_A room in_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT’S _house_.
_Enter_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT, SANDFIELD, PHILIP TWILIGHT,
_and_ SAVOURWIT.
SIR O. TWI. Good master Sandfield, for the great
affection
You bear toward my girl, I am well pleas’d
You should enjoy her beauty; heaven forbid, sir,
That I should cast away a proper gentleman,
So far in love, with a sour mood or so.
No, no;
I’ll not die guilty of a lover’s neck-cracking.
Marry, as for portion, there I leave you, sir,
To the mercy of your destiny again;
I’ll have no hand in that.
SAND. Faith, something, sir,
Be’t but t’ express your love.
SIR O. TWI. I’ve no desire, sir,
T’ express my love that way, and so rest satisfied;
I pray take heed in urging that too much
You draw not my love from me.
SAND. Fates foresee, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Faith, then you may go, seek out a high
steeple,
Or a deep water—there’s no saving of you.
SAV. How naturally he plays upon himself! [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. Marry, if a wedding-dinner, as I told you,
And three years’ board, well lodgèd in mine house,
And eating, drinking, and a sleeping portion,
May give you satisfaction, I’m your man, sir;
Seek out no other.
SAND. I’m content to embrace it, sir,
Rather than hazard languishment or ruin.
SIR O. TWI. I love thee for thy wisdom; such a
son-in-law
Will cheer a father’s heart: welcome, sweet master
Sandfield.
Whither away, boys? Philip![35]
PHIL. To visit my love, sir,
Old master Sunset’s daughter.
SIR O. TWI. That’s my Philip!—
Ply’t hard, my good boys both, put ’em to’t finely;
One day, one dinner, and one house shall join you.
SAND. } That’s our desire, sir.
PHIL. }
[_Exeunt_ SANDFIELD _and_ PHILIP.
SIR O. TWI. Pist![36] come hither, Savourwit;
Observe my son, and bring me word, sweet boy,
Whether has a speeding wit or no in wooing.
SAV. That will I, sir.—That your own eyes might tell
ye[37]
I think it speedy; your girl has a round belly.
[_Exit._
SIR O. TWI. How soon the comfortable shine of joy
Breaks through a cloud of grief!
The tears that I let fall for my dead wife
Are dried up with the beams of my girl’s fortunes:
Her life, her death, and her ten years’ distress,
Are even forgot with me; the love and care
That I ought[38] her, her daughter sh’ owes[39] it all;
It can but be bestow’d, and there ’tis well.
_Enter_ SERVANT.
How now? what news?
SER. There’s a Dutch merchant, sir, that’s now come
over,
Desires some conference with you.
SIR O. TWI. How! a Dutch merchant?
Pray, send him in to me. [_Exit Servant._]—What news
with him, trow?[40]
_Enter Dutch Merchant, with a little Dutch Boy in great
slops._[41]
D. MER. Sir Oliver Twilight?
SIR O. TWI. That’s my name indeed, sir;
I pray, be cover’d,[42] sir; you’re very welcome.
D. MER. This is my business, sir; I took into my
charge
A few words to deliver to yourself
From a dear friend of yours, that wonders strangely
At your unkind neglect.
SIR O. TWI. Indeed! what might
He be, sir?
D. MER. Nay, you’re i’ the wrong gender now;
’Tis that distressèd lady, your good wife, sir.
SIR O. TWI. What say you, sir? my wife!
D. MER. Yes, sir, your wife:
This strangeness now of yours seems more to harden
Th’ uncharitable neglect she tax’d you for.
SIR O. TWI. Pray, give me leave, sir; is my wife
alive?
D. MER. Came any news to you, sir, to the contrary?
SIR O. TWI. Yes, by my faith, did there.
D. MER. Pray, how long since, sir?
SIR O. TWI. ’Tis now some ten weeks.
D. MER. Faith, within this month, sir,
I saw her talk and eat; and those, in our calendar,
Are signs of life and health.
SIR O. TWI. Mass, so they are in ours!
D. MER. And these were the last words her passion[43]
threw me,—
No grief, quoth she, sits to my heart so close
As his unkindness, and my daughter’s loss.
SIR O. TWI. You make me weep and wonder; for I swear
I sent her ransom, and that daughter’s here.
D. MER. Here! that will come well to lighten her of
one grief;
I long to see her, for the piteous moan
Her mother made for her.
SIR O. TWI. That shall you, sir.—
Within there!
_Re-enter Servant._
SER. Sir?
SIR O. TWI. Call down my daughter.
SER. Yes, sir. [_Exit._
SIR O. TWI. Here is strange budgelling:[44] I tell
you, sir,
Those that I put in trust were near me too—
A man would think they should not juggle with me—
My own son and my servant; no worse people, sir.
D. MER. And yet ofttimes, sir, what worse knave to a
man
Than he that eats his meat?
SIR O. TWI. Troth, you say true, sir:
I sent ’em simply, and that news they brought,
My wife had left the world; and, with that son[45]
I sent to her, this brought his sister home:
Look you, sir, this is she.
_Enter_ GRACE.
D. MER. If my eye sin not, sir,
Or misty error falsify the glass,
I saw that face at Antwerp in an inn,
When I set forth first to fetch home this boy.
SIR O. TWI. How? in an inn?
GRACE. O, I’m betray’d, I fear! [_Aside._
D. MER. How do you, young mistress?
GRACE. Your eyes wrong your tongue, sir,
And make[46] you sin in both; I am not she.
D. MER. No? then I ne’er saw face twice.—Sir Oliver
Twilight,
I tell you my free thoughts, I fear you’re blinded;
I do not like this story; I doubt much
The sister is as false as the dead mother.
SIR O. TWI. Yea, say you so, sir? I see nothing
lets[47] me
But to doubt so too then.—
So, to your chamber; we have done with you.
GRACE. I would be glad you had: here’s a strange
storm!— [_Aside._
Sift it out well, sir; till anon I leave you, sir.
[_Exit._
D. MER. Business commands me hence; but, as a pledge
Of my return, I’ll leave my little son with you,
Who yet takes little pleasure in this country,
’Cause he can speak no English, all Dutch he.
SIR O. TWI. A fine boy; he is welcome, sir, to me.
D. MER. Where’s your leg and your thanks to
the gentleman?
D. BOY. _War es you neighgen an you thonkes you,
Ick donck you, ver ew edermon vrendly kite._
SIR O. TWI. What says he, sir?
D. MER. He thanks you for your kindness.
SIR O. TWI. Pretty knave!
D. MER. Had not some business held me by the way,
This news had come to your ear ten days ago.
SIR O. TWI. It comes too soon now, methinks; I’m your
debtor.
D. MER. But I could wish it, sir, for better ware.
SIR O. TWI. We must not be our own choosers in our
fortunes.
[_Exit Dutch Merchant._
Here’s a cold pie to breakfast! wife alive,
The daughter doubtful, and the money spent!
How am I juggled withal!
_Re-enter_ SAVOURWIT.
SAV. It hits, i’faith, sir;
The work goes even.
SIR O. TWI. O, come, come, come!
Are you come, sir?
SAV. Life, what’s the matter now!
SIR O. TWI. There’s a new reckoning come in since.
SAV. Pox on’t,
I thought all had been paid; I can’t abide
These after-reckonings. [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. I pray, come near, sir, let’s be
acquainted with you;
You’re bold enough abroad with my purse, sir.
SAV. No more than beseems manners and good use, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Did not you bring me word, some ten weeks
since,
My wife was dead?
SAV. Yes, true, sir, very true, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Pray, stay, and take my horse along with
you,—
And with the ransom that I sent for her,
That you redeem’d my daughter?
SAV. Right as can be, sir;
I ne’er found your worship in a false tale yet.
SIR O. TWI. I thank you for your good word, sir; but
I’m like
To find your worship now in two at once.
SAV. I should be sorry to hear that.
SIR O. TWI. I believe you, sir:
Within this month my wife was sure alive,
There’s six weeks bated of your ten weeks’ lie;
As has been credibly reported to me
By a Dutch merchant, father to that boy,
But now come over, and the words scarce cold.
SAV. O strange!— [_Aside._
’Tis a most rank untruth; where is he, sir?
SIR O. TWI. He will not be long absent.
SAV. All’s confounded!— [_Aside._
If he were here, I’d[48] tell him to his face, sir,
He wears a double tongue, that’s Dutch and English.
Will the boy say’t?
SIR O. TWI. ’Las, he can speak no English.
SAV. All the better; I’ll gabble something to him.
[_Aside._]—_Hoyste kaloiste, kalooskin ee vou, dar sune,
alla gaskin?_
D. BOY. _Ick wet neat watt hey zackt; Ick unverston ewe
neat._
SAV. Why, la, I thought as much!
SIR O. TWI. What says the boy?
SAV. He says his father is troubled with an imperfection
at one time of the moon, and talks like a madman.
SIR O. TWI. What, does the boy say so?
SAV. I knew there was somewhat in’t:
Your wife alive! will you believe all tales, sir?
SIR O. TWI. Nay, more, sir; he told me he saw this
wench,
Which you brought home, at Antwerp in an inn;
Tell[s] me, I’m plainly cozen’d of all hands,
’Tis not my daughter neither.
SAV. All’s broke out!— [_Aside._
How! not your daughter, sir? I must to’t again.—
_Quisquinikin sadlamare, alla pisse kickin sows clows,
hoff tofte le cumber shaw, bouns bus boxsceeno._
D. BOY. _Ick an sawth no int hein clappon de heeke, I
dinke ute zein zennon._
SAV. O, _zein zennon_! Ah ha! I thought how ’twould
prove i’ th’ end:—the boy says they never came near
Antwerp, a quite contrary way, round about by Parma.
SIR O. TWI. What’s the same _zein zennon_?
SAV. That is, he saw no such wench in an inn: ’tis well
I came in such happy time, to get it out of the boy
before his father returned again: pray, be wary, sir,
the world’s subtle; come and pretend a charitable
business in policy, and work out a piece of money on
you.
SIR O. TWI. Mass, art advised of that?
SAV. The age is cunning, sir; beside, a Dutchman will
live upon any ground, and work butter out of a thistle.
SIR O. TWI. Troth, thou say’st true in that; they’re the
best thrivers
In turnips, hartichalks, and cabbishes;[49]
Our English are not like them.
SAV. O fie, no, sir!
SIR O. TWI. Ask him from whence they came when they
came hither.
SAV. That I will, sir.—_Culluaron lagooso, lageen,
lagan, rufft, punkatee_?
D. BOY. _Nimd aweigh de cack._
SAV. What, what? I cannot blame him then.
SIR O. TWI. What says he to thee?
SAV. The poor boy blushes for him: he tells me his
father came from making merry with certain of his
countrymen, and he’s a little steeped in English beer;
there’s no heed to be taken of his tongue now.
SIR O. TWI. Hoyday! how com’st thou by all this? I
heard him
Speak but three words to thee.
SAV. O sir, the Dutch is a very wide language; you shall
have ten English words even for one; as, for example,
_gullder-goose_—there’s a word for you, master!
SIR O. TWI. Why, what’s that same _gullder-goose_?
SAV. How do you and all your generation?
SIR O. TWI. Why, ’tis impossible! how prove you that,
sir?
SAV. ’Tis thus distinguished, sir: _gull_, how do you;
_der_, and; _goose_, your generation.
SIR O. TWI. ’Tis a most saucy language; how cam’st
thou by’t?
SAV. I was brought up to London in an eel-ship,
There was the place I caught it first by the tail.—
I shall be tript anon; pox, would I were gone!—
[_Aside._
I’ll go seek out your son, sir; you shall hear
What thunder he’ll bring with him.
SIR O. TWI. Do, do, Savourwit;
I’ll have you all face to face.
SAV. Cuds me, what else, sir?—
And[50] you take me so near the net again,
I’ll give you leave to squat[51] me; I’ve scap’d fairly:
We’re undone in Dutch; all our three months’ roguery
Is now come over in a butter-firkin.
[_Aside_, _and exit_.
SIR O. TWI. Never was man so tost between two tales!
I know not which to take, nor which to trust;
The boy here is the likeliest to tell truth,
Because the world’s corruption is not yet
At full years in him; sure he cannot know
What deceit means, ’tis English yet to him:
And when I think again, why should the father
Dissemble for no profit? he gets none,
Whate’er he hopes for, and I think he hopes not.
The man’s in a good case, being old and weary,
He dares not lean his arm on his son’s shoulder,
For fear he lie i’ the dirt, but must be rather
Beholding[52] to a stranger for his prop. [_Aside._
_Re-enter Dutch Merchant._
D. MER. I make bold once again, sir, for a boy here.
SIR O. TWI. O sir, you’re welcome! pray, resolve[53]
me one thing, sir;
Did you within this month, with your own eyes,
See my wife living?
D. MER. I ne’er borrow’d any:
Why should you move that question, sir? dissembling
Is no part of my living.
SIR O. TWI. I have reason
To urge it so far, sir—pray, be not angry though—
Because my man, was here since your departure,
Withstands all stiffly; and to make it clearer,
Question’d your boy in Dutch, who, as he told me,
Return’d this answer first to him,—that you
Had imperfection at one time o’ the moon,
Which made you talk so strangely.
D. MER. How! how’s this?—_Zeicke yongon, ick ben ick
quelt medien dullek heght, ee untoit van the mon, an
koot uram’d._
D. BOY. _Wee ek heigh lieght in ze bokkas, dee’t site._
D. MER. Why, la, you, sir, here’s no such thing! he
says
He lies in’s throat that says it.
SIR O. TWI. Then the rogue lies in’s throat, for he
told me so;
And that the boy should answer at next question,
That you ne’er saw this wench, nor came near Antwerp.
D. MER. Ten thousand devils!—_Zeicke hee ewe ek kneeght,
yongon, dat wee neeky by Antwarpon ne don cammen no
seene de doughter dor._
D. BOY. _Ick hub ham hean sulka dongon he zaut, hei es
an skallom an rubbout._
D. MER. He says he told him no such matter; he’s a knave
and a rascal.
SIR O. TWI. Why, how am I abus’d! Pray, tell me one
thing,
What’s _gullder-goose_ in Dutch?
D. MER. How! _gullder-goose?_ there’s no
Such thing in Dutch; it may be an ass in English.
SIR O. TWI. Hoyday! then am I that ass in plain
English;
I’m grossly cozen’d, most inconsiderately!
Pray, let my house receive you for one night,
That I may quit[54] these rascals, I beseech you, sir.
D. MER. If that may stead you, sir, I’ll not refuse
you.
SIR O. TWI. A thousand thanks, and welcome.—
On whom can fortune more spit out her foam,
Work’d on abroad, and play’d upon at home!
[_Exeunt._
ACT II. SCENE I.
_A large room in_ WEATHERWISE’S _house_.
_Enter_ WEATHERWISE _while Servants are setting out a
table, and_ PICKADILL _looking on_.
WEA. So, set the table ready; the widow’s i’ the next
room, looking upon my clock with the days and the months
and the change of the moon; I’ll fetch her in presently.
[_Exit._
PICK. She’s not so mad to be fetched in with the moon, I
warrant you: a man must go roundlier to work with a
widow, than to woo her with the hand of a dial, or stir
up her blood with the striking part of a clock; I should
ne’er stand to shew her such things in chamber.
[_Exeunt Servants._
_Re-enter_ WEATHERWISE _handing in_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE,
SIR GILBERT LAMBSTONE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE.
WEA. Welcome, sweet widow, to a bachelor’s house here!
a single man I, but for two or three maids that I keep.
L. GOLD. Why, are you double with them, then?
WEA. An exceeding good mourning-wit! women are wiser
than ever they were, since they wore doublets. You must
think, sweet widow, if a man keep maids, they’re under
his subjection.
L. GOLD. That’s most true, sir.
WEA. They have no reason to have a lock but the master
must have a key to’t.
L. GOLD. To him, sir Gilbert! he fights with me at a
wrong weapon now.
WEA. Nay, and[55] sir Gilbert strike, my weapon falls,
I fear no thrust but his: here are more shooters,
But they have shot two arrows without heads,
They cannot stick i’ the butt yet: hold out, knight,
And I’ll cleave the black pin in the midst o’ the white.
[_Aside, and exit._
L. GOLD. Nay, and he led me into a closet, sir, where
he shewed me diet-drinks for several months; as
scurvy-grass for April, clarified whey for June, and
the like.
SIR G. LAMB. O, madam, he is a most necessary
property,[56] an’t be but to save our credit; ten pound
in a banquet.
L. GOLD. Go, you’re a wag, sir Gilbert.
SIR G. LAMB. How many there be in the world of his
fortunes, that prick their own calves with briars, to
make an easy passage for others; or, like a toiling
usurer, sets his son a-horseback in cloth-of-gold
breeches, while he himself goes to the devil a-foot in a
pair of old strossers![57]
But shall I give a more familiar sign?
His are the sweetmeats, but the kisses mine.
