SCENE I.

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]

First published 1874-1876

Reissued 1964 by Benjamin Blom, Inc.

L.C. Catalog Card No.: 64-14702

_Printed in U.S.A. by_

NOBLE OFFSET PRINTERS, INC.

NEW YORK 3, N.Y.

THE OLD COUPLE

_EDITION._

_The Old Couple. A Comedy. By Thomas May, Esq.; London,

Printed by J. Cottrel, for Samuel Speed, at the signe of

the Printing-press in S. Paul's Churchyard. 1658. 4o._

[A MS. note in one of the former editions says: "This comedy is

pleasingly and fluently written, and though it contains little poetry,

is not without some eloquent and beautiful passages. The first scene is

the best in the play."]

INTRODUCTION

It seems probable that this comedy, as it is called, was never acted,

and on the title-page of the old edition (not printed until 1658, eight

years after the death of the author), it is not mentioned that it was

performed by any private or public company. This fact was usually

stated, though during the period when the theatres were silenced

exceptions were not very uncommon. It is pretty obvious, however, from

the general structure of the piece and the nature of the dialogue,

that "The Old Couple" was not calculated or intended by the author to

please the multitude. No inconsiderable part of the plot, and some of

the characters, may be considered allegorical, and for the sake of

preserving it, some constraint is used in a few of the incidents, and

forced and unnatural conversions take place among the persons.[1]

As to the period when it was written, judging from internal evidence,

it might be thought that May produced "The Old Couple" late in life,

and it was certainly the last printed of any of his works. It will

be observed that two lines in the last scene of this play close "The

Goblins" of Sir John Suckling.

"Gently my joys distil,

Lest you should break the vessel you should fill."

Sir J. Suckling does not introduce them as a quotation, but

nevertheless, from the situation in which they are found in his comedy,

it seems likely that they were so, and that they originally belong to

May. If this supposition be correct, "The Old Couple" must have been

written before 1641, in which year Suckling died, and the latter must

have seen it in MS.[2]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

MEN.

SIR ARGENT SCRAPE, _an old covetous rich knight_.

EARTHWORM, _an old miserly niggard_.

MASTER FREEMAN.

EUGENY, _Sir Argent Scrape's nephew_.

EUPHUES (_Freeman's nephew_) _Scudmore's friend_.

THEODORE, _Earthworm's virtuous son_.

SCUDMORE, _supposed to be slain by Eugeny_.

FRUITFUL, _the Lady Covet's chaplain_ (_Scudmore disguised_).

BARNET.

DOTTEREL, _a gull, married to the Lady Whimsey_.

TRUSTY, _the Lady Covet's steward_.

JASPER, _Earthworm's servant_.

_Three neighbours of Earthworm's._

_Officers._

WOMEN.

_The_ LADY COVET, _betrothed to Sir Argent Scrape_.

MATILDA (_Earthworm's niece_), _Scudmore's love_.

ARTEMIA (_Freeman's daughter_), _Eugeny's love_.

_The_ LADY WHIMSEY, _married to Dotterel_.

THE OLD COUPLE

ACT I.

EUGENY _solus._

EUG. This is the hour which fair Artemia

Promis'd to borrow from all company,

And bless me only with it; to deny

Her beauteous presence to all else, and shine

On me, poor me! Within this garden here,

This happy garden once, while I was happy,[3]

And wanted not a free access unto it;

Before my fatal and accursed crime

Had shut these gates of paradise against me;

When I, without control alone might spend

With sweet Artemia in these fragrant walks

The day's short-seeming hours; and (ravish'd) hear

Her sweet discourses of the lily's whiteness,

The blushing rose, blue-mantled violet,

Pale daffodil, and purple hyacinth:

With all the various sweets and painted glories

Of Nature's wardrobe, which were all eclips'd

By her diviner beauty. But alas!

What boots the former happiness I had,

But to increase my sorrow?[4] My sad crime

Has left me now no entrance but by stealth,

When death and danger dog my vent'rous steps.

But welcome danger, since thou find'st so fair

A recompense as my Artemia's sight!

_Enter_ ARTEMIA.

ART. And art thou come, my dearest Eugeny?

Has thy true love broke through so many hazards

To visit me? I prythee, chide my fondness,

That did command thee such a dangerous task.

I did repent it since, and was in hope

Thou wouldst not come.

EUG. Why hop'd Artemia so?

Wouldst thou not see me then? Or can the hazard

Of ten such lives as mine is countervail

One glance of favour from thy beauteous eyes?

ART. Why dost thou use that language to a heart,

Which is thy captive, Eugeny, and lives,

In nothing happy but in thee?

EUG. Ah, love!

There lies my greatest sorrow; that the storms

Of spiteful fortune, which o'erwhelm my state,

Should draw thy constant goodness to a suff'ring--

A goodness worthy of the happiest man.

ART. Those storms of fortune will be soon o'er-blown,

When once thy cause shall be but truly known,

That chance, not malice, wrought it; and thy pardon

Will be with ease obtain'd.

EUG. It may be, love,

If old Sir Argent do deal truly in it.

ART. But keep thyself conceal'd: do not rashly

Venture two lives in one: or, when thou com'st,

Let it be still in silence of the night.

No visitation then, or other strange

Unlook'd-for accident, can bar our joys.

The moon is now in her full orb, and lends

Securer light to lovers than the sun:

Then only come. But prythee, tell me, love,

How dost thou spend thy melancholy time?

EUG. Within the covert of yon shady wood,

Which clothes the mountain's rough and craggy top,

A little hovel built of boughs and reeds

Is my abode: from whence the spreading trees

Keep out the sun, and do bestow in lieu

A greater benefit, a safe concealment.

In that secure and solitary place

I give my pleas'd imagination leave

To feast itself with thy supposed presence,

Whose only shadow brings more joy to me,

Than all the substance of the world beside.

ART. Just so alone am I; nay, want the presence

Of mine own heart, which strays to find out thee.

But who comes to thee to supply thy wants?

EUG. There Artemia names my happiness--

A happiness which, next thy love, I hold

To be the greatest that the world can give,

And I am proud to name it. I do there

Enjoy a friend, whose sweet society

Makes that dark wood a palace of delight:

One stor'd with all that can commend a man;

In whom refined knowledge and pure art,

Mixing with true and sound morality,

Is crown'd with piety.

ART. What wonder's this,

Whom thou describ'st?

EUG. But I in vain, alas!

Do strive to make with my imperfect skill

A true dissection of his noble parts:

He loses, love, by all that I can say;

For praise can come no nearer to his worth

Than can a painter with his mimic sun

Express the beauty of Hyperion.

ART. What is his name?

EUG. His name is Theodore,

Rich Earthworm's son, lately come home from travel.

ART. O heavens! his son? Can such a caitiff wretch,

Hated and curs'd by all, have such a son?

The miser lives alone, abhorr'd by all,

Like a disease, yet cannot so be 'scap'd;

But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts,

That live about him: never has commerce

With any, but to ruin them; his house

Inhospitable as the wilderness,

And never look'd upon but with a curse.

He hoards, in secret places of the earth,

Not only bags of treasure, but his corn,

Whose every grain he prizes 'bove a life,

And never prays at all but for dear years.

EUG. For his son's sake, tread gently on his fame.

ART. O love! his fame cannot be redeemed

From obloquy; but thee I trust so far,

As highly to esteem his worthy son.

EUG. That man is all, and more than I have said:

His wondrous virtues will hereafter make

The people all forgive his father's ill:

I was acquainted with him long ago

In foreign parts. And, now I think on't, love,

He'll be the fittest man to be acquainted

With all our secrecies, and be a means

To further us; and think I trust his truth,

That dare so much commend his worth to thee.

ART. He is my neighbour here: that house is Earthworm's,

That stands alone beside yon grove of trees;

And fear not, dearest love, I'll find a means

To send for him: do you acquaint him first. [_Exeunt._

EUPHUES, DOTTEREL, BARNET.

EUPH. Then shall I tell my cousin that you are

A younger brother, Master Dotterel?

DOT. O yes, by any means, sir.

EUPH. What's your reason?

DOT. A crotchet, sir, a crotchet that I have:

Here's one can tell you I have twenty of 'em.

BAR. Euphues, dissuade him not; he is resolv'd

To keep his birth and fortunes both conceal'd;

Yet win her so, or no way. He would know

Whether himself be truly lov'd or no;

And not his fortunes only.

EUPH. Well, access

You have already found; pursue it, sir,

But give me leave to wonder at your way.

Another wooer, to obtain his love,

Would put on all his colours; stretch t' appear

At his full height, or a degree beyond it;

Belie his fortunes; borrow what he wanted;

Not make himself less than he truly is.

What reason is there that a man possess'd

Of fortunes large enough, that they may come boldly

A welcome suitor to herself and friends,

And, ten to one, speed in his suit the fair

And usual way, should play the fool, and lose

His precious time in such a hopeless wooing?

DOT. Alas, sir! what is a gentleman's time?

BAR. Euphues, he tells you true; there are some brains

Can never lose their time, whate'er they do:

Yet I can tell you, he has read some books.

DOT. Do not disparage me.

BAR. I warrant thee;

And in those books he says he finds examples

Of greatest beauties that have so been won.

EUPH. O, in "Parismus" and the "Knight o' th' Sun!"[5]

Are those your authors?

DOT. Yes, and those are good ones.

Why should a man of worth, though but a shepherd,

Despair to get the love of a king's daughter?

EUPH. I prythee, Barnet, how hast thou screw'd up

This fool to such a monstrous confidence?

BAR. He needs no screwing up; but let him have

His swing a little.

EUPH. He shall have it freely.

But you have seen your mistress, Master Dotterel?

How do you find her? coming?

DOT. That's all one;

I know what I know.

BAR. He has already got

Some footing in her favour.

EUPH. But I doubt

He'll play the tyrant; make her doat too long,

Wear the green-sickness as his livery,

And pine a year or two.

DOT. She's not the first

That has done so for me.

EUPH. But if you use

My cousin so, I shall not take it well.

DOT. O, I protest I have no such meaning, sir.

See, here she comes! the Lady Whimsey too.

_Enter_ LADY WHIMSEY, _with_ ARTEMIA.

LADY W. I thought, sweetheart, th' hadst wanted company.

ART. Why, so I did--yours, madam.

LADY W. Had I known

Your house had been so full of gallants now,

I would have spar'd my visit. But 'tis all one,

I have met a friend here.

EUPH. Your poor servant, madam.

LADY W. I was confessing of your cousin here

About th' affairs of love.

EUPH. Your ladyship, I hope, will shrieve her gently.[6]

LADY W. But I tell her

She shall not thank me now for seeing her;

For I have business hard by. I am going

A suitor to your old rich neighbour here--

Earthworm.

EUPH. A suitor! He is very hard

In granting anything, especially

If it be money.

LADY W. Yes, my suit's for money;

Nay, all his money, and himself to boot.

BAR. His money would do well without himself.

LADY W. And with himself.

BAR. Alas! your ladyship

Should too much wrong your beauty, to bestow it

Upon one that cannot use it, and debar

More able men their wishes.

EUPH. That's true, Barnet,

If she should bar all other men: but that

Would be too great a cruelty.

ART. Do you hear my cousin, madam?

LADY W. Yes, he will be heard:

Rather than fail, he'll give himself the hearing.

But, prythee, Euphues, tell me plainly now,

What thou dost think of me? I love thy freeness

Better than any flattery in the world.

EUPH. I think you wondrous wise.

LADY W. In what?

EUPH. In that

That makes or mars a woman--I mean love.

LADY W. Why, prythee?

EUPH. I think you understand so well

What the true use of man is, that you'll ne'er

Trouble your thoughts with care, or spoil your beauty

With the green-sickness, to obtain a thing

Which you can purchase a discreeter way.

ART. How do you like this, madam?

LADY W. Wondrous well;

'Tis that I look'd for. But what entertainment

Would old rich Earthworm give us, do you think?

BAR. Unless your presence, madam, could infuse

A nobler soul into him, 'tis much fear'd

'Twould be but mean.

LADY W. Because (you'll say) he's covetous?

Tut! I can work a change in any man.

If I were married to him, you should see

What I would make him.

EUPH. I believe we should,

If cuckold's horns were visible.

ART. But could

Your ladyship be pleas'd with such a husband?

LADY W. Who could not well be pleas'd with such a fortune?

ART. Wealth cannot make a man.

LADY W. But his wealth, lady,

Can make a woman.

EUPH. Yet, I doubt, old Earthworm

Would prove too subtle to be govern'd so.

You'll find him, madam, an old crabbed piece:

Some gentle fool were better for a husband.

ART. Fie, cousin, how thou talk'st!

LADY W. He's in the right:

Fools are the only husbands; one may rule 'em.

Why should not we desire to use men so,

As they would us? I have heard men protest

They would have their wives silly, and not studied

In anything, but how to dress themselves;

And not so much as able to write letters.

Just such a husband would I wish to have,

So qualifi'd, and not a jot beyond it;

He should not have the skill to write or read.

ART. What could you get by that?

LADY W. I should be sure

He could not read my letters; and for bonds,

When I should have occasion to use money,

His mark would serve.

ART. I am not of your mind:

I would not have a fool for all the world.

BAR. No, fairest lady, your perfections

None but the wisest and the best of men

Can truly find and value.

DOT. And I protest, lady,

I honour you for not loving a fool.

LADY W. You would love a wife, it seems, that loves not you?

EUPH. A tart jest, Barnet!

BAR. But he feels it not. [_Aside._

EUPH. Fie, Master Dotterel! 'tis not nobly done

In you to hate a fool: a generous spirit

Would take the weakest' part; and fools, you know,

Are weakest still.

DOT. Faith, Master Euphues,

I must confess I have a generous spirit,

And do a little sympathise with fools:

I learn'd that word from a good honest man.

But hark you, cousin Barnet, this same lady

Is a brave woman.

BAR. Are you taken with her?

DOT. I love a wit with all my heart.

BAR. 'Tis well;

He is already taken off, I see,

From fair Artemia, or may be soon;

Upon this t'other I may build a fortune. [_Aside._

EUPH. But, madam, if your ladyship would marry

Upon those terms, 'twere better that you took

Old Earthworm's son.

LADY W. Has he a son, I prythee?

EUPH. Yes, lately come from travel, as they say,

We have not seen him yet; he has kept close

Since his arrival; people give him out

To be his father's own.

LADY W. Nay, then I swear

I'll none of him. If he be covetous,

And young, I shall be troubled too long with him:

I had rather have the old one.

ART. Here's my father.

_Enter_ MASTER FREEMAN.

FREE. Health to this good society: I am sorry

That my poor house must not to-day enjoy

The happiness to entertain you all.

We are invited to th' old Lady Covet's;

And thither must our company remove.

LADY W. Sir, I'll be govern'd by you. I was bold

To come and see Mistress Artemia.

FREE. She's much beholden to your ladyship

For doing her that honour.

EUPH. Tell me, uncle:

I hear Sir Argent Scrape is at her house.

FREE. Nephew, 'tis true; and, which thou'lt wonder at,

That marriage, which we talk'd of as a jest,

In earnest now's concluded of, and shall

To-morrow morning be solemnised.

EUPH. Betwixt Sir Argent and the Lady Covet?

I do not think it strange; there's but one hedge

Has a long time divided them--I mean

Their large estates; and 'tis th' estate that marries.

FREE. But is't not strange, nay, most unnatural--

And I may say ridiculous, for those years

To marry, and abuse the ordinance?

My Lady Covet is, at least, fourscore,

And he, this year, is fourscore and fifteen:

Besides, he has been bed-rid long, and lame

Of both his feet.

EUPH. Uncle, he's not too old

To love--I mean her money; and in that

The chiefest end of marriage is fulfill'd:

He will increase and multiply his fortunes:

Increase, you know, is the true end of marriage!

FREE. They have already almost the whole country.

EUPH. But you shall see how now they'll propagate.

FREE. Is such a marriage lawful?

EUPH. Ah! good uncle,

Dispute not that, the church has nought in this;

Their lawyer is the priest that marries them,

The banns of matrimony are the indentures,

The bounds and landmarks are the ring that joins them.

ART. But there's no love at all.

EUPH. Yes, pretty cousin,

If thou art read in amorous books, thou'lt find

That Cupid's arrow has a golden head;

And 'twas a golden shaft that wounded them.

FREE. Well, thither we must go; but, prythee, nephew,

Forbear thy jesting there.

EUPH. I warrant you;

I'll flatter the old lady, and persuade her

How well she looks: but when they go to bed,

I'll write their epitaph.

FREE. How, man! their epitaph?

Their epithalamium thou mean'st.

EUPH. No, sirs;

Over their marriage-bed I'll write their ages,

And only say, Here lies Sir Argent Scrape,

Together with his wife, the Lady Covet.

And whosoever reads it will suppose

The place to be a tomb, no marriage-bed.

LADY W. How strangely thou art taken with this wedding,

Before thou see'st it!

EUPH. And then, let me see:

To fit them for an Hymeneal song,

Instead of those so high and spirited strains,

Which the old Grecian lovers us'd to sing

When lusty bridegrooms rifled maidenheads,

I'll sing a quiet dirge, and bid them sleep

In peaceful rest, and bid the clothes, instead

Of earth, lie gently on their aged bones----[7]

FREE. Thou'lt ne'er have done. Well, gallants, 'tis almost

The time that calls us: I must needs be gone.

LADY W. We'll wait upon you, sir.

FREE. Your servant, madam.

[_Exeunt_ LADY WHIMSEY, FREEMAN, DOTTEREL, _and_ BARNET.

ART. Stay, cousin, I have a request to thee.

EUPH. Thou canst not fear that I'll deny it thee.

Speak it: 'tis done.

ART. Why, then, in short, 'tis this--

Old Earthworm, cousin, has a son (they say)

Lately come home; his name, as I have heard,

Is Theodore.

EUPH. Yes, I have heard of him.

ART. I would entreat you, by some means or other,

To draw him hither; I'd fain speak with him:

Ask not the cause, but do what I request--

You may hereafter know.

EUP. Well, I'll not question't,

But bring him hither, though I know him not.

ART. Cousin, farewell; I shall be look'd for straight.

[_Exit_ ARTEMIA.

_Manet_ EUPHUES.

EUPH. Rich Earthworm's son! why, in the name of wonder,

Should it be her desire to speak with him?

She knows him not. Well, let it be a riddle;

I have not so much wit as to expound it;

Nor yet so little as to lose my thoughts

Or study to find out what the no reason

Of a young wench's will is. Should I guess--

I know not what to think; she may have heard

That he's a proper man, and so desire

To satisfy herself? What reason then

Can she allege to him? Tut, that's not it:

Her beauty and large dow'r need not to seek

Out any suitors; and the odious name

Of his old wretched father would quite choke it.

Or have some tattling gossips or the maids

Told her, perchance, that he's a conjuror?

He goes in black: they say he is a scholar:

Has been beyond sea, too; there it may lie:

And he must satisfy her longing thought,

What or how many husbands she shall have;

Of what degree; upon what night she shall

Dream of the man; when she shall fast,[8] and walk

In the churchyard, to see him passing by,

Just in those clothes that first he comes a suitor.

These things may be; but why should she make me

To be her instrument? Some of the men

Or maids might do't as well. Well, since you have

Us'd me, fair cousin, I will sound your drifts,

Or't shall go hard. The fellow may abuse her;

Therefore, I'll watch him too, and straight about it.

But now I think on't, I'll solicit him

By letter first, and meet him afterward. [_Exit._

FOOTNOTES:

[1] [It is difficult to allow that this piece is particularly

allegorical in any of its parts or characters. It has the air of a

drama which had lain by for some time, and been hastily finished, as

some of the incidents and characters are not developed with due regard

to dramatic propriety. The conversion of Earthworm, especially, is

unnaturally abrupt and violent.]

[2] "The Goblins" was publicly performed, whereas the "Old Couple" does

not seem to have been so. Suckling died early in 1641. I confess that

the evidence appears to me to lie strongly against May, who was a great

borrower--even from himself, the most allowable kind of plagiarism.

[3] Former editions--

"This happy garden, once while I was happy."

--_Pegge._

[4] Dante ("Inferno," c. v.) says--

"Nessun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Ne la miseria."

--_Collier._

[5] Two romances of the time, very well known, often reprinted, and

frequently mentioned in old authors.--_Collier._

[6] _i.e._, _Shrive_ her, hear her at confession. So in Shakespeare's

"King Richard III."--

"What, talking with a priest, Lord Chamberlain?

Your lordship hath no _shriving_-work in hand."

--_Steevens._

[7] These lines seem a parody on the following one in "Bonduca," by

Beaumont and Fletcher, act iv. sc. 3--

"_Lie lightly on my ashes, gentle earth._"

The time when Prior wrote his beautiful Ode to the Memory of Colonel

George Villiers, drowned in the river Piave, in Friuli, 1703, is so

near the period in which Mr Pope composed his elegy to the memory of an

unfortunate lady, that it is difficult to say which of these great men

borrowed from the other. It appears certain, however, that one of them,

in the following lines, was indebted to his friend, unless it can be

supposed that both of them were obliged to the above line of Beaumont

and Fletcher. Prior says--

"Lay the dead hero graceful in a grave

(The only honour he can now receive),

And fragrant mould upon his body throw.

And plant the warrior laurel o'er his brow;

_Light lie the earth_, and flourish green the bough."

Mr Pope writes thus--

"What though no sacred earth allow thee room,

Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;

Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,

And thy green turf _lie lightly on thy breast_."

I know not why we should suppose that Pope borrowed from Prior, or that

either of them was indebted to Beaumont and Fletcher on this occasion.

_Sit tibi terra levis!_ is a wish expressed in many of the ancient

Roman inscriptions. So in that on Pylades--

"Dicite qui legitis, _solito de more_, sepulto,

Pro meritis, Pylade, _sit tibi terra levis_!"

Again, in the sepulchral dialogue supposed to pass between Atimetus and

Homonoea--

"_Sit tibi terra levis_, mulier dignissima vita!"

Again, in Propertius, El. xvii. lib. 1--

"Et mihi _non ullo pondere terra_ foret."

Again, in Ovid--

"Et sit _humus cineri non onerosa_ tuo!"

Thus also Juvenal, Sat. vii.--

"Di majorum umbris _tenuem et sine pondere terram_,

Spirantesque crocos, et in urna perpetuum ver!"

Again, in Persius, Sat. i.--

"Non _levior cippus nunc imprimit ossa_?

... nunc non e manibus illis,

Nunc non e tumulo fortunataque favilla

Nascentur violæ?"

On the contrary, _Sit tibi terra gravis_ and _Urgeat ossa lapis_ were

usual maledictions, the ancients supposing that the soul remained

for some time after death with the body, and was partner in its

confinement. The latter of these wishes is ludicrously adopted by Dr

Evans, in his epitaph on Sir J. Vanbrugh--

"_Lie heavy on him, earth!_ for he

Laid many a heavy weight on thee."

It may be observed that such ideas, however poetical, have no great

degree of propriety when introduced into Christian elegies, as we have

no belief that the soul is in danger of being oppressed by a monument

or stifled in a grave.--_Steevens._

[8] These customs are still preserved by the inferior ranks of females

in different parts of the kingdom. Among others, they frequently fast

on St Agnes' Eve, and at the same time make use of several singular

rites and ceremonies; all which are described and ridiculed in Gay's

comedy of the "Wife of Bath." See also ["Popular Antiquities of Great

Britain," 1870, i. 20, _et alibi_.]

ACT II.

EARTHWORM, THEODORE.

EARTH. I do not more rejoice in all my stores,

My wealthy bags, fill'd garners, crowded chests,

And all the envi'd heaps that I have glean'd

With so long care and labour, than I do

In thy most frugal nature, Theodore,

Concurring just with mine. In thee, my son,

I see, methinks, a perpetuity

Of all the projects which my soul has hatch'd,

And their rich fruits: I see my happiness,

When I consider what great hoards of wealth,

With long care rak'd together, I have seen

Even in a moment scatter'd; when I view

The gaudy heirs of thriving aldermen

Fleeting like short-liv'd bubbles into air,

And all that fire expiring in one blaze,

That was so long a-kindling. But do thou,

Do thou, my son, go on, and grow in thrift;

It is a virtue that rewards itself.

'Tis matterless in goodness who excels;

He that hath coins hath all perfections else.

THEO. Sir, I am wholly yours, and never can

Degenerate from your frugality;

Or, if my nature did a little stray,

Your good example would direct it still,

Till it were grown in me habitual.

EARTH. 'Twill be a greater patrimony to thee

Than all my wealth: strive to be perfect in't;

Study the rules. One rule is general.

And that is, give away nothing, son;

For thrift is like a journey; every gift,

Though ne'er so small, is a step back again.

He that would rise to riches or renown

Must not regard, though he pull millions down.

THEO. That lesson, sir, is easy to be learn'd.

EARTH. Laugh at those fools that are ambitious

Of empty air, to be styl'd liberal!

That sell their substance for the breath of others,

And with the flattering thanks of idle drones

Are swelled, while their solid parts decay.

What clothes to wear?--the first occasion

Of wearing clothes will teach a wise man best.

THEO. True, sir; it teacheth us how vain a thing

It is for men to take a pride in that,

Which was at first the emblem of their shame.[9]

EARTH. Thou hitt'st it right: but canst thou be content

With my poor diet too?

THEO. O, wondrous well!

'Twas such a diet which that happy age,

That poets style the golden, first did use.

EARTH. And such a diet to our chests will bring

The golden age again.

THEO. Beside the gain

That flows upon us, health and liberty

Attend on these bare meals: if we all were bless'd

With such a temperance, what man would fawn,

Or to his belly sell his liberty?

There would be then no slaves, no sycophants

At great men's tables. If the base Sarmentus

Or that vile Galba[10] had been thus content,

They had not borne the scoffs of Cæsar's board.

He whose cheap thirst the springs and brooks can quench,

How many cares is he exempted from?

He's not indebted to the merchant's toil,

Nor fears that pirates' force or storms should rob him

Of rich Canaries or sweet Candian wines:

He smells nor seeks no feasts; but in his own

True strength contracted lives, and there enjoys

A greater freedom than the Parthian king.

EARTH. Thou mak'st me more in love with my bless'd life.

THEO. Besides, pure cheerful health ever attends it;

Which made the former ages live so long.

With riotous banquets sicknesses came in;

When death 'gan muster all his dismal band

Of pale diseases, such as poets feign

Keep sentinel before the gates of hell,

And bad them wait about the gluttons' tables,

Whom they, like venom'd pills in sweetest wines,

Deceiv'd, swallow down, and hasten on

What most they would eschew--untimely death.

But from our tables here no painful surfeits,

No fed diseases grow, to strangle nature

And suffocate the active brain; no fevers,

No apoplexies, palsies, or catarrhs

Are here, where nature, not entic'd at all

With such a dangerous bait as pleasant cates,

Takes in no more than she can govern well.

EARTH. But that which is the greatest comfort, son,

Is to observe with pleasure our rich hoards

Daily increase, and stuff the swelling bags.

Come, thou art mine, I see! Here, take these keys.

[_Gives_ THEODORE _the keys_.

These keys can show thee such amazing plenty,

Whose very sight would feed a famish'd country.

I durst not trust my servants.

THEO. Me you may,

Who equal with my life do prize your profit.

EARTH. Well, I'll go in: I feel myself half sleepy

After the drink I took. [_Exit._

THEO. 'Twill do you good, sir.

Work sweetly, gentle cordial! and restore

Those spirits again which pining avarice

Has 'reft him of. Ah me! how wondrous thin,

How lean and wan he looks! How much, alas!

Has he defrauded his poor genius

In raking wealth, while the pale, grisly sighs

Of famine dwell upon his aged cheeks.

O avarice! than thee a greater plague

Did ne'er infest the life of wretched man!

Heaven aid my work! That rare extraction

Which he has drunk, beside the nourishment,

Will cast him in a safe and gentle sleep,

While I have liberty to work my ends;

And with his body's cure a means I'll find

To cure his fame, and (which is more) his mind.

Jasper!

_Enter_ JASPER.

JAS. Sir!

THEO. Are those disguises ready,

Which I bespoke?

JAS. They are all fitted, sir.

THEO. Then at the hour, which I appointed thee,

Invite those people, Jasper; but be true

And secret to me.

JAS. As your own heart, sir.

THEO. Take this: I will reward thy service better,

As soon as these occasions are dispatch'd.

JAS. I thank you, sir. I have a letter for you,

Left here but now, from Master Euphues,

Old Master Freeman's nephew.

THEO. Give it me;

I will anon peruse it. But my haste

Permits not now: Eugeny waits my coming. [_Exit_ THEODORE.

JAS. I like this well; yet, if I should prove false

To my old master for my young master's sake,

Who can accuse me? For the reason's plain

And very palpable; I feel it here.

This will buy ale; so will not all the hoards,

Which my old master has: his money serves

For nothing but to look upon; but this

Knows what the common use of money is.

Well, for my own part, I'm resolv'd to do

Whatever he commands me; he's too honest

To wrong his father in it: if he should,

The worst would be his own another day. [_Exit._

EUGENY _solus_.

EUG. Just thus, in woods and solitary caves,

The ancient hermits liv'd; but they liv'd happy!

And in their quiet contemplations found

More real comforts than society

Of men could yield, than cities could afford,

Or all the lustres of a court could give.

But I have no such sweet preservatives

Against the sadness of this desert place.

I am myself a greater wilderness

Than are these woods, where horror and dismay

Make their abodes; while different passions

By turn do reign in my distracted soul.

Fortune makes this conclusion general--

All things shall help th' unfortunate man to fall.

First sorrow comes, and tells me I have done

A crime whose foulness must deserve a sea

Of penitent tears to wash me clean again.

Then sear[11] steps in, and tells me, if surpris'd,

My wretched life is forfeit to the law.

When these have done, enters the tyrant love,

And sets before me fair Artemia;

Displays her virtues and perfections;

Tells me that all those graces, all those beauties,

Suffer for me, for my unhappiness,

And wounds me more in her than in myself.

Ah, Theodore! would I could ever sleep

But when thou com'st, for in myself I find

No drop of comfort? Welcome, dearest friend!

_Enter_ THEODORE.

THEO. Pardon the slowness of my visit, friend;

For such occasions have detain'd me hence,

As, if thou knew'st, I know thou wouldst excuse.

EUG. I must confess, I thought the hours too long;

But the fruition of thy presence now

Makes me forget it all.

THEO. Collect thyself,

Thou droop'st too much, my dearest Eugeny,

And art too harsh and sour a censurer

Of that unhappy crime which thou wert forc'd

Lately to act. I did allow in thee

That lawful sorrow that was fit; but let

Well-grounded comforts cure thee: nought extreme

Is safe in man.

EUG. 'Tis time must work that cure.

THEO. But why thy pardon is not yet obtain'd,

Let me be free in my conjectures to thee.

EUG. Speak, friend, as to thyself.

THEO. Sir Argent Scrape,

Your old rich kinsman, who to-morrow morning

Is to be married to the Lady Covet----

EUG. Is that match come about? O avarice!

What monsters thou begett'st in this vile age!

THEO. Sir Argent Scrape, I say, is next heir male,

On whom thy whole estate was long ago

Entail'd.

EUG. 'Tis true.

THEO. He must inherit it,

Should thy life fail.

EUG. 'Tis granted.

THEO. Then, friend, hear

What not a bare conjecture, but strong grounds

Move me to utter. Think upon that word

Thou spok'st so lately: think what avarice

Can make her bondmen do--that such a price

As fifteen hundred pounds a year will make

Him labour, not thy pardon, but thy death.

EUG. Can there be such a miscreant in nature?

THEO. I should not think so, if I weigh'd him only,

As he's thy kinsman. I have been inform'd

He labours underhand to apprehend thee

Just at the assizes now, and has laid plots

To stop all pardons, which in that short time

Might be procur'd: and then what bribes may do

In hastening execution, do but consider.

If this be false, some courtiers have abus'd

His fame: and pardon me, my dearest friend,

If I suspect the worst for fear of thee.

EUG. When I consider what accurs'd effects

Proceed from wretched avarice, I begin

To feel a fear.

THEO. This very age hath given

Horrid examples lately: brothers have been

Betray'd by brothers in that very kind.

When pardons have been got by the next heirs,

They have arriv'd too late. No tie so near,

No band so sacred, but the cursed hunger

Of gold has broke it, and made wretched men

To fly from nature, mock religion,

And trample under feet the holiest laws.

EUG. He has been ever noted for that vice

Which, with his age, has still grown stronger in him.

THEO. Ah, Eugeny! how happy were that last

Age of a man, when long experience

Has taught him knowledge, taught him temperance,

And freed him from so many loose desires

In which rash youth is plung'd, were not this vice--

But hark, hark, friend! what ravishing sound is that?

EUG. Ha! wondrous sweet! 'tis from th' adjoining thicket.

_Song._

_This is not the Elysian grove;_

_Nor can I meet my slaughter'd love_

_Within these shades. Come, Death, and be_

_At last as merciful to me,_

_As in my dearest Scudmore's fall,_

_Thou show'dst thyself tyrannical._

_Then did I die when he was slain;_

_But kill me now, I live again,_

_And shall go meet him in a grove_

_Fairer than any here above._

_O, let this woful breath expire!_

_Why should I wish Evadne's fire,_

_Sad Portia's coals, or Lucrece' knife,_

_To rid me of a loathed life?_

_'Tis shame enough that grief alone_

_Kills me not now, when thou art gone!_

_But, life, since thou art slow to go,_

_I'll punish thee for lasting so;_

_And make thee piecemeal every day_

_Dissolve to tears, and melt away._

THEO. Ah, Eugeny! some heavenly nymph descends

To make thee music in these desert woods,

To quench or feed thy baleful melancholy:

It is so sweet, I could almost believe,

But that 'tis sad, it were an angel's voice.

EUG. What, in the name of miracle, is this?

THEO. Remove not thou; I'll make discovery

Within this thicket.

EUG. Ha! what means thy wonder?

What dost thou see?

THEO. I know not how to tell thee:

Now I could wish myself to be all eyes,

As erst all ears. I see a shape as fair,

And as divine, as was the voice it sent;

But clouded all with sorrow: a fair woman,

If by a name so mortal I may term her.

In such a sorrow sat the Queen of Love,

When in the wood she wail'd Adonis' death,

And from her crystal-dropping eyes did pay

A lover's obsequy.

EUG. Let me come near.

THEO. Sure, black is Cupid's colour; Death and he

Have chang'd their liveries now, as in the fable

They did their quivers once.[12]

EUG. Ah, woe is me!

THEO. What means that woe?

EUG. Ah, Theodore! my guilt

Pursues me to the woods! No place can keep

The monuments of my misdeeds away.

THEO. I understand you not.

EUG. It is Matilda,

The slaughter'd Scudmore's love, his virtuous love,

Whose life by me unhappily was spilt.

The sad, melodious ditty, which so late

Did pierce our ravish'd ears, was but the note

Of this fair turtle for her slaughter'd mate;

In which perchance, amidst her woes, she sends

Black curses up against my spotted self.

But I with prayers and blessings will repay

Whate'er thou vent'st 'gainst me. O, do not wish

More wretchedness to my distracted soul

Than I already feel! Sad sighs and tears

Are all the satisfaction that is left

For me to make to thy dead love and thee.

THEO. Those lips can vent no curses; 'twould take off

Much from the sweetness of her virtuous sorrow.

Where lives this lovely maid?

EUG. In the next village.

THEO. Has she a father living?

EUG. No, friend; he died

When she was in her infancy. Her mother

Two years ago deceas'd, and left her all

The substance that she had; which was not great,

But does maintain her. In that little house,

E'er since this fatal accident, she lives

A miracle of truth and constancy,

Wailing her love; and now, it seems, has[13] come

To vent her woful passions to the woods.

THEO. How happy had he been in such a love,

If fate had spar'd his life! But he is dead,

And time at last may wear this sorrow off,

And make her relish the true joys of love.

But why do I thus wander in my thoughts?

This passion must be curb'd in the beginning;

'Twill prove too stubborn for me, if it grow. [_Aside._

EUG. Come, let us to my cave, as we intended,

Ere this sad object stay'd us.

THEO. Sad indeed!

Believe me, friend, I suffer with thee in it;

But we were wounded in two different kinds. [_Aside._

Come, let's be gone; though--I could still--dwell here. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ MATILDA.

MAT. Methought I heard a noise within the wood;

As if men talk'd together not far off;

But could discover none. The time has been,[14]

In such a solitary place as this,

I should have trembled at each moving leaf;

But sorrow and my miserable state

Have made me bold. If there be savages

That live by rapine in such woods as these,

As I have heard in ancient times there were,

My wretched state would move their pity rather

Than violence. I'll confidently go,

Guarded with nothing but my innocence. [_Exit._

_Enter_ FRUITFUL, TRUSTY.

FRUIT. Come, master steward, you have had a time

Of sweating for this wedding.

TRUSTY. I have ta'en

A little pains to-day: yours, Master Fruitful,

Is yet to come; I mean your sermon.

FRUIT. Yes, but the pains are pass'd; and that's the study.

But to our business that more concerns us:

Is the deed ready-written that my lady

Must seal to-day?

TRUSTY. Do you believe she'll seal it?

FRUIT. I warrant you; I have so followed her,

And laid it to her conscience, that I dare

Hazard my life 'tis done.

TRUSTY. Well, here's the deed: 'tis plainly written.

FRUIT. I'll peruse't anon.

I know the other feoffees are as true

And honest men as any are i' th' world. [_Exit_ TRUSTY.

FREE. Save you, Master Fruitful!

FRUIT. Worthy Master Freeman!

FREE. How does my lady, sir? I have made bold

To bring her company.

FRUIT. Please you draw near, sir;

I will go up and signify unto my lady

That you are here. [_Exit_ FRUITFUL.

BAR. What's he? her chaplain, Euphues?

EUPH. O yes.

LADY W. She uses praying then, it seems?

EUPH. Yes, madam, and fasting too, but gives no alms.

LADY W. Cannot he teach her that?

EUPH. 'Tis to be doubted:

But he has other ways, which are far safer--

To speak against the fashion, against painting,

Or fornication. If he were your chaplain,

He would inveigh as much 'gainst covetousness.

LADY W. He would hurt me little in that.

But has he learning?

EUPH. No, surely, madam; he is full of knowledge,

But has no learning at all: he can expound,

But understands nothing. One thing in him

Is excellent: though he do hate the bishops,

He would not make them guilty of one sin,

Which was to give him orders; for he hates

Orders as much as them.

FREE. Well, I have heard,

Though he came lately to her, he has got

A great hand over her, and sways her conscience

Which way he list.

EUPH. Uncle, 'tis very easy

To rule a thing so weak as is her conscience.

I'll undertake, that a twin'd thread would do it

As well as a strong cable. If he could

Rule her estate too, he would have a place on't.

FREE. Why, that will follow t'other.

EUPH. I think not;

Rather her conscience follows her estate,

Oppression had not else increas'd it so.

She wrong'd a worthy friend of mine--young Scudmore,

And by mere fraud and bribery took away

His whole estate, five hundred pound a year.

FREE. I must confess, 'twas a foul cause indeed;

And he, poor man, lack'd means to prosecute

The cause against her. But he feels it not

At this time, nephew.

BAR. Was't that Scudmore, sir,

Whom Eugeny, Sir Argent Scrape's young kinsman,

Unfortunately kill'd?

FREE. The same. Well, let

All these things pass: we come now to be merry.

LADY W. Let's eat up her good cheer: a niggard's feast

Is best, they say.

DOT. Shall we have wine good store?

BAR. O, fear not that.

DOT. Hold, belly, hold, i' faith!

BAR. Yes, and brain too.

DOT. Nay, for my brain,

Let me alone, I fear not that: no wine

Can hurt my brain.

LADY W. Say you so, Master Dotterel?

Why, such a brain I love.

DOT. Madam, I am glad

I had it for you.

LADY W. For me, sir?

DOT. Yes, lady,

'Tis at your service; so is the whole body.

Did I not tickle her there, old lad?

BAR. Yes, rarely.

LADY W. Shall I presume to call you servant, then?

DOT. O Lord, madam! if I were worthy to be.

LADY W. Nay, I know you have good courtship, servant.

Wear this for my sake. [_Gives him a scarf._

DOT. 'Tis your livery, madam.

BAR. Well, th' art a happy man, if thou knew'st all.

EUPH. Madam, I see your ladyship can tell

How to make choice in dealing of your favours.

DOT. It pleases you to say so, good Master Euphues.

EUPH. Why, sir, I speak of the lady's judgment.

DOT. 'Twas more of her courtesy than my desert.

_Enter_ LADY COVET _on crutches_.

EUPH. Here comes the lady bride.

FREE. Joy to your ladyship!

LADY C. I thank you, sir: y' are very welcome all.

FREE. I have made bold to bring my friends along,

As you commanded, lady.

LADY C. They are most welcome.

EUPH. Methinks your ladyship looks fresh to-day,

And like a bride indeed.

LADY C. Ah, Master Euphues!

You, I perceive, can flatter.

EUPH. Does your glass

Tell you I flatter, madam?

LADY C. Bestow this

Upon young maids; but let me tell you, sir,

Old folks may marry too. It was ordain'd

At first to be as well a stay to age

As to please youth. We have our comforts too,

Though we be old.

EUPH. Madam, I doubt it not:

You are not yet so old but you may have

Your comfort well; and if Sir Argent Scrape

Were but one threescore years younger than he is----

BAR. What a strange _but_ thou mak'st!

EUPH. You would perceive it.

LADY W. Servant, could you find in your heart to marry

Such an old bride?

DOT. No, mistress, I protest

I had rather have none.

LADY W. What age would you desire

To choose your wife of?

DOT. Just as old as you are.

LADY W. Well, servant, I believe you can dissemble.

LADY C. Will't please you to draw near? Sir Argent stays

Expecting within.

FREE. We'll wait upon you. [_Exeunt._

_Manent_ BARNET, DOTTEREL.

BAR. To what strange fortune, friend, are some men born,

I mean by thee. Surely, when thou wert young,

The fairies dandled thee.

