ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.—Westminster Hall.
Enter Manly and Freeman, two Sailors behind.
Man. I hate this place worse than a man that has inherited a chancery suit: I wish I were well out on't again.
Free. Why, you need not be afraid of this place: for a man without money needs no more fear a crowd of lawyers than a crowd of pickpockets.
Man. This, the reverend of the law would have thought the palace or residence of Justice; but, if it be, she lives here with the state of a Turkish emperor, rarely seen; and besieged rather than defended by her numerous black-guard here.
Free. Methinks 'tis like one of their own halls in Christmas time, whither from all parts fools bring their money, to try by the dice (not the worst judges) whether it shall be their own or no: but after a tedious fretting and wrangling, they drop away all their money on both sides; and, finding neither the better, at last go emptily and lovingly away together to the tavern, joining their curses against the young lawyer's box, that sweeps all, like the old ones.
Man. Spoken like a revelling Christmas lawyer.
Free. Yes, I was one, I confess, but was fain to leave the law, out of conscience, and fall to making false musters: rather choose to cheat the king than his subjects; plunder rather than take fees.
Man. Well, a plague and a purse-famine light on the law; and that female limb of it who dragged me hither to-day! But prithee go see if, in that crowd of daggled gowns there, [Pointing to a crowd of Lawyers at the end of the stage,] thou canst find her. [Exit Freeman.
How hard it is to be a hypocrite!
At least to me, who am but newly so.
I thought it once a kind of knavery,
Nay, cowardice, to hide one's fault; but now
The common frailty, love, becomes my shame.
He must not know I love the ungrateful still,
Lest he contemn me more than she; for I,
It seems, can undergo a woman's scorn,
But not a man's—
Enter Fidelia.
Fid. Sir, good sir, generous captain.
Man. Prithee, kind impertinence, leave me. Why should'st thou follow me, flatter my generosity now, since thou knowest I have no money left? if I had it, I'd give it thee, to buy my quiet.
Fid. I never followed yet, sir, reward or fame, but you alone; nor do I now beg anything but leave to share your miseries. You should not be a niggard of 'em, since, methinks, you have enough to spare. Let me follow you now, because you hate me, as you have often said.
Man. I ever hated a coward's company, I must confess.
Fid. Let me follow you till I am none, then; for you, I'm sure, will go through such worlds of dangers, that, I shall be inured to 'em; nay, I shall be afraid of your anger more than danger, and so turn valiant out of fear. Dear captain, do not cast me off till you have tried me once more: do not, do not go to sea again without me.
Man. Thou to sea! to court, thou fool; remember the advice I gave thee: thou art a handsome spaniel, and canst fawn naturally: go, busk about and run thyself into the next great man's lobby; first fawn upon the slaves without, and then run into the lady's bedchamber; thou mayst be admitted at last to tumble her bed. Go seek, I say, and lose me; for I am not able to keep thee; I have not bread for myself.
Fid. Therefore I will not go, because then I may help and serve you.
Man. Thou!
Fid. I warrant you, sir; for, at worst, I could beg or steal for you.
Man. Nay, more bragging! Dost thou not know there's venturing your life in stealing? Go, prithee, away: thou art as hard to shake off as that flattering, effeminating mischief, love.
Fid. Love did you name? Why, you are not so miserable as to be yet in love, sure?
Man. No, no, prithee away, begone, or—[Aside.] I had almost discovered my love and shame; well, if I had, that thing could not think the worse of me—or if he did—no—yes, he shall know it—he shall—but then I must never leave him, for they are such secrets, that make parasites and pimps lords of their masters: for any slavery or tyranny is easier than love's.—[Aloud.] Come hither, since thou art so forward to serve me: hast thou but resolution enough to endure the torture of a secret? for such to some is insupportable.
Fid. I would keep it as safe as if your dear, precious life depended on't.
Man. Damn your dearness! It concerns more than my life,—my honour.
Fid. Doubt it not, sir.
Man. And do not discover it, by too much fear of discovering it; but have a great care you let not Freeman find it out.
Fid. I warrant you, sir, I am already all joy with the hopes of your commands; and shall be all wings in the execution of 'em: speak quickly, sir.
Man. You said you'd beg for me.
Fid. I did, sir.
Man. Then you shall beg for me.
Fid. With all my heart, sir.
Man. That is, pimp for me.
Fid. How, sir?
Man. D'ye start! Thinkest thou, thou couldst do me any other service? Come, no dissembling honour: I know you can do it handsomely, thou wert made for't. You have lost your time with me at sea, you must recover it.
Fid. Do not, sir, beget yourself more reasons for your aversion to me, and make my obedience to you a fault; I am the unfittest in the world to do you such a service.
Man. Your cunning arguing against it shows but how fit you are for it. No more dissembling; here, I say, you must go use it for me to Olivia.