[_Kisses her._
OVER. Excellent!—A pox a’ your fortune! [_Aside._
PEP. Saucy courting has brought all modest wooing clean
out of fashion: you shall have few maids now-a-days got
without rough handling, all the town’s so used to’t; and
most commonly, too, they’re joined before they’re
married, because they’ll be sure to be fast enough.
OVER. Sir, since he strives t’ oppose himself against
us,
Let’s so combine our friendships in our straits,
By all means graceful, to assist each other;
For, I protest, it shall as much glad me
To see your happiness, and his disgrace,
As if the wealth were mine, the love, the place.
PEP. And with the like faith I reward your friendship;
I’ll break the bawdy ranks of his discourse,
And scatter his libidinous whispers straight.—
Madam——
L. GOLD. How cheer you, gentlemen?
SIR G. LAMB. Pox on ’em,
They wak’d me out of a fine sleep! three minutes
Had fasten’d all the treasure in mine arms. [_Aside._
PEP. You took no note of this conceit, it seems,
madam?
L. GOLD. Twelve trenchers,[58] upon every one a month!
January, February, March, April——
PEP. Ay, and their posies under ’em.
L. GOLD. Pray, what says May? she’s the spring lady.
PEP. [_reads_]
_Now gallant May,[59] in her array,
Doth make the field pleasant and gay._
OVER. [_reads_]
_This month of June use clarified whey
Boil’d with cold herbs, and drink alway._
L. GOLD. Drink’t all away, he should say.
PEP. ’Twere much better indeed, and wholesomer for his
liver.
SIR G. LAMB. September’s a good one here, madam.
L. GOLD. O, have you chose your month? let’s hear’t, sir
Gilbert.
SIR G. LAMB. [_reads_]
_Now may’st thou physics safely take,
And bleed, and bathe for thy health’s sake;
Eat figs, and grapes, and spicery,
For to refresh thy members dry._
L. GOLD. Thus it is still, when a man’s simple meaning
lights among wantons: how many honest words have
suffered corruption since Chaucer’s days! a virgin would
speak those words then that a very midwife would blush
to hear now, if she have but so much blood left to make
up an ounce of grace. And who is this ’long on, but such
wags as you, that use your words like your wenches? you
cannot let ’em pass honestly by you, but you must still
have a flirt at ’em.
PEP. You have paid some of us home, madam.
_Re-enter_ WEATHERWISE.
WEA. If conceit[60] will strike this stroke, have
at[61] the widow’s plum-tree! I’ll put ’em down all for
a banquet. [_Aside._]—Widow and gentlemen, my friends
and servants, I make you wait long here for a bachelor’s
pittance.
L. GOLD. O, sir, you’re pleased to be modest.
WEA. No, by my troth, widow, you shall find it
otherwise.
[_Music. The banquet[62] is brought in, six of_
WEATHERWISE’S _tenants carrying the Twelve Signs,
Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra,
Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Pisces,
made of banqueting-stuff_.
L. GOLD. What, the Twelve Signs!
WEA. These are the signs of my love, widow.
L. GOLD. Worse meat would have serv’d us, sir; by my
faith,
I’m sorry you should be at such charges, sir,
To feast us a whole month together here.
WEA. Widow, thou’rt welcome a whole month, and ever!
L. GOLD. And what be those, sir, that brought in the
banquet?
WEA. Those are my tenants; they stand for
fasting-days.
SIR G. LAMB. Or the six weeks in Lent.
WEA. You’re i’ the right, sir Gilbert.—
Sweet widow, take your place at Aries here,
That’s the head sign; a widow is the head
Till she be married. [LADY GOLD. _sits_.
L. GOLD. What is she then?
WEA. The middle.
L. GOLD. ’Tis happy she’s no worse.
WEA. Taurus—sir Gilbert Lambstone, that’s for you;
They say you’re a good town-bull.
SIR G. LAMB. O, spare your friends, sir! [_Sits._
WEA. And Gemini for master Pepperton,
He had two boys at once by his last wife.
PEP. I hear the widow find no fault with that, sir.
[_Sits._
WEA. Cancer, the crab, for master Overdone;
For when a thing’s past fifty, it grows crooked.
[OVERDONE _sits_.
L. GOLD. Now for yourself, sir.
WEA. Take no care for me, widow;[63] I can be any where:
here’s Leo, heart and back; Virgo, guts and belly; I can
go lower yet, and yet fare better, since Sagittarius
fits me the thighs; I care not if I be about the thighs,
I shall find meat enough. [_Sits._
L. GOLD. But, under pardon, sir,
Though you be lord o’ the feast and the conceit both,
Methinks it had been proper for the banquet
T’ have had the signs all fill’d, and no one idle.
WEA. I know it had; but who’s fault’s that, widow? you
should have got you more suitors to have stopt the gaps.
L. GOLD. Nay, sure, they should get us, and not we
them:
There be your tenants, sir; we are not proud,
You may bid them sit down.
WEA. By the mass, it’s true too!—Then sit down, tenants,
once with your hats on; but spare the meat, I charge
you, as you hope for new leases: I must make my signs
draw out a month yet, with a bit every morning to
breakfast, and at full moon with a whole one; that’s
restorative: sit round, sit round, and do not speak,
sweet tenants; you may be bold enough, so you eat but
little. [_Tenants sit._]—How like you this now, widow?
L. GOLD. It shews well, sir,
And like the good old hospitable fashion.
PICK. How! like a good old hospital? my mistress makes
an arrant gull on him. [_Aside._
L. GOLD. But yet, methinks, there wants clothes for the
feet.
WEA. That part’s uncovered yet: push,[64] no matter
for the feet.
L. GOLD. Yes,[65] if the feet catch cold, the head
will feel it.
WEA. Why, then, you may draw up your legs, and lie
rounder together.
SIR G. LAMB. Has answered you well, madam!
WEA. And[66] you draw up your legs too, widow, my tenant
will feel you there, for he’s one of the calves.
L. GOLD. Better and better, sir; your wit fattens as he
feeds.
PICK. Sh’as took the calf from his tenant, and put it
upon his ground now. [_Aside._
_Enter Servant._
WEA. How now, my lady’s man? what’s the news, sir?
SER. Madam, there’s a young gentleman below
Has earnest business to your ladyship.
WEA. Another suitor, I hold my life, widow.
L. GOLD. What is he, sir?
SER. He seems a gentleman,
That’s the least of him, and yet more I know not.
L. GOLD. Under the leave o’ the master of the house
here,
I would he were admitted.
WEA. With all my heart, widow; I fear him not,
Come cut and long tail.[67] [_Exit Servant._
SIR G. LAMB. I have the least fear
And the most firmness, nothing can shake me. [_Aside._
WEA. If he be a gentleman, he’s welcome: there’s a
sign does nothing, and that’s fit for a gentleman. The
feet will be kept warm enough now for you, widow; for if
he be a right gentleman, he has his stockings warmed,
and he wears socks beside, partly for warmth, partly for
cleanliness; and if he observe Fridays too, he comes
excellent well, Pisces will be a fine fish-dinner for
him.
L. GOLD. Why, then, you mean, sir, he shall sit as he
comes?
WEA. Ay; and he were a lord, he shall not sit above my
tenants; I’ll not have two lords to them, so I may go
look my rent in another man’s breeches; I was not
brought up to be so unmannerly.
_Enter_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER, _disguised as a gallant
gentleman, and_ LOW-WATER _as a serving-man_.
MIS. LOW. I have picked out a bold time: much good do
you, gentlemen.
WEA. You’re welcome, as I may say, sir.
MIS. LOW. Pardon my rudeness, madam.
L. GOLD. No such fault, sir;
You’re too severe to yourself, our judgment quits you:
Please you to do as we do.
MIS. LOW. Thanks, good madam.
L. GOLD. Make room, gentlemen.
WEA. Sit still, tenants; I’ll call in all your old
leases, and rack you else.
TENANTS. O, sweet landlord!
MIS. LOW. Take my cloak, sirrah. [_Giving cloak to_
LOW-WATER.]—If any be disturb’d,
I’ll not sit, gentlemen: I see my place.
WEA. A proper woman turned gallant! If the widow refuse
me, I care not if I be a suitor to him; I have known
those who have been as mad, and given half their living
for a male companion. [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. How? Pisces! is that mine? ’tis a conceited
banquet. [_Sits._
WEA. If you love any fish, pray, fall to, sir; if you
had come sooner, you might have happened among some of
the flesh-signs, but now they’re all taken up: Virgo had
been a good dish for you, had not one of my tenants been
somewhat busy with her.
MIS. LOW. Pray, let him keep her, sir; give me meat
fresh;
I’d rather have whole fish than broken flesh.
SIR G. LAMB. What say you to a bit of Taurus?
MIS. LOW. No, I thank you, sir;
The bull’s too rank for me.
SIR G. LAMB. How, sir?
MIS. LOW. Too rank, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. Fie, I shall strike you dumb, like all
your fellows.
MIS. LOW. What, with your heels or horns?
SIR G. LAMB. Perhaps with both.
MIS. LOW. It must be at dead low water,
When I’m dead then.
LOW. ’Tis a brave Kate, and nobly spoke of thee!
[_Aside._
WEA. This quarrel must be drowned.—Pickadill, my lady’s
fool.
PICK. Your, your own man, sir.
WEA. Prithee, step in to one of the maids.
PICK. That I will, sir, and thank you too.
WEA. Nay, hark you, sir, call for my sun-cup presently,
I’d forgot it.
PICK. How, your sun-cup?—Some cup, I warrant, that he
stole out o’ the Sun-tavern. [_Aside, and exit._
L. GOLD. The more I look on him, the more I thirst
for’t;
Methinks his beauty does so far transcend,
Turns the signs back, makes that the upper end.
[_Aside._
WEA. How cheer you, widow?—Gentlemen, how cheer you?
Fair weather in all quarters!
The sun will peep anon, I’ve sent one for him;
In the mean time I’ll tell you a tale of these.
This Libra here, that keeps the scale so even,
Was i’ th’ old time an honest chandler’s widow,
And had one daughter which was callèd Virgo,
Which now my hungry tenant has deflower’d.
This Virgo, passing for a maid, was sued to
By Sagittarius there, a gallant shooter,
And Aries, his head rival; but her old
Crabb’d uncle, Cancer here, dwelling in Crooked Lane,
Still crost the marriage, minding to bestow her
Upon one Scorpio, a rich usurer;
The girl, loathing that match, fell into folly
With one Taurus, a gentleman, in Townbull[68] Street,
By whom she had two twins, those Gemini there,
Of which two brats she was brought a-bed in Leo,
At the Red Lion, about Tower Hill:
Being in this distress, one Capricorn,
An honest citizen, pitied her case, and married her
To Aquarius, an old water-bearer,
And Pisces was her living ever after;
At Standard[69] she sold fish, where he drew water.
ALL. It shall be yours, sir.
L. GOLD. Meat and mirth too! you’re lavish;
Your purse and tongue have[70] been at cost to-day, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. You may challenge all comers at these
twelve weapons, I warrant you.
_Re-enter_ PICKADILL _carrying the sun-cup, without his
doublet, and with a veil over his face_.
PICK. Your sun-cup, call you it? ’tis a simple voyage
that I have made here; I have left my doublet within,
for fear I should sweat through my jerkin; and thrown a
cypress[71] over my face, for fear of sun-burning.
WEA. How now? who’s this? why, sirrah!
PICK. Can you endure it, mistress?
L. GOLD. Endure what, fool?
WEA. Fill the cup, coxcomb.
PICK. Nay, an’t be no hotter, I’ll go put on my doublet
again. [_Exit._
WEA. What a whorson sot is this!—Prithee, fill the cup,
fellow, and give’t the widow.
MIS. LOW. Sirrah, how stand you?
Bestow your service there upon her ladyship.
[LOW-WATER _fills the cup and presents it to_ LADY
GOLDENFLEECE.
L. GOLD. What’s here? a sun?
WEA. It does betoken, madam,
A cheerful day to somebody.
L. GOLD. It rises
Full in the face of yon[72] fair sign, and yet
By course he is the last must feel the heat. [_Aside._
Here, gentlemen, to you all,
For you know the sun must go through the Twelve Signs.
[_Drinks._
WEA. Most wittily, widow; you jump with my conceit
right,
There’s not a hair between us.
L. GOLD. Give it sir Gilbert.
SIR G. LAMB. I am the next through whom the golden
flame
Shines, when ’tis spent in thy celestial ram;
The poor feet there must wait and cool awhile.
[_Drinks._
MIS. LOW. We have our time, sir; joy and we shall
meet;
I’ve known the proud neck lie between the feet.
WEA. So, round it goes.
[_The others drink in order._
_Re-enter_ PICKADILL.
PICK. I like this drinking world well.
WEA. So, fill’t him again.
PEP. Fill’t me! why, I drunk last, sir.
WEA. I know you did; but Gemini must drink twice,
Unless you mean that one of them shall be chok’d.
L. GOLD. Fly from my heart all variable thoughts!
She that’s entic’d by every pleasing object,
Shall find small pleasure and as little rest:
This knave hath lov’d me long, he’s best and worthiest;
I cannot but in honour see him requited. [_Aside._
Sir Gilbert Lambstone——
MIS. LOW. How? pardon me, sweet lady,
That with a bold tongue I strike by your words;
Sir Gilbert Lambstone!
SIR G. LAMB. Yes, sir, that’s my name.
MIS. LOW. There should be a rank villain of that name;
Came you out of that house?
SIR G. LAMB. How, sir slave!
MIS. LOW. Fall to your bull, leave roaring till anon.
WEA. Yet again! and[73] you love me, gentlemen, let’s
have no roaring here. If I had thought that, I’d have
sent my bull to the bear-garden.
PEP. Why, so you should have wanted one of your signs.
WEA. But I may chance want two now, and[73] they fall
together by the ears.
L. GOLD. What’s the strange fire that works in these
two creatures?
Cold signs both, yet more hot than all their fellows.
WEA. Ho, Sol in Pisces! the sun’s in New Fish Street;
here’s an end of this course.
PICK. Madam, I am bold to remember your worship for a
year’s wages and a livery cloak.
L. GOLD. How, will you shame me? had you not both last
week, fool?
PICK. Ay, but there’s another year past since that.
L. GOLD. Would all your wit could make that good, sir!
PICK. I am sure the sun has run through all the Twelve
Signs since, and that’s a year; these[74] gentlemen can
witness.
WEA. The fool will live, madam.
PICK. Ay, as long as your eyes are open, I warrant him.
MIS. LOW. Sirrah.
LOW. Does your worship call?
MIS. LOW. Commend my love and service to the widow,
Desire her ladyship to taste that morsel.
[_Giving letter to_ LOW-WATER, _who carries it to_ LADY
GOLDENFLEECE.
LOW. This is the bit I watch’d for all this while,
But it comes duly. [_Aside._
SIR G. LAMB. And wherein has this name of mine
offended,
That you’re so liberal of your infamous titles,
I but a stranger to thee? it must be known, sir,
Ere we two part.
MIS. LOW. Marry, and reason good, sir.
L. GOLD. O, strike me cold!—This should be your hand,
sir Gilbert?
SIR G. LAMB. Why, make you question of that, madam? ’tis
one of the letters I sent you.
L. GOLD. Much good do you, gentlemen. [_Rising._
PEP. } How now? what’s the matter?
OVER. }
[_All rise._
WEA. Look to the widow, she paints white.—Some _aqua
cœlestis_ for my lady! run, villain.
PICK. _Aqua solister?_ can nobody help her case but a
lawyer, and so many suitors here?
L. GOLD. O treachery unmatch’d, unheard of!
SIR G. LAMB. How do you, madam?
L. GOLD. O impudence as foul! does my disease
Ask how I do? can it torment my heart,
And look with a fresh colour in my face?
SIR G. LAMB. What’s this, what’s this?
WEA. I am sorry for this qualm, widow.
L. GOLD. He that would know a villain when he meets
him,
Let him ne’er go to a conjuror; here’s a glass
Will shew him without money, and far truer.—
Preserver of my state, pray, tell me, sir,
That I may pay you all my thanks together,
What blest hap brought that letter to your hand,
From me so fast lock’d in mine enemy’s power.
MIS. LOW. I will resolve[75] you, madam. I’ve a
kinsman
Somewhat infected with that wanton pity
Which men bestow on the distress of women,
Especially if they be fair and poor;
With such hot charity, which indeed is lust,
He sought t’ entice, as his repentance told me,
Her whom you call your enemy, the wife
To a poor gentleman, one Low-water——
L. GOLD. Right, right, the same.
LOW. Had it been right, ’t had now been. [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. And, according to the common rate of
sinners,
Offer’d large maintenance, which with her seem’d
nothing;
For if she would consent, she told him roundly,
There was a knight had bid more at one minute
Than all his wealth could compass; and withal,
Pluck’d out that letter, as it were in scorn,
Which by good fortune he put up in jest,
With promise that the writ should be returnable
The next hour of his meeting. But, sweet madam,
Out of my love and zeal, I did so practise
The part upon him of an urgent wooer,
That neither he nor that return’d more to her.
