ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—Sylvia's Chamber.
Courtine discovered bound on a couch.
Cour. Heigho! heigho! Ha! where am I? Was I drunk or no, last night? Something leaning that way. But where the devil am I? sincerely in a bawdy-house: faugh! what a smell of sin is here! Let me look about; if there be ever a Geneva Bible or a Practice of Piety in the room, I am sure I have guessed right. What's the matter now? tied fast! bound too! What tricks have I played to come into this condition? I have lighted into the territories of some merrily-disposed chambermaid or other; and she in a witty fit, forsooth, hath trussed me up thus: has she pinned no rags to my tail, or chalked me upon the back, trow? Would I had her mistress here at a venture!
Enter Sylvia and Maid.
Sylv. What would you do with her, my enchanted knight, if you had her? you are too sober for her by this time: next time you get drunk, you may perhaps venture to scale her balcony like a valiant captain as you are.
Cour. Hast thou done this, my dear destruction? and am I in thy limbo? I must confess, when I am in my beer, my courage does run away with me now and then; but let me loose, and thou shalt see what a gentle humble animal thou hast made me. Fie upon't! what, tie me up like an ungovernable cur to the frame of a table! let, let thy poor dog loose, that he may fawn and make much of thee a little.
Sylv. What, with those paws which you have been ferreting Moor-fields withal, and are very dirty still? After you have been daggling[48] yourself abroad for prey, and can meet with none, you come sneaking hither for a crust, do you?
Maid. Shall I fetch the whip and the bell, madam, and slash him for his roguery soundly?
Cour. Indeed, indeed! Do you long to be ferking[49] of man's flesh, madam flea-trap? Does the chaplain of the family use you to the exercise, that you are so ready for it?
Sylv. If you should be let loose, and taken into favour now, you would be for rambling again so soon as you had got your liberty.
Cour. Do but try me, and if ever I prove recreant more, let me be beaten and used like a dog in good earnest.
Sylv. Promise to grant me but one request, and it shall be done.
Cour. Hear me but swear.
Sylv. That anybody may do ten thousand times a-day.
Cour. Upon the word of a gentleman; nay, as I hope to get money in pocket.
Sylv. There I believe him, lelely.[50] You'll keep your word, you say?
Cour. If I don't, hang me up in that wench's old garters.
Sylv. See, sir, you have your freedom. [Unbinds him.
Cour. Well, now name the price; what I must pay for't?
Sylv. You know, sir, considering our small acquaintance, you have been pleased to talk to me very freely of love-matters.
Cour. I must confess, I have been something to blame that way; but if ever thou hearest more of it from my mouth after this night's adventure—would I were well out of the house!
Sylv. Have a care of swearing, I beseech you; for you must understand that, spite of my teeth, I am at last fallen in love most unmercifully.
Cour. And dost thou imagine I am so hard-hearted a villain as to have no compassion of thee?
Sylv. No, for I hope he's a man you can have no exceptions against.
Cour. Yes, yes, the man is a man, I'll assure you, that's one comfort.
Sylv. Who do you think it may be now? try if you can guess him.
Cour. Whoever he is, he's an honest fellow, I'll warrant him, and I believe will not think himself very unhappy neither.
Sylv. If a fortune of five thousand pounds, pleasant nights, and quiet days, can make him happy, I assure you he may be so; but try once to guess at him.
Cour. But if I should be mistaken?
Sylv. Why, who is it you would wish me to?
Cour. You have five thousand pound, you say?
Sylv. Yes.
Cour. Faith, child, to deal honestly, I know well enough who 'tis I wish for; but, sweetheart, before I tell you my inclinations, it were but reasonable that I knew yours.
Sylv. Well, sir, because I am confident you will stand my friend in the business, I'll make a discovery; and to hold you in suspense no longer, you must know I have a month's mind[51] to an arm-full of your dearly-beloved friend and brother captain; what say you to't?
Cour. Madam, your humble servant; good-bye, that's all.
Sylv. What, thus cruelly leave a lady that so kindly took you in, in your last night's pickle, into her lodging? whither would you rove now, my wanderer?
Cour. Faith, madam, you have dealt so gallantly in trusting me with your passion, that I cannot stay here without telling you, that I am three times as much in love with an acquaintance of yours, as you can be with any friend of mine.
Sylv. Not with my waiting-woman, I hope, sir.
Cour. No, but it is with a certain kinswoman of thine, child; they call her my Lady Dunce, and I think this is her house too; they say she will be civil upon a good occasion, therefore, pr'ythee be charitable, and show the way to her chamber a little.
