[CAPTAIN UNDERWIT, A COMEDY.]
Act the First.
Enter Captaine Underwit and his man Thomas.
Un. Come, my man Thomas, and my fathers old man Thomas; reioyce, I say, and triumph: thy Master is honourable.
Tho. Then wee are all made.
Un. No, tis only I am made.
Tho. What, and please your worship?
Un. I am made a Captaine of the traind band,[214] Thomas, and this is my Commission, this very paper hath made me a Captaine.
Tho. Are you a paper Captaine, Sir? I thought more had gone to the makeing up of a Captaine.
Un. They are fooles that thinke so, provided he have the favour of the Livetenant of the County.
Tho. Which it seemes you have.
Un. The honour of it is more then the thing, Thomas, since I did not bribe the Secretarys steward or what servant else so ever hath the government of his Lordship therein.
Tho. This is very strange.
Un. Not so much as transitorie wicker bottles to his Deputy Livetenant, no fewell for his winter, no carriages for his summer, no steple sugarloaves to sweeten his neighbours at Christmas, no robbing my brave tennants of their fatt Capons or Chickens to present his worship withall, Thomas.
Tho. I cry your worship mercy, you sold him land the last terme; I had forgott that.
Un. I, that lay convenient for him. I us'd him like a gentleman and tooke litle or nothing; 'twere pitty two or three hundred acres of dirt should make friends fall out: we should have gone to fenceing schools.
Tho. How, sir?
Un. I meane to Westminster hall, and let one another blood in Lawe.
Tho. And so the Land has parted you?
Un. Thou saist right, Thomas, it lies betweene both our houses indeed. But now I am thus dignified (I thinke that's a good word) or intituled is better, but tis all one; since I am made a Captaine—
Tho. By your owne desert and vertue.
Un. Thou art deceavd; it is by vertue of the Commission,—the Commission is enough to make any man an officer without desert; Thomas, I must thinke how to provide mee of warlike accoutrements to accomodate, which comes of Accomodo[215]: Shakespeare. The first, and the first—
Tho. No, Sir, it comes of so much money disburs'd.
Un. In troth, and it does, Thomas; but take out your table bookes and remember to bring after me into the Country, for I will goe downe with my father in law Sir Richard this morning in the Coach,—let me see—first and formost: a Buff Coate and a paire of breeches.
Tho. First and formost: Item, a Buff Coate fox and a paire of breeches of the same Cloth.
Un. A paire of bootes and spurres, and a paire of shooes without spurres.
Tho. Spurres.
Un. A paire of gray stockins, thick dapple gray stockins, with a belt, to be worne either about my shoulder or about my wast.
Tho. Wast.
Un. A London Dutch felt without a band, with a feather in't.
Tho. Without a feather in't.
Un. An old fox[216] blade made at Hounsloe heath, and then all the Bookes to be bought of warlike discipline, which the learned call Tacticks.
Tho. Ticktacks.[217]—If your worship would take my Counsell, considering the league at Barwick[218] and the late expeditions, wee may find some of these things in the North or else speake with some reform'd Captaine, though he bee a Catholike; and it may bee wee may have them at cheaper rates.
Un. 'Tis true, Thomas: but I must change the lynings of the breeches, for I love to bee cleanly.
Tho. So you may, Sir; and have the fowling of them yourselfe.
Un. Let me see: A leading staff—
Tho. A leaden staffe—
Un. A lead'ing staffe.
Tho.—ding staffe. Why, a Cane is a leading staffe in a Captaines hand.
Un. But I must have tassells, Thomas, and such things.
Tho. At the harnesse of the Carthorses there are tassells and Bells, too, if you will.
Un. Bells? What should I doe with em?
Tho. Ring all your companie in.
Un. Thou would'st make me a Captaine of a Morris dance. What serve the phifes and Drumms for, prethee?
Tho. But does your worship thinke you shall endure the bouncing of the Gunns? I observed you ever kept a way of at the Musters.
Un. Thou shalt therefore every morne goe a birding about the house to inure me to the report. By that tyme thou hast kild all my pigeons I shall endure the noise well enough.
Tho. But, Sir, you must have a dry Nurse, as many Captaines have. Let me see: I can hire you an old limping decayed Sergeant at Brainford that taught the boyes,—he that had his beard sing'd of at the last Muster: hee'le doe it bravely.
Un. What must he have?
Tho. Alas, twenty pipes[219] of Barmudas a day, six flagons of March[220] beere, a quart of Sack in a weeke, for he scornes meate; and the kitching wench to bring the shirt to him and the only band, for Cuffs he gets none but such as his drunkennes procures him with quarrelling.
Un. No, I shall be bashfull to learne of a stranger, thou sha't goe seeke out Captaine Sackburye.
Tho. He that weares no money in his scarlett hose, and when he is drunke is infected with Counsell?
Un. The very same; you shall find him at his Lodging in Fleetstreet or in the next taverne. Give him this Letter; tell him I desire his Companie this summer in the Country. He shall have a horse of mine, say:—here, give him this gold, too.
Tho. I hope it is gameing gold.
Un. He shall read warres to me and fortification.
Tho. I can teach you to build a sconce[221], sir.
Un. Beside, he is very valiant; he beate me twice when he was drunk, but, poore fellow, I ask'd him forgivenes the next day. Make hast, good Thomas, and remember all the Tacticks.
Tho. I warrant you, Sir: I know 'em well enough. [Exit.
Un. So, so; here's Sir Richard.
Enter Sir Richrd Huntlove, his Ladie and Mistresse Dorothy.
Sir Rich. Me thinkes you looke more sprightly since you were made a Captaine.
Un. Oh, good Sir Richard, indeed my face is the worst part about mee; and yet it will serve at the Muster.
Do. Serve! With reverence to the title, I have seene a Generall with a worse Countenance. It is a good leading face, and though you have no cut ore the nose or other visible scarre, which I doubt not but you may receave all in good tyme, it is a quarrelling face and fitt for a man of warre.
Un. I thanke you, sweet mistress Dorothy: I will commend you as much when you are in the Countrey.—But doe you resolve to goe downe this morning, Sir?
Sir Rich. By all meanes: is your sister readie? bid the Coachman make hast, and have a care you leave none of your trinketts behind: after a little dialogue with my scrivenour Ile returne, and then to Coach.
Lady. But why this expedition, this posting out of towne as the Aire were infected?
Sir Rich. The[222] truth is, my sweet Ladie, we have no Exchange in the Country, no playes, no Masques, no Lord Maiors day, no gulls nor gallifoists[223]. Not so many Ladies to visit and weare out my Coach wheeles, no dainty Madams in Childbedd to set you a longing when you come home to lie in with the same fashion'd Curtaines and hangings, such curious silver Andirons, Cupbord of plate and pictures. You may goe to Church in the Countrey without a new Satten gowne, and play at penny gleeke[224] with a Justice of peaces wife and the parsons; show your white hand with but one Diamond when you carve and not be asham'd to weare your owne wedding ring with the old poesie. There are no Doctors to make you sick wife; no legends of lies brought home by yong gallants that fill my Dyning roome with fleas and new fashions, that will write verses upon the handle of your fanne and comend the education of your Monkey, which is so like their worships as they were all of one familie. I have no humour to provokeing meates; I will downe and enter into a Christian diett, Madam. There is sport in killing my owne partridge and pheasant; my Trowtes will cost me less than your Lobsters and crayfish drest with amber greece[225], and I may renew my acquaintance with mutton and bold chines of beefe; entertaine my tenants, that would pay for my housekeeping all the yeere and thanke my worship at Christmas, over and above their rents, with Turkies and Beeves of supererogation. You may guesse I have some reason to change the aire, wife, and so I leave you to prepare your selfe: You have my purpose and may expect mee. [Exit.
Lady. However he may pretend, and point at charge
Which makes his stay unpleasant, 'tis his Jelousie
That strikes him into wildnes and dislike
Of all things here: he does not use mee well.
—Where is my sister?
Do. In the Closet, Madam. —I must waite upon my Ladie, sweete Captaine.
[Exeunt Lady & Dorothy.
Un. This Wench has a notable witt, if I have any Judgment: I doe not thinke but shee's in love with me. If I thought shee were not given to be with child I would examine her abilities; but these waiting women are so fruitfull, when they have a good turne from a gentleman they have not the vertue of concealment: touch a Chambermaide and take a Child, —everything workes with their soluble bodies.
Enter Monsir Device.
De. Noble Mr. Underwitt!
Un. I know not whome you meane, sir: he that comands the family in chiefe, hath been honor'd with a sword and "rise Sir Richard" (who is but my father in lawe[226] to a[nd?] by a former wife): for Mr. Underwitt, whome to salute you humbled your Cloth a gold Dublet, I ken not the wight.
De. Doe not you know mee, noble Sir?
Un. Upon even tearmes I may call your name to memorie, but if you understand not my addition[227] it is honourable to forgett the best friend I have.
De. What's the mistry of this? Your addition? pray honour me to know it.
Un. He that was Mr. Underwit is made a Captaine; you may, if you please, take notice of his title.
De. I beg your mercy, noble Captaine, and congratulate your addition of honour. It was Ignorance which, I professe, made me salute you with a wrong preface. Now, Capt., I shall bee proud to march under the ensigne of your favour.
Un. Friend Device, how does thy body? I am thy vassall; servant is for porters, watermen & lacquies, & is no witt neither. You preserve your tropes and your elegancies? What fancies doe adorne to-day? If I were a Constable I might apprehend you for suspition you had robd a pedlar. Does this thatchd cottage head hold still in fashion? What paid you for this dead mans hair? Where's your night rail[228]? The last time I saw you was in Fleetstreet, when at Complement and bare to an other gentleman. I tooke him for a Barber and I thought you by the wide lynnen about your neck [to] have been under correction in the suds[229], sir.
De. Wee are govern'd by the Mode, as waters by the Moone; but there are more changes in th'one than t'other. But does your Comand extend to the Sea or the land service?
Un. I never see the Sea in my life, sir, nor intend it.
De. You are not the first Captaine that has seene no service: 'tis time lost to travell for't when a man may bee a Comander at home. I never traveld myselfe.
Un. No, Sir?
De. And yet I understand garbes, from the elevation of your pole to the most humble galosh.
Un. Can your hanches play well in these close cut breeches? they want but a pummell to distinguish 'em from Trouses[230].
De. O sir, there is a perfect geometry in these breeches; you doe not observe the morality of your fancie, nor the gentile play and poize of your Lemon, Orange or Melon: this is gentry. Why, I understand all the curiosities of the Mode to a Mathematicall point, and yet I never travaild in all my life for't.
Un. These are extraordinary parts. Alas, a Captaine has but fifty or a hundred at most to looke after, and all they have not so much witt as your French Lacquey. And what need any travaile to instruct them? I can teach them their motions by word of mouth: when they come to fight, my Countrymen will retreate naturally.
Enter Ladie and her Sister.
Lady. Now in revenge could I bee rich, but that
I would not be a prisoner to my Chamber.
These superstitions will make women doe
Strange things sometymes.
Sis. Of whome doe you thinke he should be jealous, sister?
Lady. Of Duke Eneas in the hanging.
Sis. I hope he has no suspition of my servants,
That, under the pretence of formall Courtship
To mee, should ayme at his dishonour: there's
One that would weare my livery.
Lady. Device?
Hang him, outside! no, my husband loves
His folly and would have him the state foole,
His garbes are so ridiculous.
Sis. What opinion
(Still with a confidence of your cleere thoughts)
Holdes he of the Knight Sir Francis Courtwell,
That often visits us?
Lady. Sure a Noble one,
If I may aske my Innocence; yet I find
Him very amorous. O my husband loves him;
He is a powerfull man at Court, whose friendship
Is worth preserving. Sister, I confesse
His nobleness and person hath prevaild
With mee to give him still the freest welcome
My modestie and honor would permitt;
But if I thought my husband had a scruple
His visits were not honourable, I
Should soone declare how much I wish his absence.
Un. Your Mistresse and my Lady; I have some Affaires require despatch, ile leave you to 'em. [Exit.
Sis. My witty servant!
Lady. Most pretious Alamode, Monsir Device!
De. I blesse my lipps with your white handes.
Lady. You come to take your leave as knowing by instinct wee have but halfe an hour to stay.
Sis. Wee are for the Countrey as fast as your Flanders mares will trott, sir.
De. That's a Solecisme till the Court remove;—are you afraid of the small pox?
Sis. The less the better for a gentlewoman.
De. And the greater more genty for a Cavallier. By this glove (a pretty embroidery is't not?) you must not deprive us so soone of your sweet presence. Why, there's a Ball to night in the Strand and tomorrow I had a purpose to waite upon you to the pictures; I ha' bespoke regalias[231] there, too. There will be a new play shortly, a pretty Comedy written by a profest Scholler: he scornes to take money[232] for his witt, as the Poetts doe.
Lady. He is Charitable to the Actors.
Sis. It may be their repentance enough to play it.
De. You must needs stay and give your opinion. What will become of me when you are gon, Ladie?
Lady. If your devotion catch not cold you may breath your Barbary and visit us, where you may be confident of your welcome.
De. I dare as soone doubt I was Christned. But pray let us visit the Exchange and take a trifle to weare for my sake before you goe. What say, Madam? my owne Coach is at dore, the lyning is very rich and the horses are very well matcht.
Lady. Alas, wee expect upon my husbands returne to take Coach imediatlie.
Sis. But if wee see you in the Countrey you will doe us an honour?
De. You invite me to my happines. I can play well o' the kittar; I thinke your musique is but course there; wee'le have a Countrey dance after supper and a song. I can talke loud to a Theorbo[233], too, and thats cald singing. Now, yee shall heare my Ballet.
Sis. Did you make a Ballet?
De. Oh I, the greatest wit lies that way now; a pittifull Complaint of the Ladies when they were banish'd the Towne[234] with their husbands to their Countrey houses, compeld to change the deere delight of Maske and Revells here for Wassail and windie bagpipes; instead of Silken Fairies tripping in the Banquetting Roome, to see the Clownes sell fish in the hall and ride the wild mare, and such Olimpicks, till the ploughman breake his Crupper, at which the Villagers and plumporidge men boile over while the Dairy maid laments the defect of his Chine and he, poore man, disabled for the trick, endeavours to stifle the noise and company with perfume of sweat instead of Rose water.
