DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
| Sir Lionel Rash. |
| Old Geraldine. |
| Geraldine. |
| Will Rash. |
| Spendall. |
| Staines. |
| Bubble. |
| Longfield. |
| Balance. |
| Scattergood. |
| Ninnihammer. |
| Master Blank. |
| Pursenet. |
| Lodge. |
| Holdfast. |
| Fox. |
| Gatherscrap. |
| Baskethilt. |
| Sprinkle. |
| Prisoners. |
| Drawers, &c. |
| Women. |
| Gertrude. |
| Joyce. |
| Phillis. |
| Widow. |
| Sweatman, a bawd. |
| Nan Tickleman, a whore. |
[THE CITY GALLANT.]
A mercer's shop discovered, Gertrude working in it; Spendall walking by the shop. Master Balance walking over the stage. After him Longfield and Geraldine.
Spend. What lack you, sir? fair stuffs or velvets?
Bal. Good morrow, Frank.
Spend. Good morrow, Master Balance.
Gera. Save you, Master Longfield.
Long. And you, sir. What business draws you towards this end o' th' town?
Gera. Faith, no great serious affairs; only a stirring humour to walk, and partly to see the beauties of the city: but it may be you can instruct me. Pray, whose shop's this?
Long. Why, 'tis Will Rash's father's: a man you are well acquainted with.
Enter a Wench with a basket of linen.
Gera. As with yourself: and is that his sister?
Long. Marry, is it, sir?
Gera. Pray, let us walk: I would behold her better.
Wench. Buy some coifs, handkerchiefs, or very good bonelace, mistress?
Gert. None.
Wench. Will you buy any handkerchiefs, sir?
Spend. Yes. Have you any fine ones?
Wench. I'll show you choice: please you look, sir?
Spend. How now! what news?
Wench. Mistress Tickleman has sent you a letter, and expects your company at night: and entreats you to send her an angel, whether you can come, or whether you cannot.
[Spendall reads.
Sweet rascal; if your love be as earnest as your protestation, you will meet me this night at supper: you know the rendezvous. There will be good company; a noise of choice fiddlers;[153] a fine boy with an excellent voice; very good songs, and bawdy; and, which is more, I do purpose myself to be exceeding merry; but if you come not, I shall pout myself sick, and not eat one bit to-night,
Your continual close friend,
Nan Tickleman.
I pray send me an angel by the bearer, whether ye can come, or whether ye cannot.
Spend. What's the price of these two?
Wench. Half a crown, in truth.
Spend. Hold thee; there's an angel, and commend me to my delight; tell her I will not fail her, though I lose my freedom by't.
[Aside.
Wench. I thank you, sir. Buy any fine handkerchiefs?
[Exit Wench.
Long. You are taken, sir, extremely: what's the object?
Gera. She's wondrous fair.
Long. Nay, and your thoughts be on wenching, I'll leave you.
Gera. You shall not be so unfriendly; pray, assist me:
We'll to the shop, and cheapen stuffs or satins.
Spend. What lack you, gentlemen? fine stuffs, velvets, or satins? pray, come near.
Gera. Let me see a good satin.
Spend. You shall, sir. What colour?
Gera. Faith, I am indifferent. What colour most affects you, lady?
Gert. Sir!
Gera. Without offence, fair creature, I demand it.
Gert. Sir, I believe it; but I never did
Tie my affection unto any colour.
Gera. But my affection, fairest, is fast tied
Unto the crimson colour of your cheek.
Gert. You relish too much courtier, sir.
Long. What's the price of this?
Spend. Fifteen,[154] indeed, sir.
Long. You set a high rate on't; it had need be good.
Spend. Good! if you find a better i' th' town, I'll give you mine for nothing. If you were my own brother, I'd put it into your hands. Look upon't; 'tis close-wrought, and has an excellent gloss.
Long. Ay, I see't.
Spend. Pray, sir, come into the next room: I'll show you that of a lower price shall perhaps better please you.
Long. This fellow has an excellent tongue: sure, he was brought up in the Exchange.
Spend. Will you come in, sir?
Long. No; 'tis no matter, for I mean to buy none.
Gera. Prythee, walk in; what you bargain for, I'll discharge.
Long. Say so? fall to your work, I'll be your chapman.
[Exeunt Spendall, Longfield.
Gera. Why do you say I flatter?
Gert. Why! you do;
And so do all men when they women woo.
Gera. Who looks on heaven, and not admires the work?
Who views a well-cut diamond does not praise
The beauty of the stone? if these deserve
The name of excellent, I lack a word
For thee, which merit'st more—
More than the tongue of man can attribute.
Gert. This is pretty poetry: good fiction, this.
Sir, I must leave you.
Gera. Leave with me first some comfort.
Gert. What would you crave?
Gera. That which I fear you will not let me have.
Gert. You do not know my bounty. Say what 'tis?
Gera. No more, fair creature, than a modest kiss.
Gert. If I should give you one, would you refrain,
On that condition, ne'er to beg again?
Gera. I dare not grant to that.
Gert. Then't seems you have,
Though you get nothing, a delight to crave.
One will not hurt my lip, which you may take,
Not for your love, but for your absence sake.
So farewell, sir.
[Exit Gertrude.
Gera. O, fare thee well, fair regent of my soul!
Never let ill sit near thee, unless it come
To purge itself. Be, as thou ever seemest,
An angel of thy sex, born to make happy
The man that shall possess thee for his bride.
Enter Spendall and Longfield.
Spend. Will you have it for thirteen shillings and sixpence? I'll fall to as low a price as I can, because I'll buy your custom.
Long. How now, man? what, entranced?
Gera. Good sir, ha' you done?
Long. Yes, faith, I think as much as you, and 'tis just nothing. Where's the wench?
Gera. She's here, sir, here.
[Points to his heart.
Long. Ud's pity! unbutton, man, thou'lt stifle her else.
Gera. Nay, good sir, will you go?
Long. With all my heart; I stay but for you.
Spend. Do you hear, sir?
Long. What say you?
Spend. Will you take it for thirteen?
Long. Not a penny more than I bid.
[Exeunt Geraldine and Longfield.
Spend. Why, then, say you might have had a good bargain. Where's this boy to make up the wares? Here's some ten pieces opened, and all to no purpose.
Enter Boy.
Boy. O Frank! shut up shop, shut up shop!
Spend. Shut up shop, boy? Why?
Boy. My master is come from the court knighted, and bid us; for he says he will have the first year of the reign of his knighthood kept holiday: here he comes.
Enter Sir Lionel Rash.
Spend. God give your worship joy, sir.
Sir L. Rash. O Frank! I have the worship now in the right kind; the sword of my knighthood sticks still upon my shoulders, and I feel the blow in my purse; it has cut two leather bags asunder. But all's one, honour must be purchased. I will give over my city coat, and betake myself to the court jacket. As for trade, I will deal in't no longer; I will seat thee in my shop, and it shall be thy care to ask men what they lack: my stock shall be summed up, and I will call thee to an account for it.
Spend. My service, sir, never deserved so much;
Nor could I ever hope so large a bounty
Could spring out of your love.
Sir L. Rash. That's all one.
I do love to do things beyond men's hopes.
To-morrow I remove into the Strand:
There for this quarter dwell, the next at Fulham.
He that hath choice, may shift; the whilst shalt thou
Be master of this house, and rent it free.
Spend. I thank you, sir.
Sir L. Rash. To-day I'll go dine with my Lord Mayor,
To-morrow with the sheriffs, and next day
With th' aldermen. I will spread the ensign
Of my knighthood over the face of the city,
Which shall strike as great a terror to my enemies
As ever Tamerlane [did] to the Turks.
Come, Frank, come in with me, and see the meat,
Upon the which my knighthood first shall eat.
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter Staines.
Staines. There is a devil has haunted me these three years, in likeness of an usurer: a fellow that in all his life never ate three groat loaves out of his own purse, nor ever warmed him but at other men's fires; never saw a joint of mutton in his own house these four-and-twenty years, but always cosened the poor prisoners, for he always bought his victuals out of the alms-basket; and yet this rogue now feeds upon capons, which my tenants send him out of the country; he is landlord, forsooth, over all my possessions. Well, I am spent; and this rogue has consumed me. I dare not walk abroad to see my friends, for fear the serjeants should take acquaintance of me: my refuge is Ireland or Virginia:[155] necessity cries out, and I will presently to West Chester.
Enter Bubble.
How now, Bubble! hast thou pack'd up all thy things?
Our parting-time is come: nay, prythee, do not weep.
Bub. Affection, sir, will burst out.
Staines. Thou hast been a faithful servant to me. Go to thy uncle, he'll give thee entertainment: tell him, upon the stony rock of his merciless heart my fortunes suffer shipwreck.
Bub. I will tell him he is an usuring rascal, and one that would do the commonwealth good if he were hanged.
Staines. Which thou hast cause to wish for; thou art his heir, my affectionate Bubble.
Bub. But, master, wherefore should we be parted?
Staines. Because my fortunes are desperate, thine are hopeful.
Bub. Why, but whither do you mean to go, master?
Staines. Why, to sea.
Bub. To sea! Lord bless us, methinks I hear of a tempest already. But what will you do at sea?
Staines. Why, as other gallants do that are spent, turn pirate.
Bub. O master, have the grace of Wapping before your eyes, remember a high tide;[156] give not your friends cause to wet their handkerchiefs. Nay, master, I'll tell you a better course than so; you and I will go and rob my uncle; if we 'scape, we'll domineer together; if we be taken, we'll be hanged together at Tyburn; that's the warmer gallows of the two.
Enter Messenger.
Mes. By your leave, sir, whereabouts dwells one Master Bubble?
Bub. Do you hear, my friend? do you know Master Bubble, if you do see him?
Mes. No, in truth, do I not.
Bub. What is your business with Master Bubble?
Mes. Marry, sir, I come with welcome news to him.
Bub. Tell it, my friend: I am the man.
Mes. May I be assured, sir, that your name is Master Bubble?
Bub. I tell thee, honest friend, my name is Master Bubble, Master Bartholomew Bubble.
Mes. Why then, sir, you are heir to a million; for your uncle, the rich usurer, is dead.
Bub. Pray thee, honest friend, go to the next haberdasher's, and bid him send me a new melancholy hat, and take thou that for thy labour.
Mes. I will, sir.
[Exit.
Enter another Messenger hastily, and knocks.
Bub. Umh. umh, umh!
Staines. I would the news were true: see how my little Bubble is blown up with't!
Bub. Do you hear, my friend; for what do you knock there?
2D Mes. Marry, sir, I would speak with the worshipful Master Bubble.
Bub. The worshipful! and what would you do with the worshipful Master Bubble? I am the man.
2D Mes. I cry your worship mercy then: Master Thong, the belt-maker, sent me to your worship, to give you notice that your uncle is dead, and that you are his only heir.
[Exit.
Bub. Thy news is good, and I have look'd for't long;
Thanks unto thee, my friend, and goodman Thong.
Enter Master Blank.
Staines. Certainly this news is true; for see another: by this light, his scrivener! Now, Master Blank, whither away so fast?
Blank. Master Staines, God save you. Where is your man?
Staines. Why, look you, sir; do you not see him?
Blank. God save the right worshipful Master Bubble; I bring you heavy news with a light heart.
Bub. What are you?
Blank. I am your worship's poor scrivener.
Bub. He is an honest man, it seems, for he hath both his ears.
Blank. I am one that your worship's uncle committed some trust in for the putting out of his money, and I hope I shall have the putting out of yours.
Bub. The putting out of mine! Would you have the putting out of my money?
Blank. Yea, sir.
Bub. No, sir, I am old enough to put out my own money.
Blank. I have writings of your worship's.
Staines. As thou lov'st thy profit, hold thy tongue; thou and I will confer.
[Aside.]
Bub. Do you hear, my friend? Can you tell me when and how my uncle died?
Blank. Yes, sir; he died this morning, and he was killed by a butcher.
Bub. How! by a butcher?
Blank. Yes indeed, sir; for going this morning into the market to cheapen meat, he fell down stark dead, because a butcher asked him four shillings for a shoulder of mutton.
Bub. How, stark dead! and could not aqua vitæ fetch him again?
Blank. No, sir; nor rosa solis neither; and yet there was trial made of both.
Bub. I shall love aqua vitæ and rosa solis the better while I live.
[Aside.
Staines. Will it please your worship to accept of my poor service? you know my case is desperate; I beseech you that I may feed upon your bread, though it be of the brownest, and drink of your drink, though it may be of the smallest; for I am humble in body and dejected in mind, and will do your worship as good service for forty shillings a year as another shall for three pounds.
Bub. I will not stand with you for such a matter, because you have been my master; but otherwise I will entertain no man without some knight's or lady's letter for their behaviour. Gervase, I take it, is your Christian name?
Staines. Yes, if it please your worship.
Bub. Well, Gervase, be a good servant, and you shall find me a dutiful master; and because you have been a gentleman, I will entertain you for my tutor in behaviour. Conduct me to my palace.
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter Geraldine, as in his study, reading.
Gera. As little children love to play with fire,
And will not leave till they themselves do burn;
So did I fondly dally with desire,
Until love's flame grew hot; I could not turn,
Nor well avoid, but sigh, and sob, and mourn,
As children do, when as they feel the pain,
Till tender mothers kiss them whole again.
Fie! what unsavoury stuff is this! but she,
Whose mature judgment can distinguish things,
Will thus conceit: tales, that are harshest told,
Have smoothest meanings, and to speak are bold.
It is the first-born sonnet of my brain;
Why[157] suck'd a white leaf from my black-lipp'd pen
So sad employment?
Enter Will Rash and Longfield.
Yet the dry paper drinks it up as deep,
As if it flow'd from Petrarch's cunning quill.
W. Rash. How now! what have we here? a sonnet and a satire, coupled together like my lady's dog and her monkey?
As little children, &c.
Gera. Prythee, away: by the deepest oath that can be sworn, thou shalt not read it; by our friendship I conjure thee! prythee, let go.
W. Rash. Now, in the name of Cupid, what want'st thou? a pigeon, a dove, a mate, a turtle? Dost thou love fowl, ha?
O no; she's fairer thrice than is the queen,
Who beauteous Venus called is by name.
Prythee, let me know what she is thou lovest, that I may shun her if I should chance to meet her.
Long. Why, I'll tell you, sir, what she is, if you do not know.
W. Rash. No, not I, I protest.
Long. Why, 'tis your sister.
W. Rash. How! my sister?
Long. Yes, your eldest sister.
W. Rash. Now God bless the man: he had better choose a wench that has been bred and born in an alley: her tongue is a perpetual motion; thought is not so swift as it is; and, for pride, the woman that had her ruff poked by the devil is but a puritan to her.[158] Thou couldst never have fastened thy affection on a worse subject; she'll flout
faster than a court waiting-woman in progress[159]; any man that comes in the way of honesty does she set her mark upon, that is, a villanous jest; for she is a kind of poetess, and will make ballads upon the calves of your legs. I prythee, let her alone, she'll never make a good wife for any man, unless it be a leather-dresser; for perhaps he in time may turn her.
Gera. Thou hast a privilege to utter this:
But, by my life, my own blood could not 'scape
A chastisement for thus profaning her
Whose virtues sit above men's calumnies.
Had mine own brother spoke thus liberally,[160]
My fury should have taught him better manners.
Long. No more words, as you fear a challenge.
W. Rash. I may tell thee in thine ear, I am glad to hear what I do; I pray God send her no worse husband, nor he no worse wife.
Do you hear, love, will you take your cloak and rapier,
And walk abroad into some wholesome air?
I do much fear thy infection: good counsel,
I see, will do no good on thee; but pursue the end,
And to thy thoughts I'll prove a faithful friend.
[Exeunt.
Enter Spendall, Nan Tickleman, Sweatman, Pursenet, and a Drawer.
Spend. Here's a spacious room to walk in: sirrah, set down the candle, and fetch us a quart of ipocras[161], and so we'll part.
Sweat. Nay, faith, son, we'll have a pottle; let's ne'er be covetous in our young days.
Spend. A pottle, sirrah; do you hear?
Drawer. Yes, sir, you shall.
Spend. How now, wench! how dost?
Tickle. Faith, I am somewhat sick; yet I should be well enough if I had a new gown.
Spend. Why, here's my hand; within these three days thou shalt have one.
Sweat. And will you, son, remember me for a new forepart? by my troth, my old one is worn so bare, I am ashamed anybody should see't.
Spend. Why, did I ever fail of my promise?
Sweat. No, in sincerity, didst thou not.
Enter Drawer.
Drawer. Here's a cup of rich ipocras.
[Exit.
Spend. Here, sister, mother, and Master Pursenet: nay, good sir, be not so dejected; for, by this wine, to-morrow I will send you stuff for a new suit, and as much as shall line you a cloak clean through.
Purse. I thank you, and shall study to deserve——
Spend. Here, boy, fill, and hang that curmudgeon, that's good for nobody but himself.
