_A room in_ LOW-WATER’S _house_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER.
MIS. LOW. Is there no saving means, no help religious,
For a distressèd gentlewoman to live by?
Has virtue no revenue? who has all then?
Is the world’s lease from hell, the devil[22]
head-landlord?
O, how was conscience, the right heir, put by?
Law would not do such an unrighteous deed,
Though with the fall of angels[23] ’t had been fee’d.
Where are our hopes in banks? was honesty,
A younger sister, without portion left,
No dowry in the chamber beside wantonness?
O miserable orphan!
’Twixt two extremes runs there no blessèd mean,
No comfortable strain,[24] that I may kiss it?
Must I to whoredom or to beggary lean,
My mind being sound? is there no way to miss it?
Is’t not injustice that a widow laughs,
And lays her mourning part upon a wife?
That she should have the garment, I the heart?
My wealth her uncle left her, and me her grief.
Yet, stood all miseries in their loathed’st forms
On this hand of me, thick like a foul mist;
And here the bright enticements of the world
In clearest colours, flattery and advancement,
And all the bastard glories this frame jets[25] in,—
Horror nor splendour, shadows fair nor foul,
Should force me shame my husband, wound my soul.
_Enter_ JANE.
Cousin, you’re welcome; this is kindly done of you,
To visit the despis’d.
JANE. I hope not so, coz;
The want of means cannot make you despis’d;
Love not by wealth, but by desert, is priz’d.
MIS. LOW. You’re pleas’d to help it well, coz.
JANE. I’m come to you,
Beside my visitation, to request you
To lay your wit to mine, which is but simple,
And help me to untie a few dark words
Made up in knots,—they’re of the widow’s knitting,
That ties all sure,—for my wit has not strength
Nor cunning to unloose ’em.
MIS. LOW. Good: what are they?
Though there be little comfort of my help.
JANE. She wish’d sir Oliver’s daughter and myself
Good fortune in our choices, and repented her
Of a rash oath she took, when we were both infants,
A secret to conceal; but since all’s well,
She holds it best to keep it unreveal’d:
Now, what this is, heaven knows.
MIS. LOW. Nor can I guess:
The course of her whole life and her dead husband’s
Was ever full of such dishonest riddles,
To keep right heirs from knowledge of their own:
And now I’m put i’ the mind on’t, I believe
It was some price[26] of land or money given,
By some departing friend upon their deathbed,
Perhaps to yourself; and sir Oliver’s daughter
May wrongfully enjoy it, and she hir’d—
For she was but an hireling in those days—
To keep the injury secret.
JANE. The most likeliest
That ever you could think on!
MIS. LOW. Is it not?
JANE. Sure, coz, I think you have untied the knot;
My thoughts lie at more ease: as in all other things,
In this I thank your help; and may you live
To conquer your own troubles and cross ends,
As you are ready to supply your friends!
MIS. LOW. I thank you for the kind truth of your
heart,
In which I flourish when all means depart.—
Sure in that oath of hers there sleeps some wrong
Done to my kinswoman. [_Aside._
_Enter Footman._
JANE. Who’d you speak withal?
FOOT. The gentlewoman of this house, forsooth.
JANE. Whose footman are you?
FOOT. One sir Gilbert Lambstone’s.
JANE. Sir Gilbert Lambstone’s? there my cousin walks.
FOOT. Thank your good worship. [_Exit_ JANE.
MIS. LOW. How now? whence are you?
FOOT. This letter will make known.
[_Giving letter to_ MIS. LOW-WATER.
MIS. LOW. Whence comes it, sir?
FOOT. From the knight my master, sir Gilbert Lambstone.
MIS. LOW. Return’t; I’ll receive none on’t.
[_Throwing down letter._
FOOT. There it must lie then; I were as good run to
Tyburn a-foot, and hang myself at mine own charges, as
carry it back again. [_Exit._
MIS. LOW. ’Life, had he not his answer? what strange
impudence
Governs in man when lust is lord of him!
Thinks he me mad? ’cause I’ve no monies on earth,
That I’ll go forfeit my estate in heaven,
And live eternal beggar? he shall pardon me,
That’s my soul’s jointure—I’ll starve ere I sell that.
O, is he gone, and left the letter here?
