Thou shalt have all when I die; and that will be

Even just at twelve a’ clock at night come three year.

FIRE. And may you not have one a’ clock in to th’ dozen,

mother?

HEC. No.

FIRE. Your spirits are, then, more unconscionable than

bakers. You’ll have lived then, mother, sixscore year

to the hundred; and, methinks, after sixscore years,

the devil might give you a cast, for he’s a fruiterer

too, and has been from the beginning; the first apple

that e’er was eaten came through his fingers: the

costermonger’s,[496] then, I hold to be the ancientest

trade, though some would have the tailor pricked down

before him.

HEC. Go, and take heed you shed not by the way;

The hour must have her portion: ’tis dear sirup;

Each charmed drop is able to confound

A family consisting of nineteen

Or one-and-twenty feeders.

FIRE. Marry, here’s stuff indeed!

Dear sirup call you it? a little thing

Would make me give you a dram on’t in a posset,

And cut you three years shorter. [_Aside._

HEC. Thou art now

About some villany.

FIRE. Not I, forsooth.—

Truly the devil’s in her, I think: how one villain

smells out another straight! there’s no knavery but is

nosed like a dog, and can smell out a dog’s meaning.

[_Aside._]—Mother, I pray, give me leave to ramble

abroad to-night with the Nightmare, for I have a great

mind to overlay a fat parson’s daughter.

HEC. And who shall lie with me, then?

FIRE. The great cat

For one night, mother; ’tis but a night:

Make shift with him for once.

HEC. You’re a kind son!

But ’tis the nature of you all, I see that;

You had rather hunt after strange women still

Than lie with your own mothers. Get thee gone;

Sweat thy six ounces out about the vessel,

And thou shalt play at midnight; the Nightmare

Shall call thee when it walks.

FIRE. Thanks, most sweet mother. [_Exit._

HEC. Urchins, Elves, Hags, Satyrs, Pans, Fawns,

Sylvans,[497] Kitt-with-the-candlestick, Tritons,

Centaurs,

Dwarfs, Imps, the Spoo[r]n, the Mare, the

Man-i’-th’-oak, the Hellwain, the Fire-drake, the

Puckle! A ab hur hus!

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN.

SEB. Heaven knows with what unwillingness and hate

I enter this damn’d place: but such extremes

Of wrongs in love fight 'gainst religion’s knowledge,

That were I led by this disease to deaths

As numberless as creatures that must die,

I could not shun the way. I know what ’tis

To pity madmen now; they’re wretched things

That ever were created, if they be

Of woman’s making, and her faithless vows.

I fear they’re now a-kissing: what’s a’clock?

’Tis now but supper-time; but night will come,

And all new-married couples make short suppers.—

Whate’er thou art, I’ve no spare time to fear thee;

My horrors are so strong and great already,

That thou seemest nothing. Up, and laze not:

Hadst thou my business, thou couldst ne’er sit so;

'Twould firk thee into air a thousand mile,

Beyond thy ointments. I would I were read

So much in thy black power as[498] mine own griefs!

I’m in great need of help; wilt give me any?

HEC. Thy boldness takes me bravely; we’re all sworn

To sweat for such a spirit: see, I regard thee;

I rise and bid thee welcome. What’s thy wish now?

SEB. O, my heart swells with’t! I must take breath

first.

HEC. Is’t to confound some enemy on the seas?

It may be done to-night: Stadlin’s within;[499]

She raises all your sudden ruinous storms,

That shipwreck barks, and tear[500] up growing oaks,

Fly over houses, and take _Anno Domini_[501]

Out of a rich man’s chimney—a sweet place for’t!

He’d be hang’d ere he would set his own years there;

They must be chamber’d in a five-pound picture,

A green silk curtain drawn before the eyes on’t;

His rotten, diseas’d years!—or dost thou envy

The fat prosperity of any neighbour?

I’ll call forth Hoppo, and her incantation

Can straight destroy the young of all his cattle;

Blast vineyards, orchards, meadows; or in one night

Transport his dung, hay, corn, by reeks,[502] whole

stacks,

Into thine own ground.

SEB. This would come most richly now

To many a country grazier; but my envy

Lies not so low as cattle, corn, or vines:

'Twill trouble your best powers to give me ease.

HEC. Is it to starve up generation?

To strike a barrenness in man or woman?

SEB. Hah!

HEC. Hah, did you feel me there? I knew your grief.

SEB. Can there be such things done?

HEC. Are these the skins

Of serpents? these of snakes?

SEB. I see they are.

HEC. So sure into what house these are convey’d,

[_Giving serpent-skins, &c. to_ SEBASTIAN.

Knit with these charms[503] and retentive knots,

Neither the man begets nor woman breeds,

No, nor performs the least desires of wedlock,

Being then a mutual duty. I could give thee

Chirocineta,[504] adincantida,

Archimedon, marmaritin, calicia,

Which I could sort to villanous barren ends;

But this leads the same way. More I could instance;

As, the same needles thrust into their pillows

That sew and sock[505] up dead men in their sheets;

A privy gristle of a man that hangs

After sunset; good, excellent; yet all’s there, sir.

SEB. You could not do a man that special kindness

To part 'em utterly now? could you do that?

HEC. No, time must do’t: we cannot disjoin wedlock;

’Tis of heaven’s fastening. Well may we raise jars,

Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements,

Like a thick scurf o’er life, as did our master

Upon that patient miracle;[506] but the work itself

Our power cannot disjoint.

SEB. I depart happy

In what I have then, being constrain’d to this.—

And grant, you greater powers that dispose men,

That I may never need this hag agen![507]

[_Aside, and exit._

HEC. I know he loves me not,[508] nor there’s no hope

on’t;

’Tis for the love of mischief I do this,

And that we’re sworn to the first oath we take.

_Re-enter_ FIRESTONE.

FIRE. O mother, mother!

HEC. What’s the news with thee now?

FIRE. There’s the bravest[509] young gentleman within,

and the fineliest drunk! I thought he would have fallen

into the vessel; he stumbled at a pipkin of child’s

grease; reeled against Stadlin, overthrew her, and in

the tumbling-cast struck up old Puckle’s heels with her

clothes over her ears.

HEC. Hoyday!

FIRE. I was fain to throw the cat upon her to save her

honesty, and all little enough; I cried out still, I

pray, be covered.[510] See where he comes now, mother.

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

ALM. Call you these witches? they be tumblers,

methinks,

Very flat tumblers.

HEC. ’Tis Almachildes—fresh blood stirs in me—

The man that I have lusted to enjoy;

I’ve had him thrice in incubus already. [_Aside._

ALM. Is your name Goody Hag?

HEC. ’Tis any thing:

Call me the horrid’st and unhallow’d things

That life and nature tremble[511] at, for thee

I’ll be the same. Thou com’st for a love-charm now?

ALM. Why, thou’rt a witch, I think.

HEC. Thou shalt have choice of twenty, wet or dry.

ALM. Nay, let’s have dry ones.

HEC. If thou wilt use’t by way of cup and potion,

I’ll give thee a remora shall bewitch her straight.

ALM. A remora? what’s that?

HEC. A little suck-stone;

Some call it a sea-lamprey, a small fish.

ALM. And must be butter’d?

HEC. The bones of a green frog too, wondrous precious,

The flesh consum’d by pismires.

ALM. Pismires? give me a chamber-pot!

FIRE. You shall see him go nigh to be so unmannerly,

he’ll make water before my mother anon. [_Aside._

ALM. And now you talk of frogs, I’ve somewhat here;

I come not empty-pocketed from a banquet,

I learn’d that of my haberdasher’s wife:

Look, goody witch, there’s a toad in marchpane[512] for

you.

[_Gives marchpane._

HEC. O sir, you’ve fitted me!

ALM. And here’s a spawn or two

Of the same paddock-brood too, for your son.

[_Gives other pieces of marchpane._

FIRE. I thank your worship, sir: how comes your

handkercher

So sweetly thus beray’d?[513] sure ’tis wet sucket,[514]

sir.

ALM. ’Tis nothing but the sirup the toad spit;

Take all, I prithee.

HEC. This was kindly done, sir;

And you shall sup with me to-night for this.

ALM. How? sup with thee? dost think I’ll eat fried

rats

And pickled spiders?

HEC. No; I can command, sir,

The best meat i’ th’ whole province for my friends,

And reverently serv’d in too.

ALM. How?

HEC. In good fashion.

ALM. Let me but see that, and I’ll sup with you.

[HECATE _conjures; and enter a Cat playing on a fiddle,

and Spirits with meat._

The Cat and Fiddle’s an excellent ordinary:

You had a devil once in a fox-skin?

HEC. O, I have him still: come, walk with me, sir.

[_Exeunt all except_ FIRESTONE.

FIRE. How apt and ready is a drunkard now to reel to the

devil! Well, I’ll even in and see how he eats; and I’ll

be hanged if I be not the fatter of the twain with

laughing at him. [_Exit._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_A Hall in_ ANTONIO’S _House_.

_Enter_ ANTONIO _and_ GASPARO.

GAS. Good sir, whence springs this sadness? trust me,

sir,

You look not like a man was married yesterday:

There could come no ill tidings since last night

To cause that discontent. I was wont to know all,

Before you had a wife, sir: you ne’er found me

Without those parts of manhood, trust and secrecy.

ANT. I will not tell thee this.

GAS. Not your true servant, sir?

ANT. True? you’ll all flout according to your talent,

The best a man can keep of you; and a hell ’tis

For masters to pay wages to be laugh’d at.

Give order that two cocks be boil’d to jelly.

GAS. How? two cocks boil’d to jelly?

ANT. Fetch half an ounce of pearl. [_Exit._

GAS. This is a cullis[515]

For a consumption; and I hope one night

Has not brought you to need the cook already,

And some part of the goldsmith: what, two trades

In four-and-twenty hours, and less time?

Pray heaven, the surgeon and the pothecary

Keep out! and then ’tis well. You’d better fortune,

As far as I see, with your strumpet sojourner,

Your little four nobles[516] a-week: I ne’er knew you

Eat one panado[517] all the time you’ve kept her;

And is’t in one night now come up to two cockbroth[s]?

I wonder at the alteration strangely.

_Enter_ FRANCISCA.

FRAN. Good morrow, Gaspar.

GAS. Your hearty wishes, mistress,

And your sweet dreams come upon you!

FRAN. What’s that, sir?

GAS. In a good husband; that’s my real meaning.

FRAN. Saw you my brother lately?

GAS. Yes.

FRAN. I met him now,

As sad, methought, as grief could make a man:

Know you the cause?

GAS. Not I: I know nothing,

But half an ounce of pearl, and kitchen business,

Which I will see perform’d with all fidelity:

I’ll break my trust in nothing, not in porridge, I.

[_Exit._

FRAN. I have the hardest fortune, I think, of a hundred

gentlewomen:

Some[518] can make merry with a friend seven year,

And nothing seen; as perfect a maid still,

To the world’s knowledge, as she came from rocking.

But ’twas my luck, at the first hour, forsooth,

To prove too fruitful: sure I’m near my time;

I’m yet but a young scholar, I may fail

In my account; but certainly I do not.

These bastards come upon poor venturing gentlewomen ten

to one faster than your legitimate children: if I had

been married, I’ll be hanged if I had been with child so

soon now. When they are our husbands, they’ll be whipt

ere they take such pains as a friend will do; to come by

water to the back-door at midnight, there stay perhaps

an hour in all weathers, with a pair of reeking

watermen laden with bottles of wine, chewets,[519] and

currant-custards. I may curse those egg-pies, they are

meat that help forward too fast.

This hath been usual with me night by night,

Honesty forgive me! when my brother has been

Dreaming of no such juncket; yet he hath far’d

The better for my sake, though he little think

For what, nor must he ever. My friend promis’d me

To provide safely for me, and devise

A means to save my credit here i’ th’ house.

My brother sure would kill me if he knew’t,

And powder up my friend, and all his kindred,

For an East Indian voyage.

_Enter_ ISABELLA.

ISA. Alone, sister?

FRAN. No, there’s another with me, though you see’t

not.—

[_Aside._

Morrow, sweet sister: how have you slept to-night?

ISA. More than I thought I should; I’ve had good rest.

FRAN. I am glad to hear’t.

ISA. Sister, methinks you are too long alone,

And lose much good time, sociable and honest:

I’m for the married life; I must praise that now.

FRAN. I cannot blame you, sister, to commend it;

You’ve happen’d well, no doubt, on a kind husband,

And that’s not every woman’s fortune, sister:

You know if he were any but my brother,

My praises should not leave him yet so soon.

ISA. I must acknowledge, sister, that my life

Is happily blest with him: he is no gamester,[520]

That ever I could find or hear of yet,

Nor midnight surfeiter; he does intend

To leave tobacco too.

FRAN. Why, here’s a husband!

ISA. He saw it did offend me, and swore freely

He’d ne’er take pleasure in a toy[521] again

That should displease me: some knights’ wives in town

Will have great hope, upon his reformation,

To bring their husbands’ breaths into th’ old fashion,

And make 'em kiss like Christians, not like Pagans.

FRAN. I promise you, sister, 'twill be a worthy work

To put down all these pipers; ’tis great pity

There should not be a statute against them,

As against fiddlers.

ISA. These good offices,

If you had a husband, you might exercise,

To th’ good o’ th’ commonwealth, and do much profit:

Beside, it is a comfort to a woman

T’ have children, sister; a great blessing certainly.

FRAN. They will come fast enough.

ISA. Not so fast neither

As they’re still welcome to an honest woman.

FRAN. How near she comes to me! I protest she grates

My very skin. [_Aside._

ISA. Were I conceiv’d with child,

Beshrew my heart, I should be so proud on’t!

FRAN. That’s natural; pride is a kind of swelling:—

But yet I’ve small cause to be proud of mine.

[_Aside._

ISA. You are no good companion for a wife:

Get you a husband; prithee, sister, do,

That I may ask your counsel now and then:

'Twill mend your discourse much; you maids know nothing.

FRAN. No, we are fools; but commonly we prove

Quicker mothers than you that have husbands:—

I’m sure I shall else: I may speak for one. [_Aside._

_Re-enter_ ANTONIO.

ANT. I will not look upon her; I’ll pass by,

And make as though I see her not. [_Aside._

ISA. Why, sir,—

Pray, your opinion, by the way, with leave, sir:

I’m counselling your sister here to marry.

ANT. To marry? soft; the priest is not at leisure yet;

Some five year hence.—Would you fain marry, sister?

FRA. I’ve no such hunger to’t, sir,—for I think

I’ve a good bit that well may stay my stomach,

As well as any that broke fast, a sinner. [_Aside._

ANT. Though she seem tall of growth, she’s short in

years

Of some that seem much lower.—How old, sister?

Not seventeen, for a yard of lawn!

FRAN. Not yet, sir.

ANT. I told you so.

FRAN. I would he’d laid a wager of old shirts rather;

I shall have more need of them shortly; and yet,

A yard of lawn will serve for a christening-cloth;

I’ve use for every thing, as my case stands. [_Aside._

ISA. I care not if I try my voice this morning;

But I have got a cold, sir, by your means.

ANT. I’ll strive to mend that fault.

ISA. I thank you, sir. [_Sings._

_In a maiden-time profest,_

_Then we say that life is best;_

_Tasting once the married life,_

_Then we only praise the wife:_

_There’s but one state more to try,_

_Which makes women laugh or cry—_

_Widow, widow: of these three_

_The middle’s best, and that give me._

ANT. There’s thy reward. [_Kisses her._

ISA. I will not grumble, sir,

Like some musician; if more come, ’tis welcome.

FRAN. Such tricks have[522] made me do all that I have

done:

Your kissing married folks spoil[523] all the maids

That ever live i’ th’ house with 'em. O, here

He comes with his bags and bottles; he was born

To lead poor watermen[524] and I. [_Aside._

_Enter_ ABERZANES, _and Servants carrying baked meats

and bottles_.

ABER. Go, fellows, into th’ larder; let the bake-meats

Be sorted by themselves.

ANT. Why, sir—

ABER. Look the canary-bottles be well stopt;

The three of claret shall be drunk at dinner.