DOT. Why, prythee, Barnet?

BAR. That ladies thus should doat upon thy person.

Dost thou not see how soon the Lady Whimsey

Is caught in love with thee?

DOT. But is she, think'st thou?

BAR. Is she! Come, thou perceiv'st it well enough;

What else should make her court thee, and bestow

Her favours openly? And such a lady!

So full of wit as she is, too! Would she

Betray the secrets of her heart so far,

But that love plays the tyrant in her breast,

And forces her?

DOT. True, and, as thou say'st, Barnet,

She's a brave, witty lady; and I love

A wit with all my heart. What would she say

If she should know me truly, that thus loves,

And thinks I am but a poor younger brother?

BAR. Why, still the greater is thy happiness:

Thou may'st be sure she loves thee truly now,

And not thy fortunes.

DOT. Has she found me out,

For all I sought to hide myself?

BAR. The more

Thy worth appears, the more her judgment's seen.

O, 'tis a gallant lady! Well, she might

Have cast her eye on me or Euphues;

But 'twas not our good fortune!

DOT. Do not despair;

Some other woman may love thee as well:

Come, thou hast worth, Barnet, as well as I.

BAR. Nay, nay, abuse not your poor friends; but tell me,

What dost thou think of young Artemia now?

DOT. Of her! a foolish girl, a simple thing!

She'd make a pretty wife for me! I confess

I courted her; but she had not the wit

To find out what I was, for all my talk.

BAR. And that was strange she should not; but 'tis fate

That governs marriages.

DOT. Let her repent,

And know what she hath lost, when 'tis too late.

But dost thou think this gallant Lady Whimsey

Will marry me?

BAR. Mak'st thou a doubt of that?

'Tis thy own fault, boy, if thou hast her not.

DOT. That I protest it shall not be; but, tell me,

Shall I express my love to her in verse

Or prose?

BAR. In which you will.

DOT. I am alike at both of them indeed.

BAR. I know thou art.

DOT. Come, let's go in.

BAR. Thou long'st to see thy mistress?

DOT. We'll drink her health in a crown'd cup,[15] my lad.

[_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Richard Braithwaite printed precisely the same thought in 1621, in

his "Times Curtaine Drawne"--

"For who (remembering the cause why clothes were made,

Even then when Adam fled unto his shade,

For covert nakedness) will not blame

Himself to glory in his parents' shame?"

The coincidence is remarkable.--_Collier._

[10]

"Quæ nec _Sarmentus_ iniquas

Cæsaris ad mensas, nec vilis _Galba_ tulisset."

--Juv., Sat. v. 3.

[11] [Conscience.]

[12] Mr Gifford, in a note on Massinger's "Virgin Martyr," points

out an elegy by Secundus as the origin of this pretty fancy, which

is thus employed by Fairfax in his translation of Tasso's "Jerusalem

Delivered"--

"Death hath again exchanged his darts with Love,

And Cupid thus lets borrow'd arrows fly."

The allusion is not to be found in the original Italian (bk. ii. s.

34). Davenant, in bk. ii. c. 7, of his "Gondibert," also mentions the

fable, and it would be easy among foreign writers to point out many

instances in which more extensive use has been made of it. The sonnets

by Annibale Nozzolini and by Girolamo Pompei are well known.--_Collier._

[13] [Old copy, _was_.]

[14] So in "Macbeth," act v. sc. 5--

"I have almost forgot the taste of fears:

_The time has been_, my senses would have cool'd

To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair

Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir

As life were in't. I have supt full with horrors!

Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts,

Cannot once start me."

[And see note to the "Heir," xi. 449.]

ACT III.

[EARTHWORM'S _house_.]

THEODORE, NEIGHBOURS with sacks.

THEO. Come, neighbours, pray draw near; my fellow Jasper

Has told you wherefore you were sent for hither.

1ST NEIGH. Ay, I thank you, friend.

2D NEIGH. And my good master too.

THEO. My master, touch'd with sorrow and remorse

For that unhappy error of his life--

That fault (alas!) which by too true a name

Is termed misery, determines now

By deeds of tender charity to make

The wronged poor amends, and to the world

Declare the fruits of a reformed life.

And first your pardon, neighbours, he would beg,

And, next to heaven, be reconcil'd to you.

1ST NEIGH. Now blessing on his heart!

2D NEIGH. Good tender soul!

3D NEIGH. I ever thought him a right honest man.

THEO. He that before did churlishly engross

And lock those blessings up, which from the hand

Of heaven were shower'd upon him, has at last

Found their true use, and will henceforth redeem

The former misspent time. His wealthy stores

Shall be no longer shut against the poor;

His bags seal'd up no longer, to debar

The course of fitting bounty. To you all,

Of corn and money, weekly he'll allow

In recompense a greater quantity

By far than men of greater rank shall do:

Nor will he come himself to take your thanks,

Till, as he says, he has deserv'd them better.

Meantime, by me he pours his bounty forth,

Which he desires with greatest secrecy

May be perform'd; for all vainglorious shows

And ostentation does his soul abhor.

He sounds no trumpet to bestow his alms;

Nor in the streets proclaims his charity,

Which makes the virtue vice; nor would he have

The world take notice of you at his doors.

1ST NEIGH. See, see, religious man!

2D NEIGH. Ah, neighbour!

Some in the world have been mistaken in him.

THEO. Nor would he have you blaze his bounty forth,

And praise him openly: forbear it, neighbours;

Your private prayers only he desires

And hearty wishes; for true charity,

Though ne'er so secret, finds a just reward.

I am his servant, newly entertain'd,

But one to whom he does commit the trust

Of his desires in this; and I should wrong

His goodness strangely, if I should keep

The least of what his bounty doth intend.

Come in with me; I'll fill your sacks with corn,

And let you see what money he bestows.

OMNES NEIGH. We'll pray to heaven to reward his goodness.

[_Exeunt._

EUPHUES, BARNET.

EUPH. Our Dotterel, then, is caught?

BAR. He is, and just

As Dotterels[16] used to be: the lady first

Advanc'd toward him, stretch'd forth her wing, and he

Met her with all expressions; and he's caught

As fast in her lime-twigs as he can be,

Until the church confirm it.

EUPH. There will be

Another brave estate for her to spend.

BAR. Others will be the better for't; and if

None but a Dotterel suffer for't, what loss

Of his can countervail the least good fortune

That may from thence blow to another man?

EUPH. She spent her t'other husband a great fortune.

BAR. Dotterel's estate will find her work again

For a great while: two thousand pounds a year

Cannot be melted suddenly; when 'tis,

Men can but say her prodigality

Has done an act of justice, and translated

That wealth, which fortune's blindness had misplac'd

On such a fellow. What should he do with it?

EUPH. And thou say'st right: some men[17] were made to be

The conduit-pipes of an estate, or rather

The sieves of fortune, through whose leaking holes

She means to scatter a large flood of wealth,

Besprinkling many with refreshing showers.

So usurers, so dying aldermen

Pour out at once upon their sieve-like heirs

Whole gusts of envi'd wealth; which they together

Through many holes let out again in showers,

And with their ruin water a whole country.

But will it surely be a match?

BAR. As sure

As the two old death's-heads to-morrow morning

Are to be join'd together.

EUPH. Who, Sir Argent and his lady?

BAR. Yes, if she keep touch

In what she promis'd me, I'll undertake

Her Dotterel shall be sure, and given to her

In matrimony.

EUPH. Given to his wife?

I see thou mean'st in Dotterel to bring back

The ancient Spanish custom, where the women

Inherited the land, rul'd the estates;

The men were given in marriage to the women

With portions, and had jointures made to them:

Just so will be his case; he will be married

Unto a brave subjection. How the fool

Is caught in his own noose! What confidence

Had he, that he would never marry any,

But such, forsooth, as must first fall in love

With him, not knowing of his wealth at all?

BAR. Well, now he's fitted: he begun at first

With fair Artemia.

EUPH. He might have told

Her of his wealth, and miss'd her too, or else

I am deceiv'd in her: true virtuous love

Cannot be bought so basely; she besides

Has been in love, I'm sure; and may be still,

Though he be fled the land. But, now I think on't,

I must go see whether old Earthworm's son

Has yet perform'd what she desir'd: she stays

At home.

BAR. I'll in, and see how Dotterel

Courts his brave mistress: I left him composing

A sonnet to her. There are the old couple

Within too.

EUPH. If a man could get to hear

Their way of courting, 'twould be full as strange

As Dotterel's is ridiculous: but stay,

SIR ARGENT SCRAPE _and_ LADY COVET

_brought in in chairs_.

Here come the lovely bride and bridegroom forth.

Prythee, let's venture to stay here a little

Behind the hangings, man: we shall be sure

To hear their love; they are both somewhat deaf,

And must speak loud.

BAR. Content, I'll stay with thee.

SIR ARG. Leave us awhile. Now, madam, you have seen,

So have your learned counsel, that I deal

Squarely with you: my personal estate

Is no less worth than I profess'd, when first

I mov'd my loving suit.

BAR. Ay, marry, sir, a loving suit indeed!

[_Aside._

EUPH. Let 'em go on in their own proper dialect.

[_Aside._

LADY C. I find it;

And should be loth but to requite your truth

In the same kind: you seem'd at first to question,

How strong my title was in that estate

Which was young Scudmore's once: 'tis a fair manor.

EUPH. 'Tis true, old rottenness--too good for you.

[_Aside._

LADY C. My counsel can inform you that I kept it,

And did enjoy possession while he liv'd;

And now he's dead, who should recover it?

The heirs are poor and beggarly.

SIR ARG. Nay, I think

We need not fear their suing against us.

LADY C. If they should stir, a little piece of money

Would stop their mouths.

EUPH. A little piece of dirt

Will stop your mouth ere long, and then the suit

Will go against thee, mischief!

[_Aside._

BAR. Prythee, peace;

Thou art not merry now, but choleric. [_Aside._

EUPH. I think of my wrong'd friend. [_Aside._

LADY C. But you were saying

You made no doubt but shortly to enjoy

Your kinsman Eugeny's estate: that were

A fair addition to your land; they say

It goes at fifteen hundred pounds a year.

SIR ARG. 'Tis true, and 'tis well worth it.

LADY C. But what hopes have you to gain it shortly?

SIR ARG. He, you know,

By Scudmore's death has forfeited his life

Unto the law; and the estate's entail'd

On me as the next heir.

LADY C. But he is fled.

SIR ARG. No, no; I know he lurks not far from hence,

And I shall shortly learn the very place

By some intelligence. I have provided

My secret scouts; and then you know th' assizes

Are now at hand: the time will be too short

To get a pardon, specially as I

Have laid some friends to stall it underhand.

EUPH. Here's a new mischief, Barnet! [_Aside._

BAR. And a strange one. [_Aside._

LADY C. And then you must not spare a little money

To hasten execution at an hour

Unusual. Those things may well be done:

Else what were money good for?

SIR ARG. You say right.

If 'twere once come to that, I fear it not.

LADY C. Well, sir, I see all's right and straight between us.

You understand how welcome you are hither;

I need not tell it o'er again.

SIR ARG. No, lady;

I will be bold to say, I do not come

Now as a stranger, but to take possession

Both of your house and you.

EUPH. He cannot speak

Out of that thriving language in his love. [_Aside._

LADY C. Will you go in again? our guests, perhaps,

Think the time long.

SIR ARG. With all my heart:

A cup of sack would not do much amiss.

LADY C. We'll have it with a toast. Who's near there, ho!

_Enter_ SERVANTS, _and carry them out_.

BAR. What a strange kind of pageant have we seen?

EUPH. Barnet, I cannot tell whether such strange

Unsatiable desires in these old folks,

That are half earth already, should be thought

More impious or more ridiculous.

BAR. They are both alike.

EUPH. But such a monstrous

Unnatural plot as his, to apprehend

His kinsman, I ne'er heard of! If I knew

Where Eugeny remain'd, though 'twere his fortune

To kill a friend of mine, I'd rescue him

From this unnatural and wolfish man.

BAR. That would betray his life to satisfy

His avarice, not justice of the law.

_Enter_ DOTTEREL, LADY WHIMSEY.

Here comes another piece of matrimony,

That may be shortly.

EUPH. 'Tis better far than t'other:

They are the last couple in hell.

DOT. Save you, gallants!

BAR. You are the gallant, sir, that on your arm

Do wear the trophies of a conquer'd lady.

EUPH. Madam, I had almost mistaken my salutation,

And bid God give you joy.

LADY W. Of what, I prythee?

EUPH. Of this young gallant, call him by what name

Or title you are pleas'd, husband or servant.

BAR. He may be both, sir: he is not the first

Has been a husband and a servant too.

DOT. I am her servant, sir: and I confess

Have an ambition, and so forth.

LADY W. How now, servant!

EUPH. I tell you truly, madam, 'tis reported

(And those reports are fatal still, you know)

That Master Dotterel and you are purpos'd

To bear the old knight and lady company

To-morrow to the church.

LADY W. That I confess, and so will you, I think.

EUPH. Nay, but to do

As they do, madam--tie the lasting knot.

LADY W. Do you hear, servant? This it is to have

So proper a servant: every one supposes

I must needs be in love.

DOT. I would you were

As deep in Cupid's books as I.

EUPH. That is

In Cupid's favour: you are a happy man.

LADY W. My servant has been searching Cupid's books,

I think, to find that sonnet that he gave me.

Are you content that I should show your poetry?

DOT. Do, mistress, I am not asham'd on't;

But you shall give me leave to read it to 'em.

'Tis but a sonnet, gentlemen, that I fitted

To my fair mistress here.

EUPH. Let us be happy

To hear it, sir.

DOT. Take it as it is-- [_He reads._

_Dear, do not your fair beauty wrong;_

_In thinking still you are too young._

EUPH. How! too young?

BAR. Let him alone; I know the song.

DOT. _The rose and lilies in your cheek_

_Flourish, and no more ripeness seek;_

_Your cherry lip, red, soft and sweet,_

_Proclaims such fruit for taste most meet:_

_Then lose no time, for love has wings,_

_And flies away from aged things._

How do you like it, gentlemen?

EUPH. Very well. The song's a good one.

BAR. O, monstrous!

Never man stole with so little judgment.

EUPH. Of all the love-songs that were ever made,

He could not have chose out one more unfit,

More palpably unfit, that must betray

His most ridiculous theft.

LADY W. Who would have thought

My servant should suppose I think myself

Too young to love, that have already had

One husband!

EUPH. O, excuse him, gentle madam,

He found it in the song.

BAR. And, it should seem,

He could get no other song but this.

LADY W. Surely a woman of five-and-thirty year old

Is not too young to love!

BAR. O, spare him, madam!

EUPH. Let's raise him up. I think the sonnet's good:

There's somewhat in't to th' purpose. Read it again.

[_He reads it again._

EUPH. ----_For taste most meet._

Very good; and there he tickled it?

Mark'd you that, madam! The two last of all?

_Then lose no time, for love hath wings--_

He gives you fitting counsel.

LADY W. Yes, I like it.

DOT. I thought, when they understood it, they would like it:

I am sure, I have heard this song prais'd ere now.

LADY W. This does deserve a double favour, servant.

DOT. Let this be the favour, sweet mistress. [_Kisses her._

EUPH. How some men's poetry happens to be rewarded!

LADY W. Shall we go in? But, prythee, Euphues,

What is the reason sweet Artemia,

Thy cousin, is not here?

EUPH. I know not, madam;

But her pretence was business. I am going

To visit her. If you go in to keep

Th' old couple company, I'll fetch her to you.

LADY W. I prythee, do! Farewell. Come, servant,

Shall we go in?

DOT. I'll wait upon you, mistress. [_Exeunt._

THEODORE, ARTEMIA.

THEO. I will acquaint him, lady, with the hour,

And to his longing ear deliver all

Your sweet salutes; which is the only air

Of life and comfort Eugeny takes in.

Your constant love and virtues, sweetest lady,

Are those preservatives, which from his heart

Expel the killing fits of melancholy,

And do, in spite of fortune, quicken him.

ART. O, would those comforts could arrive at him,

That from my wishing thoughts are hourly sent!

THEO. Such virtuous wishes seldom are in vain.

ART. I should be far more sad in the behalf

Of my dear Eugeny, but that I know

He does enjoy your sweet society,

Which he beyond all value does esteem.

THEO. His own is recompense enough for mine.

And I the gainer in it; did not grief

For his misfortune stain that perfect joy,

Which I could take in his dear company.

ART. If I should speak, sir, how he values you,

I should too much oppress your modesty.

THEO. Our friendship, fairest lady, is more old,

And he more true, than that his heart so long

Should be unknown to me. I'll not be long,

Before I visit him to let him know,

What hour shall make him happy in your sight.

My longer stay, sweet lady, might be more

Observ'd and pry'd into: let me be bold

To leave you now, but be your servant ever.

ART. All happiness attend you, worthy sir.

[_Exit_ THEODORE.

Would I myself might go as well as send,

And see that seeming solitary place,

That place of woe. Sure, it would be to me

No desert wood, while Eugeny were there,

But a delightful palace. Here at home,

The more that company comes in, the more

I am alone, methinks. Wanting that object

On which my heart is fix'd, I cannot be

Possess'd of anything. Nothing can be

My comfort but a hope that these sad clouds

Of our misfortunes will at last blow over.

But mischief's like a cockatrice's eyes--

Sees first and kills, or is seen first and dies.

_Enter_ EUPHUES.

EUPH. How dost thou, coz? I wrote a letter for thee

To Earthworm's son: has the young ten-i'-th'-hundred

Been here?

ART. I thank you, cousin; the gentleman

Was with me, and but newly parted hence.

EUPH. H' has got a title then by coming hither:

But he may be a gentleman; his wealth

Will make it good.

ART. His virtues make it good:

Believe it, cousin, there's a wealthy mind

Within that plain outside.

EUPH. How's this?

Have your quick eyes found out his worth already?

ART. They must be blind that cannot, when they know him.

Well, cousin, you may laugh at me.

EUPH. By no means;

I know your judgment's good.

ART. As good as 'tis,

It must content a woman. When you know him,

You'll find a man that may deserve your friendship,

And far above all slighting.

EUPH. I am sorry

I came not soon enough: but prythee, cousin,

What are the ways have taken thee so soon?

ART. What taking do you mean? You promis'd me

You would not ask the cause I sent for him,

Though you shall know hereafter. But I hope

You do not think I am in love with him?

EUPH. I'll look upon the man, and then resolve you.

ART. Well, do; perhaps you'll know him better, then:

He knows you well.

EUPH. Me! Has he told you how?

ART. Did you ne'er meet one Theodore at Venice?

EUPH. Can this be he?

ART. Yes, very well; although

He be old Earthworm's son, and make no shew

At home.

EUPH. And have you found out so much worth

In him already?

ART. How do you esteem him?

We women well may err.

EUPH. I smell a rat;

And, if my brain fail not, have found out all

Your drifts, though ne'er so politicly carri'd.

ART. I know your brain, cousin, is very good;

But it may fail.

EUPH. It comes into my head

What old Sir Argent Scrape told to his lady.

His kinsman Eugeny lurk'd hereabouts:

He was her sweetheart once, and may be still;

I think she's constant, though she keep it close.

This Theodore and he were fam'd for friendship.

[_Aside._

I have collected, cousin, and have at you?

ART. Let's hear it, pray.

EUPH. You shall. This Theodore

I do confess a most deserving man;

And so perchance your lover Eugeny

Has told you, cousin. Ha! do you begin

To blush already? I am sure those two

Were most entirely friends; and I am sorry

To hear what I have heard to-day, concerning

Young Eugeny.

ART. What, prythee, cousin? Tell me.

EUPH. Now you are mov'd; but I may err, you know.

ART. Good cousin, tell me what.

EUPH. Nay, I believe

I shall worse startle you, though you would make

Such fools as I believe he is in France.

Yes, yes, it may be so; and then, you know,

He's safe enough.

ART. O cousin, I'll confess

What you would have me do; but tell me this.

EUPH. Nay, now I will not thank you; I have found it:

And though you dealt in riddles so with me,

I'll plainly tell you all, and teach you how

You may perchance prevent your lover's danger.

ART. O, I shall ever love you.

EUPH. Well, come in;

I'll tell you all, and by what means I knew it.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] I suppose he means a bumper, a cup filled till the wine rises

above the top of it. Such a character as _Dotterel_ is hardly made to

allude to the _pocula coronata_ of the Romans.--_Steevens._

A _crowned cup_ was not an unusual expression for a bumper: thus, in

"All Fools," Fortunio says--

"True, and to welcome Dariotto's lateness

He shall (unpledg'd) carouse one _crowned cup_

To all these ladies' health."

Dotterel might therefore very properly employ words in ordinary use,

without supposing him acquainted with "the _pocula coronata_ of the

Romans."--_Collier._

[16] [Compare vol. iv. p. 68.]

[17] So Pope--

"Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,

Sees but a backward steward for the poor;

This year a reservoir to keep and spare;

The next, a fountain, spouting through his heir,

In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,

And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst."

--"Moral Essays," Ep. iii. l. 170.

ACT IV.

EARTHWORM, JASPER.

EARTH. Out, villain! how could any fire come there

But by thy negligence? I do not use

To keep such fires as should at all endanger

My house, much less my barn.

JAS. I know not, sir;

But there I'm sure it was, and still continues,

Though without danger now; for the poor people,

Ere this, have quench'd it.

EARTH. There my wonder lies.

Why should the people come to quench my fire?

Had it been a city, where one house

Might have endanger'd all, it justly then

Might have engag'd the people's utmost aid,

And I ne'er bound to give them thanks at all;

But my house stands alone, and could endanger

No other building. Why should all the people

Come running hither so to quench the fire?

They love not me.

JAS. Sure, sir, I cannot tell;

Perhaps the people knew not what to do,

And might be glad to see a sight.

EARTH. Methought,

As I came by, I saw them wondrous busy;

Nay, more--methought I heard them pray for me,

As if they lov'd me. Why should they do so?

I ne'er deserv'd it at the people's hands.

Go, Jasper, tell me whether it be quench'd,

And all secure: I long to hear the news.

_Enter_ THEODORE.

THEO. I come to bring you happy tidings, sir.

The fire is quench'd, and little hurt is done.

EARTH. That's well, my son.

THEO. But, sir, if you had seen

How the poor people labour'd to effect it,

And (like so many salamanders) rush'd

Into the fire, scorching their clothes and beards,

You would have wonder'd justly, and have thought

That each man toil'd to save his father's house

Or his own dear estate; but I conceive

'Twas nothing but an honest charity,

That wrought it in them.

EARTH. Ha! a charity!

Why should that charity be show'd to me?

THEO. If I mistake not strangely, he begins

To apprehend it.

EARTH. As I came along,

I heard them pray for me; but those good prayers

Can never pierce the skies in my behalf,

But will return again, and ever lodge

Within those honest breasts, that sent them forth.

THEO. Surely it works.

EARTH. O! all the world but I are honest men!

[_He weeps._

THEO. What is't that troubles you?

Your goods are safe; there's nothing lost at all.

You should rejoice, methinks. You might have suffer'd

A wondrous loss in your estate!

EARTH. Ah, son!

'Tis not the thought of what I might have lost,

That draws these tears from me.

THEO. Does he not weep,

Or do my flattering hopes deceive my sight?

He weeps, and fully too; large show'rs of tears

Bedew his aged cheeks. O happy sorrow,

That makes me weep for joy! Never did son

So justly glory in a father's tears. [_Aside._

Sir, you are sad, methinks.

EARTH. No sadness, son,

Can be enough to expiate the crimes

That my accursed avarice has wrought.

Where are the poor?

THEO. Why, sir, what would you do?[18]

EARTH. Ask me not, Theodore. Alas, I fear

Thou art too much my son; my bad example

Has done thee much more harm than all the large

Increase of treasure I shall leave behind

Can recompence. But leave those wretched thoughts,

And let me teach thee a new lesson now:

But thou art learned, Theodore, and soon

Wilt find the reasons of it.

THEO. Do you please

To speak it, sir, and I will strive to frame

Myself to follow.

EARTH. Where are all the poor?

Jasper, go call them in. Now, prythee, learn

(For this late accident may truly teach

A man what value he should set on wealth)

Fire may consume my houses; thieves may steal

My plate and jewels; all my merchandise

Is at the mercy of the winds and seas;

And nothing can be truly term'd mine own,

But what I make mine own by using well.

Those deeds of charity which we have done,

Shall stay for ever with us; and that wealth

Which we have so bestowed, we only keep:

The other is not ours.

THEO. Sir, you have taught me

Not to give anything at all away.

EARTH. When I was blind, my son, and did miscall

My sordid vice of avarice true thrift:

But now forget that lesson; I prythee, do.

That cosening vice, although it seem to keep

Our wealth, debars us from possessing it,

And makes us more than poor.

THEO. How far beyond

All hope my happy project works upon him!

_Enter_ NEIGHBOURS.

EARTH. Y' are welcome, neighbours; welcome heartily!

I thank you all, and will hereafter study

To recompence your undeserved love.

My house shall stand more open to the poor,

More hospitable, and my wealth more free

To feed and clothe the naked hungry souls.

I will redeem the ill that I have done

(If heaven be pleas'd to spare my life awhile)

With true unfeigned deeds of charity.

1ST NEIGH. We thank your worship.

2D NEIGH. We know full well

Your worship has a good heart toward us.

EARTH. Alas! you do not know it; but have had

Too sad a cause to know the contrary.

Pray do not thank me, till you truly find

How much my heart is chang'd from what it was;

Till you, by real and substantial deeds,

Shall see my penitence, and be fully taught

How to forget or pardon all the errors

Of that my former miserable life.

Jasper, go in with them; show them the way

Into my house.

JAS. I think I had need to show 'em;

No poor folks heretofore have us'd this way.

EARTH. And I'll come to you, neighbours, presently.

1ST NEIGH. Long may you live.

2D NEIGH. All happiness betide you.

3D NEIGH. And a reward fourfold in th' other world.

EARTH. How dost thou like this music, Theodore?

I mean, the hearty prayers of the poor,

Whose curses pierce more than two-edged swords.

What comfort like to this can riches give?

What joy can be so great, as to be able

To feed the hungry, clothe the naked man?

THEO. Now, sir, you think aright; for to bestow

Is greater pleasure far than to receive.

EARTH. No vice, so much as avarice, deprives

Our life of sweetest comforts, and debars

So much the fair society of men.

I taught thee once far otherwise, but now

Study this last and better lesson, son.

THEO. With more delight than e'er I did the former.

You never yet knew scholar covetous.

EARTH. And now I think on't, Theodore, I have

A niece, the daughter of my only sister;

Her mother died a widow two years since.

How she has left her orphan daughter there,

I do not know; if she have left her ill,

I'll be a father to her. Prythee, go

Inquire her out, and bring her to my house,

How well soe'er the world may go with her

Bounty's a spice of virtue. Whoso can,

And won't, relieve the poor, he is no man.

THEO. Where lives she, sir?

EARTH. 'Tis not a mile from hence,

In the next village. Thou ne'er saw'st her yet;

But fame has spoke her for a virtuous maid.

Young Scudmore, while he liv'd, and was possess'd

Of his estate, thought to have married her,

Whose death, they say, she takes most heavily,

And with a wond'rous constant sorrow mourns.

THEO. Sure, 'tis the same fair maid. [_Aside._

EARTH. Her name's Matilda.

THEO. The very same! [_Aside._] I can inquire her out;

And, if you please, will presently about it.

EARTH. Do, while I my neighbours visit. He doth live

Mighty that hath the pow'r and will to give.

[_Exit._

THEO. This is the same fair nightingale that tun'd

Her sweet sad accents lately to the woods,

And did so far enthral my heart: but that

Fond love is vanish'd. Like a kinsman now

I'll comfort her, and love her virtuous soul.

O, what a blessed change this day has wrought

In my old father's heart! You pow'rs, that gave

Those thoughts, continue them! This day will I

Still celebrate as my nativity. [_Exit_.

LADY COVET, FRUITFUL.

LADY C. But is that lawful, to convey away

All my estate, before I marry him?

FRUIT. 'Tis more than lawful, madam: I must

Tell you 'tis necessary; and your ladyship

Is bound in conscience so to do; for else

'Twill be no longer yours, but all is his,

When he has married you. You cannot then

Dispose of anything to pious uses;

You cannot show your charity at all,

But must be govern'd by Sir Argent Scrape:

And can you tell how he'll dispose of it?

LADY C. 'Tis true: perchance he'll take my money all,

And purchase for himself, to give away

To his own name, and put me, while I live,

To a poor stipend.

FRUIT. There you think aright.

You can relieve no friends; you can bequeath

Nothing at all, if he survive you, madam,

As 'tis his hope he shall.

LADY C. That hope may fail him.

I am not yet so weak, but I may hop

Over his grave.

FRUIT. That is not in our knowledge.

But if you do survive him, as I hope,

Madam, you will, there is no law at all

Can bar you of your thirds in all his land,

And you besides are mistress of your own.

And all the charitable deeds, which you

After your death shall do, as building schools

Or hospitals, shall go in your own name;

Which otherwise Sir Argent Scrape would have,

And with your riches build himself a fame.

LADY C. I grant 'tis true: but will it not seem strange

That I should serve him so?

FRUIT. Strange, madam! no;

Nothing is now more usual: all your widows

Of aldermen, that marry lords of late,

Make over their estates, and by that means

Retain a power to curb their lordly husbands.

When they, to raise the ruins of their houses,

Do marry so: instead of purchasing

What was expected, they do more engage

Their land in thirds for them.

LADY C. Well, I must trust

The feoffees then: but they are honest men.

FRUIT. You need not fear them; they are zealous men,

Honest in all their dealings, and well known

In London, madam. Will you seal it now?

_Enter_ TRUSTY.

LADY C. Yes, have you it?

FRUIT. 'Tis here: Here's Master Trusty too,

Your steward, madam; he and I shall be

Enough for witnesses.

LADY C. 'Tis true: give me

The seal. So now dispose of it as I

Intended, Master Fruitful. [_Seals and delivers._

FRUIT. I will, madam.

LADY C. Trusty, come you along with me. [_Exeunt._

_Manet_ FRUITFUL.

FRUIT. Now all our ends are wrought! this is the thing,

Which I so long have labour'd to effect.

Old covetous lady, I will purge your mind

Of all this wealth, that lay so heavy there,

And by evacuation make a cure

Of that your golden dropsy, whose strange thirst

Could ne'er be satisfied with taking in.

You once had wealth--But soft, let me consider!

If she should marry old Sir Argent Scrape,

We could not keep it; for his money then

Would make a suit against us, and perchance

Recover hers again; which to prevent

I will go spoil the marriage presently.

The sight of this will soon forbid the banns,

And stop his love. Then she wants means to sue us.

Be sure to keep thine adversary poor,

If thou wouldst thrive in suits. The way to 'scape

Revenge for one wrong is to do another:

The second injury secures the former.

I'll presently to old Sir Argent Scrape,

And tell him this: he's meditating now,

What strange additions to his large revenue

Are coming at one happy clap; what heaps

Of wealth to-morrow he shall be possess'd of;

What purchases to make; how to dispose

Of her and hers. But soft, the cards must turn:

The man must be deceived, and she much more.

To cosen the deceitful is no fraud. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SIR ARGENT SCRAPE.

SIR ARG. Methinks a youthful figure doth possess

My late stiff limbs; and (like a snake) I feel

A second spring succeed my age of winter.

O gold! how cordial, how restorative

Art thou! What, though thou canst not give me legs

Nor active hands, alas! I need them not;

Possess'd of thee, I can command the legs,

The hands, the tongues, the brains, of other men

To move for me. What need he hands or brains,

That may command the lawyer's subtlety,

The soldier's valour, the best poet's wit,

Or any writer's skill? O gold! to thee

The sciences are servants; the best trades

Are but thy slaves, indeed thy creatures rather:

For thee they were invented, and by thee

Are still maintained. 'Tis thou alone that art

The nerves of war, the cement of the state,

And guide of human actions. 'Tis for thee

Old Argent lives. O, what a golden shower

Will rain on me to-morrow! Let me see:

Her personal estate alone will buy

Upon good rates a thousand pound a year.

Where must that lie? Not in our country here--

Not all together; no; then my revenue

Will have too great a notice taken of it;

I shall be rais'd in subsidies, and 'sess'd

More to the poor. No, no, that must not be.

I'll purchase all in parcels, far from home,

And closely as I can: a piece in Cornwall;

In Hampshire some; some in Northumberland.

I'll have my factors forth in all those parts,

To know what prodigals there be abroad,

What pennyworths may be had: so it shall be.

_Enter_ FRUITFUL.

SIR ARG. Ha! Master Fruitful! welcome. How go the squares?

What do you think of me to make a bridegroom?

Do I look young enough?

FRUIT. Sir, I am come

To tell you news; such news as will, perhaps,

A little trouble you; but, if your worship

Should not have known it, 'twould have vex'd you more.

SIR ARG. Vex'd me! What's that can vex me now? speak, man.

FRUIT. I thought that I was bound in conscience, sir,

To tell it you: 'tis conscience, and the love

I bear to truth, makes me reveal it now.

SIR ARG. What is the business? speak.

FRUIT. Do not suppose

That I am treacherous to my Lady Covet,

To whom I do belong, in uttering this.

In such a case I serve not her, but truth,

And hate dishonest dealing.

SIR ARG. Come to th' purpose.

FRUIT. Then thus it is: my Lady Covet, sir,

Merely to cosen you, has pass'd away

Her whole estate; you shall not get a penny

By marrying her.

SIR ARG. How, man? is't possible?

FRUIT. 'Tis very certain, sir; I, for a need,

Could show you the conveyance; for my hand

Is as a witness there; so is her steward's.

SIR ARG. O horrible deceit!

FRUIT. Ask her herself;

If she deny it, I can justify it;

So can her steward too.

SIR ARG. You make me mad.

FRUIT. I keep you from being so by a mature

Prevention of your cosening.

SIR ARG. O, what hopes

Am I fall'n from; who would believe these false

Deceitful creatures?

FRUIT. Sir, I could but wonder,

That she would cheat so honest a gentleman,

That came a suitor to her for pure love.

SIR ARG. Love! Mischief of love!

FRUIT. Alas, I know

It was not her estate that you sought after,

Your love was honester: and then that she

Should cosen you!

SIR ARG. She shall not cosen me:

I'll have my horse-litter made ready straight,

And leave her house.

FRUIT. But when you see her, sir,

It may be your affection will return.

If you should leave her only upon this,

The world would think that you were covetous;

And covetousness is such a sin, you know.

SIR ARG. You do not mock me, do you?

FRUIT. Who? I, sir?

I know your worship does abhor the sin

Of covetousness; but I confess indeed

'Twould vex a man to have been cosen'd so.

SIR ARG. Have I liv'd all this while to be o'er-reach'd

And cheated by a woman? I'll forsake her

Immediately.

FRUIT. Sir, 'tis a happy thing,

When men can love with such discretion,

As to forsake when they shall see just cause.

Some are so fond in their affections

That, though provok'd by all the injuries

That can be offer'd, they can never leave

The mistress of their hearts.

SIR ARG. I warrant her,

For any such affection in old Argent.

FRUIT. I do believe it, sir; you are too wise. [_Retires._

_Enter_ LADY COVET.

LADY C. How do you, sir?

SIR ARG. E'en as I may:

You do not mean I shall be e'er the better

For you.

LADY C. How's this? I do not understand

What you should mean.

SIR ARG. You may, if you consider:

But if you do not, I'll explain it to you.

Have I deserv'd such dealing at your hands?

LADY C. As what?

SIR ARG. As that you should speak one thing to me

And mean another; but I'll make it plainer;

You seem'd to love me, and for love it seems,

Thinking to marry me, have made away

All your estate.

LADY C. How's this?

SIR ARG. Nay, 'tis too true,

Or else your chaplain does you wrong.

LADY C. O villain!

SIR ARG. Nay, villain him no villains; is it so,

Or not?

FRUIT. If she deny it to you, sir,

I can produce her hand, and have the deed.

LADY C. O monstrous villany! O impudence!

Can'st thou abuse me thus, that first of all

Did'st counsel me to do it?

FRUIT. I confess

I gave you way, and for the time did wink

At your false dealing; but at last my conscience

Would not permit me to conceal it longer.

I have discharg'd it now, and told the truth.

SIR ARG. Twas well done of you, sir: well, I'll away.

Madam, seek out some other man to cheat.

For me you shall not.

LADY. C. Stay, sir, my estate

Shall still be good; the feoffees will be honest.

FRUIT. Ay, that they will, to keep what is their own.

LADY C. O monstrous wickedness! was e'er the like

Heard of before?

FRUIT. I know the feoffees' minds.

_Enter_ FREEMAN, EUPHUES, BARNET, DOTTEREL,

LADY WHIMSEY.

FREE. How fare you, madam. Wherefore look you sadly

At such a joyful time?

LADY C. O Master Freeman,

I am undone and ruin'd.

FRUIT. No, good madam,

We'll see you shall not want.

FREE. How's this?

FRUIT. You shall have a fair competence allow'd you.

EUPH. What riddle have we here?

LADY C. Out, thou ungracious, dissembling villain.

FRUIT. An indifferent means

Will keep your ladyship; for you are past

Those vanities which younger ladies use:

You need no gaudy clothes, no change of fashions,

No paintings nor perfumes.

EUPH. I would fain know the bottom of this.

LADY W. Servant, can you discover

What this should mean?

DOT. No, mistress, I protest:

With all the wit I have.

FRUIT. And for your house,

You shall have leave to stay here, till we have

Provided for you.

LADY C. O, my heart will break!

EUPH. Here is the finest turn that e'er I saw.

SIR ARG. I will resolve you, gentlemen. This lady,

To cosen me in marriage, had (it seems)

Pass'd her estate away: into what hands

'Tis fallen, I know not, nor I care not, I.

FRUIT. 'Tis fallen into the hands of wise men, sir,

That know how to make use of what is theirs.

LADY C. This hypocrite persuaded me to do't,

And then discover'd all, as if on purposes

He sought my ruin.

FRUIT. No, not I, good madam:

'Twas for your soul's health; I have done you good,

And eas'd you of a burden, and a great one.

So much estate would have been still a cause

Of cares unto you, and those cares have hinder'd

Your quiet passage to a better life.

EUPH. Excellent devil! how I love him now!

Never did knavery play a juster part.

FRUIT. And why should you, at such an age as this,

Dream of a marriage? A thing so far

Unfit, nay most unnatural and profane,

To stain that holy ordinance, and make it

But a mere bargain! For two clods of earth

Might have been join'd as well in matrimony.

Tis for your soul's health, madam, I do this.

EUPH. How much was I mistaken in this chaplain!

I see he has brains.

FREE. Though't be dishonesty

In him, yet justly was it plac'd on her:

And I could even applaud it.

LADY W. I protest I love this chaplain.

DOT. So do I, sweet mistress, or I am an errant fool.

LADY C. But yet I hope

The feoffees may prove honest: I'll try them.

FRUIT. I'll go and bring them to your ladyship. [_Exit_ FRUITFUL.

SIR ARG. I'll stay no longer. Make my litter ready.

Lady, farewell; and to you all.

FREE. Nay, sir.

Then let me interpose; let me entreat you,

By all the rites of neighbourhood, Sir Argent,

Make not so sudden a departure now.

What, though the business has gone so cross,

You may part fairly yet. Stay till to-morrow;

Let not the country take too great a notice

Of these proceedings and strange breach: 'twill be

Nothing but a dishonour to you both.

Pray, sir, consent: give me your hand, Sir Argent.

SIR ARG. At your entreaty, sir, I'll stay till morning.

FREE. Before that time, you may consider better. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[18] [A MS. note in one of the former edits. says: "This sudden and

total change, unnatural as it is, is one of the characteristics of the

old plays."]

ACT V.

MATILDA, THEODORE.

MAT. I'll not refuse my uncle's courtesy,

But go and see his house. I should before

Have done that duty to him, but I thought

My visits were not welcome, since he liv'd

So close and privately.

THEO. Sweet cousin, you'll find

A happy alteration in my father,

And that there dwells a kind and honest soul

Within his breast. Though wretched avarice,

The usual fault of age, has heretofore

Too much kept back the good expressions

Of such-like thoughts, he now will make amends

To all the world; and has begun already

With his poor neighbours.

MAT. Cousin, I shall be

Too bad a guest at this sad time, and bring

Nothing but sorrow to my uncle's house.

THEO. You'll be yourself a welcome guest to him;

And I shall think our roof exceeding happy,

If it may mitigate that killing grief,

Which your so solitary life too much

Has nourish'd in you. Cousin, feed it not:

'Tis a disease that will in time consume you.

I have already given the best advice,

That my poor knowledge will afford, to ease

Your troubled thoughts. If time, which Heaven allows

To cure all griefs, should not have power to do it:

If death of father, mother, husband, wife,

Should be lamented still, the world would wear

Nothing but black: sorrow alone would reign

In every family that lives, and bring

Upon poor mortals a perpetual night.

You must forget it, cousin.

MAT. Never can I

Forget my love to him.

THEO. Nor do I strive

To teach you to forget that love you bear

To his dear memory; but that grief which lies

Wrapp'd in amongst it, and turns all to poison,

Making it mortal to that soul that tastes it--

'Tis that, sweet cousin, which I hope that time

May by degrees extinguish. Will you please

To walk along? My father long ere this

Expects us, I am sure, and longs to see you. [_Exeunt._

EUGENY _in the_ OFFICERS' _hands_.

EUG. I blame you not at all, that by the law

And virtue of your places are requir'd

To apprehend me.

OFFICER. We are sorry, sir, we were enforc'd to seize you.

EUG. But I wonder

What curious eye it was that search'd so far

Into my secret walks, that did discover

This dark abode of mine, and envied me

My solitary sorrow: such a life,

As I enjoy'd, a man might well afford

To his most great and mortal enemy.

OFFICER. 'Twas a plain fellow, sir, that brought us hither

In the king's name, and left us when we had you.

But, sir, we wish you all the good we may.

