[PREFACE TO THE FORMER EDITION.]
Thomas Killigrew, one of the sons of Sir Robert Killigrew, Chamberlain to the Queen, was born at Hanworth, in the county of Middlesex, in the month of February 1611.[184] Although his writings are not wanting in those requisites which confer reputation on an author, yet [we are permitted to conclude that it was chiefly to his conversational and social qualities, that Killigrew owed his ascendancy at Charles II.'s court—first abroad, and afterwards in England. Hence Sir John Denham was probably led to write those lines—
"Had Cowley ne'er spoke, Killigrew ne'er writ,
Combin'd in one, they'd made a matchless wit."
But, as we know, for at least two generations the Killigrews were all men and women of genius, and were as remarkable, too, for their physical as for their intellectual graces. Killigrew] seems to have been early intended for the court; and to qualify him for rising there, every circumstance of his education appears to have been adapted. In the year 1635, while upon his travels, he chanced to be at London, and an eyewitness of the celebrated imposture of exorcising the devil out of several nuns belonging to a convent in that town. Of this transaction he wrote a very minute and accurate account,[185] still in MS. in the Pepysian Library at Magdalen College, Cambridge. He was appointed page-of-honour to King Charles I., and faithfully adhered to his cause until the death of his master, after which he attended his son in his exile, to whom he was highly acceptable, on account of his social and convivial qualifications. He married Mrs Cicilia Crofts, one of the maids-of-honour to Queen Henrietta. With this lady he had a dispute on the subject of jealousy, at which Thomas Carew was present, and wrote a poem, introduced into the masque of "Cœlum Britannicum," and afterwards a copy of verses on their nuptials, printed in his works.[186]
[It appears from the original documents still preserved, that Killigrew was with Prince Charles at Paris in April 1647, and obtained from him a licence to travel, dated April 23. In 1649 he had a grant from James, Duke of York, of the office of Gentleman of the Bed-chamber; and from 1649 to 1652 he was engaged in diplomatic negotiations at Vienna and Florence. His papers, as well as those which he addressed to the Republic of Venice, are extant. Speaking of his mission to Venice], "Although," says Lord Clarendon,[187] "the king was much dissuaded from it, but afterwards his majesty was prevailed upon, only to gratify him (Killigrew) that in that capacity he might borrow money of English merchants for his own subsistence; which he did, and nothing to the honour of his master, but was at last compelled to leave the Republic for his vicious behaviour, of which the Venetian ambassador complained to the king, when he came afterwards to Paris." On his return from Venice, Sir John Denham wrote a copy of verses, printed in his works,[188] bantering the foibles of his friend Killigrew who, from his account, was as little sensible to the inconveniences of exile as his royal master. [But the curious preface to Killigrew's Plays where, under the thin veil of levity, so strong a vein of seriousness seems to be perceptible, tells a different story, perhaps. He wishes the public as much leisure to read his plays as he had to write them—a banishment of twenty years. One of the documents connected with the Killigrews which have come down to us, shows that in 1660 Thomas received the freedom of the city of Maastricht, in Holland. This was perhaps a parting compliment, when he prepared to return to England with his royal companion in exile. At the Restoration] he was appointed Groom of the Bedchamber, and became so great a favourite with his majesty, that he was admitted into his company on terms of the most unrestrained familiarity, and at times when audience was refused to the first ministers, and even on the most important occasions. It does not appear that he availed himself of his interest with the king, either to amass a fortune, or to advance himself in the state. We do not find that he obtained any other preferment than the post of Master of the Revels, which he held with that of Groom of the Bed-chamber. Oldys [very foolishly and absurdly] says he was king's jester at the same time; but although he might, and certainly did entertain his majesty in that capacity, it can scarce be imagined to have been in consequence of any appointment of that kind. He died at Whitehall on the 19th of March 1682,[189] having in 1664 published a collected edition of his plays, viz.:—
1. The Prisoners: a Tragi-Comedy. Written at London, and acted at the Phœnix in Drury Lane.
2. Claracilla: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Rome, and acted at the Phœnix in Drury Lane. [Dedicated to his dear sister, the Lady Shannon.][190]
3. The Princess; or, Love at First Sight: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Naples. [Dedicated to his dear Niece, the Lady Anne Wentworth, wife to the Lord Lovelace.]
4. The Parson's Wedding.
5. The Pilgrim: a Tragedy. Written in Paris.
6. The First Part of Cicilia and Clorinda; or, Love in Arms: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Turin.
7. The Second Part of Cicilia and Clorinda; or, Love in Arms: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Florence.
8. Thomaso; or the Wanderer: a Comedy. Written in Madrid.
9. The Second Part of Thomaso; or, The Wanderer. Written in Madrid.
10. The First Part of Bellamira, her Dream; or, The Love of Shadows: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Venice.
11. The Second Part of Bellamira, her Dream; or, The Love of Shadows: a Tragi-Comedy. Written in Venice.
Thomas Killigrew had two brothers, both dramatic writers, viz., Sir William Killigrew,[191] author of Ormasdes, Pandora, Selindra, and The Siege of Urbin;[192] and Dr Henry Killigrew, a clergyman, author of a play called The Conspiracy, printed in 4o, 1638, and afterwards altered, and printed in folio, 1653, under the title of Pallantus and Eudora.
Dr Henry Killigrew was father to Mrs Ann Killigrew, a young lady celebrated for her wit, beauty, and virtue, and who was the writer of several poems, very highly esteemed by Dryden.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Master Careless, a gentleman and a wit. Master Wild, a gentleman, nephew to the Widow. Master Jolly, a humorous gentleman, and a courtier. Captain, a leading wit, full of designs. Parson, a wit also, but overreached by the Captain and his Wanton.
Master Constant,
Master Sad,
}
two dull suitors to the lady Widow and Mistress Pleasant.
Crop, the Brownist, a scrivener. Lady Wild, a rich (and somewhat youthful) widow. Mistress Pleasant, a handsome young gentlewoman, of a good fortune. Mistress Secret, her (indifferent honest) woman. Lady Loveall, an old stallion-hunting widow. Faithful, her (errant honest) woman. Mistress Wanton, the Captain's livery punk, married to the Parson by confederacy.
Bawds, Servants, Drawers, Fiddlers.
THE PARSON'S WEDDING.[193]
ACT I., SCENE 1.
Enter the Captain in choler, and Wanton.
Capt. No more; I'll sooner be reconciled to want or sickness than that rascal: a thing that my charity made sociable; one that when I smiled would fawn upon me, and wag his stern, like starved dogs; so nasty, the company cried foh! upon him, he stunk so of poverty, ale, and bawdry. So poor and despicable, when I relieved him, he could not avow his calling for want of a cassock, but stood at corners of streets and whispered gentlemen in the ear as they passed, and so delivered his wants like a message; which being done, the rogue vanished, and would dive at Westminster like a dabchick, and rise again at Temple-gate. The ingenuity of the rascal, his wit being snuffed by want, burnt clear then, and furnished him with a bawdy jest or two, to take the company; but now the rogue shall find he has lost a patron.
Wan. As I live, if I had thought you would have been in such a fury, you should never have known it.
Capt. Treacherous rogue! he has always railed against thee to me, as a danger his friendship ought to give me warning of, and nightly cried, Yet look back, and hunt not, with good-nature and the beauties of thy youth, that false woman; but hear thy friend, that speaks from sad experience.
Wan. Did he say this?
Capt. Yes, and swears ye are as unsatiate as the sea, as covetous, and as ungrateful: that you have your tempests too, and calms more dangerous than it.
Wan. Was the slave so eloquent in his malice?
Capt. Yes, faith, and urged you (for your part) were never particular, and seldom sound.
Wan. Not sound! why, he offered to marry me, and swore he thought I was chaste, I was so particular; and proved it, that consent was full marriage by the first institution, and those that love and lie together, and tell, have fulfilled all ceremonies now.
Capt. Did he offer to marry thee?
Wan. Yes, yes.
Capt. If ever then I deserved from thee, or if thou be'st dear to thyself, as thou hast anything thou hop'st shall be safe or sound about thee, I conjure thee, take my counsel: marry him, to afflict him.
Wan. Marry him?
Capt. If I have any power, I shall prevail. Thou know'st he has a fat benefice, and leave me to plague him till he give it me to be rid of thee.
Wan. Will you not keep me then?
Capt. I keep thee! prythee, wilt thou keep me? I know not why men are such fools to pay: we bring as much to the sport as women. Keep thee! I'd marry thee as soon; why, that's wedding sin: no, no keeping, I: that you are not your own, is all that prefers you before wives.
Wan. I hope this is not real.
Capt. Art thou such a stranger to my humour? why, I tell thee I should hate thee if I could call thee mine, for I loathe all women within my knowledge; and 'tis six to four, if I knew thy sign, I'd come there no more. A strange mistress makes every night a new; and these are your pleasing sins. I had as lief be good, as sin by course.
Wan. Then I am miserable.
Capt. Not so, if you'll be instructed, and let me pass like a stranger when you meet me.
Wan. But have you these humours?
Capt. Yes, faith; yet, if you will observe them, though you marry him, I may perchance be your friend: but you must be sure to be coy; for to me the hunting is more pleasant than the quarry.[194]
Wan. But, if I observe this, will you be my friend hereafter?
Capt. Firm as the day. Hark, I hear him [The Parson calls within.]; I knew he would follow me. I gave him a small touch that wakened his guilt. Resolve to endear yourself to him, which you may easily do by taking his part when I have vexed him. No dispute; resolve it, or, as I live, here I disclaim thee for ever.
Wan. 'Tis well; something I'll do.
[Exit Wanton.
Capt. Open the door, I say, and let me in: your favourite and his tithes shall come no more here.
Enter Parson.
Par. Yes, but he shall; 'tis not you, nor your braced drum, shall fright me hence, who can command the souls of men. I have read divine Seneca: thou know'st nothing but the earthly part, and canst cry to that, Faces about.[195]
Capt. Thou read Seneca! thou steal'st his cover to clothe thee, naked and wicked, that for money wouldst sell the share of the Twelve, and art allowed by all that know thee fitter to have been Judas than Judas was, for treachery.
Par. Rail, do rail, my illiterate captain, that can only abuse by memory; and should I live till thou couldst read my sentence, I should never die.
Capt. No, ungrateful, live till I destroy thee; and, thankless wretch, did all my care of thee deserve nothing but thy malice and treacherous speaking darkly still? with thy fine, No, not he, when any malicious discourse was made of me; and by thy false faint, No, faith; confess, in thy denials, whilst thy smiling excuses stood a greater and more dangerous evidence against me than my enemies' affidavits could have done.
Par. I'll lie for never a lean soldier of you all.
Capt. I have for thee, slave, when I have been wondered at for keeping company with such a face: but they were such as knew thee not; all which thy looks deceived, as they did me: they are so simple, they'd cosen a jury, and a judge that had wit would swear thou liedst, should thou confess what I know to be true, and award Bedlam for thee; 'tis so strange and so new a thing to find so much Rogue lodge at the sign of the Fool.
Par. Leave this injurious language, or I'll lay off my cassock; for nothing shall privilege your bragger's tongue to abuse me, a gentleman, and a soldier ancienter than thyself.
Capt. Yes, thou wert so: and now I think on't, I'll recount the cause which, it may be, thou hast forgot, through thy variety of sins. It was a hue-and-cry that followed thee a scholar, and found thee a soldier.
Par. Thou liest: thou and Scandal have but one tongue; hers dwells with thy coward's teeth.
Capt. O, do you rage? nay, I'll put the cause in print too: I am but a scurvy poet, yet I'll make a ballad shall tell how like a faithful disciple you followed your poor whore till her martyrdom in the suburbs.
Par. I'll be revenged for this scandal.
Capt. Then shall succeed thy flight from the university, disguised into captain, only the outside was worse buff, and the inside more atheist than they; furnished with an insolent faith, uncharitable heart, envious as old women, cruel and bloody as cowards: thus armed at all points, thou went'st out, threatening God, and trembling at men.
Par. I'll be revenged, thou poor man of war, I'll be revenged.
Enter Wanton.
Wan. And why so bitter? Whose house is this? Who dares tell this story?
Capt. Why, sweet, hath he not treacherously broke into our cabinet, and would have stol'n thee thence? by these hilts, I'll hang him; and then I can conclude my ballad with take warning, all Christian people, by the same: I will, you lean slave; I'll prosecute thee, till thou art fain to hide in a servitor's gown again, and live upon crumbs with the robin redbreasts that haunt the hall (your old messmates). Do you snarl? I'll do't, I will, and put thee to fight with the dogs for the bones that but smell of meat—those that your hungry students have polished with their teeth.
Wan. If you do this, good captain, lieutenant, and company (for all your command, I think, is within your reach)—I say, if you dare do this, I shall sing a song of one that bad stand,[196] and made a carrier pay a dear rent for a little ground upon his majesty's highway.
Capt. How now, Mistress Wanton! what's this? what's this?
Par. This! 'tis matter for a jury; I'll swear, and positively. I'll hang thee, I'll do't, by this hand: let me alone to swear the jury out of doubt.
Capt. But you are in jest, Mistress Wanton, and will confess (I hope) this is no truth.
Wan. Yes, sir, as great a truth as that you are in your unpaid-for scarlet. Fool! didst think I'd quit such a friend and his staid fortune, to rely upon thy dead pay and hopes of a second covenant?
Capt. His fortune! what is't? th' advowson of Tyburn deanery?
Par. No, nor rents brought in by long staff-speeches, that ask alms with frowns, till thy looks and speech have laid violent hands upon men's charity.
Wan. Let him alone; I'll warrant, he'll never be indicted of drawing anything but his tongue against a man.
Capt. Very good.
Par. Dear Mistress Wanton, you have won my heart, and I shall live to doat upon you for abusing this impetuous captain. Will you listen to my old suit? will you marry me, and vex him? say, dare you do't without more dispute?
Capt. 'Twas a good question; she that dares marry thee, dares do anything: she may as safely lie with the great bell upon her, and his clapper is less dangerous than thine.
Wan. Why, I pray?
Capt. What a miserable condition wilt thou come to? his wife cannot be an honest woman; and if thou shouldst turn honest, would it not vex thee to be chaste and poxed[197]—a saint without a nose? what calendar will admit thee by[198] an incurable slave that's made of rogue's flesh? consider that.
Wan. Why, that's something yet; thou hast nothing but a few scars and a little old fame to trust to; and that scarce thatches your head.
Capt. Nay, then I see thou art base, and this plot not accident. And now I do not grudge him thee; go together, 'tis pity to part you, whore and parson, as consonant——
Wan. As whore and captain.
Capt. Take her, I'll warrant her a breeder. I'll prophesy she shall lie with thy whole congregation, and bring an heir to thy parish; one that thou may'st enclose the common by his title, and recover it by common law.
Par. That's more than thy dear dam could do for thee, thou son of a thousand fathers, all poor soldiers: rogues that ought mischiefs, no midwives, for their birth. But I cry thee mercy, my patron has an estate of old iron by his side, with the farm of old ladies he scrapes a dirty living from.
Wan. He earn from an old lady: hang him, he's only wicked in his desires; and for adultery he cannot be condemned, though he should have the vanity to betray himself. God forgive me for belying him so often as I have done; the weak-chined slave hired me once to say I was with child by him.
Capt. This is pretty. Farewell; and may the next pig thou farrow'st have a promising face, without the dad's fool or gallows in't, that all may swear, at first sight, that's a bastard; and it shall go hard, but I'll have it called mine. I have the way; 'tis but praising thee, and swearing thou art honest before I am asked: you taught me the trick.
Par. Next levy I'll preach against thee, and tell them what a piece you are. Your drum and borrowed scarf shall not prevail; nor shall you win with charms, half-ell long (hight ferret riband) the youth of our parish, as you have done.[199]
Capt. No, lose no time: prythee, study and learn to preach, and leave railing against the surplice, now thou hast preached thyself into linen. Adieu, Abigail! adieu, heir-apparent to Sir Oliver Mar-text! to church, go; I'll send a beadle shall sing your epithalamium.
Par. Adieu, my captain of a tame band. I'll tell your old lady how you abused her breath, and swore you earned your money harder than those that dig in the mines for't. [Exit Captain.] A fart fill thy sail, captain of a galley foist.[200] He's gone: come, sweet, let's to church immediately, that I may go and take my revenge: I'll make him wear thin breeches.
Wan. But if you should be such a man as he says you are, what would my friends say when they hear I have cast myself away?
Par. He says! hang him, lean, mercenary, provand[201] rogue: I knew his beginning, when he made the stocks lousy, and swarmed so with vermin, we were afraid he would have brought that curse upon the country. He says! but what matters what he says? a rogue by sire and dam! his father was a broad, fat pedlar, a what-do-you-lack, sir? that haunted good houses, and stole more than he bought: his dam was a gipsy, a pilfering, canting Sybil in her youth, and she suffered in her old age for a witch. Poor Stromwell, the rogue was a perpetual burthen to her, she carried him longer at her back than in her belly; he dwelt there, till she lost him one night in the great frost upon our common, and there he was found in the morning candied in ice—a pox of their charity that thawed him! You might smell a rogue then in the bud: he is now run away from his wife.
Wan. His wife?
Par. Yes, his wife; why, do you not know he's married according to the rogues' liturgy? a left-handed bridegroom. I saw him take the ring from a tinker's dowager.
Wan. Is this possible?
Par. Yes, most possible, and you shall see how I'll be revenged on him: I will immediately go seek the ordinance against reformadoes.
Wan. What ordinance?
Par. Why, they do so swarm about the town, and are so destructive to trade and all civil government, that the state has declared no person shall keep above two colonels and four captains (of what trade soever) in his family; for now the war is done, broken breech, woodmonger, ragman, butcher, and linkboy (comrades that made up the ragged regiment in this holy war), think to return and be admitted to serve out their times again.
Wan. Your ordinance will not touch the captain, for he is a known soldier.
Par. He a captain! an apocryphal modern one, that went convoy once to Brentford with those troops that conducted the contribution-puddings in the late holy war, when the city ran mad after their russet Levites, apron-rogues with horn hands. Hang him, he's but the sign of a soldier; and I hope to see him hanged for that commission, when the king comes to his place again.
Wan. You abuse him now he's gone; but——
Par. Why, dost thou think I fear him? No, wench, I know him too well for a cowardly slave, that dares as soon eat his fox,[202] as draw it in earnest: the slave's noted to make a conscience of nothing but fighting.
Wan. Well, if you be not a good man and a kind husband——
Par. Thou knowest the proverb, as happy as the parson's wife during her husband's life.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Mistress Pleasant, Widow Wild, her aunt, and Secret, her woman, above in the music-room, as dressing her: a glass, a table, and she in her night-clothes.
Plea. Secret, give me the glass, and see who knocks.
Wid. Niece, what, shut the door? as I live, this music was meant to you: I know my nephew's voice.
Plea. Yes, but you think his friend's has more music in't.
Wid. No, faith, I can laugh with him, or so, but he comes no nearer than my lace.
Plea. You do well to keep your smock betwixt.
Wid. Faith, wench, so wilt thou, and thou be'st wise, from him and all of them; and, be ruled by me, we'll abuse all the sex, till they put a true value upon us.
Plea. But dare you forbid the travelled gentlemen, and abuse them and your servant, and swear, with me, not to marry in a twelvemonth, though a lord bait the hook, and hang out the sign of a court Cupid, whipped by a country widow? then I believe we may have mirth cheaper than at the price of ourselves, and some sport with the wits that went to lose themselves in France.
Wid. Come, no dissembling, lest I tell your servant, when he returns, how much you're taken with the last new fashion.
Sec. Madam, 'tis almost noon; will you not dress yourself to-day?
Wid. She speaks as if we were boarders; prythee, wench, is not the dinner our own I sure, my cook shall lay by my own roast till my stomach be up!
Plea. But there may be company, and they will say we take too long time to trim. Secret, give me the flowers my servant sent me: he sware 'twas the first the wench made of the kind.
Wid. But when he shall hear you had music sent you to-day, 'twill make him appear in his old clothes.
Plea. Marry, I would he would take exception, he should not want ill-usage to rid me of his trouble. As I live, custom has made me so acquainted with him, that I now begin to think him not so displeasing as at first; and if he fall out with me, I must with him, to secure myself. Sure, aunt, he must find sense and reason absent; for when a question knocks at his head, the answer tells that there is nobody at home. I asked him th' other day if he did not find a blemish in his understanding, and he sware a great oath, not he. I told him 'twas very strange, for fool was so visible an eyesore, that neither birth nor fortune could reconcile to me.
Wid. Faith, methinks his humour is good, and his purse will buy good company; and I can laugh, and be merry with him sometimes.
Plea. Why, pray, aunt, take him to yourself, and see how merry we will be. I can laugh at anybody's fool but mine own.
Wid. By my troth, but that I have married one fool already, you should not have him. Consider, he asks no portion, and yet will make a great jointure. A fool with these conveniences, a kind, loving fool, and one that you may govern, makes no ill husband, niece. There are other arguments, too, to bid a fool welcome, which you will find without teaching. Think of it, niece: you may lay out your affection to purchase some dear wit or judgment of the city, and repent at leisure a good bargain in this fool.
Plea. Faith, aunt, fools are cheap in the butchery and dear in the kitchen; they are such unsavoury, insipid things, that there goes more charge to the sauce than the fool is worth, ere a woman can confidently serve him, either to her bed or board. Then, if he be a loving fool, he troubles all the world a-days, and me all night.
Sec. Friendship-love, madam, has a remedy for that.
Plea. See if the air of this place has not inclined Secret to be a bawd already! No, Secret, you get no gowns that way, upon my word. If I marry, it shall be a gentleman that has wit and honour, though he has nothing but a sword by his side: such a one naked is better than a fool with all his trappings, bells, and baubles.
Wid. Why, as I live, he's a handsome fellow, and merry: mine is such a sad soul, and tells me stories of lovers that died in despair, and of the lamentable end of their mistresses (according to the ballad), and thinks to win me by example.
Plea. Faith, mine talks of nothing but how long he has loved me; and those that know me not think I am old, and still finds new causes (as he calls them) for his love. I asked him the other day, if I changed so fast, or no.
Wid. But what think'st thou, Secret? my nephew dances well, and has a handsome house in the Piazza.
Plea. Your nephew! not I, as I live; he looks as if he would be wooed. I'll warrant you, he'll never begin with a woman, till he has lost the opinion of himself; but since you are so courteous, I'll speak to his friend, and let him know how you suffer for him.
Wid. Him! marry, God bless all good women from him. Why, he talks as if the dairymaid and all her cows could not serve his turn. Then they wear such bawdy breeches, 'twould startle an honest woman to come in their company, for fear they should break, and put her to count from the fall of them; for I'll warrant the year of the Lord would sooner out of her head than such a sight.
Plea. I am not such an enemy now to his humour as to your nephew's. He rails against our sex, and thinks, by beating down the price of a woman, to make us despair of merchants; but if I had his heartstrings tied on a true-lover's knot, I would so firk him, till he found physic in a rope.
Sec. He's a scurvy-tongued fellow, I am sure of that; and if I could have got a staff, I had marked him.
Wid. What did he do to thee, Secret?
Plea. Why, he swore he had a better opinion of her than to think she had her maidenhead; but if she were that fool, and had preserved the toy, he swore he would not take the pains of fetching it, to have it. I confess, I would fain be revenged on them, because they are so blown up with opinion of their wit.
Wid. As I live, my nephew travels still: the sober, honest Ned Wild will not be at home this month.
Plea. What say you? will you abuse them and all the rest, and stand to my first proposition?
Wid. Yes, faith, if it be but to bury my servant Sad; for he cannot last above another fall. And how, think you, will your servant take it?
Plea. Mine! O, God help me, mine's a healthy fool. I would he were subject to pine, and take things unkindly: there were some hope to be rid of him; for I'll undertake to use him as ill as anybody.
Wid. As I live, I am easily resolved: for if I would marry, I know neither who nor what humour to choose.
Sec. By my troth, madam, you are hard to please, else the courtier might have served turn.
Wid. Serve turn! Prythee, what haste, Secret, that I should put myself to bed with one I might make a shift with? When I marry, thou shalt cry, Ay marry, madam, this is a husband! without blushing, wench, and none of your so-so husbands. Yet he might have[203] overcome my aversion, I confess.
Plea. Overcome! I think so: he might have won a city his way; for when he saw you were resolved he should not eat with you, he would set himself down as if he meant to besiege us, and had vowed never to rise till he had taken us in; and because our sex forbad force, he meant to do it by famine. Yet you may stay, and miss a better market; for, hang me, I am of Secret's opinion, he had but two faults—a handsome fellow, and too soon denied.