[_Exeunt Servants._

ANT. My good sir, you’re too plenteous of these

courtesies,

Indeed you are; forbear 'em, I beseech ye:

I know no merit in me, but poor love

And a true friend’s well-wishing, that can cause

This kindness in excess.—I’ th’ state that I am,

I shall go near to kick this fellow shortly,

And send him down stairs with his bag and baggage:

Why comes he now I’m married? there’s the point.

[_Aside._

I pray, forbear these things.

ABER. Alas, you know, sir,

These idle toys,[525] which you call courtesies,

They cost me nothing but my servants’ travail!

One office must be kind, sir, to another:

You know the fashion. What! the gentlewoman

Your sister’s sad, methinks.

ANT. I know no cause she has.

FRAN. Nor shall you, by my good will. [_Aside._]

—What do you mean, sir?

Shall I stay here, to shame myself and you?

The time may be to-night, for aught you know.

ABER. Peace; there’s means wrought, I tell thee.

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and Gentleman_.

FRAN. Ay, sir, when?

ANT. How now? what’s he?

ISA. O, this is the man, sir,

I entertain’d this morning for my service;

Please you to give your liking.

ANT. Yes, he’s welcome;

I like him not amiss.—Thou wouldst speak business,

Wouldest thou not?

SEB. Yes; may it please you, sir,

There is a gentleman from the northern parts

Hath brought a letter, as it seems in haste.

ANT. From whom?

GENT. Your bonny lady mother, sir.

[_Giving letter to_ ANTONIO.

ANT. You are kindly welcome, sir: how doth she?

GENT. I left her heal[526] varray well, sir.

ANT. [_reads_] _I pray send your sister down with all

speed to me: I hope it will prove much for her good in

the way of her preferment. Fail me not, I desire you,

son, nor let any excuse of hers withhold her: I have

sent, ready furnished, horse and man for her._

ABER. Now, have I thought upon you?

FRAN. Peace, good sir;

You’re worthy of a kindness another time.

ANT. Her will shall be obey’d.—Sister, prepare

yourself;

You must down with all speed.

FRAN. I know, down I must;

And good speed send me! [_Aside._

ANT. ’Tis our mother’s pleasure.

FRAN. Good sir, write back again, and certify her

I’m at my heart’s wish here; I’m with my friends,

And can be but well, say.

ANT. You shall pardon me, sister;

I hold it no wise part to contradict her,

Nor would I counsel you to’t.

FRAN. ’Tis so uncouth

Living i’ th’ country, now I’m us’d to th’ city,

That I shall ne’er endure’t.

ABER. Perhaps, forsooth,

’Tis not her meaning you shall live there long:

I do not think but after a month or so,

You’ll be sent up again; that’s my conceit.

However, let her have her will.

ANT. Ay, good sir,

Great reason ’tis she should.

ISA. I’m sorry, sister,

’Tis our hard fortune thus to part so soon.

FRAN. The sorrow will be mine.

ANT. Please you walk in, sir;

We’ll have one health unto those northern parts,

Though I be sick at heart.

[_Exeunt_ ANTONIO, ISABELLA, _and Gentleman_.

ABER. Ay, sir, a deep one—

Which you shall pledge too.

FRAN. You shall pardon me;

I have pledg’d one too deep already, sir.

ABER. Peace; all’s provided for: thy wine’s laid in,

Sugar and spice; the place not ten mile hence.

What cause have maids now to complain of men,

When a farm-house can make all whole agen?[527]

[_Exeunt_ ABERZANES _and_ FRANCISCA.

SEB. It takes; has no content: how well she bears it

yet!

Hardly myself can find so much from her

That am acquainted with the cold disease:

O honesty’s a rare wealth in a woman!

It knows no want, at least will express none,

Not in a look. Yet I’m not throughly happy:

His ill does me no good; well may it keep me

From open rage and madness for a time,

But I feel heart’s grief in the same place still.

What makes the greatest torment 'mongst lost souls?

’Tis not so much the horror of their pains,

Though they be infinite, as the loss of joys;

It is that deprivation is the mother

Of all the groans in hell, and here on earth

Of all the red sighs in the hearts of lovers.

Still she’s not mine, that can be no man’s else

Till I be nothing, if religion

Have the same strength for me as 't has for others:

Holy vows, witness that our souls were married!

_Re-enter_ GASPARO, _ushering in Lord Governor attended

by Gentlemen_.

GAS. Where are you, sir? come, pray, give your

attendance;

Here’s my lord governor come.

GOV. Where’s our new kindred?

Not stirring yet, I think.

GAS. Yes, my good lord:

Please you, walk near.

GOV. Come, gentlemen, we’ll enter.

SEB. I ha’ done’t upon a breach; this a less venture.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_A Gallery in the Duke’s House._

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

ALM. What a mad toy[528] took me to sup with witches!

Fie of all drunken humours! by this hand,

I could beat myself when I think on’t: and the rascals

Made me good cheer too; and to my understanding then

Eat some of every dish, and spoil’d the rest:

But coming to my lodging, I remember

I was as hungry as a tirèd foot-post.

What’s this?

[_Takes from his pocket a ribbon._

O, ’tis the charm her hagship gave me

For my duchess’ obstinate woman; round about

A threepenny silk ribbon of three colours,

_Necte tribus nodis ternos Amoretta colores_;

Amoretta! why, there’s her name indeed:

_Necte Amoretta_; again, two boughts,[529]

_Nodo et Veneris dic vincula necte_;

Nay, if Veneris be one, I’m sure there’s no dead flesh

in’t.

If I should undertake to construe this now,

I should make a fine piece of work of it,

For few young gallants are given to good construction

Of any thing, hardly of their best friends’ wives,

Sisters, or nieces. Let me see what I can do now.

_Necte tribus nodis_,—Nick of the tribe of noddies;

_Ternos colores_,—that makes turned colours;

_Nodo et Veneris_,—goes to his venery like a noddy;

_Dic vincula_,—with Dick the vintner’s boy.

Here were a sweet[530] charm now, if this were the

meaning on’t, and very likely to overcome an honourable

gentlewoman. The whorson old hellcat would have given me

the brain of a cat once in my handkercher; I bade her

make sauce with’t, with a vengeance! and a little bone

in the hithermost part of a wolf’s tail; I bade her pick

her teeth with’t, with a pestilence! Nay, this is

somewhat cleanly yet and handsome; a coloured ribbon, a

fine, gentle charm! a man may give’t his sister, his

brother’s wife, ordinarily. See, here she comes,

luckily.

_Enter_ AMORETTA.

AMO. Blest powers, what secret sin have I committed

That still you send this punishment upon me?

ALM. ’Tis but a gentle punishment; so take it.

AMO. Why, sir, what mean you? will you ravish me?

ALM. What, in the gallery, and the sun peep in?

There’s fitter time and place.—

[_As he embraces her, he thrusts the ribbon into her bosom._

’Tis in her bosom now. [_Aside._

AMO. Go, you’re the rudest thing e’er came at court!

ALM. Well, well; I hope you’ll tell me another tale

Ere you be two hours older: a rude thing?

I’ll make you eat your word; I’ll make all split[531]

else.

[_Exit._

AMO. Nay, now I think on’t better, I’m to blame too:

There’s not a sweeter gentleman in court;

Nobly descended too, and dances well.

Beshrew my heart, I’ll take him when there’s time;

He will be catch’d up quickly. The duchess says

Sh’as some employment for him, and has sworn me

To use my best art in’t: life of my joys,

There were good stuff! I will not trust her with him.

I’ll call him back again; he must not keep

Out of my sight so long; I shall grow mad then.

_Enter Duchess._

DUCH. He lives not now to see to-morrow spent,

If this means take effect, as there’s no hardness in’t.

Last night he play’d his horrid game again,

Came to my bed-side at the full of midnight,

And in his hand that fatal, fearful cup;

Wak’d me, and forc’d me pledge him, to my trembling

And my dead father’s scorn: that wounds my sight,

That his remembrance should be rais’d in spite:

But either his confusion or mine ends it.— [_Aside._

O, Amoretta,—hast thou met him yet?

Speak, wench, hast done that for me?

AMO. What, good madam?

DUCH. Destruction of my hopes! dost ask that now?

Didst thou not swear to me, out of thy hate

To Almachildes, thou’dst dissemble him

A loving entertainment, and a meeting

Where I should work my will?

AMO. Good madam, pardon me:

A loving entertainment I do protest

Myself to give him, with all speed I can too;

But, as I’m yet a maid, a perfect one

As the old time was wont to afford, when

There were[532] few tricks and little cunning stirring,

I can dissemble none that will serve your turn;

He must have even a right one and a plain one.

DUCH. Thou mak’st me doubt thy health; speak, art thou

well?

AMO. O, never better! if he would make haste

And come back quickly! he stays now too long.

[_The ribbon falls out of her bosom._

DUCH. I’m quite lost in this woman: what’s that fell

Out of her bosom now? some love-token?

AMO. Nay, I’ll say that for him, he’s the uncivil’st

gentleman,

And every way desertless.

DUCH. Who’s that now

She discommends so fast?

AMO. I could not love him, madam,

Of any man in court.

DUCH. What’s he now, prithee?

AMO. Who should it be but Almachildes, madam?

I never hated man so deeply yet.

DUCH. As Almachildes?

AMO. I am sick, good madam,

When I but hear him nam’d.

DUCH. How is this possible?

But now thou saidst thou lov’dst him, and didst raise

him

'Bove all the court in praises.

AMO. How great people

May speak their pleasure, madam! but surely I

Should think the worse of my tongue while I liv’d then.

DUCH. No longer have I patience to forbear thee,

Thou that retain’st an envious soul to goodness!

He is a gentleman deserves as much

As ever fortune yet bestow’d on man;

The glory and prime lustre of our court;

Nor can there any but ourself be worthy of him:

And take you notice of that now from me,

Say you have warning on’t, if you did love him,

You must not now.

AMO. Let your grace never fear it.

DUCH. Thy name is Amoretta, as ours is;

'Thas made me love and trust thee.

AMO. And my faithfulness

Has appear’d well i’ th’ proof still; has’t not, madam?

DUCH. But if’t fail now, ’tis nothing.

AMO. Then it shall not.

I know he will not be long from fluttering

'Bout this place, now has had a sight of me;

And I’ll perform

In all that I vow’d, madam, faithfully.

DUCH. Then am I blest both in revenge and love,

And thou shalt taste the sweetness. [_Exit._

AMO. What your aims be

I list not to inquire; all I desire

Is to preserve a competent honesty,

Both for mine own and his use that shall have me,

_Re-enter_ ALMACHILDES.

Whose luck soe’er it be. O, he’s return’d already;

I knew he would not fail.

ALM. It works by this time,

Or the devil’s in’t, I think; I’ll ne’er trust witch

else,

Nor sup with 'em this twelvemonth. [_Aside._

AMO. I must soothe him now;

And ’tis great pain to do’t against one’s stomach.

[_Aside._

ALM. Now, Amoretta!

AMO. Now you’re welcome, sir,

If you’d come always thus.

ALM. O, am I so?

Is the case alter’d since?

AMO. If you’d be ru[l']d,

And know your times,'twere somewhat; a great comfort.

'Las, I could be as loving and as venturous

As any woman—we’re all flesh and blood, man—

If you could play the game out modestly,

And not betray your hand. I must have care, sir;

You know I have a marriage-time to come,

And that’s for life: your best folks will be merry,

But look to the main chance, that’s reputation,

And then do what they list.

ALM. Wilt hear my oath?

By the sweet health of youth, I will be careful,

And never prate on’t, nor, like a cunning snarer,

Make thy clipp’d[533] name the bird to call in others.

AMO. Well, yielding then to such conditions

As my poor bashfulness shall require from you,

I shall yield shortly after.

ALM. I’ll consent to 'em;

And may thy sweet humility be a pattern

For all proud women living!

AMO. They’re beholding[534] to you. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_The neighbourhood of Ravenna._

_Enter_ ABERZANES, _and old Woman carrying an infant_.

ABER. So, so, away with him! I love to get 'em,

But not to keep 'em. Dost thou know the house?

OLD WOM. No matter for the house, I know the porch.

ABER. There’s sixpence more for that: away, keep

close.— [_Exit old Woman._

My tailor told me he sent away a maid-servant

Well ballast of all sides within these nine days;

His wife ne’er dream’d on’t; gave the drab ten pounds,

And she ne’er troubles him: a common fashion

He told me ’twas to rid away a scape;

And I have sent him this for’t. I remember

A friend of mine once serv’d a prating tradesman

Just on this fashion, to a hair, in troth.

’Tis a good ease to a man: you can swell a maid up,

And rid her for ten pound; there’s the purse back again,

Whate’er becomes of your money or your maid.

This comes of bragging, now. It’s well for the boy too;

He’ll get an excellent trade by’t; and on Sundays

Go like a gentleman that has pawn’d his rapier:

He need not care what countryman his father was,

Nor what his mother was when he was gotten:

The boy will do well certain: give him grace

To have a quick hand and convey things cleanly!

_Enter_ FRANCISCA.

'Twill be his own another day. O, well said!

Art almost furnish’d? there’s such a toil always

To set a woman to horse, a mighty trouble.

The letter came to your brother’s hands, I know,

On Thursday last by noon: you were expected there

Yesterday night.

FRAN. It makes the better, sir.

ABER. We must take heed we ride through all the

puddles

'Twixt this and that now, that your safeguard[535] there

May be most probably dabbled.

FRAN. Alas, sir,

I never mark’d till now—I hate myself—

How monstrous thin I look!

ABER. Not monstrous neither;

A little sharp i’ th’ nose, like a country woodcock.

FRAN. Fie, fie, how pale I am! I shall betray myself.

I would you’d box me well and handsomely,

To get me into colour.

ABER. Not I, pardon me;

That let a husband do when he has married you:

A friend at court will never offer that.

Come, how much spice and sugar have you left now,

At this poor one month’s voyage?

FRAN. Sure, not much, sir;

I think some quarter of a pound of sugar,

And half an ounce of spice.

ABER. Here’s no sweet charge![536]

And there was thirty pound good weight and true,

Beside what my man stole when 't was a-weighing,

And that was three pound more, I’ll speak with least.

The Rhenish wine, is’t all run out in caudles too?

FRAN. Do you ask that, sir? ’tis of a week’s

departure.

You see what ’tis now to get children, sir.

_Enter Boy._

BOY. Your mares are ready both, sir.

ABER. Come, we’ll up, then.—

Youth, give my sister a straight wand: there’s twopence.

BOY. I’ll give her a fine whip, sir.

ABER. No, no, no;

Though we have both deserv’d it.

BOY. Here’s a new one.

ABER. Prithee, talk to us of no whips, good boy;

My heart aches when I see 'em.—Let’s away. [_Exeunt._

ACT III. SCENE I.

_An Apartment in the Duke’s House._

_Enter Duchess, leading_ ALMACHILDES _blindfold_.

ALM. This you that was a maid? how are you born

To deceive men! I’d thought to have married you:

I had been finely handled, had I not?

I’ll say that man is wise ever hereafter

That tries his wife beforehand. ’Tis no marvel

You should profess such bashfulness, to blind one,

As if you durst not look a man i’ th’ face,

Your modesty would blush so. Why do you not run

And tell the duchess now? go; you should tell all:

Let her know this too.—Why, here’s the plague now:

’Tis hard at first to win 'em; when they’re gotten,

There’s no way to be rid on 'em; they stick

To a man like bird-lime.—My oath is out:

Will you release me? I’ll release myself else.

DUCH. Nay, sure, I’ll bring you to your sight again.

[_Taking off the bandage from his eyes._

Say, thou must either die, or kill the duke;

For one of them thou must do.

ALM. How, good madam?

DUCH. Thou hast thy choice, and to that purpose, sir,

I’ve given thee knowledge now of what thou hast,

And what thou must do, to be worthy on’t.

You must not think to come by such a fortune

Without desert; that were unreasonable.

He that’s not born to honour must not look

To have it come with ease to him; he must win’t.

Take but unto thine actions wit and courage,

That’s all we ask of thee. But if through weakness

Of a poor spirit thou deniest me this,

Think but how thou shalt die! as I’ll work means for’t,

No murderer ever like thee; for I purpose

To call this subtle, sinful snare of mine

An act of force from thee. Thou’rt proud and youthful;

I shall be believ’d: besides, thy wantonness

Is at this hour in question 'mongst our women,

Which will make ill for thee.

