ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.—The Village Green.
Enter Cuddy Banks with the Morris-dancers.
First Clown. Nay, Cuddy, prithee do not leave us now; if we part all this night, we shall not meet before day.
2nd Cl. I prithee, Banks, let’s keep together now.
Cud. If you were wise, a word would serve; but as you are, I must be forced to tell you again, I have a little private business, an hour’s work; it may prove but an half hour’s, as luck may serve; and then I take horse, and along with you. Have we e’er a witch in the morris?
1st Cl. No, no; no woman’s part but Maid Marian and the Hobby-horse.
Cud. I’ll have a witch; I love a witch.
1st Cl. ’Faith, witches themselves are so common now-a-days, that the counterfeit will not be regarded. They say we have three or four in Edmonton besides Mother Sawyer.
2nd Cl. I would she would dance her part with us.
3rd Cl. So would not I; for if she comes, the devil and all comes along with her.
Cud. Well, I’ll have a witch; I have loved a witch ever since I played at cherry-pit.[431] Leave me, and get my horse dressed; give him oats: but water him not till I come. Whither do we foot it first?
2nd Cl. To Sir Arthur Clarington’s first; then whither thou wilt.
Cud. Well, I am content; but we must up to Carter’s, the rich yeoman; I must be seen on hobby-horse there.
1st Cl. O, I smell him now!—I’ll lay my ears Banks is in love, and that’s the reason he would walk melancholy by himself.
Cud. Ha! who was that said I was in love?
1st Cl. Not I.
2nd Cl. Nor I.
Cud. Go to, no more of that: when I understand what you speak, I know what you say; believe that.
1st Cl. Well, ’twas I, I’ll not deny it; I meant no hurt in’t. I have seen you walk up to Carter’s of Chessum: Banks, were not you there last Shrovetide?
Cud. Yes, I was ten days together there the last Shrovetide.
2nd Cl. How could that be, when there are but seven days in the week?
Cud. Prithee peace! I reckon stila nova as a traveller; thou understandest as a fresh-water farmer, that never sawest a week beyond sea. Ask any soldier that ever received his pay but in the Low Countries, and he’ll tell thee there are eight days in the week[432] there hard by. How dost thou think they rise in High Germany, Italy, and those remoter places?
3rd Cl. Ay, but simply there are but seven days in the week yet.
Cud. No, simply as thou understandest. Prithee look but in the lover’s almanac: when he has been but three days absent, “O,” says he, “I have not seen my love these seven years:” there’s a long cut! When he comes to her again and embraces her, “O,” says he, “now methinks I am in Heaven;” and that’s a pretty step! He that can get up to Heaven in ten days need not repent his journey; you may ride a hundred days in a caroche,[433] and be further off than when you set forth. But, I pray you, good morris-mates, now leave me. I will be with you by midnight.
1st Cl. Well, since he will be alone, we’ll back again and trouble him no more.
All the Clowns. But remember, Banks.
Cud. The hobby-horse shall be remembered. But hark you; get Poldavis, the barber’s boy, for the witch, because he can show his art better than another. [Exeunt all but Cuddy.
Well, now to my walk. I am near the place where I should meet—I know not what: say I meet a thief? I must follow him, if to the gallows; say I meet a horse, or hare, or hound? still I must follow: some slow-paced beast, I hope; yet love is full of lightness in the heaviest lovers. Ha! my guide is come.
Enter the Dog.
A water-dog! I am thy first man, sculler; I go with thee; ply no other but myself. Away with the boat! land me but at Katherine’s Dock, my sweet Katherine’s Dock, and I’ll be a fare to thee. That way? nay, which way thou wilt; thou knowest the way better than I:—fine gentle cur it is, and well brought up, I warrant him. We go a-ducking, spaniel; thou shalt fetch me the ducks, pretty kind rascal.
Enter a Spirit vizarded. He throws off his mask, &c., and appears in the shape of Katherine.
Spir. Thus throw I off mine own essential horror,
And take the shape of a sweet lovely maid
Whom this fool dotes on: we can meet his folly,
But from his virtues must be runaways.
We’ll sport with him; but when we reckoning call,
We know where to receive; the witch pays for all. [The Dog barks.
