Act IV, Scene I
Field between the two Houses.
Enter severally Black Knight’s Pawn, and Black Bishop’s Pawn in his gallant habit.[721]
B. KT.'S PAWN. It’s he, my confessor; he might have pass’d me Seven year together, had I not by chance Advanc’d mine eye upon that letter’d hat-band, The Jesuitical symbol to be known by, Worn by the brave collegians with[722] consent: ’Tis a strange habit for a holy father, A president of poverty especially; But we, the sons and daughters of obedience, Dare not once think awry, but must confess ourselves As humbly to the father of that feather,[723] Long spur, and poniard, as to the alb and altar, And happy we’re so highly[724] grac’d to attain to’t. [Aside. Holy and reverend! B. B. PAWN. How, hast found me out? B. KT.'S PAWN. O sir, put on the sparkling’st trim[725] of glory, Perfection will shine foremost; and I knew you By the catholical[726] mark you wear about you, The mark above your forehead. B. B. PAWN. Are you grown So ambitious in your observance? well, your business? I have my game to follow. B. KT.'S PAWN. I have a worm Follows me so, that I can follow no game: The most faint-hearted pawn, if he could see his play, Might snap me up at pleasure. I desire, sir, To be absolv’d: my conscience being at ease, I could then with more courage ply my game. B. B. PAWN. ’Twas a base fact. B. KT.'S PAWN. ’Twas to a schismatic pawn, sir. B. B. PAWN. What’s that to the nobility of revenge? Suffices[727] I have neither will nor power To give you absolution for that violence. Make your petition to the Penance-chamber: If the tax-register relieve you in’t By the Black Bishop’s clemency, you have wrought out A singular piece of favour with your money; That’s all your refuge now. B. KT.'S PAWN. The sting shoots deeper. [Exit.
Enter White Queen’s Pawn and Black Queen’s Pawn.
B. B. PAWN. Yonder’s my game, which, like a politic chess-master, I must not seem to see. W. Q. PAWN. O my heart! ’tis he.[728] B. Q. PAWN. That ’tis. W. Q. PAWN. The very self-same that the magical mirror Presented lately to me. B. Q. PAWN. And how like A most regardless[729] stranger he walks by, Merely[730] ignorant of his fate! you are not minded, The principall’st part of him. What strange mysteries Inscrutable love works by! W. Q. PAWN. The time, you see, Is not yet come. B. Q. PAWN. But ’tis in our power now[731] To bring time nearer—knowledge is a mastery— And make it observe us, and not we it. W. Q. PAWN. I would force nothing from its proper virtue; Let time have his full course. I had rather die The modest death of undiscover’d love Than have heaven’s least and lowest servant suffer, Or in his motion receive check, for me. How is my soul’s growth alter’d! that single life, The fittest garment that peace ever made for’t, Is grown too strait, too stubborn on the sudden. B. Q. PAWN. He comes this way again. W. Q. PAWN. O, there’s a traitor Leapt from my heart into my cheek already, That will betray all to his powerful eye, If it but glance upon me! B. Q. PAWN. By my verity, Look, he’s past by again, drown’d in neglect, Without the prosperous hint of so much happiness To look upon his fortune! How close fate Seals up the eye of human understanding, Till, like the sun’s flower, time and love unclose[732] it! 'Twere pity he should dwell in ignorance longer. W. Q. PAWN. What will you do? B. Q. PAWN. Yes, die a bashful death, do, And let the remedy pass by unus’d still: You’re chang’d enough already, if you’d look into’t.— Absolute sir, with your most noble pardon For this my rude intrusion, I am bold To bring the knowledge of a secret nearer By many days, sir, than it would arrive In its own proper revelation with you. Pray, turn and fix: do you know yond noble goodness? B. B. PAWN. ’Tis the first minute mine eye blest me with her, And clearly shews how much my knowledge wanted, Not knowing her till now. B. Q. PAWN. She’s to be lik’d then? Pray, view advisedly: there is strong reason That I'm so bold to urge it; you must guess The work concerns you nearer than you think for. B. B. PAWN. Her glory and the wonder of this secret Put[733] a reciprocal amazement on me. B. Q. PAWN. And ’tis not without worth: you two must be Better acquainted. B. B. PAWN. Is there cause, affinity, Or any courteous help creation joys in, To bring that forward? B. Q. PAWN. Yes, yes, I can shew you The nearest way to that perfection Of a most virtuous one that joy e’er found. Pray, mark her once again, then follow me, And I will shew you her must be your wife, sir. B. B. PAWN. The mystery extends, or else creation Hath set that admirable piece before us To choose our chaste delights by. B. Q. PAWN. Please you follow, sir. B. B. PAWN. What art have you to put me on an object And cannot get me off! ’tis pain to part from’t. [Exit with Black Queen’s Pawn. W. Q. PAWN. If there prove no check in that magical glass now, But my proportion come as fair and full Into his eye as his into mine lately, Then I'm confirm’d he is mine own for ever.
Re-enter Black Queen’s Pawn and Black Bishop’s Pawn.
B. B. PAWN. The very self-same that the mirror blest me with, From head to foot, the beauty and the habit!— Kept you this place still? did you not remove, lady? W. Q. PAWN. Not a foot further, sir. B. B. PAWN. Is’t possible? I would have sworn I had seen the substance yonder, ’Twas to that lustre, to that life presented. W. Q. PAWN. Even so was yours to me, sir. B. B. PAWN. Saw you mine? W. Q. PAWN. Perfectly clear; no sooner my name us’d But yours appear’d. B. B. PAWN. Just so did yours at mine now. B. Q. PAWN. Why stand you idle? will you let time cozen you, Protracting time, of those delicious benefits That fate hath mark’d[734] to you? You modest pair Of blushing gamesters,—and you, sir, the bashfull’st, I cannot flatter a foul fault in any,— Can you be more than man and wife assign’d, And by a power the most irrevocable?[735] Others, that be adventurers in delight, May meet with crosses, shame,[736] or separation; You know the mind of fate, you must be coupled. B. B. PAWN. She speaks but truth in this: I see no reason then That we should miss the relish of this night, But that we are both shamefac’d. W. Q. PAWN. How? this night, sir? Did not I know you must be mine, and therein Your privilege runs strong, for that loose motion You never should be. Is it not my fortune To match with a pure mind? then am I miserable. The doves and all chaste-loving winged creatures Have their pairs fit, their desires justly mated; Is woman more unfortunate, a virgin, The May of woman? Fate, that hath ordain’d, sir, We should be man[737] and wife, hath not given warrant For any act of knowledge till we are so. B. B. PAWN. Tender-ey’d modesty, how it grieves[738] at this! I'm as far off, for all this strange imposture, As at first interview. Where lies our game now? You know I cannot marry[739] by mine order. B. Q. PAWN. I know you cannot, sir; yet you may venture Upon a contract. B. B. PAWN. Hah! B. Q. PAWN. Surely you may, sir, Without all question, so far without danger, Or any stain to your vow; and that may take her: Nay, do’t with speed; she’ll think you mean the better too. B. B. PAWN. Be not so lavish of that blessed spring; You’ve wasted that upon a cold occasion now Would wash a sinful soul white. By our love-joys, That motion shall ne’er light upon my tongue more Till we’re contracted; then, I hope, you’re mine. W. Q. PAWN. In all just duty ever. B. Q. PAWN. Then? do you question it? Pish! then you’re man and wife, all but church-ceremony: Pray, let’s see that done first; she shall do reason then.— Now I'll enjoy the sport, and cozen you both: My blood’s game is the wages I have work’d for. [Aside. Exeunt.
Act IV, Scene II
An apartment in the Black House.
Enter Black Knight and Black Knight’s Pawn.
B. KNIGHT. Pawn, I have spoke to the Fat Bishop for thee; I'll get thee absolution from his own mouth. Reach me my chair of ease, my chair of cozenage; Seven thousand pounds in women, reach me that: I love a' life[740] to sit upon a bank Of heretic gold. O, soft and gently, sirrah! There’s a foul flaw[741] i' the bottom of my drum, Pawn: I ne’er shall make sound soldier, but sound treacher[742] With any he in Europe. How now? qualm? Thou hast the puking’st soul that e’er I met with; It cannot bear one suckling villany: Mine can digest a monster without crudity, A sin as weighty as an elephant, And never wamble for’t. B. KT.'S PAWN. Ay, you’ve been us’d to’t, sir; That’s a great help. The swallow of my conscience Hath but a narrow passage; you must think yet It lies i' the penitent pipe, and will not down: If I had got seven thousand pounds by offices, And gull’d[743] down that, the bore would have been bigger. B. KNIGHT. Nay, if thou prov’st facetious, I shall hug thee. Can a soft, rear,[744] poor-poach’d[745] iniquity So ride upon thy conscience? I'm asham’d of thee. Hadst thou betray’d the White House to the Black, Beggar’d a kingdom by dissimulation, Unjointed[746] the fair frame of peace and traffic, Poison’d allegiance, set faith back, and wrought Women’s soft souls even up to masculine malice, To pursue truth to death, if the cause rous’d ’em, That stares[747] and parrots are first taught to curse thee—— B. KT.'S PAWN. Ay, marry, sir, here’s swapping sins indeed! B. KNIGHT. All these, and ten times trebled, hath this brain Been parent to; they are my offsprings all. B. KT.'S PAWN. A goodly brood! B. KNIGHT. Yet I can jest as lightly,[748] Laugh and tell stirring stories to court-madams, Daughters of my seducement, with alacrity As high and hearty as youth’s time of innocence That never knew a sin to shape a sorrow by: I feel no tempest, not a leaf wind-stirring To shake a fault; my conscience is becalm’d rather. B. KT.'S PAWN. I'm sure there is a whirlwind huffs in mine, sir. B. KNIGHT. Sirrah, I've sold the groom-of-the stole six times, And receiv’d money of six several ladies Ambitious to take place of baronets' wives: To three[749] old mummy matrons I have promis’d The mothership o' the maids: I've taught our friends too To convey White-House gold to our Black kingdom In cold bak’d pasties, and so cozen searchers: For venting hallow’d oil, beads, medals, pardons, Pictures, Veronica’s heads in private presses, That’s done by one i' th' habit of a pedlar; Letters convey’d in rolls, tobacco-balls: When a restraint comes, by my politic counsel, Some of our Jesuits turn[750] gentlemen-ushers, Some falconers, some park-keepers, and some huntsmen; One took the shape of an old lady’s cook once, And despatch’d two chares[751] on a Sunday morning, The altar and the dresser. Pray, what use Put I my summer-recreation to, But more t' inform my knowledge in the state And strength of the White Kingdom? no fortification, Haven, creek, landing-place about the White coast, But I got draft and platform; learn’d[752] the depth Of all their channels, knowledge of all sands, Shelves, rocks, and rivers for invasion properest; A catalogue of all the navy royal, The burthen of each ship, the brassy murderers,[753] The number of the men, to what cape bound: Again, for the discovery of the inlands, Never a shire but the state better known To me than to her breast[754]-inhabitants; What power of men and horse, gentry’s revenues, Who well affected to our side, who ill, Who neither well nor ill, all the neutrality: Thirty-eight thousand souls have been seduc’d, Pawn, Since the jails[755] vomited with the pill I gave ’em. B. KT.'S PAWN. Sure, you put oil of toad into[756] that physic, sir. B. KNIGHT. I'm now about a masterpiece of play T' entrap the White Knight, and with false allurements Entice him to the Black House,—more will follow,— Whilst our Fat Bishop sets upon the Queen; Then will our game lie sweetly.
Enter Fat Bishop with a book.
B. KT.'S PAWN. He’s come now, sir. F. BISHOP. Here’s Taxa Pœnitentiaria, Knight, The Book of General Pardons, of all prices: I have been searching for his sin this half hour, And cannot light upon’t. B. KNIGHT. That’s strange; let me see’t. B. KT.'S PAWN. Wretched that I am! hath my rage done that There is no precedent of pardon for? B. KNIGHT. [reads] _For wilful murder thirteen pound four shillings And sixpence_,—that’s reasonable cheap,—_For killing, Killing, killing, killing, killing, killing_— Why, here’s nothing but killing, Bishop, on this side. F. BISHOP. Turn the sheet o’er, and you shall find adultery And other trivial sins. B. KNIGHT. Adultery? O, I'm in’t now—[reads] _For adultery a couple Of shillings, and for fornication fivepence_,— Mass,[757] these are two good pennyworths! I cannot See how a man can mend himself—_For lying With mother, sister, or[758] daughter_,—ay, marry, sir,— _Thirty-three pounds three shillings and[759] threepence_,— The sin’s gradation right, paid all in threes too. F. BISHOP. You’ve read the story of that monster, sir, That got his daughter, sister, and his wife Of his own mother? B. KNIGHT. [reads] Simony, nine pound. F. BISHOP. They may thank me for that; it was nineteen Before I came; I've mitigated many of the sums.[760] B. KNIGHT. [reads] Sodomy, sixpence—you should put that sum Ever on the backside of your book, Bishop. F. BISHOP. There’s few on’s very forward, sir. B. KNIGHT. What’s here, sir? [reads] _Two old precedents of encouragement_—— F. BISHOP. Ay, those are ancient notes. B. KNIGHT. [reads] _Given, as a gratuity, for the killing of an heretical prince with a poisoned knife, ducats five thousand._[761] F. BISHOP. True, sir; that was paid. B. KNIGHT. [reads] _Promised also to doctor Lopez[762] for poisoning the maiden queen of the White Kingdom, ducats twenty thousand; which said sum was afterwards given as a meritorious alms to the nunnery at Lisbon, having at this present ten thousand pounds more at use in the town-house of Antwerp._ B. KT.'S PAWN. What’s all this to my conscience, worthy holiness? I sue for pardon; I've brought money with me. F. BISHOP. You must depart; you see there is no precedent Of any price or pardon for your fact. B. KT.'S PAWN. Most miserable! Are fouler sins remitted, Killing, nay, wilful murder? F. BISHOP. True, there’s instance: Were you to kill him, I would pardon you; There’s precedent for that, and price set down, But none for gelding. B. KT.'S PAWN. I've pick’d out understanding now for ever Out of that cabalistic bloody riddle: I'll make away all my estate,[763] and kill him, And by that act obtain full absolution. [Aside, and exit.
Enter Black King.
B. KING. Why, Bishop, Knight, where’s your removes, your traps? Stand you now idle in the heat of game? B. KNIGHT. My life for yours, Black sovereign, the game’s ours; I have wrought underhand for the White Knight And his brave Duke, and find ’em coming both. F. BISHOP. Then for their sanctimonious Queen’s surprisal, sir, In that state-puzzle and distracted hurry, Trust my arch-subtlety with. B. KING.[764] O eagle pride! Never was game more hopeful of our side. [Exeunt B. King and F. Bishop. B. KNIGHT. If Bishop[765] Bull-beef be not snapt[766] next[767] bout, As the men stand, I'll never trust art more. [Exit.
Act IV, Scene III
Dumb Show.
Recorders. Enter Black Queen’s Pawn with a taper in her hand; she conducts White Queen’s Pawn, in her night-attire,[768] into one chamber, and then conveys Black Bishop’s Pawn, in his night-habit, into another chamber, and putting out the light, follows him.
Act IV, Scene IV
Field between the two Houses.
Enter White Knight and White Duke.
W. KNIGHT. True, noble Duke, fair virtue’s[769] most endear’d one; Let us prevent[770] their rank insinuation With truth of cause and courage, meet their plots With confident goodness that shall strike’em grovelling. W. DUKE. Sir, all the gins, traps, and alluring snares, The devil hath been at work since eighty-eight[771] on, Are laid for the great hope of this game only. W. KNIGHT. Why, the more noble will truth’s triumph be: When they have wound about our constant courages The glittering’st[772] serpent that e’er falsehood fashion’d, And glorying most in his resplendent poisons, Just heaven can find a bolt to bruise his head. W. DUKE. Look, would you see destruction lie a-sunning?
Enter Black Knight.
In yonder smile sit[773] blood and treachery basking; In that perfidious model of face[774]-falsehood Hell is drawn grinning. W. KNIGHT. What a pain it is For truth to feign a little! B. KNIGHT. O fair Knight, The rising glory of that House of Candour, Have I so many protestations lost, Lost, lost, quite lost? am I not worth your confidence? I that have vow’d the faculties of soul, Life, spirit, and brain, to your sweet game of youth, Your noble, fruitful game? Can you mistrust Any foul play in me, that have been ever The most submiss observer of your virtues, And no way tainted with ambition, Save only to be thought your[775] first admirer? How often have I chang’d, for your delight, The royal presentation of my place Into a mimic jester, and become, For your sake and th' expulsion of sad thoughts, Of a grave state-sire[776] a light son of pastime, Made three-score years a tomboy, a mere wanton! I'll tell you what I told a Savoy dame once, New-wed, high-plump, and lusting for an issue: Within the year I promis’d her a child, If she could[777] stride over saint Rumbant’s[778] breeches, A relique kept at Mechlin: the next morning One my followers' old hose[779] was convey’d Into her chamber, where she tried the feat; By that, and a court-friend, after grew great. W. KNIGHT. Why, who could be without thee? B. KNIGHT. I will change To any shape to please you; and my aim Hath been to win your love in all this game. W. KNIGHT. Thou hast it nobly, and we long to see The Black-House pleasure, state, and dignity. B. KNIGHT. Of honour you’ll so surfeit and delight, You’ll ne’er desire again to see the White. [Exeunt.
Enter White Queen.
W. QUEEN. My love, my hope, my dearest! O, he’s gone, Ensnar’d, entrapt, surpris’d amongst the Black ones! I never felt extremity like this: Thick darkness dwells upon this hour; integrity, Like one of heaven’s bright luminaries, now By error’s dullest element interpos’d, Suffers a black eclipse. I never was More sick of love than now I am of horror: I shall be taken; the game’s lost, I'm set upon!—
Enter Fat Bishop.
O, ’tis the turncoat Bishop, having watch’d Th' advantage of his play, comes now to seize on me! O, I am hard beset, distrest most miserably! F. BISHOP. ’Tis vain to stir; remove which way you can, I take you now; this is the time we’ve hop’d for: Queen, you must down. W. QUEEN. No rescue, no deliverance![780] F. BISHOP. The Black King’s blood burns for thy prostitution, And nothing but die spring of thy chaste virtue Can cool his inflammation; instantly
Enter White Bishop.
He dies upon a plurisy of luxury,[781] If he deflower thee not. W. QUEEN. O strait of misery! W. BISHOP. And is your holiness his divine procurer? F. BISHOP. The devil’s in’t, I'm taken by a ring-dove! Where stood this Bishop that I saw him not? W. BISHOP. O,[782] you were so ambitious you look’d o’er me! You aim’d at no less person than the Queen, The glory of the game; if she were won, The way were open to the master-check,
Enter White King.