Purse. Heroicly spoken, by this candle! 'tis pity thou wert not made a lord.
Spend. A lord? by this light, I do not think but to be Lord Mayor of London before I die, and have three pageants carried before me, besides a ship and an unicorn. 'Prentices may pray for that time; for whenever it happens, I will make another Shrove Tuesday[162] for them.
Enter Drawer.
Drawer. Young Master Rash has sent you a quart of Malaga[163].
Spend. Master Rash! zounds! how does he know that I am here?
Drawer. Nay, I know not, sir.
Spend. Know not! it comes through you and your rascally glib-tongued companions. 'Tis my master's son: a fine gentleman he is, and a boon companion: I must go see him.
[Exit Spendall.
Sweat. Boy, fill us a cup of your malaga, we'll drink to Master Spendall in his absence: there's not a finer spirit of a citizen within the walls. Here, Master Pursenet, you shall pledge him.
Purse. I'll not refuse it, were it puddle: by Styx, he is a bountiful gentleman, and I shall report him so. Here, Mistress Tickleman, shall I charge you?
Tickle. Do your worst, serjeant: I'll pledge my young Spendall a whole sea, as they say: fa, la, la, la, la! Would the music were here again; I do begin to be wanton. Ipocras, sirrah, and a dry biscuit! Here, bawd, a carouse!
Sweat. Bawd, i' faith! you begin to grow light i' the head. I pray no more such words; for, if you do, I shall grow into distempers.
Tickle. Distempers! hang your distempers; be angry with me, and thou dar'st. I pray, who feeds you, but I? who keeps thy feather-beds from the brokers, but I? 'tis not your sausage-face, thick, clouted[164] cream-rampallion[165] at home, that snuffles in the nose like a decayed bagpipe.
Purse. Nay, sweet Mistress Tickleman, be concordant; reverence antiquity.
Enter Rash, Longfield, and Spendall.
Rash. Save you, sweet creatures of beauty, save you: how now, old Beelzebub, how dost thou?
Sweat. Beelzebub! Beelzebub in thy face!
Spend. Nay, good words, Mistress Sweatman: he's a young gallant; you must not weigh what he says.
Rash. I would my lamentable complaining lover had been here: here had been a supersedeas for his melancholy; and, i' faith, Frank, I am glad my father has turned over his shop to thee. I hope I, or any friend of mine, shall have so much credit with thee, as to stand in thy books for a suit of satin.
Spend. For a whole piece, if you please; any friend of yours shall command me to the last remnant.
Rash. Why, God-a-mercy, Frank; what, shall's to dice?
Spend. Dice or drink: here's forty crowns: as long as that will last—anything.
Rash. Why, there spoke a gingling boy.
Spend. A pox of money! 'tis but rubbish; and he that hoards it up is but a scavenger. If there be cards i' the house, let's go to primero.
Rash. Primero! why, I thought thou hadst not been so much gamester as to play at it.
Spend. Gamester! to say truth, I am none; but what is it I will not be in good company? I will fit myself to all humours; I will game with a gamester, drink with a drunkard, be civil with a citizen, fight with a swaggerer, and drab with a whoremaster.
Enter a Swaggerer, puffing.
Rash. An excellent humour, i' faith.
Long. Zounds! what have we here?
Spend. A land-porpoise, I think.
Rash. This is no angry, nor no roaring boy, but a blustering boy: now, Æolus defend us! what puffs are these?
Swag. I do smell a whore.
Drawer. O gentlemen, give him good words; he's one of the roaring boys.
Swag. Rogue!
Drawer. Here, sir.
Swag. Take my cloak, I must unbuckle; my pickled oysters work; puff, puff!
Spend. Puff, puff!
Swag. Dost thou retort—in opposition stand?
Spend. Out, you swaggering rogue! zounds, I'll kick him out of the room!
[Beats him away.
Tickle. Out, alas! their naked tools are out.
Spend. Fear not, sweetheart; come along with me.
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter Gertrude sola.
Gert. Thrice-happy days they were, and too soon gone,
When as the heart was coupled with the tongue;
And no deceitful flattery or guile
Hung on the lover's tear-commixed smile.
Could women learn but that imperiousness,
By which men use to stint our happiness,
When they have purchas'd us for to be theirs
By customary sighs and forced tears:
To give us bits of kindness, lest we faint,
But no abundance that we ever want,
And still are begging; which too well they know
Endears affection, and doth make it grow:
Had we these sleights, how happy were we then,
That we might glory over lovesick men!
But arts we know not, nor have any skill
To feign a sour look to a pleasing will;
Enter Joyce.
Nor couch a secret love in show of hate:
But, if we like, must be compassionate.
Yet I will strive to bridle and conceal
The hid affection which my heart doth feel.
Joyce. Now the boy with the bird-bolt[166] be praised! Nay, faith, sister, forward: 'twas an excellent passion.[167] Come, let's hear, what is he? If he be a proper man, and have a black eye, a smooth chin, and a curled pate, take him, wench; if my father will not consent, run away with him, I'll help to convey you.
Gert. You talk strangely, sister.
Joyce. Sister, sister, dissemble not with me, though you do mean to dissemble with your lover. Though you have protested to conceal your affection, by this tongue, you shall not; for I'll discover all, as soon as I know the gentleman.
Gert. Discover! what will you discover?
Joyce. Marry, enough, I'll warrant thee. First and foremost, I'll tell him thou read'st love-passions in print, and speakest every morning without book to thy looking-glass: next, that thou never sleepest till an hour after the bellman: that, as soon as thou art asleep, thou art in a dream, and in a dream thou art the kindest and comfortablest bed-fellow for kissings and embracings: by this hand, I cannot rest for thee: but our father——
Enter Sir Lionel.
Sir Lionel. How now! what are you two consulting on? On husbands? You think you lose time, I am sure; but hold your own a little, girls; it shall not be long ere I'll provide for you: and for you, Gertrude, I have bethought myself already.
Whirlpit, the usurer, is late deceas'd:
A man of unknown wealth, which he has left
Unto a provident kinsman, as I hear,
That was once servant to that unthrift Staines.
A prudent gentleman they say he is,
And, as I take it, called Master Bubble.
Joyce. Bubble!
[She makes a grimace.
Sir Lionel. Yes, nimble-chaps; what say you to that?
Joyce. Nothing; but that I wish his Christian name were Water.[168]
Gert. Sir, I'm at your disposing; but my mind
Stands not as yet towards marriage.
Were you so pleas'd, I would a little longer
Enjoy the quiet of a single bed.
Sir Lionel. Here's the right trick of them all: let a man
Be motion'd to 'em, they could be content
To lead a single life, forsooth: when the harlots
Do pine and run into diseases,
Eat chalk and oatmeal, cry and creep in corners,
Which are manifest tokens of their longings;
And yet they will dissemble. [Aside.] But, Gertude,
As you do owe me reverence, and will pay it,
Prepare yourself to like this gentleman,
Who can maintain thee in thy choice of gowns,
Of tires, of servants, and of costly jewels;
Nay for a need, out of his easy nature,
May'st draw him to the keeping of a coach
For country, and caroch[169] for London:
Indeed, what might'st thou not?
Enter a Servant.
Ser. Sir, here's one come from Master Bubble.
To invite you to the funeral of his uncle.
Sir Lionel. Thank the messenger, and make him drink.
Tell him, I will not fail to wait the corse:
Yet stay, I will go talk with him myself.
Gertrude, think upon what I have told you,
And let me, ere it be long, receive your answer.
[Exeunt Sir Lionel and Servant.
Joyce. Sister, sister!
Gert. What say you, sister?
Joyce. Shall I provide a cord?
Gert. A cord! what to do?
Joyce. Why, to let thee out at the window. Do not I know that thou wilt run away with the gentleman for whom you made the passion, rather than endure this same Bubble that my father talks of? 'Twere good you would let me be of your counsel, lest I break the neck of your plot.
Gert. Sister, [you] know I love thee,
And I'll not think a thought thou shalt not know.
I love a gentleman, that answers me
In all the rights of love as faithfully:
Has woo'd me oft with sonnets and with tears:
Yet I seem still to slight him. Experience tells,
The jewel that's enjoy'd is not esteem'd;
Things hardly got are always highest deem'd.
Joyce. You say well, sister; but it is not good to linger out too long; continuance of time will take away any man's stomach in the world. I hope the next time that he comes to you I shall see him.
Gert. You shall.
Joyce. Why, go to then: you shall have my opinion of him. If he deserve thee, thou shalt delay him no longer; for if you cannot find in your heart to tell him you love him, I'll sigh it out for you. Come, we little creatures must help one another.
[Exeunt.
Enter Geraldine.
Gera. How cheerfully things look in this place!
'Tis always spring-time here; such is the grace
And potency of her who has the bliss
To make it still Elysium where she is.
Nor doth the king of flames in's golden fires,
After a tempest, answer men's desires,
When as he casts his comfortable beams
Over the flowery fields and silver streams,
As her illustrate beauty strikes in me,
And wraps my soul up to felicity.
Enter Gertrude and Joyce aloft.
Joyce. Do you hear, sir?
Gert. Why, sister, what will you do?
Joyce. By my maidenhead, an oath which I ne'er took in vain, either go down and comfort him, or I'll call him up and disclose all. What, will you have no mercy, but let a proper man, that might spend the spirit of his youth upon yourself, fall into a consumption? for shame, sister!
Gert. You are the strangest creature—what would you have me do?
Joyce. Marry, I would have you go to him, take him by the hand, and gripe him; say, You are welcome, I love you with all my heart, you are the man must do the feat; and take him about the neck, and kiss upon the bargain.
Gert. Fie, how you talk! 'tis mere immodesty;
The common'st strumpet would not do so much.
Joyce. Marry, the better; for such as are honest
Should still do what the common strumpet will not.
Speak, will you do it?
Gert. I'll lose his company for ever first.
Joyce. Do you hear, sir? here is a gentlewoman would speak with you.
Gert. Why, sister! pray, sister——
Joyce. One that loves you with all her heart, yet is ashamed to confess it.
Gert. Good sister, hold your tongue: I will go down to him.
Joyce. Do not jest with me; for, by this hand, I'll either get him up, or go down myself, and read the whole history of your love to him.
Gert. If you forbear to call, I will go down.
Joyce. Let me see your back, then; and hear you, do not use him scurvily: you were best unset all your tyrannical looks, and bid him lovingly welcome, or, as I live, I'll stretch out my voice again. Ud's foot, I must take some pains, I see, or we shall never have this gear cotten;[170] but, to say truth, the fault is in my melancholy monsieur; for if he had but half so much spirit as he has flesh, he might have boarded her by this. But see, yonder she marches; now a passion on his side of half an hour long: his hat is off already, as if he were begging one poor pennyworth of kindness.
Enter Gertrude below.
Gera. Shall I presume, fair mistress, on your hand to lay my unworthy lip?
Joyce. Fie upon him! I am ashamed to hear him; you shall have a country fellow at a maypole go better to his work. He had need to be constant, for he is able to spoil as many maids as he shall fall in love withal.
Gert. Sir, you profess love unto me; let me entreat you it may appear but in some small request.
Gera. Let me know it, lady, and I shall soon effect it.
Gert. But for this present to forbear this place,
Because my father is expected here.
Gera. I am gone, lady.
Joyce. Do you hear, sir?
Gera. Did you call?
Joyce. Look up to the window.
Gera. What say you, gentlewoman?
Gert. Nay, pray sir, go; it is my sister calls to hasten you.
Joyce. I call to speak with you; pray, stay a little.
Gera. The gentlewoman has something to say to me.
Gert. She has nothing. I do conjure you, as you love me, stay not.
[Exit Joyce.
Gera. The power of magic cannot fasten me; I am gone.
Gert. Good sir, look back no more, what voice e'er call you.
Imagine going from me, you were coming,
And use the same speed, as you love my safety.
[Exit Geraldine.
Wild-witted sister, I have prevented you:
I will not have my love yet open'd to him.
By how much longer 'tis, ere it be known,
By so much dearer 'twill be when 'tis purchas'd.
But I must use my strength to stop her journey,
For she will after him: and see, she comes.
Enter Joyce below.
Nay, sister, you are at farthest.
Joyce. Let me go, you were best;
For if you wrestle with me, I shall throw you.
Passion! come back, fool; lover, turn again,
And kiss your bellyful;
For here she is will stand you, do your worst.
Will you let me go?
Gert. Yes, if you'll stay.
Joyce. If I stir a foot, hang me; you shall come together yourselves, and be naught. Do what you will; for if e'er I trouble myself again, let me want help in such a case when I need.
Gert. Nay, but prythee, sister, be not angry.
Joyce. I will be angry. Ud's foot! I cannot endure such foolery, I! Two bashful fools that would couple together, and yet ha' not the faces.
Gert. Nay, prythee, sweet sister!
Joyce. Come, come, let me go. Birds, that want the use of reason and speech, can couple together in one day; and yet you, that have both, cannot conclude in twenty.
Gert. Why, what good would it do you to tell him?
Joyce. Do not talk to me, for I am deaf to anything you say. Go, weep and cry.
Gert. Nay, but sister——
[Exeunt.
Enter Staines and Drawer with wine.
Staines. Drawer, bid them make haste at home.
Tell them they are coming from church.
Drawer. I will, sir.
[Exit Drawer.
Staines. That I should live to be a servingman! a fellow which scalds his mouth with another man's porridge; brings up meat for other men's bellies, and carries away the bones for his own; changes his clean trencher for a foul one, and is glad of it. And yet did I never live so merry a life when I was my master's master as now I do, being man to my man. And I will stand to't, for all my former speeches, a servingman lives a better life than his master; and thus I prove it: The saying is, the nearer the bone the sweeter the flesh; then must the servingman needs eat the sweeter flesh, for he always picks the bones. And again, the proverb says, the deeper the sweeter. There has the servingman the advantage again, for he drinks still in the bottom of the pot. He fills his belly, and never asks what's to pay; wears broadcloth, and yet dares walk Watling Street,[171] without any fear of his draper. And for his colours, they are according to the season; in the summer, he is apparelled (for the most part) like the heavens, in blue; in winter, like the earth, in frieze.
Enter Bubble, Sir Lionel Longfield, and Sprinkle.
But see, I am prevented in my encomium. I could have maintained this theme this two hours.
Sir Lionel. Well, God rest his soul, he is gone, and we must all follow him.
Bub. Ay, ay, he's gone, Sir Lionel, he's gone,
Sir Lionel. Why, though he be gone, what then? 'Tis not you that can fetch him back again, with all your cunning. It must be your comfort that he died well.
Bub. Truly, and so it is. I would to God I had e'en another uncle that would die no worse; surely I shall weep again, if I should find my handkerchief.
Long. How now! what are these, onions?
Bub. Ay, ay, Sir Lionel, they are my onions; I thought to have had them roasted this morning for my cold. Gervase, you have not wept to-day; pray, take your onions. Gentlemen, the remembrance of death is sharp, therefore there is a banquet within to sweeten your conceits. I pray, walk in, gentlemen, walk you in; you know I must needs be melancholy, and keep my chamber. Gervase, usher them to the banquet.
Staines. I shall, sir. Please you, Sir Lionel?
Sir Lionel. Well, Master Bubble, we'll go in and taste of your bounty.
In the meantime, you must be of good cheer.
[Gentlemen and Gervase go out.
Bub. If grief take not away my stomach,
I will have good cheer, I warrant you. Sprinkle!
Sprin. Sir.
Bub. Had the women puddings to their dole?[172]
Sprin. Yes, sir.
Bub. And how did they take 'em?
Sprin. Why, with their hands. How should they take 'em?
Bub. O thou Hercules of ignorance! I mean, how were they satisfied?
Sprin. By my troth, sir, but so-so; and yet some of them had two.
Bub. O insatiable women, whom two puddings would not satisfy! But vanish, Sprinkle; bid your fellow Gervase come hither.
[Exit Sprinkle.
And off, my mourning-robes: grief, to the grave,
For I have gold, and therefore will be brave:[173]
In silks I'll rattle it of every colour,
And, when I go by water, scorn a sculler.
Enter Staines.
In black carnation velvet I will cloak me,
And when men bid God save me, cry, Tu quoque.
It is needful a gentleman should speak Latin sometimes, is it not, Gervase?
Staines. O, very graceful, sir; your most accomplished gentlemen are known by it.
Bub. Why, then will I make use of that little I have upon times and occasions. Here, Gervase, take this bag, and run presently to the mercer's; buy me seven ells of horse-flesh-coloured taffata, nine yards of yellow satin, and eight yards of orange-tawny velvet. Then run to the tailor's, the haberdasher's, the sempster's, the cutler's, the perfumer's, and to all trades whatsoever, that belong to the making up of a gentleman; and, amongst the rest, let not the barber be forgotten: and look that he be an excellent fellow, and one that can snap his fingers with dexterity.[174]
Staines. I shall fit you, sir.
Bub. Do so, good Gervase: it is time my beard were corrected, for it is grown so saucy, as it begins to play with my nose.