Fid. To her, sir?
Man. Go flatter, lie, kneel, promise, anything to get her for me: I cannot live unless I have her. Didst thou not say thou wouldst do anything to save my life? and she said you had a persuading face.
Fid. But did you not say, sir, your honour was dearer to you than your life? and would you have me contribute to the loss of that, and carry love from you to the most infamous, most false, and—
Man. And most beautiful!—[Sighs aside.
Fid. Most ungrateful woman that ever lived; for sure she must be so, that could desert you so soon, use you so basely, and so lately too: do not, do not forget it, sir, and think—
Man. No, I will not forget it, but think of revenge; I will lie with her out of revenge. Go, begone, and prevail for me, or never see me more.
Fid. You scorned her last night.
Man. I know not what I did last night; I dissembled last night.
Fid. Heavens!
Man. Begone, I say, and bring me love or compliance back, or hopes at least, or I'll never see thy face again, by—
Fid. O, do not swear, sir! first hear me.
Man. I'm impatient, away! you'll find me here till twelve. [Turns away.
Fid. Sir—
Man. Not one word; no insinuating argument more, or soothing persuasion; you'll have need of all your rhetoric with her; go strive to alter her, not me; begone. [Retires to the end of the stage, and exit.
Fid.
Should I discover to him now my sex,
And lay before him his strange cruelty,
'Twould but incense it more.—No, 'tis not time.
For his love must I then betray my own?
Were ever love or chance till now severe?
Or shifting woman posed with such a task?
Forced to beg that which kills her, if obtained,
And give away her lover not to lose him! [Exit.
Enter Widow Blackacre, in the middle of half-a-dozen Lawyers, whispered to by a fellow in black, Jerry Blackacre following the crowd.
Wid. Offer me a reference, you saucy companion you! d'ye know who you speak to? Art thou a solicitor in chancery, and offer a reference? A pretty fellow! Mr. Serjeant Ploddon, here's a fellow has the impudence to offer me a reference!
Serj. Plod. Who's that has the impudence to offer a reference within these walls?
Wid. Nay, for a splitter of causes to do't!
Serj. Plod. No, madam; to a lady learned in the law, as you are, the offer of a reference were to impose upon you.
Wid. No, no, never fear me for a reference, Mr. Serjeant. But come, have you not forgot your brief? Are you sure you shan't make the mistake of—hark you—[Whispers.] Go then, go to your court of Common-pleas, and say one thing over and over again: you do it so naturally, you'll never be suspected for protracting time.
Serj. Plod. Come, I know the course of the court, and your business. [Exit.
Wid. Let's see, Jerry, where are my minutes? Come, Mr. Quaint, pray go talk a great deal for me in chancery, let your words be easy, and your sense hard; my cause requires it: branch it bravely, and deck my cause with flowers, that the snake may lie hidden. Go, go, and be sure you remember the decree of my Lord Chancellor, Tricesimo quart' of the queen.
Quaint. I will, as I see cause, extenuate or examplify matter of fact; baffle truth with impudence; answer exceptions with questions, though never so impertinent; for reasons give 'em words; for law and equity, tropes and figures; and so relax and enervate the sinews of their argument with the oil of my eloquence. But when my lungs can reason no longer, and not being able to say anything more for our cause, say everything of our adversary; whose reputation, though never so clear and evident in the eye of the world, yet with sharp invectives—
Wid. Alias, Billingsgate.
Quaint. With poignant and sour invectives, I say, I will deface, wipe out, and obliterate his fair reputation, even as a record with the juice of lemons; and tell such a story, (for the truth on't is, all that we can do for our client in chancery, is telling a story,) a fine story, a long story, such a story—
Wid. Go, save thy breath for the cause; talk at the bar, Mr. Quaint: you are so copiously fluent, you can weary any one's ears sooner than your own tongue. Go, weary our adversaries' counsel, and the court; go, thou art a fine-spoken person: adad, I shall make thy wife jealous of me, if you can but court the court into a decree for us. Go, get you gone, and remember—[Whispers.]—[Exit Quaint.]—Come, Mr. Blunder, pray bawl soundly for me, at the King's-bench, bluster, sputter, question, cavil; but be sure your argument be intricate enough to confound the court; and then you do my business. Talk what you will, but be sure your tongue never stand still; for your own noise will secure your sense from censure: 'tis like coughing or hemming when one has got the belly-ache, which stifles the unmannerly noise. Go, dear rogue, and succeed; and I'll invite thee, ere it be long, to more soused venison.
Blund. I'll warrant you, after your verdict, your judgment shall not be arrested upon if's and and's. [Exit.
Wid. Come, Mr. Petulant, let me give you some new instructions for our cause in the Exchequer. Are the barons sat?
Pet. Yes, no; may be they are, may be they are not: what know I? what care I?
