ACT I., SCENE 1.
Enter the Lady Honour, the Lady Perfect, the Lady Bright.
Maid.[72] A wife the happiest state? It cannot be.
Wife. Yes, such a wife as I, that have a man
As if myself had made him: such a one
As I may justly say, I am the rib
Belonging to his breast. Widow and maid,
Your lives compared to mine are miserable,
Though wealth and beauty meet in each of you.
Poor virgin, all thy sport is thought of love
And meditation of a man; the time
And circumstance, ere thou canst fix thy thoughts
On one thy fancy will approve.
Maid. That trouble
Already may be pass'd.
Wife. Why, if it be,
The doubt he will not hold his brittle faith,
That he is not a competible choice,
And so your noble friends will cross the match,
Doth make your happiness uncertain still;
Or say, you married him? what he would prove.
Can you compare your state, then, to a wife?
Maid. Nay, all the freedom that a virgin hath
Is much to be preferr'd. Who would endure
The humours of so insolent[73] a thing
As is a husband? Which of all the herd
Runs not possess'd with some notorious vice,
Drinking or whoring, fighting, jealousy,
Even of a page at twelve or of a groom
That rubs horse-heels? Is it not daily seen,
Men take wives but to dress their meat, to wash
And starch their linen: for the other matter
Of lying with them, that's but when they please:
And whatsoe'er the joy be of the bed,
The pangs that follow procreation
Are hideous, or you wives have gull'd your husbands
With your loud shriekings and your deathful throes.
A wife or widow to a virgin's life!
Wid. Why should the best of you think ye enjoy
The roost[74] and rule, that a free widow doth?
I am mine own commander, and the bliss
Of wooers and of each variety
Frequents me, as I were a maid. No brother
Have I to dice my patrimony away, as you,
My maiden-madam, may. No husband's death
Stand I in doubt on; for thanks be to heaven,
If mine were good, the grievous loss of him
Is not to come; if he were bad, he's gone,
And I no more embrace my injury.
But be yours ill, you nightly clasp your hate;
Or good—why, he may die or change his virtue.
And thou, though single, hast a bed-fellow
As bad as the worst husband—thought of one;
And what that is men with their wives do do,
And long expectance till the deed be done.
A wife is like a garment us'd and torn:
A maid like one made up, but never worn.
Maid. A widow is a garment worn threadbare,
Selling at second-hand, like broker's ware.
But let us speak of things the present time
Makes happy to us, and see what is best.
I have a servant then, the crown of men,
The fountain of humanity, the prize
Of every virtue, moral and divine;
Young, valiant, learned, well-born, rich, and shap'd,
As if wise Nature, when she fashion'd him,
Had meant to give him nothing but his form;
Yet all additions are conferr'd on him,
That may delight a woman: this same youth
To me hath sacrific'd his heart, yet I
Have check'd his suit, laugh'd at his worthy service,
Made him the exercise of my cruelty,
Whilst constant as the sun, for all these clouds,
His love goes on.
Enter Ingen.
Wid. Peace, here's the man you name.
Wife. Widow, we'll stand aside.
Ingen. Good morrow to the glory of our age,
The Lady Perfect and the Lady Bright,
[Meeting the Wife and Widow.[75]
The virtuous wife and widow; but to you,
The Lady Honour and my mistress,
The happiness of your wishes.
Maid. By this light,
I never heard one speak so scurvily,
Utter such stale wit, and pronounce so ill.
"But to you, my Lady Honour and my mistress,
The happiness of your wishes!"
Ingen. Stop your wit;
You would fain show these ladies, what a hand
You hold over your servant: 't shall not need;
I will express your tyranny well enough,
I have lov'd this lady since I was a child,
Since I could construe Amo: now she says
I do not love her, 'cause I do not weep,
Lay mine arms o'er my heart, and wear no garters,
Walk with mine eyes in my hat, sigh and make faces
For all the poets in the town to laugh at.
Pox o' this howling love! 'tis like a dog
Shut out at midnight. Must love needs be powder'd,
Lie steep'd in brine, or will it not keep sweet?
Is it like beef in summer?
Maid. Did you ever
Hear one talk fustian like a butcher thus?