Which, look you, he and his live[783] to give you; Honour and virtue guide him in his station! W. QUEEN. O my safe sanctuary! W. KING. Let heaven’s blessings Be mine no longer than I am thy sure one! The dove’s house is not safer in the rock Than thou in my firm bosom. W. QUEEN. I am blest in’t. W. KING. Is it that lump of rank ingratitude, Swell’d with the poison of hypocrisy? Could he be so malicious, hath partaken Of the sweet fertile blessings of our kingdom?— Bishop, thou’st done our White House gracious service, And worthy the fair reverence of thy place.— For thee, Black holiness, that work’st out thy death As the blind mole, the properest son of earth, Who, in the casting his ambitious hills up, Is often taken and destroy’d i' the midst Of his advancèd work; ’twere well with thee If, like that verminous labourer, which thou imitat’st In hills of pride and malice, when death puts thee up, The silent grave might prove thy bag for ever; No deeper pit than that: for thy vain hope Of the White Knight and his most firm assistant, Two princely pieces, which I know thy thoughts Give lost for ever now, my strong assurance Of their fix’d virtues, could you let in seas Of populous untruths against that fort, 'Twould burst the proudest billows. W. QUEEN. My fear’s past then. W. KING. Fear? you were never[784] guilty of an injury To goodness, but in that. W. QUEEN. It stay’d not with me, sir. W. KING. It was too much if it usurp’d a thought: Place a strong[785] guard there. W. QUEEN. Confidence is set, sir. W. KING. Take that prize hence; go, reverend of men, Put covetousness into the bag again. F. BISHOP. The bag had need be sound, or’t goes to wrack; Sin and my weight will make a strong one crack. [Exeunt.
Act V, Scene I
Before the Black House.
Loud music.[786] Black Bishop’s Pawn discovered above: enter Black Knight in his litter,[787] as passing in haste over the stage.
B. KNIGHT. Hold, hold! Is the Black Bishop’s Pawn, the Jesuit, Planted above for his concise oration?[788] B. B. PAWN. Ecce triumphantis[789] _me fixum Cæsaris arce!_ B. KNIGHT. Art there, my holy boy? sirrah, Bishop Tumbrel Is snapt[790] i' the bag by this time. B. B. PAWN. Hæretici pereant sic! B. KNIGHT. All Latin! sure th' oration hath infected him. Away, away, make haste, they are coming.
_Hautboys again.[791] Enter Black King, Black Queen, Black Duke, with Pawns, meeting White Knight and White Duke: Black Bishop’s Pawn from above entertains him[792] with this Latin oration_:[793] B. B. PAWN. _Si quid mortalibus unquam oculis hilarem et gratum aperuit diem, si quid peramantibus amicorum animis gaudium attulit peperitve lætitiam, Eques Candidissime, prælucentissime, felicem profecto tuum a Domo Candoris ad Domum Nigritudinis accessum promisisse, peperisse, attulisse fatemur: omnes adventus tui conflagrantissimi, omni qua possumus lætitia, gaudio, congratulatione, acclamatione, animis observantissimis, affectibus devotissimis, obsequiis venerabundis, te sospitem congratulamur!_ B. KING. Sir, in this short congratulatory speech You may conceive how the whole House affects you. B. KNIGHT. The colleges and sanctimonious seed-plots. W. KNIGHT. ’Tis clear and so acknowledg’d, royal sir. B. KING. What honours, pleasures, rarities, delights, Your noble thought can think—— B. QUEEN. Your fair eye fix[794] on, That’s comprehended in the spacious circuit Of our Black Kingdom, they’re your servants all. W. KNIGHT. How amply you endear us! W. DUKE. They are favours That equally enrich the royal giver, As the receiver, in the free donation. [_Music. An altar is discovered with tapers unlit, and divers images about it._ B. KNIGHT. Hark, to enlarge your welcome, from all parts Is heard sweet-sounding airs! abstruse things open Of voluntary freeness; and yon altar, The seat of adoration, seems t' adore The virtues you bring with you. W. KNIGHT. There’s a taste Of the old vessel still. W. DUKE. Th' erroneous relish.[795]
Song.
_Wonder work some strange delight, (This place was never yet without), To welcome the fair[796] White-House Knight, And to bring our hopes about! May from the altar flames aspire, Those tapers set themselves on fire! May senseless things our joys approve,[797] And those brazen statues move, Quicken’d by some power above, Or what more strange, to shew our love!_ [_Flames rise from the altar, the tapers take fire, and the images move in a dance._ B. KNIGHT. A happy omen waits upon this hour; All move portentously the right-hand way. B. KING.[798] Come, let’s set free all the most choice delights, That ever adorn’d days or quicken’d nights. [Exeunt.
Act V, Scene II
Field between the two Houses.
Enter White Queen’s Pawn.
W. Q. PAWN. I see ’twas but a trial of my duty now; Hath a more[799] modest mind, and in that virtue Most worthily hath fate provided for me.
Enter Black Bishop’s Pawn in his reverend habit.
Hah! ’tis the bad man in the reverend habit: Dares he be seen again, traitor to holiness, O marble-fronted impudence! and knows How much has wrong’d[800] me? I'm asham’d he blushes not. B. B. PAWN. Are you yet stor’d with any woman’s pity? Are you the mistress of so much devotion, Kindness, and charity, as to bestow An alms of love on your poor sufferer yet For your sake only? W. Q. PAWN. Sir, for the reverend respect you ought To give to sanctity, though none to me, In being her servant vow’d and wear her livery, If I might counsel, you should never speak The language of unchasteness in that habit; You would not think how ill it doth with you. The world’s a stage on which all parts are play’d: You’d think it most absurd to see a devil Presented there not in a devil’s shape, Or, wanting one, to send him out in yours; You’d rail at that for an absurdity No college e’er committed. For decorum' sake, then, For pity’s cause, for sacred virtue’s honour, If you’ll persist still in your devil’s part, Present him as you should do, and let one That carries up the goodness of the play Come in that habit, and I'll speak with him; Then will the parts be fitted, and the spectators Know which is which: they must have cunning judgments[801] To find it else, for such a one as you Is able to deceive a mighty audience; Nay, those you have seduc’d, if there be any In the assembly, when[802] they see what manner You play your game with me, they cannot love you. Is there so little hope of you, to smile, sir? B. B. PAWN. Yes, at your fears, at th' ignorance of your power, The little use you make of time, youth, fortune, Knowing you have a husband for lust’s shelter, You dare not yet make bold with a friend’s comfort; This is the plague of weakness. W. Q. PAWN. So hot burning! The syllables of sin fly from his lips As if the letter came new-cast[803] from hell. B. B. PAWN. Well, setting by[804] the dish you loathe so much, Which hath been heartily tasted by your betters, I come to marry you to the gentleman That last enjoy’d you: I hope that pleases you; There’s no immodest relish in that office. W. Q. PAWN. Strange of all men he should first light on him To tie that holy knot that sought t' undo me! [Aside. Were you requested to perform that business, sir? B. B. PAWN. I name you a sure token. W. Q. PAWN. As for that, sir, Now you’re most welcome; and my fair hope’s of you, You’ll[805] never break the sacred knot you tie once With any lewd soliciting hereafter. B. B. PAWN. But all the craft’s in getting of it knit: You’re all on fire to make your cozening market. I am the marrier and the man—do you know me? Do you know me, nice iniquity, strict luxury,[806] And holy whoredom?—that would clap on marriage With all hot speed to solder up your game: See what a scourge fate hath provided for thee! You were a maid; swear still, you’re no worse now, I left you as I found you: have I startled you? I'm quit with you now for my discovery, Your outcries, and your cunning:[807] farewell, brokage! W. Q. PAWN. Nay, stay, and hear me but give thanks a little, If your ear can endure a work so gracious; Then you may take your pleasure. B. B. PAWN. I have done that. W. Q. PAWN. Thou[808] power, that hath preserv’d me from this devil—— B. B. PAWN. How? W. Q. PAWN. This that may challenge the chief chair in hell, And sit above his master—— B. B. PAWN. Bring in merit. W. Q. PAWN. That suffered’st him, through blind lust, to be led Last night to the action of some common bed—— B. Q. PAWN [within]. Not over-common neither. B. B. PAWN. Hah, what voice is that? W. Q. PAWN. Of virgins be thou ever honourèd!— Now you may go; you hear I've given thanks, sir. B. B. PAWN. Here’s a strange game! Did not I lie with you? B. Q. PAWN [within]. No. B. B. PAWN. What the devil art thou? W. Q. PAWN. I will not answer you, sir, After thanksgiving. B. B. PAWN. Why, you made promise to me After the contract. B. Q. PAWN [within]. Yes. B. B. PAWN. Mischief confound thee! I speak not to thee—and you were prepar’d for’t, And set your joys more high—— B. Q. PAWN [within]. Than you could reach, sir. B. B. PAWN. This is some[809] bawdy Pawn; I'll slit the throat on’t!
Enter Black Queen’s Pawn.
B. Q. PAWN. What, offer violence to your bedfellow? To one that works so kindly without rape? B. B. PAWN. My bedfellow? B. Q. PAWN. Do you plant your scorn against me? Why, when I was probationer at Brussels, That engine was not known; then adoration Fill’d up the place, and wonder was in fashion: Is’t turn’d to the wild seed of contempt so soon? Can five years stamp a bawd? pray, look upon me, sir, I've youth enough to take it: ’tis no longer Since you were chief agent for the transportation Of ladies' daughters, if you be remember’d: Some of their portions I could name; who purs’d ’em too: They were soon dispossess’d of worldly cares That came into your fingers. B. B. PAWN. Shall I hear her? B. Q. PAWN. Holy derision, yes, till thy ears[810] swell With thine own venom, thy profane life’s vomit: Whose niece was she you poison’d, with child twice, And gave her out possess’d with a foul spirit, When ’twas indeed your bastard? B. B. PAWN. I am taken In mine own toils!
Enter White Queen and White Bishop’s Pawn.
W. B. PAWN. Yes, and ’tis just you should be. W. QUEEN.[811] And thou, lewd Pawn, the shame of womanhood! B. B. PAWN. I'm lost of all hands! B. Q. PAWN. And I cannot feel The weight of my perdition; now he’s taken, 'T hath not the burden of a grasshopper. B. B. PAWN. Thou whore of order, cockatrice[812] _in voto_!
Enter Black Knight’s Pawn.
B. KT.'S PAWN. Yon’s the White Bishop’s Pawn; I'll play at’s heart now. W. Q. PAWN. How now, black villain! would’st thou heap a murder On thy first foul offence? O merciless bloodhound, ’Tis time that thou wert taken! B. KT.'S PAWN. Death![813] prevented? W. Q. PAWN. For thy sake and that partner in thy shame, I'll never know man further than by name. [Exeunt.
Act V, Scene III
In the Black House.
_Enter Black King, Black Queen, Black Knight, Black Duke, Black Bishop, White Knight, and White Duke._
W. KNIGHT. You have enrich’d my knowledge, royal[814] sir, And my content together. B. KING. ’Stead of riot We set you only welcome: surfeit is A thing that’s seldom heard of in these parts. W. KNIGHT. I hear of the more virtue when I miss on’t. B. KNIGHT. We do not use to bury in our bellies Two hundred thousand ducats, and then boast on’t; Or exercise th' old Roman painful idleness With care of fetching fishes far from home, The golden-headed coracine out of Egypt, The salpa from Ebusus,[815] or the pelamis, Which some call summer-whiting, from Chalcedon, Salmons from Aquitaine, helops from Rhodes, Cockles from Chios, frank’d[816] and fatted up With far and sapa,[817] flour and cocted wine; We cram no birds, nor, Epicurean[818]-like, Enclose some creeks o' the sea, as Sergius Orata[819] did, He that invented the first stews for oysters And other sea-fish, who, besides the pleasure of his Own throat, got large revenues by th' invention, Whose fat example the nobility follow’d; Nor do we imitate that arch-gormandiser With two-and-twenty courses at one dinner, And, betwixt every course, he and his guests Wash’d and us’d women, then sat down and strengthen’d, Lust swimming in their dishes, which no sooner Was tasted but was ready to be vented. W. KNIGHT. Most impious epicures! B. KNIGHT. We commend rather, Of two extremes, the parsimony of Pertinax, Who had half-lettuces set up to serve again; Or his successor Julian,[820] that would make Three meals of a lean hare, and often[821] sup With a green fig and wipe his beard, as we can. The old bewailers of excess in those days Complain’d there was more coin bid for a cook Than for a war-horse; but now cooks are purchas’d After the rate of triumphs,[822] and some dishes After the rate of cooks; which must needs make Some of your White-House gormandizers, ’specially Your wealthy plump plebeians, like the hogs Which Scaliger cites,[823] that could not move for fat, So insensible of either prick or goad, That mice made holes to needle[824] in their buttocks, And they ne’er felt ’em. There was once a ruler, Cyrene’s governor,[825]] chok’d with his own paunch; Which death fat Sanctius,[826] king of Castile, fearing, Through his infinite mass of belly, rather chose To be kill’d suddenly by a pernicious herb Taken to make him lean, which old Corduba, King of Morocco, counsell’d his fear to, Than he would hazard to be stunk[827] to death, As that huge cormorant that was chok’d before him. W. KNIGHT. Well, you’re as sound a spokesman, sir, for parsimony, Clean abstinence, and scarce one meal a-day, As ever spake with tongue. B. KING. Censure him mildly, sir; ’Twas but to find discourse. B. QUEEN. He’ll raise['t] of any thing. W. KNIGHT. I shall be half afraid to feed hereafter. W. DUKE. Or I, beshrew my heart, for I fear fatness, The fog of fatness, as I fear a dragon: The comeliness I wish for, that’s as glorious. W. KNIGHT. Your course is wondrous strict: I should transgress, sure,[828] Were I to change my side, as you’ve much wrought me. B. KNIGHT. How you misprize! this is not meant to you-ward: You that are wound up to the height of feeding By clime and custom, are dispens’d withal; You may eat kid, cabrito, calf, and tons,[829] Eat and eat every day, twice, if you please; Nay, the frank’d[830] hen, fatten’d with milk and corn, A riot which th' inhabitants of Delos Were first inventors of, or the cramm’d cockle. W. KNIGHT. Well, for the food I'm happily resolv’d[831] in; But for the diet of my disposition, There comes a trouble; you will hardly find Food to please that. B. KNIGHT. It must be a strange nature We cannot find a dish for, having Policy, The master-cook of Christendom, to dress it: Pray, name your nature’s diet. W. KNIGHT. The first mess Is hot ambition. B. KNIGHT. That’s but serv’d in puff-paste; Alas, the meanest of our cardinals' cooks Can dress that dinner: your ambition, sir, Can fetch no further compass than the world? W. KNIGHT. That’s certain, sir. B. KNIGHT. We’re about that already; And in the large feast of our vast ambition We count but the White Kingdom, whence you come from, The garden for our cook to pick his salads; The food’s lean France, larded with Germany; Before which comes the grave, chaste signiory Of Venice, serv’d in, capon-like, in white broth; From our chief oven, Italy, the bake-meats; Savoy the salt, Geneva the chipt manchet;[832] Below the salt[833] the Netherlands are plac’d, A common dish at lower end a' the table, For meaner pride to fall to: for our second course, A spit of Portugals serv’d in for plovers; Indians and Moors for blackbirds: all this while Holland stands ready-melted to make sauce On all occasions: when the voider[834] comes, And with such cheer our full hopes we suffice, Zealand says grace for fashion; then we rise. W. KNIGHT. Here’s meat enough, in[835] conscience, for ambition! B. KNIGHT. If there be any want, there’s Switzerland, Polonia, and such pickled things will serve To furnish out the table. W. KNIGHT. You say well, sir: But here’s the misery; when I've stopt the mouth Of one vice, there’s another gapes for food; I am as covetous as a barren womb, The grave, or what’s more ravenous. B. KNIGHT. We’re for you, sir: Call you that heinous, that’s good husbandry? Why, we make money of our faith,[836] our prayers; We make the very deathbed buy her comforts, Most dearly pay for all her[837] pious counsels, Leave rich revenues for a few weak orisons, Or else they pass unreconcil’d without ’em: Did you but view the vaults within our monasteries, You’d swear then Plutus, whom[838] the fiction calls The lord of riches, were entombèd there.[839] W. KNIGHT. Is’t possible? B. DUKE. You cannot walk for tuns. W. DUKE. But how shall I bestow the vice I bring, sirs? You quite forget me; I shall be shut out By your strict key of life. B. KNIGHT. Is yours so vild,[840] sir? W. DUKE. Some that are pleas’d to make a wanton on’t, Call it infirmity of blood, flesh-frailty; But certain there’s a worse name in your books for’t. B. KNIGHT. The trifle of all vices, the mere innocent, The very novice of this house of clay,—venery: If I but hug thee hard, I shew the worst on’t; ’Tis all the fruit we have here after supper; Nay, at the ruins of a[841] nunnery once, Six thousand infants' heads found in a fish-pond. W. DUKE. How! B. KNIGHT. Ay, how? how came they thither, think you? Huldrick, bishop of Augsburg, in’s Epistle[842] To Nicholas the first, can tell you how; May be he was at cleansing of the pond: I can but smile to think how it would puzzle All mother-maids that ever liv’d in those parts To know their own child’s head. But is this all? B. DUKE. Are you ours yet? W. KNIGHT. One more, and I am silenc’d: But this that comes now will divide us questionless; ’Tis ten times, ten times worse than the forerunners. B. KNIGHT. Is it so vild there is no name ordain’d for’t? Toads have their titles, and creation gave Serpents and adders those names to be known by. W. KNIGHT. This of all others bears the hiddenest venom, The smoothest poison; I'm an arch-dissembler, sir. B. KNIGHT. How? W. KNIGHT. ’Tis my nature’s brand; turn from me, sir; The time is yet to come that e’er I spoke What my heart meant. B. KNIGHT. And call you that a vice?— Avoid all profanation, I beseech you,— The only prime state-virtue upon earth, The policy of empires; O, take heed, sir, For fear it take displeasure and forsake you! ’Tis like a jewel of that precious value, Whose worth’s not known but to the skilful lapidary; The instrument that picks ope princes' hearts, And locks up ours from them, with the same motion: You never came so near our souls as now. B. DUKE. Now you’re a brother to us. B. KNIGHT. What we have done Hath been dissemblance ever. W. KNIGHT. There you lie then, And the game’s ours; we give thee check-mate by Discovery, King, the noblest mate of all! B. KNIGHT.[843] I'm lost, I'm taken! [A great shout and flourish. W. KNIGHT. Ambitious, covetous, Luxurious falsehood! W. DUKE. Dissembler includes all. B. KING.[844] All hopes confounded! B. QUEEN. Miserable condition!
Enter White King, White Queen, White Bishop, White Queen’s Pawn, and other White Pawns.
W. KING. O, let me bless mine arms with this dear treasure, Truth’s glorious masterpiece! See, Queen of sweetness, He’s in my bosom safe; and this fair structure Of comely honour, his true blest assistant. [Embracing W. Knight and W. Duke. W. QUEEN. May their integrities ever possess That powerful sanctuary! W. KNIGHT. As ’twas a game, sir, Won with much hazard, so with much more triumph We[845] gave him check-mate by discovery, sir. W. KING. Obscurity is now the fittest favour Falsehood can sue for; it well suits perdition: ’Tis their best course that so have lost their fame To put their heads into the bag for shame; And there, behold, the bag, like hell-mouth,[846] opens [_The bag opens,[847] and the Fat Bishop and the Black lost Pawns appear in it._ To take her due, and the lost sons appear Greedily gaping for increase of fellowship In infamy, the last desire of wretches, Advancing their perdition-branded foreheads Like Envy’s issue, or a bed of snakes. B. B. PAWN [in the bag]. ’Tis too apparent; the game’s lost, King[848] taken. F. BISHOP [in the bag]. The White House hath given us the bag,[849] I thank ’em. B. JESTING PAWN [in the bag]. They had need give you a whole bag by yourself: 'Sfoot, this Fat Bishop[850] hath so overlaid me, So squelch’d[851] and squeez’d me, I've no verjuice left in me! You shall find all my goodness, if you look for’t, In the bottom of the bag. F. BISHOP [in the bag]. Thou malapert Pawn! The Bishop must have room; he will have room, And room to lie at pleasure. B. JESTING PAWN [in the bag]. All the bag, I think, Is room too scant for your Spalato[852] paunch. B. B. PAWN [in the bag]. Down, viper of our order! I abhor thee: Thou shew thy whorish front? B. Q. PAWN [in the bag]. Yes, monster-holiness! W. KNIGHT. Contention in the pit! is hell divided? W. KING. You had need have some of majesty and power To keep good rule amongst you: make room, Bishop. [Puts B. King into the bag. F. BISHOP [in the bag]. I'm not so[853] easily mov’d when I'm once set; I scorn to stir for any king on earth. W. QUEEN. Here comes the Queen; what say you then to her? [Puts B. Queen into the bag.
