FOOTNOTES:
[1616] Qtos., exerate.
[1617] Q 1, 'Well.'
The pleasant Comedy of the
two angry Women of
Abington
[Scene First. Abington. Near Master Barneses House: The Orchard[1618]]
Enter Master Goursey and his wife, and Master Barnes and his wife, with their two sonnes, and their two servants.
Maister Goursey. Good maister Barnes, this entertaine of yours,
So full of courtesie and rich delight,
Makes me misdoubt my poore ability
In quittance of this friendly courtesie.
M. Bar. O master Goursey, neighbour amitie 5
Is such a jewell of high reckoned worth,
As for the attaine of it what would not I
Disburse, it is so precious in my thoughts!
M. Gou. Kinde sir, neere dwelling amity indeed
Offers the hearts enquiry better view 10
Then love thats seated in a farther soyle:
As prospectives[1619] the[1620] neerer that they be
Yeeld better judgement to the judging eye;
Thinges seene farre off are lessened in the eye,
When their true shape is seene being hard by. 15
M. Bar. True, sir, tis so; and truely I esteeme
Meere[1621] amity, familiar neighbourhood,
The cousen germaine unto wedded love.
M. Gou. I,[1622] sir, thers surely some aliance twixt them,
For they have both the off-spring from the heart: 20
Within the hearts bloud ocean still are found
Jewels of amity and jemmes of love.
M. Bar. I, master Goursey, I have in my time
Seene many shipwracks of true honesty;
But incident such dangers ever are 25
To them that without compass sayle so farre:
Why, what need men to swim when they may wade?
But leave this talke, enough of this is said:
And, master Goursey, in good faith, sir, wellcome;—
And, mistresse Goursey, I am much in debt 30
Unto your kindnes that would visit me.
Mi. Gou. O master Barnes, you put me but in minde
Of that which I should say; tis we that are
Indebted to your kindness for this cheere:
Which debt that we may repay, I pray lets have 35
Sometimes your company at our homely house.
Mi. Bar. That, mistresse Goursey, you shall surely have;
Heele[1623] be a bolde guest I warrant ye,
And boulder too with you then I would have him.
Mis. Gou. How doe ye meane he will be bolde with me? 40
Mi. Bar. Why, he will trouble you at home, forsooth,
Often call in, and aske ye how ye doe;
And sit and chat with you all day till night,
And all night too, if he might have his will.
M. Bar. I, wife, indeed, I thanke her for her kindnes; 45
She hath made me much good cheere passing that way.
Mi. Bar. Passing well done of her; she is a kinde wench.—
I thanke ye, mistresse Goursey, for my husband;
And if it hap your husband come our way
A hunting or such ordinary sportes, 50
Ile do as much for yours as you for mine.
M. Gou. Pray doe, forsooth.—Gods Lord, what meanes the woman?
She speakes it scornefully: i faith I care not;
Things are well spoken, if they be well taken.— [Aside.]
What, mistresse Barnes, is it not time to part? 55
Mis. Bar. Whats a clocke, sirra?
Nicholas. Tis but new strucke one.
M. Gou. I have some busines in the towne by three.
M. Bar. Till then lets walke into the orchard, sir.
What, can you play at tables?[1624] 60
M. Gou. Yes, I can.
M. Bar. What, shall we have a game?
M. Gou. And if you please.
M. Bar. I faith, content; weele spend an hower so.—
Sirra, fetch the tables.[1625] 65
Nic. I will, sir.
Exit.
Phil. Sirra Franke, whilst they are playing heere,
Weele to the greene to bowles.
Fra. Phillip, content.—Coomes, come hyther, sirra:
When our fathers part, call us upon the greene.— 70
Phillip, come, a rubber,[1626] and so leave.
Phil. Come on.
Exeunt [Phillip and Francis].
Coom. Sbloud, I doe not like the humour of these springals; theil spend all their fathers good at gamming. But let them trowle the bowles upon the greene; Ile trowle the bowles in the buttery by the leave of God and maister Barnes: and his men be good fellows, so it is; if they be not, let them goe snick up.[1627] 77
Exit.
Enter Nicholas with the tables.
M. Bar. So, set them downe.—
Mistresse Goursey, how doe you like this game?
Mi. Gou. Well, sir. 80
Mis. Gou. A little, sir.
M. Bar. Faith, so can my wife.
M. Gou. Why, then, master Barnes, and if you please,
Our wives shall try the quarrell twixt us two, 85
And weele looke on.
M. Bar. I am content.—What, woman,[1628] will you play?
Mis. Gou. I care not greatly.
Mis. Bar. Nor I, but that I thinke sheele play me false.
M. Gou. Ile see she shall not. 90
Mis. Bar. Nay, sir, she will be sure you shall not see,
You of all men shall not marke her hand;
She hath such close conveyance in her play.
M. Gou. Is she so cunning growne? Come, come, lets see.
Mis. Gou. Yea, mistris Barnes, will ye not house your jests, 95
But let them rome abroad so carelesly?
Faith, if your jealious tongue utter another,
Ile crosse ye with a jest, and ye were my mother.— [Aside.]
Come, shall we play?
Mis. Bar. I, what shall we play a game? 100
Mis. Gou. A pound a game.
M. Gou. How, wife?
Mis. Gou. Faith, husband, not a farthing lesse.
M. Gou. It is too much; a shilling were good game.
M[is]. Gou. No, weell be ill huswives once; 105
You have oft been ill husbands: lets alone.
M. Bar. Wife, will you play so much?
Mis. Bar. I would be loath to be so franke a gaimster
As mistresse Goursey is; and yet for once
Ile play a pound a game aswell as she. 110
M. Bar. Go to, youle have your will. Offer to goe from them.
Mis. Bar. Come, ther's my stake.
Mis. Gou. And ther's mine.
Mis. Bar. Throw for the dice. Ill luck! they are yours.
M. Bar. Master Goursey, who sayes that gamings bad, 115
When such good angels[1629] walke twixt every cast?
M. Gou. This is not noble sport, but royall play.
M. Bar. It must be so where royals walke so fast.
Mis. Bar. Play right, I pray.
Mi. Gou. Why, so I doe. 120
Mis. Bar. Where stands your man?
Mis. Gou. In his right place.
Mis. Bar. Good faith, I thinke ye play me foule an ace.
M. Bar. No, wife, she playes ye true.
Mis. Bar. Peace, husband, peace; ile not be judged by you. 125
Mis. Gou. Husband, master Barnes, pray both goe walke;
We cannot play, if standers by doe talke.
M. Gou. Well, to your game; we will not trouble ye.
[Goursey and Barnes] goe from them.
Mi. Gou. Where stands your man now?
Mi. Bar. Doth he not stand right? 130
Mi. Gou. It stands betweene the pointes.
Mi. Bar. And thats my spight.
But yet me thinkes the dice runnes much uneven,
That I throw but dewes ase and you eleven.
Mis. Gou. And yet you see that I cast downe the hill. 135
Mi. Bar. I, I beshrew ye, tis not with my will.
Mis. Gou. Do ye beshrew me?
Mi. Bar. No, I beshrew the dice,
That turne you up more at once then me at twise.
Mi. Gou. Well, you shall see them turne for you anon. 140
Mi. Bar. But I care not for them when your game is done.
Mi. Gou. My game! what game?
Mi. Bar. Your game, your game at tables.
Mi. Gou. Well, mistresse, well, I have red Æsops fables,
And know your morrals meaning well enough. 145
Mi. Bar. Loe, you'l be angry now! heres good stuffe.
[Re-enter Goursey and Barnes.]
M. Gour. How now, woman?[1630] who hath wonne the game?
Mi. Gou. No body yet.
M. Bar. Your wife's the fairest for't.[1631]
Mi. Bar. I, in your eye. 150
Mi. Gou. How do you meane?
Mi. Bar. He holds you fairer for't then I.
Mi. Gou. For what, forsooth?
Mi. Bar. Good gamster, for your game.
M. Bar. Well, try it out; t'is all but in the bearing.[1632] 155
Mi. Bar. Nay, if it come to bearing, shee'l be best.
Mi. Gou. Why you'r as good a bearer as the rest.
Mi. Bar. Nay, thats not so; you beare one man too many.
Mi. Gou. Better doe so then beare not any.
Mi. Ba. Beshrew me, but my wives jestes grow too bitter; 160
Plainer speeches for her were more [fit]ter:[1633]
Malice lyes inbowelled in her tongue,
And new hatcht hate makes every jest a wrong. [Aside.]
Mi. Go. Looke ye, mistresse, now I hit yee.
Mi. Bar. Why, I, you never use to misse a blot,[1632] 165
Especially when it stands so faire to hit.
Mi. Gou. How meane ye, mistresse Barnes?
Mi. Ba. That mistresse Gourse's in the hitting vaine.
Mi. Gou. I hot[1634] your man.
Mi. Bar. I, I, my man, my man; but, had I knowne, 170
I would have had my man stood neerer home.
Mi. Gou. Why, had ye kept your man in his right place,
I should not then have hit him with an ase.
Mis. Bar. Right, by the Lord! a plague upon the bones!
Mi. Gou. And a hot mischiefe on the curser too! 175
M. Bar. How now, wife?
M. Gour. Why, whats the matter, woman?
Mi. Gou. It is no matter: I am——
Mis. Bar. I, you are——
Mi. Gou. What am I? 180
Mis. Bar. Why, thats as you will be ever.
Mis. Gou. That's every day as good as Barneses wife.
Mi. Bar. And better too: then what needs al this trouble?
A single horse is worse then that beares double.
M. Bar. Wife, go to, have regard to that you say; 185
Let not your words passe foorth the vierge of reason,
But keep within the bounds of modesty,
For ill report doth like a bayliffe stand,
To pound the straying and the wit-lost tongue,
And makes it forfeit into follies hands. 190
Well, wife, you know tis[1635] no honest part
To entertaine such guests with jestes and wronges:
What will the neighbring country vulgar say,
When as they heare that you fell out at dinner?
Forsooth,[1636] they'l call it a pot quarrell straight; 195
The best they'l name it, is a womans jangling.
Go too, be rulde, be rulde.
Mi. Bar. Gods Lord, be rulde, be rulde!
What, thinke ye I have such a babies wit,
To have a rods correction for my tongue? 200
Schoole infancie; I am of age to speake,
And I know when to speake: shall I be chid
For such a[1637]——
Mi. Gou. What a? nay, mistresse, speake it out;
I scorne your stopt compares: compare not me 205
To any but your equals, mistresse Barnes.
M. Gou. Peace, wife, be quiet.
M. Bar. O, perswade, perswade!—
Wife, mistresse Goursey, shall I winne your thoughts
To composition of some kind effects? 210
Wife, if you love your credit, leave this strife,
And come shake hands with mistresse Goursey heere.
Mi. Ba. Shall I shake hands? let her go shake her heeles;
She gets nor hands, nor friendship at my hands:
And so, sir, while I live I will take heed, 215
What guests I bid againe unto my house.
M. Bar. Impatient woman, will you be so stiffe
In this absurdnes?[1638]
Mi. Ba. I am impatient now I speake;
But, sir, Ile tell you more another time: 220
Go too, I will not take it as I have done.
Exit.
Mis. Gou. Nay, she might stay; I will not long be heere
To trouble her. Well, maister Barnes,
I am sorry that it was our happes to day,
To have our pleasures parted with this fray: 225
I am sorrie too for all that is amisse,
Especially that you are moov'de in this.
But be not so, tis but a womans jarre,
Their tongues are weapons, words there blowes of warre.
'Twas but a while we buffeted you saw, 230
And each of us was willing to withdraw;
There was no harme nor bloudshed you did see:
Tush, feare us not, for we shall well agree.
I take my leave, sir.—Come, kinde harted man,
That speakes his wife so faire, I, now and than; 235
I know you would not for an hundreth pound
That I should heare your voyces churlish sound;
I know you have a farre more milder tune
Then 'Peace, be quiet, wife'; but I have done.
Will ye go home? the doore directs the way; 240
But, if you will not, my dutie is to stay.
[Exit.]
M. Bar. Ha, ha! why, heres a right woman, is there not?
They both have din'de, yet see what stomacks they have!
M. Gou. Well, maister Barnes, we cannot do with all:[1639]
Let us be friends still. 245
M. Bar. O, maister Goursey, the mettell of our minds,
Having the temper of true reason in them,
Affoordes[1640] a better edge of argument
For the maintaine of our familiar loves
Then the soft leaden wit of women can; 250
Wherefore with all the parts of neighbour love
I impart[1641] my selfe to maister Goursey.
M. Gou. And with exchange of love I do receive it:
Then here weel part, partners of two curst wives.
M. Ba. Oh, where shall wee find a man so blest that is not?[1642]
But come; your businesse and my home affaires 256
Makes me deliver that unfriendly worde
Mongst friends—farewell.[1643]
M. Gou. Twentie farewels, sir.
M. Bar. But harke ye, maister Goursey; 260
Looke ye perswade at home as I will do:
What, man! we must not alwayes have them foes.
M. Go. If I can helpe it.
M. Bar. God helpe, God helpe!
Women are even untoward creatures still. 265
Exeunt.
[Scene Second. In front of Barneses House.]
Enter Philip, Francis, and his Boy, from bowling.
Phil. Come on, Franke Goursey: you have good lucke to winne the game.
Fran. Why, tell me, ist not good, that never playd before upon your greene?
Phil. Tis good, but that it cost me ten good crownes; that makes it worse.[1644] 6
Fran. Let it not greeve thee, man; come ore to us;
We will devise some game to make you win
Your money backe againe, sweet Philip.
Phil. And that shall be ere long, and if I live: 10
But tell me, Francis, what good horses have yee,
To hunt this sommer?
Fra. Two or three jades, or so.
Phil. Be they but jades?
Fran. No, faith; my wag string here 15
Did founder one the last time that he rid,
The best gray nag that ever I laid my leg over.
Boy. You meane the flea bitten?
Boy. And was the same the best that ere you rid on? 20
Fran. I, was it, sir.
Boy. I faith, it was not, sir.
Fran. No! where had I one so good?
Boy. One of my colour, and a better too.
Fran. One of your colour! I nere remember him; 25
One of that colour!
Boy. Or of that complexion.
Fran. Whats that ye call complexion in a horse?
Boy. The colour, sir.
Fran. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will— 30
Boy. Nay, good sir, hold your hands!
Fran. What, shal we have it?
Boy. Why, sir, I cannot paint.
Fran. Well, then, I can;[1645]
And I shall find a pensill for ye, sir. 35
Boy. Then I must finde the table, if you do.
Fran. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchen!
Boy. Looke how you chafe! you would be angry more,
If I should tell it you.
Fran. Go to, Ile anger ye, and if you do not. 40
Boy. Why, sir, the horse that I do meane
Hath a leg both straight and cleane,
That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flawe,
But is the best that ever ye saw;
A pretie rising knee, O knee! 45
It is as round as round may be;
The full flanke makes the buttock round:
This palfray standeth on no ground
When as my maister's on her backe,
If that he once do say but, ticke;[1646] 50
And if he pricke her, you shall see
Her gallop amaine, she is so free;
She thinkes it is a riding rod;
And if hee'l have her softly go, 55
Then she trips it like a doe;
She comes so easie with the raine,
A twine thred turnes her backe againe;
And truly I did nere see yet
A horse play proudlier on the bit: 60
My maister with good managing
Brought her first unto the ring;[1647]
He likewise taught her to corvet,
To runne, and suddainlie to set;
Shee's cunning in the wilde goose race, 65
Nay, shee's apt to every pace;
And to proove her colour good,
A flea, enamourd of her blood,
Digd for chanels in her neck,
And there made many a crimson speck: 70
I thinke theres none that use to ride
But can her pleasant trot abide;
She goes so even upon the way,
She will not stumble in a day;
And when my maister— 75
Fra. What do I?
Boy. Nay, nothing, sir.
Phil. O, fie, Franke, fie!
Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now,
I must needs say; perswade him first to speake, 80
Then chide him for it!—Tell me, prettie wag,
Where stands this prawncer, in what inne or stable?
Or, hath thy maister put her out to runne,
Then, in what field, what champion[1648] feeds this courser,
This well paste, bonnie steed that thou so praisest? 85
Boy. Faith, sir, I thinke——
Fran. Villaine, what do yee thinke?
Bay. I thinke that you, sir, have bene askt by many,
But yet I never heard that yee tolde any.
Phil. Well, boy, then I will adde one more to many, 90
And aske thy maister where this jennet feeds.—
Come, Franke, tell me, nay, prethie, tell me, Franke,
My good horse-maister, tell me—by this light,
I will not steale her from thee; if I do,
Let me be held a felone to thy love. 95
Fran. No, Phillip, no.
Phil. What, wilt thou we[a]re a point[1649] but with one tag?
Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.
Enter Comes.
Com. Swounds, where be these timber turners, these trowle the bowles, these greene men, these— 100
Fran. What, what, sir?
Comes. These bowlers, sir.
Fra. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers?
Coo. Why, I say they cannot be saved.
Fra. Your reason, sir? 105
Coo. Because they throw away their soules at every marke.
Fra. Their soules! how meane ye?
Phi. Sirra, he meanes the soule[1650] of our bowle.
Fra. Lord, how his wit holdes bias like a bowle!
Coo. Well, which is the bias? 110
Fra. This next to you.[1651]
Coo. Nay, turne it this way, then the bowle goes true.
Boy. Rub, rub!
Coo. Why rub?
Boy. Why, you overcast the marke, and misse the way. 115
Coo. Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play.
Phi. Dicke Coomes, me thinkes thou art[1652] very pleasant:
When[1653] gotst thou this mirrie humor?
Coo. In your fathers seller, the merriest place in th' house.
Phi. Then you have bene carowsing hard? 120
Coo. Yes, faith, 'tis our custome when your fathers men and we meete.
Phi. Thou art very welcome thether, Dicke.
Coo. By God, I thanke ye, sir, I thanke ye, sir: by God, I have a quart of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall not a servingman in Barkeshire fight better for ye then I will do, if you have any quarrell in hand: you shall have the maidenhead of my new sword; I paide a quarters wages for't, by Jesus. 128
Phi. Oh, this meate failer Dicke!
How well t'as made the apparell of his wit, 130
And brought it into fashion of an honor!—
Prethe,[1654] Dicke Coomes, but tell me how thou doost?
Coo. Faith, sir, like a poore man at service.