Wid. 'Tis true, he was a handsome fellow, and a civil, that I shall report him; for as soon as it was given him to understand I desired he would come no more, I never saw him since, but by chance.
Plea. Why did you forbid him?
Wid. There were divers exceptions; but that which angered me then was, he came with the king's letters patents, as if he had been to take up a wife for his majesty's use.
Plea. Alas! was that all? Why, 'tis their way at court, a common course among them. And was it not one the king had a great care of? When my mother was alive, I had such a packet from the court: directed unto me: I bid them pay the post, and make the fellow drink; which he took as ill as I could wish, and has been ever since such a friendly enemy—
Wid. Nay, as I live, she was for the captain too: his scarf and feather won her heart.
Sec. Truly, madam, never flatter yourself; for the gentleman did not like you so well as to put you to the trouble of saying no.
Plea. Lord, how I hated and dreaded that scarf and buff-coat!
Sec. Why, Mistress Pleasant, a captain is an honourable charge.
Wid. Prythee, Secret, name them no more. Colonel and captain, commissioner, free-quarters, ordnance and contribution. When Buff utters these words, I tremble and dread the sound: it frights me still when I do but think on them. Cud's body, they're twigs of the old rod, wench, that whipped us so lately.
Plea. Ay, ay, and they were happy days, wench, when the captain was a lean poor humble thing, and the soldier tame, and durst not come within the city for fear of a constable and a whipping-post. They know the penal statutes give no quarter. Then Buff was out of countenance, and skulked from alehouse to alehouse, and the city had no militia but the sheriff's men. In those merry days, a bailiff trod the streets with terror, when all the chains in the city were rusty but Master Sheriff's; when the people knew no evil but the constable and his watch. Now every committee has as much power and as little manners, and examines with as much ignorance, impertinence, and authority, as a constable in the king's key.
[People talking without.
Wid. See who's that so loud?
Sec. The men you talked of, newly come to town.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE III.
Enter Jack Constant, Will Sad, Jolly, and a Footman: they comb their heads and talk.[204]
Jolly. Remember our covenants, get them that can all friends; and be sure to despatch the plot to carry them into the country, lest the brace of newcome monsieurs get them.
Con. Those flesh-flies! I'll warrant thee from them: yet 'twas foolishly done of me to put on this gravity. I shall break out, and return to myself, if you put me to a winter's wooing.
Sad. A little patience does it, and I am content to suffer anything, till they're out of town. Secret says they think my pale face proceeds from my love.
Jolly. Does she? That shall be one hint to advance your designs and my revenge: for so she be cosened, I care not who does it, for scorning me, who (by this hand) lov'd her parlously.
Foot. Sir, what shall I do with the horses?
Sad. Carry them to Brumsted's.
Foot. What shall I do with your worship's?
Jolly. Mine? Take him, hamstring him, kill him, anything to make away with him; lest, having such a conveniency, I be betrayed to another journey into the country. Gentlemen, you are all welcome to my country house. Charing Cross, I am glad to see thee, with all my heart.
Con. What! not reconciled to the country yet?
Sad. He was not long enough there to see the pleasure of it.
Jolly. Pleasure! what is't called? walking, or hawking, or shooting at butts?
Con. You found other pleasures, or else the story of the meadow is no gospel.
Jolly. Yes, a pox upon the necessity! Here I could as soon have taken the cow as such a milk-maid.
Sad. The wine and meat's good, and the company.
Jolly. When, at a Tuesday meeting, the country comes into a match at two-shillings rubbers, where they conclude at dinner what shall be done this parliament, railing against the court and Pope, after the old Elizabeth-way of preaching, till they are drunk with zeal; and then the old knight of the shire from the board's end, in his coronation breeches, vies clinches with a silenced minister—a rogue that railed against the reformation, merely to be eased of the trouble of preaching.
Con. Nay, as I live, now you are to blame, and wrong him. The man's a very able man.
Jolly. You'll be able to say so one day, upon your wife's report. I would he were gelt, and all that hold his opinion: by this good day, they get more souls than they save.
Sad. And what think you of the knight's son? I hope he's a fine gentleman, when his green suit and his blue stockings are on; and the welcomest thing to Mistress Abigail, but Tib and Tom in the stock.[205]
Jolly. Who, Master Jeffrey? Hobbinol the second! By this life, 'tis a very veal, and he licks his nose like one of them. By his discourse you'd guess he had eaten nothing but hay. I wonder he doth not go on all four too, and hold up his leg when he stales. He talks of nothing but the stable. The cobbler's blackbird at the corner has more discourse. He has not so much as the family jest which these Corydons use to inherit. I posed him in Booker's prophecies,[206] till he confessed he had not mastered his almanac yet.
Con. But what was that you whispered to him in the hall?
Jolly. Why, the butler and I, by the intercession of Marchbeer, had newly reconciled him to his dad's old codpiece corslet in the hall, which, when his zeal was up, he would needs throw down, because it hung upon a cross.
Con. But what think you of my neighbour? I hope her charity takes you.
Jolly. Yes, and her old waiting-woman's devotion: she sighed in the pew behind me. A Dutch skipper belches not so loud or so sour. My lady's miserable sinner with the white eyes, she does so squeeze out her prayers, and so wring out, Have mercy upon us. I warrant her she has a waiting-woman's sting in her conscience. She looks like a dirty-souled bawd.
Con. Who? is this my Lady Freedom's woman that he describes?
Jolly. The same, the independent lady. I have promised to send her a cripple or two by the next carrier. Her subject-husband would needs show me his house one morning. I never visited such an hospital: it stank like Bedlam, and all the servants were carrying poultices, juleps, and glisters, and several remedies for all diseases but his. The man sighed to see his estate crumbling away. I counselled him either to give or take an ounce of ratsbane, to cure his mind.
Con. She is my cousin; but he made such a complaint to me, I thought he had married the company of Surgeons' Hall: for his directions to me for several things for his wife's use were fitter for an apothecary's shop than a lady's closet.
Jolly. I advised him to settle no jointure but her old stills and a box of instruments upon her. She hates a man with all his limbs: a wooden leg, a crutch, and fistula in ano, wins her heart. Her gentleman-usher broke his leg last dogdays merely to have the honour to have her set it. A foul, rank rogue! and so full of salt humours, that he posed a whole college of old women with a gangrene, which spoiled the jest, and his ambling before my lady, by applying a handsaw to his gart'ring-place; and now the rogue wears booted bed-staves, and destroys all the young ashes to make him legs.
Sad. I never saw such a nasty affection: she would ha' done well in the incurable—a handmaid to have waited on the cripples.
Jolly. She converses with naked men, and handles all their members, though never so ill affected, and calls the fornication charity. All her discourse to me was flat bawdry, which I could not chide, but spoke as flat as she, till she rebuked me, calling mine beastliness, and hers natural philosophy. By this day, if I were to marry, I would as soon have chosen a drawn whore out of mine own hospital, and cure the sins of her youth, as marry a she-chirurgeon—one that, for her sins in her first husband's days, cures all the crimes of her sex in my time. I would have him call her Chiron, the Centaur's own daughter: a chirurgeon by sire and dam, Apollo's own colt. She's red-haired too, like that bonny beast with the golden mane and flaming tail.
Sad. You had a long discourse with her, Jolly: what was't about?
Jolly. I was advising her to be divorced, and marry the man in the almanac: 'twould be fine pastime for her to lick him whole.
Sad. By this day, I never saw such a mule as her husband is, to bear with her madness. The house is a good house, and well furnished.
Jolly. Yes; but 'tis such a sight to see great French beds full of found children, sons of bachelors, priests' heirs, Bridewell orphans: there they lie by dozens in a bed, like sucking rabbits in a dish, or a row of pins; and then they keep a whole dairy of milch-whores to suckle them.
Sad. She is successful; and that spoils her, and makes her deaf to counsel. I bad him poison two or three, to disgrace her; for the vanity and pride of their remedies make those women more diligent than their charity.
Jolly. I asked him why he married her; and he confessed, if he had been sound, he had never had her.
Con. He confessed she cured him of three claps before he married her.
Jolly. Yes, and I believe some other member (though then ill-affected) pleaded more than his tongue; and the rogue is like to find her business still, for he flies at all. My God, I owe thee thanks for many things; but 'tis not the least I am not her husband nor a country gentleman, whither, I believe, you cannot easily seduce me again, unless you can persuade London to stand in the country. To Hyde Park, or so, I may venture upon your Lady-fair days, when the filly foals of fifteen come kicking in, with their manes and tails tied up in ribands, to see their eyes roll and neigh, when the spring makes their blood prick them: so far I am with you, by the way of a country gentleman and a beer-drinker.
Sad. For all this dislike, Master Jolly, your greatest acquaintance lies amongst country gentlemen.
Jolly. Ay, at London: there your country gentlemen are good company; where to be seen with them is a kind of credit. I come to a mercer's shop in your coach: Boy, call your master: he comes bare; I whisper him, Do you know the Constants and the Sads of Norfolk? Yes, yes, he replies, and strokes his beard. They are good men, cry I. Yes, yes. No more; cut me off three suits of satin. He does it, and in the delivery whispers, Will these be bound? Pish! drive on, coachman; speak with me to-morrow.
Con. And what then?
Jolly. What then? why, come again next day.
Sad. And what if the country gentleman will not be bound?
Jolly. Then he must fight.
Sad. I would I had known that, before I had signed your bond: I would have set my sword sooner than my seal to it.
Jolly. Why, if thou repent, there's no harm done: fight rather than pay it.
Sad. Why, do you think I dare not fight?
Jolly. Yes, but I think thou hast more wit than to fight with me; for if I kill thee, 'tis a fortune to me, and others will sign in fear: and if thou shouldst kill me, anybody that knows us would swear 'twere very strange, and cry, There's God's just judgment now upon that lewd youth, and thou procur'st his hangman's place at the rate of thy estate.
Con. By this hand, he is in the right; and, for mine, I meant to pay when I signed. Hang it, never put good fellows to say, Prythee, give me a hundred pounds.
Sad. 'Tis true, 'tis a good janty[207] way of begging; yet, for being killed if I refuse it—would there were no more danger in the widow's unkindness than in your fighting, I would not mistrust my design.
Jolly. Why, ay, there's a point now in nicety of honour. I should kill you for her, for you know I pretended first; and it may be, if I had writ sad lines to her, and hid myself in my cloak, and haunted her coach—it may be in time she would have sought me. Not I, by this hand, I'll not trouble myself for a wench; and married widows are but customary authorised wenches.
Con. Being of that opinion, how canst thou think of marrying one?
Jolly. Why, faith, I know not: I thought to rest me, for I was run out of breath with pleasure, and grew so acquainted with sin, I would have been good, for variety: in these thoughts 'twas my fortune to meet with this widow—handsome, and of a clear fame.
Con. Didst love her?
Jolly. Yes, faith: I had love, but not to the disease that makes men sick; and I could have loved her still, but that I was angry to have her refuse me for a fault I told her of myself; so I went no more.
Sad. Did she forbid you but once?
Jolly. Faith, I think I slipped a fair opportunity: a handsome wench and three thousand pounds per annum in certainty, besides the possibility of being saved.
Con. Which now you think desperate?
[Widow and Pleasant looking out at a window.
Plea. That is you: cross or pile, will you have him yet, or no?
Wid. Peace! observe them.
Jolly. Faith, no, I do not despair; but I cannot resolve.
Enter Wild, Careless, and the Captain, going in haste; he comes in at the middle door.
Wid. Who are those?
Care. Captain, whither in such haste? What, defeated? Call you this a retreat, or a flight from your friends?
Plea. Your nephew, and his governor, and his friend! Here will be a scene! Sit close, and we may know the secret of their hearts.
Wid. They have not met since they returned: I shall love this bay-window.[208]
Capt. Prythee, let me go: there's mischief a-broiling; and if thou shak'st me once more, thou wilt jumble a lie together I have been hammering this hour.
Care. A pox upon you! a-studying lies?
Capt. Why, then they are no lies, but something in the praise of an old lady's beauty: what do you call that?
Jolly. Who are those?
[They spy each other.
Sad. Is't not the captain and my friend?
[Jolly salutes them; then he goes to the Captain to embrace him: the Captain stands in a French posture,[209] and slides from his old way of embracing.
Jolly. Ned Wild! Tom Careless! what ail'st thou? dost thou scorn my embraces?
Capt. I see you have never been abroad, else you would know how to put a value upon those, whose careful observation brought home the most exquisite garb and courtship that Paris could sell us.
Jolly. A pox on this fooling, and leave off ceremony!
Capt. Why, then, agreed: off with our masks, and let's embrace like the old knot.
[They embrace.
Jolly. Faith, say where have you spent these three years' time?—in our neighbour France? or have you ventured o'er the Alps, to see the seat of the Cæsars?
Sad. And can tell us ignorant (doomed to walk upon our own land), how large a seat the goddess fixed her flying Trojans in.
Con. Yes, yes, and have seen and drunk (perhaps) of Tiber's famous stream.
Jolly. And have been where. Æneas buried his trumpeter and his nurse. Tom looks as if he had sucked the one, and had a battle sounded by the other, for joy to see our nation ambitious not to be understood or known, when they come home.
Capt. So, now I'm welcome home: this is freedom, and these are friends, and with these I can be merry; for, gentlemen, you must give me leave to be free too.
Jolly. So you will spare us miserable men, condemned to London and the company of a Michaelmas term, and never travelled those countries that set mountains on fire a-purpose to light us to our lodging.
Wild. Why, this is better than to stay at home, and lie by hearsay, wearing out yourselves and fortunes like your clothes, to see her that hates you for being so fine; then appearing at a play, dressed like some part of it, while the company admire the mercer's and the tailor's work, and swear they have done their parts to make you fine gentlemen.
Care. Then leap out of your coach, and throw your cloak over your shoulder, the casting-nets to catch a widow, while we have seen the world, and learned her customs.
Capt. Yes, sir, and returned perfect monsieurs.
Sad. Yes, even to their diseases. I confess my ignorance; I cannot amble, nor ride like St George at Waltham.[210]
Jolly. Yet, upon my conscience, he may be as welcome with a trot as the other with his pace. And faith, Jack (to be a little free), tell me, dost thou not think thou hadst been as well to pass here, with that English nose thou carriedst hence, as with the French tongue thou hast brought home?
[The Captain has a patch over his nose.
Capt. It is an accident, and to a soldier 'tis but a scar. 'Tis true, such a sign upon Master Jolly's face had been as ill as a red cross, and Lord have mercy upon us,[211] at his lodging-door, to have kept women out of court.
Jolly. For aught you know of the court.
Capt. I know the court, and thee, and thy use, and how you serve but as the handsomest movables; a kind of implement above-stairs, and look much like one of the old court-servants in the hangings.
Wild. But that they move and look fresher, and your apparel more modern.
Care. Yes, faith, their office is the same, to adorn the room, and be gazed on. Alas! he's sad: courage, man, these riding-clothes will serve thee at the latter day.
Capt. Which is one of their grievances; for nothing troubles them more than to think they must appear in a foul winding-sheet, and come undressed.
Jolly. Gentlemen, I am glad to find you know the court: we know a traveller too, especially when he is thus changed and exchanged, as your worships, both in purse and person, and have brought home foreign visages and inscriptions.
Con. Why, that's their perfection: their ambition to have it said: There go those that have profitably observed the vices of other countries, and made them their own; and the faults of several nations, at their return, are their parts.
Jolly. Why, there's Jack Careless—he carried out as good staple-manners as any was in Suffolk, and now he is returned with a shrug, and a trick to stand crooked, like a scurvy bow unbent; and looks as if he would maintain oil and salads against a chine of beef. I knew a great beast of this kind; it haunted the court much, and would scarcely allow us (fully reduced to civility) for serving up mutton in whole joints.
Con. What, silent?
Sad. Faith, the captain is in a study.
Jolly. Do, do, con the rivers and towns perfectly, captain: thou may'st become intelligencer to the people, and lie thy two sheets a week in Corrantos too.
Con. And could you not make friends at court to get their pictures cut ugly, in the corner of a map, like the old navigators?
Jolly. We'll see, we'll see.
Enter Widow and Pleasant above.
Wid. I'll interrupt them. Servant, you're welcome to town. How now, nephew? what, dumb? where are all our travelled tongues?
Jolly. Servant![212] who doth she mean? by this hand, I disclaim the title!
Plea. Captain, Secret has taken notes, and desires you would instruct her in what concerns a waiting-woman and an old lady.
Capt. Very good! yet this shall not save your dinner.
Wid. Nay, while you are in this humour, I'll not sell your companies; and though Master Jolly be incensed, I hope he will do me the favour to dine with me.
Jolly. Faith, lady, you mistake me if you think I am afraid of a widow; for I would have the world know I dare meet her anywhere, but at bed.
[Exit Jolly.
Wild. No more, aunt, we'll come: and if you will give us good meat, we'll bring good humours and good stomachs.
[Widow shuts the curtain.
Care. By this day, I'll not dine there: they take a pleasure to raise a spirit that they will not lay. I'll to Banks's.
Capt. A pox forbid it! you shall not break company, now you know what we are to do after dinner.
Care. I will consent, upon condition you forbid the spiritual nonsense the age calls Platonic love.
Capt. I must away too; but I'll be there at dinner. You will join in a plot after dinner?
Wild. Anything, good, bad, or indifferent, for a friend and mirth.
[Exeunt all but the Captain.
Capt. I must go and prevent the rogue's mischief with the old lady.
[Exit Captain.
ACT II., SCENE 1.
Enter Jolly and the old lady Loveall.
Love. Away, unworthy, false, ungrateful! with what brow dar'st thou come again into my sight, knowing how unworthy you have been, and how false to love?
Jolly. No, 'tis you are unworthy, and deserve not those truths of love I have paid here; else you would not believe every report that envy brings, and condemn, without hearing me, whom you have so often tried and found faithful.
Love. Yes, till I, too credulous, had pity on your tears; till I had mercy, you durst not be false.
Jolly. Nor am not yet.
Love. What dost thou call false? Is there a treachery beyond what thou hast done? When I had given my fame, my fortune, myself, and my husband's honour, all in one obligation, a sacrifice to that passion which thou seem'dst to labour with despair of, to tell and brag of a conquest o'er a woman, fooled by her passion, and lost in her love to thee? unworthy——
[She turns away her head.
Jolly. By this day, 'tis as false as he that said it. Hang him, son of a bachelor! a slave that, envying my fortune in such a happiness as your love and chaste embraces, took this way to ruin it. Come, dry your eyes, and let the guilty weep: if I were guilty, I durst as soon approach a constable drunk, as come here. You know I am your slave.
Love. You swore so, and honour made me leave to triumph over your miseries.
Jolly. Do you repent that I am happy? if you do, command my death.
Love. Nay, never weep, or sit sadly: I am friends, so you will only talk and discourse; for 'tis your company I only covet.
Jolly. No, you cannot forgive, because you have injur'd me: 'tis right woman's justice, accuse first; and harder to reconcile when they are guilty than when they are innocent; or else you would not turn from me thus.
Love. You know your youth hath a strong power over me: turn those bewitching eyes away; I cannot see them with safety of mine honour.
Jolly. Come, you shall not hide your face: there's a charm in it against those that come burnt with unchaste fires; for let but your eyes or nose drop upon his heart, it would burn it up, or quench it straight.
Love. No cogging, you have injured me; and now, though my love plead, I must be deaf; my honour bids me; for you will not fear again to prove unworthy, when you find I am so easy to forgive. Why, you will not be uncivil?
[Jolly kisses her, and she shoves him away with her mouth.
Jolly. So, the storm is laid! I must have those pearls. She shoved me away with her mouth! I'll to her again.
[Aside.]
Love. Where are you? what do you take me for? why, you will not be uncivil?
[Still as he offers to touch her, she starts as if he plucked up her coats.
Jolly. Uncivil! by thy chaste self I cannot, chick: thou hast such a terror, such a guard in those eyes, I dare not approach thee, nor can I gaze upon so much fire. Prythee, sirrah, let me hide me from their power here.
Love. You presume upon the weakness of our sex. What shall I say or do, tyrant love?
Jolly. There's a charm in those pearls! pull them off: if they have a frost in them, let me wear them, and then we are both safe.
Love. I would you had taken them sooner! I had then been innocent, and might with whiteness have worn my love, which I shall ne'er outlive.
Jolly. Dear, do not too fast pour in my joys, lest I too soon reach my heaven.
Love. Begone, then, lest we prove (having gained that height) this sad truth in love, The first minute after noon is night.
Jolly. Part now? the gods forbid! take from me first this load of joys you have thrown upon me, for 'tis a burthen harder to bear than sadness. I was not born till now; this my first night, in which I reap true bliss.
Love. No, no, I would it had been your first night, then your falsehood had not given argument for these tears; and I hate myself to think I should be such a foolish fly thus again to approach your dangerous flame.
Jolly. Come, divert these thoughts. I'll go see your closet.
Love. No, no, I swear you shall not.
Jolly. You know I am going out of town for two days.
Love. When you return, I'll show it you; you will forget me else when you are gone, and at court.
Jolly. Can your love endure delays; or shall business thee from thence remove? These were your own arguments. Come, you shall show it me.
Love. Nay, then I perceive what unworthy way your love would find. Ye gods, are all men false?
Jolly. As I live, you shall. Stay: come, you ought to make me amends for slandering of me. Hang me, if ever I told; and he that reports it is the damnedst rogue in a country. Come, I say——
[He pulls her bodkin, that is tied in a piece of black bobbin.
Love. Ah! as I live, I will not, I have sworn. Do not pull me: I will not be damned, I have sworn.
[He pulls her, and says this.
Jolly. As I live I'll break your bodkin then. A weeping tyrant! Come, by this good day, you shall be merciful.
Love. Why, you will not be uncivil! You will not force me, will you? As I live, I will not.
Jolly. Nay, an' you be wilful, I can be stubborn too.
[He pulls still.
Love. Hang me, I'll call aloud. Why, Nan! Nay, you may force me; but, as I live, I'll do nothing.
[Exeunt ambo.
SCENE II.
Enter Captain.
Capt. A pox upon you, are you earthed? The rogue has got her necklace of pearl; but I hope he will leave the rope to hang me in. How the pox came they so great? I must have some trick to break his neck, else the young rogue will work me out. 'Tis an excellent old lady, but I dare not call her so: yet would she were young enough to bear, we might do some good for our heirs, by leaving such a charitable brood behind. She's a woman after the first kind; 'tis but going into her, and you may know her. Then she'll oblige so readily, and gives with greater thanks than others receive; takes it so kindly to be courted. I am now to oblige her (as she calls it) by professing young Wild's love, and desiring an assurance she's sensible of his sufferings; which though it be false and beyond my commission, yet the hopes of such a new young thing, that has the vogue of the town for handsomest, 'twill so tickle her age, and so blow up her vanity, to have it said he is in love with her, and so endear her to me for being the means, that the parson's malice will be able to take no root. She comes: I must not be seen.
Enter Loveall and Jolly.
Love. Give me that letter; I'll swear you shall not read it.
Jolly. Take it; I'll away. What time shall I call you? in the evening? There's a play at court to-night.
Love. I would willingly be there, but your ladies are so censorious and malicious to us young ladies in the town, especially to me, because the wits are pleased to afford me a visit or so: I could be content else to be seen at court. Pray, what humour is the queen of? The captain of her guard I know.
Jolly. The queen! Who's that knocks at the back-door?
[The Captain knocks
Love. Smoothe my band; I know not. Go down that way, and look you be not false; if you should be false, I'll swear I should spoil myself with weeping.
Jolly. Farewell! In the evening I'll call you.
[Exit Jolly.
Love. Who's there? Captain, where have you been all this while? I might sit alone, I see, for you, if I could not find conversation in books.
[She takes a book in her hand, and sits down.
Capt. Faith, madam, friends newly come to town engaged me; and my stay was civility rather than desire. What book's that?
Love. I'll swear he was a witch that writ it; for he speaks my thoughts, as if he had been within me: the original, they say, was French.
Capt. O, I know it; 'tis the Accomplished Woman:[213] yourself he means by this, while you are yourself.
Love. Indeed, I confess, I am a great friend to conversation, if we could have it without suspicion; but the world's so apt to judge, that 'tis a prejudice to our honour now to salute a man.
Capt. Innocence, madam, is above opinion, and your fame's too great to be shook with whispers.
Love. You are ever civil, and therefore welcome. Pray, what news is there now in town? for I am reclused here. Unless it be yours, I receive no visits; and I'll swear, I charged the wench to-day not to let you in: I wonder she let you come.