F. BISHOP [in the bag]. Indeed a Queen may make a Bishop stir. W. KNIGHT. Room for the mightiest Machiavel-politician That e’er the devil hatch’d of a nun’s egg! [Puts B. Knight into the bag. F. BISHOP [in the bag]. He’ll pick a hole in the bag and get out shortly; But I shall[854] be the last man that creeps out, And that’s the misery of greatness ever.[855] W. DUKE. Room for[856] a sun-burnt, tansy-fac’d belov’d, An olive-colour’d Ganymede! and that’s all That’s worth the bagging. F. BISHOP [in the bag]. Crowd in all you can, The Bishop will be still uppermost man, Maugre King, Queen, or politician. W. KING. So, let the bag close now, the fittest womb For treachery, pride, and falsehood; whilst we, winner-like. Destroying, through heaven’s power, what would destroy, Welcome our White Knight with loud peals of joy. [Exeunt omnes.
Epilogue
By White Queen’s Pawn.
My mistress, the White Queen, hath sent me forth, And bade me bow thus low to all of worth, That are true friends of the White House and cause, Which she hopes most of this assembly draws: For any else, by envy’s mark denoted, To those night glow-worms in the bag devoted, Where’er they sit, stand, or in private lurk, They’ll be soon known by their depraving work; But she’s assur’d what they’ll commit to bane, Her White friends' hands will build up fair again.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ANY THING FOR A QUIET LIFE.
Any Thing For A Quiet Life. A Comedy, Formerly Acted at Black-Fryers, by His late Majesties Servants. Never before Printed. Written by Tho. Middleton, Gent. London: Printed by Tho. Johnson for Francis Kirkman, and Henry Marsh, and are to be sold at the Princes Arms in Chancery-Lane, 1662. 4to.
In the old ed. the whole play, with the exception of a few lines here and there, is printed as prose; and there is every reason to believe that the text is greatly corrupted.
Prologue
Howe’er th' intents and appetites of men Are different as their faces, how and when T' employ their actions, yet all without strife Meet in this point,—Any thing for a quiet life: Nor is there one, I think, that’s hither come For his delight, but would find peace at home On any terms. The lawyer does not cease[857] To talk himself into a sweat with pain, And so his fees buy quiet, ’tis his gain: The poor man does endure the scorching sun And feels no weariness, his day-labour done, So his wife entertain him with a smile And thank his travail, though she slept the while. This being in men of all conditions true Does give our play a name; and if to you It yield content and usual delight, For our parts we shall sleep secure to night.
Dramatis Personæ
LORD BEAUFORT. SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM. GEORGE CRESSINGHAM, } EDWARD, a child, } his sons. FRANKLIN senior. FRANKLIN junior, his son. KNAVESBY, a lawyer. SAUNDER, steward to Sir Francis Cressingham. WATER-CAMLET, a mercer. GEORGE, } RALPH, } his apprentices. SWEET-BALL, a barber. FLESH-HOOK. COUNTERBUFF. Surveyor, Barber’s Boy, &c.
LADY CRESSINGHAM, wife to Sir Francis. MISTRESS GEORGE CRESSINGHAM, _disguised as Selenger, a page to Lord Beaufort_. MISTRESS KNAVESBY. MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET. MARIA, a child, daughter to Sir Francis Cressingham. MARGARITA, a French bawd.
Scene, LONDON.
ANY THING FOR A QUIET LIFE.
Act I, Scene I
A room in SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM’S house.
Enter LORD BEAUFORT and SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM.
L. BEAU. Away, I am asham’d of your proceedings! And, seriously, you have in this one act O'erthrown the reputation the world Held of your wisdom. SIR F. CRES. Why, sir? L. BEAU. Can you not see your error? That having buried so good a wife Not a month since,—one that, to speak the truth, Had all those excellencies which our books Have only feign’d to make a complete wife Most exactly in her in practice,—and to marry A girl of fifteen, one bred up i' the court, That by all consonancy of reason is like To cross your estate: why, one new gown of hers, When ’tis paid for, will eat you out the keeping Of a bountiful Christmas. I'm asham’d of you; For you shall make too dear a proof of it, I fear, that in the election of a wife, As in a project of war, to err but once Is to be undone for ever. SIR F. CRES. Good my lord, I do beseech you, let your better judgment Go along with your reprehension! L. BEAU. So it does, And can find nought t' extenuate your fault But your dotage: you’re a man well sunk in years, And to graft such a young blossom into your stock Is the next way to make every carnal eye Bespeak your injury. Troth, I pity her too; She was not made to wither and go out By painted fires, that yield[858] her no more heat Than to be lodg’d in some bleak banqueting-house I' the dead of winter; and what follows then? Your shame and the ruin of your children; and there’s The end of a rash bargain. SIR F. CRES. With your pardon, That she is young is true; but that discretion Has gone beyond her years, and overta’en Those of maturer age, does more improve[859] Her goodness. I confess she was bred at court, But so retiredly, that, as still the best In some place is to be learnt there, so her life Did rectify itself more by the court-chapel Than by th' office of the revels: best of all virtues Are to be found at court; and where you meet With writings contrary to this known truth, They’re fram’d by men that never were so happy To be planted there to know it. For the difference Between her youth and mine, if you will read A matron’s sober staidness in her eye, And all the other grave demeanour fitting The governess of a house, you’ll then confess There’s no disparity between us. L. BEAU. Come, come, you read
Enter WATER-CAMLET.
What you’d have her to be, not what she is.— O, master Water-Camlet, you are welcome. W.-CAM. I thank your lordship. L. BEAU. And what news stirring in Cheapside? W.-CAM. Nothing new there,[860] my lord, but the Standard.[861] L. BEAU. O, that’s a monument your wives take great delight in: I do hear you are grown a mighty purchaser; I hope shortly to find you a continual resident upon the north aisle of the Exchange. W.-CAM.. Where? with the Scotchmen? L. BEAU. No, sir, with the aldermen. W.-CAM. Believe it, I am a poor commoner. SIR F. CRES. Come, you are warm, and blest with a fair wife. W.-CAM. There’s it; her going brave[862] has the only virtue to improve my credit in the subsidy-book. L. BEAU. But, I pray, how thrives your new plantation of silk-worms? those I saw last summer at your garden. W.-CAM. They are removed, sir. L. BEAU. Whither?
W.-CAM. This winter my wife has removed them home to a fair chamber, where divers courtiers use to come and see them, and my wife carries them up: I think shortly, what with the store of visitants, they’ll prove as chargeable to me as the morrow after Simon and Jude, only excepting the taking down and setting up again of my glass-windows. L. BEAU. That a man of your estate should be so gripple-minded and repining at his wife’s bounty! SIR F. CRES. There are no such ridiculous things i' the world as those love money better than themselves; for though they have understanding to know riches, and a mind to seek them, and a wit to find them, and policy to keep them, and long life to possess them; yet, commonly, they have withal such a false sight, such bleared eyes, all their wealth, when it lies before them, does seem poverty; and such a one are you. W.-CAM.. Good sir Francis, you have had sore eyes too, you have been a gamester, but you have given it o’er; and to redeem the vice belonged to’t, now you entertain certain farcels[863] of silenced ministers, which, I think, will equally undo you; yet should these waste you but lenitively, your devising new water-mill[s] for recovery of drowned land, and certain dreams you have in alchemy to find the philosopher’s stone, will certainly draw you to the bottom. I speak freely, sir, and would not have you angry, for I love you. SIR F. CRES. I am deeply in your books for furnishing my late wedding; have you brought a note of the particulars? W.-CAM.. No, sir; at more leisure. SIR F. CRES. What comes the sum to? W.-CAM.. For tissue, cloth-of-gold, velvets, and silks, about fifteen hundred pounds. SIR F. CRES. Your money is ready. W.-CAM.. Sir, I thank you. SIR F. CRES. And how do[864] my two young children, whom I have put to board with you? L. BEAU. Have you put forth two of your children already? SIR F. CRES. ’Twas my wife’s discretion to have it so. L. BEAU. Come, ’tis the first principle in a mother-in-law’s chop-logic to divide the family, to remove from forth your sight the object[s] that her cunning knows would dull her insinuation. Had you been a kind father, it would have been your practice every day to have preached to these two young ones carefully your late wife’s funeral-sermon. 'Las, poor souls, are they turn’d so soon a-grazing? W.-CAM.. My lord, they are placed where they shall be respected as mine own.
Enter GEORGE CRESSINGHAM and FRANKLIN junior.
L. BEAU. I make no question of’t, good master Camlet.— See here your eldest son, George[865] Cressingham. SIR F. CRES. You have displeas’d and griev’d your mother-in-law; And till you’ve made submission and procur’d Her pardon, I'll not know you for my son. G. CRES. I've wrought her no offence, sir; the difference Grew about certain jewels which my mother, By your consent, lying upon her deathbed, Bequeath’d to her three children: these I demanded, And being denied these, thought this sin of hers, To violate so gentle a request Of her predecessor, was an ill foregoing Of a mother-in-law’s harsh nature. SIR F. CRES. Sir, understand My will mov’d in her denial: you have jewels, To pawn or sell them! sirrah, I will have you As obedient to this woman as to myself; Till then you’re none of mine. W.-CAM. O master George, Be rul’d, do any thing for a quiet life! Your father’s peace of life moves in it too. I have a wife; when she is in the sullens, Like a cook’s dog that you see turn a wheel, She will be sure to go and hide herself Out of the way dinner and supper; and in These fits Bow-bell is a still organ to her. When we were married first, I well remember, Her railing did appear but a vision, Till certain scratches on my hand[s] and face Assur’d me ’twas substantial. She’s a creature Uses to waylay my faults, and more desires To find them out than to have them amended: She has a book, which I may truly nominate Her Black Book, for she remembers in it, In short items, all my misdemeanours; as, item, such a day I was got foxed[866] with foolish metheglin, in the company of certain Welsh chapmen: item, such a day, being at the Artillery Garden,[867] one of my neighbours, in courtesy to salute me with his musket, set a-fire my fustian and apes breeches:[868] such a day I lost fifty pound in hugger-mugger at dice, at the Quest-house:[869] item, I lent money to a sea-captain on his bare _Confound him he would pay me again the next morning_: and such like: For which she rail’d upon me when I should sleep, And that’s, you know, intolerable, for indeed 'Twill tame an elephant. G. CRES. ’Tis a shrewd vexation; But your discretion, sir, does bear it out With a month’s sufferance. W.-CAM. Yes, and I would wish you To follow mine example. FRANK. JUN. Here’s small comfort, George, from your father; here’s a lord whom I Have long depended upon for employment; I'll see If my suit will thrive better.—Please your lordship, You know I'm a younger brother, and my fate Throwing me upon the late ill-starr’d voyage To Guiana,[870] failing of our golden hopes, I and my ship address’d ourselves to serve The duke of Florence. L. BEAU. Yes, I understood so. FRANK. JUN. Who gave me both encouragement and means To do him some small service ’gainst the Turk: Being settled there, both in his pay and trust, Your lordship, minding to rig forth a ship To trade for the East Indies, sent for me; And what your promise was, if I would leave So great a fortune to become your servant, Your letters yet can witness. L. BEAU. Yes; what follows? FRANK. JUN. That, for ought I perceive, your former purpose Is quite forgotten. I've stay’d here two months, And find your intended voyage but a dream, And the ship you talk of as imaginary As that th' astronomers point at in the clouds. I've spent two thousand ducats since my arrival; Men that have command, my lord, at sea, cannot live Ashore without money. L. BEAU. Know, sir, a late purchase, Which cost me a great sum, has diverted me From my former purpose; besides, suits in law Do every term so trouble me by land, I've forgot going by water. If you please To rank yourself among my followers, You shall be welcome, and I'll make your means Better than any gentleman’s I keep.
FRANK. JUN. Some twenty mark[871] a-year! will that maintain Scarlet and gold lace, play at th' ordinary,[872] And bevers[873] at the tavern? L. BEAU. I had thought To prefer you to have been captain of a ship That’s bound for the Red Sea. FRANK. JUN. What hinders it? L. BEAU. Why, certainly, the merchants are possess’d[874] You’ve been a pirate. FRANK. JUN. Say I were one still, If I were past the Line once, why, methinks, I should do them better service.
Enter KNAVESBY.
L. BEAU. Pray, forbear; Here is a gentleman whose business must Engross me wholly. G. CRES. What’s he? dost thou know him? FRANK. JUN. A pox upon him! a very knave and rascal, That goes a-hunting with the penal statutes, And good for nought but to persuade their lords To rack their rents and give o’er housekeeping: Such caterpillars may hang at their lords' ears When better men are neglected. G. CRES. What’s his name? FRANK. JUN. Knavesby. G. CRES. Knavesby! FRANK. JUN. One that deals in a tenth share About projections: he and his partners, when They’ve got a suit once past the seal, will so Wrangle about partition, and sometimes They fall to th' ears about it; like your fencers, That cudgel one another by patent: you shall see him So terribly bedash’d in a Michaelmas term, Coming from Westminster, that you would swear He were lighted from a horse-race. Hang him, hang him! He’s a scurvy informer; has more cozenage In him than is in five travelling lotteries. To feed a kite with the carrion of this knave When he’s dead, and reclaim[875] her, O she would prove An excellent hawk for talon! has a fair creature To his wife too, and a witty rogue it is; And some men think this knave will wink at small faults. But, honest George, what shall become of us now? G. CRES. Faith, I'm resolvèd to set up my rest For[876] the Low Countries. FRANK. JUN. To serve there? G. CRES. Yes, certain. FRANK. JUN. There’s thin commons; Besides, they’ve added one day more to the week Than was in the creation: art thou valiant, Art thou valiant, George? G. CRES. I may be, and[877] I be put to’t. FRANK. JUN. O, never fear that; Thou canst not live two hours after thy landing Without a quarrel: thou must resolve to fight, Or, like a sumner,[878] thou’lt be bastinado’d At every town’s end. You shall have gallants there As ragged as the fall o' the leaf, that live In Holland, where the finest linen’s made, And yet wear ne’er a shirt: these will not only Quarrel with a new-comer when they’re drunk, But they will quarrel with any man has means To be drunk afore them. Follow my council, George, Thou shalt not go o’er; we’ll live here i' the city. G. CRES. But how? FRANK. JUN. How! why, as other gallants do, That feed high and play copiously, yet brag They’ve but nine pound a-year to live on: these Have wit to turn rich fools and gulls into quarter-days, That bring them in certain payment. I've a project Reflects upon yon mercer, master Camlet, Shall put us into money. G. CRES. What is’t? FRANK. JUN. Nay, I will not stale[879] ’t aforehand, ’tis a new one: Nor cheating amongst gallants may seem strange; Why, a reaching wit goes current on th' Exchange. [Exeunt. G. CRESSINGHAM and FRANKLIN junior. KNA. O, my lord, I remember you and I were students together at Cambridge; but, believe me, you went far beyond me. L. BEAU. When I studied there, I had so fantastical a brain, that like a felfare[880] frighted in winter by a birding-piece, I could settle no where; here and there a little of every several art, and away. KNA. Now, my wit, though it were more dull, yet I went slowly on; and as divers others, when I could not prove an excellent scholar, by a plodding patience I attained to be a petty lawyer; and I thank my dulness for’t: you may stamp in lead any figure, but in oil or quicksilver nothing can be imprinted, for they keep no certain station. L. BEAU. O, you tax me well of irresolution: but say, worthy friend, how thrives my weighty suit which I have trusted to your friendly bosom? is there any hope to make me happy? KNA. ’Tis yet questionable, for I have not broke the ice to her: an hour hence come to my house; and if it lie in man, be sure, as the law-phrase says, I will create you lord-paramount of your wishes. L. BEAU. O my best friend! and one that takes the hardest course i' the world to make himself so. [Exit KNAVESBY.]—Sir, now I'll take my leave. SIR F. CRES. Nay, good my lord, my wife is coming down. L. BEAU. Pray, pardon me; I have business so importunes me o' the sudden, I cannot stay: deliver mine excuse; and in your ear this,—let not a fair woman make you forget your children. [Exit.
Enter LADY CRESSINGHAM and SAUNDER.
L. CRES. What, are you taking leave too? W.-CAM.. Yes, good madam. L. CRES. The rich stuff[s] which my husband bought of you, the works of them are too common; I have got a Dutch painter to draw patterns, which I'll have sent to your factors, as in Italy, at Florence, and Ragusa, where these stuffs are woven, to have pieces made for mine own wearing, of a new invention. W.-CAM.. You may, lady; but ’twill be somewhat chargeable. L. CRES. Chargeable! what of that? if I live another year, I'll have my agents shall lie for me at Paris, and at Venice, and at Valladolid in Spain, for intelligence of all new fashions. SIR F. CRES. Do, sweetest; thou deservest to be exquisite in all things. W.-CAM.. The two children, to which you are mother-in-law, would be repaired too; ’tis time they had new clothing. L. CRES. I pray, sir, do not trouble me with them; they have a father indulgent and careful of them. SIR F. CRES. I am sorry you made the motion to her. W.-CAM.. I have done.— He has run himself into a pretty dotage!— [Aside. Madam, with your leave.— He’s tied to a new law and a new wife; Yet, to my old proverb, Any thing for a quiet life. [Aside, and exit. L. CRES. Good friend, I have a suit to you. SIR F. CRES. Dearest self, you most powerfully sway me.— L. CRES. That you would give o’er this fruitless, if I may not say this idle, study of alchemy; why, half your house looks like a glass-house. SAUN. And the smoke you make is a worse enemy to good housekeeping than tobacco. L. CRES. Should one of your glasses break, it might bring you to a dead palsy. SAUN. My lord, your quicksilver has made all your more solid gold and silver fly in fume. SIR F. CRES. I'll be ruled by you in any thing. L. CRES. Go, Saunder, break all the glasses. SAUN. I fly to’t. [Exit. L. CRES. Why, noble friend, would you find the true philosopher’s stone indeed, my good housewifery should do it: you understand I was bred up with a great courtly lady; do not think all women mind gay clothes and riot; there are some widows living have improved both their own fortunes and their children’s: would you take my counsel, I'd advise you to sell your land. SIR F. CRES. My land! L. CRES. Yes; and the manor-house upon’t, ’tis rotten: O the new-fashioned buildings brought from the Hague! ’tis stately. I have intelligence of a purchase, and the title sound, will for half the money you may sell yours for, bring you in more rent than yours now yields you. SIR F. CRES. If it be so good a pennyworth, I need not sell my land to purchase it; I'll procure money to do it. L. CRES. Where, sir? SIR F. CRES. Why, I'll take it up at interest. L. CRES. Never did any man thrive that purchased with use-money. SIR F. CRES. How come you to know these thrifty principles? L. CRES. How? why, my father was a lawyer, and died in the commission; and may not I, by a natural instinct, have a reaching that way? there are, on mine own knowledge, some divines' daughters infinitely affected with reading controversies; and that, some think, has been a means to bring so many suits into the spiritual court. Pray, be advised; sell your land, and purchase more: I knew a pedlar, by being merchant this way, is become lord of many manors: we should look to lengthen our estates, as we do our lives;
Re-enter SAUNDER.