EUG. I thank you, friends: I cannot tell at all

Whom to suspect; nor will I further vex

My thoughts in search of such a needless thing.

I call to mind what once my Theodore

Told me by way of a surmise; but, sure,

It cannot be so foul. Shall I entreat you

To carry me to old Sir Argent Scrape,

My kinsman? I would only speak with him,

Before I go to prison: and let one,

If you can spare a man, go run for me

To Master Earthworm's house, and bid his son

Meet me with old Sir Argent; he lies now

At my Lady Covet's house. I have about me

What will reward your pains, and highly too.

OFFICER. It shall be done, as you would have it, sir.

EUG. I dare not send to fair Artemia:

The sight of her and of so dear a sorrow

As she would show, would but afflict me more.

Perchance I may come safely off; till then

I would conceal this accident from her.

But fame is swiftest still, when she goes laden

With news of mischief: she too soon will hear,

And in her sorrow I shall doubly suffer.

Thus are we fortune's pastimes: one day live

Advanc'd to heaven by the people's breath,

The next, hurl'd down into th' abyss of death.

_Enter_ EUPHUES, ARTEMIA.

EUPH. But are you sure 'tis hereabouts he lives?

Ha! who is that? 'Tis he, and in the hands

Of officers! Cousin, the mischief's done

Before we come.

ART. O my dear Eugeny!

EUG. Artemia too! Ah me! she swoons! Help, help!

Look up, my love! There is no fear at all

For me; no danger: all is safe, and full

Of hope and comfort.

EUPH. She begins to come

Unto herself again.

EUG. But pray, sir, tell

How came you hither, noble Euphues?

EUPH. I never knew the place; but now, by her

Instructions, found it out. I came to bear

Her company, and her intent of coming

Was to inform you of a danger near--

Of such a monstrous mischief, as perchance

You scarce can credit. Old Sir Argent Scrape,

By me and by another gentleman,

Was overheard to say that he had scouts,

And had laid certain plots to apprehend

His kinsman Eugeny, just before th' assizes.

Besides, what further means he did intend,

Closely to work your death, he then declar'd

To the old covetous lady, whom he came

A suitor to.

EUG. Prophetic Theodore, how right thou wert!

EUPH. This thing, when I had heard,

I told it her, and we with speed made hither;

But ere we came, the mischief was fulfill'd.

EUG. I thank you, sir, for this discovery:

Howe'er I speed, pray pardon me, if I

Shall by the hand of justice die your debtor.

How soon from virtue and an honour'd spirit

Man may receive what he can never merit!

Be not thou cruel, my Artemia;

Do not torment me with thy grief, and make

Me die before my time: let hope a while

Suspend thy sorrow; if the worst should fall,

Thy sorrow would but more enfeeble me,

And make me suffer faintly for thy sake.

ART. If worst should fall, my love (which heaven forfend),

How could I choose but suffer?

EUPH. I will hope

Your safety yet may well be wrought; and knowing

Sir Argent's mind, you know what ways to trust.

ART. Good cousin, help us with thy counsel now,

If thou dost love my life.

EUPH. Fear it not, cousin:

If I may aid you, sir, in anything,

You shall command it.

EUG. Sir, I cannot thank you

So much as it deserves: this timely favour,

If not in life, yet shall at least in death

Endear me to you.

ART. Do not name that word,

My dearest love!

EUPH. You must be speedy, sir,

In all your courses now.

EUG. Then let me beg

That you would meet me at my Lady Covet's.

I'll ring Sir Argent Scrape so loud a peal,

As shall, perchance, awake his bed-rid soul,

And rouse it, though so deeply sunk in dross--

Drown'd and o'erwhelm'd with muck. Go you together,

And leave me to my way.

ART. Farewell, dear love! [_Exeunt severally._

_Enter_ BARNET, LADY WHIMSEY.

BAR. Madam, 'tis sure; I know your ladyship

Is so possess'd.

LADY W. I think he loves me well,

And will not now start back from marrying me.

BAR. That is the happy hour he only longs for;

But if so strange a thing should come to pass,

Which yet I think impossible, that this

Your marriage should break off, I will give back

Into your hand this bond, which I receiv'd;

And 'tis worth nothing, madam, as you know

By the condition.

LADY W. True, I fear it not;

But I durst trust you, if 'twere otherwise.

BAR. He waits the hour, when you will please to tie

The happy knot with him.

LADY W. He shall no longer

Wait for it now: I'll go confirm him.

BAR. But think not, gentle madam, that I shark[19]

Or cheat him in it: I have to a sum

Greater than this from him as good a title

As right can give, though my unhappy fortunes

Made me forbear the trial of my title,

While his old crafty father was alive.

He held from me a farm of greater value,

As all the neighbours know: I then forbore it,

And will do still, since by an easier way

I may have satisfaction. But here comes

One that has lost a marriage.

_Enter_ TRUSTY, LADY COVET.

LADY C. Tell me, Trusty, what say the feoffees?

TRUSTY. They'll say nothing, madam;

Make me no answer, but that they know how

To manage their own fortunes.

LADY C. All the world

Conspires against me; I am quite undone!

TRUSTY. I promise you truly, madam, I believe

They mean little better than plain knavery.

LADY C. Ay, 'tis too true.

LADY W. How does your ladyship?

I was in hope to-day we should have seen you

A joyful bride.

LADY C. Ah, madam! 'twas my folly

To dream of such a thing; 'tis that has brought me

To all this sorrow, and undone me quite.

LADY W. I hope not so. But, madam, I confess

The marriage could have done you little good:

One of your years, and then a man so old!

LADY C. O, do not mention it; I am justly punish'd.

LADY W. Pardon me, madam; I must make so bold

As leave you for a while. Come, Master Barnet,

Shall we go see the party?

BAR. I wait you, madam. [_Exeunt._

LADY C. My sorrow will not leave me. But, alas!

'Tis a deserved punishment I suffer

For my unjust oppressions; I detain'd

Scudmore's estate injuriously, and had

No conscience to restore what was not mine,

And now all's ta'en away! What then I would not,

I cannot now perform, though I desire.

_Enter_ FREEMAN, ARTEMIA.

FREE. Fear not, Artemia, there shall no means

Be left untri'd to save the gentleman.

I did approve thy choice, and still will do,

If fortune will consent. My Lady Covet,

Are you sad still?

LADY C. Never had any woman

A greater cause of sorrow, Master Freeman;

For I protest it does not trouble me

So much, that by this cheat I lose the power

Of my estate, as that I lose all means

Of charity or restitution

To any person whom I wrong'd before.

FREE. Why, then, you make a true and perfect use

Of such a cross, and may hereafter take

True comfort from it.

LADY C. If my conscience

Were satisfi'd, I could forsake the rest.

_Enter_ EUPHUES.

EUPH. My cousin, I perceive, has made more haste

Hither than I; but I have seen a pageant

That, in the saddest time, would make one laugh.

FREE. What, prythee?

EUPH. I have seen your neighbour Earthworm

In such a mood, as you would wonder at,

And all that ever knew him heretofore.

He is inveighing 'gainst Sir Argent Scrape

For being so basely covetous, as thus

For hope of lucre to betray his kinsman:

A thing that he himself would scorn as much,

He does protest, as can be.

FREE. I have known

It otherwise. What may not come to pass,

When Earthworm is a foe to avarice?

EUPH. But he, they say, has made it good in deeds.

FREE. He has been so exceeding bountiful

Now to our poor, and vows to be so still,

That we may well believe he is quite chang'd,

And strives to make amends for what is pass'd.

He has, they say, a brave and virtuous son,

Lately come home, that has been cause of all.

EUPH. It well may be: I know young Theodore.

Uncle, he is of strange abilities;

And to convert his father was an act

Worthy of him.

_Enter_ SERVANT, _and_ SIR ARGENT _in his chair_.

SER. Madam, Sir Argent Scrape would take his leave

Of you.

LADY C. When it pleases him.

SIR ARG. Get me my litter

Ready presently; I will be gone. Madam,

I now am come to give you loving thanks

For my good cheer, and so bid you farewell.

But let me tell you this, before we part:

Things might have been carried another way

For your own good; but you may thank yourself

For what has happened now.

LADY C. If you suppose

It had been for my good to marry you,

You are deceiv'd; for that, in my esteem

(Though once I was so foolish to give way

To that ridiculous motion), had brought with it

As great a misery as that which now

Is fall'n upon me.

SIR ARG. How! as great a misery

As to be beggar'd?

LADY C. Yes, sir, I'll assure you,

I am of that opinion, and still shall be.

But know, Sir Argent, though I now want pow'r

To give you that which you still gap'd for, wealth,

I can be charitable, and bestow

Somewhat upon you that is better far.

SIR ARG. Better than wealth! what's that?

LADY C. Honest counsel.

Let my calamity admonish you

To make a better use of your large wealth,

While you may call it yours. Things may be chang'd;

For know, that hand that has afflicted me,

Can find out you. You do not stand above it.

SIR ARG. I hope I shall know how to keep mine own.

EUPH. I do begin to pity the poor lady.

FREE. This has wrought goodness in her. Who are these?

_Enter_ EARTHWORM _and_ THEODORE.

My neighbour Earthworm? Lord! how he is chang'd!

EARTH. 'Twas basely done, and like a covetous wretch,

I'll tell him to his face: what care I for him?

I have a purse as well as he.

EUPH. How's this?

EARTH. Betray a kinsman's life to purchase wealth!

O, detestable!

EUPH. O miraculous change!

Do you not hear him, uncle?

EARTH. Master Freeman, happily met.

FREE. Sir, I am glad to see you.

EARTH. I have been long your neighbour, sir, but liv'd

In such a fashion, as I must endeavour

To make amends hereafter for, and strive

To recompence with better neighbourhood.

FREE. It joys me much to see this change in you.

EARTH. Pardon my boldness, madam, that I make

This intrusion.

LADY C. Y'are welcome, Master Earthworm.

EUPH. Let me be bold, then, noble Theodore,

To claim our old acquaintance.

THEO. I shall think it

My honour, worthy sir, to hold that name.

EARTH. Is that Sir Argent Scrape in the chair yonder?

FREE. Yes, sir.

EARTH. O, fie upon him! But soft,

He will be told on't now. [EUGENY _brought in_.

SIR ARG. Ha! Eugeny!

Why have they brought him hither?

EUG. I am come.

Methinks these looks of mine, inhumane wretch!

Though I were silent, should have power to pierce

That treacherous breast, and wound thy conscience,

Though it be hard and senseless as the idol

Which thou ador'st, thy gold.

SIR ARG. Is this to me, kinsman, you speak?

EUG. Kinsman! Do not wrong

That honest name with thy unhallowed lips.

To find a name for thee and thy foul guilt,

Has so far pos'd me, as I cannot make

Choice of a language fit to tell thee of it.

Treacherous, bloody man! that has betray'd

And sold my life to thy base avarice!

SIR ARG. Who? I betray you?

EUG. Yes; can you deny it?

LADY C. I'll witness it against him, if he do.

'Twas his intent, I know.

EUPH. And so do I:

I overheard his counsels.

EARTH. Out upon him,

Unworthy man!

EUPH. I could e'en laugh to hear

Old Earthworm chide.

EUG. But think upon the deed,

Think on your own decrepit age, and know

That day, by nature's possibility,

Cannot be far from hence, when you must leave

Those wealthy hoards that you so basely lov'd,

And carry nothing with thee, but the guilt

Of impious getting: then, if you would give

To pious uses what you cannot keep,

Think what a wretched charity it is;

And know, this act shall leave a greater stain

On your detested memory, than all

Those seeming deeds of charity can have

A pow'r to wash away: when men shall say

In the next age: this goodly hospital,

This house of alms, this school, though seeming fair,

Was the foul issue of a cursed murder,

And took foundation in a kinsman's blood.

The privilege that rich men have in evil,

Is, that they go unpunish'd to the devil.

SIR ARG. O! I could wish the deed undone again.

Ah me! what means are left to help it now?

FREE. Sure, the old man begins to melt indeed.

EUG. Now let me turn to you, my truer friends,

And take my last farewell.

_Enter_ FRUITFUL _and_ TRUSTY.

EUPH. My noble chaplain!

What pranks comes he to play now? I had thought

His business had been done.

FRUIT. Health to you, madam!

LADY C. How can you wish me health, that have so labour'd

To ruin me in all things?

FRUIT. No, good madam;

'Twas not your ruin, but your good I sought:

Nor was it to deprive you of your means,

But only rectify your conscience.

FREE. How's this?

EUPH. Another fetch! this may be worth the hearing.

FRUIT. Madam, you convey'd away

To three good honest men your whole estate.

LADY C. They have not prov'd so honest: I had thought

I might have trusted them.

FRUIT. Then give me hearing.

They, by the virtue of that deed possess'd,

Have back again convey'd it all to you.

LADY C. Ha!

FRUIT. Madam, 'twas done before good witnesses,

Of which your steward here was one.

TRUSTY. Most true.

FRUIT. And all the other are well-known to you.

Here is the deed.

FREE. Let me peruse it, madam.

LADY C. Good Master Freeman, do.

[FREEMAN _reads it to himself_.

EUPH. What plot is this?

FRUIT. One manor only they except from hence.

Which they suppose you did unjustly hold

From the true heir: his name was Scudmore, madam.

LADY C. I do confess I did unjustly hold it;

And since have griev'd me much, that while I might,

I made not restitution.

FRUIT. He was poor,

And by the law could not recover it;

Therefore this means was taken. By this deed

They have convey'd it hither, where it ought

Of right to be: are you content with this?

And all the rest of your estate is yours.

LADY C. With all my heart.

FREE. Madam, the deed is good.

LADY C. For that estate which justly is pass'd over

To Scudmore's heir, I am so well content,

As that, before these gentlemen, I promise

To pay him back all the arrearages

Of whatsoever profits I have made.

FRUIT. I thank your ladyship. Now know your chaplain,

That wanted orders. [_Discovers himself._

LADY C. Master Scudmore living!

EUPH. My friend, how couldst thou keep conceal'd so long

From me?

SCUD. Excuse it, noble Euphues.

ART. O happiness beyond what could be hop'd!

My Eugeny is safe, and all his griefs

At quiet now.

EUG. Is this a vision,

A mere fantastic show, or do I see

Scudmore himself alive? then let me beg

Pardon from him.

SCUD. Long ago 'twas granted:

Thy love I now shall seek. But though awhile

For these my ends I have conceal'd myself,

I ever meant to secure thee from danger.

EUG. What strange unlook'd-for happiness this day

Has brought forth with it!

SCUD. To tell you by what means

I was most strangely cur'd, and found a way

How to conceal my life, will be too long

Now to discourse of here; I will anon

Relate at large. But one thing much has griev'd me,

That my too long concealment has been cause

Of so much sorrow to my constant love,

The fair Matilda. Sir, she is your niece,

Let me intreat my pardon, next to her,

From you.

EARTH. You have it. Go, good Theodore,

And bring her hither, but prepare her first:

Too sudden apprehension of a joy

Is sometimes fatal.

THEO. I'll about it gladly. [_Exit._

SIR ARG. Dear cousin Eugeny, if I yet may be

Thought worthy of that name, pardon my crime,

And my whole life, how short soe'er it be,

Shall testify my love to be unfeigned.

EUG. I do forgive you freely. Now to you,

Grave sir, in whose rich bounty it must lie,

To make me happy in conferring on me

So bright a jewel as Artemia,

'Tis your consent I beg.

FREE. You have it freely;

Her heart I know she gave you long ago,

And here I give her hand.

EUG. A richer gift

Than any monarch of the world can give:

Bless'd happiness? Gently my joys distil,[20]

Lest you do break the vessel you should fill.

_Enter_ BARNET, DOTTEREL, LADY WHIMSEY.

EUPH. Here comes another couple to make up

The day's festivity. Joy to you, madam!

LADY W. Thanks, noble Euphues.

DOT. We have tied the knot,

That cannot be undone: this gentleman is witness

Of it.

BAR. Yes, I saw it finish'd.

LADY W. Mistress Artemia, as I suppose,

I may pronounce as much to you?

ART. You may as much as I shall wish your ladyship.

SCUD. Here comes the dearest object of my soul,

In whom too much I see my cruelty,

And chide myself. O, pardon me, dear love,

That I too long a time have tyranniz'd

Over thy constant sorrow.

MAT. Dearest Scudmore,

But that my worthy cousin has prepar'd

My heart for this, I should not have believ'd

My flattering eyes.

SCUD. To know brave Theodore,

Next to enjoying thee, was my ambition;

Which now affinity hath bless'd me with.

EUG. His friendship, worthy Scudmore, is a treasure.

THEO. I shall endeavour to deserve your loves.

EARTH. Come, leave your compliments at all hands now,

And hear an old man speak. I must intreat

This favour from all this noble company,

Especially from you, good Master Freeman,

Although this be your daughter's wedding-day,

That you would all be pleas'd to be my guests,

And keep with me your marriage festivals.

Grant my request.

FREE. 'Tis granted, sir, from me.

EUG. And so, I think, from all the company.

EARTH. Then let's be merry: Earthworm's jovial now,

And that's as much as he desires from you. [_To the Pit._

FOOTNOTES:

[19] _i.e._, Collect my prey like the shark-fish. So in "Hamlet"--

"_Shark'd_ up a troop of landless resolutes."

--_Steevens._

[20] [See Introduction to this play, p. 4.]

A WOMAN NEVER VEXED.

_EDITION._

_A New Wonder, A Woman never Vext. A Pleasant Conceited

Comedy: sundry times Acted: never before printed. Written

by William Rowley, one of his Maiesties Servants. London,

Imprinted by G. P., for Francis Constable, and are to be

sold at his shop, at the signe of the Crane in Saint Pauls

Churchyard._ 1632. 4o.

DILKE'S PREFACE

(WITH ADDITIONS, &C.)[21]

This writer is ranked by the editors of the "Biographia Dramatica" in

the third class of dramatic writers, and Mr Gifford justly observes it

is impossible to place him higher. [Mr Collier, in a note to Rowley's

"Match at Midnight," 1633, Introd., supposed that Samuel Rowley, the

writer of the historical play on "Henry VIII.," 1605, might be the

"Master Rowley, once a rare scholar of Pembroke Hall," mentioned by

Meres ("Politeuphuia," 1598, "Anc. Crit. Essays," iii. 154), as one of

the best for comedy; but Meres, who was himself a university man, would

scarcely confound either Samuel or William Rowley with the _Ralph_

Rowley of Pembroke Hall, writer of certain occasional poetry now

forgotten (Cooper's "Athenæ," ii. 388); and it is grossly improbable,

surely, that Meres should cite Ralph Rowley as "one of the best for

comedy" on the strength of such pieces as are connected with Samuel

Rowley's name. Mr Collier remarks, that it appears from Henslowe's

memoranda ("Diary," pp. 120, 218) that "in the very year in which

Meres wrote, [Samuel Rowley] was reduced to accept the situation of a

hireling at Henslowe's theatre." There is no trace of anything written

by him earlier than Jan. 7, 1601-2, when he assisted William Haughton

and William Borne in writing a piece called "Judas." As to William,

he could scarcely have acquired any reputation so early, and what,

on the whole, is most likely to have been the truth is, that Ralph

Rowley composed pieces which, like those of the Earl of Oxford and

others, have not survived.[22] Of the time or place of his birth, or

decease, we are altogether ignorant. Of his life it is only known that

he was a player. That he lived on terms of intimacy with the dramatic

writers of his time is sufficiently evident from his having written in

conjunction with many of them; and, if we may believe the title-page,

[which we cannot, we should be able to believe that] in one[23] he

received assistance from Shakespeare himself. He was a comedian, and

one of the Prince's company of players; and Oldys observes, in his MSS.

notes to Langbaine, on the authority of [transcripts made by Vertue

from] the office books of Lord Harrington, Treasurer of the Chambers

in those years, that "One William Rowley was head of the Prince's

company of comedians from 1613 to 1616:" this, there can be [no] doubt,

was our author; and [he continued to belong to that company till

the death of James I.[24]] The tragedy of "All's Lost by Lust" (as

it is better known) would perhaps have been selected in preference,

but for the resemblance it bears, in _the general outline_, to the

"Women beware Women" of Middleton, and the "Appius and Virginia" of

Webster,[25] to either of which, in my opinion, it is inferior. On

the present play Langbaine observes that the passage of the widow's

finding her wedding-ring, which she dropped in crossing the Thames, in

the belly of a fish which her maid bought accidently in the market, is

founded either upon the story of Polycrates of Samos, as the author

may read at large in Herodotus, lib. 3, _sive Thalia; or upon the

like story related of one Anderson of Newcastle, by Doctor Fuller,

in his "Worthies of England."_ The story here referred to is this:

"A citizen of Newcastle (whose name I take to be M. Anderson) talking

with a friend of his upon Newcastle bridge, and fingering his ring,

before he was aware let it fall into the river; and was much troubled

with the losse of it, till by a fish caught in the river that losse

was repaired, and his ring restored to him." It is quite impossible,

however, that our author could have had this story from Fuller's

"Worthies," which was not published till many years after this drama

was in print: he might, however, have found it, whence indeed Fuller

himself took it (and the story of Polycrates is likewise quoted there),

in the Preface to a little work called "Vox Piscis, or the Book-Fish,

containing three Treatises, which were found in the belly of a Cod-fish

in Cambridge Market, on Midsummer Eve last, Anno Domini 1626;"

published in London in 1627. It is not noticed either by Langbaine or

the editors of the "Biographia Dramatica" that this play is, in part,

historical. This, however, is the case; and I have collected together,

from various scattered notices in Stow and Strype, the best account I

was enabled of Stephen Foster, his wife, and Alderman Brewen,[26] three

of the principal persons in the drama. Sir Stephen Foster was the son

of Robert Foster of London, stock-fishmonger; he was elected Sheriff of

London in the year 1444, and Lord Mayor in 1454, and served as member

for that city in the parliament held at Westminster in the thirteenth

of Henry VI. Speaking of Ludgate, Strype says, (Append, p. 26), "There

happened to be prisoner there, one Stephen Foster, who (as poor men are

at this day) was a cryer at the grate, to beg the benevolent charities

of pious and commiserate benefactors that passed by. As he was doing

his doleful office, a rich widow of London hearing his complaint,

enquired of him what would release him? To which he answered, Twenty

pound; which she in charity expended; and clearing him out of prison,

entertained him in her service; who, afterward falling into the way of

merchandise, and increasing as well in wealth as courage, wooed his

mistress, Dame Agnes, and married her.

"Her riches and his industry brought him both great wealth and honour,

being afterwards no less than Sir Stephen Foster, Lord Mayor of the

honourable city of London: yet whilst he lived in this great honour

and dignity, he forgot not the place of his captivity; but, mindful of

the sad and irksome place wherein poor men were imprisoned, bethought

himself of enlarging it, to make it a little more delightful and

pleasant for those who in aftertimes should be imprisoned and shut up

therein. And, in order thereunto, acquainted his lady with this his

pious purpose and intention, in whom likewise he found so affable and

willing a mind to do good to the poor, that she promised to expend

as much as he should do for the carrying on of the work; and, having

possessions adjoining thereunto, they caused to be erected and built

the rooms and places following, that is to say, the paper house, the

porch, the watch-hall, the upper and lower lumbries, the cellar, the

long ward, and the chapel for divine service; in which chapel is an

inscription upon the wall, containing these words--

"_This chapel was erected and ordained for the divine worship and

service of God, by the Right Honourable Sir Stephen Foster, Knight,

some time Lord Maior of this honourable city, and by Dame Agnes his

wife, for the use and godly exercise of the prisoners in this prison

of Ludgate, Anno 1454._

" ... He likewise gave maintenance for a preaching minister," ... and

"ordained what he had so built, with that little which was before,

should be free for all free-men, and that they providing their

own bedding should pay nothing at their departure for lodging or

chamber-rent."[27]

There can be little doubt from the inscription in the chapel, that this

worthy man was alive in the year 1454; it is still more certain from

the following extract from Stow, that he was dead in 1463: "In the

year 1463, the third of Edward the Fourth, Mathew Philip being mayor,

in a common counsaile, at the request of the well-disposed, blessed,

and devout woman, Dame Agnes Foster, _widow_, late wife to Stephen

Foster, fishmonger, sometime mayor, for the comfort and reliefe of all

the poore prisoners, certaine articles were established. _In primis_,

that the new works then late edified by the same Dame Agnes, for the

inlarging of the prison of Ludgate, from thenceforth should be had

and taken as a parte and parcell of the saide prison of Ludgate, so

that both the old and new works of Ludgate aforesaid, be one prison,

gaile, keeping, and charge for evermore." To this Stow adds, "The said

quadrant strongly builded of stone, by the fore-named Stephen Foster,

and Agnes his wife, contayneth a large walking-place by ground, ... the

like roome it hath over it for lodgings, and over all a fayre leades to

walke upon, well imbattayled, all for ease of prisoners, to the ende

they shoulde have lodging and water free without charge: as by certaine

verses grauen in copper, and fixed on the said quadrant, I have read in

forme following--

'Deuout soules that passe this way,

for Stephen Foster late mayor, hartely pray,

And Dame Agnes his spouse, to God consecrate,

that of pitty this house made for L[=o]doners in Ludgate.

So that for lodging and water prisoners here nought pay,

as there keepers shall answere at dreadfull domes day.'

"This plate, and one other of his armes, taken downe with the old

gate, I caused to be fixed over the entrie of the said quadrant, but

the verses being unhappily turned inward to the wall, the like in

effect is graven outward in prose, declaring him to be a fishmonger,

because some upon a light occasion (as a maydens heade in a glasse

window) had _fabuled_ him to bee a mercer, and to _have begged there_

at Ludgate." "They were both buried (Stow, p. 163, edit. 1598) at

Butolph's church, Billingsgate." How far the poet has deviated from

the tradition as recorded by Strype, the reader will be now as well

able to decide as myself: when I speak of _the tradition_, I allude

only to the circumstance of his having been confined a prisoner in

Ludgate, and to his release by his wife (by his _nephew_ according to

the drama); and this I do on the authority of Stow, the elder of the

historians who, in his concluding remarks, refers to it as a fable.

Of the charitable acts of these worthy people there can be no doubt.

In relation to the character of Bruin, I find (Strype, ii. 260) that

"In the year 1197, Walter Brune, a citizen of London, and Rosia his

wife, founded the hospital of Our Lady, called Domus Dei, or St Mary

the Spittle, without Bishopsgate in London, an house of such relief

to the needy, that there was found standing at the surrender thereof

nine score beds well furnished for receipt of poor people." The reader

cannot fail to notice the gross anachronisms with which the plot of

this drama abounds; something, however, may be said in excuse of the

bringing together such men as Foster and Bruin; but the introduction of

Henry III. is so wanton and unnecessary, that there can be little doubt

it is an error of the printer's, and that Henry VI. is the character

intended, in whose time Sir Stephen Foster lived. I did not, however,

think it necessary to disturb the text; not out of respect to the

quarto, for a more disgraceful work never issued from the press even

of the printers of that age, but because, the circumstance having been

once noticed, it becomes of little consequence. While on this subject I

may just observe, that in the original this play is, with very trifling

limitations, throughout printed as blank verse: by what possible rule

or ear the division was made it is absolutely impossible to conceive;

some scenes have without hesitation been reduced to prose; and by

changing the construction of whole speeches, innumerable couplets have

been restored: if yet the attentive reader shall discover passages (and

that many have escaped my notice I cannot doubt), on which he would

willingly exercise his skill, I can only observe that he must not make

too free with the pruning knife; that it is difficult to distinguish

between a licentious metre and measured prose; and that very little

good dramatic dialogue of the higher walks can be found, that, with

moderate torturing to the eye and ear, may not pass for such metre.

The following is a list of his dramatic works--

1. "A New Wonder," "A Woman never vext," C. 4o, 1632.

2. A Tragedy called, All's Lost by Lust. Written by William Rowley.

Divers times Acted by the Lady Elizabeths Servants. And now lately

by her Maiesties Servants, with great applause, at the Ph[oe]nix in

Drury-Lane. 4o, 1633.

3. "A Match at Midnight," C. 4o, 1633, printed post.

4. "A Shoemaker's a Gentleman," C. 4o, 1638.

He wrote also, in conjunction with Day and Wilkins,

5. "The Travels of Three English Brothers," Sir Thomas, Sir Anthony,

and Mr Robert Sherley. 4o, 1607.

With Middleton,

6. "A Fair Quarrel," C. 4o, 1617.

7. "The World toss'd at Tennis," M. 4o, 1620.

8. "The Spanish Gipsy," C. 4o, 1663.

And,

9. "The Changeling," T. 4o, 1653.

With Fletcher,

10. "The Maid of the Mill," fol. 1647.

With Massinger and Middleton,

11. "The Old Law," T. C. 4o, 1656.

With Dekker and Ford,

12. "The Witch of Edmonton," T. C. 4o, 1658.

And (it is, however, _very_ doubtful) with Shakespeare,

13. "The Birth of Merlin." T. C. 4o, 1662.

With Webster (though Webster's participation is equally

problematical),

14. "A Cure for a Cuckold," C. 1661.

And,

15. "The Thracian Wonder," C. H. 4o, 1661.

And with Heywood,

16. "Fortune by Land and Sea," C. 4o, 1655.

The following are also entered in his name on the Books of the

Stationers' Company--

"The Fool without Book."

"A Knave in Print; or, One for Another."

"The Nonesuch."[28]

"The Book of the Four Honoured Loves."

And,

"The Parliament of Love."

In the Dramatis Personæ, prefixed to his own play of "All's Lost by

Lust," the part of Jaques, a simple clownish gentleman, is said to have

been personated by the poet; and in Middleton's "Inner Temple Masque,"

1619, he performed the part of Plumb-porridge.

It appears from Sir H. Herbert's office book, that _one_ of the Rowleys

wrote "A Match or No Match;" this is most probably our author's

"Match at Midnight." Rowley wrote also a [prose] pamphlet called, "A

Search for Money; or, The Lamentable Complaint for the Loss of the

Wandering Knight, Monsieur L'Argent," &c., 4o, 1609;[29] [an elegy on

a fellow-performer, Hugh Atwell, who died on the 25th September 1621;

printed on a broadside, and two or three other poetical trifles.][30]

FOOTNOTES:

[21] [This play having been printed by Dilke, and the following one (by

the same author) in Dodsley's collection, the two prefaces presented,

of course, many repetitions, as well as certain mistakes. That now

given (from a collation of the two) will, it is hoped, be found to

contain the whole matter of both without these accidental oversights.]

[22] Malone (Sh. by Bosw. II. 172) expresses his conviction that this

"rare scholar of Pembroke Hall" was neither William nor Samuel Rowley,

but _Ralph_ Rowley, who became a student of Pembroke Hall in 1579, and

was elected fellow in 1583.--_Collier._

[23] ["The Birth of Merlin," 1662.]

[24] [Halliwell's "New Illustrations of the Life of Shakespeare," 1875,

pp. 29, 30, where a curious anecdote of him is given.]

[25] The title of "All's Lost by Lust" might, at least with equal

propriety, be given to the others.

[26] [In the old copy and by Dilke the name is given as _Bruin_.]

[27] [See further Stow, edit. 1720, bk. i. p. 21.]

[28] [This and the two following plays were in Warburton's collection

of MSS. dramas, and appear to have perished.]

[29] [Chalmers, and after him Dilke, confounded Samuel with William

Rowley, supposing the latter to be the writer of the historical play on

the reign of Henry VIII. 4o, 1605, 1613, &c.]

[30] [Hazlitt's "Handbook," in _v_.]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

KING HENRY III.

MOUNTFORD.

PEMBROKE.

ARUNDEL.

CARDINAL.

LORD MAYOR.

OLD FOSTER.

ALDERMAN BREWEN.

STEPHEN, _brother to Old Foster_.

ROPERT, _son to Old Foster_.

SIR GODFREY SPEEDWELL, } _suitors to Jane_.

INNOCENT LAMBSKIN, }

RICHARD, _factor to Old Foster_.

GEORGE, _factor to Brewen_.

DOCTOR.

HOST BOXALL.

JACK, }

DICK, } _Gamesters_.

HUGH, }

ROGER, _the clown, servant to the Widow_.

KEEPER OF LUDGATE.

WIDOW, _the woman never vex'd_.

MISTRESS FOSTER, _wife to Old Foster_.

JANE, _daughter to Brewen_.

JOAN, _servant to Widow_.

A NEW WONDER:

A WOMAN NEVER VEXED.[31]

ACT I., SCENE I.

_Enter_ OLD FOSTER, ALDERMAN BREWEN, _and two_

_factors_,[32] RICHARD _and_ GEORGE.

O. FOS. This air has a sweet breath, Master Brewen.

BREW. Your partner, sir.

O. FOS. Ay, and in good, I hope: this halcyon gale

Plays the lewd wanton with our dancing sails,

And makes 'em big[33] with vaporous embryo.[34]

BREW. 'Tis no more yet; but then our fraught is full,

When she returns laden with merchandise,

And safe deliver'd with our customage.

O. FOS. Such a delivery heaven send us;

But time must ripen it. Are our accounts made even?

GEORGE. To the quantity of a penny, if his agree with mine.

What's yours, Richard?

RICH. Five hundred sixty pounds. Read the gross sum of your

broadcloths.

GEORGE. 68 pieces at B, ss, and l; 57 at l, ss, and o.[35]

RICH. Just: lead nineteen ton.

O. FOS. As evenly we will lay our bosoms

As our bottoms, with love as merchandise,

And may they both increase t' infinities.

BREW. Especially at home; that golden traffic, love,

Is scantier far than gold; and one mine of that

More worth than twenty argosies[36]

Of the world's richest treasure.

O. FOS. Here you shall dig [_Laying his hand on his breast_],

and find your lading.

BREW. Here's your exchange: and, as in love,

So we'll participate in merchandise.

O. FOS. The merchant's casualty:

We always venture on uncertain odds,

Although we bear hope's emblem, the anchor,

With us. The wind brought it; let the wind blow 't

Away again; should not the sea sometimes

Be partner with us, our wealth would swallow us.

BREW. A good resolve: but now I must be bold

To touch you with somewhat that concerns you.

O. FOS. I could prevent[37] you: is't not my unthrifty brother?

BREW. Nay, leave out th' adjective (unthrifty);

Your brother, sir--'tis he that I would speak of.

O. FOS. He cannot be nam'd without _unthrifty_, sir;

'Tis his proper epithet: would you conceit

But what my love has done for him:

So oft, so chargeable, and so expensive,

You would not urge another addition.

BREW. Nay, sir, you must not stay at quantity,

Till he forfeit the name of brother,

Which is inseparable: he's now in Ludgate, sir.

And part of your treasure lies buried with him.

O. FOS. Ay, by vulgar blemish, but not by any good account:

There let him howl; 'tis the best stay he hath;

For nothing but a prison can contain him,

So boundless is his riot: twice have I rais'd

His decayed fortunes to a fair estate;

But with as fruitless charity as if I had thrown

My safe-landed substance back into the sea;

Or dress in pity some corrupted jade,

And he should kick me for my courtesy.

I am sure you cannot but hear what quicksands

He finds out; as dice, cards, pigeon-holes,[38]

And which is more, should I not restrain it,

He'd make my state his prodigality.[39]

BREW. All this may be, sir; yet examples daily show

To our eyes that prodigals return at last;

And the loudest roarer[40] (as our city phrase is)

Will speak calm and smooth; you must help with hope, sir:

Had I such a brother, I should think

That heaven had made him as an instrument

For my best charity to work upon:

This is a maxim sure, _Some are made poor,_

_That rich men by giving may increase their store._

Nor think, sir,

That I do tax your labours and mean myself

For to stand idly by; for I have vow'd,

If heaven but bless this voyage now abroad,

To leave some memorable relic after me,

That shall preserve my name alive till doomsday.

O. FOS. Ay, sir, that work is good, and therein could I

Join with your good intents; but to relieve

A waste-good, a spendthrift----

BREW. O, no more, no more, good sir!

O. FOS. [_To_ RICH.] Sirrah, when saw you my son Robert?

RICH. This morning, sir; he said he would go visit his uncle.

O. FOS. I pay for their meetings, I am sure: that boy

Makes prize of all his fingers 'light upon

To relieve his unthrifty uncle.

BREW. Does he rob![41] In troth, I commend him. [_Aside._

O. FOS. [_To_ RICH.] 'Tis partly your fault, sirrah; you see't

and suffer it.

RICH. Sir, mine's a servant's duty, his a son's;

Nor know I better how to express my love

Unto yourself, than by loving your son.

O. FOS. By concealing of his pilferings.

RICH. I dare not call them so; he is my second master,

And methinks 'tis far above my limits

Either to check or to complain of him.

BREW. Gramercy, Dick, thou mak'st a good construction;

[_To_ O. FOS.] And your son Robert a natural nephew's part

To relieve his poor uncle.

O. FOS. 'Tis in neither well, sir: for note but the

Condition of my estate; I'm lately married

To a wealthy widow, from whom my substance

Chiefly does arise: she has observed this in her

Son-in-law, often complains and grudges at it,

And what foul broils such civil discords bring,

Few married men are ignorant of.

_Enter_ MISTRESS FOSTER.

Nay, will you see a present proof of it?

MRS FOS. Shall I not live to breathe a quiet hour?

I would I were a beggar with content

Rather than thus be thwarted for mine own.

O. FOS. Why, what's the matter, woman?

MRS FOS. I'll rouse 'em up,

Though you regard not of my just complaints,

Neither in love to me, nor [for] preserving me

From other injuries, both which you're tied to

By all the rightful laws, heavenly or humane--

But I'll complain, sir, where I will be heard.

O. FOS. Nay, thou'lt be heard too far.

MRS FOS. Nay, sir, I will be heard:

Some awkward star threw out's unhappy fire

At my conception, and 'twill never quench,

While I have heat in me. Would I were cold!

There would be bonfires made to warm defame:

My death would be a jubilee to some.

O. FOS. Why, sir, how should I minister remedy

And know not the cause?

BREW. Mother-o'-pearl![42] Woman, shew your husband the cause.

MRS FOS. Had he been a husband, sir, I had no cause.

[So] to complain: I threw down at his feet

The subjection of his whole estate: he did not

Marry me for love's sake, nor for pity;

But love to that I had; he now neglects

The love he had before: a prodigal

Is suffer'd to lay waste those worldly blessings,

Which I enclosed long,[43] intending for good uses.

O. FOS. That's my son.

MRS FOS. Ay, thou know'st it well enough; He's the conduit-pipe

That throws it forth into the common shore.

O. FOS. And th' other's my brother.

MRS FOS. You may well shame,

As I do grieve the kindred; but I'd make

The one a stranger, the other a servant--

No son nor brother; for they deserve neither

Of those offices.

O. FOS. Why, did I ever cherish him! have not I threaten'd him

With disinheritance for this disorder?

MRS FOS. Why do you not perform it?

O. FOS. The other's in Ludgate.

MRS FOS. No; he's in my house, approving to my face

The charitable office of his kind nephew

Who with his pilfering purloin'd from me,

Has set him at liberty; if this may be suffer'd,

I'll have no eyes to see.

O. FOS. Prythee, content thyself, I'll see

A present remedy. Sirrah, go call 'em in:

This worthy gentleman shall know the cause,

And censure for us both with equity.

BREW. Nay, good sir, let not me be so employ'd,

For I shall favour one for pity,

The other for your love's sake.

_Enter_ ROBERT _and_ STEPHEN FOSTER.

O. FOS. Now, sir,

Are all my words with you so light esteem'd,

That they can take no hold upon your duty?

ROB. Misconstrue not, I beseech you.

MRS FOS. Nay, he'll approve his good deeds, I warrant you.

O. FOS. And you, sir?

STEPH. Well, sir.

O. FOS. I had thought you had been in Ludgate, sir?

STEPH. Why, you see where I am, sir.

O. FOS. Why, where are you, sir?

STEPH. In debt, sir, in debt.

O. FOS. Indeed, that is a place you hardly can be

Removed from; but this is not a place fit

For one in debt. How came you out of prison, sirrah?[44]

STEPH. As I went into prison, sirrah--by the keepers.

O. FOS. [_To_ ROB.] This was your work, to let this bandog loose.

ROB. Sir, it was my duty to let my uncle loose.

O. FOS. Your duty did belong to me, and I

Did not command it.

ROB. You cannot make a separation, sir,

Betwixt the duty that belongs to me

And love unto my uncle: as well you may

Bid me [to] love my maker, and neglect

The creature which he hath bid me [to] love:[45]

If man to man join not a love on earth,

They love not heaven, nor him that dwells above it;

Such is my duty; a strong correlative

Unto my uncle--why, he's half yourself.

BREW. Believe me, sir, he has answer'd you well.

O. FOS. He has not, worthy sir;

But to make void that false construction.

Here I disclaim the title of a brother;

And by that disclaim hast thou lost thy child's part:

Be thou engag'd for any debts of his,

In prison rot with him; my goods shall not

Purchase such fruitless recompence.

STEPH. Then thou'rt a scurvy father and a filthy brother.

MRS FOS. Ay, ay, sir, your tongue cannot defame his reputation.

STEPH. But yours can; for all the city reports what an

abominable scold he has got to his wife.

O. FOS. If e'er I know thou keep'st him company,

I'll take my blessing from thee whilst I live,

And that which after me should bless thy 'state.

STEPH. And I'll proclaim thy baseness to the world;

Ballads I'll make, and make 'em tavern music,

To sing thy churlish cruelty.

O. FOS. Tut, tut, these are babbles.[46]

STEPH. Each festival day I'll come unto thy house,

And I will piss upon thy threshold.

O. FOS. You must be out of prison first, sir.

STEPH. If e'er I live to see thee sheriff of London,

I'll gild thy painted posts[47] _cum privilegio_,

And kick thy sergeants.

ROB. Nay, good uncle!

STEPH. Why, I'll beg for thee, boy;

I'll break this leg, and bind it up again,

To pull out pity from a stony breast,

Rather than thou shalt want.