Wid. Heyday! I wish you would but snap up the counsel on t'other side anon at the bar as much; and have a little more patience with me, that I might instruct you a little better.
Pet. You instruct me! what is my brief for, mistress?
Wid. Ay, but you seldom read your brief but at the bar, if you do it then.
Pet. Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't, and perhaps 'tis time enough: pray hold yourself contented, mistress.
Wid. Nay, if you go there too, I will not be contented, sir; though you, I see, will lose my cause for want of speaking, I wo' not: you shall hear me, and shall be instructed. Let's see your brief.
Pet. Send your solicitor to me. Instructed by a woman! I'd have you to know, I do not wear a bar-gown—
Wid. By a woman! and I'd have you to know, I am no common woman; but a woman conversant in the laws of the land, as well as yourself, though I have no bar-gown.
Pet. Go to, go to, mistress, you are impertinent, and there's your brief for you: instruct me! [Flings her breviate at her.
Wid. Impertinent to me, you saucy Jack, you! you return my breviate, but where's my fee? you'll be sure to keep that, and scan that so well, that if there chance to be but a brass half-crown in't, one's sure to hear on't again: would you would but look on your breviate half so narrowly! But pray give me my fee too, as well as my brief.
Pet. Mistress, that's without precedent. When did a counsel ever return his fee, pray? and you are impertinent and ignorant to demand it.
Wid. Impertinent again, and ignorant, to me! Gads-bodikins, you puny upstart in the law, to use me so! you green-bag carrier, you murderer of unfortunate causes, the clerk's ink is scarce off of your fingers,—you that newly come from lamp-blacking the judges' shoes, and are not fit to wipe mine; you call me impertinent and ignorant! I would give thee a cuff on the ear, sitting the courts, if I were ignorant. Marry-gep, if it had not been for me, thou hadst been yet but a hearing counsel at the bar. [Exit Petulant.
Enter Mr. Buttongown, crossing the stage in haste.
Mr. Buttongown, Mr. Buttongown, whither so fast? what, won't you stay till we are heard?
But. I cannot, Mrs. Blackacre, I must be at the council, my lord's cause stays there for me.
Wid. And mine suffers here.
But. I cannot help it.
Wid. I'm undone.
But. What's that to me?
Wid. Consider the five-pound fee, if not my cause: that was something to you.
But. Away, away! pray be not so troublesome, mistress: I must be gone.
Wid. Nay, but consider a little: I am your old client, my lord but a new one; or let him be what he will, he will hardly be a better client to you than myself: I hope you believe I shall be in law as long as I live; therefore am no despicable client. Well, but go to your lord; I know you expect he should make you a judge one day; but I hope his promise to you will prove a true lord's promise. But that he might be sure to fail you, I wish you had his bond for't.
But. But what, will you yet be thus impertinent, mistress?
Wid. Nay, I beseech you, sir, stay; if it be but to tell me my lord's case; come, in short—
But. Nay, then—[Exit.
Wid. Well, Jerry, observe child, and lay it up for hereafter. These are those lawyers who, by being in all causes, are in none: therefore if you would have 'em for you, let your adversary fee 'em; for he may chance to depend upon 'em; and so, in being against thee, they'll be for thee.
Jer. Ay, mother; they put me in mind of the unconscionable wooers of widows, who undertake briskly their matrimonial business for their money; but when they have got it once, let who will drudge for them. Therefore have a care of 'em, forsooth. There's advice for your advice.
Wid. Well said, boy.—Come, Mr. Splitcause, pray go see when my cause in Chancery comes on; and go speak with Mr. Quillit in the King's-bench, and Mr. Quirk in the Common-pleas, and see how matters go there.
Enter Major Oldfox.
Old. Lady, a good and propitious morning to you; and may all your causes go as well as if I myself were judge of 'em!
Wid. Sir, excuse me; I am busy, and cannot answer compliments in Westminster Hall.—Go, Mr. Splitcause, and come to me again to that bookseller's; there I'll stay for you, that you may be sure to find me.
Old. No, sir, come to the other bookseller's. I'll attend your ladyship thither. [Exit Splitcause.
Wid. Why to the other?
Old. Because he is my bookseller, lady.
Wid. What, to sell you lozenges for your catarrh? or medicines for your corns? What else can a major deal with a bookseller for?
Old. Lady, he prints for me.
Wid. Why, are you an author?
Old. Of some few essays; deign you, lady, to peruse 'em.—[Aside.] She is a woman of parts; and I must win her by showing mine.
Bookseller's Boy. Will you see Culpepper, mistress? "Aristotle's Problems?" "The Complete Midwife?"
Wid. No; let's see Dalton, Hughs, Shepherd, Wingate.
B. Boy. We have no law books.
Wid. No! you are a pretty bookseller then.