Capt. Faith, madam, if it had been my own business, I should not have ventured so boldly; but the necessity that forces me to come concerns my friend, against whom if your mercy be now bounded with those strict ties of honour and cold thoughts which I have ever found guard your heart, my friend, a young and handsome man, is lost, is lost in his prime, and falls like early blossoms. But methinks you should not prove the envious frost to destroy this young man, this delicate young man, that has whole bundles of boys in his breeches: yet if you be cruel, he and they die, as useless as open-arses[214] gathered green.
[She must be earnest in her looks all the time he speaks, desirous to know who he speaks of.
Love. Good captain, out with the particular. What way can my charity assist him? You know by experience I cannot be cruel: remember how I fetched you out of a swoon, and laid you in my own bed.
Capt. That act preserved a life that has always been laboured in your service, and, I dare say, your charity here will find as fruitful a gratitude.
Love. But I hope he will not be so uncivil as you were: I'll swear I could have hanged you for that rape, if I would have followed the law; but I forgave you upon condition you would do so again. But what's this young man you speak of?
Capt. Such is my love to you and him, that I cannot prefer mine own particular before your content, else I'd have poisoned him, ere I'd have brought him to your house.
Love. Why, I pray?
Capt. Because he's young, handsome, and of sound parts: that I am sure will ruin me here.
Love. His love may make all these beauties; else I have an honour will defend me against him, were he as handsome as young Wild.
Capt. Why, ay, there it is: that one word has removed all my fears and jealousies with a despair; for that's the man whose love, life, and fortune lies at your feet; and, if you were single, by lawful means he would hope to reach what now he despairs of.
Love. Let him not despair; love is a powerful pleader, and youth and beauty will assist him; and if his love be noble, I can meet it, for there's none that sacrifices more to friendship-love than I.
Capt. My friend's interest makes me rejoice at this. Dare you trust me to say this to him, though it be not usual! Pray, speak: nay, you are so long still a-resolving to be kind! Remember, charity is as great a virtue as chastity, and greater, if we will hear nature plead: for the one may make many maids, the other can but preserve one. But I know you will be persuaded; let it be my importunity that prevailed. Shall I bring him hither one evening?
Love. Why do you plead thus? Pray, be silent, and when you see him, tell him he has a seat here, and I——
[She turns away.
Capt. Out with it; what is't? Shall he call you mistress, and his Platonic?
Love. Away, away! Me?
Capt. No niceness; is't a match?
Love. Lord, would I were as worthy as willing (pray tell him so): he shall find me one of the humblest mistresses that ever he was pleased to honour with his affections.
Capt. Dare you write this to him, and honour me with bearing it? I confess I am such a friend to friendship-love too, that I would even bring him on my back to a midnight's meeting.
Love. If you will stay here, I'll go in and write it.
[She's going out, he calls her.
Capt. Madam, I forgot to ask your ladyship one question.
Love. What was't?
Capt. There happened a business last night betwixt Master Wild and one Jolly, a courtier, that brags extremely of your favour. I swear, if it had not been for friends that interposed themselves, there had been mischief, for Master Wild was extreme zealous in your cause.
Love. Such a rascal I know. Villain, to bring my name upon the stage, for a subject of his quarrels! I'll have him cudgelled.
Capt. And I'll answer he deserved it; for the quarrel ended in a bet of a buck-hunting-nag, that some time to-day he would bring a necklace and chain of pearl of yours (not stol'n, but freely given) to witness his power.
Love. Did the vain rascal promise that?
Capt. Yes, but we laugh'd at it.
Love. So you might; and as I live, if the necklace were come from stringing, I'd send them both to Master Wild, to wear as a favour, to assure him I am his, and to put the vain slave out of countenance.
Capt. Ay, marry, such a timely favour were worth a dozen letters, to assure him of your love, and remove all the doubts the other's discourse may put into his head: and, faith, I'd send him the chain now, and in my letter promise him the necklace: he'll deserve such a favour.
Love. I'll go in and fetch it immediately: will you favour me to deliver it?
Capt. I'll wait upon your ladyship.
Love. I'll swear you shall not go in: you know I foreswore being alone with you.
[She goes, and he follows her; she turns, and bids him stay.
Capt. Hang me, I'll go in. Does my message deserve to wait an answer at the door.
Love. Ay, but you'll be naught.
Capt. O, ne'er trust me if I break.
Love. If you break, some such forfeit you'll lose. Well, come in for once.
Capt. You are so suspicious.
Love. I'll swear I have reason for't: you are such another man.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter Wanton and Bawd.
Wan. Is he gone?
Bawd. Yes, he's gone to the old lady's, high with mischief.
Wan. Fare him well, easy fool: how the trout strove to be tickled! And how does this ring become me, ha! They are fine kind of things, these wedding-rings.
[She plays with the wedding-ring upon her finger.
Bawd. Besides the good custom of putting so much gold in 'em,[215] they bring such conveniences along.
Wan. Why, ay; now I have but one to please, and if I please him, who dares offend me? and that wife's a fool that cannot make her husband one.
Bawd. Nay, I am absolutely of opinion it was fit for you to marry. But whether he be a good husband or no——
Wan. A pox of a good husband! give me a wise one; they only make the secure cuckolds, the cuckold in grain: for dye a husband that has wit but with an opinion thou art honest, and see who dares wash the colour out. Now your fool changes with every drop, doats with confidence in the morning, and at night jealous even to murder, and his love (Lord help us!) fades like my gredaline petticoat.[216]
Bawd. This is a new doctrine.
Wan. 'Tis a truth, wench, I have gained from my own observations, and the paradox will be maintained. Take wise men for cuckolds, and fools to make them: for your wise man draws eyes and suspicion with his visit, and begets jealous thoughts in the husband, that his wife may be overcome with his parts; when the fool is welcome to both, pleaseth both; laughs with the one, and lies with the other, and all without suspicion. I tell thee, a fool that has money is the man. The wits and the we's, which is a distinct parreal of wit bound by itself, and to be sold at Wit-hall, or at the sign of the King's-head in the butchery: these wise things will make twenty jealous, ere one man a cuckold, when the family of fools will head a parish, ere they are suspected.
Bawd. Well, I see one may live and learn: and if he be but as good at it now you are his own, as he was when he was your friend's friend (as they call it), you have got one of the best hiders of such a business in the town. Lord, how he would sister you at a play!
Wan. Faith, 'tis as he is used at first; if he gets the bridle in's teeth, he'll ride to the devil; but if thou be'st true, we'll make him amble ere we have done. The plot is here, and if it thrive I'll alter the proverb, The parson gets the children, to, The parson fathers them.
Bawd. Anything that may get rule: I love to wear the breeches.
Wan. So do we all, wench. Empire 'tis all our aim; and I'll put my ranting Roger in a cage but I'll tame him. He loves already, which is an excellent ring in a fool's nose, and thou shalt hear him sing—
Happy only is that family that shows
A cock that's silent, and a hen that crows.
Bawd. Do this, I'll serve you for nothing: the impetuous slave had wont to taunt me for beating of my husband, and would sing that song in mockery of me.
Wan. In revenge of which, thou (if thou wilt be faithful) shalt make him sing,
Happy is that family that shows
A cock that's silent, and a hen that crows.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter Parson, Loveall, and Faithful.
Love. Go, you are a naughty man. Do you come hither to rail against an honest gentleman? I have heard how you fell out: you may be ashamed on't, a man of your coat.
Par. What! to speak truth, and perform my duty? The world cries out you are a scabbed sheep, and I am come to tar you; that is, give you notice how your fame suffers i' th' opinion of the world.
Love. My fame, sirrah! 'Tis purer than thy doctrine. Get thee out of my house.
Faith. You uncivil fellow, you come hither to tell my lady of her faults, as if her own Levite could not discern 'em?
Love. My own Levite! I hope he's better bred than to tell me of my faults.
Faith. He finds work enough to correct his dearly-beloved sinners.
Par. And the right worshipful my lady and yourself, they mend at leisure.
Love. You are a saucy fellow, sirrah, to call me sinner in my own house. Get you gone with your Madam, I hear, and Madam, I could advise, but I am loth to speak: take heed; the world talks;—and thus with dark sentences put my innocence into a fright, with You know what you know, good Mistress Faithful: so do I, and the world shall know, too, thou hast married a whore.
Par. Madam, a whore?
Faith. No, sir, 'tis not so well as a madam-whore; 'tis a poor whore, a captain's cast whore.
Love. Now bless me, marry a whore! I wonder any man can endure those things. What kind of creatures are they?
Par. They're like ladies, but that they are handsomer; and though you take a privilege to injure me, yet I would advise your woman to tie up her tongue, and not abuse my wife.
Love. Fie! art thou not ashamed to call a whore wife? Lord bless us, what will not these men do when God leaves them? but for a man of your coat to cast himself away upon a whore! Come, wench, let's go and leave him! I'll swear[217] 'tis strange the state doth not provide to have all whores hanged or drowned.
Faith. Ay, and 'tis time they look into it; for they begin to spread so, that a man can scarce find an honest woman in a country. They say they're voted down now; 'twas moved by that charitable member that got an order to have it but five miles to Croydon, for ease of the market-women.
Love. Ay, ay, 'tis a blessed parliament.
[Exeunt Loveall and Faithful.
Par. That I have played the fool is visible. This comes of rashness. Something I must do to set this right, or else she'll hate, and he'll laugh at me. I must not lose him and my revenge too. Something that's mischief I am resolved to do.
[Exit Parson.
SCENE V.
Enter Wild and Careless.
Wild. Now is the parson's wife so contemptible?
Care. No; but I'm so full of that resolution to dislike the sex, that I will allow none honest, none handsome. I tell thee, we must beat down the price with ourselves; court none of them, but let their maidenheads and their faces lie upon their hands, till they're weary of the commodity: then they'll haunt us to find proper chapmen to deal for their ware.
Wild. I like this, but 'twill be long adoing, and it may be, ere they be forced to sell, our bank will be exhausted, and we shall not be able to purchase.
Care. Ay, but we'll keep a credit, and at three six months thou and the captain shall be my factors.
Wild. You had best have a partner, else such an undertaking would break a better back than yours.
Care. No partners in such commodities: your factor that takes up maidenheads, 'tis upon his own account still.
Wild. But what course will you take to purchase this trade with women?
Care. I am resolved to put on their own silence and modesty, answer forsooth, swear nothing but God's nigs, and hold arguments of their own cold tenets, as if I believed there were no true love below the line, then sigh when 'tis proper, and with forced studies betray the enemy who, seeing my eye fixed on her, her vanity thinks I am lost in admiration, calls and shakes me, ere I wake out of my design, and being collected, answer out of purpose, Love, divinest? yes, who is it that is mortal and does not? or which amongst all the senate of the gods can gaze upon those eyes, and carry thence the power he brought? This will start her.
Wild. Yes, and make her think thee mad.
Care. Why, that's my design; for then I start too, and rub my eyes as if I waked: then sigh and strangle a yawn, till I have wrung it into tears, with which I rise as if o'ercome with grief; then kiss her hands, and let fall those witnesses of faith and love, bribed for my design. This takes; for who would suspect such a devil as craft and youth to live together?
Wild. But what kind of women do you think this will take?
Care. All kind of women. Those that think themselves handsome, it being probable, conclude it real; and those that are handsome in their opinion, that small number will believe it, because it agrees with their wishes.
Wild. And when you are gone, it may be they sigh, and their love breaks out into paper, and what then?
Care. What then? why then I'll laugh, and show thee their letters, and teach the world how easy 'tis to win any woman.
Wild. This is the way: and be sure to dislike all but her you design for: be scarce civil to any of the sex besides.
Care. That's my meaning; but to her that I mean my prey, all her slave: she shall be my deity, and her opinion my religion.
Wild. And while you sad it once to one, I'll talk freer than a privileged fool, and swear as unreasonably as losing gamesters, and abuse thee for thinking to reclaim a woman by thy love: call them all bowls thrown, that will run where they will run, and lovers like fools run after them, crying, rub and fly for me. I believe none fair, nor handsome, nor honest, but the kind.
Care. We must make the captain of our plot, lest he betray us. This will gain us some revenge upon the lovers to whom I grudge the wenches, not that I believe they're worth half the cost they pay for them. And we may talk; but 'tis not our opinion can make them happier or more miserable.
Enter Jolly.
Wild. Jolly! Will, where hast thou been? We had such sport with the parson of our town: he's married this morning to Wanton.
Jolly. Who? the captain's wench? he's in a good humour then. As you love mirth, let's find him: I have news to blow his rage with, and 'twill be mirth to us to see him divided betwixt the several causes of his anger, and lose himself in his rage, while he disputes which is the greater. Your opinion, gentlemen: is this or his wench the greater loss?
Care. What hast thou there? pearl![218] they're false, I hope.
[Here he pulls out the pearl.
Jolly. Why do you hope so?
Care. Because I am thy friend, and would be loth to have thee hanged for stealing.
Jolly. I will not swear they are honestly come by: but I'll be sworn there's neither force nor theft in't.
Wild. Prythee, speak out of riddles: here's none but your friends.
Jolly. Faith, take it. You have heard the captain brag of an old lady, which he thinks he keeps close in a box; but I know where hangs a key can let a friend in, or so. From her, my brace of worthies, whose wits are dulled with plenty this morning, with three good words and four good deeds I earned this toy.
Care. The mirth yet we will all share. I am in pain till we find him, that we may vex his wit, that he presumes so much on.
Wild. Let's go, let's go. I will desire him to let me see his wench: I will not understand him if he says she's gone.
Care. I'll beg of him, for old acquaintance' sake, to let me see his old lady.
Jolly. Hark! I hear his voice.——
Capt. [Within.] Which way?
Care. The game plays itself. Begin with him, Ned, while we talk as if we were busy: we'll take our cue.
Wild. When I put off my hat.
Enter Captain.
Capt. 'Sblood, I thought you had been sunk: I have been hunting you these four hours. Death! you might ha' left word where you went, and not put me to hunt like Tom Fool. 'Tis well you are at London, where you know the way home.
Wild. Why in choler? We have been all this while searching you. Come, this is put on to divert me from claiming your promise. I must see the wench.
Capt. You cannot, adad: adad, you cannot.
Wild. I did not think you would have refused such a kindness.
Care. What's that?
Wild. Nothing, a toy. He refuses to show me his wench!
Care. The devil he does! What! have we been thus long comrades, and had all things in common, and must we now come to have common wenches particular? I say, thou shalt see her, and lie with her too, if thou wilt.
Jolly. What! in thy dumps, brother? Call to thy aid two-edged wit. The captain sad! 'tis prophetic: I'd as lieve[219] have dreamt of pearl, or the loss of my teeth: yet if he be musty, I'll warrant thee, Ned, I'll help thee to a bout. I know his cloak, his long cloak that hides her: I am acquainted with the parson: he shall befriend thee.
Capt. 'Tis very well, gentlemen; but none of you have seen her yet?
Wild. Yes, but we have, by thyself—by thy anger, which is now bigger than thou. By chance we crossed her coming from church, leading in her hand the parson, to whom she swore she was this day married.
Jolly. And our friendships were now guiding us to find thee out, to comfort thee after the treachery of thy Levite.
Care. Come, bear it like a man; there are more wenches. What hast thou spied?
[He gives no answer, but peeps under Jolly's hat.
Wild. His pearl, I believe.
Capt. Gentlemen, I see you are merry: I'll leave you. I must go a little way to inquire about a business.
Wild. H' has got a sore eye, I think.
Capt. I will only ask one question, and return.
Care. No, faith, stay, and be satisfied.
Jolly. Do, good brother; for I believe there is no question that you now would ask, but here's an oracle can resolve you.
Capt. Are those pearl true?
Jolly. Yes.
Capt. And did not you steal them?
Jolly. No.
Care. Nor he did not buy them with ready money, but took them upon mortgage of himself to an old lady.
Jolly. Dwelling at the sign of the Buck in Broad Street. Are you satisfied, or must I play the oracle still?
Capt. No, no; I am satisfied.
Jolly. Like jealous men that take their wives at it, are you not?
Capt. Well, very well: 'tis visible I am abused on all hands. But, gentlemen, why all against me?
Care. To let you see your wit's mortal, and not proof against all.
Wild. The parson hath shot it through with a jest.
Capt. Gentlemen, which of you, faith, had a hand in that?
Jolly. Faith, none; only a general joy to find the captain overreached.
Capt. But, do you go sharers in the profit as well as in the jest?
Jolly. No, faith, the toy's mine own.
Capt. They are very fine, and you may afford a good pennyworth. Will you sell them?
Jolly. Sell them! ay, where's a chapman?
Capt. Here; I'll purchase them.
Jolly. Thou! no, no, I have barred thee, bye and main,[220] for I am resolved not to fight for them: that excludes thy purchase by the sword; and thy wench has proved such a loss, in thy last adventure of wit, that I'm afraid it will spoil thy credit that way too.
Capt. Gentlemen, as a friend, let me have the refusal: set your price.
Wild. He's serious.
Care. Leave fooling.
Jolly. Why, if thou couldst buy them, what wouldst thou do with them?
Capt. They're very fair ones; let me see them: methinks they should match very well with these?
Jolly. These! which?
Omnes. Which?
Care. They are true.
Capt. Yes, but not earned with a pair of stol'n verses, of, I was not born till now, This my first night, And so forsooth; nor given as a charm against lust.
Care. What means all this?
Jolly. What! why, 'tis truth, and it means to shame the devil. By this good day, he repeats the same words with which I gathered these pearls.
Wild. Why, then, we have two to laugh at.
Care. And all friends hereafter. Let's fool all together.
Capt. Gentlemen with the fine wits, and my very good friends, do you, or you, or he, think I'll keep you company to make you laugh, but that I draw my honey from you too?
Care. Come, come, the captain's in the right.
Capt. Yes, yes, the captain knows it, and dares tell you your wit, your fortune, and his face, are but my ploughs; and I would have my fine monsieur know, who, in spite of my counsel, will be finer than his mistress, and appears before her so curiously built, she dares not play with him for fear of spoiling him: and to let him know the truth I speak, to his fair hands I present this letter, but withal give him to understand the contents belong to me.
[He reads the letter.
Wild. The pearl are sent to me.
Capt. I deny that, unless you prove you sent me: for the letter begins, "Sir, this noble gentleman, the bearer, whom you are pleased to make the messenger of your love," and so forth. And now you should do well to inquire for that noble gentleman, and take an account of him how he has laid out your love; and it may be, he'll return you pearl for it. And now, gentlemen, I dare propose a peace, at least a cessation of wit (but what is defensive) till such time as the plot which is now in my head be effected, in which you have all your shares.
Wild. So she knows I have not the pearl, I am content.
Capt. She'll quickly find that, when she sees you come not to-night according to my appointment, and hears I have sold the pearl.
Jolly. Here then ceaseth our offensive war.
Capt. I'll give you counsel worth two ropes of pearl.
Care. But the wench—how came the parson to get her?
Capt. Faith, 'tis hard to say which laboured most, he or I, to make that match; but the knave did well. There it is, if you assist, I mean to lay the scene of your mirth to-night; for I am not yet fully revenged upon the rogue: for that I know him miserable, is nothing, till he believe so too. Wanton and I have laid the plot.
Jolly. Do you hold correspondence?
Capt. Correspondence! I tell thee, the plots we laid to draw him on would make a comedy.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. Sir, the ladies stay dinner.
Jolly. And as we go, I'll tell you all the story, and after dinner be free from all engagements, as we promised thee; and, follow but our[221] directions, I'll warrant you mirth and a pretty wench.
Omnes. Agreed; anything that breeds mirth is welcome.
Jolly. Not a word at the widow's: let them go on quietly, and steal their wedding too.
Capt. I heard a bird sing, as if it were concluded amongst the couples.
Wild. They have been long about: my coz is a girl deserves more haste to her bed. He has arrived there by carrier's journeys.
Care. But that I hate wooing, by this good day, I like your aunt so well and her humour, she should scarce be thrown away upon pale-face, that has sighed her into a wedding-ring, and will but double her jointure.
Capt. Why, ay, thus it should be. Pray let us make them the seat of the war all dinner, and continue united and true among ourselves; then we may defy all foreign danger.
Jolly. And with full bowls let us crown this peace, and sing,
Wit without war no mirth doth bring.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Enter Parson and Wanton.
Wan. Was she deaf to your report?
Par. Yes, yes.
[The Parson walks troubled up and down.
Wan. And Ugly, her Abigail, she had her say too?
Par. Yes, yes.
Wan. And do you walk here, biting your nails? do you think I'll be satisfied with such a way of righting me?
Par. What wouldst have me do?
Wan. Have you no gall? be abused and laughed at by a dull captain, that a strict muster would turn fool! You had wit, and could rail when I offended you; and none so sudden, none so terrible, none so sure in his revenge, when I displease you.
Par. Something I'll do.
Wan. Do it, then, or I shall curse that e'er I saw you. Death! let the sign of my lady, an out-of-fashion whore, that has paid for sin ever since yellow starch[222] and wheel fardingales were cried down, let her abuse me, and say nothing: if this passes——
Par. As Christ bless me, but I did, sweet heart; and if it were not church livings are mortal, and they are always hitting me in the teeth with a man of my[223] coat, she should find I am no churchman within, nor Master Parson but in my coat. Come to dinner, and after dinner I'll do something.
Wan. I shall do something will vex somebody.
Enter Bawd.
Bawd. Will you please to come to dinner? the company stays.
Par. Come, let's go in.
Wan. No, I must walk a little to digest this breakfast; the guests else will wonder to see I am troubled.
Par. Come, let this day pass in mirth, spite of mischief, for luck's sake.
[Exit Parson.
Wan. I'll follow you, and do what I can to be merry.
Bawd. Why, he stands already.
Wan. Peace, let me alone: I'll make him jostle like the miller's mare, and stand like the dun cow, till thou may'st milk him.
Bawd. Pray break him of his miserableness; it is one of the chief exceptions I have against him. He reared a puppy once, till it was ten days old, with three hap'worth of milk, and then with his own dagger slew it, and made me dress it: blessed myself to see him eat it, and he bid me beg the litter, and swore it was sweeter and wholesomer than sucking rabbits or London pigs, which he called Bellmen's issue.
Par. [Within.] Why, sweet heart!
Wan. Hark! he calls me. We must humour him a little, he'll rebel else.
SCENE VII.
Enter (at the windows) the Widow and Master Careless, Mistress Pleasant and Master Wild, Captain, Master Sad, Constant, Jolly, Secret: a table and knives ready for oysters.
Wid. You're welcome all, but especially Master Jolly. No reply with, I thank your ladyship.
Plea. I beseech you, sir, let us never be better acquainted?
[She speaks to Master Jolly.
Jolly. I shall endeavour, lady, and fail in nothing that is in my power to disoblige you; for there is none more ambitious of your ill opinion than I.
Plea. I rejoice at it; for the less love, the better welcome still.
Wid. And as ever you had an ounce of love for the widow, be not friends among yourselves.
Wild. Aunt, though we were at strife when we were alone, yet now we unite like a politic state against the common enemy.
Plea. The common enemy! what is that?
Wild. Women, and lovers in general.
Wid. Nay, then we have a party, niece: claim quickly, now is the time, according to the proverb, keep a thing seven years, and then if thou hast no use on't, throw't away.
Plea. Agreed, let's challenge our servants: by the love they have professed, they cannot in honour refuse to join with us. And see where they come!
Enter Sad and Constant, and meet Secret; she whispers this to Sad.
Sec. Sir, 'tis done.
Sad. Be secret and grave, I'll warrant our design will take as we can wish.
Con. Sweet Mistress Pleasant!
Wid. Servant Sad.
Sad. Madam.
Wid. We are threatened to have a war waged against us: will you not second us?
Sad. With these youths we'll do enough, madam.
Wid. I'll swear my servant gave hit for hit this morning, as if he had been a master in the noble science of wit.
Plea. Mine laid about him with spick and span[224] new arguments, not like the same man: his old sayings and precedents laid by.
Wid. Thus armed, then, we'll stand and defy them.
Wild. Where's your points? sure, aunt, this should be your wedding-day, for you have taken the man for better for worse.
Wid. No, nephew, this will not prove the day, that we shall either give or take a ring.
Care. Hang me, if I know you can go back again with your honour.
Wild. Or in justice refuse him liberty that has served out his time: either marry him, or provide for him, for he is maimed in your service.
Wid. Why, servant Sad, you'll arm? my nephew has thrown the first dart at you.
Capt. Hast hit, hast hit?
Wild. No, captain; 'twas too wide.
Capt. Too wide! marry, he's an ill marksman that shoots wider than a widow.
Jolly. We are both in one hole, captain; but I was loth to venture my opinion, lest her ladyship should think I was angry, for I have a good mind to fall upon the widow.
