ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.—A Tavern.
Enter Beaugard, Courtine, and Drawer.
Draw. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome, sir; will you please to walk up one pair of stairs?
Beau. Get the great room ready presently; carry up too a good stock of bottles before-hand, with ice to cool our wine, and water to refresh our glasses.
Draw. It shall be done, sir.—Coming, coming there, coming: speak up in the Dolphin, somebody. [Exit.
Beau. Ah, Courtine, must we be always idle? must we never see our glorious days again? when shall we be rolling in the lands of milk and honey; encamped in large luxuriant vineyards, where the loaded vines cluster about our tents; drink the rich juice, just pressed from the plump grape; feeding on all the fragrant golden fruit that grow in fertile climes, and ripened by the earliest vigour of the sun?
Cour. Ah, Beaugard, those days have been, but now we must resolve to content ourselves at an humble rate. Methinks it is not unpleasant to consider how I have seen thee in a large pavilion, drowning the heat of the day in champagne wines, sparkling sweet as those charming beauties whose dear remembrance every glass recorded, with half a dozen honest fellows more; friends, Beaugard; faithful hearty friends; things as hard to meet with as preferment here; fellows that would speak truth boldly, and were proud on't; that scorned flattery, loved honesty, for 'twas their portion; and never yet learned the trade of ease and lying: but now—
Beau. And now we are at home in our natural hives, and sleep like drones; but there's a gentleman on the other side the water,[41] that may make work for us all one day.
Cour. But in the meanwhile—
Beau. In the meanwhile patience, Courtine; that is the Englishman's virtue. Go to the man that owes you money, and tell him you are necessitated; his answer shall be "A little patience, I beseech you, sir." Ask a cowardly rascal satisfaction for a sordid injury done you; he shall cry, "Alas-a-day, sir, you are the strangest man living, you won't have patience to hear one speak." Complain to a great man that you want preferment, that you have forsaken considerable advantages abroad, in obedience to public edicts; all you shall get of him is this, "You must have patience, sir."
Cour. But will patience feed me, or clothe me, or keep me clean?
Beau. Pr'ythee no more hints of poverty: 'tis scandalous; 'sdeath, I would as soon choose to hear a soldier brag as complain. Dost thou want any money?
Cour. True, indeed, I want no necessaries to keep me alive; but I do not enjoy myself with that freedom I would do; there is no more pleasure in living at stint, than there is in living alone. I would have it in my power, when he needed me, to serve and assist my friend; I would to my ability deal handsomely too by the woman that pleased me.
Beau. Oh, fie for shame! you would be a whore-master, friend; go, go, I'll have no more to do with you.
Cour. I would not be forced neither at any time to avoid a gentleman that had obliged me, for want of money to pay him a debt contracted in our old acquaintance: it turns my stomach to wheedle with the rogue I scorn, when he uses me scurvily, because he has my name in his shop-book.
Beau. As, for example, to endure the familiarities of a rogue that shall cock his greasy hat in my face, when he duns me, and at the same time vail it[42] to an over-grown deputy of the ward, though a frowzy fellmonger.
Cour. To be forced to concur with his nonsense too, and laugh at his parish-jests.
Beau. To use respects and ceremonies to the milchcow his wife, and praise her pretty children, though they stink of their mother, and are uglier than the issue of a baboon; yet all this must be endured.
Cour. Must it, Beaugard?
Beau. And, since 'tis so, let's think of a bottle.
Cour. With all my heart, for railing and drinking do much better together than by themselves; a private room, a trusty friend or two, good wine and bold truths, are my happiness. But where's our dear friend and intimate, Sir Jolly, this evening?
Beau. To deal like a friend, Courtine, I parted with him but just now; he's gone to contrive me a meeting, if possible, this night, with the woman my soul is most fond of. I was this evening just entering upon the palace of all joy, when I met with so damnable a disappointment—in short, that plague to all well-meaning women, the husband, came unseasonably, and forced a poor lover to his heels, that was fairly making his progress another way, Courtine: the story thou shalt hear more at large hereafter.