Old. Come, have you e'er a one of my essays left?
B. Boy. Yes, sir, we have enough, and shall always have 'em.
Old. How so?
B. Boy. Why, they are good, steady, lasting ware.
Old. Nay, I hope they will live; let's see.—Be pleased, madam, to peruse the poor endeavours of my pen: for I have a pen, though I say it, that—[Gives her a book.
Jer. Pray let me see "St. George for Christendom," or, "The Seven Champions of England."
Wid. No, no; give him "The Young Clerk's Guide."—What, we shall have you read yourself into a humour of rambling and fighting, and studying military discipline, and wearing red breeches.
Old. Nay, if you talk of military discipline, show him my "Treatise of the Art Military."
Wid. Hold; I would as willingly he should read a play.
Jer. O, pray forsooth, mother, let me have a play.
Wid. No, sirrah; there are young students of the law enough spoiled already by plays. They would make you in love with your laundress, or, what's worse, some queen of the stage that was a laundress; and so turn keeper before you are of age. [Several cross the stage.] But stay, Jerry, is not that Mr. What d'ye-call-him, that goes there, he that offered to sell me a suit in chancery for five hundred pounds, for a hundred down, and only paying the clerk's fees?
Jer. Ay, forsooth, 'tis he.
Wid. Then stay here, and have a care of the bags, whilst I follow him.—Have a care of the bags, I say.
Jer. And do you have a care, forsooth, of the statute against champarty,[113] I say. [Exit Widow Blackacre.
Re-enter Freeman.
Free. [Aside.] So, there's a limb of my widow, which was wont to be inseparable from her: she can't be far.—[Aloud.] How now, my pretty son-in-law that shall be, where's my widow?
Jer. My mother, but not your widow, will be forthcoming presently.
Free. Your servant, major. What, are you buying furniture for a little sleeping closet, which you miscall a study? For you do only by your books, as by your wenches, bind 'em up neatly and make 'em fine, for other people to use 'em. And your bookseller is properly your upholsterer, for he furnishes your room, rather than your head.
Old. Well, well, good sea-lieutenant, study you your compass; that's more than your head can deal with.—[Aside.] I will go find out the widow, to keep her out of his sight, or he'll board her, whilst I am treating a peace. [Exit.
Jer. Nay, prithee, friend, now let me have but "The Seven Champions." You shall trust me no longer than till my mother's Mr. Splitcause comes; for I hope he'll lend me wherewithal to pay for't.
Free. Lend thee! here, I'll pay him. Do you want money, squire? I'm sorry a man of your estate should want money.
Jer. Nay, my mother will ne'er let me be at age: and till then, she says—
Free. At age! why you are at age already to have spent an estate, man. There are younger than you have kept their women these three years, have had half a dozen claps, and lost as many thousand pounds at play.
Jer. Ay, they are happy sparks! Nay, I know some of my schoolfellows, who, when we were at school, were two years younger than me; but now, I know not how, are grown men before me, and go where they will, and look to themselves. But my curmudgeonly mother won't allow me wherewithal to be a man of myself with.
Free. Why, there 'tis; I knew your mother was in fault. Ask but your schoolfellows what they did to be men of themselves.
Jer. Why, I know they went to law with their mothers: for they say, there's no good to be done upon a widow mother, till one goes to law with her; but mine is as plaguy a lawyer as any's of our inn. Then would she marry too, and cut down my trees. Now, I should hate, man, to have my father's wife kissed and slapped, and t'other thing too, (you know what I mean,) by another man: and our trees are the purest, tall, even, shady twigs, by my fa—
Free. Come, squire, let your mother and your trees fall as she pleases, rather than wear this gown and carry green bags all thy life, and be pointed at for a Tony.[114] But you shall be able to deal with her yet the common way. Thou shalt make false love to some lawyer's daughter, whose father, upon the hopes of thy marrying her, shall lend thee money and law to preserve thy estate and trees: and thy mother is so ugly nobody will have her, if she cannot cut down thy trees.
Jer. Nay, if I had but anybody to stand by me, I am as stomachful as another.
Free. That will I: I'll not see any hopeful young gentleman abused.
B. Boy. By any but yourself. [Aside.
Jer. The truth on't is, mine's as arrant a widow-mother to her poor child as any's in England. She won't so much as let one have sixpence in one's pocket to see a motion,[115] or the dancing of the ropes, or—
Free. Come, you shan't want money; there's gold for you.
Jer. O lord, sir, two guineas! D'ye lend me this? Is there no trick in't? Well, sir, I'll give you my bond for security.
Free. No, no; thou hast given me thy face for security: anybody would swear thou dost not look like a cheat. You shall have what you will of me; and if your mother will not be kinder to you, come to me, who will.