Lady. This must be our Countrey recreation, too!
Enter Sir Francis Courtwell.
De. Who is this?
Lady. 'Tis Sir Francis Courtwell; You cannot choose but know him.—This must bee A favour, Sir, to visit us at parting.
Sir Fr. I came with other expectation, Madam,
Then to heare this: I could receave no newes
So unwelcome. What misfortune doth conclude
The Towne so unhappie?
Lady. 'Tis my husbands pleasure, Affrighted with some Dreame he had last night; For I can guess no other cause.
Sir Fr. Could hee Bee capable of fright and you so neere him?
De. He cannot choose but know me then.—Sir, I kisse your noble hand and shall be stellified in your knowledge.
Sir Fr. What thing's this that looks so like a race Nagg trick'd with ribbands?
Sis. He is one of my inamoratos, Sir; They call him Mounsir Device.
Sir Fr. Lady, your faire excuse.—He has, it seemes, Some confidence to prevaile upon your liking That he hath bought so many Bride laces.
Sis. You may interpret him a walking mirth.
Sir Fr. He moves upon some skrues and may be kinsman To the engine that is drawne about with Cakebread, But that his outside's brighter.
De. Sir Francis Courtwell.
Sir Fr. That's my name, Sir.
De. And myne Mounsieur Device.
Sir Fr. A Frenchman Sir?
De. No, sir; an English Monsier made up by a Scotch taylor that was prentice in France. I shall write my greatest ambition satisfied if you please to lay your Comands upon mee.
Sir Fr. Sweet lady, I beseech you mussell your beagle; I dare not trust my selfe with his folly, and he may deserve more beating then I am willing to bestow at this tyme.
Sis. Take truce a little, servant.
Sir Fr. Will you consider, Madam, yet how much A wounded hart may suffer?
Lady. Still the old businesse;
Indeede you make me blush, but I forgive you
If you will promise to sollicite this
Unwelcome cause no more.
Sir Fr. 'Tis my desire;
I take no pleasure in a pilgrimage.
If you instruct a nearer way, 'tis in
Your will to save your eare the trouble of
My pleading, Madam, if with one soft breath
You say I'me entertain'd; but for one smile
That speakes consent you'le make my life your servant.
Lady. My husband, Sir—
Sir Fr. Deserves not such a treasure to himselfe And starve a noble servant.
Lady. You but pleade
For vanitie: desist, for if I could
(Forgetting honour and my modestie)
Allow your wild desires, it were impossible
That wee should meete more then in thought and shadowes.
Sir Fr. If these shadowes, Madam, be but darke enough,
I shall account it happines to meet you.
But referr that to opportunitie,
Which our kind starrs in pitty will sooner offer
To both our ioyes.
Lady. But he is very Jealous.
Sir Fr. That word assures my victorie; I never
Heard any wife accuse her husband of
Or cold neglect or Jealousie, but she had
A confirm'd thought within to trick his forehead—
It is but Justice, Madam, to reward him
For his suspitious thoughts.
Lady. D'ee thinke it fitt To punish his suspition yet perswade To act the sinne he feares?
Sir Fr. Custome and nature make it less offence
In women to comitt the deed of pleasure
Then men to doubt their chastity; this flowing
From poison'd natures, that excus'd by fraielty.
Yet I have heard the way to cure the scare
Has bin the deed; at truth the scruples vanish.
I speake not, Madam, with a thought to suffer
A foule breath whisper your white name; for he
That dares traduce it must beleeve me dead,
Or my fame twisted with your honour must not
Have pitty on the Accusers blood.
Device. I will attend you in the Countrey; I take my leave and kiss your ivory hand; Madam, and yours. Sir Francis, your obliged. [Exit.
Sir Fr. You bless me with this promise. —How can you, lady, suffer this impertinent Afflict you thus? [Ex. Lad.
Sis. Alas, my parrat's dead and he supplies the prattle: ith' spring and fall he will save me charge of phisick in purgeing Melancholy.
Sir Fr. If you dare
Accept a servant, Ladie, upon my
Comends, I should present a kinsman t'ee
Who sha'not want a fortune nor, I hope,
A meritt to possesse your faire opinion.
Sis. You doe not say he is hansome all this while, and that's a maine consideration. I wod not have a man so tall as a Mast, that I must clyme the shroudes to kisse him, nor so much a dwarfe that I must use a multiplying glass to know the proportion of his limbes. A great man is a great house with too much garret and his head full of nothing but lumber: if he be too round agen hees only fitt to be hung upp in a Christall glasse. The truth is the man I love must please me at first sight; if he take my eye I may take more tyme to examine his talent.
Sir Fr. Do you but grace him with accesse and aske your owne fancie, Ladie, how you can affect him. Ile not despaire if he were cur'd of modesty, which is the whole fault in his behaviour; but he may passe without contempt.
Do. That modestie is a foule fault.
Enter Captaine Underwitt.
Un. Come away, Cosen; Sir Richard's come and calls for you; the Coachman is ready to mount. Noble Sir Richard, because you may not loose breath, you may call me a Captaine, please you, a Captaine o' the train'd band.
Sis. 'Tis very certaine.
Sir Fr. I congratulate your title, Sir.
Un. If you come into the Countrey you shall see me doe as much with my leading staff as another.
Sir Fr. You wonot thrash your men?
Un. If I did 'tis not the first time I ha thrash'd. If I find my Souldiers tractable they shall find me but a reasonable Captaine.
Enter Sir Richard [and] Lady.
Sir Rich. Sir Francis, I am sorrie the violence of my affaires wonot let me entertaine you to my wishes. Pray honour us with your presence in the Countrey, if you can dispence with your employments, when I shall satisfie for this haste of my departure.
Sir Fr. I shall attend you, Sir, and present a kinsman of mine to this virgin Ladie: he is like to be Master of no narrow fortune. It was my busines at this tyme only to prepare his accesse.
Sir Rich. He shall have my vote for your sake, Sir Francis. Come, Madam.
Sir Fr. Ile waite upon you to the Coach and take my leave.
Un. Sweet Mistresse Doritye.
[Exeunt.
Act the Second.
Enter Captaine Sackburie, reading a Letter, and Thomas.
Capt. Hum—hum—Where's the gold?
Tho. Here, Sir; one, two, three, fowre, and five.
Cap. Thou hast learnd the Cinque pace[235], Tho: is the gold weight?
Tho. I hope so, Sir.
Cap. Hum—into the Country;—thou hast a horse, too?
Tho. Not about me, Sir, but he is ready, all but brideling and sadling, at our Inne, Captaine. My master sayes you shalbe troubled with no horse but his.
Cap. Why, is he lame?
Tho. What? Truehunt, the black nag with three white feete? he lame? You meane that I ride upon my selfe.
Cap. Hum,—'make hast as you will preserve the reputation of your true friend and servant:'—so, so—Comend me to him, Thomas; I wonot faile to visit him.
Tho. You may demand the Nag, if you ask for Humfrey the Ostler, by the same token he has bin there this foure dayes and had but one peck of provender.
Cap. Enough I wonot faile, I say. Farewell, honest Tom a Lincolne, farewell: comend me to the traind band.
Tho. Pray doe not fall a drinking and forgett it: bu'oy[236], noble Captaine. [Exit.
Enter Mr. Courtwell.
Cap. My expectation of the Lawz well mett!
Cou. I am glad to see you, Captaine.
Cap. Is thy sight perfect?
Thy poring upon statutes and booke cases
Makes me suspecte. But dost thou thinke to bee
A Dominus factotum on the Bench,
And be a Civill Lawyer?
Cou. You are merry.
Cap. Tis more then thou hast been this twelvemonth: th'ast
Lost thy Complexion with too much study.
Why, thou shalt be an heire and rule the rost
Of halfe a shire, and thy father would but Dye once;
Come to the Sizes with a band of Janisaries
To equall the Grand Signor, all thy tenants,
That shall at their owne charge make themselves fine
And march like Cavaliers with tilting feathers,
Gaudy as Agamemnons[237] in the play:
After whome thou, like St. George a horseback
Or the high Sheriff, shall make the Cuntrey people
Fall downe in adoration of thy Crooper
And silver stirrup, my right worshipfull.
A pox a buckram and the baggage in't!
Papers defil'd with Court hand and long dashes,
Or Secretarie lines that stradle more
Then Frenchmen and lesse wholsome to the Client.
Is thy head to be fild with Proclamations,
Rejoynders and hard words beyond the Alchemist[238]?
Be ruld, and live like a fine gentleman
That may have haukes and hounds and whores and horses,
And then thou art fitt Companie.
Cou. You talke wildlie;
I wou'd you saw your Errour that place all
Your happinesse upon such course delights.
I should degenerate too much and forfet
My education.
Cap. Education! he has gott a tune:
I doe not thinke but thou wilt leave thy law
And exercise thy talent in composeing
Some treatises against long haire and drinking
That most unchristian weed yclipt tobacco;
Preach to the puisnes[239] of the Inne sobrietie,
And abstinence from shaveing of lewd Baylies
That will come shortlie to your Chamber doores
And there with reverence entreat your worships
Come forth and be arrested,—precious tappoles!
I wo'd not willingly despaire of thee,
For thy Lands sake and cause I am thy Countreyman.
One generous Vagarie, and thou wer't wise,
Would breake somebodies hart within a sennight,
And then th'art Lord of all. Have but the grace
To dine wo' mee at taverne and ile tell
Thy friends there is some hope.
Cou. My friends?
Cap. Thy father's
In Essex: if he live heele purchase Romford;
If he die sooner then the towne's our owne;
Spend but an acre a day and thou maist live
Till all the world be wearie of thee. Betweene
Us two, what thincke you of a wench?
Cou. Nothing.
Cap. You meane one wench betweene us two is nothing.
I know a hundred Leverets[240], things that will
Bound like a dancer on the rope and kiss thee
Into thy naturall complexion:
A sinner that shall clime thee like a squirrell.
Cou. And crack me like a Nutt. I ha no kernell To spare for her sweet tooth.
Cap. That was a metaphor: hee's not desperate!
Cou. Buoy, my deere Captaine.
Cap. Wy, farewell, Countreyman: I may live yet to witnes thy conversion. [Exit.
Enter a Footeman.
Cou. How does my uncle?
Fo. He desires presentlie To speake with you at his lodging.
Cou. Ile attend him.
[Exit.
[SCENE 2.]
Enter Captaine Underwit and Thomas.
Un. And hast thou been carefull of all those things I gave charge to be provided?
Tho. There is a note of the particulars.
Un. Tis very well done, Thomas.—Let me see: Imprimis—
Tho. The Captaine wonot faile to be w'ee, sir. He was not at his lodging; and inquiring at the Horne tavern, I heard he had been there with two or three Cittizens that ow'd him mony.
Un. That he owde mony to.
Tho. Tis all one, I thinke, Sir; for when Captaines have not pay, the creditors may pay themselves. Here they said he did mollifie the hart of the haberdashers and dranke himselfe a little mellowe ere they parted, which gave me some hope I might find him ere night at the Divell, where indeed I fetcht him out of the fire and gave him your Letter.
Un. And the gold too?
Tho. That was the first word he read; if you did not write it in text he could not have found it out so soone. His eye was no sooner in the inside but his arme flew out with an open mouth and his very fingers cryed "give me the gold"! which presumeing to be weight he put in his hocas pocas, a little dormer under his right skirt; and so takeing his word to come downe and turning over your horse to him, with caution not to be drunk and forgett your worship, I tooke my leave and went about my Inventorie.
Un. Theis things are very right, Thomas. Let me see now the bookes of Martiall discipline.
Tho. I bought up all that I found have relation to warr and fighting.
Un. That was weldone.—Item: The Sword Salve.
Tho. This I conceiv'd to have the vertue of Achilles speare: if you bee hurt you need goe no further then the blade for a Surgeon.
Un. The Buckler of Faith.
Tho. You had the sword before, Sir.
Un. A Booke of Mortification.
Tho. I, Sir, that is a kind of killing which I thought very necessary for a Captaine.
Un. Item: the Gunpowder Treason and the Booke of Cannons.
Tho. I wod not lett any shott scape mee.
Un. Shakespeares Workes.—Why Shakespeares Workes?
Tho. I had nothing for the pikemen before.
Un. They are plays.
Tho. Are not all your musterings in the Countrey so, Sir? Pray, read on.
Un. Bellarmines Controversie in six tomes.
Tho. That I took upon the Stationers word, who had been a pretty Schollar at Paules; for the word Bellarmine, he said, did comprehend warr, weapons and words of defiance. Ill words provoke men to draw their sword, and fighting makes an end of the busines; and all this is controversy. Pray, goe on, Sir.
Un. Two paire of Tables.—Tables for what?
Tho. Oh, sir, for ticktack. You know it was in my note, which though I doubted at first, yet considering you were newly made a Cap: I conceiv'd it was fitt you should learne to sett and or[d]er your men.
Un. Tacticks, man: thou didst mistake, they are bookes of warre.
Tho. You cannot know these from bookes as they are painted, I warrant you.
Un. Why, dost thou thinke theis will make a Souldier?
Tho. Not of themselves, Sir, and therefore I provided: please you read on, Sir.
Un. Parsons Resolutions and Felthams Resolves[241].
Tho. All is nothing I knew, Sir, without resolution.
Un. Summa totalis three and twenty poundes nyneteene shillings and sevenpence.—Thou hast undone mee.
Tho. If you doe not like the pennyworths tis but the charges of my selfe and a horse agen to London. I will lose but the three odd pounds 19s and 7d: it may be you doe not understand these Authors: when the Captaine comes he will expound 'em to you.
Un. What a Coxcombe have I to my man! but I dare not be angry with him. Well, carry 'em into my study, Thomas.
[Ext. Tho.
Enter Device.
De. Most honor'd Captaine.
Un. My compleat Monsier Device, this is a grace to us. You come to visit your Mistres my Cosen. As if by instinct she had knowledge of your [Enter Ladie and Sister, & Dorothy. approach, she is come to meet you.—Shall I never get opportunitie with that shee waiter! If I gett her with Child my man Thomas shall marry her.
Enter Thomas.
Tho. Sir, the Captaine is new alighted.
Un. Gett a bottle of sack up to my Chamber presently.
[Ext. [Underwit & Thomas.
La. You are a gentleman of your word.