And though I'm young, yet I am confident Your able constitution of body, When you are past fourscore, shall keep you fresh Till I arrive at the neglected year That I'm past child-bearing; and yet even there[881] Quickening our faint heats in a soft embrace, And kindling divine flames in fervent prayers, We may both go out together, and one tomb Quit our executors the rites of two. SIR F. CRES. O, you’re so wise and so good in every thing, I move by your direction. SAUN. She has caught him. [Aside. [Exeunt.
Act II, Scene I
A room in KNAVESBY’S house.
Enter KNAVESBY and MISTRESS KNAVESBY. KNA. Have you drunk[882] the eggs and muscadine I sent you? MIS. KNA. No, they are too fulsome. KNA. Away! you’re a fool!—How shall I begin to break the matter to her? [Aside.]—I do long, wife. MIS. KNA. Long, sir? KNA. Long infinitely: sit down; there is a penitential motion in me, which if thou wilt but second, I shall be one of the happiest men in Europe. MIS. KNA. What might that be? KNA. I had last night one of the strangest dreams; Methought I was thy confessor, thou mine, And we reveal’d between us privately How often we had wrong’d each other’s bed Since we were married. MIS. KNA. Came you drunk to bed? There was a dream, with a witness! KNA. No, no witness; I dreamt nobody heard it but we two. This dream, wife, do I long to put in act; Let us confess each other; and I vow, Whatever thou hast done with that sweet corpse In the way of natural frailty, I protest, Most freely I will pardon. MIS. KNA. Go sleep again: Was there e’er such a motion? KNA. Nay, sweet woman, And[883] thou’lt not have me run mad with my desire, Be persuaded to’t. MIS. KNA. Well, be it [at] your pleasure. KNA. But to answer truly. MIS. KNA. O, most sincerely. KNA. Begin then; examine me first. MIS. KNA. Why, I know not what to ask you. KNA. Let me see: your father was a captain; demand of me how many dead pays[884] I am to answer for in the muster-book of wedlock, by the martial fault of borrowing from my neighbours. MIS. KNA. Troth, I can ask no such foolish questions. KNA. Why, then, open confession, I hope, dear wife, will merit freer pardon: I sinned twice with my laundress; and last circuit there was at Banbury a she-chamberlain that had a spice of purity, but at last I prevailed over her. MIS. KNA. O, you are an ungracious husband! KNA. I have made a vow never to ride abroad but in thy company: O, a little drink makes me clamber like a monkey! Now, sweet wife, you have been an out-lier too; which is best feed, in the forest or in the purlieus? MIS. KNA. A foolish mind of you i' this. KNA. Nay, sweet love, confess freely; I have given you the example. MIS. KNA. Why, you know I went last year to Stourbridge fair. KNA. Yes. MIS. KNA. And being in Cambridge, a handsome scholar, one of Emmanuel College, fell in love with me. KNA. O you sweet-breathed monkey! MIS. KNA. Go hang; you are so boisterous. KNA. But did this scholar shew thee his chamber? MIS. KNA. Yes. KNA. And didst thou like him? MIS. KNA. Like him? O, he had the most enticingest straw-coloured beard, a woman with black eyes would have loved him like jet: he was the finest man, with a formal wit; and he had a fine dog, that sure was whelped i' the college, for he understood Latin. KNA. Pooh waw! this is nothing, till I know what he did in’s chamber. MIS. KNA. He burnt wormwood in’t, to kill the fleas i' the rushes.[885] KNA. But what did he to thee there? MIS. KNA. Some five-and-twenty years hence I may chance tell you: fie upon you; what tricks, what crotchets are these? have you placed any body behind the arras to hear my confession? I heard one in England got a divorce from ’s wife by such a trick: were I disposed now, I would make you as mad: you shall see me play the changeling.[886] KNA. No, no, wife, you shall see me play the changeling: hadst thou confessed, this other suit I'll now prefer to thee would have been despatched in a trice. MIS. KNA. And what’s that, sir? KNA. Thou wilt wonder at it four-and-twenty years longer than nine days. MIS. KNA. I would very fain hear it. KNA. There is a lord o' the court, upon my credit, a most dear, honourable friend of mine, that must lie with thee: do you laugh? ’tis not come to that; you’ll laugh when you know who ’tis. MIS. KNA. Are you stark mad? KNA. On my religion, I have past my word for’t; ’Tis the Lord Beaufort; thou’rt made happy for ever; The generous and bountiful Lord Beaufort: You being both so excellent, ’twere pity If such rare pieces should not be conferr’d And sampled together. MIS. KNA. Do you mean seriously? KNA. As I hope for preferment. MIS. KNA. And can you lose me thus? KNA. Lose you? I shall love you the better: why, what’s the viewing any wardrobe or jewel-house, without a companion to confer their likings? yet, now I view thee well, methinks thou art a rare monopoly, and great pity one man should enjoy thee. MIS. KNA. This is pretty! KNA. Let’s divorce ourselves so long, or think I am gone to th' Indies, or lie with him when I am asleep; for some Familists[887] of Amsterdam will tell you [it] may be done with a safe conscience: come, you wanton, what hurt can this do to you? I protest, nothing so much as to keep company with an old woman has sore eyes; no more wrong than I do my beaver when I try it thus; look, this is all; smooth, and keeps fashion still. MIS. KNA. You’re one of the basest fellows! KNA. I look’d for chiding; I do make this a kind of fortitude The Romans never dreamt of; and[888] ’twere known, I should be spoke and writ of when I'm rotten, For ’tis beyond example. MIS. KNA. But, I pray, resolve[889] me; Suppose this done, could you e’er love me after? KNA. I protest I never thought so well of thee Till I knew he took a fancy to thee; like one That has variety of choice meat before him, Yet has no stomach to’t until he hear Another praise [it]: hark, my lord is coming! [Knocking within. MIS. KNA. Possible? KNA. And my preferment comes along with him: be wise, mind your good; and to confute all reason in the world which thou canst urge against it, when ’tis done, we will be married again, wife, which some say is the only supersedeas about Limehouse to remove cuckoldry.
Enter LORD BEAUFORT.
L. BEAU. Come, are you ready to attend me to the court? KNA. Yes, my lord. L. BEAU. Is this fair one your wife? KNA. At your lordship’s service. I will look up some writings, and return presently. [Exit. MIS. KNA. To see and[890] the base fellow do not leave ’s alone too! [Aside. L. BEAU. ’Tis an excellent habit this: where were you born, sweet? MIS. KNA. I am a Suffolk woman, my lord. L. BEAU. Believe it, every country you breathe on is the sweeter for you: let me see your hand; the case is loath to part with the jewel [drawing off her glove]: fairest one, I have skill in palmistry. MIS. KNA. Good my lord, what do you find there? L. BEAU. In good earnest, I do find written here, all my good fortune lies in your hand. MIS. KNA. You’ll keep a very bad house then; you may see by the smallness of the table.[891] L. BEAU. Who is your sweetheart? MIS. KNA. Sweetheart? L. BEAU. Yes; come, I must sift you to know it. MIS. KNA. I am a sieve too coarse for your lordship’s manchet.[892] L. BEAU. Nay, pray you, tell me; for I see your husband is an unhandsome fellow. MIS. KNA. O, my lord, I took him by weight, not fashion; goldsmiths' wives taught me that way of bargain, and some ladies swerve not to follow the example. L. BEAU. But will you not tell me who is your private friend? MIS. KNA. Yes, and[890] you’ll tell me who is yours. L. BEAU. Shall I shew you her? MIS. KNA. Yes; when will you? L. BEAU. Instantly: look you, there you may see her. [Leading her to a mirror. MIS. KNA. I'll break the glass, ’tis now worth nothing. L. BEAU. Why? MIS. KNA. You have made it a flattering one. L. BEAU. I have a summer-house for you, a fine place to flatter solitariness; will you come and lie there? MIS. KNA. No, my lord. L. BEAU. Your husband has promised me; will you not? MIS. KNA. I must wink, I tell you, or say nothing. L. BEAU. So, I'll kiss you and wink too [kisses her]; midnight is Cupid’s holyday.
Re-enter KNAVESBY.
KNA. By this time ’tis concluded.—Will you go, my lord? L. BEAU. I leave with you my best wishes till I see you. KNA. This now, if I may borrow our lawyer’s phrase, is my wife’s imparlance; at her next appearance she must answer your declaration. L. BEAU. You follow it well, sir. [Exeunt. LORD BEAUFORT and KNAVESBY. MIS. KNA. Did I not know my husband of so base, Contemptible [a] nature, I should think 'Twere but a trick to try me; but it seems They’re both in wicked earnest; and methinks Upon the sudden, I've a great mind to loathe This scurvy, unhandsome way my lord has ta’en To compass me; why, ’tis for all the world As if he should come to steal some apricocks My husband kept for’s own tooth, and climb up Upon his head and shoulders: I'll go to him; He’ll put me into brave[893] clothes and rich jewels; 'Twere a very ill part in me not to go, His mercer and his goldsmith else might curse me; And what I'll do there, a' my troth, yet I know not. Women, though puzzled with these subtle deeds, May, as i' the spring, pick physic out of weeds. [Exit.
Act II, Scene II
WATER-CAMLET’S shop.[894]
WATER-CAMLET, GEORGE, and RALPH discovered.
GEO. What is’t you lack,[895] you lack, you lack? Stuffs for the belly or the back? Silk-grograns, satins, velvet fine, The rosy-colour’d carnadine,[896] Your nutmeg hue, or gingerline, Cloth-of-tissue or tabine,[897] That like beaten gold will shine In your amorous ladies' eyne,[898] Whilst you their softer silks do twine? What is’t you lack, you lack, you lack?
Enter MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET.
MIS. W.-CAM. I do lack content, sir, content I lack; have you or your worshipful master here any content to sell? GEO. If content be a stuff to be sold by the yard, you may have content at home, and never go abroad for’t. MIS. W.-CAM. Do, cut me three yards; I'll pay for ’em. GEO. There’s all we have i' the shop; we must know what you’ll give for ’em first. W.-CAM.. Why, Rachel, sweet Rachel, my bosom Rachel, How didst thou get forth? thou wert here, sweet Rac, Within this hour, even in my very heart. MIS. W.-CAM. Away! or stay still, I'll away from thee; One bed shall never hold us both again, Nor one roof cover us: didst thou bring home— GEO. What is’t you lack, you lack, you lack? MIS. W.-CAM. Peace, bandog, bandog! give me leave to speak, Or I'll—— GEO. Shall I not follow my trade? I'm bound to’t, and my master bound to bring me up in’t. W.-CAM.. Peace, good George; give her anger leave; Thy mistress will be quiet presently. MIS. W.-CAM. Quiet! I defy thee and quiet too; Quiet thy bastards thou hast brought home. GEO. and RAL. What is’t you lack, you lack? &c. MIS. W.-CAM. Death, give me an ell![899] has one bawling cur Raised up another? two dogs upon me? And[900] the old bear-ward will not succour me, I'll stave ’em off myself: give me an ell, I say! GEO. Give her not an inch, master, she’ll take two ells if you do. W.-CAM.. Peace, George and Ralph; no more words, I charge you:— And Rachel, sweet wife, be more temperate: I know your tongue speaks not by the rule And guidance of your heart, when you proclaim The pretty children of my virtuous And noble kinswoman, whom in life you knew Above my praises' reach, to be my bastards: This is not well, although your anger did it; Pray, chide your anger for it. MIS. W.-CAM. Sir, sir, your gloss Of kinswoman cannot serve turn; ’tis stale, And smells too rank: though your shop-wares you vent[901] With your deceiving lights,[902] yet your chamber-stuff Shall not pass so with me; I say, and I'll prove— GEO. What is’t you lack?
Enter MARIA and EDWARD.
W.-CAM. Why, George, I say—— MIS. W.-CAM. Lecher, I say, I'll be divorc’d from thee; I'll prove ’em thy bastards, and thou insufficient. [Exit. MAR. What said my angry cousin[903] to you, sir? That we were bastards? EDW. I hope she meant not us. W.-CAM. No, no, My pretty cousins, she meant George and Ralph; Rage will speak any thing; but they’re ne’er the worse. GEO. Yes indeed, forsooth, she spoke to us, but chiefly to Ralph, because she knows he has but one stone. RAL. No more of that, if you love me, George; this is not the way to keep a quiet house. MAR. Truly, sir, I would not, for more treasure Than ever I saw yet, be in your house A cause of discord. EDW. And do you think I would, sister? MAR. No indeed, Ned.
Enter FRANKLIN junior and GEORGE CRESSINGHAM, disguised.
EDW. Why did you not speak for me with you then, and said we could not have done so? W.-CAM.. No more, sweet cousins, now.—Speak, George, customers approach. G. CRES. Is the barber prepared? FRANK. JUN. With ignorance enough to go through with it; so near I am to him, we must call cousins; would thou wert as sure to hit the tailor! G. CRES. If I do not steal away handsomely, let me never play the tailor again. GEO. What is’t you lack? &c. FRANK. JUN. Good satins, sir. GEO. The best in Europe, sir; here’s a piece worth a piece every yard of him; the king of Naples wears no better silk; mark his gloss, he dazzles the eye to look upon him. FRANK. JUN. Is he not gummed?[904] GEO. Gummed! he has neither mouth nor tooth, how can he be gummed? FRANK. JUN. Very pretty. W.-CAM.. An especial good piece of silk; the worm never spun a finer thread, believe it, sir. FRANK. JUN. Gascoyn, you have some skill in it. W.-CAM.. Your tailor, sir? FRANK. JUN. Yes, sir. G. CRES. A good piece, sir; but let’s see more choice. RAL. Tailor, drive thorough; you know your bribes. G. CRES. Mum: he bestows forty pounds, if I say the word. RAL. Strike through; there’s poundage for you then. FRANK. JUN. Ay, marry, I like this better.—What sayst thou, Gascoyn? G. CRES. A good piece indeed, sir. GEO. The great Turk has worse satin at’s elbow than this, sir. FRANK. JUN. The price? W.-CAM.. Look on the mark, George. GEO. O, Souse and P, by my facks, sir. W.-CAM.. The best sort then; sixteen a yard, nothing to be bated. FRANK. JUN. Fie, sir, fifteen’s too high, yet so.— How[905] many yards will serve for my suit, sirrah? G. CRES. Nine yards, you can have no less, sir Andrew. FRANK. JUN. But I can, sir, if you please to steal less; I had but eight in my last suit. G. CRES. You pinch us too near, in faith, sir Andrew. FRANK. JUN. Yet can you pinch out a false pair of sleeves to a friezado doublet. GEO. No, sir; some purses and pin-pillows perhaps: a tailor pays for his kissing that ways. FRANK. JUN. Well, sir, eight yards; eight fifteens I give, and cut it. W.-CAM.. I cannot, truly, sir. GEO. My master must be no subsidy-man, sir, if he take such fifteens. FRANK. JUN. I am at highest, sir, if you can take money. W.-CAM.. Well, sir, I'll give you the buying once; I hope to gain it in your custom: want you nothing else, sir? FRANK. JUN. Not at this time, sir. G. CRES. Indeed but you do, sir Andrew; I must needs deliver my lady’s message to you, she enjoined me by oath to do it; she commanded me to move you for a new gown. FRANK. JUN. Sirrah, I'll break your head, if you motion it again. G. CRES. I must endanger myself for my lady, sir: you know she’s to go to my lady Trenchmore’s wedding; and to be seen there without a new gown! she’ll have ne’er an eye to be seen there, for her fingers in ’em: nay, by my fack, sir, I do not think she’ll go; and then, the cause known, what a discredit 'twill be to you! FRANK. JUN. Not a word more, goodman snip-snapper, for your ears.—What comes this to, sir? W.-CAM.. Six pound, sir. FRANK. JUN. There’s your money. [Gives money.]—Will you take this, and be gone and about your business presently? G. CRES. Troth, sir, I'll see some stuffs for my lady first; I'll tell her, at least, I did my good will.—A fair piece of cloth-of-silver, pray you, now. GEO. Or cloth-of-gold, if you please, sir, as rich as ever the Sophy wore. FRANK. JUN. You are the arrantest villain of a tailor that ever sat cross-legged; what do you think a gown of this stuff will come to? G. CRES. Why, say it be forty pound, sir, what’s that to you? three thousand a-year I hope will maintain it. FRANK. JUN. It will, sir; very good, you were best be my overseer: say I be not furnished with money, how then? G. CRES. A very fine excuse in you! which place of ten now will you send me for a hundred pound, to bring it presently? W.-CAM.. Sir, sir, your tailor persuades you well; ’tis for your credit and the great content of your lady. FRANK. JUN. ’Tis for your content, sir, and my charges.— Never think, goodman false-stitch, to come to the mercer’s with me again: pray, will you see if my cousin Sweetball the barber—he’s nearest hand—be furnished, and bring me word instantly. G. CRES. I fly, sir. [Exit. FRANK. JUN. You may fly, sir, you have clipt somebody’s wings for it, to piece out your own; an arrant thief you are! W.-CAM.. Indeed he speaks honestly and justly, sir. FRANK. JUN. You expect some gain, sir, there’s your cause of love. W.-CAM.. Surely I do a little, sir. FRANK. JUN. And what might be the price of this? W.-CAM.. This is thirty a yard; but if you’ll go to forty, here’s a nonpareil. FRANK. JUN. So, there’s a matter of forty pound for a gown-cloth? W.-CAM.. Thereabouts, sir: why, sir, there are far short of your means that wear the like. FRANK. JUN. Do you know my means, sir? GEO. By overhearing your tailor, sir,—three thousand a-year; but if you’d have a petticoat for your lady, here’s a stuff. FRANK. JUN. Are you another tailor, sirrah? here’s a knave! what are you? GEO. You are such another gentleman! but for the stuff, sir, ’tis L.SS. and K, for the turn stript[906] a' purpose; a yard and a quarter broad too, which is the just depth of a woman’s petticoat. FRANK. JUN. And why stript for a petticoat? GEO. Because if they abuse their petticoats, there are abuses stript; then ’tis taking them up, and they may be stript and whipt too.[907] FRANK. JUN. Very ingenious! GEO. Then it is likewise stript standing, between which is discovered the open part, which is now called the placket.[908] FRANK. JUN. Why, was it ever called otherwise? GEO. Yes; while the word remained pure in his original, the Latin tongue, who have no K's, it was called the placet; a placendo, a thing or place to please.
Re-enter GEORGE CRESSINGHAM.