SIR G. LAMB. Plague a’ that kinsman! _Aside._
WEA. Here’s a gallant rascal!
L. GOLD. Sir, you’ve appear’d so noble in this action,
So full of worth and goodness, that my thanks
Will rather shame the bounty of my mind
Than do it honour.—O, thou treacherous villain!
Does thy faith bear such fruit?
Are these the blossoms of a hundred oaths
Shot from thy bosom? was thy love so spiteful,
It could not be content to mock my heart,
Which is in love a misery too much,
But must extend so far to the quick ruin
Of what was painfully got, carefully left me;
And, ’mongst a world of yielding needy women,
Choose no one to make merry with my sorrows,
And spend my wealth on in adulterous surfeits,
But my most mortal enemy! O, despiteful!
Is this thy practice? follow it, ’twill advance thee;
Go, beguile on. Have I so happily found
What many a widow has with sorrow tasted,
Even when my lip touch’d the contracting cup,
Even then to see the spider? ’twas miraculous!
Crawl with thy poisons hence; and for thy sake
I’ll never covet titles and more riches,
To fall into a gulf of hate and laughter:
I’ll marry love hereafter, I’ve enough;
And wanting that, I’ve nothing. There’s thy way.
OVER. Do you hear, sir? you must walk.
PEP. Heart, thrust him down stairs!
WEA. Out of my house, you treacherous, lecherous
rascal!
SIR G. LAMB. All curses scatter you!
WEA. Life, do you thunder here! [_Exit_ SIR G. LAMBSTONE.] If
you had stayed a little longer, I’d have ript out some of my
Bull out of your belly again.
PEP. ’Twas a most noble discovery; we must love you for
ever for’t.
L. GOLD. Sir, for your banquet and your mirth we thank
you;—
You, gentlemen, for your kind company;—
But you, for all my merry days to come,
Or this had been the last else.
MIS. LOW. Love and fortune
Had more care of your safety, peace, and state, madam.
WEA. Now will I thrust in for’t. [_Aside._
PEP. I’m for myself now. [_Aside._
OVER. What’s fifty years? ’tis man’s best time and
season;
Now the knight’s gone, the widow will hear reason.
[_Aside._
LOW. Now, now, the suitors flatter, hold on, Kate;
The hen may pick the meat while the cocks prate.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_A street._
_Enter_ SANDFIELD, PHILIP TWILIGHT, _and_ SAVOURWIT.
PHIL. If thou talk’st longer, I shall turn to marble,
And death will stop my hearing.
SAND. Horrible fortune!
SAV. Nay, sir, our building is so far defac’d,
There is no stuff left to raise up a hope.
PHIL. O, with more patience could my flesh endure
A score of wounds, and all their several searchings,
Than this that thou hast told me!
SAV. Would that Flemish ram
Had ne’er come near our house! there’s no going home
As long as he has a nest there, and his young one,
A little Flanders egg new fledg’d: they gape
For pork, and I shall be made meat for ’em.
PHIL. ’Tis not the bare news of my mother’s life—
May she live long and happy!—that afflicts me
With half the violence that the latter draws;
Though in that news I have my share of grief,
As I had share of sin and a foul neglect;
It is my love’s betraying, that’s the sting
That strikes through flesh and spirit; and sense nor wit
From thee, in whom I ne’er saw ebb till now,
Nor comforts from a faithful friend can ease me;
I’ll try the goodness of a third companion,
What he’ll do for me. [_Drawing his sword._
SAND. Hold! why, friend——
SAV. Why, master, is this all your kindness, sir? offer
to steal into another country, and ne’er take your leave
on’s? troth, I take it unkindly at your hands, sir; but
I’ll put it up for once. [_Sheathing_ PHILIP’S _sword_.]
Faith, there was no conscience in this, sir; leave me
here to endure all weathers, whilst you make your soul
dance like a juggler’s egg upon the point of a rapier!
By my troth, sir, you’re to blame in’t; you might have
given us an inkling of your journey; perhaps others
would as fain have gone as you.
PHIL. Burns this clay-lamp of miserable life,
When joy, the oil that feeds it, is dried up?
_Enter_ LADY TWILIGHT, BEVERIL, _and Servants_.
L. TWI. He has remov’d his house.
BEV. So it seems, madam.
L. TWI. I’ll ask that gentleman.—Pray, can you tell
me, sir,
Which is sir Oliver Twilight’s?
PHIL. Few can better, gentlewoman;
It is the next fair house your eye can fix on.
L. TWI. I thank you, sir.—Go on. [_Exeunt Servants._]—
He had a son
About some ten years since.
PHIL. That son still lives.
L. TWI. I pray, how does he, sir?
PHIL. Faith, much about my health,—that’s never
worse.— [_Aside._
If you have any business to him, gentlewoman,
I can cut short your journey to the house;
I’m all that ever was of the same kind.
L. TWI. [_embracing him_] O, my sweet son! never fell
fresher joy
Upon the heart of mother!—This is he, sir.
BEV. My seven-years’ travel has e’en worn him out
Of my remembrance.
SAV. O, this gear’s worse and worse! [_Aside._
PHIL. I am so wonder-struck at your blest presence,
That, through amaz’d joy, I neglect my duty.
[_Kneels._
L. TWI. [raising him] Rise, and a thousand blessings
spring up with thee!
SAV. I would we had but one in the meantime;
Let the rest grow at leisure. [_Aside._
L. TWI. But know you not this gentleman yet, son?
PHIL. I take it’s master Beveril.
BEV. My name’s Beveril, sir.
PHIL. Right welcome to my bosom! [_Embracing him._
L. TWI. You’d not think, son,
How much I am beholding[76] to this gentleman,
As far as freedom; he laid out the ransom,
Finding me so distress’d.
PHIL. ’Twas worthily done, sir,
And I shall ever rest your servant for’t.
BEV. You quite forget your worth: ’twas my good hap,
sir,
To return home that way, after some travels;
Where, finding your good mother so distress’d,
I could not but in pity see her releas’d.
PHIL. It was a noble charity, sir; heaven quit[77]
you!
SAV. It comes at last! [_Aside._
BEV. I left a sister here,
New married when I last took leave of England.
PHIL. O, mistress Low-water.
BEV. Pray, sir, how does she?
PHIL. So little comfort I can give you, sir,
That I would fain excuse myself for silence.
BEV. Why, what’s the worst, sir?
PHIL. Wrongs have[78] made her poor.
BEV. You strike my heart: alas, good gentlewoman!
PHIL. Here’s a gentleman—
You know him—master Sandfield—
BEV. I crave pardon, sir.
PHIL. He can resolve[79] you from her kinswoman.
SAND. Welcome to England, madam!
LADY TWI. Thanks, good sir.
PHIL. Now there’s no way to ’scape, I’m compass’d
round;
My shame is like a prisoner set with halberds.
SAV. Pish, master, master, ’tis young flood again,
And you can take your time now; away, quick!
PHIL. Push,[80] thou’st a swimming head.
SAV. Will you but hear me?
When did you lose your tide when I set forth with you?
PHIL. That’s true.
SAV. Regard me then, though you’ve no feeling;
I would not hang by the thumbs with a good will.
PHIL. I hang by th’ heart, sir, and would fain have
ease.
SAV. Then this or none: fly to your mother’s pity,
For that’s the court must help you; you’re quite gone
At common law, no counsellor can hear you;
Confess your follies, and ask pardon for ’em;
Tell her the state of all things, stand not nicely;
The meat’s too hard
To be minc’d now, she breeds young bones by this time;
Deal plainly, heaven will bless thee; turn out all,
And shake your pockets after it; beg, weep,
Kneel, any thing, it will break no bones, man:
Let her not rest, take breathing time, nor leave thee,
Till thou hast got her help.
PHIL. Lad, I conceive thee.
SAV. About it, then; it requires haste—do’t well;
There’s but a short street between us and hell.
BEV. Ah, my poor sister!
L. TWI. ’Las, good gentlewoman!
My heart even weeps for her.—Ay, son, we’ll go now.
PHIL. May I crave one word, madam?
[_Staying_ LADY TWILIGHT.[81]
L. TWI. With me, son?
The more, the better welcome.
SAV. Now, now, luck!
I pray not often; the last prayer I made
Was nine-year old last Bartholomew-tide; ’twould have
been
A jolly chopper and[82] ’t had liv’d till this time.
L. TWI. Why do your words start back? are they afraid
Of her that ever lov’d them?
PHIL. I’ve a suit to you, madam.
L. TWI. You’ve told me that already; pray, what is’t?
If’t be so great, my present state refuse it,
I shall be abler, then command and use it;
Whate’er ’t be, let me have warning, to provide for’t.
PHIL. [_kneels_] Provide forgiveness then, for that’s
the want
My conscience feels. O, my wild youth has led me
Into unnatural wrongs against your freedom once!
I spent the ransom which my father sent,
To set my pleasures free, while you lay captive.
SAV. He does it finely, faith. [_Aside._
L. TWI. And is this all now?
You use me like a stranger; pray, stand up.
PHIL. Rather fall flat; I shall deserve yet worse.
L. TWI. [_raising_ PHILIP] Whate’er your faults are,
esteem me still a friend,
Or else you wrong me more in asking pardon
Than when you did the wrong you ask’d it for;
And since you have prepar’d me to forgive you,
Pray, let me know for what; the first fault’s nothing.
SAV. ’Tis a sweet lady every inch of her! [_Aside._
PHIL. Here comes the wrong then that drives home the
rest:
I saw a face at Antwerp that quite drew me
From conscience and obedience; in that fray
I lost my heart, I must needs lose my way;
There went the ransom, to redeem my mind;
’Stead of the money, I brought over her;
And to cast mists before my father’s eyes,
Told him it was my sister, lost so long,
And that yourself was dead: you see the wrong.
L. TWI. This is but youthful still.—O, that word
_sister_
Afflicts me when I think on’t!—I forgive thee
As freely as thou didst it; for, alas,
This may be call’d good dealing to[83] some parts
That love and youth play[84] daily among sons.
SAV. She helps our knavery well, that’s one good
comfort. [_Aside._
PHIL. But such is the hard plight my state lives in,
That ’twixt forgiveness I must sin again,
And seek my help where I bestow’d my wrongs:
O mother, pity once, though against reason,
’Cause I can merit none; though my wrongs grieve ye,[85]
Yet let it be your glory to relieve me!
L. TWI. Wherein have I given cause yet of mistrust,
That you should doubt my succour and my love?
Shew me but in what kind I may bestow ’em.
PHIL. There came a Dutchman with report this day
That you were living.
L. TWI. Came he so lately?
PHIL. Yes, madam;
Which news so struck my father on the sudden,
That he grows jealous[86] of my faith in both:
These five hours have I kept me from his sight,
And wish’d myself eternally so hid;
And surely, had not your blest presence quicken’d
The flame of life in me, all had gone out.
Now, to confirm me to his trust again,
And settle much aright in his opinion,
Say but she is my sister, and all’s well.
L. TWI. You ask devotion[87] like a bashful beggar,
That pure need urges, and not lazy impudence;
And to express how glad I am to pity you,
My bounty shall flow over your demand;
I will not only with a constant breath
Approve[88] that, but excuse thee for my death.
SAV. Why, here’s
A woman made as a man would wish to have her!
[_Aside._
PHIL. O, I am plac’d higher in happiness
Than whence I fell before!
SAV. We’re brave fellows once again, and[89] we can
keep our own:
Now hoffte toffte, our pipes play as loftily!
[_Aside._
BEV. My sister fled!
SAND. Both fled, that’s the news now: want must obey;
Oppressions came so thick, they could not stay.
BEV. Mean are my fortunes, yet, had I been nigh,
Distress nor wrong should have made virtue fly.
L. TWI. Spoke like a brother, worthy such a sister!
BEV. Grief’s like a new wound, heat beguiles the
sense,
For I shall feel this smart more three days hence.
Come, madam, sorrow’s rude, and forgets manners.
[_Exeunt all except_ SAVOURWIT.
SAV. Our knavery is for all the world like a shifting
bankrupt; it breaks in one place, and sets up in
another: he tries all trades, from a goldsmith to a
tobacco-seller; we try all shifts, from an outlaw to a
flatterer: he cozens the husband, and compounds with the
widow; we cozen my master, and compound with my
mistress: only here I turn o’ the right hand from him,—
he is known to live like a rascal, when I am thought to
live like a gentleman. [_Exit._
SCENE III.
_A room in_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE’S _house_.
_Enter_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER _and_ LOW-WATER, _both
disguised as before_.
MIS. LOW. I’ve sent in one to the widow.
LOW. Well said, Kate!
Thou ply’st thy business close; the coast is clear yet.
MIS. LOW. Let me but have warning,
I shall make pretty shift with them.
LOW. That thou shalt, wench. [_Exit._
_Enter Servant._
SER. My lady, sir, commends her kindly to you,
And for the third part of an hour, sir,
Desires your patience;
Two or three of her tenants out of Kent
Will hold her so long busied.
MIS. LOW. Thank you, sir;
’Tis fit I should attend her time and leisure.
[_Exit Servant._
Those were my tenants once; but what relief
Is there in what hath been, or what I was?
’Tis now that makes the man: a last-year’s feast
Yields little comfort for the present humour;
He starves that feeds his hopes with what is past.—
_Re-enter_ LOW-WATER.
How now?
LOW. They’re come, newly alighted.
MIS. LOW. Peace, peace!
I’ll have a trick for ’em; look you second me well now.
LOW. I warrant thee.
MIS. LOW. I must seem very imperious, I can tell you;
therefore, if I should chance to use you roughly, pray,
forgive me beforehand.
LOW. With all my heart, Kate.
MIS. LOW. You must look for no obedience in these[90]
clothes; that lies in the pocket of my gown.
LOW. Well, well, I will not then.
MIS. LOW. I hear ’em coming, step back a little, sir.
[LOW-WATER _retires_.]—Where be those fellows?
_Enter_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE.
Who looks out there? is there ne’er a knave i’ th’ house
to take those gentlemen’s horses? where wait you to-day?
how stand you, like a dreaming goose in a corner? the
gentlemen’s horses, forsooth!
LOW. Yes, an’t like[91] your worship. [_Exit._
PEP. What’s here? a strange alteration!
WEA. A new lord! would I were upon my mare’s back again
then!
MIS. LOW. Pray, gentlemen, pardon the rudeness of
these grooms,
I hope they will be brought to better fashion;
In the meantime, you’re welcome, gentlemen.
ALL. We thank you, sir.
WEA. Life, here’s quick work! I’ll hold my life, has
struck the widow i’ the right planet, _Venus in cauda_!
I thought ’twas a lecherous planet that goes to’t with a
caudle.
_Re-enter_ LOW-WATER.
MIS. LOW. How now, sir?
LOW. The gentlemen’s horses are set up, sir.
PEP. No, no, no, we’ll away.
WEA. We’ll away.
MIS. LOW. How! by my faith, but you shall not yet, by
your leave.—Where’s Bess?—Call your mistress, sir, to
welcome these kind gentlemen, my friends.
[_Exit_ LOW-WATER.
PEP. How! Bess?
OVER. Peg?
WEA. Plain Bess? I know how the world goes then; he has
been a-bed with Bess: i’faith, there’s no trust to these
widows; a young horsing gentleman carries ’em away
clear.
_Re-enter_ LOW-WATER.
MIS. LOW. Now, where’s your mistress, sir? how chance
she comes not?
LOW. Sir, she requests you to excuse her for a while;
she’s busy with a milliner about gloves.
MIS. LOW. Gloves!
WEA. Hoyday! gloves too!
MIS. LOW. Could she find no other time to choose gloves
but now, when my friends are here?
PEP. No, sir, ’tis no matter; we thank you for your good
will, sir: to say truth, we have no business with her at
all at this time, i’faith, sir.
MIS. LOW. O, that’s another matter; yet stay, stay,
gentlemen, and taste a cup of wine ere you go.
OVER. No, thank you, sir.
MIS. LOW. Master Pepperton—master Weatherwise, will you,
sir?
WEA. I’ll see the wine in a drunkard’s shoes first, and
drink’t after he has brewed it. But let her go; she’s
fitted, i’faith; a proud, surly sir here, he domineers
already; one that will shake her bones, and go to dice
with her money, or I have no skill in a calendar: life,
he that can be so saucy to call her Bess already, will
call her prating quean a month hence.
[_Exeunt_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE.
LOW. They’ve given thee all the slip.
MIS. LOW. So, a fair riddance!
There’s three rubs gone, I’ve a clear way to the
mistress[92].
LOW. You’d need have a clear way, because you’re a bad
pricker.
MIS. LOW. Yet if my bowl take bank, I shall go nigh
To make myself a saver,
Here’s alley-room enough; I’ll try my fortune:
I’m to begin the world like a younger brother;
I know that a bold face and a good spirit
Is all the jointure he can make [a] widow,
And’t shall go hard but I’ll be as rich as he.
