ACT I.
SCENE I.—The Outside of a Village Alehouse.
Enter Wellborn, Tapwell, and Froth, from the House.
Wellb. No liquor? nor no credit?
Tap. None, sir, for you;
Not the remainder of a single can,
Left by a drunken porter.
Froth. Not the dropping of the tap for your morning's draught, sir:
'Tis verity, I assure you.
Wellb. Verity, you brach!
The devil turn'd precisian! Rogue, what am I?
Tap. Troth! durst I trust you with a looking-glass,
To let you see your trim shape, you would quit me,
And take the name yourself.
Wellb. How? dog!
Tap. Even so, sir.
And I must tell you, if you but advance a foot,
There dwells, and within call (if it please your worship,)
A potent monarch, call'd the constable,
That does command a citadel, call'd the stocks;
Such as with great dexterity will haul
Your poor tatter'd——
Wellb. Rascal! slave!
Froth. No rage, sir.
Tap. At his own peril! Do not put yourself
In too much heat; there being no water near
To quench your thirst: and sure, for other liquor,
I take it,
You must no more remember; not in a dream, sir.
Wellb. Why, thou unthankful villain, dar'st thou talk thus?
Is not thy house, and all thou hast, my gift?
Tap. I find it not in chalk; and Timothy Tapwell
Does keep no other register.
Wellb. Am not I he
Whose riots fed and cloth'd thee? Wert thou not
Born on my father's land, and proud to be
A drudge in his house?
Tap. What I was, sir, it skills not;
What you are, is apparent. Now, for a farewell:
Since you talk of father, in my hope it will torment you,
I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father,
My quondam master, was a man of worship;
Old Sir John Wellborn, justice of peace, and quorum;
And stood fair to be custos rotulorum:
Bore the whole sway of the shire; kept a great house:
Reliev'd the poor, and so forth: but he dying,
And the twelve hundred a-year coming to you,
Late Mr. Francis, but now forlorn Wellborn——
Wellb. Slave, stop! or I shall lose myself.
Froth. Very hardly,
You cannot be out of your way.
Tap. But to my story; I shall proceed, sir:
You were then a lord of acres, the prime gallant,
And I your under-butler: note the change now;
You had a merry time of't: Hawks and hounds;
With choice of running horses; mistresses,
And other such extravagancies;
Which your uncle, Sir Giles Overreach, observing,
Resolving not to lose so fair an opportunity,
On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds,
For a while supplied your lavishness; and
Having got your land, then left you.
While I, honest Tim Tapwell, with a little stock,
Some forty pounds or so, bought a small cottage;
Humbled myself to marriage with my Froth here;
Gave entertainment——
Wellb. Yes, to whores and pickpockets.
Tap. True; but they brought in profit;
And had a gift to pay what they call'd for;
And stuck not like your mastership. The poor income
I glean'd from them, hath made me, in my parish,
Thought worthy to be scavenger; and, in time,
May rise to be overseer of the poor:
Which if I do, on your petition, Wellborn,
I may allow you thirteen-pence a quarter;
And you shall thank my worship.
Wellb. Thus, you dog-bolt——
And thus—— [Beats him.
Tap. Cry out for help!
Wellb. Stir, and thou diest:
Your potent prince, the constable, shall not save you.
Hear me, ungrateful hell-hound! Did not I
Make purses for you? Then you lick'd my boots
And thought your holiday coat too coarse to clean them.
'Twas I, that when I heard thee swear, if ever
Thou couldst arrive at forty pounds, thou wouldst
Live like an emperor; 'twas I that gave it,
In ready gold. Deny this, wretch!
Tap. I cannot, sir.
Wellb. They are well rewarded
That beggar themselves to make such rascals rich.
Thou viper, thankless viper!
But since you are grown forgetful, I will help
Your memory, and beat thee into remembrance;
Not leave one bone unbroken.
Tap. Oh!
Enter Allworth.
Allw. Hold; for my sake, hold!
Deny me, Frank? they are not worth your anger?
Wellb. For once thou hast redeem'd them from
this sceptre: [Shaking his Cudgel.
But let them vanish;
For if they grumble, I revoke my pardon.
Froth. This comes of your prating, husband! you presum'd
On your ambling wit, and must use your glib tongue,
Though you are beaten lame for't.
Tap. Patience, Froth,
There's no law to cure our bruises.
[They go off into the House.
Wellb. Sent for to your mother?
Allw. My lady, Frank! my patroness! my all!
She's such a mourner for my father's death,
And, in her love to him, so favours me,
That I cannot pay too much observance to her.
There are few such stepdames.
Wellb. 'Tis a noble widow,
And keeps her reputation pure, and clear
From the least taint.
Pr'ythee, tell me
Has she no suitors?
Allw. Even the best of the shire, Frank,
My lord excepted: such as sue, and send,
And send, and sue again; but to no purpose.
Their frequent visits have not gain'd her presence;
Yet, she's so far from sullenness and pride,
That, I dare undertake, you shall meet from her
A liberal entertainment.