FRANK. JUN. Better and worse still.— Now, sir, you come in haste; what says my cousin? G. CRES. Protest, sir, he’s half angry, that either you should think him unfurnished, or not furnished for your use; there’s a hundred pound ready for you: he desires you to pardon his coming; his folks are busy, and his wife trimming a gentleman; but at your first approach the money wants but telling. FRANK. JUN. He would not trust you with it—I con him thanks[909]—for that he knows what trade you are of.— Well, sir, pray, cut him patterns; he may in the meantime know my lady’s liking: let your man take the pieces whole, with the lowest prices, and walk with me to my cousin’s. W.-CAM.. With all my heart, sir.—Ralph, your cloak, and go with the gentleman: look you give good measure. G. CRES. Look you carry a good yard with you. RAL. The best i' the shop, sir; yet we have none bad.— You’ll have the stuff for the petticoat too? FRANK. JUN. No, sir, the gown only. G. CRES. By all means, sir: not the petticoat? that were holy-day upon working-day, i’faith. FRANK. JUN. You are so forward for a knave,[910] sir! G. CRES. ’Tis for your credit and my lady’s both I do it, sir. FRANK. JUN. Your man is trusty, sir? W.-CAM.. O sir, we keep none but those we dare trust, sir.—Ralph, have a care of light gold. RAL. I warrant you, sir, I'll take none. FRANK. JUN. Come, sirrah.—Fare you well, sir. W.-CAM.. Pray, know my shop another time, sir. FRANK. JUN. That I shall, sir, from all the shops i' the town; ’tis the Lamb in Lombard Street. [Exent FRANKLIN jun., G. CRESSINGHAM, and RALPH carrying the stuffs and a yard-measure. GEO. A good morning’s work, sir; if this custom would but last long, you might shut up your shop and live privately. W.-CAM.. O George, but here’s a grief that takes away all the gains and joy of all my thrift. GEO. What’s that, sir? W.-CAM.. Thy mistress, George; her frowardness sours all my comfort. GEO. Alas, sir, they are but squibs and crackers, they’ll soon die; you know her flashes of old. W.-CAM.. But they fly so near me, that they burn me, George; They are as ill as muskets charg’d with bullets. GEO. She has discharged herself now, sir; you need not fear her. W.-CAM.. No man can love without his affliction, George. GEO. As you cannot without my mistress. W.-CAM.. Right, right;[911] there’s harmony in discords: this lamp of love, while any oil is left, can never be extinct; it may, like a snuff, wink and seem to die, but up he will again and shew his head: I cannot be quiet, George, without my wife at home. GEO. And when she’s at home you’re never quiet, I'm sure; a fine life you have on’t! Well, sir, I'll do my best to find her, and bring her back, if I can. W.-CAM.. Do, honest George; at Knavesby’s house, that varlet’s— There is her haunt and harbour—who enforces A kinsman on her, and [she] calls him cousin. Restore her, George, to ease this heart that’s vext, The best new suit that e’er thou wor’st is next. GEO. I thank you aforehand, sir. [Exeunt.
Act II, Scene III
A room in SWEETBALL’S house.
Enter FRANKLIN jun. and GEORGE CRESSINGHAM disguised as before, RALPH _carrying the stuffs and a yard-measure_, SWEETBALL, and Boy.
SWEET. Were it of greater moment than you speak of, noble sir, I hope you think me sufficient, and it shall be effectually performed. FRANK. JUN. I could wish your wife did not know it, coz; women’s tongues are not always tuneable; I may many ways requite it. SWEET. Believe me, she shall not, sir; which will be the hardest thing of all. FRANK. JUN. Pray you, despatch him then. SWEET. With the celerity a man tells gold to him. FRANK. JUN. He hits a good comparison. [Aside.]—Give my waste-good your stuffs, and go with my cousin, sir; he’ll presently despatch you. RAL. Yes, sir. [Gives stuffs to G. CRESSINGHAM. SWEET. Come with me, youth, I am ready for you in my more private chamber. [Exeunt. SWEETBALL and RALPH. FRANK. JUN. Sirrah, go you shew your lady the stuffs, and let her choose her colour; away, you know whither.— Boy, prithee, lend me a brush i' the meantime.—Do you tarry all day now? G. CRES. That I will, sir, and all night too, ere I come again. [Exit with the stuffs. BOY. Here’s a brush, sir. [Gives brush. FRANK. JUN. A good child. SWEET. [within] What, Toby! BOY. Anon, sir. SWEET. [within] Why, when,[912] goodman picklock? BOY. I must attend my master, sir.—I come. FRANK. JUN. Do, pretty lad. [Exit Boy.]—So, take water at Cole-Harbour:[913] An easy mercer, and an innocent[914] barber! [Exit with the brush.
Act II, Scene IV
Another room in SWEETBALL’S house.
Enter SWEETBALL, RALPH, and Boy.
SWEET. So, friend; I'll now despatch you presently.— Boy, reach me my dismembering instrument, and let my cauterizer[915] be ready; and, hark you, snip-snap—— BOY. Ay, sir. SWEET. See if my luxinium,[916] my fomentation, be provided first; and get my rollers, bolsters,[917] and pledgets armed. [Exit Boy. RAL. Nay, good sir, despatch my business first; I should not stay from my shop. SWEET. You must have a little patience, sir, when you are a patient: if præputium be not too much perished, you shall lose but little by it, believe my art for that. RAL. What’s that, sir? SWEET. Marry, if there be exulceration between præputium and glans, by my faith, the whole penis may be endangered as far as os pubis. RAL. What’s this you talk on, sir? SWEET. If they be gangrened once, testiculi, vesica, and all may run to mortification. RAL. What a pox does this barber talk on? SWEET. O fie, youth! pox is no word of art; morbus Gallicus, or Neapolitanus, had been well: come, friend, you must not be nice; open your griefs freely to me. RAL. Why, sir, I open my grief to you, I want my money. SWEET. Take you no care for that; your worthy cousin has given me part in hand, and the rest I know he will upon your recovery, and I dare take his word. RAL. ’Sdeath, where’s my ware? SWEET. Ware! that was well; the word is cleanly, though not artful; your ware it is that I must see. RAL. My tabine[918] and cloth-of-tissue! SWEET. You will neither have tissue nor issue, if you linger in your malady; better a member cut off than endanger the whole microcosm. RAL. Barber, you are not mad? SWEET. I do begin to fear you are subject to subeth,[919] unkindly sleeps, which have bred oppilations in your brain; take heed, the symptoma will follow, and this may come to frenzy: begin with the first cause, which is the pain of your member. RAL. Do you see my yard, barber? [Holding up yard-measure. SWEET. Now you come to the purpose; ’tis that I must see indeed. RAL. You shall feel it, sir: death, give me my fifty pounds or my ware again, or I'll measure out your anatomy by the yard! SWEET. Boy, my cauterizing iron red hot!
Re-enter Boy with the iron.
BOY. ’Tis here, sir. SWEET. If you go further, I take my dismembering knife. RAL. Where’s the knight, your cousin? the thief and the tailor, with my cloth-of-gold and tissue? BOY. The gentleman that sent away his man with the stuffs is gone a pretty while since; he has carried away our new brush. SWEET. O that brush hurts my heart’s side! Cheated, cheated! he told me that your virga had a burning fever. RAL. Pox on your virga, barber! SWEET. And that you would be bashful, and ashamed to shew your head. RAL. I shall so hereafter; but here it is, you see, yet, my head, my hair, and my wit; and here are my heels that I must shew to my master, if the cheaters be not found: and, barber, provide thee plasters, I will break thy head with every basin under the pole. [Exit. SWEET. Cool the luxinium,[920] and quench the cauterizer; I'm partly out of my wits, and partly mad; My razor’s at my heart: these storms will make My sweet-balls stink, my harmless basins shake. [Exeunt.
Act III, Scene I
An apartment in LORD BEAUFORT’S house.
Enter MISTRESS GEORGE CRESSINGHAM _disguised as a page, and_ MISTRESS KNAVESBY.
MIS. G. CRES. You’re welcome, mistress, as I may speak it, But my lord will give’t a sweeter emphasis; I'll give him knowledge of you. [Going. MIS. KNA. Good sir, stay, Methinks it sounds sweetest upon your tongue; I'll wish you to go no further for my welcome. MIS. G. CRES. Mine! it seems you never heard good music, That commend a bagpipe: hear his harmony! MIS. KNA. Nay, good now, let me borrow of your patience, I'll pay you again before I rise to-morrow: If it please you[921]—— MIS. G. CRES. What would you, forsooth? MIS. KNA. Your company, sir. MIS. G. CRES. My attendance you should have, mistress, but that my lord expects it, and ’tis his due. MIS. KNA. And must be paid upon the hour? that’s too strict; any time of the day will serve. MIS. G. CRES. Alas, ’tis due every minute! and paid, ’tis due again, or else I forfeit my recognisance, the cloth I wear of his. MIS. KNA. Come, come; pay it double at another time, and ’twill be quitted; I have a little use of you. MIS. G. CRES. Of me, forsooth? small use can be made of me: if you have suit to my lord, none can speak better for you than you may yourself. MIS. KNA. O, but I am bashful. MIS. G. CRES. So am I, in troth, mistress. MIS. KNA. Now I remember me, I have a toy to deliver your lord that’s yet unfinished, and you may further me: pray you, your hands, while I unwind this skein of gold from you; ’twill not detain you long. [Putting skein on MIS. G. CRESSINGHAM’S hands. MIS. G. CRES. You wind me into your service prettily: with all the haste you can, I beseech you. MIS. KNA. If it tangle not, I shall soon have done. MIS. G. CRES. No, it shall not tangle, if I can help it, forsooth. MIS. KNA. If it do, I can help it; fear not: this thing of long length you shall see I can bring you to a bottom. MIS. G. CRES. I think so too; if it be not bottomless, this length will reach it. MIS. KNA. It becomes you finely; but I forewarn you, and remember it, your enemy gain not this advantage of you; you are his prisoner then; for, look you, you are mine now, my captive manacled, I have your hands in bondage.[922] MIS. G. CRES. ’Tis a good lesson, mistress, and I am perfect in it; another time I'll take out this, and learn another: pray you, release me now. MIS. KNA. I could kiss you now, spite of your teeth, if it please me. MIS. G. CRES. But you could not, for I could bite you with the spite of my teeth, if it pleases me. MIS. KNA. Well, I'll not tempt you so far, I shew it but for rudiment. MIS. G. CRES. When I go a-wooing, I'll think on’t again. MIS. KNA. In such an hour I learnt it: say I should, In recompence of your hands' courtesy, Make you a fine wrist-favour of this gold, With all the letters of your name emboss’d On a soft tress of hair, which I shall cut From mine own fillet, whose ends should meet and close In a fast true-love knot, would you wear it For my sake, sir? MIS. G. CRES. I think not, truly, mistress; My wrists have enough of this gold already; Would they were rid on’t yet! pray you, have done; In troth, I'm weary. MIS. KNA. And what a virtue Is here express’d in you, which had lain hid But for this trial: weary of gold, sir? O that the close engrossers of this treasure Could be so free to put it off of hand! What a new-mended world would here be! It shews a generous condition[923] in you; In sooth, I think I shall love you dearly for’t. MIS. G. CRES. But if they were in prison, as I am, They would be glad to buy their freedom with it. MIS. KNA. Surely no; there are that, rather than release This dear companion, do lie in prison With it, yes, and will die in prison too. MIS. G. CRES. ’Twere pity but the hangman did enfranchise both.
Enter LORD BEAUFORT.
L. BEAU. Selenger, where are you? MIS. G. CRES. E'en here, my lord.—Mistress, pray you, my liberty; you hinder my duty to my lord. L. BEAU. [taking off his hat] Nay, sir, one courtesy shall serve us both At this time; you are busy, I perceive; When next your leisure[924] serves you, I'd employ you. MIS. G. CRES. You must pardon me, my lord; you see I am entangled here.—Mistress, I protest I'll break prison, if you free me not: take you no notice? MIS. KNA. O, cry your honour mercy!—You are now at liberty, sir. [Releasing her hands. MIS. G. CRES. And I'm glad on’t; I'll ne’er give both my hands at once again to a woman’s command; I'll put one finger in a hole rather. L. BEAU. Leave us. MIS. G. CRES. Free leave have you, my lord, so I think you may have.—Filthy beauty, what a white witch thou art! [Exit. L. BEAU. Lady, you’re welcome. MIS. KNA. I did believe[925] it from your page, my lord. L. BEAU. Your husband sent you to me? MIS. KNA. He did, my lord; With duty and commends unto your honour, Beseeching you to use me very kindly, By the same token your lordship gave him grant Of a new lease of threescore pounds a-year, Which he and his should forty years enjoy. L. BEAU. The token’s true; and for your sake, lady, ’Tis likely to be better’d; not alone the lease, But the fee-simple may be his and yours. MIS. KNA. I have a suit unto your lordship too, Only myself concerns. L. BEAU. ’Twill be granted, sure, Though it outvalue thy husband’s. MIS. KNA. Nay, ’tis small charge; Only your good will and good word, my lord. L. BEAU. The first is thine confirm’d; the second, then, Cannot stay long behind. MIS. KNA. I love your page, sir. L. BEAU. Love him! for what? MIS. KNA. O the great wisdoms that Our grandsires had! do you ask me reason for’t? I love him ’cause I like him, sir. L. BEAU. My page! MIS. KNA. In mine eye he is a most delicate youth, But in my heart a thing that it would bleed for. L. BEAU. Either your eye’s blinded or your remembrance broken; Call to mind wherefore you came hither, lady. MIS. KNA. I do, my lord; for love; and I'm in profoundly. L. BEAU. You trifle, sure; do you long for unripe fruit? 'Twill breed diseases in you. MIS. KNA. Nothing but worms In my belly, and there’s a seed to expel them; In mellow, falling fruit I find no relish. L. BEAU. ’Tis true the youngest vines yield[926] the most clusters, But the old ever the sweetest grapes. MIS. KNA. I can taste of both, sir; But with the old I am the soonest cloy’d, The green keep still an edge on appetite. L. BEAU. Sure you’re a common creature. MIS. KNA. Did you doubt it? Wherefore came I hither else? did you think That honesty only had been immur’d for you, And I should bring it as an offertory Unto your shrine of lust? As ’twas, my lord, ’Twas meant to you, had not the slippery wheel Of fancy[927] turn’d when I beheld your page; Nay, had I seen another before him In mine eyes better grace, he had been forestall’d; But as it is—all my strength cannot help— Beseech you, your good will and good word, my lord; You may command him, sir; if not affection, Yet his body; and I desire but that: Do it, and I'll command myself your prostitute. L. BEAU. You’re a base strumpet! I succeed my page! MIS. KNA. O, that’s no wonder, my lord; the servant oft Tastes to his master of the daintiest dish He brings to him: beseech you, my lord—— L. BEAU. You’re a bold mischief; and to make me your spokesman, Your procurer to my servant! MIS. KNA. Do you shrink at that? Why, you’ve done worse without the sense of ill, With a full, free conscience of a libertine: Judge your own sin; Was it not worse, with a damn’d broking-fee To corrupt a[928] husband, ’state him a pander To his own wife, by virtue of a lease Made to him and your bastard issue, could you get ’em? What a degree of baseness call you this? ’Tis a poor sheep-steal[er] provok’d by want Compar’d unto a capital traitor: the master To his servant may be recompens’d, but the husband To his wife never. L. BEAU. Your husband shall smart for this. [Exit. MIS. KNA. Hang him, do! you have brought him to deserve it; Bring him to the punishment, there I'll join with you; I loathe him to the gallows! hang your page too; One mourning-gown shall serve for both of them. This trick hath kept mine honesty secure; Best soldiers use policy: the lion’s skin Becomes the body not[929] when ’tis too great, But then the fox’s may sit close and neat. [Exit.
Act III, Scene II
A Street.
Enter SWEETBALL, FLESH-HOOK, and COUNTERBUFF.
SWEET. Now, Flesh-hook, use thy talon, set upon his right shoulder; thy sergeant, Counterbuff, at the left; grasp in his jugulars; and then let me alone to tickle his diaphragma. FLESH. You are sure he has no protection, sir? SWEET. A protection to cheat and cozen! there was never any granted to that purpose. FLESH. I grant you that too, sir; but that use has been made of ’em. COUN. Marry has there, sir; how could else so many broken bankrupts play up and down by their creditors' noses, and we dare not touch ’em? SWEET. That’s another case, Counterbuff; there’s privilege to cozen, but here cozenage went before, and there’s no privilege for that: to him boldly, I will spend all the scissors in my shop, but I'll have him snapt. COUN. Well, sir, if he come within the length of large mace once, we’ll teach him to cozen. SWEET. Marry, hang him! teach him no more cozenage, he’s too perfect in’t already; go gingerly about it; lay your mace on gingerly, and spice him soundly. COUN. He’s at the tavern, you say? SWEET. At the Man in the Moon, above stairs; so soon as he comes down, and the bush[930] left at his back, Ralph is the dog behind him; he watches to give us notice: be ready then, my dear bloodhounds; you shall deliver him to Newgate, from thence to the hangman: his body I will beg of the sheriffs, for at the next lecture I am likely to be the master of my anatomy; then will I vex every vein about him; I will find where his disease of cozenage lay, whether in the vertebræ or in os coxendix;[931] but I guess I shall find it descend from humore, through the thorax, and lie just at his fingers'-ends.
Enter RALPH. RAL. Be in readiness, for he’s coming this way, alone too; stand to’t like gentlemen and yeomen: so soon as he is in sight, I'll go fetch my master. SWEET. I have had a conquassation in my cerebrum ever since the disaster, and now it takes me again; if it turn to a megrim, I shall hardly abide the sight of him. RAL. My action of defamation shall be clapt on him too; I will make him appear to’t in the shape of a white sheet, all embroidered over with peccavis: look about, I'll go fetch my master. [Exit.
Enter FRANKLIN junior.
COUN. I arrest you, sir. FRANK. JUN. Ha! qui va là? que pensez-vous faire, messieurs? me voulez-vous dérober? je n’ai point d’argent; je suis un pauvre gentilhomme François. SWEET. Whoop! pray you, sir, speak English; you did when you bought cloth-of-gold at six nihils a-yard, when Ralph’s præputium was exulcerated. FRANK. JUN. Que voulez-vous? me voulez-vous tuer? les François ne sont point ennemis: voilà ma bourse; que voulez-vous d’avantage? COUN. Is not your name Franklin, sir? FRANK. JUN. Je n’ai point de joyaux que cestui-ci, et c’est à monsieur l’ambassadeur; il m’envoie à ses affaires, et vous empêchez mon service. COUN. Sir, we are mistaken, for ought I perceive.
Enter WATER-CAMLET with RALPH, hastily.
W.-CAM. So, so; you have caught him, that’s well.—How do you, sir? FRANK. JUN. Vous semblez être un homme courtois, je vous prie entendez mes affaires; il y a ici deux ou trois canailles qui m’ont assiégé, un pauvre étranger, qui ne leur ai fait nul mal; ni donné mauvaise parole, ni tiré mon épée; l’un me prend par une épaule, et me frappe deux livres pesant; l’autre me tire par le bras, il parle je ne sais quoi: je leur ai donné ma bourse, et s’ils ne me veulent point laisser aller, que ferai-je, monsieur? W.-CAM.. This is a Frenchman, it seems, sirs. COUN. We can find no other in him, sir; and what that is we know not. W.-CAM.. He’s very like the man we seek for, else my lights go false. SWEET. In your shop[932] they may, sir, but here they go true; this is he. RAL. The very same, sir; as sure as I am Ralph, this is the rascal. COUN. Sir, unless you will absolutely challenge him the man, we dare not proceed further. FLESH. I fear we are too far already. W.-CAM.. I know not what to say to’t.