Cud. Ay? is that the watchword? She’s come. [Sees the Spirit.] Well, if ever we be married, it shall be at Barking Church,[434] in memory of thee: now come behind, kind cur.
And have I met thee, sweet Kate?
I will teach thee to walk so late.
O, see, we meet in metre. [The Spirit retires as he advances.] What! dost thou trip from me? O, that I were upon my hobby-horse, I would mount after thee so nimble! “Stay, nymph, stay, nymph,” singed Apollo.
Tarry and kiss me, sweet nymph, stay;
Tarry and kiss me, sweet:
We will to Chessum Street,
And then to the house stands in the highway.
Nay, by your leave, I must embrace you. [Exit, following the Spirit.
[Within.] O, help, help! I am drowned, I am drowned!
Re-enter Cuddy wet.
Dog. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Cud. This was an ill night to go a-wooing in; I find it now in Pond’s almanac: thinking to land at Katherine’s Dock, I was almost at Gravesend. I’ll never go to a wench in the dog-days again; yet ’tis cool enough.—Had you never a paw in this dog-trick? a mange take that black hide of yours! I’ll throw you in at Limehouse in some tanner’s pit or other.
Dog. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Cud. How now! who’s that laughs at me? Hist to him! [The Dog barks.]—Peace, peace! thou didst but thy kind neither; ’twas my own fault.
Dog. Take heed how thou trustest the devil another time.
Cud. How now! who’s that speaks? I hope you have not your reading tongue about you?
Dog. Yes, I can speak.
Cud. The devil you can! you have read Æsop’s fables, then; I have played one of your parts then,—the dog that catched at the shadow in the water. Pray you, let me catechise you a little; what might one call your name, dog?
Dog. My dame calls me Tom.
Cud. ’Tis well, and she may call me Ass; so there’s an whole one betwixt us, Tom-Ass: she said I should follow you, indeed. Well, Tom, give me thy fist, we are friends; you shall be mine ingle:[435] I love you; but I pray you let’s have no more of these ducking devices.
Dog. Not, if you love me. Dogs love where they are beloved; cherish me, and I’ll do anything for thee.
Cud. Well, you shall have jowls and livers; I have butchers to my friends that shall bestow ’em: and I will keep crusts and bones for you, if you’ll be a kind dog, Tom.
Dog. Any thing; I’ll help thee to thy love.
Cud. Wilt thou? that promise shall cost me a brown loaf, though I steal it out of my father’s cupboard: you’ll eat stolen goods, Tom, will you not?
Dog. O, best of all; the sweetest bits those.
Cud. You shall not starve, Ningle[436] Tom, believe that: if you love fish, I’ll help you to maids and soles; I’m acquainted with a fishmonger.
Dog. Maids and soles? O, sweet bits! banqueting stuff those.
Cud. One thing I would request you, ningle, as you have played the knavish cur with me a little, that you would mingle amongst our morris-dancers in the morning. You can dance?
Dog. Yes, yes, any thing; I’ll be there, but unseen to any but thyself. Get thee gone before; fear not my presence. I have work to-night; I serve more masters, more dames than one.
Cud. He can serve Mammon and the devil too.
Dog. It shall concern thee and thy love’s purchase.
There is a gallant rival loves the maid,
And likely is to have her. Mark what a mischief,
Before the morris ends, shall light on him!
Cud. O, sweet ningle, thy neuf[437] once again; friends must part for a time. Farewell, with this remembrance; shalt have bread too when we meet again. If ever there were an honest devil, ’twill be the Devil of Edmonton,[438] I see. Farewell, Tom; I prithee dog me as soon as thou canst. [Exit.
Dog. I’ll not miss thee, and be merry with thee.
Those that are joys denied must take delight
In sins and mischiefs; ’tis the devil’s right. [Exit.
SCENE II.—The neighbourhood of Edmonton.
Enter Frank Thorney and Winnifred in boy’s clothes.
Frank. Prithee no more! those tears give nourishment
To weeds and briers in me, which shortly will
O’ergrow and top my head; my shame will sit
And cover all that can be seen of me.
