part I

'll undertake, Captain.

CAPT. But this for supper. No more of this now; this afternoon, as you are true to the petticoat, observe your instructions, and meet at Ned's house in the evening.

OMNES. We will not fail.

CAPT. I must write to Wanton, to know how things stand at home, and to acquaint her how we have thrived with the old lady to-day.

WILD. Whither will you go to write?

CAPT. To thy house, 'tis hard by; there's the Fleece.

JOLLY. Do; and in the meantime I'll go home and despatch a little business, and meet you.

WILD. Make haste, then.

JOLLY. Where shall I meet you?

WILD. Whither shall we go, till it be time to attend the design?

CARE. Let's go to court for an hour.

JOLLY. Do: I'll meet you at the queen's side.

WILD. No, prythee, we are the monsieurs new come over; and if we go fine, they will laugh at us, and think we believe ourselves so: if not, then they will abuse our clothes, and swear we went into France only to have our cloaks cut shorter.

CARE. Will you go see a play?

CAPT. Do, and thither I'll come to you, if it be none of our gentlemen poets, that excuse their writings with a prologue that professes they are no scholars.

JOLLY. On my word, this is held the best penned of the time, and he has writ a very good play: by this day, it was extremely applauded.

CAPT. Does he write plays by the day? Indeed, a man would ha' judged him a labouring poet.

JOLLY. A labouring poet! By this hand, he's a knight. Upon my recommendation, venture to see it; hang me if you be not extremely well satisfied.

CARE. A knight, and writes plays! It may be, but 'tis strange to us; so they say there are other gentlemen poets without land or Latin; this was not ordinary; prythee, when was he knighted?

JOLLY. In the north, the last great knighting, when 'twas God's great mercy we were not all knights.

WILD. I'll swear they say, there are poets that have more men in liveries than books in their studies.

CAPT. And what think you, gentlemen, are not these things to start a man? I believe 'tis the first time you have found them lie at the sign of the page, footmen, and gilded coaches. They were wont to lodge at the thin cloak; they and their muses made up the family, and thence sent scenes to their patrons, like boys in at windows; and one would return with a doublet, another with a pair of breeches, a third with a little ready money, which, together with their credit with a company, in three terms you rarely saw a poet repaired.

JOLLY. This truth nobody denies.

WILD. Prythee, let us resolve what we shall do, lest we meet with some of them; for it seems they swarm, and I fear nothing like a dedication, though it be but of himself; for I must hear him say more than either I deserve or he believes. I hate that in a poet; they must be dull, or all upon all subjects; so that they can oblige none but their muse.

JOLLY. I perceive by this you will not see the play. What think you of going to Sim's[240] to bowls, till I come?

CARE. Yes, if you will go to see that comedy. But there is no reason we should pay for our coming in, and act too, like some whose interest in the timber robs them of their reason, and they run as if they had stolen a bias.[241]

WILD. Resolve what you will do; I am contented.

CARE. Let's go walk in Spring Garden.

WILD. I'll do it for company; but I had as lief be rid in the horse-market as walk in that fool's fair, where neither wit nor money is, nor sure to take up a wench. There's none but honest women.

CAPT. A pox on't, what should we do there? Let's go and cross the field to Pike's; her kitchen is cool, winter and summer.

CARE. I like that motion well; but we have no time, and I hate to do that business by half. After supper, if you will, we'll go and make a night on't.

CAPT. Well, I must go write: therefore resolve of somewhat. Shall I propose an indifferent place, where 'tis probable we shall all meet?

OMNES. Yes.

CAPT. Go you before to the Devil,[242] and I'll make haste after.

CARE. Agreed. We shall be sure of good wine there, and in fresco; for he is never without patent snow.

WILD. Patent snow! What, doth that project hold?

JOLLY. Yes, faith; and now there's a commission appointed for toasts against the next winter.

WILD. Marry, they are wise, and foresaw the parliament, and were resolved their monopolies should be no grievance to the people.

CAPT. Farewell! You will be sure to meet?

OMNES. Yes, yes.

[_Exeunt omnes._

## SCENE III.

_Enter_ WANTON _and her_ MAID, _with her lap full of things_.

WANTON. Bid them ply him close, and flatter him, and rail upon the old lady and the captain: and, do you hear, give him some hints to begin the story of his life. Do it handsomely, and you shall see the sack will clip his tongue.

MAID. I warrant you, I'll fit him.

WAN. When he is in his discourse, leave him, and come down into the parlour, and steal away his box with the false rings that stands by his bedside. I have all his little plate here already.

MAID. Make you haste. I'll warrant you, you'll dress him.

[_Exeunt._

## SCENE IV.

_Enter the_ CAPTAIN, _with a letter in his hand, and his_ BOY _to him with a candle: is going to write the superscription_.

BOY. Sir, the Lady Loveall passed by even now.

CAPT. The Lady Loveall! Which way went she?

BOY. To the rich lady, the widow, where your worship dined.

CAPT. 'Tis no matter. Here, carry this letter, and bring an answer to the Devil quickly; and tell her we'll stay there till the time be fit for the design.

[_Exeunt._

## SCENE V.

_Enter_ CARELESS, WILD, _and a_ DRAWER, _at the Devil_.

CARE. Jack, how goes the world? Bring us some bottles of the best wine.

DRAW. You shall, sir. Your worship is welcome into England.

CARE. Why, look you: who says a drawer can say nothing but _Anon, anon, sir_; score a quart of sack in the half-moon?[243]

DRAW. Your worship is merry; but I'll fetch you that, sir, shall speak Greek, and make your worship prophesy. You drank none such in your journey.

WILD. Do it then, and make a hole in this angel thou may'st creep through. [_Gives him an angel._] Who is't that peeps? a fiddler? Bring him by the ears.

_Enter the_ TAILOR _that peeps_.

TAI. A tailor, an't like your worship.

CARE. A tailor! Hast thou a stout faith?

TAI. I have had, an't like your worship; but now I am in despair.

CARE. Why, then, thou art damned. Go, go home, and throw thyself into thine own hell; it is the next way to the other.

TAI. I hope your worship is not displeased.

CARE. What dost do here? A tailor without faith! Dost come to take measure of ours?

TAI. No; I come to speak with one Master Jolly, a courtier; a very fine-spoken gentleman and a just counter, but one of the worst paymasters in the world.

WILD. As thou lov'st me, let's keep him here till he comes, and make him valiant with sack, that he may urge him till he beats him. We shall have the sport, and be revenged upon the rogue for dunning a gentleman in a tavern.

[_Aside_.

CARE. I'll charge him. Here, drink, poor fellow, and stay in the next room till he comes.

TAI. I thank your worship, but I'm fasting; and if it please your worship to call for a dozen of manchets, that I may eat a crust first, then I'll be bold with a glass of your sack.

WILD. Here, here, drink. In the meantime, fetch him some bread.

TAI. Will your worship have me drink all this vessel of sack?

CARE. Yes, yes, off with't: 'twill do you no harm.

[_The_ Tailor _drinks_.

WILD. Why do you not take some order with that Jolly, to make him pay thee?

TAI. I have petitioned him often, but can do no good.

CARE. A pox upon him! Petition him! his heart is hardened to ill. Threaten to arrest him: nothing but a sergeant can touch his conscience.

TAI. Truly, gentlemen I have reason to be angry, for he uses me ill when I ask him for my money.

JOLLY. [_Speaking within._] Where is Master Wild and Master Careless?

TAI. I hear his voice.

JOLLY. Let the coach stay. How now, who would he speak with?