Cour. A plague on him, why didst thou not murder the presumptuous cuckold? saucy intruding clown, to dare to disturb a gentleman's privacies! I would have beaten him into sense of his transgression, enjoyed his wife before his face, and ha' taught the dog his duty.
Beau. Look you, Courtine, you think you are dealing with the landlord of your winter-quarters in Alsatia now. Friend, friend, there is a difference between a free-born English cuckold and a sneaking wittol of a conquered province.
Cour. Oh, by all means, there ought to be a difference observed between your arbitrary whoring, and your limited fornication.
Beau. And but reason: for, though we may make bold with another man's wife in a friendly way, yet nothing upon compulsion, dear heart.
Cour. And now Sir Jolly, I hope, is to be the instrument of some immortal plot; some contrivance for the good of thy body, and the old fellow's soul, Beaugard: for all cuckolds go to Heaven, that's most certain.
Beau. Sir Jolly! why, on my conscience, he thinks it as much his undoubted right to be pimp-mastergeneral to London and Middlesex, as the estate he possesses is: by my consent his worship should e'en have a patent for it.
Cour. He is certainly the fittest for the employment in Christendom; he knows more families by their names and titles than all the bell-men within and without the walls.
Beau. Nay, he keeps a catalogue of the choicest beauties about town, illustrated with a particular account of their age, shape, proportion, colour of hair and eyes, degrees of complexion, gunpowder spots and moles.
Cour. I wish the old pander were bound to satisfy my experience, what marks of good-nature my Sylvia has about her.
Enter Sir Jolly Jumble.
Sir Jol. My captains! my sons of Mars and imps of Venus! well encountered; what, shall we have a sparkling bottle or two, and use Fortune like a jade? Beaugard, you are a rogue, you are a dog, I hate you; get you gone, go.
Beau. But, Sir Jolly, what news from paradise Sir Jolly? Is there any hopes I shall come there to-night?
Sir Jol. May be there is, may be there is not; I say let us have a bottle, and I will say nothing else without a bottle: after a glass or two my heart may open.
Cour. Why, then we will have a bottle, Sir Jolly.
Sir Jol. Will? we'll have dozens, and drink till we are wise, and speak well of nobody; till we are lewder than midnight whores, and out-rail disbanded officers.
Beau. Only one thing more, my noble knight, and then we are entirely at thy disposal.
Sir Jol. Well, and what's that? What's the business?
Beau. This friend of mine here stands in need of thy assistance; he's damnably in love, Sir Jolly.
Sir Jol. In love! is he so? In love! odds my life! Is she? what's her name? where does she live? I warrant you I know her: she's in my table-book, I'll warrant you: virgin, wife, or widow? [Pulls out a table-book.
Cour. In troth, Sir Jolly, that's something of a difficult question; but, as virgins go now, she may pass for one of them.
Sir Jol. Virgin, very good: let me see; virgin, virgin, virgin; oh, here are the virgins; truly, I meet with the fewest of this sort of any. Well, and the first letter of her name now? for a wager I guess her.
Cour. Then you must know, Sir Jolly, that I love my love with an S.
Sir Jol. S, S, S, oh, here are the Esses; let me consider now—Sappho?
Cour. No, sir.
Sir Jol. Selinda?
Cour. Neither.
Sir Jol. Sophronia?
Cour. You must guess again, I assure you.
Sir Jol. Sylvia?
Cour. Ay, ay, Sir Jolly, that's the fatal name; Sylvia the fair, the witty, the ill-natured; do you know her, my friend?
Sir Jol. Know her! why, she is my daughter, and I have adopted her these seven years. Sylvia! let me look. [Reads.] "Light brown hair, her face oval, and nose Roman, quick sparkling eyes, plump, pregnant, ruby lips, with a mole on her breast, and the perfect likeness of a heart-cherry on her left knee." Ah, villain! ah, sly-cap! have I caught you? are you there, i'faith? well, and what says she? Is she coming? do her eyes betray her? does her heart beat, and her bubbies rise, when you talk to her, ha?