Sis. And such a gentleman is to be trusted, Madam.
De. He is an Infidell that will breake his word with a Ladie.
Sis. I suspect, servant, you have many Mistresses.
De. Not I, by this white hand. I must acknowledge there are some Ladies in the Court in whose eyes and opinion I am favour'd. I cannot obscure my selfe from their observation; but my heart with contempt of all other endeerement is only devoted to your service.
Sis. Is't not a charge to dresse your selfe with such variety of Ribbands every day?
De. Is that your scruple? Tis the Mode to express our fancie upon every occasion; to shew the turne and present state of our hope or feares in our Affection. Your colours to an understanding Lover carry the interpretation of the hart as plainely as wee express our meaning one to another in Characters. Shall I decipher my Colours to you now? Here is Azure and Peach: Azure is constant, and Peach is love; which signifies my constant Affection.
Sis. This is very pretty.
De. Oh, it saves the trouble of writing, where the Mistres and Servant are learned in this amorous blazon. Yesterday I wore Folimort, Grisdelin and Isabella: Folimort is withered, Grisdelin is absent, and Isabella is beauty, which put together express I did wither or languish for your absent beautie.
Sis. But is there any reason for theis distinctions?
De. Yes, Lady: for example, your Follimort is a withred leafe, which doth moralise a decay: your yellow is joy, because—
La. Why, yellow, Sir, is Jealous.
De. No, your Lemon colour, a pale kind of yellow, is Jealous; your yellow is perfect joy. Your white is Death, your milke white inocence, your black mourning, your orange spitefull, your flesh colour lascivious, your maides blush envied, your red is defiance, your gold is avaritious, your straw plenty, your greene hope, your sea greene inconstant, your violet religious, your willow forsaken.
Sis. We may then comitt a solecisme and be strangely interpreted by such curious expounders in the rash election and wearing of our colours, I p[er]ceave.
La. Tis pitty but there should be some bookes for our instruction in this art.
De. Your Hierogliphick was the Egiptian wisdome, your Hebrew was the Cabala, your Roman had your Simball or impresse; but they are now obsolete, your embleme trite and conspicuous, your invention of Character and Alphabeticall key tedious and not delightfull, your motto or rebus too open and demonstrative: but the science and curiosity of your Colours in Ribbands is not only instructive but an ornament and the nearest Comentator of Love; for as Love is entertain'd first by the eye, or, to speake more plaine, as the object affected is tooke in first by these opticks which receive the species of the thing colord & beautifide, so it is answerable to nature that in the progresse of our passion we should distinguish by our eye the change or constancy of our affections in apt and significant colours.
_Sis. _You have tooke paines to study this learn'd heraldry.
De. It is the onely gentile knowledge or philosophie in the world. I will undertake to open any man or womans hart.
La. Heaven forbid!
De. Tell the most secret imaginations and designes conclude every passion and scruple, if they be carefull to observe the artificiall method of their colours.
Sis. Why, this may be a way of fortune telling too.
De. You say right, Lady: phisiognomy and chiromancy are but trifles; nay, your geomancie meere coniecturall, the execution of your schemes circumstantiall and fallible, but your quaint alamode weare of your fancie more then astrologicall.
La. Tis a kind of Divinitie.
De. You say very true, Madam, and comes neere to propheticall if the minds of Ladies and gentlemen were elevated to the just and sublime consideration.
Sis. What paines he takes to be ridiculous!
Do. This gentleman has a notable fancie and talkes poetically.
Sis. Yes, yes; he can write verses.
Do. Well, I have read Authors in my dayes and knew the length of the poets in my tyme too, which was an hexameter and which a pentameter, but the wits are not as they have been—right and straite.
Sis. Why, Doroty?
Do. Why, because wind is the cause of many things; now if the wind bee not in the right corner tis the ill wind our proverbe speakes of that blowes nobodie good; for when vapors and wind flie into the head it cannot be in two places at one time: and that's the reason your men of most wit doe seldome love a woman.—But here comes my Master and Sir Francis.
Enter Sir Richard and Sir Francis, and Mr. Courtwell.
Ri. This is a double honour to us, Sir Francis. I shall want language, but not a friendly hart to entertaine you and your noble kinsman. What my exquisite Cavalier Device!—tis to no purpose I see to remove into the Countrey to save charges and be quiet; the whole Citty will come hither if I stay. I have no stomack to my kn't.
Fra. I hope, madam, you will be no enemy to my kinsman.
Ri. Sister, I present this gentleman; observe and cherish him; he has been i'th Universitie.
Sis. Any degree, Sir?
Co. Onely Bachelour, forsooth!
Ri. If he winne you to marriage, Lady quicksilver—
Sis. He wilbe Master of his Art.
Ri. My vote is for him.
De.—I like not the induction of this rivall.
Ri. He studies now the law, And thats the high way to preferment, Sister.
Sis. Indeed it is the high way in which some Deliver up their purses. He may clime To scarlet, but that he has too good a face.
De. Sir, I hope—
Ri. Troth, do not, Sir,—I meane, trouble yourselfe: He is too bashfull to prevaile upon Your spirited mistres!
Enter Mr. Engine.
En. Sir Richard.
Ri. More customers? Mr. Engine, welcome; Your presence was unexpected in the Countrey.
En. Twas my ambition with some intents
To serve you, sir. Please you vouchsafe your privacie,
I bring Affaires are worth your entertainement:
I have rid hard.
Cou. What Cavallier's this, Uncle?
Fra. He is the inventor of new proiects, cosen, They say, and patents; one that lives like a moth Upon the Common wealth.
Cou. He lookes like one.
Ric. You will excuse me, gentlemen.—Make much of Sir Francis, Madam.
Ext. [Sir Richard and Engine.
Fra. Weele leave my Nephew and your sister, Madam, And take a turne i'th garden.
Sis. You may be confident.
[Exeunt Sir Francis, Lady, and Dorothy.
De.—I doe not like the fancie in his hat; That gules is warre and will be ominous.
Ext. [Device.
Sis. The gentleman's turnd statue! blesse me how
He staires upon me and takes roote, I thinke.
It mooves, and now to earth is fixt agen;
Oh, now it walkes and sadly marches this way.
Is't not a ghost? heele fright me. Oh, sweet sir,
Speake if you can and say who murderd you.
It points at me: my eyes? ungentle eyes
To kill so at first sight! Ile have my lookes
Arraigned for't and small Cupid shall be judg,
Who for your sake will make me blind as he is.
Co. Ladie—
Sis. The man's alive agen and has
A tongue! discretion guide it; he but sent
His soule forth of an arrand; tis returnd,
Now wee shall have some sentences.
Co. Such are the strange varieties in love, Such heates, such desperate coldes,—
Sis. No more winter, and you love me, unlesse you can command the colepits; we have had a hard tyme on't already for want of fuell.
Co. I'me all turnd eares and, Lady, long to heare you,
But pressing to you doubt I am too neare you.
Then I would speake, but cannot; nought affordes
Expression, th'Alphabet's too poore for wordes:
He that knowes Love knowes well that every hower
Love's glad, Love's sad, Love's sweet—
Sis. And sometymes sower. Theis wordes would goe well to a tune; pray letts heare you sing. I doe not thinke but you can make me a ioynture of fower nobles a yeare in Balletts, in lamentable balletts; for your wit I thinke lies tragicall. Did you make the Ladies Downefall[242]. You expresse a passion rarely, but pray leave Your couplets and say something in blanck verse Before you goe.
Co. Before I goe? breath not that killing language:
There is no sunne but in your eyes, and when
I once take leave of those celestiall beames
I meet with darkenes in my habitation;
Where stretch'd on sable ground I downe shall lay
My mournefull body, and with folded Armes
Heare sadder noats uppon the Irish harpe[243]
And drop division with my brinish teares.[244]
Sis. This must be lamentable musick sure!
Co. But I have found an art to cure this wound,
For I with fancies pencill will so draw
Your picture in the table of my hart,
Your absence shall but like darke shadowes stand
To sett you of and see you, Lady, better
Then Love will lett me when I looke upon you.
Sis. Could this be true and meant, sweet sir, to me,
I should be kinder then the gentlest spring
That warms the world and makes fierce beasts so tame
And trees to swell themselves to cheerefull greene;
More jocund then the proudest quire of birds,
What ere they be that in the woods so wide
Doe sing their merry catches.—Sure he does
But counterfeit.
Co. Oh, now I see that Love Is sweet as flowers in their fragrant birth, Gentle as silke, and kind as Cloudes to Earth?
Sis. One rime more and you undoe my love for ever. Out upon't! pedlars French[245] is a Christian language to this. I had rather you should put me a case out of Litleton. They say you are a pretty Lawyer.
Co. Tenant[246] per la Curtesie d'Engleterre est, hon home prent feme seisie in fee simple ou en fee taile generall, ou seisie come heire de la taile speciall et ad issue per mesme la fame, male ou female, oies ou wife, soit lissue apres mort ou en vie si la feme de aie, la baron tiendra la terre durant sa vie, per la ley dengleterre.
Sis. Nay, here's enough a Conscience! What a Noise this confusion of languages make; tis almost as good as a beare baiting. Harke you, Sir, you are never like to recover me by law.
Co. You are not the first sweet Ladie has been overthrowne at Common Lawe.
Sis. Not by tenn thousand, Sir. Confest: but I have no mind to come to issue with a Lawyer; when he should consider my cause at home, heele be at Westminster, teaching men the Statutes. No, no, I wo'not marry a Judge.
Co. Why, Lady?
Sis. They are casuall things and men that hold such strange opinions.
Co. Lady, you may be misinform'd: Astraea
Hath not quite left the earth, and the abuses
Of some which shame the calling are but like
Patches of beauty on the shape of lawe
To set the whitenes of.
Sis. Farewell, Sir:
You are in love with a barrd gown, not beauty;
If you will be my learned Counsell, leave it
—This yong thing is a foole or a fine fellow. [Exit.
Co. She kicks and flings out like a Colt unwayed;
Her witt's a better portion then her money;
I would not love her yet, and I could help it.—
My Uncle and his Mistres: Ile not hinder em.
[Ex.
[SCENE 3.]
Enter Sir Francis and Ladie.
La. It is no honour, Sir, if arm'd with so
Much eloquence you overcome a woman.
I blush to say I love you now too much;
I wish you would release what your sweet charmes
Won from my tongue; I shall repent my promise.
Fra. Make me not miserable after so much blessing.
Why, Madam, tis on honourable tearmes,
Since not upon the first attempt but after
A tedious seige in to your faire love you give up
What shall enrich us both. It were a sinne
To feare you can retract what both our lipps
Have seal'd, and loose a happines so neare
And so secure. Your husband holds his pleasure
Of early hunting constant, and when he
Pursues the tymerous hare to morrow morne,
Cupid will waite to bring me to Elizium,
Your bed, where every kisse shall new create us.
La. You must be wise in your excuse, to quit His importunitie.
Fra. Leave that to me:
I weare not worth the name of him that serv'd you
To loose my glorious hope for want of such
A thinne device. In your thought wish me prosper,
And I am fortifide against the power
Of fate to seperate us; and when thou art
Within the amorous circle of my armes,
We will make lawes to love; teach him new motion
Or chaine[247] him with the cordage of his haire,
Like a tame thing, to walke, and watch our pillow
And be our pleasures Centinell.
La. I see
My husband; tis not safe he should observe us:
Be wise and constant. [Exit Lady.
Fra. All that's sweet attend thee.
So I am sailing now to my owne Indies,
And see the happie Coast, too: How my wings
Doe spread to catch the wind which comes to court 'em,
And the green Sea, enamour'd on my barke,
Doth leap to see how Cupid sitts at helme.
And steeres my soule to his new world.
Enter Sir Richard and Engine.
Ri. A monopolie say you For Perriwigs?
En. Is't not a rare designe? and by such art
And reasons I can name, most beneficiall
To the common wealth, preventing the diseases
Which some unwholsome haire breeds in mens heads,
It will be worth our agitation, Sir;
And you, after the rate of every thousand
Per Annum milk'd out of the comon purse
Into your owne, may easily defaulke
To me a hundred for my first projection.
Did I not love you, Sir, I could make choice
Of other able men that would be glad
To multiplie their money.
Ri. Sir, I thanke you,
But have no mind to thrive upon abuse of
My princes favour nor the peoples curse.
Here is a gentleman, Sir Francis Courtwell,
Perhapps will undertake it.
Fra. What, Sir Richard?
Ri. A Monopolie for composeing and selling of perriwiggs.
Fra. Excuse me, Sir, I dare not deale in 'em. If I be not mistaken, Sir, your name Is Engine?
En. Yes, Sir.
Fra. The proiector generall?
If I may advise you, Sir, you should make your will,
Take some convenient phisick and dye tymely
To save your credit, and an execution:
It is thought else—
En. Oh—
Fra. What aile you, Sir?
En. A Megrim in my head.
Ri. Whoes there?
Enter Thomas.
Looke to Mr. Engine heere, he faints, and send
To your Ladie for some Cordiall waters presently.
Tho. There is a Soveraigne Well hard by has done Strange cures: please you, ile throw him into that. Ext. [Thomas; carrying away Engine.
Ri. Though I distast his busines I wod not
He should miscarry here; you frighted him.
But come, I thinke tis supper tyme, Sir Francis.
I shall expect youle hunt with me i'th morning;
I have a pack of Doggs sent me will make
The Forrest ring.
Fra. Ile cheerefully attend you, I love the sport; as earlie as you please, Sir.
Ri. I wish wee had all pleasures to delight you, But no thing wants in my true love to serve you.
Fra.—Yet I must cuckold him; I cannot helpe it.
Act the Third.
Enter Thomas with Sir Richards bootes.
Tho. Sir.
Within Ri. Whoes that? Thomas?
Tho. The sun is up before you. Here be your bootes.
Ri. That's well.
Within La. I preethe donot rise yet; it is hardly day. Sirra, who bid you call him so earlie? Sir Richard wonot rise yet.
Tho. I cannot helpe it, it is none of my fault.
La. Wheres Doroty?
[Enter Doroty.
Do. Here, Madam; what make you up so soone, Thomas?
Tho. O Mistres Dority, tis e'ne long of you, for betweene sleepe and awake your remembrance came to me this morning, and Thomas was up presently.
Enter Sir Richard [& Lady].
