ACTUS V., SCÆNA 1.
Enter William Small-Shanks.
W. Small. On this one hour depends my hopes and fortunes.
Foot, I must have this widow: what should my dad
Make with a wife that scarce can wipe his nose,
Untruss his points, or hold a chamber-pot
Steady, till he pisses? the doors are fast;
'Tis now the midst of night; yet shall this chain
Procure access, and conference with the widow.
What, though I cheat my father; all men have sins,
Though in their several kinds: all ends in this—
So they get gold, they care not whose it is.
Begging the court, use bears the city out,
Lawyers their quirks: thus goes the world about.
So that our villainies have but different shapes,
Th' effects all one, and poor men are but apes
To imitate their betters: this is the difference—
All great men's sins must still be humoured,
And poor men's vices largely punished.
The privilege that great men have in evil,
Is this, they go unpunish'd to the devil.
Therefore I'll in; this chain I know will move;
Gold and rich stones win coyest ladies' love. [Knocks.
Enter Adriana [above].
Adr. What would you, sir, that you do knock so boldly?
W. Small. I must come in to the widow.
Adr. How! come in?
The widow has no entrance for such mates.
W. Small. Dost hear, sweet chambermaid? by heaven, I come
With letters from my father; I have brought her stones,
Jewels and chains, which she must use to-morrow.
Adr. Y'are a needy knave, and will lie:
Your father has cashier'd you, nor will he trust you,
Be gone, lest I do wash you hence[429].
W. Small. Dost hear?
By this good night, my father and I are friends,
Take but this chain for token, give her that,
And tell her I have other things for her,
Which by my father's will I am commanded
To give to her own hands.
Adr. Say you so?
In troth, I think you'll prove an honest man,
Had you once got a beard; let me see the chain.
W. Small. Dost think I lie? By this light, Adriana,
I love her with my soul; here's letters
And other jewels sent her from my father.
Is she a-bed?
Adr. By my virginity,
She is uncas'd, and ready to slip in
Betwixt the sheets; but I will bear her this,
And tell her what you say. [Exit.
W. Small. But make some haste.
Why so, 'twill take: heart! how a waiting-maid
Can shake a fellow up, that is cashier'd,
And has no money? Foot, should she keep the chain,
And not come down, I must turn citizen,
Be bankrout, and crave the king's protection.
But here she comes.
Enter Taffata [in her smock] and Adriana.
Taf. What would you, sir, with us,
That on the sudden and so late you come?
W. Small. I have some secrets to acquaint you with;
Please you to let the chamber-maid shake off,
And stand as sentinel.
Taf. It shall not need.
I hope I have not brought her up so ill,
But that she knows how to contain your secrets,
As well as I her mistress: therefore on.
W. Small. It is not fit, forsooth, that I should on,
Before she leave the room.
Adr. 'Tis not indeed,
Therefore I'll wait in the with-drawing room,
Until you call. [Exit.
Taf. Now, sir, what's your will?
W. Small. Dear widow, pity the state of a young,
Poor, yet proper gentleman: by Venus' pap,
Upon my knees I'd creep unto your lap
For one small drop of favour: and though this face
Is not the finest face, yet t'as been prais'd
By ladies of good judgment in faces.
Taf. Are these your secrets?
W. Small. You shall have secrets
More pleasing: nay hear, sweet widow;
Some wantons do delight to see men creep,
And on their knees to woo them.
Taf. I am none of those;
Stand up, I more desire a man should stand,
Than cringe and creep, that means to win my love:
I say, stand up, and let me go, ye had best.
W. Small. For ever let me creep upon the ground,
Unless you hear my suit.
Taf. How now, sir sauce?
Would you be cap'ring in your father's saddle?
Away, you cashier'd younger brother, be gone!
Do not I know the fashions of you all?
When a poor woman has laid open all
Her thoughts to you, then you grow proud and coy;
But when wise maids dissemble, and keep close,
Then you poor snakes come creeping on your bellies,
And with all oiled looks prostrate yourselves
Before our beauties' sun where, once but warm,
Like hateful snakes you strike us with your stings,
And then forsake us. I know your tricks—be gone!
W. Small. Foot, I'll first be hang'd: nay, if you go,
You shall leave your smock behind you, widow;
Keep close your womanish weapon, hold your tongue,
Nor speak, cough, sneeze, or stamp; for, if you do,
By this good blade I'll cut your throat directly.