Enter MARGARITA.
MAR. Bon jour, bon jour, gentilhommes. SWEET. How now? more news from France? FRANK. JUN. Cette femme ici est de mon pays.—Madame, je vous prie leur dire mon pays; ils m’ont retargé,[933] je ne sais pourquoi. MAR. Etes-vous de France, monsieur? FRANK. JUN. Madame, vrai est, que je les ai trompés, et suis arrêté, et n’ai nul moyen d'échapper qu’en changeant mon langage: aidez-moi en cette affaire; je vous connois bien, où vous tenez un bordeau; vous et les votres en serez de mieux. MAR. Laissez faire à moi. Etes-vous de Lyons, dites-vous? FRANK. JUN. De Lyon, ma chère dame. MAR. Mon cousin! je suis bien aise de vous voir en bonne disposition. [Re-enter FRANK. JUN. Ma cousine! W.-CAM.. This is a Frenchman sure. SWEET. If he be, ’tis the likest an Englishman that ever I saw, all his dimensions, proportions; had I but the dissecting of his heart, in capsula cordis could I find it now; for a Frenchman’s heart is more quassative and subject to tremor than an Englishman’s. W.-CAM.. Stay, we’ll further inquire of this gentlewoman.—Mistress, if you have so much English to help us with—as I think you have, for I have long seen you about London—pray, tell us, and truly tell us, is this gentleman a natural Frenchman or no? MAR. Ey, begar, de Frenchman, born à Lyons, my cozin. W.-CAM.. Your cousin? if he be not your cousin, he’s my cousin, sure. MAR. Ey connosh his père, what you call his fadre; he sell poissons. SWEET. Sell poisons? his father was a ’pothecary then. MAR. No, no, poissons,—what you call fish, fish. SWEET. O, he was a fishmonger. MAR. Oui, oui. W.-CAM.. Well, well, we are mistaken, I see; pray you, so tell him, and request him not to be offended; an honest man may look like a knave, and be ne’er the worse for’t: the error was in our eyes, and now we find it in his tongue. MAR. J'essayerai encore une fois, monsieur cousin, pour votre sauveté; allez-vous en; votre liberté est suffisante: je gagnerai le reste pour mon devoir, et vous aurez votre part à mon école; j’ai une fille qui parle un peu François; elle conversera avec vous à la Fleur-de-Lis en Turnbull Street.[934] Mon cousin, ayez soin de vous-même, et trompez ces ignorans. FRANK. JUN. Cousin, pour l’amour de vous, et principalement pour moi, je suis content de m’en aller: je trouverai votre école; et si vos écoliers me sont agréables, je tirerai à l'épée seule; et si d’aventure je la rompe, je payerai dix sous; et pour ce vieux fol, et ces deux canailles, ce poulain snip-snap, et l’autre bonnet rond, je les verrai pendre premier que je les vois. [Exit. W.-CAM.. So, so, she has got him off, but I perceive much anger in his countenance still.—And what says he, madam? MAR. Moosh, moosh anger; but ey connosh heer lodging shall cool him very well; dere is a kinswomans can moosh allay heer heat and heer spleen; she shall do for my saka, and he no trobla you. W.-CAM.. [giving money] Look, there is earnest, but thy reward’s behind; come to my shop, the Holy Lamb in Lombard Street: thou hast one friend more than e’er thou hadst. MAR. Tank u, monsieur, shall visit u; ey make all pacifie: à votre service très humblement,—tree, four, five fool of u. [Aside, and exit. W.-CAM.. What’s to be done now? COUN. To pay us for our pains, sir; and better reward us, that we may be provided against further danger that may come upon ’s for false imprisonment. W.-CAM.. All goes false, I think. What do you, neighbour Sweetball? SWEET. I must phlebotomise, sir, but my almanac says the sign is in Taurus; I dare not cut my own throat; but if I find any precedent that ever barber hanged himself, I'll be the second example. RAL. This was your ill luxinium,[935] barber, to cause all to be cheated. COUN. What say you to us, sir? W.-CAM.. Good friends, come to me at a calmer hour, My sorrows lie in heaps upon me now: What you have, keep; if further trouble follow, I'll take it on me: I would be press’d to death. COUN. Well, sir, for this time we’ll leave you. SWEET. I will go with you, officers; I will walk with you in the open street, though it be a scandal to me; for now I have no care of my credit, a cacokenny[936] is run all over me. [Exeunt. SWEETBALL, FLESH-HOOK, and COUNTERBUFF. W.-CAM.. What shall we do now, Ralph? RAL. Faith, I know not, sir: here comes George, it may be he can tell you. W.-CAM.. And there I look for more disaster still; Yet George appears in a smiling countenance.
Enter GEORGE.
Ralph, home to the shop; leave George and I together. RAL. I am gone, sir. [Exit. W.-CAM.. Now, George, what better news eastward? all goes ill t’other way. GEO. I bring you the best news that ever came about your ears in your life, sir. W.-CAM.. Thou puttest me in good comfort, George. GEO. My mistress, your wife, will never trouble you more. W.-CAM.. Ha! never trouble me more? of this, George, may be made a sad construction; that phrase we sometimes use when death makes the separation; I hope it is not so with her, George? GEO. No, sir, but she vows she’ll never come home again to you; so you shall live quietly; and this I took to be very good news, sir. W.-CAM.. The worst that could be this, candied poison: I love her, George, and I am bound to do so; The tongue’s bitterness must not separate United[937] souls: ’twere base and cowardly For all to yield to the small tongue’s assault: The whole building must not be taken down For the repairing of a broken window. GEO. Ay, but this is a principal, sir: the truth is, she will be divorced, she says, and is labouring with her cousin Knave—what do you call him? I have forgotten the latter end of his name. W.-CAM.. Knavesby, George. GEO. Ay, Knave, or Knavesby, one I took it to be. W.-CAM.. Why, neither rage nor envy can make a cause, George. GEO. Yes, sir; not only at your person, but she shoots at your shop too; she says you vent ware that is not warrantable, braided ware, and that you give not London measure; women, you know, look for more than a bare yard: and then you keep children in the name of your own, which she suspects came not in at the right door. W.-CAM.. She may as well suspect immaculate truth To be curs’d falsehood. GEO. Ay, but if she will, she will; she’s a woman, sir. W.-CAM.. ’Tis most true, George: well, that shall be redress’d; My cousin Cressingham must yield me pardon, The children shall home again, and thou shalt conduct 'em, George. GEO. That done, I'll be bold to venture once more for her recovery, since you cannot live at liberty, but because you are a rich citizen, you will have your chain about your neck: I think I have a device will bring you together by th' ears again, and then look to ’em as well as you can. W.-CAM.. O George, ’mongst all my heavy troubles, this Is the groaning weight; but restore my wife![938] GEO. Although you ne’er lead hour of quiet life. W.-CAM. I will endeavour ’t, George; I'll lend her will A power and rule to keep all hush’d and still: Eat we all sweetmeats, we are soonest rotten. GEO. A sentence! pity ’t should have been forgotten! [Exeunt.
Act IV, Scene I
A room in SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM′S house.
Enter SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM and Surveyor severally.
SUR. Where’s master steward? SIR F. CRES. Within: what are you, sir? SUR. A surveyor, sir. SIR F. CRES. And an almanac-maker, I take it: can you tell me what foul weather is toward?[939] SUR. Marry, the foulest weather is, that your land is flying away. [Exit. SIR F. CRES. A most terrible prognostication! All the resort, all the business to my house is to my lady and master steward, whilst sir Francis stands for a cipher; I have made away myself and my power, as if I had done it by deed of gift: here comes the comptroller of the game.
Enter SAUNDER.
SAUN. What, are you yet resolved to translate this unnecessary land into ready money? SIR F. CRES. Translate it! SAUN. The conveyances are drawn, and the money ready: my lady sent me to you to know directly if you meant to go through in the sale; if not, she resolves of another course. SIR F. CRES. Thou speakest this cheerfully, methinks; whereas faithful servants were wont to mourn when they beheld the lord that fed and cherished them, as[940] by cursed enchantment, removed into another blood. Cressingham of Cressingham has continued many years, and must the name sink now? SAUN. All this is nothing to my lady’s resolution; it must be done, or she’ll not stay in England: she would know whether your son be sent for, that must likewise set his hand to the sale; for otherwise the lawyers say there cannot be a sure conveyance made to the buyer. SIR F. CRES. Yes, I have sent for him; but, I pray thee, think what a hard task ’twill be for a father to persuade his son and heir to make away his inheritance. SAUN. Nay, for that, use your own logic; I have heard you talk at the sessions terribly against deer-stealers, and that kept you from being put out of the commission. [Exit. SIR F. CRES. I do live to see two miseries; one to be commanded by my wife, the other to be censured by my slave.
Enter GEORGE CRESSINGHAM.
G. CRES. That which I have wanted long, and has been cause of my irregular courses, I beseech you let raise me from the ground. [Kneels. SIR F. CRES. [raising him and giving money] Rise, George; there’s a hundred pounds for you, and my blessing, with these your mother’s favour: but I hear your studies are become too licentious of late. G. CRES. Has heard of my cozenage. [Aside. SIR F. CRES. What’s that you are writing? G. CRES. Sir, not any thing. SIR F. CRES. Come, I hear there’s something coming forth of yours will be your undoing. G. CRES. Of mine? SIR F. CRES. Yes, of your writing; somewhat you should write will be dangerous to you. I have a suit to you. G. CRES. Sir, my obedience makes you commander in all things. SIR F. CRES. I pray, suppose I had committed some fault, for which my life and sole estate were forfeit to the law, and that some great man near the king should labour to get my pardon, on condition he might enjoy my lordship, could you prize your father’s life above the grievous loss of your inheritance? G. CRES. Yes, and my own life at stake too. SIR F. CRES. You promise fair; I come now to make trial of it. You know I have married one whom I hold so dear, that my whole life is nothing but a mere estate depending upon her will and her affections to me; she deserves so well, I cannot longer merit than durante bene placita: ’tis her pleasure, and her wisdom moves in’t too, of which I'll give you ample satisfaction hereafter, that I sell the land my father left me: you change colour! I have promised her to do’t; and should I fail, I must expect the remainder of my life as full of trouble and vexation as the suit for a divorce: it lies in you, by setting of your hand unto the sale, to add length to his life that gave you yours. G. CRES. Sir, I do now[941] ingeniously perceive why you said lately somewhat I should write would be my undoing, meaning, as I take it, setting my hand to this assurance. O, good sir, shall I pass away my birthright? O, remember there is a malediction denounced against it in holy writ! Will you, for her pleasure, the inheritance of desolation leave to your posterity? think how compassionate the creatures of the field, that only live on the wild benefits of nature,[942] are unto their young ones; think likewise you may have more children by this woman, and by this act you undo them too. ’Tis a strange precedent this, to see an obedient son labouring good counsel to the father; but know, sir, that the spirits of my great-grandfather and your father move[943] at this present in me, and what they bequeathed you on their[944] deathbed, they charge you not to give away in the dalliance of a woman’s bed. Good sir, let it not be thought presumption in me that I have continued my speech unto this length; the cause, sir, is urgent, and, believe it, you shall find her beauty as malevolent unto you as a red morning, that doth still foretell a foul day to follow. O, sir, keep your land! keep that to keep your name immortal, and you shall see All that her malice and proud will procures Shall shew her ugly heart, but hurt not yours. SIR F. CRES. O, I am distracted, and my very soul sends blushes into my cheeks!
Enter GEORGE with MARIA and EDWARD.
G. CRES. See here an object to beget more compassion. GEO. O, sir Francis, we have a most lamentable house at home! nothing to be heard in’t but separation and divorces, and such a noise of the spiritual court, as if it were a tenement upon London Bridge, and built upon the arches. SIR F. CRES. What’s the matter? GEO. All about boarding your children: my mistress is departed. SIR F. CRES. Dead! GEO. In a sort she is, and laid out too, for she is run away from my master. SIR F. CRES. Whither? GEO. Seven miles off, into Essex; she vowed never to leave Barking while she lived, till these were brought home again. SIR F. CRES. O, they shall not offend her: I am sorry for’t. MARIA.[945] I am glad we are come home, sir; for we lived in the unquietest house! EDW. The angry woman, methought, grutched[946] us our victuals; our new mother is a good soul, and loves us, and does not frown so like a vixen as she does. MARIA. I am at home now, and in heaven, methinks: what a comfort ’tis to be under your wing! EDW. Indeed, my mother was wont to call me your nestle-cock, and I love you as well as she did. SIR F. CRES. You are my pretty souls! G. CRES. Does not the prattle of these move you?
Re-enter SAUNDER with KNAVESBY, and Surveyor.
SAUN. Look you, sir, here’s the conveyance and my lady’s solicitor; pray resolve what to do, my lady is coming down.—How now, George? how does thy mistress, that sits in a wainscot-gown,[947] like a citizen’s lure to draw in customers? O, she’s a pretty mouse-trap! GEO. She’s ill baited though to take a Welshman, she cannot away with[948] cheese. SIR F. CRES. And what must I do now? KNA. Acknowledge a fine and recovery of the land; then for possession the course is common. SIR F. CRES. Carry back the writings, sir; my mind is changed. SAUN. Changed! do not you mean to seal?
Enter LADY CRESSINGHAM.
SIR F. CRES. No, sir, the tide’s turned. SAUN. You must temper him like wax, or he’ll not seal. L. CRES. Are you come back again?—How now, have you done? MARIA. How do you, lady mother? L. CRES. You are good children.—Bid my woman give them some sweetmeats. MARIA. Indeed, I thank you:—is not this a kind mother? G. CRES. Poor fools, you know not how dear you shall pay for this sugar! [Exeunt. GEORGE with MARIA and EDWARD. L. CRES. What, ha’nt you despatched? SIR F. CRES. No, sweetest, I'm dissuaded by my son From the sale o' the land. L. CRES. Dissuaded by your son! SIR F. CRES. I cannot get his hand to’t. L. CRES. Where’s our steward? Cause presently that all my beds and hangings Be taken down; provide carts, pack them up; I'll to my house i' the country: have I studied The way to your preferment and your children’s, And do you cool i' th' upshot? G. CRES. With your pardon, I cannot understand this course a way To any preferment, rather a direct Path to our ruin. L. CRES. O, sir, you’re young-sighted:— Shew them the project of the land I mean To buy in Ireland, that shall outvalue yours Three thousand in a year. KNA. [shewing map] Look you, sir; here is Clangibbon, a fruitful country, and well wooded. SIR F. CRES. What’s this? marsh ground? KNA. No, these are bogs, but a little cost will drain them: this upper part, that runs by the black water, is the Cossack’s land,—a spacious country, and yields excellent profit by the salmon and fishing for herring; here runs the Kernesdale, admirable feed for cattle; and hereabout is St. Patrick’s Purgatory.[949] G. CRES. Purgatory? shall we purchase that too? L. CRES. Come, come, will you despatch the other business, We may go through with this? SIR F. CRES. My son’s unwilling. L. CRES. Upon my soul, sir, I'll ne’er bed with you Till you have seal’d. SIR F. CRES. Thou hear’st her: on thy blessing Follow me to the court, and seal. G. CRES. Sir, were it my death, were’t to the loss of my estate, I vow to obey you in all things; yet with it remember there are two young ones living that may curse you; I pray dispose part of the money on their generous educations. L. CRES. Fear no[t] you, sir.—The caroach there!— When you have despatched, you shall find me at the scrivener’s, where I shall receive the money. G. CRES. She’ll devour that mass too. L. CRES. How likest thou my power over him? SAUN. Excellent. L. CRES. This is the height of a great lady’s sway, When her night-service makes her rule i' the day. [Exeunt.
Act IV, Scene II — [950]
A hall in KNAVESBY’S house.
Enter KNAVESBY.
KNA. Not yet, Sib? my lord keeps thee so long, thou’rt welcome, I see then, and pays sweetly too: a good wench, Sib, thou’rt, to obey thy husband. She’s come: a hundred mark[951] a-year, how fine and easy it comes into mine arms now!—
Enter MISTRESS KNAVESBY.
Welcome home! what says my lord, Sib? MIS. KNA. My lord says you are a cuckold! KNA. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I thank him for that bob, i’faith; I'll afford it him again at the same price a month hence, and let the commodity grow as scarce as it will. Cuckold, says his lordship? ha, ha! I shall burst my sides with laughing, that’s the worst; name not a hundred [a]-year, for then I burst.[952] It smarts not so much as a fillip on the forehead by five parts: what has his dalliance taken from thy lips? ’tis as sweet as e’er’twas; let me try else; buss me, sugar-candy. MIS. KNA. Forbear! you presume to a lord’s pleasure! KNA. How’s that? not I, Sib. MIS. KNA. Never touch me more; I'll keep the noble stamp upon my lip, No under baseness shall deface it now: You taught me the way, Now I am in, I'll keep it; I have kiss’d Ambition, and I love it; I loathe the memory Of every touch my lip hath tasted from thee. KNA. Nay, but, sweet Sib, you do forget yourself. MIS. KNA. I will forget all that I ever was, And nourish new:[953] sirrah, I am a lady. KNA. Lord bless us, madam! MIS. KNA. I've enjoy’d a lord, That’s real possession, and daily shall, The which all ladies have not with their lords. KNA. But, with your patience, madam, who was it that preferred you to this ladyship? MIS. KNA. ’Tis all I am beholding[954] to thee for; Thou’st brought me out of ignorance into light: Simple as I was, I thought thee a man, [Un]till I found the difference by a man; Thou art a beast, a hornèd beast, an ox! KNA. Are these ladies' terms? MIS. KNA. For thy pander’s fee, It shall be laid under the candlestick; Look for’t, I'll leave it for thee. KNA. A little lower, Good your ladyship, my cousin Camlet Is in the house; let these things go no further. MIS. KNA. ’Tis for mine own credit if I forbear, not thine, thou bugle-browed[955] beast thou!
Enter GEORGE with rolls of paper in his hand.