Ri. You must excuse me, wife;
I meane to kill a brace of hares before
You thinke tis day. Come, on with my Bootes, Thomas;
And Dorothy goe you to Sir Francis Chamber,
Tell him the Day growes old and I am readie,
Our horses and the merry hounds expect us.
La. Any excuse to leave me.
Ri. You may take
Your ease a bed still, Madam. Ile not loose
One morning that invites so pleasantly,
To heare my Doggs, for a new Maidenhead, I.
Twas for these sports and my excess of charge
I left the towne: besides the Citty foggs
And steame of Brick hills almost stifled me;
This Aire is pure and all my owne.
Tho. My Ladie
Meanes shee would have you gett another heire,
Sir, for your lands; though it be against my Master
The young Captaine, yet she speakes but reason.
And now I talke o'th Captaine, Sir,
Would you had given him Counsell.
Ri. To what?
Tho. Before he tooke this huffing[248] trade upon him,
To have been a man of peace, I meane a Justice.
Nature has made him fit for both alike.
Hee's now at charge to keepe a Captaine Schoolemaster;
He might have sav'd the qua[r]teridge of his Tutor
If I had been his Clarke: and then the income
That broken heads bring in, and new yeares guifts
From soder'd virgins and their shee provintialls
Whose warren must be licenc'd from our office!
Ri. Away you prating knave.—
[Enter Dorothy.
What? is he readie?
Do. Alas, hee's almost dead.
Ri. How? dead?
Do. He has been troubled with a fitt o'th stone, Sir, all this night. Sweet gentleman he groanes, And sweates, and cannot—
Ri. What?
Do. Make urine, Sir.
Tho. I heard my Ladie has an excellent Receit to cure the Stone; she is a peece Of a rare Surgeon.
Ri. Well, away and get the horses readie, sirra, For I shall ride you and your witt together.
Tho. Alas, any foole may ride me, but I would faine see any man ride Mistres Dorothy.
Do. How, sirra?
[Exit Thomas.
Ri. I am sorry I must leave such a Companion.
But more lament the cause. I wish him health;
My presence cannot serve him. Morrow, wife:
I cannot lose my sport. [Exit.
Do. Nor shee when you are gone. My Lady does expect another hunt's up.
La. Now I must trust thy secresie.
Do. You shall not doubt me, Madam, and t'assure you
My faith, I have a suit to your Ladiship
Whose grant, were there no other bonds upon me,
Would tye me everlastinglie to silence.
La. What ist? but name, and I shall soone confirme thee.
Do. Our Captaine o'th traind band has been offring
To chaffer Maidenheads with me. I must
Confesse I can affect the foole upon
Good tearmes, and could devise a plott to noose
My amorous woodcock, if you privatlie
Assist me and dare trust me with some Jewell
Of price, that is not knowne, which shalbe faithfully
Restor'd Madam.
La. I that dare trust my honour with thee sha'not
Suspect thy faith in any treasure else.
But prethe draw the Curtains close, while I
Expect this friend: I needes must hide my blushes.
Thou maist discover from the Gallory windowe
When they are hors'd. I tremble to consider
What I have promis'd.
Do. Tremble to meet a Ghost! You are more fearefull then a Virgin, Madam. Why this setts me a longing; but ile watch: This is the timerous world of flesh and blood. [Exit.
Enter Sir Richard.
La. within. Alas!
What doe you meane? retire for heavens sake!
My husband is not gone, I heare his voice yet;
This rashnes will undoe my fame for ever
Should he returne.
Ri. How's this?
"Returne for heavens sake! my husband is not gone:
I heard his voice; this will undoe my fame!"
It was my wife, and this is sure my bed chamber.
La. (looking forth.) I have undone my selfe; it is my husband.
Ri. My forehead sweats: Where are you, Madam?
Whome did you talke too or take me for? ha! Asleepe
Alreadie, or doe I dreame? I am all wonder.
Madam,—
La. You may kill him and please you, sweet heart; I cannot abide a Blackamore.
Ri. How's this, wife?
La. Helpe, helpe, deare husband, strangle him with one Of my Lute strings; doe, doe, doe.
Ri. If shee be a sleepe she was not us'd to talke thus: She has some hideous dreame. She spake to me, to; Whom should I strangle, sweet hart, with a lute string?
La. The King of Morocco, I thinke.
Ri. Tis so, she dreames. What strange Chimeras wee Doe fancie in our sleepe! I were best wake her. Madam, Madam!
La. O Murder, Murder!
Ri. Sweet heart, Madam, wake!
La. Whoes that?
Ri. Tis I.
La. Sir Richard? Oh you have delivered me From such a dreame I quake to thinke upon't.
Ri. I must confesse you frighted me at first.
Enter Dorothy.
Do.—My Master come back? if he had found the [sic] Sir Francis here!
Ri. How now? art thou frighted too?
Do. Frighted, quoth a! Oh, Madam, the key of the Closet quickly. I must have some Cordiall water for Sir Francis; I feare this fitt will kill him.
La. Alas, good gentleman! make hast.
Do.—His appearance would betray all: I thus prevent it.
La. Nay, sweet hart, you sha'not leave me till I ha told
What a cruell Dreame I had. Methought a king
Of Blackamores was in love with me, and haveing
By flattering Courtship drawne me to his bed chamber,
With my consent or force swore to enjoy mee.
I knew not by what reasons to divert
The Ravisher, but told him that I heard
Thy voice, and bid him if he lov'd his life
Retire, for thou wouldst deere revenge my honour.
But he pursueing me, I cry'd out Murder!
At which sad noise methought I saw thee enter,
But, having nere a sword, I counselld thee
To strangle him with a Lute string, for which cruelty
Of mine, me thought he threw an Arrow at me,
Which, if thou hadst not wak'd me as thou didst,
Would as I slept with my strong feares ha killd me.
Ri. This was the King of Morocco: well, I'me glad I came to take away thy fright.
La. But, sweet, you left me with a resolution To hunt this morning. Have you done already?
Ri. The theeves prevented me. My Stable has been rob'd to night; two geldings And my roane Nagg are vanished.
La. How?
Ri. Nay, doe not thou vexe:
I have sent hue and cry that may oretake 'em.
But come, Ile leave thee to my glasse,
And visit Sir Francis now shees return'd.—
[Enter Dorothy.
How does our Noble guest?
Do. Hees pretty well: he has voided one stone since And now finds ease.
Ri. Tis well: attend your Mistres. [Exit.
La. O, wench, I had almost undone my selfe, Come o'tother side, reach me that peticote; Ile tell the storie as I make me ready.
Ex[eun]t.
[SCENE 2.]
Enter Device, Sister.
Sis. Ist possible you can talke thus and be no travailer?
De. I have traveld in my fancie, Ladie, and with the Muses, and do for my recreation of witt compose some wonders in verse, poeticall essaies, as once upon the report of a heate that was in Egipt.
Sis. Lets heare 'em.
De. In Countreys I have been
Under the Equinoctiall, where I have seene
The Sunne disperse such a prodigious heat
That made our sive-like skins to raine with sweat.
Men would have given for an Ecclipse their lives,
Or one whisper of Aire; yet each man strives
To throw up grasse, feathers, nay women, too,
To find the wind: all falls like lead, none blew.
The Dogstarre spits new fire till't came to passe
Each eye became his neighbours burning glasse.
Leane men did burne to ashes presentlie,
Fatt men did wast to leane Anatomye;
Young womens heat did gett themselves with child,
For none but they themselves themselves defild;
Old women naturally to witches turne,
And onely rubbing one another burne.
The beasts were bak'd, skin turnd to crust, they say,
And fishes in the River boild away.
Birds in the aire were rosted and not burn'd,
For, as they fell downe, all the way they turn'd.
Sis. Most excellent!
De. I have seene Larkes in that motion at fire With an Engine of packthread perpendicular.
Sis. What would they have given for a shower in those Cuntries?
De. Now you talke of a Shower you shall heare Another coppie of Verses that I made Of a mighty raine which fell once in the Indies.
Sis. That you made? If you will venture your lungs let me heare more impossible stories to passe away the tyme.
_De. Heaven did not weepe, but in its swelling eye
Whole Seas of Rhume and moist Catarrs did lie,
Which so bespauld the lower world, men see
Corne blasted and the fruit of every tree;
Aire was condenst to water gainst their wish,
And all their foule was turn'd to flying Fish;
Like watermen they throng'd to ply a fare,
As though it had been navigable Aire.
Beasts lost the naturall motion of each limbe,
Forgott to goe with practiseing to swime:
A trout now here you would not thinke how soone
Taken and drest for th'Emperour o'the Moone,
The fixed Starres, though to our eyes were missing
Wee knew yet were by their continuall hissing.
Weomen were mermaides sailing with the wind,
The greatest miracle was fish behind:
But men were all kept chast against their wish,
And could comitt but the cold sin of fish.
Sis. And that synne would puzzle all the Civell Lawyers in the kingdome. Sinns of the flesh they are perfect in; they know well enough what belongs to Adultery and simple fornication, but you would much improve and oblige the practise of the Court, if you could bring this sinne of fish under the Commission. But now, I hope, the raine is over we shall have faire weather.
De. Now I can tell you, Lady, what a strange frost was in one part of the world—
Sis. I shall cry out fire if you doe; I had rather have some discourse to keepe me warm still.
De. Or how the whole world was troubled with the wind Collick.
Sis. No more Earthquakes, I beseech you. Some frends of myne lost a great deale of land the last terme, and for ought I know tis never like to be recover'd. Why, all these verses you have honourd me to heare were translated out of French.
De. You say very right, Lady.
Sis. No, no; they are out of Spanish, as I remember.
De. I thinke it be out of Spanish, indeed.
Sis. Or else the Italian.
De. Troth, I know not which very well.
Sis. And yet you made 'em! Some gentlemen have the faculty to make verses and forgett what language was the Originall: tis Alamode, I confesse, sir.
De. Thers the mischiefe in poetry: a man might have told 200 lies in prose upon his owne name, and never miscaried.—But, leaving these rude rymes, Ladie, how do you like the novice that Sir Richard comended.
Sis. Mr. Courtwell?
De. Is he not a pretty Chrisome[249]? I could not choose but laugh to observe in what rurall deportment he came to salute you, that should have made his address in theis postures.
Sis. Tis enough, sir; I apprehend what you would doe. The truth is, touching that thing in black, I doe not love him.
De. I know't; tis impossible.
Sis. Why is't impossible? The man's a pretty indifferent meaning man, but I must have one of a more active spiritt. No, no, the man's a Coward.
De. He lookes like one.
Sis. I put him to't, he dares not fight; and he that expects my favour to so high a degree as marriage must be none of my lord Maiors whifflers[250]; he must be valiant in Armes. I am not taken with a ring or Caskanet, as some avaritious Ladies; he that presents me with the sword of his rivall is more welcome then all the silken soft natur'd six hundreds a yeere, that will be baffeld in their best clothes and goe downe into the Country every Vacacon like Atturneys to be beaten against next terme and get damage by it, but I forget some affaires that concerne me. I take my leave. Your deserts upon me are eminent and many, and for all your noble services I—will promise you nothing: you apprehend me?
De. O, sweet Lady, tis too much.
Sis. I am so weary I can stay no longer w'ee. [Exit.
De. You make mee over happie.—So, so; the matters done. I may write my friends. Hum: well thought upon! I shall leave her joyes without any bound to entertaine me if I first beat this foolish rivall of mine and present her with his sword. She assures me he dares not fight: it shall be so. Thus with one baffling and disarming him I shall secure my Mistresse and get the reputation of a fighting Cavallier, which may save me many a knock hereafter among men of strong faith that shall heare how much honour I have elsewhere taken upon the ticket.
[SCENE 3.]
Enter Captaine and Underwit.
Un. Stand right to your files, make even your rankes, silence! Front to the right hand. As you were. To the right hand about. By the left hand. As you were. Rankes to the right double. Rankes as you were. Rankes to the left double. Midlemen to the right hand double the front; as you were,—to the left, —double the front; middle-men to the right entire [or[251] by division] double the front; files to the right,—to the left,—to the right hand countermarch,—to the right,—to the left,—wheele about—
Cap. Ran tan: enough,—you must not wast your lunges
Too much at once. March faire and make a Captaine.
When these words of Command are rotten (rooted?) wee
Will sowe some other military seeds.
You beare[252] a braine and memory.
Un. I hope so.
[Cap.[253] And now you are chose a Captaine for your Countrey
You must give good example to your Soldiers
And cherish nature after exercise:
You must drinke sack, sack is a fortifier.
Come, wee'le to the taverne.
Un. With all my heart.
[Enter Mr. Courtwell.
Here's Mr. Courtwell: lett's take him with us.
Cap. My costive Countrey man? hee's an Anabaptist: he wonot drinke, and yet kist the Cupp of last night, me thought, when his Mistres— drank to him: wee'le try. How ist, my man of mortall breeding?
Cou. My man of warre, trebonn.—Your servant, Captaine.
Cap. Why, this was spoke like one of us; canst doo't
Agen? thy voice is more authentick, soundes
As I have heard a Cavalliers in taverne,
Or like the merry master of the Dragon,
Small Neptune, that controlls the rich Canaries,
When he Comaunds the Tritons of his cellar
'Skud, and bring wine, you varlotts, with a flavour
For my Nobilitie.' Wee were conspiring
To goe to'th taverne.
Cou. Ile make one, gentlemen, to wash away some melancholy.
Cap. Spoke boldlie, like an Argonaute.
Cou. I am not now in London,
Upon a hall day marching with the puisnes,
Twenty on's in a teame, to Westminster
In our torne gownes, embroiderd with Strand dirt,
To heare the Law.
Cap. Is not thy father dead, thou talkst so well? How I was cosend in thee: come away.
Enter Thomas.
Un. Here's my man Thomas.
Cap. Now the Newes, Sir Tristram.
Tho. Oh the Gentleman is mad.
Un. What gentleman?
Tho. Why, Mr. Engine that did faint last night.
Un. With feare of being hang'd for his projections.
Cou. My Uncle told me of him.
_Cap. Let him to Bedlam then; what makes he here? Clean straw and a good whip are held restoratives.
Tho. He walkes and talkes the madliest; twenty midwives
Are nothing to him, he drownes all their noise.
His tongue is twenty ring of Bells, and yett
He seemes so merry.
Enter Engine.