Peace! stir not, by heaven I'll cut your throat
If you but stir; speak not, stand still, go to,
I'll teach coy widows a new way to woe.
Come, you shall kiss; why so; I'll stab, by heaven,
If you but stir; now hear—first kiss again.
Why so; stir not. Now come I to the point.
My hopes are past, nor can my present state
Afford a single halfpenny: my father
Hates me deadly; to beg, my birth forbids;
To steal, the law, the hangman and the rope
With one consent deny: to go o'trust,
The city common-council has forbid it,
Therefore my state is desperate—stir not—
And I by much will rather choose to hang,
Than in a ditch or prison-hole to starve.
Resolve, wed me, and take me to your bed,
Or by my soul I'll straight cut off your head,
Then kill myself; for I had rather die,
Than in a street live poor and lousily.
You don't—I know, you cannot[430]—love my father?
A widow that has known the quid of things,
To doat upon an old and crazed man,
That stinks at both ends worse than an elder-pipe!
Who, when his blood and spirit are at the height,
Hath not a member to his palsy body,
But is more limber than a King's-head pudding,
Took from the pot half-sod; do I not know this?
Have you not wealth enough to serve us both?
And am not I a pretty handsome fellow
To do your drudgery? Come, come, resolve.
For, by my blood, if you deny your bed,
I'll cut your throat without equivocation.
If you be pleas'd, hold up your finger; if not,
By heaven I'll gar my whinyard[431] through your womb!
Is't a match?
Taf. Hear me but speak.
W. Small. You'll prate too loud.
Taf. No.
W. Small. Nor speak one word against my honest suit?
Taf. No, by my worth.
W. Small. Kiss upon that, and speak.
Taf. I dare not wed; men say y'are naught, you'll cheat,
And you do keep a whore.
W. Small. That is a lie;
She keeps herself and me; yet I protest,
She's not dishonest.
Taf. How could she maintain you?
W. Small. Why, by her comings-in; a little thing
Her friends have left her, which with putting to best use,
And often turning, yields her a poor living.
But what of that? she's now shook off; to thee
I'll only cleave: I'll be thy merchant,
And to this wealthy fair I'll bring my ware,
And here set up my standing: therefore resolve.
Nought but my sword is left: if't be a match,
Clap hands, contract, and straight to bed:
If not, pray, forgive, and straight goes off your head.
Taf. I take thy love.
W. Small. Then straight let's both to bed.
Taf. I'll wed to-morrow.
W. Small. You shall not sleep upon't.
An honest contract is as good as marriage.
A bird in hand—you know the proverb, widow.
Taf. O[432], let me tell thee, I'll love thee, while I live,
For this attempt; give me that lusty lad,
That wins his widow with his well-drawn blade,
And not with oaths and words: a widow's wooing,
Not in bare words, but should consist in doing—
I take thee to my husband—
Small. I thee to wife.
Now to thy bed, and there we'll end this strife. [Exeunt.
Enter Sir Oliver and Fiddlers.
Oliver. Warm blood, the young man's slave, the old man's god,
Makes me to stir thus soon; it stirs, i' faith,
And with a kind of itching pricks me on
To bid my bride bon jour; O, this desire
Is even another filch'd Promethean fire,
By which we old men live; performance, then,
Is that poor old men's bane, that in old men
Comes limping off more lame, God knows, than he
Which in a close, a hot, and dangerous fight,
Has been dismembered, and craves by letters patents.
Yet scarce a woman that considers this,
Women have tricks, firks and farthingales:
A generation are they full of subtlety,
And all most honest, where they want the means
To be otherwise. Therefore, I'll have an eye,
My widow goes not oft to visit kinsfolk:
By birth she is a Ninny; and that I know
Is not in London held the smallest kindred.
I must have wits and brains; come on, my friends.
Out with your tools, and to't! a strain of mirth,
And a pleasant song to wake the widow.
Enter William Small-Shanks above, in his shirt.
W. Small. Musicians! minstrels! foot, rogues,
For God's love, leave your filthy squeaking noise,
And get you gone: the widow and myself
Will scamble out the shaking of the sheets[433]
Without music; we have no need of fiddlers
To our dancing. Foot, have you no manners?