ALM. I had hard chance

To light upon this pleasure that’s so costly;

’Tis not content with what a man can do,

And give him breath, but seeks to have that too.

DUCH. Well, take thy choice.

ALM. I see no choice in’t, madam,

For ’tis all death, methinks.

DUCH. Thou’st an ill sight then

Of a young man. ’Tis death if thou refuse it;

And say, my zeal has warn’d thee. But consenting,

'Twill be new life, great honour, and my love,

Which in perpetual bands I’ll fasten to thee.

ALM. How, madam?

DUCH. I’ll do’t religiously;

Make thee my husband; may I lose all sense

Of pleasure in life else, and be more miserable

Than ever creature was! for nothing lives

But has a joy in somewhat.

ALM. Then by all

The hopeful fortunes of a young man’s rising,

I will perform it, madam.

DUCH. There’s a pledge then

Of a duchess’ love for thee; and now trust me

For thy most happy safety. I will choose

That time shall never hurt thee: when a man

Shews resolution, and there’s worth in him,

I’ll have a care of him. Part now for this time;

But still be near about us, till thou canst

Be nearer, that’s ourself.

ALM. And that I’ll venture hard for.

DUCH. Good speed to thee! [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_An Apartment in_ ANTONIO’S _House_.

_Enter_ GASPARO _and_ FLORIDA.

FLO. Prithee, be careful of me, very careful now!

GAS. I warrant you: he that cannot be careful of a

quean, can be careful of nobody; ’tis every man’s humour

that: I should never look to a wife half so handsomely.

FLO. O softly, sweet sir! should your mistress meet me

now

In her own house, I were undone for ever.

GAS. Never fear her: she’s at her prick-song close;

There’s all the joy she has, or takes delight in.

Look, here’s the garden-key, my master gave’t me,

And will’d me to be careful: doubt not you on’t.

FLO. Your master is a noble complete gentleman,

And does a woman all the right that may be.

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN.

SEB. How now? what’s she?

GAS. A kind of doubtful creature:

I’ll tell thee more anon.

[_Exeunt_ GASPARO _and_ FLORIDA.

SEB. I know that face

To be a strumpet’s, or mine eye is envious,

And would fain wish it so where I would have it.

I fail, if the condition[537] of this fellow

Wears not about it a strong scent of baseness.

I saw her once before here, five days since ’tis,

And the same wary panderous diligence

Was then bestow’d on her: she came alter’d then,

And more inclining to the city-tuck.

Whom should this piece of transformation visit,

After the common courtesy of frailty,

In our house here? surely not any servant;

They are not kept so lusty, she so low.

I’m at a strange stand: love and luck assist me!

_Re-enter_ GASPARO.

The truth I shall win from him by false play.

He’s now return’d.—Well, sir, as you were saying,—

Go forward with your tale.

GAS. What? I know nothing.

SEB. The gentlewoman.

GAS. She’s gone out at the back-door now.

SEB. Then farewell she, and you, if that be all.

GAS. Come, come, thou shalt have more: I have no power

To lock myself up from thee.

SEB. So methinks.

GAS. You shall not think, trust me, sir, you shall

not:

Your ear; she’s one o’ th’ falling family,

A quean my master keeps; she lies at Rutney’s.

SEB. Is’t possible? I thought I’d seen her somewhere.

GAS. I tell you truth sincerely. Sh’as been thrice

here

By stealth within these ten days, and departed still

With pleasure and with thanks, sir; ’tis her luck.

Surely I think if ever there were man

Bewitch’d in this world, ’tis my master, sirrah.

SEB. Think’st thou so, Gaspar?

GAS. O sir, too apparent.

SEB. This may prove happy: ’tis the likeliest means

That fortune yet e’er shew’d me. [_Aside._

_Enter_ ISABELLA _with a letter_.

ISA. You’re both here now,

And strangers newly lighted! where’s your attendance?

SEB. I know what makes you waspish: a pox on’t!

She’ll every day be angry now at nothing. [_Aside._

[_Exeunt_ GASPARO _and_ SEBASTIAN.

ISA. I’ll call her stranger ever in my heart:

Sh’as kill’d the name of sister through base lust,

And fled to shifts. O how a brother’s good thoughts

May be beguil’d in woman! here’s a letter,

Found in her absence, reports strangely of her,

And speaks her impudence: sh’as undone herself—

I could not hold from weeping when I read it—

Abus’d her brother’s house and his good confidence.

'Twas done not like herself; I blame her much:

But if she can but keep it from his knowledge,

I will not grieve him first; it shall not come

By my means to his heart.—

_Re-enter_ GASPARO.

Now, sir, the news?

GAS. You call’d 'em strangers; ’tis my master’s

sister, madam.

ISA. O, is it so? she’s welcome: who’s come with her?

GAS. I see none but Aberzanes. [_Exit._

ISA. He’s enough

To bring a woman to confusion,

More than a wiser man or a far greater.

A letter came last week to her brother’s hands,

To make way for her coming up again,

After her shame was lighten’d; and she writ there,

The gentleman her mother wish’d her to,

Taking a violent surfeit at a wedding,

Died ere she came to see him: what strange cunning

Sin helps a woman to! Here she comes now.—

_Enter_ FRANCISCA _and_ ABERZANES.

Sister, you’re welcome home again.

FRAN. Thanks, sweet sister.

ISA. You’ve had good speed.

FRAN. What says she? [_Aside._]—I have made

All the best speed I could.

ISA. I well believe you.—

Sir, we’re all much beholding[538] to your kindness.

ABER. My service ever, madam, to a gentlewoman.

I took a bonny mare I keep, and met her

Some ten mile out of town,—eleven, I think.—

'Twas at the stump I met you, I remember,

At bottom of the hill.

FRAN. 'Twas thereabout, sir.

ABER. Full eleven then, by the rod, if they were

measur’d.

ISA. You look ill, methinks: have you been sick of

late?—

Troth, very bleak, doth she not? how think you, sir?

ABER. No, no; a little sharp with riding; sh’as rid

sore.

FRAN. I ever look lean after a journey, sister;

One shall do that has travell’d, travell’d hard.

ABER. Till evening I commend you to yourselves,

ladies.

[_Exit._

ISA. And that’s best trusting to, if you were hang’d.—

[_Aside._

You’re well acquainted with his hand went out now?

FRAN. His hand?

ISA. I speak of nothing else; I think ’tis there.

[_Giving letter._

Please you to look upon’t; and when you’ve done,

If you did weep, it could not be amiss,

A sign you could say grace after a full meal.

You had not need look paler, yet you do.

'Twas ill done to abuse yourself and us,

To wrong so good a brother, and the thoughts

That we both held of you. I did doubt you much

Before our marriage; but then my strangeness.[539]

And better hope still kept me off from speaking.

Yet may you find a kind and peaceful sister of me,

If you desist here, and shake hands with folly,

Which you ha’ more cause to do than I to wish you.

As truly as I bear a love to goodness,

Your brother knows not yet on’t, nor shall ever

For my part, so you leave his company.

But if I find you impudent in sinning,

I will not keep’t an hour, nay, prove your enemy,

And you know who will aid me. As you’ve goodness,

You may make use of this; I’ll leave it with you.

[_Exit._

FRAN. Here’s a sweet churching after a woman’s labour,

And a fine Give you joy! why, where the devil

Lay you to be found out? the sudden hurry

Of hastening to prevent shame brought shame forth:

That’s still the curse of all lascivious stuff;

Misdeeds could never yet be wary enough.

Now must I stand in fear of every look,

Nay, tremble at a whisper. She can keep it secret?

That’s very likely, and a woman too!

I’m sure I could not do’t; and I am made

As well as she can be for any purpose:

'Twould ne’er stay with me two days—I have cast[540] it—

The third would be a terrible sick day with me,

Not possible to bear it: should I then

Trust to her strength in’t, that lies every night

Whispering the day’s news in a husband’s ear?

No; and I’ve thought upon the means: blest fortune!

I must be quit with her in the same fashion,

Or else ’tis nothing: there is no way like it,

To bring her honesty into question cunningly.

My brother will believe small likelihoods,

Coming from me too. I lying now i’ th’ house

May work things to my will, beyond conceit too:

Disgrace her first, her tale will ne’er be heard;

I learn’d that counsel first of a sound guard.

I do suspect Gaspar, my brother’s squire there,

Had some hand in this mischief, for he’s cunning;

And I perhaps may fit him.

_Enter_ ANTONIO.

ANT. Your sister told me you were come; thou’rt

welcome.

FRAN. Where is she?

ANT. Who, my wife?

FRAN. Ay, sir.

ANT. Within.

FRAN. Not within hearing, think you?

ANT. Within hearing?

What’s thy conceit in that? why shak’st thy head so,

And look’st so pale and poorly?

FRAN. I’m a fool indeed

To take such grief for others; for your fortune, sir.

ANT. My fortune? worse things yet? farewell life then!

FRAN. I fear you’re much deceiv’d, sir, in this woman.

ANT. Who? in my wife? speak low; come hither; softly,

sister.

FRAN. I love her as a woman you made choice of;

But when she wrongs you, natural love is touch’d,

brother,

And that will speak, you know.

ANT. I trust it will.

FRAN. I held a shrewd suspicion of her lightness

At first, when I went down, which made me haste the

sooner;

But more, to make amends, at my return now,

I found apparent signs.

ANT. Apparent, sayst thou?

FRAN. Ay, and of base lust too; that makes th’

affliction.

ANT. There has been villany wrought upon me then;

’Tis too plain now.

FRAN. Happy are they, I say still,

That have their sisters living i’ th’ house with 'em,

Their mothers, or some kindred; a great comfort

To all poor married men; it is not possible

A young wife can abuse a husband then;

’Tis found straight. But swear service to this, brother.

ANT. To this, and all thou wilt have.

FRAN. Then this follows, sir. [_Whispers him._

ANT. I praise thy counsel well; I’ll put’t in use

straight.

See where she comes herself. [_Exit_ FRANCISCA.

_Re-enter_ ISABELLA.

Kind, honest lady,

I must now borrow a whole fortnight’s leave of thee.

ISA. How, sir, a fortnight’s?

ANT. It may be but ten days, I know not yet;

’Tis business for the state, and 't must be done.

ISA. I wish good speed to’t then.

ANT. Why, that was well spoke.

I’ll take but a foot-boy; I need no more;

The rest I’ll leave at home to do you service.

ISA. Use your own pleasure, sir.

ANT. Till my return

You’ll be good company, my sister and you.

ISA. We shall make shift, sir.

ANT. I’m glad now she’s come;

And so the wishes of my love to both!

ISA. And our good prayers with you, sir!

[_Exit_ ANTONIO.

_Re-enter_ SEBASTIAN.

SEB. Now, my fortune!— [_Aside._

By your kind favour, madam.

ISA. With me, sir?

SEB. The words shall not be many, but the faithfulness

And true respect that are[541] included in 'em

Is worthy your attention, and may put upon me

The fair repute of a just, honest servant.

ISA. What’s here to do, sir,

There’s such great preparation toward?

SEB. In brief, that goodness in you is abus’d, madam;

You have the married life, but ’tis a strumpet

That has the joy on’t and the fruitfulness;

There goes away your comfort.

ISA. How? a strumpet?

SEB. Of five years’ cost and upwards, a dear mischief,

As they are all of 'em; his fortnight’s journey

Is to that country: if it be not rudeness

To speak the truth, I’ve found it all out, madam.

ISA. Thou’st found out thine own ruin; for to my

knowledge

Thou dost belie him basely: I dare swear

He’s a gentleman as free from that folly

As ever took religious life upon him.

SEB. Be not too confident to your own abuse, madam.

Since I’ve begun the truth, neither your frowns—

The only curses that I have on earth,

Because my means depend[542] upon your service—

Nor all the execration of man’s fury,

Shall put me off: though I be poor, I’m honest,

And too just in this business. I perceive now

Too much respect and faithfulness to ladies

May be a wrong to servants.

ISA. Art thou yet

So impudent to stand in’t?

SEB. Are you yet so cold, madam,

In the belief on’t? there my wonder’s fix’d;

Having such blessed health and youth about you,

Which makes the injury mighty.

ISA. Why, I tell thee,

It were too great a fortune for thy lowness

To find out such a thing; thou dost not look

As if thou’rt made for’t. By the sweets[543] of love,

I would give half my wealth for such a bargain,

And think 'twere bought too cheap: thou canst not guess

Thy means and happiness, should I find this true.

First, I’d prefer thee to the lord my uncle;

He’s governor of Ravenna, all th’ advancements

I’ th’ kingdom flow[544] from him: what need I boast

that

Which common fame can teach thee?

SEB. Then thus, madam:

Since I presume now on your height of spirit,

And your regard to your own youth and fruitfulness,

Which every woman naturally loves and covets,

Accept but of my labour in directions,

You shall both find your wrongs, which you may right

At your own pleasure, yet not miss’d to-night

Here in the house neither; none shall take notice

Of any absence in you, as I’ve thought on’t.

ISA. Do this, and take my praise and thanks for ever.

SEB. As I deserve, I wish 'em, and will serve you.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Field._

_Enter_ HECATE, STADLIN, HOPPO, _and other Witches_;

FIRESTONE _in the back-ground_.

HEC. The moon’s a gallant; see how brisk she rides!

STAD. Here’s a rich evening, Hecate.

HEC. Ay, is’t not, wenches,

To take a journey of five thousand mile?

HOP. Ours will be more to-night.

HEC. O 'twill be precious!

Heard you the owl yet?[545]

STAD. Briefly in the copse,

As we came through now.

HEC. ’Tis high time for us then.

STAD. There was a bat hung at my lips three times

As we came through the woods, and drank her fill:

Old Puckle saw her.

HEC. You are fortunate still;

The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder

And woos you, like a pigeon. Are you furnish’d?

Have you your ointments?

STAD. All.

HEC. Prepare to flight then;

I’ll overtake you swiftly.

STAD. Hie thee, Hecate;

We shall be up betimes.

HEC. I’ll reach you quickly.

[_Exeunt all the Witches except_ HECATE.

FIRE. They are all going a-birding to-night: they

talk of fowls i’ th’ air that fly by day; I am sure

they’ll be a company of foul sluts there to-night:

if we have not mortality after’t, I’ll be hanged, for

they are able to putrefy it, to infect a whole region.

She spies me now.

HEC. What, Firestone, our sweet son?

FIRE. A little sweeter than some of you, or a dunghill

were too good for me. [_Aside._

HEC. How much hast here?

FIRE. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones,

Besides six lizards and three serpentine eggs.

HEC. Dear and sweet boy! what herbs hast thou?

FIRE. I have some marmartin and mandragon.

HEC. Marmaritin and mandragora, thou wouldst say.

FIRE. Here’s panax too—I thank thee—my pan aches, I’m

sure,

With kneeling down to cut 'em.

HEC. And selago,

Hedge-hyssop too: how near he goes my cuttings!

Were they all cropt by moonlight?

FIRE. Every blade of 'em,

Or I’m a moon-calf, mother.

HEC. Hie thee home with 'em:

Look well to the house to-night; I’m for aloft.

FIRE. Aloft, quoth you? I would you would break your

neck once, that I might have all quickly! [_Aside._]—

Hark, hark, mother! they are above the steeple already,

flying over your head with a noise[546] of musicians.

HEC. They’re they indeed. Help, help me; I’m too late

else.

_Song above._[547]

Come away, come away,

Hecate, Hecate, come away!

HEC. I come, I come, I come, I come,

With all the speed I may,

With all the speed I may.

Where’s Stadlin?

[_Voice above._] Here.

HEC. Where’s Puckle?

[_Voice above._] Here;

And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too;

We lack but you, we lack but you;

Come away, make up the count.

HEC. I will but 'noint, and then I mount.

[_A Spirit like a cat descends._

[_Voice above._] There’s one comes down to fetch his

dues,

A kiss, a coll,[548] a sip of blood;

And why thou stay’st so long

I muse, I muse,

Since the air’s so sweet and good.

HEC. O, art thou come?

What news, what news?