Win. I have not shown this cheek in company;
Pardon me now: thus singled with yourself,
It calls a thousand sorrows round about,
Some going before, and some on either side,
But infinite behind; all chained together:
Your second adulterous marriage leads;
That is the sad eclipse, th’ effects must follow,
As plagues of shame, spite, scorn, and obloquy.
Frank. Why, hast thou not left one hour’s patience
To add to all the rest? one hour bears us
Beyond the reach of all these enemies:
Are we not now set forward in the flight,
Provided with the dowry of my sin[439]
To keep us in some other nation?
While we together are, we are at home
In any place.
Win. ’Tis foul ill-gotten coin,
Far worse than usury or extortion.
Frank. Let
My father, then, make the restitution,
Who forced me to take the bribe: it is his gift
And patrimony to me; so I receive it.
He would not bless, nor look a father on me,
Until I satisfied his angry will:
When I was sold, I sold myself again—
Some knaves have done’t in lands, and I in body—
For money, and I have the hire. But, sweet, no more,
’Tis hazard of discovery, our discourse;
And then prevention takes off all our hopes:
For only but to take her leave of me
My wife is coming.
Win. Who coming? your wife!
Frank. No, no; thou art here: the woman—I knew
Not how to call her now; but after this day
She shall be quite forgot and have no name
In my remembrance. See, see! she’s come.
Enter Susan.
Go lead
The horses to th’ hill’s top; there I’ll meet thee.
Sus. Nay, with your favour let him stay a little;
I would part with him too, because he is
Your sole companion; and I’ll begin with him,
Reserving you the last.
Frank. Ay, with all my heart.
Sus. You may hear, if’t please you, sir.
Frank. No, ’tis not fit:
Some rudiments, I conceive, they must be,
To overlook my slippery footings: and so—
Sus. No, indeed, sir.
Frank. Tush, I know it must be so,
And it is necessary: on! but be brief. [Walks forward.
Win. What charge soe’er you lay upon me, mistress,
I shall support it faithfully—being honest—
To my best strength.
Sus. Believe’t shall be no other.
I know you were commended to my husband
By a noble knight.
Win. O, gods! O, mine eyes!
Sus. How now! what ail’st thou, lad?
Win. Something hit mine eye,—it makes it water still,—
Even as you said “commended to my husband.”—
Some dor[440] I think it was.—I was, forsooth,
Commended to him by Sir Arthur Clarington.
Sus. Whose servant once my Thorney was himself.
That title, methinks, should make you almost fellows;
Or at the least much more than a servant;
And I am sure he will respect you so.
Your love to him, then, needs no spur from me,
And what for my sake you will ever do,
’Tis fit it should be bought with something more
Than fair entreats; look! here’s a jewel for thee,
A pretty wanton label for thine ear;
And I would have it hang there, still to whisper
These words to thee, “Thou hast my jewel with thee.”
It is but earnest of a larger bounty,
When thou return’st with praises of thy service,
Which I am confident thou wilt deserve.
Why, thou art many now besides thyself:
Thou mayst be servant, friend, and wife to him;
A good wife is them all. A friend can play
The wife and servant’s part, and shift enough;
No less the servant can the friend and wife:
’Tis all but sweet society, good counsel,
Interchanged loves, yes, and counsel-keeping.
Frank. Not done yet?
Sus. Even now, sir.
Win. Mistress, believe my vow; your severe eye,
Were’t present to command, your bounteous hand,
Were it then by to buy or bribe my service,
Shall not make me more dear or near unto him
Than I shall voluntary. I’ll be all your charge,
Servant, friend, wife to him.
Sus. Wilt thou?
Now blessings go with thee for’t! courtesies
Shall meet thee coming home.
Win. Pray you say plainly,
Mistress, are you jealous of him? if you be,
I’ll look to him that way too.
Sus. Say’st thou so?
I would thou hadst a woman’s bosom now;
We have weak thoughts within us. Alas,
There’s nothing so strong in us as suspicion;
But I dare not, nay, I will not think
So hardly of my Thorney.
Win. Believe it, mistress,
I’ll be no pander to him; and if I find
Any loose lubric scapes in him, I’ll watch him,
And at my return protest I’ll show you all:
He shall hardly offend without my knowledge.