Sylv. What, commit adultery, captain? fie upon't! what, hazard your soul?
Cour. No, no, only venture my body a little, that's all; look you, you know the secret, and may imagine my desires, therefore as you would have me assist your inclinations, pray be civil and help me to mine; look you, no demurring upon the matter, no qualms, but show me the way—[To the Maid] or you, hussy, you shall do't; any bawd will serve at present, for I will go. [Exit Maid.
Sylv. But you shan't go, sir.
Cour. Shan't go, lady?
Sylv. No, shan't go, sir; did I not tell you when once you had got your liberty, that you would be rambling again.
Cour. Why, child, wouldst thou be so uncharitable to tie up a poor jade to an empty rack in thy stable, when he knows where to go elsewhere, and get provender enough?
Sylv. Any musty provender, I find, will serve your turn, so you have it but cheap, or at another man's charges.
Cour. No, child, I had rather my ox should graze in a field of my own, than live hide-bound upon the common, or run the hazard of being pounded every day for trespasses.
Sylv. Truly, all things considered, 'tis a great pity so good a husbandman as you should want a farm to cultivate.
Cour. Wouldst thou be but kind, and let me have a bargain in a tenement of thine, to try how it would agree with me!
Sylv. And would you be contented to take a lease for your life?
Cour. So pretty a lady of the manor, and a moderate rent!
Sylv. Which you'll be sure to pay very punctually?
Cour. If thou doubtest my honesty, faith, e'en take a little earnest beforehand.
Sylv. Not so hasty neither, good tenant. Imprimis, you shall oblige yourself to a constant residence, and not, by leaving the house uninhabited, let it run to repairs.
Cour. Agreed.
Sylv. Item, for your own sake you shall promise to keep the estate well fenced and inclosed, lest some time or other your neighbour's cattle break in and spoil the crop on the ground, friend.
Cour. Very just and reasonable, provided I don't find it lie too much to common already.
Sylv. Item, you shall enter into strict covenant not to take any other farm upon your hands, without my consent and approbation; or, if you do, that then it shall be lawful for me to get me another tenant, how and where I think fit.
Cour. Faith, that's something hard though, let me tell you but that, landlady.
Sylv. Upon these terms, we'll draw articles.
Cour. And when shall we sign them?
Sylv. Why, this morning, as soon as the ten o'clock office in Covent-garden is open.
Cour. A bargain; but how will you answer your entertainment of a drunken red-coat in your lodgings at these unseasonable hours?
Sylv. That's a secret you will be hereafter obliged to keep for your own sake; and for the family, your friend Beaugard shall answer for us there.
Cour. Indeed I fancied the rogue had mischief in his head, he behaved himself so soberly last night: has he taken a farm lately too?
Sylv. A trespasser, I believe, if the truth were known, upon the provender you would fain have been biting at just now.
Re-enter Maid.
Maid. Madam, madam, have a care of yourself: I see lights in the great hall; whatever is the matter, Sir Davy and all the family are up.
Cour. I hope they'll come, and catch me here: well, now you have brought me into this condition, what will you do with me, ha?
Sylv. You won't be contented for awhile to be tied up like a jade to an empty rack without hay, will you?
Cour. Faith, e'en take me, and put thy mark upon me quickly, that if I light into strange hands they may know me for a sheep of thine.
Sylv. What, by your wanting a fleece do you mean? If it must be so, come follow your shepherdess. Ba-a-a! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—A Room in Sir Davy Dunce's House.
Enter Sir Davy Dunce and Vermin.
Sir Dav. I cannot sleep, I shall never sleep again: I have prayed too so long, that were I to be hanged presently, I have never a prayer left to help myself: I was no sooner lain down upon the bed just now, and fallen into a slumber, but methought the devil was carrying me down Ludgate-hill a-gallop, six puny fiends with flaming fire-forks running before him like link-boys, to throw me headlong into Fleetditch, which seemed to be turned into a lake of fire and brimstone: would it were morning!
Ver. Truly, sir, it has been a very dismal night.
Sir Dav. But didst thou meet never a white thing upon the stairs?
Ver. No, sir, not I; but methoughts I saw our great dog Towzer, with his brass collar on, stand at the cellar-door as I came along the old entry.
Sir Dav. It could never be: Towzer has a chain; had this thing a chain on?
Ver. No, sir, no chain, but it had Towzer's eyes for all the world.