Phi. Or servingman.
Coo. Indeede, so called by the vulgar. 135
Phi. Why, where the devill hadst thou that word?
Coo. Oh, sir, you have the most eloquenst ale in all the[1655] world; our blunt soyle affoordes none such.
Fra. Phillip, leave talking with this drunken foole.—Say, sirra, where's my father? 140
Coo. 'Marrie, I thanke ye for my verie good cheere.'—'O Lord, it is not so much worth.'—'You see I am bolde with ye.'—'Indeed, you are not so bolde as welcome; I pray yee, come oftner.'—'Truly, I shall trouble ye.'—All these ceremonies are dispatcht betweene them, and they are gone. 145
Fra. Are they so?
Coo. I, before God, are they.
Fra. And wherefore came not you to call me, then?
Coo. Because I was loth to change my game.
Fra. What game? 150
Coo. You were at one sort of bowles, as I was at another.
Phi. Sirra, he meanes the buttery bowles of beere.
Coo. By God, sir, we tickled it.
Fra. Why, what a swearing keepes this drunken asse!—
Canst thou not say but sweare at every word? 155
Phi. Peace, do not marre his humour, prethie, Franke.
Coo. Let him alone; hee's a springall, he knowes not what belongs to an oath.
Fra. Sirra, be quiet, or I doe protest—
Coo. Come, come, what doe you protest? 160
Fra. By heaven, to crack your crowne.
Coo. To crack my crowne! I lay ye a crowne of that,
Lay it downe, and ye dare;
Nay, sbloud, ile venter a quarters wages of that.
Crack my crowne, quotha![1656] 165
Fra. Will[1657] ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me?
Coo. Urge yee, with a pox! who urges ye?
You might have said so much to a clowne,
Or one that had not been ore the sea to see fashions:
I have, I tell ye true; and I know what belongs to a man. 170
Crack my crowne, and ye can.
Fra. And I can, ye rascall! [Offers to beat him.]
Phi. Hold, haire braine, holde! dost thou not see hees drunke?
Coo. Nay, let him come:
Though he be my masters sonne, I am my masters man, 175
And a man is a man in any ground of England.
Come, and he dares, a comes upon his death:
I will not budge an inche, no, sbloud, will I[1658] not.
Fran. Will ye not?
Phi. Stay, prithie, Franke.—Coomes, dost thou heare? 180
Coo. Heare me no heares:
Stand away, Ile trust none of you all.
If I have my backe against a cart wheele,
I would not care if the devill came.
Phi. Why, ye foole, I am your friend. 185
Coo. Foole on your face! I have a wife.
Fra. Shees a whore, then.
Coo. Shees as honest as Nan Lawson.
Phi. What she?
Coo. One of his whores. 190
Coo. I, as many as there be churches in London.
Phil. Why, thats a hundred and nine.
Boy. Faith, he lyes a hundred.
Phi. Then thou art a witnes to nine. 195
Boy. No, by God, Ile be witnes to none.
Coo. Now doe I stand like the George[1659] at Colbrooke.
Boy. No, thou standst like the Bull[1659] at S. Albones.
Coo. Boy, ye lye the hornes.[1660]
Boy. The bul's bitten; see how he buts! 200
Phil. Comes, Comes, put up,[1661] my friend and thou art friends.
Coo. Ile heare him say so first.
Phil. Franke, prethie doe; be friends, and tell him so.
Fra. Goe to, I am.
Boy. Put up, sir, and ye be a man, put up. 205
Coom. I am easily perswaded, boye.
Phil. Ah, ye mad slave!
Coomes. Come, come, a couple of whore-masters I found yee, and so I leave yee.
Exit.
Phil. Loe, Franke, doost thou not see hees drunke, 210
That twits thee[1662] with thy disposition?
Fra. What disposition?
Phil. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson.
Fran. Nay, then—
Phil. Goe to, ye wag, tis well: 215
If ever yee get a wife, i faith Ile tell.
Sirra, at home we have a servingman;
Hees[1663] not humord bluntly as Coomes is,
Yet his condition[1664] makes me often merrie:
Ile tell thee, sirra, hees a fine neate fellow, 220
A spruce slave; I warrant ye, heele[1665] have
His cruell[1666] garters crosse about the knee,
His woollen hose as white as the driven snowe,
His shooes dry leather neat, and tyed with red ribbins,
A nose-gay bound with laces in his hat, 225
Bridelaces, sir, in's hat—an all greene hat,[1667]
Greene coverlet for such a grasse greene wit.
'The goose that graseth on the greene,' quoth he,
'May I eate on when you shall buried be!'
All proverbes is his speech, hee's proverbs all. 230
Fra. Why speakes he proverbs?
Phi. Because he would speake truth,
And proverbes, youle confesse, are olde said sooth.
Fra. I like this well, and one day Ile see him:
But shall we part? 235
Phil. Not yet, Ile bring you somewhat on your way,
And as we goe, betweene your boy and you
Ile know where that [brave][1668] praunser stands at levery.
Fra. Come, come, you shall not.
Phil. I faith, I wil. 240
Exeunt.
[Scene Third.[1669] Barneses Garden.]
Enter Master Barnes and his Wife.
M. Bar. Wife, in my minde to day you were too blame,
Although my patience did not blame ye for it:
Me thought the rules of love and neighbourhood
Did not direct your thoughts; all indirect[1670]
Were your proceedings in the entertaine 5
Of them that I invited to my house.
Nay, stay, I doe not chide, but counsell, wife,
And in the mildest manner that I may:
You neede not viewe me with a servants eye,
Whose vassaile[1671] sences tremble at the looke 10
Of his displeased master. O my wife,
You are my selfe! when selfe sees fault in selfe,
Selfe is sinne obstinate, if selfe amend not:
Indeede, I sawe a fault in thee my selfe,
And it hath set a foyle upon thy fame, 15
Not as the foile doth grace the diamond.
Mi. Bar. What fault, sir, did you see in me to day?
M. Bar. O, doe not set the organ of thy voice
On such a grunting key of discontent!
Doe not deforme the beautie of thy tongue 20
With such mishapen answeres. Rough wrathfull words
Are bastards got by rashnes in the thoughts:
Faire demeanors are vertues nuptiall babes,
The off-spring of the well instructed soule;
O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife! 25
So seeme not barren of good courtesie.
Mi. Bar. So; have ye done?
M. Bar. I, and I had done well,
If you would do what I advise for well.
Mi. Bar. Whats that? 30
M. Bar. Which is, that you would be good friendes
With mistresse Goursey.[1672]
Mi. Bar. With mistresse Goursey!
M. Bar. I, sweet wife.
Mis. Bar. Not so, sweet husband. 35
M. Bar. Could you but shew me any grounded cause.
Mis. Bar. The grounded cause I ground because I wil not.
M. Bar. Your will hath little reason, then, I thinke.
Mi. Bar. Yes, sir, my[1673] reason equalleth my will.
M. Bar. Lets heare your reason, for your will is great. 40
Mi. Bar. Why, for I will not.
M. Bar. Is all your reason 'for I will not,' wife?
Now, by my soule, I held yee for more wise,
Discreete, and of more temperature in sence,
Then in a sullen humour to affect[1674] 45
That womans[1675] will borne, common, scholler phrase:
Oft have I heard a timely married girle,
That newly left to call her mother mam,
Her father dad, but yesterday come from
'Thats my good girle, God send thee a good husband!' 50
And now being taught to speake the name of husband,
Will, when she would be wanton in her will,
If her husband aske her why, say 'for I will.'
Have I chid men for[1676] unmanly choyse,
That would not fit their yeares? have I seene thee 55
Pupell[1677] such greene yong things, and with thy counsell
Tutor their wits? and art thou now infected
With this disease of imperfection?
I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame.
Mi. Bar. A shame on her that makes thee rate me so! 60
M. Bar. O black mouth'd rage, thy breath is boysterous,
And thou makst vertue shake at this high storme!
Shees[1678] of good report; I know thou knowst it.
Mi. Bar. She is not, nor I know not, but I know
That thou dost love her, therefore thinkst her so; 65
Thou bearst with her, because she beares with thee.
Thou mayst be ashamed to stand in her defence:
She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man
To stand in her defence against thy wife.
If I catch her in my walke, now, by Cockes[1679] bones, 70
Ile scratch out both her eyes.
M. Bar. O God!
Mi. Bar. Nay, never say 'O God' for the matter:
Thou art the cause; thou badst her to my house,
Onely to bleare the eyes of Goursey, didst not? 75
But I wil send him word, I warrant thee,
And ere I sleepe to[o]; trust upon it, sir.
Exit.
M. Bar. Me thinkes this is a mighty fault in her;
I could be angry with her: O, if I be so,
I shall but put a linke unto a torche, 80
And so give greater light to see her fault.
Ile rather smother it in melancholly:
Nay, wisedome bids me shunne that passion;
Then I will studie for a remedy.
I have a daughter,—now, heaven invocate, 85
She be not of like spirit as her mother!
If so, sheel be a plague unto her husband,
If that he be not patient and discreet,
For that I hold the ease of all such trouble.
Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband, 90
For I would see how she could demeane her selfe
In that estate; it may be, ill enough,—
And, so God shall help me, well remembred now!
Franke Goursey is his fathers sonne and heyre,
A youth that in my heart I have good hope on; 95
My sences say a match, my soule applaudes
The motion: O, but his lands are great,
Hee will looke high; why, I will straine my selfe
To make her dowry equall with his land.
Good faith, and twere a match, twould be a meanes 100
To make their mothers friends. Ile call my daughter,
To see how shees disposde to marriage.—
Mall, where are yee?
Enter Mall.
Mall. Father, heere I am.
M. Bar. Where is your mother? 105
Mal. I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she
Went walking both together to the garden.
M. Ba. Dost thou heare me, girle? I must dispute with thee.
Mal. Father, the question, then, must not be hard,
For I am very weake in argument. 110
M. Bar. Well, this it is; I say tis good to marry.
Mal. And this say I, tis not good to marry.
M. Bar. Were it not good, then all men would not marry;
But now they doe.
Mal. Marry, not all; but it is good to marry. 115
M. Bar. Is it both good and bad? how can this be?
Mal. Why, it is good to them that marry well;
To them that marry ill, no greater hell.
M. Bar. If thou mightst marry well, wouldst thou agree?
Mall. I cannot tell; heaven must appoint for me. 120
M. Bar. Wench, I am studying for thy good, indeed.
Mall. My hopes and dutie wish your thoughts good speed.
M. Bar. But tell me, wench, hast thou a minde to marry?
Mall. This question is too hard for bashfulnes;
And, father, now ye pose my modestie. 125
I am a maide, and when ye aske me thus,
I like a maide must blush, looke pale and wan,
And then looke pale[1680] againe; for we change colour
As our thoughts change. With true fac'd passion
Of modest maidenhead I could adorne me, 130
And to your question make a sober cursie
And with close clipt civilitie be silent;
Or els say 'no, forsooth,' or 'I, forsooth.'
If I said 'no, forsooth,' I lyed, forsooth:
To lye upon my selfe were deadly sinne, 135
Therefore I will speake truth, and shame the divell.
Father, when first I heard you name a husband,
At that same very name my spirits quickned.
Dispaire before had kild them, they were dead:
Because it was my hap so long to tarry, 140
I was perswaded I should never marry;
And, sitting sowing, thus upon the ground
I fell in traunce of meditation;
But comming to my selfe, 'O Lord,' said I,
'Shall it be so? must I unmarryed dye?' 145
And being angry, father, farther said,
'Now, by saint Anne, I will not dye a maide!'
Good faith, before I came to this ripe groath,
I did accuse the labouring time of sloath:
Me thought the yeere did run but slow about, 150
For I thought each yeare ten I was without.
Being foureteene and toward the other[1681] yeare,
Good Lord, thought I, fifteene will nere be heere!
For I have heard my mother say that then
Prittie maides were fit for handsome men: 155
Fifteene past, sixeteene, and seventeene too,
What, thought I, will not this husband do?
Will no man marry me? have men forsworne
Such beauty and such youth? shall youth be worne,
As rich mens gownes, more with age then use? 160
Why, then I let restrained[1682] fansie loose,
And bad it gaze for pleasure; then love swore me
To doe what ere my mother did before me;
Yet, in good faith, I was[1683] very loath,
But now it lyes in you to save my oath: 165
If I shall have a husband, get him quickly,
For maides that weares corke[1684] shooes may step awry.
M. Bar. Beleeve me, wench, I doe not repprehend[1685] thee,
But for this pleasant answere do commend thee.
I must confesse, love doth thee mighty wrong, 170
But I will see thee have thy right ere long;
I know a young man, whom I holde most fit
To have thee both for living and for wit:
I will goe write about it presentle.
Mall. Good father, do.
[Exit Barnes.]
O God, me thinkes I should 175
Wife it as fine as any woman could!
I could carry a porte to be obayde,
Carry a maistering eye upon my maide,
With 'Minion, do your businesse, or Ile make yee,'
And to all house authoritie be take me. 180
O God, would I were married! be my troth,
But if I be not, I sweare Ile keepe my oath.
Ent. Mi. Ba.
[Mi. Ba.] How now, minion, wher have you bin gadding?
Mall. Forsooth, my father called me forth to him.
Mi. Bar. Your father! and what said he too ye, I pray? 185
Mall. Nothing, forsooth.
Mi. Bar. Nothing! that cannot be; something he said.
Mall. I, somthing that as good as nothing was.
Mi. Bar. Come, let me heare that somthing nothing, then.
Mal. Nothing but of a husband for me, mother. 190
Mi. Bar. A husband! that was something: but what husband?
Mall. Nay, faith, I know not, mother: would I did!
Mis. Bar. I, 'would ye did'! i faith, are ye so hasty?
Mall. Hasty, mother! why, how olde am I?
Mis. Ba. To yong to marry.
Mal.
Nay, by the masse, ye lie.
Mother, how olde were you when you did marry?
Mis. Ba. How olde so ere I was, yet you shall tarry.
Mall. Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, harke!
The priest forgets that ere he was a clarke:
When you were at my yeeres, Ile holde my life, 200
Your minde was to change maidenhead for wife.
Pardon me, mother, I am of your minde,
And, by my troth, I take it but by kinde.[1686]
Mis. Bar. Do ye heare, daughter? you shal stay my leasure.
Mall. Do you heare, mother? would you stay fro pleasure 205
When ye have minde to it? Go to, there's no wrong
Like this, to let maides lye alone so long:
Lying alone they muse but in their beds
How they might loose their long kept maiden heads.
This is the cause there is so many scapes, 210
For women that are wise will not lead apes
In hell:[1687] I tel yee, mother, I say true;—
Therefore, come, husband, maiden head, adew!
Exit.
Mis. Bar. Well, lustie guts, I meane to make ye stay,
And set some rubbes in your mindes smothest way.[1688] 215
Enter Philip.
Phi. Mother—
Mi. Ba. How now, sirra, where have ye bin walking?
Phil. Over the meades, halfe way to Milton,[1689] mother,
To beare my friend Franke Goursey company.
Mi. Ba. Wher's your blew coat,[1690] your sword and buckler, sir?
Get you such like habite for a servingman, 221
If you will waight upon the brat of Goursey.
Phil. Mother, that you are moov'd, this maks me wonder,
When I departed I did leave yee friends:
What undigested jarre hath since betided? 225
Mi. Bar. Such as almost doth choake thy mother, boy,
And stifles her with the conceit of it;
I am abusde, my sonne, by Gourseys wife.
Phil. By mistresse Goursey?
Mi. Bar. Mistresse flurt, yon[1691] foule strumpet, 230
Light a love, short heeles! Mistresse Goursey
Call her againe, and thou wert better no.
Phil. O my deare mother,[1692] have some patience!
Mis. Bar. I, sir, have patience, and see your father
To rifle up the treasure of my love, 235
And play the spend-thrift upon such an harlot!
This same will make me have patience, will it not?
Phili. This same is womens most impatience:
Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say
That you have found my father temperate, 240
And ever free from such affections.
Mi. Bar. I, till[1693] my too much love did glut his thoughts,
And make him seek for change.
Phi. O, change your minde!
My father beares more cordiall love to you. 245
Mi. B. Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Gourseys wife,
Not me.
Phil. Now, I sweare, mother, you are much too blame;
I durst be sworne he loves you as his soule.
Mi. Bar. Wilt thou be pampered by affection? 250
Will nature teach thee such vilde[1694] perjurie?
Wilt thou be sworne, I, forsworne,[1695] carelesse boy?
And if thou swearst, I say he loves me not.
Phil. He loves ye but too well, I sweare,
Unlesse ye knew much better how to use him. 255
Mi. Bar. Doth he so, sir? thou unnaturall boy!
'Too well,' sayest thou? that word shall cost thee[1696] somwhat:
O monstrous! have I brought thee up to this?
'Too well'! O unkinde, wicked, and degenerate,
Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother? 260
Well, God will plague thee fort, I warrant thee:
Out on thee, villaine, fie upon thee, wretch!
Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say!
Phil. This ayre is pleasant, and doth please me well,
And here I will stay. 265
Mi. Bar. Wilt thou, stubborne villaine?
Enter M. Bar.
M. Bar. How now, whats the matter?
Mi. Bar. Thou setst thy sonne to scoffe and mocke at me:
Ist not sufficient I am wrongd of thee,
But he must be an agent to abuse me? 270
Must I be subject to my cradle too?
O God, O God amend it!
[Exit.]
M. Ba. Why, how now, Phillip? is this true, my sonne?
Phil. Deare father, she is much impatient:
Nere let that hand assist me in my need, 275
If I more said then that she thought amisse
To thinke that you were so licentious given;
And thus much more, when she inferd it more,
I swore an oath you lov'd her but too well:
In that as guiltie I do hold my selfe, 280
Now that I come to more considerate triall:
I know my fault; I should have borne with her:
Blame me for rashnesse, then, not for want of dutie.
M. Ba. I do absolve thee; and come hether, Phillip:
I have writ a letter unto master Goursey, 285
And I will tell thee the contents thereof;
But tell me first, thinkst thou Franke Goursey loves thee?
Phil. If that a man devoted to a man,
Loyall, religious in loves hallowed vowes,
If that a man that is soule laboursome 290
To worke his owne thoughts to his friends delight,
May purchase good opinion with his friend,
Then I may say, I have done this so well,
That I may thinke Franke Goursey loves me well.