Jer. [Aside.] By my fa—he's a curious fine gentleman!—[Aloud.] But will you stand by one?
Free. If you can be resolute.
Jer. Can be resolved! Gad, if she gives me but a cross word, I'll leave her to-night, and come to you. But now I have got money, I'll go to Jack-of-all-Trades, at t'other end of the Hall, and buy the neatest purest things—
Free. [Aside.] And I'll follow the great boy, and my blow at his mother. Steal away the calf, and the cow will follow you. [Exit Jerry, followed by Freeman.
Re-enter, on the other side, Manly, Widow Blackacre, and Major Oldfox.
Man. Damn your cause, can't you lose it without me? which you are like enough to do, if it be, as you say, an honest one: I will suffer no longer for't.
Wid. Nay, captain, I tell you, you are my prime witness; and the cause is just now coming on, Mr. Splitcause tells me. Lord, methinks you should take a pleasure in walking here, as half you see now do; for they have no business here, I assure you.
Man. Yes; but I'll assure you then, their business is to persecute me. But d'ye think I'll stay any longer, to have a rogue, because he knows my name, pluck me aside and whisper a news-book secret to me with a stinking breath? a second come piping angry from the court, and sputter in my face his tedious complaints against it? a third law-coxcomb, because he saw me once at a reader's dinner, come and put me a long law case, to make a discovery of his indefatigable dulness and my wearied patience? a fourth, a most barbarous civil rogue, who will keep a man half an hour in the crowd with a bowed body, and a hat off, acting the reformed sign of the Salutation tavern, to hear his bountiful professions of service and friendship, whilst he cares not if I were damned, and I am wishing him hanged out of my way?—I'd as soon run the gauntlet, as walk t'other turn.
Re-enter Jerry Blackacre, without his bags, but laden with trinkets, which he endeavours to hide from his Mother, and followed at a distance by Freeman.
Wid. O, are you come, sir? but where have you been, you ass? and how came you thus laden?
Jer. Look here, forsooth, mother; now here's a duck, here's a boar-cat, and here's an owl. [Making a noise with catcalls and other such like instruments.
Wid. Yes, there is an owl, sir.
Old. He's an ungracious bird indeed.
Wid. But go, thou trangame,[116] and carry back those trangames, which thou hast stolen or purloined; for nobody would trust a minor in Westminster Hall, sure.
Jer. Hold yourself contented, forsooth: I have these commodities by a fair bargain and sale; and there stands my witness and creditor.
Wid. How's that? What sir, d'ye think to get the mother by giving the child a rattle?—But where are my bags, my writings, you rascal?
Jer. O, la! where are they, indeed! [Aside.
Wid. How, sirrah? speak, come—
Man. You can tell her, Freeman, I suppose. [Apart to him.
Free. 'Tis true, I made one of your salt-water sharks steal 'em whilst he was eagerly choosing his commodities, as he calls 'em, in order to my design upon his mother. [Apart to him.
Wid. Won't you speak? Where were you, I say, you son of a—an unfortunate woman?—O, major, I'm undone! They are all that concern my estate, my jointure, my husband's deed of gift, my evidences for all my suits now depending! What will become of them?
Free. [Aside.] I'm glad to hear this.—[Aloud.] They'll be all safe, I warrant you, madam.
Wid. O where? where? Come, you villain, along with me, and show me where. [Exeunt Widow Blackacre, Jerry, and Oldfox.
Man. Thou hast taken the right way to get a widow, by making her great boy rebel; for when nothing will make a widow marry, she'll do it to cross her children. But canst thou in earnest marry this harpy, this volume of shrivelled blurred parchments and law, this attorney's desk?
Free. Ay, ay; I'll marry and live honestly, that is, give my creditors, not her, due benevolence,—pay my debts.
Man. Thy creditors, you see, are not so barbarous as to put thee in prison; and wilt thou commit thyself to a noisome dungeon for thy life? which is the only satisfaction thou canst give thy creditors by this match.
Free. Why, is not she rich?
Man. Ay; but he that marries a widow for her money, will find himself as much mistaken as the widow that marries a young fellow for due benevolence, as you call it.
Free. Why, d'ye think I shan't deserve wages? I'll drudge faithfully.
Man. I tell thee again, he that is the slave in the mine has the least propriety in the ore. You may dig, and dig; but if thou wouldst have her money, rather get to be her trustee than her husband; for a true widow will make over her estate to anybody, and cheat herself rather than be cheated by her children or a second husband.
Re-enter Jerry, running in a fright.
Jer. O la, I'm undone! I'm undone! my mother will kill me:—you said you'd stand by one.
Free. So I will, my brave squire, I warrant thee.
Jer. Ay, but I dare not stay till she comes; for she's as furious, now she has lost her writings, as a bitch when she has lost her puppies.
Man. The comparison's handsome!
Jer. O, she's here!