Or at least seem so, and that’s wealth enough;
For nothing kills a widow’s heart so much
As a faint, bashful wooer; though he have thousands,
And come with a poor water-gruel spirit
And a fish-market face, he shall ne’er speed;
I would not have himself left a poor widower.
LOW. Faith, I’m glad I’m alive to commend thee, Kate; I
shall be sure now to see my commendations delivered.
MIS. LOW. I’ll put her to’t, i’faith.
LOW. But soft ye, Kate;
How and[93] she should accept of your bold kindness?
MIS. LOW. A chief point to be thought on, by my faith!
Marry, therefore, sir, be you sure to step in,
For fear I should shame myself and spoil all.
LOW. Well, I’ll save your credit then for once; but look
you come there no more.
MIS. LOW. Away! I hear her coming.
LOW. I am vanish’d. [_Exit._
_Enter_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE.
MIS. LOW. How does my life, my soul, my dear sweet
madam?
L. GOLD. I’ve wrong’d your patience, made you stand
too long here.
MIS. LOW. There’s no such thing, i’faith, madam, you’re
pleas’d to say so.
L. GOLD. Yes, I confess I was too slow, sir.
MIS. LOW. Why, you shall make me amends for that, then,
with a quickness in your bed.
L. GOLD. That were a speedy mends, sir.
MIS. LOW. Why, then, you are out of my debt; I’ll cross
the book, and turn over a new leaf with you.
L. GOLD. So, with paying a small debt, I may chance run
into a greater.
MIS. LOW. My faith, your credit will be the better then;
there’s many a brave gallant would be glad of such
fortune, and pay use for’t.
L. GOLD. Some of them have nothing else to do; they
would be idle and[94] ’twere not for interest.
MIS. LOW. I promise you, widow, were I a setter up, such
is my opinion of your payment, I durst trust you with
all the ware in my shop.
L. GOLD. I thank you for your good will, I can have no
more.
MIS. LOW. Not of me, i’faith; nor that neither, and[94]
you knew[95] all. [_Aside._]—Come, make but short
service, widow, a kiss and to bed; I’m very hungry,
i’faith, wench.
L. GOLD. What, are you, sir?
MIS. LOW. O, a younger brother has an excellent stomach,
madam, worth a hundred of your sons and heirs, that stay
their wedding-stomachs with a hot bit of a common
mistress, and then come to a widow’s bed like a flash of
lightning: you’re sure of the first of me, not of the
five-hundredth of them: I never took physic yet in my
life; you shall have the doctor continually with them,
or some bottle for his deputy, out flies your moneys for
restoratives and strengthenings; in me ’tis saved in
your purse and found in your children: they’ll get
peevish[96] pothecaries’ stuff, you may weigh ’em by th’
ounces; I, boys of war, brave commanders, that shall
bear a breadth in their shoulders and a weight in their
hips, and run over a whole country with a pound a’ beef
and a biscuit in their belly. Ho, widow, my kisses are
virgins, my embraces perfect, my strength solid, my love
constant, my heat comfortable; but, to come to the
point, inutterable——
L. GOLD. But soft ye, soft ye; because you stand so
strictly
Upon your purity, I’ll put you to’t, sir;
Will you swear here you never yet knew woman?
MIS. LOW. Never, as man e’er knew her, by this light,
widow!
L. GOLD. What, what, sir?—’Shrew my heart, he moves me
much.
[_Aside._
MIS. LOW. Nay, since you love to bring a man on’s
knees,
I take into the same oath thus much more,
That you are the first widow, or maid, or wife,
That ever I in suit of love did court,
Or honestly did woo: how say you to that, widow?
L. GOLD. Marry, I say, sir, you had a good portion of
chastity left you, though ill fortune run away with the
rest.
MIS. LOW. That I kept for thee, widow; she’s of fortune,
and all her strait-bodied daughters; thou shalt have’t,
widow. [_Kissing her._
L. GOLD. Push,[97] what do you mean?
MIS. LOW. I cannot bestow’t better.
L. GOLD. I’ll call my servants.
MIS. LOW. By my troth, you shall not, madam.
_Re-enter_ LOW-WATER.
LOW. Does your worship call, sir?
MIS. LOW. Ha, pox! are you peeping?—
[_Throws[98] something at_ LOW-WATER, _who goes out_.
He came in a good time, I thank him for’t. [_Aside._
L. GOLD. What do you think of me? you’re very forward,
sir!
MIS. LOW. Extremity of love.
L. GOLD. You say you’re ignorant;
It should not seem so surely by your play,
For aught I see, you may make one yourself,
You need not hold the cards to any gamester.
MIS. LOW. That love should teach men ways to wrong
itself!
L. GOLD. Are these the first-fruits of your boldness,
sir?
If all take after these, you may boast on ’em,
There comes few such to market among women;
Time you were taken down, sir.—Within there!
MIS. LOW. I’ve lost my way again:
There’s but two paths that lead[99] to widows’ beds,
That’s wealth or forwardness, and I’ve took the wrong
one. [_Aside._
_Re-enter_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE, _with
Servant_.
SER. He marry my lady! why, there’s no such thought
yet. [_Exit._
MIS. LOW. O, here they are all again too! [_Aside._
L. GOLD. Are you come, gentlemen?
I wish no better men.
WEA. O, the moon’s chang’d now!
L. GOLD. See you that gentleman yonder?
PEP. Yes, sweet madam.
L. GOLD. Then, pray, be witness all of you, with this
kiss [_Kisses_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER.
I choose him for my husband——
WEA. }
PEP. } A pox on’t!
OVER. }
L. GOLD. And with this parted gold, that two hearts
join.
[_Breaks gold into two pieces, and gives one to_
MISTRESS LOW-WATER.
MIS. LOW. Never with chaster love than this of mine!
L. GOLD. And those that have the hearts to come to the
wedding,
They shall be welcome for their former loves. [_Exit._
PEP. No, I thank you; you’ve choked me already.
WEA. I never suspected mine almanac till now; I believe
he plays cogging[100] John with me, I bought it at his
shop; it may learn the more knavery by that.
MIS. LOW. Now indeed, gentlemen, I can bid you
welcome;
Before ’twas but a flourish.
WEA. Nay, so my almanac told me there should be an
eclipse, but not visible in our horizon, but about the
western inhabitants of Mexicana and California.
MIS. LOW. Well, we have no business there, sir.
WEA. Nor we have none here, sir; and so fare you well.
MIS. LOW. You save the house a good labour, gentlemen.
[_Exeunt_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE.]—The
fool carries them away in a voider.[101] Where be these
fellows?
_Re-enter Servant_, PICKADILL, _and_ LOW-WATER.
SER. Sir?
PICK. Here, sir!
SER. What[’s] your worship[’s] pleasure?
MIS. LOW. O, this is something like.—Take you your
ease, sir;
Here are those now more fit to be commanded.
LOW. How few women are of thy mind! she thinks it too
much to keep me in subjection for one day; whereas some
wives would be glad to keep their husbands in awe all
days of their lives, and think it the best bargain that
e’er they made. [_Aside, and exit._
MIS. LOW. I’ll spare no cost for the wedding; some
device too,
To shew our thankfulness to wit and fortune;
It shall be so.—Run straight for one o’ the wits.
PICK. How? one o’ the wits? I care not if I run on that
account: are they in town, think you?
MIS. LOW. Whither runnest thou now?
PICK. To an ordinary for one of the wits.
MIS. LOW. Why to an ordinary above a tavern?
PICK. No, I hold your best wits to be at ordinary;
nothing so good in a tavern.
MIS. LOW. And why, I pray, sir?
PICK. Because those that go to an ordinary[102] dine
better for twelve pence than he that goes to a tavern
for his five shillings; and I think those have the best
wits that can save four shillings, and fare better too.
MIS. LOW. So, sir, all your wit then runs upon victuals?
PICK. ’Tis a sign ’twill hold out the longer then.
MIS. LOW. What were you saying to me?
SER. Please your worship,
I heard there came a scholar over lately
With old sir Oliver’s lady.
MIS. LOW. Is she come?— [_Aside._
What is that lady?
SER. A good gentlewoman,
Has been long prisoner with the enemy.
MIS. LOW. I know’t too well, and joy in her release.—
[_Aside._
Go to that house then straight, and in one labour
You may bid them, and entreat home that scholar.
SER. It shall be done with speed, sir. [_Exit._
PICK. I’ll along with you, and see what face that
scholar has brought over; a thin pair of
parbreaking[103] sea-water green chops, I warrant you.
[_Exit._
MIS. LOW. Since wit has pleasur’d me, I’ll pleasure
wit;
Scholars shall fare the better. O my blessing!
I feel a hand of mercy lift me up
Out of a world of waters, and now sets me
Upon a mountain, where the sun plays most,
To cheer my heart even as it dries my limbs.
What deeps I see beneath me, in whose falls
Many a nimble mortal toils,
And scarce can feed[104] himself! the streams of
fortune,
’Gainst which he tugs in vain, still beat him down,
And will not suffer him—past hand to mouth—
To lift his arm to his posterity’s blessing:
I see a careful sweat run in a ring
About his temples, but all will not do;
For, till some happy means relieve his state,
There he must stick, and bide the wrath of fate.
I see this wrath upon an uphill land;
O blest are they can see their falls and stand!
_Re-enter Servant, shewing in_ BEVERIL.
How now?
SER. With much entreating, sir, he’s come. [_Exit._
MIS. LOW. Sir, you’re—my brother! joys come thick
together.—— [_Aside._
Sir, when I see a scholar—pardon me—
I am so taken with affection[105], for him,
That I must run into his arms and clasp him.
[_Embracing him._
BEV. Art stands in need, sir, of such cherishers;
I meet too few: ’twere a brave world for scholars,
If half a kingdom were but of your mind, sir;
Let ignorance and hell confound the rest.
MIS. LOW. Let it suffice,[106] sweet sir, you cannot
think
How dearly you are welcome.
BEV. May I live
To shew you service for’t!
MIS. LOW. Your love, your love, sir;
We go no higher, nor shall you go lower.
Sir, I am bold to send for you, to request
A kindness from your wit, for some device
To grace our wedding; it shall be worth your pains,
And something more t’ express my love to art;
You shall not receive all in bare embracements.
BEV. Your love I thank; but, pray, sir, pardon me,
I’ve a heart says I must not grant you that.
MIS. LOW. No! what’s your reason, sir?
BEV. I’m not at peace
With the lady of this house; now you’ll excuse me;
Sh’as wrong’d my sister; and I may not do’t.
MIS. LOW. The widow knows you not.
BEV. I never saw her face to my remembrance:
O that my heart should feel her wrongs so much,
And yet live ignorant of the injurer!
MIS. LOW. Let me persuade thee, since she knows you
not,
Make clear the weather, let not griefs betray you;
I’ll tell her you’re a worthy friend of mine,
And so I tell her true, thou art indeed.
Sir, here she comes.
_Re-enter_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE.
L. GOLD. What, are you busy, sir?
MIS. LOW. Nothing less, lady; here’s a gentleman
Of noble parts, beside his friendship to me;
Pray, give him liberal welcome.
L. GOLD. He’s most welcome.
MIS. LOW. The virtues of his mind will deserve
largely.
L. GOLD. Methinks his outward parts deserve as much
then;
A proper[107] gentleman it is. [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. Come, worthy sir.
BEV. I follow.
[_Exeunt_ L. GOLDENFLEECE _and_ MIS. LOW-WATER.
Check thy blood,
For fear it prove too bold to wrong thy goodness:
A wise man makes affections but his slaves;
Break ’em in time, let ’em not master thee.
O, ’tis my sister’s enemy! think of that:
Some speedy grief fall down upon the fire,
Before it take my heart; let it not rise
’Gainst brotherly nature, judgment, and these wrongs.
Make clear the weather![108]
O who could look upon her face in storms!
Yet pains may work it out; griefs do but strive
To kill this spark, I’ll keep it still alive. [_Exit._
ACT III.[109] SCENE I.
_Before_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE’S _house_.
_Enter_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, OVERDONE, _and_ SIR
GILBERT LAMBSTONE.
WEA. Faith, sir Gilbert, forget and forgive; there’s
all our hands to a new bargain of friendship.
PEP. Ay, and all our hearts to boot, sir Gilbert.
WEA. Why, la, you, there’s but four suitors left on’s in
all the world, and the fifth has the widow; if we should
not be kind to one another, and so few on’s, i’faith, I
would we were all raked up in some hole or other!
SIR G. LAMB. Pardon me, gentlemen; I cannot but
remember
Your late disgraceful words before the widow,
In time of my oppression.
WEA. Pooh, Saturn reigned then, a melancholy, grumbling
planet; he was in the third house of privy enemies, and
would have bewrayed[110] all our plots; beside, there
was a fiery conjunction in the Dragon’s tail,[111] that
spoiled all that e’er we went about.
SIR G. LAMB. Dragon or devil, somewhat ’twas, I’m sure.
WEA. Why, I tell you, sir Gilbert, we were all out of
our wits in’t; I was so mad at that time myself, I could
have wished an hind quarter of my Bull out of your belly
again, whereas now I care not if you had eat tail and
all; I am no niggard in the way of friendship; I was
ever yet at full moon in good fellowship; and so you
shall find, if you look into the almanac of my true
nature.
SIR G. LAMB. Well, all’s forgiven for once; hands
a-pace, gentlemen.
WEA. Ye shall have two of mine to do you a kindness;
yet, when they’re both abroad, who shall look to th’
house here?
[_Giving his hands to_ SIR G. LAMBSTONE.
PEP. } Not only a new friendship, but a friend.
OVER. }
[_Giving their hands to_ SIR G. LAMBSTONE.
SIR G. LAMB. But upon this condition, gentlemen,
You shall hear now a thing worth your revenge.
WEA. And[112] you doubt that,
You shall have mine beforehand, I’ve one ready;
I never go without a black oath about me.
SIR G. LAMB. I know the least touch of a spur in this
Will now put your desires to a false gallop,
By all means slanderous in every place,
And in all companies, to disgrace the widow;
No matter in what rank, so it be spiteful
And worthy your revenges: so now I;
It shall be all my study, care, and pains;
And we can lose no labour; all her foes
Will make such use on’t, that they’ll snatch it from us
Faster than we can forge it, though we keep
Four tongues at work upon’t, and never cease.
Then for th’ indifferent world, faith, they are apter
To bid a slander[113] welcome than a truth.
We have the odds of our side: this in time
May grow so general, as disgrace will spread,
That wild dissension may divide the bed.
WEA. } Excellent!
PEP. }
OVER. A pure revenge! I see no dregs in’t.
SIR G. LAMB. Let each man look to his part now, and
not feed
Upon one dish all four on’s, like plain maltmen;
For at this feast we must have several kickshaws
And delicate-made dishes, that the world
May see it is a banquet finely furnish’d.
WEA. Why, then, let me alone for one of your
kickshaws,
I’ve thought on that already.
SIR G. LAMB. Prithee, how, sir?
WEA. Marry, sir, I’ll give it out abroad that I have
lain with the widow myself, as ’tis the fashion of many
a gallant to disgrace his new mistress when he cannot
have his will of her, and lie with her name in every
tavern, though he ne’er came within a yard of her
person; so I, being a gentleman, may say as much in that
kind as a gallant; I am as free by my father’s copy.
SIR G. LAMB. This will do excellent, sir.
WEA. And, moreover, I’ll give the world thus much to
understand beside, that if I had not lain with the
widow in the wane of the moon, at one of my Seven
Stars’ houses, when Venus was about business of her
own, and could give no attendance, she had been
brought a-bed with two roaring boys by this time; and
the Gemini being infants, I’d have made away with them
like a step-mother, and put mine own boys in their
places.
SIR G. LAM. Why, this is beyond talk; you out-run your
master.
_Enter_ PICKADILL.
PICK. Whoop! draw home next time; here are all the old
shooters that have lost the game at pricks! What a fair
mark had sir Gilbert on’t, if he had shot home before
the last arrow came in! methinks these shew to me now,
for all the world, like so many lousy beggars turned out
of my lady’s barn, and have ne’er a hole to put their
heads in. [_Aside._
WEA. Mass, here’s her ladyship’s ass; he tells us any
thing.
SIR G. LAMB. Ho, Pickadill!
PICK. What, sir Gilbert Lambstone!
Gentlemen, outlaws all, how do you do?
SIR G. LAMB. How! what dost call us? how goes the
world at home, lad?
What strange news?
PICK. This is the state of prodigals as right as can be;
when they have spent all their means on brave feasts,
they’re glad to scrape to a serving-man for a meal’s
meat:
So you that whilom,[114] like four prodigal rivals,
Could goose or capon, crane or woodcock choose,
Now’re glad to make up a poor meal with news;
A lamentable hearing!
WEA. He’s in passion[115]
Up to the eyebrows for us.