Plea. You're a constant man, Master Jolly; you have been in that mind this twelvemonth's day.
Con. You are in the right, madam; she has it to show under his hand, but she will not come in the list with him again: she threw him the last year.
Wid. Come, shall we eat oysters? Who's there? Call for some wine. Master Jolly, you are not warm yet. Pray, be free, you are at home.
Jolly. Your ladyship is merry.
Wid. You do not take it ill to have me assure you, you are at home here?
Wild. Such another invitation (though in jest) will take away Master Sad's stomach.
[Oysters not brought in yet.
Sad. No, faith, Ned, though she should take him, it will not take away my stomach: my love is so fixed, I may wish my wishes, but she shall never want them to wait upon hers.
Plea. A traitor! bind him! has pulled down a side. Profess your love thus public?
Jolly. Ay, by my faith, continue, Master Sad, [to] give it out you love; and call it a new love, a love never seen before; we'll all come to it as your friends.
Sad. Gentlemen, still I love: and if she to whom I thus sacrifice will not reward it, yet the worst malice can say is, I was unfortunate; and misfortune, not falsehood, made me so.
Jolly. In what chapter shall we find this written, and what verse? you should preach with a method, Master Sad.
Wid. Gentlemen, if ever he spoke so much dangerous sense before (either of love or reason), hang me.
Sad. Madam, my love is no news, where you are: know, your scorn has made it public; and though it could gain no return from you, yet others have esteemed me for the faith and constancy I have paid here.
Plea. Did not I foretell you of his love? I foresaw this danger. Shall I never live to see wit and love dwell together?
Capt. I am but a poor soldier, and yet never reached to the honour of being a lover; yet from my own observations, Master Sad, take a truth: 'tis a folly to believe any woman loves a man for being constant to another; they dissemble their hearts only, and hate a man in love worse than a wencher.
Jolly. And they have reason; for if they have the grace to be kind, he that loves the sex may be theirs.
Care. When your constant lover, if a woman have a mind to him, and be blessed with so much grace to discover it, he, out of the noble mistake of honour hates her for it, and tells it perchance, and preaches reason to her passion, and cries: Miserable beauty, to be so unfortunate as to inhabit in so much frailty!
Capt. This counsel makes her hate him more than she loved before. These are troubles those that love are subject to; while we look on and laugh, to see both thus slaved, while we are free.
Care. My prayers still shall be, Lord deliver me from love.
Capt. 'Tis plague, pestilence, famine, sword, and sometimes sudden death.
Sad. Yet I love, I must love, I will love, and I do love.
Capt. In the present tense.
Wid. No more of this argument, for love's sake.
Capt. By any means, madam, give him leave to love: and you are resolved to walk tied up in your own arms, with your love as visible in your face as your mistress's colours in your hat; that any porter at Charing Cross may take you like a letter at the carrier's, and having read the superscription, deliver Master Sad to the fair hands of Mistress or My Lady Such-a-one, lying at the sign of the Hard Heart.
Plea. And she, if she has wit (as I believe she hath), will scarce pay the post for the packet.
Wid. Treason! how now, niece? join with the enemy?
[They give the Captain wine.
Capt. A health, Ned: what shall I call it?
Care. To Master Sad! he needs it that avows himself a lover.
Sad. Gentlemen, you have the advantage, the time, the place, the company; but we may meet when your wits shall not have such advantage as my love.
Plea. No more of love, I am so sick on't.
Con. By your pardon, mistress, I must not leave love thus unguarded: I vow myself his follower.
Jolly. Much good may love do him. Give me a glass of wine here. Will, let them keep company with the blind boy. Give us his mother, and let them preach again: Hear that will, he has good luck persuades me 'tis an ugly sin to lie with a handsome woman.
Capt. A pox upon your nurse; she frighted me so, when I was young, with stories of the devil, I was almost fourteen ere I could prevail with reasons to unbind my reason, it was so slaved to faith and conscience. She made me believe wine was an evil spirit, and fornication, like the whore of Babylon, a fine face, but a dragon under her petticoats, and that made me have a mind to peep under all I met since.
Wid. Fie, fie! for shame, do not talk so: are you not ashamed to glory in sin, as if variety of women were none?
Jolly. Madam, we do not glory in fornication; and yet I thank God, I cannot live without a woman.
Capt. Why, does your ladyship think it a sin to lie with variety of handsome women? If it be, would I were the wicked'st man in the company.
Plea. You have been marked for an indifferent sinner that way, captain.
Capt. Who, I? no, faith, I was a fool; but, and I were to begin again, I would not do as I have done. I kept one, but if ever I keep another, hang me; nor would I advise any friend of mine to do it.
Jolly. Why, I am sure 'tis a provident and safe way: a man may always be provided and sound.
Plea. Fie upon this discourse!
Capt. Those considerations betrayed me: a pox! it is a dull sin to travel, like a carrier's horse, always one road.
Wid. Fie, captain! repent for shame, and marry.
Capt. Your ladyship would have said, marry and repent: no, though it be not the greatest pleasure, yet it is better than marrying; for when I am weary of her, my inconstancy is termed virtue, and I shall be said to turn to grace. Beware of women for better, for worse; for our wicked nature, when her sport is lawful, cloys straight: therefore, rather than marry, keep a wench.
Jolly. Faith, he's in the right; for 'tis the same thing in number and kind, and then the sport is quickened, and made poignant with sin.
Capt. Yet 'tis a fault, faith, and I'll persuade all my friends from it; especially here, where any innovation is dangerous. 'Twas the newness of the sin that made me suffer in the opinion of my friends, and I was condemned by all sorts of people; not that I sinned, but that I sinned no more.
Care. Why, ay, hadst thou been wicked in fashion, and privily lain with everybody, their guilt would have made them protect thee: so that to be more wicked is to be innocent, at least safe. A wicked world, Lord help us!
Capt. But being particular to her, and not in love, nor subject to it: taking an antidote every morning, before I venture into those infectious places where love and beauty dwell; this enraged the maiden beauties of the time, who thought it a prejudice to their beauties to see me careless, and securely pass by their conquering eyes, my name being found amongst none of those that decked their triumphs. But from this 'tis easy to be safe; for their pride will not let them love, nor my leisure me. Then the old ladies that pay for their pleasures,—they, upon the news, beheld me with their natural frowns, despairing when their money could not prevail; and hated me when they heard that I for my pleasure would pay as large as they.
Jolly. Gentlemen, take warning: a fee from every man; for by this day, there's strange counsel in this confession.
Wild. Captain, you forgot to pledge Master Careless! Here, will you not drink a cup of wine? Who's there? Bring the oysters.
Capt. Yes, madam, if you please.
Wild. Proceed, captain.
Plea. Fie, Master Wild! are you not ashamed to encourage him to this filthy discourse?
Capt. A glass of wine then, and I'll drink to all the new-married wives that grieve to think at what rate their fathers purchase a little husband. These, when they lie thirsting for the thing they paid so dear for——
Enter a Servant with oysters.
Care. These, methinks, should be thy friends, and point thee out as a man for them.
Capt. Yes, till the faithful nurse cries; Alas, madam! he keeps such a one, he has enough at home. Then she swells with envy and rage against us both; calls my mistress ugly, common, unsafe, and me a weak secure fool.
Jolly. These are strange truths, madam.
Wid. Ay, ay; but those oysters are a better jest.
Capt. But she's abused that will let such reason tame her desire, and a fool in love's-school; else she would not be ignorant that variety is such a friend to love, that he which rises a sunk coward from the lady's bed, would find new fires at her maid's: nor ever yet did the man want fire, if the woman would bring the fuel.
Plea. For God's sake, leave this discourse.
Wid. The captain has a mind we should eat no oysters.
Wild. Aunt, we came to be merry, and we will be merry, and you shall stay it out. Proceed, captain.
Wid. Fie, captain, I am ashamed to hear you talk thus: marry, and then you'll have a better opinion of women.
Capt. Marry! yes, this knowledge will invite me: it is a good encouragement, is it not, think you? What is your opinion? Were not these marriages made in heaven? By this good day, all the world is mad, and makes haste to be fooled, but we four: and I hope there's none of us believes there has any marriages been made in heaven since Adam.
Jolly. By my faith, 'tis thought the devil gave the ring there too.
Wid. Nephew, I'll swear I'll be gone.
Capt. Hold her, Ned [He points at Sad], she goes not yet; there's a fourth kind of women that concerns her more than all the rest—ecce signum! She is one of those who, clothed in purple, triumph over their dead husbands; these will be catched at first sight, and at first sight must be caught. 'Tis a bird that must be shot flying, for they never sit. If a man delay, they cool, and fall into considerations of jointure and friends' opinion; in which time, if she hears thou keep'st a wench, thou hadst better be a beggar in her opinion; for then her pride, it may be, would betray her to the vanity of setting up a proper man (as they call it); but for a wencher no argument prevails with your widow; for she believes they have spent too much that way to be able to pay her due benevolence.
Wid. As I live, I'll be gone, if you speak one word more of this uncivil subject.
Jolly. Captain, let me kiss thy cheek for that, widow. You understand this, widow? I say no more. Here, captain, here's to thee! As it goes down, a pox of care!
Wid. Jesus! Master Jolly, have you no observations of the court, that are so affected with this of the town.
Con. Faith, they say, there's good sport there sometimes.
Plea. Master Jolly is afraid to let us partake of his knowledge.
Jolly. No, faith, madam.
Capt. By this drink, if he stay till I have eaten a few more, I'll describe it.
Jolly. What should I say? 'Tis certain the court is the bravest place in the kingdom for sport, if it were well looked to, and the game preserved fair; but, as 'tis, a man may sooner make a set in the Strand; and it will never be better whilst your divine lovers[225] inhabit there.
Care. Let the king make me master of the game.[226]
Capt. And admit us laity-lovers.
Jolly. I would he would; for, as 'tis, there's no hopes amongst the ladies: besides, 'tis such an example to see a king and queen good husband and wife, that to be kind will grow out of fashion.
Capt. Nay, that's not all; for the women grow malicious because they are not courted: nay, they bred all the last mischiefs, and called the king's chastity a neglect of them.
Jolly. Thou art in the right. An Edward or a Harry, with seven queens in buckram, that haught[227] among the men, and stroked the women, are the monarchs they wish to bow to; they love no tame princes, but lions in the forest!
Capt. Why, and those were properly called the fathers of their people, that were indeed akin to their nobility: now they wear out their youth and beauty, without hope of a monumental ballad, or trophy of a libel that shall hereafter point at such a lord, and cry, that is the royal son of such a one!
Jolly. And these were the ways that made them powerful at home: for the city is a kind of tame beast; you may lead her by the horns any whither, if you but tickle them in the ear sometimes. Queen Bess, of famous memory, had the trick on't; and I have heard them say, in eighty-eight, ere I was born, as well as I can remember, she rode to Tilbury on that bonny beast, the mayor.
Capt. I would I might counsel him, I'd so reform the court.
Care. Never too soon; for now, when a stranger comes in, and spies a covey of beauties would make a falconer unhood, before he can draw his leash, he is warned that's a marked partridge; and that and every he has by their example a particular she.
Wild. By this light, the six fair maids stand like the working-days in the almanac; one with A scored upon her breast, that is as much as to say, I belong to such a lord; the next with B, for an elder brother; C, for such a knight; D, possessed with melancholy, and at her breast you may knock an hour ere you get an answer, and then she'll tell you there's no lodging there; she has a constant fellow-courtier that has taken up all her heart to his own use: in short, all are disposed of but the good mother, and she comes in like the Sabbath at the week's end; and I warrant her to make any one rest that comes at her.
Care. Ay, marry, if she were like the Jews' Sabbath, it were somewhat; but this looks like a broken commandment, that has had more work done upon her than all the week besides.
Capt. And what think you—is not this finely carried? you, that are about the king, counsel him, if he will have his sport fair, he must let the game be free, as it has been in former ages. Then a stranger that has wit, good means, and handsome clothes, no sooner enters the privy chamber, and beats about with three graceful legs,[228] but he springs a mistress that danced as well as he, sung better: as free as fair. Those at first sight could speak, for wit is always acquainted: these fools must be akin, ere they can speak. And now friends make the bargain, and they go to bed, ere they know why.
Jolly. Faith, he's in the right: you shall have a buzzard now hover and beat after a pretty wench, till she is so weary of him she's forced to take her bed for covert, and find less danger in being trussed than in flying.
Capt. And what becomes of all this pudder?[229] after he has made them sport for one night, to see him touze the quarry, he carries her into the country; and there they two fly at one another till they are weary.
Care. And all this mischief comes of love and constancy. We shall never see better days till there be an act of parliament against it, enjoining husbands not to till their wives, but change and lay them fallow.
Jolly. A pox, the women will never consent to it: they'll be tilled to death first.
Wild. Gentlemen, you are very bold with the sex.
Capt. Faith, madam, it is our care of them. Why, you see they are married at fourteen, yield a crop and a half, and then die: 'tis merely their love that destroys 'em; for if they get a good husbandman, the poor things yield their very hearts.
Plea. And do you blame their loves, gentlemen?
Jolly. No, not their love, but their discretion; let them love, and do, a God's name, but let them do with discretion.
Wild. But how will you amend this?
Jolly. Instead of two beds and a physician, I'd have the state prescribe two wives and a mistress.
Wild. Ho! it will never be granted: the state is made up of old men, and they find work enough with one.
Jolly. We will petition the lower house; there are young men, and (if it were but to be factious) would pass it, if they thought the upper house would cross it; besides, they ought to do it. Death! they provide against cutting down old trees, and preserving highways and post-horses, and let pretty wenches run to decay.
Care. Why may it not come within the statute of depopulation? As I live, the state ought to take care of those pretty creatures. Be you judge, madam: is't not a sad sight to see a rich young beauty, with all her innocence and blossoms on, subject to some rough rude fellow, that ploughs her, and esteems and uses her as a chattel, till she is so lean, a man may find as good grass upon the common, where it may be she'll sit coughing with sunk eyes, so weak that a boy (with a dog) that can but whistle, may keep a score of them?
Wid. You are strangely charitable to our sex on a sudden!
Capt. I know not what they are; but, for my part, I'll be a traitor, ere I'll look on and see beauty go thus to wreck. It is enough custom has made us suffer them to be enclosed. I am sure they were created common, and for the use of man, and not intended to be subject to jealousy and choler, or to be bought or sold, or let for term of lives or years, as they are now, or else sold at outcries:[230] Oh yes! who'll give most, take her.
Wid. Why do not some of you excellent men marry, and mend all these errors by your good example?
Jolly. Because we want fortunes to buy rich wives or keep poor ones, and be loth to get beggars or whores, as well as I love 'em.
Plea. Why, are all their children so that have no fortune, think you?
Jolly. No, not all: I have heard of Whittington and his Cat,[231] and others, that have made fortunes by strange means, but I scarce believe my son would rise from Hop, a halfpenny and a lamb's-skin;[232] and the wenches, commonly having more wit and beauty than money, foreseeing small portions, grow sad and read romances, till their wit spy some unfortunate merit like their own, without money too; and they two sigh after one another till they grow mysterious in colours, and become a proverb for their constancy: and when their love has worn out the cause, marry in the end a new couple; then, grown ashamed of the knowledge they so long hunted, at length part by consent, and vanish into Abigail and governor.
Wid. Well, gentlemen, excuse me for this one time; and if ever I invite you to dinner again, punish me with such another discourse. In the meantime, let's go in and dine; meat stays for us.
Capt.[233] Faith, madam, we were resolved to be merry: we have not met these three years till to-day, and at the Bear we meant to have dined; and since your ladyship would have our company, you must pardon our humour. Here, Master[234] Sad, here's the widow's health to you.
[Exeunt omnes.
ACT III., SCENE 1.
Enter all from dinner.
Wid. Nephew, how do you dispose of yourself this afternoon?
Wild. We have a design we must pursue, which will rid you of all this troublesome company; and we'll make no excuse, because you peeped into our privacies to-day.
Care. Your humble servant, ladies; gentlemen, we'll leave you to pursue your fortunes.
[Exit Careless.
Jolly. Farewell, widow: may'st thou live unmarried till thou run'st away with thyself.
[Exit Jolly.
Capt. No, no, when that day comes, command the humblest of your servants.
[Exit Captain.
Wild. Farewell, aunt: sweet Mistress Pleasant, I wish you good fortune.
[Exit Wild.
Wid. Farewell, farewell, gentlemen. Niece, now, if we could be rid of these troublesome lovers too, we would go see a play.
[Aside.
Plea. Rid of them! why, they are but now in season. As I live, I would do as little to give mine content as any she in town, and yet I do not grudge him the happiness of carrying me to a play.
Wid. Ay, but the world will talk, because they pretend; and then we shall be sure to meet my nephew there and his wild company, and they will laugh to see us together.
Plea. Who will you have, Tim the butler or Formal your gentleman-usher? I would take Philip, the foreman of the shop, as soon.
Wid. Let's mask ourselves, and take Secret, and go alone by water.
Plea. Yes, and follow her, like one of my aunts of the suburbs.[235] It is a good way to know what you may yield in a market; for, I'll undertake, there are those that shall bid for you before the play will be done.
Sec. As I live, madam, Mistress Pleasant is in the right; I had such a kindness offered me once, and I came to a price with him in knavery; and hang me, if the rogue was not putting the earnest of his affection into my hand.
Wid. Let's go to the Glass-House[236] then.
Plea. I'll go to a play with my servant, and so shall you. Hang opinion! and we'll go to the Glass-House afterwards: it is too hot to sup early.
Sec. Pray, madam, go: they say 'tis a fine play, and a knight writ it.
Plea. Pray, let Secret prevail; I'll propose it to the lovers. In the meantime, go you, and bid the coachman make ready the coach.
[Secret whispers Sad, 'Twill take.
Sec. Alas, madam! he's sick, poor fellow, and gone to bed; he could not wait at dinner.
Wid. Sick?
Plea. Why, see how all things work for the young men, either their coach or afoot! Master Constant, what think you of seeing a play this afternoon? Is it not too hot to venture this infectious time?
Con. Fie! madam, there's no danger: the bill decreased twenty last week.[237]
Sad. I swear, they say 'tis a very good play to-day.
Wid. Shall we go, niece?
Plea. Faith, 'tis hot, and there's nobody but we.
Sad. Does that hinder? Pray, madam, grudge us not the favour of venturing yourself in our company.
Wid. Come, leave this ceremony. I'll go in, and put on my mask. Secret shall bring yours.
Plea. No, I'll go, and put it on within.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE II.
Enter Wild, Careless, Captain, and Jolly.
Care. By this day, you have nettled the widow.
Wild. The captain neglected his dinner for his mirth, as if he had forgot to eat.
Jolly. When did he oversee his drinking so?
Capt. Gentlemen, still it is my fortune to make your worships merry.
Wild. As I live, captain, I subscribe, and am content to hold my wit as a tenant to thee; and to-night I'll invite you to supper, where it shall not be lawful to speak till thou hast victualled thy man-of-war.
Capt. Shall's be merry? What shall we have?
Wild. Half a score dishes of meat; choose them yourself.
Capt. Provide me then the chines fried, and the salmon calvered, a carp and black sauce, red deer in the blood, and an assembly of woodcocks and jacksnipes, so fat you would think they had their winding-sheets on; and upon these, as their pages, let me have wait your Sussex wheatear, with a feather in his cap; over all which let our countryman, General Chine of beef, command. I hate your French pottage, that looks as the cook-maid had more hand in it than the cook.
Wild. I'll promise you all this.
Care. And let me alone to cook the fish.
Capt. You cook it! no, no, I left an honest fellow in town, when I went into Italy, Signor Ricardo Ligones, one of the ancient house of the Armenian ambassadors; if he be alive, he shall be our cook.
Wild. Is he excellent at it?
Capt. Excellent! you shall try, you shall try. Why, I tell you, I saw him once dress a shoeing-horn and a joiner's apron, that the company left pheasant for it.
Wild. A shoeing-horn!
Capt. Yes, a shoeing-horn. Marry, there was garlic in the sauce.
Wild. Is this all you would have?
Capt. This, and a bird of paradise, to entertain the rest of the night, and let me alone to cook her.
Wild. A bird of paradise! What's that?
Capt. A girl of fifteen, smooth as satin, white as her Sunday apron, plump, and of the first down. I'll take her with her guts in her belly, and warm her with a country-dance or two, then pluck her, and lay her dry betwixt a couple of sheets; there pour into her so much oil of wit as will make her turn to a man, and stick into her heart three corns of whole love, to make her taste of what she is doing; then, having strewed a man all over her, shut the door and leave us, we'll work ourselves into such a sauce as you can never surfeit on, so poignant, and yet no haut goût.[238] Take heed of a haut goût:[239] your onion and woman make the worst sauce. This shook together by an English cook (for your French seasoning spoils many a woman), and there's a dish for a king.
Wild. For the first part I'll undertake, Captain.
Capt. But this for supper. No more of this now; this afternoon, as you are true to the petticoat, observe your instructions, and meet at Ned's house in the evening.
Omnes. We will not fail.
Capt. I must write to Wanton, to know how things stand at home, and to acquaint her how we have thrived with the old lady to-day.
Wild. Whither will you go to write?
Capt. To thy house, 'tis hard by; there's the Fleece.
Jolly. Do; and in the meantime I'll go home and despatch a little business, and meet you.
Wild. Make haste, then.
Jolly. Where shall I meet you?
Wild. Whither shall we go, till it be time to attend the design?
Care. Let's go to court for an hour.
Jolly. Do: I'll meet you at the queen's side.
Wild. No, prythee, we are the monsieurs new come over; and if we go fine, they will laugh at us, and think we believe ourselves so: if not, then they will abuse our clothes, and swear we went into France only to have our cloaks cut shorter.
Care. Will you go see a play?
Capt. Do, and thither I'll come to you, if it be none of our gentlemen poets, that excuse their writings with a prologue that professes they are no scholars.
Jolly. On my word, this is held the best penned of the time, and he has writ a very good play: by this day, it was extremely applauded.
Capt. Does he write plays by the day? Indeed, a man would ha' judged him a labouring poet.
Jolly. A labouring poet! By this hand, he's a knight. Upon my recommendation, venture to see it; hang me if you be not extremely well satisfied.
Care. A knight, and writes plays! It may be, but 'tis strange to us; so they say there are other gentlemen poets without land or Latin; this was not ordinary; prythee, when was he knighted?
Jolly. In the north, the last great knighting, when 'twas God's great mercy we were not all knights.
Wild. I'll swear they say, there are poets that have more men in liveries than books in their studies.
Capt. And what think you, gentlemen, are not these things to start a man? I believe 'tis the first time you have found them lie at the sign of the page, footmen, and gilded coaches. They were wont to lodge at the thin cloak; they and their muses made up the family, and thence sent scenes to their patrons, like boys in at windows; and one would return with a doublet, another with a pair of breeches, a third with a little ready money, which, together with their credit with a company, in three terms you rarely saw a poet repaired.
Jolly. This truth nobody denies.
Wild. Prythee, let us resolve what we shall do, lest we meet with some of them; for it seems they swarm, and I fear nothing like a dedication, though it be but of himself; for I must hear him say more than either I deserve or he believes. I hate that in a poet; they must be dull, or all upon all subjects; so that they can oblige none but their muse.
Jolly. I perceive by this you will not see the play. What think you of going to Sim's[240] to bowls, till I come?
Care. Yes, if you will go to see that comedy. But there is no reason we should pay for our coming in, and act too, like some whose interest in the timber robs them of their reason, and they run as if they had stolen a bias.[241]
Wild. Resolve what you will do; I am contented.
Care. Let's go walk in Spring Garden.
Wild. I'll do it for company; but I had as lief be rid in the horse-market as walk in that fool's fair, where neither wit nor money is, nor sure to take up a wench. There's none but honest women.
Capt. A pox on't, what should we do there? Let's go and cross the field to Pike's; her kitchen is cool, winter and summer.
Care. I like that motion well; but we have no time, and I hate to do that business by half. After supper, if you will, we'll go and make a night on't.
Capt. Well, I must go write: therefore resolve of somewhat. Shall I propose an indifferent place, where 'tis probable we shall all meet?
Omnes. Yes.
Capt. Go you before to the Devil,[242] and I'll make haste after.
Care. Agreed. We shall be sure of good wine there, and in fresco; for he is never without patent snow.
Wild. Patent snow! What, doth that project hold?
Jolly. Yes, faith; and now there's a commission appointed for toasts against the next winter.
Wild. Marry, they are wise, and foresaw the parliament, and were resolved their monopolies should be no grievance to the people.