Ingen. 'Tis foolish, this same telling folks we love:
It needs no words, 'twill show itself in deeds;
And did I take you for an entertainer,
A lady that will wring one by the finger,
Whilst on another's toes she treads, and cries
"By gad, I love but one, and you are he,"
Either of them thinking himself the man,
I'd tell you in your ear, put for the business,
Which granted or denied, "Madam, God be wi' ye."
Maid. Come, these are daily slanders that you raise
On our infirm and unresisting sex:
You never met, I'm sure, with such a lady.
Ingen. O, many, by this light. I've seen a chamber
Frequented like an office of the law:
Clients succeed at midnight one another,
Whilst the poor madam hath been so distress'd
Which of her lovers to show most countenance to,
That her dull husband has perceiv'd her wiles.
Maid. Nay, perhaps taught her: many of those husbands
Are base enough to live upon't.
Ingen. I have seen another of 'em
Cheat, by this light, at cards, and set her women
To talk to the gentlemen that play'd,
That, so distracted, they might oversee.
Maid. O, fie upon ye! I dare swear you lie.
Ingen. Do not, fair mistress; you will be forsworn.
Maid. You men are all foul-mouth'd: I warrant, you
Talk thus of me and other ladies here
Because we keep the city.
Ingen. O, profane!
That thought would damn me. Will you marry yet?
Maid. No, I will never marry.
Ingen. Shall we then
Couple unlawfully? for indeed this marrying
Is but proclaiming what we mean to do;
Which may be done privately in civil sort,
And none the wiser; and by this white hand,
The rack, strappado, or the boiling boot[76]
Should never force me tell to wrong your honour.
Maid. May I believe this?
Ingen. Let it be your creed.
Maid. But if you should prove false? Nay, ne'er unhang
Your sword, except you mean to hang yourself.
Why, where have you been drinking? 'sfoot, you talk
Like one of these same rambling boys that reign
In Turnbull Street.[77]
Ingen. How do you know?
Maid. Indeed, my knowledge is but speculative,
Not practic there; I have it by relation
From such observers as yourself, dear servant.
I must profess I did think well of thee,
But get thee from my sight, I never more
Will hear or see thee, but will hate thee deadly,
As a man-enemy, or a woman turn'd.
Ladies, come forth.
Enter Widow, Wife.
See, sir, what courtesy
You have done to me: a strange praise of you
Had newly left my lips just as you enter'd,
And how you have deserv'd it with your carriage!
Villain! thou hast hurt mine honour to these friends,
For what can they imagine but some ill
Hath pass'd betwixt us by thy broad discourse?
Were my case theirs, by virgin chastity,
I should condemn them. Hence! depart my sight!
Ingen. Madam, but hear me. O, that these were men,
And durst but say or think you ill for this!
I have so good a cause upon my side
That I would cut their hearts out of their breasts,
And the thoughts out of them that injur'd you.
But I obey your hest, and for my penance
Will run a course never to see you more:
And now I lose you, may I lose the light,
Since in that beauty dwelt my day or night.
[Exit Ingen.
Wid. Is this the virtuous youth?
Wife. Your happiness?
Wid. Wherein you thought your seat so far[78] 'bove ours.
Maid. If one man could be good, this had been he.
See, here come all your suitors and your husband;
And, room for laughter! here's the Lord Feesimple.
What gentlewoman does he bring along?
Enter Husband, embracing Subtle; the Lord Feesimple, with young Bold like a waiting gentlewoman, and Welltried. Welltried, Husband, and Subtle, talk with Wife.
Fee. One-and-thirty good morrows to the fairest, wisest, richest widow that ever conversation coped withal.
Wid. Threescore and two unto the wisest lord
That ever was train'd in university.
Fee. O courteous, bounteous widow! she has outbid me thirty-one good morrows at a clap.
Well. But, my Lord Feesimple, you forget the business imposed on you.
Fee. Gentlewoman, I cry thee mercy; but 'tis a fault in all lords, not in me only: we do use to swear by our honours, and as we are noble, to despatch such a business for such a gentleman; and we are bound, even by the same honours we swear by, to forget it in a quarter of an hour, and look as if we had never seen the party when we meet next, especially if none of our gentlemen have been considered.