Yet I will read it, more to hate the writer. [_Reads._
_Mistress Low-water,—If you desire to understand
your own comfort, hear me out ere you refuse me. I’m
in the way now to double the yearly means that first
I offered you; and to stir you more to me, I’ll
empty your enemy’s bags to maintain you; for the
rich widow, the lady Goldenfleece, to whom I have
been a longer suitor than you an adversary,[27] hath
given me so much encouragement lately, insomuch that
I am perfectly assured the next meeting strikes the
bargain. The happiness that follows this ’twere idle
to inform you of; only consent to my desires, and
the widow’s notch shall lie open to you. This much
to your heart; I know you’re wise. Farewell. Thy
friend to his and another’s, Gilbert Lambstone._
In this poor brief[28] what volumes has he thrust
Of treacherous perjury and adulterous lust!
So foul a monster does this wrong appear,
That I give pity to mine enemy here.
What a most fearful love reigns in some hearts,
That dare oppose all judgment to get means,
And wed rich widows only to keep queans!
What a strange path he takes to my affection,
And thinks’t the nearest way! ’twill never be;
Goes through mine enemy’s ground to come to me.
This letter is most welcome; I repent now
That my last anger threw thee at my feet,
My bosom shall receive thee.
[_Putting letter in her bosom._
_Enter_ SIR GILBERT LAMBSTONE.
SIR G. LAMB. ’Tis good policy too
To keep one that so mortally hates the widow;
She’ll have more care to keep it close herself:
And look, what wind her revenge goes withal,
The self-same gale whisks up the sails of love!
I shall lose[29] much good sport by that. [_Aside._]—
Now, my sweet mistress!
MIS. LOW. Sir Gilbert! you change suits[30] oft, you
were here
In black but lately.
SIR G. LAMB. My mind never shifts though.
MIS. LOW. A foul mind the whilst:
But sure, sir, this is but a dissembling glass[31]
You sent before you; ’tis not possible
Your heart should follow your hand.
SIR G. LAMB. Then may both perish!
MIS. LOW. Do not wish that so soon, sir: can you make
A three-months’ love to a rich widow’s bed,
And lay her pillow under a quean’s head?
I know you can’t, howe’er you may dissemble’t;
You’ve a heart brought up better.
SIR G. LAMB. Faith, you wrong me in’t;
You shall not find, it so; I do protest to thee,
I will be lord of all my promises,
And ere ’t be long, thou shalt but turn a key,
And find ’em in thy coffer; for my love
In matching with the widow is but policy
To strengthen my estate, and make me able
To set off all thy kisses with rewards;
That the worst weather our delights behold,
It may hail pearl, and shower the widow’s gold.
MIS. LOW. You talk of a brave[32] world, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. ’Twill seem better
When golden happiness breaks forth itself
Out of the vast part of the widow’s chamber.
MIS. LOW. And here it sets.
SIR G. LAMB. Here shall the downfal be;
Her wealth shall rise from her, and set in thee.
MIS. LOW. You men have th’ art to overcome poor women;
Pray give my thoughts the freedom of one day,
And all the rest take you.
SIR G. LAMB. I straight obey.—
This bird’s my own! [_Aside, and exit._
MIS. LOW. There is no happiness but has her season,
Herein[33] the brightness of her virtue shines:
The husk falls off in time, that long shut[34] up
The fruit in a dark prison; so sweeps by
The cloud of miseries from wretches’ eyes,
That yet, though faln, at length they see to rise;
The secret powers work wondrously and duly.
_Enter_ LOW-WATER.
LOW. Why, how now, Kate?
MIS. LOW. O, are you come, sir? husband,
Wake, wake, and let not patience keep thee poor,
Rouse up thy spirit from this falling slumber!
Make thy distress seem but a weeping dream,
And this the opening morning of thy comforts;
Wipe the salt dew off from thy careful eyes,
And drink a draught of gladness next thy heart,
T’ expel the infection of all poisonous sorrows!
LOW. You turn me past my senses!
MIS. LOW. Will you but second
The purpose I intend, I’ll be first forward;
I crave no more of thee but a following spirit,
Will you but grant me that.
LOW. Why, what’s the business
That should transport thee thus?
MIS. LOW. Hope of much good,
No fear of the least ill; take that to comfort thee.
LOW. Yea?
MIS. LOW. Sleep not on’t, this is no slumbering
business;
’Tis like the sweating sickness, I must keep
Your eyes still wake, you’re gone if once you sleep.
LOW. I will not rest then till thou hast thy wishes.
MIS. LOW. Peruse this love-paper as you go.
[_Giving letter._
LOW. A letter? [_Exeunt._