_Enter_ JOLLY.

WILD. Do not you know?

JOLLY. Yes, and be you judge, if the rogue does not suffer deservedly. I have bid him any time this twelvemonth but send his wife, I'll pay her, and the rogue replies, nobody shall lie with his wife but himself.

CARE. Nay, if you be such a one--

TAI. No more they shall not. I am but a poor man.

JOLLY. By this hand, he's drunk.

TAI. Nay, then, I arrest you, in mine own name, at his majesty's suit.

WILD. As I live, thou shalt not beat him.

JOLLY. Beat him! I'll kiss him. I'll pay him, and carry him about with me, and be at the charge of sack to keep him in the humour.

[_He hugs the quart-pot._

TAI. Help, rescue! I'll have his body: no bail shall serve.

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAW. Sir, yonder is a gentleman would speak with you. I do not like his followers.

JOLLY. What are they? bailiffs?

DRAW. Little better.

JOLLY. Send him up alone, and stand you ready at the stairs' feet.

CARE. How can that be?[244]

JOLLY. It is the scrivener at the corner. Pick a quarrel with him for coming into our company. The drawers will be armed behind them, and we will so rout the rascals! Take your swords, and let him[245] sleep.

CARE. What scrivener?

JOLLY. Crop the Brownist: he that the ballad was made on.

CARE. What ballad?

JOLLY. Have you not heard of the scrivener's wife, that brought the blackmoor from the holy land, and made him a Brownist, and in pure charity lay with him, and was delivered of a magpie, a pied prophet, which when the elect saw, they prophesied, if it lived, 'twould prove a great enemy to their sect, for the midwife cried out 'twas born a bishop, with tippet and white sleeves: at which the zealous mother cried, Down with the idol! So the midwife and she, in pure devotion, killed it.

WILD. Killed it! what became of them?

JOLLY. Why, they were taken and condemned, and suffered under a Catholic sheriff, that afflicted them with the litany all the way from Newgate to the gallows; which in roguery he made to be set up altarwise, too, and hanged them without a psalm.

WILD. But how took they that breach of privilege?

JOLLY. I know not: Gregory turned them off, and so they descended and became Brown-martyrs.

WILD. And is the husband at door now?

JOLLY. Yes, yes; but he is married again to a rich widow at Wapping, a wench of another temper: one that you cannot please better than by abusing him. I always pick quarrels with him, that she may reconcile us. The peace is always worth a dinner at least. Hark! I hear him. [_Enter_ CROP.] Save you, Master Crop: you are come in the nick to pledge a health.

CROP. No, sir, I have other business. Shall I be paid my money or no?

[JOLLY _drinks_.

JOLLY. Yes.

CROP. Sir?

JOLLY. You asked whether you should be paid your money, or no, and I said, yes.

CROP. Pray, sir, be plain.

CARE. And be you so, sir. How durst you come into this room and company without leave?

CROP. Sir, I have come into good lords' company ere now.

CARE. It may be so; but you shall either fall upon your knees, and pledge this health, or you come no more into lords' companies: no, by these hilts!

[_They tug him, and make him kneel._

CROP. 'Tis idolatry! Do, martyr me, I will not kneel, nor join in sin with the wicked.

JOLLY. Either kneel, or I'll tear thy cloak which, by the age and looks, may be that which was writ for in the time of the primitive church.

CROP. Pay me, and I'll wear a better. It would be honestlier done, than to abuse this, and profane the text; a text that shows your bishops in those days wore no lawn-sleeves. And you may be ashamed to protect one that will not pay his debts: the cries of the widow will come against you for it.

JOLLY. Remember, sirrah, the dinners and suppers, fat venison and good words, I was fain to give you, christening your children still by the way of brokage. Count that charge, and how often I have kept you from fining for sheriff, and thou art in my debt. Then I am damned for speaking well of thee so often against my conscience, which you never consider.

CROP. I am an honest man, sir.

JOLLY. Then ushering your wife, and Mistress Ugly, her daughter, to plays and masques at court. You think these courtesies deserve nothing in the hundred! 'Tis true, they made room for themselves with their dagger elbows, and when Spider, your daughter, laid about her with her breath, the devil would not have sat near her.

CROP. You did not borrow my money with this language.

JOLLY. No, sirrah: then I was fain to flatter you, and endure the familiarity of your family, and hear (nay, fain sometimes to join in) the lying praises of the holy sister that expired at Tyburn.

CROP. Do, abuse her, and be cursed. 'Tis well known she died a martyr, and her blood will be upon some of you. 'Tis her orphan's money I require, and this is the last time I'll ask it: I'll find a way to get it.

[_He offers to go, and_ JOLLY _stays him_.

JOLLY. Art serious? By that light, I'll consent, and take it for an infinite obligation, if thou wilt teach the rest of my creditors that trick: 'twill save me a world of labour, for hang me if I know how to do't.

CROP. Well, sir, since I see your resolution, I shall make it my business.

CARE. Prythee, let's be rid of this fool.

CROP. Fool! Let him pay the fool his money, and he'll be gone.

JOLLY. No, sir, not a farthing. 'Twas my business to borrow it, and it shall be yours to get it in again. Nay, by this hand, I'll be feasted too, and have good words. Nay, thou shalt lend me more, ere thou gett'st this again.

CROP. I'll lay my action upon you.

JOLLY. Your action! You rogue, lay two.

[_They kick him, and thrust him out of the room._[246]

CARE. Lay three for battery.--What have we here? A she-creditor, too? Who would she speak with?

_Enter_ FAITHFUL. WILD _and_ CARELESS _return and meet her_.

WILD. She looks as if she had trusted in her time.

CARE. Would you speak with any here, old gentlewoman?

FAITH. My business is to Master Jolly.

CARE. From yourself, or are you but a messenger?

FAITH. My business, sir, is from a lady.

CARE. From a lady! From what lady, pray? Why so coy?

FAITH. From a lady in the town.

CARE. Hoh, hoh! from a lady in the town! Is it possible? I should have guessed you came from a lady in the suburbs or some country-madam by your riding face.

_Enter_ JOLLY _again_.

JOLLY. I think we have routed the rascals. Faithful! what makes thy gravity in a tavern?

FAITH. Sport, it seems, for your saucy companions.

JOLLY. Ho, ho, Mull,[247] ho! No fury, Faithful.

FAITH. 'Tis well, sir. My lady presents her service to you, and hath sent you a letter: there's my business.

CARE. Prythee, who is her lady?

JOLLY. The Lady Loveall.

CARE. O, O, does she serve that old lady? God help her!

FAITH. God help her! Pray for yourself, sir: my lady scorns your prayers.

JOLLY. Faithful, come hither. Prythee, is thy lady drunk?

FAITH. Drunk, sir?

JOLLY. Ay, drunk or mad? she'd never writ this else. She requires me here to send back by you the pearl she gave me this morning, which, sure, she'd never do if she were sober; for, you know, I earned them hard.

FAITH. I know! What do I know? You will not defame my lady, will you?

CARE. By no means. This is by way of counsel. Fie! give a thing and take a thing?[248] If he did not perform, he shall come at night, and pay his scores.

FAITH. 'Tis well, sir. Is this your return for my lady's favours? Shall I have the pearl, sir?

JOLLY. No; and tell her, 'tis the opinion of us all, he that opens her stinking oyster[249] is worthy of the pearl.

FAITH. You are a foul-mouthed fellow, sirrah, and I shall live to see you load a gallows, when my lady shall find the way to her own again.