Beau. Look you, Sir Jolly, all things considered, it may make a shift to come to a marriage in time.
Sir Jol. I'll have nothing to do in it; I won't be seen in the business of matrimony. Make me a match-maker, a filthy marriage-broker! sir, I scorn it, I know better things. Look you, friend, to carry her a letter from you or so, upon good terms, though it be in a church, I'll deliver it; or when the business is come to an issue, if I may bring you handsomely together, and so forth, I'll serve thee with all my soul, and thank thee into the bargain; thank thee heartily, dear rogue; I will, you little cock-sparrow, faith and troth, I will: but no matrimony, friend, I'll have nothing to do with matrimony; 'tis a damned invention, worse than a monopoly, and a destroyer of civil correspondence.
Re-enter Drawer.
Draw. Gentlemen, your room is ready, your wine and ice upon the table; will your honours please to walk in?
Sir Jol. Ay, wine, wine, give us wine! a pox on matrimony—matrimony, in the devil's name!
Cour. But if an honest harlot or two chance to inquire for us, friend—
Sir Jol. Right, sirrah, if whores come never so many, give 'em reverence and reception, but nothing else; let nothing but whores and bottles come near us, as you tender your ears.
[A door is opened, discovering a table, with bottles, &c.
Beau. Why, there's, there's the land of Canaan now in little. Hark you, drawer, dog, shut, shut the door, sirrah, do you hear? Shut it so close that neither cares nor necessities may peep in upon us.
[Exeunt Beaugard, Courtine, and Sir Jolly.
Enter Sir Davy Dunce, Fourbin, and Bloody-Bones.
Four. Bloody-Bones, be sure to behave yourself handsomely, and like your profession; show yourself a cut-throat of parts, and we'll fleece him.
Bloody-B. My lady says, we must be expeditious; Sir Jolly has given notice to the captain by this time, so that nothing is wanting but the management of this over-grown gull to make us hectors at large, and keep the whore Fortune under.
Draw. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome, sir; will't please you to walk into a room? Or shall I wait upon your honour's pleasure here?
Sir Dav. Sweetheart, let us be quiet, and bring us wine hither. [Exit Drawer, who returns with wine.] So—[sits down]—from this moment, war, war, and mortal dudgeon against that enemy of my honour, and thief of my good name, called Beaugard. You can cut a throat upon occasion you say, friend?
Four. Sir, cutting of throats is my hereditary vocation; my father was hanged for cutting of throats before me, and my mother for cutting of purses.
Sir Dav. No more to be said; my courage is mounted like a little Frenchman upon a great horse, and I'll have him murdered.
Four. Sir! murdered you say, sir?
Sir Dav. Ay, murdered I say, sir; his face flayed off, and nailed to a post in my great hall in the country, amongst all the other trophies of wild beasts slain by our family since the Conquest; there's never a whore-master's head there yet.
Four. Sir, for that let me recommend this worthy friend of mine to your service; he's an industrious gentleman, and one that will deserve your favour.
Sir Dav. He looks but something ruggedly, though, methinks.
Four. But, sir, his parts will atone for his person; forms and fashions are the least of his study: he affects a sort of philosophical negligence indeed; but, sir, make trial of him, and you'll find him a person fit for the work of this world.
Sir Dav. What trade are you, friend?
Bloody-B. No trade at all, friend; I profess murder; rascally butchers make a trade on't; 'tis a gentleman's divertisement.
Sir Dav. Do you profess murder?
Bloody-B. Yes, sir, 'tis my livelihood: I keep a wife and six children by it.
Sir Dav. Then, sir, here's to you with all my heart. Would I had done with these fellows! [Aside.
Four. Well, sir, if you have any service for us, I desire we may receive your gold and your instructions as soon as is possible.
Sir Dav. Soft and fair, sweetheart; I love to see a little how I lay out my money. Have you very good trading now-a-days in your way, friend?
Bloody-B. In peaceable times a man may eat and drink comfortably upon't: a private murder done handsomely is worth money; but now that the nation's unsettled, there are so many general undertakers, that 'tis grown almost a monopoly; you may have a man murdered almost for little or nothing, and nobody e'er know who did it neither.[43]
Sir Dav. Pray what countryman are you? where were you born, most noble sir?