O. FOS. Ay, do; let him sear up his arm, and scarf it up

With two yards of rope; counterfeit two villains;

Beg under a hedge, and share your bounty:[48]

But come not near my house;

Nor thou in's company, if thou'lt obey:

There's punishment for thee; for thee there's worse:

The loss of all that's mine, with my dear curse. [_Exeunt._

_Manent_ STEPHEN _and_ ROBERT.

STEPH. Churl! dog! you churlish rascally miser!

ROB. Nay, good uncle, throw not foul language;

This is but heat, sir, and I doubt not but

To cool this rage with my obedience:

But, uncle, you must not then heap[49] such fuel.

STEPH. Coz, I grieve for thee, that thou hast undergone

Thy father's curse for love unto thy uncle.

ROB. Tut! that bond shall ne'er be cancell'd, sir.

STEPH. I pity that, i'faith.

ROB. Let pity then for me turn to yourself:

Bethink yourself, sir, of some course that might

Befit your estate, and let me guide it.

STEPH. Ha, a course? 'Sfoot! I have't![50] Coz, canst lend me

forty shillings? Could I but repair this old decay'd tenement

of mine with some new plaister; for, alas, what can a man do in

such a case as this?

ROB. Ay, but your course, uncle?

STEPH. Tush! leave that to me, because thou shalt wonder at it:

if you should see me in a scarlet gown within the compass of

a gold chain, then I hope you'll say that I do keep myself in

good compass: then, sir, if the cap of maintenance[51] do march

before me, and not a cap be suffer'd to be worn in my presence,

pray do not upbraid me with my former poverty. I cannot tell,

state and wealth may make a man forget himself; but, I beseech

you, do not; there are things in my head that you dream not of;

dare you try me, coz?

ROB. Why, forty shillings, uncle, shall not keep back

Your fortunes.

STEPH. Why, gramercy, coz. [_Aside._] Now if the dice do run

right, this forty shillings may set me up again: to lay't on

my back, and so to pawn it, there's ne'er a damn'd broker in

the world will give me half the worth on't: no, whilst 'tis

in ready cash, that's the surest way: seven is better than

eleven; a pox take the bones![52] an they will not favour a man

sometimes.

ROB. Look you, uncle, there's forty shillings for you.

STEPH. As many good angels guard thee, as thou hast given me

bad ones to seduce me! for these deputy devils damn worse

than the old ones. Now, coz, pray listen; listen after

my transformation: I will henceforth turn an apostate to

prodigality; I will eat cheese and onions, and buy lordships;

and will not you think this strange?

ROB. I am glad you're merry, uncle; but this is fix'd

Betwixt an uncle and a nephew's love;

Though my estate be poor, revenues scant,

Whilst I have any left, you shall not want.

STEPH. Why, gramercy! by this hand I'll make thee an alderman,

before I die, do but follow my steps. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ CLOWN.

WID. Sirrah, will the churchman come I sent you for?

CLOWN. Yes, mistress, he will come; but pray, resolve me one

thing for my long service. What business have you with the

churchman? Is it to make your will, or to get you a new husband?

WID. Suppose to make my will, how then?

CLOWN. Then I would desire you to remember me, mistress; I

have serv'd you long, and that's the best service to a woman:

make a good will, if you mean to die, that it may not be said,

_Though most women be long-liv'd, yet they all die with an

ill-will._

WID. So, sir; suppose it be for marriage?

CLOWN. Why, then, remember yourself, mistress: take heed how

you give away the head; it stands yet upon the shoulders of

your widowhood: the loving, embracing ivy has yet the upper

place in the house; if you give it to the holly, take heed,

there's pricks in holly; or if you fear not the pricks, take

heed of the wands; you cannot have the pricks without the

wands: you give away the sword, and must defend yourself with

the scabbard: these are pretty instructions of a friend; I

would be loth to see you cast down, and not well taken up.

WID. Well, sir, well, let not all this trouble you; see, he's

come: will you begone?

_Enter_ DOCTOR.[53]

CLOWN. I will first give him a caveat, to use you as kindly

as he can. [_To the_ DOCTOR.] If you find my mistress have a

mind to this coupling at barley-break, let her not be the last

couple to be left in hell.[54]

DOC. I would I knew your meaning, sir.

CLOWN. If she have a mind to a fresh husband or so, use her as

well as you can; let her enter into as easy bands as may be.

DOC. Sir, this is none of my traffic; I sell no husbands.

CLOWN. Then you do wrong, sir; for you take money for 'em: what

woman can have a husband, but you must have custom for him? and

often the ware proves naught too--not worth the impost.

DOC. Your man's pregnant[55] and merry, mistress.

WID. He's saucy, sir. Sirrah, you'll begone?

CLOWN. Nay, at the second hand you'll have a fee too; you sell

in the church; and[56] they bring 'em again to your churchyard,

you must have tollage: methinks, if a man die whether you will

or no, he should be buried whether you would or no.

DOC. Nay, now you wade too far, sir.

WID. You'll begone, sirrah!

CLOWN. Mistress, make him your friend; for he knows what rate

good husbands are at; if there hath been a dearth of women of

late, you may chance pick out a good prize; but take heed of a

clerk.

WID. Will you yet, sir, after your needless trouble?

Begone, and bid the maids dress dinner!

CLOWN. Mistress, 'tis fasting day to-day, there's nothing

But fish.

WID. Let there be store of that; let bounty

Furnish the table, and charity

Shall be the voider. What fish is there, sirrah?

CLOWN. Marry, there is salmon, pike, and fresh cod, soles,

maids,[57] and plaice.

WID. Bid 'em haste to dress 'em then.

CLOWN. Nay, mistress, I'll help 'em too; the maids shall first

dress the pike and the cod, and then [_Aside_] I'll dress the

maids in the place you wot on. [_Exit_ CLOWN.

DOC. You sent for me, gentlewoman?

WID. Sir, I did: and to this end:

I have some scruples in my conscience;

Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer

Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.

DOC. This is my duty; pray [you], speak your mind.

WID. And as I speak, I must remember heaven,

That gave those blessings which I must relate:

Sir, you now behold a wond'rous woman;

You only wonder at the epithet;

I can approve it good: guess at mine age.

DOC. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty.

WID. 'Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the last.

How think you then, is not this a wonder?

That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years

Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow,

Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while

From the extremest verge of my remembrance,

Even from my weaning-hour unto this minute,

Did never taste what was calamity?

I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought

An hundred ways for its acquaintance: with me

Prosperity hath kept so close a watch,

That even those things that I have meant a cross,

Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange?

DOC. Unparallel'd; this gift is singular,

And to you alone belonging: you are the moon,

For there's but one: all women else are stars,

For there are none of like condition.

Full oft and many have I heard complain

Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities,

But a second to yourself I never knew:

To groan under the superflux of blessings,

To have ever been alien unto sorrow,

No trip of fate? Sure, it is wonderful.

WID. Ay, sir, 'tis wonderful: but is it well?

For it is now my chief affliction.

I have heard you say, that the child of heaven

Shall suffer many tribulations;

Nay, kings and princes share them with their subjects:

Then I that know not any chastisement,

How may I know my part of childhood?[58]

DOC. 'Tis a good doubt; but make it not extreme.

'Tis some affliction that you are afflicted

For want of affliction; cherish that:

Yet wrest it not to misconstruction;

For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven--

Health, wealth, and peace; nor can they turn to curses

But by abuse. Pray, let me question you:

You lost a husband--was it no grief to you?

WID. It was; but very small. No sooner I

Had given it entertainment as a sorrow,

But straight it turn'd unto my treble joy:

A comfortable revelation prompts me then,

That husband (whom in life I held so dear)

Had chang'd a frailty to unchanging joys;

Methought I saw him stellified in heaven,

And singing hallelujahs 'mongst a quire

Of white-sainted souls: then again it spake,

And said it was a sin for me to grieve

At his best good, that I esteemed best:

And thus this slender shadow of a grief

Vanish'd again.

DOC. All this was happy; nor can you wrest it from

A heavenly blessing: do not appoint the rod;

Leave still the stroke unto the magistrate:

The time is not passed, but you may feel enough.

WID. One taste more I had, although but little,

Yet I would aggravate to make the most on't;

Thus 'twas: the other day it was my hap,

In crossing of the Thames,

To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger

That once conjoin'd me and my dead husband;

It sank; I priz'd it dear--the dearer, 'cause it kept

Still in mine eye the memory of my loss;

Yet I griev'd [less] the loss; and [I] did joy withal,

That I had found a grief: and this is all

The sorrow I can boast of.

DOC. This is but small.

WID. Nay, sure I am of this opinion,

That had I suffered a draught to be made for it,

The bottom would have sent it up again,

I am so wondrously fortunate.

DOC. You would not suffer it?

_Enter_ CLOWN.

WID. Not for my whole estate.

CLOWN. O mistress! where are you? I think you are the

fortunatest woman that ever breathed on two shoes: the thief is

found.

WID. The thief! what thief? I never was so happy to be robbed.

CLOWN. Bring him away, Jug: nay, you shall see the strangest

piece of felony discovered that ever you saw, or your great

grandmother's grandam before, or after; a pirate, a water-thief.

WID. What's all this?

CLOWN. Bring him away, Jug: yet the villain would not confess a

word, till it was found about him.

WID. I think the fellow's mad.

CLOWN. Did you not lose your wedding-ring the other day?

WID. Yes, sir, but I was not robbed of it.

_Enter_ JOAN _with a fish_.

CLOWN. No! well, thank him that brings it home then, and will

ask nothing for his pains. You see this salmon?

WID. Yes, what of it?

CLOWN. It cost but sixpence: but had the fisher known the worth

of it, 'twould have cost you forty shillings. Is not this your

ring?

WID. The very same.

CLOWN. Your maid Joan, examining this salmon, that she bought

in the market, found that he had swallowed this gudgeon.

WID. How am I vex'd with blessings! how think you, sir,

Is not this above wonder?

DOC. I am amaz'd at it.

WID. First, that this fish should snatch it as a bait;

Then that my servant needs must buy that fish

'Mongst such infinities of fish and buyers:

What fate is mine that runs all by itself

In unhappy happiness? My conscience dreads it.

Would thou hadst not swallowed it, or thou not bought it.

CLOWN. Alas! blame not the poor fish, mistress: he, being a

phlegmatic creature, took gold for restorative.[59] He took it

fair; and he that gets gold, let him eat gold.

WID. Nothing can hinder fate.

DOC. Seek not to cross it, then.

WID. [_To_ JOAN.] About your business! you have not pleased me

in this.

JOAN. By my maidenhead! if I had thought you would have ta'en

it no kindlier, you should ne'er have been vexed with the sight

on't; the garbage should have been the cook's fees at this

time. [_Exit_ JOAN.

CLOWN. Now do I see the old proverb come to pass--_Give a woman

luck, and cast her into the sea_: there's many a man would

wish his wife good luck on that condition he might throw her

away so. But, mistress, there's one within would speak with

you, that vexeth as fast against crosses as you do against good

luck.

WID. I know her sure, then; 'tis my gossip Foster.

Request her in; here's good company, tell her.

CLOWN. I'll tell her so for my own credit's sake. [_Exit._

WID. Yon shall now see an absolute contrary:

Would I had chang'd bosoms with her for a time!

'Twould make me better relish happiness.

_Enter_ MISTRESS FOSTER _and_ CLOWN.

MRS FOS. O friend and gossip, where are you? I am

O'erladen with my griefs, and but in your bosom

I know not where to ease me.

CLOWN. I had rather

Help you to a close-stool, an't please you. [_Aside._

MRS FOS. Ne'er had woman more sinister fate;

All ominous stars were in conjunction

Even at my birth, and do still attend me.

DOC. This is a perfect contrary indeed.

WID. What ails you, woman?

MRS FOS. Unless seven witches had set spells about me,

I could not be so cross'd; never at quiet,

Never a happy hour, not a minute's content.

DOC. You hurt yourself most with impatience.

MRS FOS. Ay, ay, physicians 'minister with ease,

Although the patient do receive in pain:

Would I could think but of one joyful hour!

CLOWN. You have had two husbands to my knowledge; and if you

had not one joyful hour between both, I would you were hanged,

i' faith. [_Aside._

MRS FOS. Full fourteen years I liv'd a weary maid,

Thinking no joy till I had got a husband.

CLOWN. That was a tedious time indeed. [_Aside._

MRS FOS. I had one lov'd me well, and then ere long

I grew into my longing peevishness.

CLOWN. There was some pleasure ere you came to that. [_Aside._

MRS FOS. Then all the kindness that he would apply,

Nothing could please: soon after it he died.

CLOWN. That could be but little grief. [_Aside._

MRS FOS. Then worldly care did so o'erload my weakness,

That I must have a second stay; I chose again,

And there begins my griefs to multiply.

WID. It cannot be, friend; your husband's kind.

DOC. A man of fair condition, well-reputed.

CLOWN. But it may be he has not that should please her.

WID. Peace, sirrah! How can your sorrows increase from him?

MRS FOS. How can they but o'erwhelm me? He keeps a son,

That makes my state his prodigality;

To him a brother, one of the city scandals.

The one the hand, the other is the maw;

And between both my goods are swallowed up.

The full quantity that I brought amongst 'em

Is now consum'd to half.

WID. The fire of your spleen wastes it:

Good sooth, gossip, I could laugh at thee, and only grieve

I have not some cause of sorrow with thee:

Prythee, be temperate, and suffer.

DOC. 'Tis good counsel, mistress; receive it so.

WID. Canst thou devise to lay them half on me?

And I'll bear 'em willingly.

MRS FOS. Would I could! that I might laugh another while:

But you are wise to heed at others' harms;

You'll keep you happy in your widowhood.

WID. Not I, in good faith, were I sure marriage

Would make me unhappy.

MRS FOS. Try, try, you shall not need to wish;

You'll sing another song, and bear a part

In my grief's descant, when you're vex'd at heart:

Your second choice will differ from the first;

So oft as widows marry, they are accurs'd.

CLOWN. Ay, cursed widows are; but if they had all stiff

husbands to tame 'em, they'd be quiet enough.

WID. You'll be gone, sir, and see dinner ready.

CLOWN. I care not if I do, mistress, now my stomach's ready;

Yet I'll stay a little, an't be but to vex you.

WID. When go you, sirrah?

CLOWN. I will not go yet.

WID. Ha, ha, ha! thou makest me laugh at thee; prythee, stay.

CLOWN. Nay, then, I'll go to vex you. [_Exit_ CLOWN.

MRS FOS. You have a light heart, gossip.

WID. So should you, woman, would you be rul'd by me.

Come, we'll dine together; after walk abroad

Unto my suburb garden,[60] where, if thou'lt hear,

I'll read my heart to thee, and thou from thence

Shall learn to vex thy cares with patience. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[31] [This play was first reprinted by Dilke in his "Old English

Plays," 1816.]

[32] The word _factor_ is here used in a more limited sense than at

present, as Richard and George appear to have been the exclusive

servants of the other two.

[33] So Titania, in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"--

"We have laugh'd to see the sails conceive,

And grow _big-bellied_ with the wanton wind."

[34] [Old copy and Dilke, _envy_.]

[35] These are, I believe, the private marks of the merchants to denote

the value of their goods, a sort of cipher known only to themselves.

They may, however, allude to the marks affixed to the different

packages in which the pieces were contained.

[36] _Argosies_ [were ships chiefly used for commercial purposes,

but also occasionally employed in what was known at Venice as the

mercantile marine. They were of large size. The origin of the word is

doubtful; but it probably comes from _Argo_, the name of the vessel

which sailed, according to tradition, in the Argonautic cruise.]

Gremio, in the "Taming of the Shrew," talks of an _argosy_ which he

would settle on Bianca, and then tauntingly asks--

"What, have I chok'd you with an _argosy_?"

[37] [Anticipate.]

[38] _Pigeon-holes_ seems to have been the game which is sometimes

called _trow-madame_, or _trol-my-dames_. See Steevens's note on

"The Winter's Tale," act iv. sc. 2; and in Farmer's note on the same

passage, the reader will find a description of the manner of playing

it. [See "Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," ii. 325.]

[39] [This expression is repeated lower down, or it might have been

supposed that a word was wanting to complete the sense. As it is, the

meaning can be easily guessed at.]

[40] _Roarer_ was the common cant word for the swaggering drunkard of

our poet's age. Its occurrence is sufficiently common. So in Dekker's

play, "If it be not a Good Play, the Devil's in it"--

"Those bloody thoughts will damn you into hell.

SOU. Do you think so? What becomes of our _roaring boys_ then,

_that stab healths one to another_?"

[41] [A play may be intended on _rob_ and _Robert_.]

[42] This seems a cant expression, as Brewen several times uses it.

[43] [Old copy and Dilke, _long enclosed_.]

[44] [In the old copy and Dilke this speech is printed as prose. The

old copy reads _that's--can hardly_.]

[45] Our poet here evidently alludes to a passage in the First Epistle

to St John, chap. iii. ver. 10.

[46] _i.e._, Idle tales.

[47] It appears to have been the custom for the sheriff to have a post

set up at his door as an indication of his office. So in the "Twelfth

Night" of Shakespeare, Malvolio says of Cesario, "He'll stand at your

door like a sheriff's post." See notes on act i. sc. 5, where the

passage in the text has been quoted by Steevens.

[48] Our poet alludes here to the methods which are still frequently

practised amongst beggars, of making artificial sores. The reader

will find many of these mentioned by Prigg in act ii. sc. 1 of the

"Beggar's Bush" of Beaumont and Fletcher. In the quarto this speech is

in horrible metre; and the same may be observed of nearly the whole

remainder of this scene, and until the clown quits the stage in the

next.

[49] [Old copy and Dilke, _heap on_.]

[50] "'Sfoot I hate," [_i.e._, _ha't_] is the reading of the 4o.

[51] Caps of maintenance are said to be carried in state on occasions

of great solemnity before the mayors of several cities in England.

Stephen had before imagined himself arrayed with the gown and chain of

an alderman; he is now describing his consequence as the future Lord

Mayor of London.

[52] The dice.

[53] It is to be remembered that the doctor here introduced is a

_divine_, and not a physician.

[54] [See "Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," ii., 293-5.]

[55] [Full of wit] So in "Hamlet"--

"How _pregnant_ sometimes his replies are."

[56] [If.]

[57] [Thornbacks.]

[58] Our poet alludes here to a passage in the Epistle to the Hebrews,

chap. xii. vers. 7 and 8.

[59] Gold was formerly used in medicine, and many imaginary virtues

ascribed to it.

[60] These _suburb gardens_ and _garden-houses_ are constantly

mentioned by the writers of that age. An extract from Stubbs's "Anatomy

of Abuses," 1585 (quoted by Mr Gifford in a note on "The Bondman"),

will afford the reader some information: "In the suberbes of the citie,

they [the women] have _gardens_ either paled or walled round about very

high, with their harbours and bowers fit for the purpose; and lest

they might be espied in these open places, they have their _banqueting

houses_, with galleries, turrets, and what not, therein sumptuously

erected, wherein they may, and doubtless do, many of them, play the

filthy persons."

ACT II., SCENE I.

_Enter_ HOST BOXALL, STEPHEN, JACK, DICK, _and_

HUGH.

HOST. Welcome still, my merchants of _bona Speranza_; what's

your traffic, bullies? What ware deal you in?--cards, dice,

bowls, or pigeon-holes? Sort 'em yourselves: either passage,

Novem, or mumchance?[61] Say, my brave bursemen, what's your

recreation?

STEPH. Dice, mine host. Is there no other room empty?

HOST. Not a hole unstopped in my house but this, my thrifts.

JACK. Miscall us not for our money, good mine host; we are none

of your thrifts. We have 'scaped that scandal long ago.

DICK. Yes, his thrifts we are, Jack, though not our own.

HOST. Tush, you are young men; 'tis too soon to thrive yet. He

that gathers young, spends when he's old. 'Tis better to begin

ill and end well, than to begin well and end ill. Miserable

fathers have, for the most part, unthrifty sons. Leave not too

much for your heirs, boys.

JACK. He says well, i' faith: why should a man trust to

executors?

STEPH. As good trust to hangmen as to executors. Who's in the

bowling-alley, mine host?

HOST. Honest traders, thrifty lads, they are rubbing

on't; towardly boys, every one strives to lie nearest the

mistress.[62]

STEPH. Give's a bale of dice.[63]

HOST. Here, my brave wags.

STEPH. We fear no counters now, mine host, so long as we have

your bale so ready.[64] Come, trip.

JACK. Up with's heels.

DICK. Down with them.

HUGH. Now the dice are mine; set me now a fair board; a fair

passage, sweet bones! Boreas![65]

[_A noise below in the bowling-alley of betting_

_and wrangling._

HOST. How now, my fine trundletails;[66] my wooden

cosmographers; my bowling-alley in an uproar? Is Orlando up in

arms? I must be stickler; I am constable, justice, and beadle

in mine own house; I accuse, sentence, and punish: have amongst

you! look to my box, boys![67] He that breaks the peace, I

brake his pate for recompense: look to my box, I say! [_Exit._

STEPH. A pox o' your box! I shall ne'er be so happy to reward

it better; set me fair; aloft now. [_The dice are thrown._

JACK. Out.

STEPH. What was't?

DICK. Two treys and an ace.

STEPH. Seven still, pox on't! that number of the deadly sins

haunts me damnably. Come, sir, throw.

JACK. Prythee, invoke not so: all sinks too fast already.

HUGH. It will be found again in mine host's box. [_The dice are

thrown._

JACK. In still, two thieves and choose thy fellow.

STEPH. Take the miller.

JACK. Have at them, i' faith. [_Throws._

HUGH. For a thief, I'll warrant you; who'll you have next?

JACK. Two quatres and a trey.

STEPH. I hope we shall have good cheer, when two caters and a

tray go to the market.[68]

_Enter_ HOST.

HOST. So all's whist; they play upon the still pipes now; the

bull-beggar[69] comes when I show my head. Silence is a virtue,

and I have made 'em virtuous. Let 'em play still till they be

penniless; pawn till they be naked; so they be quiet, welcome

and welcome. (_A noise above at cards._) How now! how now! my

roaring Tamberlain? take heed, the Soldan comes: and 'twere not

for profit, who would live amongst such bears? Why, Ursa Major,

I say, what, in Capite Draconis? is there no hope to reclaim

you? shall I never live in quiet for you?

DICK. Good mine host, still 'em; civil gamesters cannot play

for 'em.

HOST. I come amongst you, you maledictious slaves! I'll utter

you all; some I'll take ready money for, and lay up the rest in

the stocks: look to my box, I say!

STEPH. Your box is like your belly, mine host: it draws all.

Now for a suit of apparel. [_Throws the dice._

JACK. At whose suit, I pray? You're out again with the threes.

STEPH. Foot! I think my father threw three when I was begotten:

pox on't! I know now why I am so haunted with threes.

JACK. Why, I prythee?

STEPH. I met the third part of a knave as I came.

JACK. The third part of a knave? 'sfoot! what thing's that?

STEPH. Why, a serjeant's yeoman, man; the supervisor himself is

but a whole one, and he shares but a groat in the shilling with

him.

DICK. That's but the third part indeed: but goes he no further?

STEPH. No, he rests there.

HUGH. Come, let's give o'er.

STEPH. I thank you, sir, and so much a loser? there's but the

waistband of my suit left:[70] now, sweet bones!

HUGH. Twelve at all. [_Throws._

STEPH. Soft, this die is false.

HUGH. False? you do him wrong, sir; he's true to his master.

STEPH. Fullam!

DICK. I'll be hanged, then! where's Putney, then, I pray

you?[71]

STEPH. 'Tis false, and I'll have my money again.

HUGH. You shall have cold iron with your silver, then.

STEPH. Ay, have at you, sir!

_Enter_ HOST _and_ YOUNG FOSTER.

HOST. I think he's here, sir.

[_They draw their swords and fight_. YOUNG

FOSTER _assists his uncle and the host, and_

_the cheats are beaten. Whilst they are fighting,_

_the bowlers enter and steal away their_

_cloaks_.

ROB. I am sure he's now, sir.

HUGH. Hold! hold! an' you be gentlemen, hold!

ROB. Get you gone, varlets, or there's hold to be taken!

HOST. Nay, sweet sir, no bloodshed in my house; I am lord of

misrule; pray you, put up, sir.

OMNES. 'Sfoot! mine host, where are our cloaks?

HOST. Why, this is quarrelling: make after in time: some of

your own crew, to try the weight, has lifted them: look out, I

say.

JACK. There will ever be thieves in a dicing house till thou

be'st hanged, I'll warrant thee. [_Exit._

STEPH. Mine host, my cloak was lined through with orange-tawny

velvet.

HOST. How, your cloak? I ne'er knew thee worth one.

STEPH. You're a company of coneycatching rascals: is this a

suit to walk without a cloak in?

ROB. Uncle, is this the reformation that you promised me?

STEPH. Coz, shall I tell thee the truth? I had diminished

but sixpence of the forty shillings; by chance meeting with

a friend, I went to a tailor, bargained for a suit: it came

to full forty: I tendered my thirty-nine and a half, and (do

you think) the scabby-wristed rascal would [not] trust me for

sixpence!

ROB. Your credit is the better, uncle.

STEPH. Pox on him! if the tailor had been a man, I had had a

fair suit on my back: so venturing for the other tester----

ROB. You lost the whole bedstead.[72]

STEPH. But after this day, I protest, coz, you shall never see

me handle those bones again; this day I break up school: if

ever you call me unthrift after this day, you do me wrong.

ROB. I should be glad to wrong you so, uncle.

STEPH. And what says your father yet, coz?

ROB. I'll tell you that in your ear.

_Enter_ MISTRESS FOSTER, WIDOW, _and_ CLOWN.

MRS FOS. Nay, I pray you, friend, bear me company a little

this way; for into this dicing-house I saw my good son-in-law

enter, and 'tis odds but he meets his uncle here.

WID. You cannot tire me, gossip, in your company; 'tis the best

affliction I have to see you impatient.

MRS FOS. Ay, ay, you may make mirth of my sorrow.

CLOWN. We have hunted well, mistress; do you not see the hare's

in sight?

MRS FOS. Did not I tell you so? ay, ay, there's good counsel

between you; the one would go afoot to hell, the other the

horseway.

ROB. Mother, I am sorry you have trod this path.

MRS FOS. Mother? hang thee, wretch! I bore thee not;

But many afflictions I have borne for thee:

Wert thou mine own, I'd see thee stretch'd (a handful),

And put thee a coffin into the cart

Ere thou shouldst vex me thus.

ROB. Were I your own,

You could not use me worse than you do.

MRS FOS. I'll make thy father turn thee out for ever,

Or else I'll make him wish him in his grave.

You'll witness with me, gossip, where I've found him.

CLOWN. Nay, I'll be sworn upon a book of calico for that.

ROB. It shall not need; I'll not deny that I was with my uncle.

MRS FOS. And that shall disinherit thee, if thy father

Be an honest man: thou hadst been better

To have been born a viper, and eat thy way

Through thy mother's womb into the world,

Than to tempt my displeasure.

STEPH. Thou liest, Xantippe! it had been better

Thou'dst been press'd to death under two Irish rugs,

Than to ride honest Socrates, thy husband, thus,

And abuse his honest child.

MRS FOS. Out, raggamuffin? dost thou talk? I shall see thee

In Ludgate again shortly.

STEPH. Thou liest again: 'twill be at Moorgate, beldam, where I

shall see thee in the ditch dancing in a cucking-stool.[73]

MRS FOS. I'll see thee hanged first.

STEPH. Thou liest again.

CLOWN. Nay, sir, you do wrong to give a woman so many lies: she

had rather have had twice so many standings than one lie.

MRS FOS. I'll lie with him, I'll warrant him.

STEPH. You'll be a whore, then.

CLOWN. Little less, I promise you, if you lie with him.

STEPH. If you complain upon mine honest coz,

And that his father be offended with him,

The next time I meet thee, though it be i' the street,

I'll dance i' th' dirt upon thy velvet cap;

Nay, worse, I'll stain thy ruff; nay, worse than that,

I'll do thus. [_Holds a wisp._[74]

MRS FOS. O my heart; gossip, do you see this? Was ever

Woman thus abus'd?

WID. Methinks 'tis good sport, i' faith.

MRS FOS. Ay, I am well recompens'd to complain to you?

Had you such a kindred----

WID. I would rejoice in't, gossip.

MRS FOS. Do so; choose here then. O my heart! but I'll do

your errand! O that my nails were not pared! but I'll do your

errand! Will you go, gossip?

WID. No, I'll stay awhile, and tell 'em out with patience.

MRS FOS. I cannot hold a joint still! Dost wisp me, thou

tatterdemalion? I'll do your errands! if I have a husband. O

that I could spit wild-fire! My heart! O my heart! if it does

not go pantle, pantle, pantle in my belly, I am no honest

woman: but I'll do your errands!

[_Exit_ MISTRESS FOSTER.

ROB. Kind gentlewoman, you have some patience.

WID. I have too much, sir.

ROB. You may do a good office, and make yourself a peaceful

moderator betwixt me and my angry father, whom his wife hath

moved to spleen against me.

WID. Sir, I do not disallow the kindness

Your consanguinity renders; I would not teach

You otherwise: I'd speak with your uncle, sir,

If you'll give me leave.

CLOWN. [_To_ ROBERT.] You may talk with me, sir, in the

meantime. [_Exit_ ROBERT _and_ CLOWN.

STEPH. With me would you talk, gentlewoman?

WID. Yes, sir, with you: you are a brave unthrift.

STEPH. Not very brave neither, yet I make a shift.

WID. When you have a clean shirt.

STEPH. I'll be no pupil to a woman. Leave your discipline.

WID. Nay, pray you, hear me, sir, I cannot chide; I'll but give

you good counsel: 'tis not a good Course that you run.

STEPH. Yet I must run to th' end of it.

WID. I would teach you a better, if you'd stay where you are.

STEPH. I would stay where I am, if I had any money.

WID. In the dicing-house?

STEPH. I think so too; I have played at passage all this while,

now I'd go to hazard.

WID. Dost thou want money? Thou art worthy to be tattered! Hast

thou no wit, now thy money's gone?

STEPH. 'Tis all the portion I have. I have nothing to maintain

me but my wit; my money is too little, I'm sure.

WID. I cannot believe thy wit's more than thy money--a fellow

so well-limbed, so able to do good service, and want?

STEPH. Why, mistress, my shoulders were not made for a frock

and a basket, nor a coal-sack; no, nor my hands to turn a

trencher at a table's side.

WID. I like that resolution well; but how comes it then that

thy wit leaves thy body unfurnished? Thou art very poor?

STEPH. The fortune of the dice, you see.

WID. They are the only wizards, I confess,

The only fortune-tellers; but he that goes

To seek his fortune from them must never hope

To have a good destiny allotted him.

Yet it is not the course that I dislike in thee,

But that thou canst not supply that course,

And outcross them that cross thee; were I as thou art--

STEPH. You'd be as beggarly as I am.

WID. I'll be hanged first.

STEPH. Nay, you must be well hanged ere you can be as I am.

WID. So, sir: I conceit you. Were I as well hanged, then, as

you could imagine, I would tell some rich widow such a tale in

her ear--

STEPH. Ha! some rich widow? By this penniless pocket, I think

'twere not the worst way.

WID. I'd be ashamed to take such a fruitless oath. I say, seek

me out some rich widow; promise her fair--she's apt to believe

a young man. Marry her, and let her estate fly. No matter: 'tis

charity. Twenty to one some rich miser raked it together. This

is none of Hercules' labours.

STEPH. Ha? Let me recount these articles: _seek her out;

promise her fair; marry her; let her estate fly_. But where

should I find her?

WID. The easiest of all. Why, man, they are more common than

tavern-bushes; two fairs might be furnished every week in

London with 'em, though no foreigners came in, if the charter

were granted once: nay, 'tis thought, if the horsemarket be

removed, that Smithfield shall be so employed; and then, I'll

warrant you, 'twill be as well furnished with widows as 'twas

with sows, cows, and old trotting jades before.

STEPH. 'Sfoot! if it were, I would be a chapman; I'd see for

my pleasure, and buy for my _love_, for _money_ I have none.

WID. Thou shalt not stay the market, if thou'lt be ruled. I'll

find thee out a widow, and help in some of the rest too, if

thou'lt but promise me the last, but to let her estate fly; for

she's one I love not, and I'd be glad to see that revenge on

her.

STEPH. Spend her estate? were't five aldermen's. I'll put you

in security for that; 'sfoot! all my neighbours shall be bound

for me; nay, my kind sister-in-law shall pass her word for that.

WID. Only this I'll enjoin you: to be matrimonially honest to

her for your own health's sake. All other injuries shall be

blessings to her.

STEPH. I'll bless her, then; I ever drank so much, that I was

never great feeder. Give me drink and my pleasure, and a little

flesh serves my turn.

WID. I'll show thee the party. What sayest thou to myself?

STEPH. Yourself, gentlewoman? I would it were no worse. I have

heard you reputed a rich widow.

WID. I have a lease of thousands at least, sir.

STEPH. I'll let out your leases for you, if you'll allow me the

power, I'll warrant you.

WID. That's my hope, sir; but you must be honest withal.

STEPH. I'll be honest with some; if I can be honest with all, I

will too.

WID. Give me thy hand; go home with me, I'll give thee better

clothes; and, as I like thee then, we'll go further; we may

chance make a blind bargain of it.

STEPH. I can make no blind bargain, unless I be in your bed,

widow.

WID. No, I bar that, sir; let's begin honestly, howe'er we end:

marry, for the waste of my estate, spare it not; do thy worst.

STEPH. I'll do bad enough, fear it not.

WID. Come, will you walk, sir?

STEPH. No, widow, I'll stand to no hazard of blind bargains;

either promise me marriage, and give me earnest in a handfast,

or I'll not budge a foot.

WID. No, sir? are you grown so stout already?

STEPH. I'll grow stouter when I'm married.

WID. I hope thou'lt vex me.

STEPH. I'll give you cause, I'll warrant you.

WID. I shall rail and curse thee, I hope; yet I'd not have thee

give over neither; for I would be vexed. Here's my hand! I am

thine, thou art mine: I'll have thee with all faults.

STEPH. You shall have one with some, an' you have me.

_Enter_ ROBERT _and_ CLOWN.

WID. Here's witness[es]. [_To_ ROBERT.] Come hither,

sir--cousin I must call you shortly; and you, sirrah, be

witness to this match; here's man and wife.

ROB. I joy at mine uncle's happiness, widow.

CLOWN. I do forbid the banns: alas! poor shag-rag, my mistress

does but gull him. [_To_ STEPHEN.] You may imagine it to be

twelfth-day at night, and the bean found in the corner of your

cake, but 'tis not worth a vetch, I'll assure you[75].

WID. You'll let me dispose of myself, I hope?

CLOWN. You love to be merry, mistress: come, come, give him

four farthings, and let him go. He'll pray for his good dame,

and be drunk. Why, if your blood does itch that way, we'll

stand together. [_Places himself by the side of_ STEPHEN.]

How think you? I think here is the sweeter bit; [_Pointing to

himself_] you see this nit[76], and you see this louse! you may

crack o' your choice, if you choose here.

WID. You have put me to my choice, then; see, here I choose:

this is my husband; thus I begin the contract. [_Kisses_

STEPHEN.

STEPH. 'Tis sealed; I am thine. Now, coz, fear no black storms:

if thy father thunder, come to me for shelter.

WID. His word is now a deed, sir.

ROB. I thank you both. Uncle, what my joy conceives, I cannot

utter yet.

CLOWN. I will make black Monday of this! ere I suffer this

disgrace, the kennel shall run with blood and rags.

ROB. Sir, I am your opposite.

CLOWN. I have nothing to say to you, sir; I aim at your uncle.

ROB. He has no weapon.

CLOWN. That's all one, I'll take him as I find him.

WID. I have taken him so before you, sir: will you be quiet?

STEPH. Thou shalt take me so too, Hodge, for I'll be thy

fellow, though thy mistress's husband. Give me thy hand.

[_Exeunt_ WIDOW, STEPHEN, _and_ ROBERT.

CLOWN. I'll make you seek your fingers among the dogs, if you

come to me. _My fellow?_ You lousy companion, I scorn thee.

'Sfoot! is't come to this? Have I stood all this while to my

mistress an honest, handsome, plain-dealing serving-creature,

and she to marry a whoreson _tityre tu tattere_ with never a

good rag about him? [_Draws his sword, and puts his cap on the

point of it._] Stand thou to me, and be my friend; and since my

mistress has forsaken me----

_Enter_ ROBERT.

ROB. How now? what's the matter?

CLOWN. 'Twas well you came in good time.

ROB. Why, man?

CLOWN. I was going the wrong way.

ROB. But tell me one thing I apprehend not: why didst lay thy

cap upon the sword's point?

CLOWN. Dost not thou know the reason of that? why, 'twas to

save my belly: dost thou think I am so mad to cast myself away

for e'er a woman of 'em all? I'll see 'em hanged first!

ROB. Come, Roger, will you go?

CLOWN. Well, since there is no remedy. O tears! be you my

friend.

ROB. Nay, prythee, Roger, do not cry.

CLOWN. I cannot choose; nay, I will steep

Mine eyes in crying tears, and crying weep. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[61] _Passage_ and _Novem_ were games at _dice_, and _mumchance_ one at

cards. See Steevens's note on a passage in "Love's Labour Lost," act v.

[62] [The jack.]

[63] By a _bale_ a pair of dice only is meant.

[64] Stephen puns on the words _bale_ and _bail_.

[65] It appears from an after-remark of Stephen's, that the game they

were playing at was _passage_. _Boreas_ may be a punning invocation to

the north wind to assist him in his _passage_, or an allusion to the

noise which arises at the same time in the bowling-alley.

[66] The _trundletail_ was a species of dog in little estimation,

I believe; it is mentioned in the "Lear" of Shakespeare. So Ursula

to Quar. in "Bartholomew Fair:" "Do you sneer, you dog's-head, you

_trundletail_!" But here the host only puns on the rolling or trundling

the bowl at the game.

[67] The host was probably box-keeper or groom-porter; and it appears

by an extract from the _Monthly Mirror_ (quoted by Mr Gifford), that

"if the caster throws three mains, or wins by throwing three times

successively, he pays to the box-keeper, for the use of the house, a

stipulated sum." It was probably these profits that the host directs

them to look to; or that in our poet's time, or at a different game, a

regular percentage might have been paid to the box-keeper on the money

staked; or the host might have been banker, and staked against the

players, as now at Rouge-et-Noir, and some other games, I believe.

[68] It is perhaps unnecessary to notice that Stephen puns between the

_quatre_ and _trey_ on the dice, and the _cater_ or _caterer_ who buys

the provisions, and the _tray_ in which it is brought home.

[69] [_i.e._, bogie. See "Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," iii.

330.]

[70] Stephen means, perhaps, that but one shilling was left of the

forty his nephew had supplied him with.

[71] _Fullam_ or Fulham was a well-known name for false dice. One of

the cheats therefore sneeringly asks if one of the dice was Fulham,

which of them was Putney, as Putney is on the Thames immediately

opposite to Fulham.

[72] Robert puns on the word _tester_, which signifies the cover of a

bed as well as a sixpence.

[73] There was formerly a prison at Moorgate as well as at Ludgate;

though Stephen means, I conceive, that the next time she would see him

would be when attracted to that spot to see _the operation of ducking

performed on her as a scold_. The ditch, as appears from Stow, was

called _deep ditch_; but whether celebrated for exhibitions of this

nature or not, I cannot say. It is mentioned in the "First Part of

Henry IV."

[74] That a _wisp_ was in some way made use of for the punishment or

exposure of a scold, is evident from the notes on a passage in the

"Third Part of Henry VI.," ii. 2. From the verses quoted by Malone, it

seems probable that the wearing of the wisp was in some way connected

with, or made part of, the ceremony of the skimmington. [See "Popular

Antiquities of Great Britain," ii, 128.]

[75] The clown alludes to the _then_ manner of choosing the king and

queen on Twelfth Day, which was as follows. With the ingredients of

which the cake or cakes, for there was probably one for each sex, were

composed, a _bean_ and _pea_ were mixed up, and the two persons who

were so fortunate as to find these in their respective portions were

declared king and queen for the night. Thus in Herrick's "Hesperides"--

"Now, now, the mirth comes.

With the cake fall of plums,

Where _bean's_ the _king of the sport here;_

Besides we must know,

The _pea_ also

Must revel, _as queen_, in the court here."

This method of election, which we find referred to as early as Edward

III., was common at the beginning of the sixteenth century to both our

universities. The curious reader will collect further information on

the subject from ["Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," 1870, i. 13

_et seq._]

[76] The 4o reads _nap_; and I am not certain of the propriety of the

alteration, as the Clown may allude to Stephen's dress.

ACT III., SCENE I.

_Enter_ ALDERMAN BREWEN, SIR GODFREY SPEEDWELL,

INNOCENT LAMBSKIN, _and_ MISTRESS

JANE.

BREW. Gentlemen, you're welcome; that once well-pronounced has

a thousand echoes. Let it suffice, I have spoke it to the full.

Here's your affairs, here's your merchandise--this is your

prize. [_Pointing to_ JANE.

If you can mix your names and gentle bloods

With the poor daughter of a citizen,

I make the passage free, to greet and court,

Traffic the mart of love, clap hands, and strike

The bargain through; she pleas'd, and I shall like.

SPEED. 'Tis good ware, believe me, sir: I know that by mine own

experience, for I have handled the like many times in my first

wife's days. Ay, by knighthood! sometimes before I was married,

too; therefore I know't by mine own experience.

LAMB. Well, sir, I know by observation as much as you do by

experience; for I have known many gentlemen have taken up such

ware as this is, but it has lain on their hands as long as they

lived. This I have seen by observation.

JANE. [_Aside._] I am like to have a couple of fair chapmen.

If they were at my own dispose, I would willingly raffle them

both at twelvepence a share. They would be good food for a new

plantation. The one might mend his experience, and the other

his observation very much.[77]

SPEED. Sir, let me advise you; I see you want experience.