JOLLY. If she miss, there are divers can direct her, you know. Adieu, Faithful. Do you hear? Steal privately down by the back-door, lest some knavish boy spy thee, and call thine age Bawd.

[_Exit_ FAITHFUL.

CARE. Prythee, who is this thing?

JOLLY. 'Tis my lady's waiting-woman, her bawd, her she-confessor, herself at second-hand. Her beginning was simple and below stairs, till her lady finding her to be a likely promising bawd, secret as the key at her girdle, obedient as her thoughts, those virtues raised her from the flat petticoat and kercher to the gorget and bumroll. And I remember 'twas good sport at first to see the wench perplexed with her metamorphosis. She since has been in love with all the family, and now sighs after the Levite; and if he forsake her too, I prophesy a waiting-woman's curse will fall upon her: to die old, despised, poor, and out of fashion.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. Why do you not hang out a painted cloth, and take twopence apiece, and let in all the tame fools at door--those sons of wonder that now gape, and think you mad?[250]

CARE. 'Tis no matter what they think: madness is proper here. Are not taverns Bacchus's temples, the place of madness? Does not the sign of madness hang out at the door?

JOLLY.----while we within possess our joys and cups, as full of pleasure as weeping Niobe's afflicted eyes were swelled with grief and tears! Blessing on the cause that made our joys thus complete: for see Plutus in our pockets, Mars by our sides, Bacchus in our heads, self-love in our hearts, and change of virgins in our arms; beauties whose eyes and hearts speak love and welcome; no rigid thinkers, no niggard beauties, that maliciously rake up their fire in green sickness to preserve a spark, that shall flame only in some dull day of marriage: let such swear and forswear, till (of the whole parish) they love each other least, whilst we wisely set out our cobwebs in the most perspicuous places to catch these foolish flies.

CARE. He's in the right. Dost think we retreated hither to beat a bargain for a score of sheep, or dispute the legality of votes and weigh the power of prerogative and parliament, and club for concluding sack, or read the Fathers here, till we grow costive, like those that have worn their suffering elbows bare, to find a knowledge to perplex 'em? A pox on such brain-breaking thoughts! avoid them, and take me into my[251] hand a glass of eternal sack, and prophesy the restoration of senses and the fall of a lover from grace; which our dear friend Master Jolly will prove to whom the Lady Loveall (by Faithful lately departed) sent for the pearl you wot of.

CAPT. But I hope he had the grace to keep them.

JOLLY. No, no; I'm a fool, I!

CAPT. Was not my boy here?

JOLLY. No, we saw him not.

CAPT. A pox of the rogue! he's grown so lazy.

WILD. Your boy is come in just now, and called for the key of the back-door. There's women with him.

CAPT. O, that's well! 'tis Wanton: I sent for her to laugh over the story of the old lady and her pearl.

_Enter_ BOY.

Where have you been all this while, sirrah?

BOY. I could overtake the coach, sir, no sooner.

CAPT. The coach! what coach?

BOY. The Lady Loveall's.

CAPT. The Lady Loveall's! Why, what had you to do with her coach?

BOY. I went to give her the letter your worship sent her.

CAPT. The letter! What letter?

BOY. That your worship gave me.

CAPT. That I writ at Ned's house to Wanton?

BOY. The letter you gave me, sir, was directed to the Lady Loveall, and she stormed like a mad woman at reading of it.

[_The_ CAPTAIN _threatens to beat him_.

CARE. Why, thou wilt not beat the boy for thy own fault? What letter was it?

CAPT. 'Twas enough; only a relation of the pearl, wherein she finds herself sufficiently abused to Wanton.

JOLLY. Now, gentlemen, you have two to laugh at.

CAPT. A pox of fooling! let's resolve what to do. There's no denying, for she has all the particulars under my hand.

BOY. You must resolve of something, for she's coming, and stayed only till the back-door was opened.

CAPT. How did she know I was here?

BOY. Your worship bad me tell her you would stay here for her.

CARE. How came this mistake?

CAPT. Why, the devil owed us a shame, it seems. You know I went home to give Wanton an account how we advanced in our design; and when I was writing the superscription, I remember the boy came in and told me the Lady Loveall passed by.

JOLLY. And so it seems you, in pure mistake, directed your letter to her.

CARE. Well, resolve what you'll do with her when she comes.

CAPT. Faith, bear it like men; 'tis only an old lady lost; let's resolve to defy her, we are sure of our pearl; but lest we prolong the war, take the first occasion you can all to avoid the room. When she's alone, I'll try whether she'll listen to a composition.

JOLLY. Have you no friends in the close committee?

CAPT. Yes, yes, I am an Essex man.[252]

CARE. Then get some of them to move, it may be voted no letter.

JOLLY. Ay, ay; and after 'tis voted no letter, then vote it false; scandalous, and illegal, and that is in it: they have a precedent for it in the Danish packet, which they took from a foolish fellow who, presuming upon the law of nations, came upon an embassy to the king without an order or pass from both houses!

CAPT. Hark, I hear her coming.

_Enter_ LOVEALL _and_ FAITHFUL.

LOVE. Sir, I received a letter, but by what accident, I know not; for I believe it was not intended [to] me, though the contents concern me.

CAPT. Madam, 'tis too late to deny it; is it peace or war you bring? without dispute, if war, I hang out my defiance: if peace, I yield my weapon into your hands.

LOVE. Are you all unworthy? your whole sex falsehood? is it not possible to oblige a man to be loyal? this is such a treachery no age can match! apply yourself with youth and wit to gain a lady's love and friendship, only to betray it? was it not enough you commanded my fortune, but you must wreck my honour too, and instead of being grateful for that charity which still assisted your wants, strive to pay me with injuries, and attempt to make the world believe I pay to lose my fame; and then make me the scorned subject of your whore's mirth? Base and unworthy! [_He smiles._] Do you smile, false one? I shall find a time for you too, and my vengeance shall find you all.

FAITH. Yea, sir; and you that had such ready wit to proclaim my lady whore, and me bawd, I hope to see you load a gallows for it.

CAPT. Once again, is it peace or war?

LOVE. Peace! I'll have thy blood first, dog. Where's my pearl? [_She speaks to_ WILD.] You ought to right me, sir, in this

## particular; it was to you I sent them.

WILD. Madam, I sent not for them.

CAPT. No more words: I have them, I earned them, and you paid them.

FAITH. You are a foul-mouthed fellow, sirrah.

LOVE. Peace, wench, I scorn their slander, it cannot shake my honour: 'tis too weighty and too fixed for their calumny.

JOLLY. I'll be sworn for my part on't; I think it is a great honour: I am sure I had as much as I could carry away in ten nights, and yet there was no miss on't.

CAPT. You! I think so; there's no mark of my work, you see, and yet I came after thee, and brought away loads would have sunk a sedan-man.

WILD. By this relation she should be a woman of a great fame.

CARE. Let that consideration, with her condition and her age, move some reverence, at least to what she was. Madam, I am sorry I cannot serve you in this particular.

[_Exeunt_ JOLLY _and_ CARELESS.

LOVE. I see all your mean baseness: pursue your scorn. Come, let's go, wench, I shall find some to right my fame; and though I have lost my opinion, I have gained a knowledge how to distinguish of love hereafter; and I shall scorn you and all your sex, that have not soul enough to value a noble friendship.

WILD. Pray, madam, let me speak with you.

CAPT. We'll have no whispering: I said it, and I'll maintain it with my sword.

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAW. Sir, there's one without would speak with you.

CAPT. With me?

DRAW. No, sir, with Master Wild.