SPIRIT. All goes still to our delight:

Either come, or else

Refuse, refuse.

HEC. Now I’m furnish’d for the flight.

FIRE. Hark, hark, the cat sings a brave treble in

her own language!

HEC. [_going up_] Now I go, now I fly,

Malkin my sweet spirit and I.

O what a dainty pleasure ’tis

To ride in the air

When the moon shines fair,

And sing and dance, and toy and kiss!

Over woods, high rocks, and mountains,

Over seas, our mistress’ fountains,

Over steep[549] towers and turrets,

We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits:

No ring of bells to our ears sounds,

No howls of wolves, no yelps of hounds;

No, not the noise of water’s breach,

Or cannon’s throat our height can reach.

[_Voices above._] No ring of bells, _&c._

FIRE. Well, mother, I thank your kindness: you must be

gambolling i’ th’ air, and leave me to walk here like a

fool and a mortal. [_Exit._

ACT IV. SCENE I.

_An Apartment in the Duke’s House._

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

ALM. Though the fates have endued me with a pretty kind

of lightness, that I can laugh at the world in a corner

on’t, and can make myself merry on fasting nights to rub

out a supper (which were a precious quality in a young

formal student), yet let the world know there is some

difference betwixt my jovial condition and the lunary

state of madness. I am not quite out of my wits: I know

a bawd from an aqua-vitæ shop,[550] a strumpet from

wildfire, and a beadle from brimstone. Now shall I try

the honesty of a great woman soundly. She reckoning the

duke’s made away, I’ll be hanged if I be not the next

now. If I trust her, as she’s a woman, let one of her

long hairs wind about my heart, and be the end of me;

which were a piteous lamentable tragedy, and might be

entituled _A fair Warning for all hair-bracelets_.[551]

Already there’s an insurrection

Among the people; they are up in arms

Not out of any reason, but their wills,

Which are in them their saints, sweating and swearing,

Out of their zeal to rudeness, that no stranger,

As they term her, shall govern over them;

They say they’ll raise a duke among themselves first.

_Enter Duchess._

DUCH. O Almachildes, I perceive already

Our loves are born to curses! we’re beset

By multitudes; and, which is worse, I fear me

Unfriended too of any: my chief care

Is for thy sweet youth’s safety.

ALM. He that believes you not

Goes the right way to heaven, o’ my conscience.

[_Aside._

DUCH. There is no trusting of 'em; they’re all as

barren

In pity as in faith: he that puts confidence

In them, dies openly to the sight of all men,

Not with his friends and neighbours in peace private;

But as his shame, so his cold farewell is,

Public and full of noise. But keep you close, sir,

Not seen of any, till I see the way

Plain for your safety. I expect the coming

Of the lord governor, whom I will flatter

With fair entreaties, to appease their wildness;

And before him take a great grief upon me

For the duke’s death, his strange and sudden loss;

And when a quiet comes, expect thy joys.

ALM. I do expect now to be made away

'Twixt this and Tuesday night: if I live Wednesday,

Say I have been careful, and shunn’d spoon-meat.

[_Aside and exit._

DUCH. This fellow lives too long after the deed;

I’m weary of his sight; he must die quickly,

Or I’ve small hope of safety. My great aim’s

At the lord governor’s love; he is a spirit

Can sway and countenance; these obey and crouch.

My guiltiness had need of such a master,

That with a beck can suppress multitudes,

And dim misdeeds with radiance of his glory,

Not to be seen with dazzled popular eyes:

And here behold him come.

_Enter Lord Governor, attended by Gentlemen._

GOV. Return back to 'em,

Say we desire 'em to be friends of peace

Till they hear farther from us. [_Exeunt Gentlemen._

DUCH. O my lord,

I fly unto the pity of your nobleness,

The grieved’st lady that was e’er beset

With storms of sorrows, or wild rage of people!

Never was woman’s grief for loss of lord

Dearer[552] than mine to me.

GOV. There’s no right done

To him now, madam, by wrong done to yourself;

Your own good wisdom may instruct you so far:

And for the people’s tumult, which oft grows

From liberty, or rankness of long peace,

I’ll labour to restrain, as I’ve begun, madam.

DUCH. My thanks and praises shall ne’er forget you,

sir,

And, in time to come, my love.

GOV. Your love, sweet madam?

You make my joys too happy; I did covet

To be the fortunate man that blessing visits,

Which I’ll esteem the crown and full reward

Of service present and deserts to come:

It is a happiness I’ll be bold to sue for,

When I have set a calm upon these spirits

That now are up for ruin.

DUCH. Sir, my wishes

Are so well met in yours, so fairly answer’d,

And nobly recompens’d, it makes me suffer

In those extremes that few have ever felt;

To hold two passions in one heart at once,

Of gladness and of sorrow.

GOV. Then, as the olive

Is the meek ensign of fair fruitful peace,

So is this kiss of yours.

DUCH. Love’s power be with you, sir!

GOV. How sh’as betray’d her! may I breathe no longer

Than to do virtue service, and bring forth

The fruits of noble thoughts, honest and loyal!

This will be worth th’ observing; and I’ll do’t.

[_Aside and exit._

DUCH. What a sure happiness confirms joy to me,

Now in the times of my most imminent dangers!

I look’d for ruin, and increase of honour

Meets me auspiciously. But my hopes are clogg’d now

With an unworthy weight; there’s the misfortune!

What course shall I take now with this young man?

For he must be no hinderance: I have thought on’t;

I’ll take some witch’s counsel for his end,

That will be sur’st: mischief is mischief’s friend.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.

_An Apartment in_ FERNANDO’S _House_.

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ FERNANDO.

SEB. If ever you knew force of love in life, sir,

Give to mine pity.

FER. You do ill to doubt me.

SEB. I could make bold with no friend seemlier

Than with yourself, because you were in presence

At our vow-making.

FER. I’m a witness to’t.

SEB. Then you best understand, of all men living,

This is no wrong I offer, no abuse

Either to faith or friendship, for we’re register’d

Husband and wife in heaven; though there wants that

Which often keeps licentious men[553] in awe

From starting from their wedlocks, the knot public,

’Tis in our souls knit fast; and how more precious

The soul is than the body, so much judge

The sacred and celestial tie within us

More than the outward form, which calls but witness

Here upon earth to what is done in heaven:

Though I must needs confess the least is honourable;

As an ambassador sent from a king

Has honour by th’ employment, yet there’s greater

Dwells in the king that sent him; so in this.

_Enter_ FLORIDA.

FER. I approve all you speak, and will appear to you

A faithful, pitying friend.

SEB. Look, there is she, sir,

One good for nothing but to make use of;

And I’m constrain’d t’ employ her to make all things

Plain, easy, and probable; for when she comes

And finds one here that claims him, as I’ve taught

Both this to do’t, and he to compound with her,

'Twill stir belief the more of such a business.

FER. I praise the carriage well.

SEB. Hark you, sweet mistress,

I shall do you a simple turn in this;

For she disgrac’d thus, you are up in favour

For ever with her husband.

FLO. That’s my hope, sir,

I would not take the pains else. Have you the keys

Of the garden-side, that I may get betimes in

Closely, and take her lodging?

SEB. Yes, I’ve thought upon you:

Here be the keys. [_Giving keys._

FLO. Marry, and thanks, sweet sir:

Set me to work so still.

SEB. Your joys are false ones,

You’re like to lie alone; you’ll be deceiv’d

Of the bed-fellow you look for, else my purpose

Were in an ill case: he’s on his fortnight’s journey;

You’ll find cold comfort there; a dream will be

Even the best market you can make to-night. [_Aside._

She’ll not be long now: you may lose no time neither;

If she but take you at the door, ’tis enough:

When a suspect doth catch once, it burns mainly.

There may you end your business, and as cunningly

As if you were i’ th’ chamber, if you please

To use but the same art.

FLO. What need you urge that

Which comes so naturally I cannot miss on’t?

What makes the devil so greedy of a soul,

But 'cause has lost his own, to all joys lost?

So ’tis our trade to set snares for other women,

'Cause we were once caught ourselves. [_Exit._

SEB. A sweet allusion!

Hell and a whore it seems are partners then

In one ambition: yet thou’rt here deceiv’d now;

Thou canst set none to hurt or wrong her honour,

It rather makes it perfect. Best of friends

That ever love’s extremities were bless’d with,

I feel mine arms with thee, and call my peace

The offspring of thy friendship. I will think

This night my wedding-night; and with a joy

As reverend as religion can make man’s,

I will embrace this blessing. Honest actions

Are laws unto themselves, and that good fear

Which is on others forc’d, grows kindly there.

[_Knocking within._

FER. Hark, hark! one knocks: away, sir; ’tis she

certainly:

[_Exit_ SEBASTIAN.

It sounds much like a woman’s jealous 'larum.

_Enter_ ISABELLA.

ISA. By your leave, sir.

FER. You’re welcome, gentlewoman.

ISA. Our ladyship then stands us in no stead now.

[_Aside._

One word in private, sir. [_Whispers him._

FER. No, surely, forsooth,

There is no such here, you’ve mistook the house.

ISA. O sir, that have I not; excuse me there,

I come not with such ignorance; think not so, sir.

'Twas told me at the entering of your house here

By one that knows him too well.

FER. Who should that be?

ISA. Nay, sir, betraying is not my profession:

But here I know he is; and I presume

He would give me admittance, if he knew on’t,

As one on’s nearest friends.

FER. You’re not his wife, forsooth?

ISA. Yes, by my faith, am I.

FER. Cry you mercy then, lady.

ISA. She goes here by the name on’s wife: good stuff!

But the bold strumpet never told me that. [_Aside._

FER. We are so oft deceiv’d that let our lodgings,

We know not whom to trust: ’tis such a world,

There are so many odd tricks now-a-days

Put upon housekeepers.

ISA. Why, do you think I’d wrong

You or the reputation of your house?

Pray, shew me the way to him.

FER. He’s asleep, lady,

The curtains drawn about him.

ISA. Well, well, sir,

I’ll have that care I’ll not disease[554] him much,

Tread you but lightly.—O, of what gross falsehood

Is man’s heart made of! had my first love liv’d

And return’d safe, he would have been a light

To all men’s actions, his faith shin’d so bright.

[_Aside, and exit with_ FERNANDO.

_Re-enter_ SEBASTIAN.

SEB. I cannot so deceive her, 'twere too sinful,

There’s more religion in my love than so.

It is not treacherous lust that gives content

T’ an honest mind; and this could prove no better.

Were it in me a part of manly justice,

That have sought strange hard means to keep her chaste

To her first vow, and I t’ abuse her first?

Better I never knew what comfort were

In woman’s love than wickedly to know it.

What could the falsehood of one night avail him

That must enjoy for ever, or he’s lost?

’Tis the way rather to draw hate upon me;

For, known, ’tis as impossible she should love me,

As youth in health to doat upon a grief,

Or one that’s robb’d and bound t’ affect the thief:

No, he that would soul’s sacred comfort win

Must burn in pure love, like a seraphin.

_Re-enter_ ISABELLA.

ISA. Celio!

SEB. Sweet madam?

ISA. Thou hast deluded me;

There’s nobody.

SEB. How? I wonder he would miss, madam,

Having appointed too: 'twere a strange goodness

If heaven should turn his heart now by the way.

ISA. O, never, Celio!

SEB. Yes, I ha’ known the like:

Man is not at his own disposing, madam,

The bless’d powers have provided better for him,

Or he were miserable. He may come yet;

’Tis early, madam: if you would be pleas’d

T’ embrace my counsel, you should see this night over,

Since you’ve bestow’d this pains.

ISA. I intend so.

SEB. That strumpet would be found, else she should go.

I curse the time now I did e’er make use

Of such a plague: sin knows not what it does.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Hall in_ ANTONIO’S _House_.

_Enter_ FRANCISCA _above_.[555]

FRAN. ’Tis now my brother’s time, even much about it;

For though he dissembled a whole fortnight’s absence,

He comes again to-night; ’twas so agreed

Before he went. I must bestir my wits now,

To catch this sister of mine, and bring her name

To some disgrace first, to preserve mine own:

There’s profit in that cunning. She cast off

My company betimes to-night by tricks and slights,[556]

And I was well contented. I’m resolv’d[557]

There’s no hate lost between us; for I know

She does not love me now, but painfully,

Like one that’s forc’d to smile upon a grief,

To bring some purpose forward; and I’ll pay her

In her own metal. They’re now all at rest,

And Gaspar there, and all: list! fast asleep;

He cries it hither: I must disease you straight, sir.

For the maid-servants and the girls o’ th’ house,

I spic’d them lately with a drowsy posset[558]

They will not hear in haste. [_Noise within._] My

brother’s come:

O, where’s this key now for him? here ’tis, happily:

But I must wake him first.—Why, Gaspar, Gaspar!

GAS. [_within_] What a pox gasp you for?

FRAN. Now I’ll throw’t down.

GAS. [_within_] Who’s that call’d me now? somebody

call’d Gaspar?

FRAN. O, up, as thou’rt an honest fellow, Gaspar!

GAS. [_within_] I shall not rise to-night then. What’s

the matter?

Who’s that? young mistress?

FRAN. Ay; up, up, sweet Gaspar!

_Enter_ GASPARO.

My sister hath both knock’d and call’d this hour,

And not a maid will stir.

GAS. They’ll stir enough sometimes.

FRAN. Hark, hark, again! Gaspar, O run, run, prithee!

GAS. Give me leave to clothe myself.

FRAN. Stand’st upon clothing

In an extremity? Hark, hark again!

She may be dead ere thou com’st: O, in quickly!—

[_Exit_ GASPARO.

He’s gone: he cannot choose but be took now,

Or met in his return; that will be enough.—

_Enter_ ANTONIO.

Brother? here, take this light.

ANT. My careful sister!

FRAN. Look first in his own lodging ere you enter.

[_Exit_ ANTONIO.

ANT. [_within_] O abus’d confidence! there’s nothing

of him

But what betrays him more.

FRAN. Then ’tis too true, brother?

ANT. [_within_] I’ll make base lust a terrible

example;

No villany e’er paid dearer.

FLO.[559] [_within_] Help! hold, sir!

ANT. [_within_] I’m deaf to all humanity.

FRAN. List, list!

A strange and sudden silence after all:

I trust has spoil’d 'em both; too dear a happiness!

O how I tremble between doubts and joys!

ANT. [_within_] There perish both, down to the house

of falsehood,

Where perjurous wedlock weeps!

[_Re-entering with his sword drawn._

O perjurous woman!

Sh’ad took the innocence of sleep upon her

At my approach, and would not see me come;

As if sh’ad lain there like a harmless soul,

And never dream’d of mischief. What’s all this now?

I feel no ease; the burden’s not yet off

So long as the abuse sticks in my knowledge.

O, ’tis a pain of hell to know one’s shame!

Had it been hid and done, 't had been done happy,

For he that’s ignorant lives long and merry.

FRAN. I shall know all now. [_Aside._]—Brother!

ANT. Come down quickly,

For I must kill thee too.

FRAN. Me?

ANT. Stay not long:

If thou desir’st to die with little pain,

Make haste I’d wish thee, and come willingly;

If I be forc’d to come, I shall be cruel

Above a man to thee.

FRAN. Why, sir!—my brother!——

ANT. Talk to thy soul, if thou wilt talk at all;

To me thou’rt lost for ever.

FRAN. This is fearful in you:

Beyond all reason, brother, would you thus

Reward me for my care and truth shewn to you?

ANT. A curse upon 'em both, and thee for company!

’Tis that too diligent, thankless care of thine

Makes me a murderer, and that ruinous[560] truth

That lights me to the knowledge of my shame.

Hadst thou been secret, then had I been happy,

And had a hope, like man, of joys to come:

Now here I stand a stain to my creation;

And, which is heavier than all torments to me,

The understanding of this base adultery;

And that thou toldst me first, which thou deserv’st

Death worthily for.

FRAN. If that be the worst, hold, sir,

Hold, brother; I can ease your knowledge[561] straight,

By my soul’s hopes, I can! there’s no such thing.

ANT. How?

FRAN. Bless me but with life, I’ll tell you all:

Your bed was never wrong’d.

ANT. What? never wrong’d?