Free. [To the Sailor.] Take him, Jack, and make haste with him to your master's lodging; and be sure you keep him up till I come. [Exeunt Jerry and Sailor.
Re-enter Widow Blackacre and Major Oldfox.
Wid. O my dear writings! Where's this heathen rogue, my minor?
Free. Gone to drown or hang himself.
Wid. No, I know him too well; he'll ne'er be felo de se that way: but he may go and choose a guardian of his own head, and so be felo de ses biens; for he has not yet chosen one.
Free. Say you so? And he shan't want one. [Aside.
Wid. But, now I think on't, 'tis you, sir, have put this cheat upon me; for there is a saying, "Take hold of a maid by her smock, and a widow by her writings, and they cannot get from you." But I'll play fast and loose with you yet, if there be law, and my minor and writings are not forthcoming; I'll bring my action of detinue or trover. But first, I'll try to find out this guardianless, graceless villain.—Will you jog, major?
Man. If you have lost your evidence, I hope your causes cannot go on, and I may be gone?
Wid. O no; stay but a making-water while (as one may say) and I'll be with you again. [Exeunt Widow Blackacre and Major Oldfox.
Free. Well; sure I am the first man that ever began a love-intrigue in Westminster Hall.
Man. No, sure; for the love to a widow generally begins here: and as the widow's cause goes against the heir or executors, the jointure-rivals commence their suit to the widow.
Free. Well; but how, pray, have you passed your time here, since I was forced to leave you alone? You have had a great deal of patience.
Man. Is this a place to be alone, or have patience in? But I have had patience, indeed; for I have drawn upon me, since I came, but three quarrels and two lawsuits.
Free. Nay, faith, you are too curst to be let loose in the world: you should be tied up again in your sea-kennel, called a ship. But how could you quarrel here?
Man. How could I refrain? A lawyer talked peremptorily and saucily to me, and as good as gave me the lie.
Free. They do it so often to one another at the bar, that they make no bones on't elsewhere.
Man. However, I gave him a cuff on the ear; whereupon he jogs two men, whose backs were turned to us, (for they were reading at a bookseller's,) to witness I struck him, sitting the courts; which office they so readily promised, that I called 'em rascals and knights of the post.[117] One of 'em presently calls two other absent witnesses, who were coming towards us at a distance; whilst the other, with a whisper, desires to know my name, that he might have satisfaction by way of challenge, as t'other by way of writ; but if it were not rather to direct his brother's writ, than his own challenge.—There, you see, is one of my quarrels, and two of my lawsuits.
Free. So!—and the other two?
Man. For advising a poet to leave off writing, and turn lawyer, because he is dull and impudent, and says or writes nothing now but by precedent.
Free. And the third quarrel?
Man. For giving more sincere advice to a handsome, well-dressed young fellow, (who asked it too,) not to marry a wench that he loved, and I had lain with.
Free. Nay, if you will be giving your sincere advice to lovers and poets, you will not fail of quarrels.
Man. Or if I stay in this place; for I see more quarrels crowding upon me. Let's be gone, and avoid 'em.
Enter Novel at a distance, coming towards them.
A plague on him, that sneer is ominous to us; he is coming upon us, and we shall not be rid of him.
Nov. Dear bully, don't look so grum upon me; you told me just now, you had forgiven me a little harmless raillery upon wooden legs last night.
Man. Yes, yes, pray begone, I am talking of business.
Nov. Can't I hear it? I love thee, and will be faithful, and always—
Man. Impertinent. 'Tis business that concerns Freeman only.
Nov. Well, I love Freeman too, and would not divulge his secret.—Prithee speak, prithee, I must—
Man. Prithee let me be rid of thee, I must be rid of thee.
Nov. Faith, thou canst hardly, I love thee so. Come, I must know the business.
Man. [Aside.] So, I have it now.—[Aloud.] Why, if you needs will know it, he has a quarrel, and his adversary bids him bring two friends with him: now, I am one, and we are thinking who we shall have for a third. [Several cross the stage.
Nov. A pox, there goes a fellow owes me a hundred pounds, and goes out of town to-morrow: I'll speak with him, and come to you presently. [Exit.
Man. No, but you won't.
Free. You are dexterously rid of him.
Re-enter Major Oldfox.
Man. To what purpose, since here comes another as impertinent? I know by his grin he is bound hither.
Old. Your servant, worthy, noble captain. Well, I have left the widow, because she carried me from your company: for, faith, captain, I must needs tell thee thou art the only officer in England, who was not an Edgehill officer, that I care for.
Man. I'm sorry for't.
Old. Why, wouldst thou have me love them?
Man. Anybody rather than me.
Old. What! you are modest, I see; therefore, too, I love thee.