Sus. Thine own diligence is that I press,
And not the curious eye over his faults.
Farewell: if I should never see thee more,
Take it for ever.
Frank. Prithee take that along with thee, [Handing his sword to Winnifred.] and haste thee
To the hill’s top; I’ll be there instantly.
Sus. No haste, I prithee; slowly as thou canst— [Exit Winnifred.
Pray let him obey me now; ’tis happily
His last service to me: my power is e’en
A-going out of sight.
Frank. Why would you delay?
We have no other business now but to part.
Sus. And will not that, sweetheart, ask a long time?
Methinks it is the hardest piece of work
That e’er I took in hand.
Frank. Fie, fie! why, look,
I’ll make it plain and easy to you—farewell! [Kisses her.
Sus. Ah, ’las, I’m not half perfect in it yet;
I must have it read o’er an hundred times:
Pray you take some pains; I confess my dulness.
Frank. [Aside.] What a thorn this rose grows on! Parting were sweet;
But what a trouble ’twill be to obtain it!—
Come, again and again, farewell!—[Kisses her.] Yet wilt return?
All questions of my journey, my stay, employment,
And revisitation, fully I have answered all;
There’s nothing now behind but—nothing.
Sus. And
That nothing is more hard than anything,
Than all the everythings. This request—
Frank. What is’t?
Sus. That I may bring you through one pasture more
Up to yon knot of trees; amongst those shadows
I’ll vanish from you, they shall teach me how.
Frank. Why, ’tis granted; come, walk, then.
Sus. Nay, not too fast:
They say slow things have best perfection;
The gentle shower wets to fertility,
The churlish storm may mischief with his bounty;
The baser beasts take strength even from the womb,
But the lord lion’s whelp is feeble long. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A Field with a clump of trees.
Enter the Dog.
Dog. Now for an early mischief and a sudden!
The mind’s about it now; one touch from me
Soon sets the body forward.
Enter Frank and Susan.
Frank. Your request
Is out; yet will you leave me?
Sus. What? so churlishly?
You’ll make me stay for ever,
Rather than part with such a sound from you.
Frank. Why, you almost anger me. Pray you be gone.
You have no company, and ’tis very early;
Some hurt may betide you homewards.
Sus. Tush! I fear none;
To leave you is the greatest hurt I can suffer:
Besides, I expect your father and mine own
To meet me back, or overtake me with you;
They began to stir when I came after you
I know they’ll not be long.
Frank. So! I shall have more trouble,—[The Dog rubs against him]—thank you for that:[441]
[Aside.] Then I’ll ease all at once. It is done now;
What I ne’er thought on.—You shall not go back.
Sus. Why, shall I go along with thee? sweet music!
Frank. No, to a better place.
Sus. Any place I;
I’m there at home where thou pleasest to have me.
Frank. At home? I’ll leave you in your last lodging;
I must kill you.
Sus. O, fine! you’d fright me from you.
Frank. You see I had no purpose; I’m unarmed;
’Tis this minute’s decree, and it must be:
Look, this will serve your turn. [Draws a knife.
Sus. I’ll not turn from it,
If you be earnest, sir; yet you may tell me
Wherefore you’ll kill me.
Frank. Because you are a whore.
Sus. There’s one deep wound already; a whore!
’Twas ever further from me than the thought
Of this black hour; a whore?
Frank. Yes, I’ll prove it,
And you shall confess it. You are my whore.
No wife of mine; the word admits no second.
I was before wedded to another; have her still.
I do not lay the sin unto your charge,
’Tis all mine own: your marriage was my theft,
For I espoused your dowry, and I have it.
I did not purpose to have added murder;
The devil did not prompt me till this minute:
You might have safe returned; now you cannot.
You have dogged your own death. [Stabs her.
Sus. And I deserve it;
I’m glad my fate was so intelligent:
’Twas some good spirit’s motion. Die? O, ’twas time!
How many years might I have slept in sin,
The sin of my most hatred, too, adultery!
Frank. Nay, sure, ’twas likely that the most was past;
For I meant never to return to you
After this parting.