Meddle no further in this case; 'twill be the more credit for

your observation, for I find by my experience you are but

shallow.

LAMB. But shallow, sir? Your experience is a little wide; you

shall find I will be as deep in this case as yourself. My

observation has been where your experience must wait at door;

yet I will give you the fore-horse place, and I will be in the

thills[78], because you are the elder tree, and I the young

plant. Put on your experience, and I will observe.

SPEED. Sweet virgin, to be prolix and tedious fits not

experience. Short words and large deeds are best pleasing to

women.

JANE. So, sir.

SPEED. My name is Speedwell by my father's copy.

JANE. Then you never served for't, it seems[79].

SPEED. Yes, sweet feminine! I have served for it too; for I

found my nativity suited to my name. As my name is Speedwell,

so have I sped well in divers actions.

JANE. It must needs be a fair and comely suit, then.

LAMB. You observe very well, sweet virgin; for his nativity is

his doublet, which is the upper part of his suit; and his name

is in's breeches, for that part, which is his name, he defiles

many times.

SPEED. Your observation is corrupt, sir. Let me show mine own

tale. I say, sweet beauty, my name is Speedwell. My godfather,

by his bounty (being an old soldier, and having served in the

wars as far as Boulogne) therefore called my name Godfrey,

a title of large renown.[80] My wealth and wit has added to

those the paraphrase of knighthood, so that my name in the

full longitude is called Sir Godfrey Speedwell, a name of good

experience.

JANE. If every quality you have be as large in relation as your

name, sir, I should imagine the best of them, rather than hear

them reported.

SPEED. You say well, sweet modesty; a good imagination is good,

and shows your good experience.

LAMB. Nay, if names can do any good, I beseech you observe

mine. My name is Lambskin, a thing both hot and harmless.

JANE. On, sir; I would not interrupt you, because you should be

brief.

LAMB. My godfather, seeing in my face some notes of

disposition, in my cradle did give me the title of

Innocent,[81] which I have practised all my lifetime; and since

my father's decease, my wealth has purchased me in the vanguard

of my name the paraphrase of gentility, so that I am called

_Master_ Innocent Lambskin.

JANE. In good time: and what trade was your father, sir?

LAMB. My father was of an occupation before he was a

tradesman; for, as I have observed in my father's and mother's

report, they set up together in their youth. My father was a

starch-maker, and my mother a laundress; so, being partners,

they did occupy[82] long together before they were married;

then was I born.

JANE. What, before your father was married?

LAMB. Truly a little after. I was the first-fruits, as they

say. Then did my father change his copy, and set up a brewhouse.

JANE. Ay, then came your wealth in, sir.

LAMB. Your observation's good. I have carried the tallies[83]

at my girdle seven year together with much delight and

observation, for I did ever love to deal honestly in the nick.

JANE. A very innocent resolution.

SPEED. Your experience may see his coarse education; but to the

purpose, sweet female. I do love that face of yours.

JANE. Sir, if you love nothing but my face, I cannot sell it

from the rest.

LAMB. You may see his slender observation. Sweet virgin, I do

love your lower parts better than your face.

SPEED. Sir, you do interrupt and thwart my love.

LAMB. Ay, sir, I am your rival, and I will thwart your

love; for your love licks at the face, and my love shall be

arsy-versy to yours.

JANE. I would desire no better wooing of so bad suitors.

STEPH. Mistake me not, kind-heart.

LAMB. He calls you tooth-drawer by way of experience.[84]

SPEED. In loving your face, I love all the rest of your body,

as you shall find by experience.

JANE. Well, sir, you love me, then?

SPEED. Let your experience make a trial.

JANE. No, sir, I'll believe you rather, and I thank you for't.

LAMB. I love you too, fair maid, double and treble, if it

please you.

JANE. I thank you too, sir; I am so much beholding to you both,

I am afraid I shall never requite it.

SPEED. Requite _one_, sweet chastity, and let it be Sir

Godfrey, with the correspondency of your love to him. I will

maintain you like a lady; and it is brave, as I know by

experience.

LAMB. I will maintain you like a gentlewoman: and that may

be better maintenance than a lady's, as I have found by

observation.

SPEED. How dare you maintain that, sir?

LAMB. I dare maintain it with my purse, sir.

SPEED. I dare cross it with my sword, sir.

[_Lays his hand on his sword._

LAMB. If you dare cross my purse with your sword, sir, I'll lay

an action of suspicion of felony to you; that's flat, sir.

JANE. Nay, pray you, gentlemen, do not quarrel till you know

for what.

BREW. O, no quarrelling, I beseech you, gentlemen! the

reputation of my house is soiled if any uncivil noise arise

in't.

LAMB. Let him but shake his blade at me, and I'll throw down my

purse and cry a rape; I scorn to kill him, but I'll hang his

knighthood, I warrant him, if he offer assault and battery on

my purse.

BREW. Nay, good sir, put up your sword.

SPEED. You have confined him prisoner for ever: I hope your

experience sees he's a harmless thing.

_Enter_ GEORGE.

GEORGE. Sir, here's young Master Foster requests to speak with

you.

BREW. Does he? Prythee, request him [in]. Gentlemen, please you

taste the sweetness of my garden awhile, and let my daughter

bear you company.

SPEED. Where she is leader, there will be followers.

JANE. [_Aside to her father._] You send me to the galleys, sir;

pray you, redeem me as soon as you can: these are pretty things

for mirth, but not for serious uses.

BREW. Prythee, be merry with them then awhile, if but for

courtesy; thou hast wit enough: but take heed they quarrel not.

JANE. Nay, I dare take in hand to part 'em without any danger;

but I beseech you, let me not be too long a prisoner. Will you

walk, gentlemen.

LAMB. If it please you to place one of us for your conduct,

otherwise this old coxcomb and I shall quarrel.

JANE. Sir Godfrey, you are the eldest; pray, lead the way.

SPEED. With all my heart, sweet virgin. [_Aside._] Ah! ah! this

place promises well in the eyes of experience. Master Innocent,

come you behind.

LAMB. Right, sir; but I put the gentlewoman before, and that is

the thing I desire; and there your experience halts a little.

SPEED. When I look back, sir, I see your nose behind.

LAMB. Then when I look back your nose stands here.

SPEED. Sweet lady, follow experience.

LAMB. And let observation follow you. [_Exeunt._

BREW. So: now request you Master Foster in, George; but hark!

does that news hold his own still, that our ships are so near

return, as laden on the Downs with such a wealthy fraughtage?

GEORGE. Yes, sir, and the next tide [do] purpose to

Put into the river. Master Foster, your partner,

Hath now receiv'd more such intelligence, with

Most o' the particulars of your merchandise;

Your venture is return'd with treble blessings.

BREW. Let him be ever blessed that sent [it]!

George, now call in the young man; and hark ye,

George, from him run to my partner, and request

him to me. This news, I'm sure, makes him a

joyful merchant; for my own part, I'll not forget

my vow. [_Exit_ GEORGE.

This free addition heaven hath lent my state,

As freely back to heaven I'll dedicate.

_Enter_ ROBERT FOSTER.

Ay, marry, sir, would this were a third suitor to

My daughter Jane! I should better like him than

All that's come yet. Now, Master Foster, are

Your father and yourself yet reconcil'd?

ROB. Sir, 'twas my business in your courteous tongue

To put the arbitration. I have again

(Discover'd by my mother) reliev'd my poor uncle;

Whose anger now so great is multiplied,

I dare not venture in the eye of either,

Till your persuasions [shall] with fair excuse

Have made my satisfaction.

BREW. Mother-o'-pearl! sir, 'tis a shrewd task;

Yet I'll do my best: your father hath so good news,

That I hope 'twill be a fair motive to't;

But women's tongues are dangerous stumbling-blocks

To lie in the way of peace.

_Enter_ GEORGE.

Now, George?

GEORGE. Master Foster's coming, sir.

ROB. I beseech you, sir, let not me see him

Till you have conferr'd with him.

BREW. Well, well! [_To_ GEORGE.] Ere your return to Master

Foster, call my daughter forth of the garden. [_Exit_ GEORGE.

And how does your uncle, Master Foster?

ROB. Sir, so well,

I'd be loth to anticipate the fame

That shortly will o'erspread the city

Of his good fortunes.

BREW. Why, I commend thee still;

He wants no good from thee--no, not in report:

'Tis well done, sir, and you show duty in't.

_Enter_ JANE.

Now, daughter, where are your lusty suitors?

JANE. I was glad of my release, sir. Suitors call you 'em?

I'd keep dish-water continually boiling, but I'd seethe such

suitors: I have had much ado to keep 'em from bloodshed. I

have seen for all the world a couple of cowardly curs quarrel

in that fashion; as the one turns his head, the other snaps

behind; and as he turns, his mouth recoils again: but I thank

my pains for't, I have leagued with 'em for a week without any

further intercourse.

BREW. Well, daughter, well; say a third trouble come; say in

the person of young Master Foster here came a third suitor: how

then?

JANE. Three's the woman's total arithmetic: indeed I would

learn to number no farther, if there was a good account made of

that.

ROB. I can instruct you so far, sweet beauty.

JANE. Take heed, sir; I have had ill-handsel to-day; perhaps

'tis not the fortunate season; you were best adjourn your

journey to some happier time.

ROB. There shall no augurism fright my plain dealing: sweet, I

fear no hours.

JANE. You'll not betray me with love-powder?

ROB. Nor with gunpowder neither, i' faith; yet I'll make you

yield, if I can.

BREW. Go, get you together; your father will be coming; leave

me with your suit to him, ply this yourself: and, Jane, use him

kindly; he shall be his father's heir, I can tell you.

JANE. Never the more for that, father; if I use him kindly, it

shall be for something I like in himself, and not for any good

he borrows of his father. But come, sir, will you walk into the

garden? for that's the field I have best fortune to overcome

my suitors in.

ROB. I fear not that fate neither; but if I walk into your

garden, I shall be tasting your sweets.

JANE. Taste sweetly, and welcome, sir; for there grows honesty,

I can tell you.

ROB. I shall be plucking at your honesty.

JANE. By my honesty, but you shall not, sir: I'll hold you

a handful of pennyroyal of that; i' faith, if you touch my

honesty there, I'll make you eat sorrel to your supper, though

I eat sullenwood[85] myself: no, sir, gather first time and

sage, and such wholesome herbs, and honesty and heart's-ease

will ripen the whilst.

ROB. You have fair roses, have you not.

JANE. Yes, sir, roses; but no gilliflowers.[86]

BREW. Go, go, and rest on Venus' violets:

Show her a dozen of bachelor's buttons, boy.

[_Exit_ ROBERT _and_ JANE.

Here comes his father.

_Enter_ OLD MASTER FOSTER _and his_ WIFE.

Now, my kind partner, have we good news?

O. FOS. Sir, in a word take it: your full lading

And venture is return'd at sixtyfold increase.

BREW. Heaven take the glory! a wondrous blessing;

O, keep us strong against these flowing tides!

Man is too weak to bound himself below,

When such high waves do mount him.

O. FOS. O, sir, care and ambition seldom meet;

Let us be thrifty; titles will faster come,

Than we shall wish to have them.

BREW. Faith, I desire none.

O. FOS. Why, sir, if so you please, I'll ease your cares;

Shall I, like a full adventurer, now bid you

A certain ready sum for your half traffic.

BREW. Ay, and I'd make you gainer by it, too;

For then would I lay by my trouble, and begin

A work which I have promis'd unto heaven;

A house, a _Domus Dei_ shall be rais'd,

Which shall to doomsday be established

For succour to the poor; for in all ages

There must be such.

O. FOS. Shall I bid your venture at a venture?

BREW. Pray you, do, sir.

O. FOS. Twenty thousand pounds?

BREW. Nay, then you underrate your own value much: will you

make it thirty?

O. FOS. Shall I meet you half-way?

BREW. I meet you there, sir: for five-and-twenty thousand

pounds the full venture's yours.

O. FOS. If you like my payment, 'tis the one-half in ready

cash, the other seal'd for six months.

BREW. 'Tis merchant-like and fair. George, you observe this?

Let the contents be drawn.

GEORGE. They shall, sir.

O. FOS. Your hazard is now all pass'd, sir.

BREW. I rejoice at it, sir, and shall not grudge your gains,

Though multiplied to thousands.

O. FOS. Believe me, sir, I account myself a large gainer by you.

BREW. Much good may it be to you, sir: but one thing

At this advantage of my love to you

Let me entreat.

O. FOS. What is it, sir?

BREW. Faith, my old suit--to reconcile those breaches

'Twixt your kind son and you: let not the love

He shows unto his uncle be any more a bar

To sunder your blessings and his duty.

O. FOS. I would you had enjoin'd me some great labour

For your own love's sake: but to that my vow

Stands fix'd against; I'm deaf, obdurate

To either of them.

MRS FOS. Nay, sir, if you knew all,

You would not waste your words in so vain expense:

Since his last reformation, he has flown

Out again, and in my sight relieved

His uncle in the dicing-house; for which

Either he shall be no father to him,

Or no husband to me.

BREW. Well, sir, go call my daughter forth of the garden, and

bid her bring her friend along with her: troth, sir, I must not

leave you thus; I must needs make him your son again.

O. FOS. Sir, I have no such thing akin to me.

_Enter_ ROBERT; ROBERT _kneels to his father_.

BREW. Look you, sir, know you this duty?

O. FOS. Not I, sir; he's a stranger to me.

Save your knee; I have no blessing for you.

MRS FOS. Go, go to your uncle, sir; you know where to find him;

he's at his old haunt; he wants more money by this time; but I

think the conduit-pipe is stopped from whence it ran.

O. FOS. Did he not say he'd beg for you? you'd best make use

of's bounty.

BREW. Nay, good sir.

O. FOS. Sir, if your daughter cast any eye of favour upon this

unthrift, restrain't, he's a beggar. Mistress Jane, take heed

what you do.

MRS FOS. Ay, ay, be wise, Mistress Jane; do not you trust

to spleen in time worn to pity,[87] you'll not find it so;

therefore, good gentlewoman, take heed.

BREW. Nay, then, you are too impenetrable.

O. FOS. Sir, your money shall be ready, and your bills; other

business I have none.

[_To_ ROB.] For thee, beg, hang, die like a slave;

Such blessings ever thou from me shalt have.

[_Exit_ FOSTER _and his_ WIFE.

BREW. Well, sir, I'll follow you. [_To_ ROBERT.

And, sir, be comforted,

I will not leave, till I find some remorse;

Meantime let not want trouble you;

You shall not know it.

ROB. Sir, 'tis not want I fear, but want of blessing

My knee was bent for; for mine uncle's state,

Which now (I daresay) outweighs my father's far,

Confirms my hopes as rich as with my father's,

His love excepted only.

BREW. Thy uncle's state! how, for heaven's love?

ROB. By his late marriage to the wealthiest widow

That London had; who has not only made him

Lord of herself, but of her whole estate.

BREW. Mother-o'-pearl! I rejoice in't: this news

Is yet but young.

ROB. Fame will soon speak it loud, sir.

BREW. This may help happily to make all peace:

But how, have you parley'd with my daughter, sir?

_Enter_ JANE.

JANE. Very well, father; we spake something, but did nothing at

all: I requested him to pull me a Catherine pear, and had I not

looked to him, he would have mistook and given me a poperin:

and to requite his kindness I plucked him a rose, and had

almost pricked my finger for my pains.

BREW. Well-said, wag; are there sparks kindled?

Quench 'em not for me: 'tis not a father's roughness,

Nor doubtful hazard of an uncle's kindness

Can me deter. I must to your father;

Where (as a chief affair) I'll once more move,

And (if I can) return him back to love. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ DOCTOR _and_ STEPHEN'S WIFE.

WIFE. Sir, you see I have made a speedy choice

And as swift a marriage: be it as it will,

I like the man: if his qualities afflict me,

I shall be happy in't.

DOC. I must not distaste what I have help'd to make;

'Tis I that join'd you.

WIFE. A good bargain, I hope.

_Enter_ CLOWN.

Roger, where's your master?

CLOWN. The good man of the house is within, forsooth.

WIFE. Not your master, sir?

CLOWN. 'Tis hard of digestion. Yes, my master is within. He

masters you; therefore I must be content. You have longed for

crosses a good while, and now you are like to be farther off

them than e'er you were; for I'm afraid your good husband will

leave you ne'er a cross i' th' house to bless you with.

WIFE. Well, sir, I shall be bless'd in't. But where is he?

CLOWN. Where he has mistaken the place a little, being his

wedding-day; he is in _nomine_, when he should be in _re_.

WIFE. And where's that?

CLOWN. In your counting-house: if he were a kind husband, he

would have been in another counting-house by this time: he's

tumbling over all his money-bags yonder; you shall hear of him

in the bowling-alley again.

WIFE. Why, sir, all is his, and at his dispose; Who shall dare

to thwart him?

_Enter_ STEPHEN _with bills and bonds_.

CLOWN. Look where he comes.

WIFE. How now, sweetheart? what hast thou there?

STEPH. I find much debts belonging to you, sweet;

And my care must be now to fetch them in.

WIFE. Ha, ha! prythee, do not mistake thyself,

Nor my true purpose; I did not wed to thrall,

Or bind thy large expense, but rather to add

A plenty to that liberty. I thought by this,

Thou wouldst have stuff'd thy pockets full of gold,

And thrown it at a hazard; made ducks and drakes,

And baited fishes with thy silver flies;

Lost, and fetch'd more: why, this had been my joy!

Perhaps at length thou wouldst have wasted my store:

Why, this had been a blessing too good for me.

STEPH. Content thee, sweet, those days are gone--

Ay, even from my memory;

I have forgot that e'er I had such follies,

And I'll not call 'em back: my cares[88] are bent

To keep your state, and give you all content.

Roger, go, call your fellow-servants up to me,

And to my chamber bring all books of debt;

I will o'erlook and cast up all accounts,

That I may know the weight of all my cares,

And once a year give up my stewardship.

CLOWN. [_Aside to the_ WIFE.] Now you may see what hasty

matching is. You had thought to have been vexed, and now you

cannot; you have married a husband, that (sir reverence of

the title) now being my master-in-law, I do think he'll prove

the miserablest covetous rascal that ever beat beggar from

his gate. But 'tis no matter. Time was when you were fairly

offered, if you would have took it. You might have had other

matches, i' faith, if it had pleased you; and those that would

have crossed you. I would have sold away all that ever you had

had; have kept two or three whores at livery under your nose;

have turned you out in your smock, and have used you like a

woman: whereas now, if you'd hang yourself, you can have none

of these blessings. But 'tis well enough--now you must take

what follows.

WIFE. I'm to new[89] seek for crosses: the hopes I meant

Turn to despair, and smother in content.

_Enter_ ROBERT.

STEPH. O nephew, are you come! the welcom'st wish

That my heart has; this is my kinsman, sweet.

WIFE. Let him be largely texted in your love,

That all the city may read it fairly;

You cannot remember me, and him forget:

We were alike to you in poverty.

STEPH. I should have begg'd that bounty of your love,

Though you had scanted me to have given't him;

For we are one: I an uncle-nephew,

He a nephew-uncle. But, my sweet self,

My slow request you have anticipated

With proffer'd kindness; and I thank you for it.

But how, kind cousin, does your father use you?

Is your name found again within his books?

Can he read son there?

ROB. 'Tis now blotted quite:

For by the violent instigation

Of my cruel stepmother, his vows and oaths

Are stamp'd against me, ne'er to acknowledge me,

Never to call or bless me as a child;

But in his brow, his bounty and behaviour

I read it all most plainly.

STEPH. Cousin, grieve

Not at it; that father, lost at home, you shall

Find here; and with the loss of his inheritance,

You meet another amply proffer'd you;

Be my adopted son, no more my kinsman:

[_To his_ WIFE.] So that this borrowed bounty do not stray

From your consent.

WIFE. Call it not borrow'd, sir; 'tis all your own;

Here 'fore this reverend man I make it known,

Thou art our child as free by adoption,

As deriv'd from us by conception,

Birth, and propinquity; inheritor

To our full substance.

ROB. You were born

To bless us both; my knee shall practise

A son's duty even beneath [a] son's;

Giving you all the comely dues of parents; yet

Not forgetting my duty to my father:

Where'er I meet him, he shall have my knee,

Although his blessing ne'er return to me.

STEPH. Come then, my dearest son, I'll now give thee

A taste of my love to thee: be thou my deputy,

The factor and disposer of my business;

Keep my accounts, and order my affairs;

They must be all your own: for you, dear sweet,

Be merry, take your pleasure at home--abroad;

Visit your neighbours--aught that may seem good

To your own will; down to the country ride;

For cares and troubles, lay them all aside,

And I will take them up: it's fit that weight

Should now lie all on me: take thou the height

Of quiet and content: let nothing grieve thee.

I brought thee nothing else, and that I'll give thee.

[_Exit_ STEPHEN _and_ ROBERT.

WIFE. Will the tide never turn? Was ever woman

Thus burden'd with unhappy happiness?

Did I from riot take him to waste my goods,

And he strives to augment it? I did mistake him.

DOC. Spoil not a good text with a false comment;

All these are blessings, and from heaven sent;

It is your husband's good; he's now transform'd

To a better shade; the prodigal's return'd.

Come, come, know joy, make not abundance scant;

You 'plain of that which thousand women want. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ BREWEN _and_ OLD FOSTER; GEORGE _and_

RICHARD _follow them, carrying several bags of_

_money across the stage_.

BREW. So, so,

Haste home, good lads, and return for the rest.

Would they were cover'd, George; 'tis too public

Blazon of my estate; but 'tis no matter now;

I'll bring it abroad again, ere it be long.

Sir, I acknowledge receipt of my full half debt,

Twelve thousand five hundred pounds; it now remains

You seal those writings as assurance for the rest,

And I am satisfied for this time.

O. FOS. Pray stay, sir, I have bethought me: let me once

Throw dice at all, and either be a complete

Merchant, or wrack my estate for ever:

Hear me, sir; I have of wares, that are now vendible,

So much as will defray your utmost penny;

Will you accept of them, and save this charge

Of wax and parchment?

BREW. Be they vendible, sir, I am your chapman:

What are they, Master Foster?

O. FOS. Broadcloths, kerseys, cochineal, such as will not stay

two days upon your hands.

BREW. I find your purpose; you'd have your warehouses empty for

the receipt of your full fraught: I'll be your furtherer; make

so your rates that I may be no loser.

_Enter_ GEORGE _and_ RICHARD.

O. FOS. I have no other end, sir; let our factors peruse and

deal for both.

BREW. Mine is returned. George, here's a new business; you and

Richard must deal for some commodities betwixt us; if you find

'em even gain or but little loss, take carriage presently, and

carry 'em home.

GEORGE. I shall.

O. FOS. Richard, have you any further news yet from our

shipping?

RICH Not yet, sir; but by account from the last, when they put

from Dover, this tide should bring them into Saint Catherine's

pool; the wind has been friendly.

O. FOS. Listen their arrival, and bid the gunner speak it

In his loud thunder all the city over;

Tingle the merchants' ears at the report

Of my abundant wealth. Now go with George.

RICH I shall do both, sir. [_Exeunt_ FACTORS.

O. FOS. I must plainly now confess, master alderman,

I shall gain much by you. The half of your ship

Defrays my full cost.

BREW. Beshrew me, if I grudge it, being myself

A sufficient gainer by my venture, sir.

_Enter_ MISTRESS FOSTER.

MRS FOS. Still flows the tide of my unhappiness;

The stars shoot mischief, and every hour

Is critical to me.

O. FOS. How now, woman?

Wrecked in the haven of felicity? What ail'st thou?

MRS FOS. I think the devil's mine enemy.

O. FOS. I hope so too; his hate is better than his friendship.

MRS FOS. Your brother--your good brother, sir----

O. FOS. What of him? he's in Ludgate again.

MRS FOS. No, he's in _Highgate_; he struts it bravely--

An alderman's pace at least.

O. FOS. Why, these

Are oracles, doubtful enigmas!

MRS FOS. Why,

I'm sure you have heard the news; he's married, forsooth.

O. FOS. How, married?

No woman of repute would choose so slightly.

MRS FOS. A woman, in whose breast I'd thought had liv'd

The very quintessence of discretion:

And who is't, think you? nay, you cannot guess,

Though I should give you a day to [un]riddle it:

It is my gossip, man, the rich

Widow of Cornhill.

O. FOS. Fie, fie! 'tis fabulous.

MRS FOS. Are you my husband? then is she his wife.

How will this upstart beggar shoulder up,

And take the wall of you! his new-found pride

Will know no eldership.

O. FOS. But, wife, my wealth will five times double his

Ere this tide ebb again: I wonder I hear not

The brazen cannon proclaim the arrival

Of my infinite substance.

MRS FOS. But beggars

Will be proud of little, and shoulder at the best.

O. FOS. Let him first pay his old score, and then reckon:

But that she----

MRS FOS. Ay, that's it mads me too.

Would any woman, 'less to spite herself,

So much profane the sacred name of wedlock:

A dove to couple with a stork, or a lamb a viper?

O. FOS. Content thee; forgive her; she'll do so no more.

She was a rich widow: a wife he'll make her poor.

BREW. So, sir, you have clos'd it well; if so ill it prove,

Leave it to proof, and wish not misery

_Enter_ STEPHEN _and_ ROBERT.

Unto your enemy. Look, here he comes.

O. FOS. You say true; 'tis my enemy indeed.

STEPH. Save you, master alderman, I have some business with you.

BREW. With me, sir? and most welcome; I rejoice to see you.

MRS FOS. Do you observe, sir, he will not know you now?

Jockey's a gentleman now.[90]

O. FOS. Well fare rich widows, when such beggars flourish;

But ill shall they fare that flourish o'er such beggars.

STEPH. Ha! ha! ha!

MRS FOS. He laughs at you.

O. FOS. No wonder, woman, he would do that in Ludgate;

But 'twas when his kind nephew did relieve him:

I shall hear him cry there again shortly.

STEPH. _Oysters, new Walfleet oysters!_

O. FOS. The gentleman is merry.

MRS FOS. No, no, no; he does this to spite me; as who should say,

I had been a fishwife in my younger days.

BREW. Fie, fie, gentlemen! this is not well;

My ears are guilty to hear such discords.

[ROBERT _kneels to his father_.

Look, Master Foster; turn your eye that way;

There's duty unregarded, while envy struts

In too much state: believe me, gentlemen,

I know not which to chide first.

O. FOS. What idol kneels that heretic to?

STEPH. Rise, boy, thou art now my son, and owest no knee

To that unnatural: I charge you, rise.

O. FOS. Do, sir, or turn your adoration that way;

You were kind to him in his tatter'd state;

Let him requite it now.

MRS FOS. Do, do, we have paid for't aforehand.

ROB. I would I were divided in two halves,

So that might reconcile your harsh division.

STEPH. Proud sir, this son, which you have alienated

For my love's sake, shall by my love's bounty

Ride side by side in the best equipage

Your scorns dare pattern him.

O. FOS. Ay, ay, a beggar's gallop up and down.

MRS FOS. Ay, 'tis up now, the next step down.

STEPH. Ha, ha! I laugh at your envy, sir. My business

Is to you.

BREW. Good sir, speak of anything but this.

STEPH. Sir, I am furnishing some shipping forth,

And want some English traffic, broadcloths, kerseys,

Or suchlike; my voyage is to the Straits:

If you can supply me, sir, I'll be your chapman.

BREW. That I shall soon resolve you, sir.

_Enter_ FACTORS.

Come hither, George.

O. FOS. This is the rich merchantman;

MRS FOS. That's neither grave nor wise;

O. FOS. Who will kill a man at Tyburn shortly.

MRS FOS. By carts that may arise;[91]

Or if the hangman die, he may have his office.

BREW. Then you have bargain'd, George?

GEORGE. And the ware carried home, sir; you must look

To be little gainer; but lose you cannot.

BREW. 'Tis all I desire from thence. Sir, I can furnish you

With wares I lately from your brother bought:

Please you go see them, for I would fain divide you,

Since I can win no nearer friendship.

STEPH. I'll go with you, sir.

[_Exeunt_ BREWEN, STEPHEN, _and_ GEORGE.

O. FOS. Take your adoption with you, sir.

ROB. I crave but your blessing with me, sir.

O. FOS. 'Tis my curse then; get thee out of mine eye:

Thou art a beam in't, and I'll tear it out,

Ere it offend to look on thee.[92]

MRS FOS. Go, go, sir; follow your uncle-father,

Help him to spend what thrift has got together;

It will be charity in you to spend,

Because your charity it was to lend.

ROB. My charity! you can a virtue name,

And teach the use, yet never knew the same. [_Exit._

_Enter_ RICHARD.

O. FOS. See, wife, here comes Richard; now listen,

And hear me crown'd the wealthiest London merchant.

Why dost thou look so sadly?

MRS FOS. Why dost not speak? hast lost thy tongue?

RICH. I never could speak worse.

O. FOS. Why, thy voice is good enough.

RICH. But the worst accent that ever you heard;

I speak a screech-owl's note. O, you have made

The most unhappiest bargain that ever merchant did!

O. FOS. Ha?

What can so baleful be, as thou wouldst seem

To make by this sad prologue? I am no traitor,

To confiscate my goods: speak, whate'er it be.

RICH. I would you could conceit it, that I might

Not speak it.

O. FOS. Dally not with torments,

Sink me at once.

RICH. Now you've spoke it half;

'Tis sinking I must treat of: your ships are all sunk.

O. FOS. Ha!

MRS FOS. O thou fatal raven! let me pull thine eyes out

For this sad croak. [_Flies at_ RICHARD.

O. FOS. Hold, woman! hold, prythee! 'tis none of his fault.

MRS FOS. No, no, 'tis thine, thou wretch; and therefore

Let me turn my vengeance all on thee; thou

Hast made hot haste to empty all my warehouses,

And made room for that the sea hath drunk before thee.

O. FOS. Undone for ever! Where could this mischief fall?

Were not my ships in their full pride at Dover;

And what English Charybdis has the devil digg'd

To swallow nearer home.

RICH. Even in the mouth

And entrance of the Thames they were all cast away.

O. FOS. Dam up thy mouth

From any further mischievous relation.

RICH. Some men were sav'd, but not one pennyworth

Of goods.

O. FOS. Even now thy baleful utterance

Was chok'd, and now it runs too fast;

Thou fatal bird, no more.

MRS FOS. May serpents breed,

And fill this fatal stream, and poison her for ever.

O. FOS. O, curse not; they come too fast!

MRS FOS. Let me curse somewhere, wretch, or else I'll throw

Them all on thee; 'tis thou, ungodly slave,

That art the mark unto the wrath of heaven:

I thriv'd ere I knew thee.

O. FOS. I prythee, split me too.

MRS FOS. I would I could! I would I had ne'er seen thee,

For I ne'er saw hour of comfort since I knew thee.

O. FOS. Undone for ever! My credit I have crack'd

To buy a venture, which the sea has soak'd;

What worse can woe report?

MRS FOS. Yes, worse than all,

Thy enemies will laugh, and scorn thy fall.

O. FOS. Be it the worst, then: that place I did assign

My unthrifty brother, Ludgate, must now be mine.

Break, and take Ludgate.

MRS FOS. Take Newgate rather.

O. FOS. I scorn'd my child, now he may scorn his father.

MRS FOS. Scorn him still!

O. FOS. I will: would he my wants relieve,

I'd scorn to take what he would yield to give.

My heart be still my friend, although no other.

I'll scorn the help of either son or brother.

My portion's begging now: seldom before,

In one sad hour, was man so rich and poor. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[77] There were several works published about this time containing the

results of the various writers' _experiences and observations_ in the

new plantations in America.

[78] [Shafts.]

[79] You acquired citizenship in right of your father, and without

personal service.

[80] An allusion to Godfrey of Boulogne or Bulloigne.

[81] _Innocent_, it must be remembered, in the language of our old

dramatic writers, denotes _an idiot_.

[82] [Enjoy, in the sense of a man having knowledge of a woman.] Doll

Tearsheet says of Pistol, in the "Second Part of Henry IV.," "These

villains will make the word captain as odious as the word _occupy_,

which, was an excellent good word before it was ill-sorted," [See

Nares, edit. 1859, in _v._; and Percy Folio MS. ("Loose and Humorous

Songs," p. 29.)]

[83] "_Tallies_," says Johnson, "are sticks cut in conformity to

others, by which accounts were kept." Jack Cade reproaches the Lord

Say, "with having caused printing to be used, whereas before no other

books were made use of by their forefathers but the score and _tally_.

And Cade has the Exchequer Office on his side, where accounts are still

partially kept after this most barbarous fashion."

[84] The name of a tooth-drawer, real or imaginary, who attended

fairs. In 1592 Chettle printed his tract called "Kindhart's Dream."

Dilke observes: "I am inclined to think, however, that _kind-heart_

was the '_travelling name_' of some notorious quack tooth-drawer, or

a cant name given to the whole race of them. So the stage-keeper, in

the induction to 'Bartholomew Fair,' when expressing his fear of the

author's success, says: 'He has ne'er a sword-and-buckler man in his

fair, nor a little Davy, to take toll of the bawds there, as in my

time; nor a _kind-heart, if anybody's teeth should chance to ake in

his play_.' And further, it is part of the 'covenant and agreement,'

in the same induction, that the audience shall not 'look back to the

sword-and-buckler age of Smithfield, but content themselves with the

present. Instead of a little Davy, to take toll of the bawds, the

author doth promise a strutting horse-courser, with a leer drunkard,

two or three to attend him in as good equipage as you would wish. _And

then for kind-heart the tooth-drawer_, a fine oily pig-woman, with,'"

&c., &c. [Lambskin's reply is obviously allusive to the name by which

Stephen has just addressed the widow.]

[85] The _artemisia_ or _southern_ wood is meant.

[86] Jane has been too successful in her play on the names and

qualities of the flowers to have chosen this at random; and I am

inclined to think the following extract from the "Winter's Tale" will

serve to elucidate her meaning--

"The fairest flowers o' the season

Are our carnations and _streak'd gilliflowers._

_Which some call nature's bastards_: of that kind

Our rustic garden's barren; _and I care not_

_To get slips of them_.

POL. Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

PER. For I have heard it said,

There is _an art_, which, _in their piedness_, shares

_With great creating nature_."

"This art," says Steevens, in a note on that passage, "is pretended to

be taught at the end of some of the old books that treat of cookery."

As I understand the passage then, Jane means to say, _I have such

good qualities and beauty as nature has given, but none that are

produced by art_. If the passage be thus understood, the opposition

of the _rose_ and the _gilliflower_ is complete. If the reader is

not satisfied with this conjecture, I will further suggest that

_gill-flirt_ was then a well-known term for a wanton; and Steevens has

informed us that _gilly'vors_ (the vulgar way of calling gilly-flowers)

is still in use in Sussex to denote a _harlot_. Jane has spoken more

than once of her _honesty_, and here may be the allusion.

[87] [Old copy, _and_.]

[88] [The 4o reads _eares_.]

[89] [Old copy, _new to_.]

[90] [Or, _Jack will be a gentleman_. This is a common proverb. It

occurs in "A Garden of Spiritual Flowers," 1610, edit. 1638, part ii.

p. 303.]

[91] These four lines seem to be a quotation, probably from some old

ballad.

[92] Here is an evident allusion to two passages in the Gospel of St

Matthew.

ACT IV., SCENE I.

_Enter_ MISTRESS JANE, GODFREY SPEEDWELL, _and_

MASTER LAMBSKIN.

JANE. Gentlemen, my father's not within; please you to walk a

turn or two in the garden; he'll not be long.

LAMB. Your father, Mistress Jane? I hope you have observation

in you, and know our humours; we come not a-wooing to your

father.

SPEED. Experience must bear with folly; thou art all innocent,

and thy name is Lambskin; grave sapience guides me, and I care

not a pin for thy squibs and thy crackers. My old dry wood

shall make a lusty bonfire when thy green chips shall lie

hissing in the chimney-corner. Remember, mistress, I can make

you a lady by mine own experience.

LAMB. Prythee, do not stand troubling the gentlewoman with thy

musty sentences, but let her love be laid down betwixt us like

a pair of cudgels, and into whose hands she thrusts the weapons

first, let him take up the bucklers.[93]

SPEED. A match between us.

JANE. Must I be stickler, then?

LAMB. We are both to run at the ring of your setting-up, and

you must tell us who deserves most favour.

JANE. But will you stand both at my disposing?

LAMB. Else let me never stand but in a pillory.

JANE. You love me both, you say?

SPEED. By this hand!

LAMB. Hand? Zounds! by the four-and-twenty elements.

JANE. Pray spare your oaths; I do believe you do,

You would not else make all this stir to woo.

Sir Godfrey, you are a knight both tough and old;

A rotten building cannot long time hold.

LAMB. Speedwell, live well, die well, and be hanged well,

change your copy well, your experience will not carry it else.

JANE. You're rich too, at least yourself so say;

What, though you're but a gilded man of clay.

LAMB. A man of gingerbread; i' faith, I could find in my heart

to eat him.

JANE. Should I wed you, the fire with frost must marry,

January and May! I for a younger tarry.

LAMB. That's I! In troth, I'll be thy young Lambskin; thou

shalt find me as innocent as a sucking dove. Speak, sweet

mistress, am I the youth in a basket?

JANE. You are the sweet youth, sir, whose pretty eyes

Would make me love; but you must first be wise.

SPEED. Ha, ha! Is your coxcomb cut? I see experience must board

this fair pinnace. A word in private.

LAMB. I'll have no words in private, unless I hear too.

[_Retire._

_Enter_ MASTER BREWEN, STEPHEN, _and_ ROBERT.

BREW. Come, gentlemen, we'll make few words about it:

Merchants in bargaining must not, like soldiers

Lying at a siege, stay moneths, weeks, days,

But strike at the first parley.

Broadcloths and wools, and other rich commodities,

I lately from your brother brought, are all your own.

STEPH. 'Tis well.

BREW. Then be not angry, gentle sir,

If now a string be touch'd, which hath too long

Sounded so harshly over all the city;

I now would wind it to a musical height.

STEPH. Good master alderman, I think that string

Will still offend mine ear; you mean the jarring

'Twixt me and my brother?

BREW. In troth, the same.

STEPH. I hate no poison like that brother's name.

BREW. O fie! not so.

STEPH. Uncivil churl, when all his sails were up,

And that his proud heart danc'd on golden waves----

BREW. As, heaven be thanked, it still does!

STEPH. Yet, sir, then,

I being sunk, and drown'd in mine own misery,

He would not cast out a poor line of thread,

And bring me to the shore; I had been dead,

And might have starv'd for him.

BREW. A better fate, sir,

Stood at your elbow.

STEPH. True, sir: this was he,

That lifted me from want and misery;

Whose cruel father, for that [act of] good,

Cast him away, scorning his name and blood;

Lopp'd from his side this branch that held me dear;

For which he's now my son, my joy, my heir.

But, for his father, hang him!

BREW. Fie, fie!

STEPH. By heaven!

BREW. Come, come,

Live in more charity, he is your brother;

If that name offend, I'll sing that tune no more.

Yonder's my daughter busy with her suitors;

We'll visit them. Now, Jane, bid your friends welcome.

JANE. They must be welcome, sir, that come with you;

To thee ten thousand welcomes still are due.

ROB. My sweet mistress! [_Kisses her._

LAMB. Zounds! Sir knight, we have stood beating the bush,

and the bird's flown away; this city bowler has kissed the

mistress[94] at first cast.

BREW. How fare ye, gentlemen? what cheer, sir knight?

SPEED. An adventurer still, sir, to this new-found land.[95]

LAMB. He sails about the point, sir; but he cannot put in yet.

BREW. The wind may turn, sir. [_To_ STEPHEN.] A word, Master

Foster. [_They converse apart._

LAMB. You see, Sir Speedwell, what card is turned up for trump;

I hold my life, this spruce citizen will forestall the market:

O, these brisk factors are notable firkers.

SPEED. I doubt, sir, he will play the merchant[96] with us.

BREW. They both are suitors, sir, yet both shoot wide;

My daughter, sure, must be your kinsman's bride.

STEPH. I'll give her a wedding-ring on that condition,

And put a stone in't worth a thousand pound, sir.

BREW. You have my hand and heart to't, be she pleased so.

LAMB. 'Sfoot! let's show ourselves gallants or

gallymawfries:[97] shall we be outbraved by a cockney? [_To_

ROBERT.] A word, my fair Zenocrates; do you see, sir, here be

those that have gone a-fishing, and can give you a gudgeon?

ROB. You were best go fish for better manners, or I shall bob

for eels[98] with you. [_Strikes him._

LAMB. Zounds! are you a striker? Draw, sir knight.

BREW. Not in my house; I pray, be quiet, gentlemen.

ROB. He dares not do't abroad, believe me, sir.

STEPH. Now, by my life, my boy, for this brave spirit

I'll hug thee in mine arms: lose life and limbs,

Ere thou forsake thy love.

LAMB. He is no rival he, sir,[99] has struck me;

And we are gentlemen.

SPEED. And hear ye, sir; let him seek out his equals; for some

of us are in danger to make her a lady shortly: I know what I

speak; what I speak I'll do; yet I'll do nothing but what comes

from grave experience.

STEPH. Speak what you please, sir; he's a gentleman

As good as either of you both; and shall

In list of love, for such a bedfellow,

Brave him that dares; and here lay down more gold

To win her love than both your states are worth.

SPEED. Ha! do you know us, sir? you grow too bold; my

experience now hath found you: you were once a tattered fellow,

your name is Foster; have you such gold to give?

LAMB. Yes, yes, 'has won it betting at the bowling-alleys, or

at the pigeon-holes in the garden-alleys.

STEPH. You are muddy grooms[100] to upbraid me with that scorn

Which virtue now gilds over. Pray ye, gentlemen,

May I request your names?

LAMB. Our names are in the heralds' books, I warrant you;

My name is Innocent Lambskin; and this knight,

Simply though he stands here, is known to be

Sir Godfrey Speedwell.