Well. Ay, but all yours have, for you keep none, my lord: besides, though it stands with your honour to forget men's businesses, yet it stands not with your honour if you do not do a woman's.
Fee. Why then, madam, so it is that I request your ladyship to accept into your service this gentlewoman. For her truth and honesty I will be bound; I have known her too long to be deceived. This is the second time I have seen her.
[Aside.]
Maid. Why, how now, my lord! a preferrer of gentlewomen to service, like an old knitting-woman? where hath she dwelt before?
Fee. She dwelt with young Bold's sister, he that is my corrival in your love. She requested me to advance her to you, for you are a dubbed lady; so is not she yet.
Well. But now you talk of young Bold—when did you see him, lady?
Wid. Not this month, Master Welltried.
I did conjure him to forbear my sight;
Indeed, swore if he came, I'd be denied.
But 'tis strange you should ask for him: ye two
Were wont never to be asunder.
Well. Faith, madam, we never were together, but
We differ'd on some argument or other;
And doubting lest our discord might at length
Breed to some quarrel, I forbear him too.
Fee. He quarrel? Bold? hang him, if he durst have quarrelled, the world knows he's within a mile of an oak has put him to't, and soundly. I never cared for him in my life, but to see his sister: he's an ass, pox! an arrant ass; for do you think any but an arrant ass would offer to come a-wooing where a lord attempts? He quarrel!—he dares not quarrel.
Well. But he dares fight, my lord, upon my knowledge:
And rail no more, my lord, behind his back,
For if you do, my lord, blood must ensue.
[Draws.
Fee. O, O, my honour dies! I am dead.
[Swoons.
Well. Ud's light, what's the matter? wring him by the nose.
Wid. A pair of riding spurs, now, were worth gold.
Maid. Pins are as good. Prick him, prick him.
Fee. O, O!
Wife. He's come again. Lift him up.
Omnes. How fares your lordship?
Fee. O friends, you have wrong'd my spirit to call it back:
I was ev'n in Elysium at rest.
Well. But why, sir, did you swoon?
Fee. Well, though I die, Mister Welltried, before all these I do forgive you, because you were ignorant of my infirmity. O sir! is't not up yet? I die again! Put up, now, whilst I wink, or I do wink for ever.
Well. 'Tis up, my lord; ope your eyes: but I pray, tell me, is this antipathy 'twixt bright steel and you natural, or how grew it.
Fee. I'll tell you, sir: anything bright and edged works thus strongly with me. Your hilts, now, I can handle as boldly, look you else.
Hus.[79] Nay, never blame my lord, Master Welltried, for I know a great many will swoon at the sight of a shoulder of mutton or a quarter of lamb. My lord may be excused, then, for a naked sword.
Well. This lord and this knight in dog-collars would make a fine brace of beagles.
Maid. But, on my faith, 'twas mightily over-seen of your father, not to bring you up to foils—or if he had bound you 'prentice to a cutler or an ironmonger.
Fee. Ha, pox! hang him, old gouty fool! He never brought me up to any lordly exercise, as fencing, dancing, tumbling, and such like; but, forsooth, I must write and read, and speak languages, and such base qualities, fit for none but gentlemen. Now, sir, would I tell him, "Father, you are a count, I am a lord. A pox o' writing and reading, and languages! Let me be brought up as I was born."
Sub. But how, my lord, came you first not to endure the sight of steel?
Fee. Why, I'll tell you, sir. When I was a child, an infant, an innocent[80]—
Maid. 'Twas even now.
[Aside.]
Fee. I being in the kitchen, in my lord my father's house, the cook was making minced pies: so, sir, I standing by the dresser, there lay a heap of plums. Here was he mincing: what did me I, sir, being a notable little witty coxcomb, but popped my hand just under his chopping-knife, to snatch some raisins, and so was cut o'er the hand, and never since could I endure the sight of any edge-tool.
Wid. Indeed, they are not fit for you, my lord. And now you are all so well satisfied in this matter, pray, ladies, how like you this my gentlewoman?
Maid. In troth, madam, exceedingly well, I. If you be provided, pray, let me have her.
Wife. It should be my request, but that I am full.
Wid. What can you do? What's her name, my lord?
Fee. Her name? I know not. What's her name, Master Welltried?
Wel. Her name? 'Slid, tell my lady your name.
