Part 34

_Frank._ Who but a fool would thus be bound to a bed, Having this room to walk in?

_Kath._ Why do you talk so? Would you were fast asleep!

_Frank._ No, no; I’m not idle.[453] But here’s my meaning; being robbed as I am, Why should my soul, which married was to hers, Live in divorce, and not fly after her? Why should I not walk hand in hand with Death, To find my love out?

[453] _i.e._ Wandering.

_Kath._ That were well indeed, Your time being come; when Death is sent to call you, No doubt you shall meet her.

_Frank._ Why should not I Go without calling?

_Kath._ Yes, brother, so you might, Were there no place to go when you’re gone But only this.

_Frank._ ’Troth, sister, thou say’st true; For when a man has been an hundred years Hard travelling o’er the tottering bridge of age, He’s not the thousand part upon his way: All life is but a wandering to find home; When we’re gone, we’re there. Happy were man, Could here his voyage end; he should not, then, Answer how well or ill he steered his soul By Heaven’s or by Hell’s compass; how he put in-- Losing blessed goodness’ shore--at such a sin; Nor how life’s dear provision he has spent, Nor how far he in’s navigation went Beyond commission: this were a fine reign, To do ill and not hear of it again; Yet then were man more wretched than a beast; For, sister, our dead pay is sure the best.

_Kath._ ’Tis so, the best or worst; and I wish Heaven To pay--and so I know it will--that traitor, That devil Somerton--who stood in mine eye Once as an angel--home to his deservings: What villain but himself, once loving me, With Warbeck’s soul would pawn his own to hell To be revenged on my poor sister!

_Frank._ Slaves! A pair of merciless slaves! speak no more of them.

_Kath._ I think this talking hurts you.

_Frank._ Does me no good, I’m sure; I pay for’t everywhere.

_Kath._ I have done, then. Eat, if you cannot sleep; you have these two days Not tasted any food.--Jane, is it ready?

_Frank._ What’s ready? what’s ready?

_Kath._ I have made ready a roasted chicken for you:

_Enter ~Maid~ with chicken._

Sweet, wilt thou eat?

_Frank._ A pretty stomach on a sudden; yes.-- There’s one in the house can play upon a lute; Good girl, let’s hear him too.

_Kath._ You shall, dear brother. [_Exit ~Maid~._ Would I were a musician, you should hear How I would feast your ear! [_Lute plays within_]--stay mend your pillow, And raise you higher.

_Frank._ I am up too high, Am I not, sister now?

_Kath._ No, no; ’tis well. Fall-to, fall-to.--A knife! here’s never a knife. Brother, I’ll look out yours. [_Takes up his vest._

_Enter the ~Dog~, shrugging as it were for joy, and dances._

_Frank._ Sister, O, sister, I’m ill upon a sudden, and can eat nothing.

_Kath._ In very deed you shall: the want of food Makes you so faint, Ha! [_Sees the bloody knife_]--here’s none in your pocket; I’ll go fetch a knife. [_Exit hastily._

_Frank._ Will you?--’tis well, all’s well.

FRANK _searches first one pocket, then the other, finds the knife, and then lies down.--The ~Dog~ runs off.--The spirit of_ SUSAN _comes to the bed’s side_; FRANK _stares at it, and then turns to the other side, but the spirit is there too. Meanwhile enter_ WINNIFRED _as a page, and stands sadly at the bed’s foot_.--FRANK _affrighted sits up. The spirit vanishes._

_Frank._ What art thou?

_Win._ A lost creature.

_Frank._ So am I too.--Win? Ah, my she-page!

_Win._ For your sake I put on A shape that’s false; yet do I wear a heart True to you as your own.

_Frank._ Would mine and thine Were fellows in one house!--Kneel by me here. On this side now! how dar’st thou come to mock me On both sides of my bed?

_Win._ When?

_Frank._ But just now: Outface me, stare upon me with strange postures, Turn my soul wild by a face in which were drawn A thousand ghosts leapt newly from their graves To pluck me into a winding-sheet!

_Win._ Believe it, I came no nearer to you than yon place At your bed’s feet; and of the house had leave, Calling myself your horse-boy, in to come, And visit my sick master.

_Frank._ Then ’twas my fancy; Some windmill in my brains for want of sleep.

_Win._ Would I might never sleep, so you could rest! But you have plucked a thunder on your head, Whose noise cannot cease suddenly: why should you Dance at the wedding of a second wife, When scarce the music which you heard at mine Had ta’en a farewell of you? O, this was ill! And they who thus can give both hands away In th’ end shall want their best limbs.