Cannot a man take his natural rest
For your scraping? I shall wash your gut-strings,
If you but stay a while: yet, honest rascals,
If you'll let us have t'other crash,
The widow and I'll keep time; there's for your pains.
[Throws them down money.
Oliver. How's this? will the widow and you keep time?
What trick? what quiddit? what fegary is this?
My cashier'd son speak from the widow's chamber,
And in his shirt? ha! sure she is not there!
'Tis so; she has took him in for pity,
And now removes her chamber. I will home,
On with my neatest robes, perfume my beard,
Eat cloves, eringoes, and drink some aqua vitæ
To sweeten breath, and keep my weam from wambling;
Then, like the month of March, come blust'ring in,
Marry the widow, shake up this springal,
And then, as quiet as a sucking lamb,
Close by the widow will I rest all night[434].
As for my breath I have crotches and devices,
"Ladies' rank breaths are often help'd with spices."
Enter Adriana and another, strawing herbs.[435]
Adr. Come, straw apace; Lord, shall I never live
To walk to church on flowers? O, 'tis fine,
To see a bride trip it to church so lightly,
As if her new chopines[436] would scorn to bruise
A silly flower: and now, I pr'ythee, tell me,
What flower thinkest thou is likest to a woman?
1st Woman. A mary-gold, I think.
Adr. Why a mary-gold?
1st Woman. Because a little heat makes it to spread,
And open wide his leaves.
Adr. Th'art quite wide:
A mary-gold doth open wide all day,
And shuts most close at night: I hope thou knowest
All wenches do the contrary: but, sirrah,
How does thy uncle the old doctor?
Dost think he'll be a bishop?
1st Woman. O, questionless!
For h'as got him a young wife, and carried her
To court already: but now, I pr'ythee, say,
Why will the widow wed so old a knight?
Adr. Why? for his riches.
1st Woman. For riches only?
Why, riches cannot give her her delight.
Adr. Riches, I hope, can soon procure her one
Shall give her her delight: that's the devil.
That's it, i'faith, makes us waiting-gentlewomen
Live maids so long.
1st Woman. Think you so?
Adr. Yes, in faith.
Married women quite have spoiled the market,
By having secret friends besides their husbands;
For if these married wives would be content
To have but one a piece, I think, in troth,
There would be doings enough for us all;
And, till we get an act of parliament
For that, our states are desperate.
Enter Boutcher and Constantia.
Come, straw apace.
Con. So-ho-ho, master.
Bout. Boy.
Con. In troth, I thought y' had been more fast asleep
Than a midwife or a Puritan tailor
At a Sunday evening's lecture: but, sir,
Why do you rise so soon?
Bout. To see the widow.
Con. The weaker you; you are forbid a widow,
And 'tis the first thing you will fall into.
Me thinks a young clear-skinn'd country gentlewoman,
That never saw baboons, lions, or courtiers,
Might prove a handsome wife; or what do you say
To a citizen's daughter, that never was in love
With a player, that never learnt to dance,
That never dwelt near any inn-of-court—
Might not she in time prove an honest wife?
Faith, take a maid, and leave the widow, master:
Of all meats I love not a gaping oyster.
Bout. God speed your works, fair maids.
Adr. You much mistake:
'Tis no work.
Bout. What then?
Adr. A preparation
To a work, sir.
Bout. What work, sweet ladies?
Adr. Why, to a marriage; that's a work, I think.
Bout. How? a preparation to a marriage?
Of whom, kind maids, of whom?
Adr. And why kind maids?
I hope you have had no kindness at our hand
To make you say so: but, sir, understand
That Sir Oliver Small-shanks, the noble knight,
And Mistress Taffata, the rich widow,
Must this day be coupled, conjoined,
Married, espoused, wedded, contracted.
Or, as the Puritan says, put together;
And so, sir, to the shifting of our clean smocks
We leave you.
[Exeunt Adriana and the other women.
Bout. Married! and to-day?
Dissension, jealousy, hate, beggary,
With all the dire events which breed dislike
In nuptial beds, attend her bridal steps!
Can vows and oaths with such protesting action,
As if their hearts were spit forth with their words,
As if their souls were darted through their eyes,
Be of no more validity with women?