Staines. Your nose, sir, must endure it; for it is in part the fashion.
Bub. Is it in fashion? why, then my nose shall endure it, let it tickle his worst.
Staines. Why, now y' are i' the right, sir; if you will be a true gallant, you must bear things resolute. As thus, sir; if you be at an ordinary, and chance to lose your money at play, you must not fret and fume, tear cards, and fling away dice, as your ignorant gamester or country-gentleman does; but you must put on a calm, temperate action, with a kind of careless smile in contempt of fortune, as not being able with all her engines to batter down one piece of your estate, that your means may be thought invincible. Never tell your money: nor what you have won, nor what you have lost. If a question be made, your answer must be: What I have lost, I have lost; what I have won, I have won. A close heart and free hand make a man admired: a testern or a shilling to a servant that brings you a glass of beer, binds his hands to his lips: you shall have more service of him than his master; he will be more humble to you than a cheater before a magistrate.
Bub. Gervase, give me thy hand: I think thou hast more wit than I, that am thy master; and for this speech only I do here create thee my steward. I do long, methinks, to be at an ordinary: to smile at fortune, and to be bountiful. Gervase, about your business, good Gervase, whilst I go and meditate upon a gentleman-like behaviour. I have an excellent gait already, Gervase, have I not?
Staines. Hercules himself, sir, had never a better gait.
Bub. But despatch, Gervase: the satin and the velvet must be thought upon, and the Tu quoque must not be forgotten; for whensoever I give arms, that shall be my motto.
[Exit Bubble.
Staines. What a fortune had I thrown upon me when I preferred myself into this fellow's service! Indeed, I serve myself, and not him; for this gold here is my own, truly purchased: he has credit, and shall run i' th' books for't. I'll carry things so cunningly, that he shall not be able to look into my actions. My mortgage I have already got into my hands: the rent he shall enjoy awhile, till his riot constrain him to sell it; which I will purchase with his own money. I must cheat a little: I have been cheated upon. Therefore I hope the world will a little the better excuse me. What his uncle craftily got from me, I will knavishly recover of him. To come by it, I must vary shapes, and my first shift shall be in satin.
Proteus, propitious be to my disguise,
And I shall prosper in my enterprise.
[Exit.
Enter Spendall, Pursenet, and a Boy with rackets.
Spend. A rubber, sirrah.
Boy. You shall, sir.
Spend. And bid those two men you said would speak with me come in.
Boy. I will, sir.
[Exit Boy.
Spend. Did I not play this set well?
Enter Blank and another.
Purse. Excellent well: by Phaeton, by Erebus, it went as if it had cut the line.
Blank. God bless you, sir.
Spend. Master Blank, welcome.
Blank. Here's the gentleman's man, sir, has brought the money.
Ser. Will't please you tell it, sir?
Spend. Have you the bond ready, Master Blank?
Blank. Yes, sir.
Spend. 'Tis well. Pursenet, help to tell—10, 11, 12.
What time have you given?
Blank. The thirteenth of the next month.
Spend. 'Tis well: here's light gold.
Ser. 'Twill be the less troublesome to carry.
Spend. You say well, sir; how much hast thou told?
Purse. In gold and silver, here is twenty pounds.
Blank. 'Tis right, Master Spendall, I'll warrant you.
Spend. I'll take your warrant, sir, and tell no farther.
Come, let me see the condition of this obligation.
Purse. A man may win from him that cares not for't.
This royal Cæsar doth regard no cash;
Has thrown away as much in ducks and drakes,
As would have bought some 50,000 capons.
[Aside.]
Spend. 'Tis very well; so lend me your pen.
Purse. This is the captain of brave citizens;
The Agamemnon of all merry Greeks.
A Stukeley or a Sherley for his spirit,[175]
Bounty and royalty to men-at-arms.
Blank. You give this as your deed?
Spend. Marry do I, sir.
Blank. Pleaseth this gentleman to be a witness?
Spend. Yes, marry shall he. Pursenet, your hand.
Purse. My hand is at thy service, noble Brutus.
Spend. There's for your kindness, Master Blank.
Blank. I thank you, sir.
Spend. There's for your pains.
[To Servant.]
Ser. I thank you, sir.
[Exit.]
Blank. I'll take my leave of you.[176]
Spend. What, must you be gone too, Master Blank?
Blank. Yes, indeed, sir; I must to the Exchange.
[Exit.
Spend. Farewell to both. Pursenet,
Take that twenty pounds, and give it Mistress Sweatman:
Bid her pay her landlord and apothecary,
And let her butcher and her baker stay;
They're honest men, and I'll take order with them.
Purse. The butcher and the baker then shall stay.
Spend. They must, till I am somewhat stronger pursed.
Purse. If this be all, I have my errand perfect.
[Exit Pursenet.
Spend. Here, sirrah, here's for balls; there's for yourself.
Boy. I thank your worship.
Spend. Commend me to your mistress.
[Exit.
Boy. I will, sir. In good faith, 'tis the liberall'st gentleman that comes into our court: why, he cares no more for a shilling than I do for a box o' th' ear, God bless him.
[Exit.
Enter Staines gallant, Longfield, and a Servant.
Staines. Sirrah, what o'clock is't?
Ser. Past ten, sir.
Staines. Here will not be a gallant seen this hour.
Ser. Within this quarter, sir, and less: they meet here as soon as at any ordinary in th' town.
Staines. Hast any tobacco?
Ser. Yes, sir.
Staines. Fill.
Long. Why, thou report'st miracles, things not to be believed: I protest to thee, hadst thou not unripped thyself to me, I should never have known thee.
Staines. I tell you true, sir; I was so far gone, that desperation knocked at my elbow, and whispered news to me out of Barbary.[177]
Long. Well, I am glad so good an occasion stay'd thee at home.
And may'st thou prosper in thy project, and go on
With best success of thy invention.
Staines. False dice say amen; for that's my induction:
I do mean to cheat to-day without respect of persons.
When saw'st thou Will Rash?
Long. This morning at his chamber; he'll be here.
Staines. Why, then, do thou give him my name and character, for my aim is wholly at my worshipful master.
Long. Nay, thou shalt take another into him: one that laughs out his life in this ordinary, thanks any man that wins his money: all the while his money is losing, he swears by the cross of this silver; and, when it is gone, he changeth it to the hilts of his sword.
Enter Scattergood and Ninnihammer.
Staines. He'll be an excellent coach-horse for my captain.
Scat. Save you, gallants, save you.
Long. How think you now? have I not carved him out to you?
Staines. Thou hast lighted me into his heart; I see him thoroughly.
Scat. Ninnihammer!
Nin. Sir.
Scat. Take my cloak and rapier also: I think it be early. Gentlemen, what time do you take it to be?
Staines. Inclining to eleven, sir.
Scat. Inclining! a good word. I would it were inclining to twelve, for by my stomach it should be high noon. But what shall we do, gallants? shall we to cards till our company come?
Long. Please you, sir.
Scat. Harry, fetch some cards; methinks 'tis an unseemly sight to see gentlemen stand idle. Please you to impart your smoke?
Long. Very willingly, sir.
Scat. In good faith, a pipe of excellent vapour.
Long. The best the house yields.
Scat. Had you it in the house? I thought it had been your own: 'tis not so good now as I took it to be.[178] Come, gentlemen, what's your game?
Staines. Why, gleek; that's your only game.
Scat. Gleek let it be, for I am persuaded I shall gleek some of you. Cut, sir.
Long. What play we? twelvepence gleek?
Scat. Twelvepence? a crown: ud's foot! I will not spoil my memory for twelvepence.
Long. With all my heart.
Staines. Honour.
Scat. What is't, hearts?
Staines. The king! what say you?
Long. You must speak, sir.
Scat. Why, I bid thirteen.
Staines. Fourteen.
Scat. Fifteen.
Staines. Sixteen.
Long. Sixteen, seventeen.
Staines. You shall ha't for me.
Scat. Eighteen.
Long. Take it to you, sir.
Scat. Ud's life! I'll not be outbraved.
Staines. I vie it.
Long. I'll none of it.
Scat. Nor I.
Staines. Give me a murnival of aces and a gleek of queens.
Long. And me a gleek of knaves.
Scat. Ud's life! I'm gleeked this time.
Enter Will Rash.
Staines. Play.
W. Rash. Equal fortunes befall you, gallants.
Scat. Will Rash: well, I pray see what a vile game I have.
W. Rash. What's your game—gleek?
Scat. Yes, faith, gleek; and I have not one court card but the knave of clubs.
W. Rash. Thou hast a wild hand, indeed. Thy small cards show like a troop of rebels, and the knave of clubs their chief leader.
Scat. And so they do, as God save me: by the cross of this silver, he says true.
Enter Spendall.
Staines. Pray, play, sir.
Long. Honour.
W. Rash. How go the stocks, gentlemen? what's won or lost?
Staines. This is the first game.
Scat. Yes, this is the first game; but, by the cross of this silver, here's all of five pounds.
Spend. Good day to you, gentlemen.
W. Rash. Frank, welcome, by this hand; how dost, lad?
Spend. And how does thy wench, faith?
W. Rash. Why, fat and plump, like thy geldings; thou giv'st them both good provender, it seems. Go to, thou art one of the madd'st wags of a citizen i' th' town: the whole company talks of thee already.
Spend. Talk! why, let 'em talk; ud's foot! I pay scot and lot, and all manner of duties else, as well as the best of 'em. It may be they understand I keep a whore, a horse, and a kennel of hounds; what's that to them? no man's purse opens for it but mine own; and so long my hounds shall eat flesh, my horse bread, and my whore wear velvet.
W. Rash. Why, there spoke a courageous boy.
Spend. Ud's foot! shall I be confined all the days of my life to walk under a pent-house? No, I'll take my pleasure whilst my youth affords it.
Scat. By the cross of these hilts, I'll never play at gleek again, whilst I have a nose on my face: I smell the knavery of the game.
Spend. Why, what's the matter? who has lost?
Scat. Marry, that have I. By the hilts of my sword, I have lost forty crowns in as small time almost as a man might tell it.
Spend. Change your game for dice: we are a full number for Novem.[179]
Scat. With all my heart. Where's Master Ambush the broker? Ninnihammer.
Nin. Sir.
Scat. Go to Master Ambush, and bid him send me twenty marks upon this diamond.
Enter Bubble.
Nin. I will, sir.
Long. Look ye, to make us merrier, who comes here?
W. Rash. A fresh gamester? Master Bubble, God save you.
Bub. Tu quoque.
Staines. Save you, sir.
Bub. Et tu quoque.
Long. Good Master Bubble.
Bub. Et tu quoque.
Scat. Is your name Master Bubble?
Bub. Master Bubble is my name, sir.
Scat. God save you, sir.
Bub. Et tu quoque.
Scat. I would be better acquainted with you.
Bub. And I with you.
Scat. Pray, let us salute again.
Bub. With all my heart, sir.
Long. Behold yonder the oak and the ivy, how they embrace.
W. Rash. Excellent acquaintance! they shall be the Gemini.
Bub. Shall I desire your name, sir.
Scat. Master Scattergood.
Bub. Of the Scattergoods of London.
Scat. No indeed, sir. Of the Scattergoods of Hampshire.
Bub. Good Master Scattergood.
Staines. Come, gentlemen, here's dice.
Scat. Please you, advance to the table?
Bub. No indeed, sir.
Scat. Pray, will you go?
Bub. I will go, sir, over the world for your sake, but in courtesy I will not budge a foot.
Enter Ninnihammer.
Nin. Here is the cash you sent me for: and, Master Rash, here is a letter from one of your sisters.
Spend. I have the dice; set, gentlemen.
Long. From which sister?
W. Rash. From the madcap, I know by the hand.
Spend. For me, six.
Omnes. And six that.
Staines. Nine; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8: eighteen shillings.
Spend. What's yours, sir?
Scat. Mine's a baker's dozen. Master Bubble, tell your money.
Bub. In good faith, I am but a simple gamester, and do not know what to do.
Scat. Why, you must tell your money, and he'll pay you.
Bub. My money! I do know how much my money is, but he shall not pay me; I have a better conscience than so: what, for throwing the dice twice? i' faith, he should have but a hard bargain of it.
W. Rash. Witty rascal! I must needs away.
Long. Why, what's the matter?
W. Rash. Why, the lovers cannot agree: thou shalt along with me, and know all.
Long. But first let me instruct thee in the condition of this gentleman: whom dost thou take him to be?
W. Rash. Nay, he's a stranger, I know him not.
Long. By this light, but you do, if his beard were off: 'tis Staines.
W. Rash. The devil it is as soon! and what's his purpose in this disguise?
Long. Why, cheating; do you not see how he plays upon his worshipful master and the rest?
W. Rash. By my faith, he draws apace.
Spend. A pox upon these dice! give's a fresh bale.[180]
Bub. Ha, ha! the dice are not to be blamed; a
man may perceive this is no gentlemanly gamester, by his chafing. Do you hear, my friend? fill me a glass of beer, and there's a shilling for your pains.
Drawer. Your worship shall, sir.
W. Rash. Why, how now, Frank! what hast lost?
Spend. Fifteen pounds and upwards: is there never an honest fellow?
Amb. What, do you lack money, sir?
Spend. Yes, canst furnish me?
Amb. Upon a sufficient pawn, sir.
Spend. You know my shop; bid my man deliver you a piece of three-pile velvet, and let me have as much money as you dare adventure upon't.
Amb. You shall, sir.
Spend. A pox of this luck! it will not last [for] ever. Play, sir, I'll set you.
W. Rash. Frank, better fortune befall thee; and, gentlemen, I must take my leave, for I must leave you.
Scat. Must you needs be gone?
W. Rash. Indeed I must.
Bub. Et tu quoque?
Long. Yes, truly.
Scat. At your discretions, gentlemen.
W. Rash. Farewell.
[Exeunt Rash and Longfield.
Staines. Cry you mercy, sir. I am chanced with you all. Gentlemen: here I have 7, here 7, and here 10.
Spend. 'Tis right, sir, and ten that.
Bub. And nine that.
Staines. Two fives at all.
[Draws all.
Bub. One and five that.
Spend. Hum! and can a suit of satin cheat so grossly? By this light, there's nought on one die but fives and sixes. I must not be thus gulled.
[Aside.
Bub. Come, Master Spendall, set.
Spend. No, sir, I have done.
Scat. Why, then let us all leave, for I think dinner's near ready.
Drawer. Your meat's upon the table.
Scat. On the table! come, gentlemen, we do our stomachs wrong. Master Bubble, what have you lost.
Bub. That's no matter: what I have lost, I have lost; nor can I choose but smile at the foolishness of the dice.
Staines. I am but your steward, gentlemen; for after dinner I may restore it again.
Bub. Master Scattergood, will you walk in?
Scat. I'll wait upon you, sir. Come, gentlemen, will you follow?
[Exeunt. Spendall and Staines.
Staines. Yes, sir, I'll follow you.
Spend. Hear you, sir, a word.
Staines. Ten, if you please.
Spend. I have lost fifteen pounds.
Staines. And I have found it.
Spend. You say right; found it you have, indeed,
But never won it. Do you know this die?
Staines. Not I, sir.
Spend. You seem a gentleman, and you may perceive
I have some respect unto your credit
To take you thus aside. Will you restore
What you have drawn from me unlawfully?
Staines. Sirrah, by your outside you seem a citizen,
Whose cock's-comb I were apt enough to break,
But for the law. Go, y' are a prating jack:
Nor is't your hopes of crying out for clubs
Can save you from my chastisement, if once
You shall but dare to utter this again.
Spend. You lie; you dare not.
Staines. Lie! nay, villain, now
Thou tempt'st me to thy death.
Spend. Soft, you must buy it dearer;
The best blood flows within you is the price.
Staines. Dar'st thou resist? thou art no citizen.
Spend. I am a citizen.
Staines. Say thou art a gentleman, and I am satisfied;
For then I know thou'lt answer me in field.
Spend. I'll say directly what I am, a citizen;
And I will meet thee in the field as fairly
As the best gentleman that wears a sword.[181]
Staines. I accept it: the meeting-place?
Spend. Beyond the Maze in Tuttle.[182]
Staines. What weapon?
Spend. Single rapier.
Staines. The time?
Spend. To-morrow.
Staines. The hour?
Spend. 'Twixt nine and ten.
Staines. 'Tis good; I shall expect you. Farewell.
Spend. Farewell, sir.
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter Will Rash, Longfield, and Joyce.
W. Rash. Why, I commend thee, girl; thou speak'st as thou think'st. Thy tongue and thy
heart are relatives; and thou wert not my sister, I should at this time fall in love with thee.
Joyce. You should not need, for, and you were not my brother, I should fall in love with you, for I love a proper man with my heart, and so does all the sex of us, let my sister dissemble never so much. I am out of charity with these nice and squeamish tricks. We were born for men, and men for us; and we must together.
W. Rash. This same plain-dealing is a jewel in thee.
Joyce. And let me enjoy that jewel, for I love plain-dealing with my heart.