_Frank._ Winnifred,-- The chamber-door’s fast?

_Win._ Yes.

_Frank._ Sit thee, then, down; And when thou’st heard me speak, melt into tears: Yet I, to save those eyes of thine from weeping, Being to write a story of us two. Instead of ink dipped my sad pen in blood. When of thee I took leave, I went abroad Only for pillage, as a freebooter, What gold soe’er I got to make it thine. To please a father I have Heaven displeased; Striving to cast two wedding-rings in one, Through my bad workmanship I now have none; I have lost her and thee.

_Win._ I know she’s dead; But you have me still.

_Frank._ Nay, her this hand Murdered; and so I lose thee too.

_Win._ O me!

_Frank._ Be quiet; for thou my evidence art, Jury, and judge: sit quiet, and I’ll tell all.

_While they are conversing in a low tone, enter at one door_ CARTER and KATHERINE, _at the other the ~Dog~, pawing softly at_ FRANK.

_Kath._ I have run madding up and down to find you, Being laden with the heaviest news that ever Poor daughter carried.

_Car._ Why? is the boy dead?

_Kath._ Dead, sir! O, father, we are cozened: you are told The murderer sings in prison, and he laughs here. This villain killed my sister see else, see,

[_Takes up his vest, and shows the knife to her father, who secures it._

A bloody knife in’s pocket!

_Car._ Bless me, patience!

_Frank._ [_Seeing them._] The knife, the knife, the knife!

_Kath._ What knife? [_Exit the ~Dog~._

_Frank._ To cut my chicken up, my chicken; Be you my carver, father.

_Car._ That I will.

_Kath._ How the devil steels our brows after doing ill!

_Frank._ My stomach and my sight are taken from me; All is not well within me.

_Car._ I believe thee, boy; I that have seen so many moons clap their horns on other men’s foreheads to strike them sick, yet mine to scape and be well; I that never cast away a fee upon urinals, but am as sound as an honest man’s conscience when he’s dying; I should cry out as thou dost, “All is not well within me,” felt I but the bag of thy imposthumes. Ah, poor villain! ah, my wounded rascal! all my grief is, I have now small hope of thee.

_Frank._ Do the surgeons say my wounds are dangerous, then?

_Car._ Yes, yes, and there’s no way with thee but one.

_Frank._ Would he were here to open them!

_Car._ I’ll go to fetch him; I’ll make an holiday to see thee as I wish.

_Frank._ A wondrous kind old man!

_Win._ [_Aside to_ FRANK.] Your sin’s the blacker So to abuse his goodness.--[_Aloud_] Master, how do you?

_Frank._ Pretty well now, boy; I have such odd qualms Come cross my stomach.--I’ll fall-to; boy, cut me--

_Win._ [_Aside._] You have cut me, I’m sure;--A leg or wing, sir?

_Frank._ No, no, no; a wing-- [_Aside._] Would I had wings but to soar up yon tower! But here’s a clog that hinders me.

_Re-enter_ CARTER, _with ~Servants~ bearing the body of_ SUSAN _in a coffin_.

What’s that?

_Car._ That! what? O, now I see her; ’tis a young wench, my daughter, sirrah, sick to the death; and hearing thee to be an excellent rascal for letting blood, she looks out at a casement, and cries, “Help, help! stay that man! him I must have or none.”

_Frank._ For pity’s sake, remove her: see, she stares With one broad open eye still in my face!

_Car._ Thou putted’st both hers out, like a villain as thou art; yet, see! she is willing to lend thee one again to find out the murderer, and that’s thyself.

_Frank._ Old man, thou liest!

_Car._ So shalt thou--in the gaol.-- Run for officers.

_Kath._ O, thou merciless slave! She was--though yet above ground--in her grave To me; but thou hast torn it up again-- Mine eyes, too much drowned, now must feel more rain.

_Car._ Fetch officers.

[_Exit_ KATHERINE _and ~Servants~ with the body of_ SUSAN.

_Frank._ For whom?

_Car._ For thee, sirrah, sirrah! Some knives have foolish posies upon them, but thine has a villainous one; look! [_Showing the bloody knife._] O, it is enamelled with the heart-blood of thy hated wife, my belovèd daughter! What sayest thou to this evidence? is’t not sharp? does’t not strike home? Thou canst not answer honestly and without a trembling heart to this one point, this terrible bloody point.

_Win._ I beseech you, sir, Strike him no more; you see he’s dead already.