Sus. Why, then, I thank you more;
You have done lovingly, leaving yourself,
That you would thus bestow me on another.
Thou art my husband, Death, and I embrace thee
With all the love I have. Forget the stain
Of my unwitting sin; and then I come
A crystal virgin to thee: my soul’s purity
Shall with bold wings ascend the doors of Mercy;
For Innocence is ever her companion.
Frank. Not yet mortal? I would not linger you,
Or leave you a tongue to blab. [Stabs her again.
Sus. Now Heaven reward you ne’er the worse for me!
I did not think that Death had been so sweet,
Nor I so apt to love him. I could ne’er die better,
Had I stayed forty years for preparation;
For I’m in charity with all the world.
Let me for once be thine example, Heaven;
Do to this man as I him free forgive,
And may he better die and better live. [Dies.
Frank. ’Tis done; and I am in! Once past our height,
We scorn the deep’st abyss. This follows now,
To heal her wounds by dressing of the weapon.[442]
Arms, thighs, hands, any place; we must not fail [Wounds himself.
Light scratches, giving such deep ones: the best I can
To bind myself to this tree. Now’s the storm,
Which if blown o’er, many fair days may follow.
[Binds himself to a tree; the Dog ties him behind and exit.
So, so, I’m fast; I did not think I could
Have done so well behind me. How prosperous
And effectual mischief sometimes is!—[Aloud] Help! help!
Murder, murder, murder!
Enter Carter and Old Thorney.
Car. Ha! whom tolls the bell for?
Frank. O, O!
O. Thor. Ah me!
The cause appears too soon; my child, my son!
Car. Susan, girl, child! not speak to thy father? ha!
Frank. O, lend me some assistance to o’ertake
This hapless woman.
O. Thor. Let’s o’ertake the murderers.
Speak whilst thou canst, anon may be too late;
I fear thou hast death’s mark upon thee too.
Frank. I know them both; yet such an oath is passed
As pulls damnation up if it be broke.
I dare not name ’em: think what forced men do.
O. Thor. Keep oath with murderers! that were a conscience
To hold the devil in.
Frank. Nay, sir, I can describe ’em,
Shall show them as familiar as their names:
The taller of the two at this time wears
His satin doublet white, but crimson-lined,
Hose of black satin, cloak of scarlet—
O. Thor. Warbeck,
Warbeck, Warbeck!—do you list to this, sir?
Car. Yes, yes, I listen you; here’s nothing to be heard.
Frank. Th’ other’s cloak branched[443] velvet, black, velvet-lined his suit.
O. Thor. I have ’em already; Somerton, Somerton!
Binal revenge all this. Come, sir, the first work
Is to pursue the murderers, when we have
Removed these mangled bodies hence.
Car. Sir, take that carcass there, and give me this.
I will not own her now; she’s none of mine.
Bob me off with a dumb-show! no, I’ll have life.
This is my son too, and while there’s life in him,
’Tis half mine; take you half that silence for’t.—
When I speak I look to be spoken to:
Forgetful slut!
O. Thor. Alas, what grief may do now!
Look, sir, I’ll take this load of sorrow with me.
Car. Ay, do, and I’ll have this. [Exit Old Thorney with Susan in his arms.] How do you, sir?
Frank. O, very ill, sir.
Car. Yes,
I think so; but ’tis well you can speak yet:
There’s no music but in sound; sound it must be.
I have not wept these twenty years before,
And that I guess was ere that girl was born;
Yet now methinks, if I but knew the way,
My heart’s so full, I could weep night and day. [Exit with Frank.
SCENE IV.—Before Sir Arthur Clarington’s House.
Enter Sir Arthur Clarington, Warbeck, and Somerton.
Sir Arth. Come, gentlemen, we must all help to grace
The nimble-footed youth of Edmonton,
That are so kind to call us up to-day
With an high morris.
War. I could wish it for the best, it were the worst now. Absurdity’s in my opinion ever the best dancer in a morris.
Som. I could rather sleep than see ’em.
Sir Arth. Not well, sir?
Som. ’Faith, not ever thus leaden: yet I know no cause for’t.
War. Now am I beyond mine own condition highly disposed to mirth.