Bold. Mistress Mary Princox, forsooth.
Wid. Mistress Mary Princox. She has wit, I perceive that already. Methinks she speaks as if she were my lord's brood.
Bold. Brood, madam? 'Tis well known I am a gentlewoman. My father was a man of five hundred per annum, and he held something in capite too.
Wel. So does my lord something.
Fee. Nay, by my troth, what I hold in capite is worth little or nothing.
Bold. I have had apt breeding, however, my misfortune now makes me submit myself to service; but there is no ebb so low, but hath his tide again. When our days are at worst, they will mend in spite of the frowning destinies, for we cannot be lower than earth; and the same blind dame that hath cast her blear eyes hitherto upon my occasions may turn her wheel, and at last wind them up with her white hand to some pinnacle that prosperously may flourish in the sunshine of promotion.
Fee. O mouth, full of agility! I would give twenty marks now to any person that could teach me to convey my tongue (sans stumbling) with such dexterity to such a period. For her truth and her honesty I am bound before, but now I have heard her talk, for her wit I will be bound body and goods.
Wid. Ud's light, I will not leave her for my hood. I never met with one of these eloquent old gentlewomen before. What age are you, Mistress Mary Princox?
Bold. I will not lie, madam. I have numbered fifty-seven summers, and just so many winters have I passed.
Sub. But they have not passed you; they lie frozen in your face.
Bold. Madam, if it shall please you to entertain me, so; if not, I desire you not to misconstrue my goodwill. There's no harm done; the door's as big as it was, and your ladyship's own wishes crown your beauty with content. As for these frumping gallants, let them do their worst. It is not in man's power to hurt me. 'Tis well known I come not to be scoffed. A woman may bear and bear, till her back burst. I am a poor gentlewoman, and since virtue hath nowadays no other companion but poverty, I set the hare's head unto the goose giblets, and what I want one way, I hope I shall be enabled to supply the other.
Fee. An't please God, that thou wert not past children.
Wid. Is't even so, my lord? Nay, good Princox, do not cry. I do entertain you. How do you occupy? What can you use?
Bold. Anything fit to be put into the hands of a gentlewoman.
Wid. What are your qualities?
Bold. I can sleep on a low stool. If your ladyship be talking in the same room with any gentleman, I can read on a book, sing love-songs, look up at the loover light,[81] hear and be deaf, see and be blind, be ever dumb to your secrets, swear and equivocate, and whatsoever I spy, say the best.
Wid. O rare crone, how art thou endued! But why did Master Bold's sister put you away?
Bold. I beseech you, madam, to neglect that desire: though I know your ladyship's understanding to be sufficient to partake, or take in, the greatest secret can be imparted, yet——
Wid. Nay, prythee, tell the cause. Come, here's none but friends.
Bold. Faith, madam, heigho! I was (to confess truly) a little foolish in my last service to believe men's oaths, but I hope my example, though prejudicial to myself, will be beneficial to other young gentlewomen in service. My mistress's brother (the gentleman you named even now—Master Bold), having often attempted my honour, but finding it impregnable, vowed love and marriage to me at the last. I, a young thing and raw, being seduced, set my mind upon him, but friends contradicting the match, I fell into a grievous consumption; and upon my first recovery, lest the intended sacred ceremonies of nuptials should succeed, his sister, knowing this, thought it fit in her judgment we should be farther asunder, and so put me out of her service.
Omnes. Ha, ha, ha!
Wid. God-a-mercy for this discovery, i' faith.
O man, what art thou when thy cock is up?
Come, will your lordship walk in? 'tis dinner-time.
Enter hastily Seldom, with papers on his arm.
Omnes. Who's this? who's this?
Maid. This is our landlord, Master Seldom, an exceeding wise citizen, a very sufficient understanding man, and exceeding rich.
Omnes. Miracles are not ceased.
Wid. Good morrow, landlord. Where have you been sweating?
Sel. Good morrow to your honours: thrift is industrious. Your ladyship knows we will not stick to sweat for our pleasures: how much more ought we to sweat for our profits! I am come from Master Ingen this morning, who is married, or to be married; and though your ladyship did not honour his nuptials with your presence, he hath by me sent each of you a pair of gloves, and Grace Seldom, my wife, is not forgot.
