou think

I could have spent so much as I have done

In wares and credit, had I not been mad?

Why, thou must know, I had a fair estate

Which, through my riot, I have torn in pieces,

And scatter'd amongst bawds, buffoons, and whores,

That fawn'd on me, and by their flatteries

Rock'd all my understanding faculties

Into a pleasant slumber; where I dreamt

Of nought but joy and pleasure: never felt

How I was lull'd in sensuality,

Until at last affliction waked me,

And, lighting up the taper of my soul,

Led me unto myself, where I might see

A mind and body rent with misery. [_A prisoner within._

PRIS. Harry Fox! Harry Fox!

FOX. Who calls?

_Enter_ PRISONER.

PRIS. Here's the bread-and-meat-man come.

FOX. Well, the bread-and-meat-man may stay a little.

PRIS. Yes, indeed, Harry, the bread-and-meat-man may stay; but you know

our stomachs cannot stay.

_Enter_ GATHERSCRAP _with the basket_.

FOX. Indeed your stomach is always first up.

PRIS. And therefore by right should be first served: I have a stomach

like _aqua fortis_, it will eat anything; O father Gatherscrap, here are

excellent bits in the basket.

FOX. Will you hold your chaps farther? By and by, you'll drivel into the

basket.

PRIS. Perhaps it may do some good; for there may be a piece of powdered

beef that wants watering.

FOX. Here, sir, here's your share.

PRIS. Here's a bit indeed: what's this to a Gargantua stomach?

FOX. Thou art ever grumbling.

PRIS. Zounds! it would make a dog grumble to want his victuals: I pray,

give Spendall none; he came into the hole but yesternight.

FOX. What, do you refuse it?

SPEND. I cannot eat, I thank you.

PRIS. No, no, give it me, he's not yet seasoned for our company.

FOX. Divide it then amongst you.

[_Exit_ FOX _and_ PRISONER.

SPEND. To such a one as these are must I come;

Hunger will draw me into their fellowship,

To fight and scramble for unsavoury scraps,

That come from unknown hands, perhaps unwash'd:

And would that were the worst; for I have noted

That nought goes to the prisoners, but such food

As either by the weather has been tainted,

Or children, nay, sometimes full-paunched dogs

Have overlick'd; as if men had determin'd

That the worst sustenance which is God's creatures'--

However they're abus'd--is[208] good enough

For such vild creatures as abuse themselves.

O, what a slave was I unto my pleasures!

How drown'd in sin, and overwhelm'd in lust!

That I could write my repentance to the world,

And force th' impression of it in the hearts

Of you of[209] my acquaintance: I might teach them

By my example, to look home to thrift,

And not to range abroad to seek out ruin.

Experience shows, his purse shall soon grow light,

Whom dice wastes in the day, drabs in the night.

Let all avoid false strumpets, dice and drink;

For he that leaps i' th' mud, shall quickly sink.

_Enter_ FOX _and_ LONGFIELD.

FOX. Yonder's the man.

LONG. I thank you.

How is it with you, sir? What, on the ground?

Look up, there's comfort towards you.

SPEND. Belike, some charitable friend has sent a shilling.

What is your business?

LONG. Liberty.

SPEND. There's virtue in that word; I'll rise up to you.

Pray, let me hear that cheerful word again.

LONG. The able and well-minded widow Raysby,

Whose hand is still upon the poor man's box,

Hath in her charity remember'd you;

And, being by your master seconded,

Hath taken order with your creditors

For day and payment; and freely from her purse,

By me her deputy, she hath discharg'd

All duties in the house: besides, to your necessities

This is bequeath'd, to furnish you with clothes.

SPEND. Speak you this seriously?

LONG. 'Tis not my practice to mock misery.

SPEND. Be ever praised that divinity,

That has to my oppressed state rais'd friends,

Still be his blessings pour'd upon their heads.

Your hand, I pray,

That have so faithfully perform'd their wills.

If e'er my industry, join'd with their loves,

Shall raise me to a competent estate,

Your name shall ever be to me a friend.

LONG. In your good wishes you requite me amply.

SPEND. All fees, you say, are paid? There's for your love.

FOX. I thank you, sir, and am glad you are releas'd. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ BUBBLE, _gallanted_.

BUB. How apparel makes a man respected! the very children in the street

do adore me: for if a boy, that is throwing at his jack-a-lent,[210]

chance to hit me on the shins, why, I say nothing but _Tu quoque_,

smile, and forgive the child with a beck of my hand, or some such like

token: so by that means I do seldom go without broken shins.

_Enter_ STAINES, _like an Italian_.