WILD. Madam, I'll wait upon you presently.

[_Exit_ WILD.

CAPT. Madam, I know my company is displeasing to you, therefore I'll take my leave. Drawer, show me another room.

[_The_ CAPTAIN _makes a turn or two; they look at each other, then he goes out_.

LOVE. O Faithful, Faithful! I am most miserably abused, and can find no way to my revenge.

FAITH. Madam, I'll give them ratsbane, and speedily too, ere they can tell; for that rascal the captain has a tongue else will proclaim you, and undo your fame for ever.

LOVE. Ay, ay, my fame, my fame, Faithful: and if it were not for mine honour, which I have kept unstained to this minute, I would not care.

FAITH. This it is: you will set your affection upon every young thing: I could but tell you on't.

LOVE. Who could have suspected they would have been so false in their loves to me, that have been so faithful to them?

_Enter_ DRAWER.

Honest friend, where is Master Wild?

DRAW. The other gentlemen carried him away with them.

LOVE. Are they all gone then?

DRAW. Yes, by this hand. These gentlemen are quickly satisfied: what an ugly whore they have got! how she states it.[253]

[_Aside._

LOVE. Come, let's go, wench.

[_She offers to go._

DRAW. Mistress, who pays the reckoning?

LOVE. What says he?

FAITH. He asks me who pays the reckoning?

LOVE. Who pays the reckoning! Why, what have we to do with the reckoning?

DRAW. Shut the door, Dick. [_To_ LOVEALL.] We'll have the reckoning before you go.

FAITH. Why, goodman sauce-box, you will not make my lady pay for their reckoning, will you?

DRAW. My lady! a pox of her title, she'd need of something to make her pass.

FAITH. What do you say, sirrah?

DRAW. I say, the gentlemen paid well for their sport, and I know no reason why we should lose our reckoning.

LOVE. What do you take me for, my friend?

DRAW. In troth, I take you for nothing; but I would be loth to take you for that use I think they make shift with you for.

FAITH. Madam, this is that rascally captain's plot.

LOVE. Patience, patience! O, for a bite at the slave's heart. Friend, mistake me not, my name is Loveall, a lady: send one along with me, and you shall have your money.

DRAW. You must pardon me, madam, I am but a servant: if you be a lady, pray sit in an inner room, and send home your woman for the money: the sum is six pounds, and be pleased to remember the waiters.

LOVE. Go, Faithful, go fetch the money. O, revenge, revenge! shall I lose my honour, and have no revenge?

[_Exeunt omnes._

## ACT IV., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ WANTON, CAPTAIN, CARELESS, _and_ WILD.

WAN. By all that a longing bride hopes for, which I am not, I am better pleased with this revenge than mine own plot, which takes as I could wish. I have so anointed my high priest with sack, that he would have confuted Baal's priest; and now he does so slumber in his ale, and calls to bed already--swears the sun is set.

CAPT. Faith, wench, her abusing of me made me leave her for the reckoning.

CARE. Yes, faith, they have treated her upsey[254] whore, lain with her, told, and then pawned her.

WAN. Yes, yes, you are fine things: I wonder women can endure you; for me, I expect you worse, and am armed for't.

WILD. Faith, let's send and release her; the jest is gone far enough; as I live, I pity her.

WAN. Pity her! hang her, and rid the country of her. She is a thing wears out her limbs as fast as her clothes; one that never goes to bed at all, nor sleeps in a whole skin, but is taken to pieces like a motion, as if she were too long; she should be hanged for offering to be a whore.

CAPT. As I live, she's in the right. I peeped once to see what she did before she went to bed; by this light, her maids were dissecting her; and when they had done, they brought some of her to bed, and the rest they either pinned or hung up, and so she lay dismembered till morning; in which time her chamber was strewed all over, like an anatomy-school.

WAN. And when she travels anywhere, she is transported with as great a care and fear of spoiling, as a juggler's motion, when he removes from fair to fair.

CARE. She is a right broken gamester who, though she lacks wherewithal to play, yet loves to be looking on.

_Enter_ WANTON'S MAID.

BAWD. He is awake, and calls for you impatiently: he would fain be in bed; the company is all gone.

WAN. Are you instructed?

BAWD. Let me alone, I'll warrant you for my part.

WAN. Farewell then; you are all ready. Who plays master constable?

CAPT. I, I; and Ned Jolly the sumner.[255]

WAN. Farewell, farewell then.

[_Exit_ WANTON _and_ BAWD.

WILD. It is a delicate wench.

CARE. She has excellent flesh and a fine face. By this light, we must depose the captain from his reign here.

[_They whisper this._

WILD. I like her shrewdly; I hate a wench that is all whore and no company; this is a comedy all day and a fair[256] at night.

CARE. I hope to exalt the parson's horn here.

CAPT. And what think you? is it not a sweet sin, this lying with another man's wife?

WAN. Is Jolly come?

[WANTON _above_.

CAPT. No, but he'll be here instantly.

WILD. Is he abed?

WAN. Yes, yes; and he sleeps as if he had been put to bed by his sexton, with _dust to dust_, and _ashes to ashes_.

CAPT. And we'll wake him with that shall be as terrible to him as the latter day.

WAN. Let him sleep awhile, that he may be fresh, else the jest is spoiled; for it is his sense of his disgrace must work my ends.

WILD. I'll go home then, and get supper ready, and expect you.

CAPT. Do; our scene lies here.

[_Enter_ JOLLY.]

Who's there? Jolly?

JOLLY. Yes.

CAPT. Are you fitted?

JOLLY. Yes, I have got the Blackfriars music. I was fain to stay till the last act. And who do you think I saw there?

WILD. I know not.

JOLLY. Guess.

WILD. Prythee: I cannot guess.

JOLLY. Your aunt and Mistress Pleasant, and trusty Secret.

WILD. What, man?

JOLLY. The lovers only, so close in a box!

CAPT. It will be a match, and there's an end. Prythee, let them go to't: what is't to us? Let's mind our business now, and think on them hereafter.

WAN. A pox upon them, for a couple of stalk-hounds. Have they killed at last? Why, this is fool's fortune.[257] It would be long enough ere one that has wit got such a wife!

CAPT. No more of this now. Have you borrowed the watchmen's coats?

JOLLY. Yes, and bills, beards, and constable's staff and lantern; and let me alone to fit him for the sumner. But when this is done, I expect my fee, a tithe-night at least. Wanton, I will lie with thee for thy roguery. What! are you dumb? You will not refuse me, I hope?

WAN. Not if I thought you desiredst it; but I hate to have it desired indifferently, and but so-so done neither, when 'tis done.

JOLLY. I hope you will not disgrace my work, will you?

WAN. Faith, they say, thy pleasure lies in thy tongue, and therefore, though I do not give thee leave to lie with me, yet I will give thee as good a thing that will please thee as well.

JOLLY. Some [such] roguery I expected.

WAN. No, faith, I am serious: and because I will please you both, Master Wild shall lie here, and you shall have leave to say you do, which will please you as well.

JOLLY. Faith, and my part is some pleasure; else _I have loved, enjoyed, and told_, is mistook.

WAN. Ay, but never to love, seldom enjoy, and always tell--foh! it stinks, and stains worse than Shoreditch dirt; and women hate and dread men for't. Why, I, that am a whore professed, cannot see youth[258] digest it, though it be my profit and interest: for to be a private whore in this town starves in the nest like young birds, when the old one's killed.

CARE. Excellent girl! 'tis too true. Jolly, your tongue has kept many a woman honest.