Sir Dav. What, ugly, great, frightful eyes?
Ver. Ay, ay, huge saucer eyes, but mightily like Towzer's.
Sir Dav. O Lord! O Lord! hark! hark!
Ver. What? what I beseech you, sir?
Sir Dav. What's that upon the stairs? Didst thou hear nothing? Hist, hark, pat, pat, pat, hark, hey!
Ver. Hear nothing! where, sir?
Sir Dav. Look! look! what's that? what's that in the corner there?
Ver. Where?
Sir Dav. There.
Ver. What, upon the iron chest?
Sir Dav. No, the long black thing up by the old clock-case. See! see! now it stirs, and is coming this way.
Ver. Alas, sir, speak to it—you are a justice o' peace—I beseech you. I dare not stay in the house: I'll call the watch, and tell 'em hell's broke loose; what shall I do? oh! [Exit.
Sir Dav. O Vermin, if thou art a true servant, have pity on thy master, and do not forsake me in this distressed condition. Satan, begone! I defy thee. I'll repent and be saved, I'll say my prayers, I'll go to church; help! help! help! Was there anything or no? in what hole shall I hide myself? [Exit.
Enter Sir Jolly, Fourbin, and Bloody-Bones.
Sir Jol. That should be Sir Davy's voice; the waiting-woman, indeed, told me he was afraid and could not sleep. Pretty fellows, pretty fellows both; you've done your business handsomely; what, I'll warrant you have been a-whoring together now; ha! You do well, you do well, I like you the better for't; what's o'clock?
Four. Near four, sir; 'twill not be day yet these two hours.
Sir Jol. Very well, but how got ye into the house?
Four. A ragged retainer of the family, Vermin I think they call him, let us in as physicians sent for by your order.
Sir Jol. Excellent rogues! and then I hope all things are ready, as I gave directions?
Four. To a tittle, sir; there shall not be a more critical observer of your worship's pleasure than your humble servant the Chevalier Fourbin.
Sir Jol. Get you gone, you rogue, you have a sharp nose, and are a nimble fellow; I have no more to say to you, stand aside, and be ready when I call: here he comes; hist, hem, hem, hem.
[Exeunt Fourbin and Bloody-Bones.
Re-enter Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Dav. Ha! what art thou?
Approach thou like the rugged Bankside bear,
The East-cheap bull, or monster shown in fair,—
Take any shape but that, and I'll confront thee!
Sir Jol. Alas, unhappy man! I am thy friend.
Sir Dav. Thou canst not be my friend, for I defy thee. Sir Jolly! neighbour! ha! is it you? are you sure it is you? are you yourself? if you be, give me your hand. Alas-a-day, I ha' seen the devil.
Sir Jol. The devil, neighbour?
Sir Dav. Ay, ay, there's no help for't; at first I fancied it was a young white bear's cub dancing in the shadow of my candle; then it was turned to a pair of blue breeches with wooden legs on, stamped about the room, as if all the cripples in town had kept their rendezvous there; when all of a sudden, it appeared like a leathern serpent, and with a dreadful clap of thunder flew out of the window.
Sir Jol. Thunder! why, I heard no thunder.
Sir Dav. That may be too; what, were you asleep?
Sir Jol. Asleep, quoth-a? no, no; no sleeping this night for me, I assure you.
Sir Dav. Well, what's the best news then? How does the man?
Sir Jol. Even as he did before he was born nothing at all; he's dead.
Sir Dav. Dead! what, quite dead?
Sir Jol. As good as dead, if not quite dead; 'twas a horrid murder! and then the terror of conscience, neighbour.
Sir Dav. And truly I have a very terrified one, friend, though I never found I had any conscience at all till now. Pray whereabout was his death's-wound?
Sir Jol. Just here, just under his left pap, a dreadful gash.
Sir Dav. So very wide?
Sir Jol. Oh, as wide as my hat; you might have seen his lungs, liver, and heart, as perfectly as if you had been in his belly.
Sir Dav. Is there no way to have him privately buried, and conceal this murder? Must I needs be hanged by the neck like a dog, neighbour? Do I look as if I would be hanged?
Sir Jol. Truly, Sir Davy, I must deal faithfully with you, you do look a little suspiciously at present; but have you seen the devil, say you?
Sir Dav. Ay, surely it was the devil, nothing else could have frighted me so.
Sir Jol. Bless us, and guard us all the angels! what's that?