STEPH. Well may he speed, sir. Lambskin and Speedwell. Ha! is't

so? I think I shall give you a medicine to purge this itch of

love, sir.

LAMB. No itch neither, sir; we have no scabs here

But yourself and your cousin.

STEPH. Very good, sir! my little Lambskin, I have you

Here in sheep's-skin [_Produces a parchment_]; look you, 'tis

so, i' faith.

See, master alderman, these two crack'd gallants

Are in several bonds to my predecessor

For a debt of full two thousand a-piece.

Cousin, fetch me a sergeant straight.

ROB. Yes, sir.

SPEED. O, let him: I have a protection, sir.

STEPH. I'll try that, sir.

SPEED. A sergeant? nay, then,

Experience must work: legs be strong and bold:

When sergeants wait at feasts, the cheer's but cold.

I'll shift for one. [_Exit._

LAMB. Knight, knight! 'Sfoot! if an errand-knight run away, I

were an errand ass to tarry, and be catched in the lime-bush:

I love the wench well; but if they have no hole to place me in

but the hole in the counter, I'll be gone and leave 'em; that's

flat. [_Exit._

BREW. You have scared the suitors from the mark, sir.

STEPH. I am glad on't, sir; they are but such as seek

To build their rotten state on you, and with your wealth

To underprop their weakness:

Believe me, reverend sir, I had much rather

You'd venture that my coz might call you father.

BREW. We'll talk of that anon. See, sir, here comes you wife.

_Enter_ STEPHEN'S WIFE.

The theme of all her time, with goodness mix'd,

The happy woman that was never vex'd.

You're welcome, Mistress Foster.

WIFE. I thank ye, sir.

STEPH. Wife, your two debtors

Were here but now, Speedwell and Lambskin.

A wolf could not have torn poor Lambskin worse

Than the bare name of sergeant: the very thought

Made them both take their heels and run away.

WIFE. 'Las! they are poor and lean, and being so,

Kill them not till they are fatter.

STEPH. At thy girdle, sweet, hang the keys

To lock the prison doors or let them loose:

'Twas my intent only (in way of mirth)

To rid them from the presence of Mistress Jane,

That our adopted son might have no bar

Unto his love.

WIFE. The match is fair; and were that knot once tied,

I'd send some angels to attend the bride.

_Enter_ GEORGE.

STEPH. Sir, here's your factor.

BREW. Are the wares ready?

GEORGE. Yes, and delivered, sir, to Master Foster's servants,

who conveyed them in carts to the Custom House, there to be

shipped; but going with them, sir, I met ill news.

BREW. Ill news? what is't?

GEORGE. Old Master Foster's ships, so richly laden,

By strange misfortune, sir, are cast away.

BREW. Now heaven forbid!

ROB. O me!

STEPH. How? cast away? where?

BREW. 'Tis impossible; they rid at Dover safe

When he outbought my full share in the fraught,

And paid me down near thirty thousand pounds

In wares and money.

GEORGE. Which, had he not done, you had lost your venture.

By Master Foster's own appointment, sir, they weighed

Their anchors up, and so to come for London;

But by a merciless storm they all were swallowed,

Even in the Thames's mouth: yet the men were sav'd,

But all the goods were lost.

ROB. O my poor father! This loss will break his back.

STEPH. Ha! what is that to you? If in my favour

You'll sit warm, then bury all love to him,

Nay, duty; hear you, sir? What! shedd'st thou tears

For him that had no care to see thy heart

Drop blood? He was unnatural, and heaven

Hath justly now rewarded him.

BREW. 'Tis a most strange fate!

He needs would buy my part at any rate;

And now all's lost.

STEPH. Greedy desire he swallowed,

And now is swallowed: 'tis but his hire,

And I'll not pity it no more than he

In his abundance did my misery.

WIFE. I grieve for my poor gossip, his good wife;

She never met good fortune all her life,

And this will break her heart-strings:

In good sooth, I'll go and comfort her.

STEPH. In good sooth, you shall not;

Nor him, nor her, at this time, gentle wife;

He scorn'd me in his height: now being poor,

If that he needs my help, he knows my door.

Sir, we'll for this time leave you; at fitter leisure

We'll have this marriage talk'd of.

BREW. At your own good pleasure.

STEPH. Come, wife. Go not to see your father, sir,

I charge you.

BREW. Jane, bring your friends to th' door.

ROB. [_Aside._] I'll help my father, though myself grow poor.

[_Exeunt._

BREW. Where's my factor?

GEORGE. Here, sir.

BREW. What, are the square stones and timber brought, as I appointed?

GEORGE. Yes, sir, and the workmen that daily ply the work are

in number fourscore at least.

BREW. My vows flew up to heaven, that I would make

Some pious work in the brass book of fame,

That might till doomsday lengthen out my name.

Near Norton Folgate, therefore, have I bought

Ground to erect this house, which I will call

And dedicate St Mary's Hospital;

And when 'tis finish'd, o'er the gates shall stand

In capital letters, these words fairly graven,

For I have given the work and house to heaven,

And call'd it _Domus Dei_, God's house;

For in my zealous faith I know full well,

Where good deeds are, there heaven itself doth dwell. [_Exit._

_Enter_ OLD FOSTER, RICHARD _his factor, and the_

KEEPER OF LUDGATE.

RICH. Good sir, resolve not thus; return again,

Your debts are not so great that you should yield

Your body thus to prison unconstrain'd.

O. FOS. I will not trust the iron hearts of men;

My credit's lost, my wealth the sea has swallowed,

Wrack'd at my door, even in the mouth o' th' Thames;

O my misfortune! never man like me

Was so thrown down and cast to misery.

RICH. Dear sir, be patient!

O. FOS. I prythee, get thee gone,

And with thy diligence assist thy mistress

To keep that little left to help herself;

Whilst here in Ludgate I secure my body

From writs, arrests, and executions,

Which, well I know, my cruel creditors

Will thunder on me. Go, get thee gone!

If what is left they'll take, do thou agree;

If not, I am resolv'd here to stay and die.

RICH. I'll do my best, sir, to procure your peace. [_Exit._

O. FOS. Do so. [_To the_ KEEPER.] Come, sir, I yield myself

your prisoner:

You are the keeper of this Ludgate?

KEEPER. Yes, sir;

Your name is register'd amongst the prisoners.

O. FOS. So!

I have seen the fair outside of this tomb before;

This goodly apple has a rotten core.

KEEPER. As all prisons have, sir.

O. FOS. I prythee, bar me of no privilege

Due to a free citizen: thou knowest me well?

KEEPER. Yes, Master Foster, and I sorrow for your losses,

Yet doubt not but your son and brother----

O. FOS. O, speak not of them! do not kiss and kill me;

I have no son nor brother that esteems me,

And I for ever hate their memory.

Prythee, no more! I am come sick

Into a bad inn, and look for worse attendance:

I have taken a surfeit of misfortunes, and here

Must swallow pills, with poison to recure me:

I am sea-sick, sir, and heave my hands to heaven;

Ne'er to so low an ebb was Foster driven.

KEEPER. There be some fees to pay, sir, at your coming in.

O. FOS. So, so!

If this old walnut-tree, after all this cudgelling,

Have but one cluster left, thou shalt have that too;

If not, take off these leaves that cover me,

Pull off these white locks! rend them from my head!

And let them in my woes be buried.

KEEPER. 'Las, sir! this house is poor.

O. FOS. I think no less,

For rich men seldom meet with such distress:

Well, well! what book must I read over now?

What servile oar must I be tied to here,

Slave-like to tug within this Christian galley?

KEEPER. Sir, being the youngest prisoner in the house,

You must beg at the iron grate above,

As others do, for your relief and theirs.

O. FOS. For a beggar to beg, sir, is no shame;

And for the iron grate, it bears an emblem

Of iron-hearted creditors, that force men lie

In loathsome prisons thus to starve and die.

_Enter_ ROBERT.

KEEPER. Who would you speak with, sir?

O, cry you mercy! 'tis his son:

I'll leave them. [_Exit._

O. FOS. O torment to my soul! what mak'st thou here?

Cannot the picture of my misery

Be drawn, and hung out to the eyes of men,

But thou must come to scorn and laugh at it?

ROB. Dear sir,

I come to thrust my back under your load,

To make the burden lighter.

O. FOS. Hence from my sight, dissembling villain! go!

Thine uncle sends defiance to my woe,

And thou must bring it. Hence! thou basilisk,

That kill'st me with thine eyes. Nay, never kneel; [ROBERT _kneels_.

These scornful mocks more than my woes I feel.

ROB. Alas! I mock ye not, but come in love

And natural duty, sir, to beg your blessing;

And for mine uncle----

O. FOS. Him and thee I curse;

I'll starve ere I eat bread [bought] from his purse

Or from thy hand. Out, villain! tell that cur,

Thy barking uncle, that I lie not here

Upon my bed of riot, as he did,

Cover'd with all the villanies which man

Had ever woven; tell him I lie not so,

It was the hand of heaven struck me thus low,

And I do thank it. Get thee gone, I say,

Or I shall curse thee, strike thee; prythee, away!

Or if thou'lt laugh thy fill at my poor state,

Then stay, and listen to the prison-grate,

And hear thy father, an old wretched man,

That yesterday had thousands, beg and cry

To get a penny: O my misery!

ROB. Dear sir, for pity hear me.

O. FOS. Upon my curse I charge no nearer come:

I'll be no father to so vile a son. [_Exit._

ROB. O my abortive fate!

Why for my good am I thus paid with hate!

From this sad place of Ludgate here I freed

An uncle, and I lost a father for it;

Now is my father here, whom if I succour,

I then must lose my uncle's love and favour.

My father once being rich, and uncle poor,

I him relieving was thrust forth of door.

Baffled, revil'd, and disinherited:

Now mine own father here must beg for bread,

Mine uncle being rich; and yet, if I

Feed him, myself must beg. O misery,

How bitter is thy taste! yet I will drink

Thy strongest poison: fret what mischief can,

I'll feed my father; though, like the pelican,

I peck mine own breast for him.

[OLD FOSTER _appears above at the grate, a box_

_hanging down_.

O. FOS. Bread, bread! one penny to buy a loaf of bread for the

tender mercy!

ROB. O me, my shame! I know that voice full well;

I'll help thy wants, although thou curse me still.

O. FOS. Bread, bread! some Christian man send back

Your charity to a number of poor prisoners.

One penny for the tender mercy! [ROBERT _puts in money_.

The hand of heaven reward you, gentle sir,

Never may you want, never feel misery;

Let blessings in unnumber'd measure grow,

And fall upon your head where'er you go.

ROB. O happy comfort! curses to the ground

First struck me: now with blessings I am crown'd.

O. FOS. Bread, bread, for the tender mercy! one penny for a

loaf of bread!

ROB. I'll buy more blessings: take thou all my store,

I'll keep no coin, and see my father poor. [_Puts in more money._

O. FOS. Good angels guard you, sir; my prayers shall be

That heaven may bless you for this charity!

ROB. If he knew me, sure he would not say so;

Yet I have comfort, if by any means

I get a blessing from my father's hands.

How cheap are good prayers! a poor penny buys

That by which man up in a minute flies,

And mounts to heaven.

_Enter_ STEPHEN.

O me! mine uncle sees me.

STEPH. Now, sir, what make you here

So near the prison?

ROB. I was going, sir,

To buy meat for a poor bird I have,

That sits so sadly in the cage of late,

I think he'll die for sorrow.

STEPH. So, sir; your pity will not quit your pains:

I fear me, I shall find that bird to be

That churlish wretch your father, that has taken

Shelter here in Ludgate. Go to, sir! urge me not,

You had best; I have given you warning;

Fawn not upon him, nor come not near him,

If you'll have my love.

ROB. 'Las, sir! that lamb

Were most unnatural that should hate the dam.

STEPH. Lamb me no lambs, sir!

ROB. Good uncle! alas!

You know, when you lay here, I succour'd you,

So let me now help him.

STEPH. Yes, as he did me,

To laugh and triumph at my misery;

You freed me with his gold, but 'gainst his will:

For him I might have rotted, and lain still:

So shall he now.

ROB. Alack the day!

STEPH. If him thou pity, 'tis thine own decay.

O. FOS. Bread, bread! some charitable man remember the poor

prisoners: bread for the tender mercy! one penny!

ROB. O listen, uncle!

That's my poor father's voice.

STEPH. There let him howl.

Get you gone, and come not near him.

ROB. O my soul,

What tortures dost thou feel! Earth ne'er shall find

A son so true, yet forc'd to be unkind. [_Exit._

STEPH. Well, go thy ways, thou pattern of true virtue;

My heart is full: I could e'en weep,

(And much ado I had to forbear.)

To hear a brother begging in a jail,

That but erewhile spread up a lofty sail

As proudly as the best. O, 'twere a sin

Unpardonable in me, should I not succour him!

Yes, I will do't, yet closely it shall be done,

And he not know from whence his comforts come.

What ho! keeper, there! a word, I pray.

_Enter_ KEEPER.

KEEPER. What's your pleasure, sir?

STEPH. What's he that at the grate there begg'd even now?

KEEPER. One Master Foster, sir, a decayed citizen new-come in.

Cry you mercy, sir, you know him better than myself, I think.

STEPH. I should do, knew he me, as I would know him.

Prythee, take him from the grate; and that

No more he stand to beg, there is ten pound

To pay his score and take off all his wants:

If he demand who sends it, tell him 'tis

Thine own free hand to lend him money.

KEEPER. Well, sir, I shall.

STEPH. Spend what he will, my purse shall pay it all;

And at his parting hence the poorest prisoner,

And all free citizens that live in Ludgate,

Shall bless his coming in: I'll for his sake

Do something now that, whilst this city stands,

Shall keep the Fosters' name engraven so high,

As no black storm shall cloud their memory.

KEEPER. Heaven bless your purpose, sir! [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ STEPHEN'S WIFE, _and her Sister_, OLD

FOSTER'S WIFE.

WIFE. Sister, there's no way to make sorrow light

But in the noble bearing; be content.

Blows given from heaven are our due punishment:

All shipwrecks are no drownings: you see buildings

Made fairer from their ruins: he that I married--

The brother to your husband--lay, you know,

On the same bed of misery; yet now

He's rank'd with the best citizens.

MRS FOS. O, you were born to wealth and happiness;

I, to want and scorn!

WIFE. Come, I will work my husband: stay this grief.

The longest sorrow finds at last relief.

_Enter_ CLOWN.

Now, sir, your business?

CLOWN. Marry, mistress, here are two creatures, scarce able to

make one man, desire to speak with you.

WIFE. What are they? Know their names.

CLOWN. Nay, I know that already: the one is a thing that was

plucked into the world by the head and shoulders to be wondered

at, and 'tis called a knight; the other is a coach-horse of the

same overridden race, and that's a foolish gentleman.

WIFE. O, they are my old debtors, Speedwell and Lambskin:

Go, call them in: and, my gentle sister,

Comfort yourself and my imprison'd brother,

To whom commend me; give to him this gold;

What good I can I'll do for him, be bold.

MRS FOS. May heavenly blessings guard you from all ill:

Never was woman vex'd as I am still. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SPEEDWELL _and_ LAMBSKIN.

WIFE. Now, good Sir Godfrey and Master Innocent.

LAMB. I put my innocent case into your hands, mistress, as a

simple country client thrusts his money into a lawyer's, who

stands upon no great terms to take it.

SPEED. We come about the old business, the sickness of the

purse, lady.

CLOWN. And they'd be loth to keep their beds i' th' counter,

mistress; they are afraid of sergeants; Master Lambskin knows

that mace[101] is a binder.

LAMB. No, truly it makes me loose, for I never smell it, though

it be two streets off, but it gives me a stool presently.

CLOWN. Ay, you have been a loose liver always: 'tis time to

look to you.

SPEED. Fair lady, we are your debtors, and owe you money:

Experience tells us that our bonds are forfeit,

For which your husband threaten'd to arrest us;

My shoulders love no such clappings; I love tobacco,

But would be loth to drink in Wood Street pipes:[102]

Some money we will pay ere we go hence:

I speak, you see, with grave experience.

WIFE. I know it well, sir.

LAMB. Had not your husband (when he went about fowling

For the alderman's daughter) driven away the bird,

We might have bidden you to a better breakfast; But now you

must take what we can set before you.

_Wife._ I am content to do so: you shall find

Nor me nor my husband carry a griping mind.

_Enter_ ROBERT.

Now, coz, where's your uncle?

ROB. He's hard at hand, I saw him coming

With the Lord Mayor and Aldermen.

LAMB. Zounds! knight, if the mayor come,

The shoulder-clappers are not far off.

WIFE. O, fear not, I'll be your surety, sir.

CLOWN. Do you not smell Poultry ware, Sir

Godfrey?

SPEED. Most horribly; I'll not endure the scent on't.

WIFE. Upon my trust, none here shall do you wrong.

[_To_ ROBERT.] What is his business with the aldermen?

ROB. About the entertainment of the king,

That means to visit London.

WIFE. Saw you your sad father?

ROB. I did; would I might never see man more,

Since he so hates my sight! the prison door,

Which gapes for comers-in, that mouth of hell,

Shut me out with a churlish cold farewell:

After my father's most unnatural part

Was play'd on misery's stage, mine uncle comes

In thunder on me, threatening with black storms

To nail me to the earth, if I relieved

My poor old father.

_Enter_ STEPHEN.

CLOWN. Here's my master now, gentlemen.

STEPH. O gentlemen, you're both welcome;

Have you paid this money on your bonds yet?

WIFE. Not yet, sir; but here they come like honest gentlemen

To take some order for it: good sweetheart,

Shall it be put to me?

STEPH. Do as you please;

In all thy deeds thou'rt govern'd with good stars;

Therefore, if thou cry'st peace, I'll not raise wars.

E'en order it how thou wilt.

WIFE. I thank ye, sir: then tell me, gentlemen,

What present money can you pay?

SPEED. Two hundred pound we can lay down.

LAMB. And take up seven times as much if we knew where to get

it; but there's our lamentable case: mistress, if you strip us

any nearer, you'll strip the skin and all, I'll assure you.

WIFE. We'll shear no sheep so close.

LAMB. No sheep, forsooth, but a poor Innocent Lambskin.

CLOWN. You should be a calf by your white face.

WIFE. All your two thousand pound, gentlemen, we quit

For your two hundred: go, pay the money to my coz,

And receive your two bonds cancell'd.

[_To_ STEPHEN.] Say, sir, are ye content?

STEPH. Wife, I must stand to the arbitrament.

Go, cousin, receive their money: [_To_ CLOWN] and, sirrah,

Make them drink.

CLOWN. I'll make them drink, if they will. Come, gallants,

empty your bags, and I'll bumbast your bellies: this lean

gentleman looks as if he had no lining in's guts; I could take

him by the leg, and hurl him into the dog-house.

[_Exeunt_ ROBERT, SPEEDWELL, LAMBSKIN, _and_

CLOWN.

STEPH. How now, sweet wife, what art thou musing on?

WIFE. I must come a-wooing to you, sir.

STEPH. A-wooing, sweet, for what?

WIFE. For your brother: O, 'tis unmeet

For souls fram'd by one square to grow uneven!

'Tis like a war 'mongst the great lights of heaven;

One cannot lose his beauty, but the other

Suffers eclipse--so brother against brother.

STEPH. Wouldst have me kiss him that would kill me?

WIFE. Would you kill a man lying at your feet?

Do good for ill.

STEPH. Thy songs are angels' tunes,

And on thy wings I'll fly with thee to heaven.

Thou speakest as I would have thee;

His debts I have justly weighed, and find them light.

WIFE. The easier then ta'en off.

STEPH. Thou sayest most right:

But I of purpose keep aloof to try

My kinsman, whom I spied most dolefully

Hovering about the grate, where his father cried

With piteous voice for bread; yet did I chide,

And rail'd against the boy, but my heart says

(Howe'er my tongue) it was drown'd in tears,

To see such goodness in a son.

WIFE. Such wheels in children's bosoms seldom run.

STEPH. I'll lay a wager, wife, that this two hundred pounds,

Paid by these foolish fellows, will by the boy

Be given his father.

WIFE. Troth, would it might!

STEPH. In doing me such wrong he does me right.

Ludgate was once my dwelling, and to shew

That I true feeling of his misery knew,

Albe't long since blown o'er, so thou'lt consent,

Within that place I'll raise some monument,

Shall keep our names alive till doomsday.

WIFE. I gladly shall agree

To any act that tends to charity.

_Enter_ MASTER BREWEN.

BREW. Come, where's Master Foster? O, you lose time, sir,

Not meeting fortune that comes to kiss you!

The Lord Mayor and Aldermen stay at the Guildhall

Expecting you, as well to set down order

Touching the entertainment of the king,

As to elect you for the following year

A sheriff of London.

STEPH. Their loves outstrip my merit:

Yet, since they lay that load on me, I'll bear it,

And wait in scarlet on my liege and king.

But pray resolve me, master alderman,

Why makes the king this visitation?

BREW. Troth, sir, to honour me, I thank his highness,

Who with my lord the Cardinal comes along

To see the dedication of my house,

Built for the weary travellers to rest in;

Where stands three hundred beds for their relief,

With meat, drink, and some money, when they part;

Which I'll give freely with a willing heart.

STEPH. A pious, worthy, and religious act.

Come, sir, to th' Guildhall. Wife, look to your kinsman;

Watch him near, but do not hinder him

If he relieve his father. Come, master alderman:

With such sweet incense up your offerings fly,

I'll build one altar more to charity. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[93] _i.e._, Let him be declared victor. The expression is not uncommon

in our old dramatic writers.

[94] This phrase is, I believe, still common among bowlers, with the

exception that the _mistress_ is now called the _jack_.

[95] [An apparent allusion to the then recent settlement of

Newfoundland, an account of which is to be found in Vaughan's "Golden

Fleece," 1626, and "Newlander's Cure," 1630, besides other works.]

[96] [The word began, even before this, to acquire a bad sense, and was

used contemptuously, as we use _chapman_ or _chap_ now.]

[97] This word seems used here with no very definite meaning. Pistol,

in the "Merry Wives of Windsor," ii. 1, applies it to Mrs Ford--

"He loves thy gally-mawfrey; Ford, perpend."

[98] [A play on _eels_ and _heels_.]

[99] [Old copy and Dilke read--

"He's no rival here, sir; has struck me."]

[100] [Men, fellows.]

[101] I scarcely need observe that the Clown puns between the

_sergeant's mace_ and _the spice_ of that name. Poor as it is, it is

common enough.

[102] One of the counters was situated in Wood Street, Cheapside.

ACT V., SCENE I.

_Ludgate. Enter_ OLD FOSTER, _his_ WIFE, _and_

KEEPER.

KEEPER. Come, come, be merry, sir; do as mourners do at

funerals, wear your hat in your eyes, and laugh in your heart.

O. FOS. I have no such fat legacy left me,

To teach me how to play the hypocrite.

KEEPER. No? Why, look ye, sir, you shall want neither meat,

drink, money, nor anything that the house affords; or if

anything abroad like ye, sir, here's money, send for what you

will, sir. Nay, you shall beg no more at the grate neither.

O. FOS. Ha! is not this Ludgate?

KEEPER. Yes, sir.

O. FOS. A jail, a prison, a tomb of men lock'd up,

Alive and buried?

KEEPER. 'Tis what you please to call it.

O. FOS. O, at what crevice, then, hath comfort,

Like a sunbeam, crept in? for all the doors

And windows are of iron, and barr'd to keep

Her out. I had a limb cut from my body

Dear to me as [my] life; I had a son

And brother, too. O grief!

They both would give me poison first in gold,

Before their hollow palms ten drops should hold

Of nature's drink, cold water, but to save

My life one minute: whence should pity come,

When my best friends do beat it from this room?

KEEPER. No matter, sir; since you have good meat set before

you, never ask who sent it. If heaven provide for you, and

make the fowls of the air your caters, feed you fat, and be

thankful; and so I leave you. [_Exit._

MRS FOS. The keeper is your friend, and pours true balm

Into your smarting wounds; therefore, dear husband,

Endure the dressing with patience.

O. FOS. O wife, my losses are as numberless

As the sea-sands that swallowed them! And shall I,

In reckoning them, my sad griefs multiply?

MRS FOS. You may, sir;

But your dim eyes so thick with tears do run,

You cannot see from whence your comforts come:

Besides, your debts being truly counted

Cannot be great.

O. FOS. But all my wealth and state lies in the sea's bottom.

MRS FOS. It again may rise.

O. FOS. O, never!

MRS FOS. Good sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy

An arm to pluck you from this misery.

_Enter_ KEEPER.

KEEPER. Sir, there's one without desires to speak with you.

O. FOS. Go, send him in. [_Exit_ KEEPER.] None comes to do me good,

My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood.

_Enter_ ROBERT.

Ha! what art thou? Call for the keeper there,

And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up.

MRS FOS. O, 'tis your son, sir!

O. FOS. I know him not: [ROBERT _kneels_.

I am no king, unless of scorn and woe;

Why kneel'st thou, then? Why dost thou mock me so?

ROB. O my dear father, hither am I come,

Not like a threat'ning storm t' increase your wrack,

For I would take all sorrows from your back,

To lay them all on my own.

O. FOS. Rise, mischief, rise! Away, and get thee gone!

ROB. O, if I be thus hateful to your eye,

I will depart, and wish I soon may die;

Yet let your blessing, sir, but fall on me.

O. FOS. My heart still hates thee.

MRS FOS. Sweet husband!

O. FOS. Get you both gone!

That misery takes some rest that dwells alone;

Away, thou villain!

ROB. Heaven can tell,

Ache but your finger, I, to make it well,

Would cut my hand off.

O. FOS. Hang thee, hang thee!

MRS FOS. Husband!

O. FOS. Destruction meet thee! Turn the key there, ho!

ROB. Good sir, I'm gone; I will not stay to grieve you.

O, knew you for your woes what pains I feel,

You would not scorn me so. See, sir, to cool

Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got

Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot

To lay it down with reverence at your feet;

No comfort in the world to me is sweet,

Whilst thus you live in moan.

O. FOS. Stay!

ROB. Good troth, sir, I'll have none on't back,

Could but one penny of it save my life.

MRS FOS. Yet stay and hear him. O unnatural strife

In a hard father's bosom!

O. FOS. I see mine error now. O, can there grow

A rose upon a bramble? Did there e'er flow

Poison and health together in one tide?

I'm born a man: reason may step aside,

And lead a father's love out of the way:

Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray:

Look, on my knees I beg it--not for joy

Thou bring'st this golden rubbish, which I spurn;

But glad in this, the heavens mine eyeballs turn,

And fix them right to look upon that face,

Where love remains with pity, duty, grace.

O my dear wronged boy!

ROB. Gladness o'erwhelms my heart!

With joy I cannot speak!

MRS FOS. Crosses of this foolish world

Did never grieve my heart with torments more,

Than it is now grown light

With joy and comfort of this happy sight.

O. FOS. Yet, wife, I disinherited this boy.

ROB. Your blessing's all I crave.

O. FOS. And that enjoy

For ever: evermore my blessings fly

To pay thy virtues, love and charity.

_Enter_ STEPHEN'S WIFE.

MRS FOS. Here comes your brother's wife.

Welcome, dear sister.

WIFE. I thank you. How fare you, brother?

O. FOS. Better than your husband's hate could wish me,

That laughs to see my back with sorrows bow:

But I am rid of half my ague now.

WIFE. Had you an ague, then?

O. FOS. Yes, and my heart had every hour a fit;

But now't has left me well, and I left it.

WIFE. O, 'tis well. Cousin, what make you here, I pray?

ROB. To support a weak house falling to decay.

WIFE. 'Tis well if you can do't, and that the timber

You underprop it with be all your own.

Hark, coz, where's your uncle's money?

ROB. Faith, aunt, 'tis gone;

But not at dice nor drabbing.

WIFE. Sir, I believe,

With your uncle's gold your father you relieve.

ROB. You are sav'd, believing so: your belief's true.

WIFE. You cut large thongs of that's another's due,

And you will answer't ill. Now, in good troth,

I laugh at this jest: much good do them both:

My wager I had won, had I but laid. [_Aside._

O. FOS. What has my poor boy done, that you have made

So much blood rise in's cheeks?

WIFE. Nothing, dear brother;

Indeed all's well: the course that he has run

I like and love; let him hold on the same;

A son's love to a father none can blame:

I will not leave your brother's iron heart,

Till I have beat it soft with my entreats.

O. FOS. 'Twill ne'er be music, 'tis so full of frets.

WIFE. Frets make best music: strings the higher rack'd

Sound sweetest.

O. FOS. And sound nothing when they are crack'd,

As is his love to me, and mine to him.

WIFE. I hope you both in smoother streams shall swim.

He's now the Sheriff of London, and in council

Set at the Guildhall in his scarlet gown,

With mayor and aldermen, how to receive the king,

Who comes to see Master Brewen's hospital

To-morrow, consecrated by th' Cardinal,

And old St Mary's Spital, here by Shoreditch.

MRS FOS. Ay, sister, he and you may set

'Bout what you will; heav'n, I am sure, prospers it;

But I am ever cross'd: you have been bound

For three great voyages, yet ne'er run aground--

Maid, wife, and widow, and wife again--have spread

Full and fair sails, no wrecks you e'er did dread,

Nor e'er felt any; but even close ashore,

I'm sunk, and 'midst of all my wealth made poor.

WIFE. You must thank heaven.

MRS FOS. I do, indeed, for all.

WIFE. Sister, that hand can raise that gives the fall.

_Enter_ KEEPER.

KEEPER. Master Foster, the new sheriff, your brother,

Is come to Ludgate, and I am come in haste

To know your pleasure, if you would see him.

O. FOS. I'll see a fury first; hence! clap to the door, I pray thee.

WIFE. Why, 'tis your brother, sir.

ROB. Father, let's fly the thunder of his rage.

WIFE. Stand valiantly,

And let me bear the storm: all hurts that are,

And ruins in your bosoms I'll repair.

_Enter_ STEPHEN FOSTER.

STEPH. Where's the keeper? Go, sir, take my officers

And see your prisoners presently convey'd

From Ludgate unto Newgate and the Counters.

KEEPER. I shall, sir.

STEPH. Let the constables of the wards

Assist you. Go, despatch! and take these with you.

[_To_ ROBERT.] How now! what mak'st thou here, thou caitiff? Ha!

Com'st thou to stitch his wounds that seeks to cut

My throat? Darest thou in despite

Relieve this dotard?

O. FOS. Get thee from my sight,

Thou devil in red: com'st thou in scarlet pride

To tread on thy poor brother in a jail?

Is there but one small conduit-pipe that runs

Cold water to my comfort, and wouldst thou

Cut off that, thou cruel man?

STEPH. Yes;

I'll stop that pipe that thou may'st pining sit;

When drops but fell on me, thou poison'd it:

Thou thrust'st a son's name from thy cruel breast

For clothing of his uncle; now that uncle

Shall thrust him naked forth for clothing thee;

Banish'd for ever from my wealth and me.

O. FOS. Thou canst not be to nature so uneven,

To punish that which has a pay from heaven:

Pity, I mean, and duty. [STEPHEN _offers to strike_ ROBERT.]

Wouldst thou strike?

Wound me, then, that will kill thee, if I can:

STEPH. Thou ravest.

O. FOS. How can I choose? Thou makest me mad:

For shame thou shouldst not make these white hairs sad:

Churl, beat not my poor boy; let him not lose

Thy love for my sake; I had rather bruise

My soul with torments for a thousand years,

Could I but live them, rather than salt tears

Thy malice draw from him: see, here's thy gold;

Tell it: none's stole. My woes can ne'er be told!

ROB. O misery! is nature quite forgot?

O. FOS. Choke with thy dunghill-muck! and vex me not.

STEPH. No, keep it; he perhaps that money stole

To give it thee; for which, to vex thy soul,

I'll turn him forth of doors: make him thy heir,

Of jails, miseries, curses, and despair,

For here I disinherit him of all.

O. FOS. No matter; lands to him in heaven will fall.

WIFE. Good husband.

MRS FOS. Gentle brother.

ROB. Dear uncle.

STEPH. I am deaf.

O. FOS. And damn'd; the devil's thumbs stop thine ears!

STEPH. I'll make thee wash those curses off with tears.

Keeper, away with him out of my sight;

And do, sir, as I charg'd you.

KEEPER. Yes, sir, I will.

O. FOS. Poor tyranny! when lions weak lambs kill.

[_Exeunt all but_ STEPHEN _and his_ WIFE.

STEPH. How now, wife, art vex'd yet?

WIFE. Never so well content, believe me, sir;

Your mildness wears this mask of cruelty well.

STEPH. I am glad they're gone; mine eyes with rain did swell,

And much ado they had from pouring down.

The keeper knows my mind. Wife, I have paid

My brother's debts; and when he's out of door

To march to Newgate, he shall be set free.

WIFE. O let me kiss thee for this charity.

But for your cousin, sir?

STEPH. He's my life's best health.

The boy shall not miscarry for more wealth

Than London gates lock safe up every night.

My breath in black clouds flies: my thoughts are white.

WIFE. Why from Ludgate do you remove [the] prisoners?

STEPH. This is my meaning, wife:

I'll take the prison down, and build it new,

With leads to walk on, [and] rooms large and fair;

For when myself lay there, the noisome air

Chok'd up my spirits; and none better know

What prisoners feel than they that taste the woe.

The workmen are appointed for the business;

I will have't despatched, before 'tis thought on.

WIFE. In good deeds I'll walk hand in hand with you;

There is a fair tenement adjoining

Close to the gate, that was my father's,

I'll give it freely; take it down, and add

So much ground to the work.

STEPH.[103] 'Tis fairly given;

Thy soul on prisoners' prayers shall mount to heaven.

The plumbers and the workmen have survey'd

The ground from Paddington; whence I'll have laid

Pipes [all along] to London, to convey

Sweet water into Ludgate from fresh springs:

When charity tunes the pipe, the poor man sings.

_Enter_ KEEPER.

How now, keeper?

KEEP. The prisoners are remov'd, sir.

STEPH. What did you with my brother?

KEEP. As you commanded, sir, I have discharged him.

STEPH. How did he meet that unexpected kindness?

KEEP. Troth, sir, as a man o'ercome 'twixt grief and gladness;

But, turning to his son, he fetch'd a sigh

So violent as if his heart would break,

And (silent) wept, having no power to speak.

WIFE. Alas! good old man, some sweet bird must sing,

And give his sorrows present comforting.

STEPH. Not yet, I'll wrack his sorrows to the height,

And of themselves they'll then sink softly down.

Keeper, go thou again after my brother,

Charge in my name him and his son to appear

Before the king; to whom I will make known

Their wrongs against me, showing just cause

To disinherit both by course of law. Begone!

KEEP. I am gone, sir. [_Exit._

STEPH. Come, wife.

WIFE. What's your meaning, sir?

STEPH. Thou shalt know that anon.

The heavens oft scowl, clouds thicken, winds blow high,

Yet the brightest sun clears all, and so will I. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HENRY III., _attended by_ MONTFORT, PEMBROKE,

_and_ ARUNDEL, LORD MAYOR, STEPHEN

FOSTER _as Sheriff_, ALDERMAN BREWEN, _&c._

KING. O, welcome is all love; our people's shouts

In their heart's language makes our bienvenues

Most high and sovereign: we return all thanks

Unto our loving citizens; [_To_ BREWEN] chiefly to you, sir,

Whose pious work invites our majesty

To royalise this place with our best presence,

Accompanied with this reverend Cardinal:

Would [that] me might, after [so] many broils,

End our days [too] in these religious toils:

We would work most faithfully. But, bounteous sir,

How do you call your buildings?

BREW. Unless it please your majesty to change it,

I call it _Domus Dei_.

KING. The house of God;

It is too good to change: pray you, proceed.

BREW. These are my ends: to all distressed Christians,

Whose travels this way bend, the hospital shall

Free succour be for three days and three nights

Sojourn: diet[104] and lodging, both sweet and satisfying:

And (if their need be such) as much in coin

As shall, for three days more, defray their further travel:

This unto heaven--be you testator, good my liege,

And witness with me, noble gentlemen--

Most free and faithfully I dedicate.

KING. An honourable work, and deserves large memory.

MONT. 'Tis a good example, 'tis pity 'tis no better followed.

ARUN. But say, sir: now in some future age,

Perhaps some two or three hundred year behind us,

This place, intended for a use so charitable,

Should be unhallow'd again by villanous inhabitants,

Say whores instead of Christians, and

Your hospital tenements turn'd into stews,

Would not this grieve you in your grave?[105]

BREW. If my grave were capable of grief, sure it would, sir.

KING. Prythee, be a false prophet.

ARUN. I will, if I can, my lord.

KING. Let now our heralds in the streets proclaim

The title and [the] office of this hospital;

Make known to all distressed travellers,

That we'll accept his charitable house;

This _Domus Dei_ shall be their free sojourn,

As is proposed.

_Enter on the one side_ STEPHEN'S WIFE; _on the_

_other_ OLD FOSTER, MISTRESS FOSTER, JANE,

ROBERT, _and_ KEEPER. _All kneel._

KING. What are these petitioners?

ROB. Each hath a knee for duty, the other for petition.

KING. Rise, your duty's done; your petitions

Shall need no knees, so your intents be honest:

Does none here know them?

STEPH. Yes, my good lord,

There's now a wonder in your sight.

KING. A wonder, Master Sheriff?

You mean for beauty?

STEPH. No, my liege, I would not

So boast mine own wife; but it is a wonder

That excels beauty.

KING. A wonder in a woman!

What is't, I prythee?

STEPH. Patience, my liege;

This is a woman that was never vex'd.

KING. You may boast it largely; 'tis a subject's happiness

Above a queen's. Have you suits to us?

ROB. I am the suppliant plaintiff, royal Henry;

From me their griefs take their original.

KING. What art thou?

ROB. Even what your grace shall please to make of me:

I was the son to this distressed father,

Until he took his paternity off,

And threw me from his love; then I became

Son to mine uncle by adoption;

Who likewise that hath ta'en away again,

And thrown me back to poverty: never was son

So toss'd betwixt two fathers, yet knows not one;

For still the richest does despise his heir,

And I am back expuls'd into despair.

KING. This may your vices cause.

ROB. For that I come

To your impartial censure for a doom.

KING. We hear; speak on: we know the parties;

Each one relate his grief, and if it lie in us,

We'll yield relief: it is first requisite

That we know of you, sir, the cause

Of this your son his disinheritance.

O. FOS. Before I understood his virtuous mind,

Or weighed his disposition to be kind,

I did that froward work; this now great man

Was an unthrifty wretch, a prodigal then,

And I disdain'd to know his brotherhood,

Denied relief to him; this child, kind and good,

Against my contradiction, did him relieve,

As his distressed uncle; at this

I chid, forbad. Still he holds on his course,

He grows more kind, and he in wasting worse;

My rage continued, as it had begun,

And in that rage I threw away my son.

STEPH. The like plead I, my lord: for when my state

Had rais'd itself by an uncertain fate,

I took this outcast child, made him my own,

As full and free as I myself had sown

The seed that brought him forth; for this my love

His oblig'd duty presently did prove

A traitor to my trust, against my will

Succouring that foe which I did love so ill

Only for hating him. My charity being thus

Abus'd, and quit with injury, what could I then

But, as his father erst, so I again

Might throw him from my love? for worse is love abus'd

Than new-born hate, and should be so refus'd:

I did a father's part, if it were bad,

Blame him for both, there I my pattern had.

KING. You fall betwixt two pillars, sir; is't not so?

ROB. Unhappy fate, my lord; yet thus I plead:

For this my father's hate I might deserve,

I broke his precepts, and did unchildly swerve

From his commission; I to my uncle gave

What was my father's, striving thereby to save

His fall'n repute; he rag'd; I did it still,

Yet must confess, as it was well, 'twas ill;

Well in my love, methought, ill to my fate,

For I thereby ruin'd my own estate:

But that mine uncle throws me forth of door,

For the same cause he took me in before,

Beats sorest 'gainst my bosom. If 'twere good

To take from a father for an uncle's food

In laws of love and nature, how much rather

Might I abridge an uncle for a father?

Charity's a virtue generally stands,

And should dispersed be through all men's hands.

Then would you keep't alone? For when your heir

I first adopted was, charity was there:

How errs your judgment then? seeing, you see,

What was good in you, makes sin in me.

You'll say my father did it: O, throw away

That foul excuse; let not discretion stray

So far aside; if custom lawful make,

Then sin were lawful for example sake;

Nor were those wasted goods only your own,

Since part was mine having adoption;

Then do me right, my lord, yet do no wrong,

For where my duty fail'd, my love was strong.

KING. With an impartial ear we have heard

Your loving story; 'tis both fair and honest.

STEPH. O, let me now anticipate your grace,

And, casting off the shadow of a face,

Show my heart's true figure; how have I striv'd

To make this forced counterfeit long-liv'd,

And now it bursts. Come (both) into my heart,

I have two jewels here shall never part

From my love's eye-watch; too worthy to be fil'd

On time's best record, a woman and a child.

(_To_ O. FOS). Now, sir, to you I come; we must be friends,

Though envy wills not so, yet love contends

'Gainst envy and her forces; my young years

Say I must offer first a peace in tears.

O. FOS. O, let my shame my bosom's centre break!

Love is so young, it coys, but cannot speak.

KING. You bless mine eyes with objects that become

The theatre of kings to look upon.

STEPH. The keeper is discharg'd, sir; your debts are paid,

And from the prison you're a free man made:

There's not a creditor can ask you ought.

As your son did for me, so have I bought

Your liberty with mine; and to increase it more,

Because I know bare liberty is poor

Without assistance: to raise your state again,

The thirds of mine are yours, [_To_ WIFE] say you

amen?

WIFE. No, not to that, you are kind brothers now,

Divide by halves that love, and I'll allow.

STEPH. Thou art only wise in virtue; as thou sett'st down,

So let it be. Half my estate's your own.

O. FOS. It whole redounds again, for I am yours;

Forget this minute my forgetful hours.

STEPH. O, they are buried all, sir!

KING. This union's good;

Such league should ever be in brotherhood.