Man. No, I am not modest; but love to brag myself, and can't patiently hear you fight over the last civil war. Therefore, go look out the fellow I saw just now here, that walks with his sword and stockings out at heels, and let him tell you the history of that scar on his cheek, to give you occasion to show yours got in the field at Bloomsbury, not that of Edgehill. Go to him, poor fellow; he is fasting, and has not yet the happiness this morning to stink of brandy and tobacco: go, give him some to hear you; I am busy.
Old. Well, egad, I love thee now, boy, for thy surliness. Thou art no tame captain, I see, that will suffer—
Man. An old fox.
Old. All that shan't make me angry: I consider that thou art peevish, and fretting at some ill success at law. Prithee, tell me what ill luck you have met with here.
Man. You.
Old. Do I look like the picture of ill luck? gadsnouns, I love thee more and more. And shall I tell thee what made me love thee first?
Man. Do; that I may be rid of that damned quality and thee.
Old. 'Twas thy wearing that broad sword there.
Man. Here, Freeman, let's change: I'll never wear it more.
Old. How! you won't, sure. Prithee, don't look like one of our holiday captains now-a-days, with a bodkin by your side, your martinet rogues.
Man. [Aside.] O, then, there's hopes.—[Aloud.] What, d'ye find fault with martinet? Let me tell you, sir, 'tis the best exercise in the world; the most ready, most easy, most graceful exercise that ever was used, and the most—
Old. Nay, nay, sir, no more; sir, your servant: if you praise martinet once, I have done with you, sir.—Martinet! martinet!—[Exit.
Free. Nay, you have made him leave you as willingly as ever he did an enemy; for he was truly for the king and parliament: for the parliament in their list; and for the king in cheating 'em of their pay, and never hurting the king's party in the field.
Enter a Lawyer towards them.
Man. A pox! this way:—here's a lawyer I know threatening us with another greeting.
Law. Sir, sir, your very servant; I was afraid you had forgotten me.
Man. I was not afraid you had forgotten me.
Law. No, sir; we lawyers have pretty good memories.
Man. You ought to have by your wits.
Law. O, you are a merry gentleman, sir: I remember you were merry when I was last in your company.
Man. I was never merry in thy company, Mr. Lawyer, sure.
Law. Why, I'm sure you joked upon me, and shammed me all night long.
Man. Shammed! prithee what barbarous law-term is that?
Law. Shamming! why, don't you know that? 'tis all our way of wit, sir.
Man. I am glad I do not know it then. Shamming! what does he mean by't, Freeman!
Free. Shamming is telling you an insipid dull lie with a dull face, which the sly wag the author only laughs at himself; and making himself believe 'tis a good jest, puts the sham only upon himself.
Man. So, your lawyer's jest, I find, like his practice, has more knavery than wit in't. I should make the worst shammer in England: I must always deal ingenuously, as I will with you, Mr. Lawyer, and advise you to be seen rather with attorneys and solicitors, than such fellows as I am: they will credit your practice more.
Law. No, sir, your company's an honour to me.
Man. No, faith; go this way, there goes an attorney; leave me for him; let it never be said a lawyer's civility did him hurt.
Law. No, worthy, honoured sir; I'll not leave you for any attorney, sure.
Man. Unless he had a fee in his hand.
Law. Have you any business here, sir? Try me: I'd serve you sooner than any attorney breathing.
Man. Business—[Aside.] So, I have thought of a sure way.—[Aloud.] Yes, faith, I have a little business.
Law. Have you so, sir? in what court, sir? what is't, sir? Tell me but how I may serve you, and I'll do't, sir, and take it for as great an honour—
Man. Faith, 'tis for a poor orphan of a sea officer of mine, that has no money. But if it could be followed in forma pauperis, and when the legacy's recovered—
Law. Forma pauperis, sir!
Man. Ay, sir. [Several crossing the stage.
Law. Mr. Bumblecase, Mr. Bumblecase! a word with you.—Sir, I beg your pardon at present; I have a little business—
Man. Which is not in forma pauperis. [Exit Lawyer.
Free. So, you have now found a way to be rid of people without quarrelling?
Enter Alderman.
Man. But here's a city-rogue will stick as hard upon us, as if I owed him money.
Ald. Captain, noble sir, I am yours heartily, d'ye see; why should you avoid your old friends?
Man. And why should you follow me? I owe you nothing.
Ald. Out of my hearty respects to you: for there is not a man in England—
Man. Thou wouldst save from hanging with the expense of a shilling only.
Ald. Nay, nay, but, captain, you are like enough to tell me—
Man. Truth, which you won't care to hear; therefore you had better go talk with somebody else.
Ald. No, I know nobody can inform me better of some young wit, or spendthrift, that has a good dipped[118] seat and estate in Middlesex, Hertfordshire, Essex, or Kent; any of these would serve my turn: now, if you knew of such a one, and would but help—
Man. You to finish his ruin.