PICK. O master Weatherwise, I blame none but you!
You’re a gentleman deeply read in Pond’s Almanac,[116]
Methinks you should not be such a shallow fellow;
You knew this day, the twelfth of June, would come,
When the sun enters into the Crab’s room,
And all your hopes would go aside, aside.
WEA. The fool says true, i’faith, gentlemen; I knew
’twould come all to this pass; I’ll shew’t you
presently. [_Takes out almanac._
PICK. If you had spar’d but four of your Twelve Signs
now,
You might have gone to a tavern and made merry with ’em.
WEA. Has the best moral meaning of an ass that e’er I
heard speak with tongue.—Look you here, gentlemen
[_reads almanac_], _Fifth day,[117] neither fish nor
flesh_.
PICK. No, nor good red herring, and[118] you look
again.
WEA. [_reads_] _Sixth day, privily prevented._
PICK. Marry, faugh!
WEA. [_reads_] _Seventh day, shrunk in the wetting._
PICK. Nay, so will the best ware bought for love or
money.
WEA. [_reads_] _The eighth day, over head and ears._
PICK. By my faith, he come[s] home in a sweet pickle
then!
WEA. [_reads_] _The ninth day, scarce sound at heart._
PICK. What a pox ailed it?
WEA. [_reads_] _The tenth day, a courtier’s welcome._
PICK. That’s a cup of beer, and[118] you can get it.
WEA. [_reads_] _The eleventh day, stones against the
wind._
PICK. Pox of an ass! he might have thrown ’em better.
WEA. Now the _twelfth day_, gentlemen, that was our
day; [_Reads._
_Past all redemption_.
PICK. Then the devil go with’t!
WEA. Now you see plainly, gentlemen, how we’re us’d;
The calendar will not lie for no man’s pleasure.
SIR G. LAMB. Push,[119] you’re too confident in
almanac-posies.
PEP. Faith, so said we.
SIR G. LAMB. They’re mere delusions.
WEA. How!
You see how knavishly they happen, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. Ay, that’s because they’re foolishly
believ’d,[120] sir.
WEA. Well, take your courses, gentlemen, without ’em,
and see what will come on’t: you may wander like
masterless men, there’s ne’er a planet will care a
halfpenny for you; if they look after you, I’ll be
hanged, when you scorn to bestow twopence to look after
them.
SIR G. LAMB. How! a device at the wedding, sayest thou?
PICK. Why, have none of you heard of that yet?
SIR G. LAMB. ’Tis the first news, i’faith, lad.
PICK. O, there’s a brave travelling scholar entertained
into the house a’ purpose, one that has been all the
world over, and some part of Jerusalem; has his chamber,
his diet, and three candles[121] allowed him after
supper.
WEA. By my faith, he need not complain for victuals
then, whate’er he be.
PICK. He lies in one of the best chambers i’ th’ house,
bravely matted; and to warm his wits as much, a cup of
sack and an _aqua vitæ_[122] bottle stand[123] just at
his elbow.
WEA. He’s shrewdly hurt, by my faith; if he catch an
ague of that fashion, I’ll be hanged.
PICK. He’ll come abroad anon.
SIR G. LAMB. Art sure on’t?
PICK. Why, he ne’er stays a quarter of an hour in the
house together.
SIR G. LAMB. No? how can he study then?
PICK. Faugh, best of all; he talks as he goes, and
writes as he runs; besides, you know ’tis death to a
traveller to stand long in one place.
SIR G. LAMB. It may hit right, boys!—Honest Pickadill,
Thou wast wont to love me.
PICK. I’d good cause, sir, then.
SIR G. LAMB. Thou shalt have the same still; take that.
[_Giving money._
PICK. Will you believe me now? I ne’er loved you better
in my life than I do at this present.
SIR G. LAMB. Tell me now truly; who are the
presenters?
What parsons[124] are employ’d in the device?
PICK. Parsons? not any, sir; my mistress will not be at
the charge; she keeps none but an old Welsh vicar.
SIR G. LAMB. Prithee, I mean, who be the speakers?
PICK. Troth, I know none but those that open their
mouths. Here he comes now himself, you may ask him.
_Enter_ BEVERIL.
WEA. Is this he? by my faith, one may pick a gentleman
out of his calves and a scholar out on’s cheeks; one may
see by his looks what’s in him: I warrant you there has
ne’er a new almanac come out these dozen years, but he
has studied it over and over. [_Aside._
SIR G. LAMB. Do not reveal us now.
PICK. Because you shall be sure on’t, you have given me
a ninepence here, and I’ll give you the slip[125] for’t.
SIR G. LAMB. Well said. [_Exit_ PICKADILL.]—Now the
fool’s pleas’d, we may be bold.
BEV. Love is as great an enemy to wit
As ignorance to art; I find my powers
So much employ’d in business of my heart,
That all the time’s too little to despatch
Affairs within me. Fortune, too remiss,
I suffer for thy slowness: had I come
Before a vow had chain’d their souls together,
There might have been some hope, though ne’er so little;
Now there’s no spark at all, nor e’er can be,
But dreadful ones struck from adultery;
And if my lust were smother’d with her will,
O, who could wrong a gentleman so kind,
A stranger made up with a brother’s mind! [_Aside._
SIR G. LAMB. Peace, peace, enough; let me alone to
manage it.—
A quick invention, and a happy one,
Reward your study, sir!
BEV. Gentlemen, I thank you.
SIR G. LAMB. We understand your wits are in
employment, sir,
In honour of this wedding.
BEV. Sir, the gentleman
To whom that worthy lady is betroth’d
Vouchsafes t’accept the power of my good will in’t.
SIR G. LAMB. I pray, resolve[126] us then, sir—for
we’re friends
That love and honour her—
Whether your number be yet full, or no,
Of those which you make choice of for presenters?
BEV. First, ’tis so brief, because the time is so,
We shall not trouble many; and for those
We shall employ, the house will yield in servants.
SIR G. LAMB. Nay, then, under your leave and favour,
sir,
Since all your pains will be so weakly grac’d,
And, wanting due performance, lose their lustre,
Here are four of us gentlemen, her friends,
Both lovers of her honour and your art,
That would be glad so to express ourselves,
And think our service well and worthily plac’d.
BEV. My thanks do me no grace for this large kindness;
You make my labours proud of such presenters.
SIR G. LAMB. She shall not think, sir, she’s so ill
belov’d,
But friends can quickly make that number perfect.
BEV. She’s bound t’acknowledge it.
SIR G. LAMB. Only thus much, sir,
Which will amaze her most; I’d have’t so carried,
As you can do’t, that neither she nor none
Should know what friends we were till all were done.
WEA. Ay, that would make the sport!
BEV. I like it well, sir:
My hand and faith amongst you, gentlemen,
It shall be so dispos’d of.
SIR G. LAMB. We’re the men then.
BEV. Then look you, gentlemen; the device is single,
Naked, and plain, because the time’s so short,
And gives no freedom to a wealthier sport;
’Tis only, gentlemen, the four elements
In liveliest forms, Earth, Water, Air, and Fire.
WEA. Mass, and here’s four of us too.
BEV. It fits well, sir:
This the effect,—that whereas all those four
Maintain a natural opposition
And untruc’d war the one against the other,
To shame their ancient envies, they should see
How well in two breasts all these do agree.
WEA. That’s in the bride and bridegroom; I am quick,
sir.
SIR G. LAMB. In faith, it’s pretty, sir; I approve it
well.
BEV. But see how soon my happiness and your kindness
Are[127] crost together!
SIR G. LAMB. Crost? I hope not so, sir.
BEV. I can employ but two of you.
PEP. How comes that, sir?
BEV. Air and the Fire should be by me[n] presented,
But the two other in the forms of women.
WEA. Nay, then, we’re gone again; I think these women
Were made to vex and trouble us in all shapes.
[_Aside._
SIR G. LAMB. Faith, sir, you stand too nicely.[128]
WEA. So think I, sir.
BEV. Yet, when we tax ourselves, it may the better
Set off our errors, when the fine eyes judge ’em;
But Water certainly should be a woman.
WEA. By my faith, then, he is gelded since I saw him
last; he was thought to be a man once, when he got his
wife with child before he was married.
BEV. Fie, you are fishing in another stream, sir.
WEA. But now I come to yours, and[129] you go to that,
sir; I see no reason then but Fire and Water should
change shapes and genders.
BEV. How prove you that, sir?
WEA. Why, there’s no reason but Water should be a man,
because Fire is commonly known to be a quean.
BEV. So, sir; you argue well.
WEA. Nay, more, sir; water will break in at a little
crevice, so will a man, if he be not kept out; water
will undermine, so will an informer; water will ebb and
flow, so will a gentleman; water will search any place,
and so will a constable, as lately he did at my Seven
Stars for a young wench that was stole; water will
quench fire, and so will Wat the barber: _ergo_, let
Water wear a codpiece-point.
BEV. Faith, gentlemen, I like your company well.
WEA. Let’s see who’ll dispute with me at the full o’
the moon!
BEV. No, sir; and[129] you be vain-glorious of your
talent, I’ll put you to’t once more.
WEA. I’m for you, sir, as long as the moon keeps in this
quarter.
BEV. Well, how answer you this then? earth and water are
both bearers, therefore they should be women.
WEA. Why, so are porters and pedlars, and yet they are
known to be men.
BEV. I’ll give you over in time, sir; I shall repent the
bestowing on’t else.
WEA. If I, that have proceeded[130] in five-and-twenty
such books of astronomy, should not be able to put down
a scholar now in one thousand six hundred thirty and
eight, the dominical letter being G, I stood for a
goose.
SIR G. LAMB. Then this will satisfy you; though that be
a woman,
Oceanus the sea, that’s chief of waters,
He wears the form of a man, and so may you.
BEV. Now I hear reason, and I may consent.
SIR G. LAMB. And so, though earth challenge a feminine
face,
The matter of which earth consists, that’s dust,
The general soul of earth is of both kinds.
BEV. Fit yourselves, gentlemen, I’ve enough for me;
Earth, Water, Air, and Fire, part ’em amongst you.
WEA. Let me play Air,[131] I was my father’s eldest son.
BEV. Ay, but this Air never possess’d the lands.
WEA. I’m but disposed to jest with you, sir; ’tis the
same my almanac speaks on, is’t not?
BEV. That ’tis, sir.
WEA. Then leave it to my discretion, to fit both the
part and the person.
BEV. You shall have your desire, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. We’ll agree
Without your trouble now, sir; we’re not factious,
Or envy one another for best parts,
Like quarrelling actors that have passionate fits;
We submit always to the writer’s wits.
BEV. He that commends you may do’t liberally,
For you deserve as much as praise can shew.
SIR G. LAMB. We’ll send to you privately.
BEV. I’ll despatch you.
SIR G. LAMB. We’ll poison your device.
[_Aside, and exit._
PEP. She must have pleasures,
Shows, and conceits, and we disgraceful doom.
[_Aside, and exit._
WEA. We’ll make your Elements come limping home.
[_Aside, and exit._
BEV. How happy am I in this unlook’d-for grace,
This voluntary kindness, from these gentlemen!
_Enter behind_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER _and_ LOW-WATER, _both
disguised as before_.
’Twill set off all my labours far more pleasing
Before the widow, whom my heart calls mistress,
But my tongue dares not second it.
LOW. How say you now, Kate?
MIS. LOW. I like this music well, sir.
BEV. O unfortunate!
Yet though a tree be guarded from my touch,
There’s none can hinder me to love the fruit.
MIS. LOW. Nay, now we know your mind, brother, we’ll
provide for you.
[_Exeunt_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER _and_ LOW-WATER.
BEV. O were it but as free as late times knew it,
I would deserve, if all life’s wealth could do it!
[_Exit._
ACT IV. SCENE I.
_A room in_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT’S _house_.
_Enter_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT, LADY TWILIGHT, SUNSET,
SANDFIELD, _Dutch Merchant_, PHILIP TWILIGHT, _Servants,
and_ SAVOURWIT _aloof off_.[132]
SIR O. TWI. O my reviving joy! thy quickening presence
Makes the sad night of threescore and ten years
Sit like a youthful spring upon my blood:
I cannot make thy welcome rich enough
With all the wealth of words!
L. TWI. It is exprest sir,
With more than can be equall’d; the ill store
Lies only on my side, my thanks are poor.
SIR O. TWI. Blest be the goodness of his mind for ever
That did redeem thy life, may it return
Upon his fortunes double! that worthy gentleman,
Kind master Beveril! shower upon him, heaven,
Some unexpected happiness to requite him
For that my joy[133] unlook’d for! O, more kind,
And juster far, is a mere stranger’s goodness
Than the sophistic faith of natural sons!
Here’s one could juggle with me, take up the ransom,
He and his loose companion——
SAV. Say you me so, sir?
I’ll eat hard eggs for that trick. [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. Spend the money,
And bring me home false news and empty pockets!
In that young gallant’s tongue there, you were dead
Ten weeks before this day, had not this merchant
Brought first the truth in words, yourself in substance.
L. TWI. Pray, let me stay you here, ere you proceed,
sir;
Did he report me dead, say you?
SIR O. TWI. Else you live not.
L. TWI. See now, sir, you may lay your blame too
rashly,
When nobody look’d after it! let me tell you, sir,
A father’s anger should take great advice,
Ere it condemn flesh of so dear a price.
He’s no way guilty yet; for that report
The general tongue of all the country spread;
For being remov’d far off, I was thought dead.
PHIL. Can my faith now be taken into favour, sir?
Is’t worthy to be trusted?
SAV. No, by my troth, is’t not,
’Twould make shift to spend another ransom yet.
[_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. Well, sir, I must confess you’ve here
dealt well with me,
And what is good in you I love again.
SAV. Now am I half-ways in, just to the girdle,
But the worst part’s behind. [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. Marry, I fear me, sir,
This weather is too glorious to hold long.
L. TWI. I see no cloud to interpose it, sir,
If you place confidence in what I’ve told you.
SIR O. TWI. Nay, ’tis clear sky on that side; would
’twere so
All over his obedience! I see that,
And so does this good gentleman——
L. TWI. Do you, sir?
SIR O. TWI. That makes his honesty doubtful.
L. TWI. I pray, speak, sir;
The truth of your last kindness makes me bold with you.
D. MER. The knight, your husband, madam, can best
speak;
He trueliest can shew griefs whose heart they break.
L. TWI. I’m sorry yet for more; pray, let me know’t,
sir,
That I may help to chide him, though ’twould grieve me.
SIR O. TWI. Why then prepare for’t; you came over now
In the best time to do’t you could pick out:
Not only spent my money, but, to blind me,
He and his wicked instrument——
SAV. Now he fiddles me! [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. Brings home a minion here, by great chance
known;
Told me she was his sister; she proves none.
L. TWI. This was unkindly done, sir; now I’m sorry
My good opinion lost itself upon you;
You are not the same son I left behind me,
More grace took him.—O, let me end in time,
For fear I should forget myself, and chide him!—
Where is [s]he, sir? though he beguil’d your eyes,
He cannot deceive mine, we’re now too hard for him;
For since our first unfortunate separation
I’ve often seen the girl—would that were true!—
[_Aside._
By many a happy accident, many a one,
But never durst acknowledge her for mine own,
And therein stood my joys distress’d again.
SIR O. TWI. You rehearse miseries, wife.—Call the maid
down. [_Exit Servant._
SAV. Sh’as been too often down to be now call’d so;
She’ll lie down shortly, and call somebody up.
[_Aside._
L. TWI. He’s now to deal with one, sir, that knows
truth;
He must be sham’d or quit, there’s no mean saves him.
SIR O. TWI. I hear her come.
L. TWI. [_aside to_ PHIL.] You see how hard ’tis now
To redeem good opinion, being once gone;
Be careful then, and keep it when ’tis won.
Now see me take a poison with great joy,
Which, but for thy sake, I should swoon to touch.
_Enter_ GRACE.
GRACE. What new affliction? am I set to sale
For any one that bids most shame for me? [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. Look you? do you see what stuff they’ve
brought me home here?
L. TWI. O bless her, eternal powers! my life, my
comforts,
My nine years’ grief, but everlasting joy now!
Thrice welcome to my heart! [_embracing_ GRACE] ’tis she
indeed.
SIR O. TWI. What, is it?
PHIL. I’m unfit to carry a ransom!
SAV. [_aside to_ GRACE, _who kneels_] Down on your
knees, to save your belly harmless;
Ask blessing, though you never mean to use it,
But give’t away presently to a beggar-wench.
PHIL. My faith is blemish’d, I’m no man of trust, sir!
L. TWI. [_raising_ GRACE] Rise with a mother’s
blessing!
SAV. All this while
Sh’as rise with a son’s. [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. But soft ye, soft ye, wife!
I pray, take heed you place your blessing right now;
This honest Dutchman here told me he saw her
At Antwerp in an inn.