M. Ba. Tis well; and I am much deceived in him, 295
And if he be not sober, wise, and valliant.
Phi. I hope my father takes me for thus wise,
I will not glew my selfe in love to one
That hath not some desert of vertue in him:
What ere you thinke of him, beleeve me, father, 300
He will be answerable to your thoughts
In any quallity commendable.
M. Bar. Thou chearst my hopes in him; and, in good faith,
Thoust[1697] made my love complete unto thy friend:
Phillip, I love him, and I love him so. 305
I could affoorde him a good wife I know.
Phi. Father, a wife!
M. Bar. Phillip, a wife.
Phil. I lay my life, my sister.
M. Bar. I, in good faith. 310
Phil. Then, father, he shall have her; he shall, I sweare.
M. Bar. How canst thou say so, knowing not his minde?
Phi. All is one for that; I will goe to him straight.
Father, if you would seeke this seaven yeares day,
You could not[1698] finde a fitter match for her; 315
And he shall have her, I sweare he shall;
He were as good be hang'd as once deny her.
I faith, Ile to him.[1699]
M. Bar. Hairebraine, hairebraine, stay!
As yet we do not know his fathers[1700] minde: 320
Why, what will master Goursey say, my sonne,
If we should motion it without his knowledge?
Go to, hees a wise and discreet gentleman,
And that expects[1701] from me all honest parts;
Nor shall he faile his expectation; 325
First I doe meane to make him privy to it:
Phillip, this letter is to that effect.
Phil. Father, for Gods[1702] sake send it quickly, then:
Ile call your man.—What, Hugh! wheres Hugh, there, ho?
M. Bar. Phillip, if this would proove a match, 330
It were the only meanes that could be found
To make thy mother frends with Mist[resse] Gou[rsey].
Phil. How, a match! Ile warrant ye, a match.
My sister's faire, Franke Goursie he is rich;
Her[1703] dowrie too will be sufficient; 335
Franke's yong,[1704] and youth is apt to love;
And, by my troth, my sisters maiden head
Standes like a game at tennis,—if the ball
Hit into the hole, or hazard, farewell all!
Ma. Bar. How now, where's Hugh? 340
[Enter Nicholas.]
Phil. Why, what doth this proverbial with us?
Why, where's Hugh?
M. Bar. Peace, peace.
Phil. Where's Hugh, I say?
M. Bar. Be not so hasty, Phillip. 345
Phil. Father, let me alone,
I doe it but to make my selfe some sport.
This formall foole, your man, speakes naught but proverbs,
And speake men what they can to him, hee'l answere
With some rime,[1705] rotten sentence, or olde saying, 350
Such spokes[1706] as the ancient of the parish use,
With, 'neighbour, tis an olde proverbe and a true,
Goose giblets are good meate, old sacke better then new';
Then saies another, 'neighbour, that is true';
And when each man hath drunke his gallon round, 355
A penny pot, for thats the olde mans gallon,
Then doth he licke his lips, and stroke his beard
That's glewed together with his slavering droppes
Of yesty ale, and when he scarce can trim
His gouty fingers, thus hee'l phillip it, 360
And with a rotten hem say, 'hey, my hearts,
Merry go sorrie! cocke and pye, my heartes!'
But then their saving penny proverbe comes,
And that is this, 'they that will to the wine,
Berlady[1707] mistresse, shall lay theyr penny to mine.' 365
This was one of this penny-fathers[1708] bastards,
For, on my lyfe, he was never begot
Without the consent of some great proverb-monger.
M. Bar. O, ye are a wag.
Phil. Well, now unto my busines. 370
Swounds, will that mouth, thats made of olde sed sawes
And nothing else, say nothing to us now?
Nich. O master Phillip, forbeare; you must not leape over the style before you come at it; haste makes waste; softe fire makes sweete malt; not too fast for falling; there's no hast to hang true men. 376
Phil. Father, we ha'te, ye see, we ha'te. Now will I see if my memorie will serve for some proverbs too. O,—a painted cloath were as wel worth a shilling as a theefe woorth a halter; well, after my heartie commendations, as I was at the making hereof; so it is, that I hope as you speed, so you're sure; a swift horse will tire, but he that trottes easilie will indure. You have most learnedly proverbde it, commending the vertue of patience or forbearance, but yet, you know, forbearance is no quittance.
Nich. I promise yee, maister Philip, you have spoken as true as steele. 386
Phil. Father, theres a proverbe well applied.
Nich. And it seemeth unto me, I, it seemes to me, that you, maister Phillip, mocke me: do you not know, qui mocat mocabitur? mocke age, and see how it will prosper. 390
Phil. Why, ye whoresen proverb-booke bound up in follio,
Have yee no other sence to answer me
But every worde a proverbe? no other English?
Well, Ile fulfill a proverb on thee straight.
Nich. What is it, sir? 395
Phil. Ile fetch my fist from thine eare.
Nich. Beare witnesse he threatens me!
Phil. Father, that same is the cowards common proverbe.—But come, come, sirra, tell me where Hugh is. 399
Nich. I may, and I will; I need not except I list; you shall not commaund me, you give me neither meate, drinke, nor wages; I am your fathers man, and a man's a man, and a have but a hose on his head; do not misuse me so, do not; for though he that is bound must obay, yet he that will not tarrie, may[1709] runne away, so he may. 405
M. Bar. Peace, Nicke, Ile see he shall use thee well;
Go to, peace, sirra: here, Nicke, take this letter,
Carrie it to him to whom it is directed.
Nich. To whom is it?
M. Bar. Why, reade it: canst thou read? 410
Nich. Forsooth, though none of the best, yet meanly.
M. Bar. Why, dost thou not use it?
Nich. Forsooth, as use makes perfectnes, so seldome seene is soone forgotten.
M. Bar. Well said: but goe; it is to master Goursey. 415
Phil. Now, sir, what proverbe have ye to deliver a letter?
Nich. What need you to care? who speakes to you? you may speake when you are spoken to, and keep your winde to coole your pottage. Well, well, you are my maisters sonne, and you looke for his lande; but they that hope for dead mens shooes, may hap to go barefoote: take heed; as soone goes the yong sheep to the pot as the olde. I pray God save my maysters life, for sildome comes the better! 423
Phil. O, he hath given it me! Farewell, proverbes.
Nich. Farewell, frost.[1710] 425
Phil. Shal I fling an old shoe after ye?
Nich. No; you should say, God send faire weather after me!
Phil. I meane for good lucke.
Nich. A good lucke on ye!
Exit.
M. Bar. Alas, poore foole, he uses all his wit! 430
Phillip, in faith[1711] this mirth hath cheered thought,
And cussend it of his right play of passion.
Goe after Nick, and, when thou thinkst hees there,
Go in and urge to that which I have writ:
Ile in these meddowes make a cerckling walke, 435
And in my meditation conjure so,
As that same[1712] fend of thought, selfe-eating anger,
Shall by my spels of reason[1713] vanish quite:
Away, and let me heare from thee to night.
Phil. To night! yes, that you shall: but harke ye, father; 440
Looke that you my sister waking keepe,
For Franke I sweare shall kisse her ere I sleepe.
Exeunt.
[Scene Fourth. The Court-yard of Master Gourseys House at Milton.]
Enter Franke and Boy.
Frank. I am very dry with walking ore the greene.—
Butler, some beere!—Sirra, call the butler.
Bo. Nay, faith, sir, we must have some smith to give the butler a drench, or cut him in the forehead, for he hath got a horses desease, namely the staggers; to night hees a good huswife, he reeles al that he wrought to day; and he were good now to play at dice, for he castes[1714] excellent well. 7
Fran. How meanst thou? is he drunke?
Boy. I cannot tell; but I am sure hee hath more liquor in him then a whole dicker[1715] of hydes; hees sockt throughly, i faith. 10
Fran. Well, goe and call him; bid him bring me drinke.
Boy. I will, sir.
Exit.
Fran. My mother powtes, and will looke merrily
Neither upon my father nor on me:
He saies she fell out with mistresse Barnes to day; 15
Then I am sure they'l not be quickly friends.
Good Lord, what kinde of creatures women are!
Their love is lightly wonne and lightly lost;
And then their hate is deadly and extreame:
He that doth take a wyfe betakes himselfe 20
To all the cares and troubles of the world.
Now her disquietnes doth grieve my father,
Greeves me, and troubles all the house besides.—
What, shall I have some drinke? [Horn sounded within]—How now? a horne!
Belike the drunken slave[1716] is fallen asleepe, 25
And now the boy doth wake him with his horne.
[Enter Boy.]
How now, sirra, wheres the butler?
Boy. Mary, sir, where he was even now, a sleepe; but I wakt him, and when he wakt, he thought he was in mayster Barnses buttery, for he stretcht himselfe thus, and yauning said, 'Nicke, honest Nicke, fill a fresh bowle of ale; stand to it, Nicke, and thou beest a man of Gods making, stand to it'; and then I winded my horne, and hees horne-mad. 33
Enter Hodge.
Hodg. Boy, hey! ho, boy! and thou beest a man, draw.—O, heres a blessed mooneshine, God be thanked!—Boy, is not this goodly weather for barley? 36
Boy. Spoken like a right maulster, Hodge: but doost thou heare? thou art not drunke.
Hod. No, I scorne that, i faith.
Boy.[1717] But thy fellow Dicke Coomes is mightily drunke. 40
Hod. Drunke! a plague on it, when a man cannot carrie his drinke well! sbloud, Ile stand to it.
Boy. Hold, man; see and thou canst stand first.
Hodge. Drunke! hees a beast, and he be drunke; theres no man that is a sober man will be drunk; hees a boy, and he be drunke.
Boy. No, hees a man as thou art. 46
Hodge. Thus tis when a man will not be ruled by his friends: I bad him keepe under the lee, but he kept downe the weather two bowes; I tolde him hee would be taken with a plannet,[1718] but the wisest of us all may fall. 50
B. True, Hodge.
Boy trip him.
Hod. Whope! lend me thy hand, Dicke, I am falne into a wel; lend me thy hand, I shall be drowned else.
Boy. Hold fast by the bucket, Hodge.
Hodg. A rope on it! 55
Boy. I, there is a rope on it; but where art thou, Hodge?
Hodge. In a well; I prethie, draw up.
Boy. Come, give up thy bodie; wind up, hoyst.
Hodg. I am over head and eares.
Boy. In all, Hodge, in all. 60
Fran. How loathsome is this beast mans shape to me,
This mould of reason so unreasonable![1719]
Sirra, why doost thou trip him downe, seeing hees drunke?
Boy. Because, sir, I would have drunkards cheape.[1720]
Fran. How meane ye? 65
Boy. Why, they say that, when any thing hath a fall it is cheape; and so of drunkards.
Fran. Go to, helpe him up [Knocking without]: but, harke, who knockes?
[Boy goes to the gate, and returns.]
Bo. Sir heeres one of maister Barnsies men with a letter to my olde maister. 71
Fran. Which of them is it?
Boy. They call him Nicholas, sir.
Fran. Go, call him in.
[Exit Boy.]
Enter Coomes.
Coom. By your leave, ho! How now, young maister, how ist?
Fran. Looke ye, sirra, where your fellow lies; 76
Hees in a fine taking, is he not?
Coom. Whope, Hodge! where art thou, man, where art thou?
Hodge. O, in a well.
Co. In a well, man! nay, then, thou art deepe in understanding.
Fran. I, once to day you were almost so, sir. 81
Coom. Who, I! go to, young maister, I do not like this humor in ye, I tell ye true; give every man his due, and give him no more: say I was in such a case! go to, tis the greatest indignation that can be offered to a man; and, but a mans more godlier given, you were able to make him sweare out his heart bloud. What though that honest Hodge have cut his finger heere? or, as some say, cut a feather? what thogh he be mump, misled, blind, or as it were? tis no consequent to me: you know I have drunke all the ale-houses in Abington drie, and laide the tappes on the tables when I had done: sbloud, Ile challenge all the true rob-pots in Europe to leape up to the chinne in a barrell of beere, and if I cannot drinke it down to my foote ere I leave, and then set the tap in the midst of the house, and then turne a good turne on the toe on it, let me be counted nobodie, a pingler,[1721]—nay, let me be[1722] bound to drinke nothing but small beere seven yeares after; and I had as leefe be hanged. 97
Enter Nicholas.
Fran. Peace, sir, I must speake with one.—Nicholas, I think, your name is.
Nich. True as the skinne betweene your browes. 100
Fran. Well, how doth thy maister?
Nich. Forsooth, live, and the best doth no better.
Fran. Where is the letter he hath sent me?
Nich. Ecce signum! heere it is.
Fran. Tis right as Phillip said, tis a fine foole [Aside].— 105
This letter is directed to my father;
Ile carrie it to him.—Dick Coomes, make him drinke.
Exit.
Coom. I, Ile make him drunke,[1723] and he will.
Nich. Not so, Richard; it is good to be merrie and wise. 109
Dick.[1724] Well, Nicholas, as thou art Nicholas, welcome; but as thou art Nicholas and a boone companion, ten times welcome. Nicholas, give me thy hand: shall we be merrie? and wee shall, say but we shall, and let the first word stand.
Nich. Indeed, as long lives the merrie man as the sad; an ownce of debt will not pay a pound of care. 115
Coom. Nay, a pound of care will not pay an ownce of debt.
Nich. Well, tis a good horse never stumbles: but who lies here?
Coom. Tis our Hodge, and I thinke he lies asleep: you made him drunk at your house to day; but Ile pepper some of you fort.
Nic. I, Richard, I know youle put a man over the shooes, and if you can; but hees a foole wil take more then wil do him good.
Coom. Sbloud, ye shall take more then will doe yee good, or Ile make ye clap under the table. 123
Nich. Nay, I hope, as I have temperance to forbeare drinke, so have I patience to endure drinke: Ile do as company doth; for when a man doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done. 126
Coomes. Ha, my resolved Nicke, frolagozene![1725] Fill the potte, hostesse; swounes, you whore! Harry Hooke's a rascall. Helpe me but carry my fellow Hodge in, and weele crushe it, i faith.
Exeunt.
[Scene Fifth. In front of Gourseys House.]
Enter Phillip.
Phil. By this, I thinke, the letter is delivered,
And twill be shortly time that I step in,
And wooe their favours for my sisters fortune:
And yet I need not; she may doe as well,
But yet not better, as the case doth stand 5
Betweene our mothers; it may make them friends;
Nay, I would sweare that she would doe as well,
Were she a stranger to one quality,
But they are so acquainted, theil nere part.
Why, she will floute the devill, and make blush 10
The boldest face of man that ever man saw;
He that hath best opinion of his wit,
And hath his braine pan fraught with bitter jestes
Or of his owne, or stolne, or how so ever,
Let him stand nere so high in his owne conceite, 15
Her wit's a sunne that melts him downe like butter,
And makes him sit at table pancake wise,
Flat, flat, [God knowes][1726] and nere a word to say;
Yet sheele not leave him then, but like a tyrant
Sheele persecute the poore wit-beaten man, 20
And so bebang him with dry bobs and scoffes,
When he is downe, most cowardly, good faith,
As I have pittied the poore patient.
There came a farmers sonne a wooing to her,
A proper man, well landed too he was, 25
A man that for his wit need not to aske
What time a yeere twere good to sow his oates
Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reape,
To plowe his fallowes, or to fell his trees,
Well experienst thus each kinde of way; 30
After a two monthes labour at the most,
And yet twas well he held it out so long,
He left his love, she had so laste his lips
He could say nothing to her but 'God be with yee'!
Why, she, when men have din'd and call for cheese, 35
Will straight maintaine jests bitter to disgest;
And then some one will fall to argument,
Who, if he over master her with reason,
Then sheele begin to buffet him with mockes.
Well, I doe doubt Frances hath so much spleene, 40
Theil nere agree; but I will moderate.
By this time tis time, I thinke, to enter:
This is the house; shall I knocke? no; I will not
Waite while[1727] one comes out to answere;
Ile in, and let them be as bolde with us. 45
Exit.
[Scene Sixth. A Room in Gourseys House.]
Enter Master Goursey, reading a letter.
M. Gour. If that they like, her dowry shall be equall
To your sonnes wealth or possibility:
It is a meanes to make our wives good friendes,
And to continue friendship twixt us two.[1728]
Tis so, indeed: I like this motion, 5
And it hath my consent, because my wife[1729]
Is sore infected and hart sick with hate;
And I have sought the Galen of advice,
Which oneley tels me this same potion
To be most soveraigne for her sicknes cure. 10
Enter Franke and Phillip.
Heere comes my sonne, conferring with his friend.—
Fraunces, how do you like your friends discourse?
I know he is persuading to this motion.
Fra. Father, as matter that befits a friend,
But yet not me, that am too young to marry. 15
M. Gou. Nay, if thy minde be forward with thy yeares,
The time is lost thou tarriest. Trust me, boy,[1729]
This match is answerable to thy birth;
Her bloud and portion give each other grace;
These indented lines promise a sum, 20
And I do like the valew: if it hap
Thy liking to accord to my consent,
It is a match. Wilt thou goe see the maide?
Fra. Nere. Trust me, father, the shape[1730] of marriage,
Which I doe see in others, seeme[1731] so severe, 25
I dare not put my youngling liberty
Under the awe of that instruction;
And yet I graunt the limmits of free youth
Going astray are often restrainde by that.
But mistresse wedlocke, to my scholler thoughts, 30
Will be too curst, I feare. O, should she snip
My pleasure ayming minde, I shall be sad,
And sweare, when I did marry, I was mad!
M. Gour. But, boy, let my experience teach thee this—
Yet, in good faith, thou speakst not much amisse;— 35
When first thy mothers fame to me did come,
Thy grandsire thus then came to me his sonne,
And even my words to thee to me he said,
And as to me thou saist to him I said,
But in a greater huffe and hotter bloud,— 40
I tell ye, on youthes tip-toes then I stood:
Saies he (good faith, this was his very say),
'When I was yong, I was but reasons foole,
And went to wedding as to wisdomes schoole;
It taught me much, and much I did forget, 45
But, beaten much, by it I got some wit;
Though I was shackled from an often scoute,[1732]
Yet I would wanton it when I was out;
Twas comfort, old acquaintance then to meete,
Restrained liberty attainde is sweet.' 50
Thus said my father to thy father,[1733] sonne,
And thou maist doe this too,[1734] as I have done.
Phi. In faith, good counsell, Franke: what saist thou to it?