Have I for her contemn'd my fixéd fate,
Neglected my fair hopes, and scorn'd the love
Of beauteous, virtuous, and honour'd Constantia?
Con. Now works it with my wish: my hopes are full. [Aside.
Bout. And I engag'd my worth, and ventur'd life
On yonder buffling[437] face, to have men scorn,
And point at my disgrace? first will I leave to live!
There take my purse, live thou to better fate,
[Boutcher hangs himself.
Better thus die than live unfortunate.
Con. Ay me accurs'd! help, help, murther! murther!
Curs'd be the day and hour that gave me breath!
Murther, murther! if any gentleman
Can hear my plaints, come forth, and assist me.
W. Small.[438] What out-cries call me from my naked bed?
Who calls Jeronimo? speak, here I am.
Con. Good sir, leave your struggling and acting,
And help to save the life of a distressed man;
O, help, if you be gentlemen!
W. Small. What's here?
A man hang'd up, and all the murtherers gone,
And at my door, to lay the guilt on me?
This place was made to pleasure citizens' wives,
And not to hang up honest gentlemen.
Enter Taffata.
Taf. Where be these lazy knaves? some raise the house.
What meant the cry of murther? where's my love?
W. Small. Come, Isabella, help me to lament,
For sighs are stopp'd, and all my tears are spent.
These clothes I oft have seen, ay me, my friend!
Pursue the murtherers, raise all the street.
Con. It shall not need; he stirs; give him breath.
W. Small. Is there yet life? Horatio, my dear boy:
Horatio, Horatio, what hast thou misdone,
To lose thy life, when life was new-begun?
Bout. 'S heart! a man had as good be hang'd outright,
As to endure this clapping. Shame to thy sex,
Perfidious perjur'd woman, where's thy shame?
How can thy modesty forbear to blush,
And know'st I know thee an adulteress?
Have not thy vows made thee my lawful wife
Before the face of heaven? where is thy shame?
But why speak I of shame to thee, whose face
Is steel'd with custom'd sin; whose thoughts want grace,
The custom of thy sin so lulls thy sense.
Women ne'er blush, though ne'er so foul th' offence.
To break thy vow to me, and straight to wed
A doating stinkard!
W. Small. But hold your tongue,
Or by this light I'll truss you up again.
'Heart! rail on my wife! am I[439] a stinkard,
Or do I doat? speak such another word,
And up you truss again. Am I a stinkard?
Bout. The knight your father is.
W. Small. Why, who denies it?
He supplanted[440] thee, and I supplanted him.
Come, come, you shall be friends: come, forgive her;
For by this light there is no remedy,
Unless you will betake you to my leavings.
Con. Rather than so, I'll help you to a wife,
Rich, well-born, and by some accounted fair;
And for the worth of her virginity,
I dare presume to pawn my honesty:
What say you to Constantia Sommerfield?
W. Small. Dost know where she is, boy?
Con. I do; nay more,
If he but swear to embrace her constant love,
I'll fetch her to this place.
W. Small. He shall do it, boy.
Enter Sir Oliver and fiddlers.
He shall do it, go fetch her, boy. Foot, my father.
[Exit Constantia.
Stand to't now, old wench, stand to't now.
Oliver. Now fresh and youthful as the month of May,
I'll bid my bride good-morrow. Musicians, on:
Lightly, lightly; and by my knighthood-spurs,
This year you shall have my protection,
And yet not buy your livery coat yourselves.
Good morrow, bride, fresh[441] as the month of May,
I come to kiss thee on thy wedding-day.
W. Small. Saving your tale, sir, I'll show you how
April showers bring May flowers,
So merrily sings the cuckoo.
The truth is, I have laid my knife aboard.
The widow, sir, is wedded.
Oliver. Ha!
W. Small. Bedded.
Oliver. Ha!
W. Small. Why, my good father, what should you do with a wife?
Would you be crested? Will you needs thrust your head
In one of Vulcan's helmets? Will you perforce
Wear a city cap and a court feather?
Oliver. Villain, slave, thou hast wrong'd my wife.
W. Small. Not so;
Speak, my good wench, have I not done thee right?
Taf. I find no fault; and I protest, Sir Oliver,
I'd not have lost the last two hours' sleep
I had by him for all the wealth you have.