L. TWI. True, she was so, sir.
D. MER. Sir, ’tis my quality, what I speak once,
I affirm ever; in that inn I saw her;
That lets[134] her not to be your daughter now.
SIR O. TWI. O sir, is’t come to that!
SUN. Here’s joys ne’er dreamt on!
SIR O. TWI. O master Sunset, I am at the rising
Of my refulgent happiness!—Now, son Sandfield,
Once more and ever!
SAND. I am proud on’t, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Pardon me, boy; I’ve wrong’d thy faith too
much.
SAV. Now may I leave my shell, and peep my head forth.
[_Aside, and advancing._
SIR O. TWI. Where is this Savourwit, that honest
whorson,
That I may take my curse from his knave’s shoulders?
SAV. O, sir, I feel you at my very blade here!
Your curse is ten stone weight, and a pound over.
SIR O. TWI. Come, thou’rt a witty varlet and a trusty.
SAV. You shall still find me a poor, faithful fellow,
sir,
If you’ve another ransom to send over,
Or daughter to find out.
SIR O. TWI. I’ll do thee right, boy;
I ne’er yet knew thee but speak honest English;
Marry, in Dutch I found thee a knave lately.
SAV. That was to hold you but in play a little,
Till farther truths came over, and I strong;
You shall ne’er find me a knave in mine own tongue,
I’ve more grace in me; I go out of England still
When I take such courses; that shews modesty, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Any thing full of wit and void of harm,
I give thee pardon for; so was that now.
SAV. Faith, now I’m quit,[135] I find myself the
nimbler
To serve you so again, and my will’s good;
Like one that lately shook off his old irons,
And cuts a purse at bench to deserve new ones.
SIR O. TWI. Since it holds all the way so fortunate
still,
And strikes so even with my first belief,
This is the gentleman, wife, young master Sandfield
here,
A man of worthy parts, beside his lands,
Whom I make choice of for my daughter’s bed.
SAV. But he’ll make choice there of another bedfellow.
[_Aside._
L. TWI. I wish ’em both the happiness of love, sir.
SIR O. TWI. ’Twas spoke like a good lady! And[136]
your memory
Can reach it, wife—but ’tis so long ago too—
Old master Sunset he had a young daughter
When you unluckily left England so,
And much about the age of our girl there,
For both were nurs’d together.
L. TWI. ’Tis so fresh
In my remembrance, now you’ve waken’d it,
As if twelve years were but a twelve hours’ dream.
SIR O. TWI. That girl is now a proper[137]
gentlewoman,
As fine a body, wife, as e’er was measur’d
With an indenture cut in farthing steaks.
SUN. O say not so, sir Oliver; you shall pardon me,
sir;
I’faith, sir, you’re to blame.
SIR O. TWI. Sings, dances, plays,
Touches an instrument with a motherly grace.
SUN. ’Tis your own daughter that you mean that by.
SAV. There’s open Dutch indeed, and[138] he could take
it. [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. This wench, under your leave——
SUN. You have my love in’t.
SIR O. TWI. Is my son’s wife that shall be.
SAV. Thus, I’d hold with’t,
Is your son’s wife that should be master Sandfield’s.
[_Aside._
L. TWI. I come in happy time to a feast of marriages.
SIR O. TWI. And now you put’s i’ the mind, the hour
draws on
At the new-married widow’s, there we’re look’d for;
There will be entertainments, sports, and banquets,
There these young lovers shall clap hands together;
The seed of one feast shall bring forth another.
SUN. Well said, sir Oliver!
SIR O. TWI. You’re a stranger, sir;
Your welcome will be best.
D. MER. Good sir, excuse me.
SIR O. TWI. You shall along, faith;[139] you must not
refuse me.
[_Exeunt all except_ LADY TWILIGHT, GRACE,
PHILIP TWILIGHT, _and_ SAVOURWIT.
PHIL. O, mother, these new joys, that set[140] my soul
up—
Which had no means, nor any hope of any—
Have brought me now so far in debt to you,
I know not which way to begin to thank you;
I am so lost in all, I cannot guess
Which of the two my service most constrains,
Your last kind goodness, or your first dear pains.
L. TWI. Love is a mother’s duty to a son,
As a son’s duty is both love and fear.
SAV. I owe you a poor life, madam, that’s all;
Pray, call for’t when you please, it shall be ready for
you.
L. TWI. Make much on’t, sir, till then.
SAV. If butter’d sack will. [_Aside._
L. TWI. Methinks the more I look upon her, son,
The more thy sister’s face runs in my mind.
PHIL. Belike she’s somewhat like her; it makes the
better, madam.
L. TWI. Was Antwerp, say you, the first place you
found her in?
PHIL. Yes, madam: why do you ask?
L. TWI. Whose daughter were you?
GRACE. I know not rightly whose, to speak truth,
madam.
SAV. The mother of her was a good twigger the whilst.
[_Aside._
L. TWI. No? with whom were you brought up then?
GRACE. With those, madam,
To whom, I’ve often heard, the enemy sold me.
L. TWI. What’s that?
GRACE. Too often have I heard this piteous story,
Of a distressèd mother I had once,
Whose comfortable sight I lost at sea;
But then the years of childhood took from me
Both the remembrance of her and the sorrows.
L. TWI. O, I begin to feel her in my blood!
My heart leaps to be at her. [_Aside._]—What was that
mother?
GRACE. Some said, an English lady; but I know not.
L. TWI. What’s thy name?
GRACE. Grace.
L. TWI. May it be so in heaven,
For thou art mine on earth! welcome, dear child,
Unto thy father’s house, thy mother’s arms,
After thy foreign sorrows! [_Embracing_ GRACE.
SAV. ’Twill prove gallant! [_Aside._
L. TWI. What, son! such earnest-work! I bring thee joy
now
Will make the rest shew nothing, ’tis so glorious.
PHIL. Why, ’tis not possible, madam, that man’s
happiness
Should take a greater height than mine aspires.
L. TWI. No? now you shall confess it: this shall quit
thee
From all fears present, or hereafter doubts,
About this business.
PHIL. Give me that, sweet mother!
L. TWI. Here, take her then, and set thine arms
a-work;
There needs no ’fection,[141] ’tis indeed thy sister.
PHIL. My sister!
SAV. Cuds me, I feel the razor! [_Aside._
L. TWI. Why, how now, son? how comes a change so soon?
PHIL. O, I beseech you, mother, wound me any where
But where you pointed last! that’s present death;
Devise some other miserable torment,
Though ne’er so pitiless, and I’ll run and meet it;
Some way more merciful let your goodness think on,
May steal away my joys, but save my soul:
I’ll willingly restore back every one,
Upon that mild condition; any thing
But what you spake last will be comfortable.
L. TWI. You’re troubled with strange fits in England
here;
Your first suit to me did entreat me hardly
To say ’twas she, to have old[142] wrath appeas’d;
And now ’tis known your sister, you’re not pleas’d:
How should I shew myself?
PHIL. Say ’tis not she.
L. TWI. Shall I deny my daughter?
PHIL. O, you kill me,
Beyond all tortures!
L. TWI. Why do you deal thus with me?
PHIL. She is my wife, I married her at Antwerp;
I’ve known the way unto her bed these three months.
SAV. And that’s too much by twelve weeks for a sister.
[_Aside._
L. TWI. I understand you now, too soon, too plain!
PHIL. O mother, if you love my peace for ever,
Examine her again, find me not guilty!
L. TWI. ’Tis now too late, her words make that too
true.
PHIL. Her words? shall bare words overthrow a soul?
A body is not cast away so lightly.
How can you know ’tis she—let sense decide it—
She then so young, and both so long divided?
L. TWI. She tells me the sad story.
PHIL. Does that throw me?
Many a distress may have the face of yours,
That ne’er was kin to you.
L. TWI. But, however, sir,
I trust you are not married.
PHIL. Here’s the witness,
And all the wealth I had with her, this ring,
That join’d our hearts together. [_Gives ring._
L. TWI. O, too clear now!
Thou’st brought in evidence to o’erthrow thyself;
Had no one word been spoke, only this shewn,
’T’ad been enough to approv’d[143] her for mine own;
See here, two letters that begun my name
Before I knew thy father: this I gave her,
And, as a jewel, fasten’d to her ear.
GRACE. Pardon me, mother, that you find it stray;
I kept it till I gave my heart away.
PHIL. O, to what mountain shall I take my flight,
To hide the monster of my sin from sight!
SAV. I’ll to Wales presently, there’s the best hills
To hide a poor knave in. [_Aside._
L. TWI. O heap not desperation upon guilt!
Repent yet, and all’s say’d; ’twas but hard chance:
Amongst all sins, heaven pities ignorance,
She’s still the first that has her pardon sign’d;
All sins else see their faults, she’s only blind:
Go to thy chamber, pray, leave off, and win;
One hour’s repentance cures a twelvemonth’s sin.
GRACE. O my distressèd husband, my dear brother!
[_Exeunt_ LADY TWILIGHT _and_ GRACE.
PHIL. O Savourwit, never came sorrow yet
To mankind like it! I’m so far distress’d,
I’ve no time left to give my heart attendance,
Too little all to wait upon my soul.
Before this tempest came, how well I stood,
Full in the beams of blessedness and joy!
The memory of man could never say
So black a storm fell in so bright a day.
I am that man that even life surfeits of;
Or, if to live, unworthy to be seen
By the [most] savage eye-sight: give’s thy hand;
Commend me to thy prayers.
SAV. Next time I say ’em. [_Aside._
PHIL. Farewell, my honest breast, that crav’st no more
Than possible kindness! that I’ve found thee large in,
And I must ask no more; there wit must stay,
It cannot pass where fate stops up the way:
Joy thrive with thee! I’ll never see thee more.
[_Going._
SAV. What’s that, sir? pray, come back, and bring
those words with you,
You shall not carry ’em so out of my company:
There’s no last refuge when your father knows it;
There’s no such need on’t yet; stay but till then,
And take one with you that will imitate you
In all the desperate on-sets man dare think on:
Were it to challenge all the wolves in France
To meet at one set battle, I’d be your half in’t;
All beasts of venom,—what you had a mind to,
Your part should be took still: for such a day
Let’s keep ourselves in heart, then am I for you.
In the meantime, to beat off all suspicion,
Let’s to the bride-house too; here’s my petition.
PHIL. Thou hast a learning art when all hopes fly;
Let one night waste, there’s time enough left to die.
SAV. A minute’s as good as a thousand year, sir,
To pink a man’s heart like a summer-suit.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_A large room in_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE’S _house_.
_Several Servants discovered placing things in order,
and_ PICKADILL _looking on_.
PICK. Bestir your bones nimbly, you ponderous
beef-buttocked knaves; what a number of lazy hinds do I
keep company withal! where’s the flesh-colour velvet
cushion now for my lady’s pease-porridge-tawny-satin
bum? You attendants upon revels!
FIRST SER. You can prate and domineer well, because you
have a privilege[d] place; but I’d fain see you set your
hand to’t.
PICK. O base bone-pickers, I set my hand to’t! when did
you e’er see a gentleman set his hand to any thing,
unless it were to a sheep-skin, and receive a hundred
pound for his pains?
SEC. SER. And afterward lie in the Counter for his
pleasure.
PICK. Why, true, sir, ’tis for his pleasure indeed; for,
spite of all their teeths, he may lie i’ th’ Hole[144]
when he list.
FIRST SER. Marry, and should for me.
PICK. Ay, thou wouldst make as good a bawd as the best
jailor of them all; I know that.
FIRST SER. How, fool!
PICK. Hark! I must call you knave within; ’tis but
staying somewhat the longer for’t. [_Exeunt._
_Loud music. Enter, arm in arm_, LADY GOLDENFLEECE
_richly dressed, and_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER _richly
attired as a man; after them_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT,
SUNSET, _and Dutch Merchant; after them_ LADY TWILIGHT,
GRACE, _and_ JANE; _after them_ PHILIP TWILIGHT,
SANDFIELD, SAVOURWIT, _and_ LOW-WATER, _disguised as
before_.
MIS. LOW. This fair assembly is most freely welcome.
SIR O. TWI., _&c._[145] Thanks to you, good sir.
L. GOLD. Come, my long-wish’d-for madam,
You and this worthy stranger take best welcome;
Your freedom is a second feast to me.
MIS. LOW. How is’t with my brother?
LOW. The fit holds him still,
Nay, love’s more violent.
MIS. LOW. ’Las, poor gentleman!
I would he had my office without money!
If he should offer any, I’d refuse it.
LOW. I have the letter ready;
He’s worthy of a place knows[146] how to use it.
MIS. LOW. That’s well said.—
Come, ladies—gentlemen—sir Oliver;
Good, seat yourselves: shall we be found unreadiest?
[_They sit._
What is yon gentleman with the funeral-face there?
Methinks that look does ill become a bride-house.
SIR O. TWI. Who does your worship mean, sir? my son
Philip?
I’m sure he had ne’er less reason to be sad.—
Why are you sad, son Philip?
PHIL. How, sir, sad?
You shall not find it so, sir.
SAV. Take heed he do not, then. You must beware how you
carry your face in this company; as far as I can see,
that young bridegroom has hawk’s eyes, he’ll go nigh to
spell sister in your face; if your nose were but crooked
enough to serve for an S, he’d find an eye presently,
and then he has more light for the rest.
PHIL. I’ll learn then to dissemble.
SAV. Nay, and[147] you be to learn that now, you’ll
ne’er sit in a branched[148] velvet gown as long as you
live; you should have took that at nurse, before your
mother weaned you; so do all those that prove great
children and batten well. Peace, here comes a scholar
indeed; he has learnt it, I warrant you.
_Enter_ BEVERIL _with a pasteboard_.
L. GOLD. Kind sir, you’re welcome; you take all the
pains, sir.
BEV. I wish they were but worthy of the grace
Of your fair presence and this choice assembly:
Here is an abstract, madam, of what’s shewn,
Which I commend to your favour. [_Giving pasteboard._
L. GOLD. Thank you for’t, sir.
BEV. I would I durst present my love as boldly!
[_Aside._
MIS. LOW. My honest brother! [_Aside._
L. GOLD. Look thee here, sweetheart.
MIS. LOW. What’s there, sweet madam?
BEV. Music, and we’re ready.
[_After loud music for a while, a thing like a globe
opens on one side of the stage, and flashes out fire;
then_ SIR G. LAMBSTONE, _in the character of Fire,
issues from it, with yellow hair and beard intermingled
with streaks like wild flames, a three-pointed fire in
his hand; and, at the same time_, WEATHERWISE, _as Air,
comes down, hanging by a cloud, with a coat made like
an almanac, all the twelve moons set in it, and the
four quarters, winter, spring, summer, and autumn, with
change of weathers, rain, lightning, tempest, &c.; and
from under the stage, on different sides at the farther
end, rise_ OVERDONE _as Water, and_ PEPPERTON _as
Earth; Water with green flags upon his head standing up
instead of hair, and a beard of the same, with a chain
of pearl; Earth with a number of little things
resembling trees, like a thick grove, upon his head,
and a wedge of gold in his hand, his garment of a clay
colour_. BEVERIL _stands behind and gives_ SIR G.
LAMBSTONE _the first words of his speech_.
BEV. _The flame of zeal_——
SIR G. LAMB. _The wicked fire of lust
Does now spread heat through water, air, and dust._
BEV. How! he’s out in the beginning. [_Aside._]—_The
wheel of time_—
WEA. The devil set fire o’ the distaff. [_Aside._
SIR G. LAMB. _I that was wont in elder times to pass
For a bright angel—so they call’d me then—
Now so corrupted with the upstart fires
Of avarice, luxury, and inconstant heats,
Struck from the bloods of cunning clap-faln daughters,
Night-walking wives, but, most, libidinous widows,
That I, that purify even gold itself,
Have the contemptible dross thrown in my face,
And my bright name walk common in disgrace.
How am I us’d a’ late, that I’m so handled,—
Thrust into alleys, hospitals, and tubs!
I was once a name of comfort, warm’d great houses,
When charity was landlord; I’ve given welcome
To forty russet yeomen at a time,
In a fair Christmas hall. How am I chang’d!
The chimneys are swept up, the hearth as cold
As the forefathers’ charity in the son;
All the good, hospitable heat now turns
To my young landlord’s lust, and there it burns:
Rich widows, that were wont to choose by gravity
Their second husbands, not by tricks of blood,
Are now so taken with loose Aretine flames
Of nimble wantonness and high-fed pride,
They marry now but the third part of husbands,
Boys, smooth-fac’d catamites, to fulfil their bed,
As if a woman should a woman wed.
These are the fires a’ late my brightness darks,
And fills the world so full of beggarly sparks._
BEV. Hea[r]t, how am I disgrac’d! what rogue should
this be?
L. GOLD. By my faith, monsieur Fire, you’re a hot
whorson!
MIS. LOW. I fear my brother is beside his wits,
He would not be so senseless to rail thus else.
