[86] Gentleman’s Magazine.
Garrick Plays.
No. IX.
[From the “Two Angry Women of Abingdon,” a Comedy, by Henry Porter, 1599.]
Proverb-monger.
This formal fool, your man, speaks nought but Proverbs;
And, speak men what they can to him, he’ll answer
With some rhyme-rotten sentence, or old saying,
Such spokes as th’ Ancient of the Parish use
With “Neighbour, it’s an old Proverb and a true,
Goose giblets are good meat, old sack better than new:”
Then says another, “Neighbour, that is true.”
And when each man hath drunk his gallon round,
(A penny pot, for that’s the old man’s gallon).
Then doth he lick his lips, and stroke his beard,
That’s glued together with the slavering drops
Of yesty ale; and when he scarce can trim
His gouty fingers, thus he’ll fillip it,
And with a rotten hem say, “Hey my hearts,”
“Merry go sorry,” “Cock and Pye, my hearts;”
And then their saving-penny-proverb comes,
And that is this, “They that will to the wine,
By’r Lady, mistress, shall lay their penny to mine.”
This was one of this penny-father’s bastards;
For on my life he was never begot
Without the consent of some great Proverb-monger.
She Wit.
Why, she will flout the devil, and make blush
The boldest face of man that ever man saw.
He that hath best opinion of his wit,
And hath his brain-pan fraught with bitter jests
(Or of his own, or stol’n, or howsoever),
Let him stand ne’er so high in’s own conceit,
Her wit’s a sun that melts him down like butter,
And makes him sit at table pancake-wise,
Flat, flat, and ne’er a word to say;
Yet she’ll not leave him then, but like a tyrant
She’ll persecute the poor wit-beaten man,
And so be-bang him with dry bobs and scoffs,
When he is down (most cowardly, good faith!)
As I have pitied the poor patient.
There came a Farmer’s Son a wooing to her,
A proper man, well-landed too he was,
A man that for his wit need not to ask
What time a year ’twere need to sow his oats,
Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reap,
To plow his fallows, or to fell his trees,
Well experienced thus each kind of way;
After a two months’ labour at the most,
(And yet ’twas well he held it out so long),
He left his Love; she had so laced his lips,
He could say nothing to her but “God be with ye.”
Why, she, when men have dined, and call’d for cheese
Will strait maintain jests bitter to digest;
And then some one will fall to argument,
Who if he over-master her with reason,
Then she’ll begin to buffet him with mocks.