_Car._ O, sir, you held his horses; you are as arrant a rogue as he: up go you too.

_Frank._ As you’re a man, throw not upon that woman Your loads of tyranny, for she is innocent.

_Car._ How! how! a woman! Is’t grown to a fashion for women in all countries to wear the breeches?

_Win._ I’m not as my disguise speaks me, sir, his page, But his first, only wife, his lawful wife.

_Car._ How! how! more fire i’ th’ bed-straw![454]

[454] A proverbial expression for more concealed mischief.--_Gifford._

_Win._ The wrongs which singly fell upon your daughter On me are multiplied; she lost a life, But I an husband, and myself must lose If you call him to a bar for what he has done.

_Car._ He has done it, then?

_Win._ Yes, ’tis confessed to me.

_Frank._ Dost thou betray me?

_Win._ O, pardon me, dear heart! I’m mad to lose thee, And know not what I speak; but if thou didst, I must arraign this father for two sins, Adultery and murder.

_Re-enter_ KATHERINE.

_Kath._ Sir, they are come.

_Car._ Arraign me for what thou wilt, all Middlesex knows me better for an honest man than the middle of a market-place knows thee for an honest woman.--Rise, sirrah, and don your tacklings; rig yourself for the gallows, or I’ll carry thee thither on my back: your trull shall to the gaol go with you: there be as fine Newgate birds as she that can draw him in: pox on’s wounds!

_Frank._ I have served thee, and my wages now are paid; Yet my worse punishment shall, I hope, be stayed. [_Exeunt._

[Illustration]

ACT THE FIFTH.

## SCENE I.--_The Witch’s Cottage._

_Enter_ MOTHER SAWYER.

Mother Sawyer. Still wronged by every slave, and not a dog Bark in his dame’s defence? I am called witch, Yet am myself bewitched from doing harm. Have I given up myself to thy black lust Thus to be scorned? Not see me in three days! I’m lost without my Tomalin; prithee come, Revenge to me is sweeter far than life; Thou art my raven, on whose coal-black wings Revenge comes flying to me. O, my best love! I am on fire, even in the midst of ice, Raking my blood up, till my shrunk knees feel Thy curled head leaning on them: come, then, my darling; If in the air thou hover’st, fall upon me In some dark cloud; and as I oft have seen Dragons and serpents in the elements, Appear thou now so to me. Art thou i’ th’ sea? Muster-up all the monsters from the deep, And be the ugliest of them: so that my bulch[455] Show but his swarth cheek to me, let earth cleave And break from hell, I care not! Could I run Like a swift powder-mine beneath the world, Up would I blow it all, to find out thee, Though I lay ruined in it. Not yet come! I must, then, fall to my old prayer: _Sanctibicetur nomen tuum._

[455] Literally, a bull-calf, sometimes used, as here, as an expression of kindness; but generally indicative of familiarity and contempt.--_Gifford._

Not yet come! the worrying of wolves, biting of mad dogs, the manges, and the--

_Enter the ~Dog~ which is now white._

_Dog._ How now! whom art thou cursing?

_M. Saw._ Thee! Ha! no, it is my black cur I am cursing For not attending on me.

_Dog._ I am that cur.

_M. Saw._ Thou liest: hence! come not nigh me.

_Dog._ Baw, waw!

_M. Saw._ Why dost thou thus appear to me in white, As if thou wert the ghost of my dear love?

_Dog._ I am dogged, and list not to tell thee; yet,--to torment thee,--my whiteness puts thee in mind of thy winding-sheet.

_M. Saw._ Am I near death?

_Dog._ Yes, if the dog of hell be near thee; when the devil comes to thee as a lamb, have at thy throat!

_M. Saw._ Off, cur!

_Dog._ He has the back of a sheep, but the belly of an otter; devours by sea and land. “Why am I in white?” didst thou not pray to me?

_M. Saw._ Yes, thou dissembling hell-hound! Why now in white more than at other times?

_Dog._ Be blasted with the news! whiteness is day’s footboy, a forerunner to light, which shows thy old rivelled face: villanies are stripped naked; the witch must be beaten out of her cockpit.

_M. Saw._ Must she? she shall not: thou’rt a lying spirit: Why to mine eyes art thou a flag of truce? I am at peace with none; ’tis the black colour, Or none, which I fight under: I do not like Thy puritan paleness; glowing furnaces Are far more hot than they which flame outright. If thou my old dog art, go and bite such As I shall set thee on.

_Dog._ I will not.