FRAN. I ask but mercy as I deal with truth now:

'Twas only my deceit, my plot, and cunning,

To bring disgrace upon her; by that means

To keep mine own hid, which none knew but she:

To speak troth, I had a child by Aberzanes, sir.

ANT. How? Aberzanes?

FRAN. And my mother’s letter

Was counterfeited, to get time and place

For my delivery.

ANT. O, my wrath’s redoubled!

FRAN. At my return she could speak all my folly,

And blam’d me, with good counsel. I, for fear

It should be made known, thus rewarded her;

Wrought you into suspicion without cause,

And at your coming rais’d up Gaspar suddenly,

Sent him but in before you, by a falsehood,

Which to your kindled jealousy I knew

Would add enough: what’s now confess’d is true.

ANT. The more I hear, the worse it fares with me.

I ha’ kill’d 'em now for nothing; yet the shame

Follows my blood still. Once more, come down:

Look you, my sword goes up. [_Sheathing sword._]

Call Hermio to me:

Let the new man alone; he’ll wake too soon

[_Exit_ FRANCISCA _above_.

To find his mistress dead, and lose a service.

Already the day breaks upon my guilt;

_Enter_ HERMIO.

I must be brief and sudden.—Hermio.

HER. Sir?

ANT. Run, knock up Aberzanes speedily;

Say I desire his company this morning

To yonder horse-race, tell him; that will fetch him:

O, hark you, by the way—— [_Whispers._

HER. Yes, sir.

ANT. Use speed now,

Or I will ne’er use thee more; and, perhaps,

I speak in a right hour. My grief o’erflows;

I must in private go and vent my woes. [_Exeunt._

ACT V. SCENE I.

_A Hall in_ ANTONIO’S _House_.

_Enter_ ANTONIO[562] _and_ ABERZANES.

ANT. You’re welcome, sir.

ABER. I think I’m worthy on’t,

For, look you, sir, I come untruss’d,[563] in troth.

ANT. The more’s the pity—honester men go to’t—

That slaves should ’scape it. What blade have you got

there?

ABER. Nay, I know not that, sir: I am not acquainted

greatly with the blade; I am sure ’tis a good scabbard,

and that satisfies me.

ANT. ’Tis long enough indeed, if that be good.

ABER. I love to wear a long weapon; ’tis a thing

commendable.

ANT. I pray, draw it, sir.

ABER. It is not to be drawn.

ANT. Not to be drawn?

ABER. I do not care to see’t: to tell you troth, sir,

’tis only a holyday thing, to wear by a man’s side.

ANT. Draw it, or I’ll rip thee down from neck to

navel,

Though there’s small glory in’t.

ABER. Are you in earnest, sir?

ANT. I’ll tell thee that anon.

ABER. Why, what’s the matter, sir?

ANT. What a base misery is this in life now!

This slave had so much daring courage in him

To act a sin would shame whole generations,

But hath not so much honest strength about him

To draw a sword in way of satisfaction.

This shews thy great guilt, that thou dar’st not fight.

ABER. Yes, I dare fight, sir, in an honest cause.

ANT. Why, come then, slave! thou’st made my sister a

whore.

ABER. Prove that an honest cause, and I’ll be hang’d.

ANT. So many starting holes? can I light no way?

Go to, you shall have your wish, all honest play.—Come

forth, thou fruitful wickedness, thou seed

Of shame and murder! take to thee in wedlock

Baseness and cowardice, a fit match for thee!—

Come, sir, along with me.

_Enter_ FRANCISCA.

ABER. 'Las, what to do?

I am too young to take a wife, in troth.

ANT. But old enough to take a strumpet though:

You’d fain get all your children beforehand,

And marry when you’ve done; that’s a strange course,

sir.

This woman I bestow on thee: what dost thou say?

ABER. I would I had such another to bestow on you,

sir!

ANT. Uncharitable slave! dog, coward as thou art,

To wish a plague so great as thine to any!

ABER. To my friend, sir, where I think I may be bold.

ANT. Down, and do’t solemnly; contract yourselves

With truth and zeal, or ne’er rise up again.

I will not have her die i’ th’ state of strumpet,

Though she took pride to live one.—Hermio, the wine!

_Enter_ HERMIO _with wine_.

HER. ’Tis here, sir.—Troth, I wonder at some things;

But I’ll keep honest. [_Aside._

ANT. So, here’s to you both now, [_They drink._

And to your joys, if’t be your luck to find 'em:

I tell you, you must weep hard, if you do.

Divide it 'twixt you both; you shall not need

A strong bill of divorcement after that,

If you mislike your bargain. Go, get in now;

Kneel and pray heartily to get forgiveness

Of those two souls whose bodies thou hast murder’d.—

[_Exeunt_ ABERZANES _and_ FRANCISCA.

Spread, subtle poison! Now my shame in her

Will die when I die; there’s some comfort yet.

I do but think how each man’s punishment

Proves still a kind of justice to himself.

I was the man that told this innocent gentlewoman,

Whom I did falsely wed and falsely kill,

That he that was her husband first by contract

Was slain i’ th’ field; and he’s known yet to live:

So did I cruelly beguile his heart,

For which I’m well rewarded; so is Gaspar,

Who, to befriend my love, swore fearful oaths

He saw the last breath fly from him. I see now

’Tis a thing dreadful t’ abuse holy vows,

And falls most weight[il]y.

HER. Take comfort, sir;

You’re guilty of no death; they’re only hurt,

And that not mortally.

_Enter_ GASPARO.

ᚩANT. Thou breath’st untruths.

HER. Speak, Gaspar, for me then.

GAS. Your unjust rage, sir,

Has hurt me without cause.

ANT. ’Tis chang’d to grief for’t.

How fares my wife?

GAS. No doubt, sir, she fares well,

For she ne’er felt your fury. The poor sinner

That hath this seven year kept herself sound for you,

’Tis your luck to bring her into th’ surgeon’s hands

now.

ANT. Florida?

GAS. She: I know no other, sir;

You were ne’er at charge yet but with one light-horse.

ANT. Why, where’s your lady? where’s my wife to-night

then?

GAS. Nay, ask not me, sir; your struck doe within

Tells a strange tale of her.

ANT. This is unsufferable!

Never had man such means to make him mad.

O that the poison would but spare my life

Till I had found her out!

HER. Your wish is granted, sir:

Upon the faithfulness of a pitying servant,

I gave you none at all; my heart was kinder.

Let not conceit abuse you; you’re as healthful,

For any drug, as life yet ever found you.

ANT. Why, here’s a happiness wipes off mighty sorrows:

The benefit of ever-pleasing service

Bless thy profession!—

_Enter Lord Governor, attended by Gentlemen._

O my worthy lord,

I’ve an ill bargain, never man had worse!

The woman that, unworthy, wears your blood

To countenance sin in her, your niece, she’s false.

GOV. False?

ANT. Impudent, adulterous.

GOV. You’re too loud,

And grow too bold too with her virtuous meekness.

_Enter_ FLORIDA.

Who dare accuse her?

FLO. Here’s one dare and can.

She lies this night with Celio, her own servant;

The place, Fernando’s house.

GOV. Thou dost amaze us.

ANT. Why, here’s but lust translated from one baseness

Into another: here I thought t’ have caught 'em,

But lighted wrong, by false intelligence,

And made me hurt the innocent. But now

I’ll make my revenge dreadfuller than a tempest;

An army should not stop me, or a sea

Divide 'em from my revenge. [_Exit._

GOV. I’ll not speak

To have her spar’d, if she be base and guilty:

If otherwise, heaven will not see her wrong’d,

I need not take care for her. Let that woman

Be carefully look’d to, both for health and sureness.—

It is not that mistaken wound thou wear’st

Shall be thy privilege.

FLO. You cannot torture me

Worse than the surgeon does: so long I care not.

[_Exit with_ GASPARO _and a Gentleman_.

GOV. If she be[564] adulterous, I will never trust

Virtues in women; they’re but veils for lust.

[_Exit with Gentlemen._

HER. To what a lasting ruin mischief runs!

I had thought I’d well and happily ended all,

In keeping back the poison; and new rage now

Spreads a worse venom. My poor lady grieves me:

’Tis strange to me that her sweet-seeming virtues

Should be so meanly overtook with Celio,

A servant: ’tis not possible.

_Enter_ ISABELLA _and_ SEBASTIAN.

ISA. Good morrow, Hermio:

My sister stirring yet?

HER. How? stirring, forsooth!

Here has been simple stirring. Are you not hurt, madam?

Pray, speak; we have a surgeon ready.

ISA. How? a surgeon!

HER. Hath been at work these five hours.

ISA. How he talks!

HER. Did you not meet my master?

ISA. How, your master?

Why, came he home to-night?

HER. Then know you nothing, madam?

Please you but walk in, you shall hear strange business.

ISA. I’m much beholding[565] to your truth now, am I

not?

You’ve serv’d me fair; my credit’s stain’d for ever!

[_Exit with_ HERMIO.

SEB. This is the wicked’st fortune that e’er blew:

We’re both undone, for nothing: there’s no way

Flatters recovery now, the thing’s so gross:

Her disgrace grieves me more than a life’s loss.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.

_The Abode of_ HECATE: _a caldron in the centre_.

_Enter Duchess_, HECATE, _and_ FIRESTONE.

HEC. What death is’t you desire for Almachildes?

DUCH. A sudden and a subtle.

HEC. Then I’ve fitted you.

Here lie the gifts of both; sudden and subtle:

His picture made in wax, and gently molten

By a blue fire kindled with dead men’s eyes,

Will waste him by degrees.

DUCH. In what time, prithee?

HEC. Perhaps in a moon’s progress.

DUCH. What, a month?

Out upon pictures, if they be so tedious!

Give me things with some life.

HEC. Then seek no farther.

DUCH. This must be done with speed, despatch’d this

night,

If it may possible.

HEC. I have it for you;

Here’s that will do’t: stay but perfection’s time,

And that’s not five hours hence.

DUCH. Canst thou do this?

HEC. Can I!

DUCH. I mean, so closely.

HEC. So closely do you mean too!

DUCH. So artfully, so cunningly.

HEC. Worse and worse; doubts and incredulities!

They make me mad. Let scrupulous creatures know

_Cum volui,[566] ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnes

In fontes rediere suos; concussaque sisto,

Stantia concutio cantu freta; nubila pello,

Nubilaque induco; ventos abigoque vocoque;

Vipereas rumpo verbis et carmine fauces;

Et silvas moveo; jubeoque tremiscere montes,

Et mugire solum, manesque exire sepulchris.

Te [quo]que, luna, traho._ Can you doubt me then,

daughter,

That can make mountains tremble, miles of woods walk,

Whole earth’s foundation bellow, and the spirits

Of the entomb’d to burst out from their marbles,

Nay, draw yond moon to my involv’d designs?

FIRE. I know as well as can be when my mother’s mad, and

our great cat angry, for one spits French then, and th’

other spits Latin. [_Aside._

DUCH. I did not doubt you, mother.

HEC. No! what did you?

My power’s so firm, it is not to be question’d.

DUCH. Forgive what’s past: and now I know th’

offensiveness

That vexes art, I’ll shun th’ occasion ever.

HEC. Leave all to me and my five sisters, daughter:

It shall be convey’d in at howlet-time;

Take you no care: my spirits know their moments;

Raven or screech-owl never fly by th’ door

But they call in—I thank 'em—and they lose not by’t;

I give 'em barley soak’d in infants’ blood;

They shall have _semina cum sanguine_,

Their gorge cramm’d full, if they come once to our

house;

We are no niggard. [_Exit Duchess._

FIRE. They fare but too well when they come hither; they

eat up as much t’other night as would have made me a

good conscionable pudding.

HEC. Give me some lizard’s-brain; quickly, Firestone.

[FIRESTONE _brings the different ingredients

for the charm, as_ HECATE _calls for them_.

Where’s grannam Stadlin, and all the rest o’ th’

sisters?

FIRE. All at hand, forsooth.

_Enter_ STADLIN, HOPPO, _and other Witches_.

HEC. Give me marmaritin, some bear-breech: when?[567]

FIRE. Here’s bear-breech and lizard’s-brain, forsooth.

HEC. Into the vessel;

And fetch three ounces of the red-hair’d girl

I kill’d last midnight.

FIRE. Whereabouts, sweet mother?

HEC. Hip; hip or flank. Where is the acopus?[568]

FIRE. You shall have acopus, forsooth.

HEC. Stir, stir about, whilst I begin the charm.

Black spirits[569] and white, red spirits and gray,

Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may!

Titty, Tiffin,

Keep it stiff in;

Firedrake, Puckey,

Make it lucky;

Liard, Robin,

You must bob in.

Round, around, around, about, about!

All ill come running in, all good keep out!

FIRST WITCH. Here’s the blood of a bat.

HEC. Put in that, O, put in that!

SEC. WITCH. Here’s libbard’s-bane.

HEC. Put in again![570]

FIRST WITCH. The juice of toad, the oil of adder.

SEC. WITCH. Those will make the younker madder.

HEC. Put in—there’s all—and rid the stench.

FIRE. Nay, here’s three ounces of the red-hair’d

wench.

ALL THE WITCHES. Round, around, around, &c.

HEC. So, so, enough: into the vessel with it.

There, 't hath the true perfection. I’m so light

At any mischief! there’s no villany

But is a tune, methinks.

FIRE. A tune? ’tis to the tune of damnation then, I

warrant you, and that song hath a villanous burthen.

[_Aside._

HEC. Come, my sweet sisters; let the air[571] strike

our tune,

Whilst we shew reverence to yond peeping moon.

[_They dance the Witches’ Dance, and exeunt._

SCENE III.

_An Apartment in the House of the Lord Governor._

_Enter Lord Governor_, ISABELLA, FLORIDA, SEBASTIAN,

GASPARO, _and Servants_.[572]

ISA. My lord, I’ve given you nothing but the truth

Of a most plain and innocent intent.

My wrongs being so apparent in this woman—

A creature that robs wedlock of all comfort,

Where’er she fastens—I could do no less

But seek means privately to shame his folly.

No farther reach’d my malice; and it glads me

That none but my base injurer is found

To be my false accuser.

GOV. This is strange,

That he should give the wrongs, yet seek revenge.—

But, sirrah, you; you are accus’d here doubly:

First, by your lady, for a false intelligence

That caus’d her absence, which much hurts her name,

Though her intents were blameless; next, by this woman,

For an adulterous design and plot

Practis’d between you to entrap her honour,

Whilst she, for her hire, should enjoy her husband.

Your answer.

SEB. Part of this is truth, my lord,

To which I’m guilty in a rash intent,

But clear in act; and she most clear in both,

Not sanctity more spotless.

_Enter_ HERMIO.

HER. O my lord!

GOV. What news breaks there?

HER. Of strange destruction:

Here stands the lady that within this hour

Was made a widow.

GOV. How?[573]

HER. Your niece, my lord.

A fearful, unexpected accident

Brought death to meet his fury: for my lord

Entering Fernando’s house, like a rais’d tempest,

Which nothing heeds but its own violent rage,

Blinded with wrath and jealousy, which scorn guides,

From a false trap-door fell into a depth

Exceeds a temple’s height, which takes into it

Part of the dungeon that falls threescore fathom

Under the castle.

GOV. O you seed of lust,

Wrongs and revenges wrongful, with what terrors

You do present yourselves to wretched man

When his soul least expects you!

ISA. I forgive him

All his wrongs now, and sign it with my pity.

FLO. O my sweet servant! [_Swoons._

GOV. Look to yond light mistress.

GAS. She’s in a swoon, my lord.

GOV. Convey her hence:

It is a sight would grieve a modest eye

To see a strumpet’s soul sink into passion[574]

For him that was the husband of another.—

[_Servants remove_ FLORIDA.

Yet all this clears not you.

SEB. Thanks to heaven

That I am now of age to clear myself then.

[_Discovers himself._

GOV. Sebastian!

SEB. The same, much wronged, sir.

ISA. Am I certain

Of what mine eye takes joy to look upon?

SEB. Your service cannot alter me from knowledge;

I am your servant ever.

GOV. Welcome to life, sir.—

Gaspar, thou swor’st his death.