Bloody-B. Indeed, my country is foreign. I was born in Argier[44]; my mother was an apostate Greek, my father a renegado Englishman, who by oppressing of Christian slaves grew rich; for which, when he lay sick, I murdered him one day in his bed; made my escape to Malta, where, embracing the faith, I had the honour given me to command a thousand horse aboard the galleys of that state.
Sir Dav. O Lord, sir! my humble service to you again.
Four. He tells you, sir, but the naked truth.
Sir Dav. I doubt it not in the least, most worthy sir.—These are devilish fellows, I'll warrant 'em.
[Aside.
Four. War, friend, and shining honour has been our province, till rusty peace reduced us to this base obscurity. Ah, Bloody-Bones! ah, when thou and I commanded that party at the siege of Philipsburg, where, in the face of the army, we took the impenetrable half-moon!
Bloody-B. Half-moon, sir! by your favour 'twas a whole moon.
Four. Brother, thou art in the right; 'twas a full moon, and such a moon, sir!
Sir Dav. I doubt it not in the least, gentlemen; but, in the meanwhile, to our business.
Four. With all my heart, so soon as you please.
Sir Dav. Do you know this Beaugard? He's a devilish fellow, I can tell you that; he's a captain.
Four. Has he a heart, think you, sir?
Sir Dav. Oh, like a lion! he fears neither God, man, nor devil.
Bloody-B. I'll bring it you for your breakfast to-morrow. Did you never eat a man's heart, sir?
Sir Dav. Eat a man's heart, friend?
Four. Ay, ay, a man's heart, sir; it makes absolutely the best ragout in the world: I have eaten forty of 'em in my time without bread.
Sir Dav. O Lord, a man's heart! my humble service to you both, gentlemen.
Bloody-B. Why, your Algerine pirates eat nothing else at sea; they have them always potted up like venison: your well-grown Dutchman's heart makes an excellent dish with oil and pepper.
Sir Dav. O Lord, O Lord! friend, friend, a word with you: how much must you and your companion have to do this business?
Four. What, and bring you the heart home to your house?
Sir Dav. No, no, keeping the heart for your own eating.—I'll be rid of 'em as soon as possible I can.
[Aside.
Four. You say, sir, he's a gentleman?
Sir Dav. Ay, such a sort of gentleman as are about this town: the fellow has a pretty handsome outside; but I believe little or no money in his pockets.
Four. Therefore we are like to have the honour to receive the more from your worship's bounty.
Bloody-B. For my part, I care for no man's bounty: I expect to have my bargain performed, and I'll make as good a one as I can.
Sir Dav. Look you, friend, don't you be angry, friend; don't be angry, friend, before you have occasion: you say you'll have—let's see how much will you have now—I warrant the devil and all, by your good will.
Four. Truly, Sir Davy, if, as you say, the man must be well murdered, without any remorse or mercy, betwixt Turk and Jew, 'tis honestly worth two hundred pounds.
Sir Dav. Two hundred pounds! why, I'll have a physician shall kill a whole family for half the money.
Bloody-B. Damme, sir, how do ye mean?
Sir Dav. Damme, sir, how do I mean? Damme, sir, not to part with my money.
Bloody-B. Not part, brother?
Four. Brother, the wight is improvable, and this must not be borne withal.
Bloody-B. Have I for this dissolved Circean charms?
Broke iron durance; whilst from these firm legs
The well-filed, useless fetters dropped away,
And left me master of my native freedom?
Sir Dav. What does he mean now?
Four. Truly, sir, I am sorry to see it with all my heart; 'tis a distraction that frequently seizes him, though I am sorry it should happen so unluckily at this time.
Sir Dav. Distracted, say you? is he so apt to be distracted?
Four. Oh, sir, raging mad; we that live by murder are all so; guilt will never let us sleep. I beseech you, sir, stand clear of him; he's apt to be very mischievous at these unfortunate hours.