Capt. Farewell! You will be sure to meet?
Omnes. Yes, yes.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE III.
Enter Wanton and her Maid, with her lap full of things.
Wanton. Bid them ply him close, and flatter him, and rail upon the old lady and the captain: and, do you hear, give him some hints to begin the story of his life. Do it handsomely, and you shall see the sack will clip his tongue.
Maid. I warrant you, I'll fit him.
Wan. When he is in his discourse, leave him, and come down into the parlour, and steal away his box with the false rings that stands by his bedside. I have all his little plate here already.
Maid. Make you haste. I'll warrant you, you'll dress him.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter the Captain, with a letter in his hand, and his Boy to him with a candle: is going to write the superscription.
Boy. Sir, the Lady Loveall passed by even now.
Capt. The Lady Loveall! Which way went she?
Boy. To the rich lady, the widow, where your worship dined.
Capt. 'Tis no matter. Here, carry this letter, and bring an answer to the Devil quickly; and tell her we'll stay there till the time be fit for the design.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Enter Careless, Wild, and a Drawer, at the Devil.
Care. Jack, how goes the world? Bring us some bottles of the best wine.
Draw. You shall, sir. Your worship is welcome into England.
Care. Why, look you: who says a drawer can say nothing but Anon, anon, sir; score a quart of sack in the half-moon?[243]
Draw. Your worship is merry; but I'll fetch you that, sir, shall speak Greek, and make your worship prophesy. You drank none such in your journey.
Wild. Do it then, and make a hole in this angel thou may'st creep through. [Gives him an angel.] Who is't that peeps? a fiddler? Bring him by the ears.
Enter the Tailor that peeps.
Tai. A tailor, an't like your worship.
Care. A tailor! Hast thou a stout faith?
Tai. I have had, an't like your worship; but now I am in despair.
Care. Why, then, thou art damned. Go, go home, and throw thyself into thine own hell; it is the next way to the other.
Tai. I hope your worship is not displeased.
Care. What dost do here? A tailor without faith! Dost come to take measure of ours?
Tai. No; I come to speak with one Master Jolly, a courtier; a very fine-spoken gentleman and a just counter, but one of the worst paymasters in the world.
Wild. As thou lov'st me, let's keep him here till he comes, and make him valiant with sack, that he may urge him till he beats him. We shall have the sport, and be revenged upon the rogue for dunning a gentleman in a tavern.
[Aside.
Care. I'll charge him. Here, drink, poor fellow, and stay in the next room till he comes.
Tai. I thank your worship, but I'm fasting; and if it please your worship to call for a dozen of manchets, that I may eat a crust first, then I'll be bold with a glass of your sack.
Wild. Here, here, drink. In the meantime, fetch him some bread.
Tai. Will your worship have me drink all this vessel of sack?
Care. Yes, yes, off with't: 'twill do you no harm.
[The Tailor drinks.
Wild. Why do you not take some order with that Jolly, to make him pay thee?
Tai. I have petitioned him often, but can do no good.
Care. A pox upon him! Petition him! his heart is hardened to ill. Threaten to arrest him: nothing but a sergeant can touch his conscience.
Tai. Truly, gentlemen I have reason to be angry, for he uses me ill when I ask him for my money.
Jolly. [Speaking within.] Where is Master Wild and Master Careless?
Tai. I hear his voice.
Jolly. Let the coach stay. How now, who would he speak with?
Enter Jolly.
Wild. Do not you know?
Jolly. Yes, and be you judge, if the rogue does not suffer deservedly. I have bid him any time this twelvemonth but send his wife, I'll pay her, and the rogue replies, nobody shall lie with his wife but himself.
Care. Nay, if you be such a one—
Tai. No more they shall not. I am but a poor man.
Jolly. By this hand, he's drunk.
Tai. Nay, then, I arrest you, in mine own name, at his majesty's suit.
Wild. As I live, thou shalt not beat him.
Jolly. Beat him! I'll kiss him. I'll pay him, and carry him about with me, and be at the charge of sack to keep him in the humour.
[He hugs the quart-pot.
Tai. Help, rescue! I'll have his body: no bail shall serve.
Enter Drawer.
Draw. Sir, yonder is a gentleman would speak with you. I do not like his followers.
Jolly. What are they? bailiffs?
Draw. Little better.
Jolly. Send him up alone, and stand you ready at the stairs' feet.
Care. How can that be?[244]
Jolly. It is the scrivener at the corner. Pick a quarrel with him for coming into our company. The drawers will be armed behind them, and we will so rout the rascals! Take your swords, and let him[245] sleep.
Care. What scrivener?
Jolly. Crop the Brownist: he that the ballad was made on.
Care. What ballad?
Jolly. Have you not heard of the scrivener's wife, that brought the blackmoor from the holy land, and made him a Brownist, and in pure charity lay with him, and was delivered of a magpie, a pied prophet, which when the elect saw, they prophesied, if it lived, 'twould prove a great enemy to their sect, for the midwife cried out 'twas born a bishop, with tippet and white sleeves: at which the zealous mother cried, Down with the idol! So the midwife and she, in pure devotion, killed it.
Wild. Killed it! what became of them?
Jolly. Why, they were taken and condemned, and suffered under a Catholic sheriff, that afflicted them with the litany all the way from Newgate to the gallows; which in roguery he made to be set up altarwise, too, and hanged them without a psalm.
Wild. But how took they that breach of privilege?
Jolly. I know not: Gregory turned them off, and so they descended and became Brown-martyrs.
Wild. And is the husband at door now?
Jolly. Yes, yes; but he is married again to a rich widow at Wapping, a wench of another temper: one that you cannot please better than by abusing him. I always pick quarrels with him, that she may reconcile us. The peace is always worth a dinner at least. Hark! I hear him. [Enter Crop.] Save you, Master Crop: you are come in the nick to pledge a health.
Crop. No, sir, I have other business. Shall I be paid my money or no?
[Jolly drinks.
Jolly. Yes.
Crop. Sir?
Jolly. You asked whether you should be paid your money, or no, and I said, yes.
Crop. Pray, sir, be plain.
Care. And be you so, sir. How durst you come into this room and company without leave?
Crop. Sir, I have come into good lords' company ere now.
Care. It may be so; but you shall either fall upon your knees, and pledge this health, or you come no more into lords' companies: no, by these hilts!
[They tug him, and make him kneel.
Crop. 'Tis idolatry! Do, martyr me, I will not kneel, nor join in sin with the wicked.
Jolly. Either kneel, or I'll tear thy cloak which, by the age and looks, may be that which was writ for in the time of the primitive church.
Crop. Pay me, and I'll wear a better. It would be honestlier done, than to abuse this, and profane the text; a text that shows your bishops in those days wore no lawn-sleeves. And you may be ashamed to protect one that will not pay his debts: the cries of the widow will come against you for it.
Jolly. Remember, sirrah, the dinners and suppers, fat venison and good words, I was fain to give you, christening your children still by the way of brokage. Count that charge, and how often I have kept you from fining for sheriff, and thou art in my debt. Then I am damned for speaking well of thee so often against my conscience, which you never consider.
Crop. I am an honest man, sir.
Jolly. Then ushering your wife, and Mistress Ugly, her daughter, to plays and masques at court. You think these courtesies deserve nothing in the hundred! 'Tis true, they made room for themselves with their dagger elbows, and when Spider, your daughter, laid about her with her breath, the devil would not have sat near her.
Crop. You did not borrow my money with this language.
Jolly. No, sirrah: then I was fain to flatter you, and endure the familiarity of your family, and hear (nay, fain sometimes to join in) the lying praises of the holy sister that expired at Tyburn.
Crop. Do, abuse her, and be cursed. 'Tis well known she died a martyr, and her blood will be upon some of you. 'Tis her orphan's money I require, and this is the last time I'll ask it: I'll find a way to get it.
[He offers to go, and Jolly stays him.
Jolly. Art serious? By that light, I'll consent, and take it for an infinite obligation, if thou wilt teach the rest of my creditors that trick: 'twill save me a world of labour, for hang me if I know how to do't.
Crop. Well, sir, since I see your resolution, I shall make it my business.
Care. Prythee, let's be rid of this fool.
Crop. Fool! Let him pay the fool his money, and he'll be gone.
Jolly. No, sir, not a farthing. 'Twas my business to borrow it, and it shall be yours to get it in again. Nay, by this hand, I'll be feasted too, and have good words. Nay, thou shalt lend me more, ere thou gett'st this again.
Crop. I'll lay my action upon you.
Jolly. Your action! You rogue, lay two.
[They kick him, and thrust him out of the room.[246]
Care. Lay three for battery.—What have we here? A she-creditor, too? Who would she speak with?
Enter Faithful. Wild and Careless return and meet her.
Wild. She looks as if she had trusted in her time.
Care. Would you speak with any here, old gentlewoman?
Faith. My business is to Master Jolly.
Care. From yourself, or are you but a messenger?
Faith. My business, sir, is from a lady.
Care. From a lady! From what lady, pray? Why so coy?
Faith. From a lady in the town.
Care. Hoh, hoh! from a lady in the town! Is it possible? I should have guessed you came from a lady in the suburbs or some country-madam by your riding face.
Enter Jolly again.
Jolly. I think we have routed the rascals. Faithful! what makes thy gravity in a tavern?
Faith. Sport, it seems, for your saucy companions.
Jolly. Ho, ho, Mull,[247] ho! No fury, Faithful.
Faith. 'Tis well, sir. My lady presents her service to you, and hath sent you a letter: there's my business.
Care. Prythee, who is her lady?
Jolly. The Lady Loveall.
Care. O, O, does she serve that old lady? God help her!
Faith. God help her! Pray for yourself, sir: my lady scorns your prayers.
Jolly. Faithful, come hither. Prythee, is thy lady drunk?
Faith. Drunk, sir?
Jolly. Ay, drunk or mad? she'd never writ this else. She requires me here to send back by you the pearl she gave me this morning, which, sure, she'd never do if she were sober; for, you know, I earned them hard.
Faith. I know! What do I know? You will not defame my lady, will you?
Care. By no means. This is by way of counsel. Fie! give a thing and take a thing?[248] If he did not perform, he shall come at night, and pay his scores.
Faith. 'Tis well, sir. Is this your return for my lady's favours? Shall I have the pearl, sir?
Jolly. No; and tell her, 'tis the opinion of us all, he that opens her stinking oyster[249] is worthy of the pearl.
Faith. You are a foul-mouthed fellow, sirrah, and I shall live to see you load a gallows, when my lady shall find the way to her own again.
Jolly. If she miss, there are divers can direct her, you know. Adieu, Faithful. Do you hear? Steal privately down by the back-door, lest some knavish boy spy thee, and call thine age Bawd.
[Exit Faithful.
Care. Prythee, who is this thing?
Jolly. 'Tis my lady's waiting-woman, her bawd, her she-confessor, herself at second-hand. Her beginning was simple and below stairs, till her lady finding her to be a likely promising bawd, secret as the key at her girdle, obedient as her thoughts, those virtues raised her from the flat petticoat and kercher to the gorget and bumroll. And I remember 'twas good sport at first to see the wench perplexed with her metamorphosis. She since has been in love with all the family, and now sighs after the Levite; and if he forsake her too, I prophesy a waiting-woman's curse will fall upon her: to die old, despised, poor, and out of fashion.
Enter Captain.
Capt. Why do you not hang out a painted cloth, and take twopence apiece, and let in all the tame fools at door—those sons of wonder that now gape, and think you mad?[250]
Care. 'Tis no matter what they think: madness is proper here. Are not taverns Bacchus's temples, the place of madness? Does not the sign of madness hang out at the door?
Jolly. ——while we within possess our joys and cups, as full of pleasure as weeping Niobe's afflicted eyes were swelled with grief and tears! Blessing on the cause that made our joys thus complete: for see Plutus in our pockets, Mars by our sides, Bacchus in our heads, self-love in our hearts, and change of virgins in our arms; beauties whose eyes and hearts speak love and welcome; no rigid thinkers, no niggard beauties, that maliciously rake up their fire in green sickness to preserve a spark, that shall flame only in some dull day of marriage: let such swear and forswear, till (of the whole parish) they love each other least, whilst we wisely set out our cobwebs in the most perspicuous places to catch these foolish flies.
Care. He's in the right. Dost think we retreated hither to beat a bargain for a score of sheep, or dispute the legality of votes and weigh the power of prerogative and parliament, and club for concluding sack, or read the Fathers here, till we grow costive, like those that have worn their suffering elbows bare, to find a knowledge to perplex 'em? A pox on such brain-breaking thoughts! avoid them, and take me into my[251] hand a glass of eternal sack, and prophesy the restoration of senses and the fall of a lover from grace; which our dear friend Master Jolly will prove to whom the Lady Loveall (by Faithful lately departed) sent for the pearl you wot of.
Capt. But I hope he had the grace to keep them.
Jolly. No, no; I'm a fool, I!
Capt. Was not my boy here?
Jolly. No, we saw him not.
Capt. A pox of the rogue! he's grown so lazy.
Wild. Your boy is come in just now, and called for the key of the back-door. There's women with him.
Capt. O, that's well! 'tis Wanton: I sent for her to laugh over the story of the old lady and her pearl.
Enter Boy.
Where have you been all this while, sirrah?
Boy. I could overtake the coach, sir, no sooner.
Capt. The coach! what coach?
Boy. The Lady Loveall's.
Capt. The Lady Loveall's! Why, what had you to do with her coach?
Boy. I went to give her the letter your worship sent her.
Capt. The letter! What letter?
Boy. That your worship gave me.
Capt. That I writ at Ned's house to Wanton?
Boy. The letter you gave me, sir, was directed to the Lady Loveall, and she stormed like a mad woman at reading of it.
[The Captain threatens to beat him.
Care. Why, thou wilt not beat the boy for thy own fault? What letter was it?
Capt. 'Twas enough; only a relation of the pearl, wherein she finds herself sufficiently abused to Wanton.
Jolly. Now, gentlemen, you have two to laugh at.
Capt. A pox of fooling! let's resolve what to do. There's no denying, for she has all the particulars under my hand.
Boy. You must resolve of something, for she's coming, and stayed only till the back-door was opened.
Capt. How did she know I was here?
Boy. Your worship bad me tell her you would stay here for her.
Care. How came this mistake?
Capt. Why, the devil owed us a shame, it seems. You know I went home to give Wanton an account how we advanced in our design; and when I was writing the superscription, I remember the boy came in and told me the Lady Loveall passed by.
Jolly. And so it seems you, in pure mistake, directed your letter to her.
Care. Well, resolve what you'll do with her when she comes.
Capt. Faith, bear it like men; 'tis only an old lady lost; let's resolve to defy her, we are sure of our pearl; but lest we prolong the war, take the first occasion you can all to avoid the room. When she's alone, I'll try whether she'll listen to a composition.
Jolly. Have you no friends in the close committee?
Capt. Yes, yes, I am an Essex man.[252]
Care. Then get some of them to move, it may be voted no letter.
Jolly. Ay, ay; and after 'tis voted no letter, then vote it false; scandalous, and illegal, and that is in it: they have a precedent for it in the Danish packet, which they took from a foolish fellow who, presuming upon the law of nations, came upon an embassy to the king without an order or pass from both houses!
Capt. Hark, I hear her coming.
Enter Loveall and Faithful.
Love. Sir, I received a letter, but by what accident, I know not; for I believe it was not intended [to] me, though the contents concern me.
Capt. Madam, 'tis too late to deny it; is it peace or war you bring? without dispute, if war, I hang out my defiance: if peace, I yield my weapon into your hands.
Love. Are you all unworthy? your whole sex falsehood? is it not possible to oblige a man to be loyal? this is such a treachery no age can match! apply yourself with youth and wit to gain a lady's love and friendship, only to betray it? was it not enough you commanded my fortune, but you must wreck my honour too, and instead of being grateful for that charity which still assisted your wants, strive to pay me with injuries, and attempt to make the world believe I pay to lose my fame; and then make me the scorned subject of your whore's mirth? Base and unworthy! [He smiles.] Do you smile, false one? I shall find a time for you too, and my vengeance shall find you all.
Faith. Yea, sir; and you that had such ready wit to proclaim my lady whore, and me bawd, I hope to see you load a gallows for it.
Capt. Once again, is it peace or war?
Love. Peace! I'll have thy blood first, dog. Where's my pearl? [She speaks to Wild.] You ought to right me, sir, in this particular; it was to you I sent them.
Wild. Madam, I sent not for them.
Capt. No more words: I have them, I earned them, and you paid them.
Faith. You are a foul-mouthed fellow, sirrah.
Love. Peace, wench, I scorn their slander, it cannot shake my honour: 'tis too weighty and too fixed for their calumny.
Jolly. I'll be sworn for my part on't; I think it is a great honour: I am sure I had as much as I could carry away in ten nights, and yet there was no miss on't.
Capt. You! I think so; there's no mark of my work, you see, and yet I came after thee, and brought away loads would have sunk a sedan-man.
Wild. By this relation she should be a woman of a great fame.
Care. Let that consideration, with her condition and her age, move some reverence, at least to what she was. Madam, I am sorry I cannot serve you in this particular.
[Exeunt Jolly and Careless.
Love. I see all your mean baseness: pursue your scorn. Come, let's go, wench, I shall find some to right my fame; and though I have lost my opinion, I have gained a knowledge how to distinguish of love hereafter; and I shall scorn you and all your sex, that have not soul enough to value a noble friendship.
Wild. Pray, madam, let me speak with you.
Capt. We'll have no whispering: I said it, and I'll maintain it with my sword.
Enter Drawer.
Draw. Sir, there's one without would speak with you.
Capt. With me?
Draw. No, sir, with Master Wild.
Wild. Madam, I'll wait upon you presently.
[Exit Wild.
Capt. Madam, I know my company is displeasing to you, therefore I'll take my leave. Drawer, show me another room.
[The Captain makes a turn or two; they look at each other, then he goes out.
Love. O Faithful, Faithful! I am most miserably abused, and can find no way to my revenge.
Faith. Madam, I'll give them ratsbane, and speedily too, ere they can tell; for that rascal the captain has a tongue else will proclaim you, and undo your fame for ever.
Love. Ay, ay, my fame, my fame, Faithful: and if it were not for mine honour, which I have kept unstained to this minute, I would not care.
Faith. This it is: you will set your affection upon every young thing: I could but tell you on't.
Love. Who could have suspected they would have been so false in their loves to me, that have been so faithful to them?
Enter Drawer.
Honest friend, where is Master Wild?
Draw. The other gentlemen carried him away with them.
Love. Are they all gone then?
Draw. Yes, by this hand. These gentlemen are quickly satisfied: what an ugly whore they have got! how she states it.[253]
[Aside.
Love. Come, let's go, wench.
[She offers to go.
Draw. Mistress, who pays the reckoning?
Love. What says he?
Faith. He asks me who pays the reckoning?
Love. Who pays the reckoning! Why, what have we to do with the reckoning?
Draw. Shut the door, Dick. [To Loveall.] We'll have the reckoning before you go.
Faith. Why, goodman sauce-box, you will not make my lady pay for their reckoning, will you?
Draw. My lady! a pox of her title, she'd need of something to make her pass.
Faith. What do you say, sirrah?
Draw. I say, the gentlemen paid well for their sport, and I know no reason why we should lose our reckoning.
Love. What do you take me for, my friend?
Draw. In troth, I take you for nothing; but I would be loth to take you for that use I think they make shift with you for.
Faith. Madam, this is that rascally captain's plot.
Love. Patience, patience! O, for a bite at the slave's heart. Friend, mistake me not, my name is Loveall, a lady: send one along with me, and you shall have your money.
Draw. You must pardon me, madam, I am but a servant: if you be a lady, pray sit in an inner room, and send home your woman for the money: the sum is six pounds, and be pleased to remember the waiters.
Love. Go, Faithful, go fetch the money. O, revenge, revenge! shall I lose my honour, and have no revenge?
[Exeunt omnes.
ACT IV., SCENE 1.
Enter Wanton, Captain, Careless, and Wild.
Wan. By all that a longing bride hopes for, which I am not, I am better pleased with this revenge than mine own plot, which takes as I could wish. I have so anointed my high priest with sack, that he would have confuted Baal's priest; and now he does so slumber in his ale, and calls to bed already—swears the sun is set.
Capt. Faith, wench, her abusing of me made me leave her for the reckoning.
Care. Yes, faith, they have treated her upsey[254] whore, lain with her, told, and then pawned her.
Wan. Yes, yes, you are fine things: I wonder women can endure you; for me, I expect you worse, and am armed for't.
Wild. Faith, let's send and release her; the jest is gone far enough; as I live, I pity her.
Wan. Pity her! hang her, and rid the country of her. She is a thing wears out her limbs as fast as her clothes; one that never goes to bed at all, nor sleeps in a whole skin, but is taken to pieces like a motion, as if she were too long; she should be hanged for offering to be a whore.
Capt. As I live, she's in the right. I peeped once to see what she did before she went to bed; by this light, her maids were dissecting her; and when they had done, they brought some of her to bed, and the rest they either pinned or hung up, and so she lay dismembered till morning; in which time her chamber was strewed all over, like an anatomy-school.
Wan. And when she travels anywhere, she is transported with as great a care and fear of spoiling, as a juggler's motion, when he removes from fair to fair.
Care. She is a right broken gamester who, though she lacks wherewithal to play, yet loves to be looking on.
Enter Wanton's Maid.
Bawd. He is awake, and calls for you impatiently: he would fain be in bed; the company is all gone.
Wan. Are you instructed?
Bawd. Let me alone, I'll warrant you for my part.
Wan. Farewell then; you are all ready. Who plays master constable?
Capt. I, I; and Ned Jolly the sumner.[255]
Wan. Farewell, farewell then.
[Exit Wanton and Bawd.
Wild. It is a delicate wench.
Care. She has excellent flesh and a fine face. By this light, we must depose the captain from his reign here.
[They whisper this.
Wild. I like her shrewdly; I hate a wench that is all whore and no company; this is a comedy all day and a fair[256] at night.
Care. I hope to exalt the parson's horn here.
Capt. And what think you? is it not a sweet sin, this lying with another man's wife?
Wan. Is Jolly come?
[Wanton above.
Capt. No, but he'll be here instantly.
Wild. Is he abed?
Wan. Yes, yes; and he sleeps as if he had been put to bed by his sexton, with dust to dust, and ashes to ashes.
Capt. And we'll wake him with that shall be as terrible to him as the latter day.
Wan. Let him sleep awhile, that he may be fresh, else the jest is spoiled; for it is his sense of his disgrace must work my ends.
Wild. I'll go home then, and get supper ready, and expect you.
Capt. Do; our scene lies here. [Enter Jolly.] Who's there? Jolly?
Jolly. Yes.
Capt. Are you fitted?
Jolly. Yes, I have got the Blackfriars music. I was fain to stay till the last act. And who do you think I saw there?
Wild. I know not.
Jolly. Guess.
Wild. Prythee: I cannot guess.
Jolly. Your aunt and Mistress Pleasant, and trusty Secret.
Wild. What, man?
Jolly. The lovers only, so close in a box!
Capt. It will be a match, and there's an end. Prythee, let them go to't: what is't to us? Let's mind our business now, and think on them hereafter.
Wan. A pox upon them, for a couple of stalk-hounds. Have they killed at last? Why, this is fool's fortune.[257] It would be long enough ere one that has wit got such a wife!
Capt. No more of this now. Have you borrowed the watchmen's coats?
Jolly. Yes, and bills, beards, and constable's staff and lantern; and let me alone to fit him for the sumner. But when this is done, I expect my fee, a tithe-night at least. Wanton, I will lie with thee for thy roguery. What! are you dumb? You will not refuse me, I hope?
Wan. Not if I thought you desiredst it; but I hate to have it desired indifferently, and but so-so done neither, when 'tis done.
Jolly. I hope you will not disgrace my work, will you?
Wan. Faith, they say, thy pleasure lies in thy tongue, and therefore, though I do not give thee leave to lie with me, yet I will give thee as good a thing that will please thee as well.
Jolly. Some [such] roguery I expected.
Wan. No, faith, I am serious: and because I will please you both, Master Wild shall lie here, and you shall have leave to say you do, which will please you as well.
Jolly. Faith, and my part is some pleasure; else I have loved, enjoyed, and told, is mistook.
Wan. Ay, but never to love, seldom enjoy, and always tell—foh! it stinks, and stains worse than Shoreditch dirt; and women hate and dread men for't. Why, I, that am a whore professed, cannot see youth[258] digest it, though it be my profit and interest: for to be a private whore in this town starves in the nest like young birds, when the old one's killed.