W. Rash. Th' art a good wench, i' faith. I should never be ashamed to call thee sister, though thou shouldst marry a broom-man. But your lover, methinks, is over-tedious.
Enter Geraldine.
Joyce. No, look ye, sir; could you wish a man to come better upon his cue?[183] Let us withdraw.
W. Rash. Close, close, for the prosecution of the plot, wench. See, he prepares.
Joyce. Silence.
Gera. The sun is yet wrapp'd in Aurora's arms,
And, lull'd with her delight, forgets us[184] creatures.
Awake, thou god of heat,
I call thee up, and task[185] thee for thy slowness.
Point all thy beams through yonder flaring glass,
And raise a beauty brighter than thyself.
[Music.
Musicians, give each instrument a tongue,
To breathe sweet music in the ears of her
To whom I send it as a messenger.
Enter Gertrude aloft.
Gert. Sir, your music is so good, that I must say I like it: but the bringer so ill-welcome, that I could be content to lose it. If you played for money, there 'tis; if for love, here's none; if for goodwill, I thank you, and, when you will, you may be gone.
Gera. Leave me not entranc'd; sing not my death;
Thy voice is able to make satyrs tame,
And call rough winds to her obedience.
Gert. Sir, sir, our ears itch not for flattery.
Here you besiege my window, and[186] I dare not
Put forth myself to take the gentle air,
But you are in the fields, and volley out
Your woes, your plaints, your loves, your injuries.
Gera. Since you have heard, and know them, give redress;
True beauty never yet was merciless.
Gert. Sir, rest thus satisfied; my mind was never woman, never altered; nor shall it now begin: so fare you well.
[Exit Gertrude.
W. Rash. 'Sfoot, she plays the terrible tyrannising Tamberlane over him. This it is to turn Turk; from a most absolute, complete gentleman to a most absurd, ridiculous, and fond lover.
[Aside.]
Long. O, when a woman knows the power and authority of her eye!——
[Aside.]
Joyce. Fie upon her! she's good for nothing then, no more than a jade that knows his own strength. The window is clasped; now, brother, pursue your project, and deliver your friend from the tyranny of my domineering sister.
[Aside.]
W. Rash. Do you hear, you drunkard in love? Come into us, and be ruled. You would little think that the wench that talked so scurvily out of the window there is more enamoured on thee than thou on her. Nay, look you now: see if he turn not away, slighting our good counsel. I am no Christian if she do not sigh, whine, and grow sick for thee. Look you, sir: I will bring you in good witness against her.
Joyce. Sir, you are
My brother's friend, and I'll be plain with you.
You do not take the course to win my sister,
But indirectly go about the bush; you come
And fiddle here, and keep a coil in verse;
Hold off your hat, and beg to kiss her hand;
Which makes her proud.
But, to be short; in two lines, thus it is—
Who most doth love, must seem most to neglect it;
For those that show most love, are least respected.
Long. A good observation, by my faith.
W. Rash. Well, this instruction comes too late now.
Stand you close, and let me prosecute my invention.—[187]
Sister, O sister! wake, arise, sister.
Enter Gertrude above.
Gert. How now, brother; why call you with such terror?
W. Rash. How can you sleep so sound, and hear such groans,
So horrid and so tedious to the ear, that I
Was frighted hither by the sound? O sister,
Here lies a gentleman that lov'd you too dearly
And himself too ill, as by his death appears.
I can report no farther without tears.
Assist me now.
[Aside to Longfield.
Long. When he came first, death startled in his eyes;
His hand had not forsook the dagger-hilt,
But still he gave it strength, as if he fear'd
He had not sent it home unto his heart.
Gert. Enough, enough!
If you will have me live, give him no name;
Suspicion tells me 'tis my Geraldine:
But be it whom it will, I'll come to him,
To suffer death as resolute as he.
[Exit Gertrude.
W. Rash. Did not I tell you 'twould take?
Down, sir, down.[188]
Gera. I guess what you'd have me do.
Long. O, for a little blood to besprinkle him!
W. Rash. No matter for blood, I'll not suffer her to come near him till the plot have ta'en his full height.
Gera. A scarf o'er my face, lest I betray myself.
Enter Gertrude below.
W. Rash. Here, here, lie still, she comes.
Now, Mercury, be propitious.
Gert. Where lies this spectacle of blood?
This tragic scene?
W. Rash. Yonder lies Geraldine.
Gert. O, let me see him with his face of death!
Why do you stay me from my Geraldine?
W. Rash. Because, unworthy as thou art, thou shalt not see
The man now dead, whom living thou didst scorn.
The worst part that he had deserv'd thy best;
But yet contemn'd, deluded, mock'd, despis'd by you,
Unfit for aught but for the general work
Which you were made for, man's creation.
Gert. Burst not my heart, before I see my love,
Brother, upon my knees, I beg your leave,
That I may see the wound of Geraldine:
I will embalm his body with my tears,
And carry him unto his sepulchre.
From whence I'll never rise, but be interr'd
In the same dust he shall be buried in.
Long. I do protest she draws sad tears from me.
I prythee, let her see her Geraldine.
[Aside.
Gert. Brother, if e'er you lov'd me as a sister,
Deprive me not the sight of Geraldine.
W. Rash. Well, I am contented you shall touch his lips,
But neither see his face nor yet his wound.
Gert. Not see his face?
W. Rash. Nay, I have sworn it to the contrary:
Nay, hark you, farther yet.
Gert. What now?
W. Rash. But one kiss—no more.
Gert. Why, then, no more.
W. Rash. Marry, this liberty I'll give you:
If you intend to make any speech of repentance
Over him, I am content, so it be short.
Gert. What you command is law, and I obey.
Joyce. Peace, give ear to the passion.
[Aside.]
Gert. Before I touch thy body, I implore
Thy discontented ghost to be appeas'd.
Send not unto me, till I come myself;
Then shalt thou know how much I honour'd thee,
O, see the colour of his coral lip
Which, in despite of death, lives full and fresh,
As when he was the beauty of his sex!
'Twere sin worthy the worst of plagues to leave thee;
Not all the strength and policy of man
Shall snatch me from thy bosom.
Long. Look, look; I think she'll ravish him!
[Aside.
W. Rash. Why, how now, sister?
Gert. Shall we have both one grave; here I am chain'd;
Thunder nor earthquakes shall e'er shake me off.
W. Rash. No? I'll try that. [Aside.] Come, dead man, awake! up with your bag and baggage, and let's have no more fooling.
Gert. And lives my Geraldine?
W. Rash. Live! faith, ay;
Why should he not? he was never dead
That I know on.
Gera. It is no wonder Geraldine should live,
Though he had emptied all his vital spirits.
The lute of Orpheus spake not half so sweet,
When he descended to th' infernal vaults,
To fetch again his fair Eurydice,
As did thy sweet voice unto Geraldine.
Gert. I'll exercise that voice, since it doth please
My better self, my constant Geraldine.
Joyce. Why so, la, here's an end of an old song!
Why could not this have been done before,
I pray?
Gert. O, y' are a goodly sister, this is your plot.
Well, I shall live one day to requite you.
Joyce. Spare me not: for wheresoever I set my affection, although it be upon a collier, if I fall back, unless it be in the right kind, bind me to a stake, and let me be burned to death with charcoal.
W. Rash. Well, thou art a mad wench, and there's no more to be done at this time, but, as we brought you together, so to part you: you must not lie at rack and manger; there be those within that will forbid the banns: time must shake good-fortune by the hand before you two must be great; 'specially you, sister. Come, leave swearing.
Gert. Must we then part?
W. Rash. Must you part! why, how think you? ud's foot! I do think we shall have as much to do to get her from him as we had to bring her to him. This love of women is of strange quality, and has more tricks than a juggler.
[Aside.]
Gert. But this, and then farewell.
Gera. Thy company[189] is heaven, thy absence hell.
W. Rash. Lord, who'd think it?
[Aside.]
Joyce. Come, wench.
[Exeunt omnes.
Enter Spendall and Staines. Tothill Fields.
Spend. This ground is firm and even, I'll go no farther.
Staines. This be the place then; and prepare you, sir;
You shall have fair play for your life of me,
For, look, sir, I'll be open-breasted to you.
Spend. Shame light on him that thinks
His safety lieth in a French doublet.
Nay, I would strip myself, would comeliness
Give sufferance to the deed, and fight with thee
As naked as a Mauritanian Moor.
Staines. Give me thy hand; by my heart, I love thee.
Thou art the highest-spirited citizen
That ever Guildhall took notice of.
Spend. Talk not what I am, until you have tried me.
Staines. Come on, sir.
[They fight.
Spend. Now, sir, your life is mine.
Staines. Why then, take it, for I'll not beg it of thee.
Spend. Nobly resolv'd, I love thee for those words.
Here, take thy arms again, and, if thy malice
Have spent itself like mine, then let us part
More friendly than we met at first encounter.
Staines. Sir, I accept
This gift of you, but not your friendship,
Until I shall recover 't with my honour.
Spend. Will you fight again, then?
Staines. Yes.
Spend. Faith, thou dost well, then,
Justly to whip my folly. But come, sir.
Staines. Hold: y' are hurt, I take it.
Spend. Hurt! where? zounds, I feel it not.
Staines. You bleed, I am sure.
Spend. 'Sblood, I think you wear a cat's-claw upon your rapier's point:
I am scratched indeed: but, small as 'tis,
I must have blood for blood.
Staines. Y' are bent to kill, I see.
Spend. No, by my hopes; if I can 'scape that sin,
And keep my good name, I'll never offer't.
Staines. Well, sir, your worst.
Spend. We both bleed now, I take it;
And, if the motion may be equal thought
To part with clasp'd hands, I shall first subscribe.
Staines. 'Twere unmanliness in me to refuse
The safety of us both; my hand shall never fall
From such a charitable motion.
Spend. Then join we both, and here our malice ends:
Though foes we came to th' field, we'll depart friends.
[Exeunt.
Enter Sir Lionel and a Servant.
Sir Lionel. Come, come, follow me, knave, follow me; I have the best nose i' the house, I think: either we shall have rainy weather, or the vault's unstopped. Sirrah, go see; I would not have my guests smell out any such inconvenience. Do you hear, sirrah Simon?
Ser. Sir.
Sir Lionel. Bid the kitchen-maid scour the sink, and make clean her backside, for the wind lies just upon't.
Ser. I will, sir.
Sir Lionel. And bid Anthony put on his white fustian doublet, for he must wait to-day.
[Exit
Servant.] It doth me so much good to stir and talk, to place this and displace that, that I shall need no apothecaries' prescriptions. I have sent my daughter this morning as far as Pimlico,[190] to fetch a draught of Derby ale,[191] that it may fetch a colour in her cheeks: the puling harlotry looks so pale, and it is all for want of a man, for so their mother would say (God rest her soul) before she died.
[Exit.
Enter Bubble, Scattergood, Staines, and Servant.
Ser. Sir, the gentlemen are come already.
Sir Lionel. How, knave? the gentlemen?
Ser. Yes, sir: yonder they are.
Sir Lionel. God's precious! we are too tardy: let one be sent presently to meet the girls, and hasten their coming home quickly. How, dost thou stand dreaming! [Exit Servant.] Gentlemen, I see you love me, you are careful of your hour; you may be deceived in your cheer, but not in your welcome.
Bub. Thanks, and Tu quoque is a word for all.
Scat. A pretty concise room; Sir Lionel, where are your daughters?
Sir Lionel. They are at your service, sir, and forthcoming.
Bub. God's will, Gervase! how shall I behave myself to the gentlewomen?
Staines. Why, advance yourself toward them with a comely step; and in your salute be careful you strike not too high nor too low: and afterward, for your discourse, your Tu quoque will bear you out.
Bub. Nay, and that be all, I care not, for I'll set a good face on't, that's flat: and for my nether parts, let them speak for themselves. Here's a leg; and ever a baker in England show a better, I'll give him mine for nothing.
Staines. O, that's a special thing that I must caution you of.
Bub. What, sweet Gervase?
Staines. Why, for commending yourself: never, whilst you live, commend yourself; and then you shall have the ladies themselves commend you.
Bub. I would they would else.
Staines. Why, they will, I'll assure you, sir; and the more vilely you speak of yourself, the more will they strive to collaud you.
Enter Gertrude and Joyce.
Bub. Let me alone to dispraise myself: I'll make myself the errantest coxcomb within a whole country.
Sir Lionel. Here come the gipsies, the sun-burnt girls,
Whose beauties will not utter them alone;
They must have bags, although my credit crack for't.
Bub. Is this the eldest, sir?
Sir Lionel. Yes, marry is she, sir.
Bub. I'll kiss the youngest first, because she likes me best.[192]
Scat. Marry, sir, and whilst you are there, I'll be here. [Kisses the elder.] O delicious touch! I think in conscience her lips are lined quite through with orange-tawny velvet.
Bub. They kiss exceeding well; I do not think but they have been brought up to't. I will begin to her, like a gentleman, in a set speech. Fair lady, shall I speak a word with you?
Joyce. With me, sir?
Bub. With you, lady;—this way,—a little more,—
So, now 'tis well; umh—
Even as a drummer,—or a pewterer——
Joyce. Which of the two, no matter,
For one beats on a drum, t'other a platter.
Bub. In good faith, sweet lady, you say true;
But pray, mark me farther: I will begin again.
Joyce. I pray, sir, do.
Bub. Even as a drummer, as I said before,
Or as a pewterer——
Joyce. Very good, sir.
Bub. Do—do—do.
Joyce. What do they do?
Bub. By my troth, lady, I do not know; for to say truth, I am a kind of an ass.
Joyce. How, sir? an ass?
Bub. Yes, indeed, lady.
Joyce. Nay, that you are not.
Bub. So God ha' me, I am, lady: you never saw
An erranter ass in your life.
Joyce. Why, here's a gentleman, your friend, will not say so.
Bub. I' faith, but he shall: how say you, sir? Am not I an ass?
Scat. Yes, by my troth, lady, is he. Why, I'll say anything my brother Bubble says.
[Aside.]
Gert. Is this the man my father chose for me,
To make a husband of? O God, how blind
Are parents in our loves! so they have wealth,
They care not to what things they marry us.
Bub. Pray, look upon me, lady.
Joyce. So I do, sir.
Bub. Ay, but look upon me well, and tell me if ever you saw any man look so scurvily as I do?
Joyce. The fellow, sure, is frantic.
[Aside.]
Bub. You do not mark me.
Joyce. Yes, indeed, sir.
Bub. Ay, but look upon me well:
Did you ever see a worse-timber'd leg?
Joyce. By my faith, 'tis a pretty four-square leg.
Bub. Ay, but your four-square legs are none of the best. O Gervase, Gervase!
[Aside.]
Staines. Excellent well, sir.
Bub. What say you now to me, lady? Can you find
E'er a good inch about me?
Joyce. Yes, that I can, sir.
Bub. Find it and take it, sweet lady. There I think I bobbed her, Gervase.
[Aside.]
Joyce. Well, sir, disparage not yourself so:
For, if you were the man you'd make yourself,
Yet out of your behaviour and discourse
I could find cause enough to love you.
Bub. Ah! now she comes to me. [Aside.] My behaviour! alas, alas! 'tis clownical; and my discourse is very bald—bald; you shall not hear me break a good jest in a twelvemonth.
Joyce. No, sir? why, now you break a good jest.
Bub. No, I want the bon jour and the Tu quoques which yonder gentleman has. There's a bob for him too. [Aside.] There's a gentleman, an you talk of a gentleman!
Joyce. Who, he? he's a coxcomb, indeed.
Bub. We are sworn brothers, in good faith, lady.
Enter Servant.
Scat. Yes, in truth, we are sworn brothers, and do mean to go both alike, and to have horses alike.
Joyce. And they shall be sworn brothers, too?
Scat. If it please them, lady.
Ser. Master Balance the goldsmith desires to speak with you.
Sir Lionel. Bid him come, knave.
Scat. I wonder, Sir Lionel, your son, Will Rash, is not here.
Sir Lionel. Is he of your acquaintance, sir?
Scat. O, very familiar: he struck me a box o' th' ear once, and from thence grew my love to him.
Enter Balance.
Sir Lionel. It was a sign of virtue in you, sir; but he'll be here at dinner. Master Balance, what makes you so strange? Come, you're welcome; what's the news?
Bal. Why, sir, the old news: your man Francis riots still;
And little hope of thrift there is in him.
Therefore I come to advise your worship
To take some order while there's something left:
The better part of his best ware's consum'd.
Sir Lionel. Speak softly, Master Balance.
But is there no hope of his recovery?
Bal. None at all, sir; for he's already laid to be arrested by some that I know.
Sir Lionel. Well, I do suffer for him, and am loth
Indeed to do what I'm constrain'd to do:
Well, sir, I mean to seize on what is left.
And, hark ye—one word more.
[Whispers.