Oliver. Villain—slave, I'll hang thee by the statute;
Thou hast two wives.
W. Small. Be not so furious, sir.
I have but this: the other was my whore,
Which now is married to an honest lawyer.
Oliver. Thou villain—slave, thou hast abus'd thy father.
Bout. "Your son, i' faith, your very son, i' faith!
The villain-boy has one trick of his sire,
Has firk'd away the wench, has pierc'd the hogshead,
And knows by this the vintage."[442]
Oliver. I am undone.
Bout. You could not love the widow, but her wealth.
Oliver. The devil take my soul, but I did love her.
Taf. That oath doth show you are a Northern knight,
And of all men alive, I'll never trust
A northern man in love.
Oliver. And why, and why, slut?
Taf. Because the first word he speaks is, the devil
Take his soul; and who will give him trust,
That once has given his soul unto the devil?
W. Small. She says most true, father; the soul once gone,
The best part of man is gone.
Taf. And, i' faith,
If the best part of a man is gone,
The rest of the body is not worth a rush,
Though it be ne'er so handsome.
Enter Lady Sommerfield, Throat and Beard bound, and Justice Tutchin.
Lady Som. Bring them away.
W. Small. How now?
My lawyer pinion'd! I begin to stink
Already.
Lady Som. Cheater, my daughter!
W. Small. She's mad.
Throat. My wife, sir, my wife!
W. Small. They're mad, stark mad:
I am sorry, sir, you have lost those happy wits,
By which you liv'd so well. The air grows cold:
Therefore I'll take my leave.
Lady Som. So, stay him, officers.
Sir, 'tis not your tricks of wit can carry it.
Officers, attach him and this gentleman
For stealing away my heir.
W. Small. You do me wrong;
Heart! I never saw your heir.
Throat. That's a lie:
You stole her, and by chance I married her.
W. Small. God give you joy, sir.
Throat. Ask the butler else.
Therefore, widow, release me; for by no law,
Statute, or book-case of Vicesimo
Edwardi secundi, nor by the statute
Of Tricesimo Henrici sexti,
Nor by any book-case of decimo
Of the late queen, am I accessory,
Part, or party-confederate, abettor,
Helper, seconder, persuader, forwarder,
Principal, or maintainer of this late theft,
But by law. I forward, and she willing,
Clapp'd up the match, and by a good statute
Of Decimo tertio Richardi quarti,
She is my leeful, lawful, and my true
Married wife, teste Lieutenant Beard.
W. Small. Who lives would think that you could prate so fast,
Your hands being bound behind you? foot, he talks
With as much ease, as if he were in's shirt.
Oliver. I am witness thou hadst the heir.
Jus. Tut. So am I.
Throat. And so is my man Dash.
Bout. Hear me but speak;
Sit you as judges. Undo the lawyer's hands,
That he may freely act, and I'll be bound
That William Small-shanks shall put your throat to silence,
And overthrow him at his own weapon.
Jus. Tut. Agreed: take each his place, and hear the case
Argued betwixt them two.
Omnes. Agreed, agreed.
Jus. Tut. Now, Throat, or never, stretch yourself.
Throat. Fear not.
W. Small. Here stand I for my client this gentleman.
Throat. I for the widow.
Throat. Right worshipful,
I say that William Small-shanks, madman,
Is by a statute made in Octavo
Of Richard Cordelion guilty to the law
Of felony for stealing this lady's heir.
That he stole her, the proof is most pregnant—
He brought her to my house, confessed himself
He made great means to steal her. I lik'd her,
And finding him a novice (truth to tell),
Married her myself, and (as I said),
By a statute Richardi Quarti,
She is my lawful wife.
W. Small. For my client
I say, the wench I brought unto your house
Was not the daughter to rich Sommerfield.
Oliver. What proof of that?
W. Small. This gentleman.
Throat. Tut, tut,
He is a party in the cause. But, sir,
If't were not the daughter to this good widow,
Who was it? answer that.
W. Small. An arrant whore,
Which you have married, and she is run
Away with all your jewels—this is true;
And this Lieutenant Beard can testify:
It was the wench I kept in Hosier Lane.
Beard. What, was it she?
W. Small. The very same.
Jus. Tut. Speak, sirrah Beard, if all he says be true?