Sir Dav. "Potestati sempiternæ cujus benevolentiâ servantur gentes, et cujus misericordiâ"—
[Kneels, holding up his hands, and muttering as if he prayed.
Sir Jol. Neighbour, where are you, friend, Sir Davy?
Sir Dav. Ah, whatever you do, be sure to stand close to me: where, where is it?
Sir Jol. Just, just there, in the shape of a coach and six horses against the wall.
Sir Dav. Deliver us all! he won't carry me away in that coach and six, will he?
Sir Jol. Do you see it? [Exit.
Sir Dav. See it! plain, plain: dear friend, advise me what I shall do: Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly, do you hear nothing? Sir Jolly—ha! has he left me alone, Vermin?
Ver. Sir.
Sir Dav. Am I alive? Dost thou know me again? Am I thy quondam master, Sir Davy Dunce?
Ver. I hope I shall never forget you, sir.
Sir Dav. Didst thou see nothing?
Ver. Yes, sir, methought the house was all a-fire, as it were.
Sir Dav. Didst thou not see how the devils grinned and gnashed their teeth at me, Vermin?
Ver. Alas, sir, I was afraid one of 'em would have bit off my nose, as he vanished out of the door.
Sir Dav. Lead me away, I'll go to my wife, I'll die by my own dear wife. Run away to the Temple, and call Counsellor, my lawyer; I'll make over my estate presently, I shan't live till noon; I'll give all I have to my wife. Ha, Vermin!
Ver. Truly, sir, she's a very good lady.
Sir Dav. Ah, much, much too good for me, Vermin; thou canst not imagine what she has done for me, man; she would break her heart if I should give any thing away from her, she loves me so dearly. Yet if I do die, thou shalt have all my old shoes.
Ver. I hope to see you live many a fair day yet though.
Sir Dav. Ah, my wife, my poor wife! lead me to my poor wife. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Lady Dunce's Chamber.
Lady Dunce and Beaugard discovered.
L. Dunce. What think you now of a cold wet march over the mountains, your men tired, your baggage not come up, but at night a dirty watery plain to encamp upon, and nothing to shelter you, but an old leaguer cloak as tattered as your colours? Is not this much better, now, than lying wet, and getting the sciatica?
Beau. The hopes of this made all fatigue easy to me; the thoughts of Clarinda have a thousand times refreshed me in my solitude. Whene'er I marched, I fancied still it was to my Clarinda; when I fought, I imagined it was for my Clarinda; but when I came home, and found Clarinda lost!—How could you think of wasting but a night in the rank, surfeiting arms of this foul-feeding monster, this rotten trunk of a man, that lays claim to you?
L. Dunce. The persuasion of friends, and the authority of parents.
Beau. And had you no more grace than to be ruled by a father and mother?
L. Dunce. When you were gone, that should have given me better counsel, how could I help myself?
Beau. Methinks, then, you might have found out some cleanlier shift to have thrown away yourself upon than nauseous old age, and unwholesome deformity.
L. Dunce. What, upon some over-grown, full-fed country fool, with a horse-face, a great ugly head, and a great fine estate; one that should have been drained and squeezed, and jolted up and down the town in hackneys with cheats and hectors, and so sent home at three o'clock every morning, like a lolling booby, stinking, with a belly-full of stummed wine,[52] and nothing in's pockets?
Beau. You might have made a tractable beast of such a one; he would have been young enough for training.
L. Dunce. Is youth then so gentle, if age be stubborn? Young men, like springs wrought by a subtle workman, easily ply to what their wishes press them; but the desire once gone that kept them down, they soon start straight again, and no sign's left which way they bent before.
Sir Jol. [At the door peeping.] So, so, who says I see anything now? I see nothing, not I; I don't see, I don't see, I don't look, not so much as look, not I. [He enters.
Enter Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Dav. I will have my wife, carry me to my wife, let me go to my wife, I'll live and die with my wife, let the devil do his worst; ah, my wife, my wife, my wife!
L. Dunce. [To Beaugard.] Alas! alas! we are ruined! shift for yourself; counterfeit the dead corpse once more, or anything.
Sir Dav. Ha! whosoe'er thou art thou canst not eat me! speak to me, who has done this? Thou canst not say I did it.
Sir Jol. Did it? did what? Here's nobody says you did anything that I know, neighbour; what's the matter with you? what ails you? whither do you go? whither do you run? I tell you here's nobody says a word to you.
Sir Dav. Did you not see the ghost just now?