Joyce. What heinous sin has yonder man committed,
To have so great a punishment, as wait
Upon the humours of an idle fool?
A very proper fellow, good leg, good face,
A body well-proportioned; but his mind
Bewrays he never came of generous kind.
Enter Will Rash and Geraldine.
Sir Lionel. Go to; no more of this at this time. What, sir, are you come?
W. Rash. Yes, sir; and have made bold to bring a guest along.
Sir Lionel. Master Geraldine's son of Essex?
Gera. The same, sir.
Sir Lionel. You're welcome, sir; when will your father be in town?
Gera. 'Twill not be long, sir.
Sir Lionel. I shall be glad to see him when he comes.
Gera. I thank you, sir.
Sir Lionel. In the meantime, you're welcome; pray, be not strange.
I'll leave my son amongst you, gentlemen.
I have some business. Hark you, Master Balance—
Dinner will soon be ready. One word more——
[Exeunt Sir Lionel and Balance.
W. Rash. And how does my little Asinus and his Tu quoque, here? O, you pretty sweet-faced rogues! that for your countenances might be Alexander and Lodwick.[193] What says the old man to you! will't be a match? shall we call brothers?
Scat. I' faith, with all my heart: if Mistress Gertrude will, we will be married to-morrow.
Bub. 'Sfoot, if Mistress Joyce will, we'll be married to-night.
W. Rash. Why, you courageous boys, and worthy wenches made out of wax! But what shall's do when we have dined? shall's go see a play?
Scat. Yes, faith, brother, if it please you: let's go see a play at the Globe.
Bub. I care not; any whither, so the clown have a part; for, i' faith, I am nobody without a fool.
Gera. Why, then, we'll go to the Red Bull: they say Green's a good clown.
Bub. Green! Green's an ass.
Scat. Wherefore do you say so?
Bub. Indeed, I ha' no reason; for they say he is as like me as ever he can look.
Scat. Well, then, to the Bull.
W. Rash. A good resolution!—continue it: nay, on.
Bub. Not before the gentlewomen; not I, never.
W. Rash. O, while you live, men before women: custom hath placed it so.
Bub. Why, then, custom is not so mannerly as I would be.
[Exeunt Bubble and Scattergood.
W. Rash. Farewell, Master Scattergood. Come, lover, you're too busy here. I must tutor ye: cast not your eye at the table on each other; my father will spy you without spectacles; he is a shrewd observer. Do you hear me?
Gera. Very well, sir.
W. Rash. Come, then, go we together; let the wenches alone. Do you see yonder fellow?
Gera. Yes; prythee, what is he?
W. Rash. I'll give you him within: he must
Not now be thought on; but you shall know him.
[Exeunt Will Rash and Geraldine.
Gert. I have observ'd my sister, and her eye
Is much inquisitive after yond' fellow;
She has examin'd him from head to foot:
I'll stay and see the issue.
[Withdraws a little.]
Joyce. To wrastle 'gainst the stream of our affection,
Is to strike air, or buffet with the wind
That plays upon us. I have striv'd to cast
This fellow from my thoughts, but still he grows
More comely in my sight: yet [is] a slave,
Unto one worse-condition'd than a slave.
They are all gone; here's none but he and I:
Now I will speak to him—and yet I will not.
O, I [do] wrong myself; I will suppress
That insurrection love hath train'd in me,
And leave him as he is. Once my bold spirit
Had vow'd to utter all my thoughts to him,
On whom I settled my affection,
And why retires it now?
Staines. Fight, love, on both sides; for on me thou strik'st
Strokes that have beat my heart into a flame.
She hath sent amorous glances from her eye,
Which I have back return'd as faithfully.
I would make to her, but these servile robes
Curb that suggestion, till some fitter time
Shall bring me more persuadingly unto her.
[Aside.
Joyce. I wonder why he stays; I fear he notes me,
For I have publicly betray'd myself
By too much gazing on him. I will leave him.
[Aside.
Gert. But you shall not: I'll make you speak to him
Before you go. Do you hear, sir?
Joyce. What mean you, sister?
Gert. To fit you in your kind, sister. Do you remember
How you once tyrannis'd o'er me?
Joyce. Nay, prythee, leave this jesting; I am out of the vein.[194]
Gert. Ay, but I am in. Go and speak to your lover.
Joyce. I'll first be buried quick.
Gert. How! ashamed? 'Sfoot, I trow, "if I had set my affection on a collier, I'd ne'er fall back, unless it were in the right kind: if I did, let me be tied to a stake, and burnt to death with charcoal."[195]
Joyce. Nay, then, we shall have't.
Gert. Yes, marry shall you, sister: will you speak to him?
Joyce. No.
Gert. Do you hear, sir? here's a gentlewoman would speak with you.
Joyce. Why, sister! I pray, sister——
Gert. One that loves you with all her heart, yet is ashamed to confess it.
Staines. Did you call, ladies?
Joyce. No, sir; here's no one called.
Gert. Yes, sir, 'twas I; I called to speak with you.
Joyce. My sister's somewhat frantic; there's no regard to be had unto her clamours. Will you yet leave? I' faith, you'll anger me.
Gert. Passion: "come back, fool; lover, turn again and kiss your bellyful; here's one will stand ye."[196]
Staines. What does this mean, trow?
Joyce. Yet is your humour spent?
Gert. Come, let me go: "birds that want the use of reason and of speech can couple together in one day; and yet you, that have both, cannot conclude in twenty."[197] Now, sister, I am even with you, my venom is spit. As much happiness may you enjoy with your lover as I with mine. And droop not, wench, nor never be ashamed of him; the man will serve the turn, though he be wrapped in a blue coat, I'll warrant him; come.
Joyce. You are merrily disposed, sister.
[Exeunt wenches.
Staines. I needs
Must prosper: fortune and love work for me.
Be moderate, my joys; for, as you grow
To your full height, so Bubble's waxeth low.
[Exit.
Enter Spendall, Sweatman, and Tickleman.
Tickle. Will my sweet Spendall be gone, then?
Spend. I must, upon promise; but I'll be here at supper: therefore, Mistress Sweatman, provide us some good cheer.
Sweat. The best the market will yield.
Spend. Here's twenty shillings; I protest I have left myself but a crown for my spending-money: for indeed I intend to be frugal, and turn good husband.
Tickle. Ay, marry will you; you'll to play again and lose your money, and fall to fighting; my very heart trembles to think on it; how, if you had been killed in the quarrel? of my faith, I had been but a dead woman.
Spend. Come, come, no more of this; thou dost but dissemble.
Tickle. Dissemble! do not you say so; for if you do,
God is my judge, I'll give myself a gash.
Spend. Away, away; prythee, no more. Farewell.
Tickle. Nay, buss first; well,
There's no adversity in the world shall part us.
Spend. Thou art a loving rascal; farewell.
Sweat. You will not fail supper?
Spend. You have my word; farewell.
[Exit.
The street. Enter Serjeants.
1st Ser. Sir, we arrest you.
Spend. Arrest me! at whose suit?
2d Ser. Marry, there's suits enough against you, I'll warrant you.
1st Ser. Come, away with him.
Spend. Stay, hear me a word.
2d Ser. What do you say?
Sweatman's house. Another part of the street.
Enter Pursenet.
Tickle. How now, Pursenet? why com'st in such haste?
Purse. Shut up your doors, and bar young Spendall out;
And let him be cashier'd your company.
He's turn'd bankrout; his wares are seiz'd on;
And's shop shut up.
Tickle. How! his ware seized on? Thou dost but jest, I hope.
Purse. What this tongue doth report, these eyes have seen;
It is no Æsop's fable that I tell;
But it is true, as I am faithful pander.
Sweat. Nay, I did ever think the prodigal would prove
A bankrupt: but, hang him, let him rot
In prison; he comes no more within these doors,
I warrant him.
Tickle. Come hither! I would he would but offer it;
We'll fire him out, with a pox to him.
Spend. Will you do it?
To carry me to prison but undoes me.
1st Ser. What say you, fellow Gripe, shall we take his forty shillings?
2d Ser. Yes, faith; we shall have him again within this week.
[Aside.
1st Ser. Well, sir, your forty shillings; and we'll have some compassion on you.
Spend. Will you but walk with me unto that house,
And there you shall receive it.
Ser. What, where the women are?
Spend. Yes, sir.
[They walk together to the house.
Sweat. Look yonder, if the ungracious rascal be not coming hither betwixt two serjeants: he thinks, belike, that we'll relieve him; let us go in and clap the doors against him.
Purse. It is the best course, Mistress Tickleman.
Tickle. But I say no, you shall not stir a foot;
For I will talk with him.
Spend. Nan, I am come,
Even in the minute that thou didst profess
Kindness unto me, to make trial of it.
Adversity, thou seest, lays hands upon me:
But forty shillings will deliver me.
Tickle. Why, you impudent rogue, do you come to me for money?
Or do I know you? what acquaintance, pray,
Hath ever pass'd betwixt yourself and me?
Ser. Zounds, do you mock us, to bring us to these women, that do not know you?
Sweat. Yes, in good sooth (officers, I take't you are)
He's a mere stranger here; only in charity
Sometimes we have reliev'd him with a meal.
Spend. This is not earnest in you? Come, I know,
My gifts and bounty cannot so soon be buried.
Go, prythee, fetch forty shillings.
Tickle. Talk not to me, you slave, of forty shillings;
For by this light that shines, ask it again,
I'll send my knife of an errand in your guts.
A shameless rogue, to come to me for money!
Sweat. Is he your prisoner, gentlemen?
Ser. Yes, marry is he.
Sweat. Pray, carry him then to prison, let him smart for't:
Perhaps 'twill tame the wildness of his youth,
And teach him how to lead a better life.
He had good counsel here, I can assure you,
And if he would have took it.
Purse. I told him still myself what would ensue.
Spend. Furies break loose in me: serjeants, let me go;
I'll give you all I have to purchase freedom
But for a lightning while, to tear yond whore,
Bawd, pander, and in them the devil; for there's
His hell, his local habitation;
Nor has he any other place.[198]
Ser. No, sir, we'll take no bribes.
[Takes Spendall's cloak.
Spend. Honest serjeants, give me leave to unlade
A heart o'ercharg'd with grief; as I have a soul,
I'll not break from you.
[They loose him.]
Thou strumpet, that wert born to ruin me,[199]
My fame and fortune, be subject to my curse,
And hear me speak it. May'st thou in thy youth
Feel the sharp whip, and in thy beldam age
The cart: when thou art grown to be
An old upholster unto venery,
(A bawd, I mean, to live by feather-beds)
May'st thou be driven to sell all thou hast,
Unto thy aqua-vitæ bottle (that's the last
A bawd will part withal) and live so poor
That, being turn'd forth thy house, may'st die at door!
Ser. Come, sir, ha' you done?
Spend. A little farther give me leave, I pray;
I have a charitable prayer to end with.
May the French cannibal[200] eat into thy flesh,
And pick thy bones so clean, that the report
Of thy calamity may draw resort
Of all the common sinners in the town,
To see thy mangl'd carcass; and that then
They may upon't turn honest; bawd, say amen.
[Exit.
Sweat. Out upon him, wicked villain, how he blasphemes!
Purse. He will be damn'd for turning heretic.
Tickle. Hang him, bankrout rascal, let him talk in prison,
The whilst we'll spend his goods; for I did never
Hear that men took example by each other.
Sweat. Well, if men did rightly consider't, they should find that whores and bawds are profitable members in a commonwealth; for indeed, though we somewhat impair their bodies, yet we do good to their souls; for I am sure, we still bring them to repentance.
Purse. By Dis, and so we do.
Sweat. Come, come, will you dis before? thou art one of them that I warrant thee will, be hanged, before thou wilt repent.
[Exeunt.
Enter Will Rash, Staines, and Geraldine.
W. Rash. Well, this love is a troublesome thing. Jupiter, bless me out of his fingers; there's no estate can rest for him: he runs through all countries, will travel through the Isle of Man in a minute; but never is quiet till he comes into Middlesex, and there keeps his Christmas: 'tis his habitation, his mansion, from whence he'll never out till he be fired.
Gera. Well, do not tyrannise too much, lest one day he make you know his deity, by sending a shaft out of a sparkling eye shall strike so deep into your heart, that it shall make you fetch your breath short again.
W. Rash. And make me cry, O eyes, no eyes, but two celestial stars![201] A pox on't, I'd as lief hear a fellow sing through the nose. How now, wench?
Enter Gertrude.
Gert. Keep your station: you stand as well for the encounter as may be: she is coming on; but as melancholy as a bass-viol in concert.
W. Rash. Which makes thee as sprightly as the treble. Now dost thou play thy prize: here's the honourable science, one against another. Do you hear, lover; the thing is done you wot of; you shall have your wench alone without any disturbance; now if you can do any good, why so; the silver game be yours; we'll stand by and give aim,[202] and halloo, if you hit the clout.
Staines. 'Tis all the assistance I request of you.
Bring me but opportunely to her presence,
And I desire no more; and if I cannot win her,
Let me lose her.
Gert. Well, sir, let me tell you, perhaps you undertake
A harder task than yet you do imagine.
Staines. A task! what, to win a woman, and have opportunity? I would that were a task, i' faith, for any man that wears his wits about him. Give me but half an hour's conference with the coldest creature of them all; and if I bring her not into a fool's paradise, I'll pull out my tongue, and hang it at her door for a draw-latch. Ud's foot! I'd ne'er stand thrumming of caps for the matter; I'll quickly make trial of her. If she love to have her beauty praised, I'll praise it; if her wit, I'll commend it; if her good parts, I'll exalt them. No course shall 'scape me; for to whatsoever I saw her inclined, to that would I fit her.
W. Rash. But you must not do thus to her; for she's a subtle, flouting rogue, that will laugh you out of countenance, if you solicit her seriously. No, talk me to her wantonly, slightly, and carelessly, and perhaps so you may prevail as much with her as wind does with a sail—carry her whither thou wilt, bully.
Enter Joyce.
Staines. Well, sir, I'll follow your instruction.
W. Rash. Do so: and see, she appears. Fall you two off from us; let us two walk together.
Joyce. Why did my inquiring eye take in this fellow,
And let him down so easy to my heart,
Where, like a conqueror, he seizes on it,
And beats all other men out of my bosom?
W. Rash. Sister, you're well met. Here's a gentleman desires to be acquainted with you.
Joyce. See, the servingman is turned a gentleman! That villanous wench, my sister, has no mercy. She and my brother have conspired together to play upon me; but I'll prevent their sport; for, rather than my tongue shall have scope to speak matter to give them mirth, my heart shall break.
[Aside.]
W. Rash. You have your desire, sir; I'll leave you;
Grapple with her as you can.
[Aside. Exit.]
Staines. Lady, God save you.—
She turns back upon the motion;
There's no good to be done by praying for her,
I see that; I must plunge into a passion:
Now for a piece of Hero and Leander;
'Twere excellent, and (praise be to my memory),
It has reach'd half a dozen lines for the purpose:
Well, she shall have them—
"One is no number, maids are nothing, then,[203]
Without the sweet society of men.
Wilt thou live single still? one shalt thou be,
Though never singling Hymen couple thee.
Wild savages, that drink of running springs,
Think water far excels all earthly things:
But they that daily taste neat wine, despise it.
Virginity, albeit some highly prize it,
Compar'd with marriage, had you tried them both,
Differs as much as wine and water doth."
No? Why then, have at you in another kind.
"By the faith of a soldier, lady, I do reverence the ground that you walk upon. I will fight with him that dares say you are not fair; stab him that will not pledge your health, and with a dagger pierce a vein,[204] to drink a full health to you; but it shall be on this condition, that you shall speak first." Ud's foot! if I could but get her to talk once half my labour were over; but I'll try her in another vein. "What an excellent creature is a woman without a tongue! but what a more excellent creature is a woman that has a tongue, and can hold her peace! but how much more excellent and fortunate a creature is that man that has that woman to his wife!" This cannot choose but mad her; and if anything make a woman talk, 'tis this. It will not do, though, yet. I pray God they have not gulled me. But I'll try once again—
"When will that tongue take liberty to talk?
Speak but one word, and I'm satisfied:
Or do but say but mum, and I am answer'd."
No sound? no accent? Is there no noise in women?
Nay, then without direction I ha' done.
I must go call for help.
[Leaves her.
W. Rash. How! not speak?
Staines. Not a syllable. Night nor sleep is not more silent. She's as dumb as Westminster Hall in the long vacation.
W. Rash. Well, and what would you have me do?
Staines. Why, make her speak.
W. Rash. And what then?
Staines. Why, let me alone with her.
W. Rash. Ay, so you said before; give you but opportunity, and let you alone—you'd desire no more. But come, I'll try my cunning for you; see what I can do. How do you, sister? I am sorry to hear you are not well. This gentleman tells me you have lost your tongue; I pray, let's see. If you can but make signs whereabout you lost it, we'll go and look for't. In good faith, sister, you look very pale; in my conscience, 'tis for grief. Will you have any comfortable drinks sent for? This is not the way [Aside]; come, walk, seem earnest in discourse, cast not an eye towards her, and you shall see weakness work itself.
