The London Prodigal

by Unknown

ACT I.

SCENE I. London. A room in Flowerdale Junior’s house.

[Enter old Flowerdale and his brother.]

FATHER.
Brother, from Venice, being thus disguised,
I come to prove the humours of my son.
How hath he borne himself since my departure,
I leaving you his patron and his guide?

UNCLE.
Ifaith, brother, so, as you will grieve to hear,
And I almost ashamed to report it.

FATHER. Why, how ist, brother? what, doth he spend beyond the allowance I left him?

UNCLE. How! beyond that? and far more: why, your exhibition is nothing. He hath spent that, and since hath borrowed; protested with oaths, alleged kindred to wring money from me,—by the love I bore his father, by the fortunes might fall upon himself, to furnish his wants: that done, I have had since his bond, his friend and friend’s bond. Although I know that he spends is yours; yet it grieves me to see the unbridled wildness that reins over him.

FATHER. Brother, what is the manner of his life? how is the name of his offences? If they do not relish altogether of damnation, his youth may privilege his wantonness: I myself ran an unbridled course till thirty, nay, almost till forty;—well, you see how I am: for vice, once looked into with the eyes of discretion, and well-balanced with the weights of reason, the course past seems so abominable, that the Landlord of himself, which is the heart of the body, will rather entomb himself in the earth, or seek a new Tenant to remain in him:—which once settled, how much better are they that in their youth have known all these vices, and left it, than those that knew little, and in their age runs into it? Believe me, brother, they that die most virtuous hath in their youth lived most vicious, and none knows the danger of the fire more than he that falls into it. But say, how is the course of his life? let’s hear his particulars.

UNCLE. Why, I’ll tell you, brother; he is a continual swearer, and a breaker of his oaths, which is bad.

FATHER. I grant indeed to swear is bad, but not in keeping those oaths is better: for who will set by a bad thing? Nay, by my faith, I hold this rather a virtue than a vice. Well, I pray, proceed.

UNCLE.
He is a mighty brawler, and comes commonly by the worst.

FATHER. By my faith, this is none of the worst neither, for if he brawl and be beaten for it, it will in time make him shun it: For what brings man or child more to virtue than correction? What reigns over him else?

UNCLE.
He is a great drinker, and one that will forget himself.

FATHER. O best of all! vice should be forgotten; let him drink on, so he drink not churches. Nay, and this be the worst, I hold it rather a happiness in him, than any iniquity. Hath he any more attendants?

UNCLE.
Brother, he is one that will borrow of any man.

FATHER. Why, you see, so doth the sea: it borrows of all the small currents in the world, to increase himself.

UNCLE.
Aye, but the sea pales it again, and so will never your son.

FATHER.
No more would the sea neither, if it were as dry as my son.

UNCLE. Then, brother, I see you rather like these vices in your son, than any way condemn them.

FATHER. Nay, mistake me not, brother, for tho I slur them over now, as things slight and nothing, his crimes being in the bud, it would gall my heart, they should ever reign in him.

FLOWERDALE.
Ho! who’s within? ho!

[Flowerdale knocks within.]

UNCLE.
That’s your son, he is come to borrow more money.

FATHER. For Godsake give it out I am dead; see how he’ll take it. Say I have brought you news from his father. I have here drawn a formal will, as it were from my self, which I’ll deliver him.

UNCLE.
Go to, brother, no more: I will.

FLOWERDALE.
[Within.] Uncle, where are you, Uncle?

UNCLE.
Let my cousin in there.

FATHER.
I am a sailor come from Venice, and my name is Christopher.

[Enter Flowerdale.]

FLOWERDALE.
By the Lord, in truth, Uncle—

UNCLE.
In truth would a served, cousin, without the Lord.

FLOWERDALE. By your leave, Uncle, the Lord is the Lord of truth. A couple of rascals at the gate set upon me for my purse.

UNCLE.
You never come, but you bring a brawl in your mouth.

FLOWERDALE.
By my truth, Uncle, you must needs lend me ten pound.

UNCLE.
Give my cousin some small beer here.

FLOWERDALE. Nay, look you, you turn it to a jest now: by this light, I should ride to Croyden fair, to meet Sir Lancelot Spurcock. I should have his daughter Lucy, and for scurvy ten pound, a man shall lose nine hundred three-score and odd pounds, and a daily friend beside. By this hand, Uncle, tis true.

UNCLE.
Why, any thing is true for ought I know.

FLOWERDALE. To see now! why, you shall have my bond, Uncle, or Tom White’s, James Brock’s, or Nick Hall’s: as good rapier and dagger men, as any be in England. Let’s be damned if we do not pay you: the worst of us all will not damn ourselves for ten pound. A pox of ten pound!

UNCLE.
Cousin, this is not the first time I have believed you.

FLOWERDALE. Why, trust me now, you know not what may fall. If one thing were but true, I would not greatly care, I should not need ten pound, but when a man cannot be believed,—there’s it.

UNCLE.
Why, what is it, cousin?

FLOWERDALE. Marry, this, Uncle: can you tell me if the Katern-hue be come home or no?

UNCLE.
Aye, marry, ist.

FLOWERDALE. By God I thank you for that news. What, ist in the pool, can you tell?

UNCLE.
It is; what of that?

FLOWERDALE. What? why then I have six pieces of velvet sent me; I’ll give you a piece, Uncle: for thus said the letter,—a piece of Ashcolour, a three piled black, a colour de roi, a crimson, a sad green, and a purple: yes, yfaith.

UNCLE.
From whom should you receive this?