Fra. Phillip, what should I say?
Phil. Why, eyther I or no. 55
Fra. O, but which rather?
Phil. Why, that which was persuaded by thy father.
Fra. Thats I, then,[1735] I: O, should it fall out ill!
Then I, for I am guilty of that ill,—
Ile not be guilty, no. 60
Phi. What, backeward gone!
Fra. Phillip, no whit backward; that is, on.
Phi. On, then.
Fra. O, stay!
Phil. Tush, there is no good lucke in this delay: 65
Come, come, late commers, man, are shent.
Fra. Heigh ho, I feare I shall repent!
Well, which waye, Phillip?[1736]
Phi. Why, this way.
Fra. Canst thou tell,
And takest upon thee to be my guide to hell?— 70
But which way, father?
M. Gour. That way.
Fran. I, you know;
You found the way to sorrow long agoe.
Father, God boye ye:[1737] you have sent your sonne
To seeke on earth an earthly day of doome, 75
Where I shall be adjudged,[1738] alacke the ruthe,
To penance for the follies of my youth!
Well, I must goe, but, by my troth, my minde
Is not love capable to[1739] that kinde.
O, I have lookt upon this mould of men, 80
As I have done upon a lyons den!
Praised I have the gallant beast I saw,
Yet wisht me no acquaintance with his pawe:
And must I now be grated with them? well,
Yet I may hap to proove a Daniell; 85
And, if I doe, sure it would make me laugh,
To be among wilde beastes and yet be safe.
Is there a remedy to abate their rage?
Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage.
I, but how catch them? marry, in your hand 90
Carrie me foorth a burning fire brand,
For with his sparkling shine, olde rumor saies,
A fire brand the swiftest runner fraies:
This I may doe; but, if it proove not so,
Then man goes out to seeke his adjunct woe. 95
Phillip, away! and, father, now adew!
In quest of sorrow I am sent by you
M. Gou. Returne the messenger of joy, my sonne.
Fran. Sildome in this world such a worke is done.
Phi. Nay, nay, make hast, it will be quicklie night. 100
Fra. Why, is it not good to wooe by candle light?
Phil. But, if we make not haste theile be abed.
Fran. The better, candels out and curtans spred.
Exeunt [Francis and Phillip].
M. Gour. I know, though that my sons years be not many,
Yet he hath wit to wooe as well as any. 105
Here comes my wife: I am glad my boy is gone
Enter Mistresse Goursey.
Ere she came hether.—How now, wife? how ist?
What, are ye yet in charity and love
With mistresse Barnes?
Mi. Gou. With mistris Barnes! why mistris[1740] Barnes, I pray?
M. Gou. Because she is your neighbour and—— 111
Mi. Gou. And what?
And a jealous slandering spitefull queane she is,
One that would blur my reputation
With her approbrious mallice, if she could. 115
She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame:
Tis knowne that I have lived in honest name
All my life time, and bin your right true wife.
M. Gour. I entertaine no other thought, my wife,
And my opinion's sound of your behaviour. 120
Mis. Gou. And my behaviour is as sound as it;
But her ill speeches seekes to rot my credit,
And eate it with the worme of hate and mallice.
M. Gou. Why, then, preserve it you by patience.
Mi. Gou. By patience! would ye have me shame my selfe,
And cussen my selfe to beare her injuries? 126
Not while her eyes be open will I yeelde
A word, a letter, a sillables valew,
But equall and make even her wrongs to me
To her againe. 130
M. Gou. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame.
Mi. Gou. Am I too blame, sir? pray, what letters this? [Snatches the letter.]
M. Gou. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife,
Rudelie to snatch it from me. Give it me.
Mi. Gou. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it. 135
M. Gou. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you.
Mi. Gou. No, no, it shall not need: I am a scholler
Good enough to read a letter, sir.
M. Gou. Gods passion, if she knew but the contents,
Sheele seeke to crosse this match! she shall not read it.— [Aside.]
Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me. 141
Mi. Gou. Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it.
M. Gou. What, will you moove me to impatience, then?
Mi. Gou. Tut, tell not me of your impatience;
But since you talke, sir, of impatience, 145
You shall not have the letter, by this light,
Till I have read it; soule, ile burne it first!
M. Gou. Go to, ye move me, wife; give me the letter;
In troth, I shall growe angry, if you doe not.
Mi. Gou. Grow to the house top with your anger, sir! 150
Nere tell me, I care not thus much for it.
M. Gour. Well, I can beare enough, but not too much.
Come, give it me; twere best you be persuaded;
By God—ye make me sweare—now God forgive me!—
Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it; 155
Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart.
Mis. Gou. Hart me no hearts, you shall not have it, sir,
No, you shall not; nere looke so big,
I will not be affraide at your great lookes;
You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it. 160
M. Gou. Shall I not have[1741] it? in troth, Ile try that:
Minion, Ile hav'te; shall I not hav'te?—I am loath—
Go too, take pausment, be advisde—
In faith, I will; and stand not long upon it—
A woman of your yeares! I am ashamde 165
A couple of so long continuance
Should thus—Gods foote—I crye God hartely mercy!—
Go to, ye vex me; and Ile vexe ye for it;
Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad
To tender it on your knees; heare ye, I will, I will. 170
What, worse and worse stomacke! true, i[1742] faith!
Shall I be crost by you in my olde age?
And where I should have greatest comfort to,
A nursse of you?—nursse in the divels name!—
Go to, mistris; by Gods pretious deere, 175
If ye delaie—
Mi. Gou. Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit
Are you in, husband! so inrag'd, so moov'd,
And for so slight a cause, to read a letter!
Did this letter, love, conteine my death, 180
Should you denie my sight of it, I would not
Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger,
But willinglie yeeld me a patient
Unto the doome that your displeasure gave.
Heere is the letter; not for that your incensment 185 [Gives back the letter.]
Makes me make offer of it, but your health,
Which anger, I doe feare, hath crasd,
And viper like hath suckt away the bloud
That wont was to be cheerefull in this cheeke:
How pale yee looke! 190
M. Gou. Pale! can yee blame me for it? I tell you true,
An easie matter could not thus have moov'd me.
Well, this resignement, and so foorth—but, woman,
This fortnight shall I not forget yee for it.—
Ha, ha, I see that roughnes can doe somewhat! 195
I did not thinke, good faith, I could have set
So sower a face upon it, and to her,
My bed embracer, my right bosome friend.
I would not that she should have seene the letter,
As poore a man as I am, by my troth, 200
For twenty pound: well, I am glad I have it.— [Aside.]
Ha, heres adoe about a thing of nothing!
What, stomack, ha! tis happy you come downe.
Exit.
Mi. Gou. Well, craftie[1743] fox, Ile hunt ye, by my troth:
Deale ye so closely? Well, I see his drift: 205
He would not let me see the letter, least
That I should crosse the match; and I will crosse it.—
Enter Comes.[1744]
Dicke Coomes?[1744]
Coom. Forsooth.
Mis. Gour. Come hether, Dicke; thou art a man I love, 210
And one whom I have much in my regarde.
Coo. I thanke ye for it, mistris, I thanke ye for it.
Mi. Gou. Nay, heers my hand, I will do very much
For thee, if ere thou standst in need of me;
Thou shalt not lack, whilst thou hast a day to live, 215
Money, apparrell——
Coo. And sword and bucklers?
Mis. Gou. And sword and bucklers too, my gallant Dick,
So thou wilt use but this in my defence. 219
Coom. This! no, faith, I have no minde to this; breake my head, if this breake not, if we come to any tough play. Nay, mistres, I had a sword, I, the flower of Smithfield for a sword, a right fox,[1745] i faith; with that, and a man had come over with a smooth and a sharpe stroke, it would have cried twang, and then, when I had doubled my point, traste my ground, and had carried my buckler before me like a garden but,[1746] and then come in with a crosse blowe, and over the picke[1747] of his buckler two elles long, it would have cryed twang, twang, mettle, mettle: but a dogge hath his day; tis gone, and there are few good ones made now. I see by this dearth of good swords that[1748] dearth of sword and buckler fight begins to grow ont:[1749] I am sorrye for it; I shall never see good manhood againe, if it be once gone; this poking fight of rapier and dagger will come up then; then a man, a tall[1750] man, and a good sword and buckler man, will be spitted like a cat or a cunney; then a boy will be as good as a man, unlesse the Lord shewe mercie unto us; well, I had as lieve bee hang'd as live to see that day. Wel, mistres, what shal I do? what shal I do? 237
Mis. Gour. Why, this, brave Dicke. Thou knowest that Barnses[1751] wife
And I am foes: now, man me to her house;
And though it be darke, Dicke, yet weelle have no light, 240
Least that thy maister should prevent our journey
By seeing our depart. Then, when we come,
And if that she and I do fall to words,
Set in thy foote and quarrell with her men,
Draw, fight, strike, hurt, but do not kill the slaves, 245
And make as though thou struckst at a man,
And hit her, and thou canst,—a plague upon her!—
She hath misusde me, Dicke: wilt thou do this?
Coom. Yes, mistresse, I will strike her men; but God forbid that ere Dicke Coomes should be seene to strike a woman! 250
Mi. Gour. Why, she is mankind,[1752] therefore thou maist strike her.
Coom. Mankinde! nay, and she have any part of a man, Ile strike her, I warrant.
Mi. Gour. Thats my good Dicke, thats my sweet Dicke! 254
Coom. Swones, who would not be a man of valour to have such words of a gentlewoman! one of their words are more to me then twentie of these russet coates cheese-cakes and butter makers. Well, I thanke God, I am none of these cowards; well, and a man have any vertue in him, I see he shall be regarded. [Aside.]
Mi. Gour. Art thou resolved, Dicke? wilt thou do this for me?
And if thou wilt, here is an earnest penny 261
Of that rich guerdon I do meane to give thee. [Gives money.]
Coom. An angell, mistresse! let me see. Stand you on my left hand, and let the angell lye on my buckler on my right hand, for feare of losing. Now, heere stand I to be tempted.[1753] They say, every man hath two spirits attending on him, eyther good or bad; now, I say, a man hath no other spirits but eyther his wealth or his wife: now, which is the better of them? why, that is as they are used; for use neither of them well, and they are both nought. But this is a miracle to me, that golde that is heavie hath the upper, and a woman that is light doth soonest fall, considering that light things aspire, and heavie things soonest go downe: but leave these considerations to sir John,[1754] they become a blacke coate better than a blew. Well, mistresse, I had no minde to daye to quarrell; but a woman is made to bee a mans seducer; you say, quarrell. 275
Mi. Gou. I.
Coom. There speakes an angell: is it good?
Mis. Gou. I.
Coom. Then, I cannot doe amisse; the good angell goes with me.
Exeunt.
[Scene Seventh.[1755] The Forest near Sir Raphs House.]
Enter Sir Raph Smith, his Lady, and Will [and Attendants].
S. Raph. Come on, my harts: i faith, it is ill lucke,
To hunt all day, and not kill any thing.
What sayest thou, lady? art thou weary yet?
La. I must not say so, sir.
Sir Ra. Although thou art. 5
Wil. And can you blame her, to be foorth so long,
And see no better sport?
Ra. Good faith, twas very hard.
La. No, twas not ill,
Because, you know, it is not good to kill. 10
Ra. Yes, venson, ladie.
La. No, indeed, nor them;
Life is as deere in deare as tis in men.
Ra. But they are kild for sport.
Lad. But thats bad play, 15
When they are made to sport their lives away.
Ra. Tis fine to see them runne.
La. What, out of breath?
They runne but ille that runne themselves to death.
Ra. They might make, then, lesse hast, and keep their winde.
La. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behinde. 21
Rap. Then, twere as good for them at first to stay,
As to run long, and run their lives away.
La. I, but the stoutest of you all thats here
Would run from death and nimbly scud for feare. 25
Now, by my troth, I pittie those poor elfes.[1756]
Ra. Well, they have made us but bad sport to day.
La. Yes, twas my sport to see them scape away.
Will. I wish that I had beene at one bucks fall.
La. Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all. 30
Wil. A woodman,[1757] ladie, but no tyrant I.
La. Yes, tyrant-like thou lovest to see lives dye.
Ra. Lady, no more: I do not like this lucke,
To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck.
Well, it is late; but yet I sweare I will 35
Stay heere all night but I a buck will kill.
La. All night! nay, good sir Raph Smith, do not so.
Ra. Content ye, ladie.—Will, go fetch my bow:
A berrie[1758] of faire roes I saw to day
Downe by the groves, and there Ile take my[1759] stand, 40
And shoote at one; God send a luckie hand!
La. Will ye not, then, sir Raph, go home with me?
Ra. No, but my men shall beare thee company.—
Sirs, man her home.—Will, bid the huntsmen couple,
And bid them well reward their hounds to night.— 45
Ladie, farewell.—Will, hast ye with the bow;
Ile stay for thee heere by the grove below.
Wil. I will; but twill be darke, I shall not see:
How shall I see ye, then?
Ra. Why, hollo to me, and I wil answer thee. 50
Wil. Enough, I wil.
Raph. Farewell.
Exit.
La. How willingly doost thou consent to go
To fetch thy maister that same killing bow!
Wil. Guiltie of death I willing am in this, 55
Because twas our ill haps to day to misse:
To hunt, and not to kill, is hunters sorrow.
Come, ladie, weell have venson ere to morrow.
Exeunt.
[Scene Eighth. In front of Barneses House.]
Enter Philip and Frank [and Boy].
Phil. Come, Franke, now we are hard by the[1760] house:
But how now, sad?
Fran. No, to studie how to woe thy sister.
Phil. How, man? how to woe her! why, no matter how;
I am sure thou wilt not be ashamed to woe. 5
Thy cheekes not subject to a childish blush,
Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit;
I know thy oratorie can unfold
Quicke invention, plausible discourse,
And set such painted beautie on thy tongue, 10
As it shall ravish every maiden sence;
For, Franke, thou art not like the russet youth
I tolde thee of, that went to woe a wench,
And being full stuft up with fallow wit
And meddow matter, askt the pretty maide 15
How they solde corne last market day with them,
Saying, 'Indeed, twas very deare with them.'
And, do ye heare, ye[1761] had not need be[1762] so,
For she[1763] will, Francis, throwly[1764] trie your wit:
Sirra, sheel bow the mettall of your wits, 20
And, if they cracke, she will not hold ye currant;
Nay, she will way your wits as men way[1765] angels,
And, if it[1766] lacke a graine, she will not change[1767] with ye.
I cannot speake it but in passion,
She is a wicked wench to make a jest; 25
Aye me, how full of floutes and mockes she is!
Fran. Some aqua vitæ reason to recover
This sicke discourser! Sound[1768] not, prethy, Philip.
Tush, tush, I do not thinke her as thou saiest:
Perhaps shees opinions darling, Phillip, 30
Wise in repute, the crowes bird. O my friend,
Some judgements slave themselves to small desart,[1769]
And wondernize the birth of common wit,
When their owne[1770] straungenes do but make that strange,
And their ill errors do but make that good: 35
And why should men debase to make that good?
Perhaps such admiration winnes her wit.
Phil. Well, I am glad to heare this bold prepare
For this encounter. Forward, hardy Franke!
Yonders the window with the candle int; 40
Belike shees putting on her night attire:
I told ye, Franke, twas late. Well, I will call her,
Mary, softly, that my mother may not heare.—
Mall, sister Mall!
Enter Mall in the window.
Mal. How now, whose there? 45
Phil. Tis I.
Mal. Tis I! who I? I, quoth the dogge, or what?
A Christ crosse rowe I?[1771]
Phi. No, sweete pinckanie.[1772]
Mal. O, ist you, wilde oates? 50
Mal. Well said, scape thrift.
Fran. Philip, be these your usuall best salutes?
Phi. This is the harmlesse chiding of that dove.
Fran. Dove! one of those that drawe the queene of love? 55
Mal. How now? whose that, brother? whose that with ye?
Phil. A gentleman, my friend.
Mal. Beladie, he hath a pure wit.
Fran. How meanes your holy judgement?
Mal. O, well put in, sir! 60
Fran. Up, you would say.
Mal. Well climde, gentleman!
I pray, sir, tell me, do you carte the queene of love?
Fran. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye,
And a fit place for gentle love to lye. 65
Mal. I, but me thinkes you speake without the booke,
To place a fower[1773] wheele waggon in my looke:
Where will you have roome to have the coachman sit?
Fran. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit:
His dutie is, before you bare to stand, 70
Having a lustie whipstocke in his hand.
Ma. The place is voide; will you provide me one?
Fra. And if you please, I will supply the roome.
Mal. But are ye cunning in the carmans lash?
And can ye whistle well? 75
Fran. Yes, I can well direct the coache of love.
Mal. Ah cruell carter, would you whip a dove?
Phil. Harke ye, sister—
Mal. Nay, but harke ye, brother;
Whose white[1774] boy is that same? know ye his mother? 80
Phil. He is a gentleman of a good house.
Mal. Why, is his house of gold?
Is it not made of lyme and stone like this?
Phil. I meane, hees well descended.
Mal. God be thanked! 85
Did he descend some steeple or some ladder?
Phi. Well, you will still be crosse: I tell ye, sister,
This gentleman by all your friends consent
Must be your husband.
Mal. Nay, not all, some sing another note; 90
My mother will say no, I hold a groate.
But I thought twas somewhat, he would be a carter;
He hath beene whipping lately some blinde beare,
And now he would ferke[1775] the blinde boy heere with us.
Phil. Well, do you heare, you, sister, mistresse Would-Have?[1776]
You that do long for somewhat, I know what— 96
My father tolde me—go to, Ile tell all
If ye be crosse—do ye heare me? I have labourd
A yeares worke in this afternoone for ye:
Come from your cloyster, votarie, chas[t]e nun,[1777] 100
Come downe and kisse Franke Gourseys mothers sonne.
Mal. Kisse him, I pray?
Phi. Go to, stale maidenhead! come downe, I say,
You seveneteene and upward, come, come downe;
You'l stay till twentie else for your wedding gowne. 105
Mal. Nun, votarie, stale maidenhead, seventeen and upward!
Here be names! what, nothing else?
Fran. Yes, or a faire built steeple without bels.
Mal. Steeple! good people, nay, another cast.
Fran. I, or a well made ship without a mast. 110
Mal. Fie, not so big, sir, by one part of foure.
Fran. Why, then, ye are a boate without an oare.
Mal. O, well rode,[1778] wit! but whats your fare, I pray?