_M. Saw._ I’ll sell myself to twenty thousand fiends To have thee torn in pieces, then.

_Dog._ Thou canst not; thou art so ripe to fall into hell, that no more of my kennel will so much as bark at him that hangs thee.

_M. Saw._ I shall run mad.

_Dog._ Do so, thy time is come to curse, and rave, and die; the glass of thy sins is full, and it must run out at gallows.

_M. Saw._ It cannot, ugly cur; I’ll confess nothing; And not confessing, who dare come and swear I have bewitched them? I’ll not confess one mouthful.

_Dog._ Choose, and be hanged or burned.

_M. Saw._ Spite of the devil and thee, I’ll muzzle up my tongue from telling tales.

_Dog._ Spite of thee and the devil, thou’lt be condemned.

_M. Saw._ Yes! when?

_Dog._ And ere the executioner catch thee full in’s claws, thou’lt confess all.

_M. Saw._ Out, dog!

_Dog._ Out, witch! thy trial is at hand: Our prey being had, the devil does laughing stand. [_Runs aside._

_Enter_ OLD BANKS, RATCLIFFE, _and ~Countrymen~._

_O. Banks._ She’s here: attach her.-- Witch you must go with us. [_They seize her._

_M. Saw._ Whither? to hell?

_O. Banks._ No, no, no, old crone; your mittimus shall be made thither, but your own jailors shall receive you.--Away with her!

_M. Saw._ My Tommy! my sweet Tom-boy! O, thou dog! Dost thou now fly to thy kennel and forsake me? Plagues and consumptions-- [_She is carried off._

_Dog._ Ha, ha, ha, ha! Let not the world witches or devils condemn; They follow us, and then we follow them.

_Enter_ CUDDY BANKS.

_Cud._ I would fain meet with mine ningle once more: he has had a claw amongst ’em: my rival that loved my wench is like to be hanged like an innocent. A kind cur where he takes, but where he takes not, a dogged rascal; I know the villain loves me. [_The ~Dog~ barks._] No! art thou there? [_Seeing the ~Dog~._] that’s Tom’s voice, but ’tis not he; this is a dog of another hair, this. Bark, and not speak to me? not Tom, then; there’s as much difference betwixt Tom and this as betwixt white and black.

_Dog._ Hast thou forgot me?

_Cud._ That’s Tom again.--Prithee, ningle, speak; is thy name Tom?

_Dog._ Whilst I served my old Dame Sawyer ’twas; I’m gone from her now.

_Cud._ Gone? Away with the witch, then, too! she’ll never thrive if thou leavest her; she knows no more how to kill a cow, or a horse, or a sow, without thee, than she does to kill a goose.

_Dog._ No, she has done killing now, but must be killed for what she has done; she’s shortly to be hanged.

_Cud._ Is she? in my conscience, if she be, ’tis thou hast brought her to the gallows, Tom.

_Dog._ Right; I served her to that purpose; ’twas part of my wages.

_Cud._ This was no honest servant’s part, by your leave, Tom. This remember, I pray you, between you and I; I entertained you ever as a dog, not as a devil.

_Dog._ True; And so I used thee doggedly, not devilishly; I have deluded thee for sport to laugh at: The wench thou seek’st after thou never spak’st with, But a spirit in her form, habit, and likeness. Ha, ha!

_Cud._ I do not, then, wonder at the change of your garments, if you can enter into shapes of women too.

_Dog._ Any shape, to blind such silly eyes as thine; but chiefly those coarse creatures, dog, or cat, hare, ferret, frog, toad.

_Cud._ Louse or flea?

_Dog._ Any poor vermin.

_Cud._ It seems you devils have poor thin souls, that you can bestow yourselves in such small bodies. But, pray you, Tom, one question at parting;--I think I shall never see you more;--where do you borrow those bodies that are none of your own?--the garment-shape you may hire at broker’s.

_Dog._ Why would’st thou know that, fool? it avails thee not.

_Cud._ Only for my mind’s sake, Tom, and to tell some of my friends.

_Dog._ I’ll thus much tell thee: thou never art so distant From an evil spirit, but that thy oaths, Curses, and blasphemies pull him to thine elbow; Thou never tell’st a lie, but that a devil Is within hearing it; thy evil purposes Are ever haunted; but when they come to act,-- As thy tongue slandering, bearing false witness, Thy hand stabbing, stealing, cozening, cheating,-- He’s then within thee: thou play’st, he bets upon thy part; Although thou lose, yet he will gain by thee.

_Cud._ Ay? then he comes in the shape of a rook?