STAINES. The blessings of your mistress fall upon you;

And may the heat and spirit of her lip

Endue her with matter above her understanding,

That she may only live to admire you, or, as the Italian says:

_Que que dell fogo Ginni coxcombie_.

BUB. I do wonder what language he speaks.

Do you hear, my friend; are not you a conjuror?

STAINES. I am, sir, a perfect traveller, that have trampled over the

face of the universe, and can speak Greek and Latin as promptly as my

own natural language. I have composed a book, wherein I have set down

all the wonders of the world that I have seen, and the whole scope of my

journeys, together with the miseries and lousy fortunes I have endured

therein.[211]

BUB. O Lord, sir, are you the man? give me your hand: how do ye? in good

faith, I think I have heard of you.

STAINES. No, sir, you never heard of me; I set this day footing upon the

wharf; I came in with the last peal of ordnance, and dined this day in

the Exchange amongst the merchants. But this is frivolous, and from the

matter: you do seem to be one of our gentile spirits that do affect

generosity: pleaseth you to be instituted in the nature, garb, and habit

of the most exactest nation in the world, the Italian? whose language is

sweetest, clothes neatest, and behaviour most accomplished. I am one

that have spent much money, and time, which to me is more dear than

money, in the observation of these things: and, now I am come, I will

sit me down and rest; and make no doubt but to purchase and build, by

professing this art or human science (as I may term it) to such

honourable and worshipful personages as mean to be peculiar.

BUB. This fellow has his tongue at his fingers' ends. But, hark ye, sir;

is your Italian the finest gentleman?

STAINES. In the world, signior; your Spaniard is a mere bumbard to him:

he will bounce, indeed, but he will burst. But your Italian is smooth

and lofty, and his language is cousin-german to the Latin.

BUB. Why, then he has his _Tu quoque_ in his salute?

STAINES. Yes, sir, for it is an Italian word as well as a Latin, and

enfolds a double sense; for one way spoken, it includes a fine

gentleman, like yourself; and another way it imports an ass, like whom

you will.

BUB. I would my man Gervase were here, for he understands these things

better than I. [_Aside._] You will not serve?

STAINES. Serve! no, sir; I have talked with the great Sophy.

BUB. I pray, sir, what's the lowest price of being Italianated?

STAINES. Sir, if it please you, I will stand to your bounty: and, mark

me, I will set your face like a grand signior's, and you shall march a

whole day, until you come opunctly[212] to your mistress, and not

disrank one hair of your physiognomy.

BUB. I would you would do it, sir; if you will stand to my bounty, I

will pay you, as I am an Italian, _Tu quoque_.

STAINES. Then, sir, I will first disburthen you of your cloak; you will

be the nimbler to practise. Now, sir, observe me: go you directly to the

lady to whom you devote yourself.

BUB. Yes, sir.

STAINES. You shall set a good staid face upon the matter then. Your band

is not to your shirt, is it?

BUB. No, sir, 'tis loose.

STAINES. It is the fitter for my purpose. I will first remove your hat.

It has been the fashion (as I have heard) in England to wear your hat

thus, in your eyes; but it is gross, naught, inconvenient, and

proclaims with a loud voice that he that brought it up first stood in

fear of serjeants. Your Italian is contrary: he doth advance his hat,

and sets it thus.

BUB. Excellent well: I would you would set it on my head so.

STAINES. Soft; I will first remove your band, and set it out of the

reach of your eyes; it must lie altogether backward. So: your band is

well.

BUB. Is it as you would have it?

STAINES. It is as I would wish; only, sir, this I must caution you of,

in your affront[213] or salute, never to move your hat; but here, here

is your courtesy.

BUB. Nay, I warrant you; let me alone, if I perceive a thing once, I'll

carry it away. Now, pray, sir, reach my cloak.

STAINES. Never, whilst you live, sir.

BUB. No! what, do you Italians wear no cloaks!

STAINES. Your signiors, never: you see I am unfurnished myself.

_Enter_ Sir Lionel, WILL RASH, GERALDINE, WIDOW, GERTRUDE, _and_ JOYCE.

BUB. Say ye so? prythee, keep it, then. See! yonder's the company that I

look for; therefore, if you will set my face of any fashion, pray do it

quickly.

STAINES. You carry your face as well as e'er an Italian in the world;

only enrich it with a smile, and 'tis incomparable: and thus much

more--at your first appearance, you shall perhaps strike your

acquaintance into an ecstasy, or perhaps a laughter; but 'tis ignorance

in them, which will soon be overcome, if you persevere.

BUB. I will persevere, I warrant thee: only do thou stand aloof, and be

not seen; because I would not have them think but I fetch it out of my

own practice.

STAINES. Do not you fear; I'll not be seen, I warrant you. [_Exit._

SIR LIONEL. Now, widow, you are welcome to my house,

And to your own house too, so you may call it;

For what is mine is yours: you may command here

As at home, and be as soon obey'd.