GAS. I did indeed, my lord,

And have been since well paid for’t: one forsworn mouth

Hath got me two or three more here.

SEB. I was dead, sir,

Both to my joys and all men’s understanding,

Till this my hour of life; for ’twas my fortune

To make the first of my return to Urbin

A witness to that marriage; since which time

I’ve walk’d beneath myself, and all my comforts

Like one on earth whose joys are laid above:

And though it had been offence small in me

T’ enjoy mine own, I left her pure and free.

GOV. The greater and more sacred is thy blessing;

For where heaven’s bounty holy ground-work finds,

’Tis like a sea, encompassing chaste minds.

HER. The duchess comes, my lord.

_Enter Duchess and_ AMORETTA.

GOV. Be you then all witnesses

Of an intent most horrid.

DUCH. One poor night,

Ever Almachildes now.[575]

Better his meaner fortunes wept than ours,

That took the true height of a princess’ spirit

To match unto their greatness. Such lives as his

Were only made to break the force of fate

Ere it came at us, and receive the venom.

’Tis but a usual friendship for a mistress

To lose some forty years’ life in hopeful time,

And hazard an eternal soul for ever:

As young as he has done['t], and more desertful.

[_Aside._

GOV. Madam.

DUCH. My lord?

GOV. This is the hour that I’ve so long desir’d;

The tumult’s full appeas’d; now may we both

Exchange embraces with a fortunate arm,

And practise to make love-knots, thus.

[_A curtain is drawn, and the Duke discovered

on a couch, as if dead._

DUCH. My lord!

GOV. Thus, lustful woman and bold murderess, thus.

Blessed powers,

To make my loyalty and truth so happy!

Look thee, thou shame of greatness, stain of honour,

Behold thy work, and weep before thy death!

If thou be’st blest with sorrow and a conscience,

Which is a gift from heaven, and seldom knocks

At any murderer’s breast with sounds of comfort,

See this thy worthy and unequall’d piece;

A fair encouragement for another husband!

DUCH. Bestow me upon death, sir; I am guilty,

And of a cruelty above my cause:

His injury was too low for my revenge.

Perform a justice that may light all others

To noble actions: life is hateful to me,

Beholding my dead lord. Make us an one

In death, whom marriage made one of two living,

Till cursed fury parted us: my lord,

I covet to be like him.

GOV. No, my sword

Shall never stain the virgin brightness on’t

With blood of an adulteress.

DUCH. There, my lord,

I dare my accusers, and defy the world,

Death, shame, and torment: blood I’m guilty of,

But not adultery, not the breach of honour.

GOV. No?—Come forth, Almachildes! _Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

DUCH. Almachildes?

Hath time brought him about to save himself

By my destruction? I am justly doom’d.

GOV. Do you know this woman?

ALM. I’ve known her better, sir, than at this time.

GOV. But she defies you there.

ALM. That’s the common trick of them all.

DUCH. Nay, since I’m touch’d so near, before my death

then,

In right of honour’s innocence, I’m bold

To call heaven and my woman here to witness.

My lord, let her speak truth, or may she perish!

AMO. Then, sir, by all the hopes of a maid’s comfort

Either in faithful service or blest marriage,

The woman that his blinded folly knew

Was only a hir’d strumpet, a professor

Of lust and impudence, which here is ready

To approve what I have spoken.

ALM. A common strumpet?

This comes of scarfs: I’ll never more wear

An haberdasher’s shop before mine eyes again.

GOV. My sword is proud thou’rt lighten’d of that sin:

Die then a murderess only!

DUKE [_rising and embracing her_]. Live a duchess!

Better than ever lov’d, embrac’d, and honour’d.

DUCH. My lord!

DUKE. Nay, since in honour thou canst justly rise,

Vanish all wrongs, thy former practice dies!—

I thank thee, Almachildes, for my life,

This lord for truth, and heaven for such a wife,

Who, though her intent sinn’d, yet she makes amends

With grief and honour, virtue’s noblest ends.—

What griev’d you then shall never more offend you;

Your father’s skull with honour we’ll inter,

And give the peace due to the sepulchre:

And in all times may this day ever prove

A day of triumph, joy, and honest love!

[_Exeunt omnes._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE WIDOW.

_The Widdow A Comedie. As it was Acted at the private House in

Black-Fryers, with great Applause, by His late Majesties Servants._

{ _Ben: Johnson._ }

_Written by_ { _John Fletcher._ } _Gent._

{ _Tho: Middleton._ }

_Printed by the Originall Copy. London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley

and are to be Sold at his Shop, at the Sign of the Princes Arms in St.

Pauls Church-yard._ 1652. 4to.

On the title-page of a copy of the 4to, in my possession, “_Ben:

Johnson_” and “_John Fletcher_” are drawn through with a pen, and the

word “alone” is written, in an old hand, after “_Tho: Middleton_.”

This drama has been reprinted in the various editions of Dodsley’s _Old

Plays_ (vol. vi. of the first ed. and vol. xii. of the last two eds.);

also in Weber’s edition of Beaumont and Fletcher’s _Works_, vol. xiv.

Malone, by mistake, has stated that “Middleton wrote _The Widow_ with

Fletcher and _Massinger_:” _Life of Shakespeare_, p. 434—(_Sh._ by

Boswell, vol. ii.)

“He [Ben Jonson] is said to have assisted Middleton and Fletcher in

writing _The Widow_, which must have appeared about this time [i. e.

soon after 1621]. This comedy was very popular, and not undeservedly,

for it has a considerable degree of merit. I cannot, however, discover

many traces of Jonson in it. The authors’ names rest, I believe, on the

authority of the editor, A. Gough, who sent the play to the press in

1652.” Such is Gifford’s note on _Memoirs of B. Jonson_, p. cxliv. But

in a note on Jonson’s _New Inn_ (_Works_, vol. v. p. 433), he says,

that _The Widow_ “appeared on the stage so early as 1618.”

The last editor of Dodsley’s _Old Plays_ thinks “there is internal

evidence that Ben Jonson contributed to _The Widow_, and it is rather

surprising that Mr. Gifford did not trace his pen through the whole of

the fourth act.”

The mention of “yellow bands” as “_hateful_” (see act v. sc. 1, and

note), in consequence of Mrs. Turner’s execution, November 1615, shews

that _The Widow_ was written _after_ that period: but in all

probability it was produced _very soon after_, for a play, entitled

_The Honest Lawyer, by S. S._, and printed in 1616, contains a manifest

imitation of a passage in act iv. sc. 2: vide note. We can hardly

suppose that the author (or authors) of _The Widow_ would have borrowed

from the dramatist just mentioned.

We learn from Sir Henry Herbert’s papers that _The Widow_ was one of

the stock-pieces belonging to the Red Bull actors, who afterwards

became the king’s servants, and that it was played in 1660: see

Malone’s _Hist. Acc. of the English Stage_, pp. 273-5 (_Shakespeare_,

by Boswell, vol. iii.). Downes also mentions that it was performed at a

somewhat later period: vide _Roscius Anglicanus_, p. 17, ed. Waldron.

And Langbaine says, “It was reviv’d not many years ago, at the King’s

House, with a new Prologue and Epilogue, which the Reader may find in

_London Drollery_, p. 11, 12.” _Acc. of Engl. Dram. Poets_, p. 298.

TO THE READER.

Considering how the curious pay some part of their esteem to excellent

persons in the careful preservation but of their defaced statues;

instead of decayed medals of the Romans’ greatness, I believed it of

more value to present you this lively piece, drawn by the art of

Jonson, Fletcher, and Middleton, which is thought to have a near

resemblance to the portraiture we have in Terence of those worthy

minds, where the great Scipio and Lælius strove to twist the poet’s ivy

with the victor’s bays. As the one was deserved by their work in

subduing their country’s enemies, so the other by their recreation and

delight, which was to banish that folly and sadness that were worse

than Hannibal or all the monsters and venom of Africa. Since our own

countrymen are not in any thing inferior, it were to be wished they had

but so much encouragement, that the past license and abuses charged on

the stage might not ever be thought too unpardonable to pass in

oblivion, and so good laws and instructions for manners, uncapable of

being regulated, which, if but according to this pattern, certainly

none need think himself the less a good Christian for owning the same

desire as

Your humble servant,

ALEXANDER GOUGH.[576]

PROLOGUE.

A sport only for Christmas is the play

This hour presents t’ you; to make you merry[577]

Is all th’ ambition 't has, and fullest aim

Bent at your smiles, to win itself a name;

And if your edge be not quite taken off,

Wearied with sports, I hope 'twill make you laugh.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

BRANDINO, _a justice_.

MARTINO, _his clerk_. FRANCISCO. ATTILIO.

RICARDO, _suitor to Valeria_.

_Two Old Men, suitors to Valeria._

LATROCINIO, }

OCCULTO, }

SILVIO, } _Thieves._

STRATIO, }

FIDUCIO, } SERVELLIO. }

_Officers, Servants._

VALERIA, _a widow_.

PHILIPPA, _her sister, wife to Brandino_.

MARTIA, _daughter to one of Valeria’s suitors, and

disguised as Ansaldo_.

VIOLETTA, _waiting-maid to Philippa_.

Scene, CAPO D'ISTRIA and the neighbouring country.

THE WIDOW.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ BRANDINO’S _House_.[578]

MARTINO _seated at a writing-table: enter_ FRANCISCO.

FRAN. Martino!

MAR. Signor Francisco? you’re the luckiest gentleman to

meet or see first in a morning: I never saw you yet but

I was sure of money within less than half an hour.

FRAN. I bring you the same luck still.

MAR. What, you do not? I hope, sir, you are not come for

another warrant?

FRAN. Yes, faith, for another warrant.

MAR. Why, there’s my dream come out then. I never

dreamed of a buttock but I was sure to have money for a

warrant; it is the luckiest part of all the body to me:

let every man speak as he finds. Now your usurer is of

opinion, that to dream of the devil is your wealthier

dream; and I think if a man dream of that part that

brings many to the devil, ’tis as good, and has all one

smatch indeed, for if one be the flesh, th’ other’s the

broth: so ’tis in all his members, and[579] we mark it;

if gluttony be the meat, lechery is the porridge;

they’re both boiled together, and we clerks will have

our modicum too, though it conclude in the twopenny

chop.

Why, sir, signor Francisco!

FRAN. 'Twas her voice sure,

Or my soul takes delight to think it was,

And makes a sound like her’s. [_Aside._

MAR. Sir, I beseech you——

FRAN. It is the prettiest-contriv’d building this!

What posy’s[580] that, I prithee?

MAR. Which, sir? that

Under the great brass squirt?

FRAN. Ay, that, sir, that.

MAR. _From fire, from water, and all things amiss,

Deliver the house of an honest justice._

FRAN. There’s like to be a good house kept then when

fire and water’s forbidden to come into the kitchen.—

Not yet a sight of her! this hour’s unfortunate.—

[_Aside._

And what’s that yonder, prithee?—O love’s famine,

There’s no affliction like thee! [_Aside._]—Ay, I hear

you, sir.

MAR. You’re quicker-ear’d than I then; you hear me

Before I heard myself.

FRAN. A gift in friendship;

Some call it an instinct.

MAR. It may be;

th’ other’s the sweeter phrase though. Look you, sir,

Mine own wit this, and ’tis as true as turtle;

_A goose-quill and a clerk, a constable and a lantern,_

_Bring[581] many a bawd from coach to cart, and many a

thief to one turn._

FRAN. That one turn help’d you well.

MAR. 'T has helped me to money indeed for many a

warrant. I am forty dollars the better for that one

turn; and[582] 'twould come off quicker, 'twere ne’er a

whit the worse for me. But indeed, when thieves are

taken, and break away twice or thrice one after another,

there’s my gains; then go[583] out more warrants to

fetch 'em again. One fine nimble villain may be worth a

man ten dollars in and out a’ that fashion: I love such

a one with my heart; ay, and will help him to ’scape

too, and[582] I can: hear you me that: I’ll have him in

at all times at a month’s warning; nay, say I let him

run like a summer nag all the vacation—see you these

blanks? I’ll send him but one of these bridles, and

bring him in at Michaelmas with a vengeance. Nothing

kills my heart but when one of 'em dies, sir; then

there’s no hope of more money: I had rather lose at all

times two of my best kindred than an excellent thief,

for he’s a gentleman I’m more beholding[584] to.

FRAN. You betray your mystery too much, sir.—Yet no

comfort?

’Tis but her sight that I waste precious time for,

For more I cannot hope for, she’s so strict;

Yet that I cannot have. [_Aside._

MAR. I’m ready now, signor. Here are blank warrants of

all dispositions; give me but the name and nature of

your malefactor, and I’ll bestow him according to his

merits.

FRAN. This only is th’ excuse that bears me out,

And keeps off impudence and suspicion

From my too frequent coming. What name now

Shall I think on, and not to wrong the house?

This coxcomb will be prating. [_Aside._]—One

Astilio,[585]

His offence wilful murder.

MAR. Wilful murder? O, I love a’ life[586] to have such

a fellow come under my fingers! like a beggar that’s

long a-taking leave of a fat louse, I’m loath to part

with him; I must look upon him over and over first. Are

you wilful? i’faith, I’ll be as wilful as you then.

[_Writes._

[PHILIPPA _and_ VIOLETTA _appear above at

a window_.

PHIL. Martino!

MAR. Mistress?

PHIL. Make haste, your master’s going.

MAR. I’m but about a wilful murder, forsooth;

I’ll despatch that presently.

PHIL. Good morrow, sir.—O that I durst say more!

[_Aside, and exit above with_ VIOLETTA.

FRAN. ’Tis gone again: since such are all life’s

pleasures,

No sooner known but lost, he that enjoys 'em

The length of life has but a longer dream,

He wakes to this i’ th’ end, and sees all nothing.

[PHILIPPA _and_ VIOLETTA _appear again above_.

PHIL. He cannot see me now; I’ll mark him better

Before I be too rash. Sweetly compos’d he is;

Now as he stands he’s worth a woman’s love

That loves only for shape, as most on ’s do:

But I must have him wise as well as proper,[587]

He comes not in my books else;[588] and indeed

I’ve thought upon a course to try his wit.

Violetta.

VIO. Mistress?

PHIL. Yonder’s the gentleman again.

VIO. O sweet mistress,

Pray give me leave to see him!

PHIL. Nay, take heed,

Open not the window, and[589] you love me.

VIO. No, I’ve the view of [his] whole body here,

mistress,

At this poor little slit: O, enough, enough!

In troth, ’tis a fine outside.

PHIL. I see that.

VIO. Has curl’d his hair most judiciously well.

PHIL. Ay, there’s thy love now! it begins in barbarism.

She buys a goose with feathers that loves a gentleman

for’s hair; she may be cozened to her face, wench. Away:

he takes his leave. Reach me that letter hither; quick,

quick, wench.

[VIOLETTA _brings a letter, which_ PHILIPPA

_presently throws down_.

MAR. [_giving warrant to_ FRANCISCO] Nay, look upon’t,

and spare not: every one cannot get that kind of warrant

from me, signor. Do you see this prick i’ th’ bottom? it

betokens power and speed; it is a privy mark that runs

betwixt the constables and my master: those that cannot

read, when they see this, know ’tis for lechery or

murder; and this being away, the warrant comes gelded

and insufficient.

FRAN. I thank you, sir.

MAR. Look you; all these are _nihils_;

They want the punction.

FRAN. Yes, I see they do, sir.

There’s for thy pains [_giving money_]:—mine must go

unrewarded:

The better love, the worse by fate regarded.

[_Aside, and exit._[590]

MAR. Well, go thy ways for the sweetest customer

that ever penman was blest withal! Now

will he come for another to-morrow again: if he

hold on this course, he will leave never a knave

i’ th’ town within this twelvemonth: no matter, I

shall be rich enough by that time.

PHIL. Martino!

MAR. Say you, forsooth?

PHIL. What paper’s that the gentleman let fall there?

MAR. Paper?—’Tis the warrant, I hope: if it be, I’ll

hide it, and make him pay for’t again. No, pox; ’tis not

so happy. [_Aside._

PHIL. What is’t, sirrah?

MAR. ’Tis nothing but a letter, forsooth.

PHIL. Is that nothing?

MAR. Nothing in respect of a warrant, mistress.