STEPH. Yet without boast, my liege, let me relate

One small thing more--remorse of my own state,

And my dear brother's worse succession:

For that we both have prisoners been in one

Selfsame place of woe, and felt those throes,

That Ludgate yields: my charity bestows

Some alms of comfort: keeper, you can speak it.

KEEP. And many hundred more, sir: you have re-edified

And built it fair, adding more ground to it,

And by pipes of lead from Paddington, drawn

Water thither free for all prisoners: lodgings

Likewise free, and a hundred pounds yearly, to make

Them fires for better comfort: all this is almost finish'd.

KING. A worthy work! the better being done

In the founder's eye, not left unto succession.

STEPH. O my good lord, I ever kept in mind

An English sentence, which my tutor is,

And teaches me to act my charity

With mine own hands; so doubtful is performance,

When the benefactor's dead.

KING. What is't, I prythee?

STEPH. This, my good lord:

_Women are forgetful, children unkind,_

_Executors covetous, and take what they find;_

_If any man ask, where the dead's goods became,_

_The executor swears he died a poor man_.[106]

KING. You have prevented well, so has this good alderman;

I wish you many scholars.

WIFE. [_To_ STEPH.] You make some doubts of me in this, sir:

Did you not say that women are forgetful?

KING. You have vex'd her now, sir: how do you answer that?

STEPH. No, my lord, she's exempt from the proverb.

WIFE. No, my lord, I'll help it better: I do confess

That women are forgetful, yet ne'ertheless

I am exempt: I know my fate, and find

My dear husband must not leave me behind,

But I must go before him;[107] and 'tis said,

The grave's good rest when women go first to bed.

STEPH. Thanks for thy excuse, good wife, but not thy love

To fill my grave before me: I would not live to see that day.

WIFE. Prythee, no more, I had rather be angry than flatter'd.

KING. You have a wonder, master sheriff; a priceless jewel.

STEPH. Many jewels, my good lord; a brother, wife, and child,

For this I would have strove even with a father:

Howe'er rough storms did in my brows appear,

Within my bosom it was always clear.

O. FOS. I give him to you now, sir.

STEPH. I take him, and to him back do give

All that myself behind in 'state shall leave.

O. FOS. And all that you gave me, I do bestow;

So in one hour become full heir to two.

BREW. I claim a third by this bond's virtue; [_Pointing to_ JANE.

See, as a father thou art heir to those.

JANE. I will not go to him, father, on any of these conditions.

ROB. You shall have love to boot too, sweet Jane.

JANE. Nay, an' you play booty, I dare not trust you.

ROB. What shall I say? Accept my hand and heart,[108]

Tied in a true love's knot, never to part.

JANE. Ay, marry, sir, these are better conditions than the

inheritance of three fathers. Let me have love in _esse_; let

lands follow in _posse_. Now I'll have thee as fast as the

priest can despatch us, let him read as fast as he can.

KING. The liveliest harmony that e'er I heard!

All instruments compar'd to these sweet tunes

Are dull and harsh: I joy to see so good a child,

A woman wonder; brothers reconciled.

[_To_ BREWEN.] You, worthy sir, did invite us to a feast,

We'll not forget it, but will be your guest;

Because we'll view these wonders o'er again,

Whose records do deserve a brazen pen;

But this above the rest in golden text

Shall be insculp'd, _A woman never vex'd_.

FOOTNOTES:

[103] This speech is not appropriated in the original, although divided

from the wife's: neither are the words between brackets altogether an

insertion of my own. The speech appears thus in the original:--

'Tis fairely given.

Thy soule on prisoners prayers shall mount to heaven:

The Plummers and the Workemen have survey'd the ground

From _Paddington_; from whence I'l have laid pipes

Long to London to convey sweet water into _Ludgate_;

From fresh Springs: when charity tunes the pipe, the

Poore man sings. _Enter Keeper_.

How now, Keeper.

As I had occasion to give a note here, I thought one sample of

the original might gratify the reader's curiosity, and he _has a

miniature of the whole work_. The poet, who is here very minute in the

description of Stephen's charity, is justified by the inscription on

the wall quoted by Stow. On this subject, however, Strype observes,

"The water _I find not to be altogether his gift_; for that I perused

lately a book, wherein I found a memorandum, that Sir Robert Knowles

[Lord Mayor in 1400] gave maintenance for the supply of the prisoners

of _Ludgate_ and Newgate for ever" ("Appendix," p. 26). There can

be little doubt, however, that this excellent man did something for

the benefit of the prisoners, in regard to the supplying them with

water.--_Dilke._

[104] [Old copy, _for diet_.]

[105] I suspect Arundel to have been of Cranmer's school, and to have

_prophesied of what had actually happened_. The following extract from

a pamphlet of that time called, "Thieves falling out, true Men come

by their Goods," [1615,] justifies the supposition: "And _Shoreditch_

will complain to Dame Ann a Clear, _if we of the sisterhood, should

not uphold her jollity_." It is not through the _inattention_ of

the editor that this, and the preceding speech of Brewen's, _halt so_

_lamentably_; he has, in fact, exercised his utmost skill; but, as with

many other passages in this drama, his success has not equalled his

exertion. [The pamphlet cited by Dilke is a re-issue, under a changed

title, of Robert Greene's "Disputation between a He-Coneycatcher and a

She-Coneycatcher," 1592.]

[106] [This is a somewhat corrupt form of a saying to be found in

Stowe. See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 480.]

[107] This lady proved a false prophetess.

[108] The 4o reads, "What shall I say, _except_ my hand and heart;" and

Stephen may mean, What shall I offer except, &c.; but it seems a forced

construction.

THE ORDINARY

_EDITION._

_The Ordinary, a Comedy, Written by William Cartwright, M.A.

Ch. Ch. Oxon. London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley, and are

to be sold at his shop at the Sign of The Princes Armes in

St Paul's Churchyard. 1651._ 8o.[109]

FOOTNOTES:

[109] [This forms part of a somewhat thick volume, containing the

author's poems and plays, with his portrait by Lombart, and an

extraordinarily long series of introductory verses.] Among them

are verses by a number of men of little note; but this can hardly

be said of the contributions of Jasper Mayne, James Howell, Sir R.

Stapylton, H. Vaughan (Silurist), Alexander Brome, and Izaak Walton.

M. Lluellin has also added an ode to the collection; and another poem

on Cartwright is to be found in his, "Men, Miracles, and other Poems,"

1646.--_Collier._

INTRODUCTION

William Cartwright was, according to Lloyd,[110] born the 16th of

August 1615, though Wood[111] says he was born at Northway, near

Tewksbury, Gloucestershire, in September 1611, and christened on the

26th of the same month. There is as much difference between these two

writers, with respect to his father, as there is concerning the time of

his birth. Lloyd says he was the son of Thomas Cartwright of Burford,

in Oxfordshire. Wood asserts that his father's name was William

Cartwright, one who had dissipated a fair inheritance, and was at last

reduced to keep an inn at Cirencester. These contradictory accounts are

totally irreconcilable. Wood's, however, is probably the true one.[112]

That author says that Cartwright received part of his education under

Mr William Top, master of the Free School at Cirencester; was from

thence sent to Westminster, where he completed his education under Mr

Lambert Osbaldiston; and in the year 1628[113] was chosen a student of

Christ Church in Oxford, and placed under the care of Mr Terrent. He

took his several degrees of Bachelor and Master of Arts--the latter in

1635; and afterwards entering into holy orders, became, as Wood[114]

expresses it, "the most florid and seraphical preacher in the

University." In October 1642, Bishop Duppa conferred on him the place

of Succentor in the Church of Salisbury; and on the 12th of April 1643,

he was admitted junior proctor of the University. He died the 29th of

November following of a malignant fever, universally lamented by every

person who knew him, even by his sovereign, who showed him particular

marks of his respect.[115] He was buried at the upper end of the south

aisle, adjoining to the choir of the cathedral of Christ Church. "He

was," says Langbaine, "extremely remarkable both for his outward and

inward endowments, his body being as handsome as his soul. He was an

expert linguist, understanding not only Greek and Latin, but French

and Italian, as perfectly as his mother tongue. He was an excellent

orator, and yet an admirable poet, a quality which Cicero, with all

his pains, could not attain to. Nor was Aristotle less known to him

than Cicero and Virgil; and those who heard his metaphysical lectures

gave him the preference to all his predecessors, the present Bishop of

Lincoln (Dr Barlow) excepted. His sermons were as much admired as his

other composures; and one fitly applied to our author that saying of

Aristotle concerning Æschrion the poet, _that he could not tell what

Æschrion could not do_."

Ben Jonson said of him with some passion, _My son Cartwright writes

all like a man_; and Dr Fell, Bishop of Oxford, gave him this

character: _Cartwright was the utmost man could come to_.

Besides a sermon and some Greek and Latin poems, he was the author

of four plays, one only of which, I believe, was published in his

lifetime, viz.--

1. "The Royal Slave, a Tragi-Comedy, presented to the king and queen

by the students of Christ Church in Oxford, August 30, 1636; presented

since to both their majesties, at Hampton Court, by the king's

servants." 4o, 1639-40; 8vo, 1651.

This play, in which the celebrated Dr Busby performed a part, gave

so much satisfaction to their majesties, that it was by their orders

performed at Hampton Court by their own servants. Langbaine says the

preference was given to the representation by the collegians, as much

superior to that of the players.

2. "The Lady Errant, a Tragi-Comedy."

3. "The Ordinary, a comedy," [probably written in 1634.]

4. "The Siege; or, Love's Convert, a Tragi-Comedy."

FOOTNOTES:

[110] "Memoirs," p. 422.

[111] "Athen. Oxon." p. 34.

[112] _Ibid._

[113] Langbaine, p. 51, says 1631.

[114] "Athen. Oxon." ii. p. 35.

[115] Oldys, in his MSS. notes on Langbaine, says that the king being

asked why he appeared in black the day Cartwright was buried, answered,

that since the Muses had so much mourned for the loss of such a son, it

would be a shame for him not to appear in mourning for the loss of such

a subject.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

HEARSAY, _an intelligencer_. }

SLICER, _a lieutenant_. } _complices in_

MEANWELL, (_Littleworth disguised_), } _the Ordinary_

_a decayed knight's son_. }

SHAPE, _a cheater_.

SIR THOMAS BITEFIG, _a covetous knight_.

SIMON CREDULOUS, _a citizen_.

ANDRES, _his son, suitor to Mistress Jane_.

ROBERT MOTH, _an antiquary_.

CASTER, } _gamesters_.

HAVE-AT-ALL, }

RIMEWELL, _a poet_.

BAGSHOT, _a decayed clerk_. }

SIR CHRISTOPHER, _a curate_. } _clubbers at_

VICAR CATCHMEY, _a cathedral_ } _the Ordinary_.

_singing-man_. }

MISTRESS JANE, _daughter to Sir Thomas_.

PRISCILLA, _her maid_.

JOAN POTLUCK, _a vintner's widow_.

_Shopkeeper, Chirurgeon, Officers, Servants._

_The scene, London._

THE PROLOGUE.

'Twould wrong our author to bespeak your ears;

Your persons he adores, but judgment fears:

For where you please but to dislike, he shall

Be atheist thought, that worships not his fall.

Next to not marking, 'tis his hope that you,

Who can so ably judge, can pardon too.

His conversation will not yet supply

Follies enough to make a comedy:

He cannot write by th' poll; nor act we here

Scenes, which perhaps you should see liv'd elsewhere.

No guilty line traduceth any; all

We now present is but conjectural;

'Tis a mere guess: those then will be to blame

Who make that person, which he meant but name.

That web of manners which the stage requires,

That mass of humours which poetic fires

Take in, and boil, and purge, and try, and then

With sublimated follies cheat those men

That first did vent them, are not yet his art;

But, as drown'd islands or the world's fifth part,

Lie undiscover'd; and he only knows

Enough to make himself ridiculous.

Think, then, if here you find nought can delight,

He hath not yet seen vice enough to write.

THE ORDINARY.

ACT I., SCENE I.

HEARSAY, SLICER, SHAPE, MEANWELL.

HEAR. We're made, my boys, we're made! methinks I am

Growing into a thing that will be worshipp'd.

SLICER. I shall sleep one day in my chain and scarlet

At Spital-sermon.

SHAPE. Were not my wit such,

I'd put out moneys of being Mayor.

But, O this brain of mine! that's it that will

Bar me the city honour.

HEAR. We're cri'd up

O' th' sudden for the sole tutors of the age.

SHAPE. Esteem'd discreet, sage trainers up of youth.

HEAR. Our house becomes a place of visit now.

SLICER. In my poor judgment, 'tis as good my lady

Should venture to commit her eldest son

To us as to the Inns-of-Court: He'll be

Undone here, only with less ceremony.

HEAR. Speak for our credit, my brave man of war.

What, Meanwell, why so lumpish?

MEAN. Pray you, be quiet.

HEAR. Thou look'st as if thou plott'st the calling in

O' th' Declaration, or the abolishing[116]

O' th' common prayers. Cheer up; say something for us.

MEAN. Pray, vex me not.

SLICER. These foolish, puling sighs

Are good for nothing, but to endanger buttons.

Take heart of grace, man.[117]

MEAN. Fie, y' are troublesome!

HEAR. Nay, fare you well then, sir.

[_Exeunt_ HEARSAY, SLICER, SHAPE.

MEAN. My father still

Runs in my mind, meets all my thoughts, and doth

Mingle himself in all my cogitations.

Thus to see eager villains drag along

Him unto whom they crouch'd! to see him hal'd,

That ne'er knew what compulsion was, but when

His virtues did incite him to good deeds,

And keep my sword dry! O unequal nature!

Why was I made so patient as to view,

And not so strong as to redeem? Why should I

Dare to behold, and yet not dare to rescue?

Had I been destitute of weapons, yet

Arm'd with the only name of son, I might

Have outdone wonder. Naked piety

Dares more than fury well-appointed[118]; blood

Being never better sacrificed, than when

It flows to him that gave it. But, alas!

The envy of my fortune did allow

That only which she could not take away--

Compassion, that which was not in those savage

And knowing beasts, those engines of the law

That even killed as uncontroll'd as that.

How do I grieve when I consider from

What hands he suffer'd! Hands that do excuse

Th' indulgent prison, shackles being here

A kind of rescue. Young man, 'tis not well

To see thy aged father thus confin'd.

Good, good old man! alas! thou'rt dead to me,

Dead to the world, and only living to

That which is more than death, thy misery!

The grave could be a comfort: and shall I--

O, would this soul of mine--But death's the wish

Of him that fears; he's lazy that would die.

I'll live and see that thing of wealth, that worm

Bred out of splendid muck, that citizen,

Like his own sullied wares thrown by into

Some unregarded corner; and my piety

Shall be as famous as his avarice.

His son, whom we have in our tuition,

Shall be the subject of my good revenge:

I'll count myself no child, till I have done

Something that's worth that name. My brain shall be

Busy in his undoing; and I will

Plot ruin with religion: his disgrace

Shall be my zeal's contrivement; and when this

Shall style me son again, I hope 'twill be

Counted not wrong, but duty. When that time

Shall give my actions growth, I will cast off

This brood of vipers, and will show that I

Do hate the poison which I meant t' apply. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

MISTRESS POTLUCK.

POT. Now help, good heaven! 'tis such an uncouth thing

To be a widow out of term-time: I

Do feel such aguish qualms and dumps, and fits,

And shakings still an end! I lately was

A wife, I do confess; but yet I had

No husband; he, alas! was dead to me,

Even when he lived unto the world: I was

A widow, whilst he breath'd. His death did only

Make others know so much; but yet--

_Enter_ HEARSAY.

HEAR. How now?

So melancholy, sweet?

POT. How could I choose,

Being thou wert not here? The time is come:

Thou'lt be as good unto me as thy word?

HEAR. Nay, hang me, if I e'er recant. You'll take me

Both wind and limb at th' venture, will you not?

POT. Ay, good chuck, every inch of thee; she were no true woman

that would not.

HEAR. I must tell you one thing--and yet I'm loth.

POT. I am thy rib,

Thou must keep nothing from thy rib, good chuck:

Thy yoke-fellow must know all thy secrets.

HEAR. Why then, I'll tell you, sweet. [_He whispers her._

POT. Heaven defend!

HEAR. 'Tis true.

POT. Now, God forbid! and would you offer

T' undo a widow-woman so? I had

As lief the old vintner were alive again.

HEAR. I was born[119] with it, I confess; but lying

In Turkey for intelligence, the Great Turk,

Somewhat suspicious of me, lest I might

Entice some o' th' seraglio, did command

I should be forthwith cut.

POT. A heathen deed

It was! none but an infidel could have

The heart to do it.

HEAR. Now you know the worst

That you must trust to. Come, let's to the church.

POT. Good Master Hearsay, nature ne'er intended

One woman should be joined to another:

The holy blessing of all wedlock was

T' increase and multiply, as Master Christopher

Did well observe last Sabbath. I'll not do

Anything 'gainst God's word. I do release you

Of all your promises; and that it may not

Be said you lost by loving me, take this.

Perhaps I may get you a contribution

O' th' women of the parish, as I did

The broken-bellied man the other day.

HEAR. Seeing you needs will cast me off, let me

Entreat this one thing of you: that you would not

Make me your table-talk at the next gossiping. [_Exit._

POT. Indeed I pity thee, poor thing; or rather

I pity thee, poor nothing!

_Enter_ SLICER.

Good lieutenant,

How dost thou? Thou art mindful of thy promise.

SLICER. What else, my jolly wench?

POT. Good sweet lieutenant,

Give me but leave to ask one question of you:

Art thou entire and sound in all thy limbs?

SLICER. To tell the very truth, ere now I've had

A spice o' the pox or so; but now I am sound

As any bell--hem! was't not shrill, my girl? ha!

POT. I do not ask thee about these diseases:

My question is, whether thou'st all thy parts?

SLICER. Faith, I have lost a joint or two; as none

Of our profession, come off whole, unless

The general and some sneaks.

POT. My meaning is,

Whether that something is not wanting that

Should write thee husband?

SLICER. Ne'er fear that, my wench:

Dost think the king would send me to the wars

Without I had my weapons? Eunuchs are not

Men of employment in these days. His majesty

Hath newly put me on a piece of service;

And if I e'er come off (which I do fear

I sha'n't, the danger is so great) brave widow,

We'll to't, and get commanders.

POT. If you can

Leave me, I can leave you. There are other men

That won't refuse a fortune when 'tis proffer'd.

SLICER. Well, I must to his majesty: think on't:

So fare thee well. Thine, to his very death,

That is, a month or two, perhaps, D. Slicer. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SHAPE.

POT. Kind Master Shape, you are exceeding welcome.

Here hath been Master Hearsay and Lieutenant

Slicer: you may guess at their business, but

I hope you think me faithful.

SHAPE. I believe

The memory of your husband's ashes, which

Scarce yet are cold, extinguisheth all flames

That tend to kindling any love fire. 'Tis

A virtue in you which I must admire,

That only you, amongst so many, should

Be the sole turtle of the age.

POT. I do

Bear him in memory, I confess; but when

I do remember what your promise was

When he lay sick, it doth take something from

The bitterness of sorrow. Woman was

Not made to be alone still.

SHAPE. Tender things

At seventeen may use that plea; but you

Are now arriv'd at matron. These young sparks

Are rak'd up, I presume, in sager embers.

POT. Nay, don't abuse her that must be your wife.

You might have pity, and not come with your nicknames,

And call me turtle. Have I deserved this?

SHAPE. If that you once hold merits, I have done.

I'm glad I know what's your religion.

POT. What's my religion? 'Tis well known there hath

Been no religion in my house, e'er since

My husband died.

_Enter_ SLICER, HEARSAY.

HEAR. How now, sweet Shape'! So close alone

Wi' your widow!

SHAPE. Sirs, dare you believe it?

This thing, whose prayer it hath been these ten

Years that she may obtain the second tooth

And the third hair, now doats on me; on me,

That do refuse all that are past sixteen.

SLICER. Why, faith, this was her suit to me just now.

HEAR. I had the first on't, then. A coachman or

A groom, were fitter far for her.

SLICER. You do

Honour her too much to think she deserves

A thing that can lust moderately: give her

The sorrel stallion in my lord's long stable.

SHAPE. Or the same-colour'd brother, which is worse.

POT. Why, gentlemen----

HEAR. Foh, foh! She hath let fly.

POT. D'you think I have no more manners than so?

SHAPE. Nay, faith, I can excuse her for that; but

I must confess she spoke, which is all one.

SLICER. Her breath would rout an army sooner than

That of a cannon.

HEAR. It would lay a devil

Sooner than all Trithemius' charms.[120]

SHAPE. Hark how

It blusters in her nostrils, like a wind

In a foul chimney!

POT. Out, you base companions,

You stinking swabbers!

HEAR. For her gait, that's such

As if her nose did strive t' outrun her heels.

SHAPE. She's just six yards behind when that appears.

It saves an usher, madam.

POT. You are all

Most foul-mouth'd knaves to use a woman thus.

SLICER. Your plaster'd face doth drop against moist weather.

SHAPE. Fie, how you writhe it! Now it looks just like

A ruffled boot.

SLICER. Or an oil'd paper-lantern.

HEAR. Her nose the candle in the midst of it.

SHAPE. How bright it flames! Put out your nose, good lady;

You burn daylight.[121]

POT. Come up, you lousy rascals.

HEAR. Not upon you for a kingdom, good Joan.

The Great Turk, Joan, the Great Turk!

SLICER. Kiss him, chuck;

Kiss him, chuck, open-mouth'd, and be reveng'd.

POT. Hang you, base cheating varlet!

SLICER. Don't you see

December in her face?

SHAPE. Sure, the surveyor

Of the highways will have to do with her

For not keeping her countenance passable.

HEAR. There lies a hoar-frost on her head, and yet

A constant thaw in her nose.

SHAPE. She's like a piece

Of firewood, dropping at one end, and yet

Burning i' th' midst.

SLICER. O that endeavouring face!

When will your costiveness have done, good madam?

HEAR. Do you not hear her guts already squeak

Like kit-strings?

SLICER. They must come to that within

This two or three years: by that time she'll be

True perfect cat. They practise beforehand.

POT. I can endure no longer, though I should

Throw off my womanhood.

HEAR. No need, that's done

Already: nothing left thee that may style thee

Woman, but lust and tongue: no flesh but what

The vices of the sex exact, to keep them

In heart.

SHAPE. Thou art so lean and out of case,

That 'twere absurd to call thee devil incarnate.

SLICER. Th' art a dry devil, troubled with the lust

Of that thou hast not, flesh.

POT. Rogue, rascal, villain!

I'll show your cheating tricks, i' faith: all shall

Be now laid open. Have I suffer'd you

Thus long i' my house, and ne'er demanded yet

One penny rent for this? I'll have it all:

By this good blessed light, I will!

HEAR. You may,

If that you please undo yourself; you may:

I will not strive to hinder you. There is

Something contriving for you, which may be

Perhaps yet brought about: a match or so;

A proper fellow: 'tis a trifle, that;

A thing you care not for, I know. Have I

Plotted to take you off from these, to match you

In better sort, and am us'd thus? As for

The rent you ask, here take it; take your money;

Fill, choke your gaping throat: but if as yet

You are not deaf to counsel, let me tell you,

It had been better that you ne'er had took it;

It may stop some proceedings.

POT. Master Hearsay,

You know you may have even my heart out of

My belly (as they say), if you'll but take

The pains to reach it out. I am sometimes

Peevish, I do confess. Here, take your money.

HEAR. No.

POT. Good sir.

HEAR. No, keep it and hoard it up;

My purse is no safe place for it.

POT. Let me

Request you that you would be pleas'd to take it.

HEAR. Alas! 'twould only trouble me: I can

As willingly go light as be your treasurer.

POT. Good Master Slicer, speak to him to take it.

Sweet Master Shape, join with him.[122]

SLICER. Nay, be once

O'errul'd by a woman.

SHAPE. Come, come; you shall take it.

POT. Nay, faith you shall. Here, put it up, good sir.

HEAR. Upon entreaty, I'm content for once;

But make no custom of't. You do presume

Upon my easy foolishness: 'tis that

Makes you so bold. Were it another man,

He ne'er would have to do with you. But mark me--

If e'er I find you in this mood again,

I'll dash your hopes of marriage for ever.

[_Exeunt all but_ HEARSAY.

SCENE III.

_To him_ MEANWELL, ANDREW.

AND. God save you, tutors both!

MEAN. Fie, Andrew, fie!

What, kiss your hand! You smell not compliment.

HEAR. Besides you come too near, when you salute.

Your breath may be discover'd; and you give

Advantage unto him you thus accost

To shake you by the hand: which often doth

Endanger the whole arm. Your gallant's, like

The crystal glass, brittle; rude handling cracks him.

To be saluted so were to be wounded:

His parts would fall asunder like unto

Spill'd quicksilver. An ear, an eye, a nose,

Would drop, like summer fruit from shaken trees.

MEAN. For the same reason, I'd not have you dance.

Some courtiers, I confess, do use it; but

They are the sounder sort; those foolish ones

That have a care of health, which you shall not,

If you'll be rul'd by me. The hazard's great:

'Tis an adventure, an exploit, no[123] piece

Of service for a gentleman, to caper.

HEAR. A gallant's like a leg of mutton boil'd

By a Spanish cook: take him but by the one end,

And shake him, all the flesh falls from the bones,

And leaves them bare immediately.

AND. I would

Not be a leg of mutton here.

HEAR. I saw

In France a monsieur, only in the cutting

Of one cross caper, rise a man, and come

Down, to th' amazement of the standers-by,

A true extemporary skeleton;

And was straight read on.[124]

AND. Sure, this man,

Good tutor, was quite rotten.

MEAN. See how you

Betray your breeding now. Quite rotten! 'Tis

Rottenness, perhaps, in footmen or in yeomen:

'Tis tenderness in gentlemen; they are

A little over-boil'd, or so.

HEAR. He is

A churl, a hind, that's wholesome; some raw thing

That never was at London: one in whom

The clown is too predominant. Refin'd

People feel Naples in their bodies; and

An ache i' th' bones at sixteen passeth now

For high descent: it argues a great birth.

Low bloods are never worthy such infection.

AND. Ay, but my father bid me I should live

Honest, and say my prayers; that he did.

HEAR. If that you cannot sleep at any time, we do

Allow you to begin your pray'rs, that so

A slumber may seize on you.

MEAN. But as for

Your living honest, 'twere to take away

A trade i' th' commonwealth! the surgeons'

Benefit would go down. You may go on

In foolish chastity, eat only salads,

Walk an unskilful thing, and be to learn

Something the first night of your wife; but that's

To marry out of fashion.

AND. Here's no proofs,

No doctrines, nor no uses. Tutor, I

Would fain learn some religion.

HEAR. Religion!

Yes, to become a martyr, and be pictur'd

With a long label out o' your mouth, like those

In Fox's book;[125] just like a juggler drawing

Riband out of his throat.

AND. I must be gone.

MEAN. Obedience is the first step unto science:

Stay, and be wise.

AND. Indeed, I dare not stay;

The clyster works you sent to purge gross humours. [_Exit._

MEAN. Being you will not take your lecture out,

Good-morrow to y', good Andrew. This soft fool

Must swim in's father's wealth! It is a curse

That fortune justly makes the city's lot;

The young fool spends whate'er the old knave got. [_Exit_ MEANWELL.

SCENE IV.

_To_ HEARSAY _enter_ SLICER _and_ CREDULOUS.

HEAR. Sir, let me tell you, this is not the least

Of things wherein your wisdom shows itself,

In that you've plac'd your son in this good sort.

CRE. Nay, nay, let me alone to give him breeding:

I did not hold the university

Fit for the training up of such a spirit.

SLICER. The university! 'T had been the only way

T' have took him off his courage and his mettle:

He had return'd, as slaves do from the galleys:

A naked shorn thing, with a thin-dock'd top,

Learnedly cut into a logic mode.

HEAR. A private oath given him at first entrance,

Had sworn him pilgrim unto conventicles;

Engag'd him to the hate of all, but what

Pleaseth the stubborn, froward elect.

SLICER. But we,

Following another model, do allow

Freedom and courage, cherish and maintain

High noble thoughts----

HEAR. Set nature free, and are

Chemists of manners----

SLICER. Do instruct of states----

HEAR. And wars. There's one, look on him----

SLICER. Do but view

That searching head----

HEAR. The very soul of battle:

True steel.

SLICER. H' hath been an agent some few years

(A score or so) for princes, and as yet

Doth not write forty.

HEAR. I confess I can

Discover th' entrails of a state perhaps.

Lay open a kingdom's paunches, show the bowels

And inwards of a signiory or two;

But for your deeds of valour, there is one,

Although I speak it to his face, that can

Write a geography by his own conquests:

H' hath fought o'er Strabo,[126] Ptolemy,[127] and Stafford;[128]

Travell'd as far in arms as Lithgow[129] naked;

Borne weapons whither Coriat[130] durst not

Carry a shirt or shoes. Jack Mandevile[131]

Ne'er sail'd so far as he hath steer'd by land,

Using his colours both for mast and sail.

CRE. I'd thought h' had been lieutenant.

HEAR. That's all one.

SLICER. I've worn some leather out abroad, let out

A heathen soul or two, fed this good sword

With, the black blood of pagan Christians,

Converted a few infidels with it;

But let that pass. That man of peace there hath

Been trusted with kings' breasts--

HEAR. His name is heard

Like thunder, and that mere word Slicer hath

Sufficed unto victory.

SLICER. He's close,

Reserv'd, lock'd up. The secrets of the King

Of Tartary, of China, and some other

Counsels of moment, have been so long kept

In's body without vent, that every morning,

Before he covers them with some warm thing

Or other, you may smell 'em very strongly;

Distinguish each of them by several scents--

HEAR. A grove of pikes are rushes to him: hail

More frights you than a shower of bullets him--

SLICER. The Dutch come up like broken beer;[132] the Irish

Savour of usquebaugh; the Spanish they

Smell like unto perfume at first, but then

After a while end in a fatal steam--

HEAR. One drum's his table, the other is his music:

His sword's his knife; his colours are his napkins;

Carves nourishing horse, as he is us'd to do

The hostile paynim,[133] or we venison; eats

Gunpowder with his meat instead of pepper,

Then drinks o'er all his bandoleers, and fights--

SLICER. Secrets are rank'd and order'd in his belly,

Just like tobacco-leaves laid in a sweat.

Here lies a row of Indian secrets, then

Something of's own on them; on that, another

Of China counsels, cover'd with a lid

Of Newfoundland discoveries: next, a bed

Of Russia policies; on them, a lay

Of Prester-Johnian whispers--

HEAR. Slights a tempest;

Counts lightning but a giving fire, and thunder

The loud report when heaven hath discharg'd.

H' hath with his breath[134] suppli'd a breach:

When he's once fix'd, no engine can remove him.

SLICER. 'Twould be a policy worth hatching to

Have him dissected, if 'twere not too cruel.

All states would lie as open as his bowels:

Turkey in's bloody liver; Italy

Be found in's reins; Spain busy in his stomach;

Venice would float in's bladder; Holland sail

Up and down all his veins; Bavaria lie

Close in some little gut, and _ragioni_

_Di Stato_[135] generally reek in all.

CRE. I see my son's too happy: he is born

To be some man of action; some engine

For th' overthrow of kingdoms.

HEAR. Troth, he may

Divert the torrent of the Turkish rule

Into some other track: dam up the stream

Of that vast headlong monarchy, if that

He want not means to compass his intents.

CRE. The Turkish monarchy's a thing too big

For him to manage: he may make perhaps

The governor of some new little island,

And there plant faith and zeal; but for the present,

M' ambition's only to contrive a match

Between Sir Thomas Bitefig's only daughter

And (if I may so call him now) my son:

'Twill raise his fortunes somewhat.

SLICER. We have got

One that will do more good with's tongue that way

Than that uxorious show'r that came from heaven:

But you must oil it first.

CRE. I understand you:

Grease him i' th' fist, you mean? There's just ten pieces;

'Tis but an earnest: if he bring 't about,

I'll make those ten a hundred.

HEAR. Think it done.

[_Exit_ CREDULOUS, _and enter_ SHAPE _and_

MEANWELL.

SCENE V.

HEARSAY, SLICER, MEANWELL, SHAPE.

HEAR. Our life, methinks, is but the same with others:

To cosen and be cosen'd makes the age.

The prey and feeder are that civil thing

That sager heads call body politic.

Here is the only difference: others cheat

By statute, but we do't upon no grounds.

The fraud's the same in both; there only wants

Allowance to our way. The commonwealth

Hath not declar'd herself as yet for us;

Wherefore our policy must be our charter.

MEAN. Well-manag'd knav'ry is but one degree

Below plain honesty.

SLICER. Give me villany,

That's circumspect and well-advis'd, that doth

Colour at least for goodness. If the cloak

And mantle were pull'd off from things, 'twould be

As hard to meet an honest action as

A liberal alderman or a court-nun.

HEAR. Knowing, then, how we must direct our steps,

Let us chalk out our paths: you, Shape, know yours.

SHAPE. Where'er I light on fortune, my commission

Will hold to take her up: I'll ease my silken

Friends of that idle luggage we call money.

HEAR. For my good toothless countess, let us try

To win that old eremite thing that, like

An image in a German clock,[136] doth move,

Not walk--I mean, that rotten antiquary.

MEAN. He'll surely love her, 'cause she looks like some

Old ruin'd piece, that was five ages backward.

HEAR. To the great vestry-wit, the livery-brain,

My common-council pate, that doth determine

A city-business with his gloves on's head,

We must apply good hope of wealth and means.

SLICER. That griping knight Sir Thomas must be call'd

With the same lure: he knows t' a crumb how much

Loss is in twenty dozen of bread, between

That which is broke by th' hand and that is cut.

Which way best keep his candles, bran or straw:

What tallow's lost in putting of 'em out

By spittle, what by foot, what by the puff,

What by the holding downwards, and what by

The extinguisher; which wick will longest be

In lighting, which spend fastest. He must hear

Nothing but moieties, and lives, and farms,

Copies, and tenures; he is deaf to th' rest.

MEAN. I'll speak the language of the wealthy to him;

My mouth shall swill with bags, revenues, fees,

Estates, reversions, incomes, and assurance[s].

He's in the gin already; for his daughter,

She'll be an easy purchase.[137]

HEAR. I do hope

We shall grow famous; have all sorts repair

As duly to us, as the barren wives

Of aged citizens do to St Antholin's.

Come, let us take our quarters; we may come

To be some great officers in time,

And with a reverend magisterial frown

Pass sentence on those faults that are our own. [_Exeunt omnes._

FOOTNOTES:

[116] The Declaration concerning "The Book of Sports," set forth some

time before. This was a matter very disgusting to the Puritans, who had

an equal dislike to the Book of Common Prayer.

[117] This phrase signifies _take courage_, or _summon up resolution_.

It is at present always written in this manner; formerly it used, [very

erroneously,] to be, _take heart at grass_; as in "Euphues," p. 18:

"Rise, therefore, Euphues, and _take heart at grasse_, younger thou

shalt never bee: plucke up thy stomacke, if love have stong thee, it

shall not stifle thee."

Again, in Tarlton's "Newes out of Purgatory," p. 4: "Therefore _taking

heart at grasse_, drawing more neere him," &c.

And _Ibid._, p. 24: "Seeing she would take no warning: on a day _tooke

heart at grasse_, and belabour'd her well with a cudgel."

[118] _Well-appointed_ is _completely accoutred_. So in "The Miseries

of Queen Margaret," by Drayton--

"Ten thousand valiant _well-appointed_ men;"

and in the "Second Part of Henry IV." act iv. sc. 1--

"What _well-appointed_ leader fronts us here?"

--Mr Steevens's note on the last passage.

[119] [Old copy, _not born_.]

[120] See Wolfii "Opera," 1672, ii. 592.

Johannes Trithemius, abbè of the order of St Benedict, and one of the

most learned men of the fifteenth century, was born at Tritenheim, in

the diocese of Treves, the 1st of February 1462. After having studied

for some time, he became a Benedictine friar, and abbot of Spanheim,

in the diocese of Mayence, in 1483. He governed the abbey until the

year 1506, when he joined the abbey of St James, at Wurtzburgh. He

was learned in all sciences, divine and human, and died the 13th of

December 1516.

Thevet calls him a _subtle philosopher, an ingenious mathematician, a

famous poet, an accomplished historian, a very eloquent orator, and

eminent divine_. Naudius says that those who would make him a magician

ground their right on a little book of three or four sheets, printed

in 1612, entitled, "Veterum Sophorum sigilla et imagines magicæ, sive

sculptura lapidum aut gemmarum ex nomine Tetragrammaton cum signatura

planetarum authoribus Zoroastre, Salomone Raphaele, Chaele Hermete

Thelete, ex Joan Kithemii manuscripto erutæ." Secondly, his speaking

so pertinently of magic, and giving himself the title of magician in

some of his epistles. Thirdly, his writing the book of Steganography, a

treatise stuffed with the names of devils, and full of invocations, and

as very pernicious condemned by Boville as worse than Agrippa. To these

Naudius answers that the pamphlet of making images and characters upon

stones, under certain constellations, is a pure imposture and cheat

of booksellers, it being printed above 120 years before by Camillus

Lienard, as the third book of his "Mirror of Precious Stones, De

Unguento Armario." From a letter then to a Carmelite of Gaunt, Arnoldus

Bostius, the suspicion of his being a magician must be collected,

wherein he specified many miraculous and extraordinary effects

performed in his treatise of Steganography. This, however, is defended

by several writers only as the means to decipher.--Naudius's "History

of Magick," translated by Davies, p. 237, &c.

[121] See note on the "Spanish Tragedy," [v. 115]

[122] "Join with _me_," would suit the sense better, as she is asking

Shape to unite his solicitations with hers. The old copy reads as it is

reprinted.--_Collier._

[123] [Old copy, _a_.]

[124] [A lecture, probably, was delivered on the phenomenon.]

[125] [The "Book of the Acts and Monuments," &c., 1563, &c. The

woodcuts have the dying words of the martyrs printed on labels out of

their mouths, in the way mentioned in the text.]

[126] Strabo, a philosopher of Crete and a geographer in the time of

Augustus.

[127] Born at Pelusium, flourished about the year 140, and died 162,

aged 78.

[128] Robert Stafford, born at Dublin, was of Exeter College, Oxford,

and published "A Geographical and Anthological description of all the

Empires and Kingdoms, both of Continent and Islands, in this terrestial

Globe," &c., 1607. Wood says it was reported that John Prideaux, who

was Stafford's tutor, had the chief hand in this work.

[129] [_Naked_, _i.e._, unarmed.] William Lithgow, a Scotsman, whose

sufferings by imprisonment and torture at Malaga, and whose travels on

foot over Europe, Asia, and Africa, seem to raise him almost to the

rank of a martyr and a hero, published an account of his peregrinations

and adventures, 1614; reprinted in 1616, &c., with additions. At

the conclusion of this work he says, "Here is the just relation of

nineteene yeares travells, perfited in three deare bought voyages:

the generall computation of which dimmensions spaces in my goings,

traversings, and returnings through kingdomes, continents, and ilands,

which my payneful feet traced over (besides my passages of seas and

rivers) amounteth to _thirty-six thousand and odde miles; which draweth

neare to twice the circumference of the whole earth_." [A list of his

other works may be found in Hazlitt's "Handbook," 1867, in _v._]

[130] The celebrated Thomas Coriat who, except Lithgow, is supposed

to have travelled more miles on foot than any person of his times, or

indeed in any period since. From his writings, and many parts of his

conduct, he cannot be supposed to have been in his perfect senses. He

was, notwithstanding, a man of considerable learning, and rendered

himself ridiculous, chiefly by dwelling with too much attention on

the trifling accidents which happened to him during his journey. In

the year 1608 he left England and went to Venice and back again; a

journey performed on foot in five months. On his return, he published

an account of it in a large quarto volume, 1611, containing 655 pages,

besides more than 100 filled with commendatory verses by Ben Jonson and

other wits of the age, who both laughed at and flattered him at the

same time. He afterwards travelled into Persia, and from thence into

the East Indies (still on foot), and died at Surat in the year 1617.

[131] Sir John Mandevile, Knight, born at St Albans. He was a traveller

for the space of thirty-four years, visiting in that time Scythia,

Armenia the Greater and Less, Egypt, both Libyas, Arabia, Syria, Media,

Mesopotamia, Persia, Chaldæa, Greece, Illyrium, Tartary, and divers

other kingdoms. He died at Liege, November 17, 1371. An edition of his

travels was printed in 8o, 1725, from a MS. in the Cotton Library.

[132] ["The leavings of what has been drawn for others"--_Gifford_

(edit. of Ben Jonson, vii. 433).] So in Jonson's "Masque of Augurs:"

"The poor cattle yonder are passing away the time with a cheat loaf and

a bumbard of _broken beer_."

Again, in the "Masque of Gypsies:" "He were very carefully carried at

his mother's back, rocked in a cradle of Welsh cheese, like a maggot,

and there fed with _broken beer_ and blown wine of the best daily."

And in Scot's "Belgicke Pismire," 1622, p. 76: "Having before fed

themselves full with the sweat of other mens browes, even to gluttonie,

drunkenesse, and surfetting, may releeve with their scraps, crummes,

bones and _broken beere_, the necessities of such as they or their

predecessors have before undone and made beggers."

[133] [Old copy, _paguim_.]

[134] Qy. breadth, _i.e._, stopped a breach by his person.--_Collier._

[135] [Reasons or policies of state.]

[136] _German clocks_ were about this time much in use. They are

frequently mentioned by Ben Jonson and other writers.--See "Epicæne,"

act iv. sc. 2.

ACT II., SCENE I.

HAVE-AT-ALL, SLICER, HEARSAY _having rescued him_

_in a quarrel._

HAVE. 'Tis destin'd; I'll be valiant: I am sure

I shall be beaten with more credit then

Than now I do escape. Lieutenant, has't

Bethought thyself as yet? Has't any way

To make my sword fetch blood?