GEO. Bidden, bidden, bidden, bidden: so, all these are past, but here’s as large a walk to come: if I do not get it up at the feast, I shall be leaner for bidding the guests, I'm sure. KNA. How now? who’s this? GEO. [reads] Doctor Glister et—what word’s this? __fuxor__—O, uxor—the doctor and his wife—Master Body et uxor of Bow Lane, Master Knavesby et uxor. KNA. Ha! we are in, whatsoever the matter is. GEO. Here’s forty couple more in this quarter; but there, the provision bringing in, that puzzles me most. [Reads] One ox,—that will hardly serve for beef too;—five muttons, ten lambs,—poor innocents, they’ll be devoured too!—three gross of capons—— KNA. Mercy upon us! what a slaughter-house is here! GEO. [reads] Two bushels of small birds, plovers, snipes, woodcocks, partridge[s], larks;—then for baked meats—— KNA. George, George, what feast is this? ’tis not for St. George’s day? GEO. Cry you mercy, sir; you and your wife are in my roll: my master invites you his guests to-morrow dinner. KNA. Dinner, say’st thou? he means to feast a month sure. GEO. Nay, sir, you make up but a hundred couple. KNA. Why, what ship has brought an India home to him, that he’s so bountiful? or what friend dead—unknown to us—has so much left to him of arable land, that he means to turn to pasture thus? GEO. Nay,’tis a vessel, sir; a good estate comes all in one bottom to him, and ’tis a question whether ever he find the bottom or no; a thousand a-year, that’s the uppermost. KNA. A thousand a-year! GEO. To go no further about the bush, sir, now the bird is caught, my master is to-morrow to be married, and, amongst the rest, invites you a guest at his wedding-dinner the second. KNA. Married! GEO. There is no other remedy for flesh and blood, that will have leave to play, whether we will or no, or wander into forbidden pastures. KNA. Married! why, he is married, man; his wife is in my house now; thy mistress is alive, George. GEO. She that was, it may be, sir, but dead to him; she played a little too rough with him, and he has discarded her; he’s divorced, sir. KNA. He divorced! then is her labour saved, for she was labouring a divorce from him. GEO. They are well parted then, sir. KNA. But wilt thou not speak with her? i’faith, invite her to’t. GEO. ’Tis not in my commission, I dare not. Fare you well, sir; I have much business in hand, and the time is short. KNA. Nay, but, George, I prithee, stay; may I report this to her for a certain truth? GEO. Wherefore am I employed in this invitation, sir? KNA. Prithee, what is she his second choice? GEO. Truly, a goodly presence, likely to bear great children, and great store; she never saw five-and-thirty summers together in her life by her appearance, and comes in her French hood; by my fecks, a great match ’tis like to be: I am sorry for my old mistress, but cannot help it. Pray you, excuse me now, sir; for all the business goes through my hands, none employed but myself. [Exit. KNA. Why, here is news that no man will believe but he that sees. MIS. KNA. This and your cuckoldry will be digestion throughout the city-dinners and suppers for a month together; there will need no cheese. KNA. No more of that, Sib: I'll call my cousin Camlet, and make her partaker of this sport.
Enter MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET.
She’s come already.—Cousin, take’t at once, you’re a free woman; your late husband’s to be married to-morrow. MIS. W.-CAM. Married! to whom? KNA. To a French hood, byrlakins,[956] as I understand; great cheer prepared, and great guests invited; so far I know. MIS. W.-CAM. What a cursed wretch was I to pare my nails to-day! a Friday too; I looked for some mischief. KNA. Why, I did think this had accorded with your best liking; you sought for him what he has sought for you, a separation, and by divorce too.[957] MIS. W.-CAM. I'll divorce ’em! is he to be married to a French hood? I'll dress it the English fashion: ne’er a coach to be had with six horses to strike fire i' the streets as we go? KNA. Will you go home then? MIS. W.-CAM. Good cousin, help me to whet one of my knives, while I sharp the other;[958] give me a sour apple to set my teeth a’n edge; I would give five pound for the paring of my nails again! have you e’er a bird-spit i' the house? I'll dress one dish to the wedding. KNA. This violence hurts yourself the most. MIS. W.-CAM. I care not who I hurt: O my heart, how it beats a' both sides! Will you run with me for a wager into Lombard Street now? KNA. I'll walk with you, cousin, a sufficient pace; Sib shall come softly after; I'll bring you thorough Bearbinder Lane. MIS. W.-CAM. Bearbinder Lane cannot hold me, I'll the nearest way over St. Mildred’s church: if I meet any French hoods by the way, I'll make black patches enow for the rheum. [Exeunt. MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET and KNAVESBY. MIS. KNA. So, ’tis to my wish. Master Knavesby, Help to make peace abroad, here you’ll find wars; I'll have a divorce too, with locks and bars. [Exit.
Act IV, Scene III
A room in WATER-CAMLET’S house.
Enter GEORGE and MARGARITA.
GEO. Madam, but stay here a little, my master comes instantly; I heard him say he did owe you a good turn, and now’s the time to take it; I'll warrant you a sound reward ere you go. MAR. Ey tank u de bon cœur, monsieur.
Enter WATER-CAMLET.
GEO. Look, he’s here already.—Now would a skilful navigator take in his sails, for sure there is a storm towards.[959] [Aside, and exit. W.-CAM.. O madam, I perceive in your countenance— I am beholding[960] to you—all is peace? MAR. All quiet, goor frendsheep; ey mooch a do, ey strive wid him; give goor worda for you, no more speak a de matra; all es undonne, u no more trobla.
Enter behind MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET and KNAVESBY.
W.-CAM. Look, there’s the price of a fair pair of gloves, And wear ’em for my sake. [Gives money. MIS. W.-CAM. O, O, O! my heart’s broke out of my ribs! KNA. Nay, a little patience. MAR. By tank u artely; shall no bestow en gloves, shall put moosh more to dees, an bestow your shop: regarde dees stofa, my petticote, u no soosh anodre; shall deal wid u for moosh; take in your hand. W.-CAM.. I see it, mistress, ’tis good stuff indeed, It is a silk rash; I can pattern it. MIS. W.-CAM. Shall he take up her coats before my face? O beastly creature! [Coming forward] French hood, French hood, I will make your hair grow thorough![961] W.-CAM.. My wife return’d!—O, welcome home, sweet Rachel! MIS. W.-CAM. I forbid the banes,[962] lecher!—and, strumpet, thou shalt bear children without noses! MAR. O, pardonnez-moi; by my trat, ey mean u no hurta: wat u meant by dees? MIS. W.-CAM. I will have thine eyes out, and thy bastards shall be as blind as puppies! W.-CAM.. Sweet Rachel!—Good cousin, help to pacify. MIS. W.-CAM. I forbid the banes, adulterer! W.-CAM.. What means she by that, sir? KNA. Good cousin, forbid your rage awhile; unless you hear, by what sense will you receive satisfaction? [Restraining her. MIS. W.-CAM. By my hands and my teeth, sir; give me leave! will you bind me whiles mine enemy kills me? W.-CAM.. Here all are your friends, sweet wife. MIS. W.-CAM. Wilt have two wives? do, and be[963] hanged, fornicator! I forbid the banes: give me the French hood, I'll tread it under feet in a pair of pantofles.[964] MAR. Begar, shall save hood, head, and all; shall come no more heer, ey warran u. [Exit. KNA. Sir, the truth is, report spoke it for truth You were to-morrow to be marrièd. MIS. W.-CAM. I forbid the banes! W.-CAM. Mercy deliver me! If my grave embrace me in the bed of death, I would to church with willing ceremony; But for my wedlock-fellow, here she is, The first and last that e’er my thoughts look’d on. KNA. Why, la, you, cousin, this was nought but error, Or an assault of mischief. W.-CAM.. Whose report was it? KNA. Your man George’s, who invited me to the wedding. W.-CAM.. George! and was he sober? good sir, call him.
Enter GEORGE. GEO. It needs not, sir, I am here already. W.-CAM.. Did you report this, George? GEO. Yes, sir, I did. W.-CAM.. And wherefore did you so? GEO. For a new suit that you promised me, sir, if I could bring home my mistress; and I think she’s come, with a mischief. MIS. W.-CAM. Give me that villain’s ears! GEO. I would give ear, if I could hear you talk wisely. MIS. W.-CAM. Let me cut off his ears! GEO. I shall hear worse of you hereafter then; limb for limb, one of my ears for one of your tongues, and I'll lay out for my master. W.-CAM..’Twas knavery with a good purpose in it: Sweet Rachel, this was even George’s meaning, A second marriage ’twixt thyself and me; And now I woo thee to’t; a quiet night Will make the sun, like a fresh bridegroom, rise And kiss the chaste cheek of the rosy morn; Which we will imitate, and, like him, create Fresh buds of love, fresh-spreading arms, fresh fruit, Fresh wedding-robes, and George’s fresh new suit. MIS. W.-CAM. This is fine stuff; have you much on’t to sell? GEO. A remnant of a yard. W.-CAM. Come, come, all’s well.— Sir, you must sup, instead of to-morrow’s dinner. KNA. I follow you. [Exeunt all except KNAVESBY.]—No, ’tis another way; My lord’s reward calls me to better cheer, Many good meals, a hundred marks a-year: My wife’s transform’d a lady; tush, she’ll come To her shape again: my lord rides the circuit; If I ride along with him, what need I grutch?[965] I can as easy sit, and speed as much. [Exit.
Act V, Scene I
A street.
Enter FRANKLIN senior in mourning, GEORGE CRESSINGHAM, and FRANKLIN _junior disguised as an old Serving-man_.
G. CRES. Sir, your son’s death, which has apparell’d you In this darker wearing, is a loss wherein I've ample share; he was my friend. FRANK. SEN. He was my nearest And dearest[966] enemy; and the perpetual Fear of a worse end, had he continuèd His former dissolute course[s], makes me weigh His death the lighter. G. CRES. Yet, sir, with your pardon, If you value him every way as he deserv’d, It will appear your scanting of his means, And the lord Beaufort’s most unlordly breach Of promise to him, made him fall upon Some courses, to which his nature and mine own— Made desperate likewise by the cruelty of A mother-in-law—would else have been as strange As insolent greatness is to distress’d virtue. FRANK. SEN. Yes, I have heard of that too; your defeat[967] Made upon a mercer; I style’t modestly, The law intends it plain cozenage. G. CRES. ’Twas no less; But my penitence and restitution may Come fairly off from’t: it was no impeachment To the glory won at Agincourt’s great battle, That the achiever of it in his youth Had been a purse-taker; this with all reverence To the great example. Now to my business, Wherein you’ve made such noble trial of Your worth, that in a world so dull as this, Where faith is almost grown to be a miracle, I've found a friend so worthy as yourself, To purchase all the land my father sold At the persuasion of a riotous woman, And charitable, to reserve it for his use And the good of his three children; this, I say, Is such a deed shall style you our preserver, And owe the memory of your worth, and pay it To all posterity. FRANK. SEN. Sir, what I've done Looks to the end of the good deed itself, No other way i' the world. G. CRES. But would you please, Out of a friendly reprehension, To make him sensible of the weighty wrong He has done his children? yet I would not have’t Too bitter, for he undergoes already Such torment in a woman’s naughty pride, Too harsh reproof would kill him. FRANK. SEN. Leave you that To my discretion: I have made myself My son’s executor, and am come up On purpose to collect his creditors; And where I find his pennyworth conscionable, I'll make them in part satisfaction.
Enter GEORGE.
O, this fellow was born near me, and his trading here i' the city may bring me to the knowledge of the men my son ought[968] money to. GEO. Your worship’s welcome to London; and I pray, how do[969] all our good friends i' the country? FRANK. SEN. They are well, George: how thou art shot up since I saw thee! what, I think thou art almost out of thy time? GEO. I am out of my wits, sir; I have lived in a kind of bedlam these four years; how can I be mine own man then? FRANK. SEN. Why, what’s the matter? GEO. I may turn soap-boiler, I have a loose body: I am turned away from my master. FRANK. SEN. How! turned away? GEO. I am gone, sir, not in drink, and yet you may behold my indentures [shewing indenture]. O the wicked wit of woman! for the good turn I did bringing her home, she ne’er left sucking my master’s breath, like a cat, kissing him, I mean, till I was turned away. FRANK. SEN. I have heard she’s a terrible woman. GEO. Yes, and the miserablest! her sparing in housekeeping has cost him somewhat—the Dagger-pies[970] can testify: she has stood in’s light most miserably, like your fasting days before red letters in the almanac; saying the pinching of our bellies would be a mean to make him wear scarlet the sooner. She had once persuaded him to have bought spectacles for all his servants, that they might have worn ’em dinner and supper. FRANK. SEN. To what purpose? GEO. Marry, to have made our victuals seem bigger than ’t was: she shews from whence she came, that my wind-colic can witness. FRANK. SEN. Why, whence came she? GEO. Marry, from a courtier, and an officer too, that was up and down I know not how often. FRANK. SEN. Had he any great place? GEO. Yes, and a very high one, but he got little by it; he was one that blew the organ in the court chapel; our Puritans,[971] especially your Puritans in Scotland, could ne’er away with[972] him. FRANK. SEN. Is she one of the sect? GEO. Faith, I think not, for I am certain she denies her husband the supremacy. FRANK. SEN. Well, George, your difference may be reconciled. I am now to use your help in a business that concerns me; here’s a note of men’s names here i' the city unto whom my son ought[973] money, but I do not know their dwelling. GEO. [taking note from FRANK. SEN.] Let me see, sir: [reads] Fifty pound ta’en up at use of Master Waterthin the brewer. FRANK. SEN. What’s he? GEO. An obstinate fellow, and one that denied payment of the groats till he lay by the heels for’t; I know him: [reads] Item, fourscore pair of provant breeches,[974] a' the new fashion, to Pinchbuttock, a hosier in Birchen Lane, so much. FRANK. SEN. What the devil did he with so many pair of breeches? FRANK. JUN. Supply a captain, sir; a friend of his went over to the Palatinate. GEO. [reads] Item, to my tailor, master Weatherwise, by St. Clement’s church. G. CRES. Who should that be? it may be ’tis the new prophet, the astrological tailor. FRANK. JUN. No, no, no, sir, we have nothing to do with him. GEO. Well, I'll read no further; leave the note to my discretion, do not fear but I'll inquire them all. FRANK. SEN. Why, I thank thee, George.[975]—Sir, rest assured I shall in all your business be faithful to you, and at better leisure find time to imprint deeply in your father the wrong he has done you. G. CRES. You are worthy in all things.— [Exeunt. FRANKLIN senior, FRANKLIN junior, and GEORGE.
(Scene changes[976] to a room in SIR F. CRESSINGHAM’S house.)
Enter SAUNDER.
Is my father stirring? SAUN. Yes, sir: my lady wonders you are thus chargeable to your father, and will not direct yourself unto some gainful study, may quit him of your dependance. G. CRES. What study? SAUN. Why, the law; that law that takes up most a' the wits i' the kingdom, not for most good but most gain; or divinity, I have heard you talk well, and I do not think but you’d prove a singular fine churchman. G. CRES. I should prove a plural better, if I could attain to fine benefices. SAUN. My lady, now she has money, is studying to do good works; she talked last night what a goodly act it was of a countess[977]—Northamptonshire breed belike, or thereabouts—that to make Coventry a corporation, rode through the city naked, and by daylight. G. CRES. I do not think but you have ladies living would discover as much in private, to advance but some member of a corporation. SAUN. Well, sir, your wit is still goring at my lady’s projects: here’s your father.
Enter SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM.
SIR F. CRES. Thou comest to chide me, hearing how like a ward I am handled since the sale of my land. G. CRES. No, sir, but to turn your eyes into your own bosom. SIR F. CRES. Why, I am become my wife’s pensioner; am confined to a hundred mark[978] a-year, t' one suit, and one man to attend me. SAUN. And is not that enough for a private gentleman? SIR F. CRES. Peace, sirrah, there is nothing but knave speaks in thee:—and my two poor children must be put forth to ’prentice! G. CRES. Ha! to ’prentice? sir, I do not come to grieve you, but to shew how wretched your estate was, that you could not come to see order until foul disorder pointed the way to’t; So inconsiderate,[979] yet so fruitful still Is dotage to beget its own destruction. SIR F. CRES. Surely I am nothing, and desire[980] to be so.—Pray thee, fellow, entreat her only to be quiet; I have given her all my estate on that condition. SAUN. Yes, sir, her coffers are well lin’d, believe me. SIR F. CRES. And yet she’s not contented: we observe The moon is ne’er so pleasant and so clear As when she’s at the full. G. CRES. You did not use My mother with this observance; you are like The frogs, who, weary of their quiet king, Consented to th' election of the stork, Who in the end devour’d them. SIR F. CRES. You may see How apt man is to forfeit all his judgment Upon the instant of his fall. G. CRES. Look up, sir. SIR F. CRES. O, my heart’s broke! weighty are injuries That come from an enemy, but those are deadly That come from a friend, for we see commonly Those are ta’en most to heart. She comes. G. CRES. What a terrible eye she darts on us!
Enter LADY CRESSINGHAM.
SIR F. CRES. O, most natural for lightning to go before the thunder. L. CRES. What! are you in council? are ye levying faction against us? SIR F. CRES. Good friend—— L. CRES. Sir, sir, pray, come hither; there is winter in your looks, a latter winter; do you complain to your kindred? I'll make you fear extremely, to shew you have any cause to fear.—Are the bonds sealed for the six thousand pounds I put forth to use? SAUN. Yes, madam. L. CRES. The bonds were made in my uncle’s name? SAUN. Yes. L. CRES. ’Tis well. SIR F. CRES. ’Tis strange though. L. CRES. Nothing strange; you’ll think the allowance I have put you to as strange, but your judgment cannot reach the aim I have in’t: you were pricked last year to be high sheriff, and what it would have cost you I understand now; all this charge, and the other by the sale of your land, and the money at my dispose, and your pension so small, will settle you in quiet, make you master of a retired life; and our great ones may think you a politic man, and that you are aiming at some strange business, having made all over. SIR F. CRES. I must leave you: man is never truly awake till he be dead! [Exeunt. SIR F. CRESSINGHAM and SAUNDER./ G. CRES. What a dream have you made of my father! L. CRES. Let him be so, and keep the proper place of dreams, his bed, until I raise him. G. CRES. Raise him! not unlikely; ’tis you have ruined him. L. CRES. You do not come to quarrel? G. CRES. No, certain, but to persuade you to a thing, that, in the virtue of it, nobly carries its own commendation, and you shall gain much honour by it, which is the recompence of all virtuous actions,—to use my father kindly. L. CRES. Why, does he complain to you, sir? G. CRES. Complain? why should a king complain for any thing, but for his sins to heaven? the prerogative of husband is like to his over his wife. L. CRES. I'm full of business, sir, and will not mind you. G. CRES. I must not leave you thus; I tell you, mother, ’tis dangerous to a woman when her mind raises her to such height, it makes her only capable of her own merit, nothing of duty. O, ’twas a strange, unfortunate o’erprizing your beauty, brought him, otherwise discreet, into the fatal neglect of his poor children! What will you give us of the late sum you received? L. CRES. Not a penny; away, you are troublesome and saucy. G. CRES. You are too cruel: denials even from princes, who may do what they list, should be supplied with a gracious verbal usage, that, though they do not cure the sore, they may abate the sense of’t: the wealth you seem to command over is his, and he, I hope, will dispose of’t to our use. L. CRES. When he can command my will. G. CRES. Have you made him so miserable, that he must take a law from his wife? L. CRES. Have you not had some lawyers forced to groan under the burden? G. CRES. O, but the greater the women, the more visible are their vices! L. CRES. So, sir, You’ve been so bold: by all can bind an oath, And I'll not break it, I'll not be the woman To you hereafter you expected. G. CRES. Be not; Be not yourself, be not my father’s wife, Be not my lady Cressingham, and then I'll thus speak to you, but you must not answer In your own person. L. CRES. A fine puppet-play! G. CRES. Good madam, please you, pity the distress of a poor gentleman, that is undone by a cruel mother-in-law; you do not know her, nor does she deserve the knowledge of any good one, for she does not know herself; you would sigh for her that e’er she took you[r] sex, if you but heard her qualities. L. CRES. This is a fine crotchet. G. CRES. Envy and pride flow in her painted breasts, she gives no other suck; all her attendants do not belong to her husband; his money is hers, marry, his debts are his own: she bears such sway, she will not suffer his religion be his own, but what she please to turn it to. L. CRES. And all this while I am the woman you libel against. G. CRES. I remember, ere the land was sold, you talked of going to Ireland; but should you touch there, you would die presently. L. CRES. Why, man? G. CRES. The country brooks no poison:[981] go, You’ll find how difficult a thing it is To make a settled or assur’d estate Of things ill-gotten: when my father’s dead, The curse of lust and riot follow you! Marry some young gallant that may rifle you; Yet add one blessing to your needy age, That you may die full of repentance. L. CRES. Ha, ha, ha! G. CRES. O, she is lost to any kind of goodness! [Exeunt severally.