WID. May I deserve this kindness of you, sir?

BUB. Save you, gentlemen. I salute you after the Italian fashion.

W. RASH. How! the Italian fashion? Zounds! he has dressed him

rarely.

SIR LIONEL. My son Bubble, I take it?

W. RASH. The nether part of him I think is he;

But what the upper part is, I know not.

[GER.] By my troth, he's a rare fellow.

BUB. He said true;

They are all in an ecstasy. [_Aside._]

GERT. I think he's mad. [_Aside._]

JOYCE. Nay, that cannot be; for they say, they that are mad lose their

wits, and I am sure he had none to lose. [_Aside._]

_Enter_ SCATTERGOOD.

SIR LIONEL. How now, son Bubble? how come you thus attir'd?

What! do you mean to make yourself a laughing-stock, ha?

BUB. Um! Ignorance, ignorance. [_Aside._]

GERA. For the love of laughter, look yonder:

Another herring in the same pickle.

W. RASH. T'other hobby-horse, I perceive, is not forgotten.[214]

BUB. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

SCAT. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

BUB. Who has made him such a coxcomb, trow?

An Italian _Tu quoque_?

SCAT. I salute you according to the Italian fashion.

BUB. Puh! the Italian fashion! The tattered-demalian fashion he

means.

SCAT. Save you, sweet bloods, save you.

SIR LIONEL. Why, but what jig is this?

SCAT. Nay, if I know, father, would I were hanged. I am e'en as innocent

as the child new-born.

SIR LIONEL. Ay, but son Bubble, where did you two buy your felts?

SCAT. Felts! By this light, mine is a good beaver:

It cost me three pounds this morning upon trust.

SIR LIONEL. Nay, I think you had it upon trust, for no man that has any

shame in him would take money for it. Behold, sir.

BUB. Ha, ha, ha!

SIR LIONEL. Nay, never do you laugh, for you're i' th' same block.

BUB. Is this the Italian fashion?

SCAT. No, it is the fool's fashion:

And we two are the first that follow it.

BUB. _Et tu quoque_. Are we both cosened? Then let's show ourselves

brothers in adversity, and embrace.

SIR LIONEL. What was he that cheated you?

BUB. Marry, sir, he was a knave that cheated me.

SCAT. And I think he was no honest man that cheated me.

SIR LIONEL. Do you know him again if you see him?

_Enter_ STAINES [_in his own costume._]

BUB. Yes, I know him again, if I see him; but I do not know how I should

come to see him. O Gervase, Gervase! Do you see us two, Gervase?

STAINES. Yes, sir, very well.

BUB. No, you do not see us very well, for we have been horribly abused.

Never were Englishmen so gulled in Italian as we have been.

STAINES. Why, sir, you have not lost your cloak and hat?

BUB. Gervase, you lie; I have lost my cloak and hat; and therefore you

must use your credit for another.

SCAT. I think my old cloak and hat must be glad to serve me till next

quarter-day.

SIR LIONEL. Come, take no care for cloaks: I'll furnish you.

To-night you lodge with me; to-morrow morn,

Before the sun be up, prepare for church;

The widow and I have so concluded on't.

The wenches understand not yet so much,

Nor shall not until bedtime: then will they

Not sleep a wink all night for very joy.

SCAT. And I'll promise the next night they shall not sleep for joy

neither. [_Aside._]

SIR LIONEL. O Master Geraldine, I saw you not before:

Your father now is come to town, I hear.

GERA. Yes, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Were not my business earnest, I would see him:

But pray entreat him break an hour's sleep

To-morrow morn t'accompany me to church;

And come yourself, I pray, along with him.

_Enter_ SPENDALL.

GERA. Sir, I thank you.

SIR LIONEL. But look, here comes one,

That has but lately shook off his shackles.--

How now, sirrah! wherefore come you?

SPEND. I come to crave a pardon, sir, of you;

And with hearty and zealous thanks

Unto this worthy lady, that hath given me

More than I e'er could hope for--liberty.

WID. Be thankful unto heaven and your master:

Nor let your heart grow bigger than your purse,

But live within a limit, lest you burst out

To riot and to misery again:

For then 'twould lose the benefit I mean it.

SIR LIONEL. O, you do graciously; 'tis good advice:

Let it take root, sirrah, let it take root.

But come, widow, come and see your chamber:

Nay, your company too, for I must speak with you. [_Exeunt._

SPEND. 'Tis bound unto you, sir.

BUB. And I have to talk with you too, Mistress Joyce. Pray, a word.

JOYCE. What would you, sir?