PHIL. A letter? why, 't has been many a man’s undoing,

sir.

MAR. So has a warrant, and[591] you go to that,

mistress.

PHIL. Read but the superscription, and away with’t.

Alas, it may concern the gentleman nearly!

MAR. Why, mistress, this letter is at home already.

PHIL. At home? how mean you, sir?

MAR. You shall hear, mistress [_reads_]:—_To the

deservingest of all her sex, and most worthy of his best

respect and love, mistress Philippa Brandino._

PHIL. How, sir, to me?

MAR. To you, mistress.

PHIL. Run, as thou lov’st my honour and thy life,

Call him again; I’ll not endure this injury:—

But stay, stay, now I think on’t, ’tis my credit,

I’ll have your master’s counsel. Ah, base fellow,

To leave his loose lines thus! ’tis even as much

As a poor honest gentlewoman’s undoing,

Had I not a grave wise man to my husband:

And thou a vigilant varlet to admit

Thou car’st not whom!

MAR. 'Las, ’tis my office, mistress!

You know you have a kirtle every year,

And ’tis within two months of the time now;

The velvet’s coming over: pray be milder.

A man that has a place must take money of any body:

please you to throw me down but half a dollar, and I’ll

make you a warrant for him now; that’s all I care for

him.

PHIL. Well, look you be clear now from this foul

conspiracy

Against mine honour; or your master’s love to you,

That makes you stout, shall not maintain you here;

It shall not, trust to’t.

[_Exit above, with_ VIOLETTA.

MAR. This is strange to me now:

Dare she do this, and but eight weeks to new-year’s

tide?

A man that had his blood as hot as her’s now

Would fit her with French velvet: I’ll go near it.

_Enter_ BRANDINO _and_ PHILIPPA.

PHIL. If this be a wrong to modest reputation,

Be you the censurer, sir, that are the master

Both of your fame and mine.

BRAN. Signor Francisco!

I’ll make him fly the land.

MAR. That will be hard, sir:

I think he be not so well-feather’d, master;

Has spent the best part of his patrimony.

PHIL. Hark of his bold confederate!

BRAN. There thou’rt bitter;

And I must chide thee now.

PHIL. What should I think, sir?

He comes to your man for warrants.

BRAN. There it goes then.—

Come hither, knave: comes he to you for warrants?

MAR. Why, what of that, sir?

You know I give no warrants to make cuckolds:

That comes by fortune and by nature, sir.

BRAN. True, that comes by fortune and by nature.—Wife,

Why dost thou wrong this man?

MAR. He needs no warrant, master, that goes about such

business: a cuckold-maker carries always his warrant

about him.

BRAN. La, has he answer’d well now, to the full?

What cause hast thou t’ abuse him?

PHIL. Hear me out, I pray:

Through his admittance, has had opportunity[592]

To come into the house, and court me boldly.

BRAN. Sirrah, you’re foul again, methinks.

MAR. Who, I, sir?

BRAN. You gave this man admittance into th’ house.

MAR. That’s true, sir: you ne’er gave me any order yet

To write my warrants i’ th’ street.

BRAN. Why, sure thou tak’st delight

To wrong this fellow, wife, ha? 'cause I love him.

PHIL. Pray, see the fruits; see what has left behind

here:

Be angry where you should be: there’s few wives

Would do as I do.

BRAN. Nay, I’ll say that for thee,

I ne’er found thee but honest.

PHIL. She’s a beast

That ever was found otherways.

BRAN. Read, Martino:

Mine eyes are sore already, and such business

Would put 'em out quite.

MAR. [_reads letter_] _Fair, dear, and incomparable

mistress_——

BRAN. O, every letter draws a tooth, methinks!

MAR. And it leads mine to watering.

PHIL. Here’s no villany![593]

MAR. [_reads_] _My love being so violent, and the

opportunity so precious in your husband’s absence

to-night, who, as I understand, takes a journey this

morning_——

BRAN. O plot of villany!

PHIL. Am I honest, think you, sir?

BRAN. Exactly honest, perfectly improv’d.[594]—

On, on, Martino.

MAR. [_reads_] _I will make bold, dear mistress, though

your chastity has given me many a repulse, to wait the

sweet blessings of this long-desired opportunity at the

back gate, between nine and ten this night_——

BRAN. I feel this Inns-a’-court man in my temples!

MAR. [_reads_] _Where, if your affection be pleased to

receive me, you receive the faithfullest that ever vowed

service to woman.—Francisco._

BRAN. I will make Francisco smart for’t!

PHIL. Shew him the letter, let him know you know him;

That will torment him: all your other courses

Are nothing, sir, to that; that breaks his heart.

BRAN. The strings shall not hold long then.—Come,

Martino.

PHIL. Now if Francisco have any wit at all,

He comes at night; if not, he never shall. [_Aside._

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_The Country: near_ FRANCISCO’S _House_.

_Enter_ FRANCISCO, RICARDO, _and_ ATTILIO.

RIC. Nay, mark, mark it, Francisco; it was the

naturallest courtesy that ever was ordained; a young

gentleman being spent, to have a rich widow set him up

again. To see how fortune has provided for all

mortality’s ruins! your college for your old-standing

scholar, your hospital for your lame-creeping soldier,

your bawd for your mangled roarer,[595] your open house

for your beggar, and your widow for your gentleman;—ha,

Francisco?

FRAN. Ay, sir, you may be merry; you’re in hope of a

rich widow.

RIC. And why shouldst not thou be in hope of another, if

there were any spirit in thee? thou art as likely a

fellow as any is in the company. I’ll be hanged now if I

do not hit the true cause of thy sadness; and confess

truly, i’faith; thou hast some land unsold yet, I hold

my life.

FRAN. Marry, I hope so, sir.

RIC. A pox on’t, have I found it? ’Slight, away with’t

with all speed, man! I was never merry at heart while I

had a foot. Why, man, fortune never minds us till we are

left alone to ourselves; for what need she take care for

them that do nothing but take care for themselves? Why,

dost think if I had kept my lands still, I should ever

have looked after a rich widow? alas, I should have

married some poor young maid, got five and twenty

children, and undone myself!

FRAN. I protest, sir, I should not have the face though,

to come to a rich widow with nothing.

RIC. Why, art thou so simple as thou makest thyself?

dost think, i’faith, I come to a rich widow with

nothing?

FRAN. I mean with state not answerable to her’s.

RIC. Why, there’s the fortune, man, that I talk’d on;

She knows all this, and yet I’m welcome to her.

FRAN. Ay? that’s strange, sir.

RIC. Nay more, to pierce thy hard heart,

And make thee sell thy land, if thou’st any grace,

She has, 'mongst others, two substantial suitors:

One, in good time be’t spoke, I owe much money to;

She knows this too, and yet I’m welcome to her,

Nor dares th’ unconscionable rascal trouble me;

Sh’as told him thus, those that profess love to her

Shall have the liberty to come and go,

Or else get him gone first; she knows not yet

Where fortune may bestow her; she’s her gift,

Therefore to all will shew a kind respect.

FRAN. Why, this is like a woman: I ha’ no luck in’t.

RIC. And as at a sheriff’s table,—O blest custom!—

A poor indebted gentleman may dine,

Feed well and without fear, and depart so,

So to her lips fearless I come and go.

FRAN. You may well boast, you’re much the happier man,

sir.

RIC. So you would be, and[596] you would sell your

land, sir.

FRAN. I’ve heard the circumstance of your sweet

fortunes:

Prithee give ear to my unlucky tale now.

RIC. That’s an ill hearing; but come on for once, sir.

FRAN. I never yet lov’d but one woman.

RIC. Right,

I begun so too; but I’ve lov’d a thousand since.

FRAN. Pray, hear me, sir: but this is a man’s wife.

RIC. So have[597] five hundred of my thousand been.

FRAN. Nay see and[596] you’ll regard me!

RIC. No? you see I do;

I bring you an example in for every thing.

FRAN. This man’s wife——

RIC. So you said.

FRAN. Seems very strict.

RIC. Ha, humph!

FRAN. Do you laugh at that?

RIC. Seems very strict, you said;

I hear you, man, i’faith; you’re so jealous still!

FRAN. But why should that make you laugh?

RIC. Because she seems so: you’re such another!

FRAN. Nay, sir, I think she is.

RIC. You cannot tell[598] then?

FRAN. I dare not ask the question, I protest,

For fear of a repulse; which yet not having,

My mind’s the quieter, and I live in hope still.

RIC. Ha, hum! this ’tis to be a landed man.

Come, I perceive I must shew you a little of my

fortune, and instruct you.

Not ask the question?

FRAN. Methought still she frown’d, sir.

RIC. Why that’s the cause, fool, that she look’d so

scurvily.

Come, come, make me your woman; you’ll ne’er do’t else;

I’ll shew you her condition[599] presently.

I perceive you must begin like a young vaulter, and get

up at horse-tail before you get into the saddle: have

you the boldness to utter your mind to me now, being but

in hose[600] and doublet? I think, if I should put on a

farthingale, thou wouldst never have the heart to do’t.

FRAN. Perhaps I should not then for laughing at you,

sir.

RIC. In the mean time I fear I shall laugh at thee

without one.

FRAN. Nay, you must think, friend, I dare speak to a

woman.

RIC. You shall pardon me for that, friend: I will not

think it till I see’t.

FRAN. Why, you shall then: I shall be glad to learn

too

Of one so deep as you are.

RIC. So you may, sir.—

Now ’tis my best course to look mildly; I shall put him

out at first else.

FRAN. A word, sweet lady!

RIC. With me, sir? say your pleasure.

FRAN. O Ricardo,

Thou art too good to be a woman long!

RIC. Do not find fault with this, for fear I prove

Too scornful; be content when you’re well us’d.

FRAN. You say well, sir.—Lady, I’ve lov’d you long.

RIC. ’Tis a good hearing, sir.—If he be not out now,

I’ll be hanged!

FRAN. You play a scornful woman! I perceive, Ricardo,

you have not been used to 'em: why, I’ll come in at my

pleasure with you. Alas, ’tis nothing for a man to talk

when a woman gives way to’t! one shall seldom meet with

a lady so kind as thou playedst her.

RIC. Not altogether, perhaps: he that draws their

pictures must flatter 'em a little; they’ll look he that

plays 'em should do’t a great deal then.

FRAN. Come, come, I’ll play the woman that I’m us’d

to:

I see you ne’er wore shoe that pinch’d you yet;

All your things come[601] on easy.

RIC. Say you so, sir?

I’ll try your ladyship, 'faith.—Lady, well met.

FRAN. I do not think so, sir.

RIC. A scornful gom![602] and at the first dash too!

My widow never gave me such an answer;

I’ll to you again, sir.—

Fairest of creatures, I do love thee infinitely!

FRAN. There’s nobody bids you, sir.

RIC. Pox on thee, thou art the beastliest, crossest

baggage that ever man met withal! but I’ll see thee

hanged, sweet lady, ere I be daunted with this.—Why,

thou’rt too awkward, sirrah.

FRAN. Hang thee, base fellow!

RIC. Now, by this light, he thinks he does’t indeed!

Nay, then, have at your plum-tree![603] faith, I’ll not

be foiled.—Though you seem to be careless, madam, as you

have enough wherewithal to be, yet I do, must, and will

love you.

FRAN. Sir, if you begin to be rude, I’ll call my woman.

RIC. What a pestilent quean’s this! I shall have much

ado with her, I see that.—Tell me, as you’re a woman,

lady, what serve kisses for but to stop all your mouths?

FRAN. Hold, hold, Ricardo!

RIC. Disgrace me, widow?

FRAN. Art mad? I’m Francisco.

ATT. Signor Ricardo, up, up!

RIC. Who is’t? Francisco?

FRAN. Francisco, quotha! what, are you mad, sir?

RIC. A bots on thee, thou dost not know what injury thou

hast done me; I was i’ th’ fairest dream. This is your

way now, and[604] you can follow it.

FRAN. ’Tis a strange way, methinks.

RIC. Learn you to play a woman not so scornfully then;

For I am like the actor that you spoke on:

I must have the part that overcomes the lady,

I never like the play else. Now your friendship,

But to assist a subtle trick I ha’ thought on,

And the rich widow’s mine within these three hours.

ATT. } We should be proud of that, sir.

FRAN. }

RIC. List to me then.

I’ll place you two,—I can do’t handsomely,

I know the house so well,—to hear the conference

'Twixt her and I. She’s a most affable one,

Her words will give advantage, and I’ll urge 'em

To the kind proof, to catch her in a contract;

Then shall you both step in as witnesses,

And take her in the snare.

FRAN. But do you love her?

And then 'twill prosper.

RIC. By this hand, I do,

Not for her wealth, but for her person too.

FRAN. It shall be done then.

RIC. But stay, stay, Francisco;

Where shall we meet with thee some two hours hence, now?

FRAN. Why, hark you, sir. [_Whispers._

RIC. Enough; command my life:

Get me the widow, I’ll get thee the wife. [_Exeunt_

RICARDO _and_ ATTILIO.

FRAN. O, that’s now with me past hope! yet I must love

her:

I would I could not do’t!

_Enter_ BRANDINO _and_ MARTINO.

MAR. Yonder’s the villain, master.

BRAN. Francisco? I am happy.

MAR. Let’s both draw, master, for there’s nobody with

him:

Stay, stay, master,

Do not you draw till I be ready too;

Let’s draw just both together, and keep even.

BRAN. What and[605] we kill’d him now, before he saw

us?

MAR. No, then he’ll hardly see to read the letter.

BRAN. That’s true; good counsel, marry.

MAR. Marry, thus much, sir; you may kill him lawfully

all the while he’s a-reading on’t; as an Anabaptist may

lie with a brother’s wife all the while he’s asleep.

BRAN. He turns, he looks.—Come on, sir; you,

Francisco!

I lov’d your father well, but you’re a villain;

He lov’d me well too, but you love my wife, sir:

After whom take you that? I will not say

Your mother play’d false.

FRAN. No, sir, you were not best.

BRAN. But I will say, in spite of thee, my wife’s

honest.

MAR. And I, my mistress.

FRAN. You may, I’ll give you leave.

BRAN. Leave or leave not, there she defies you, sir.

[_Gives the letter._

Keep your adulterous sheet to wind you in,

Or cover your forbidden parts at least,

For fear you want one: many a lecher may,

That sins in cambric now.

MAR. And in lawn too, master.

BRAN. Nay, read and tremble, sir.

MAR. Now shall I do’t, master? I see a piece of an open

seam in his shirt: shall I run him in there? for my

sword has ne’er a point.

BRAN. No; let him foam a while.

MAR. If your sword be no better than mine, we shall not

kill him by daylight; we had need have a lanthorn.

BRAN. Talk not of lanthorns, he’s a sturdy lecher;

He would make the horns fly about my ears.

FRAN. I apprehend thee: admirable woman!

Which to love best I know not, thy wit or beauty.

[_Aside._

BRAN. Now, sir, have you well view’d your bastard

there,

Got of your lustful brain? give you joy on’t!

FRAN. I thank you, sir: although you speak in jest,

I must confess I sent your wife this letter,

And often courted her, tempted and urg’d her.

BRAN. Did you so, sir? then first,

Before I kill thee, I forewarn thee my house.

MAR. And I, before I kill thee, forewarn thee my office:

die to-morrow next, thou never get’st warrant of me

more, for love or money.

FRAN. Remember but again from whence I came, sir,

And then I know you cannot think amiss of me.

BRAN. How’s this?

MAR. Pray, hear him; it may grow to a peace: for,

master, though we have carried the business nobly, we

are not altogether so valiant as we should be.

BRAN. Peace? thou say’st true in that.—What is’t you’d

say, sir?

FRAN. Was not my father—quietness be with him!—

And you sworn brothers?

BRAN. Why, right; that’s it urges me.

FRAN. And could you have a thought that I could wrong

you,

As far as the deed goes?

BRAN. You took the course, sir.

FRAN. To make you happy, and[606] you rightly weigh’d

it.

MAR. Troth, I’ll put up[607] at all adventures,

master:

It comes off very fair yet.

FRAN. You in years

Married a young maid: what does the world judge, think

you?

MAR. Byrlady,[608] master, knavishly enough, I warrant

you;

I should do so myself.