Care. Excellent girl! 'tis too true. Jolly, your tongue has kept many a woman honest.
Wan. Faith, 'tis a truth, this I shall say, you may all better your pleasures by, if you will observe it: I dare say, the fear of telling keeps more women honest than Bridewell hemp; and were you wise men and true lovers of liberty, now were the time to bring wenching to that perfection no age could ever have hoped. Now you may sow such seed of pleasure, you may be prayed for hereafter. Now, in this age of zeal and ignorance, would I have you four, in old clothes and demure looks, present a petition to both houses, and say you are men touched in conscience for your share in that wickedness which is known to their worships by the pleasure of adultery; and desire it may be death,[259] and that a law may be passed to that purpose. How the women will pray for you, and at their own charges rear statues in memory of their benefactors! The young and kind would then haunt your chambers, pray and present you, and court the sanguine youth for the sweet sin secured by such a law. None would lose an occasion, nor churlishly oppose kind nature, nor refuse to listen to her summons, when youth and passion calls for those forbidden sweets. When such security as your lives are at stake, who would fear to trust? With this law all oaths and protestations are cancelled. Letters and bawds would grow useless too: by instinct, the kind will find the kind, and, having one nature, become of one mind. Now we lose an age to observe and know a man's humour, ere we dare trust him; but get this law, then 'tis, like and enjoy. And whereas now, with expense of time and fortune you may glean some one mistress amongst your neighbours' wives, you shall reap women whole armfuls, as in the common field. There is one small town, wise only in this law; and I have heard them say that know it well, there has been but one execution this hundred years; yet the same party searched seven years, and could not find an honest woman in the town.
Care. An excellent plot! Let's about it. Ink and paper, dear Wanton: we will draw the petition presently.
Wan. Will Master Jolly consent too? You must not then, as soon as a handsome woman is named, smile and stroke your beard; tell him that is next you, you have lain with her. Such a lie is as dangerous as a truth, and 'twere but justice to have thee hanged for a sin thou never committedst, for having defamed so many women.
Jolly. If all those liars were hanged, I believe the scale would weigh down with the guilty.
Wan. One rogue, hanged for example, would make a thousand kind girls. If it take, it shall be called my law, Wanton's law: then we may go in petticoats again; for women grew imperious, and wore the breeches only to fright the poor cuckolds, and make the fools digest their horns. Are you all ready? Shall I open the door?
Capt. Yes.
Wild. I'll expect you at my house.
[Exit Wild one way, and the rest of the company another.
Omnes. We'll come, we'll come.
Capt. So, knock louder.
[They knock within, and the Parson discovered in his bed, and the Bawd with him.
Par. Who's there? What would you have?
Capt. Here's his majesty's watch, and master constable's worship must come in. We have a warrant from the lords to search for a delinquent.
Par. You come not here. I'll answer your warrant to-morrow.
Jolly. Break open the door.
Par. I would you durst.
Bawd. Lord, dear, what shall we do?
Par. Why, sweet, I'll warrant you. Art thou not my wife, my rib, bone of my bone? I'll suffer anything ere one hair of thee shall be touched.
Bawd. Hark! they break open the door!
Par. They dare not! Why dost thou tremble so? Alas, sweet innocence, how it shakes!
Capt. Break open the door.
Par. I'll complain to the bishop of this insolence.
Bawd. They come, they come, lamb!
Par. No matter, sweet, they dare not touch thee. What would you have, master constable? You are very rude.
[He delivers the warrant.
Capt. Read our warrant, and our business will excuse us. Do you know any such person as you find there?
Par. Yes, sir, but not by this name. Such a woman is my wife, and no Lindabrides.[260] We were married to-day, and I'll justify her my wife the next court-day. You have your answer, and may be gone.
Jolly. We must take no notice of such excuses now. If she be your wife, make it appear in court, and she will be delivered unto you.
Par. If she be my wife! Sir, I have wedded her and bedded her: what other ceremonies would you have? Be not afraid, sweetheart.
Jolly. Sir, we can do no less than execute our warrant. We are but servants; and, master constable, I charge you in the king's name to do your duty. Behold the body of the delinquent.
Par. Touch her that dares: I'll put my dagger in him. [He takes his dagger.] Fear nothing, sweetheart. Master constable, you'll repent this insolence offered to a man of my coat.
Bawd. Help, my dearest, will you let me be haled[261] thus?
[Here they strive to take her out.
Par. Villains, what will you do? Murder! Rape!
Capt. Yes, yes, 'tis likely: I look like a ravisher!
Jolly. Hold him, and we'll do well enough with her.
[As they go to pull her out of the bed, they discover the Bawd. When they let him go, he turns to her and holds her in his arms.
Capt. What have we here, an old woman?
Par. Let me go. Slaves and murderers!
Capt. Let him go.
Jolly. Do any of you know this woman? This is not she we looked for.
Par. No, rascal, that mistake shall not excuse you.
Jolly. It is old Goodman What-d'ye-call-him his wife.
Capt. Hold the candle, and let's see her face.
[When they hold the candle, she lies in his bosom, and his arms about her. She must be as nastily dressed as they can dress her. When he sees her, he falls into amaze, and shoves her from him.
Jolly. What have we here, adultery? Take them both: here will be new matter.
Par. Master constable, a little argument will persuade you to believe I am grossly abused. Sure, this does not look like a piece that a man would sin to enjoy: let that then move your pity and care of my reputation. Consider my calling, and do not bring me to a public shame for what you're sure I am not guilty of, but by plot of some villains.[262]
Bawd. Dear, will you disclaim me now?
Par. O impudence!
Jolly. Master constable, do your duty. Take them both away, as you will answer it.
Capt. Give him his cassock to cover him.
[They put on his cassock and her coat, and lead them away.
Par. Why, gentlemen, whither will you carry me?
Capt. To the next justice, I think it is Master Wild; he is newly come from travel. It will be a good way, neighbours, to express our respects to him.
Par. No, faith, gentlemen, e'en go the next way to Tyburn, and despatch the business without ceremony, for you'll utterly disgrace me. This is that damned captain: my wife is abroad too; I fear she is of the plot.
Jolly. Come, away with 'em.
Bawd. Whither will they lead us, dear?
Par. O, O, impudence! Gentlemen, do not lead us together, I beseech you.
Capt. Come, come, lead them together: no ceremonies. Your faults are both alike.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE II.
Enter Wanton and Wild.
Wan. You had best brag now, and use me like my lady What-d'ye-call; but if you do, I care not.
Wild. Come, y' are a fool. I'll be a faithful friend, and make good conditions for thee before thy husband be quit.
[Wild sits down with Wanton in his lap.
Wan. You must do it now or never.
Wild. Hark, hark! I hear them. What's the news?
Enter Captain, Jolly, Watch, Bawd, and Parson.
Capt. We have brought a couple of delinquents before your worship: they have committed a very foul fault.
Jolly. And we have brought the fault along too, that your worship may see it. You will be the better able to judge of the offenders.
Par. Ha! what do I see? My wife in master justice's lap!
Wan. What has the poor fellow done?
Capt. Why, madam, he has been taken in bed with this woman, another man's wife.
Wan. In bed with her, and do you raise him to punish him? Master constable, if you would afflict him, command them to lie together again. Is not the man mad?
Par. This is fine roguery! I find who rules the roost.
Wild. Well, to the business. You say he was taken in bed with another man's wife.
Capt. Yes, and't like your worship.
Wild. Make his mittimus to the Hole at Newgate.
Wan. Sure, I have seen this fellow's face. Friend, have I never seen your face before?
Par. If I mistake not, I have seen one very like your ladyship's too. She was a captain's cast whore in the town. I shall have a time to be revenged.
Wild. How now, sirrah, are you threatening? Away with him.
Capt. I'll fetch a stronger watch, sir, and return presently.
Wild. Do, master constable; and give the poor woman something, and set her free; for I dare say 'twas his wickedness. She looks like one that ne'er thought on such a thing.
Bawd. God bless your worship, I am innocent. He never left making love till I consented.
Enter Captain in his own shape.
Par. O miserable, miserable!
Capt. How now, what's the news here? My honoured friend and master parson, what makes you here at this time of night? why, I should have thought this a time to have envied you for your fair bride's embraces. Do you give these favours? Are these your bride-laces? It's a new way.
[Plays with the cord that binds his arms.
Par. Is it new to you?
Wan. How now, captain?
Capt. Wanton, is this your plot to endear your husband to you?
Par. No, 'tis thy plot, poor beaten captain; but I shall be revenged.
Capt. Yes, faith, it was my plot, and I glory in't; to undermine my Machiavel, which so greedily swallowed that sweet bait that had this hook.
Par. 'Tis well.
Capt. But my anger ends not here. Remember the base language you gave me—son of a thousand fathers; captain of a tame band; and one that got my living by the longstaff-speeches—for which and thy former treacheries I'll ruin thee, slave. I'll have no more mercy on thee than old women on blind puppies. I'll bring you to your commendations in Latin epistles again, nor leave thee anything to live on—no, not bread—but what thou earn'st by raking gentlewomen's names in anagrams.[263] And, master justice, if ever you'll oblige me, stand to me now, that I may procure the whipping of him from the reverend bench.
Par. I am undone.
Wild. I can do nothing but justice: you must excuse me. I shall only make it appear how fit it is to punish this kind of sin in that coat in time, and to crush such serpents in the shells.
Par. Mercy, O, mercy!
Wild. Officers, away with him.
[They pull him away.
Par. No mercy?
Wan. Yes, upon conditions, there may be some mercy.
[The Parson looks very dejected.
Wild. And these they are: let the watch stay in t'other room. [Exit Watch.] First, your wife shall have her liberty, and you yours, as she reports of you; and when you bring her with you, you shall be welcome. Then you shall not be jealous; that's another point.
Capt. That he shall have a cure for.
Wan. Yes, yes, I'll apply something to his eyes shall cure him of his doubt.
Wild. Then you shall ask the captain pardon, and your wife. To him you shall allow half your parsonage to maintain her. The deeds are ready within: if you'll sign them, and deliver your wife to our use, she shall discharge you.
Par. I submit, sir; but I hope your worship will desire no witness to the use of my wife. The sumner, and the watch too, I hope your worship will enjoin them silence.
Wan. You shall not need to fear; I'll have a care of your credit. Call in the watch. Do you know these faces?
[She discovers them.
Par. Ha! abused.
Jolly. Nay, no flinching: if you do, I betake me to master sumner again.
Capt. And I become severe master constable in a trice.
Par. No, no, I submit; and I hope we are all friends. I'm sure I have the hardest part to forgive.
Wan. And I, before all this company, promise to forget, and forgive thee, and am content to take thee again for my dear and mortal husband, now you are tame; but you must see you do so no more; and give yourself to be blind when it is not fit for you to see; and practise to be deaf, and learn to sleep in time, and find business to call you away, when gentlemen come that would be private.
Capt. Why so; now things are as they should be; and when you will obey, you shall command; but when you would be imperious, then I betake me to my constable's staff till you subscribe, Cedunt armis togæ: and if it be false Latin, parson, you must pardon that too.
Jolly. By this hand, I must have my tithe-night with thee, thou art such a wag. Say when? When wilt thou give me leave, ha?
Wan. Never.
Jolly. Never!
Wan. No, never.
Jolly. D'ye hear? I am none of them that work for charity. Either resolve to pay, or I kick down all my milk again.
Wan. What would you have?
Jolly. Give me leave to lie with you.
Wan. No indeed.
Jolly. No!
Wan. No; but rather than quarrel, as I said before, I will give you leave to say you have lain with me.
Wild. I am of opinion she owes you nothing now. So, Mistress Wanton, take your husband; and, to remove all doubts, this night I'll be at the charge of a wedding-supper.
Par. This is better than Newgate-hole yet, Bridewell hemp, brown bread, and whipcord.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE III.
Enter the Widow and Mistress Pleasant, Master Sad, and Master Constant.
Wid. By my troth, it was a good play.
Plea. And I'm glad I'm come home, for I am e'en a-weary with this walking. For God's sake, whereabouts does the pleasure of walking lie? I swear I have often sought it till I was weary, and yet I ne'er could find it.
Sad. What do these halberds at your door?
[A Watch at the Widow's door.
Wid. Halberds! Where?
Sad. There, at your lodging.
Con. Friend, what would those watchmen have?
Watch. The house is shut up for the sickness[264] this afternoon.
Plea. The sickness!
Watch. Yes, forsooth; there's a coachman dead, full of the tokens.
Sad. Where's the officer?
Watch. He is gone to seek the lady of the house and some other company that dined here yesterday, to bring her in, or carry her to the pest-house.
Wid. Ha! What shall we do, niece?
Sad. If you please to command our lodging.
Plea. It will be too much trouble.
Wid. Let's go to Loveall's.
Plea. Not I, by my faith: it is scarce for our credits to let her come to us.
Wid. Why, is she naught?
Con. Faith, madam, her reputation is not good.
Wid. But what shall we do, then?
Con. Dare you adventure to oblige us?
Wid. Thank you, sir? we'll go to my nephew's at Covent Garden: he may shift among his acquaintance.
Plea. It was well thought on; the Piazza is hard by, too.
Wid. We'll borrow your coach thither, and we'll send it you back again straight.
Con. We'll wait upon you, madam.
Wid. This accident troubles me. I am heartily sorry for the poor fellow.
Plea. I am sorry too: but pray, aunt, let us not forget ourselves in our grief. I am not ambitious of a red cross upon the door.[265]
Con. Mistress Pleasant is in the right; for if you stay, the officers will put you in.
Wid. We shall trouble you, sir, for your coach.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE IV.
Enter Parson, Captain, Wild, Wanton, Careless, and Jolly.
Par. I am reconciled, and will no longer be an uncharitable churchman. I think this sack is a cooler.
Capt. What! does it make you to see your error?
Par. Yes, and consider my man-of-war: nor will I again dispute his letters of mart, nor call them passes for pirates. I am free.
Capt. And welcome. Anything but anger is sufferable, and all is jest, when you laugh; and I will hug thee for abusing me with thy eyes in their scabbards; but when you rail with drawn eyes, red and naked, threatening a Levite's second revenge[266] to all that touches your concubine, then I betake me to a dark lantern and a constable's staff; and by help of these fathers whom I cite, I prove my text: Women that are kind ought to be free.
Par. But, captain, is it not lawful for us shepherds to reclaim them?
Capt. A mere mistake; for sin, like the sea, may be turned out, but will ne'er grow less: and though you should drain this Mistress Doll, yet the whore will find a place, and perhaps overflow some maid, till then honest; and so you prove the author of a new sin, and the defiler of a pure temple: therefore I say, while you live, let the whore alone, till she wears out; nor is it safe to vamp them, as you shall find. Read Ball the first and the second.[267]
Wild. No more discourse. Strike up, fiddlers.
Capt. See who's that knocks?
[A country-dance. When they are merry, singing catches and drinking healths, the Widow, Mistress Pleasant, and the two Lovers, knock at the door.
Ser. Sir, 'tis Mistress Pleasant and the two gentlemen that dined there to-day.
Wild. My aunt and Mistress Pleasant!
Jolly. What a pox makes them abroad at this time of night?
Capt. It may be, they have been a-wenching.
Ser. Sir, they were upon alighting out of the coach when I came up.
Wild. Quickly, Mistress Wanton; you and your husband to bed; there's the key. Master Parson, you know the way to the old chamber, and to it quickly; all is friends now.
Par. Sweetheart, we'll steal away.
Wan. The devil on them, they have spoiled our mirth.
[Exit Parson.
Wild. Jack, get you and your company down the back-way into the kitchen, and stay there till we see what this visit means.
[Exeunt Fiddlers.
Capt. Means! What should it mean? It is nothing but the mischievous nature all honest women are endued with, and naturally given to spoil sport. I wonder what fart blew them hither to-night.
Wild. Nay, have a little patience, captain, you and Master Jolly must sit quietly awhile within, till we know the cause.
Capt. It is but deferring our mirth for an hour or so.
Ser. Sir, here's my lady.
Wild. Quickly remove those things there. Captain, step in there——
Enter Widow, Pleasant, Sad, and Constant.
Wid. Nephew, do you not wonder to see me here at this time of night?
Wild. I know it is not ordinary, therefore I believe 'tis some design. What is it, Mistress Pleasant? Shall I make one?
Plea. As I live, sir, pure necessity. Neither mirth nor kindness hath begot this visit.
Care. What! is your coach broke?
Wid. Faith, nephew, the truth is, the sickness is in my house, and my coachman died since dinner.
Wild. The sickness!
Plea. Ay, as I live: we have been walking since the play; and when we came home, we found the watch at the door, and the house shut up.
Sad. And a constable gone in search of all those that dined there to-day, with order to furnish us lodgings in the pest-house.
Wid. Are you not afraid to receive us?
Wild. As I live, the accident troubles me; and I am sorry such a misfortune should beget me this favour; and I could wish myself free from the honour, if the cause were removed too.
Plea. As I live, Master Wild, I must have been forced to have lain with my servant to-night, if you had not received me.
Wild. If I thought so, I would carry you out in my arms, I am so much Master Constant's friend.
Plea. But are you more his friend than mine, Master Wild?
Wild. No; but I presume by this he has gained so much interest, as he would not be very displeasing to you.
Con. O, your humble servant, sir.
Plea. If I had had a mind to that lodging, I had ne'er come hither; for when I have a mind to it, I'll marry without dispute, for I fear nobody so much as a husband; and when I can conquer that doubt, I'll marry at a minute's warning.
Wid. No dispute now. Can you furnish us with a couple of beds?
Wild. Yes, yes.
Wid. And have you e'er a woman in the house?
Wild. My sister's maid is here.
Care. Madam, if you resolve to do us this honour, you shall find clean linen, and your beds quickly ready.
Wid. But where will my nephew and you, sir, lie to-night?
Care. O, madam, we have acquaintance enough in the town.
Wid. Well, sir, we'll accept this courtesy; and when you come into Suffolk, you shall command my house.
Wild. Prythee, call Bess, and bid her bring sheets to make the bed. I'll go and fetch in a pallet, 'tis as good a bed as the other; and if you will stay the removing, we'll set up a bedstead.
Plea. No, a pallet, pray. But what shall we do for night-clothes, aunt?
Wild. Why, what are those you bought, my sister?
Wid. Is not that linen gone yet?
Care. No, faith, madam, his man forgot it, till the carriers were gone last week.
Wild. Will that serve?
Plea. Yes, yes, pray do us the favour to let us have it, 'tis but washing of it again.
Wild. Nay, it will serve: discourse no more; I'll fetch the bundle; and, prythee, fetch the combs and looking-glasses I bought the other day: for other necessaries that want a name the wench shall furnish you with.
Wid. Nay, but where is she, nephew?
Wild. I'll call her, if she be not gone to bed. It is an ignorant young thing; I am to send her to my sister's in the country; I have had such ado to put her in the fashion.
Plea. What country is she? Prythee, Master Wild, let's see her.
Wild. I'll call her down.
[Exit Wild.
Sad. Madam, now we see y' are safe, we'll kiss your hands, and wait upon you to-morrow.
Wid. It must be early then, sir, for I shall borrow my nephew's coach, and be gone betimes into the country, to take a little fresh air, and prevent the search.
Con. Pray, madam, be pleased to command ours.
Wild. No, sir, I humbly thank you; my nephew's will hold our company.
Con. Your humble servant, Mistress Pleasant.
Sad. Your servant, madam.
Plea. Good night, Master Constant.
Wid. Sir, you'll excuse us, we have nobody here to light you down.
Care. Madam, I am here your servant as much as those who wear your livery; and this house holds no other. We can be civil, madam, as well as extravagant.
Wid. Your humble servant, Master Careless.
Care. Gentlemen, if you'll wait on my lady to her chamber, then I'll wait upon you down.
Sad. You oblige us, sir.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE V.
Enter Wild, Captain, Wanton, Parson, and Jolly.
Capt. The plague!
Wild. The plague, as I live; and all my relation is truth, every syllable. But, Mistress Wanton, now must you play your masterpiece: be sure to blush, and appear but simple enough, and all is well: thou wilt pass for as arrant a chambermaid as any in the parish.
Par. Hum! new plots?
Capt. Let me put on a petticoat and a muffler, and I'll so chambermaid it, and be so diligent with the clean smock and the chamber-pot.[268] Now would I give all the shoes in my shop to lie with 'em both.
Wan. Let me alone to fit them; I can make a scurvy curtsey naturally: remember, I am an Essex woman, if they ask.
Wild. Come, come quickly, take those sweetmeats; bring the great cake and knife, and napkins, for they have not supped; and, Captain, make some lemonade, and send it by the boy to my chamber; and, do you hear, Jolly, you must stay till we come, for we must lie with you to-night.
Jolly. We'll stay, but make haste then.
Capt. And bring our cloaks and swords out with you.
Wild. I will, I will; but be quiet all.
Par. Master Wild, I hope there is no plot in this.
Capt. There's no jealousy, Master Parson, 'tis all serious, upon my life. Come away with us.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE VI.
The tiring-room, curtains drawn, and they discourse. His chamber, two beds, two tables, looking-glasses, night-clothes, waistcoats, sweet-bags, sweetmeats, and wine: Wanton dressed like a chambermaid. All above, if the scene can be so ordered.
Enter Widow and Mistress Pleasant, Wild and Careless: the Widow and Mistress Pleasant salute Wanton.
Wild. Faith, aunt, 'tis the first time I have had the honour to see you in my house, and as a stranger I must salute you.
Wid. As I live, nephew, I'm ashamed to put you to this trouble.
Wild. It is an obligation. Mistress Pleasant, I know you have not supped; I pray you, be pleased to taste these sweetmeats, they are of Sall's doing; but I understand not sweetmeats, the wine I'll answer for; and, in a word, you are welcome: you are Patrona,[269] and we are slaves.
Care. Good rest and a pleasing dream your humble servant wishes you.
Wid. Good night, nephew; good night, Master Careless.
Plea. Good night, Master Careless; your humble servant, Master Wild.
[Exeunt Wild and Careless.
Wid. Why, ay, here are men have some wit: by this good night, had we lain at my servant's, we should have found the laced cap and slippers that have been entailed upon the family these five descents, advanced upon the cupboard's head instead of plate.
[They sit down to undress them.
Plea. They are a couple of the readiest youths too; how they run and do all things with a thought! I love him for sending his sister's maid. A pretty wench.
Wid. Pray, let's go to bed; I am weary.
Plea. You will not go to bed with those windows open: sweetheart, prythee, shut them, and bring me hither—dost understand me? As I live, 'tis a great while since I went to the play.
Wid. It has been one of the longest days; a year of them would be an age.
Plea. O, do you grow weary? you'll break your covenant ere the year go out.
[The curtains are closed.
Wid. Prythee, shut the windows, and come pin up my hair.
SCENE VII.
Enter Wild, Jolly, Careless, Captain, Parson, and Fiddlers, and one with a torch, with their cloaks and their swords, putting them on. Enter Wild's man.
Wild. See you wait diligently, and let them want nothing they call for. Come, shall we go? 'tis very late.
Capt. But how does Wanton carry it?
Wild. They saluted her; and Mistress Pleasant swore you might see the country simplicity in her face.
Par. A pox upon her, crafty gipsy!
Capt. Why, art not thou glad to see she can be honest when she will?
Par. I'll show you all a trick for her within these few days, or I'll miss my aim.
Jolly. Come, let's go.
[They all offer to go.
Capt. I have a mind to stay till Wanton comes.
Wild. Stay a little, then, for 'twill not be long ere they be abed.
Capt. I hear Wanton's voice.
Enter Wanton.
Wild. Are they abed?
Wan. Yes, and have so admired you and Master Careless, and abused the lovers! Well, gentlemen, you are the wits of the time; but if I might counsel—well, they might lie alone this night; but it should go hard if I lay not with one of them within a month.
Care. Were they so taken with their lodging?
Wan. All that can be said, they said: you are the friendliest men, the readiest men, the handsomest men; men that had wit, and could tell when to be civil, and when to be wild; and Mistress What's-her-name, the younger, asked why Master Wild did not go a-wooing to some rich heir; upon her conscience, she said, you would speed.
Care. Well, well, there's a time for all things: come, let's go.
[They offer to depart.
Wild. Take a light. Good night, Wanton.
Capt. D'ye hear, d'ye hear? let me speak with you.
[They all come back again.
Wild. What's the business?
Capt. I cannot get hence this night: but your good angels hang at your heels, and if I can prevail, you shall stay.
Wild. What to do?
Capt. What to do? why I'll be hanged, if all this company do not guess.
Jolly. Prythee, what should we stay for?
Capt. For the widow and her niece. Are they worth the watching for a' night?
Wild. Yes, certainly.