Sir Arth. Well, you may have yet a morris to help both;
To strike you in a dump, and make him merry.
Enter Sawgut with the Morris-dancers, &c.
Saw. Come, will you set yourselves in morris-ray?[444] the forebell, second-bell, tenor, and great-bell; Maid Marian[445] for the same bell. But where’s the weathercock now? the Hobby-horse?
1st Cl. Is not Banks come yet? What a spite ’tis!
Sir Arth. When set you forward, gentlemen?
1st Cl. We stay but for the Hobby-horse, sir; all our footmen are ready.
Som. ’Tis marvel your horse should be behind your foot.
2nd Cl. Yes, sir, he goes further about; we can come in at the wicket, but the broad gate must be opened for him.
Enter Cuddy Banks with the Hobby-horse, followed by the Dog.
Sit Arth. O, we stayed for you, sir.
Cud. Only my horse wanted a shoe, sir; but we shall make you amends ere we part.
Sir Arth. Ay? well said; make ’em drink ere they begin.
Enter Servants with beer.
Cud. A bowl, I prithee, and a little for my horse; he’ll mount the better. Nay, give me: I must drink to him, he’ll not pledge else. [Drinks.] Here, Hobby [Holds the bowl to the Hobby-horse.]—I pray you: no? not drink! You see, gentlemen, we can but bring our horse to the water; he may choose whether he’ll drink or no. [Drinks again.
Som. A good moral made plain by history.
1st Cl. Strike up, Father Sawgut, strike up.
Saw. E’en when you will, children. [Cuddy mounts the Hobby.]—Now in the name of—the best foot forward! [Endeavours to play, but the fiddle gives no sound.]—How now! not a word in thy guts? I think, children, my instrument has caught cold on the sudden.
Cud. [Aside.] My ningle’s knavery; black Tom’s doing.
All the Clowns. Why, what mean you, Father Sawgut?
Cud. Why, what would you have him do? you hear his fiddle is speechless.
Saw. I’ll lay mine ear to my instrument that my poor fiddle is bewitched. I played “The Flowers in May” e’en now, as sweet as a violet; now ’twill not go against the hair: you see I can make no more music than a beetle of a cow-turd.
Cud. Let me see, Father Sawgut [Takes the fiddle]; say once you had a brave hobby-horse that you were beholding to. I’ll play and dance too.—Ningle, away with it. [Gives it to the Dog, who plays the morris.
All the Clowns. Ay, marry, sir! [They dance.
Enter a Constable and Officers.
Con. Away with jollity! ’tis too sad an hour.—
Sir Arthur Clarington, your own assistance,
In the king’s name, I charge, for apprehension
Of these two murderers, Warbeck and Somerton.
Som. Ha, ha, ha! this has awakened my melancholy.
War. And struck my mirth down flat.—Murderers?
Con. The accusation’s flat against you, gentlemen.—
Sir, you may be satisfied with this. [Shows his warrant.]—
I hope you’ll quietly obey my power;
’Twill make your cause the fairer.
Som. and War. O, with all our hearts, sir.
Cud. There’s my rival taken up for hangman’s meat; Tom told me he was about a piece of villany.—Mates and morris-men, you see here’s no longer piping, no longer dancing; this news of murder has slain the morris. You that go the footway, fare ye well; I am for a gallop.—Come, ningle. [Canters off with the Hobby-horse and the Dog.
Saw. [Strikes his fiddle, which sounds as before.] Ay? nay, an my fiddle be come to himself again, I care not. I think the devil has been abroad amongst us to-day; I’ll keep thee out of thy fit now, if I can. [Exit with the Morris-dancers.
Sir Arth. These things are full of horror, full of pity.
But if this time be constant to the proof,
The guilt of both these gentlemen I dare take
On mine own danger; yet, howsoever, sir,
Your power must be obeyed.
War. O, most willingly, sir.
’Tis a most sweet affliction; I could not meet
A joy in the best shape with better will:
Come, fear not, sir; nor judge nor evidence
Can bind him o’er who’s freed by conscience.
Som. Mine stands so upright to the middle zone
It takes no shadow to’t, it goes alone. [Exeunt.