WAN. Faith, 'tis a truth, this I shall say, you may all better your pleasures by, if you will observe it: I dare say, the fear of telling keeps more women honest than Bridewell hemp; and were you wise men and true lovers of liberty, now were the time to bring wenching to that perfection no age could ever have hoped. Now you may sow such seed of pleasure, you may be prayed for hereafter. Now, in this age of zeal and ignorance, would I have you four, in old clothes and demure looks, present a petition to both houses, and say you are men touched in conscience for your share in that wickedness which is known to their worships by the pleasure of adultery; and desire it may be death,[259] and that a law may be passed to that purpose. How the women will pray for you, and at their own charges rear statues in memory of their benefactors! The young and kind would then haunt your chambers, pray and present you, and court the sanguine youth for the sweet sin secured by such a law. None would lose an occasion, nor churlishly oppose kind nature, nor refuse to listen to her summons, when youth and passion calls for those forbidden sweets. When such security as your lives are at stake, who would fear to trust? With this law all oaths and protestations are cancelled. Letters and bawds would grow useless too: by instinct, the kind will find the kind, and, having one nature, become of one mind. Now we lose an age to observe and know a man's humour, ere we dare trust him; but get this law, then 'tis, like and enjoy. And whereas now, with expense of time and fortune you may glean some one mistress amongst your neighbours' wives, you shall reap women whole armfuls, as in the common field. There is one small town, wise only in this law; and I have heard them say that know it well, there has been but one execution this hundred years; yet the same party searched seven years, and could not find an honest woman in the town.

CARE. An excellent plot! Let's about it. Ink and paper, dear Wanton: we will draw the petition presently.

WAN. Will Master Jolly consent too? You must not then, as soon as a handsome woman is named, smile and stroke your beard; tell him that is next you, you have lain with her. Such a lie is as dangerous as a truth, and 'twere but justice to have thee hanged for a sin thou never committedst, for having defamed so many women.

JOLLY. If all those liars were hanged, I believe the scale would weigh down with the guilty.

WAN. One rogue, hanged for example, would make a thousand kind girls. If it take, it shall be called my law, Wanton's law: then we may go in petticoats again; for women grew imperious, and wore the breeches only to fright the poor cuckolds, and make the fools digest their horns. Are you all ready? Shall I open the door?

CAPT. Yes.

WILD. I'll expect you at my house.

[_Exit_ WILD _one way, and the rest of the company another_.

OMNES. We'll come, we'll come.

CAPT. So, knock louder.

[_They knock within, and the_ PARSON _discovered in his bed, and the_ BAWD _with him_.

PAR. Who's there? What would you have?

CAPT. Here's his majesty's watch, and master constable's worship must come in. We have a warrant from the lords to search for a delinquent.

PAR. You come not here. I'll answer your warrant to-morrow.

JOLLY. Break open the door.

PAR. I would you durst.

BAWD. Lord, dear, what shall we do?

PAR. Why, sweet, I'll warrant you. Art thou not my wife, my rib, bone of my bone? I'll suffer anything ere one hair of thee shall be touched.

BAWD. Hark! they break open the door!

PAR. They dare not! Why dost thou tremble so? Alas, sweet innocence, how it shakes!

CAPT. Break open the door.

PAR. I'll complain to the bishop of this insolence.

BAWD. They come, they come, lamb!

PAR. No matter, sweet, they dare not touch thee. What would you have, master constable? You are very rude.

[_He delivers the warrant._

CAPT. Read our warrant, and our business will excuse us. Do you know any such person as you find there?

PAR. Yes, sir, but not by this name. Such a woman is my wife, and no Lindabrides.[260] We were married to-day, and I'll justify her my wife the next court-day. You have your answer, and may be gone.

JOLLY. We must take no notice of such excuses now. If she be your wife, make it appear in court, and she will be delivered unto you.

PAR. If she be my wife! Sir, I have wedded her and bedded her: what other ceremonies would you have? Be not afraid, sweetheart.

JOLLY. Sir, we can do no less than execute our warrant. We are but servants; and, master constable, I charge you in the king's name to do your duty. Behold the body of the delinquent.

PAR. Touch her that dares: I'll put my dagger in him. [_He takes his dagger._] Fear nothing, sweetheart. Master constable, you'll repent this insolence offered to a man of my coat.

BAWD. Help, my dearest, will you let me be haled[261] thus?

[_Here they strive to take her out._

PAR. Villains, what will you do? Murder! Rape!

CAPT. Yes, yes, 'tis likely: I look like a ravisher!

JOLLY. Hold him, and we'll do well enough with her.

[_As they go to pull her out of the bed, they discover the_ BAWD. _When they let him go, he turns to her and holds her in his arms._

CAPT. What have we here, an old woman?

PAR. Let me go. Slaves and murderers!

CAPT. Let him go.

JOLLY. Do any of you know this woman? This is not she we looked for.

PAR. No, rascal, that mistake shall not excuse you.

JOLLY. It is old Goodman What-d'ye-call-him his wife.

CAPT. Hold the candle, and let's see her face.

[_When they hold the candle, she lies in his bosom, and his arms about her. She must be as nastily dressed as they can dress her. When he sees her, he falls into amaze, and shoves her from him._

JOLLY. What have we here, adultery? Take them both: here will be new matter.

PAR. Master constable, a little argument will persuade you to believe I am grossly abused. Sure, this does not look like a piece that a man would sin to enjoy: let that then move your pity and care of my reputation. Consider my calling, and do not bring me to a public shame for what you're sure I am not guilty of, but by plot of some villains.[262]

BAWD. Dear, will you disclaim me now?

PAR. O impudence!

JOLLY. Master constable, do your duty. Take them both away, as you will answer it.

CAPT. Give him his cassock to cover him.

[_They put on his cassock and her coat, and lead them away._

PAR. Why, gentlemen, whither will you carry me?

CAPT. To the next justice, I think it is Master Wild; he is newly come from travel. It will be a good way, neighbours, to express our respects to him.

PAR. No, faith, gentlemen, e'en go the next way to Tyburn, and despatch the business without ceremony, for you'll utterly disgrace me. This is that damned captain: my wife is abroad too; I fear she is of the plot.

JOLLY. Come, away with 'em.

BAWD. Whither will they lead us, dear?

PAR. O, O, impudence! Gentlemen, do not lead us together, I beseech you.

CAPT. Come, come, lead them together: no ceremonies. Your faults are both alike.

[_Exeunt omnes._

## SCENE II.

_Enter_ WANTON _and_ WILD.

WAN. You had best brag now, and use me like my lady What-d'ye-call; but if you do, I care not.

WILD. Come, y' are a fool. I'll be a faithful friend, and make good conditions for thee before thy husband be quit.

[WILD _sits down with_ WANTON _in his lap_.

WAN. You must do it now or never.

WILD. Hark, hark! I hear them. What's the news?

_Enter_ CAPTAIN, JOLLY, WATCH, BAWD, _and_ PARSON.

CAPT. We have brought a couple of delinquents before your worship: they have committed a very foul fault.

JOLLY. And we have brought the fault along too, that your worship may see it. You will be the better able to judge of the offenders.

PAR. Ha! what do I see? My wife in master justice's lap!

WAN. What has the poor fellow done?

CAPT. Why, madam, he has been taken in bed with this woman, another man's wife.

WAN. In bed with her, and do you raise him to punish him? Master constable, if you would afflict him, command them to lie together again. Is not the man mad?

PAR. This is fine roguery! I find who rules the roost.

WILD. Well, to the business. You say he was taken in bed with another man's wife.

