Every Man in His Humor

by Ben Jonson

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DRAMATIS PERSONAE
KNOWELL, an old Gentleman: OLIVER COB, a Water-bearer.
EDWARD KNOWELL, his Son. JUSTICE CLEMENT, an old merry
BRAINWORM, the Father's Man Magistrate.
GEORGE DOWNRIGHT, a plain Squire. ROGER FORMAL, his Clerk.
WELLBRED, his Half-Brother. Wellbred's Servant
KITELY, a merchant. DAME KITELY, KITELY'S Wife.
CAPTAIN BOBADILL, a Paul's Man. MRS. BRIDGET his Sister.
MASTER STEPHEN, a Country Gull. TIB Cob's Wife
MASTER MATHEW, the Town Gull.
THOMAS CASH, KITELY'S Cashier. Servants, etc.

SCENE,—-LONDON
PROLOGUE.
Though need make many poets, and some such
As art and nature have not better'd much;
Yet ours for want hath not so loved the stage,
As he dare serve the ill customs of the age,
Or purchase your delight at such a rate,
As, for it, he himself must justly hate:
To make a child now swaddled, to proceed
Man, and then shoot up, in one beard and weed,
Past threescore years; or, with three rusty swords,
And help of some few foot and half-foot words,
Fight over York and Lancaster's king jars,
And in the tyring-house bring wounds to scars.
He rather prays you will be pleas'd to see
One such to-day, as other plays should be;
Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas,
Nor creaking throne comes down the boys to please;
Nor nimble squib is seen to make afeard
The gentlewomen; nor roll'd bullet heard
To say, it thunders; nor tempestuous drum
Rumbles, to tell you when the storm doth come;
But deeds, and language, such as men do use,
And persons, such as comedy would choose,
When she would shew an image of the times,
And sport with human follies, not with crimes.
Except we make them such, by loving still
Our popular errors, when we know they're ill.
I mean such errors as you'll all confess,
By laughing at them, they deserve no less:
Which when you heartily do, there's hope left then,
You, that have so grac'd monsters, may like men.

[ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]

ACT I

SCENE I.—-A Street.
Enter KNOWELL, at the door of his house.

Know.
A goodly day toward, and a fresh morning.—Brainworm!
Enter Brainworm.
Call up your young master: bid him rise, sir.
Tell him, I have some business to employ him.
Brai. I will, sir, presently.
Know.
But hear you, sirrah,
If he be at his book, disturb him not.
Brai. Very good, sir.
Know.
How happy yet should I esteem myself,
Could I, by any practice, wean the boy
From one vain course of study he affects.
He is a scholar, if a man may trust
The liberal voice of fame in her report,
Of good account in both our Universities,
Either of which hath favoured him with graces:
But their indulgence must not spring in me
A fond opinion that he cannot err.
Myself was once a student, and indeed,
Fed with the self-same humour he is now,
Dreaming on nought but idle poetry,
That fruitless and unprofitable art,
Good unto none, but least to the professors;
Which then I thought the mistress of all knowledge:
But since, time and the truth have waked my judgment.
And reason taught me better to distinguish T
he vain from the useful learnings.
Enter Master STEPHEN.
Cousin Stephen, What news with you, that you are here so early?
Step. Nothing, but e'en come to see how you do, unclo.
Know. That's kindly done; you are welcome, coz.
Step.
Ay, I know that, sir; I would not have come else.
How does my cousin Edward, uncle?
Know.
O, well, coz; go in and see; I doubt he be scarce stirring yet.
Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me, an he have e'er a book
of the science of hawking and hunting; I would fain borrow it.
Know. Why, I hope you will not a hawking now, will you?
Step. No, wusse; but I'll practise against next year, uncle. I have
bought me a hawk, and a hood, and bells and all; I lack nothing
but a book to keep it by.
Know. Oh, most ridiculous!
Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle:—Why, you know an a
man have not skill in the hawking and hunting languages now-a-days,
I'll not give a rush for him: they are more studied than the Greek,
or the Latin. He is for no gallant's company without them; and by
gadslid I scorn it, I, so I do, to be a consort for every humdrum:
hang them, scroyles! there's nothing in them i' the world. What do
you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company
with none but the archers of Finsbury, or the citizens that come a
ducking to Islington ponds! A fine jest, i' faith! 'Slid, a
gentleman mun shew himself like a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be
not angry; I know what I have to do, I trow. I am no novice.