Bloody-B. Have I been drunk with tender infants' blood,
And ripped up teeming wombs? Have these bold hands
Ransacked the temples of the gods, and stabbed
The priests before their altars? Have I done this? ha!
Sir Dav. No, sir, not that I know, sir; I would not say any such thing for all the world, sir. Worthy gentleman, I beseech you, sir—you seem to be a civil person—I beseech you, sir, to mitigate his passion. I'll do anything in the world; you shall command my whole estate.
Four. Nay, after all, sir, if you have not a mind to have him quite murdered, if a swingeing drubbing to bed-rid him, or so, will serve your turn, you may have it at a cheaper rate a great deal.
Sir Dav. Truly, sir, with all my heart; for methinks, now I consider matters better, I would not by any means be guilty of another man's blood.
Four. Why, then let me consider: to have him beaten substantially, a beating that will stick by him, will cost you—half the money.
Sir Dav. What, one hundred pounds! sure the devil's in you, or you would not be so unconscionable.
Bloody-B. The devil! where? where is the devil? show me;
I'll tell thee, Beelzebub, thou'st broke thy covenant;
Didst thou not promise me eternal plenty,
When I resigned my soul to thy allurements?
Sir Dav. Ah, Lord!
Bloody-B. Touch me not yet; I've yet ten thousand murders
To act before I'm thine: with all those sins
I'll come with full damnation to thy caverns
Of endless pain, and howl with thee for ever.
Sir Dav. Bless us! what will become of this mortal body of mine? Where am I? is this a house? do I live? am I flesh and blood?
Bloody-B. There, there's the fiend again! don't chatter so,
And grin at me; if thou must needs have prey,
Take here, take him, this tempter that would bribe me,
With shining gold,
To stain my hands with new iniquity.
Sir Dav. Stand off, I charge thee, Satan, wheresoe'er thou art; thou hast no right nor claim to me; I'll have thee bound in necromantic charms. Hark you, friend, has the gentleman given his soul to the devil?
Four. Only pawned it a little; that's all.
Sir Dav. Let me beseech you, sir, to despatch, and get rid of him as soon as you can. I would gladly drink a bottle with you, sir, but I hate the devil's company mortally: as for the hundred pound here, it is ready; no more words, I'll submit to your good-nature and discretion.
Four. Then, wretch, take this, and make thy peace with the infernal king; he loves riches; sacrifice and be at rest.
Bloody-B. 'Tis done, I'll follow thee, lead on; nay, if thou smile, I more defy thee; fee, fa, fum. [Exit.
Four. 'Tis very odd, this.
Sir Dav. Very odd, indeed; I'm glad he's gone, though.
Four. Now, sir, if you please, we'll refresh ourselves with a cheerful glass, and so chacun chez lui—I would fain make the gull drunk a little, to put a little mettle into him. [Aside.
Sir Dav. With all my heart, sir; but no more words of the devil, if you love me.
Four. The devil's an ass, sir, and here's a health to all those that defy the devil.
Sir Dav. With all my heart, and all his works too.
Four. Nay, sir, you must do me right,[45] I assure you.
Sir Dav. Not so full, not so full, that's too much of all conscience: in troth, friend, these are sad times, very sad times; but here's to you.
Four. Pox o' the times! the times are well enough, so long as a man has money in his pocket.
Sir Dav. 'Tis true, here I have been bargaining with you about a murder, but never consider that idolatry is coming in full speed upon the nation. Pray what religion are you of, friend?
Four. What religion am I of, sir? Sir, your humble servant.
Sir Dav. Truly a good conscience is a great happiness; and so I'll pledge you, hemph, hemph. But shan't the dog be murdered this night?
Four. My brother rogue is gone by this time to set him, and the business shall be done effectually, I'll warrant you. Here's rest his soul.
Sir Dav. With all my heart, faith; I hate to be uncharitable.
Re-enter Courtine and Drawer.
Cour. Look you, 'tis a very impudent thing not to be drunk by this time: shall rogues stay in taverns to sip pints, and be sober, when honest gentlemen are drunk by gallons? I'll have none on't.