Joyce. My heart is swoll'n so big that it must vent,
Or it will burst. [Aside.] Are you a brother?
W. Rash. Look to yourself, sir;
The brazen head has spoke,[205] and I must leave you.
Joyce. Has shame that power in him, to make him fly,
And dare you be so impudent to stand
Just in the face of my incensed anger?
What are you? why do you stay? who sent for you?
You were in garments yesterday, befitting
A fellow of your fashion: has a crown
Purchased that shining satin of the brokers?
Or is't a cast suit of your goodly master's?
Staines. A cast suit, lady?
Joyce. You think it does become you? Faith, it does not.
A blue coat[206] with a badge does better with you.
Go, untruss your master's points, and do not dare
To stop your nose when as his worship stinks:
'T has been your breeding.
Staines. Ud's life! this is excellent: now she talks.
[Aside.
Joyce. Nay, were you a gentleman, and (which is more)
Well-landed, I should hardly love you;
For, for your face, I never saw a worse:
It looks as if 'twere drawn with yellow ochre
Upon black buckram; and that hair
That's on your chin looks not like beard,
But as if't had been smear'd with shoemakers' wax.
Staines. Ud's foot! she'll make me out of love with myself.
[Aside.
Joyce. How dares your baseness once aspire unto
So high a fortune, as to reach at me?
Because you have heard that some have run away
With butlers, horsekeepers, and their father's clerks,
You, forsooth, cocker'd with your own suggestion,
Take heart upon't, and think me (that am meet,
And set up for your master) fit for you.
Staines. I would I could get her now to hold her tongue.
[Aside
Joyce. Or, 'cause sometimes as I have pass'd along,
And have return'd a courtesy for your hat,
You, as the common trick is, straight suppose
'Tis love (sir reverence, which makes the word more beastly).
Staines. Why, this is worse than silence.
[Aside.
Joyce. But we are fools, and in our reputations
We find the smart on't:
Kindness is termed lightness in our sex;
And when we give a favour or a kiss,
We give our good names too.
Staines. Will you be dumb again?
Joyce. Men you are call'd, but you're a viperous brood,
Whom we in charity take into our bosoms,
And cherish with our heart; for which you sting us.
Staines. Ud's foot! I'll fetch him that wak'd your tongue,
To lay it down again.
[Fetches Will Rash.
W. Rash. Why, how now, man?
Staines. O, relieve me, or I shall lose my hearing!
You have rais'd a fury up into her tongue:
A parliament of women could not make
Such a confused noise as that she utters.
W. Rash. Well, what would you have me do?
Staines. Why, make her hold her tongue.
W. Rash. And what then?
Staines. Why, then, let me alone again.
W. Rash. This is very good, i' faith: first give thee but opportunity, and let thee alone; then make her but speak, and let thee alone; now make her hold her tongue, and then let thee alone By my troth, I think I were best to let thee alone indeed: but come, follow me; the wild cat shall not carry it so away. Walk, walk, as we did.
Joyce. What, have you fetched your champion? what can he do?
Not have you nor himself from out the storm
Of my incensed rage: I will thunder into your ears
The wrongs that you have done an innocent maid:
O, you're a couple of sweet——what shall I call you?
Men you are not; for, if you were,
You would not offer this unto a maid.
Wherein have I deserved it at your hands?
Have I not been always a kind sister to you, and in signs and tokens showed it? Did I not send money to you at Cambridge, when you were but a freshman? wrought you purses and bands; and since you came to th' inns-o'-court, a fair pair of hangers? Have you not taken rings from me, which I have been fain to say I have lost when you had pawned them; and yet was never beholden to you for a pair of gloves?
W. Rash. A woman's tongue, I see, is like a bell,
That, once being set agoing, goes itself.
Joyce. And yet you, to join with my sister against me, send one here to play upon me, whilst you laugh and leer, and make a pastime on me. Is this brotherly done? No, it is barbarous; and a Turk would blush to offer it to a Christian. But I will think on't, and have it written in my heart, when it hath slipped your memories.
W. Rash. When will your tongue be weary?
Joyce. Never.
W. Rash. How! never? Come, talk, and I'll talk with you:
I'll try the nimble footmanship of your tongue;
And if you can out-talk me, your's be the victory.
[Here they two talk and rail what they list; and then Will Rash speaks to Staines.
All speak. Ud's foot! dost thou stand by, and do nothing?
Come, talk, and drown her clamours.
[Here they all three, talk, and Joyce gives over, weeping, and Exit.
Enter Gertrude and Geraldine.
Gera. Alas! she's spent, i' faith: now the storm's over.
W. Rash. Ud's foot! I'll follow her, as long as I have any breath.
Gert. Nay, no more now, brother; you have no compassion; you see she cries.
Staines. If I do not wonder she could talk so long, I am a villain. She eats no nuts, I warrant her; 'sfoot, I am almost out of breath with that little I talked: well, gentle brothers, I might say (for she and I must clap hands upon't) a match for all this. Pray, go in; and, sister, salve the matter, collogue with her again, and all shall be well: I have a little business that must be thought upon, and 'tis partly for your mirth, therefore let me not (though absent) be forgotten: farewell.
W. Rash. We will be mindful of you, sir; fare you well.
Gera. How now, man! what, tired, tired?
W. Rash. Zounds, and you had talked as much as I did, you would be tired, I warrant. What, is she gone in? I'll to her again, whilst my tongue is warm: and if I thought I should be used to this exercise, I would eat every morning an ounce of licorish.[207]
[Exeunt.
Enter Lodge, the master of the prison, and Holdfast, his man.
Lodge. Have you summed up those reckonings?
Hold. Yes, sir.
Lodge. And what is owing me?
Hold. Thirty-seven pound, odd money.
Lodge. How much owes the Frenchman?
Hold. A fortnight's commons.
Lodge. Has Spendall any money?
Hold. Not any, sir; and he has sold all his clothes.
Enter Spendall.
Lodge. That fellow would waste millions if he had 'em:
Whilst he has money, no man spends a penny.
Ask him money, and if he say he has none,
Be plain with him, and turn him out o' th' ward.
[Exit Lodge.
Hold. I will, sir. Master Spendall, my master has sent to you for money.
Spend. Money! why does he send to me? Does he think I have the philosopher's stone, or I can clip, or coin? How does he think I can come by money?
Hold. Faith, sir, his occasions are so great, that he must have money, or else he can buy no victuals.
Spend. Then we must starve, belike. Ud's foot, thou see'st I have nothing left that will yield me two shillings.
Hold. If you have no money, you'd best remove into some cheaper ward.
Spend. What ward should I remove in?
Hold. Why, to the twopenny ward; it's likeliest to hold out with your means; or, if you will, you may go into the hole, and there you may feed, for nothing.
Spend. Ay, out of the alms-basket, where charity appears in likeness of a piece of stinking fish, such as they beat bawds with when they are carted.
Hold. Why, sir, do not scorn it; as good men as yourself have been glad to eat scraps out of the alms-basket.
Spend. And yet, slave, thou in pride wilt stop thy nose,
Screw, and make faces, talk contemptibly of it,
And of the feeders, surly groom.
Enter Fox.
Hold. Well, sir, your malapertness will get you nothing.—Fox!
Fox. Here.
Hold. A prisoner to the hole: take charge of him, and use him as scurvily as thou canst. You shall be taught your duty, sir, I warrant you.
Spend. Hence, slavish tyrants, instruments of torture!
There is more kindness yet in whores than you;
For when a man hath spent all, he may go
And seek his way, they'll kick him out of doors,
Not keep him in as you do, and enforce him
To be the subject of their cruelty.
You have no mercy; but be this your comfort,
The punishment and tortures which you do
Inflict on men, the devils shall on you.
Hold. Well, sir, you may talk, but you shall see the end, and who shall have the worst of it.
[Exit Holdfast.
Spend. Why, villain, I shall have the worst, I know it,
And am prepar'd to suffer like a stoic;
Or else (to speak more properly) like a stock;
For I have no sense left. Dost thou think I have?
Fox. Zounds, I think he's mad.
Spend. Why, thou art in the right; for I am mad, indeed,
And have been mad these two years. Dost thou think
I could have spent so much as I have done
In wares and credit, had I not been mad?
Why, thou must know, I had a fair estate
Which, through my riot, I have torn in pieces,
And scatter'd amongst bawds, buffoons, and whores,
That fawn'd on me, and by their flatteries
Rock'd all my understanding faculties
Into a pleasant slumber; where I dreamt
Of nought but joy and pleasure: never felt
How I was lull'd in sensuality,
Until at last affliction waked me,
And, lighting up the taper of my soul,
Led me unto myself, where I might see
A mind and body rent with misery.
[A prisoner within.
Pris. Harry Fox! Harry Fox!
Fox. Who calls?
Enter Prisoner.
Pris. Here's the bread-and-meat-man come.
Fox. Well, the bread-and-meat-man may stay a little.
Pris. Yes, indeed, Harry, the bread-and-meat-man may stay; but you know our stomachs cannot stay.
Enter Gatherscrap with the basket.
Fox. Indeed your stomach is always first up.
Pris. And therefore by right should be first served: I have a stomach like aqua fortis, it will eat anything; O father Gatherscrap, here are excellent bits in the basket.
Fox. Will you hold your chaps farther? By and by, you'll drivel into the basket.
Pris. Perhaps it may do some good; for there may be a piece of powdered beef that wants watering.
Fox. Here, sir, here's your share.
Pris. Here's a bit indeed: what's this to a Gargantua stomach?
Fox. Thou art ever grumbling.
Pris. Zounds! it would make a dog grumble to want his victuals: I pray, give Spendall none; he came into the hole but yesternight.
Fox. What, do you refuse it?
Spend. I cannot eat, I thank you.
Pris. No, no, give it me, he's not yet seasoned for our company.
Fox. Divide it then amongst you.
[Exit Fox and Prisoner.
Spend. To such a one as these are must I come;
Hunger will draw me into their fellowship,
To fight and scramble for unsavoury scraps,
That come from unknown hands, perhaps unwash'd:
And would that were the worst; for I have noted
That nought goes to the prisoners, but such food
As either by the weather has been tainted,
Or children, nay, sometimes full-paunched dogs
Have overlick'd; as if men had determin'd
That the worst sustenance which is God's creatures'—
However they're abus'd—is[208] good enough
For such vild creatures as abuse themselves.
O, what a slave was I unto my pleasures!
How drown'd in sin, and overwhelm'd in lust!
That I could write my repentance to the world,
And force th' impression of it in the hearts
Of you of[209] my acquaintance: I might teach them
By my example, to look home to thrift,
And not to range abroad to seek out ruin.
Experience shows, his purse shall soon grow light,
Whom dice wastes in the day, drabs in the night.
Let all avoid false strumpets, dice and drink;
For he that leaps i' th' mud, shall quickly sink.
Enter Fox and Longfield.
Fox. Yonder's the man.
Long. I thank you.
How is it with you, sir? What, on the ground?
Look up, there's comfort towards you.
Spend. Belike, some charitable friend has sent a shilling.
What is your business?
Long. Liberty.
Spend. There's virtue in that word; I'll rise up to you.
Pray, let me hear that cheerful word again.
Long. The able and well-minded widow Raysby,
Whose hand is still upon the poor man's box,
Hath in her charity remember'd you;
And, being by your master seconded,
Hath taken order with your creditors
For day and payment; and freely from her purse,
By me her deputy, she hath discharg'd
All duties in the house: besides, to your necessities
This is bequeath'd, to furnish you with clothes.
Spend. Speak you this seriously?
Long. 'Tis not my practice to mock misery.
Spend. Be ever praised that divinity,
That has to my oppressed state rais'd friends,
Still be his blessings pour'd upon their heads.
Your hand, I pray,
That have so faithfully perform'd their wills.
If e'er my industry, join'd with their loves,
Shall raise me to a competent estate,
Your name shall ever be to me a friend.
Long. In your good wishes you requite me amply.
Spend. All fees, you say, are paid? There's for your love.
Fox. I thank you, sir, and am glad you are releas'd.
[Exeunt.
Enter Bubble, gallanted.
Bub. How apparel makes a man respected! the very children in the street do adore me: for if a boy, that is throwing at his jack-a-lent,[210] chance to hit me on the shins, why, I say nothing but Tu quoque, smile, and forgive the child with a beck of my hand, or some such like token: so by that means I do seldom go without broken shins.
Enter Staines, like an Italian.
Staines. The blessings of your mistress fall upon you;
And may the heat and spirit of her lip
Endue her with matter above her understanding,
That she may only live to admire you, or, as the Italian says:
Que que dell fogo Ginni coxcombie.
Bub. I do wonder what language he speaks.
Do you hear, my friend; are not you a conjuror?
Staines. I am, sir, a perfect traveller, that have trampled over the face of the universe, and can speak Greek and Latin as promptly as my own natural language. I have composed a book, wherein I have set down all the wonders of the world that I have seen, and the whole scope of my journeys, together with the miseries and lousy fortunes I have endured therein.[211]
Bub. O Lord, sir, are you the man? give me your hand: how do ye? in good faith, I think I have heard of you.
Staines. No, sir, you never heard of me; I set this day footing upon the wharf; I came in with the last peal of ordnance, and dined this day in the Exchange amongst the merchants. But this is frivolous, and from the matter: you do seem to be one of our gentile spirits that do affect generosity: pleaseth you to be instituted in the nature, garb, and habit of the most exactest nation in the world, the Italian? whose language is sweetest, clothes neatest, and behaviour most accomplished. I am one that have spent much money, and time, which to me is more dear than money, in the observation of these things: and, now I am come, I will sit me down and rest; and make no doubt but to purchase and build, by professing this art or human science (as I may term it) to such honourable and worshipful personages as mean to be peculiar.
Bub. This fellow has his tongue at his fingers' ends. But, hark ye, sir; is your Italian the finest gentleman?
Staines. In the world, signior; your Spaniard is a mere bumbard to him: he will bounce, indeed, but he will burst. But your Italian is smooth and lofty, and his language is cousin-german to the Latin.
Bub. Why, then he has his Tu quoque in his salute?
Staines. Yes, sir, for it is an Italian word as well as a Latin, and enfolds a double sense; for one way spoken, it includes a fine gentleman, like yourself; and another way it imports an ass, like whom you will.
Bub. I would my man Gervase were here, for he understands these things better than I. [Aside.] You will not serve?
Staines. Serve! no, sir; I have talked with the great Sophy.
Bub. I pray, sir, what's the lowest price of being Italianated?
Staines. Sir, if it please you, I will stand to your bounty: and, mark me, I will set your face like a grand signior's, and you shall march a whole day, until you come opunctly[212] to your mistress, and not disrank one hair of your physiognomy.
Bub. I would you would do it, sir; if you will stand to my bounty, I will pay you, as I am an Italian, Tu quoque.
Staines. Then, sir, I will first disburthen you of your cloak; you will be the nimbler to practise. Now, sir, observe me: go you directly to the lady to whom you devote yourself.
Bub. Yes, sir.
Staines. You shall set a good staid face upon the matter then. Your band is not to your shirt, is it?
Bub. No, sir, 'tis loose.
Staines. It is the fitter for my purpose. I will first remove your hat. It has been the fashion (as I have heard) in England to wear your hat thus, in your eyes; but it is gross, naught, inconvenient, and proclaims with a loud voice that he that brought it up first stood in fear of serjeants. Your Italian is contrary: he doth advance his hat, and sets it thus.
Bub. Excellent well: I would you would set it on my head so.
Staines. Soft; I will first remove your band, and set it out of the reach of your eyes; it must lie altogether backward. So: your band is well.
Bub. Is it as you would have it?
Staines. It is as I would wish; only, sir, this I must caution you of, in your affront[213] or salute, never to move your hat; but here, here is your courtesy.
Bub. Nay, I warrant you; let me alone, if I perceive a thing once, I'll carry it away. Now, pray, sir, reach my cloak.
Staines. Never, whilst you live, sir.
Bub. No! what, do you Italians wear no cloaks!
Staines. Your signiors, never: you see I am unfurnished myself.
Enter Sir Lionel, Will Rash, Geraldine, Widow, Gertrude, and Joyce.
Bub. Say ye so? prythee, keep it, then. See! yonder's the company that I look for; therefore, if you will set my face of any fashion, pray do it quickly.
Staines. You carry your face as well as e'er an Italian in the world; only enrich it with a smile, and 'tis incomparable: and thus much more—at your first appearance, you shall perhaps strike your acquaintance into an ecstasy, or perhaps a laughter; but 'tis ignorance in them, which will soon be overcome, if you persevere.
Bub. I will persevere, I warrant thee: only do thou stand aloof, and be not seen; because I would not have them think but I fetch it out of my own practice.
Staines. Do not you fear; I'll not be seen, I warrant you.
[Exit.