Know.
You are a prodigal, absurd coxcomb, go to!
Nay, never look at me, 'tis I that speak;
Take't as you will, sir, I'll not flatter you.
Have you not yet found means enow to waste
That which your friends have left you, but you must
Go cast away your money on a buzzard,
And know not how to keep it, when you have done?
O, it is comely! this will make you a gentleman!
Well, cousin, well, I see you are e'en past hope
Of all reclaim:—-ay, so; now you are told on't,
You look another way.
Step. What would you ha' me do?
Know.
What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman;
Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive;
That would I have you do: and not to spend
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,
Or every foolish brain that humours you.
I would not have you to invade each place,
Nor thrust yourself on all societies,
Till men's affections, or your own desert,
Should worthily invite you to your rank.
He that is so respectless in his courses,
Oft sells his reputation at cheap market.
Nor would I, you should melt away yourself
In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect
To make a blaze of gentry to the world,
A little puff of scorn extinguish it;
And you be left like an unsavoury snuff,
Whose property is only to offend.
I'd have you sober, and contain yourself,
Not that your sail be bigger than your boat;
But moderate your expenses now, at first,
As you may keep the same proportion still:
Nor stand so much on your gentility,
Which is an airy and mere borrow'd thing,
From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours,
Except you make, or hold it.
Enter a Servant.
Who comes here?
Serv. Save you, gentlemen!
Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our gentility, friend; yet you
are welcome: and I assure you mine uncle here is a man of a
thousand a year, Middlesex land. He has but one son in all the
world, I am his next heir, at the common law, master Stephen, as
simple as I stand here, if my cousin die, as there's hope he will:
I have a pretty living O' mine own too, beside, hard by here.
Serv. In good time, sir.
Step. In good time, sir! why, and in very good time, sir! You do
not flout, friend, do you?
Servo Not I, sir.
Step. Not you, sir! you were best not, sir; an you should; here be
them can perceive it, and that quickly too; go to: and they can
give it again soundly too, an need be.
Servo Why, sir, let this satisfy you; good faith, I had no such
intent.
Step. Sir, an I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that
presently.
Serv. Good master Stephen, so you may, sir, at your pleasure.
Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy companion! an you were out
O' mine uncle's ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon
my gentility neither, in't.
Know. Cousin, cousin, will this ne'er be left?
Step. Whoreson, basefellow! a mechanical serving-man! By this
cudgel, an 'twere not for shame, I would—
Know.
What would you do, you peremptory gull?
If you cannot be quiet, get you hence.
You see the honest man demeans himself
Modestly tow'rds you, giving no reply
To your unseason'd, quarrelling, rude fashion;
And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage
As void of wit, as of humanity.
Go, get you in; 'fore heaven, I am ashamed
Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me. [Exit Master Stephen.
Serv. I pray, sir, is this master Knowell's house?
Know. Yes, marry is it, sir.
Serv. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward
Knowell; do you know any such, sir, I pray you?
Know. I should forget myself else, sir.
Serv. Are you the gentleman? cry you mercy, sir: I was required by
a gentleman in the city, as I rode out at this end O' the town, to
deliver you this letter, sir.
Know. To me, sir! What do you mean? pray you remember your
court'sy. [Reads.] To his most selected friend, master Edward
Knowell. What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?
Nay, pray you be covered.