Sir Dav. O Lord, who's there? [Sits up in his chair.
Draw. I beseech your honour—our house will be utterly ruined by this means.
Cour. Damn your house, your wife and children, and all your family, you dog!—Sir, who are you? [To Sir Davy.
Sir Dav. Who am I, sir? what's that to you, sir? Will you tickle my foot, you rogue?
Cour. I'll tickle your guts, you poltroon, presently.
Sir Dav. Tickle my guts, you mad-cap! I'll tickle your toby, if you do.
Cour. What, with that circumcised band? that grave hypocritical beard, of the reformation-cut? Old fellow, I believe you are a rogue.
Sir Dav. Sirrah, you are a whore, an arrant bitch-whore; I'll use you like a whore; I'll kiss you, you jade; I'll ravish you, you buttock; I am a justice of the peace, sirrah, and that's worse.
Cour. Damn you, sir, I care not if you were a constable and all his watch: what, such a rogue as you send honest fellows to prison, and countenance whores in your jurisdiction for bribery, you mongrel! I'll beat you, sirrah, I'll brain you; I'll murder you, you mooncalf! [Throws the chair after him.
Sir Dav. Sir, sir, sir! constable! watch! stocks! stocks! stocks! murder! [Exit.
Cour. Huzza, Beaugard!
Re-enter Beaugard and Sir Jolly Jumble.
Four. Well, sir, the business is done; we have bargained to murder you.
Beau. Murdered! who's to be murdered, ha, Fourbin?
Sir Jol. You are to be murdered, friend; you shall be murdered, friend.
Beau. But how am I to be murdered? who's to murder me, I beseech you?
Four. Your humble servant, Fourbin; I am the man, with your worship's leave: Sir Davy has given me this gold to do it handsomely.
Beau. Sir Davy! uncharitable cur; what! murder an honest fellow for being civil to his family! What can this mean, gentlemen?
Sir Jol. No, 'tis for not being civil to his family, that it means, gentlemen; therefore are you to be murdered to-night, and buried a-bed with my lady, you Jack Straw, you.
Beau. I understand you, friends; the old gentleman has designed to have me butchered, and you have kindly contrived to turn it to my advantage in the affair of love. I am to be murdered but as it were, gentlemen, ha? [Exit Courtine.
Four. Your honour has a piercing judgment. Sir, Captain Courtine's gone.
Beau. No matter, let him go: he has a design to put in practice this night too, and would perhaps but spoil ours. But when, Sir Jolly, is this business to be brought about?
Sir Jol. Presently; 'tis more than time 'twere done already. Go, get you gone, I say. Hold, hold, let's see your left ear first, hum—ha—you are a rogue, you're a rogue; get you gone, get you gone, go. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Outside Sir Davy Dunce's House.
Enter Sylvia and her Maid in the Balcony.
Maid. But why, madam, will you use him so inhumanly? I'm confident he loves you.
Sylv. Oh! a true lover is to be found out like a true saint, by the trial of his patience. Have you the cords ready?
Maid. Here they are, madam.
Sylv. Let them down, and be sure, when it comes to trial, to pull lustily. Is Will the footman ready?
Will. [Within] At your ladyship's command, madam.
Sylv. I wonder he should stay so long; the clock has struck twelve.
Enter Courtine, singing.
And was she not frank and free,
And was she not kind to me,
To lock up her cat in her cupboard,
And give her key to me, to me?
To lock up her cat in her cupboard,
And give her key to me?
Sylv. This must be he: ay, 'tis he, and, as I am a virgin, roaring drunk; but, if I find not a way to make him sober—
Cour. Here, here's the window: ay, that's hell-door, and my damnation's in the inside. Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia! dear imp of Satan, appear to thy servant.
Sylv. Who calls on Sylvia in this dead of night,
When rest is wanting to her longing eyes?
Cour. 'Tis a poor wretch can hardly stand upright,
Drunk with thy love, and if he falls he lies.
Sylv. Courtine, is't you?