Sir Lionel. Now, widow, you are welcome to my house,
And to your own house too, so you may call it;
For what is mine is yours: you may command here
As at home, and be as soon obey'd.
Wid. May I deserve this kindness of you, sir?
Bub. Save you, gentlemen. I salute you after the Italian fashion.
W. Rash. How! the Italian fashion? Zounds! he has dressed him rarely.
Sir Lionel. My son Bubble, I take it?
W. Rash. The nether part of him I think is he;
But what the upper part is, I know not.
[Ger.] By my troth, he's a rare fellow.
Bub. He said true;
They are all in an ecstasy.
[Aside.]
Gert. I think he's mad.
[Aside.]
Joyce. Nay, that cannot be; for they say, they that are mad lose their wits, and I am sure he had none to lose.
[Aside.]
Enter Scattergood.
Sir Lionel. How now, son Bubble? how come you thus attir'd?
What! do you mean to make yourself a laughing-stock, ha?
Bub. Um! Ignorance, ignorance.
[Aside.]
Gera. For the love of laughter, look yonder:
Another herring in the same pickle.
W. Rash. T'other hobby-horse, I perceive, is not forgotten.[214]
Bub. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Scat. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Bub. Who has made him such a coxcomb, trow? An Italian Tu quoque?
Scat. I salute you according to the Italian fashion.
Bub. Puh! the Italian fashion! The tattered-demalian fashion he means.
Scat. Save you, sweet bloods, save you.
Sir Lionel. Why, but what jig is this?
Scat. Nay, if I know, father, would I were hanged. I am e'en as innocent as the child new-born.
Sir Lionel. Ay, but son Bubble, where did you two buy your felts?
Scat. Felts! By this light, mine is a good beaver:
It cost me three pounds this morning upon trust.
Sir Lionel. Nay, I think you had it upon trust, for no man that has any shame in him would take money for it. Behold, sir.
Bub. Ha, ha, ha!
Sir Lionel. Nay, never do you laugh, for you're i' th' same block.
Bub. Is this the Italian fashion?
Scat. No, it is the fool's fashion:
And we two are the first that follow it.
Bub. Et tu quoque. Are we both cosened? Then let's show ourselves brothers in adversity, and embrace.
Sir Lionel. What was he that cheated you?
Bub. Marry, sir, he was a knave that cheated me.
Scat. And I think he was no honest man that cheated me.
Sir Lionel. Do you know him again if you see him?
Enter Staines [in his own costume.]
Bub. Yes, I know him again, if I see him; but
I do not know how I should come to see him. O Gervase, Gervase!
Do you see us two, Gervase?
Staines. Yes, sir, very well.
Bub. No, you do not see us very well, for we have been horribly abused. Never were Englishmen so gulled in Italian as we have been.
Staines. Why, sir, you have not lost your cloak and hat?
Bub. Gervase, you lie; I have lost my cloak and hat; and therefore you must use your credit for another.
Scat. I think my old cloak and hat must be glad to serve me till next quarter-day.
Sir Lionel. Come, take no care for cloaks: I'll furnish you.
To-night you lodge with me; to-morrow morn,
Before the sun be up, prepare for church;
The widow and I have so concluded on't.
The wenches understand not yet so much,
Nor shall not until bedtime: then will they
Not sleep a wink all night for very joy.
Scat. And I'll promise the next night they shall not sleep for joy neither.
[Aside.]
Sir Lionel. O Master Geraldine, I saw you not before:
Your father now is come to town, I hear.
Gera. Yes, sir.
Sir Lionel. Were not my business earnest, I would see him:
But pray entreat him break an hour's sleep
To-morrow morn t'accompany me to church;
And come yourself, I pray, along with him.
Enter Spendall.
Gera. Sir, I thank you.
Sir Lionel. But look, here comes one,
That has but lately shook off his shackles.—
How now, sirrah! wherefore come you?
Spend. I come to crave a pardon, sir, of you;
And with hearty and zealous thanks
Unto this worthy lady, that hath given me
More than I e'er could hope for—liberty.
Wid. Be thankful unto heaven and your master:
Nor let your heart grow bigger than your purse,
But live within a limit, lest you burst out
To riot and to misery again:
For then 'twould lose the benefit I mean it.
Sir Lionel. O, you do graciously; 'tis good advice:
Let it take root, sirrah, let it take root.
But come, widow, come and see your chamber:
Nay, your company too, for I must speak with you.
[Exeunt.
Spend. 'Tis bound unto you, sir.
Bub. And I have to talk with you too, Mistress Joyce. Pray, a word.
Joyce. What would you, sir?
Bub. Pray, let me see your hand. The line of your maidenhead is out. Now for your fingers. Upon which finger will you wear your wedding-ring?
Joyce. Upon no finger.
Bub. Then I perceive you mean to wear it on your thumb.
Well, the time is come, sweet Joyce; the time is come.
Joyce. What to do, sir?
Bub. For me to tickle thy Tu quoque; to do the act
Of our forefathers: therefore prepare, provide,
To-morrow morn to meet me as my bride.
[Exit.
Joyce. I'll meet thee like a ghost first.
Gert. How now, what matter have you fished out of that fool?
Joyce. Matter as poisoning as corruption,
That will without some antidote strike home,
Like blue infection, to the very heart.
W. Rash. As how, for God's sake?
Joyce. To-morrow is the appointed wedding-day.
Gert. The day of doom, it is?
Gera. 'Twould be a dismal day indeed to some of us.
Joyce. Sir, I do know you love me; and the time
Will not be dallied with: be what you seem,
Or not the same; I am your wife, your mistress,
Or your servant—indeed, what you will make me.
Let us no longer wrangle with our wits,
Or dally with our fortunes; lead me hence,
And carry me into a wilderness:
I'll fast with you, rather than feast with him.
Staines. What can be welcomer unto these arms?
Not my estate recover'd is more sweet,
Nor strikes more joy in me than does your love.
W. Rash. Will you both kiss then upon the bargain?
Here's two couple on you, God give you joy;
I wish well to you,
And I see 'tis all the good that I can do you:
And so to your shifts I leave you.
Joyce. Nay, brother, you will not leave us thus, I hope.
W. Rash. Why, what would you have me do? you mean to run away together: would you have me run with you, and so lose my inheritance? no, trudge, trudge with your backs to me, and your bellies to them. Away!
Gera. Nay, I prythee, be not thus unseasonable:
Without thee we are nothing.
W. Rash. By my troth, and I think so too. You love one another in the way of matrimony, do you not?
Gera. What else, man?
W. Rash. What else, man? Why, 'tis a question to be asked; for I can assure you, there is another kind of love. But come, follow me; I must be your good angel still: 'tis in this brain how to prevent my father and his brace of beagles; you shall none of you be bid to-night: follow but my direction, if I bring you not, To have and to hold, for better for worse, let me be held an eunuch in wit, and one that was never father to a good jest.
Gert. We'll be instructed by you.
W. Rash. Well, if you be, it will be your own another day.
Come, follow me.
[Spendall meets them, and they look strangely upon him, and go off.
Spend. How ruthless men are to adversity!
My acquaintance scarce will know me; when we meet,
They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone,
And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them.
A man must trust unto himself, I see;
For if he once but halt in his estate,
Friendship will prove but broken crutches to him.
Well, I will lean to none of them, but stand
Free of myself: and if I had a spirit
Daring to act what I am prompted to,
I might thrust out into the world again,
Full-blossom'd, with a sweet and golden spring.
It was an argument of love in her
To fetch me out of prison; and this night
She clasp'd my hand in hers, as who should say,
Thou art my purchase, and I hold thee thus.
The worst is but repulse, if I attempt it.
I am resolv'd: my genius whispers to me,
Go on, and win her; thou art young and active,
Which she is apt to catch at; for there's nought
That's more unsteadfast than a woman's thought.
[Exit.
Enter Sir Lionel, Will Rash, Scattergood, Bubble, Widow, Gertrude, Joyce, Phillis, and Servant.
Sir Lionel. Here's ill-lodging, widow; but you must know,
If we had better, we'd afford it you.
Wid. The lodging, sir, might serve better guests.
Sir Lionel. Not better, widow, nor yet welcomer:
But we will leave you to it and the rest.
Phillis, pray let your mistress not want anything.
Once more, good night; I'll leave a kiss with you,
As earnest of a better gift to-morrow.
Sirrah, a light.
Wid. Good rest to all.
Bub. Et tu quoque, forsooth.
Scat. God give you good night, forsooth,
And send you an early resurrection.
Wid. Good night to both.
Sir Lionel. Come, come away, each bird unto his nest;
To-morrow night's a time of little rest.
[Exeunt. Manent Widow and Phillis.
Wid. Here, untie: soft, let it alone;
I have no disposition to sleep yet:
Give me a book, and leave me for a while,
Some half-hour hence look in to me.
Phil. I shall, forsooth.
[Exit Phillis.
Enter Spendall.
Wid. How now! what makes this bold intrusion?
Spend. Pardon me, lady, I have business to you.
Wid. Business! from whom? Is it of such importance,
That it craves present hearing?
Spend. It does.
Wid. Then speak it, and be brief.
Spend. Nay, gentle widow, be more pliant to me:
My suit is soft and courteous; full of love.
Wid. Of love?
Spend. Of love.
Wid. Why, sure, the man is mad! bethink thyself;
Thou hast forgot thy errand.
Spend. I have indeed, fair lady; for my errand
Should first have been deliver'd on your lips.
Wid. Why, thou impudent fellow, unthrift of shame,
As well as of thy purse. What has mov'd thee
To prosecute thy ruin? hath my bounty,
For which thy master was an orator,
Importun'd thee to pay me with abuse?
Sirrah, retire, or I will, to your shame,
With clamours raise the house, and make your master
For this attempt return you to the dungeon,
From whence you came.
Spend. Nay, then I must be desperate:
Widow, hold your clapdish,[215] fasten your tongue
Unto your roof, and do not dare to call;
But give me audience with fear and silence.
Come, kiss me—No?
This dagger has a point, do you see it?
And be unto my suit obedient,
Or you shall feel it too:
For I will rather totter, hang in clean linen,
Than live to scrub it out in lousy linings.
Go to, kiss: you will! why, so: again, the third time;
Good; 'tis a sufficient charm: now hear me.
You are rich in money, lands, and lordships,
Manors and fair possessions, and I have not so much
As one poor copyhold to thrust my head in.
Why should you not then have compassion
Upon a reasonable handsome fellow,
That has both youth and liveliness upon him,
And can at midnight quicken and refresh
Pleasures decay'd in you? You want children;
And I am strong, lusty, and have a back
Like Hercules; able to get them
Without the help of muscadine and eggs,
And will you then, that have enough,
Take to your bed a bundle of diseases,
Wrapp'd up in threescore years, to lie a-hawking,
Spitting and coughing backwards and forwards,
That you shall not sleep; but, thrusting forth
Your face out of the bed, be glad to draw
The curtains, such a steam shall reek
Out of this dunghill? Now, what say you?
Shall we, without farther wrangling, clap it up,
And go to bed together?
Wid. Will you hear me?
Spend. Yes, with all my heart,
So the first word may be, untruss your points—
Zounds, one knocks; do not stir, I charge you,
[Knock within.
Nor speak, but what I bid you:
For, by these lips which now in love I kiss,
If you but struggle or but raise your voice,
My arm shall rise with it, and strike you dead.
Go to, come on with me, and ask who's there!
Wid. It is my maid.
Spend. No matter; do as I bid you: say, who's there?
Wid. Who's there?
Phil. (Within.) 'Tis I, forsooth.
Spend. If it be you, forsooth, then pray you stay,
Till I shall call upon you.
Wid. [Repeats.] If it be you, forsooth, then pray you stay,
Till I shall call upon you.
Spend. Very well: why, now I see
Thou'lt prove an obedient wife. Come, let's undress.
Wid. Will you put up your naked weapon, sir?
Spend. You shall pardon me, widow, I must have you grant first.
Wid. You will not put it up?
Spend. Not till I have some token of your love.
Wid. If this may be a testimony, take it.
[Kisses him.
By all my hopes, I love thee: thou art worthy
Of the best widow living: thou tak'st the course:
And those that will win widows must do thus.
Spend. Nay, I knew what I did when I came with my naked weapon in my hand; but come, unlace.
Wid. Nay, my dear love: know that I will not yield
My body unto lust, until the priest
Shall join us in Hymen's sacred nuptial rites.
Spend. Then set your hand to this: nay, 'tis a contract
Strong and sufficient, and will hold in law.
Here, here's pen and ink; you see I come provided.
Wid. Give me the pen.
Spend. Why, here's some comfort.
Yet write your name fair, I pray, and at large.
Why, now 'tis very well. Now, widow,
You may admit your maid,
For i' th' next room I'll go fetch a nap.
Wid. Thou shalt not leave me so: come, prythee, sit,
We'll talk awhile, for thou hast made my heart
Dance in my bosom, I receive such joy.
Spend. Thou art a good wench, i' faith; come, kiss upon't.
Wid. But will you be a loving husband to me?
Avoid all naughty company, and be true
To me and to my bed?
Spend. As true to thee as steel to adamant.
[Binds him to the post.
Wid. I'll bind you to your word: see that you be,
Or I'll conceal my bags. I have kinsfolk,
To whom I'll make't over, you shall not have a penny.
Spend. Pish, prythee, do not doubt me.
How now! what means this?
Wid. It means my vengeance; nay, sir, you are fast,
Nor do not dare to struggle: I have liberty
Both of my tongue and feet; I'll call my maid.
Enter Phillis.
Phillis, come in, and help to triumph
Over this bold intruder. Wonder not, wench,
But go unto him, and ransack all his pockets,
And take from thence a contract which he forc'd
From my unwilling fingers.
Spend. Is this according to your oath?
Phil. Come, sir, I must search you.
Spend. I prythee, do.
And when thou tak'st that from me, take my life too.
Wid. Hast thou it, girl?
Phil. I have a paper here.
Wid. It is the same: give it me. Look you, sir,
Thus your new-fancied hopes I tear asunder.
Poor wretched man! thou'st had a golden dream,
Which gilded over thy calamity;
But, being awake, thou find'st it ill-laid on,
For with one finger I have wip'd it off.
Go, fetch me hither the casket that contains
My choicest jewels, and spread them here before him.
Look you, sir;
Here's gold, pearls, rubies, sapphires, diamonds;
These would be goodly things for you to pawn,
Or revel with amongst your courtesans,
Whilst I and mine did starve. Why dost not curse,
And utter all the mischiefs of thy heart,
Which I know swells within thee? pour it out,
And let me hear thy fury.
Spend. Never, never!
Whene'er my tongue shall speak but well of thee,
It proves no faithful servant to my heart.
Wid. False traitor to thy master and to me,
Thou liest, there's no such thing within thee.
Spend. May I be burn'd to ugliness, to that
Which you and all men hate, but I speak truth.
Wid. May I be turn'd a monster, and the shame
Of all my sex, and if I not believe thee.
Take me unto thee: these and all that's mine.
Were it thrice trebled, thou wert worthy all.
And do not blame this trial, 'cause it shows
I give myself unto thee, am not forc'd,
And with it love, that ne'er shall be divorc'd.
Spend. I am glad 'tis come to this; yet, by this light,
Thou putt'st me into a horrible fear.
But this is my excuse: know that my thoughts
Were not so desperate as my action seem'd;
For, 'fore my dagger should ha' drawn one drop
Of thy chaste blood, it should have sluic'd out mine,
And the cold point stuck deep into my heart.
Nor better be my fate, if I shall move
To any other pleasure but thy love.
Wid. It shall be in my creed: but let's away.
For night with her black steeds draws up the day.
[Exeunt.
Enter Will Rash, Staines, Geraldine, Gertrude, Joyce, and a boy with a lanthorn.
W. Rash. Softly, boy, softly; you think you are upon firm ground; but it is dangerous. You'll never make a good thief, you rogue, till you learn to creep upon all four. If I do not sweat with going this pace! everything I see, methinks, should be my father in his white beard.
Staines. It is the property of that passion; for fear
Still shapes all things we see to that we fear.
W. Rash. Well said, logic: sister, I pray, lay hold of him; for the man, I see, is able to give the watch an answer if they should come upon him with interrogatories.
Enter Spendall, Widow, and Phillis.
Zounds, we are discovered! boy, come up close, and use the property of your lanthorn. What dumb show should this be?
Gera. They take their way directly, [and] intend nothing against us.
Staines. Can you not discern who they are?
Joyce. One is Spendall.
Gert. The other is the widow, as I take it.
Staines. 'Tis true, and that's her maid before her.
W. Rash. What a night of conspiracy is here! more villany? there's another goodly mutton going: my father is fleeced of all; grief will give him a box, i' faith—but 'tis no great matter; I shall inherit the sooner. Nay, soft, sir; you shall not pass so current with the matter, I'll shake you a little. Who goes there?
Spend. Out with the candle [Aside.]: who's that asks the question?
W. Rash. One that has some reason for't.
Spend. It should be, by the voice, young Rash.