[Exit.
Omnes. God give him joy, God give him joy.
[Exeunt.[82]
Maid. Let all things most impossible change now!
O perjur'd man! oaths are but words, I see.
But wherefore should not we, that think we love
Upon full merit, that same worth once ceasing,
Surcease our love too, and find new desert?
Alas! we cannot; love's a pit which, when
We fall into, we ne'er get out again:
And this same horrid news which me assaults,
I would forget: love blanches blackest faults.
O, what path shall I tread for remedy
But darkest shades, where love with death doth lie!
[Exit.
Manent Husband, Wife, Subtle.
Wife. Sir, I have often heard my husband speak
Of your acquaintance.
Hus. Nay, my virtuous wife,
Had it been but acquaintance, this his absence
Had not appear'd so uncouth: but we two
Were school-fellows together, born and nurs'd,
Brought up, and liv'd since, like the Gemini:
Had but one suck: the tavern or the ordinary,
Ere I was married, that saw one of us
Without the other, said we walk'd by halves.
Where, dear—dear friend, have you been all this while?
Sub. O most sweet friend, the world's so vicious,
That had I with such familiarity
Frequented you, since you were married,
Possess'd and us'd your fortunes as before,
As in like manner you commanded mine,
The deprav'd thoughts of men would have proclaim'd
Some scandalous rumours from this love of ours,
As saying mine reflected on your lady;
And what a wound had that been to our souls,
When only friendship should have been the ground
To hurt her honour and your confident peace,
Spite of mine own approv'd integrity?
Hus. Wife, kiss him, bid him welcome: pox o' th' world!
Come, come, you shall not part from me in haste.
I do command thee use this gentleman
In all things like myself: if I should die,
I would bequeath him in my will to thee.[83]
Wife. Sir, you are most welcome, and let scandalous tongues
No more deter you: I dare use you, sir,
With all the right belonging to a friend,
And what I dare, I dare let all men see.
My conscience, rather than men's thoughts, be free.
Hus. Will you look in? We'll follow you.
[Exit Wife.
Now, friend,
What think you of this lady?
Sub. Why, sweet friend,
That you are happy in her: she is fair,
Witty, and virtuous, and was rich to you.
Can there be an addition to a wife?
Hus. Yes, constancy; for 'tis not chastity
That lives remote, from all attempters free,
But there 'tis strong and pure, where all that woo
It doth resist,[84] and turns them virtuous too.
Therefore, dear friend, by this, love's masculine kiss,
By all our mutual engagements pass'd,
By all the hopes of amity to come,
Be you the settler of my jealous thoughts,
And make me kill my fond suspect of her
By assurance that she is loyal, otherwise
That she is false; and then, as she's past cure,
My soul shall ever after be past care.
That you are fittest for this enterprise,
You must needs understand; since, prove she true
In this your trial, you (my dearest friend).
Whom only rather than the world besides,
I would have satisfied of her virtue, shall see[85]
And best conceal my folly. Prove she weak,
'Tis better you should know't than any man,
Who can reform her, and do me no wrong.
Chemical metals, and bright gold itself,
By sight are not distinguish'd, but by th' test:
Thought makes good wives, but trial makes the best.
To the unskilful owner's eyes alike
The Bristow sparkles as the diamond,[86]
But by a lapidary the truth is found—
Come, you shall not deny me.
Sub. Do not wrong
So fair a wife, friend, and so virtuous,
Whose good name is a theme unto the world:
Make not a wound with searching, where was none.
Misfortune still such projects doth pursue;
He makes a false wife that suspects a true.
Yet since you so importune, give me leave
To ruminate awhile, and I will straight
Follow, and give you an answer.
Hus. You must do it.
[Exit.
Sub. Assure yourself, dear coxcomb, I will do't,
Or strangely be denied. All's as I wish'd;
This was my aim, although I have seem'd strange.
I know this fellow now to be an ass,
A most unworthy husband, though in view
He bear himself thus fair; she knows this too,
Therefore the stronger are my hopes to gain her;
And, my dear friend, that will have your wife tried,
I'll try her first, then trust her, if I can;
And, as you said most wisely, I hope to be
Both touchstone to your wife and lapidary.
[Exit.