Capt. Then take my counsel, and let me give it out y' are married. You have new clothes come home this morning, and there's that you spoke of I'll fetch from the tailor's; and here's a parson shall rather give them his living than stay for a licence; the fiddlers, too, are ready to salute 'em.
Care. But if they refuse?
Jolly. Which, upon my conscience, they will.
Capt. As you hope, else you are laughed at for missing the widow. Ned, follow my counsel; appear at her chamber-window in thy shirt, and salute all that passes by. Let me alone to give it out, and invite company, and provide dinner; then, when the business is known, and I have presented all your friends at court with ribands, she must consent, or her honour is lost, if you have but the grace to swear it, and keep your own counsel.
Care. By this hand, he has reason, and I'll undertake the widow.
Wild. It will incense them, and precipitate the business, which is in a fair way now; and if they have wit, they must hate us for such a treachery.
Capt. If they have wit, they will love you: beside, if it come to that, we two will swear we saw you married, and the parson shall be sworn he did it. Priest, will you not swear?
Par. Yes, anything; what is't, Captain?
Wild. If this jest could do it, yet 'tis base to gain a wife so poorly. She came hither, too, for sanctuary; it would be an uncivil and an unhospitable thing, and look as if I had not merit enough to get a wife without stealing her from herself: then, 'tis in mine own house.
Capt. The better; nay, now I think on't, why came she hither? How do you know the plague is there? all was well at dinner; I'll be hanged if it be not a plot: the lovers, too, whom you abused at dinner, are joined with them: a trick, a mere trick of wit to abuse us! and to-morrow, when the birds are flown, they'll laugh at you, and say, two country-ladies put themselves naked into the hands of three travelled city wits, and they durst not lay hold on them.
Care. A pox upon these niceties!
Wan. If they have not some design upon you, hang me: why did they talk so freely before me else?
Care. Let's but try; we are not now to begin to make the world talk; nor is it a new thing to them to hear we are mad fellows.
Capt. If you get them, are they worth having?
Wild. Having? yes.
Capt. If you miss them, the jest is good. Prythee, Ned, let me prevail; 'tis but a mad trick.
Wild. If we would, how shall we get into the chamber?
Wan. Let me alone for that; I'll put on my country simplicity, and carry in a chamber-pot; then, under pretence of bolting the back-door, I'll open it—and yet I grudge them the sport so honestly; for you wenchers make the best husbands: after you are once married, one never sees you.
Capt. I warrant thee, wench.
Wan. No, faith, I have observed it, they are still the doating'st husbands, and then retreat and become justices of the peace, and none so violent upon the bench as they against us poor sinners. Yet I'll do it; for upon my conscience, the young gentlewoman will fall upon her back, and thank me.
[Exit Wanton.
Capt. Away, go then, and leave your fooling; and in the morning, Ned, get in, and plead naked with your hands in the bed.
Par. And if they cry, put your lips in their mouths, and stop them.
Capt. Why, look you, you have the authority of the church too.
Wild. Well, I am now resolved: go you about your part, and make the report strong.
Care. And d'ye hear? be sure you set the cook at work, that if we miss, we may have a good dinner and good wine to drink down our grief.
Capt. Miss! I warrant thee, 'twill thrive.
[Exit Captain.
Care. Nay, if I knock not down the widow, geld me, and come out to-morrow complete uncle, and salute the company with, You are welcome, gentlemen, and Good-morrow, nephew Ned.
Wild. Uncle Tom, good morrow, uncle Tom.
Enter Wanton.
Wan. All's done; the door is open, and they're as still as children's thoughts: 'tis time you made you ready, which is to put off your breeches, for 'tis almost day. And take my counsel, be sure to offer force enough, the less reason will serve: especially you, Master Wild, do not put a maid to the pain of saying, Ay.
Wild. I warrant thee, wench; let me alone.
Care. We'll in and undress us, and come again, for we must go in at the back-door.
Wild. I'll meet you. Is the Captain gone?
[Exeunt Wild and Careless.
Wan. Yes, yes, he's gone.
Jolly. Come, Master Parson, let us see the cook in readiness. Where are the fiddlers? What will become of our plot? for the coachman, Master Sad, and his friend, will stink of their jest if this thrive.
Par. They have slept all night, on purpose to play all day.
Jolly. When the ribands and points come from the Exchange, pray see the fiddlers have some; the rogues will play so out of tune all day else, they will spoil the dancing, if the plot do take.
Enter Wild and Careless in their shirts, with drawers under, nightgowns on, and in slippers.
Wan. Let's see them in the chamber first, and then I shall go with some heart about the business. So, so, creep close and quietly: you know the way; the widow lies in the high bed, and the pallet is next the door.
[They kneel at the door to go in; she shakes her coats over them.
Wild. Must we creep?
Wan. Yes, yes, down upon your knees always, till you get a woman, and then stand up for the cause: stay, let me shake my smock over you for luck's sake.
Jolly. Why so? I warrant you [I'll] thrive.
Par. A pox take you, I'll pare your nails when I get you from this place once.
Wan. Sweetheart, sweetheart, off with your shoes.
Par. Ay, with all my heart, there's an old shoe after you.[270] Would I gave all in my shop the rest were furnished with wives too!
Jolly. Parson, the sun is rising; go send in the fiddlers, and set the cook on work; let him chop soundly.
Par. I have a tithe-pig at home, I'll e'en sacrifice it to the wedding.
[Exit Parson.
Wan. They will find them in good posture, they may take privy marks, if they please; for they said it was so hot they could endure no clothes, and my simplicity was so diligent to lay them naked, and with such twists and turns fastened them to the feet, I'll answer for't they find not the way into them in an hour.
Enter Servant and Parson.
Jolly. Why, then, they may pull up their smocks, and hide their faces.
Ser. Master Jolly, there was one without would speak with you.
Jolly. Who was it?
Ser. It is the lady that talks so well.
Jolly. They say, indeed, she has an excellent tongue; I would she had changed it for a face; 'tis she that has been handsome.
Par. Who? not the poetess we met at Master Sad's?
Jolly. Yes, the same.
Par. Sure, she's mad.
Jolly. Prythee, tell her I am gone to bed.
Ser. I have done as well, sir: I told her Mistress Wanton was here; at which discreetly, being touched with the guilt of her face, she threw out a curse or two, and retreated.
Wan. Who is this you speak of? I will know who 'tis.
Par. Why, 'tis she that married the Genoa merchant; they cozened one another.
Wan. Who? Peg Driver, bugle-eyes?
Jolly. The same, the same.
Wan. Why, she is ugly now?
Par. Yes; but I have known her, by this hand, as fine a wench as ever sinned in town or suburbs. When I knew her first, she was the original of all the wainscoat chambermaids with brooms and barefoot madams you see sold at Temple Bar and the Exchange.
Wan. Ah, th' art a devil! how couldst thou find in thy heart to abuse her so? Thou lov'st antiquities too: the very memory that she had been handsome should have pleaded something.
Jolly. Was handsome signifies nothing to me.
Wan. But she's a wit, and a wench of an excellent discourse.
Par. And as good company as any's i' th' town.
Jolly. Company! for whom? Leather-ears, his majesty of Newgate watch? There her story will do well, while they louse themselves.
Par. Well, you are curious now, but the time was when you skipped for a kiss.
Jolly. Prythee, parson, no more of wit and was handsome; but let us keep to this text—[He kisses Wanton]—and with joy think upon thy little Wanton here, that's kind, soft, sweet, and sound: these are epithets for a mistress, nor is there any elegancy in a woman like it. Give me such a naked scene to study night and day: I care not for her tongue, so her face be good. A whore dressed in verse and set speeches tempts me no more to that sweet sin, than the statute of whipping can keep me from it. This thing we talked on, which retains nothing but the name of what she was, is not only poetical in her discourse, but her tears and her love, her health, nay, her pleasure, were all fictions, and had scarce any live flesh about her, till I administered.
Par. Indeed, 'tis time she sat out, and gave others leave to play; for a reverend whore is an unseemly sight: besides it makes the sin malicious, which is but venial else.
Wan. Sure, he'll make a case of conscience on't: you should do well (sweetheart) to recommend her case to your brethren that attend the committee of affection, that they may order her to be sound and young again, for the good of the commonwealth.
ACT V., SCENE 1.
Enter Fiddlers, Jolly, and Wanton.
Jolly. O, are you ready, are you ready?
Fid. Yes, an't like your worship.
Jolly. And did you bid the cook chop lustily, and make a noise?
Fid. Yes, sir, he's at it.
Wan. I hear the captain.
Enter the Captain.
Jolly. Have you brought clothes and ribands?
Capt. Yes, yes, all is ready: did you hear them squeak yet?
Wan. No, by this light: I think 'tis an appointment, and we have been all abused.
Capt. Give the fiddlers their ribands, and carry the rest in. Mistress Wanton, you must play my lady's woman to-day, and mince it to all that come, and hold up your head finely when they kiss you: and take heed of swearing when you are angry, and pledging whole cups when they drink to you.
Wan. I'll warrant you for my part.
Capt. Go, get you in, then, and let your husband dip the rosemary.[271]
Jolly. Is all ready?
Capt. All, all; some of the company are below already. I have so blown it about, one porter is gone to the Exchange to invite Master Wild's merchant to his wedding, and, by the way, to bid two or three fruiterers to send in fruit for such a wedding; another in my lady's name to Sall's for sweetmeats. I swore at Bradborn in his shop myself, that I wondered he would disappoint Master Wild for his points, and having so long warning: he protested 'twas not his fault, but they were ready, and he would send John with them presently. One of the watermen is gone to the Melon garden; the other to Cook's, at the Bear, for some bottles of his best wine; and thence to Gracious Street to the poulterer's, and all with directions to send in provisions for Master Wild's wedding. And who should I meet at the door but apricock Tom and Mary, waiting to speak with her young master? They came to beg that they might serve the feast. I promised them they should, if they would cry it up and down the town, to bring company, for Master Wild was resolved to keep open house.
Jolly. Why, then, here will be witnesses enough.
Capt. But who should I meet at the corner of the Piazza, but Joseph Taylor:[272] he tells me there's a new play at the Friars to-day, and I have bespoke a box for Master Wild and his bride.
Jolly. And did not he wonder to hear he was married?
Capt. Yes; but I told him 'twas a match his aunt made for him when he was abroad.
Jolly. And I have spread it sufficiently at court, by sending to borrow plate for such a wedding.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. There's half a dozen coachfuls of company lighted: they call for the bridelaces and points.
Capt. Let the fiddlers play, then, and bid God give them joy by the name of my Lady Careless and Mistress Wild.
Fid. Where shall we play, sir?
Jolly. Come with us, we'll show you the window.
SCENE II.
[The Fiddlers play in the tiring-room; and the stage curtains are drawn, and discover a chamber, as it were, with two beds, and the ladies asleep in them, Master Wild being at Mistress Pleasant's bedside, and Master Careless at the Widow's. The music awakes the Widow.
Wid. Niece, niece, niece Pleasant.
[She opens the curtain and calls her: she is under a canopy.
Plea. Ha! I hear you, I hear you; what would you have?
Wid. Do you not hear the fiddlers?
Plea. Yes, yes; but you have waked me from the finest dream——
Wid. A dream! what was't, some knavery!
Plea. Why, I know not, but 'twas merry; e'en as pleasing as some sins. Well, I'll lie no more in a man's bed, for fear I lose more than I get.
Wid. Hark! that's a new tune.
Plea. Yes, and they play it well. This is your janty nephew: I would he had less of the father in him, I'd venture to dream out my dream with him. O' my conscience, he's worth a dozen of my dull servant; that's such a troublesome visitant, without any kind of conveniency.
Wid. Ay, ay, so are all of that kind; give me your subject-lover; those you call servants are but troubles, I confess.
Plea. What is the difference, pray, betwixt a subject and a servant lover?
Wid. Why, one I have absolute power over, the other's at large: your servant-lovers are those who take mistresses upon trial, and scarce give them a quarter's warning before they are gone.
Plea. Why, what do you subject-lovers do?—I am so sleepy.
Wid. Do! all things for nothing: then they are the diligentest and the humblest things a woman can employ: nay, I ha' seen of them tame, and run loose about a house. I had one once, by this light, he would fetch and carry, go back, seek out; he would do anything: I think some falconer bred him.
Plea. By my troth, I am of your mind.
Wid. He would come over for all my friends; but it was the dogged'st thing to my enemies; he would sit upon's tail before them, and frown like John-a-Napes when the Pope is named. He heard me once praise my little spaniel bitch Smut for waiting, and hang me if I stirred for seven years after, but I found him lying at my door.
Plea. And what became of him?
Wid. Faith, when I married, he forsook me. I was advised since, that if I would ha' spit in's mouth sometimes, he would have stayed.
Plea. That was cheap, but 'tis no certain way; for 'tis a general opinion that marriage is one of the certain'st cures for love that one can apply to a man that is sick of the sighings; yet if you were to live about this town still, such a fool would do you a world of service. I'm sure Secret will miss him, he would always take such a care of her, h' has saved her a hundred walks for hoods and masks.
Wid. Yes, and I was certain of the earliest fruits and flowers that the spring afforded.
Plea. By my troth, 'twas foolishly done to part with him; a few crumbs of your affections would have satisfied him, poor thing!
Wid. Thou art in the right. In this town there's no living without 'em; they do more service in a house for nothing than a pair of those what-d'ye-call-'ems, those he-waiting-women beasts, that custom imposes upon ladies.
Plea. Is there none of them to be had now, think you? I'd fain get a tame one to carry down into the country.
Wid. Faith, I know but one breed of them about the town that's right, and that's at the court; the lady that has them brings 'em up all by hand: she breeds some of them from very puppies. There's another wit too in the town that has of them; but hers will not do so many tricks; good, sullen, diligent waiters those are which she breeds, but not half so serviceable.
Plea. How does she do it? is there not a trick in't?
Wid. Only patience; but she has a heavy hand with 'em (they say) at first, and many of them miscarry; she governs them with signs, and by the eye, as Banks breeds his horse.[273] There are some, too, that arrive at writing, and those are the right breed, for they commonly betake themselves to poetry: and if you could light on one of them, 'twere worth your money; for 'tis but using of him ill, and praising his verses sometimes, and you are sure of him for ever.
Plea. But do they never grow surly, aunt?
Wid. Not if you keep them from raw flesh; for they are a kind of lion-lovers, and if they once taste the sweet of it, they'll turn to their kind.
Plea. Lord, aunt, there will be no going without one this summer into the country: pray, let's inquire for one, either a he-one to entertain us, or a she-one to tell us the story of her love; 'tis excellent to bedward, and makes one as drowsy as prayers.
Wid. Faith, niece, this parliament has so destroyed 'em, and the Platonic humour, that 'tis uncertain whether we shall get one or no. Your leading members in the lower house have so cowed the ladies, that they have no leisure to breed any of late: their whole endeavours are spent now in feasting, and winning close committee men, a rugged kind of sullen fellows with implacable stomachs and hard hearts, that make the gay things court and observe them, as much as the foolish lovers use to do. Yet I think I know one she-lover; but she is smitten in years o' th' wrong side of forty. I am certain she is poor, too, and in this lean age for courtiers she perhaps would be glad to run this summer in our park.
Plea. Dear aunt, let us have her. Has she been famous? has she good tales, think you, of knights, such as have been false or true to love, no matter which?
Wid. She cannot want cause to curse the sex: handsome, witty, well-born, and poor in court, cannot want the experience how false young men can be: her beauty has had the highest fame; and those eyes, that weep now unpitied, have had their envy and a dazzling power.
Plea. And that tongue, I warrant you, which now grows hoarse with flattering the great law-breakers, once gave law to princes: was it not so, aunt? Lord, shall I die without begetting one story?
Wid. Penthesilea nor all the cloven knights the poets treat of, yclad in mightiest petticoats, did her excel for gallant deeds, and with her honour still preserved her freedom. My brother loved her; and I have heard him swear Minerva might have owned her language; an eye like Pallas, Juno's wrists, a Venus for shape, and a mind chaste as Diana; but not so rough: never uncivilly cruel, nor faulty kind to any; no vanity, that sees more than lovers pay, nor blind to a gallant passion. Her maxim was, he that could love, and tell her so handsomely, was better company, but not a better lover, than a silent man. Thus all passions found her civility, and she a value from all her lovers. But alas! niece, this was (which is a sad word)—was handsome and was beloved are abhorred sounds in women's ears.
[The Fiddlers play again.
Plea. Hark! the fiddlers are merry still. Will not Secret have the wit to find us this morning, think you?
Fid. [Within.] God give you joy, Master Careless! God give your ladyship joy, my Lady Wild!
Wid. What did the fellows say? God give me joy?
Plea. As I live, I think so.
Fid. God give you joy, Mistress Pleasant Wild!
Wid. This is my nephew: I smell him in this knavery.
Plea. Why did they give me joy by the name of Mistress Wild? I shall pay dear for a night's lodging if that be so; especially lying alone. By this light, there is some knavery afoot.
[All the company confused without, and bid God give them joy.
Jolly. Rise, rise, for shame; the year's afore you.
Capt. Why, Ned Wild; why, Tom, will you not rise and let's in? What, is it not enough to steal your wedding overnight, but lock yourselves up in the morning too? All your friends stay for points here, and kisses from the brides.
Wild. A little patience! you'll give us leave to dress us?
[The women squeak when they speak.
Care. Why, what's o'clock, captain?
Capt. It's late.
Care. Faith, so it was before we slept.
Wid. Why, nephew, what means this rudeness? As I live, I'll fall out with you. This is no jest.
Wild. No, as I live, aunt, we are in earnest; but my part lies here, and there's a gentleman will do his best to satisfy you. [They catch the women in their arms.] And, sweet Mistress Pleasant, I know you have so much wit as to perceive this business cannot be remedied by denials. Here we are, as you see, naked,[274] and thus have saluted hundreds at the window that passed by, and gave us joy this morning.
Plea. Joy! of what? what do you mean?
Care. Madam, this is visible; and you may coy it, and refuse to call me husband, but I am resolved to call you wife, and such proofs I'll bring as shall not be denied.
[Careless kisses the Widow.
Wid. Promise yourself that; see whether your fine wits can make it good. You will not be uncivil?
Care. Not a hair, but what you give, and that was in the contract before we undertook it; for any man may force a woman's body, but we have laid we will force your mind.
Wild. But that needs not, for we know by your discourse last night and this morning, we are men you have no aversion to; and I believe, if we had taken time, and wooed hard, this would have come o' course; but we had rather win you by wit, because you defied us.
Wid. 'Tis very well, if it succeed.
Care. And, for my part, but for the jest of winning you, and this way, not ten jointures should have made me marry.
Wid. This is a new way of wooing.
Care. 'Tis so, madam; but we have not laid our plot so weakly, though it were sudden, to leave it in anybody's power but our own to hinder it.
Plea. Do you think so?
Wild. We are secure enough, if we can be true to ourselves.
Care. Yet we submit in the midst of our strength, and beg you will not wifully spoil a good jest by refusing us. By this hand, we are both sound, and we'll be strangely honest, and never in ill humours; but live as merry as the maids, and divide the year between the town and the country. What say you, is't a match? Your bed is big enough for two, and my meat will not cost you much: I'll promise nothing but one heart, one purse betwixt us, and a whole dozen of boys. Is't a bargain?
Wid. Not if I can hinder it, as I live.
Wild. Faith, Mistress Pleasant, he hath spoken nothing but reason, and I'll do my best to make it good: come, faith, teach my aunt what to do, and let me strike the bargain upon your lips.
Plea. No, sir, not to be half a queen; if we should yield now, your wit would domineer for ever: and still in all disputes (though never so much reason on our side) this shall be urged as an argument of your master-wit to confute us. I am of your aunt's mind, sir, and, if I can hinder it, it shall be no match.
Wild. Why, then know it is not in your powers to prevent it.
Wid. Why? we are not married yet.
Care. No, 'tis true.
Wid. By this good light, then, I'll be dumb for ever hereafter, lest I light upon the words of marriage by chance.
Plea. 'Tis hard, when our own acts cannot be in our own power, gentlemen.
Wild. The plot is only known to four: the minister, and two that stood for fathers, and a simple country maid that waited upon you last night, which plays your chambermaid's part.
Plea. And what will all these do?
Wild. Why, the two friends will swear they gave you, the parson will swear he married you, and the wench will swear she put us to bed.
Wid. Have you men to swear we are married?
Plea. And a parson to swear he did it?
Both. Yes.
Wid. And a wench that will swear she put us to bed?
Both. Yes, by this good light, and witness of reputation.
Plea. Dare they or you look us in the face, and swear this?
Care. Yes, faith; and all but those four know no other but really it is so; and you may deny it, but I'll make master constable put you to bed, with this proof, at night.
Wid. Pray, let's see these witnesses.
Wild. Call in the four only.
[Exit Careless.
Plea. Well, this shall be a warning to me. I say nothing, but if ever I lie from home again——
Wild. I'll lie with you.
Plea. 'Tis well. I daresay we are the first women, if this take, that ever were stolen against their wills.
Wild. I'll go call the gentlemen.
[Exit Wild.
Wid. I that have refused a fellow that loved me these seven years, and would have put off his hat, and thanked me to come to bed, to be beaten with watchmen's staves into another's!—for, by this good light, for aught that I perceive, there's no keeping these out at night.
Plea. And unless we consent to be their wives to-day, master justice will make us their whores at night. O, O, what would not I give to come off? not that I mislike them, but I hate they should get us thus.
Enter Wild, Jolly, Captain, Careless, Parson, Wanton, with rosemary in their hands, and points in their hats.
Care. Follow. Will not you two swear we were married last night?
Jolly and Capt. Yes, by this light, will we.
Wild. Will you not swear you married us?
Par. Yea, verily.
Care. And come hither, pretty one: will not you swear you left us all abed last night, and pleased?
Wan. Yes, forsooth; I'll swear anything your worship shall appoint me.
Wid. But, gentleman, have you no shame, no conscience? Will you swear false for sport?
Jolly. By this light, I'll swear, if it be but to vex you: remember you refused me. That [Aside] is contrary to covenants, though, with my brace of lovers: what will they do with their coachman's plot? But 'tis no matter, I have my ends; and, so they are cosened, I care not who does it.
Capt. And faith, madam, I have sworn many times false to no purpose; and I should take it ill, if it were mine own case, to have a friend refuse me an oath upon such an occasion.
Plea. And are you all of one mind?
Par. Verily, we will all swear.
Plea. Will you verily? What shall we do, aunt?
[Pleasant laughs.
Wid. Do you laugh? by this light, I am heartily angry.
Plea. Why, as I live, let's marry them, aunt, and be revenged.
Wid. Marry! Where's the parson?
Capt. Here, here, master parson, come and do your office.
Plea. That fellow! no, by my troth, let's be honestly joined, for luck's sake: we know not how soon we may part.
Wild. What shall we do for a parson? Captain, you must run and fetch one.
Capt. Yes, yes: but, methinks, this might serve turn: by this hand, he's a Marshall and a Case,[275] by sire and dam; pray, try him: by this light, he comes of the best preaching-kind in Essex.
Wid. Not I, as I live; that were a blessing in the devil's name.
Par. A pox on your wedding! give me my wife, and let me be gone.
Capt. Nay, nay, no choler, parson. The ladies do not like the colour of your beard![276]
Par. No, no, fetch another, and let them escape with that trick, then they'll jeer your beards blue, i' faith.
Care. By this hand, he's in the right; either this parson, or take one another's words: to bed now, and marry when we rise.
Plea. As I live, you come not here till you are married; I have been nobody's whore yet, and I will not begin with my husband.
Wild. Will you kiss upon the bargain, and promise before these witnesses not to spoil our jest, but rise and go to church?
Plea. And what will Master Constant and Master Sad say?
Capt. Why, I'll run and invite them to the wedding, and you shall see them expire in their own garters.
Jolly. No, no, ne'er fear't, their jest is only spoiled.
Capt. Their jest! what jest?
Jolly. Faith, now you shall know it, and the whole plot. In the first place, your coachman is well, whose death we, by the help of Secret, contrived, thinking by that trick to prevent this danger, and carry you out of town.
Capt. But had they this plot?
Jolly. Yes, faith, and see how it thrives! They'll fret like carted bawds when they hear this news.
Plea. Why, aunt, would you have thought Master Sad a plotter? well, 'tis some comfort we have them to laugh at.
Wid. Nay, faith, then, gentlemen, give us leave to rise, and I'll take my venture if it be but for revenge on them.
Care. Gentlemen, bear witness.
Capt. Come, come away, I'll get the points. I'm glad the coachman's well; the rogue had like to have spoiled our comedy.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE III.