Serv. One master Wellbred, sir.
Know. Master Wellbred! a young gentleman, is he not?
Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister; the rich
merchant in the Old Jewry.
Know. You say very true.—-Brainworm! [Enter Brainworm.
Brai. Sir.
Know. Make this honest friend drink here: pray you, go in.
[Exeunt Brainworm and Servant.
This letter is directed to my son;
Yet I am Edward Knowell too, and may,
With the safe conscience of good manners, use
The fellow's error to my satisfaction.
Well, I will break it ope (old men are curious),
Be it but for the style's sake and the phrase;
To see if both do answer my son's praises,
Who is almost grown the idolater
Of this young Wellbred. What have we here?
What's this? [Reads]
Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forsworn all thy friends in the
Old Jewry? or dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit there? yet,
if thou dost, come over, and but see our frippery; change an old
shirt for a whole smock with us: do not conceive that antipathy
between us and Hogsden, as was between Jews and hogs-flesh. Leave
thy vigilant father alone, to number over his green apricots,
evening and morning, on the north-west wall: an I had been his son,
I had saved him the labour long since, if taking in all the young
wenches that pass by at the back-door, and codling every kernel of
the fruit for them, would have served, But, pr'ythee, come over to
me quickly this morning; I have such a present for thee!—our
Turkey company never sent the like to the Grand Signior.
One is a rhymer, sir, of your own batch, your own leaven;
but doth think himself poet-major of the town, willing to be shewn,
and worthy to be seen. The other—I will not venture his
description with you, till you come, because I would have you make
hither with an appetite. If the worst of 'em be not worth your
journey draw your bill of charges, as unconscionable as any
Guildhall verdict will give it you, and you shall be allowed your
viaticum. From the Windmill.
From the Bordello it might come as well,
The Spittle, or Pict-hatch. Is this the man
My son hath sung so, for the happiest wit,
The choicest brain, the times have sent us forth!
I know not what he may be in the arts,
Nor what in schools; but, surely, for his manners,
I judge him a profane and dissolute wretch;
Worse by possession of such great good gifts,
Being the master of so loose a spirit.
Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ
In such a scurrilous manner to a friend!
Why should he think I tell my apricots,
Or play the Hesperian dragon with my fruit,
To watch it? Well, my son, I had thought you
Had had more judgment to have made election
Of your companions, than t' have ta'en on trust
Such petulant, jeering gamesters, that can spare
No argument or subject from their jest.
But I perceive affection makes a fool
Of any man too much the father.—-Brainworm!
Enter BRAINWORM.
Brai. Sir.
Know. Is the fellow gone that brought this letter?
Brai. Yea, sir, a pretty while since.
Know. And where is your young master?
Brai. In his chamber, sir.
Know. He spake not with the fellow, did he?
Brai. No, sir, he saw him not.
Know. Take you this letter, and deliver it my son;
but with no notice that I have opened it, on your life.
Brai. O Lord, sir! that were a jest indeed. [Exit.
Know.
I am resolved I will not stop his journey,
Nor practise any violent means to stay
The unbridled course of youth in him; for that
Restrain'd, grows more impatient; and in kind
Like to the eager, but the generous greyhound,
Who ne'er so little from his game withheld,
Turns head, and leaps up at his holder's throat.
There is a way of winning more by love,
And urging of tho modesty, than fear:
Force works on servile natures, not the free.
He that's compell'd to goodness may be good,
But 'tis but for that fit; where others, drawn
By softness and example, get a habit.
Then, if they stray, but warn them, and the same
They should for virtue have done, they'll do for shame. [Exit.