En. Save you, gentlemen, gallants, Cavalliers. How farre travell you: me thinkes you are very finely accomodated. Are you a Doctor, sir?
Cap. No, but I can tell you how to purge, and please you.
En. You say very well. Troth, gentlemen you must pardon me: cry you mercy, your name is Captaine Underwit.
Un. Yes, sir, but my mother came of the Over-muches by the Peake. She broke my father's hart, and Sir Richard buried her: things must be as please the starres.
En. What thinke you of the blazeing starre in Germany? according to Ptolmy tis very strange. Does the race hold at Newmarket for the Cup[254]? When is the Cocking, gentlemen? There are a parcell of rare Jewells to be sold now, and a man had money. I doe meane to build a very fine house next summer and fish ponds. What did you heare of the new play. I am afraid the witts are broke; there be men will make affidavit that [they] have not heard a good jest since Tarleton[255] dyed. Pray, may I crave your name, sir?
Cou. My name is Courtwell, sir.
En. In your eare; I have a cast of the best Marlins[256] in England, but I am resolv'd to goe no more by water but in my Coach. Did you ever see the great ship?[257]
Cap. I have been one of twenty that have dind in her lanterne.
En. It may be so; she is a good sailer. But ile tell you one thing: I intend to have the best pack of hounds in Europe; Sir Richard loves the sport well. And then if I can but find out the reason of the loadstone I were happie and would write Non Ultra.
Cap. The philosophers stone were better in my opinion. Have you no project to gett that?
Cou. That has startled him: I doubt this fellow does but counterfeit.
Un. What thinke you of the Dromedary that was to be seene at the back side[258] of the Bell.
En. I have seene a stranger beast.
Cap. So have I; I have seene you before now, sir.
En. Why then, ile tell you: the strangest beast that ever I saw was an Ostridge that eate up the Iron mynes. But now you talke of birds I saw an Elephant beat a Taylor in the fenceing schoole at his owne weapon.
Tho. The Spanish needle?
En. He did out eat him in bread, and that was miraculous. I have seene a Catamountaine[259] once; but all was nothing to the wench that turnd round and thred needles.
Cou. Troth, sir, I thinke you have turnd round, too, and are not setled yet.
En. Now you talke of setling I knew a gentleman, that was borne to a good fortune, sold all his land, went to sea in a Hollander, was taken by the Dunkirke; at seaven yeares end stole away in an English botome; after that saw both the Indies; for all this was taken by a Turks man of warre, put into the Gallies, and for ought I heare by credible report is not setled yet.
Tho. Sure he is a great scholler; a man cannot understand him.
Un. His braines are out of tune.
En. Now you talke of Musick theres no man in the world loves musick better then I,—ile give you the reason: I have been deafe almost this halfe yeare, and it came with a cold sitting up a primero.
Co. Now you talke of the cold it puts me in mind of the new device of fire for brewing and bakeing. Had you no hand in the project?
Cap. Againe hees startled: come, he shall to taverne with us and confess all. If he do not strip his soule stark naked to us, say I am no fortune teller.—Please you to honour our society: we are going to indulge at the taverne hard by.
En. You shall comand me, sir. Oh the Neats tongues and partargoes that I have eaten at Stillyard, but of all things in the world I do not love a black catt: next a brewers cart, there's nothing will stay a man so much in the night as a Constables. One word before you go, and I beseech you give me your opinion cleerely: was not the Morocco Ambasadour a very fine gentleman for a pagan?
Cap. Yes, surely, and the lead mines in Darbishire hold still for the Allom businesses. But come; will you walke, Sir?
En. I do use to goe a foote sometymes but when I ride; and then I must confesse there is no striving with the streame. You were in London lately: they say the people are more affected to beare baiting then in former tyme.
Cap. There are some a late are drawne like beares to the stake; but for your owne part the gout and the grand pox are all one to you. What price beare meat in the shambles?
En. Flesh rises and falls as it us'd to doe, sir; but a Countrey life is the best when all's done. What thinke you of a bridg from Lion key to Flaunders? You may guess I talke at randum, gentlemen; but you must not interpret all foolish discourse a distemper of the braine: Lords would take it for a Scandalum Magnatum and your Ladies would bee angry too.
Enter Sir Francis and Lady.
Now you talke of Ladies—
Cap. By no meanes, Mr. Engin; that gentleman loves you not. Come, ile bring up the rere. Where's Thomas?
[Exeunt Underwit, Captain, Courtwell and Engine.
Tho. Ile follow, sir.—I would give my fower marks a yeare that I could talke like that mad gentleman. Hee's here and there and everywhere. How will his tongue run when his Coggs are oild; theile drench him! [Exit.
Fra. Although I mist a happines, I applaud Your nimble wit that securd both our honours. You have an excellent Instrument too o' your gentlewoman.
La. Oh she deliver'd to the life how you
Were troubled with the Stone. At first I did
Beleev't my selfe, and thinke of the sad consequence.
But tyme is pretious now: although our Starres
Have not been yet propitious to our meeting
Ile try my art to night to make 'em shine.
With happie influence on our Loves.
Fra. Most excellent Madam, how?
La. Ile not engage Your visit to my chamber, since the first Prov'd so unfortunate, but come to youres.
Fra. This night? wonot your husband be at home.
La. Yes.
Fra. You enjoy but one bed.
La. Without witchcraft, sir,
I have a stratageme to delude my husband
And all his jealous waking eyes, a plott
That cannot faile if you dare but expect me.
Fra. I grow immortall with my hopes and fancie
More than the worlds most pretious Empire in
Our first embrace. I should runne back into
An Infant once agen, and by degrees
And tyme grow up to meet so vast a happines.
Ages in expectation spent were poore
And easy sufferings weigh'd against this triumph!
Methinkes I am not man but something of
A more exalted essence: humane nature
Hath not capacity to understand
And owne theis spatious blessings.
La. No more rapture;
But with the confidence of a lover spread
Your equall thoughts, and in your heart and armes
Prepare an entertainement for that guest
That hath no life or name but what you give.
A kisse! and leave our soules to thinke upon
The joyes this night attend us.
Fra. Sullen day, Do not tire now; tis downehill all the way.
[Exeunt severally.
Act the Fourth.
[SCENE 1.[260]
[Captain,[261] Underwit, Courtwell and Musicians, discovered in the Tavern.]
Capt. Come, my Apollos, my Orpheuses or my Bacchus his Minst[rels], which, to leave poeticall expressions, in broader phrase is Taverne fidlers, some of your new tunes, my Masters; doe you heare?
1. Do you meane Mr. Adson's[262] new ayres, Sir?
Cap. I, Sir; but they are such phantasticall ayres as it putts a Poet out of his witts to rhime to them; but let mee heare.
1 Play.
Capt. No, I doe not like that.
1 Play againe.
Capt. Nor that. (Play againe)—No, no, no, neither.
1. An't please your Worship, Mr. Capt., our Boyes can singe songs to these.
Cap. No, no, saveing your presence, your Boyes have nothing, sarreverence,[263] but Love songs, and I hate those monstruously, to make thinges appeare better then they are, and that is but deceptio Visus, which after some embraceings the parties see presently what it is. The Musique Playes.
(Hee sings and reeks and fillips all the time with his finger, then sayees:)
Cap. I, I, this thumping tune I like a life; a Song, a Song to it!
_One Singes.
This Song.
The Juice of Spanish squeez'd Grapes is It
That makes a dull Braine so full of witt;
The Lemonades cleere sparkling wine
The grosser witts too, doth much refine.
Then to bee foxd[264] it is no crime,
Since thickest and dull Braines It makes sublime.
The Stillyards Reanish wine and Divells white,
Who doth not in them sometimes take delight?
If with Mimique Gestures you'le keep you from sadnes,
Then drinke lusty Clarett twill put you in Madnes;
And then to settle you no hopes in Beer
But wholesome Potts of Scotch ale though its deere.
Cap. But looke you, Child, you say the Divells white in your Song. You have beene ill catechiz'd, Boy, for a White Divell is but a poeticall fiction[265]; for the Divell, God bless us, Child, is blacke.
Boy. No, Captaine, I say white wine at the Divell.
Cap. That's true; thats a good Boy, indeed. Underwit, lend mee a Peice to give these harmonious men there. And now begon, my Masters, without noise, for I will have no more fiddle-faddle for my money, no tunes of supererrogation after the Musicall Bill is paid.
[Exeunt[266] omnes.
[SCENE 2.]
Enter Thomas.
Tho. They are all drunke already, and such Confusion in their heads and tongues, my master kisses the next man and calls him Mistres Dorothy; Mr. Courtwell, possest with the spiritt of defiance to Cupid, is ready to beat him for being in love; my Projector dead drunk in a Chaire, and the Captaine peepeing into his mouth like a tooth drawer and powring downe sack which he feeles not, but his chapps shut againe like a spring lock till he returne with a key to open his teeth, to poure in the next health.
Enter Courtwell.
Cou. My Cloake and sword, Drawer.
Tho. Tis here, sir.
Cou. Thou art a pretty fellow; here's half a Crowne, say I am gone Thomas.
Tho. You are pretty well.
Enter Captaine and Underwit.
Un. What shalls doe with him; this Engine burnes like Etna.
Cap. Throw him into the River.
Un. Hee's able to mull the Thames well, for my owne part would Mistresse Dorothy were here to open her files.
Cou. Did you not name a woman. I will have no mention of any thing that's female.
Un. May not a man talke of Sack?
Cap. Sack is a soveraigne medicine.
Un. Oh very Soveraigne.
Cap. Is it not hic et hec sack, both for he and she. Stay, is my Countryman gone? come hither, Thomas; do you thinke I am drunke?
Tho. Truly, Captaine, I cannot tell.
Cap. You cannot tell? there's your ignorance. Drink is a vice I am as little given to as another man, for I doe abhorre it in my selfe. I do wonder how any reasonable man can be drunk; therefore every wise man take Counsell and example by me, and he may see very plainely what an odious thing it is; for you must follow your leader, and vertue, which is an Antient—
Tho. Vertue an Antient?
Cap. I, an Antient old gentlewoman that is growne very poore, and nobodie knowes where she dwells very hard to find her out, especially for a Capt.; you will find it very difficult for a Livetenent. But wee will endeavour the best wee can; you see my courses, I have travel'd to find her out, and I could never yet see her at a baudihouse.
Un. Who is to be seene at a baudihouse? to the right hand countermarch.
Tho. He talkes of vertue, sir.
Un. Vertue? she never comes there; why do you thinke she should be there, Captaine?
Cap. Why, because she is an old gentlewoman and might keepe the house.
Tho. Alas, Captaine, Mistris Vertue is poore and leane.
Cap. Nay, then she is not fit to be a baud, but tell me did you ever see her, or if so did you ever doo't with her?
Un. No, but twas none of my fault; I know not what I may do in time when she understands the wordes of Command.
Tho. He does not meane Mistris Dorothy: but, Captaine, I would faine know the reason why your baudes are so fat still.
Cap. A plaine case: they lie fallow and get hart, then they keepe themselves so in health and so soluble with stewd prunes; and then sipping of sack is a great matter to fatten 'em. But they are as good people as a man shall keepe company withall, and bring up the young gentlewomen so vertuously. I came into one of their houses tother day for a carreere, and I found the baud sick upon her death bed, very religious and much given to repentance for those poore sins she had comitted. When she had taken order for her soule, she told me the young gentlewoman I look'd for was in the next roome; and desiring her upon her blessing to give me content, she turnes herselfe to the wall and gives up the ghost very privatly, because she was loth to trouble us.
Un. By your relation theis appeare to be very good people. What if we went to visit one of these Matrons? I have a great mind—
Cap. Wy, now you speake like an understanding soldier, and one that may come to something in the end. Lett us therefore march on.
Un. March on to Venus Warres.
Cap. For you know, Thomas, that the Spider and the Bee, the Spider and the Bee, do both—something, but in troth I have forgott what tis.
Un. Tis no matter what; let us goe.
Cap. Goe? no more but goe? though I be a Captaine, if I be not chosen in this imployment—
Tho. What, then, Captaine?
Cap. Why, then—I cannot goe.
Tho. Very right; but wo' not those young gentlewomen you talk'd of give a man something to make a man afraid of pepper upon occasion?
Cap. You will be prating so long till I breake your head for pretending to that which you have not, sirra.
Tho. Alas, I never had it in my life.
Un. What's that, Captaine?
Cap. Wit, I talke of wit.
Un, Who has any wit? does my man offer to have wit?
Cap. Nay, take no offence at it, for I meant none to either of you by this sack. Drawer, give me my oath, cannot you drinke without wit? cannot you game without wit?
Un. And yet by your favour the gamesters are cald the wits now.
Cap. Tis no wit to cozen; confederacy and dishonesty will doo't without wit. Ile iustifie it: do not you know the receit of Cozenage? take an ounce of knavery at the least,—and confederacie is but so many knaves put together,—then you must take a very fine young Codling heire and pound him as small as you can.
Un. And what then, Captaine?
Cap. Why, then you must cozen him.
Un. But which way?
Cap. Which way? Why, which way you will: is not cozen him enough? thou art a pretty fellow, ile talke with thee. Thy name's Thomas; take heed, I say still, Thomas, of being drunke, for it doth drowne the mortall soule; and yours cannot swim, Thomas,—can it?
Tho. Not as I know, Captaine; if it scape fire tis as much as I looke for.
Within Eng. Oh—oh—
Cap. What's that?
Tho. Tis Mr. Engine recovered from his dead sleepe. [Exit.
Un. D'ee heare, Captaine, for all this I have a great mind to a wench, and a wench I must have if there be one above ground. Oh London, London, thou art full of frank tenements, give me London. Shall we wheele about yet?
Cap. Give you London? Wo'nott Cheapeside serve your turne, or the Exchange?
Enter Thomas.
Tho. Oh, gentlemen, Mr. Engine is surely bewitch'd.
Cap. What, what's the matter? bring the witch and Mr. Engine before us.
Tho. He does vomit the strangest things yonder.
Cap. Did not I say, murder will out?
Tho. I thinke he has eaten and drunke nothing but Monopolies, and too hard to be digested they come up againe.
Within Eng. Oh!
Tho. Harke, I must hold his head. [Exit.
Cap. Did not I tell you something would come out?