Enter the Lady Loveall, Master Sad and Constant, undressed, and buttoning themselves as they go.
Sad. Married?
Con. And to them?
Love. Ay, married, if you prevent it not: catched with a trick, an old stale trick; I have seen a ballad on't.
Sad. We shall go near to prevent 'em. Boy, my sword.
Enter Captain.
Capt. Whither so fast?
Sad. You guess.
Capt. If you mean the wedding, you come too late.
Con. Why, are they married?
Capt. No, but lustily promised.
Sad. We may come time enough to be revenged, though——
Capt. Upon whom? yourselves, for you are only guilty. Who carried them thither last night? who laid the plot for the coachman?
Sad. Why, do they know it?
Love. Well, you'll find the poet a rogue, 'tis he that has betrayed you; and if you'll take my counsel, be revenged upon him.
Con. Nay, we were told he did not love us.
Capt. By my life, you wrong him: upon my knowledge, the poet meant you should have them.
Sad. Why, who had the power to hinder, then?
Capt. I know not where the fault lies directly: they say the wits of the town would not consent to't; they claim a right in the ladies as orphan wits.
Con. The wits! hang 'em in their strong lines.
Capt. Why, ay, such a clinch as that has undone you, and upon my knowledge 'twere enough to hinder your next match.
Sad. Why, what have they to do with us?
Capt. I know not what you have done to disoblige them, but they crossed it: there was amongst 'em too a pair of she-wits, something stricken in years; they grew in fury at the mention of it, and concluded you both with an authority out of a modern author: besides, 'tis said you run naturally into the sixpenny-room, and steal sayings, and a discourse more than your pennyworth of jests every term. Why, just now you spit out one jest stolen from a poor play, that has but two more in five acts; what conscience is there in't, knowing how dear we pay poets for our plays?
Con. 'Twas madam with the ill face, one of those whom you refused to salute the other day at Chipp's house: a cheesecake had saved all this.
Love. Why do you not make haste about your business, but lose time with this babbler?
Sad. Madam, will you give us leave to make use of your coach?
Love. You may command it, sir: when you have done, send him to the Exchange, where I'll despatch a little business, and be with you immediately.
[Exeunt all but the Captain.
Capt. So, this fire is kindled; put it out that can. What would not I give for a peeper's place at the meeting? I'll make haste, and it shall go hard, but I'll bear my part of the mirth too.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
Enter Widow, Pleasant, Careless, Wild, Parson, Jolly, Wanton, and Secret: the Fiddlers play as they come in.
Par. Master Jolly, I find I am naturally inclined to mirth this day, and methinks my corns ache more than my horns; and to a man that has read Seneca, a cuckold ought to be no grief, especially in this parish, where I see such droves of St Luke's clothing. There's little Secret too, th' allay of waiting-woman, makes me hope she may prove metal of the parson's standard. Find a way to rid me of Wanton, and I'll put in to be chaplain to this merry family: if I did not inveigle formal Secret, you should hang me. I know the trick on't; 'tis but praying to, and preaching of the waiting-woman, then carefully seeing her cushion laid, with her book and leaf turned down, does it, with a few anagrams, acrostics, and her name in the register of my Bible: these charm the soft-souled sinner: then sometimes to read a piece of my sermon, and tell her a Saturday where my text shall be, spells that work more than philtres.
Jolly. If you can be serious, we'll think of this at leisure. See how they eye Wanton!
Care. What! consulting, parson? let us be judges betwixt you. D'ye hear, Jack? if he offers ready money, I counsel, as a friend, take it; for, by this light, if you refuse it, your wife will not. D'ye see those gay petticoats?
Par. Yes, if you mean my wife's.
Care. You know they're his, and she only wears 'em for his pleasure: and 'tis dangerous to have a wife under another man's petticoats. What if you should find his breeches upon her?
Par. Are not you married too? take care that yours does not wear the breeches, another kind of danger, but as troublesome as that, or sore eyes; and if she get but a trick of taking as readily as she's persuaded to give, you may find a horn at home. I have seen a cuckold of your complexion; if he had had as much hoof as horn, you might have hunted the beast by his slot.[277]
Plea. How fine she is! and, by this light, a handsome wench. Master Jolly, I am easier persuaded to be reconciled to your fault than any man's I have seen of this kind: her eyes have more arguments in 'em than a thousand of those that seduce the world; hang me, if those quivers be not full of darts; I could kiss that mouth myself. Is this she my aunt quarrelled with you for?
Jolly. The same, selfsame: and, by this hand, I was barbarous to her, for your aunt's sake; and had I not 'scaped that mischief of matrimony, by this light, I had never seen her again. But I was resolved not to quit her till I was sure of a wife, for fear of what has followed. Had I been such an ass to have left her upon the airy hopes of a widow's oaths, what a case had I been in now! You see your aunt's provided of a man. Bless him, and send him patience! 'Twould have been fine to have seen me walking, and sighing upon cold hunting, seeking my whore again, or forced to make use of some common mercenary thing, that sells sin and diseases, crimes, penance, and sad repentance together! Here's consolation and satisfaction in Wanton, though a man lose his meal with the widow. And faith, be free—how do you like my girl? Rid thee of her! What does she want now, pray, but a jointure, to satisfy any honest man? Speak your conscience, ladies: don't you think a little repentance hereafter will serve for all the small sins that good-nature can act with such a sinner?
Par. Pray, sir, remember she's my wife, and be so civil to us both, as to forget these things.
Jolly. For that, Jack, we'll understand hereafter. 'Tis but a trick of youth, man, and her jest will make us both merry, I warrant thee.
Par. Pray, sir, no more of your jests, nor your Jack. Remember my coat and calling. This familiarity, both with my wife and myself, is not decent: your clergy with Christian names are scarce held good Christians.
Wid. I wonder at nothing so much as Master Jolly's mirth to-day! Where lies his part of the jest? Cosened or refused by all, not a fish that stays in's net.
Jolly. No; what's this? [Jolly hugs Wanton.] Show me a fairer in all your streams. Nor is this my single joy, who am pleased to find you may be cosened; rejoice to see you may be brought to lie with a man for a jest. Let me alone to fit you with a trick too.
Care. Faith, it must be some new trick; for thou art so beaten at the old one, 'twill neither please thee nor her; besides, I mean to teach her that myself.
Plea. I shall never be perfectly quiet in my mind till I see somebody as angry as myself: yet I have some consolation, when I think on the wise plot that killed the coachman. How the plague, red cross, and halbert has cut their fingers that designed it! their anger will be perfect. Secret says they are coming, and that the Lady Loveall has given 'em the alarm.
Enter Sad and Constant.
Wild. And see where the parties come!—storms and tempests in their minds! their looks are daggers.
Plea. Servant, what, you're melancholy, and full of wonder! I see you have met the news.
Sad. Yes, madam; we have heard a report that will concern both your judgment and your honour.
Plea. Alas, sir! we're innocent; 'tis mere predestination.
Con. All weddings, Master Sad, you know, go by chance, like hanging.
Plea. And, I thank my stars, I have 'scaped hanging. To ha' been his bride had been both.
Con. This is not like the promise you made us yesterday.
Wid. Why, truly, servant, I scarce know what I do yet. The fright of the plague had so possessed my mind with fear, that I could think and dream of nothing last night but of a tall black man that came and kissed me in my sleep, and slapped his whip in mine ears. 'Twas a saucy ghost, not unlike my coachman that's dead, and accused you of having a hand in his murder, and vowed to haunt me till I was married. I told my niece the dream.
Plea. Nay, the ghost sighed, and accused Secret and Master Sad of making him away. Confess, faith, had you a hand in that bloody jest?
Wid. Fie, servant! Could you be so cruel as to join with my woman against me?
Con. 'Tis well, ladies. Why a pox do you look at me? This was your subtle plot; a pox on your clerk's wit! You said the jest would beget a comedy when 'twas known, and so I believe 'twill.
Sad. Madam, I find you have discovered our design, whose chief end was to prevent this mischief, which I doubt not but you'll both live to repent your share of, before you have done travelling to the Epsoms, Bourbonne,[278] and the Spaws, to cure those travelled diseases these knights-errant have with curiosity sought out for you. 'Tis true, they are mischiefs that dwell in pleasant countries, yet those roses have their thorns; and I doubt not but these gentlemen's wit may sting as well as please sometime; and you may find it harder to satisfy their travelled experience than to have suffered our home-bred ignorance.
Care. Hark, if he be not fallen into a fit of his cousin! these names of places he has stolen out of her receipt-book: amongst all whose diseases find me any so dangerous, troublesome, or incurable as a fool; a lean, pale, sighing, coughing fool, that's rich and poor both; being born to an estate, without a mind or heart capable to use it; of a nature so miserable, he grudges himself meat; nay, they say, he eats his meals twice: a fellow whose breath smells of yesterday's dinner, and stinks as if he had eat all our suppers over again. I would advise you, Master Sad, to sleep with your mouth open to air it, or get the brewer to tun it. Foh! an empty justice, that stinks of the lees and casks, and belches Littleton and Plowden's cases! Dost thou think any woman, that has wit or honour, would kiss that bung-hole? By this light, his head and belly look as blue and lank as French rabbits or stale poultry! Alas, sir! my lady would have a husband to rejoice with; no green-tailed lecturer, to stand sentry at his bedside, while his nasty soul scours through him, sneaking out at the back-door! These, sir, are diseases which neither the Spaw or Bath can cure: your garters and willow are a more certain remedy.
Con. Well, sir, I find our plot's betrayed, and we have patience left. 'Tis that damned captain has informed.
Sad. Yet 'tis one comfort, madam, that you have missed that man of war, that knight of Finsbury. His dowager, with ale and switches, would ha' bred a ballad.
Plea. Faith, sir, you see what a difficulty it is in this age for a woman to live honest, though she have a proper man for her husband; therefore, it behoves us to consider whom we choose.
Jolly. The lady has reason: for, being allowed but one, who would choose such weasels as we see daily married? that are all head and tail, crooked, dirty, sordid vermin, predestined for cuckolds, painted snails, with houses on their backs, and horns as big as Dutch cows! Would any woman marry such? Nay, can any woman be honest that let's such hodmandods crawl o'er her virgin breast and belly, or suffer 'em to leave their slimy paths upon their bodies only for jointures? Out! 'tis mercenary and base! The generous heart has only the laws of nature and kindness in her view, and when she will oblige, Friend is all the ties that Nature seeks; who can both bear and excuse those kind crimes. And, I believe, one as poor as the despised captain and neglected courtier may make a woman as happy in a friendship as Master Sad, who has as many faults as we have debts: one whose father had no more credit with Nature than ours had with Fortune; whose soul wears rags as well as the captain's body.
Sad. Nay, then, I'll laugh; for I perceive y' are angrier than we. Alas! h' has lost both ventures—Wanton and the widow.
Jolly. Both; and neither so unlucky as to be thy wife. Thy face is hanged with blacks already: we may see the bells toll in thy eyes. A bride and a wedding-shirt, a sexton and a winding-sheet. A scrivener to draw up jointures, a parson to make thy will, man. By this light, he's as chap-fallen as if he had lain under the table all night.
Care. Faith, Master Sad, he's parlously in the right. Ne'er think of marrying in this dull clime. Wedlock's a trade you'll ne'er go through with. Wives draw bills upon sight, and 'twill not be for your credit to protest them. Rather follow my counsel, and marry à la Venetiano, for a night and away; a pistole jointure does it: then, 'tis but repenting in the morning, and leave your woman and the sin both i' th' bed. But if you play the fool, like your friends, and marry in serious earnest, you may repent it too, as they do; but where's the remedy?
[This is spoken a little aside.
Wid. What was't you said, sir? Do you repent?
Care. By this hand, widow, I don't know: but we have pursued a jest a great way. Parson, are you sure we are married?
Par. Yes, I warrant you, for their escaping.
Care. Their escaping! Fool, thou mistakest me; there's no fear of that! But I would fain know if there be no way for me to get out of this noose? no hole to hide a man's head in from this wedlock?
Par. Not any, but what I presume she'll show you anon.
Care. Hum! now do I feel all my fears flowing in upon me. Wanton and Mistress Pleasant both grow dangerously handsome. A thousand graces in each I never observed before. Now, just now, when I must not taste, I begin to long for some of their plums.
Wid. Is this serious, sir!
Care. Yes, truly, widow, sadly serious. Is there no way to get three or four mouthfuls of kisses from the parson's wife?
Wid. This is sad, sir, upon my wedding-day, to despise me for such a common thing.
Sad. As sad as I could wish. This is a jest makes me laugh.—Common! No, madam, that's too bitter; she's forest only, where the royal chase is as free as fair.
Wan. Were not you a widow to-day?
Sad. Yes, faith, girl, and as foolish a one as ever coach jumbled out of joint.
Wan. Stay, then, till to-morrow, and tell me the difference betwixt us.
Sad. I hope thou'lt prove a she-prophet. Could I live to see thee turn honest wife, and she the wanton widow!
Wan. I cannot but laugh, to see how easy it is to lose or win the opinion of the world. A little custom heals all; or else what's the difference betwixt a married widow and one of us? Can any woman be pure, or worth the serious sighing of a generous heart, that has had above one hand laid upon her? Is there place to write above one lover's name with honour in her heart? 'Tis indeed for one a royal palace; but if it admits of more, an hospital or an inn at best, as well as ours: only off from the road and less frequented.
Plea. Shrewdly urged.
Wan. And though the sins of my family threw me into want, and made me subject to the treachery of that broken faith, to whose perjury I owe all my crimes, yet still I can distinguish betwixt that folly and this honour, which must tell you: He or she, that would be thought twice so, was never once a lover.
Con. Parson, thou art fitted! a whore and apothegms! What sport will she make us under a tree with a salad and sayings in the summer!
Wild. Come, Wanton, no fury; you see my aunt's angry.
Wan. So am I, sir, and yet can calmly reason this truth. Married widows, though chaste to the law and custom, yet their second Hymens make that, which was but dyeing in the first husband's bed, a stain in the second's sheets; where all their kindness and repeated embraces want their value, because they're sullied, and have lost their lustre.
Sad. By this light, I'll go to school to Wanton; she has opened my eyes, and I begin to believe I have 'scaped miraculously. By this hand, wench, I was within an inch of being married to this danger; for what can we call these second submissions, but a tolerated lawful mercenariness which though it be a rude and harsh expression, yet your carriage deserves it?
Plea. Fie, Master Sad! pray leave being witty. I fear 'tis a mortal sin to begin in the fifth act of your days: upon an old subject, too—abusing of widows because they despise you!
Wid. Alas, niece! let him alone: he may come in for his share: the parson, that has so oft received 'em, will not refuse him tithes there in charity.
Wan. That or conveniency, interest or importunity, may by your example prevail: but 'tis not fair play, madam, to turn your lover to the common, as you call it, now he's rid lean in your service. Take heed, Master Careless, and warning, Master Sad; you see how fit for the scavenger's team your lady leaves her lovers!
Care. Such a lecture, before I had married, would ha' made me have considered of this matter. Dost thou hear, Wanton? Let us forgive one another being married, for that folly has made us guilty alike.
Wan. And I would fain know the difference betwixt ours and a wedding crime, which is worst: to let love, youth, and good-humour betray us to a kindness, or to be gravely seduced by some aunt or uncle, without consideration of the disparity of age, birth, or persons, to lie down before a jointure. Ladies, you may flatter yourselves; but the ingenuous part of the world cannot deny but such minds, had they been born where our faults are not only tolerated but protected, would have listened to the same things: interest counsels thereto.
Care. Parson, what boot betwixt our wives? either come to a price, or draw off your doxy.
Par. Propose, propose: here will be mirth anon.
Sad. Yes, yes, propose, while I break it to your lady. Madam, you see, here's a proper man to be had, and money to boot. What, dumb?
Wan. No, she's only thinking. Faith, madam, try 'em both to-night, and choose to-morrow.
Wild. Come, no more of this. Aunt, take my word for your husband, that have had more experience of him than all these: 'tis true he will long for these girls, as children do for plums; and when h' has done, make a meal upon cheese. And you must not wonder nor quarrel at what he says in his humour, but judge him by his actions; and when he is in his fit, and raves most, put him into your bed, and fold him close in your arms, aunt: if he does not rise as kind and as good a husband as he that sings psalms best, hang me? Why, you're a fool, aunt: a widow, and dislike a longing bridegroom! I thought you had known better. Do you love a spurred horse rather than a ducker, that neighs and scrapes? I would not say this, but that I know him. Let him not go out of your sight, for he's now in season—a ripe, mature husband. No delays: if you let him hang longer upon hope, his fruit will fall alone.
Wid. You are merry, sir; but if I had known this humour——
Wild. You'd ha' kissed him first; but, being ignorant, let me make you blush. Come, a kiss, and all's friends. [She kisses Careless, and he kisses her twice.] How now, sir, again! again!
Plea. Aunt, look to yourself.
Care. Um! By this light, sweetheart, and I thank thee. Nay, widow, there's no jesting with these things—[Kisses her again]—nay, I am a lion in my love. Aware, puss, if you flatter me, for I shall deceive you.
Par. Since all are cosened, why should I be troubled at my fortune? Faith, gentlemen, what will you two give for a wife betwixt you?
Con. Faith, they're mischiefs dear bought, though a man get 'em for nothing.
Par. I'm almost of his mind; and if other people find no more pleasure in a married life than I upon my wedding-day, I'd pass my time in the Piazza with the mountebank, and let him practise upon my teeth, and draw 'em too, ere he persuades the words of matrimony out of my mouth again. Ay, ay, Master Constant, you may laugh, you ha' missed a wife; would I were in your case, the world should see how cheerfully I should bear such an affliction.
Con. Jack, I ha' made my peace at home: and by seeing others shipwrecked, will avoid the danger, and here resolve never to sigh again for any woman: they're weeds grow in every hedge; and transplanting of 'em thus to our beds gives certain trouble, seldom pleasure, never profit.
Enter Captain.
Par. See where the enemy comes! Now, if you be wise, arm, and unite against him as a common foe. He's come from his old lady, designing a reconciliation. The rogue's provident, and would fain have a nest for his age to rest in. Buff and feathers do well in the youth and heat of thirty; but in the winter of old age captain at threescore, lame and lean, may lie with the almanac out of date.
Capt. The parson's grown witty, and prophesies upon the strength of bridecake. If I guess aright, thou'lt be hanged: for 'tis a truth, I have been endeavouring to make it appear her fears were mistaken in me; but I find the witch more implacable than the devil. The waiting-woman is harder to forgive [for] her part than my lady. Faithful will not be reconciled: the merciless bawd is all fire and sword, no quarter. Bless me from an old waiting-woman's wrath! She'll never forgive me the disappointing her of a promise when I was drunk. Her lady and she are coming, but in such a fury, I would not have the storm find you out in the street: therefore I counsel you to avoid the boys, and take shelter in the next house.
Wild. No, let's home, and with all diligence get our dinner to defend us; and let the porter dispute it at the wicket, till she signs articles of peace.
Omnes. Agreed.
[Careless is kind to the Widow. As he goes out, Wild and Pleasant go together; Jolly and the Parson's wife go together.
Wild. See how they pair now! 'Tis not threescore year will part 'em, now he has tasted a kiss or two.
Jolly. Parson, I'll be your brideman.
Par. 'Tis well, sir; I shall ha' my time too.
Jolly. Ay, by this hand. Nay, we'll share fairly.
Capt. That's but reason, Wanton; and since he grows tame, use him kindly, for my sake.
Par. Can any of you digest sponge and arsenic?
Capt. Arsenic! what's that?
Par. An Italian salad, which I'll dress for you, by Jove, ere I'll walk in my canonical coat lined with horn. Death! if I suffer this, we shall have that damned courtier pluck on his shoes with the parson's musons. Fine, i' faith! none but the small Levite's brow to plant your shoeing-horn seed in? How now?
[As he is going off, the Captain stays him.
Capt. Prythee, Jack, stay, and say something to the gentlemen by way of epilogue. Thou art a piece of scurvy poet thyself; prythee, oblige the author, and give us a line or two in praise of his play.
Par. I oblige him! hang him and all his friends, and hurt nobody. Yes, I am likely to speak for him. You see how I ha' been used to-day betwixt you. I shall find a time to be revenged. Let go my cloak; I have a province within of mine own to govern: let me go.
Capt. Who, thy wife? Faith, stay and give them an opportunity; thy pain will be the sooner over. You see, 'tis a thing resolved betwixt 'em; and now thou'rt satisfied in the matter, be wise and silent; who knows what good she may do thee another time? I dare say, if she had as many souls in her as she had men, she'd bring thee a cure of herself.
Par. Let me go, or I shall be as troublesome as you are injurious, for all your titles, sir.
Capt. Lend me your cloak then, to appear more decent; you'd not ha' me present epilogue in buff,[279] whoreson dunce, with a red nose?
Par. Sir, my business is praying, not epilogues.
Capt. With that face? By this light, 'tis a scandal to see it flaming so near the altar: thou look'st as if thou'dst cry Tope in the face of the congregation, instead of Amen.
Par. Thou'rt an ass, 'tis proper there; 't has zeal and fervour in't, and burns before the altar like the primitive lamps.
Capt. I cry thee mercy. By this light, he'll make it sacrilege anon to steal his nose! thou'lt entitle the altar to that coal. Was't not kindled ex voto? Nay, I will have your cloak.
Par. Take it; would 'twere Nessus's shirt, for you and your poet's sake.
[Exit Parson.
Capt. What, does the rogue wish 'twere made of nettles?[280]
[Captain puts on his cloak, and addresses himself to speak the epilogue, and is interrupted by Lady Loveall, and Faithful her woman, who, in haste and full of anger, pull him by the cloak.
Love. By your favour, sir, did you see any company pass this way?
Capt. None but the three brides, and they are gone just before you. Hark! the music will guide you.
[The music plays.
Love. Is it certain, then, they're married?
Capt. Yes, lady; I saw the church's rites performed.
Faith. Why does your ladyship lose time in talking with this fellow? don't you know him, madam? 'tis the rascally captain, hid in a black cloak. I know you, sirrah.
Love. She has reason; now I mark him better, I should know that false face too. See, Faithful, there are those treacherous eyes still.
Capt. Alas! you mistake me, madam, I am Epilogue now. The captain's within, and as a friend, I counsel you not to incense the gentlemen against the poet, for he knows all your story, and if you anger him, he'll put it in a play; but if you'll do friendly offices, I'll undertake, instead of your pearl you lost, to help you to the jewel; the Scotch Dictionary will tell you the value of it. Let them go alone, and fret not at their loss. Stay, and take my counsel: it shall be worth three revenges.
Love. Well, what is't, sir?
Capt. They say you have a great power over the parson: if you can prevail with him to express his anger in some satiric comedy (for the knave has wit, and they say his genius lies that way), tell him 'tis expected he should be revenged upon the illiterate courtier that made this play. If you can bring this business about, I may find a way, as Epilogue, to be thankful, though the captain abused you to-day. Think on't: Stephen[281] is as handsome, when the play is done, as Master Wild was in the scene.
Love. There's something of reason in what he says. [Aside.] But, my friend, how shall one believe you? you that were such a rascal to-day in buff, is it to be hoped you can be honest only with putting on a black cloak? Well, I'll venture once again; and if I have any power, he shall sting the malicious rascal, and I think he is fit for such a business. I'm sure he has the worst tongue, and a conscience that neither honour nor truth binds; and therefore 'tis to be believed, if he will rail in public, he may be even with your poet. I will clothe and feed him and his muse this seven years, but I will plague him. Secret tells me, 'twas your poet too that pawned me to-day in the tavern.
Capt. By my faith, did he; nay, 'twas he that told me of your friendship with Jolly.
Love. I wonder the parson has been so long silent; a man of his coat and parts to be beaten with a pen by one that speaks sense by rote, like parrots! one that knows not why sense is sense, but by the sound! one that can scarce read, nay, not his own hand! Well, remember your promise.
Capt. Leave it to me, he is yours; and if our plot take, you shall have all your shares in the mirth, but not the profit of the play; and the parson more than his tithe, a second day.
Love. We will discourse of this some other time. And pray despatch what 'tis you have to say to this noble company, that I may be gone; for those gentlemen will be in such fury if I stay, and think, because we are alone, God knows what.
Capt. 'Tis no matter what they think; 'tis not them we are to study now, but these guests, to whom pray address yourself civilly, and beg that they would please to become fathers, and give those brides within. What say you, gentlemen, will you lend your hands to join them? The match, you see, is made. If you refuse, Stephen misses the wench, and then you cannot justly blame the poet; for, you know, they say that alone is enough to spoil the play.