BUB. Pray, let me see your hand. The line of your maidenhead is out. Now

for your fingers. Upon which finger will you wear your wedding-ring?

JOYCE. Upon no finger.

BUB. Then I perceive you mean to wear it on your thumb.

Well, the time is come, sweet Joyce; the time is come.

JOYCE. What to do, sir?

BUB. For me to tickle thy _Tu quoque;_ to do the act

Of our forefathers: therefore prepare, provide,

To-morrow morn to meet me as my bride. [_Exit._

JOYCE. I'll meet thee like a ghost first.

GERT. How now, what matter have you fished out of that fool?

JOYCE. Matter as poisoning as corruption,

That will without some antidote strike home,

Like blue infection, to the very heart.

W. RASH. As how, for God's sake?

JOYCE. To-morrow is the appointed wedding-day.

GERT. The day of doom, it is?

GERA. 'Twould be a dismal day indeed to some of us.

JOYCE. Sir, I do know you love me; and the time

Will not be dallied with: be what you seem,

Or not the same; I am your wife, your mistress,

Or your servant--indeed, what you will make me.

Let us no longer wrangle with our wits,

Or dally with our fortunes; lead me hence,

And carry me into a wilderness:

I'll fast with you, rather than feast with him.

STAINES. What can be welcomer unto these arms?

Not my estate recover'd is more sweet,

Nor strikes more joy in me than does your love.

W. RASH. Will you both kiss then upon the bargain?

Here's two couple on you, God give you joy;

I wish well to you,

And I see 'tis all the good that I can do you:

And so to your shifts I leave you.

JOYCE. Nay, brother, you will not leave us thus, I hope.

W. RASH. Why, what would you have me do? you mean to run away together:

would you have me run with you, and so lose my inheritance? no, trudge,

trudge with your backs to me, and your bellies to them. Away!

GERA. Nay, I prythee, be not thus unseasonable:

Without thee we are nothing.

W. RASH. By my troth, and I think so too. You love one another in the

way of matrimony, do you not?

GERA. What else, man?

W. RASH. What else, man? Why, 'tis a question to be asked; for I can

assure you, there is another kind of love. But come, follow me; I must

be your good angel still: 'tis in this brain how to prevent my father

and his brace of beagles; you shall none of you be bid to-night: follow

but my direction, if I bring you not, _To have and to hold, for better

for worse_, let me be held an eunuch in wit, and one that was never

father to a good jest.

GERT. We'll be instructed by you.

W. RASH. Well, if you be, it will be your own another day.

Come, follow me.

[SPENDALL _meets them, and they look strangely upon him,

and go off_.

SPEND. How ruthless men are to adversity!

My acquaintance scarce will know me; when we meet,

They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone,

And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them.

A man must trust unto himself, I see;

For if he once but halt in his estate,

Friendship will prove but broken crutches to him.

Well, I will lean to none of them, but stand

Free of myself: and if I had a spirit

Daring to act what I am prompted to,

I might thrust out into the world again,

Full-blossom'd, with a sweet and golden spring.

It was an argument of love in her

To fetch me out of prison; and this night

She clasp'd my hand in hers, as who should say,

Thou art my purchase, and I hold thee thus.

The worst is but repulse, if I attempt it.

I am resolv'd: my genius whispers to me,

Go on, and win her; thou art young and active,

Which she is apt to catch at; for there's nought

That's more unsteadfast than a woman's thought. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SIR LIONEL, WILL RASH, SCATTERGOOD, BUBBLE, WIDOW, GERTRUDE,

JOYCE, PHILLIS, _and_ SERVANT.

SIR LIONEL. Here's ill-lodging, widow; but you must know,

If we had better, we'd afford it you.

WID. The lodging, sir, might serve better guests.

SIR LIONEL. Not better, widow, nor yet welcomer:

But we will leave you to it and the rest.

Phillis, pray let your mistress not want anything.

Once more, good night; I'll leave a kiss with you,

As earnest of a better gift to-morrow.

Sirrah, a light.

WID. Good rest to all.

BUB. _Et tu quoque_, forsooth.

SCAT. God give you good night, forsooth,

And send you an early resurrection.

WID. Good night to both.

SIR LIONEL. Come, come away, each bird unto his nest;

To-morrow night's a time of little rest.

[_Exeunt. Manent_ WIDOW _and_ PHILLIS.

WID. Here, untie: soft, let it alone;

I have no disposition to sleep yet:

Give me a book, and leave me for a while,

Some half-hour hence look in to me.

PHIL. I shall, forsooth. [_Exit_ PHILLIS.

_Enter_ SPENDALL.

WID. How now! what makes this bold intrusion?

SPEND. Pardon me, lady, I have business to you.