Tho. Pins, pins, they lay across his throat. I told you he was bewitch'd. Heyday! cards and dice, out with 'em, the Divells a gamester and paies the box soundly—Now, now, now.
Un. Whats that?
Tho. Tis something clammy,—now,—oh, tis sope!
Cap. Sope? give a man leave to wash his mouth.
Un. Does not the lyme burne his throat, Thomas?
Tho. Alas, poore gentleman, something now agen is ready to strangle him; out with em,—hides, hides,—it was the hornes stuck in his gullett.
Within. Oh—
Tho. Well straind; what a foule stomack he has! open your mouth, Mr. Engine.
Cap. Throw downe a pottlepot.
Tho. I have, sir, and it has come up full of medium wine; if you have any charity come and helpe me to hold his head; now agen!
Within. Oh, oh, oh!
Un. This is very strange, Captaine; the man is certainely enchanted.
Tho. Master, master, tis Shrovetuesday[267] and the prentices are pulling downe Covent Garden; the Brickes come as whole out as if he had swallowed Cherristones. Hey! will you take Tobacco in the Roll? here is a whole shiplading of Bermudas and one little twopenny paper of berrinas, with a superscription 'To my very loving friends the Custome-house.'
Cap. Put up that for a relique, Thomas, and open it upon high dayes to clear the sore eyes of our Spanish Marchants. Thomas, no more, but call the Drawer, an understanding Drawer and one that writes orthographie.
[Enter Drawer.
—Sirra, I charge you set a padlock upon that Chamber doore; there is a dangerous fellow must be brought to his purgation. And looke all the goods that he hath vomitted be forthcomeing, while we discreetly goe and enforme the Magistrates.—At your perill, sirra, at your perill seale up the Doore; and do you pay the reckoninge.
Un. Sir Richard is a Justice. There's your money, and yet wee need not pay; the gentleman hath left enough for the Reckoning in the next Roome.
Un. I ha made him fast, you are very welcome, gentlemen. All's paid in the Percullis.
[Exeunt.
[SCENE 3.]
Enter Courtwell and Sister.
Sis. Ile walke no further; if you have a secret
To impart, you need not feare this place; the trees
And hedges will not listen. What's the business?
I hope your phlegmatick stock of verse is spent.
Cou. Why then in prose, the worst that I can speake in, I doe not love you, Lady.
Sis. How? you ha not Traind me thus farr to tell me that?
Cou. You are
Of all your sex the poorest emptiest trifle,
And one with whome tis most impossible
I ere should change Affection; theres nothing
To invite me too't, not so much as that
Wee call a seeming reason, upon which
All Love is built, seeming, I say, not it,
My understanding Ladie.
Sis. You thinke I am very dull that you expound
Your witt thus, but it needes no Comentator,
Not by the Author, tis so very plaine;
But to despise me most of all the sexe
Is something oversaid. Though I affect
No flattery, I hate uncivill Language.
You do not meane to quarrell, now you have
Betraid me to the feilds, and beat me, Sir?
Cou. What is there in your face more to attract mee
Then that Red Cowes complexion? Why the Divell
Do you thinke I should dote upon your person?
That thing when she is stroak'd gives milke.
Sis. By that
I understand all this revenge, because
You thinke I did neglect you. Pray, sir, tell me,
And tell me seriouslie, put the Case that I
Should love you now, could not you love agen?
Cou. In troth I thinke I could not.
Sis. You do but thinke.
Cou. Nay, ile bind it with an oath before the parish, And when I have given my reasons, too, the Clarke Shall praise me fort and say Amen.
Sis. What reasons?
Cou. I shall be very loath
To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen,
Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie,
Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire
Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory,
Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head,
When my owne Conscience tells me that Bunhill
Is worth a hundred on 'em, and but Higate
Compar'd with 'em is Paradice. I thanke you;
Ile not be vext and squeez'd about a rime
Or in a verse that's blanke, as I must be,
Whine love unto[268] a tune.
Sis. This all your feare?
Cou. No, I doe feare to loose my tyme, my businesse, And my witts too, jolting them all away To waite on you in prouder Coaches.
Sis. Is this all?
Cou. To spend my selfe to nothing and be laugh'd at
By all the world when I shall come at last
To this reward for all my services,
To bee your lay Court Chaplaine and say gravely
A hastie grace before your windowes breakfast.
Sis. But how
Came you thus cur'd? You were a passionate
(I may say) foole, in hope you will deserve it.
What phisick tooke you that hath thus restor'd you?
Cou. A little sack had power to cure this madnes.
Sis. I hope you are not sober yet, the humour May change when you ha slept.
Cou. Ile rather stick My Eyelids up with Sisters[269] thread and stare Perpetually.
Sis. Then you may see me agen.
Cou. I thinke I sha'not, unless it be to wonder,
When you are in the Ivie bush, that face
Cut upon Tafata, that creame and prunes,
So many plums in white broth, that scutcheon of
Pretence powderd with ermines. Now I looke upon't,
With those black patches it does put me in mind
Of a white soule with sinns upon't, and frights me.
How sell you grapes? Your haire[270] does curle in bunches;
You[r] lipps looke like the parsons glebe, full of
Red, blew and yellow flowers; how they are chopt
And looke like trenches made to draine the meadowe.
Sis. This rudenes Is beyond the manners of a gentleman.
Cou. I cannot helpe it, and I hope you thinke so.
Sis. I am confirm'd that now I am forsaken, But if your passion have not drownd all reason I pray let us part civilly.
Cou. With all my heart; I dare then take my leave, to[o].
Sis. Whoe's there?
Cou. Where?
Sis. Behind that tree?
Cou. You have no plott to accuse me for a rape? Twas at the worst but felony, for cherries That look'd as they had been a fortnight gather'd.
Sis. I know youle bring me home in Curtesie.
Cou. Not I, I wo' not trust my selfe; and you Will hardly meet a worse to interrupt you. Fare you well, Ladie.—Do you see that Bull?
Sis. Yes, Sir.
Cou. That is a happie beast
Sis. Why happie, sir?
Cou. He writes no verses to his Mistresse, is
Not cosend nor forsworne to gett her favour,
Bestowes no rings nor empties his Exchequer
To appear still in new rich suites, but lives
Free o' the stock of Nature, yet loves none.
Like the great Turke he walkes in his Seraglio,
And doth command which concubine best pleases;
When he has done he falls to graze or sleepe,
And makes as he had never knowne the Dun,
White, Red or Brindled Cowe.
Sis. You are unmanly.
Cou. Nay, I know you will raile now; I shall like it.
Call me a scurvy fellow, proud and saucie,
An ill bred, crooked Clowne; ile here this rather
Then live upon your pitty. And yet doe not;
For, if you raile, too, men that know you can
Dissemble, may beleeve you love me, and
Tis not my ayme.
Sis. You are a fine man!
Cou. I am in my best clothes?
Sis. I perceave That tis truth now what the world saies of you, And yet tis strange.
Cou. 'Twere strange it should be otherwise.
Sis. You give your tongue a licence, nor will I hope
Your malice should spare me abroad that have
So prodigally abus'd a Ladies fame
That deserv'd nobly from you; but you men
Care not whose name you blast with a loose character,
So you maintaine your pride of talke.
Cou. Howe's this?
It is confess'd I have talk'd in my tyme
And talk'd too much, but not too much of you;
For I but seldome thought of such a woman:
For any other—
Sis. Nay, sir, I am satisfied; You can talke your pleasure.
Cou. Have I not done it, too?
Sis. Yes, by your own report, and with a lady So much in vertue and in birth above you; And therefore I expect not—
Cou. Stay; this moves me.
I never tooke a pleasure yet to lie
With Ladies fames, or ever thought that sport
Lay in the tongue. Such humours are for men
That live by brothell offices: let me know
Who hath traduc'd me to you thus, he shall
Be knowne no more.
Sis. Ile not be guiltie, sir,
Of any murder; when we meet agen,
And you in better humour, I may tell you.
So farewell, Gondarino,[271] nothing's lost
When you turne Woman Hater. [Exit.
Cou. She has vext me. If we make Matrimony after this rate, The Divell is like to dance at our wedding. Ho!
Enter Device.
De. Hee's here,
Alone too, and the place most opportune.
How shall I beginne?—Mr. Courtwell, do you love
Any friend of mine?
Cou. Not to my knowledge, Sir; I should be sorry.
De. Do not you love a gentlewoman?
Cou. If she be a friend of yours ile take the first Occasion to neglect her for your sake.
De. It will become your wisdome and your safety.
Cou. What mischiefe have done to your face?
De. My face?
Cou. You looke so scurvily; come hither, thou
New Monster, with more feet then a Caterpiller;
What tyme a day ist? you that move upon
So many wheeles, say, Monsier, are you not
A walkeing Clock? I have a mighty mind
To see you tooke a peeces.
De. I doe not like this.— You wo'not put me, sir, together againe.
Cou. I wo'not take the paines. Why do you smile now?
De. At your conceite to thinke I was a Clock: I am a watch, I never strike.—Hee's valiant.
Cou. You have pretty colours there; are these your Mistresses?
De. If you did know the mistery you would applaud 'em. Have you read Livre de blason? What meane you?
Cou. I will bestow 'em, sir, upon some forehorse? They will become a countrey teame rarely.
De. Mor bleu!
Why, you dare fight, it seemes, and I was told
You were no Cavellier, a very dreame [droane?]
A wedg for men to breake their swords upon.
I shall never trust fame agen for your sake.
Cou. Thou never cosendst me.
De. I was never so illiterate in man.
Cou. For I did ever thinke thou durst not fence
But at a complement; a glittering vapour,
A thing of clothes and fitt for chambermaides
To whet their witts upon, but now resolve
Either to have your skin flead of or fight wo' me
For troubling my present meditations.
De. Why, sir, if you be serious I shall quit
That prejudice you have upon my valour.
Looke you, sir, I can draw, and thus provok'd
I dare chastise you, too. Cause I was merry
I was not bound to feed your spleen eternally
With laughter; yet I am not ignorant
What an advantage, sir, your weapon gives you
In length.
Cou. Wee'le change; why, this is honour in thee.
[They measure and Device getts both weapons.
De. Now, sir, keepe of.
Cou. Th'art not so base?
De. I never cosen'd you, do you remember? These two will guide me on the rope.
Cou. You meane to dance, then?
De. Yes, the Canaries,[272] but with quicker tyme Then you, I hope, can follow: thus I begin. Fa, la, la, &c. [Excurrit.
Cou. What a heathen Coward's this? how the rogue tripps like a fairie to the towne with 'em! He has been a footman, sure; I have not aire enough to overtake him, and twill be darke presently. If I loose the sight on him ile search the towne, and if I find him not there, pursue him with hue and cries and after hang him.
[Exit.
[SCENE 4.]
Enter Sir Francis, a taper prepar'd.
Fra. The sun whose busie eye is still employ'd
A spie upon our actions, tir'd with waiting,
Is drowsie gone to bed, about whose pillow
Night hath hung all her wings and set up tapers
As if the Day were timerous like a Child
And must have lights to sleepe by. Welcome all
The houres that governe pleasure, but be slow
When you have blest me with my wishes. Time
And Love should dwell like twins; make this your bower
And charme the aire to sweetnes and to silence.
Favour me now and you shall change your states;
Time shall be old no more, I will contract
With Destiny, if he will spare his winges
To give him youth and beauty, that we may
Find every minute a fresh child of pleasure.
Love shall be proud to be no more a boy
But grow to perfect strength and bold consistence[273];
For when too Active Lovers meet, so happie
As wee, whose equall flames light to embraces,
Twill be no weight to number many yeares
In our delights and thinke all age a blessing.
But language is to narrow to expresse
What I expect, tis fitt my soule retire
Till she present her selfe; and, if it can
Measure my hop'd for ioyes with thought, prepare
To entertaine the happines.
[Exit.
[SCENE 5.]
Sir Richard and his Lady abed. Enter Dorothy with a Light.
Do. I have set already my designe a moveing
To take my Captaine Underwit, who in wine
Was late more feirie upon me. I'th meane tyme
I cannot choose but laugh at the device
Wee have to cheat my Master; sure the Divell
Is a great friend to women that love men,
He doth so furnish us with quaint inventions.
Presently after supper she began
Her fitt othe toothach, and did counterfeit
So naturally; but since she went to bed
She almost rav'd by turnes:—I heare her at it.
La. Oh—oh, whoe's there?
Do. Tis I forsooth, I heard you groane and I Have not the hart to sleepe. Shall I watch by you?
_La. Oh, no, no, no; get you to bed, make fast the Chamber; I cannot endure the candle.
[Dorothy towards the dore putts out the Candle and returnes.
Ri. Deare hart be patient.
La. I, you have your homilies of patience, but if you had my paine twould make you wild. Oh!
Ri. Ile send for the french toothdrawer in the morning.
La. Oh, there is no rack nor torture like it. What shall I do? I shall never sleepe agen.
Ri. Which tooth ist?
Do.—The sweet one you may be sure which troubles her.
La. This, this, O that there.
Ri. They are happie that are old and have no teeth.
La. Oh, take heed, now it shoots up to my head.
Ri. Thou dost make my head ake with the noise.
La. If you knew what I suffer your head would ake indeed. I must rise and walke in the Chamber; there is no remedy.
Ri. You will catch more cold.
La. Oh, no, no, deere life, do not crosse me; and you were in my torment you would rise and trie any thing for a little ease. It cannot be worse; the paine sure came with a cold, and who knowes but an other cold may cure me.
Ri. I prethe come to bed agen.
La. So, so, do not troble me; I am now in some little ease; its a heavenly thing to be goeing.
Ri. Dost heare?
La. Your noise will bring my paine back agen; if you knew what a vexation it were for me to speake, You wo'not put me too't so. If you doe talke I wo'not answere a word more, oh!
Ri. Well by this no light ile to London tomorrow.
[She takes Dorothy by the hand and exit.
Now do I see it is possible that a womans teeth should be as troublesome as her tongue.
Do. Oh, oh!
Ri. I cannot choose but pitty her, that any woman should hold so much paine in a hollow tooth.
Do.—If my Mr. touched with so much compassion should rise and force me to bed with him, I must not cry out a rape; tis at the worst on my side but fornication in my owne defence.
Ri. I prethe come to Bed.
Do. Oh, oh, oh!