Why, we are honest folks.
W. Rash. Pray, where do you dwell? Not in town, I hope?
Spend. Why, we dwell—zounds! where do we dwell? I know not where.
W. Rash. And you'll be married, you know not when—zounds, it were a Christian deed to stop thee in thy journey: hast thou no more spirit in thee, but to let thy tongue betray thee? Suppose I had been a constable, you had been in a fine taking, had you not?
Spend. But, my still worthy friend,
Is there no worse face of ill bent towards me
Than that thou merrily putt'st on?
W. Rash. Yes, here's four or five faces more, but ne'er an ill one, though never an excellent good one. Boy, up with your lanthorn of light, and show him his associates, all running away with the flesh, as thou art. Go, yoke together, you may be oxen one day, and draw altogether in a plough; go, march together, the parson stays for you; pay him royally. Come, give me the lanthorns, for you have light sufficient, for night has put off his black cap, and salutes the morn. Now farewell, my little children of Cupid, that walk by two and two, as if you went a-feasting: let me hear no more words, but be gone.
Spend. and Staines. Farewell.
Gert. and Joyce. Farewell, brother.
[Exeunt. Manet Will Rash.
W. Rash. Ay, you may cry farewell; but if my father should know of my villany, how should I fare then? But all's one, I ha' done my sisters good, my friends good, and myself good; and a general good is always to be respected before a particular. There's eightscore pounds a year saved by the conveyance of this widow. I hear footsteps: now, darkness, take me into thy arms, and deliver me from discovery.
[Exit.
Enter Sir Lionel.
Sir Lionel. Lord, Lord, what a careless world is this! neither bride nor bridegroom ready; time to go to church, and not a man unroosted: this age has not seen a young gallant rise with a candle; we live drowned in feather-beds, and dream of no other felicity. This was not the life when I was a young man. What makes us so weak as we are now? A feather-bed. What so unapt for exercise? A feather-bed. What breeds such pains and aches in our bones? why, a feather-bed or a wench—or at least a wench in a feather-bed. Is it not a shame that an old man as I am should be up first, and in a wedding-day? I think, in my conscience, there's more mettle in lads of threescore than in boys of one-and-twenty.
Enter Baskethilt.
Why, Baskethilt!
Bas. Here, sir.
Sir Lionel. Shall I not be trussed to-day?
Bas. Yes, sir; but I went for water.
Sir Lionel. Is Will Rash up yet?
Bas. I think not, sir; for I heard nobody stirring in the house.
Sir Lionel. Knock, sirrah, at his chamber.
[Knock within.
The house might be pluck'd down and builded again
Before he'd wake with the noise.
[Will Rash aloft.
W. Rash. Who's that keeps such a knocking; are you mad?
Sir Lionel. Rather thou art drunk, thou lazy slouch,
That mak'st thy bed thy grave, and in it buryest
All thy youth and vigour: up, for shame.
W. Rash. Why, 'tis not two a-clock yet.
Sir Lionel. Out, sluggish knave; 'tis nearer unto five:
The whole house has outslept themselves, as if they had drunk wild poppy. Sirrah, go you and raise the maids, and let them call upon their mistresses.
Bas. Well, sir, I shall.
[Exit.
Enter Scattergood and Bubble.
Scat. Did I eat any lettuce to supper last night, that I am so sleepy? I think it be daylight, brother Bubble.
Bub. What sayest thou, brother? heigh-ho!
Sir Lionel. Fie, fie! not ready yet? what sluggishness
Hath seiz'd upon you? why, thine eyes are close still.
Bub. As fast as a Kentish oyster. Surely I was begotten in a plum-tree, I ha' such a deal of gum about mine eyes.
Sir Lionel. Lord, how you stand! I am asham'd to see
The sun should be a witness of your sloth.
[Enter Baskethilt.]
Now, sir, your haste?
Bas. Marry, sir, there are guests coming to accompany you to church.
Sir Lionel. Why, this is excellent; men, whom it not concerns,
Are more respective than we, that are main actors.
Bub. Father Rash, be not so outrageous: we will go in and buckle ourselves all in good time. How now! what's this about my shins?
Enter Old Geraldine and Longfield.
Scat. Methought our shanks were not fellows: we have metamorphosed our stockings for want of splendour.
Bub. Pray, what's that splendour?
Scat. Why, 'tis the Latin word for a Christmas candle.
[Exeunt.
Sir Lionel. O gentlemen, you love, you honour me. Welcome, welcome, good Master Geraldine; you have taken pains to accompany an undeserving friend.
Enter Phillis.
Old Gera. You put us to a needless labour, sir,
To run and wind about for circumstance;[216]
When the plain word, "I thank you," would have serv'd.
Sir Lionel. How now, wench; are the females ready yet?
The time comes on upon us, and we run backward:
We are so untoward in our business,
We think not what we have to do, nor what we do.
Phil. I know not, sir, whether they know what to do; but I am sure they have been at church well-nigh an hour. They were afraid you had got the start of them, which made them make such haste.
Sir Lionel. Is't possible? what think you, gentlemen,
Are not these wenches forward? is there not virtue in a man
Can make young virgins leave their beds so soon?
But is the widow gone along with them?
Phil. Yes, sir; why, she was the ringleader.
Sir Lionel. I thought as much, for she knows what belongs to't.
Come, gentlemen; methinks 'tis sport to see
Young wenches run to church before their husbands.
Enter Will Rash.
Faith, we shall make them blush for this ere night.
Ah, sirrah, are you come? why, that's well-said:
I marl'd indeed that all things were so quiet,
Which made me think th' had not unwrapp'd their sheets;
Enter Servant, with a cloak.
And then were they at church, I hold my life:
Maids think it long, till each be made a wife.
Hast thou my cloak, knave? well-said, put it on;
We'll after them: let me go, hasten both,
Both the bridegrooms forward; we'll walk a little
Softly on afore. But see, see, if they be not come
To fetch us now! We come, we come.
Bid them return, and save themselves this labour.
Enter Spendall, Staines, Geraldine, Widow, Gertrude, and Joyce.
W. Rash. Now have I a quartan ague upon me.
Sir Lionel. Why, how now! why come you from church to kneel thus publicly? what's the matter?
Gera. We kneel, sir, for your blessing.
Sir Lionel. How! my blessing? Master Geraldine, is not that your son?
Old Gera. Yes, sir; and that, I take it, is your daughter.
Sir Lionel. I suspect knavery. What are you?
Why do you kneel hand-in-hand with her?
Staines. For a fatherly blessing too, sir.
Sir Lionel. Heyday! 'tis palpable, I am gull'd, and my sons Scattergood and Bubble fooled. You are married.
Spend. Yes, sir, we are married.
Sir Lionel. More villany! everything goes the wrong way.
Spend. We shall go the right way anon, I hope.
Sir Lionel. Yes, marry shall you; you shall e'en to the
Compter again, and that's the right way for you.
Wid. O, you are wrong;
The prison that shall hold him are these arms.
Sir Lionel. I do fear that I shall turn stinkard,
I do smell such a matter. You are married then?
Enter Scattergood and Bubble.
Spend. Ecce signum! here's the wedding-ring t' affirm it.
Sir Lionel. I believe the knave has drunk ipocras,
He is so pleasant.
Scat. Good-morrow, gentlemen.
Bub. Tu quoque to all: what, shall we go to church?
Come, I long to be about this gear.
Sir Lionel. Do you hear me; will you two go sleep again I take out the t'other nap; for you are both made coxcombs, and so am I.
Scat. How! coxcombs?
Sir Lionel. Yes, coxcombs.
Scat. Father, that word coxcomb goes against my stomach.
Bub. And against mine; a man might ha' digested a woodcock better.
Sir Lionel. You two come now to go to church to be married;
And they two come from church, and are married.
Bub. How! married? I would see that man durst marry her.
Gera. Why, sir, what would you do?
Bub. Why, sir, I would forbid the banns.
Scat. And so would I.
Sir Lionel. Do you know that youth in satin? he's the pen that belongs to that inkhorn.
Bub. How! let me see; are not you my man Gervase?
Staines. Yes, sir.
Enter a Serjeant.
Bub. And have you married her?
Staines. Yes, sir.
Bub. And do you think you have us'd me well?
Staines. Yes, sir.
Bub. O intolerable rascal! I will presently be made a justice of peace, and have thee whipped. Go, fetch a constable.
Staines. Come, y' are a flourishing ass: serjeant, take him to thee, he has had a long time of his pageantry.
Sir Lionel. Sirrah, let him go; I'll be his bail for all debts which come against him.
Staines. Reverend sir, to whom I owe the duty of a son,
Which I shall ever pay in my obedience;
Know, that which made him gracious in your eyes,
And gilded over his imperfections,
Is wasted and consumed even like ice,
Which by the vehemence of heat dissolves,
And glides to many rivers: so his wealth,
That felt a prodigal hand, hot in expense,
Melted within his gripe, and from his coffers
Ran like a violent stream to other men's.
What was my own, I catch'd at.
Sir Lionel. Have you your mortgage in?
Staines. Yes, sir.
Sir Lionel. Stand up: the matter is well amended.
Master Geraldine, give you sufferance to this match?
Old Gera. Yes, marry do I, sir; for, since they love,
I'll not have the crime lie on my head,
To divide man and wife.
Sir Lionel. Why, you say well: my blessing fall upon you.
Wid. And upon us that love, Sir Lionel.
Sir Lionel. By my troth, since thou hast ta'en the young knave,
God give thee joy of him, and may he prove
A wiser man than his master.
Staines. Serjeant, why dost not carry him to prison?
Ser. Sir Lionel Rash will bail him.
Sir Lionel. I bail him, knave! wherefore should I bail him?
No, carry him away, I'll relieve no prodigals.
Bub. Good Sir Lionel, I beseech you, sir! gentlemen,
I pray, make a purse for me.
Ser. Come, sir, come, are you begging?
Bub. Why, that does you no harm. Gervase—master,
I should say—some compassion.
Staines. Serjeants, come back with him. Look, sir, here is
Your livery;
If you can put off all your former pride,
And put on this with that humility
That you first wore it, I will pay your debts,
Free you of all encumbrances,
And take you again into my service.
Bub. Tenterhook, let me go. I will take his worship's offer without wages, rather than come into your clutches again: a man in a blue coat may have some colour for his knavery; in the Compter he can have none.
Sir Lionel. But now, Master Scattergood, what say you to this?
Scat. Marry, I say, 'tis scarce honest dealing, for any man to coneycatch another man's wife: I protest we'll not put it up.
Staines. No! which we?
Scat. Why, Gertrude and I.
Staines. Gertrude! why, she'll put it up.
Scat. Will she?
Gera. Ay, that she will, and so must you.
Scat. Must I?
Gera. Yes, that you must.
Scat. Well, if I must, I must; but I protest I would not,
But that I must: so vale, vale: et tu quoque.
[Exit.
Sir Lionel. Why, that's well said:
Then I perceive we shall wind up all wrong.
Come, gentlemen, and all our other guests,
Let our well-temper'd bloods taste Bacchus' feasts;
But let us know first how these sports delight,
And to these gentlemen each bid good night.[217]
W. Rash. Gentles, I hope, that well my labour ends;
All that I did was but to please my friends.
Gera. A kind enamoret I did strive to prove,
But now I leave that and pursue your love.
Gert. My part I have performed with the rest,
And, though I have not, yet I would do best.
Staines. That I have cheated through the play, 'tis true:
But yet I hope I have not cheated you.
Joyce. If with my clamours I have done you wrong,
Ever hereafter I will hold my tongue.
Spend. If through my riot I have offensive been,
Henceforth I'll play the civil citizen.
Wid. Faith, all that I say is, howe'er it hap,
Widows, like maids, sometimes may catch a clap.
Bub. To mirth and laughter henceforth I'll provoke ye,
If you but please to like of Green's Tu quoque.[218]
[ALBUMAZAR.]
EDITIONS.
(1.) Albumazar. A Comedy presented before the Kings Maiestie at Cambridge, the ninth of March, 1614. By the Gentlemen of Trinitie Colledge. London, Printed by Nicholas Okes for Walter Burre, and are to be sold at his Shop, in Pauls Church-yard. 1615. 4o.
(2.) Albumazar. A Comedy presented before the Kings Maiesty at Cambridge. By the Gentlemen of Trinity Colledge. Newly revised and corrected by a speciall Hand. London, Printed by Nicholas Okes. 1634. 4o.
[There is a third 4o printed in 1668, with an epilogue by Dryden.]
[REEDS PREFACE.]
[John] Tomkis,[219] [or Tomkins, son of Thomas Tomkins, a celebrated musician of the reign of James I.], the author of this play, was of Trinity College, Cambridge.
In what part of the kingdom he was born, and what became of him after he quitted the University, are all circumstances alike unknown. That no memorials should remain of a person to whom the world is obliged for a performance of so much merit as "Albumazar" is allowed to possess, cannot but create surprise, and at the same time will demonstrate that genius is not always sufficient to excite the attention of contemporaries or the curiosity of posterity. Dryden [whose ignorance of our earlier literature is well known] not only seems to have been unaware to whom the world owed this piece, but also the time in which it was first represented. He has without any authority asserted that Ben Jonson—
"Chose this
As the best model of his masterpiece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
Here he was fashion'd, and, we may suppose,
He lik'd the fashion well who wore the cloaths."
But in this particular he was certainly mistaken. The "Alchemist" was printed in 1612, and "Albumazar" was not performed until the year 1614, as will appear from the following particulars:—
"King James," says a writer in the Gentleman's Magazine for May 1756, p. 224, "made a progress to Cambridge" and other parts in the winter of the year 1614, as is particularly taken notice of by Rapin, vol. ii. p. 156, who observes that the play called 'Ignoramus' was then acted before his Majesty at Cambridge, and gave him infinite pleasure. I found in the library of Sir Edward Deering a minute in manuscript of what passed at Cambridge for the five days the king stayed there, which I shall here transcribe, for it accords perfectly with the account given by the historian, both of the king's progress and the play entitled "Ignoramus," and at the same time will afford us the best light to the matter in hand:—
"On Tuesday the 7th of March 1614, was acted before the King, in Trinity College Hall—
"1. Æmilia: A Latin Comedy, made by Mr Cecill Johannis.
"On Wednesday night—
"2. Ignoramus the Lawyer[220]: Latine and part English. Composed by Mr Ruggle Clarensis.
"On Thursday—
"3. Albumazar the Astronomer, in English. By Mr Tomkis, Trinit.
"On Friday—
"4. Melanthe[221]: A Latin Pastoral. Made by Mr [S.] Brookes (mox doctor) Trinitatis.
"On the next Monday—
"5. The Piscatory, an English Comedy, was acted before the University, in King's College, which Master Fletcher[222] of that College had provided, if the King should have tarried another night."
Part of the above account is confirmed in a letter from John Chamberlain to Sir Dudley Carlton, at Turin, dated 16th March 1614, lately printed in "Miscellaneous State Papers, from 1501 to 1726," i. 395: "The King and Prince lay at Trinity College, where the plays were represented; and the hall so well ordered for room, that above 2000 persons were conveniently placed. The first night's entertainment was a comedy, and acted by St John's men, the chief part consisting of a counterfeit Sir Edward Ratcliffe, a foolish tutor of physic, which proved but a lean argument; and, though it were larded with pretty shows at the beginning and end, and with somewhat too broad speech for such a presence, yet it was still dry. The second night was a comedy of Clare Hall, with the help of two or three good actors from other houses, wherein David Drummond, in a hobby-horse, and Brakin the recorder of the town, under the name of Ignoramus,[223] a common lawyer, bare great parts. The thing was full of mirth and variety, with many excellent actors (among whom the Lord Compton's son, [224] though least, was not worst), but more than half marred with extreme length. The third night was an English comedy called Albumazar, of Trinity College's action and invention; but there was no great matter in it, more than one good clown's part. The last night was a Latin Pastoral, of the same house, excellently written, and as well acted, which gave great contentment, as well to the King as to the rest."
After the Restoration, "Albumazar" was revived, and Mr Dryden wrote a prologue to it, which is printed in every edition of his works.
Although it does not appear to have been upon the list of acting plays, yet the reputation which it had obtained induced Mr Ralph to build upon it a comedy which, after ten years' application, was performed at Drury Lane in 1744, under the title of "The Astrologer." It was acted, however, only one night, when the receipts of the house amounted but to twenty-one pounds. On the second night, the manager was obliged to shut up his doors for want of an audience. (See advertisement prefixed to the play.)
It cannot be denied that "Albumazar" has not been a favourite play with the people in general. About the year 1748, soon after Mr Garrick became manager of Drury Lane Theatre, he caused it to be revived, and gave it every advantage which could be derived from the assistance of the best performers; but though admirably acted, it does not appear to have met with much success. It was again revived at the same theatre in 1773, with some alterations, and was again coldly received, though supported by the best comic performers of the times. The piece, on this revival, received some alterations from the pen of Mr Garrick, and was published in 8o, 1773.