CAPT. Yes, and't like your worship.

WILD. Make his mittimus to the Hole at Newgate.

WAN. Sure, I have seen this fellow's face. Friend, have I never seen your face before?

PAR. If I mistake not, I have seen one very like your ladyship's too. She was a captain's cast whore in the town. I shall have a time to be revenged.

WILD. How now, sirrah, are you threatening? Away with him.

CAPT. I'll fetch a stronger watch, sir, and return presently.

WILD. Do, master constable; and give the poor woman something, and set her free; for I dare say 'twas his wickedness. She looks like one that ne'er thought on such a thing.

BAWD. God bless your worship, I am innocent. He never left making love till I consented.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN _in his own shape_.

PAR. O miserable, miserable!

CAPT. How now, what's the news here? My honoured friend and master parson, what makes you here at this time of night? why, I should have thought this a time to have envied you for your fair bride's embraces. Do you give these favours? Are these your bride-laces? It's a new way.

[_Plays with the cord that binds his arms._

PAR. Is it new to you?

WAN. How now, captain?

CAPT. Wanton, is this your plot to endear your husband to you?

PAR. No, 'tis thy plot, poor beaten captain; but I shall be revenged.

CAPT. Yes, faith, it was my plot, and I glory in't; to undermine my Machiavel, which so greedily swallowed that sweet bait that had this hook.

PAR. 'Tis well.

CAPT. But my anger ends not here. Remember the base language you gave me--son of a thousand fathers; captain of a tame band; and one that got my living by the longstaff-speeches--for which and thy former treacheries I'll ruin thee, slave. I'll have no more mercy on thee than old women on blind puppies. I'll bring you to your commendations in Latin epistles again, nor leave thee anything to live on--no, not bread--but what thou earn'st by raking gentlewomen's names in anagrams.[263] And, master justice, if ever you'll oblige me, stand to me now, that I may procure the whipping of him from the reverend bench.

PAR. I am undone.

WILD. I can do nothing but justice: you must excuse me. I shall only make it appear how fit it is to punish this kind of sin in that coat in time, and to crush such serpents in the shells.

PAR. Mercy, O, mercy!

WILD. Officers, away with him.

[_They pull him away._

PAR. No mercy?

WAN. Yes, upon conditions, there may be some mercy.

[_The_ PARSON _looks very dejected_.

WILD. And these they are: let the watch stay in t'other room. [_Exit_ WATCH.] First, your wife shall have her liberty, and you yours, as she reports of you; and when you bring her with you, you shall be welcome. Then you shall not be jealous; that's another point.

CAPT. That he shall have a cure for.

WAN. Yes, yes, I'll apply something to his eyes shall cure him of his doubt.

WILD. Then you shall ask the captain pardon, and your wife. To him you shall allow half your parsonage to maintain her. The deeds are ready within: if you'll sign them, and deliver your wife to our use, she shall discharge you.

PAR. I submit, sir; but I hope your worship will desire no witness to the use of my wife. The sumner, and the watch too, I hope your worship will enjoin them silence.

WAN. You shall not need to fear; I'll have a care of your credit. Call in the watch. Do you know these faces?

[_She discovers them._

PAR. Ha! abused.

JOLLY. Nay, no flinching: if you do, I betake me to master sumner again.

CAPT. And I become severe master constable in a trice.

PAR. No, no, I submit; and I hope we are all friends. I'm sure I have the hardest part to forgive.

WAN. And I, before all this company, promise to forget, and forgive thee, and am content to take thee again for my dear and mortal husband, now you are tame; but you must see you do so no more; and give yourself to be blind when it is not fit for you to see; and practise to be deaf, and learn to sleep in time, and find business to call you away, when gentlemen come that would be private.

CAPT. Why so; now things are as they should be; and when you will obey, you shall command; but when you would be imperious, then I betake me to my constable's staff till you subscribe, _Cedunt armis togA|_: and if it be false Latin, parson, you must pardon that too.

JOLLY. By this hand, I must have my tithe-night with thee, thou art such a wag. Say when? When wilt thou give me leave, ha?

WAN. Never.

JOLLY. Never!

WAN. No, never.

JOLLY. D'ye hear? I am none of them that work for charity. Either resolve to pay, or I kick down all my milk again.

WAN. What would you have?

JOLLY. Give me leave to lie with you.

WAN. No indeed.

JOLLY. No!

WAN. No; but rather than quarrel, as I said before, I will give you leave to say you have lain with me.

WILD. I am of opinion she owes you nothing now. So, Mistress Wanton, take your husband; and, to remove all doubts, this night I'll be at the charge of a wedding-supper.

PAR. This is better than Newgate-hole yet, Bridewell hemp, brown bread, and whipcord.

[_Exeunt omnes._

## SCENE III.

_Enter the_ WIDOW _and_ MISTRESS PLEASANT, MASTER SAD, _and_ MASTER CONSTANT.

WID. By my troth, it was a good play.

PLEA. And I'm glad I'm come home, for I am e'en a-weary with this walking. For God's sake, whereabouts does the pleasure of walking lie? I swear I have often sought it till I was weary, and yet I ne'er could find it.

SAD. What do these halberds at your door?

[_A_ WATCH _at the_ WIDOW'S _door_.

WID. Halberds! Where?

SAD. There, at your lodging.

CON. Friend, what would those watchmen have?

WATCH. The house is shut up for the sickness[264] this afternoon.

PLEA. The sickness!

WATCH. Yes, forsooth; there's a coachman dead, full of the tokens.

SAD. Where's the officer?

WATCH. He is gone to seek the lady of the house and some other company that dined here yesterday, to bring her in, or carry her to the pest-house.

WID. Ha! What shall we do, niece?

SAD. If you please to command our lodging.

PLEA. It will be too much trouble.

WID. Let's go to Loveall's.

PLEA. Not I, by my faith: it is scarce for our credits to let her come to us.

WID. Why, is she naught?

CON. Faith, madam, her reputation is not good.

WID. But what shall we do, then?

CON. Dare you adventure to oblige us?

WID. Thank you, sir? we'll go to my nephew's at Covent Garden: he may shift among his acquaintance.

PLEA. It was well thought on; the Piazza is hard by, too.

WID. We'll borrow your coach thither, and we'll send it you back again straight.

CON. We'll wait upon you, madam.

WID. This accident troubles me. I am heartily sorry for the poor fellow.

PLEA. I am sorry too: but pray, aunt, let us not forget ourselves in our grief. I am not ambitious of a red cross upon the door.[265]

CON. Mistress Pleasant is in the right; for if you stay, the officers will put you in.

WID. We shall trouble you, sir, for your coach.

[_Exeunt omnes._

## SCENE IV.

_Enter_ PARSON, CAPTAIN, WILD, WANTON, CARELESS, _and_ JOLLY.

PAR. I am reconciled, and will no longer be an uncharitable churchman. I think this sack is a cooler.

CAPT. What! does it make you to see your error?

PAR. Yes, and consider my man-of-war: nor will I again dispute his letters of mart, nor call them passes for pirates. I am free.

CAPT. And welcome. Anything but anger is sufferable, and all is jest, when you laugh; and I will hug thee for abusing me with thy eyes in their scabbards; but when you rail with drawn eyes, red and naked, threatening a Levite's second revenge[266] to all that touches your concubine, then I betake me to a dark lantern and a constable's staff; and by help of these fathers whom I cite, I prove my text: _Women that are kind ought to be free._

PAR. But, captain, is it not lawful for us shepherds to reclaim them?