Act V, Scene III
A room.[982]
Enter LORD BEAUFORT and KNAVESBY.
L. BEAU. Sirrah, begone! you’re base. KNA. Base, my good lord? ’Tis a ground part in music, trebles, means,[983] All is but fiddling:[984] your honour bore a part, As my wife says, my lord. L. BEAU. Your wife’s a strumpet! KNA. Ah ha! is she so? I am glad to hear it; Open confession, open payment; The wager’s mine then, a hundred a-year, my lord; I said so before, and stak’d my head against it: Thus after darksome night the day is come, my lord. L. BEAU. Hence, hide thy branded head; let no day see thee, Nor thou any but thy execution-day. KNA. That’s the day after washing-day; once a-week I see’t at home, my lord. L. BEAU. Go home and see Thy prostituted wife—for sure ’tis so—Now folded in a boy’s adultery, My page, on whom the hot-rein’d harlot doats: This night he hath been her attendant; my house He is fled from, and must no more return: Go, and make haste, sir, lest your reward be lost For want of looking to. KNA. My reward lost? Is there nothing due for what is past, my lord? L. BEAU. Yes, pander, wittol,[985] macrio,[986] basest of knaves, Thou bolster-bawd to thine own infamy! Go, I've no more about me at this time; When I am better stor’d thou shalt have more, Where’er I meet thee. KNA. Pander, wittol, macrio, base knave, bolster-bawd! here is but five mark toward a hundred a-year; this is poor payment. If lords may be trusted no better than thus, I will go home and cut my wife’s nose off; I will turn over a new leaf, and hang up the page; lastly, I will put on a large pair of wet-leather boots, and drown myself; I will sink at Queen-hive,[987] and rise again at Charing Cross, contrary to the statute in Edwardo primio. [Exit.
Enter FRANKLIN senior, FRANKLIN junior disguised as before, GEORGE, and several Creditors.
FRANK. SEN. Good health to your lordship! L. BEAU. Master Franklin, I heard of your arrival, and the cause of this your sad appearance. FRANK. SEN. And ’tis no more than as your honour says, indeed, appearance; it has more form than feeling sorrow, sir, I must confess: there’s none of these gentlemen, though aliens in blood, but have as large cause of grief as I. FIRST C. No, by your favour, sir, we are well satisfied; there was in his life a greater hope, but less assurance. SEC. C. Sir, I wish all my debts of no better promise to pay me thus; fifty in the hundred comes fairly homewards. FRANK. JUN. Considering hard bargains and dead commodities, sir. SEC. C. Thou sayest true, friend—and from a dead debtor, too. L. BEAU. And so you have compounded and agreed all your son’s riotous debts? FRANK. SEN. There’s behind but one cause of worse condition; that done, he may sleep quietly. FIRST C. Yes, sure, my lord, this gentleman is come a wonder to us all, that so fairly, with half a loss, could satisfy those debts were dead, even with his son, and from whom we could have nothing claimed. FRANK. SEN. I shewed my reason; I would have a good name live after him, because he bore my name. SEC. C. May his tongue perish first—and that will spoil his trade—that first gives him a syllable of ill! L. BEAU. Why, this is friendly.
Enter WATER-CAMLET.
W.-CAM. My lord! L. BEAU. Master Camlet! very welcome. W.-CAM. Master Franklin, I take it: these gentlemen I know well, good master Pennystone, master Philip, master Cheyney: I am glad I shall take my leave of so many of my good friends at once. Your hand first, my lord—fare you well, sir—nay, I must have all your hands to my pass. [Taking their hands. GEO. Will you have mine too, sir? W.-CAM.. Yes, thy two hands, George, and, I think, two honest hands of a tradesman, George, as any between Cornhill and Lombard Street. GEO. Take heed what you say, sir, there’s Birchin Lane between ’em. L. BEAU. But what’s the cause of this, master Camlet? W.-CAM.. I have the cause in handling now, my lord; George, honest George, is the cause, yet no cause of George’s; George is turned away one way, and I must go another. L. BEAU. And whither is your way, sir? W.-CAM.. E'en to seek out a quiet life, my lord: I do hear of a fine peaceable island. L. BEAU. Why, ’tis the same you live in. W.-CAM.. No; ’tis so fam’d, But we th' inhabitants find it not so: The place I speak of[988] has been kept with thunder, With frightful lightnings, amazing noises; But now, th' enchantment broke, ’tis the land of peace, Where hogs and tobacco yield fair increase. L. BEAU. This is a little wild, methinks. W.-CAM.. Gentlemen, fare you well, I am for the Bermudas. L. BEAU. Nay, good sir, stay: and is that your only cause, the loss of George? W.-CAM.. The loss of George, my lord? make you that no cause? why, but examine, would it not break the stout heart of a nobleman to lose his george,[989] much more the tender bosom of a citizen? L. BEAU. Fie, fie, I'm sorry your gravity should run back to lightness thus: you go to the Bermothes![990] FRANK. SEN. Better to Ireland, sir. W.-CAM.. The land of Ire? that’s too near home; my wife will be heard from Hellbree to Divelin.[991] FRANK. SEN. Sir, I must of necessity a while detain you: I must acquaint you with a benefit that’s coming towards you; you were cheated of some goods of late—come, I'm a cunning man, and will help you to the most part again, or some reasonable satisfaction. W.-CAM.. That’s another cause of my unquiet life, sir; can you do that, I may chance stay another tide or two.
Enter MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET.
My wife! I must speak more private with you—by forty foot, pain of death, I dare not reach her! no words of me, sweet gentlemen. [Slips behind the arras. GEO. I had need hide too. [Follows W.-CAMLET. MIS. W.-CAM. O, my lord, I have scarce tongue enough yet to tell you—my husband, my husband’s gone from me! your warrant, good my lord! I never had such need of your warrant; my husband’s gone from me! L. BEAU. Going he is, ’tis true, has ta’en his leave of me and all these gentlemen, and ’tis your sharp tongue that whips him forwards. MIS. W.-CAM. A warrant, good my lord! L. BEAU. You turn away his servants, such on whom his estate depends, he says, who know his books, his debts, his customers; the form and order of all his affairs you make orderless—chiefly, his George you have banished from him. MIS. W.-CAM. My lord, I will call George again. GEO. [behind the arras] Call George again! L. BEAU. Why, hark you, how high-voiced you are, that raise an echo from my cellarage, which we with modest loudness cannot! MIS. W.-CAM. My lord, do you think I speak too loud? GEO. [behind the arras] Too loud! L. BEAU. Why, hark, your own tongue answers you, and reverberates your words into your teeth! MIS. W.-CAM. I will speak lower all the days of my life; I never found the fault in myself till now: your warrant, good my lord, to stay my husband! L. BEAU. Well, well, it shall o’ertake him ere he pass Gravesend, provided that he meet his quietness at home, else he’s gone again. FRANK. SEN. And withal to call George again. MIS. W.-CAM. I will call George again. GEO. [behind the arras] Call George again! L. BEAU. See, you are rais’d again, the echo tells you! MIS. W.-CAM. I did forget myself indeed, my lord; this is my last fault: I will go make a silent inquiry after George, I will whisper half a score porters in the ear, that shall run softly up and down the city to seek him. Be wi' ye, my lord- bye all, gentlemen. [Exit. L. BEAU. George, your way lies before you now [GEORGE comes from behind the arras]; cross the street, and come into her eyes; your master’s journey will be stayed. GEO. I'll warrant you bring it to better subjection yet. [Exit. L. BEAU. These are fine flashes! [WATER-CAMLET comes from behind the arras.]—How now, master Camlet? W.-CAM.. I had one ear lent to youward, my lord, And this o' th' other[992] side; both sounded sweetly: I've whole recover’d my late losses, sir; The one half paid, the other is forgiven. L. BEAU. Then your journey is stayed? W.-CAM. Alas, my lord, that was a trick of age! For I had left never a trick of youth Like it, to succour me.
Enter SWEETBALL with KNAVESBY.
L. BEAU. How now? what new object’s here? SWEET. The next man we meet shall judge us. KNA. Content, though he be but a common councilman. L. BEAU. The one’s a knave, I could know him at twelve score distance. FRANK. SEN. And t’other’s a barber-surgeon, my lord. KNA. I'll go no further; here is the honourable lord that I know will grant my request. My lord— SWEET. Peace; I will make it plain to his lordship. My lord, a covenant by jus jurandum is between us; he is to suffocate my respiration by his capistrum, and I to make incision so far as mortification by his jugulars. L. BEAU. This is not altogether so plain neither, sir. SWEET. I can speak no plainer, my lord, unless I wrong mine art. KNA. I can, my lord, I know some part of the law: I am to take him in this place where I find him, and lead him from hence to the place of execution, and there to hang him till he dies; he in equal courtesy is to cut my throat with his razor, and there’s an end of both on’s. SWEET. There is the end, my lord, but we want the beginning: I stand upon it to be strangled first, before I touch either his gula or cervix. KNA. I am against it, for how shall I be sure to have my throat cut after he’s hanged? L. BEAU. Is this a condition betwixt you? KNA. A firm covenant, signed and sealed by oath and handfast, and wants nothing but agreement. L. BEAU. A little pause: what might be the cause on either part? SWEET. My passions are grown to putrefaction, and my griefs are gangrened; master Camlet has scarified me all over, besides the loss of my new brush. KNA. I am kept out of mine own castle, my wife keeps the hold against me; your page, my lord, is her champion: I summoned a parle[993] at the window, was answered with defiance: they confess they have lain together, but what they have done else, I know not. L. BEAU. Thou canst have no wrong that deserves pity, thou art thyself so bad. KNA. I thank your honour for that; let me have my throat cut then. W.-CAM.. Sir, I can give you a better remedy than his capistrum;—your ear a little.
Enter MISTRESS KNAVESBY, and MISTRESS GEORGE CRESSINGHAM in female attire.
MIS. KNA. I come with a bold innocence to answer The best and worst that can accuse me here. L. BEAU. Your husband. MIS. KNA. He’s the worst, I dare his worst. KNA. Your page, your page. MIS. KNA. We lay together in bed, It is confess’d; you and your ends of law Make[994] worser of’t, I did it for reward. L. BEAU. I'll hear no more of this.—Come, gentlemen, will you walk?
Enter GEORGE CRESSINGHAM.
G. CRES. My lord, a little stay; you’ll see a sight That neighbour amity will be much pleas’d with: It is already come;[995] my father, sir.
Enter SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM in rich apparel.
L. BEAU. There must be cause, certain, for this good change.— Sir, you are bravely[996] met; This is the best I ever saw you at.[997] SIR F. CRES. My lord, I am amazement to myself: I slept in poverty, and am awake Into this wonder: how I came[998] thus brave, My dreams did not so much as tell me of; I am of my kind son’s new making up; It exceeds the pension much that yesternight Allow’d me, and my pockets centupled; But I'm my son’s child, sir, he knows of me More than I do myself. G. CRES. Sir, you yet have But earnest of your happiness, a pinnace Fore-riding a goodly vessel, by this near anchor, Bulk’d like a castle, and with jewels fraught— Joys above jewels, sir—from deck to keel: Make way for the receipt; empty your bosom Of all griefs and troubles; leave not a sigh To beat her back again; she is so stor’d, Y'had need have room enough to take her lading. SIR F. CRES. If one commodity be wanting now, All this is nothing. G. CRES. Tush, that must out too: There must be no remembrance, not the thought That ever youth in woman did abuse you, That e’er your children had a stepmother, That you sold lands to please your punishment, That you were circumscrib’d and taken in, Abridg’d the large extendure of your grounds, And put into the pin-fold that belong’d to’t, That your son did cheat for want of maintenance; That he did beg you shall remember only, For I have begg’d off all these troubles from you. L. BEAU. This was a good week’s labour. G. CRES. Not an hour’s, my lord, but ’twas a happy one.— See, sir, a new day shines on you.
Enter LADY CRESSINGHAM in civil[999] habit, MARIA and EDWARD very gallant, and SAUNDER.
L. CRES. O sir, Your son has robb’d me—— SIR F. CRES. Ha, that way I instructed! G. CRES. Nay, hear her, sir. L. CRES. Of my good purpose, sir; He hath forc’d out of me what lay conceal’d, Ripen’d my pity with his dews of duty: Forgive me, sir, and but keep the number Of every grief that I have pain’d you with, I'll ten-fold pay with fresh obedience. W.-CAM. O that my wife were here to learn this lesson! L. CRES. Your state[1000] is not abated, what was yours is still your own; and take the cause withal of my harsh-seeming usage,—it was to reclaim faults in yourself, the swift consumption of many large revenues, gaming; that of not much less speed, burning up house and land, not casual, but cunning fire, which, though it keeps the chimney, and outward shews like hospitality, is only devourer on’t, consuming chemistry,—there I have made you a flat banquerout,[1001] all your stillatories and labouring minerals are demolished—that part of hell in your house is extinct; Put out your desire with them, and then these feet Shall level with my hands until you raise My stoop’d humility to higher grace, To warm these lips with love, and duty do To every silver hair, each one shall be A senator to my obedience. SIR F. CRES. All this I knew[1002] before: whoe’er of you That had but one ill thought of this good woman, You owe a knee to her, and she is merciful If she forgive you.
Re-enter GEORGE and MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET.
L. BEAU. That shall be private penance, sir; we’ll all joy in public with you. GEO. On the conditions I tell you, not else. MIS. W.-CAM. Sweet George, dear George, any conditions. W.-CAM.. My wife! FRANK. SEN. Peace; George is bringing her to conditions. W.-CAM.. Good ones, good George! GEO. You shall never talk your voice above the key sol, sol, sol. MIS. W.-CAM. Sol, sol, sol—ay, George. GEO. Say, Welcome home, honest George, in that pitch. MIS. W.-CAM. Welcome home, honest George! GEO. Why, this is well now. W.-CAM.. That’s well indeed, George. GEO. Rogue nor rascal must never come out of your mouth. MIS. W.-CAM. They shall never come in, honest George. GEO. Nor I will not have you call my master plain husband, that’s too coarse; but as your gentlewomen in the country use, and your parsons' wives in the town,— ’tis comely, and shall be customed in the city,—call him master Camlet at every word. MIS. W.-CAM. At every word, honest George. GEO. Look you, there he is, salute him then. MIS. W.-CAM. Welcome home, good master Camlet! W.-CAM.. Thanks, and a thousand,[1003] sweet—wife, I may say, honest George? GEO. Yes, sir, or bird, or chuck, or heart’s-ease, or plain Rachel; but call her Rac no more, so long as she is quiet. W.-CAM.. God-a-mercy, sha’t have thy new suit a' Sunday, George. MIS. W.-CAM. George shall have two new suits, master Camlet. W.-CAM.. God-a-mercy, i’faith, chuck. SWEET. Master Camlet, you and I are friends, all even betwixt us? W.-CAM.. I do acquit thee, neighbour Sweetball. SWEET. I will not be hanged then—Knavesby, do thy worst; nor I will not cut thy throat. KNA. I must do’t myself. SWEET. If thou comest to my shop, and usurpest my chair of maintenance, I will go as near as I can, but I will not do’t. G. CRES. No, ’tis I must cut Knavesby’s throat, for slandering a modest gentlewoman and my wife, in shape of your page, my lord; in her own I durst not place her so near your lordship. L. BEAU. No more of that, sir; if your ends have acquired their own events, crown ’em with your own joy. G. CRES. Down a' your knees, Knavesby, to your wife; she’s too honest for you. SWEET. Down, down, before you are hanged, 'twill be too late afterwards, and long thou canst not ’scape it. [KNAVESBY kneels. MIS. KNA. You’ll play the pander no more, will you? KNA. O, that’s an inch into my throat! MIS. KNA. And let out your wife for hire?[1004] KNA. O, sweet wife, go no deeper! MIS. KNA. Dare any be bail for your better behaviour? L. BEAU. Yes, yes, I dare; he will mend one day. MIS. KNA. And be worse the next. KNA. Hang me the third then; dear, merciful wife, I will do any thing for a quiet life. [Rises. L. BEAU. All then is reconciled? SWEET. Only my brush is lost, my dear new brush. FRANK. SEN. I will help you to satisfaction for that too, sir. SWEET. O spermaceti! I feel it heal already. FRANK. SEN. Gentlemen, I have fully satisfied my dead son’s debts? CREDITORS. All pleased, all paid, sir. FRANK. SEN. Then once more here I bring him back to life, From my servant to my son: nay, wonder not, I have not dealt by fallacy with any; My son was dead; whoe’er outlives his virtues Is a dead man; for when you hear of spirits That walk in real bodies, to th' amaze And cold astonishment of such as meet ’em, And all would shun, those are men of vices, Who nothing have but what is visible, And so, by consequence, they have no souls; But if the soul return, he lives again, Created newly; such my son appears, By my blessing rooted, growing by his tears. CREDITORS. You have beguiled us honestly, sir. FRANK. JUN. And you shall have your brush again. SWEET. My basins shall all ring for joy. L. BEAU. Why, this deserves a triumph,[1005] and my cost Shall begin a feast to it, to which I do Invite you all; such happy reconcilements Must not be past without a health of joy: Discorded friends aton’d,[1006] men and their wives, This hope proclaims your after quiet lives. [Exeunt omnes.
Epilogue
I am sent t' inquire your censure,[1007] and to know How you stand affected? whether we do owe Our service to your favours, or must strike Our sails, though full of hope, to your dislike? Howe’er, be pleas’d to think we purpos’d well; And from my fellows thus much I must tell, Instruct us but in what we went astray, And, to redeem it, we’ll take any way.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN.
Women Beware Women. A Tragedy, By Tho. Middleton, Gent. London: Printed for Humphrey Moseley, 1657—is the second of Two New Playes, originally published together in 8vo: see vol. iii. p. 553.
It has been reprinted in the 5th vol. of A Continuation of Dodsley’s Old Plays, 1816.
“The Foundation of this Play,” says Langbaine, “is borrow’d from a Romance called Hyppolito and Isabella, octavo.” Acc. of Engl. Dram. Poets, p. 374.
UPON THE TRAGEDY OF MY FAMILIAR
ACQUAINTANCE, THO. MIDDLETON.
Women beware Women; ’tis a true text Never to be forgot; drabs of state vext Have plots, poisons, mischiefs that seldom miss, To murder virtue with a venom-kiss. Witness this worthy tragedy, exprest By him that well deserv’d among the best Of poets in his time: he knew the rage, Madness of women cross’d, and for the stage Fitted their humours; hell-bred malice, strife Acted in state, presented to the life. I that have seen’t can say, having just cause, Never came tragedy off with more applause. NATH. RICHARDS.[1008]
Dramatis Personæ
Duke of Florence. Lord Cardinal, brother to the duke. FABRICIO, father to Isabella. HIPPOLITO, brother to Fabricio. GUARDIANO, uncle to the Ward. The Ward, a rich young heir. LEANTIO, a factor, husband to Bianca. SORDIDO, servant to the Ward. _Cardinals, Knights, States of Florence, Citizens, &c._
LIVIA, sister to Fabricio and Hippolito. ISABELLA, daughter to Fabricio. BIANCA,[1009] wife to Leantio. Mother to Leantio. Ladies.
Scene, FLORENCE.
WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN.
-------