WID. Business! from whom? Is it of such importance,

That it craves present hearing?

SPEND. It does.

WID. Then speak it, and be brief.

SPEND. Nay, gentle widow, be more pliant to me:

My suit is soft and courteous; full of love.

WID. Of love?

SPEND. Of love.

WID. Why, sure, the man is mad! bethink thyself;

Thou hast forgot thy errand.

SPEND. I have indeed, fair lady; for my errand

Should first have been deliver'd on your lips.

WID. Why, thou impudent fellow, unthrift of shame,

As well as of thy purse. What has mov'd thee

To prosecute thy ruin? hath my bounty,

For which thy master was an orator,

Importun'd thee to pay me with abuse?

Sirrah, retire, or I will, to your shame,

With clamours raise the house, and make your master

For this attempt return you to the dungeon,

From whence you came.

SPEND. Nay, then I must be desperate:

Widow, hold your clapdish,[215] fasten your tongue

Unto your roof, and do not dare to call;

But give me audience with fear and silence.

Come, kiss me--No?

This dagger has a point, do you see it?

And be unto my suit obedient,

Or you shall feel it too:

For I will rather totter, hang in clean linen,

Than live to scrub it out in lousy linings.

Go to, kiss: you will! why, so: again, the third time;

Good; 'tis a sufficient charm: now hear me.

You are rich in money, lands, and lordships,

Manors and fair possessions, and I have not so much

As one poor copyhold to thrust my head in.

Why should you not then have compassion

Upon a reasonable handsome fellow,

That has both youth and liveliness upon him,

And can at midnight quicken and refresh

Pleasures decay'd in you? You want children;

And I am strong, lusty, and have a back

Like Hercules; able to get them

Without the help of muscadine and eggs,

And will you then, that have enough,

Take to your bed a bundle of diseases,

Wrapp'd up in threescore years, to lie a-hawking,

Spitting and coughing backwards and forwards,

That you shall not sleep; but, thrusting forth

Your face out of the bed, be glad to draw

The curtains, such a steam shall reek

Out of this dunghill? Now, what say you?

Shall we, without farther wrangling, clap it up,

And go to bed together?

WID. Will you hear me?

SPEND. Yes, with all my heart,

So the first word may be, untruss your points--

Zounds, one knocks; do not stir, I charge you,

[_Knock within._

Nor speak, but what I bid you:

For, by these lips which now in love I kiss,

If you but struggle or but raise your voice,

My arm shall rise with it, and strike you dead.

Go to, come on with me, and ask who's there!

WID. It is my maid.

SPEND. No matter; do as I bid you: say, who's there?

WID. Who's there?

PHIL. (_Within._) 'Tis I, forsooth.

SPEND. If it be you, forsooth, then pray you stay,

Till I shall call upon you.

WID. [_Repeats._] If it be you, forsooth, then pray you stay,

Till I shall call upon you.

SPEND. Very well: why, now I see

Thou'lt prove an obedient wife. Come, let's undress.

WID. Will you put up your naked weapon, sir?

SPEND. You shall pardon me, widow, I must have you grant first.

WID. You will not put it up?

SPEND. Not till I have some token of your love.

WID. If this may be a testimony, take it. [_Kisses him._

By all my hopes, I love thee: thou art worthy

Of the best widow living: thou tak'st the course:

And those that will win widows must do thus.

SPEND. Nay, I knew what I did when I came with my naked weapon in my

hand; but come, unlace.

WID. Nay, my dear love: know that I will not yield

My body unto lust, until the priest

Shall join us in Hymen's sacred nuptial rites.

SPEND. Then set your hand to this: nay, 'tis a contract

Strong and sufficient, and will hold in law.

Here, here's pen and ink; you see I come provided.

WID. Give me the pen.

SPEND. Why, here's some comfort.

Yet write your name fair, I pray, and at large.

Why, now 'tis very well. Now, widow,

You may admit your maid,

For i' th' next room I'll go fetch a nap.

WID. Thou shalt not leave me so: come, prythee, sit,

We'll talk awhile, for thou hast made my heart

Dance in my bosom, I receive such joy.

SPEND. Thou art a good wench, i' faith; come, kiss upon't.

WID. But will you be a loving husband to me?

Avoid all naughty company, and be true

To me and to my bed?

SPEND. As true to thee as steel to adamant.

[_Binds him to the post._

WID. I'll bind you to your word: see that you be,

Or I'll conceal my bags. I have kinsfolk,

To whom I'll make't over, you shall not have a penny.

SPEND. Pish, prythee, do not doubt me.

How now! what means this?

WID. It means my vengeance; nay, sir, you are fast,

Nor do not dare to struggle: I have liberty

Both of my tongue and feet; I'll call my maid.