Ri. The musick at a convocation of Catts upon a witches upsetting is the spheres to this Catterwalling. I will thrust my head into the pillow, as Dametas[274] did in a bush when the beare was a comeing, and then I shanot heare her.
Do. Oh, this is a kind of Purgatory for sins of the flesh. If she should fall asleepe with the tother knight it is not possible I should hold out till morning; that which would fright away an Ague would put me into a feare, I shall ha the toothache indeed with counterfeiting; I have knowne some men caught the stammers so; my gums begin to murmure, there is a feare all over my flesh, she will stay so long, and then—-
Ri. coughs.—Uh, uh!
Do. Oh, oh!—Ile shift places to shew more distraction; at the worst my noise shall be within his reach; it may give her notice to returne too. [Exit.
[SCENE 6.]
Sir Francis a sleepe; a table, inke, and paper. Enter Lady.
La. I am full of feares, and my owne motion frights me;
This furious love is a strange pilot. Sir,
Where are you? ha! asleepe! can any dulnes
That is not Death possess a gentleman,
So valiant in desires, when he expects
To meete his Mistresse? How I blush to raise him!
Was I not worth thy waking expectation?
Farewell; yet something that [like?] a charme that's fastned
To my poore hart restraines me. Inke and paper!
Ile leave him a short monument of this shame
And my neglected Love. [Writes.
He knowes my hand: farwell, forgetfull Lover.
[Exit.
Fra. What? have I slept? some witchcraft did betray
My eyes to so much darkenes; yet my dreame
Was full of rapture, such as I with all
My wakeing sence would flie to meet. Me thought
I saw a thousand Cupids slide from heaven,
And landing here made this their scene of revells,
Clapping their golden feathers which kept tyme
While their owne feet strook musike to their dance,
As they had trod and touched so many Lutes.
This done, within a Cloud formd like a Throne,
She to whom love had consecrate this night,
My Mistresse, did descend and, comeing toward me,
My soule that ever wakes, angrie to see
My body made a prisoner and so mock'd,
Shook of the chaines of sleepe, least I should loose
Essentiall pleasure for a dreame. Tis happie;
I will not trust my selfe with ease and silence,
But walke and waite her comeing that must bless me.
Forgive me, you bright starres, and do not frowne
That I have not attended as became
One that must live by your kind influence.
Not yet appeard? She did comand I should
With confidence expect her. Ha! what's here?
This Character, was not visible before.
That man's too much compos'd of phleame
Will loose his Mistress for a Dreame. [Reades.
Tis her's, I know't; she has been here, oh fatall!
And finding me asleepe scorn'd to uncharme
My dull and cursed silence. This distracts me:
Have I so long, with so much Art and study,
Labour'd this honour, and obtaind what my
Ambition look'd at, her consent; and when
The tree it selfe bowed downe its golden fruit
And tempted me to gather, must I make
My selfe uncapable and be guilty of
So black, so base a forfeit? I could teare
My eyelids of, that durst let in a Mist
So darke and so destroying, must I sleepe
At such a tyme that the Divell must be over
Watche too! This houre hath blasted such a hope
As the Earth never teemd with nor the spring
Gave up in smileing blosomes to the breath
Of those sweet windes that whisper from the West
A tale of triumph to the yeere. I could
Dissolve with curseing of my Lathargie.
How shall I looke upon her face whose love
And bold adventure I have thus rewarded?
But passion cannot cure my wound; which must
Bleed till I see her, and then either cease,
Blest by her pardon, or dismiss a life
(Though iust) too poore a Sacrifice for her anger.
Where shall I hide my selfe and shame for ever!
[Exit.
The Fifth Act.
Enter Sister.
Sis. I cannot forgett my carelesse gentleman: his neglect and reproaches have wrought strangely upon me.—Hee's here.
Enter Courtwell.
Cou. Is there not a weesill crept into your Chamber, lady?
Sis. A weesill, sir?
Cou. A Mounsier sucklegge.
Sis. Do you take my Chamber for a henns neast?
Cou. There is a thing that calls himselfe Device,
One that will break the hart of a post horse
To continue a hand gallop with him; your Alamode,
Your fighting faery feather'd footed servant,—
When saw you him?
Sis. My fighting servant? has he beaten you, sir? Perhapps he thought you were his Rivall; surely I saw him not since yesterday.
Cou. Bu'y, Ladie.— How many mile ist to the next Cutlers? The rogue has pawn'd or sold my sword. [Offers to go forth.
Sis. Dee heare, sir? I can tell you now what Lady twas you did Abuse so.
Cou. I abuse a Ladie! tell me the slave Reported it. I hope twill prove this Mounsieur. If ere we meet agen! Who wast?
Sis. Upon condition, sir, you will requite me But with one gentle favour.
Cou. Any thing—
Sis. You must sitt downe and heare me then while I At a distance thus deliver—
Cou. Tis more state.
Sis. I am most unfortunate.
Cou. In what, deare Damsell?
Sis. And much wrongd by a gentleman I lov'd.
Cou. Can he be a gentleman that dares Wrong so much love and beauty? what's the offence?
Sis. He wo'not love agen.
Cou. And you would have The stubborne man corrected?
Sis. I would be Revengd if I knew how, and honour him Should do me Justice.
Cou. Name the man; Ile doot.
Sis. I cannot.
Cou. How?
Sis. Yet turne your face: alas, it is yourselfe. I have your word to punish him.
Cou. Sweet Ladie,
I am well acquainted with the worthy gentleman,
But will not kill nor strike him, for I know
He has just reason not to love you—you
Of all your sex; he told me so.
Sis. His reason?
Cou. Was in these wordes; suppose you hear him speak it;
Now do you sit—Lady, when I consider you,
The perfect frame of what we can call hansome,
With all your attributes of soule and body,
Where no addition or detraction can
By Cupids nicer Crittick find a fault,
Or Mercury with your eternall flame;
And then consider what a thing I am
To this high Character of you, so low,
So lost to noble merits, I despaire
To love a Mistresse cannot love agen.
Sis. This is a much dissembled Modesty.
Cou. Therefore give me the kinder Chambermaid,
That will returne me love for my two peeces
And give me back twelve pennyworth agen,
Which is as much as I can well receave;
So there is thirty and nyne shillings cleere
Gotten in Love, and much good do her too't;
I thinke it very well bestow'd.
Sis. But if I thinke you worthy, and accept Your service, it destroies this other reason For your despaire. Why, I can praise you, too.
Cou. No, lett it alone I have other reasons Lady
Among my papers. But to love or to be in love
Is to be guld; that's the plaine English of Cupids Latine.
Beside, all reverence to the calling, I
Have vowd never to marry, and you know
Love may bring a Man toot at last, and therefore
My fine Gewgaw do not abuse me.
Sis. How can I When you will neither Love nor marry me?
Cou. I was not made for a husband.
Sis. But I would make you.
Cou. I know what you would make me.
Enter Servant.
Ser. Mounsier Device, if you be alone, would present his service.
Cou. Is he come?
Sis. Sir, do me but one favour, ile recant
My Love, I wonot have so much as one
Good thought on you; I will neglect you, sir,
Nay and abuse you, too, if you obscure
But for three minutes.
Cou. Ile have patience so long.
Sis. Admitt him.—I wilbe reveng'd o' somebody.— Now, Sir.
Enter Device.
De. I ha brought you a weapon, Lady.
La. Mee, what to do, Sir?
De. Tis Justice I present it to your feete Whose love arm[e]d me to vindicate your honour.
Sis. My honour?
De. This is but the first of my valour in your cause;
If you affect these Monuments ile make
You up an Armorie; meane tyme receave
My Service with this sword: if he provoke me
To fight with him agen, Ile cut his hand of
And bring that wo' me to present the next.
Sis. Whose hand, deare servant?
De. He is not worth the nameing; las, this does not
Deserve your knowledge. Only thinke what I
Dare do when your bright name is question[e]d,
And I in tyme may merit to be cald
The darling of your virgin thoughts.
Sis. I pray stay.
My name traduc'd? who was so impudent?
Do me the grace to let me know on whome
Your valour had been exercis'd.
De. Why, the formall thing Courtwell; I would [not] call him
Gentleman; but that I ha baffled him
You need no other witnes but his sword
With that fine holliday hilt, Ladie.
[She shutts the Doore.
Sis. Looke you, sir, I ha made fast the Doore,
Because I meane before you goe to have
A satisfaction for the base injury
You ha done me.
De. I done you injurie!
Sis. Not that I value Courtwell, whome you would
Pretend has been to saucy with my honour;
But, cause I scorne to owne a goodnes should
Depend upon your sword or vindication,
Ile fight with you my selfe in this small vollume
Against your bulke in folio.
Cou. Excellent wench!
De. I was your Champion, lady.
Sis. Ide rather have no fame then heare thee name it.
Thou fight for a Ladies honour and disarme
A gentleman, thou! fence before the pageants
And make roome for the porters, when like Elephants
They carry once a yeare the Citty Castles,
Or goe a feasting with the Drum and foot boyes
To the Bankeside and save the Beares a whipping
That day thou art cudgeld for thy saucy challenging
A sergeant with one eye, that was to much too.
Come, Sir, I meane to have a bout with you.
De. At that weapon?
Sis. This, and no other.
De. Ile rather bleed to death then lift a sword
In my defence, whose inconsiderate brightnes
May fright the Roses from your cheeke and leave
The Lillies to lament the rude divorce.
But were a Man to dare me, and your enemy,
My rage more nimble then [the] Median shaft
Should flie into his bosome, and your eye
Change anger into smiles to see me fight
And cut him into a ragged staffe.
Enter Courtwell.
Cou. I can hold no longer. You have gott a stomack, Sir, with running; ile try how you can eate a sword.
De. Ha you an ambush, Lady? Ile cry out murder. Is two to one faire play?
Cou. Let me cut one legg of, to marre his running.
De. Hold, let me speake.
Cou. What canst thou say for thy baseness?
De. Some men loves wit, and can without dishonour
Endure a jeast. Why, do you thinke I know not
You were here, and but obscur'd to see my humour.
I came to waite upon you with your sword, I.
Cou. How came you by'te? confesse before this Lady.
De. Dost thinke her witts so limber to believe
I could compell it from thee. Twas a trick,
A meere conceipt of mirth; thou sha't ha mine.
Dost thinke I stand upon a sword? Ile gi' thee
A case of Pistolls when we come to London;
And shoot me when I love thee not. Pox ont,
Thou apprehende'st me well enough.
Cou. But I am not Satisfied: do you affect this gentlewoman?
De. Hum.
Cou. You will resolve, sir?
De. As may become a stranger; ile not loose Thy friendship for all woman kind.
Cou. He dares not owne you.
Sis. I easilie forgive him; I should hate My selfe, if I depended on his pitty.
Cou. Th'art a noble wench. Shall we leave of These jigs and speake our harts in earnest? By These twin lips I love thee extreamely.
Sis. Sweare by your owne.
Cou. They shall bee mine. Mounsier, For your penance you shall along and witnes.
Sis. What, I pray?
Cou. The Priest shall tell you; come, we have both dissembled, We do love one another.
Sis. Tis not possible.
Cou. Unless you will denie me i'the church.
I ha vou'd to lie with you to night: Device,
Amble before and find the parson out;
We will bee friends and thou shalt be her father.
De. I must maintaine my humour or be beaten. [Ex.
Cou. Come, weele have no more acquainted.
Sis. Very pretty. —I may deceave you yet for all your confidence.
Cou. If the skie fall weele have the larkes to supper.
[Exeunt.
[SCENE 2.]
Enter Ladie, Sir Francis, Dorothy.
La. It was strange neglect, sir.
Fra. I confesse it, And not deserve to live for't; yet if you But knew my sufferings—
La. Let her be Judge.
Fra. By no meanes, Madam.
La. You may trust her knowledge.
Fra. This is worse then a whipping now; these Ladies
Have no mercy on a delinquent. I must stand toot.
There is no tyrant to a chamberwoman
Made judg in such a cause; Ide give a Limbe
To be quit now, but, if she choose, I am
A Criple for this world.
Do. Ist possible a man and such a beast?
Fra. So, I must to the shameles.
La. What punishment can be equall to the offence?
Do. He lookes with some compunction for his fault. Troth, Madam, choose an other night and trye Whether he will sleepe agen.
Fra. Mercifull wench! If we peece agen it shall be a good turne in thy way.
La. My husband is this day resolv'd for London; It is his humour, or els, worse, suspition. Ther's no pretence for him to stay behind.
Do. You have made ill use of your time, Sir Francis; I know not how to helpe you. Seaven yeare hence You may have such an other oportunitie.
La. Watch if my husband come not this way, Dorothy. —Well, sir, though your transgresse deserve no pardon, Yet I am charitable upon Condition—
Fra. Anything, Madam. This shewes exlent in you;
No pennance shall displease so you absolve me.
Bid me to clime some Rock or Pyramide,
Upon whose narrow spire you have advanc'd
My peace, and I will reach it or else fall,
Lost to the world in my attempt.
La. You speake
Gloriously; the condition that assures
Your pardon, 's only this—that you conclude
Here all your loose desires with a resolve
Never to prosecute or hope to enjoy me.
Fra. Call you this Charity? let me rather loose
Your pardon then for ever to be thus forfeited;
Bind me never to see you (and yet that
Were cruelty) then charme me to forgett
That I am man or have a hart, and you
A beauty, which your absence can as well
Make nothing as devide from my adoring.
It is not cure but killing to prescribe
I never must enjoy you. If you have
Resolv'd a Death upon me, let it bee
When we like Lovers have embrac'd—
La. It is not possible.
Fra. Nothing in love
Can be impossible to willing mindes.
Ile tell you, Madam—(sure the Divell has
Forsworne the flesh)—there may be a plot. I have it!
An exelent rare devise, if you but favour it.
Your husband is imediately for London,
I must in modesty ride with him; you
Are left behind.
La. How can that profitt you?
Do.—What a deale of submission these foolish men Trouble us women with, that are more forward To be friends agen then they are!
Fra. I will counterfeit a fall.
La. A fall?
Fra. I, from my horse; observe me, then—
Do.—My confederate, I hope, by this time is at gate
Enquiring for Sir Richard very formally
From the old knight, his Master, and good Ladie.
The fellow has witt to manage it.
Fra. My footman shall pretend himselfe the Surgeon
To attend me; is't not rare?