_Dog._ The old cadaver of some self-strangled wretch We sometimes borrow, and appear human; The carcass of some disease-slain strumpet We varnish fresh, and wear as her first beauty. Did’st never hear? if not, it has been done; An hot luxurious lecher in his twines, When he has thought to clip his dalliance, There has provided been for his embrace A fine hot flaming devil in her place.

_Cud._ Yes, I am partly a witness to this; but I never could embrace her; I thank thee for that, Tom. Well, again I thank thee, Tom, for all this counsel; without a fee too! there’s few lawyers of thy mind now. Certainly, Tom, I begin to pity thee.

_Dog._ Pity me! for what?

_Cud._ Were it not possible for thee to become an honest dog yet?--’Tis a base life that you lead, Tom, to serve witches, to kill innocent children, to kill harmless cattle, to stroy[456] corn and fruit, etc.: ’twere better yet to be a butcher and kill for yourself.

[456] _i.e._ Destroy.

_Dog._ Why, these are all my delights, my pleasures, fool.

_Cud._ Or, Tom, if you could give your mind to ducking,--I know you can swim, fetch, and carry,--some shop-keeper in London would take great delight in you, and be a tender master over you: or if you have a mind to the game either at bull or bear, I think I could prefer you to Moll Cutpurse[457].

[457] A notorious character of those days, whose real name was Mary Frith. She appears to have excelled in various professions, of which far the most honest and praiseworthy was that of picking pockets. By singular good fortune she escaped the gallows, and died, “in a ripe and rotten old age,” some time before the Restoration. Moll is the heroine of _The Roaring Girl_, a lively comedy by Middleton and Dekker, who have treated her with kindness.--_Gifford._

_Dog._ Ha, ha! I should kill all the game,--bulls, bears, dogs and all; not a cub to be left.

_Cud._ You could do, Tom; but you must play fair; you should be staved-off else. Or if your stomach did better like to serve in some nobleman’s, knight’s, or gentleman’s kitchen, if you could brook the wheel and turn the spit--your labour could not be much--when they have roast meat, that’s but once or twice in the week at most: here you might lick your own toes very well. Or if you could translate yourself into a lady’s arming puppy, there you might lick sweet lips, and do many pretty offices; but to creep under an old witch’s coats, and suck like a great puppy! fie upon’t!--I have heard beastly things of you, Tom.

_Dog._ Ha, ha! The worse thou heard’st of me the better ’tis. Shall I serve thee, fool, at the selfsame rate?

_Cud._ No, I’ll see thee hanged, thou shalt be damned first! I know thy qualities too well, I’ll give no suck to such whelps; therefore henceforth I defy thee. Out, and avaunt!

_Dog._ Nor will I serve for such a silly soul: I am for greatness now, corrupted greatness; There I’ll shug in,[458] and get a noble countenance;[459] Serve some Briarean footcloth-strider,[460] That has an hundred hands to catch at bribes, But not a finger’s nail of charity. Such, like the dragon’s tail, shall pull down hundreds To drop and sink with him:[461] I’ll stretch myself, And draw this bulk small as a silver wire, Enter at the least pore tobacco-fume Can make a breach for:--hence, silly fool! I scorn to prey on such an atom soul.

[458] Creep in.

[459] Patronage, protection, responsibility.--_Gifford._

[460] Footcloths were the ornamental housings or trappings flung over the pads of state-horses. On these the great lawyers then rode to Westminster Hall, and, as our authors intimate, the great courtiers to St. James’s. They became common enough in aftertimes.--_Gifford._ Briareus, the hundred-handed giant. The allusion is obvious.

[461] Compare “Revelation.” ch. xii.

_Cud._ Come out, come out, you cur! I will beat thee out of the bounds of Edmonton, and to-morrow we go in procession, and after thou shalt never come in again: if thou goest to London, I’ll make thee go about by Tyburn, stealing in by Thieving Lane. If thou canst rub thy shoulder against a lawyer’s gown, as thou passest by Westminster-hall, do; if not, to the stairs amongst the bandogs, take water, and the Devil go with thee! [_Exit, followed by the ~Dog~ barking._

[Illustration]

## SCENE II.--_London. The neighbourhood of Tyburn._

_Enter ~Justice~_, SIR ARTHUR, SOMERTON, WARBECK, CARTER, _and_ KATHERINE.

_Just._ Sir Arthur, though the bench hath mildly censured your errors, yet you have indeed been the instrument that wrought all their misfortunes; I would wish you paid down your fine speedily and willingly.