CAPT. A mere mistake; for sin, like the sea, may be turned out, but will ne'er grow less: and though you should drain this Mistress Doll, yet the whore will find a place, and perhaps overflow some maid, till then honest; and so you prove the author of a new sin, and the defiler of a pure temple: therefore I say, while you live, let the whore alone, till she wears out; nor is it safe to vamp them, as you shall find. Read Ball the first and the second.[267]

WILD. No more discourse. Strike up, fiddlers.

CAPT. See who's that knocks?

[_A country-dance. When they are merry, singing catches and drinking healths, the_ WIDOW, MISTRESS PLEASANT, _and the two Lovers, knock at the door._

SER. Sir, 'tis Mistress Pleasant and the two gentlemen that dined there to-day.

WILD. My aunt and Mistress Pleasant!

JOLLY. What a pox makes them abroad at this time of night?

CAPT. It may be, they have been a-wenching.

SER. Sir, they were upon alighting out of the coach when I came up.

WILD. Quickly, Mistress Wanton; you and your husband to bed; there's the key. Master Parson, you know the way to the old chamber, and to it quickly; all is friends now.

PAR. Sweetheart, we'll steal away.

WAN. The devil on them, they have spoiled our mirth.

[_Exit_ PARSON.

WILD. Jack, get you and your company down the back-way into the kitchen, and stay there till we see what this visit means.

[_Exeunt_ FIDDLERS.

CAPT. Means! What should it mean? It is nothing but the mischievous nature all honest women are endued with, and naturally given to spoil sport. I wonder what fart blew them hither to-night.

WILD. Nay, have a little patience, captain, you and Master Jolly must sit quietly awhile within, till we know the cause.

CAPT. It is but deferring our mirth for an hour or so.

SER. Sir, here's my lady.

WILD. Quickly remove those things there. Captain, step in there----

_Enter_ WIDOW, PLEASANT, SAD, _and_ CONSTANT.

WID. Nephew, do you not wonder to see me here at this time of night?

WILD. I know it is not ordinary, therefore I believe 'tis some design. What is it, Mistress Pleasant? Shall I make one?

PLEA. As I live, sir, pure necessity. Neither mirth nor kindness hath begot this visit.

CARE. What! is your coach broke?

WID. Faith, nephew, the truth is, the sickness is in my house, and my coachman died since dinner.

WILD. The sickness!

PLEA. Ay, as I live: we have been walking since the play; and when we came home, we found the watch at the door, and the house shut up.

SAD. And a constable gone in search of all those that dined there to-day, with order to furnish us lodgings in the pest-house.

WID. Are you not afraid to receive us?

WILD. As I live, the accident troubles me; and I am sorry such a misfortune should beget me this favour; and I could wish myself free from the honour, if the cause were removed too.

PLEA. As I live, Master Wild, I must have been forced to have lain with my servant to-night, if you had not received me.

WILD. If I thought so, I would carry you out in my arms, I am so much Master Constant's friend.

PLEA. But are you more his friend than mine, Master Wild?

WILD. No; but I presume by this he has gained so much interest, as he would not be very displeasing to you.

CON. O, your humble servant, sir.

PLEA. If I had had a mind to that lodging, I had ne'er come hither; for when I have a mind to it, I'll marry without dispute, for I fear nobody so much as a husband; and when I can conquer that doubt, I'll marry at a minute's warning.

WID. No dispute now. Can you furnish us with a couple of beds?

WILD. Yes, yes.

WID. And have you e'er a woman in the house?

WILD. My sister's maid is here.

CARE. Madam, if you resolve to do us this honour, you shall find clean linen, and your beds quickly ready.

WID. But where will my nephew and you, sir, lie to-night?

CARE. O, madam, we have acquaintance enough in the town.

WID. Well, sir, we'll accept this courtesy; and when you come into Suffolk, you shall command my house.

WILD. Prythee, call Bess, and bid her bring sheets to make the bed. I'll go and fetch in a pallet, 'tis as good a bed as the other; and if you will stay the removing, we'll set up a bedstead.

PLEA. No, a pallet, pray. But what shall we do for night-clothes, aunt?

WILD. Why, what are those you bought, my sister?

WID. Is not that linen gone yet?

CARE. No, faith, madam, his man forgot it, till the carriers were gone last week.

WILD. Will that serve?

PLEA. Yes, yes, pray do us the favour to let us have it, 'tis but washing of it again.

WILD. Nay, it will serve: discourse no more; I'll fetch the bundle; and, prythee, fetch the combs and looking-glasses I bought the other day: for other necessaries that want a name the wench shall furnish you with.

WID. Nay, but where is she, nephew?

WILD. I'll call her, if she be not gone to bed. It is an ignorant young thing; I am to send her to my sister's in the country; I have had such ado to put her in the fashion.

PLEA. What country is she? Prythee, Master Wild, let's see her.

WILD. I'll call her down.

[_Exit_ WILD.

SAD. Madam, now we see y' are safe, we'll kiss your hands, and wait upon you to-morrow.

WID. It must be early then, sir, for I shall borrow my nephew's coach, and be gone betimes into the country, to take a little fresh air, and prevent the search.

CON. Pray, madam, be pleased to command ours.

WILD. No, sir, I humbly thank you; my nephew's will hold our company.

CON. Your humble servant, Mistress Pleasant.

SAD. Your servant, madam.

PLEA. Good night, Master Constant.

WID. Sir, you'll excuse us, we have nobody here to light you down.

CARE. Madam, I am here your servant as much as those who wear your livery; and this house holds no other. We can be civil, madam, as well as extravagant.

WID. Your humble servant, Master Careless.

CARE. Gentlemen, if you'll wait on my lady to her chamber, then I'll wait upon you down.

SAD. You oblige us, sir.

[_Exeunt omnes._

## SCENE V.

_Enter_ WILD, CAPTAIN, WANTON, PARSON, _and_ JOLLY.

CAPT. The plague!

WILD. The plague, as I live; and all my relation is truth, every syllable. But, Mistress Wanton, now must you play your masterpiece: be sure to blush, and appear but simple enough, and all is well: thou wilt pass for as arrant a chambermaid as any in the parish.

PAR. Hum! new plots?

CAPT. Let me put on a petticoat and a muffler, and I'll so chambermaid it, and be so diligent with the clean smock and the chamber-pot.[268] Now would I give all the shoes in my shop to lie with 'em both.

WAN. Let me alone to fit them; I can make a scurvy curtsey naturally: remember, I am an Essex woman, if they ask.

WILD. Come, come quickly, take those sweetmeats; bring the great cake and knife, and napkins, for they have not supped; and, Captain, make some lemonade, and send it by the boy to my chamber; and, do you hear, Jolly, you must stay till we come, for we must lie with you to-night.

JOLLY. We'll stay, but make haste then.

CAPT. And bring our cloaks and swords out with you.

WILD. I will, I will; but be quiet all.

PAR. Master Wild, I hope there is no plot in this.

CAPT. There's no jealousy, Master Parson, 'tis all serious, upon my life. Come away with us.

[_Exeunt omnes._

## SCENE VI.

_The tiring-room, curtains drawn, and they discourse. His chamber, two beds, two tables, looking-glasses, night-clothes, waistcoats, sweet-bags, sweetmeats, and wine:_ WANTON _dressed like a chambermaid. All above, if the scene can be so ordered._

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ MISTRESS PLEASANT, WILD _and_ CARELESS: _the_ WIDOW _and_ MISTRESS PLEASANT _salute_ WANTON.