FLOWERDALE. From who? why, from my father; with commendations to you, Uncle, and thus he writes: I know, said he, thou hast much troubled thy kind Uncle, whom God-willing at my return I will see amply satisfied. Amply, I remember was the very word, so God help me.

UNCLE.
Have you the letter here?

FLOWERDALE. Yes, I have the letter here, here is the letter: no, yes, no;—let me see, what breeches wore I a Saturday? let me see: a Tuesday my Salamanca; a Wednesday my peach colour Satin; a Thursday my Vellour; a Friday my Salamanca again; a Saturday—let me see—a Saturday,—for in those breeches I wore a Saturday is the letter: O, my riding breeches, Uncle, those that you thought been velvet; in those very breeches is the letter.

UNCLE.
When should it be dated?

FLOWERDALE.
Marry, Decimo tertio septembris—no, no—decimo tertio Octobris;
Aye, Octobris, so it is.

UNCLE. Decimo tertio Octobris! and here receive I a letter that your father died in June: how say you, Kester?

FATHER. Yes, truly, sir, your father is dead, these hands of mine holp to wind him.

FLOWERDALE.
Dead?

FATHER.
Aye, sir, dead.

FLOWERDALE.
Sblood, how should my father come dead?

FATHER.
Yfaith, sir, according to the old Proverb:
The child was born and cried, became man,
After fell sick, and died.

UNCLE.
Nay, cousin, do not take it so heavily.

FLOWERDALE. Nay, I cannot weep you extempore: marry, some two or three days hence, I shall weep without any stintance. But I hope he died in good memory.

FATHER. Very well, sir, and set down every thing in good order; and the Katherine and Hue you talked of, I came over in: and I saw all the bills of lading, and the velvet that you talked of, there is no such aboard.

FLOWERDALE.
By God, I assure you, then, there is knavery abroad.

FATHER.
I’ll be sworn of that: there’s knavery abroad,
Although there were never a piece of velvet in Venice.

FLOWERDALE.
I hope he died in good estate.

FATHER.
To the report of the world he did, and made his will,
Of which I am an unworthy bearer.

FLOWERDALE.
His will! have you his will?

FATHER.
Yes, sir, and in the presence of your Uncle
I was willed to deliver it.

UNCLE. I hope, cousin, now God hath blessed you with wealth, you will not be unmindful of me.

FLOWERDALE. I’ll do reason, Uncle, yet, yfaith, I take the denial of this ten pound very hardly.

UNCLE.
Nay, I denied you not.

FLOWERDALE.
By God, you denied me directly.

UNCLE.
I’ll be judged by this good fellow.

FATHER.
Not directly, sir.

FLOWERDALE. Why, he said he would lend me none, and that had wont to be a direct denial, if the old phrase hold. Well, Uncle, come, we’ll fall to the Legacies: (reads) ‘In the name of God, Amen. Item, I bequeath to my brother Flowerdale three hundred pounds, to pay such trivial debts as I owe in London. Item, to my son Matt Flowerdale, I bequeath two bale of false dice; Videlicet, high men and low men, fullomes, stop cater traies, and other bones of function.’ Sblood, what doth he mean by this?

UNCLE.
Proceed, cousin.

FLOWERDALE. “These precepts I leave him: let him borrow of his oath, for of his word no body will trust him. Let him by no means marry an honest woman, for the other will keep her self. Let him steal as much as he can, that a guilty conscience may bring him to his destinate repentance.”—I think he means hanging. And this were his last will and Testament, the Devil stood laughing at his bed’s feet while he made it. Sblood, what, doth he think to fop of his posterity with Paradoxes?

FATHER.
This he made, sir, with his own hands.

FLOWERDALE. Aye, well; nay, come, good Uncle, let me have this ten pound. Imagine you have lost it, or been robbed of it, or misreckoned your self so much: any way to make it come easily off, good Uncle.

UNCLE.
Not a penny.

FATHER.
Yfaith, lend it him, sir. I my self have an estate in the
City worth twenty pound: all that I’ll engage for him; he
saith it concerns him in a marriage.

FLOWERDALE.
Aye, marry, it doth. This is a fellow of some sense, this:
Come, good Uncle.

UNCLE.
Will you give your word for it, Kester?

FATHER.
I will, sir, willingly.

UNCLE. Well, cousin, come to me some hour hence, you shall have it ready.

FLOWERDALE.
Shall I not fail?

UNCLE.
You shall not, come or send.

FLOWERDALE.
Nay, I’ll come my self.

FATHER.
By my troth, would I were your worship’s man.

FLOWERDALE.
What, wouldst thou serve?

FATHER.
Very willingly, sir.

FLOWERDALE. Why, I’ll tell thee what thou shalt do: thou saith thou hast twenty pound: go into Burchin Lane, put thy self into clothes; thou shalt ride with me to Croyden fair.

FATHER.
I thank you, sir; I will attend you.

FLOWERDALE.
Well, Uncle, you will not fail me an hour hence?

UNCLE.
I will not, cousin.

FLOWERDALE.
What’s thy name? Kester?

FATHER.
Aye, sir.

FLOWERDALE.
Well, provide thy self: Uncle, farewell till anon.

[Exit Flowerdale.]

UNCLE.
Brother, how do you like your son?

FATHER.
Yfaith, brother, like a mad unbridled colt,
Or as a Hawk, that never stooped to lure:
The one must be tamed with an iron bit,
The other must be watched, or still she is wild.
Such is my son; awhile let him be so:
For counsel still is folly’s deadly foe.
I’ll serve his youth, for youth must have his course,
For being restrained, it makes him ten times worse;
His pride, his riot, all that may be named,
Time may recall, and all his madness tamed.

[Exeunt.]