Sir Jol. Ghost! pr'ythee now, here's no ghost; whither would you go? I tell you, you shall not stir one foot farther, man; the devil take me if you do. Ghost! pr'ythee, here's no ghost at all; a little flesh and blood, indeed, there is, some old, some young, some alive, some dead, and so forth; but ghost! pish, here's no ghost.
Sir Dav. But, sir, if I say I did see a ghost, I did see a ghost, an you go to that; why, sure I know a ghost when I see one. Ah, my dear, if thou hadst but seen the devil half so often as I have seen him!
L. Dunce. Alas, Sir Davy! if you ever loved me, come not, oh, come not near me; I have resolved to waste the short remainder of my life in penitence, and taste of joys no more.
Sir Dav. Alas, my poor child! But do you think there was no ghost indeed?
Sir Jol. Ghost! Alas-a-day, what should a ghost do here?
Sir Dav. And is the man dead?
Sir Jol. Dead! ay, ay, stark dead, he's stiff by this time.
L. Dunce. Here you may see the horrid ghastly spectacle, the sad effects of my too rigid virtue, and your too fierce resentment—
Sir Jol. Do you see there?
Sir Dav. Ay, ay, I do see; would I had never seen him; would he had lain with my wife in every house between Charing Cross and Aldgate, so this had never happened!
Sir Jol. In truth, and would he had! but we are all mortal, neighbour, all mortal; to-day we are here, to-morrow gone; like the shadow that vanisheth, like the grass that withereth, or like the flower that fadeth; or indeed like anything, or rather like nothing: but we are all mortal.
Sir Dav. Heigh!
L. Dunce. Down, down that trap-door, it goes into a bathing-room; for the rest, leave it to my conduct.
[Beaugard descends.
Sir Jol. 'Tis very unfortunate that you should run yourself into this premunire,[53] Sir Davy.
Sir Dav. Indeed, and so it is.
Sir Jol. For a gentleman, a man in authority, a person in years, one that used to go to church with his neighbours.
Sir Dav. Every Sunday truly, Sir Jolly.
Sir Jol. Pay scot and lot to the parish.
Sir Dav. Six pounds a year to the very poor, without abatement or deduction: 'tis very hard if so good a commonwealth's-man should be brought to ride in a cart at last, and be hanged in a sunshiny morning to make butchers and suburb apprentices a holiday; I'll e'en run away.
Sir Jol. Run away! why then your estate will be forfeited; you'll lose your estate, man.
Sir Dav. Truly you say right, friend; and a man had better be half-hanged than lose his estate, you know.
Sir Jol. Hanged! no, no, I think there's no great fear of hanging neither: what, the fellow was but a sort of an unaccountable fellow, as I heard you say.
Sir Dav. Ay, ay, pox on him, he was a soldierly sort of a vagabond; he had little or nothing but his sins to live upon: if I could have had but patience, he would have been hanged within these two months, and all this mischief saved.
[Beaugard rises up like a ghost at the trap-door, just before Sir Davy.
O Lord! the devil, the devil, the devil! [Falls upon his face.
Sir Jol. Why, Sir Davy, Sir Davy, what ails you? what's the matter with you?
Sir Dav. Let me alone, let me lie still; I will not look up to see an angel; oh-h-h!
L. Dunce. My dear, why do you do these cruel things to affright me? Pray rise and speak to me.
Sir Dav. I dare not stir; I saw the ghost again just now.
L. Dunce. Ghost again! what ghost? where?
Sir Dav. Why, there! there!
Sir Jol. Here has been no ghost.
Sir Dav. Why, did you see nothing then?
L. Dunce. See nothing! no, nothing but one another.
Sir Dav. Then I am enchanted, or my end is near at hand, neighbour; for Heaven's sake, neighbour, advise me what I shall do to be at rest.
Sir Jol. Do! why, what think you if the body were removed?
Sir Dav. Removed! I'd give a hundred pound the body were out of my house; may be then the devil would not be so impudent.
Sir Jol. I have discovered a door-place in the wall betwixt my lady's chamber and one that belongs to me; if you think fit we'll beat it down, and remove this troublesome lump of earth to my house.
Sir Dav. But will you be so kind?
Sir Jol. If you think it may by any means be serviceable to you.
Sir Dav. Truly, if the body were removed, and disposed of privately, that no more might be heard of the matter—I hope he'll be as good as his word. [Aside.
Sir Jol. Fear nothing, I'll warrant you; but in troth I had utterly forgot one thing, utterly forgot it.