[_Aside._
WEA. _After this heat, you madams fat and fair,
Open your casements wide, and take in air;
But not that air false women make up oaths with,
No, nor that air gallants perfume their clothes with;
I am that air that keeps about the clouds,
None of my kindred was smelt out in crowds;
Not any of our house was ever tainted,
When many a thousand of our foes have fainted:
Yet some there are that be my chief polluters,
Widows that falsify their faith to suitors,
And will give fair words when the sign’s in Cancer,
But, at the next remove, a scurvy answer;
Come to the poor men’s houses, eat their banquet,
And at night with a boy tost in a blanket;
Nay, shall I come more near? perhaps at noon,
For here I find a spot full in the moon:
I know youth’s trick; what’s she that can withstand it,
When Mercury reigns, my lady’s chamber-planet?
He that believes a widow’s words shall fail,
When Venus’ gown-skirts sweep[149] the Dragon’s tail;
Fair weather the first day she makes to any,
The second cloudy, and the third day rainy;
The fourth day a great storm, lightning, and thunder;
A bolt strikes the suitor, a boy keeps her under._
BEV. ’Life, these are some counterfeit slaves crept in
their rooms,
A’ purpose for disgrace! they shall all share with me:
Heart, who the devil should these be? [_Exit._
L. GOLD. My faith, gentlemen,
Air has perfum’d the room well!
SIR O. TWI. So methinks, madam.
SAV. A man may smell her meaning two rooms off,
Though his nose wanted reparations,
And the bridge left at Shoreditch, as a pledge
For _rosa solis_, in a bleaking-house.[150] [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. Life, what should be his meaning in’t?
LOW. I wonder.
OVER. _Methinks this room should yet retain such heat,
Struck out from the first ardour, and so glow yet,
You should desire my company, wish for water,
That offers here to serve your several pipes,
Without constraint of mill or death of water-house.
What if I sprinkled on the widow’s cheeks
A few cool drops, to lay the guilty heat
That flashes from her conscience to her face;
Would’t not refresh her shame? From such as she
I first took weakness and inconstancy;
I sometimes swell above my banks and spread,
They’re commonly with child before they’re wed;
In me the Sirens sing before they play,
In her more witchcraft, for her smiles betray;
Where I’m least seen, there my most danger lies,
So in those parts hid most from a man’s eyes,
Her heart, her love, or what may be more close;
I know no mercy, she thinks that no loss;
In her poor gallants, pirates thrive in me;
I help to cast away, and so does she._
L. GOLD. Nay, and[151] you can hold nothing, sweet sir
Water,
I’ll wash my hands a’ you ever hereafter.
PEP. _Earth stands for a full point, me you should
hire
To stop the gaps of Water, Air, and Fire:
I love muck well, but your first husband better,
Above his soul he lov’d it, as his end
Did fearfully witness it; at his last gasp
His spirit flam’d as it forsook his breast,
And left the sparkles quarrelling ’bout his lips,
Now of such metal the devil makes him whips;
He shall have gold enough to glut his soul,
And as for earth, I’ll stop his crane’s throat full:
The wealth he left behind him, most men know,
He wrung inconscionably from the rights
Of poor men’s livings, he drunk dry their brows;
That liquor has a curse, yet nothing sweeter;
When your posterity drinks, then ’twill taste bitter._
SIR G. LAMB. _And now to vex, ’gainst nature, form,
rule, place,
See once four warring[152] elements all embrace!_
[_The Elements embrace._
_Re-enter, at several corners_, BEVERIL _with three
other persons, attired like the four Winds, with
wings, &c., the South Wind having a great red face,
the North Wind a pale, bleak one; the Western Wind
one cheek red and another white, and so the Eastern
Wind: they dance to the drum and fife, while the
four Elements seem to give back and stand in amaze:
at the end of the dance the Winds strip the Elements
of their disguises, which seem to yield and almost
fall off of themselves at the coming of the Winds.
Exeunt all the Winds except that represented by_
BEVERIL.
L. GOLD. How! sir Gilbert Lambstone! master Overdone!
All our old suitors! you’ve took pains, my masters!
SIR G. LAMB. We made a vow we’d speak our minds to
you.
WEA. And I think we’re as good as our words, though it
cost some of our purses; I owe money for the clouds yet,
I care not who knows it; the planets are sufficient
enough to pay the painter, and[153] I were dead.
L. GOLD. Who are you, sir?
BEV. Your most unworthy servant.
[_Discovering himself._
L. GOLD. Pardon me; is’t you, sir?
BEV. My disgrace urg’d my wit to take some form,
Wherein I might both best and properliest
Discover my abusers and your own,
And shew you some content,—before y’had none.
L. GOLD. Sir, I owe much both to your care and love,
And you shall find your full requital worthy.—
Was this the plot now your poor envy works out?
I do revenge myself with pitying on you.—
Take Fire into the buttery, he has most need on’t;
Give Water some small beer, too good for him;—
Air, you may walk abroad like a fortune-teller;—
But take down Earth, and make him drink i’ the cellar.
[_Exeunt_ SIR G. LAMBSTONE, WEATHERWISE,
OVERDONE, _and_ PEPPERTON, _with_ LOW-WATER.
MIS. LOW. The best revenge that could be!
L. TWI. I commend you, madam.
SIR O. TWI. I thought they were some such sneakers.
SAV. The four suitors! and here was a mess of mad
elements!
MIS. LOW. Lights, more lights there! where be these
blue-coats?[154]
_Enter Servants with lights._
L. GOLD. You know your lodgings, gentlemen, to-night.
SIR O. TWI. ’Tis bounty makes bold guests, madam.
L. GOLD. Good rest, lady.
SIR O. TWI. A most contentful night begin a health,
madam,
To your long joys, and may the years go round with’t!
L. GOLD. As many thanks as you have wish’d ’em hours,
sir,
Take to your lodging with you.
MIS. LOW. A general rest to all.
[_Exeunt with Servants all the guests except_
PHILIP TWILIGHT _and_ SAVOURWIT.
PHIL. I’m excepted.
SAV. Take in another to you then; there’s room enough
In that exception, faith, to serve us both;
The dial of my sleep goes by your eyes.
[_Exeunt_ PHILIP TWILIGHT _and_ SAVOURWIT.
_Scene closes._[155]
ACT V. SCENE I.
_The same._
LADY GOLDENFLEECE, _and_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER _disguised
as before, are discovered_.
L. GOLD. Now, like a greedy usurer alone,
I sum up all the wealth this day has brought me,
And thus I hug it. [_Embracing her._
MIS. LOW. Prithee——
L. GOLD. Thus I kiss it. [_Kissing her._
MIS. LOW. I can’t abide these kissings.
L. GOLD. How, sir? not!
I’ll try that, sure; I’ll kiss you out of that humour.
MIS. LOW. Push![156] by my troth, I cannot.
L. GOLD. What cannot you, sir?
MIS. LOW. Not toy, nor bill, and imitate
house-pigeons;
A married man must think of other matters.
L. GOLD. How, other matters, sir? what other matters?
MIS. LOW. Why, are there no other matters that belong
to’t?
Do you think you’ve married only a cock-sparrow,
And fit but for one business, like a fool?
You shall not find it so.
L. GOLD. You can talk strangely, sir:
Come, will you to bed?
MIS. LOW. No, faith, will not I.
L. GOLD. What, not to bed, sir?
MIS. LOW. And[157] I do, hang me; not to bed with you.
L. GOLD. How, not to bed with me, sir? with whom else?
MIS. LOW. Why, am not I enough to lie with myself?
L. GOLD. Is that the end of marriage?
MIS. LOW. No, by my faith,
’Tis but the beginning yet; death is the end on’t,
Unless some trick come i’ the middle and dash all.
L. GOLD. Were you so forward lately, and so youthful,
That scarce my modest strength could save me from you,
And are you now so cold?
MIS. LOW. I’ve thought on’t since;
It was but a rude part in me, i’faith,
To offer such bold tricks to any woman,
And by degrees I shall well break myself from’t;
I feel myself well chasten’d since that time,
And not the third part now so loosely minded.
O, when one sees their follies, ’tis a comfort!
My very thoughts take more staid years upon ’em.
O, marriage is such a serious, divine thing!
It makes youth grave, and sweetly nips the spring.
L. GOLD. If I had chose a gentleman for care
And worldly business, I had ne’er took you;
I had the offers of enough more fit
For such employment; I chose you for love,
Youth, and content of heart, and not for troubles;
You are not ripe for them; after you’ve spent
Some twenty years in dalliance, youth’s affairs,
Then take a book in your hand, and sum up cares;
As for wealth now, you know that’s got to your hands.
MIS. LOW. But had I known ’t had been so wrongfully
got,
As I heard since, you should have had free leave
T’ have made choice of another master for’t.
L. GOLD. Why, can that trouble you?
MIS. LOW. It may too soon: but go,
My sleeps are sound, I love not to be started
With an ill conscience at the fall of midnight,
And have mine eyes torn ope with poor men’s curses;
I do not like the fate on’t, ’tis still apt
To breed unrest, dissension, wild debate,
And I’m the worst at quarrels upon earth,
Unless a mighty injury should provoke me:
Get you to bed, go.
L. GOLD. Not without you, in troth, sir.
MIS. LOW. If you could think how much you wrong
yourself
In my opinion of you, you would leave me now
With all the speed you might; I like you worse
For this fond heat, and drink in more suspicion of you:
You high-fed widows are too cunning people
For a poor gentleman to come simply to.
L. GOLD. What’s that, sir?
MIS. LOW. You may make a youth on him,
’Tis at your courtesy, and that’s ill trusted:
You could not want a friend, beside a suitor,
To sit in your husband’s gown, and look o’er your
writings.
L. GOLD. What’s this?
MIS. LOW. I say there is a time when women
Can do too much, and understand too little:
Once more, to bed; I’d willingly be a father
To no more noses than I got myself;
And so good night to you.
L. GOLD. Now I see the infection;
A yellow poison runs through the sweet spring
Of his fair youth already; ’tis distracted,
Jealous of that which thought yet never acted.—
[_Aside._
O dear sir, on my knees I swear to thee— [_Kneels._
MIS. LOW. I prithee, use them in thy private chamber,
As a good lady should; spare ’em not there,
’Twill do thee good; faith, none ’twill do thee here.
L. GOLD. [_rising_] Have I yet married poverty, and
miss’d[158] love!
What fortune has my heart! that’s all I crav’d,
And that lies now a-dying; it has took
A speeding poison, and I’m ignorant how:
I never knew what beggary was till now.
My wealth yields me no comfort in this plight;
Had want but brought me love, I’d happen’d right.
[_Aside, and goes into her bed-chamber._
MIS. LOW. So, this will serve now for a preparative
To ope the powers[159] of some dislike at first;
The physic will pay’t home.—
_Enter_ LOW-WATER, _disguised as before_.
How dost thou, sir?
How goes the work?
LOW. Your brother has the letter.
MIS. LOW. I find no stop in’t then, it moves well
hitherto;
Did you convey it closely?
LOW. He ne’er set eye of me.
_Enter above[160]_ BEVERIL _with a letter_.
BEV. I cannot read too often.
MIS. LOW. Peace; to your office.
BEV. What blessed fate took pity of my heart,
But with her presence to relieve me thus?
All the large volumes that my time hath master’d
Are not so precious to adorn my spirit
As these few lines are to enrich my mind;
I thirst again to drink of the same fountain.
[_Reads._
_Kind sir,—I found your care and love so much in the
performance of a little, wherein your wit and art had
late employment, that I dare now trust your bosom with
business of more weight and eminence. Little thought the
world, that, since the wedding-dinner, all my mirth was
but dissembled, and seeming joys but counterfeit. The
truth to you, sir, is, I find so little signs of content
in the bargain I made i’ the morning, that I began to
repent before evening prayer; and to shew some fruits of
his wilful neglect and wild disposition, more than the
day could bring forth to me, has now forsook my bed; I
know no cause for’t._
MIS. LOW. But I’ll be sworn I do. [_Aside._
BEV. [_reads_] _Being thus distressed, sir, I desire
your comfortable presence and counsel, whom I know to be
of worth and judgment, that a lady may safely impart her
griefs to you, and commit ’em to the virtues of
commiseration and secrecy.—Your unfortunate friend_,
THE WIDOW-WIFE.
_I have took order for your private admittance with a
trusty servant of mine own, whom I have placed at my
chamber-door to attend your coming._
He shall not wait too long, and curse my slowness.
LOW. I would you’d come away then! [_Aside._
BEV. How much am I beguil’d in that young gentleman!
I would have sworn had been the perfect abstract
Of honesty and mildness; ’tis not so.
MIS. LOW. I pardon you, sweet brother; there’s no hold
Of what you speak now, you’re in Cupid’s pound.
[_Aside._
BEV. Blest be the secret hand that brought thee
hither;
But the dear hand that writ it, ten times blest!
[_Exit above._
LOW. That’s I still; has blest me now ten times at
twice.
Away; I hear him coming.
MIS. LOW. Strike it sure now.
LOW. I warrant thee, sweet Kate; choose your best——
[161]
[_Exit_ MIS. LOW-WATER.
_Enter_ BEVERIL.
BEV. Who’s there?
LOW. O sir, is’t you? you’re welcome then;
My lady still expects you, sir.
BEV. Who’s with her?
LOW. Not any creature living, sir.
BEV. Drink that; [_Giving money._
I’ve made thee wait too long.
LOW. It does not seem so
Now, sir. Sir, if a man tread warily,
As any wise man will, how often may he come
To a lady’s chamber, and be welcome to her!
BEV. Thou giv’st me learnèd counsel for a closet.
LOW. Make use on’t, sir, and you shall find no loss
in’t.
[BEVERIL _goes into_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE’S _bed-chamber_.
So, you are surely in, and you must under.
_Re-enter_ MIS. LOW-WATER, _with_ SIR O. TWILIGHT, LADY
TWILIGHT, SUNSET, _Dutch Merchant_, GRACE, JANE,
PHILIP TWILIGHT, SANDFIELD, SAVOURWIT, _and
Servants_.
MIS. LOW. Pardon my rude disturbance, my wrongs urge
it;
I did but try the plainness of her mind,
Suspecting she dealt cunningly with my youth,
And told her the first night I would not know her;
But minding to return, I found the door
Warded suspiciously, and I heard a noise,
Such as fear makes and guiltiness at th’ approaching
Of an unlook’d-for husband.
ALL. This is strange, sir.
MIS. LOW. Behold, it’s barr’d; I must not be kept out.
SIR O. TWI. There is no reason, sir.
MIS. LOW. I’ll be resolv’d[162] in’t:
If you be sons of honour, follow me!
[_Rushes into the bed-chamber, followed by_ SIR
OLIVER TWILIGHT, SUNSET, _&c._
SAV. Then must I stay behind; for I think I was begot i’
the woodyard, and that makes every thing go so hard with
me.
MIS. LOW. [_within_] That’s he; be sure on him.
_Re-enter confusedly_ MIS. LOW-WATER, SIR OLIVER
TWILIGHT, SUNSET, _&c._, LADY GOLDENFLEECE _and_
BEVERIL.
SIR O. TWI. Be not so furious, sir.
MIS. LOW. She whisper’d to him to slip into her
closet.—
What, have I taken you? is not my dream true now?
Unmerciful adultress, the first night!
SIR O. TWI. Nay, good sir, patience.
MIS. LOW. Give me the villain’s heart,
That I may throw’t into her bosom quick!
There let the lecher pant.
L. TWI. Nay, sweet sir——
MIS. LOW. Pardon me,
His life’s too little for me.
L. GOLD. How am I wrongfully sham’d!—Speak your
intent, sir,
Before this company; I pursue no pity.
MIS. LOW. This is a fine thievish juggling, gentlemen,
She asks her mate that shares in guilt with her;
Too gross, too gross!
BEV. Rash mischief! [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. Treacherous sir,
Did I for this cast a friend’s arm about thee,
Gave thee the welcome of a worthy spirit,
And lodg’d thee in my house, nay, entertain’d thee
More like a natural brother than a stranger?
And have I this reward? perhaps the pride
Of thy good parts did lift thee to this impudence;
Let her make much on ’em, she gets none of me:
Because thou’rt deeply read in most books else,
Thou wouldst be so in mine; there it stands for thee,
Turn o’er the leaves, and where you left, go forward;
To me it shall be like the book of fate,
Ever claspt up.
SIR O. TWI. O dear sir, say not so!
MIS. LOW. Nay, I’ll swear more; for ever I refuse[163]
her;
I’ll never set a foot into her bed,
Never perform the duty of man to her,
So long as I have breath.
SIR O. TWI. What an oath was there, sir!
Call it again.
MIS. LOW. I knew, by amorous sparks struck from their
eyes,
The fire would appear shortly in a blaze,
And now it flames indeed.—Out of my house,
And take your gentleman of good parts along with you!
That shall be all your substance; he can live
In any emperor’s court in Christendom:
You knew[164] what you did, wench, when you chose him
To thrust out me; you have no[165] politic love!