Stand but to'th fate of this, and if it faile
I will sitt downe a Convert and renounce
All wanton hope hereafter. Deerest Madam,
If you did meane before this honour to me,
Let not your loving thoughts freeze in a Minuit.
My genius is a prophet.
Do. Sir Richard, Madam, Is comeing this way.
Fra. Shall I hope agen?
La. I wo'not say you shall despaire.
Fra. You blesse me. [Exit.
Do. My busines is a foote; your Jewell, Madam, Will credit much the cause.
La. Wee will withdraw And let me know how you have cast the plott.
[Exeunt.
(SCENE 3.)
Enter Sir Richard, opening a Letter; a Footman waiting.
Ri. From thy Master? his name?
Foo. Sir Walter Littleland.
Ri. I doe not know him.
Foo. His name is well knowne in Lincolnsheire neere the fenns: there were his family antient gentlemen before the Conquest; some say ever since the flood.
Ri. Littleland!
Foo. But he has now more land then three of the best in the shire, thanke the Duchmen that have drunk up all the water.
Ri. They water drinkers?
Foo. Why not, as well as eate dry land? they are lin'd with butter, Sir, and feare no Dropsie.
Sir Richard reades.
She has been absent theis two yeares; the occasion, her dislike and disaffection to a gentleman whome I confesse I did too seveerely urge her to marry. If she have liv'd with you, as my late intelligence hath enformed me, in the nature of a servant, which is beneath my wishes and her condition, I hope upon this knowledge you will with consideration of her quality (she being the onely Child and heire to my fortune) use her like a gentlewoman. And though my yeares have made me unfitt for travell, I do intend, upon returne of your Letters, personally to give you thankes for your respects to my Daughter, whome I shall receave as new blessing from you, and be happie upon any turne presented to expresse my selfe for your favours, your true friend and servant W. Littleland.
My maide Dorothy a Knights Daughter and heire! Doe you know your yong
Mistresse.
Foo. I shall be happie to see her and present her with a Letter & some token from her Ladie Mother.
Ri. I pray trust me to deliver it.
Foo. With all my hart, Sir, you may comand.
[Enter Thomas.
Ri. Thomas, pray entertaine this footman in the butterie; let him drinke and refresh himselfe, and set the cold chine of Beefe before him: he has ranne hard.
Tho. That will stay his stomach, indeed, but Claret is your only binder.
Foo. Sack, while you live, after a heat, Sir.
Tho. Please you, my friend, ile shew you the way to be drunke.
[Exit. [Tho. with footman.
Ri. To my loving Daughter. May not this be a trick? By your favour, Madam. [He opens the Letter.
Enter Underwit.
Captaine, gather you the sence of that Letter while I peruse this. You know Mistress Dorothy.
Un. I have had a great desire to know her, I confess, but she is still like the bottome of the map, terra incognita. I have been a long tyme hovering about the Magellan streights, but have made no new discoveries.
Ri. Ha! this is not counterfeit, I dare trust my owne Judgment; tis a very rich one. I am confirmed, and will scale them up agen. My Ladies woman Sir Walter Littlelands Daughter and heire! What think you now of Mistris Dorothy?
Un. A great deale better than I did; and yet I have lov'd her this halfe yeare in a kind of way. O' my conscience why may not I marry her?
Ri. This Jewell was sent by her mother to her.
Un. Deere Uncle conseale till I have talk'd with her. Oh for some witchcraft to make all sure.
Ri. I like this well; shees here.
Enter Dorothy.
Un. I vow, Mistris Dorothy, if I were immodest twas the meere impudence of my sack and not my owne disposition; but if you please to accept my love now, by the way of Marriage, I will make you satisfaction like a gentleman in the point of honour.
Do. Your birth and estate is to high and unequall for me, sir.
Un. What care I for a portion or a face! She that has good eyes has good——Give me vertue.
Do. You are pleas'd to make your mirth of me.
Un. By this Rubie, nay you shall weare it in the broad eye of the world, dost thinke I am in Jeast.
Do. Sir Richard—
Un. And were he ten Sir Richards, I am out of my wardship.
Do.—How he flutters in the lime bush! it takes rarely.
Un. What a necessary thing now were a household Chaplaine.
[Ext. [Dorothy & Underwit.
Ri. So, so, the wench inclines. I will hasten my journey that I may appear with more excuse when they are married in my absence.
Enter Captaine and Engine.
Cap. Sir, I heare you are for London presentlie; It will concerne you take this gentleman Along w'ee to bee cur'd.
Ri. Mr. Engine sick!
Cap. Oh, sir,
Dangerously; he has purg'd his stomack, but the ill spiritts
Are flowne into his head and spoild his eares.
He was ever troubled with Devices in his head;
I stronglie feare he must have his scull open'd,
His brains are very foule within. I know
And can direct you to an excle'nt Surgeon.
En. I cannot heare you, Captaine—
Cap. One that has a rare dexteritie at lanceing
Or opening of a stomack that has crudities;
So neat at separation of a limbe
And quartering of treason.
Ri. You meane the hangman?
Cap. He has practised late to mend his hand, and now With the very wind and flourish of his instrument He will strike flatt a projector at twelve score.
Ri. Does he not heare you?
Cap. He has lost that sence he saies, unless he counterfeits; It wilbe your securitie to see him Safe in the Surgeons hands. [they whisper.
En.—Into what misery have my Projects flung me!
They shanot know I understand 'em. That
I were quitt with loss of both my eares, although
I cut my haire like a Lay Elder, too,
To shew the naked conyholes! I doe thinke
What cursed Balletts will be made upon me
And sung to divilish tunes at faire and Marketts
To call in cutpurses. In a puppet play,
Were but my storie written by some scholler,
Twould put downe hocas pocas and the tumblers
And draw more audience than the Motion
Of Ninivie[275] or the dainty docile horse[276]
That snorts at Spaine by an instinct of Nature.
Cap. Ile leave him to you and seeke out Captaine Underwit. [Exit.
Ri. Come, Master Engine, weele to horse imediately.
[Exeunt.
[SCENE 4.]
Enter Courtwell, Sister and Device.
Cou. So, we are fast enough, and now I have thee
Ile tell thee all the fault I find; thou hast
A little too much witt to bee a wife;
It could not be too nimble for a Mistresse.—
Device, there is a part still of your pennance
Behind. You would pretend to be a Poet;
Ile not disgrace the name to call thee one,
But let me have rimes against we go to bed,
Two Anagrams that weigh an ounce, with coment,
And after that in verse your Affidavit
That you do wish us joy, and I discharge you.
De. Tis tyme I were at study then.
Cou. About e'm:
Your double congey and depart with silence. [Exit Device.
Now prethe tell me who reported I
Had wrong'd a Ladie? Wast not thy revenge
To make me angrie?
Sis. Twas, indeed. Now tell me: Why at the first approach seem'd you so modest? You have confidence to spare now.
Cou. Troth I came not With any wooing purpose; only to please My Uncle, and try thy witt; and that converted me.
Enter Thomas.
Tho. Did you see my Master, Captaine Underwit?
Cou. Yes, hee's talking with the priest and Mistris Dorothy.
Tho. Her fathers footman was here; she is a knights daughter And heire, but she does not know it yet.
Sis. I thinke so.
Cou. Where's my Uncle.
Tho. A mile ons way to London by this tyme with Sir Richard. I long to see my Master. [Exit.
Cou. Wee shall want companie to dance.
Enter Ladie.
Sis. My Sister.
Cou. If you please, Madam, you may call me Brother:
We have been at 'I John take the Elizabeth'.
A possett and foure naked thighes a bed
To night will bid faire earnest for a boy, too.
Sis. Tis even so; Madam, the preist has done it.
La. May then all joyes attend you; if this had Been knowne, it might have staid Sir Richard and Your Uncle one day more.
Enter Underwit, Dorothy, Captaine, Thomas.
Un. Come for another Couple.
Tho. In hell[277]; my Master is married.
La. My husband left some letters and a token
Was sent you Mistris Dorothy. You did ill
To obscure your selfe so much; you shall not want
Hereafter all respects that may become you.
Do. Madam, I know not what you meane.
Cap. She wonot take it upon her yet.
Un. Theres the sport.
Enter Device.
De. Oh, Madam, newes, ill newes, an accident Will blast all your mirth: Sir Francis—
Cou: La. What of him?
De. Has brooke—
Cou. His neck?
De. You guest very neere it, but his shoulder Has sav'd that joynt. A fall from's horse, they say, Hath much endanger'd him.
Cou. My Uncle hurt! [Exit.
La. He has kept his word; now if he but counterfeit handsomely.
Un. Mounsier Device, I must entreat a Courtesie; you have wit, and I would have a Masque to entertaine my new father-in-law Sir Walter Littleland. Mistres Dorothy, now my wife, is his onely Daughter and heire.
Do. Who has guld you thus? I am no knights Daughter; You may share your poeticall invention, sir.
De. Give you joy, Captaine.
Un. She is still loth to confesse it.
Enter Sir Francis, Lady, Courtwell, Sister, Captaine.
Fra. If you have charity a bone setter.
La. He does counterfeit rarely.—Wheres Sir Richard?
Fra. He rid before, but I sent my footman to tell him this misfortune. Oh, Madam!
La.—This is better then the toothack; he carries it excellently.
Fra. Aske me no torturing questions; I desire, Madam, a little conference with you. Ile thanke the rest if they withdraw: oh!
[Cou.[278] Letts leave him.
Un. Wee'le to my chamber, captaine.
Cap. You have a mind to examine the business privatly?
Do. No, good Captaine, you may be present.
Cou. Come, Thomas, thou shat be witnes, too.
[Ext. all but Sir Francis and Lady.
La. They are gone; they feigne most artificially, Let me embrace you.
Fra. Oh, take heed.
La. What's the matter?
Fra. Tis no dissembling,—Madam; I have had
A fall indeed, a dreadfull fall; I feele it.
I thinke my horse saw the Divell in some hedge:
Ere I had rid three furlongs, gave a start,
Pitcht me of ons back like a barr and broke
A flint with my shoulder, I thinke, which strooke fire too;
There was something like it in my eyes, Ime punish'd.
La. But is this serious? are you hurt indeed?
Fra. Hurt? I ha broke my shoulder feelingly,
And I am of opinion when I doe
Enjoy you, Madam, I shall breake my neck;
That will be next. Ile take this for a warning
And will leave of in tyme.
La. This makes me tremble.
Fra. I will be honest now; and so forgive me. Not the Surgeon come yet?
La. Heaven hath cur'd us both.
Fra. I am not cured yet. Oh for the bone setter! If ere I counterfeit agen.
La. There is a blessing falne upon my blood.
Your only charme had power to make my thoughts
Wicked, and your conversion disinchants me;
May both our lives be such as heaven may not
Grieve to have shew'd this bounty.
Enter Courtwell.
Cou. Sir Richard, Madam.
La. You may enter now, sir.
Enter the rest and Sir Richard.
Ri. I do not like this stratageme; Sir Francis
Must not heere practise his Court tricks; I wo'not
Enter Surgeon.
Trust my wives surgerie. Hee's come.—How ist,
Noble Sir Francis? Best withdraw; ile see
Him drest my selfe. [They lead out Sir Francis.
Enter Underwit, Dorothy, Captaine, Thomas.
Un. Madam and gentlemen, Mistris Dorothy wo'not acknowledge she is a knight's daughter; she sweares she knows no Littleland.
Do. Till it appeare to whom this gemme was meant, Deare Madame, be you treasurer. I confesse I have wealth enough in such a noble husband.
La. It shall belong to thee; be honest, Dorothy, And use him well.
Do. With my best study, Madam.
La. Where is the footman you talke of?
Tho. He pretended Letters to carry two mile of to a kinsman of his Masters, and returne presently. He dranke three or fower beere glasses of sack, and he ran away so lightlie.
Do. His reward shall overtake him.
Un. Will you have her? she will doe you service, Captaine, in a Low Country[279] Leaguer. Or thou, Thomas? ile give thee a Coppiehold.
Tho. You have one life to come in that lease, yet I thank you: I am free, and that's inheritance; for ought I know she may serve us both.
La. Come you may perswade her to looke high and take it upon her for your credit. The gullery is yet within these walles; let your shame goe no farther. The wench may prove right, she may.
Enter Sir Richard.
La. What news from Sir Francis?
Ri. Wife, I hardly aske thee forgivenes; I had jealous thoughts, but all's right agen.
La. I will deserve your confidence.
Ri. No great danger, his blade bone dislocated; the man has put everything in his right place.
Un. Dee heare, Sir Richard? wee are married.
Ri. Tis well done, send you joy; tis to my mind.
Un. Come hither, Dorothy.
Cap. But where's Mr. Engine?
Ri. He rid before.
Cap. If the rascall have any wit left he will ride quite away with himselfe; tis his best course to fly oversea.
Tho. If he were sure to flie, he were sure to escape.
Cap. At the worst, drowning is a most [sic] honourable death then hanging.
Do. My mother died, I have it by tradition,
As soone as I was borne; my father (but
No knight) is now i'th Indies, a poore Merchant,
That broke for 20,000 pounds.
Ri. The shipps may come home. Hee!
Do. You were best use me well, now we are married.
I will be sworne you forc'd me to the Church
And thrice compeld me there to say I Dorothy.
The Parsons oath and mine, for ought I know,
May make it halfe a rape.
Ri. There is no remedy;
We can prove no conspiracie. And, because
I have been gulld my selfe, gett her with child,
—My Doe is barren,—at birth of her first baby
Ile give her a hundred peeces.
Un. That's somewhat yet, when charge comes on. Thy hand! a wife can be but a wife: it shall cost me 500 pounds but ile make thee a Ladie in earnest.
Enter Sir Francis and Surgeon.
Ri. How ist, Sir Francis?
Fra. My Surgeon sayes no danger; when you please, I may venture, Sir, to London.
Ri. No hast now.
Cou. Not to-night, Sir; wee must have revells and you salute my Bride.
Un. And mine.
Tho. A knights Daughter and heire.
Fra. May all joy thrive upon your Loves. —Then you are cosend of your Mistres, Mounseir?
Do. But your nephew knowes I have met with my match. Some bodie has been put to the sword.
Ri. Come, we loose tyme.
Fra. Preserve your marriage faith: a full increase Of what you wish confirme your happinesse.
[Exeunt.