Sir Dav. What's that?
Sir Jol. Why, it will be absolutely necessary that your lady stayed with me at my house for one day, till things were better settled.
Sir Dav. Ah, Sir Jolly! whatever you think fit; anything of mine that you have a mind to; pray take her, pray take her, you shall be very welcome. Hear you, my dearest, there is but one way for us to get rid of this untoward business, and Sir Jolly has found it out; therefore by all means go along with him, and be ruled by him; and whatever Sir Jolly would have thee do, e'en do it: so Heaven prosper ye, good-bye, good-bye, till I see you again. [Exit.
Sir Jol. This is certainly the civilest cuckold in city, town, or country.
Beau. Is he gone? [Steps out.
L. Dunce. Yes, and has left poor me here.
Beau. In troth, madam, 'tis barbarously done of him, to commit a horrid murder on the body of an innocent poor fellow, and then leave you to stem the danger of it.
Sir Jol. Odd, an I were as thee, sweetheart, I'd be revenged on him for it, so I would. Go, get ye together, steal out of the house as softly as you can, I'll meet ye in the Piazza presently; go, be sure ye steal out of the house, and don't let Sir Davy see you. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—Entrance Hall in Sir Davy Dunce's House.
Enter Sir Jolly Jumble.
Sir Jol. Bloody-Bones!
Enter Bloody-Bones.
Bloody-B. I am here, sir.
Sir Jol. Go you and Fourbin to my house presently; bid Monsieur Fourbin remember that all things be ordered according to my directions. Tell my maids, too, I am coming home in a trice; bid 'em get the great chamber, and the banquet I spoke for, ready presently. And, d'ye hear, carry the minstrels with ye too, for I am resolved to rejoice this morning. Let me see—Sir Davy!
Enter Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Dav. Ay, neighbour, 'tis I; is the business done? I cannot be satisfied till I am sure: have you removed the body? is it gone?
Sir Jol. Yes, yes, my servants conveyed it out of the house just now. Well, Sir Davy, a good morning to you: I wish you your health, with all my heart, Sir Davy; the first thing you do, though, I'd have you say your prayers by all means, if you can.
Sir Dav. If I can possibly, I will.
Sir Jol. Well, good-bye. [Exit.
Sir Dav. Well, good-bye heartily, good neighbour.—Vermin, Vermin!
Enter Vermin.
Ver. Did your honour call?
Sir Dav. Go run, run presently over the square, and call the constable presently; tell him here's murder committed, and that I must speak with him instantly. I'll e'en carry him to my neighbour's, that he may find the dead body there, and so let my neighbour be very fairly hanged in my stead; ha! a very good jest, as I hope to live, ha, ha, ha!—hey, what's that?
Watchmen. [Within.] Almost four o'clock, and a dark cloudy morning; good-morrow, my masters all, good-morrow!
Enter Constable and Watch.
Const. How's this, a door open! Come in, gentlemen.—Ah, Sir Davy, your honour's humble servant; I and my watch, going my morning-rounds, and finding your door open, made bold to enter, to see there were no danger. Your worship will excuse our care; a good morning to you, sir.
Sir Dav. Oh, Master Constable, I'm glad you're here; I sent my man just now to call you. I have sad news to tell you, Master Constable.
Const. I am sorry for that, sir; sad news!
Sir Dav. Oh, ay, sad news, very sad news truly: here has been murder committed.
Const. Murder! if that's all, we are your humble servants, sir, we'll bid you good-morrow: murder's nothing at this time o' night in Covent-garden.
Sir Dav. Oh, but this is a horrid, bloody murder, done under my nose; I cannot but take notice of it; though I am sorry to tell you the authors of it, very sorry truly.
Const. Was it committed here near hand?
Sir Dav. Oh, at the very next door; a sad murder indeed. After they had done, they carried the body privately into my neighbour Sir Jolly's house here; I am sorry to tell it you, Master Constable, for I am afraid it will look but scurvily on his side; though I am a justice o' peace, gentlemen, and am bound by my oath to take notice of it; I can't help it.
1st Watch. I never liked that Sir Jolly.
Const. He threatened me t'other day for carrying a little, dirty, draggle-tailed whore to Bridewell, and said she was his cousin. Sir, if your worship thinks fit, we'll go search his house.
Sir Dav. Oh, by all means, gentlemen, it must be so; justice must have its course; the king's liege subjects must not be destroyed.—Vermin, carry Master Constable and his dragons into the cellar, and make 'em drink; I'll but step into my study, put on my face of authority, and call upon ye instantly.