Ald. I'faith, you should have a snip—
Man. Of your nose, you thirty-in-the-hundred rascal; would you make me your squire setter, your bawd for manors? [Takes him by the nose.
Ald. Oh!
Free. Hold, or here will be your third law-suit.
Ald. Gads-precious, you hectoring person you, are you wild? I meant you no hurt, sir: I begin to think, as things go, land-security best, and have for a convenient mortgage, some ten, fifteen or twenty thousand pound by me.
Man. Then go lay it out upon an hospital, and take a mortgage of Heaven, according to your city custom; for you think by laying out a little money to hook in that too hereafter. Do, I say, and keep the poor you've made by taking forfeitures, that Heaven may not take yours.
Ald. No, to keep the cripples you make this war. This war spoils our trade.
Man. Damn your trade! 'tis the better for't.
Ald. What, will you speak against our trade?
Man. And dare you speak against the war, our trade?
Ald. [Aside.] Well, he may be a convoy of ships I am concerned in.—[Aloud.] Come, captain, I will have a fair correspondence with you, say what you will.
Man. Then prithee be gone.
Ald. No, faith; prithee, captain, let's go drink a dish of laced coffee,[119] and talk of the times. Come, I'll treat you: nay, you shall go, for I have no business here.
Man. But I have.
Ald. To pick up a man to give thee a dinner. Come, I'll do thy business for thee.
Man. Faith, now I think on't, so you may, as well as any man: for 'tis to pick up a man to be bound with me, to one who expects city security for—
Ald. Nay, then your servant, captain; business must be done.
Man. Ay, if it can. But hark you, alderman, without you—
Ald. Business, sir, I say, must be done; and there's an officer of the treasury [Several cross the stage.] I have an affair with—[Exit.
Man. You see now what the mighty friendship of the world is; what all ceremony, embraces, and plentiful professions come to! You are no more to believe a professing friend than a threatening enemy; and as no man hurts you, that tells you he'll do you a mischief, no man, you see, is your servant who says he is so. Why the devil, then, should a man be troubled with the flattery of knaves if he be not a fool or cully; or with the fondness of fools, if he be not a knave or cheat?
Free. Only for his pleasure: for there is some in laughing at fools, and disappointing knaves.
Man. That's a pleasure, I think, would cost you too dear, as well as marrying your widow to disappoint her. But, for my part, I have no pleasure by 'em but in despising 'em, wheresoe'er I meet 'em; and then the pleasure of hoping so to be rid of 'em. But now my comfort is, I am not worth a shilling in the world, which all the world shall know; and then I'm sure I shall have none of 'em come near me.
Free. A very pretty comfort, which I think you pay too dear for.—But is the twenty pound gone since the morning?
Man. To my boat's crew.—Would you have the poor, honest, brave fellows want?
Free. Rather than you or I.
Man. Why, art thou without money? thou who art a friend to everybody?
Free. I ventured my last stake upon the squire to nick him of his mother; and cannot help you to a dinner, unless you will go dine with my lord—
Man. No, no; the ordinary is too dear for me, where flattery must pay for my dinner: I am no herald or poet.
Free. We'll go then to the bishop's—
Man. There you must flatter the old philosophy: I cannot renounce my reason for a dinner.
Free. Why, then let's go to your alderman's.
Man. Hang him, rogue! that were not to dine; for he makes you drunk with lees of sack before dinner, to take away your stomach: and there you must call usury and extortion God's blessings, or the honest turning of the penny; hear him brag of the leather breeches in which he trotted first to town, and make a greater noise with his money in his parlour, than his cashiers do in his counting-house, without hopes of borrowing a shilling.
Free. Ay, a pox on't! 'tis like dining with the great gamesters; and when they fall to their common dessert, to see the heaps of gold drawn on all hands, without going to twelve. Let us go to my Lady Goodly's.
Man. There to flatter her looks. You must mistake her grandchildren for her own; praise her cook, that she may rail at him; and feed her dogs, not yourself.
Free. What d'ye think of eating with your lawyer, then?
Man. Eat with him! damn him! To hear him employ his barbarous eloquence in a reading upon the two-and-thirty good bits in a shoulder of veal, and be forced yourself to praise the cold bribe-pie that stinks, and drink law-French wine as rough and harsh as his law-French. A pox on him! I'd rather dine in the Temple-rounds or walks, with the knights without noses, or the knights of the post, who are honester fellows and better company. But let us home and try our fortune; for I'll stay no longer here for your damned widow.
Free. Well, let us go home then; for I must go for my damned widow, and look after my new damned charge. Three or four hundred years ago a man might have dined in this Hall.[120]
Man.
But now the lawyer only here is fed;
And, bully-like, by quarrels gets his bread.
[Exeunt.