Fran. Your faire selfe must be my fairest pay.
Mal. Nay, and you be so deare, Ile chuse another. 115
Fran. Why, take your first man, wench, and go no further.
Phi. Peace, Francis.—Harke ye, sister, this I say:[1779]
You know my mind; or answer, I or nay.
Wit and judgement hath resolvde his mind,
And he foresees what after he shall finde: 120
If such discretion, then, shall governe you,
Vow love to him, heele do the like to you.
Mal. Vow love! who would not love such a comely feature,
Nor high nor lowe, but of the middle stature?
A middle man, thats the best syze indeed; 125
I like him well: love graunt us well to speed!
Fran. And let me see a woman of that tallnesse,
So slender and of such a middle smalnesse,
So olde enough, and in each part so fit,
So faire, so kinde, endued with so much wit, 130
Of so much wit as it is held a wonder,
Twere pittie to keepe love and her asunder;
Therefore go up, my joy, call downe my blisse;
Bid her come seale the bargaine with a kisse.
Mal. Franke, Franke, I come through dangers, death, and harmes,
To make loves patent[1780] with my[1781] seale of armes. 136
Phi. But, sister, softly, least my mother heare.
Mal. Hush, then: mum, mouse in cheese,[1782] cat is neere.
Exit Mal.[1783]
Fran. Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile,
That I have woed and wonne in so small while. 140
Phi. Francis, indeed, my sister, I dare say,
Was not determined to say thee nay;
For this same tother thing, calde maiden-head,
Hangs by so small a haire or spiders thred,
And worne so too[1784] with time, it must needs fall, 145
And, like a well lur'de hawke, she knows her call.
[Enter Mall.]
Mal. Whist, brother, whist! my mother heard me tread,
And askt, Whose there? I would not answer her;
She calde, A light! and up shees gone to seeke me:
There when she findes me not, sheel hether come; 150
Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done.
Francis, my loves lease I do let to thee,
Date of my life and thine: what sayest thou to me?
The entring, fine, or income thou must pay,
Are kisses and embrases every day; 155
And quarterly I must receive my rent;
You know my minde.
Fran. I gesse at thy intent:
Thou shalt not misse a minute of thy time.
Mal. Why, then, sweet Francis, I am onely thine.— 160
Brother, beare witnesse.
Phi. Do ye deliver this as your deed?
Mul. I do, I do.
Ph. God send ye both good speed! Gods Lord, my mother!
Stand aside, and closely too, least that you be espied.[1785] 165
[Enter Mistresse Barnes.]
Mi. Ba. Whose there?
Phi. Mother, tis I.
Mis. Ba. You disobedient ruffen, carlesse wretch,
That said your father lovde me but too well!
Ile thinke on't when thou thinkst I have forgotten[1786] it: 170
Whose with thee else?—How now, minion? you!
With whom? with him!—Why, what make you heere, sir,
And thus late too? what, hath your mother sent ye
To cut my throate, that heere you be in waite?—
Come from him, mistris, and let go his hand.— 175
Will ye not, sir?
Fra. Stay, mistresse Barnes, or mother, what ye will;
Shees[1787] my wife, and here she shall be still.
Mi. Ba. How, sir? your wife! wouldst thou my daughter have?
Ile rather have her married to her grave.[1788] 180
Go to, be gone, and quickly, or I sweare
Ile have my men beate ye for staying here.
Phi. Beate him, mother! as I am true man,
They were better beate the divell and his dam.
Mi. Bar. What, wilt thou take his part? 185
Phil. To do him good,
And twere to wade hetherto up in blood.
Fran. God a mercy, Phil![1789]—But, mother, heare me.
Mis. Bar. Calst thou me mother? no, thy mothers name
Carryes about with it reproche and shame. 190
Give me my daughter: ere that she shall wed
A strumpets sonne, and have her so mislead,
Ile marry her to a carter; come, I say,
Give me her from thee.
Fra. Mother,[1790] not to day, 195
Nor yet to morrow, till my lives last morrow
Make me leave that which I with leave did borrow:
Heere I have borrowed love, Ile not denaie[1791] it.—
Thy wedding night's my day, then Ile repay it.—
Till then sheel trust me.—Wench, ist[1792] not so? 200
And if it be, say I, if not, say no.
Mal. Mother, good mother, heare me! O good God,
Now we are even, what, would you make us odde?
Now, I beseech ye, for the love of Christ,
To give me leave once to do what I list. 205
I am as you were when you were a maide;
Gesse by your selfe how long you would have staide,
Might you have had your will: as good begin
At first as last, it saves us from much sinne;
Lying alone, we muse on things and things, 210
And in our mindes one thought another brings:
This maides life, mother, is an idle life.
Therefore Ile be, I, I will be a wife;
And, mother, doe not mistrust[1793] my age or power,
I am sufficient, I lacke nere an houre; 215
I had both wit to graunt when he did woe me,
And strength to beare what ere he can doe to me.
Mi. Bar.[1794] Well, bold-face, but I meane to make you stay.
Goe to, come from him, or Ile make ye come:
Will yee not come? 220
Phi. Mother, I pray forbeare;
This match is for my sister.
Mi. Bar. Villaine, tis not;
Nor she shall not be so matcht now.
Phi. In troth, she shall, and your unruly hate 225
Shall not rule us; weele end all this debate
By this begun devise.
Mi. Bar. I, end what you begun! Villaines, theeves,
Give me my daughter! will ye rob me of her?—
Help, help! theil rob me heere, theil rob me heere! 230
Enter Master Barnes and his men.
M. Bar. How now? what outcry is here? why, how now, woman?
Mi. Ba. Why, Gourseys sonne, confederates[1795] with this boy,
This wretch unnaturall and undutifull,
Seekes hence to steale my daughter: will you suffer it?
Shall he, thats sonne to my arche-enemy, 235
Enjoy her? have I brought her up to this?
O God, he shall not have her, no, he shall not!
M. Bar. I am sorry she knowes it. [Aside].—Harke ye, wife,
Let reason moderate your rage a little.
If you examine but his birth and living, 240
His wit and good behaviour, you will say,
Though that ill hate make your opinion bad,
He dooth deserve as good a wife as she.
Enter Mistris Goursey and Coomes.[1796]
Mi. Bar. Why, will you give consent he shall enjoy her?
M. Bar. I, so that thy minde would agree with mine. 245
Mi. Bar. My minde shall nere agree to this agreement.
M. Ba. And yet it shall go forward:—but who's heere?
What, mistris Goursey! how knew she of this?
Phi. Franke, thy mother.
Fra. Swones, where? a plague uppon it! 250
I thinke the devill is set to crosse this match.
Mi. Go. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and yonders light:
Let us go neere. How now? me thinkes I see
My sonne stand hand in hand with Barnes his daughter.—
Why, how now, sirra? is this time of night 255
For you to be abroad? what have we heere?
I hope that love hath not thus coupled you.
Fra. Love, by my troth, mother, love: she loves me,
And I love her; then we must needs agree.
Mi. Bar. I, but Ile keep her sure enough from thee. 260
Mi. Go. It shall not need. Ile keep him safe enough;
Be sure he shal not graft in such a stock.
Mi. Bar. What stock, forsooth? as good a stock as thine:
I doe not meane that he shall graft in mine.
Mi. Gou. Nor shall he, mistris.—Harke, boy; th'art but mad
To love the branch that hath a roote so bad. 266
Fra. Then, mother, Ile graft a pippin on a crab.
Mi. Gou. It will not proove well.
Fra. But Ile proove my skill.
Mi. Bar. Sir, but you shall not. 270
Fra. Mothers both, I will.
M. Bar. Harke, Phillip: send away thy sister straight;
Let Francis meete her where thou shall appoint;
Let them go severall to shun suspition,
And bid them goe to Oxford both this night; 275
There to morrow say that we will meete them,
And there determine of their marriage. [Aside.]
Phi. I will: though it be very late and darke,
My sister will endure it for a husband. 279 [Aside.]
M. Ba. Well, then, at[1797] Carfolkes,[1798] boy, I meane to meet them. [Aside.]
Exit [Master Barnes].
Would they would begin to chide!
For I would have them brawling, that meane while
They may steale hence, to meete where I appoint[1799] it. [Aside].—
What, mother, will you let this match go forward?—
Or, mistresse Goursey, will you first agree? 285
Mi. Gou. Shall I agree first?
Phi. I, why not? come, come.
Mi. Go. Come from her, sonne, and if thou lov'st thy mother.
Mi. Bar. With the like spell, daughter, I conjure thee.
Mi. G. Francis, by faire means let me win thee from her, 290
And I will gild my blessing, gentle sonne,
With store of angels. I would not have thee
Check thy good fortune by this cusning choise:
O, doe not thrall thy happie libertie
In such a bondage! if thou'lt be needs bound, 295
Be, then, to better worth; this worthlesse choise
Is not fit for thee.
Mi. Bar. Ist not fit for him? wherefore ist not fit?
Is he too brave[1800] a gentleman, I praie?
No, tis not fit; she shall not fit his turne: 300
If she were wise, she would be fitter for
Three times his better.—Minion, go in, or Ile make ye;
Ile keep ye safe from him, I warrant ye.
Mi. Gou. Come, Francis, come from her.
Fra. Mothers, with both hands shove I hate from love, 305
That like an ill companion would infect
The infant minde of our affection[1801]:
Within this cradle shall this minutes babe
Be laide to rest; and thus Ile hug[1802] my joy.
Mi. Gou. Wilt thou be obstinate, thou selfe wilde[1803] boy? 310
Nay, then, perforce Ile parte ye, since ye will not.
Coom. Doe yee heare, mistresse? praie yee give me leave to talke two or three cold words with my yong master.—Harke ye, sir, yee are my masters sonne, and so foorth; and indeed I beare ye some good will, partlie for his sake, and partly for your own; and I do hope you do the like to me,—I should be sorry els. I must needs saie, ye are a yong man; and for mine owne part, I have seene the world, and I know what belongs to causes, and the experience that I have, I thanke God I have travelled for it.
Fra. Why, how far have yee travelled for it? 320
Boy. From my masters house to the ale-house.
Coo. How, sir?
Bo. So, sir.
Coo. Go to.—I praie, correct you boie; twas nere a good world, since a boie would face a man so. 325
Fra. Go to.—Forward, man.
Coom. Wel, sir, so it is, I would not wish ye to marry without my mistres consent.
Fra. And why?
Coom. Nay, theres nere a why but there is a wherefore; I have known some have done the like, and they have daunst a galliard at Beggers bush[1804] for it. 332
Boy. At Beggers bush!—here him no more, maister; he doth bedawbe[1805] ye with his durty speech.—Doe ye heare, sir? how farre stands Beggers bushe from your fathers house, sir? How, thou whorson refuge[1806] of a tailor, that wert prentise to a tailor half an age, and because if thou hadst served ten ages thou wouldst proove but a botcher, thou leapst from the shop board to a blew coate,[1807] doth it become thee to use thy tearmes so? wel, thou degree above a hackney, and ten degrees under a page, sow up your lubber lips, or tis not your sworde and buckler shall keep my poniard from your brest. 342
Coo. Do yee heare, sir? this is your boy.
Fran. How then?
Coom. You must breech him for it. 345
Fran. Must I? how, if I will not?
Coom. Why, then, tis a fine world when boies keep boies, and know not how to use them.
Fra. Boy, ye rascall!
Mi. Gour. Strike him, and thou darst. 350
Coom. Strike me! alas, he were better strike his father!— Sownes, go to, put up your bodkin.[1808]
Fran. Mother, stand by; Ile teach that rascall—
Coom. Go to, give me good words, or, by Gods dines,[1809] Ile buckle ye for all your bird-spit. 355
Fran. Will ye so, sir?
Phi. Stay, Franke, this pitch of frensie will defile thee;
Meddle not with it: thy unreprooved vallour
Should be high minded; couch it not so low.—
Dost heare me? take occasion to slip hence, 360
But secretly, let not thy mother see thee:
At the back side there is a cunny greene;[1810]
Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. [Aside.]
Fra. Enough, I will. [Aside].—Mother, you doe me wrong
To be so peremptory in your commaund, 365
And see that rascall to abuse me so.
Coom. Rascall! take that and take all! Do ye heare, sir? I doe not meane to pocket up this wrong.
Bo. I know why that is.
Coo. Why? 370
Bo. Because you have nere a pocket.
Co. A whip, sira, a whip!—But, sir, provide your tooles against to morrow morning; tis somewhat darke now, indeed: you know Dawsons close, betweene the hedge and the pond; tis good even ground; Ile meete you there; and I do not, call me cut,[1811] and you be a man, shew yourselfe a man; weele have a bout or two; and so weele part for that present. 377
Fran. Well, sir, well.
Nic. [approaching.] Boy, have they appointed to fight?
Boy. I, Nicholas; wilt not thou go see the fray? 380
Nich. No, indeed; even as they brewe, so let them bake. I wil not thrust my hand into the flame, and[1812] need not; tis not good to have an oare in another mans boate; little said is soone amended, and in little medling commeth great rest; tis good sleeping in a whole skin; so a man might come home by Weeping Crosse[1813]: no, by lady, a friend is not so soone gotten as lost; blessed are the peace-makers; they that strike with the sword, shall be beaten with the scabberd. 388
Phil. Well said, proverbs: nere another to that purpose?
Nic. Yes, I could have said to you, sir, Take heed is a good reed.[1814] 391
Phil. Why to me, take heede?
Ni. For happy is he whom other mens harms do make to beware.
Phi. O, beware, Franke!—Slip away, Mall.—You know what I told ye. Ile hold our mothers both in talk meanwhile. [Aside.] —Mother, and mistris Barnes, me thinkes you should not stand in hatred so hard one with the[1815] other.
Mi. Bar. Should I not, sir? should I not hate a harlot,
That robs me of my right, vilde boye? 400
Mi. Gou. That tytle I returne unto thy teeth,
[Exeunt Francis and Mall.]
And spit the name of harlot in thy face.
Mi. Bar. Well, tis not time of night to hold out chat
With such a scold as thou art; therefore now
Thinke that I hate thee as I doe the devill. 405
Mi. Gou. The devill take thee, if thou dost not, wretch!
Mi. Bar. Out upon thee, strumpet!
Mi. Gou. Out upon thee, harlot!
Mis. Bar. Well, I will finde a time to be reveng'd:
Meane time Ile keep my daughter from thy sonne.— 410
Where are you, minion? how now, are yee gone?
Mi. Go. Francis where are ye?
Mi. Ba. He is not heere. O, then, they slipt away,
And both together! 415
Phi. Ile assure ye, no;
My sister she went in, into the house.
Mi. Ba. But, then, sheele out againe at the backe doore,
And meete with him: but I will search about
All these same fields and paths neere to my house; 420
They are not far I am sure, if I make haste.
Exit.
Mi. Go. O God, how went he hence, I did not see him?
It was when Barnses wife did scolde with me;
A plague on[1816] her!—Dick, why didst not thou looke to him?
Coo. What should I looke for him? no, no, I looke not for him while[1817] to morrow morning. 426
Mi. Gou. Come, go with me to help to looke him out.
Alas, I have nor light, nor linke, nor torche!
Though it be darke, I will take any paines
To crosse this match. I prethy, Dick, away. 430
Coo. Mistris, because I brought ye out, Ile bring ye home; but, if I should follow, so hee might have the law on his side.
Mi. Go. Come, tis no matter; prethee, goe with me.
Exeunt [Mistress Goursey and Coomes.]
M. Ba. Philip, thy mothers gone to seeke thy sister,
And in a rage, i faith: but who comes heere? 435
Ph. Olde master Goursey, as I thinke, tis he.
M. Ba. Tis so, indeed.
[Enter Master Goursey.]
M. Gour. Whoes there?
M. Bar. A friend of yours.
M. Gou. What, master Barnes! did ye not see my wife? 440
M. Bar. Yes, sir, I saw her; she was heere even now.
M. Gou. I doubted that; that made me come unto you:
But whether is she gone?
Phil. To seeke your sonne, who slipt away from her
To meete with Mall my sister in a place 445
Where I appointed; and my mother too
Seeke for my sister; so they both are gone:
My mother hath a torch; mary, your wife
Goes darkling up and downe, and Coomes before her.
M. Gou. I thought that knave was with her; but tis well: 450
I pray God, they may come by nere a light,
But both be led a darke daunce in the night!
Ho. Why, is my fellow Dick in the dark with my mistres? I pray God, they be honest, for there may be much knaverie in the dark: faith, if I were there, I wold have some knavery with them. [Aside.]—Good maister, wil ye carry the torch yourself, and give me leave to play the blind man buffe with my mistris? 457
Phil. On that condition thou wilt do thy best
To keep thy mistresse and thy fellow Dick
Both from my sister and thy masters sonne, 460
I will entreate thy master let thee goe.
Hod. O, I, I warrant ye, Ile have fine tricks to cousen them.
M. Gou. Well, sir, then, go your waies; I give you leave.
Hod. O brave! but where about are they?
Phil. About our cunny green they surely are, 465
If thou canst find them.
Hod. O, let me alone to grope for cunnies. [Gives Phil. the torch, and] exit.
Phi. Well, now will I to Franke and to my sister.
Stand you two harkning neere the cunny greene,
But sure your light in you must not be seene; 470
Or els let Nicholas stand afarre off with it, [Gives Nich. the torch.]
And as his life keep it from mistris Goursey.
Shall this be done?
M. Bar. Phillip, it shall.
Phi. God be with ye! Ile be gone. 475
Exit.
M. Bar. Come on, master Goursey: this same is a meanes
To make our wives friends, if they resist not.
M. Go. Tut, sir, howsoever it shall go forward.
M. Bar. Come, then, lets do as Phillip hath advisd.
Exeunt [toward the cunny greene.]
[Scene Ninth.[1818] The Cunny Greene.]
Enter Mall.
Mal. Heere is the place where Phillip bid me stay
Till Francis came; but wherefore did my brother[1819]
Appoint it heere? why in the cunny borough?
He had some meaning in't, I warrant ye.
Well, heere Ile set me downe under this tree, 5
And thinke upon the matter all alone.
Good Lord, what pritty things these cunnies are!
How finely they do feed till they be fat,
And then what a sweet meate a cunny is!