Cour. Yes, sweetheart, 'tis I; art thou ready for me?
Sylv. Fasten yourself to that cord there; there, there it is.
Cour. Cord! where? Oh, oh, here, here; so, now to Heaven in a string.
Sylv. Have you done?
Cour. Yes, I have done, child, and would fain be doing too, hussy.
Sylv. [To Will, within.] Then pull away, hoa up, hoa up, hoa up! So, avast there, sir!
[Courtine is drawn halfway up to the balcony.
Cour. Madam!
Sylv. Are you very much in love, sir?
Cour. Oh, damnably, child, damnably.
Sylv. I am sorry for't with all my heart: good-night, captain.
Cour. Ha, gone! what, left in Erasmus' paradise, between Heaven and hell? If the constable should take me now for a straggling monkey hung by the loins, and hunt me with his cry of watchmen? Ah, woman, woman, woman! Well, a merry life and a short, that's all.
[Sings] God prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safeties all!
I am mighty loyal to-night.
Enter Fourbin and Bloody-Bones, as from Sir Davy Dunce's House.
Four. Murder, murder, murder! help, help, murder!
Cour. Nay, if there be murder stirring, 'tis high time to shift for myself. [Climbs up to the balcony.
Sylv. [Squeaking.] Ah! [Exeunt Sylvia and Court.
Bloody-B. Yonder, yonder he comes; murder, murder, murder!
[Exeunt Bloody-Bones and Fourbin.
Enter Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Dav. 'Tis very late; but murder is a melancholy business, and night is fit for't. I'll go home. [Knocks.
Ver. [Within.] Who's there?
Sir Dav. Who's there! open the door, you whelp of Babylon.
Ver. Oh, sir! you're welcome home; but here is the saddest news! here has been murder committed, sir.
Sir Dav. Hold your tongue, you fool, and go to sleep; get you in, do you hear? you talk of murder, you rogue? you meddle with state affairs? get you in. [Exit.
SCENE III.—The Entrance Hall in the same.
Sir Jolly Jumble and Lady Dunce discovered putting Beaugard in order, as if he were dead.
Sir Jol. Lie still, lie still, you knave, close, close, when I bid you: you had best quest,[46] and spoil the sport, you had!
Beau. But pray how long must I lie thus?
L. Dunce. I'll warrant you you'll think the time mighty tedious.
Beau. Sweet creature, who can counterfeit death when you are near him?
Sir Jol. You shall, sirrah, if a body desires you a little, so you shall; we shall spoil all else, all will be spoiled else, man, if you do not: stretch out longer, longer yet, as long as ever you can. So, so, hold your breath, hold your breath; very well.
Enter Maid.
Maid. Madam, here comes Sir Davy.
Sir Jol. Odds so, now close again as I told you, close, you devil; now stir if you dare; stir but any part about you if you dare now; odd, I'll hit you such a rap if you do! Lie still, lie you still.
Enter Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Dav. My dear, how dost thou do, my dear? I am come.
L. Dunce. Ah, sir, what is't you've done? you've ruined me; your family, your fortune, all is ruined; where shall we go, or whither shall we fly?
Sir Dav. Where shall we go! why, we'll go to bed, you little jackadandy: why, you are not a wench, you rogue, you are a boy, a very boy, and I love you the better for't: sirrah, hey!
L. Dunce. Ah, sir, see there.
Sir Dav. Bless us! a man! and bloody! what, upon my hall-table!
L. Dunce. Two ruffians brought him in just now, pronouncing the inhuman deed was done by your command: Sir Jolly came in the same minute, or sure I had died with my distracting fears. How could you think on a revenge so horrid?
Sir Dav. As I hope to be saved, neighbour, I only bargained with them to bastinado him in a way, or so, as one friend might do to another: but do you say that he is dead?
Sir Jol. Dead, dead as clay; stark stiff and useless all, nothing about him stirring, but all's cold and still. I knew him a lusty fellow once, a very mettled fellow; 'tis a thousand pities!
Sir Dav. What shall I do? I'll throw myself upon him, kiss his wide wounds, and weep till blind as buzzard.