Watchmen. We thank your honour. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.—A Room in Sir Jolly Jumble's House. A banquet set out.
Enter Sir Jolly Jumble, Beaugard, and Lady Dunce.
Sir Jol. So, are ye come? I am glad on't; odd, you're welcome, very welcome, odd, ye are; here's a small banquet, but I hope 'twill please you; sit ye down, sit ye down both together; nay, both together: a pox o' him that parts ye, I say!
Beau. Sir Jolly, this might be an entertainment for Antony and Cleopatra, were they living.
Sir Jol. Pish! a pox of Antony and Cleopatra, they are dead and rotten long ago; come, come, time's but short, time's but short, and must be made the best use of; for
Youth's a flower that soon does fade,
And life is but a span;
Man was for the woman made,
And woman made for man.
Why, now we can be bold, and make merry, and frisk and be brisk, rejoice, and make a noise, and—odd, I am pleased, mightily pleased, odd, I am.
L. Dunce. Really, Sir Jolly, you are more a philosopher than I thought you were.
Sir Jol. Philosopher, madam! yes, madam, I have read books in my times; odd, Aristotle, in some things, had very pretty notions, he was an understanding fellow. Why don't ye eat? odd, an ye don't eat—here, child, here's some ringoes,[54] help, help your neighbour a little; odd, they are very good, very comfortable, very cordial.
Beau. Sir Jolly, your health.
Sir Jol. With all my heart, old boy.
L. Dunce. Dear Sir Jolly, what are these? I never tasted of these before.
Sir Jol. That? eat it, eat it, eat it when I bid you; odd, 'tis the root satyrion,[55] a very precious plant, I gather 'em every May myself; odd, they'll make an old fellow of sixty-five cut a caper like a dancing-master. Give me some wine. Madam, here's a health, here's a health, madam, here's a health to honest Sir Davy, faith and troth, ha, ha, ha! [Dance.
Enter Bloody-Bones.
Bloody-B. Sir, sir, sir! what will you do? yonder's the constable and all his watch at the door, and threatens demolishment, if not admitted presently.
Sir Jol. Odds so! odds so! the constable and his watch! what's to be done now? get you both into the alcove there, get ye gone quickly, quickly; no noise, no noise, d'ye hear? [Exeunt Lady Dunce and Beaugard.] The constable and his watch! a pox on the constable and his watch! what the devil have the constable and his watch to do here?
Enter Constable, Watch, and Sir Davy Dunce.
Const. This way, this way, gentlemen; stay one of ye at the door, and let nobody pass, do you hear? Sir Jolly, your servant.
Sir Jol. What, this outrage, this disturbance committed upon my house and family! sir, sir, sir! what do you mean by these doings, sweet sir? ho!
Const. Sir, having received information that the body of a murdered man is concealed in your house, I am come, according to my duty, to make search and discover the truth.—Stand to my assistance, gentlemen.
Sir Jol. A murdered man, sir?
Sir Dav. Yes, a murdered man, sir. Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly, I am sorry to see a person of your character and figure in the parish concerned in a murder, I say.
Sir Jol. Here's a dog! here's a rogue for you! here's a villain! here's a cuckoldy son of his mother! I never knew a cuckold in my life that was not a false rogue in his heart; there are no honest fellows living but whore-masters. Hark you, sir, what a pox do you mean? you had best play the fool, and spoil all, you had; what's all this for?
Sir Dav. When your worship's come to be hanged, you'll find the meaning on't, sir. I say once more, search the house.
Const. It shall be done, sir. Come along, friends.
[Exeunt Constable and Watch.
Sir Jol. Search my house! O Lord! search my house! what will become of me? I shall lose my reputation with man and woman, and nobody will ever trust me again. O Lord! search my house! all will be discovered, do what I can! I'll sing a song like a dying swan, and try to give them warning.
Go from the window, my love, my love, my love,
Go from the window, my dear;
The wind and the rain
Have brought 'em back again,
And thou canst have no lodging here.[56]
O Lord! search my house!
Sir Dav. Break down that door, I'll have that door broke open; break down that door, I say. [Knocking within.
Sir Jol. Very well done; break down my doors, break down my walls, gentlemen! plunder my house! ravish my maids! Ah, cursed be cuckolds, cuckolds, constables, and cuckolds!
A door is opened and discovers Beaugard and Lady Dunce.