And what smooth skins they have, both black and gray! 10
They say they run more in the night then day:
What is the reason? marke; why, in the light
They see more passengers then in the night;
For harmfull men many a haye[1820] do set,
And laugh to see them tumble in the net; 15
And they put ferrets in the holes,—fie, fie!—
And they go up and downe where conniees lye;
And they lye still, they have so little wit:
I marvell the warriner will suffer it;
Nay, nay, they are so bad, that they themselves 20
Do give consent to catch these prettie elfes.
How if the warriner should spie me here?
He would take me for a conny I dare sweare.
But when that Francis comes, what will he say?
'Looke, boy, there lyes a conney in my way!' 25
But, soft, a light! whose that? soule, my mother!
Nay, then, all hid: i faith, she shall not see me;
Ile play bo peepe with her behind this tree.
[Enter Mistresse Barnes, with a torch.]
Mis. Ba. I marvell where this wench doth[1821] hide her selfe
So closely; I have searcht in many a bush. 30
Mal. Belike my mother tooke me for a thrush. [Aside.]—
Mis. Bar. Shees hid in this same warren, Ile lay money.
Mal. Close as a rabbet sucker[1822] from an olde conney. [Aside.]
Mi. Bar. O God, I would to God that I could find her!
I would keepe her from her loves toyes yet. 35
Mal. I, so you might, if your daughter had no wit. [Aside.]
Mi. Ba. What a vilde girle tis, that would hav't so young!
Mal. A murren take that desembling tongue!
Ere your calves teeth were out, you thought it long. [Aside.]
Mi. Bar. But, minion, yet Ile keepe you from the man. 40
Mall. To save a lye, mother, say, if you can. [Aside.]
Mi. Bar. Well, now to looke for her.
Mal. I, theres the spight:
What trick shall I now have to scape her light? [Aside.]
Mi. Bar. Whose there? what, minion, is it you?— 45
Beshrew her heart, what a fright she put me to!
But I am glad I found her, though I was afraide. [Aside.]
Come on your wayes; you are[1823] a handsome maide!
Why [steal] you foorth a doores so late at night?
Why, whether go ye? come, stand still, I say. 50
Mal. No, indeed, mother; this is my best way.
M. Ba. Tis not the best way; stand by me, I tell yee.
Mall. No; you would catch me, mother,—O, I smell ye!
Mi. Bar. Will ye not stand still?
Mal. No, by ladie, no. 55
Mis. Bar. But I will make ye.
Mal. Nay, then, trip and goe.
Mi. Bar. Mistresse, Ile make ye wearie ere I have done.
Mal. Faith, mother, then, Ile trie how you can runne.
Mis. Bar. Will ye? 60
Mal. Yes, faith.
Exeunt.
Enter [Franke and Boy.]
Fran. Mal, sweet heart, Mall! what, not a word?
Boy. A little further; call againe.
Fran. Why, Mal! I prethie, speake; why, Mal, I say!
I know thou art not farre, if thou wilt not[1824] speake; 65
Why, Mal!—
But now I see shees in her merry vaine,
To make me call, and put me to more paine.
Well, I must beare with her; sheel beare with me:
But I will call, least that it be not so.— 70
What, Mal! what, Mall, I say!—Boy, are we right?
Have we not mist the way this same darke night?
Boy. Masse, it may be so: as I am true man,
I have not seen a cunny since I came;
Yet at the cunny-borow we should meete. 75
But, harke! I heare the trampling of some feete.
Fran. It may be so, then; therefore lets lye close.
[Enter Mistresse Goursey and Coomes.]
Mis. Gou. Where art thou, Dicke?
Coo. Where am I, quoth a! mary, I may be where any body will say I am; eyther in France, or at Rome, or at Jerusalem, they may say I am, for I am not able to disprove them, because I cannot tell where I am. 82
Mi. Gou. O, what a blindfold walke have we had, Dicke,
To seeke my sonne! and yet I cannot finde him.
Coo. Why, then, mistresse, lets goe home. 85
Mi. Gou. Why, tis so darke we shall not finde the way.
Fran. I pray God, ye may not, mother, till it be day! [Aside.]
Coo. Sbloud, take heed, mistris, heres a tree.
Mis. Go. Lead thou the way, and let me hold by thee.
Bo. Dick Coome, what difference is there between a blind man and he that cannot see? 91
Fra. Peace, a poxe on thee!
Coo. Swounds, some body spake.
Mi. Gou. Dicke, looke about;
It may be here we may finde them out. 95
Coo. I see the glimpse[1825] of some body heere.—
And ye be a sprite, Ile fraie the bug beare.—
There a goes, mistresse.
Mi. Gour. O sir, have I spide you?
Fr. A plague on the boy! twas he that descried[1826] me.
Exeunt.
[Scene Tenth. A Grove in the Fields between the Cunny Greene and the Forest.]
[Enter Philip.]
Phi. How like a beauteous lady, maskt in blacke
Lookes that same large circumference of heaven!
The skie, that was so faire three houres agoe,
Is in three houres become an Ethiope;
And being angrie at her beauteous change, 5
She will not have one of those pearled starres
To blab her sable metamorphesis:[1827]
Tis very darke. I did appoint my sister
To meete me at the cunny berrie below,
And Francis too; but neither can I see. 10
Belike my mother hapned on that place,
And fraide them from it, and they both are now
Wandring about the[1828] fields: how shall I finde them?
It is so darke, I scarce can see my hand:
Why, then, Ile hollow for them—no, not so; 15
So will his voice betray him to our mothers
And if he answere, and bring them where he is.
What shall I, then, do? it must not be so—
Sbloud,[1829] it must be so; how else, I pray?
Shall I stand gaping heere all night till day, 20
And then nere the neere?[1830]—So ho, so ho!
[Enter Will.]
Wil. So ho! I come: where are ye? where art thou? here!
Phi. How now, Franke, where hast thou[1831] been?
Wil. Franke! what Franke? sbloud, is sir Raph mad? [Aside].— Heeres the bow.[1832] 25
Phi. I have not been much private with that voice:
Me thinke Franke Goursey talke and his doth tell me
I am mistaken; especially by his bow;
Franke had no bow. Well, I will leave this fellow,
And hollow somewhat farther in the fields. 30 [Aside].—
Doost thou heare, fellow? I perceive by thee
That we are both mistaken: I tooke thee
For one thou art not; likewise thou tookst me
For sir Raph Smith, but sure I am not he:
And so, farewell; I must go seeke my friend.— 35
So ho!
[Exit.]
Wil. So ho, so ho! nay, then, sir Raph, so whoore!
For a whore she was sure, if you had her here
So late. Now, you are sir Raphe Smith;
Well do ye counterfeit and change your voyce, 40
But yet I know ye. But what should be that Francis?
Belike that Francis cussend him of his wench,
And he conceals himselfe to finde her out;
Tis so, upon my life. Well, I will go
And helpe him ring his peale of so ho, so ho! 45
[Exit.]
Enter Franke.[1833]
Fra. A plague on Coomes! a plague upon the boy!
A plague too—not on my mother for an hundreth pound![1834]
Twas time to runne; and yet I had not thought
My mother could have followed me so close,
Her legges with age I thought had foundered; 50
She made me quite runne through a quickset hedge,
Or she had taken me. Well, I may say,
I have runne through the briers for a wenche;
And yet I have her not,—the woorse lucke mine.
Me thought I heard one hollow here about; 55
I judge it Philip: O, the slave will laugh
When as he heares how that my mother scarde me!
Well, heere Ile stand untill I heare him hollow,
And then Ile answere him; he is not farre.
[Enter Sir Raph Smith.]
Ra. My man is hollowing for me up and downe, 60
And yet I cannot meet with him.—So ho!
Frank. So ho!
Ra. Why, what, a poxe, wert thou so neere me, man,
And wouldst[1835] not speake?
Fra. Sbloud, ye are very hot. 65
Rap. No, sir, I am colde enough with staying here
For such a knave as you.
Fra. Knave! how now, Phillip?
Art mad, art mad?
Ra. Why, art not thou my man 70
That went to fetch my bowe.[1836]
Fra. Indeed, a bowe
Might shoote me ten bowes downe the weather so:
I your man!
Ra. What art thou, then? 75
Fran. A man: but whats thy name?
Rap. Some call me Raph.
Franke. Then, honest Raph, farewell.[1837]
Ra. Well said, familiar Will! plaine Raph, i faith.
[Hollow within Phillip and Will.[1838]]
Fran. There calles my man. 80
Ra. But there goes mine away;
And yet Ile heare what this next call will say, [Goes out toward the fields.]
And here Ile tarrie till he call againe.
[Enter Will.]
Wil. So ho!
Fran. So ho! where art thou, Phillip? 85
Wil. Sbloud,[1839] Philip!
But now he calde[1840] me Francis: this is fine. [Aside.]
Fran. Why studiest thou? I prethy, tell me, Philip,
Where the wench[1841] is.
Wil. Even now he askt me Francis for the wench, 90
And now he asks[1842] me Phillip for the wench. [Aside]—
Well, sir Raph, I must needes tell ye now,
Tis not for your[1843] credit to be foorth
So late a wenching in this order.
Fran. Whats this? so late a wenching, doth he say? [Aside].—
Indeed, tis true I am thus late a wenching, 96
But I am forc'st to wench without a wench.
Wil. Why, then, you might have tane your bow at first,
And gone and kilde a bucke, and not have been
So long a drabbing, and be nere the neere. 100
Fran. Swounds, what a pussell am I in this night!
But yet Ile put this fellow farther [off][1844] [Aside].—
Doost thou heare, man? I am not sir Raph Smith,
As thou doost thinke I am; but I did meete him,
Even as thou saiest, in pursuite of a wench. 105
I met the wench to, and she[1845] askt for thee,
Saying twas thou that wert her love, her deare,
And that sir Raph was not an honest knight
To traine her thether, and to use her so.
Wil. Sbloud, my wench! swounds, were he ten sir Raphs—
Fran. Nay, tis true, looke to it; and so, farewell. 111
Exit.
Wil. Indeed, I do love Nan, our darie maide:
And hath he traine[d] her forth to that intent,
Or for another? I carrie his crossebow,
And he doth crosse me, shooting in my bow. 115
What shall I do?
[Exit.]
[Scene Eleventh. The Fields between the Grove and the Forest.]
Enter Phillip.[1846]
Phillip. So ho!
Raph. So ho!
Phil. Frances, art thou there?
Ra. No, heres no Francis. Art thou Will, my man?
Phil. Will foole your man, Will gose[1847] your man! 5
My backe, sir, scornes to weare your liverie.
Raph. Nay, sir, I moov'de but such a question to you,
And[1848] it hath not disparegd you, I hope;
Twas but mistaking; such a night as this
May well deceive a man. God boye,[1849] sir. 10
[Exit.]
Phil. Gods will, tis sir Raph Smith, a vertuous knight!
How gently entertaines he my hard answer!
Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly:
I crie him mercie. Well, but all this while
I cannot finde a Francis.—Francis, ho! 15
[Enter Will.]
Wil. Francis, ho! O, you call Francis now!
How have ye usde my Nan? come, tell me, how.
Phil. Thy Nan! what Nan?
Wil. I, what Nan, now! say, do you not seeke a wench?
Phi. Yes, I do. 20
Wil. Then, sir, that is she.
Phil. Art not thou [he] I met withall before?
Wil. Yes, sir; and you did counterfeit before,
And said to me you were not sir Raph Smith.
Phil. No more I am not. I met sir Raph Smith; 25
Even now he askt me if I saw his man.
Wil. O, fine!
Phil. Why, sirra, thou art much deceived in me:
Good faith, I am not he thou thinkst I am.
Wil. What are ye, then? 30
Phi. Why, one that seekes one Francis and a wench.
Wil. And Francis seekes one Phillip and a wench.
Phil. How canst thou tell?
Wil. I met him seeking Phillip and a wench,
As I was seeking sir Raph and a wench. 35
Phil. Why, then, I know the matter: we met crosse,
And so we mist; now here we finde our losse.
Well, if thou wilt, we two will keepe togither,
And so we shall meet right with one or other.
Wil. I am content: but, do you heare me, sir? 40
Did not sir Raph Smith aske yee for a wench?
Phi. No, I promise thee, nor did he looke
For any but thy selfe, as I could gesse.
Wil. Why, this is strange: but, come, sir, lets away;
I feare that we shall walke here till it be day.
Exeunt. 45
Enter Boy.[1850]
[Boy.] O God, I have runne so far into the winde, that I have runne myselfe out of winde! They say a man is neere his end when he lackes breath; and I am at the end of my race, for I can run no farther: then here I be in my breath bed, not in my death bed. 50
[Exit.]
Enter Coomes.
Coom. They say men moyle and toile for a poore living; so I moyle and toile, and am living, I thanke God; in good time be it spoken. It had been better for me my mistresse[1851] angell had beene light, for then perhaps it had not lead me into this darknesse. Well, the divell never blesses a man better, when he purses up angels by owlight: I ranne through a hedge to take the boy, but I stuck in the ditch, and lost the boy. [Falls.] Swounds, a plague on that clod, that mowlhil, that ditch, or what the devil so ere it were, for a man cannot see what it was! Well, I would not for the prize of my sword and buckler any body should see me in this taking, for it would make me but cut off their legges for laughing at me. Well, downe I am, and downe I meane to be, because I am wearie; but to tumble downe thus, it was no parte of my meaning: then, since I am downe, here Ile rest me, and no man shall remoove me. 65
Enter Hodge.
Hodg. O, I have sport in coney, i faith! I have almost burst myselfe with laughing at mistresse Barnes. She was following of her daughter; and I, hearing her, put on my fellow Dickes sword and buckler voyce and his swounds and sbloud words, and led her such a daunce in the darke as it passes. 'Heere she is,' quoth I. 'Where'? quoth she. 'Here,' quoth I. O, it hath been a brave here and there night! but, O, what a soft natured thing the durt is! how it would endure my hard treading, and kisse my feete for acquaintance! and how courteous and mannerly were the clods[1852] to make me stumble onelie of purpose to entreate me lie downe and rest me! But now, and I could find my fellow Dicke, I would play the knave with him honestly, i faith. Well, I will grope in the darke for him, or Ile poke with my staffe, like a blinde man, to prevent a ditch. He stumbles on Dick Coomes.[1853]
Coom. Whose that, with a poxe? 80
Hod. Who art thou, with a pestilence?
Coom. Why, I am Dicke Coomes.
Hodg. What, have I found thee, Dicke? nay, then, I am for yee, Dicke. [Aside.]—Where are ye, Dicke? [Assuming Mistresse Goursey's voice.]
Coom. What can I tell where I am? 85
Hodg. Can yee not tell? come, come, ye waight on your mistresse well! come on your wayes; I have sought you till I am wearie, and calde ye till I am hoarse: good Lord, what a jaunt I have had this night, hey[1854] ho! 89
Coom. Ist you, mistresse, that came over me? sbloud, twere a good deed to come over you for this nights worke. I cannot affoord all this paines for an angell: I tell ye true; a kisse were not cast away upon a good fellow, that hath deserved more that way then a kisse, if your kindnesse would affoord it him: what, shall I have it, mistresse?
Hodg. Fie, fie, I must not kisse my man. 95
Coom. Nay, nay, nere stand; shall I, shall I? nobody sees: say but I shall, and Ile smacke yee[1855] soundly, i faith.
Hodg. Away, bawdie man! in trueth, Ile tell your maister.
Coom. My master! go to, neere tell me of my maister: he may pray for them that may, he is past it; and for mine own part, I can do somewhat that way, I thanke God; I am not now to learne, and tis your part to have your whole desire. 102
Hod. Fie, fie, I am ashamed of you: would you tempt your mistresse to lewdnesse?
Coom. To lewdnesse! no, by my troth, thers no such matter in't, it is for kindnesse; and, by my troth, if you like my gentle offer, you shall have what courteously I can affoord ye. 107
Hod. Shall I indeed, Dicke? I faith, if I thought nobody would see—
Coom. Tush, feare not that; swones, they must have cattes eyes, then. 111
Hod. Then, kisse me, Dick.
Coom. A kinde wenche, i faith! [Aside].—Where are yee, mistresse?
Hodge. Heere, Dick. O, I am in the darke! Dick, go about.
Coom. Nay, Ile grope[1856] sure: where are yee now?[1857] 116
Hodge. Heere.
Coom. A plague on this poast! I would the carpenter had bin hangd that set it up so.[1858]—Where are yee now?
Hod. Heere. 120
Exit.
Coo. Here! O, I come. [Exit.] A plague on it, I am in a pond, mistres!
Hod. [re-entering.] Ha, ha! I have led him into a pond.—Where art thou, Dick?
Coomes. [within.] Up to the middle in a pond! 125
Hod. Make a boate of thy buckler, then, and swim out. Are yee so hot, with a pox? would you kisse my mistresse? coole ye there, then, good Dick Coomes. O, when he comes forth, the skirts of his blew coate will dropp like a paint-house![1859] O, that I could see, and not be seene, how he would spaniell it, and shake himselfe when he comes out of the pond! But Ile be gone; for now heele fight with a flye, if he but buz[1860] in his eare. 132
Exit.
[Re]enter Coomes.
Coom. Heeres so hoing with a plague! so hang, and ye wil, for I have bin almost drownd. A pox of your lips,[1861] and ye call this kissing! Yee talke of a drownd rat, but twas time to swim like a dog; I had bin served like a drowned cat els. I would he had digd his grave that digd the pond! my feete were foule indeed, but a lesse pale then a pond would have served my turne to wash them. A man shall be served thus alwayes, when he followes any of these females; but tis my kinde heart that makes me thus forward in kindnes unto them: well, God amend them, and make them thankfull to them that would do them pleasure. I am not drunke, I would ye should[1862] know it; and yet I have drunke more then will do me good, for I might have had a pumpe set up with as[1863] good March beere as this was, and nere set up an alebush for the matter. Well, I am somewhat in wroth, I must needs say; and yet I am not more angrie then wise, nor more wise then angrie but Ile fight with the next man I meete, and it be but for luck sake; and if he love to see him selfe hurt, let him bring light with him; Ile do it by darkling els, by Gods dines. Well, heere will I walke, whoso ever sayes nay. 151
Enter Nicholas [with a torch].