Beard. She said she was a punk, a rampant whore,
Which in her time had been the cause of parting
Some fourteen bawds; he kept her in the suburbs.
Yet I do think this wench was not the same.
Bout. The case is clear with me.
Omnes. O strange!
Throat. Sir, sir.
This is not true: how liv'd you in the suburbs,
And scap'd so many searches?
W. Small. I answer,
That most constables in our out-parishes
Are bawds themselves, by which we scap'd the searches.
Oliver. This is most strange!
Lady Som. What's become of this woman?
Beard. That know not I. As I was squiring her
Along the street, Master Small-shanks set upon me,
Beat me down, and took away the maid,
Which I suppose was daughter to the widow.
W. Small. He lies; let me be hanged, if he lie not.
Oliver. What confusion is this?
Enter Constable.
Con. Bring them forward.
Enter Thomas Small-Shanks and Frances.
[443]God preserve your worship. [To L. Som.] And it like you, madam?
[To Sir O.] We were commanded by your[443] deputy
That, if we took a woman in the watch,
To bring her straight to you: and hearing there
You were come hither, hither we brought them.
Oliver. The one is my son; I do acknowledge him.
What woman's that?
T. Small. The widow's daughter, sir.
W. Small. Blood! is he gull'd too.
T. Small. My brother stole her first,
Throat cosen'd him, and I had cosen'd Throat,
Had not the constable took us in the watch.
She is the widow's daughter, had I had luck.
Throat. And my espoused wife.
Lady Som. Unmask her face.
My daughter? I defy her.
W. Small. Your worship's wife.
Throat. I am gull'd and abus'd; and by a statute
Of Tricesimo of the late Queen
I will star-chamber you all for cosenage,
And be by law divorc'd.
W. Small. Sir, 'twill not hold:
She's your leeful, lawful, and true-wedded wife,
Teste Lieutenant Beard.
Beard. Was't you that brake my head?
W. Small. But why shouldst think much to die a cuckold,
Being born a knave? As good lawyers as you
Scorn not horns.
Throat. I am gull'd, ay me accurs'd!
Why should the harmless men be vex'd with horns,
When women most deserve them?
W. Small. I'll show you, sir:
The husband is the wife's head, and, I pray,
Where should the horns stand but upon the head?
Why, wert not thou begot (thou foolish knave)
By a poor sumner on a serjeant's widow?
Wert not thou a Puritan, and put in trust
To gather relief for the distress'd Geneva[ns]?
And didst not thou leave thy poor brethren,
And run away with all the money? Speak,
Was not that thy first rising? Go,
Y' are well-coupled: by Jove, ye are. She is
But a younger sister newly come to town:
She's current metal, not a penny the worse
For a little use: whole within the ring,
By my soul.
Beard. Will he take her, think'st thou?
Bout. Yes, faith upon her promise of amendment.
Jus. Tut. The lawyer is gull'd.
Throat. Am I thus over-reach'd to have a wife,
And not of the best neither?
Frances. Good sir, be content,
A lawyer should make all things right and straight;
All lies but in the handling; I may prove
A wife that shall deserve your best of love.
Oliver. Take her, Throat, you have a better jewel now
Than ever. Kiss her, kiss her, man; all friends.
Lady Som. Yet, in this happy close, I still have lost
My only daughter.
W. Small. Where's thy page, Boutcher?
Enter Constantia.
Con. Here I present the page: and that all doubt
May here be cleared, here in my proper shape,
That all your joys may be complete and full,
I must make one. With pardon, gentle mother,
Since all our friends so happily are met,
Here will I choose a husband: this be the man
Whom, since I left your house in shape of page,
I still have followed.
W. Small. Foot, would I had known so much,
I would have been bold to have lain with your page.
Con. Say, am I welcome?
Bout. As is my life and soul.
Lady Som. Heaven give you joy,
Since all so well succeeds, take my consent.
W. Small. Then are we all pair'd: I and my lass;
You and your wife; the lawyer and his wench;
And, father, fall you aboard of the widow:
But then my brother——
T. Small. Faith, I am a fool.
W. Small. That's all one: if God had not made
Some elder brothers fools, how should witty
Younger brothers be maintain'd?
Strike up, music; let's have an old song:
Since all my tricks have found so good success,
We'll sing, dance, dice, and drink down heaviness.