SLICER. You never yet

Did kill your man, then?

HAVE. No.

HEAR. Nor get your wench

With child, I warrant?

HAVE. O sir!

SLICER. You're not quite

Free of the gentry, till y' have marr'd one man

And made another. When one fury hath

Cried quit with t'other, and your lust repair'd

What anger hath destroy'd, the title's yours;

Till then you do but stand for't.

HAVE. Pox! who'd be

That vile, scorn'd name, that stuffs all court-gate bills?

Lieutenant, thou may'st teach me valour yet.

SLICER. Teach thee! I will inspire thee; man, I'll make

Thy name become a terror; and to say

That Have-at-all is coming shall make room,

As when the bears are in procession.

Hark hither, Frank--[_They consult._

HEAR. That's good, but--

SLICER. How think'st now?

HEAR. Nay, he will pay you large--ly. [_Aloud._

HAVE. Pay, what else?

HEAR. Make him believe the citizen's his guest;

The citizen, that he is his.

SLICER. Concluded.

Would you fight fair, or conquer by a spell?

HAVE. I do not care for witchcraft; I would have

My strength rely merely upon itself.

SLICER. There is a way, though I ne'er show'd it yet

But to one Spaniard, and 'twas wondrous happy.

HAVE. Think me a second Spaniard, worthy sir.

SLICER. Then listen. The design is by a dinner--

An easy way, you'll say: I'll say, a true.

Hunger may break stone walls, it ne'er hurts men:

Your cleanly feeder is your man of valour.

What makes the peasant grovel in his muck,

Humbling his crooked soul, but that he eats

Bread just in colour like it? Courage ne'er

Vouchsaf'd to dwell a minute where a sullen

Pair of brown loaves darken'd the dirty table;

Shadows of bread, not bread. You never knew

A solemn son of bag-pudding and pottage

Make a commander, or a tripe-eater

Become a tyrant. He's the kingdom's arm

That can feed large and choicely.

HAVE. If that be

The way, I'll eat myself into courage,

And will devour valour enough quickly.

SLICER. 'Tis not the casual eating of those meats

That doth procure those spirits, but the order

And manner of the meal--the ranking of

The dishes, that does all; else he that hath

The greatest range, would be the hardiest man.

Those goodly juments of the guard would fight

(As they eat beef) after six stone a day;

The spit would nourish great attempts: my lord

Would lead a troop, as well as now a masque;

And force the enemy's sword with as much ease

As his mistress's bodkin: gallants would

Owe valour to their ordinaries, and fight

After a crown meal.

HAVE. I do conceive

The art is all in all. If that you'll give

A bill of your directions, I'll account

Myself oblig'd unto you for my safety.

SLICER. Take it then thus. All must be soldier-like;

No dish but must present artillery;

Some military instrument in each.

Imprimis, six or seven yards of tripe

Display'd instead o' th' ensign.

HAVE. Why, you said

Tripe-eaters ne'er made tyrants.

SLICER. Peace, sir: learners

Must be attentive, and believe. Do y' think

We'll eat this? 'Tis but for formality.

Item, a collar of good large fat brawn

Serv'd for a drum, waited upon by two

Fair long black-puddings, lying by for drumsticks.

Item, a well-grown lamprey for a fife;

Next some good curious march-panes[138] made into

The form of trumpets. Then in order shall

Follow the officers: the captain first

Shall be presented in a warlike cock,

Swimming in white broth, as he's wont in blood:

The serjeant-major he may bustle in

The shape of some large turkey: for myself,

Who am lieutenant, I'm content there be

A buzzard only. Let the corporal

Come sweating in a breast of mutton, stuff'd[139]

With pudding, or strut in some aged carp:

Either doth serve, I think. As for perdues,[140]

Some choice sous'd fish brought couchant in a dish

Among some fennel or some other grass,

Shows how they lie i' th' field. The soldier then

May be thus rank'd: the common one, chicken,

Duck, rabbit, pigeon; for the more genteel,

Snipe, woodcock, partridge, pheasant, quail, will serve.

HEAR. Bravely contriv'd!

SLICER. That weapons be not wanting,

We'll have a dozen of bones well-charg'd with marrow

For ordnance, muskets, petronels, petards;

Twelve yards of sausage by, instead of match;

And caveary[141] then prepar'd for wild-fire.

HEAR. Rare rogue! how I do love him now, methinks!

SLICER. Next we'll have true fat eatable old pikes,

Then a fresh turbot brought in for a buckler,

With a long spitchcock for the sword adjoin'd.

We'll bring the ancient weapons into play.

HAVE. Most rare, by heaven!

SLICER. Peaches, apricocks,

And malecotoons,[142] with other choicer plums,

Will serve for large-sized bullets; then a dish

Or two of peas for small ones. I could now

Tell you of pepper in the stead of powder,

But that 'tis not in fashion 'mongst us gallants.

If this might all stand upon drum-heads, 'twould

Work somewhat better.

HAVE. Will't so? Then we'll have 'em

From every ward i' th' city.

SLICER. No, I'm loth

To put you to such charge. For once a long

Table shall serve the turn; 'tis no great matter.

The main thing's still behind. We must have there

Some fort to scale; a venison-pasty doth it.

You may have other pies instead of outworks:

Some sconces would not be amiss, I think.

When this is all prepar'd, and when we see

The table look like a pitch'd battle, then

We'll give the word, fall to, slash, kill and spoil:

Destruction, rapine, violence! spare none.

HEAR. Thou hast forgotten wine, lieutenant--wine.

SLICER. Then to avoid the gross absurdity

Of a dry battle, 'cause there must some blood

Be spill'd (on th' enemies' side, I mean) you may

Have there a rundlet of brisk claret, and

As much of alicant; the same quantity

Of tent would not be wanting--'tis a wine

Most like to blood. Some shall bleed fainter colours,

As sack and white wine. Some that have the itch

(As there are tailors still in every army),

Shall run with Rhenish that hath brimstone in't.

When this is done, fight boldly: write yourself

The tenth or 'leventh worthy--which you please:

Your choice is free.

HAVE. I'll be the gaming worthy;

My word shall be twice twelve. I think the dice

Ne'er mounted any upon horseback yet.

SLICER. We'll bring your friends and ours to this large dinner:

It works the better, eaten before witness.

Beware you say 'tis yours; confession is

One step to weakness; private conscience is

A theatre to valour. Let's be close:

Old Credulous and his son, and Master Caster,

Shall all be there.

HAVE. But then they will grow valiant

All at my charge.

SLICER. Ne'er fear't: the unknowing man

Eats only flesh, the understanding, valour:

His ignorance i' th' mystery keeps him coward.

To him 'tis but a meal; to you 'tis virtue.

It shall be kept here.

HAVE. No fitter place. There is

An old rich clutch-fist knight, Sir Thomas Bitefig,

Invite him too; perhaps I may have luck,

And break his purse yet open for one hundred.

A usurer is somewhat exorable,

When he is full; he ne'er lends money empty.

SLICER. Discreet, and wisely done: I was about

T' have prompted it.

HEAR. Stout Master Have-at-all,

Let's be sworn brothers.

HAVE. Pox! thou fear'st I'll beat thee,

After I've eaten. Dost thou think I'll offer't?

By my next meal, I won't; nay, I do love

My friends howe'er. I do but think how I

Shall bastinado o'er the ordinaries.

Arm'd with my sword, battoon and foot, I'll walk

To give each rank its due. No one shall 'scape,

But he I win of.

HEAR. You shall have at least

Some twenty warrants sign'd upon you straight:

The trunk-hose justices will try all means

To bind you to the peace, but that your strength

Shall not be bound by any.

SLICER. Surgeons will

Pray for your health and happiness: you may

Bring them to be your tributaries, if

You but deny to fight awhile.

HAVE. My teeth

Are on an edge till I do eat. Now will

I cosen all men without opposition:

I feel my strength increase with very thought on't.

Sword, sword, thou shalt grow fat; and thou, battoon,

Hold out, I prythee: when my labour's done,

I'll plant thee in the Tower-yard, and there,

Water'd with wine, thou shalt revive, and spring

In spite of nature with fresh succulent boughs,

Which shall supply the commonwealth with cudgels.

Thou I first meet after this meal I do

Pronounce unhappy shadow--happy yet

In that thou'lt fall by me. Some men I will

Speak into carcase; some I'll look to death;

Others I'll breathe to dust: none shall hold back

This fatal arm. The Templars shall not dare

T' attempt a rescue; no mild words shall bury

My splitted, spitchcock'd----

SLICER. Oliv'd,[143] hash'd----

HEAR. Dri'd, powder'd----

HAVE. Roasted fury. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

MEANWELL, MOTH.

MEAN. If what I speak prove false, then stigmatise me.

MOTH.[144] I was not what you mean; depardieu,[145]

You snyb[146] mine old years, sans fail I wene[147] you bin

A jangler[148] and a golierdis.[149]

MEAN. I swear

By those two Janus' heads you had of us,

And your own too, as reverend as those,

There is one loves you that you think not on.

MOTH. Nad be, none pleasaunce is to me ylaft,[150]

This white top writeeth much my years, i-wis,

My fire yreken is in ashen cold.[151]

I can no whit of dalliance: if I kissen,

These thick stark bristles of mine beard will pricken

Ylike the skin of hound-fish. Sikerly[152]

What wends against the grain is lytherly.[153]

MEAN. Methinks y' are strong enough and very lusty,

Fit to get heirs: among your other pieces

Of age and time let one young face be seen

May call you father.

MOTH. Wholesome counsel! But

The world is now full tickle[154] sykerly;

'Tis hard to find a damosel unwenned;[155]

They being all coltish and full of ragery,[156]

And full of gergon[157] as is a flecken[158] pie.

Whoso with them maketh that bond anon,

Which men do clyppen[159] spousail or wedlock,

Saint Idiot is his lord, i-wis.

MEAN. This is

No tender and wanton thing; she is a staid

And settled widow, one who'll be a nurse

Unto you in your latter days.

MOTH. A norice[160]

Some dele ystept in age! So mote[161] I gone,

This goeth aright: how highteth[162] she, say you?

MEAN. Mistress Joan Potluck, vintner Potluck's widow.

MOTH. Joan Potluck, spinster? Lore me o' thing mere

Alouten: what time 'gan she brendle thus?

MEAN. On Thursday morning last.

MOTH. Y' blessed Thursday,

Ycleped so from Thor the Saxon's god.

Ah, benedicite! I might soothly sayn,

Mine mouth hath itched all this livelong day;

All night me met[163] eke, that I was at kirk;

My heart gan quapp[164] full oft. Dan Cupido

Sure sent thylke sweven[165] to mine head.

MEAN. You shall

Know more, if you'll walk in. [_Exit_ MEANWELL.

MOTH. Wend you beforne;

Kembeth[166] thyself, and pyketh[167] now thyself;

Sleeketh thyself; make cheer much digne,[168] good Robert:

I do arret thou shalt acquainted bin

With nymphs and fauns, and hamadryades:

And yeke the sisterne nine Pierides

That were transmued into birds, nemp'd[169] pyes

Metamorphoseos wot well what I mean:

I is as jollie now as fish in Seine. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

HEARSAY, CASTER, SHAPE.

HEAR. Can I lie hid nowhere securely from

The throng and press of men? Must every place

Become a theatre, where I seek shelter,

And solitudes become markets, 'cause I'm there?

Good sir, I know your tricks; you would entrap:

This is your snare, not your request.

SHAPE. Take heed;

He's nois'd about for a deep-searching head.

I'll pawn my life 'tis a trick.

HEAR. Leave off these gins,

You do not do it handsomely. You think

Y' have met with fools, I warrant.

SHAPE. On my life, a spy, a mere informer.

CAS. As I hope

For fortunes, my intentions are most fair.

SHAPE. A gamester's oath! he hath some reservation.

HEAR. Yet did I think you true----

CAS. By all that's good,

You do me wrong, to think that I'd wrong you.

HEAR. When I lay agent last in New Atlantis,

I met with, what you now desire, a strange

New way of winning, but yet very sure.

Were not the danger great, I'd----

CAS. Do you think

I will betray myself or you, whom I

Esteem above myself? I have as yet

One hundred left, some part of which----

SHAPE. Faith, sir,

These times require advice: if it should come

Unto the council's ear once, he might be

Sent into other kingdoms, to win up

Money for the relief o' th' state, and so

Be as it were an honest kind of exile.

CAS. If I do e'er discover, may I want

Money to pay my ordinary: may I

At my last stake (when there is nothing else

To lose the game) throw ames-ace[170] thrice together!

I'll give you forty pound in hand----

HEAR. I may

Show you the virtue of't, though not the thing:

I love my country very well. Your high

And low men are but trifles;[171] your pois'd dye,

That's ballasted with quicksilver or gold,

Is gross to this----

SHAPE. Proffer him more, I say. [_Aside._

CAS. Here's fifty----

HEAR. For the bristle dye, it is

Not worth that hand that guides it: toys fit only

For clerks to win poor costermongers' ware with.

SHAPE. You do not come on well. [_Aside._

CAS. Here's threescore----

HEAR. Then

Your hollowed thumb join'd with your wriggled box--

The slur and suchlike are not to be talk'd of;

They're open to the eye. For cards, you may

Without the help of any secret word

Or a false hand, without the cut or shuffle,

Or the pack'd trick, have what you will yourself;

There's none to contradict you.

CAS. If you please

But to instruct me, here is fourscore pound.

HEAR. Do you think 'tis money I esteem? I can

Command each term by art as much as will

Furnish a navy. Had you but five pound

Left you in all the world, I'd undertake

Within one fortnight you should see five thousand.

Not that I covet any of your dross,

But that the power of this art may be

More demonstrably evident, leave in

My hands all but some smaller sum to set,

Something to stake at first.

SHAPE. He'll tell you all,

If you but seem to trust him. [_Aside._

CAS. Here I'll lay

Down in your hands all but this little portion,

Which I reserve for a foundation.

HEAR. Being y' are confident of me, and I

Presume your lips are sealed up to silence,

Take that, which I did never yet discover:

So help you fortune, me philosophy.

(I must intreat your absence, Master Shape.)

[_Exit_ SHAPE.

I do presume you know the strength and power

That lies in fancy.

CAS. Strange things are done by it.

HEAR. It works upon that which is not as yet:

The little Ethiop infant would have been

Black in his cradle,[172] had he not been first

White in the mother's strong imagination.

'Tis thought the hairy child, that's shown about,

Came by the mother's thinking on the picture

Of Saint John Baptist in his camel's coat.

See we not beasts conceive, as they do fancy

The present colours plac'd before their eyes?

We owe pied colts unto the varied horse-cloth,

And the white partridge to the neighbouring snow.

Fancy can save or kill: it hath clos'd up

Wounds,[173] when the balsam could not; and without

The aid of salves, to think hath been a cure.

For witchcraft then, that's all done by the force

Of mere imagination. That which can

Alter the course of nature, I presume,

You'll grant shall bear more rule in petty hazards.

CAS. It must, it must, good sir. I pray, go on.

HEAR. Now the strongest fancies still are found to dwell

In the most simple; they being easiest won

To the most firm belief, who understand not

Why[174] 'tis they do believe. If they think 'twill

Be so, it will be so: they do command

And check the course of fortune: they may stop

Thunder, and make it stand, as if arrested

In its mid-journey. If that such a one

Shall think you'll win, you must win: 'tis a due,

That nature pays those men in recompense

Of her deficiency that, whate'er they think,

Shall come to pass. But now the hardest will be

To find out one that's capable of thinking.

CAS. I know you can produce an instrument

To work this your design by: let me owe you

The whole and entire courtesy.

HEAR. I've one

Committed to my custody but lately,

The powerfull'st that way I e'er found yet:

He will but think he shall be abus'd in such

A company, and he's abus'd: he will

Imagine only that he shall be cheated,

And he is cheated: all still comes to pass.

He's but one pin above a natural: but----

CAS. We'll purchase him; I'll take up for't. Old Simon

Shall have my farm outright now. What's a piece

Of dirty earth to me? a clod! a turf!

HEAR. Because I see your freer nature's such

As doth deserve supplies, I'll do my best

To win him o'er awhile into your service.

CAS. If I should strive to pay you thanks, I should

But undervalue this great courtesy.

Sir, give me leave to think and worship. Stay:

First, will I beggar all the gentlemen

That do keep terms; then build with what I win.

Next, I'll undo all gaming citizens,

And purchase upon that. The foreman shall

Want of his wonted opportunities;

Old Thomas shall keep home, I warrant him.

I will ascend to the groom-porters next,

Fly higher games, and make my mincing knights

Walk musing in their knotty freeze abroad;

For they shall have no home. There shall not be

That pleasure but I'll balk: I'll run o'er Nature;

And when I've ransack'd her, I'll weary art:

My means, I'm sure, will reach it. Let me see,

'Twill yearly be--by heaven, I know not what----

HEAR. Ne'er think to sum it, 'tis impossible:

You shall ne'er know what angels, pieces, pounds,

Those names of want and beggary, mean: your tongue

Shall utter nought but millions; you shall measure,

Not count your moneys; your revenues shall

Be proud and insolent, and unruly;

They shall increase above your conquer'd spendings,

In spite of their excess. Your care shall be

Only to tame your riches, and to make them

Grow sober and obedient to your use.

CAS. I'll send some forty thousand unto Paul's;

Build a cathedral next in Banbury;[175]

Give organs to each parish in the kingdom;

And so root out th' unmusical elect.

I'll pay all soldiers, whom their captains won't;

Raise a new hospital for those maim'd people

That have been hurt in gaming: then build up

All colleges that ruin hath demolish'd,

Or interruption left unperfect.

HEAR. 'Twill

Never be done, I think, unless you do it.

Provide the wealthiest gamesters: there's but one

That can do us wrong--discovery.

You have no enemy but frailty.

CAS. Night

And silence are loud names compar'd with me.

HEAR. I see the tide of fortune rolling in

Without resistance. Go, be close and happy. [_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

ANDREW, MEANWELL.

AND. Upon my conscience, now he cheated me;

I could have never lost it else so strangely.

MEAN. What is a paltry cloak to a man of worth?

It barr'd men only o' th' sight of your body;

Your handsomeness will now appear the better.

AND. He was as like our Master Shape as could be;

But that he had a patch upon his cheek

And a black beard, I should have sworn 'twere he:

It was somebody in his clothes, I'm sure.

MEAN. Some cunning cheater, upon my life, won

His cloak and suit too!

AND. There it is for certain,

Pyes take him! doth he play for cloaks still? Surely

He hath a fly only to win good clothes.

_Enter_ SHAPE.

SHAPE. The pox and plague take all ill-fortune! this

The second time that he hath cheated me;

My very best suit that I had!

AND. How now!

What, lost your cloak and suit? A jest, I vow;

I vow, a pretty jest. 'Odsnigs, I guess'd so;

I saw him have it on: it made him look as like you,

As like you--'tis a rogue, a mere decoy. [_Aside._

SHAPE. A rogue, a mere decoy! and yet like

me?

AND. Nay, hold, I mean he is a rogue, when that

He hath his own clothes on. D' y' think that I

Would call him so when he is in your suit?

SHAPE. No more of that, good Andrew, as you love me;

Keep in your wit.

AND. Speak, tutor, do I use

To quarrel? Speak, good tutor.

MEAN. That wit, Andrew,

Of yours will be th' undoing of you, if

You use't no better.

AND. Faith, I thought I might

Have broke a witty jest upon him, being

I've lost my cloak.

MEAN. True; but he has lost his too,

And then you know that is not lawful wit.

_Enter_ HEARSAY.

HEAR. Here's Master Credulous and old Sir Thomas;

They have some business with you.

MEAN. Bring 'em in.

SHAPE. My business lies not here, sirs, fare you well.

[_Exit_ SHAPE.

AND. For God's sake, don't you tell old Sim on't, now.

SCENE V.

_To them_ SIR THOMAS BITEFIG, CREDULOUS.

MEAN. God save you, good Sir Thomas.

SIR T. Save you, sir.

MEAN. Your welcome, Master Credulous.

CRE. Come hither:

Whither do you steal now? What! Where's your cloak?

AND. Going to foils e'en now, I put it off.

MEAN. To tell you truth, he hath lost it at doublets.

CRE. With what a lie you'd flap me in the mouth!

Thou hast the readiest invention

To put off anything: thou hadst it from

Thy mother, I'll be sworn: 't ne'er came from me.

MEAN. Peace, as you love yourself: if that the knight

Should once perceive that he were given to gaming,

'Twould make him break the match off presently.

CRE. Sir Thomas, here's my son; he may be yours,

If you please to accept him.

AND. Father, don't

Give me away for this: try me once more.

SIR T. I like his person well enough, if that

You'll make him an estate convenient.

MEAN. He hath more in him, sir, than he can show.

He hath one fault: he's something covetous.

SIR T. Marry, a very commendable fault.

CRE. He is descended of no great high blood:

He hath a house, although he came of none.

His grandfather was a good livery-man,

Paid scot and lot, old Timothy Credulous

My father--though I say it, that should not.

SIR T. I don't regard this thing that you call blood;

'Tis a mere name, a sound.

MEAN. Your worship speaks

Just like yourself: methinks he's noble

That's truly rich. Men may talk much of lines,

Of arms, of blood, of race, of pedigree:

Houses, descents and families; they are

But empty noise, God knows; the idle breath

Of that puff nothing, honour; formal words,

Fit for the tongues of men that ne'er knew yet

What stem, what gentry, nay, what virtue lies

In great revenues.

SIR T. Well and pithy said!

You may work on my daughter, and prevail

For that young stripling. 'Tis a foolish wench,

An unexperienc'd girl; she'd like to have been

Caught by Sir Robert Littleworth's son, if that

I had not banish'd him my house; a youth

Honest enough, I think, but that he's poor;

Born to more name than fortune.

CRE. He is safe

For ever wooing. I have laid his father

Out of harm's way; there's picking meat for him,

And God knows where he's gone: he hath not been

Seen this long while; he's, sure, turn'd vagabond;

No sight of him since the arrest of his father.

Andrew, address yourself to good Sir Thomas.

AND. 'Slid, father, you're the strangest man--I won't.

CRE. As God shall mend me, thou'rt the proudest thing----

Thou can'st not compliment, but in caparisons.

AND. What's that to you? I'd fain say something yet,

But that I can't, my losses do so vex me.

CRE. Come, think not on't, my boy; I'll furnish thee.

AND. Sir, though----

CRE. Nay, to't, I say: help him, sir, help him.

AND. Sir, though without my cloak at this time--

To-morrow I shall have one--give me leave

Barely to say I am your servant, sir----

In hose and doublet.

CRE. I'll do what you told me.

HEAR. Take heed: if that you do't, he'll guess you're given

To idle spendings, and so cross the match.

I will invite him as to myself.

CRE. Do so.

HEAR. Sir Thomas, if you'll please so far to grace us,

As be a guest to-morrow here, we shall

Study hereafter to deserve the favour.

SIR T. Although I do not use to eat at ordinaries;

Yet to accept your courtesy, good friends,

I'll break my wonted custom.

HEAR. You shall have it

With a free heart.

SIR T. If I thought otherwise,

I do assure you, I'd not venture hither. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[137] _i.e._, Prize [or acquisition.]--_Collier._

[138] _March-pane_ was a confection made of pistachio nuts, almonds,

sugar, &c., formerly in high esteem, and a constant article in the

deserts of our ancestors. See the notes of Dr Gray, Mr Hawkins, and Mr

Steevens, to "Romeo and Juliet," act i. sc. 5.

[139] This is called a St Stephen's pudding: it used formerly to be

provided at St John's College, Cambridge, uniformly on St Stephen's

day.--_Pegge._

[140] See [Suckling's Works, by Hazlitt, ii. 33.]

[141] Or, caveare. Giles Fletcher, in his "Russe Commonwealth," 1591,

p. 11, says: "In Russia they have divers kinds of fish, very good and

delicate: as the Bellouga or Bellougina, of four or five elnes long;

the Ostrina or Sturgeon, but not so thicke nor long. These four kinds

of fish breed in the Volgha, and are catched in great plenty, and

served thence into the whole realme for a great food. Of the roes of

these foure kinds, they make very great store of _Icary_, or caveary."

The introduction of these foreign delicacies is ridiculed by several

writers of the times; as Ben Jonson's "Cynthia's Revels," act iii.

sc. 1: "Come; let us go and taste some light dinner, a dish of sliced

_caviare_, or so."

And in Marston's "What you Will," act ii. sc. 1--

"A man can scarce put on a tuckt-up cap,

A button'd frizado sute; scarce eate good meate,

Anchovies, _caviare_, but hee's satired,

And term'd phantasticall."

[142] The malacoton is one of the late _peaches_. So in Ben Jonson's

"Bartholomew Fair"--

"A soft velvet head like a _mellicotton_."

--_Steevens._

[143] _Olived_ is a term of cookery. In Murrell's "New Book of

Cookery," [1630,] is a receipt to make an _olive_-pie to be eaten hot.

_Olives_ are _collops_ of any meat.--_Steevens._

[144] Cartwright has fetched most of his antiquated terms from Chaucer.

I have therefore given the explanation of them from Mr Tyrwhitt's

excellent glossary on that author.

[145] [For God's sake.]

[146] Snub, reprove.--_T._

[147] Think, suppose.--_T._

[148] A prater.--_T._

[149] Fr. _Goliardus_, or Goliardensis, Lat. "This jovial sect seems

to have been so called from Golias, the [representative] name of a

man of wit, toward the end of the 12th century, [under which pass]

"Apocalypsis Goliæ" and other pieces, in burlesque Latin rhymes, some

of which have been falsely attributed to Walter Mapes. In several

authors of the 13th century, quoted by Du Cange, the Goliardi are

classed with the _joculatores_ or _buffones_."--_T._ [See "Poems of

Walter Mapes," edit. Wright, p. ix. _et seq._]

[150] Left.--_T._

[151] So in Chaucer's "Reve's Prologue," v. 3880--

"Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken."

--_Steevens._

On this last line Mr Tyrwhitt observes: "There is so great a

resemblance between this line and the following in 'Gray's Elegy,'

[edit. Mitford, i. 106]--

"Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires,"

that I should certainly have considered the latter as an imitation,

if Mr Gray himself had not referred us to the 169 (170) sonnet of

Petrarch, as his original 'Ch'i veggio nel pensier,' &c.

[152] Surely.--_T._

[153] Very ill.--_T._

[154] Uncertain.--_T._

[155] Unspotted.--_T._

[156] Wantonness.--_T._

[157] Jargon, chattering.--_T._

[158] Spotted.--_T._

[159] Call, name.--_T._

[160] A nurse.--_T._

[161] [Might.]

[162] Is she called.--_T._

[163] Dreamed.--_T._

[164] Tremble or quake.--_T._

[165] Dream.--_T._

[166] Combeth.--_T._

[167] Pick as a hawk does his feathers.--_T._

[168] Worthy.--_T._

[169] Named.--_T._

[170] ["Both aces, the lowest throw upon the dice."--Dyce's

"Shakespeare Glossary," 1868.]

[171] High men and low men are false dice. See Florio's "Dictionary,"

1598, _v._ Pise. These terms so very oft occur in our ancient dramatic

writers, that to quote examples would be endless.

[172] The epithet _black_ does not agree with Sir Kenelm Digby's

"Discourse touching the Cure of Wounds by the Power of Sympathy," 4th

edition, 1664, p. 104: "I told her sundry stories upon this subject;

as that of the Queen of Ethiopia, who was delivered of a white boy;

which was attributed to a picture of the Blessed Virgin, which she had

always near the tester of her bed, whereunto she bore great devotion. I

urged another, of a woman who was brought to bed of a child all hairy,

because of a portrait of St John the Baptist in the wilderness, where

he wore a coat of camel's hair."

Perhaps the original reading is the true one, and the corruption lies

in the former line. I would read--

"It works upon that which is not as yet:

The little Ethiop infant _would have_ been

_Black_ in his cradle, had he not been first

White in the mother's strong imagination."

The compositor's eye might have caught _had not_ from the following

line--a very common accident. Without this emendation we have too much

of _not_ and _had not_ in the course of three verses.--_Steevens's

note_ (_altered_.) [Cartwright and Digby probably derived the story of

the Ethiop mother and her white offspring from a common source; but

Digby's work was not published till several years after Cartwright's

death.]

[173] See Sir Kenelm Digby's "Discourse," p. 6.

[174] [Old copy, _who_. Mr Collier's correction.]

[175] From Bishop Corbet's "Iter Boreale," this town appears to have

been inhabited chiefly by Puritans. Mr Dodd, mentioned in act iv. sc.

3, was minister there.

ACT III, SCENE I.

MOTH. Harrow,[176] alas! I swelt[177] here as I go;

Brenning[178] in fire of little Cupido.

I no where hoart yfeel but on mine head.

Huh, huh, huh, so; ycapred very wele.

I am thine leek, thou Chaucer eloquent;

Mine head is white, but, O, mine taile is green.

This is the palyes, where mine lady wendeth.

_Saint Francis[179] and Saint Benedight,_

_Blesse this house from wicked wight;_

_From the night-mare and the goblin,_

_That is hight Good-fellow Robin;_

_Keep it from all evil spirits,_

_Fairies, weazels, rats, and ferrets:_

_From curfew-time_

_To the next prime._

Come forth, mine duck, mine bride, mine honeycomb;

Come forth, mine cinnamon.

_Enter_ MISTRESS POTLUCK.

POT. Who is't that calls?

MOTH. A knight most gent.

POT. What is your pleasure, sir?

MOTH. Thou art mine pleasure, by dame Venus brent;

So fresh thou art, and therewith so lycand.[180]

POT. Alas! I am not any flickering thing:

I cannot boast of that slight-fading gift

You men call beauty; all my handsomeness

Is my good-breeding and my honesty.

I could plant red where you now yellow see;

But painting shows an harlot.

MOTH. Harlot! so

Called from one Harlotha, concubine

To deignous[181] Wilhelm, hight the Conqueror.

POT. Were he ten Williams and ten conquerors,

I'd have him know't, I scorn to be his harlot.

I never yet did take press-money to

Serve under any one.

MOTH. Then take it now.

Werme kiss! Thine lips ytaste like marrow-milk;

Me-thinketh that fresh butter runneth on them.

I grant well now, I do enduren woe,

As sharp as doth the Tityus in hell,

Whose stomach fowls do tyren[182] ever more,

That highten vultures, as do tellen clerks.

POT. You've spoke my meaning, though I do not know

What 'tis you said. Now see the fortune on't;

We do know one another's souls already;

The other must needs follow. Where's your dwelling?

MOTH. Yclose by Aldersgate there dwelleth one

Wights clepen Robert Moth; now Aldersgate[183]

Is hoten so from one that Aldrich hight;

Or else of elders, that is, ancient men;

Or else of aldern-trees, which growden there;

Or else, as heralds say, from Aluredus:

But whencesoe'er this yate[184] ycalled is,

There dwelleth Robert Moth, thine paramour.

POT. Can you be constant unto me, as I

Can be to you?

MOTH. By Woden, god of Saxons,

From whence comes We'nsday, that is, Woden'sday,

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep,

Unto thylke day in which I creep into

My sepulchre; I'll be as faithful to thee,

As Chaunticleer to Madam Partelot.[185]

POT. Here then I give away my heart to you;

As true a heart as ever widow gave.

MOTH. I Robert Moth, this tenth [year] of our king,[186]

Give to thee, Joan Potluck, my bigg'st cramp-ring:[187]

And with it my carcase entire I bequeathen

Under my foot to hell, above my head to heaven;

And to witnesse[188] that this is sooth,

I bite thy red lip with my tooth.

POT. Though for a while our bodies now must part,

I hope they will be join'd hereafter.

MOTH. O!

And must we part? Alas! and must we so?

Sin it may be no bet,[189] now gang in peace.

[_Exit_ POTLUCK.

Though soft into my bed I gin to sink

To sleep long as I'm wont to done,[190] yet all

Will be for nought; I may well lig and wink,

But sleep shall there none in this heart ysink. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

CREDULOUS, _and_ SHAPE _dogging him_.

CRE. So now the mortgage is mine own outright;

I swear by the faith of my body now,

It is a pretty thing--o' my corporal oath,

A very pretty thing. Besides the house,

Orchards, and gardens, some two hundred acres

Of land, that beareth as good country corn,

For country corn, as may be.

SHAPE. As I'd have it.

CRE. How now, good friend? Where dost thou live?

Dost thou know Caster's farm?

SHAPE. Yes, sir; I fear 'tis gone:

Sure, Caster's farm is cast away!

CRE. A jest!

Good troth, a good one of a country one;

I see there's wit there too. Then thou dost know it?

SHAPE. I am afraid I shall not know it long;

I shall lose my acquaintance.

CRE. 'Snigs, another!

A very perilous head! a dangerous brain!

SHAPE. God bless my master, and the devil take

Somebody else.

CRE. Um! that's not quite so good

As th' other two; that somebody else is me:

Now you shall see how he'll abuse me here

To mine own face. [_Aside._] Why somebody else, good brother?

SHAPE. The rich gout rot his bones! An hungry, old,

Hard-griping citizen, that only feeds

On heirs' and orphans' goods, they say must have it:

One that ne'er had the wisdom to be honest,

And's therefore knave, 'cause 'tis the easier art.

I know he hath not given half the worth on't:

'Tis a mere cheat.

CRE. 'Slid, brother, thou hast paid him

To th' utmost, though he hath not paid thy master.

Now is my wit up too. This land, I see,

Will make men thrive i' th' brain. [_Aside._

SHAPE. Would he were here,

Whoe'er he be, I'd give him somewhat more

Into the bargain: a base, thin-jaw'd sneaksbill,

Thus to work gallants out of all! It grieves me,

That my poor tenement too goes into th' sale.

CRE. What have I done? Now, wit, deliver me!

If he know I am he, he'll cut my throat;

I never shall enjoy it. [_Aside._] Sure, it was

Your master's seeking, friend; he would ne'er else

Have had to do with it: he that bought it is

A very honest man, and if you please him,

Will deal with you. I may speak a word

In your behalf; 'twon't be the worse for you.

SHAPE. I'm going, sir, unto him; do you know

Where I may find him?

CRE. What if I am he?

SHAPE. I am afraid he is not half so honest

As you do seem.

CRE. Faith, I'm the same. I tried

What metal thou wast made of: I perceive

Thou wilt not flinch for th' wetting;[191] thou may'st be

My bailiff there, perhaps.

SHAPE. An't please your worship! [_Aside._

CRE. So now the case is alter'd.

SHAPE. I do know

It was my master's seeking; you would ne'er

Have had to do with't else. He sent me to you

For the last hundred pound by the same token

That you invited him to th' eating-house.

CRE. O, this simplicity! He does not know

Yet what an ordinary means. [_Aside._] I was now coming

To have paid it in.

SHAPE. I'll save your worship that

Labour, an't please you. Let me now begin

My bailiffship.

CRE. 'Snigs, wiser yet than so.

Where is thy master?

SHAPE. Sir, my master's here,

I thank my stars; but Master Caster is

At an horse-race some ten miles off.

CRE. Why, then,

I'll stay till he returns: 'twill be by dinner.

SHAPE. Your best way's now to send it: if by chance

The race go on his side, your worship may

Fail of your purchase.

CRE. 'Snigs, and that's considerable.

Here, here, make haste with it; but, ere thou goest,

Tell me, is it a pretty thing?

SHAPE. O' my corporal oath,

A very pretty thing. Besides the house,

Orchards, and gardens, some two hundred acres

Of land that beareth as good country corn--

God give you luck on't!

CRE. Right, as I did say,

Ev'n word by word. But prythee, stay a little;

What meadow-ground's there? Pasture in proportion?

SHAPE. As you would wish, sir, I'm in haste.

CRE. Nay, bailiff,

But one word more, and I have done: what place

Is there to dry wet linen in?

SHAPE. O, twenty,

To hang up clothes or anything you please;

Your worship cannot want line-room. God be wi' you!

CRE. But this once, and--

SHAPE. I must be gone--The race! [_Exit_ SHAPE.

CRE. Little think'st thee, how diligent thou art

To little purpose. 'Snigs, I pity him:

What haste he makes to cheat himself, poor fool!

Now I am safe, the wretch must pardon me

For his poor tenement; all's mine. I'll sow

One ground or other every month with pease;

And so I will have green ones all the year.

These yeomen have no policy i' th' world. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

PRISCILLA, MEANWELL.

PRIS. Pray y', entertain yourself awhile, until

I give my mistress notice of your presence.

I'd leave a book with you, but that I see

You are a gentleman: perhaps you'll find

Some pretty stories in the hangings there.

MEAN. Thank you, sweetheart.

PRIS. A very proper man! [_Aside._

If't lie in me to do you any pleasure,

Pray you, sir, use me; you shall find me ready.

[_Exit_ PRISCILLA.

MEAN. I make no doubt of that. These implements,

These chamber-properties are such ripe things,

They'll fall with the least touch: from twelve to twenty

They think that others are to sue to them;

When once they've pass'd these limits, they make bold--

I cannot say to woo, that's something modest--

But ask downright themselves.

_Enter_ MISTRESS JANE.

JANE. Leave us, Priscilla,

And wait without awhile.

MEAN. Fair mistress, pardon

The boldness of a stranger, who uncivilly

Thus interrupts your better thoughts.

JANE. May I

Demand your business?

MEAN. Under favour thus:

Not to use farther circumstance, fair virgin

(And yet less fair, 'cause virgin), you are one

That are the thought, the care, the aim, the strife--

I should not err, if I should say the madness--

Of all young men: all sighs, all folded arms,

All o'ercast looks, all broken sleeps are ow'd

Only to you.

JANE. I'm sorry I should be

A trouble unto any: if I could

Afford the remedy as well as now

I do your grief, assure yourself that cure

Shall be the birth of my next action.

MEAN. That cure is my request. If that this were

Mine own suit, I had us'd no circumstance.

Young Master Credulous, a proper man--

For sure he shall be rich--one whom the whole

List of our city virgins doat on--you

Conceive the rest, I know.

JANE. Alas! what ails him?

I'll not be slack to do him any good.

MEAN. 'Tis in your power. He is very much,

If you will know't--but, sure, you will not grant

If I should tell you.

JANE. If you thus presume

That I am hard, you only ask denial;

Your expectation's cross'd, except you fail.

MEAN. If you will know it, then, he is in love.

JANE. I pity him indeed, poor heart. With whom?

MEAN. Even with your beauteous self.

JANE. 'Tis not well done

To scoff one ne'er did injure you.

MEAN. I vow

By all that's good, by your fair self, I am

As tender of you as that bless'd one is,

Whoe'er he be, that loves you most. If I

In any case abuse you, let me be

More miserable than Littleworth.

JANE. Is he become expression?[192] Is his fate

The period of ill-wishes? Sure, he never

Deserv'd so ill from you!

MEAN. I don't reflect

Upon his ruin'd fortunes, but your coldness;

And, sure, I may call him unhappy whom

You do neglect.

JANE. That man, where'er he be,

Is happier than yourself; and were he here,

You should see him receiv'd, and yourself scorn'd.

MEAN. I do not think so, lady; sure, you would

Make more of me than so. I'll bring the man,

And so confute you.

JANE. It may be I might

Love you the better something for that office,

If he might enter here.

MEAN. Nay, I could tell

Y' had cast him off: alas! you need not hide it:

I have it from himself.

JANE. Doth he think so? Could I but see him----

MEAN. If his sight can bring

But the least joy unto you--as perhaps

You'll take some pleasure in his misery--

You shall enjoy it.

JANE. I do fear you promise

Only to raise my hopes awhile, and then

To triumph in their ruin.

MEAN. That you may

See how my breast and tongue agree, I'll leave

This ring with you, till I return again.

JANE. My Littleworth! Fool that I was, could I

Not all this while perceive 'twas thee? Why didst thou

Defer my joy thus long by suffering me

To stand i' th' cloud?

MEAN. Alas! I guess'd I'd been

Infectious to thee now; that thou wouldst look

On a disease more mildly than on me;

For poverty is counted a contagion.

JANE. I call this kiss to witness--which I wish,

If I prove false, may be the last to me

Which friends pay dying friends--I ne'er will be

Other's than thine.

MEAN. I like the vow so well,

That the same way I'll seal my promise too.

If I prove not as thou (that is, most constant),

May this kiss be--that I may wish it worse,

Than that which is due to departing souls--

The last that I shall take from thee. I am

Sent here, but yet unknown to them that send me,

To be another's spokesman: the man is

That foolish son of Master Credulous.

Thou must pretend some liking. 'Twas thy father

Granted me this access to win thee for him:

Be thou no way averse; 't shall be my care

So to bring things about that thou shalt be

Mine by consent in spite of misery.

JANE. Be secret, and love prosper thy design!

[_Exit_ JANE.

MEAN. Happy that man that meets such faithfulness!

I did not think it had been in the sex.

I know not now what's misery. Peace! my fair [_Music._

Is hallowing the lute with her bless'd touch.

_A Song within._

1. _Come, O, come, I brook no stay:_

_He doth not love that can delay._

_See how the stealing night_

_Hath blotted out the light,_

_And tapers do supply the day._

2. _To be chaste is to be old;_

_And that foolish girl that's cold_

_Is fourscore at fifteen:_

_Desires do write us green,_

_And looser flames our youth unfold._

MEAN. 'T cannot be her, her voice was ne'er profan'd

With such immodest numbers.

3. _See, the first taper's almost gone;_

_Thy flame like that will straight be none,_

_And I as it expire,_

_Not able to hold fire:_

_She loseth time that lies alone._

MEAN. 'Tis the breath

Of something troubled with virginity.

4. _O, let us cherish then these powers,_

_Whiles we yet may call them ours:_

_Then we best spend our time,_

_When no dull zealous chime,_

_But sprightful kisses strike the hours._

_Enter_ PRISCILLA.

MEAN. What dost thou mean?

PRIS. Only to please you, sir.

MEAN. Sweetest of things, was't thou? I' faith, I guess'd

'T could be no other's melody but yours.