Nic. He that worse may, must holde the candle; but my maister is not so wise as God might have made him. He is gone to seeke a hayre in a hennes nest, a needle in a bottle of haye, which is as sildome seene as a black swan: he is gone to seeke my yong mistresse; and I thinke she is better lost then found, for who so ever hath her, hath but a wet eele by the taile. But they may do as they list; the law is in their owne hands; but, and they would be ruld by me, they should set her on the leland,[1864] and bid the divell split her; beshrew her fingers, she hath made me watch past mine hower; but Ile watch her a good turne for it. 161
Coom. How, whose that? Nicholas!—So, first come, first servd; I am for him.—How now, proverbe, proverbe? sbloud, howe now, proverbe?
Ni. My name is Nicholas, Richard; and I knowe your meaning, and I hope ye meane no harme: I thanke ye, I am the better for your asking. 167
Coo. Where have you been a whoring thus late, ha?
Ni. Master Richard, the good wife would not seeke her daughter in the oven unlesse she had been there her selfe: but, good Lord, you are knuckle deep in durt!—I warrant, when he was in, he swore Walsingham,[1865] and chaft terrible for the time.—Looke, the water drops from you as fast as hops. 173
Coom. What needst thou to care, whipper-jenny,[1866] tripe-cheekes[1867]? out, you fat asse!
Ni. Good words cost nought, ill wordes corrupts good manners, Richard: for a hasty man never wants woe; and I had thought you had bin my friend; but I see al is not gold that glisters; ther's falshood in fellowship; amicus certus in re certa cernitur; time and truth tries all; and tis an olde proverbe, and not so old as true, bought wit is[1868] best; I can see day at a little hole; I know your minde as well as though I were within you; tis ill halting before a criple: go to, you seek to quarrel; but beware of had I wist[1869]; so long goes the pot to the water, at length it comes home broken[1870]; I know you are as good a man as ever drew sword, or as was ere girt in a girdle, or as ere went on neats leather, or as one shall see upon a summers day, or as ere lookt man in the face, or as ere trode on Gods earth, or as ere broke bread or drunk drinke; but he is proper that hath proper conditions; but be not you like the cowe, that gives a good sope of milke, and casts it downe with her[1871] heeles; I speake plainly, for plaine dealing is a jewel, and he that useth it shal dye a begger; well, that happens in an houre, that happens not in seaven yeeres; a man is not so soone whole as hurt; and you should kill a man, you would kisse his—well, I say little, but I thinke the more.—Yet Ile give him good words; tis good to hold a candle before the devell; yet, by Gods me,[1872] Ile take no wrong, if he had a head as big as Brasse,[1873] or lookt as high as Poules steeple. 197 [Aside.]
Coo. Sirra, thou grashoper, that shalt skip from my sword as from a sith; Ile cut thee out in collops, and egs, in steekes, in sliste beefe, and frye thee with the fire I shall strike from the pike of thy buckler.
Nich. I, Brag's a good dog; threatned folkes live long. 201
Nic. Why, I say not so much as How do ye?
Coo. Do ye not so, sir?
Nic. No, indeed, what so ere I thinke; and thought is free. 205
Coo. You whoreson wafer-cake, by Gods dines,[1874] Ile crush yee for this!
Ni. Give an inch, and youle take an elle; I wil not put my finger in a hole, I warrant ye: what, man! nere crow so fast, for a blinde man may kill a hare; I have knowne when a plaine fellow hath hurt a fencer, so I have: what! a man may be as slow as a snaile, but as fierce as a lyon and he be mooved; indeed, I am patient, I must needs say, for patience in adversity brings a man to the Three Cranes in the Ventree.[1875] 214
Coo. Do ye heare? set downe your torch; drawe, fight, I am for ye.
Ni. And I am for ye too, though it be from this midnight to the next morne.
Coo. Where be your tooles?
Nic. Within a mile of an oake, sir; hee's a proud horse will not carry his owne provender, I warrant ye. 221
Coo. Now am I in my quarrelling humor, and now can I say nothing but Sownes, draw! but Ile untrus, and then have to it. [Aside.]
Enter [severally] Hodge and Boy.
Hod. Whose there? boy! honest boy, well met: where hast thou bin? 225
Boy. O Hodge, Dicke Coomes hath been as good as a crye of hounds, to make a breathd[1876] hayre of me! but didst thou see my master?
Hod. I met him even now, and he askt me for thee, and he is gone up and downe, whoing like[1877] an owle for thee. 230
Boy. Owle, ye asse!
Hod. Asse! no, nor glasse, for then it had been Owleglasse[1878]: but whose that, boy?
Bo. By the masse, tis our Coomes and Nicolas; and it seemes they are providing to fight. 235
Hod. Then, we shall have fine sport, i faith. Sirra, lets stand close, and when they have fought a bout or two, weele run away with the torch, and leave them to fight darkling; shall we?
Boy. Content; Ile get the torch: stand close. 239
Coo. So, now my back hath roome to reach: I doe not love to be lac't[1879] in, when I goe to lace[1879] a rascall. I pray God, Nicholas proove not a fly:[1880] it would do me good to deale with a good man now, that we might have halfe a dozen good smart stroakes. Ha, I have seen the day I could have daunst in my fight, on, two, three, foure, and five, on the head of him; six, seaven, eight, nine, and ten, on the sides of him; and, if I went so far as fifteene, I warrant I shewed[1881] him a trick of one and twentie; but I have not fought this foure dayes, and I lacke a little practise of my warde; but I shall make a shift: ha, close [Aside].—Are ye disposed, sir? 249
Nic. Yes, indeed, I feare no colours:[1882] change sides, Richard.
Coo. Change the gallowes! Ile see thee hangd[1883] first.
Nich. Well, I see the foole will not leave his bable[1884] for the Tower of London.
Coo. Foole, ye roge! nay, then, fall to it.
Nic. Good goose, bite not. 255
Coo. Sbloud, how pursey I am! Well, I see exercise is all: I must practise my weapons oftner; I must have a goale or two at foote-ball before I come to my right kind [Aside].—Give me thy hand, Nicholas: thou art a better man then I took thee for, and yet thou art not so good a man as I. 260
Ni. You dwell by ill neighbours, Richard; that makes yee praise your selfe.
Coo. Why, I hope thou wilt say I am a man?
Ni. Yes, Ile say so, if I should see yee[1885] hangd. 264
Coo. Hangd, ye roge! nay, then, have at yee. [While they fight, exeunt Hodge, and Boy with the torch.] Swones,[1886] the light is gone!
Ni. O Lord, it is as darke as pitch!
Coo. Well, heere Ile lye, with my buckler thus, least striking up and downe at randall,[1887] the roge might hurt me, for I cannot see to save it, and Ile hold my peace, least my voyce should bring him where I am. 271
[Lies down and covers himself with his buckler.]
Nic. Tis good to have a cloake for the raine; a bad shift is better than none at all; Ile sit heere, as if I were as dead as a doore naile.
[Scene Twelfth. The Grove.]
Enter M. Barnes and M. Goursey.[1888]
M. Gou. Harke! theres one holloes.
M. Bar. And theres another.
M. Gour. And every where we come, I heere some hollo,
And yet it is our haps to meete with none.
M. Bar. I marvell where your Hodge is, and my man. 5
M. Gour. I, and our wives; we cannot meet with them,
Nor with the boye, nor Mall, nor Franke, nor Phillip,
Nor yet with Coomes, and yet we nere stood still.
Well, I am very angry with my wife,
And she shall finde I am not pleasd with her, 10
If we meete nere so soone: but tis my hope.[1889]
She hath had as blind a journey ont[1890] as we;
Pray God, she have, and worse, if worse may be!
M. Bar. This is but short liv'de envie,[1891] maister Goursey:
But, come, what say yee to my pollicie?[1892] 15
M. Gou. I faith, tis good, and we will practise it;
But, sir, it must be handeled cunningly,
Or all is mard; our wives have subtill heads,
And they will soone perceive a drift devise.
Enter Sir Raphe Smith.
Raph. So ho! 20
M. Gour. So ho!
M. Bar. Heers on[e] or two.
Raph. Is Will there?
M. Bar. No. Phillip? 25
M. Gour. Franke?
Raph. No, no.—
Was ever man deluded thus like me?
I thinke some spirit leads me thus amisse,
As I have often heard that some have bin 30
Thus in the nights.
But yet this mases me; where ere I come,
Some askes me still for Franke or Phillip,
And none of them can tell me where Will is. [Aside.]
Wil. So ho! } 35
Phil. So ho! }
Hodg. So ho!} They hollo within.
Boy. So ho! }
Rap. Sownes, now I heere foure hollo at the least!
One had a little voice; then thats the wench 40
My man hath lost: well, I will answer all. [Aside.]
So ho!
[Enter Hodge.]
Hodg. Whope, whope!
Raph. Whose there? Will? 44
Hod. No, sir; honest Hodge: but, I pray yee, sir, did yee not meete with a boye with a torche? he is runne away from me, a plague on him!
Raph. Hey day, from Franke and Phillip to a torche,
And to a boye! nay, sownes, then, hap as twill. [Aside.]
[Exeunt Sir Raph and Hodge severally.]
M. Gour. Who goes there? 50
[Enter Will.]
Wil. Gesse heere.
M. Bar. Phillip?
Wil. Phillip! no, faith; my names Will,—ill will, for I was never worse: I was even now with him, and might have been still, but that I fell into a ditch and lost him, and now I am going up and downe to seeke him. 56
M. Gor. What wouldst thou do with him?
Wil. Why, I would have him go with me to my maisters.
M. Gou. Whose thy maister?
Wil. Why, sir Raphe Smith; and thether he promist me he would come; if he keepe his worde, so tis. 61
M. Ba. What was he[1893] doing when thou first found[1894] him?
Wil. Why, he holloed for one Francis, and Francis hollod for him; I hallod for my maister, and my maister for me; but we mist still, meeting contrary, Phillip and Francis with me and my maister, and I and my maister with Philip and Franke. 66
M. Gou. Why, wherefore is sir Raphe so late abroade?
Wil. Why, he ment to kill a buck,—Ile say so to save his honestie, but my Nan was his marke [Aside]—and when[1895] he sent me for his bow, and when I came, I hollod for him; but I never saw such luck to misse him, it hath almost made me mad. 71
M. Bar. Well, stay with us; perhaps sir Raphe and he Will come anon: harke! I do heere one hollo.
Enter Phillip [from the fields.]
Phil. Is this broad waking in a winters night?
I am broad walking in a winters night,— 75
Broad indeed, because I am abroad,—
But these broad fields methinks are not so broad
That they may keepe me foorth of narrow ditches.
Heers a hard world!
For I can hardly keep myself upright in it: 80
I am marvellous dutifull—but, so ho!
Wil. So ho!
Phil. Whose there?
Wil. Heeres Will.
Ph. What, Will! how scapst thou? 85
Wil. What, sir?
Ph. Nay, not hanging, but drowning: wert thou in a pond or a ditche?
Wil. A pestilence on it! ist you, Phillip? no, faith, I was but durty a little: but heeres one or two askt for yee. 90
Phil. Who be they, man?
M. Bar. Philip, tis I and maister Goursey.
Phi. Father, O father, I have heard them say
The dayes of ignorance are past and done;
But I am sure the nights of ignorance 95
Are not yet past, for this is one of them.
But wheres my sister?
M. Bar. Why, we cannot tell.
Ph. Wheres Francis?
M. Gour. Neither saw we him. 100
Phi. Why, this is fine.
What, neither he nor I, nor she nor you,
Nor I nor she, nor you and I, till[1896] now,
Can meet, could meet, or nere, I thinke, shall meete!
Cal ye this woing? no, tis Christmas sport 105
Of Hob man blind:[1897] all blind, all seek to catch,
All misse,—but who comes heere?[1898]
Enter Franke and his Boye [with torch].
Fra. O, have I catcht yee, sir? it was your dooing
That made me have this pretty daunce to night;
Had not you spoake, my mother had not scard me: 110
But I will swinge ye for it.
Phil. Keepe the kings peace!
Fran. How! art thou become a constable?
Why, Phillip, where hast thou bin all this while?
Ph. Why, where you were not: but, I pray, whers my sister?
Fran. Why, man, I saw her not; but I have sought her 116
As I should seeke seeke—
Phil. A needle, have yee not?
Why, you, man, are the needle that she seekes
To worke withall. Well, Francis, do you heere? 120
You must not answere so, that you have sought her;
But have yee found her? faith, and if you have,
God give yee joy of that ye found with her!
Fra.[1899] I saw her not: how could I finde her?
M. Gou. Why, could yee misse from maister Barnses house
Unto his cunnyberry? 126
Fran. Whether I could or no, father, I did.
Phil. Father, I did! well, Franke, wilt thou beleeve me,
Thou dost not know how much this same doth greeve me:
Shall it be said thou mist so plaine a way, 130
When as so faire a wenche did for thee stay?
Fra. Sownes, man!
Phi. Sownes, man! and if thou hadst bin blinde,
The cunny-borow thou needst must finde.
I tell thee, Francis, had it bin my case, 135
And I had bin a woer in thy place,
I would have laide my head unto the ground,
And sented out my wenches way, like a hound;
I would have crept upon my knees all night,
And have made the flint stones linckes to give me light. 140
Nay, man, I would—
Fran. Good Lord, what you would doe!
Well, we shall see one day how you can woe.
M. Gor. Come, come, we see that we have all bin crost;
Therefore lets go, and seeke them we have lost.
Exeunt.
[Scene Thirteenth. The Same.[1900]]
Enter Mal.
[Mal]. Am I alone? doth not my mother come?
Her torch I see not, which I well might see,
If any way she were comming toward me:
Why, then, belike shees gone some other way;
And may she go till I bid her turne! 5
Farre shall her way be then, and little faire,
For she hath hindered me of my good turne;
God send her wet and wearie ere she turne!
I had beene at Oxenford, and to morrow
Have beene releast from all my maidens sorrow, 10
And tasted joy, had not my mother bin;
God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sinne!
How many maides this night lyes in their beds,
And dreame that they have lost their maidenheads!
Such dreames, such slumbers I had to[o] enjoyde, 15
If waking mallice had not them destroide.
A starved man with double death doth dye,
To have the meate might save him in his eye,
And may not have it: so am I tormented,
To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented. 20
Well, Franke, although thou woedst and quickly wonne,
Yet shall my love to thee be never done;
Ile run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and briers,
To come to thee, sole lord of my desires:
Short woing is the best, an houre, not yeares, 25
For long debating love is full of feares.
But, hearke! I heare one tread. O, wert my brother,
Or Franke, or any man, but not my mother!
[Enter Sir Raph Smith from the fields.]
S. Rap. O, when will this same yeare of night have end?
Long lookt for daies sunne, when wilt thou ascend? 30
Let not this theefe friend, misty vale[1901] of night,
Incroach on day, and shadow thy faire light,
Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetes bed,
Blushing foorth, golden haire and glorious red;
O, stay not long, bright lanthorne of the day, 35
To light my mist way[1902] feete to my right way!
Mall. It is a man, his big voice tels me so,
Much am I not acquainted with it tho;
And yet mine eare, sounds true distinguisher,
Boyes[1903] that I have been more familiar 40
With it then now I am: well, I doe judge,
It is not envies fellon, not of grudge[1904];
Therefore Ile plead acquaintance, hyer his guiding,
And buy of him some place of close abiding,
Till that my mothers mallice be expired, 45
And we may joy in that is long desired [Aside].—
Whose there?
Ra. Are ye a maide?—No question this is she
My man doth misse: faith, since she lights on me,
I doe not meane till day to let her goe; 50
For what[1905] she is my mans love I will know [Aside].—
Harke ye, mayde, if mayde, are ye so light
That you can see to wander in the night?
Mal. Harke ye, true man, if true, I tell you, no;
I cannot see at all which way I goe. 55
Ra. Fayre mayde, ist so? say, had ye nere a fall?
Mal. Fayre man, not so; no, I had none at all.
Ra. Could you not stumble on one man, I pray?
Mal. No, no such blocke till now came in my way.
Ra. Am I that blocke, sweete tripe? then, fall and try. 60
Ma. The grounds too hard a feather-bed; not I.
Ra. Why, how and you had met with such a stumpe?
Mal. Why, if he had been your height, I meant to jumpe.
Ra. Are ye so nimble?
Mal. Nimble as a doe. 65
Ra. Backt in a pye.
Mal. Of ye.
Ra. Good meate ye know.
Mall. Ye hunt sometimes?
Ra. I do. 70
Mal. What take ye?
Ra. Deare.
Mall. You'l nere strike rascall[1906]?
Mal. Will ye strike me? 75
Rap. Yes: will ye strike againe?[1907]
Mall. No, sir; it fits not maides to fight with men.
Ra. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might know.
Mall. Why, you may finde it, sir, in the Christcrosse row.
Rap. Be my schoolemistresse, teach me how to spell it. 80
Mall. No, faith, I care not greatly if I tell it;
My name is Marie Barnes.
Ra. How, wench? Mall Barnes!
Mal. The verie same.
Rap. Why, this is strange. 85
Mal. I pray, sir, whats your[1908] name?
Raph. Why, sir Raph Smith doth wonder, wench, at this;
Why, whats the cause thou art abroad so late?
Mal. What, sir Raph Smith! nay, then, I will disclose
All the hole cause to him, in him repose 90
My hopes, my love: God him, I hope, did send
Our loves and both our mothers hates to end. [Aside].—
Gentle sir Raph, if you my blush might see,
You then would say I am ashamed to be
Found, like a wandring stray, by such a knight, 95
So farre from home at such a time of night:
But my excuse is good; love first by fate
Is crost, controulde,[1909] and sundered by fell hate.
Franke Goursey is my love, and he loves me;
But both our mothers hate and disagree; 100
Our fathers like the match and wish it don;
And so it had, had not our mothers come;
To Oxford we concluded both to go;
Going to meete, they came; we parted so;
My mother followed me, but I ran fast, 105
Thinking who went from hate had need make hast;
Take me she cannot, though she still persue:
But now, sweet knight, I do repose on you;
Be you my orator and plead my right,
And get me one good day for this bad night. 110
Ra. Alas, good heart, I pitty thy hard hap!
And Ile employ all that I may for thee.
Franke Goursey, wench! I do commend thy choyse:
Now I remember I met one Francis,
As I did seeke my man,—then, that was he,— 115
And Philip too,—belike that was thy brother:
Why, now I find how I did loose myself,
And wander[1910] up and down, mistaking so.
Give me thy hand, Mall: I will never leave
Till I have made your mothers friends againe, 120
And purchast to ye both your hearts delight,
And for this same one bad many a good night.