Wellb. I doubt it not: but hear me, Allworth,
And take from me good counsel, I am bound to give it.——
Thy father was my friend; and that affection
I bore to him, in right descends to thee:
Thou art a handsome, and a hopeful youth,
Nor will I have the least affront stick on thee,
If I with any danger can prevent it.
Allw. I thank your noble care; but, pray you, in what
Do I run the hazard?
Wellb. Art thou not in love?
Put it not off with wonder.
Allw. In love?
Wellb. You think you walk in clouds, but are transparent.
I have heard all, and the choice that you have made;
And with my finger, can point out the north star,
By which the loadstone of your folly's guided.
And, to confirm this true, what think you of
Fair Margaret, the only child, and heir
Of cormorant Overreach? Dost blush and start,
To hear her only nam'd? Blush at your want
Of wit and reason.
Allw. Howe'er you have discovered my intents,
You know my aims are lawful; and if ever
The queen of flowers, the glory of the Spring,
The sweetest comfort to our smell, the rose,
Sprang from an envious briar, I may infer,
There's such disparity in their conditions,
Between the goddess of my soul, the daughter,
And the base churl her father.
Wellb. Grant this true,
As I believe it; canst thou ever hope
To enjoy a quiet bed with her, whose father
Ruin'd thy state?
Allw. And yours, too.
Wellb. I confess it, Allworth. But,
I must tell you as a friend, and freely,
Where impossibilities are apparent.
Canst thou imagine (let not self-love blind thee)
That Sir Giles Overreach (that, to make her great
In swelling titles, without touch of conscience,
Will cut his neighbour's throat, and, I hope, his own too)
Will e'er consent to make her thine? Give o'er,
And think of some course suitable to thy rank,
And prosper in it.
Allw. You have well advis'd me.
But, in the meantime, you that are so studious
Of my affairs, wholly neglect your own.
Remember yourself, and in what plight you are.
Wellb. No matter! no matter!
Allw. Yes, 'tis much material:
You know my fortune, and my means; yet something
I can spare from myself, to help your wants.
Wellb. How's this?
Allw. Nay, be not angry. There's eight pieces
To put you in better fashion.
Wellb. Money from thee?
From a boy? a dependant? one that lives
At the devotion of a step-mother,
And the uncertain favour of a lord?
I'll eat my arms first. Howsoe'er blind Fortune
Hath spent the utmost of her malice on me;
Though I am thrust out of an alehouse,
And thus accoutred; know not where to eat,
Or drink, or sleep, but underneath this canopy;
Although I thank thee, I disdain thy offer.
And as I, in my madness, broke my state,
Without the assistance of another's brain,
In my right wits I'll piece it. At the worst,
Die thus, and be forgotten. [Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.—A Chamber in Lady Allworth's House.
Enter Furnace, Amble, Order, and Watchall.
Order. Set all things right; or as my name is Order,
Whoever misses in his function,
For one whole week makes forfeiture of his breakfast,
And privilege in the wine-cellar.
Amble. You are merry,
Good master steward.
Fur. Let him; I'll be angry.
Amble. Why, fellow Furnace, 'tis not twelve o'clock yet,
Nor dinner taking up: then 'tis allow'd,
Cooks by their places, may be choleric.
Fur. You think you have spoken wisely, goodman Amble,
My lady's go-before.
Order. Nay, nay, no wrangling.
Fur. Twit me with the authority of the kitchen?
At all hours, and at all places, I'll be angry:
And, thus provok'd, when I am at my prayers
I will be angry.
Amble. There was no hurt meant.
Fur. I am friends with thee, and yet I will be angry.
Order. With whom?
Fur. No matter whom: yet, now I think on't,
I'm angry with my lady.
Amble. Heaven forbid, man!
Order. What cause has she given thee?
Fur. Cause enough, master steward:
I was entertained by her to please her palate;
And, till she foreswore eating, I perform'd it.
Now, since our master, noble Allworth, died,
Though I crack'd my brains to find out tempting sauces,
And raise fortifications in the pastry,
When I am three parts roasted,
And the fourth part parboil'd, to prepare her viands,
She keeps her chamber, dines with a panada,
Or water-gruel, my skill never thought on.
Order. But your art is seen in the dining room.
Fur. By whom?
By such as pretend to love her; but come
To feed upon her. Yet, of all the harpies
That do devour her, I am out of charity
With none so much, as the thin-gutted squire,
That's stolen into commission.
Order. Justice Greedy?
Fur. The same, the same. Meat's cast away upon him;
It never thrives. He holds this paradox,
Who eats not well, can ne'er do justice well.
His stomach's as insatiate as the grave.
Watch. One knocks.
[Allworth knocks, and enters.
Order. Our late young master.
Amble. Welcome, sir.
Fur. Your hand—
If you have a stomach, a cold bake-meat's ready.
We are all your servants.
All. At once, my thanks to all:
This is yet some comfort. Is my lady stirring?