Re-enter Constable and Watch.
Beau. Stand off! by Heaven, the first that comes here comes upon his death.
Sir Dav. Sir, your humble servant; I'm glad to see you are alive again with all my heart. Gentlemen, here's no harm done, gentlemen; here's nobody murdered, gentlemen; the man's alive, again, gentlemen; but here's my wife, gentlemen, and a fine gentleman with her, gentlemen; and Master Constable, I hope you'll bear me witness, Master Constable.
Sir Jol. That he's a cuckold, Master Constable.
[Aside.
Beau. Hark ye, ye curs, keep off from snapping at my heels, or I shall so feague[57] ye.
Sir Jol. Get ye gone, ye dogs, ye rogues, ye night-toads of the parish dungeon; disturb my house at these unseasonable hours! get ye out of my doors, get ye gone, or I'll brain ye, dogs, rogues, villains! [Exeunt Constable and Watch.
Beau. And next for you, Sir Coxcomb, you see I am not murdered, though you paid well for the performance; what think you of bribing my own man to butcher me?
Enter Fourbin.
Look ye, sir, he can cut a throat upon occasion, and here's another dresses a man's heart with oil and pepper, better than any cook in Christendom.
Four. Will your worship please to have one for your breakfast this morning?
Sir Dav. With all my heart, sweetheart, anything in the world, faith and troth, ha, ha, ha! this is the purest sport, ha, ha, ha!
Re-enter Vermin.
Ver. Oh, sir, the most unhappy and most unfortunate news! There has been a gentleman in Madam Sylvia's chamber all this night, who, just as you went out of doors, carried her away, and whither they are gone nobody knows.
Sir Dav. With all my heart, I am glad on't, child, I would not care if he had carried away my house and all, man. Unhappy news, quoth-a! poor fool, he does not know I am a cuckold, and that anybody may make bold with what belongs to me, ha, ha, ha! I am so pleased, ha, ha, ha; I think I was never so pleased in all my life before, ha, ha, ha!
Beau. Nay, sir, I have a hank[58] upon you; there are laws for cut-throats, sir; and as you tender your future credit, take this wronged lady home, and use her handsomely, use her like my mistress, sir, do you mark me? that when we think fit to meet again, I hear no complaint of you; this must be done, friend.
Sir Jol. In troth, and it is but reasonable, very reasonable in troth.
L. Dunce. Can you, my dear, forgive me one misfortune?
Sir Dav. Madam, in one word, I am thy ladyship's most humble servant and cuckold, Sir Davy Dunce, knight, living in Covent-garden; ha, ha, ha! well, this is mighty pretty, ha, ha, ha!
Enter Sylvia, followed by Courtine.
Sylv. Sir Jolly, ah, Sir Jolly, protect me or I'm ruined.
Sir Jol. My little minikin, is it thy squeak?
Beau. My dear Courtine, welcome.
Sir Jol. Well, child, and what would that wicked fellow do to thee, child? Ha! child, child, what would he do to thee?
Sylv. Oh, sir, he has most inhumanly seduced me out of my uncle's house, and threatens to marry me.
Cour. Nay, sir, and she having no more grace before her eyes neither, has e'en taken me at my word.
Sir Jol. In troth, and that's very uncivilly done: I don't like these marriages, I'll have no marriages in my house, and there's an end on't.
Sir Dav. And do you intend to marry my niece, friend?
Cour. Yes, sir, and never ask your consent neither.
Sir Dav. In troth, and that's very well said: I am glad on't with all my heart, man, because she has five thousand pounds to her portion, and my estate's bound to pay it. Well, this is the happiest day, ha, ha, ha!
Here, take thy bride, like man and wife agree,
And may she prove as true—as mine to me.
Ha, ha, ha!
Beau. Courtine, I wish thee joy: thou art come opportunely to be a witness of a perfect reconcilement between me and that worthy knight, Sir Davy Dunce; which to preserve inviolate, you must, sir, before we part, enter into such covenants for performance as I shall think fit.
Sir Dav. No more to be said; it shall be done, sweetheart: but don't be too hard upon me; use me gently, as thou didst my wife; gently, ha, ha, ha! a very good jest, i' faith, ha, ha, ha! or if he should be cruel to me, gentlemen, and take this advantage over a poor cornuto, to lay me in a prison, or throw me in a dungeon, at least—
I hope amongst all you, sirs, I shan't fail
To find one brother-cuckold out for bail. [Exeunt.