Twill not be long ere that Aurora will,
Deckt in the glory of a goldon sunne,
Open the christall windowes of the east, 125
To make the earth enamourde of her[1911] face,
When we shall have cleare light to see our way:
Come; night being done, expect a happy day.
Exeunt.
[Scene Fourteenth. A Hillside in the Fields.[1912]]
Enter Mistresse Barnes [with torch].
Mis. Ba. O, what a race this peevish girle hath led me!
How fast I ran, and now how weary I am!
I am so out of breath I scarce can speake,—
What shall I doe?—and cannot overtake her.
It is[1913] late and darke, and I am far from home: 5
May there not theeves lye watching heere about,
Intending mischiefe unto them they meete?
There may; and I am much affrayde of them,
Being alone without all company.
I doe repent me of my coming foorth; 10
And yet I do not,—they had else beene married,
And that I would not for ten times more labour.
But what a winter of colde feare I thole,[1914]
Freecing my heart, least danger should betide me!
What shal I do to purchase company? 15
I heare some hollow here about the fields:
Then here Ile set my torch upon this hill,
Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it;
They that have lost theyr way, seeing a light,
For it may be seene farre off in the night, 20
Will come to it. Well, here Ile lye vnseene,[1915]
And looke who comes, and chuse my company:
Perhaps my daughter may first come to it. [Retires to one side.]
[Enter Mistresse Goursey.]
Mi. Gour. Where am I now? nay, where was I even now?
Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I. 25
I thinke I am going home: I may as well
Be[1916] going from home; tis so very darke,
I cannot see how to direct a step.
I lost my man, pursuing of my sonne;
My sonne escapt me too: now, all alone, 30
I am enforst[1917] to wander up and downe.
Barnses wife's abroad: pray God, that she
May have as good a daunce, nay, ten times worse!
Oh, but I feare she hath not; she hath light
To see her way. O, that some[1918] bridge would breake, 35
That she might fall into some deep digd ditch,
And eyther breake her bones or drowne her selfe!
I would these mischiefes I could wish to her
Might light on her!—but, soft; I see a light:
I will go neere; tis comfortable, 40
After this nights sad spirits dulling[1919] darknes.
How now? what, is it set to keep it selfe?
Mis. Bar. A plague ont, is she there? [Aside.]
Mis. Gou. O, how it cheares and quickens up my thoughts!
Mis. Bar. O, that it were the besseliskies fell eye, 45
To poyson thee! [Aside.]
Mi. Gou. I care not if I take it,—
Sure none is here to hinder me,—
And light me home.
Mi. Bar. I had rather she were hangd 50
Then I should set it there to doe her good. [Aside.]
Mis. Go. I faith, I will.
Mi. Ba. I faith, you shall not, mistresse;
Ile venter a burnt finger but Ile have it. [Aside.]
Mi. Gou. Yet Barnses wife would chafe, if that she knew 55
That I had this good lucke to get a light.
Mi. Ba. And so she doth; but praise your[1920] lucke at parting. [Aside.]
Mi. Go. O, that it were[1921] her light, good faith, that she
Might darkling walke about as well as I!
Mi. Ba. O, how this mads me, that she hath her wish! [Aside.]
Mi. Go. How I would laugh to see her trot about! 61
Mi. Bar. Oh, I could cry for anger and for rage! [Aside.]
Mi. Go. But who should set it here, I marvel, a Gods name.
Mi. Bar. One that will hav'te from you, in the devils name. [Aside.]
Mi. Go. Ile lay my life that it was Barnses sonne. 65
Mi. Ba. No, forsooth, it was Barnses wife. [Advancing to seize torch.]
Mi. Gou. A plague upon her, how she made me start! [Aside].—
Mistresse, let go the torch. [They struggle for it.]
Mis. Bar. No, but I will not.
Mh. Gou. Ile thrust it in thy face, then. 70
Mi. Bar. But you shall not.
Mi. Gou. Let go, I say.
Mi. Ba. Let you go, for tis mine.
Mis. Go. But my possession saies, it is none of thine.
Mi. Bar. Nay, I have holde too. 75
Mi. Gou. Well, let go thy hold,[1922] or I will spurn thee.
Mi. Bar. Do; I can spurne thee too.
Mi. Ba. I, that I can.
Enter Master Goursey and Barnes.
M. Gou. Why, how now, woman?[1923] how unlike to women 80
Are ye both now! come, part, come, part, I say.
M. Ba. Why, what immodesty is[1924] this in you!
Come, part, I say; fie, fie.
Mi. Ba. Fie, fie! I say, she shall not have my torch.—
Give me thy torch, boy:—I will run a tilt, 85
And burne out both her eyes in my encounter.
Mi. Go. Give roome, and lets have this hot cariere.[1925]
M. Go. I say, ye shall not: wife, go to, tame your thoughts
That are so mad with fury.
M. Ba. And, sweet wife, 90
Temper your rage with patience; do not be
Subject so much to such misgovernment.
Mi. Bar. Shal I not, sir, when such a strumpet wrongs me?
Mi. Go. How, strumpet, mistris Barnes! nay, I pray, harke ye:
I oft indeed have heard you call her so, 95
And I have thought upon it, why ye should
Twit her with name of strumpet; do you know
Any hurt by her, that you terme her so?
M. Ba. No, on my life; rage onely makes her say so.
M. Go. [with pretended suspicion]. But I would know whence this same rage should come; 100
Whers smoke, theres fire; and my heart misgives
My wives intemperance hath got that name;—
And, mistresse Barnes, I doubt and shrewdly[1926] doubt,
And some great cause begets this doubt in me,
Your husband and my wife doth wrong us both. 105
M Ba. [with assumed indignation]. How! thinke ye so? nay, master Goursey, then,
You run in debt to my opinion,
Because you pay not such advised wisedome
As I thinke due unto my good conceit.
M. Go. [angrily]. Then still I feare I shall your debter proove.
[M. Bar.].[1927] Then I arrest you in the name of love;
Not bale, but present answere to my plea; 112
And in the court of reason we will try
If that good thoughts should beleeve jelousie. [They make as if they were fighting.]
[Enter Phillip, Frank, Coomes, &c.]
Phil. Why, looke you, mother, this is long of you.— 115
For Gods sake, father, harke! why, these effects
Come still from womens malice: part, I pray.—
Comes, Wil, and Hodge, come all, and helpe us part them!— [They try to part the combatants.
Father, but heare me speake one word, no more.
Franke. Father, but heare me[1928] speake, then use your will. 120
Phil. Crie peace betweene ye for a little while.
Mi. Gou. [pulling her husband off]. Good husband, heare him speake.
Mis. Bar. [pulling at hers]. Good husband, heare him.
Coom. [pulling at Goursey]. Maister, heare him speake; hees a good wise young stripling for his yeeres, I tell ye, and perhaps may speake wiser then an elder body; therefore heare him. 126
Hod. Master, heare, and make an end; you may kil one another in jest, and be hanged in earnest.
[He parts them.]
M. Go. Come, let us heare him.—Then, speake quickly, Phillip. 129
M. Ba. Thou shouldst have done ere this; speak, Phil, speak.
Mis. Bar. O Lord, what haste you make to hurt your selves!—
Good Phillip, use some good perswasions
To make them friends.
Phi. Yes, Ile doe what I can.—
Father, and master Goursey, both attend. 135
It is presumption in so young a man
To teach where he might learne, or [to][1929] derect
Where he hath had direction; but in duety
He may perswade as long as his perswase
Is backt with reason and a rightfull sute. 140
Phisickes first rule is this, as I have learned,
Kill the effect by cutting of the cause:[1930]
The same effects of ruffin outrages
Comes by the cause of mallice in your wives;
Had not they two bin foes, you had bin friends, 145
And we had bin at home, and this same war
In peacefull sleep had nere bin dreamt upon.—
Mother, and mistresse Goursey, to make them friends,
Is to be friends your selves: you are the cause,
And these effects proceed, you know, from you; 150
Your hates give life unto these killing strifes,
But dye and if that envy dye in you.—
[The fathers make as if to renew the combat.]
Fathers, yet stay.—O, speake!—O, stay a while!—[They desist.]
Francis, perswade thy mother.—Maister Goursey,
If that my mother will resolve[1931] your minde[1932] 155
That tis but meere suspect, not common proofe,
And if my father sweares hees innocent,
As I durst pawne my soule with him he is,
And if your wife vow truth and constancy,
Will you be then perswaded? 160
M. Gou. Phillip, if thy father will remit
The wounds I gave him, and if these conditions
May be performde, I bannish all my wrath.
M. Bar. And if thy mother will but cleere me, Phillip,
As I am ready to protest I am, 165
Then master Goursey is my friend againe.
Phi. Harke, mother; now you heare that your desires
May be accomplished; they will both be friends,
If you'l performe these easie[1933] articles.
Mi. Ba. Shall I be friends with such an enemy? 170
Phil. What say you unto my perswase?
Mi. Ba. I say shees my deadly enemie.
Phil. I, but she will be your friend, if you revolt.[1934]
Mi. Ba. The words I said! what, shall I eate a truth?
Phi. Why, harke ye, mother. 175
Fra. Mother, what say you?
Mis. Go. Why, this I say, she slaundered my good name.
Fra. But if she now denie it, tis no defame.
Mi. Go. What, shall I thinke her hate will yeeld so much?
Fra. Why, doubt it not; her spirit may be such. 180
M. Go. [Impatient for the reconciliation.] Why, will it be?
Phi. Yet stay, I have some hope.
Mother, why, mother, why, heare ye.[1935]
Give me your hand; it is no more but thus;
Tis easie labour to shake hands with her: 185
A[1936] little breath is spent in speaking of faire words,
When wrath hath violent deliveries.[1937]
M. Bar. What, shall we be resolved? [As if to renew the fray.]
Mi. Bar. O husband, stay!— [Stepping between them.]
Stay, maister Goursey: though your wife doth hate me, 190
And beares unto me mallice infinite
And endlesse, yet I will respect your safeties;
I would not have you perish by our meanes:
I must confesse that onely suspect,
And no proofe els, hath fed my hate to her. 195
Mi. Gour. And, husband, I protest by heaven and earth
That her suspect is causles and unjust,
And that I nere had such a vilde intent;
Harme she imaginde, where as none was ment.
Phil. Loe, sir, what would yee more? 200
M. Bar. Yes, Phillip, this;
That I confirme him in my innocence
By this large universe.
M. Gour. [with show of continued impatience.] By that I sweare,
Ile credit none of you, until I heere 205
Friendship concluded straight betweene them two:
If I see that they willingly will doe,
Then Ile imagine all suspition ends;
I may be then assured, they being friends.
Phil. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so. 210
Mi. Bar. What, shall I sue for friendship to my foe?
Phil. No: if she yeeld, will you?
Mi. Ba. It may be, I.
Phil. Why, this is well. The other I will trie.—
Come, mistresse Goursey, do you first agree. 215
Mi. Gour. What, shall I yeeld unto mine enemie?
Phil. Why, if she will, will you?
Mi. Gou. Perhaps I will.
Phil. Nay, then, I finde this goes well forward still.
Mother, give me your hand,—give me yours to[o]; 220
Be not so loath; some good thing I must do;
But lay your torches by, I like not them;
Come, come, deliver them unto your men:
Give me your hands.—So, now, sir, heere I stand,
Holding two angrie women in my hand: 225
And I must please them both; I could please tone,[1938]
But it is hard when there is two to one,
Especially of women; but tis so,
They shall be pleasd whether they will or no.—
Which will come first? what, both give back! ha, neither! 230
Why, then, yond may helpe that come both together.[1939]
So, stand still, stand[1940] but a little while,
And see how I your angers will beguile.
Well, yet there is no hurt; why, then, let me
Joyne these two hands, and see how theil agree: 235 [They kiss.]
Peace, peace! they crie; looke how they friendly kisse!
Well, all this while there is no harme in this:
Are not these two twins? twins should be both alike,
If tone speakes faire, the tother should not strike:
Jesus, these warriours will not offer blowes! 240
Why, then, tis strange that you two should be foes.
O, yes, youle say, your weapons are your tongues;
Touch lip with lip, and they are bound from wrongs:
Go to, imbrace, and say, if you be friends,
That heere the angrie womens quarrels ends. 245 [They embrace.]
Mi. Gou. Then heere it ends, if mistres Barnes say so.
Mi. Bar. If you say, I, I list not to say, no.
M. Gou. If they be friends, by promise we agree.
M. Bar. And may this league of friendship ever be!
Phil. What saist thou, Franke? doth not this fall out well? 250
Fran. Yes, if my Mall were heere, then all were well.
Enter Sir Raphe Smith with Mall [who stands aside].
Raph. Yonder they be, Mall: stay, stand close, and stur not,
Untill I call.—God save yee, gentlemen!
M. Bar. What, sir Raph Smith! you are a welcome man:
We wondred when we heard you were abroad. 255
Raph. Why, sir, how heard yee that I was abroad?
M. Bar. By your man.
Raph. My man! where is he?
Will. Heere.
Raph. O, yee are a trustie squire! 260
Nic. It had bin better, and he had said, a sure carde.
Phil. Why, sir?
Nic. Because it is the proverbe.
Phil. Away, yee asse!
Nic. An asse goes a foure legs; I go of two, Christ crosse. 265
Phi. Hold your tongue.
Nic. And make no more adoe.
M. Gou. Go to, no more adoe.—Gentle sir Raphe,
Your man is not in fault for missing you,
For he mistooke by us, and we by him. 270
Raph. And I by you; which now I well perceive.
But tell me, gentlemen, what made yee all
Be from your beds this night, and why thus late
Are your wives walking heere about the fields:[1941]
Tis strange to see such women of accoumpt 275
Heere; but I gesse some great occasion.
M. Gour. Faith, this occasion, sir: women will jarre;
And jarre they did to day, and so they parted;
We knowing womens mallice let alone
Will, canker like, eate farther in their hearts, 280
Did seeke a sodaine cure, and thus it was,—
A match betweene his daughter and my sonne:
No sooner motioned but twas agreed,
And they no sooner saw but wooed and likte:
They have it sought to crosse, and crosse it thus. 285
Rap. Fye, mistresse Barnes, and mistresse Goursey both;
The greatest sinne wherein your soules may sinne,
I thinke, is this, in crossing of true love:
Let me perswade yee.
Mi. Bar. Sir, we are perswaded, 290
And I and mistresse Goursey are both friends;
And, if my daughter were but found againe,
Who now is missing, she had my consent
To be disposd off to her owne content.
Raph. I do rejoyce that what I thought to doe, 295
Ere I begin, I finde already done:
Why, this will please your friends at Abington.—
Franke, if thou seekst that way, there thou shalt finde
Her, whom I holde the comfort of thy minde.
Mall. [coming forward]. He shall not seeke me; I will seeke him out, 300
Since of my mothers graunt I need not doubt.
Mi. Bar. Thy mother graunts, my girle, and she doth pray
To send unto you both a joyfull day!
Hodg. Nay, mistresse Barnes, I wish her better; that those joyfull dayes may be turned to joyfull nights. 305
Coom. Faith, tis a pretty wench, and tis pitty but she should have him.
Nich. And, mistresse Mary, when yee go to bed, God send you good rest, and a peck a fleas in your nest, every one as big as Francis! 310
Phil. Well said, wisdome: God send thee wise children!
Nich. And you more money.
Phil. I, so wish I.
Nich. Twill be a good while ere you wish your skin full of ilet holes.
Phil. Franke, harke ye: brother, now your woings doone, 315
The next thing now you do is for a sonne;
I prithe, for, i faith, I should be glad
To have myselfe cald nunckle, and thou dad.—
Well, sister, if that Francis play the man,
My mother must be grandam, and you mam.— 320
To it, Francis,—to it, sister!—God send yee joy!
Tis fine to sing, "dansey, my owne sweete boye!"
Fra. Well, sir, jest on.
Phil. Nay, sir,[1942] do you jest on.
M. Bar. Well, may she proove a happy wife to him! 325
M. Gou. And may he proove as happy unto her!
Raph. Well, gentlemen, good hap betide them both!
Since twas my hap thus happily to meete,
To be a witnesse of this sweete contract,
I doe rejoyce; wherefore, to have this joye 330
Longer present with me, I do request
That all of you will be my promist guests:
This long nights labour dooth desire some rest,
Besides this wished end; therefore, I pray,
Let me deteine yee but a dinner time: 335
Tell me, I pray, shall I obtaine so much?
M. Bar. Gentle sir Raphe, your courtesie is such
As may impose commaund unto us all;
We will be thankfull bolde at your request.
Phil. I pray, sir Raph, what cheere shall we have? 340
S. Raph. I faith, countrie fare, mutton and veale,
Perchance a ducke or goose.
Mal. Oh, I am sick!
All. How now, Mall? whats the matter?
Mal. Father and mother, if you needs would know, 345
He nam'd a goose, which is my stomacks foe.
Phil. Come, come, she is with childe of some od jest,
And now shees sicke till that she bring[1943] it foorth.
Mal. A jest, quoth you! well, brother, if it be,
I feare twill proove an earnest unto me.— 350
Goose, said ye, sir? Oh, that same very name
Hath in it much variety of shame!
Of all the birds that ever yet was seene,
I would not have them graze upon this greene;
I hope they will not, for this crop is poore, 355
And they may pasture upon greater store:
But yet tis pittie that they let them passe,
And like a common bite the Muses grasse.
Yet this I feare; if Franke and I should kisse,
Some creeking goose would chide us with a hisse: 360
I meane not that goose that sings it knowes not what;[1944]
Tis not that hisse when one saies, 'hist, come hither';
Nor that same hisse that setteth dogges together;
Nor that same hisse that by a fire doth stand,
And hisseth T. or F.[1945] upon the hand; 365
But tis a hisse, and Ile unlace my cote,
For I should sound[1946] sure, if I heard that note,
And then 'greene ginger for the greene goose' cries,
Serves not the turne,—I turn'd the white of eyes.
The rosa-solis[1947] yet that makes me live 370
Is favour[1948] that these gentlemen may give;
But if they be displeased, then pleasde am I,
To yeeld my selfe a hissing death to dye:
Yet I hope heeres none consents to kill,
But kindly take the favour of good will. 375
If any thing be in the pen to blame,
Then here stand I to blush the writers shame:
If this be bad, he promises a better;
Trust him, and he will proove a right true debter.
[Exeunt.]