_Enter_ PHILLIS.

Phillis, come in, and help to triumph

Over this bold intruder. Wonder not, wench,

But go unto him, and ransack all his pockets,

And take from thence a contract which he forc'd

From my unwilling fingers.

SPEND. Is this according to your oath?

PHIL. Come, sir, I must search you.

SPEND. I prythee, do.

And when thou tak'st that from me, take my life too.

WID. Hast thou it, girl?

PHIL. I have a paper here.

WID. It is the same: give it me. Look you, sir,

Thus your new-fancied hopes I tear asunder.

Poor wretched man! thou'st had a golden dream,

Which gilded over thy calamity;

But, being awake, thou find'st it ill-laid on,

For with one finger I have wip'd it off.

Go, fetch me hither the casket that contains

My choicest jewels, and spread them here before him.

Look you, sir;

Here's gold, pearls, rubies, sapphires, diamonds;

These would be goodly things for you to pawn,

Or revel with amongst your courtesans,

Whilst I and mine did starve. Why dost not curse,

And utter all the mischiefs of thy heart,

Which I know swells within thee? pour it out,

And let me hear thy fury.

SPEND. Never, never!

Whene'er my tongue shall speak but well of thee,

It proves no faithful servant to my heart.

WID. False traitor to thy master and to me,

Thou liest, there's no such thing within thee.

SPEND. May I be burn'd to ugliness, to that

Which you and all men hate, but I speak truth.

WID. May I be turn'd a monster, and the shame

Of all my sex, and if I not believe thee.

Take me unto thee: these and all that's mine.

Were it thrice trebled, thou wert worthy all.

And do not blame this trial, 'cause it shows

I give myself unto thee, am not forc'd,

And with it love, that ne'er shall be divorc'd.

SPEND. I am glad 'tis come to this; yet, by this light,

Thou putt'st me into a horrible fear.

But this is my excuse: know that my thoughts

Were not so desperate as my action seem'd;

For, 'fore my dagger should ha' drawn one drop

Of thy chaste blood, it should have sluic'd out mine,

And the cold point stuck deep into my heart.

Nor better be my fate, if I shall move

To any other pleasure but thy love.

WID. It shall be in my creed: but let's away.

For night with her black steeds draws up the day. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ WILL RASH, STAINES, GERALDINE, GERTRUDE, JOYCE, _and a boy with

a lanthorn_.

W. RASH. Softly, boy, softly; you think you are upon firm ground; but it

is dangerous. You'll never make a good thief, you rogue, till you learn

to creep upon all four. If I do not sweat with going this pace!

everything I see, methinks, should be my father in his white beard.

STAINES. It is the property of that passion; for fear

Still shapes all things we see to that we fear.

W. RASH. Well said, logic: sister, I pray, lay hold of him; for the man,

I see, is able to give the watch an answer if they should come upon him

with interrogatories.

_Enter_ SPENDALL, WIDOW, _and_ PHILLIS.

Zounds, we are discovered! boy, come up close, and use the property of

your lanthorn. What dumb show should this be?

GERA. They take their way directly, [and] intend nothing against us.

STAINES. Can you not discern who they are?

JOYCE. One is Spendall.

GERT. The other is the widow, as I take it.

STAINES. 'Tis true, and that's her maid before her.

W. RASH. What a night of conspiracy is here! more villany? there's

another goodly mutton going: my father is fleeced of all; grief will

give him a box, i' faith--but 'tis no great matter; I shall inherit the

sooner. Nay, soft, sir; you shall not pass so current with the matter,

I'll shake you a little. Who goes there?

SPEND. Out with the candle [_Aside._]: who's that asks the question?

W. RASH. One that has some reason for't.

SPEND. It should be, by the voice, young Rash. Why, we are honest folks.

W. RASH. Pray, where do you dwell? Not in town, I hope?

SPEND. Why, we dwell--zounds! where do we dwell? I know not where.

W. RASH. And you'll be married, you know not when--zounds, it were a

Christian deed to stop thee in thy journey: hast thou no more spirit in

thee, but to let thy tongue betray thee? Suppose I had been a constable,

you had been in a fine taking, had you not?

SPEND. But, my still worthy friend,

Is there no worse face of ill bent towards me

Than that thou merrily putt'st on?

W. RASH. Yes, here's four or five faces more, but ne'er an ill one,

though never an excellent good one. Boy, up with your lanthorn of light,

and show him his associates, all running away with the flesh, as thou

art. Go, yoke together, you may be oxen one day, and draw altogether in

a plough; go, march together, the parson stays for you; pay him royally.