FRAN. Now, to damp slander,

And all her envious and suspicious brood,

I made this friendly trial of her constancy,

Being son to him you lov’d; that, now confirm’d,

I might advance my sword against the world

In her most fair defence, which joys my spirit.

MAR. O master, let me weep while you embrace him!

BRAN. Francisco, is thy father’s soul in thee?

Lives he here still? what, will he shew himself

In his male seed to me? Give me thy hand;

Methinks it feels now like thy father’s to me:

Prithee, forgive me!

MAR. And me too, prithee!

BRAN. Come to my house; thy father never miss’d it.

MAR. Fetch now as many warrants as you please, sir,

And welcome too.

FRAN. To see how soon man’s goodness

May be abus’d!

BRAN. But now I know thy intent,

Welcome to all that I have!

FRAN. Sir, I take it:

A gift so given, hang him that would forsake it!

[_Exit._

BRAN. Martino, I applaud my fortune and thy counsel.

MAR. You never have ill fortune when you follow it. Here

were[609] things carried now in the true nature of a

quiet duello; a great strife ended, without the rough

soldier or the ——.[610] And now you may take your

journey.

BRAN. Thou art my glee, Martino. [_Exeunt._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_A Room in_ VALERIA’S _House_.

_Enter_ VALERIA _and_ SERVELLIO.

VAL. Servellio!

SER. Mistress?

VAL. If that fellow come again,

Answer him without me; I’ll not speak with him.

SER. He in the nutmeg-colour’d band, forsooth?

VAL. Ay, that spic’d coxcomb, sir: ne’er may I marry

again, [_Exit_ SERVELLIO.

If his right worshipful idolatrous face

Be not most fearfully painted; so hope comfort me,

I might perceive it peel in many places;

And under’s eye lay a betraying foulness,

As maids sweep dust o’ th’ house all to one corner;

It shew’d me enough there, prodigious pride,

That cannot but fall scornfully. I’m a woman;

Yet, I praise heaven, I never had th’ ambition

To go about to mend a better workman:

She ever shames herself i’ th’ end that does it.

He that likes me not now, as heaven made me,

I’ll never hazard hell to do him a pleasure;

Nor lie every night like a woodcock in paste

To please some gaudy goose in the morning:

A wise man likes that best that is itself,

Not that which only seems, though it look fairer.

Heaven send me one that loves me, and I’m happy!

Of whom I’ll make great trial ere I have him,

Though I speak all men fair, and promise sweetly:

I learn that of my suitors; ’tis their own,

Therefore injustice 'twere to keep it from 'em.

_Enter_ RICARDO, _followed by_ FRANCISCO _and_ ATTILIO

_who conceal themselves_.

RIC. And so as I said, sweet widow——

VAL. Do you begin where you left, sir?

RIC. I always desire, when I come to a widow, to begin

i’ th’ middle of a sentence; for I presume she has a bad

memory of a woman that cannot remember what goes before.

VAL. Stay, stay, sir; let me look upon you well;

Are not you painted too?

RIC. How, painted, widow?

VAL. Not painted widow; I do not use it, trust me,

sir.

RIC. That makes me love thee.

VAL. I mean painted gentleman,

Or if you please to give him a greater style, sir:

Blame me not, sir; it’s a dangerous age, I tell you;

Poor simple-dealing women had need look about 'em.

RIC. But is there such a fellow in the world, widow,

As you are pleas’d to talk on?

VAL. Nay, here lately, sir.

RIC. Here? a pox, I think I smell him! ’tis vermilion

sure; ha, oil of ben![611] Do but shew him me, widow,

and let me never hope for comfort, if I do not

immediately geld him, and grind his face upon one o’ th’

stones.

VAL. Suffices you’ve express’d me your love and

valour,

And manly hate 'gainst that unmanly pride:

But, sir, I’ll save you that labour; he ne’er comes

Within my door again.

RIC. I’ll love your door the better while I know’t,

widow; a pair of such brothers were fitter for

posts[612] without door indeed, to make a shew at a

new-chosen magistrate’s gate, than to be used in a

woman’s chamber. No, sweet widow, having me, you’ve the

truth of a man; all that you see of me is full mine own,

and what you see, or not see, shall be yours: I ever

hated to be beholding[613] to art, or to borrow any

thing but money.

VAL. True, and that you never use to pay again.

RIC. What matter is’t? if you be pleased to do’t for me,

I hold it as good.

VAL. O, soft you, sir, I pray!

RIC. Why, i’faith, you may, and[614] you will.

VAL. I know that, sir.

RIC. Troth, and I would have my will then, if I were as

you: there’s few women else but have.[615]

VAL. But since I cannot have it in all, signor,

I care not to have it in any thing.

RIC. Why, you may have’t in all, and[614] you will,

widow.

VAL. Pish! I’d have one that loves me for myself, sir,

Not for my wealth; and that I cannot have.

RIC. What say you to him that does the thing you wish

for?

VAL. Why, here’s my hand, I’ll marry none but him

then.

RIC. Your hand and faith?

VAL. My hand and faith.

RIC. ’Tis I, then.

VAL. I shall be glad on’t, trust me; ’shrew my heart

else!

RIC. A match!

[FRANCISCO _and_ ATTILIO _come forward_.

FRAN. Give you joy, sweet widow!

ATT. Joy to you both!

VAL. How?

RIC. Nay, there’s no starting now, I have you fast,

widow.—

You’re witness, gentlemen.

FRAN. } We’ll be depos’d on’t.

ATT. }

VAL. Am I betray’d to this, then? then I see

’Tis for my wealth: a woman’s wealth’s her traitor.

RIC. ’Tis for love chiefly, I protest, sweet widow;

I count wealth but a fiddle to make us merry.

VAL. Hence!

RIC. Why, thou’rt mine.

VAL. I do renounce it utterly.

RIC. Have I not hand and faith?

VAL. Sir, take your course.

RIC. With all my heart; ten courses, and[616] you

will, widow.

VAL. Sir, sir, I’m not so gamesome as you think me;

I’ll stand you out by law.

RIC. By law? O cruel, merciless woman,

To talk of law, and know I have no money!

VAL. I will consume myself to the last stamp,[617]

Before thou gett’st me.

RIC. 'Life, I’ll be as wilful then, too:

I’ll rob all the carriers in Christendom,

But I’ll have thee, and find my lawyers money.

I scorn to get thee under _forma pauperis_;

I have too proud a heart, and love thee better.

VAL. As for you, gentlemen, I’ll take course against

you;

You came into my house without my leave;

Your practices are cunning and deceitful;

I know you not, and I hope law will right me.

RIC. It is sufficient that your husband knows 'em:

’Tis not your business to know every man;

An honest wife contents herself with one.

VAL. You know what you shall trust to. Pray depart,

sir,

And take your rude confederates along with you,

Or I will send for those shall force your absence:

I’m glad I found your purpose out so soon.

How quickly may poor women be undone!

RIC. Lose thee? by this hand, I’ll fee fifteen

counsellors first, though I undo a hundred poor men for

'em; and I’ll make 'em yaul one another deaf, but I’ll

have thee.

VAL. Me?

RIC. Thee.

VAL. Ay, fret thy heart out. [_Exit_ RICARDO.

FRAN. Were I he now,

I’d see thee starve for man before I had thee.

VAL. Pray, counsel him to that, sir, and I’ll pay you

well.

FRAN. Pay me? pay your next husband.

VAL. Do not scorn’t, gallant; a worse woman than I

Has paid a better man than you.

[_Exeunt_ ATTILIO _and_ FRANCISCO.

_Enter two Suitors._

FIRST SUIT. Why, how now, sweet widow?

VAL. O kind gentlemen, I’m so abus’d here!

BOTH SUIT. Abused? [_Drawing their swords._

VAL. What will you do, sirs? put up your weapons.

SEC. SUIT. Nay, they’re not so easily drawn, that I must

tell you; mine has not been out this three years; marry,

in your cause, widow, 'twould not be long a-drawing.

Abused! by whom, widow?

VAL. Nay, by a beggar.

SEC. SUIT. A beggar? I’ll have him whipt then, and sent

to the House of Correction.

VAL. Ricardo, sir.

SEC. SUIT. Ricardo? nay, by th’ mass, he’s a

gentleman-beggar; he’ll be hanged before he be whipt.

Why, you’ll give me leave to clap him up, I hope?

VAL. ’Tis too good for him; that’s the thing he’d

have,

He would be clapt up, whether I would or no, methinks;

Plac’d two of his companions privately,

Unknown to me, on purpose to entrap me

In my kind answers, and at last stole from me

That which I fear will put me to some trouble,

A kind of verbal courtesy, which his witnesses

And he, forsooth, call by the name of contract.

FIRST SUIT. O politic villain!

VAL. But I’m resolv’d, gentlemen,

If the whole power of my estate can cast him,

He never shall obtain me.

SEC. SUIT. Hold you there, widow;

Well fare your heart for that, i’faith.

FIRST SUIT. Stay, stay, stay;

You broke no gold between you?

VAL. We broke nothing, sir.

FIRST SUIT. Nor drunk to one another?

VAL. Not a drop, sir.

FIRST SUIT. You’re sure of this you speak?

VAL. Most certain, sir.

FIRST SUIT. Be of good comfort, wench: I’ll undertake

then,

At mine own charge, to overthrow him for thee.

VAL. O, do but that, sir, and you bind me to you!

Here shall I try your goodness. I’m but a woman,

And, alas, ignorant in law businesses:

I’ll bear the charge most willingly.

FIRST SUIT. Not a penny;

Thy love will reward me.

VAL. And where love must be,

It is all but one purse, now I think on’t.

FIRST SUIT. All comes to one, sweet widow.

SEC. SUIT. Are you so forward? [_Aside._

FIRST SUIT. I know his mates, Attilio and Francisco;

I’ll get out process, and attach 'em all:

We’ll begin first with them.

VAL. I like that strangely.

FIRST SUIT. I have a daughter run away, I thank her;

I’ll be a scourge to all youth for her sake:

Some of 'em has got her up.

VAL. Your daughter? what, sir, Martia?

FIRST SUIT. Ay, a shake wed her!

I would have married her to a wealthy gentleman,

No older than myself; she was like to be shrewdly hurt,

widow.

VAL. It was too happy for her.

FIRST SUIT. I’m of thy mind.

Farewell, sweet widow; I’ll about this straight;

I’ll have 'em all three put into one writ,

And so save charges.

VAL. How I love your providence!

[_Exit First Suitor._

SEC. SUIT. Is my nose bor’d? I’ll cross ye both for

this,

Although it cost me as much o’ th’ other side:

I have enough, and I will have my humour.

I may get out of her what may undo her too. [_Aside._

Hark you, sweet widow, you must now take heed

You be of a sure ground, he’ll o’erthrow you else.

VAL. Marry, fair hope forbid!

SEC. SUIT. That will he: marry, le’ me see, le’ me

see;

Pray how far past it 'tween you and Ricardo?

VAL. Farther, sir,

Than I would now it had; but I hope well yet.

SEC. SUIT. Pray let me hear’t; I’ve a shrewd guess o’

th’ law.

VAL. Faith, sir, I rashly gave my hand and faith

To marry none but him.

SEC. SUIT. Indeed!

VAL. Ay, trust me, sir.

SEC. SUIT. I’m very glad on’t; I’m another witness,

And he shall have you now.

VAL. What said you, sir?

SEC. SUIT. He shall not want money in an honest cause,

widow;

I know I’ve enough, and I will have my humour.

VAL. Are all the world betrayers?

SEC. SUIT. Pish, pish, widow!

You’ve borne me in hand[618] this three months, and now

fobb’d me:

I’ve known the time when I could please a woman.

I’ll not be laugh’d at now; when I’m crost, I’m a tiger:

I have enough, and I will have my humour.

VAL. This only shews your malice to me, sir;

The world knows you ha’ small reason to help him,

So much in your debt already.

SEC. SUIT. Therefore I do’t,

I have no way but that to help myself;

Though I lose you, I will not lose all, widow;

He marrying you, as I will follow’t for him,

I’ll make you pay his debts, or lie without him.

VAL. I look’d for this from you.

SEC. SUIT. I ha’ not deceiv’d you then: [_Exit_

VALERIA.

Fret, vex, and chafe, I’m obstinate where I take.

I’ll seek him out, and cheer him up against her:

I ha’ no charge at all, no child of mine own,

But two I got once of a scouring-woman,

And they’re both well provided for, they’re i’ th’

hospital.

I have ten thousand pound to bury me,

And I will have my humour. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A Street._

_Enter_ FRANCISCO.

FRAN. A man must have a time to serve his pleasure,

As well as his dear friend: I’m forc’d to steal from

'em,

To get this night of sport for mine own use.

What says her amiable, witty letter here?

[_Reads letter._

’_Twixt nine and ten_,—now ’tis 'twixt six and seven;

As fit as can be; he that follows lechery

Leaves all at six and seven, and so do I, methinks:

Sun sets at eight, it’s 'bove an hour high yet;

Some fifteen mile have I before I reach her,

But I’ve an excellent horse; and a good gallop

Helps man as much as a provoking banquet.

_Enter First Suitor and Officers._

FIRST SUIT. Here’s one of 'em; begin with him first,

officers.

FIRST OFF. By virtue of this writ we attach your body,

sir.

[_Officers seize_ FRANCISCO.

FRAN. My body? 'life, for what?

FIRST SUIT. Hold him fast, officers.

FIRST OFF. The least of us can do’t, now his sword’s

off, sir;

We have a trick of hanging upon gentlemen,

We never lose a man.

FRAN. O treacherous fortune!—

Why, what’s the cause?

FIRST SUIT. The widow’s business, sir:

I hope you know me?

FRAN. For a busy coxcomb,

This fifteen year, I take it.

FIRST SUIT. O, you’re mad, sir;

Simple though you make me, I stand for the widow.

FRAN. She’s simply stood for then: what’s this to me,

sir,

Or she, or you, or any of these flesh-hooks?

FIRST SUIT. You’re like to find good bail before you

leave us,

Or lie till the suit’s tried.

FRAN. O my love’s misery!

FIRST SUIT. I’m put in trust to follow’t, and I’ll

do’t

With all severity; build upon that, sir.

_Enter_ RICARDO _and_ ATTILIO.

FRAN. How I could[619] curse myself!

RIC. Look, here’s Francisco:

Will you believe me, now you see his qualities?

ATT. ’Tis strange to me.

RIC. I tell you ’tis his fashion;

He never stole away in’s life from me,

But still I found him in such scurvy company.—

A pox on thee, Francisco! wilt never leave

Thy old tricks? are these lousy companions for thee?

FRAN. Pish, pish, pish!

FIRST SUIT. Here they be all three now; 'prehend 'em,

officers.

[_Officers seize_ RICARDO _and_ ATTILIO.

RI. What’s this?

FRAN. I gave you warning enough to make away;

I’m in for the widow’s business, so are you now.

RIC. What, all three in a noose? this is like a widow’s

business indeed.

FIRST SUIT. Sh’as catch’d you, gentlemen, as you

catch’d her.

The widow means now to begin with you, sir.

RIC. I thank her heartily, sh’as taught me wit; for had

I been any but an ass, I should ha’ begun with her

indeed. By this light, the widow’s a notable housewife!

she bestirs herself. I have a greater mind to her now

than e’er I had: I cannot go to prison for one I love

better, I protest; that’s one good comfort.—

And what are you, I pray, sir, for a coxcomb?[620]

FIRST SUIT. It seems you know me by your anger, sir.

RIC. I’ve a near guess at you, sir.

FIRST SUIT. Guess what you please, sir,

I’m he ordain’d to trounce you, and, indeed,

I am the man must carry her.

RIC. Ay, to me;

But I’ll swear she’s a beast, and[621] she carry thee.

FIRST SUIT. Come, where’s your bail, sir? quickly, or

away.

RIC. Sir, I’m held wrongfully; my bail’s taken

already.

FIRST SUIT. Where is’t, sir, where?

RIC. Here they be both. Pox on you, they were taken

before I’d need of 'em. And[621] you be honest officers,

let’s bail one another; for, by this hand, I do not know

who will else.—

_Enter Second Suitor._