L. Dunce. Oh, come not near him; there's such horrid antipathy follows all murders, his wounds would stream afresh should you but touch him.[47]
Sir Dav. Dear neighbour, dearest neighbour, friend, Sir Jolly, as you love charity, pity my wretched case, and give me counsel; I'll give my wife and all my estate to have him live again; or shall I bury him in the arbour, at the upper end of the garden?
Sir Jol. Alas-a-day, neighbour, never think on't, never think on't; the dogs will find him there, as they scrape holes to bury bones in; there is but one way that I know of.
Sir Dav. What is it, dear neighbour, what is it? You see I am upon my knees to you; take all I have and ease me of my fears.
Sir Jol. Truly the best thing that I can think of is putting of him to bed, putting him into a warm bed, and try to fetch him to life again; a warm bed is the best thing in the world. My lady may do much too, she's a good woman, and, as I've been told, understands a green wound well.
Sir Dav. My dear, my dear, my dear!
L. Dunce. Bear me away! oh, send me hence far off, where my unhappy name may be a stranger, and this sad accident no more remembered to my dishonour!
Sir Dav. Ah, but my love! my joy! are there no bowels in thee?
L. Dunce. What would you have me do?
Sir Dav. Pr'ythee do so much as try thy skill; there may be one dram of life left in him yet. Take him up to thy chamber, put him into thy own bed, and try what thou canst do with him; pr'ythee do: if thou canst but find motion in him, all may be well yet. I'll go up to my closet in the garret, and say my prayers in the mean while.
L. Dunce. Will ye then leave this ruin on my hands?
Sir Dav. Pray, pray, my dear; I beseech you, neighbour, help to persuade her if it be possible.
Sir Jol. Faith, madam, do, try what you can do. I have a great fancy you may do him good; who can tell but you may have the gift of stroking? Pray, madam, be persuaded.
L. Dunce. I'll do whate'er's your pleasure.
Sir Dav. That's my best dear: I'll go to my closet and pray for thee heartily. Alas, alas, that ever this should happen! [Exit.
Beau. So, is he gone, madam, my angel?
Sir Jol. What, no thanks, no reward for old Jolly now? Come hither, hussy, you little canary-bird, you little hop-o'-my-thumb, come hither: make me a curtsey, and give me a kiss now, ha! give me a kiss, I say; odd, I will have a kiss, so I will, I will have a kiss if I set on't. Shoogh, shoogh, shoogh, get you into a corner when I bid you, shoogh, shoogh, shoogh—what, there already? [She goes to Beaugard.] Well, I ha' done, I ha' done; this 'tis to be an old fellow now.
Beau. And will you save the life of him you've wounded?
L. Dunce. Dare you trust yourself to my skill for a cure? [Sir Davy appears at a window above.
Sir Jol. Hist! hist! Close, close, I say again; yonder's Sir Davy, odds so!
Sir Dav. My dear! my dear! my dear!
L. Dunce. Who's that calls? my love, is't you?
Sir Dav. Ay, some comfort or my heart's broke! are there any hopes yet? I've tried to say my prayers, and cannot: if he be quite dead, I shall never pray again! Neighbour, no hopes?
Sir Jol. Truly little or none; some small pulse I think there is left, very little: there's nothing to be done if you don't pray: get you to prayers whatever you do. Get you gone; nay, don't stay now, shut the window, I tell you.
Sir Dav. Well, this is a great trouble to me; but good-night. [Retires.
Sir Jol. Good-night to you, dear neighbour.—Get ye up, get ye up, and begone into the next room presently, make haste. [To Beaugard and Lady Dunce.] But don't steal away till I come to you; be sure ye remember, don't ye stir till I come—pish, none of this bowing and fooling, it but loses time; I'll only bolt the door that belongs to Sir Davy's lodgings, that he may be safe, and be with you in a twinkle. Ah—so, now for the door; very well, friend, you are fast.
[Bolts the door and sings.
Bonny lass, gan thoo wert mine,
And twonty thoosand poonds aboot thee, &c. [Exeunt.