Come, give me the lanthorns, for you have light sufficient, for night

has put off his black cap, and salutes the morn. Now farewell, my little

children of Cupid, that walk by two and two, as if you went a-feasting:

let me hear no more words, but be gone.

SPEND. _and_ STAINES. Farewell.

GERT. _and_ JOYCE. Farewell, brother.

[_Exeunt. Manet_ WILL RASH.

W. RASH. Ay, you may cry farewell; but if my father should know of my

villany, how should I fare then? But all's one, I ha' done my sisters

good, my friends good, and myself good; and a general good is always to

be respected before a particular. There's eightscore pounds a year saved

by the conveyance of this widow. I hear footsteps: now, darkness, take

me into thy arms, and deliver me from discovery. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SIR LIONEL.

SIR LIONEL. Lord, Lord, what a careless world is this! neither bride nor

bridegroom ready; time to go to church, and not a man unroosted: this

age has not seen a young gallant rise with a candle; we live drowned in

feather-beds, and dream of no other felicity. This was not the life when

I was a young man. What makes us so weak as we are now? A feather-bed.

What so unapt for exercise? A feather-bed. What breeds such pains and

aches in our bones? why, a feather-bed or a wench--or at least a wench

in a feather-bed. Is it not a shame that an old man as I am should be up

first, and in a wedding-day? I think, in my conscience, there's more

mettle in lads of threescore than in boys of one-and-twenty.

_Enter_ BASKETHILT.

Why, Baskethilt!

BAS. Here, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Shall I not be trussed to-day?

BAS. Yes, sir; but I went for water.

SIR LIONEL. Is Will Rash up yet?

BAS. I think not, sir; for I heard nobody stirring in the house.

SIR LIONEL. Knock, sirrah, at his chamber. [_Knock within._

The house might be pluck'd down and builded again

Before he'd wake with the noise. [WILL RASH _aloft_.

W. RASH. Who's that keeps such a knocking; are you mad?

SIR LIONEL. Rather thou art drunk, thou lazy slouch,

That mak'st thy bed thy grave, and in it buryest

All thy youth and vigour: up, for shame.

W. RASH. Why, 'tis not two a-clock yet.

SIR LIONEL. Out, sluggish knave; 'tis nearer unto five: The whole house

has outslept themselves, as if they had drunk wild poppy. Sirrah, go you

and raise the maids, and let them call upon their mistresses.

BAS. Well, sir, I shall. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SCATTERGOOD _and_ BUBBLE.

SCAT. Did I eat any lettuce to supper last night, that I am so sleepy? I

think it be daylight, brother Bubble.

BUB. What sayest thou, brother? heigh-ho!

SIR LIONEL. Fie, fie! not ready yet? what sluggishness

Hath seiz'd upon you? why, thine eyes are close still.

BUB. As fast as a Kentish oyster. Surely I was begotten in a plum-tree,

I ha' such a deal of gum about mine eyes.

SIR LIONEL. Lord, how you stand! I am asham'd to see

The sun should be a witness of your sloth.

[_Enter_ BASKETHILT.]

Now, sir, your haste?

BAS. Marry, sir, there are guests coming to accompany you to church.

SIR LIONEL. Why, this is excellent; men, whom it not concerns,

Are more respective than we, that are main actors.

BUB. Father Rash, be not so outrageous: we

will go in and buckle ourselves all in good time.

How now! what's this about my shins?

_Enter_ OLD GERALDINE _and_ LONGFIELD.

SCAT. Methought our shanks were not fellows: we have metamorphosed our

stockings for want of splendour.

BUB. Pray, what's that _splendour_?

SCAT. Why, 'tis the Latin word for a Christmas candle. [_Exeunt._

SIR LIONEL. O gentlemen, you love, you honour me. Welcome, welcome, good

Master Geraldine; you have taken pains to accompany an undeserving

friend.

_Enter_ PHILLIS.

OLD GERA. You put us to a needless labour, sir,

To run and wind about for circumstance;[216]

When the plain word, "I thank you," would have serv'd.

SIR LIONEL. How now, wench; are the females ready yet?

The time comes on upon us, and we run backward:

We are so untoward in our business,

We think not what we have to do, nor what we do.

PHIL. I know not, sir, whether they know what to do; but I am sure they

have been at church well-nigh an hour. They were afraid you had got the

start of them, which made them make such haste.

SIR LIONEL. Is't possible? what think you, gentlemen,

Are not these wenches forward? is there not virtue in a man

Can make young virgins leave their beds so soon?

But is the widow gone along with them?

PHIL. Yes, sir; why, she was the ringleader.

SIR LIONEL. I thought as much, for she knows what belongs to't.

Come, gentlemen; methinks 'tis sport to see

Young wenches run to church before their husbands.

_Enter_ WILL RASH.