SCENE II.-A Room in KNOWELL.'S House.
Enter E. KNOWELL, with a letter in his hand, followed by
BRAINWORM.
E. Know. Did he open it, say'st thou?
Brai. Yes, O' my word, sir, and read the contents.
E. Know. That scarce contents me. What countenance, prithee, made
he in the reading of it? was he angry, or pleased?
Brai. Nay, sir, I saw him not read it, nor open it, I assure your
worship.
E. Know. No! how know'st thou then that he did either?
Brai. Marry, sir, because he charged me, on my life, to tell nobody
that he open'd it; which, unless he had done, he would never fear
to have it revealed.
E. Know. That's true: well, I thank thee, Brainworm.
Enter STEPHEN.
Step. O, Brainworm, didst thou not see a fellow here in
what-sha-call-him doublet? he brought mine uncle a letter e'en now.
Brai. Yes, master Stephen; what of him?
Step. O, I have such a mind to beat him—where is he, canst thou
tell?
Brai. Faith, he is not of that mind: he is gone, master Stephen.
Step. Gone! which way? when went he? how long since?
Brai. He is rid hence; he took horse at the street-door.
Step. And I staid in the fields! Whoreson scanderbag rogue! O that
I had but a horse to fetch him back again!
Brai. Why, you may have my master's gelding, to save your longing,
sir.
Step. But I have no boots, that's the spite on't.
Brai. Why, a fine wisp of hay, roll'd hard, master Stephen.
Step. No, faith, it's no boot to follow him now: let him e'en go
and hang. Prithee, help to truss me a little: he does so vex me—
Brai. You'll be worse vexed when you are trussed, master Stephen.
Best keep unbraced, and walk yourself till you be cold; your choler
may founder you else.
Step. By my faith, and so I will, now thou tell'st me on't: how
dost thou like my leg, Brainworm?
Brai. A very good leg, master Stephen; but the woollen stocking
does not commend it so well.
Step. Foh! the stockings be good enough, now summer is coming on,
for the dust: I'll have a pair of silk against winter, that I go to
dwell in the town. I think my leg would shew in a silk hose—
Brai. Believe me, master Stephen, rarely well.
Step. In sadness, I think it would: I have a reasonable good leg.
Brai. You have an excellent good leg, master Stephen; but I can not
stay to praise it longer now, and I am very sorry for it.
[Exit.
Step. Another time will serve, Brainworm. Gramercy for this.
E. Know. Ha, ha, ha.
Step. 'Slid, I hope he laughs not at me; an he do—
E. Know. Here was a letter indeed, to be intercepted by a man's
father, and do him good with him! He cannot but think most
virtuously, both of me, and the sender, sure, that make the careful
costermonger of him in our familiar epistles. Well, if he read this
with patience I'll be gelt, and troll ballads for master John
Trundle yonder, the rest of my mortality. It is true, and likely,
my father may have as much patience as another man, for he takes
much physic; and oft taking physic makes a man very patient. But
would your packet, master Wellbred, had arrived at him in such a
minute of his patience! then we had known the end of it, which now
is doubtful, and threatens—[Sees Master Stephen.] What, my wise
cousin! nay, then I'll furnish our feast with one gull more toward
the mess. He writes to me of a brace, and here's one, that's three:
oh, for a fourth, Fortune, if ever thou' It use thine eyes, I
entreat thee—
Step. Oh, now I see who he laughed at: he laughed at somebody in
that letter. By this good light, an he had laughed at me—
E. Know. How now, cousin Stephen, melancholy?
Step. Yes, a little: I thought you had laughed at me, cousin.
E. Know. Why, what an I had, coz? what would you have done?
Step. By this light, I would have told mine uncle.
E. Know. Nay, if you would have told your uncle, I did laugh at
you, coz.
Step. Did you, indeed?
E. Know. Yes, indeed.
Step. Why then
E. Know. What then?
Step. I am satisfied; it is sufficient.
E. Know. Why, be so, gentle coz: and, I pray you, let me entreat a
courtesy of you. I am sent for this morning by a friend in the Old
Jewry, to come to him; it is but crossing over the fields to
Moorgate: Will you bear me company? I protest it is not to draw you
into bond or any plot against the state, coz.
Step. Sir, that's all one an it were; you shall command me twice so
far as Moorgate, to do you good in such a matter. Do you think I
would leave you? I protest—
E. Know. No, no, you shall not protest, coz.
Step. By my fackings, but I will, by your leave:—I'll protest more
to my friend, than I'll speak of at this time.
E. Know. You speak very well, coz.
Step. Nay, not so neither, you shall pardon me: but I speak to
serve my turn.
E. Know. Your turn, coz! do you know what you say? A gentleman
of your sorts, parts, carriage, and estimation, to talk of your
turn in this company, and to me alone, like a tankard-bearer
at a conduit! fie! A wight that, hitherto, his every step
hath left the stamp of a great foot behind him, as every word
the savour of a strong spirit, and he! this man! so graced, gilded,
or, to use a more fit metaphor, so tenfold by nature, as not ten
housewives' pewter, again a good time, shews more bright to the
world than he! and he! (as I said last, so I say again, and still
shall say it) this man! to conceal such real ornaments as these,
and shadow their glory, as a milliner's wife does her wrought
stomacher, with a smoaky lawn, or a black cyprus! O, coz! it cannot
be answered; go not about it: Drake's old ship at Deptford may
sooner circle the world again. Come, wrong not the quality of your
desert, with looking downward, coz; but hold up your head, so: and
let the idea of what you are be portrayed in your face, that men
may read in your physnomy, here within this place is to be seen the
true, rare, and accomplished monster, or miracle of nature, which
is all one. What think you of this, coz?
Step. Why, I do think of it: and I will be more proud, and
melancholy, and gentlemanlike, than I have been, I'll insure you.
E. Know. Why, that's resolute, master Stephen!—Now, if I can but
hold him up to his height, as it is happily begun, it will do well
for a suburb humour: we may hap have a match with the city, and
play him for forty pound.—Come, coz.
Step. I'll follow you.
E. Know. Follow me! you must go before.
Step. Nay, an I must, I will. Pray you shew me, good cousin.
[Exeunt.