You are to learn to make your market, you!
You can choose wit, a burden light and free,
And leave the grosser element with me,
Wealth, foolish trash; I thank you. Out of my doors!
SIR O. TWI. Nay, good sir, hear her.
L. TWI. } Sweet sir——
SUN. }
MIS. LOW. Pray, to your chambers, gentlemen; I should
be here
Master of what is mine.
SIR O. TWI. Hear her but speak, sir.
MIS. LOW. What can she speak but woman’s common
language?
She’s sorry and asham’d for’t,—that helps nothing.
L. GOLD. Sir, since it is the hard hap of my life
To receive injury where I plac’d my love——
MIS. LOW. Why, la, I told you what escapes she’d have!
SIR O. TWI. Nay, pray, sir, hear her forward.
L. GOLD. Let our parting
Be full as charitable as our meeting was;
That the pale, envious world, glad of the food
Of others’ miseries, civil dissensions,
And nuptial strifes, may not feed fat with ours;
But since you are resolv’d so wilfully
To leave my bed, and ever to refuse me—
As by your rage I find it your desire,
Though all my actions deserve nothing less—
Here are our friends, men both of worth and wisdom;
Place so much power in them, to make an evenness
Between my peace and yours: all my wealth within doors,
In gold and jewels, lie[s] in those two caskets
I lately led you to, the value of which
Amounts to some five thousand [pounds] a-piece;
Exchange a charitable hand with me,
And take one casket freely,—fare thee well, sir.
SIR O. TWI. How say you to that now?
MIS. LOW. Troth, I thank her, sir!
Are not both mine already? you shall wrong me,
And then make satisfaction with mine own!
I cannot blame you,—a good course for you!
L. GOLD. I knew[166] ’twas not my luck to be so happy;
My miseries are no starters; when they come,
Stick longer by me.
SIR O. TWI. Nay, but give me leave, sir,
The wealth comes all by her.
MIS. LOW. So does the shame,
Yet that’s most mine; why should not that be too?
SIR O. TWI. Sweet sir, let us rule[167] so much with
you;
Since you intend an obstinate separation,
Both from her bed and board, give your consent
To some agreement reasonable and honest.
MIS. LOW. Must I deal honestly with her lust?
L. TWI. Nay, good sir——
MIS. LOW. Why, I tell you, all the wealth her husband
left her
Is not of power to purchase the dear peace
My heart has lost in these adulterous seas;
Yet let her works be base, mine shall be noble.
SIR O. TWI. That’s the best word of comfort I heard
yet.
MIS. LOW. Friends may do much.—Go, bring those caskets
forth.— [_Exeunt two Servants._
I hate her sight; I’ll leave her, though I lose by’t.
SIR O. TWI. Spoke like a noble gentleman, i’faith!
I’ll honour thee for this.
BEV. O cursed man!
Must thy rash heat force this division? [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. You shall have free leave now, without all
fear;
You shall not need oil’d hinges, privy passages,
Watchings and whisperings; take him boldly to you.
L. GOLD. O that I had that freedom! since my shame
Puts by all other fortunes, and owns him,
A worthy gentleman: if this cloud were past him,
I’d marry him, were’t but to spite thee only,
So much I hate thee now.
_Re-enter Servants with two caskets, followed by_ SIR
GILBERT LAMBSTONE, WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_
OVERDONE.
SIR O. TWI. Here come the caskets, sir; hold your good
mind now,
And we shall make a virtuous end between you.
MIS. LOW. Though nothing less she merit but a curse,
That might still hang upon her and consume her still,
As’t has been many a better woman’s fortune,
That has deserv’d less vengeance and felt more,
Yet my mind scorns to leave her shame so poor.
SIR O. TWI. Nobly spoke still!
SIR G. LAMB. This strikes me into music; ha, ha!
PEP. Parting of goods before the bodies join!
WEA. This ’tis to marry beardless, domineering boys; I
knew ’twould come to this pass: well fare a just almanac
yet; for now is Mercury going into the second house near
unto Ursa Major, that great hunks, the Bear at the
Bridge-foot in heaven,[168] which shews horrible
bear-baitings in wedlock; and the Sun near entering into
the Dog, sets ’em all together by the ears.
SIR O. TWI. You see what’s in’t.
MIS. LOW. I think ’tis as I left it.
L. GOLD. Then do but gage your faith to this assembly,
That you will ne’er return more to molest me,
But rest in all revenges full appeas’d
And amply satisfied with that half my wealth,
And take’t as freely as life wishes health!
SIR O. TWI. La, you, sir! come, come, faith, you shall
swear that.
MIS. LOW. Nay, gentlemen,
For your sakes now I will deal fairly with her.
SIR O. TWI. I would we might see that, sir!
MIS. LOW. I could set her free;
But now I think on’t, she deserves it not.
SUN. Nay, do not check your goodness; pray, sir, on
with’t.
MIS. LOW. I could release her ere I parted with her—
But ’twere a courtesy ill plac’d—and set her
At as free liberty to marry again
As you all know she was before I knew her.
SIR O. TWI. What, couldst thou, sir?
MIS. LOW. But ’tis too good a blessing for her;—
Up with the casket, sirrah.
L. GOLD. O sir, stay!
MIS. LOW. I’ve nothing to say to you.
SIR O. TWI. Do you hear, sir?
Pray, let’s have one word more with you for our money.
L. GOLD. Since you’ve expos’d me to all shame and
sorrow,
And made me fit but for one hope and fortune,
Bearing my former comforts away with you,
Shew me a parting charity but in this,—
For all my losses pay me with that freedom,
And I shall think this treasure as well given
As ever ’twas ill got.
MIS. LOW. I might afford it you,
Because I ne’er mean to be more troubled with you;
But how shall I be sure of the honest use on’t,
How you’ll employ that liberty? perhaps sinfully,
In wantonness unlawful, and I answer for’t;
So I may live a bawd to your loose works still,
In giving ’em first vent; not I, shall pardon me;
I’ll see you honestly join’d ere I release you;
I will not trust you, for the last trick you play’d me:
Here’s your old suitors.
PEP. Now we thank you, sir.
WEA. My almanac warns me from all cuckoldy
conjunctions.
L. GOLD. Be but commander of your word now, sir,
And before all these gentlemen, our friends,
I’ll make a worthy choice.
SUN. Fly not ye back now.
MIS. LOW. I’ll try thee once: I’m married to another,
There’s thy release.
SIR O. TWI. Hoyday! there’s a release with a witness!
Thou’rt free, sweet wench.
L. GOLD. Married to another!
Then, in revenge to thee,[169]
To vex thine eyes, ’cause thou hast mock’d my heart,
And with such treachery repaid my love,
This is the gentleman I embrace and choose.
[_Taking_ BEVERIL _by the hand_.
MIS. LOW. O torment to my blood, mine enemy!
None else to make thy choice of but the man
From whence my shame took head!
L. GOLD. ’Tis done to quit[170] thee;
Thou that wrong’st woman’s love, her hate can fit thee.
SIR O. TWI. Brave wench, i’faith! now thou’st an
honest gentleman,
Rid of a swaggering knave, and there’s an end on’t;
A man of good parts, this t’other had nothing.
Life, married to another!
SIR G. LAMB. O, brave rascal, with two wives!
WEA. Nay, and[171] our women be such subtle animals,
I’ll lay wait at the carrier’s for a country
chamber-maid, and live still a bachelor. When wives are
like almanacs, we may have every year a new one, then
I’ll bestow my money on ’em; in the meantime I’ll give
’em over, and ne’er trouble my almanac about ’em.
SIR G. LAMB. I come in a good time to see you hang’d,
sir,
And that’s my comfort; now I’ll tickle you, sir.
MIS. LOW. You make me laugh indeed.
SIR G. LAMB. Sir, you remember
How cunningly you chok’d me at the banquet
With a fine bawdy letter?
MIS. LOW. Your own fist, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. I’ll read the statute-book to you now
for’t;
Turn to the act[172] in _anno Jac. primo_,
There lies a halter for your windpipe.
MIS. LOW. Fie, no!
SIR O. TWI. Faith, but you’ll find it so, sir, an’t be
follow’d.
WEA. So says my almanac, and he’s a true man:
Look you; [_reads_] _The thirteenth day, work for the
hangman_.
MIS. LOW. The fourteenth day, make haste,—’tis time
you were there then.
WEA. How! is the book so saucy to tell me so?
BEV. Sir, I must tell you now, but without gall,
The law would hang you, if married to another.
MIS. LOW. You can but put me to my book, sweet
brother,
And I’ve my neck-verse[173] perfect here and here:
Heaven give thee eternal joy, my dear, sweet brother!
[_Discovering herself, and embracing_ BEVERIL:
LOW-WATER _also discovers himself_.
SIR O. TWI. } Who’s here?
L. TWI., _&c._ }
SIR G. LAMB. O devil! herself! did she betray me?
A pox of shame, nine coaches shall not stay me!
[_Exit._
BEV. I’ve two such deep healths in two joys to pledge,
Heaven keep me from a surfeit!
SIR O. TWI. Mistress Low-water!
Is she the jealous cuckold all this coil’s about?—
And my right worshipful serving-man, is’t you, sir?
LOW. A poor, wrong’d gentleman, glad to serve for his
own, sir.
SIR O. TWI. By my faith,
You’ve serv’d the widow a fine trick between you.
MIS. LOW. No more my enemy now, my brother’s wife
And my kind sister.
SIR O. TWI. There’s no starting now from’t:
’Tis her own brother; did not you know that?
L. GOLD. ’Twas never told me yet.
SIR O. TWI. I thought y’had known’t.
MIS. LOW. What matter is’t? ’tis the same man was
chose still,
No worse now than he was. I’m bound to love you;
You’ve exercis’d[174] in this a double charity,
Which, to your praise, shall to all times be known,
Advanc’d my brother, and restor’d mine own,
Nay, somewhat for my wrongs, like a good sister—
For well you know the tedious suit did cost
Much pains and fees; I thank you, ’tis not lost—
You wish’d for love, and, faith, I have bestow’d you
Upon a gentleman that does dearly love you;
That recompence I’ve made you; and you must think,
madam,
I lov’d you well—though I could never ease you—
When I fetch’d in my brother thus to please you.
SIR O. TWI. Here’s unity for ever strangely wrought!
L. GOLD. I see, too late, there is a heavy judgment
Keeps company with extortion and foul deeds,
And, like a wind which vengeance has in chase,
Drives back the wrongs into the injurer’s face:
My punishment is gentle; and to shew
My thankful mind for’t, thus I’ll revenge this,
With an embracement here, and here a kiss.
[_Embraces_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER _and kisses_
BEVERIL.
SIR O. TWI. Why, now the bells they go trim, they go
trim.—
I wish’d thee, sir, some unexpected blessing,
For my wife’s ransom, and ’tis faln upon thee.
WEA. A pox of this! my almanac ne’er gulled me till this
hour: the thirteenth day, work for the hangman, and
there’s nothing toward it. I’d been a fine ass if I’d
given twelvepence for a horse to have rid to Tyburn
to-morrow. But now I see the error, ’tis false-figured;
it should be, thirteen days and a half, work for the
hangman, for he ne’er works under thirteenpence
halfpenny; beside, Venus being a spot in the sun’s
garment, shews there should be a woman found in
hose[175] and doublet.
SIR O. TWI. Nay, faith, sweet wife, we’ll make no more
hours on’t now, ’tis as fine a contracting time as ever
came amongst gentlefolks.—Son Philip, master Sandfield,
come to the book here.
PHIL. Now I’m wak’d
Into a thousand miseries and their torments.
SAV. And I come after you, sir, drawn with wild horses;
there will be a brave show on’s anon, if this weather
continue.
SIR O. TWI. Come, wenches, where be these young
gen[tle]men’s hands now?
L. TWI. Poor gentleman, my son! [_Aside._]—Some other
time, sir.
SIR O. TWI. I’ll have’t now, i’faith, wife.
L. GOLD. What are you making here?
SIR O. TWI. I’ve sworn, sweet madam,
My son shall marry master Sunset’s daughter,
And master Sandfield mine.
L. GOLD. So you go well, sir;
But what make you this way then?
SIR O. TWI. This? for my son.
L. GOLD. O back, sir, back! this is no way for him.
SUNSET. } How!
SIR O. TWI. }
L. GOLD. O, let me break an oath, to save two souls,
Lest I should wake another judgment greater!
You come not here for him, sir.
SIR O. TWI. What’s the matter?
L. GOLD. Either give me free leave to make this match,
Or I’ll forbid the banes.[176]
SIR O. TWI. Good madam, take it.
L. GOLD. Here, master Sandfield, then——
SIR O. TWI. Cuds bodkins!
L. GOLD. Take you this maid.
[_Giving_ JANE _to_ SANDFIELD.
SAND. You could not please me better, madam.
SIR O. TWI. Hoyday! is this your hot love to my
daughter, sir?
L. GOLD. Come hither, Philip; here’s a wife for you.
[_Giving_ GRACE _to_ PHILIP TWILIGHT.
SIR O. TWI. Zouns, he shall ne’er do that; marry his
sister!
L. GOLD. Had he been rul’d by you, he had married her,
But now he marries master Sunset’s daughter,
And master Sandfield yours: I’ve sav’d your oath sir.
PHIL. O may this blessing hold!
SAV. Or else all the liquor runs out.
SIR O. TWI. What riddle’s this, madam?
L. GOLD. A riddle of some fourteen years of age now.—
You can remember, madam, that your daughter
Was put to nurse to master Sunset’s wife.
L. TWI. True, that we talk’d on lately.
SIR O. TWI. I grant that, madam.
L. GOLD. Then you shall grant what follows: at that
time,
You likewise know, old master Sunset here
Grew backward in the world, till his last fortunes
Rais’d him to this estate.
SIR O. TWI. Still this we know too.
L. GOLD. His wife, then nurse both to her own and
yours,
And both so young, of equal years, and daughters,
Fearing the extremity of her fortunes then
Should fall upon her infant, to prevent it,
She chang’d the children, kept your daughter with her,
And sent her own to you for better fortunes.
So long, enjoin’d by solemn oath unto’t
Upon her deathbed, I have conceal’d this;
But now so urg’d, here’s yours, and this is his.
SAV. Whoop, the joy is come of our side!
WEA. Hey! I’ll cast mine almanac to the moon too, and
strike out a new one for next year.
PHIL. It wants expression, this miraculous blessing!
SAV. Methinks I could spring up and knock my head
Against yon silver ceiling now for joy!
WEA. By my faith, but I do not mean to follow you there,
so I may dash out my brains against Charles’ wain, and
come down as wise as a carman.
SIR O. TWI. I never wonder’d yet with greater
pleasure.
L. TWI. What tears have I bestow’d on a lost daughter,
And left her [here] behind me!
L. GOLD. This is Grace,
This Jane; now each has her right name and place.
SUN. I never heard of this.
L. GOLD. I’ll swear you did not, sir.
SIR O. TWI. How well I’ve kept mine oath against my
will!
Clap hands, and joy go with you! well said, boys!
PHIL. How art thou blest from shame, and I from ruin!
[_To_ GRACE.
SAV. I from the baker’s ditch, if I’d seen you in.
PHIL. Not possible the whole world to match again
Such grief, such joy, in minutes lost and won!
BEV. Who ever knew more happiness in less compass?
Ne’er was poor gentleman so bound to a sister
As I am, for the weakness[177] of thy mind;
Not only that thy due, but all our wealth
Shall lie as open as the sun to man,
For thy employments; so the charity
Of this dear bosom bids me tell thee now.
MIS. LOW. I am her servant for’t.
L. GOLD. Hah, worthy sister!
The government of all I bless thee with.
BEV. Come, gentlemen, on all perpetual friendship.
Heaven still relieves what misery would destroy;
Never was night yet of more general joy.
[_Exeunt omnes._
EPILOGUE
_Spoken by_ WEATHERWISE.
Now, let me see, what weather shall we have now?
Hold fair now, and I care not [_looking at almanac_]:
mass, full moon too
Just between five and six this afternoon!
This happens right; [_reads_] _the sky for the best part
clear,
Save here and there a cloud or two dispers’d_,—
That’s some dozen of panders and half a score
Pickpockets, you may know them by their whistle;
And they do well to use that while they may,
For Tyburn cracks the pipe and spoils the music.
What says the destiny of the hour this evening?
Hah, [_reads_] _fear no colours_! by my troth, agreed
then;
The red and white looks cheerfully; for, know ye all,
The planet’s Jupiter, you should be jovial;
There’s nothing lets[178] it but the Sun i’ the Dog:
Some bark in corners that will fawn and cog,[179]
Glad of my fragments for their ember-week;
The sign’s in Gemini too, both hands should meet,
There should be noise i’ th’ air, if all things hap,
Though I love thunder when you make the clap.
Some faults perhaps have slipt, I am to answer:[180]
And if in any thing your revenge appears,
Send me in with all your fists about mine ears.