Faith, we shall make them blush for this ere night.

Ah, sirrah, are you come? why, that's well-said:

I marl'd indeed that all things were so quiet,

Which made me think th' had not unwrapp'd their sheets;

_Enter Servant, with a cloak._

And then were they at church, I hold my life:

Maids think it long, till each be made a wife.

Hast thou my cloak, knave? well-said, put it on;

We'll after them: let me go, hasten both,

Both the bridegrooms forward; we'll walk a little

Softly on afore. But see, see, if they be not come

To fetch us now! We come, we come.

Bid them return, and save themselves this labour.

_Enter_ SPENDALL, STAINES, GERALDINE, WIDOW, GERTRUDE, _and_ JOYCE.

W. RASH. Now have I a quartan ague upon me.

SIR LIONEL. Why, how now! why come you from church to kneel thus

publicly? what's the matter?

GERA. We kneel, sir, for your blessing.

SIR LIONEL. How! my blessing? Master Geraldine, is not that your son?

OLD GERA. Yes, sir; and that, I take it, is your daughter.

SIR LIONEL. I suspect knavery. What are you? Why do you kneel

hand-in-hand with her?

STAINES. For a fatherly blessing too, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Heyday! 'tis palpable, I am gull'd, and my sons Scattergood

and Bubble fooled. You are married.

SPEND. Yes, sir, we are married.

SIR LIONEL. More villany! everything goes the wrong way.

SPEND. We shall go the right way anon, I hope.

SIR LIONEL. Yes, marry shall you; you shall e'en to the

Compter again, and that's the right way for you.

WID. O, you are wrong;

The prison that shall hold him are these arms.

SIR LIONEL. I do fear that I shall turn stinkard, I do smell such a

matter. You are married then?

_Enter_ SCATTERGOOD _and_ BUBBLE.

SPEND. _Ecce signum!_ here's the wedding-ring t' affirm it.

SIR LIONEL. I believe the knave has drunk ipocras,

He is so pleasant.

SCAT. Good-morrow, gentlemen.

BUB. _Tu quoque_ to all: what, shall we go to church?

Come, I long to be about this gear.

SIR LIONEL. Do you hear me; will you two go sleep again I take out the

t'other nap; for you are both made coxcombs, and so am I.

SCAT. How! coxcombs?

SIR LIONEL. Yes, coxcombs.

SCAT. Father, that word coxcomb goes against my stomach.

BUB. And against mine; a man might ha' digested a woodcock better.

SIR LIONEL. You two come now to go to church to be married;

And they two come from church, and are married.

BUB. How! married? I would see that man durst marry her.

GERA. Why, sir, what would you do?

BUB. Why, sir, I would forbid the banns.

SCAT. And so would I.

SIR LIONEL. Do you know that youth in satin? he's the pen that belongs

to that inkhorn.

BUB. How! let me see; are not you my man Gervase?

STAINES. Yes, sir.

_Enter a_ SERJEANT.

BUB. And have you married her?

STAINES. Yes, sir.

BUB. And do you think you have us'd me well?

STAINES. Yes, sir.

BUB. O intolerable rascal! I will presently be made a justice of peace,

and have thee whipped. Go, fetch a constable.

STAINES. Come, y' are a flourishing ass: serjeant, take him to thee, he

has had a long time of his pageantry.

SIR LIONEL. Sirrah, let him go; I'll be his bail for all debts which

come against him.

STAINES. Reverend sir, to whom I owe the duty of a son,

Which I shall ever pay in my obedience;

Know, that which made him gracious in your eyes,

And gilded over his imperfections,

Is wasted and consumed even like ice,

Which by the vehemence of heat dissolves,

And glides to many rivers: so his wealth,

That felt a prodigal hand, hot in expense,

Melted within his gripe, and from his coffers

Ran like a violent stream to other men's.

What was my own, I catch'd at.

SIR LIONEL. Have you your mortgage in?

STAINES. Yes, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Stand up: the matter is well amended.

Master Geraldine, give you sufferance to this match?

OLD GERA. Yes, marry do I, sir; for, since they love,

I'll not have the crime lie on my head,

To divide man and wife.

SIR LIONEL. Why, you say well: my blessing fall upon you.

WID. And upon us that love, Sir Lionel.

SIR LIONEL. By my troth, since thou hast ta'en the young knave,

God give thee joy of him, and may he prove

A wiser man than his master.

STAINES. Serjeant, why dost not carry him to prison?

SER. Sir Lionel Rash will bail him.

SIR LIONEL. I bail him, knave! wherefore should I bail him?

No, carry him away, I'll relieve no prodigals.

BUB. Good Sir Lionel, I beseech you, sir! gentlemen, I pray, make a

purse for me.