WILD. Faith, aunt, 'tis the first time I have had the honour to see you in my house, and as a stranger I must salute you.

WID. As I live, nephew, I'm ashamed to put you to this trouble.

WILD. It is an obligation. Mistress Pleasant, I know you have not supped; I pray you, be pleased to taste these sweetmeats, they are of Sall's doing; but I understand not sweetmeats, the wine I'll answer for; and, in a word, you are welcome: you are Patrona,[269] and we are slaves.

CARE. Good rest and a pleasing dream your humble servant wishes you.

WID. Good night, nephew; good night, Master Careless.

PLEA. Good night, Master Careless; your humble servant, Master Wild.

[_Exeunt_ WILD _and_ CARELESS.

WID. Why, ay, here are men have some wit: by this good night, had we lain at my servant's, we should have found the laced cap and slippers that have been entailed upon the family these five descents, advanced upon the cupboard's head instead of plate.

[_They sit down to undress them._

PLEA. They are a couple of the readiest youths too; how they run and do all things with a thought! I love him for sending his sister's maid. A pretty wench.

WID. Pray, let's go to bed; I am weary.

PLEA. You will not go to bed with those windows open: sweetheart, prythee, shut them, and bring me hither--dost understand me? As I live, 'tis a great while since I went to the play.

WID. It has been one of the longest days; a year of them would be an age.

PLEA. O, do you grow weary? you'll break your covenant ere the year go out.

[_The curtains are closed._

WID. Prythee, shut the windows, and come pin up my hair.

## SCENE VII.

_Enter_ WILD, JOLLY, CARELESS, CAPTAIN, PARSON, _and_ FIDDLERS, _and one with a torch, with their cloaks and their swords, putting them on_. _Enter_ WILD'S _man_.

WILD. See you wait diligently, and let them want nothing they call for. Come, shall we go? 'tis very late.

CAPT. But how does Wanton carry it?

WILD. They saluted her; and Mistress Pleasant swore you might see the country simplicity in her face.

PAR. A pox upon her, crafty gipsy!

CAPT. Why, art not thou glad to see she can be honest when she will?

PAR. I'll show you all a trick for her within these few days, or I'll miss my aim.

JOLLY. Come, let's go.

[_They all offer to go._

CAPT. I have a mind to stay till Wanton comes.

WILD. Stay a little, then, for 'twill not be long ere they be abed.

CAPT. I hear Wanton's voice.

_Enter_ WANTON.

WILD. Are they abed?

WAN. Yes, and have so admired you and Master Careless, and abused the lovers! Well, gentlemen, you are the wits of the time; but if I might counsel--well, they might lie alone this night; but it should go hard if I lay not with one of them within a month.

CARE. Were they so taken with their lodging?

WAN. All that can be said, they said: you are the friendliest men, the readiest men, the handsomest men; men that had wit, and could tell when to be civil, and when to be wild; and Mistress What's-her-name, the younger, asked why Master Wild did not go a-wooing to some rich heir; upon her conscience, she said, you would speed.

CARE. Well, well, there's a time for all things: come, let's go.

[_They offer to depart._

WILD. Take a light. Good night, Wanton.

CAPT. D'ye hear, d'ye hear? let me speak with you.

[_They all come back again._

WILD. What's the business?

CAPT. I cannot get hence this night: but your good angels hang at your heels, and if I can prevail, you shall stay.

WILD. What to do?

CAPT. What to do? why I'll be hanged, if all this company do not guess.

JOLLY. Prythee, what should we stay for?

CAPT. For the widow and her niece. Are they worth the watching for a' night?

WILD. Yes, certainly.

CAPT. Then take my counsel, and let me give it out y' are married. You have new clothes come home this morning, and there's that you spoke of I'll fetch from the tailor's; and here's a parson shall rather give them his living than stay for a licence; the fiddlers, too, are ready to salute 'em.

CARE. But if they refuse?

JOLLY. Which, upon my conscience, they will.

CAPT. As you hope, else you are laughed at for missing the widow. Ned, follow my counsel; appear at her chamber-window in thy shirt, and salute all that passes by. Let me alone to give it out, and invite company, and provide dinner; then, when the business is known, and I have presented all your friends at court with ribands, she must consent, or her honour is lost, if you have but the grace to swear it, and keep your own counsel.

CARE. By this hand, he has reason, and I'll undertake the widow.

WILD. It will incense them, and precipitate the business, which is in a fair way now; and if they have wit, they must hate us for such a treachery.

CAPT. If they have wit, they will love you: beside, if it come to that, we two will swear we saw you married, and the parson shall be sworn he did it. Priest, will you not swear?

PAR. Yes, anything; what is't, Captain?

WILD. If this jest could do it, yet 'tis base to gain a wife so poorly. She came hither, too, for sanctuary; it would be an uncivil and an unhospitable thing, and look as if I had not merit enough to get a wife without stealing her from herself: then, 'tis in mine own house.

CAPT. The better; nay, now I think on't, why came she hither? How do you know the plague is there? all was well at dinner; I'll be hanged if it be not a plot: the lovers, too, whom you abused at dinner, are joined with them: a trick, a mere trick of wit to abuse us! and to-morrow, when the birds are flown, they'll laugh at you, and say, two country-ladies put themselves naked into the hands of three travelled city wits, and they durst not lay hold on them.

CARE. A pox upon these niceties!

WAN. If they have not some design upon you, hang me: why did they talk so freely before me else?

CARE. Let's but try; we are not now to begin to make the world talk; nor is it a new thing to them to hear we are mad fellows.

CAPT. If you get them, are they worth having?

WILD. Having? yes.

CAPT. If you miss them, the jest is good. Prythee, Ned, let me prevail; 'tis but a mad trick.

WILD. If we would, how shall we get into the chamber?

WAN. Let me alone for that; I'll put on my country simplicity, and carry in a chamber-pot; then, under pretence of bolting the back-door, I'll open it--and yet I grudge them the sport so honestly; for you wenchers make the best husbands: after you are once married, one never sees you.

CAPT. I warrant thee, wench.

WAN. No, faith, I have observed it, they are still the doating'st husbands, and then retreat and become justices of the peace, and none so violent upon the bench as they against us poor sinners. Yet I'll do it; for upon my conscience, the young gentlewoman will fall upon her back, and thank me.

[_Exit_ WANTON.

CAPT. Away, go then, and leave your fooling; and in the morning, Ned, get in, and plead naked with your hands in the bed.

PAR. And if they cry, put your lips in their mouths, and stop them.

CAPT. Why, look you, you have the authority of the church too.

WILD. Well, I am now resolved: go you about your part, and make the report strong.

CARE. And d'ye hear? be sure you set the cook at work, that if we miss, we may have a good dinner and good wine to drink down our grief.

CAPT. Miss! I warrant thee, 'twill thrive.

[_Exit_ CAPTAIN.

CARE. Nay, if I knock not down the widow, geld me, and come out to-morrow complete uncle, and salute the company with, You are welcome, gentlemen, and Good-morrow, nephew Ned.

WILD. Uncle Tom, good morrow, uncle Tom.

_Enter_ WANTON.

WAN. All's done; the door is open, and they're as still as children's thoughts: 'tis time you made you ready, which is to put off your breeches, for 'tis almost day. And take my counsel, be sure to offer force enough, the less reason will serve: especially you, Master Wild, do not put a maid to the pain of saying, Ay.

WILD. I warrant thee, wench; let me alone.

CARE. We'll in and undress us, and come again, for we must go in at the back-door.

WILD. I'll meet you. Is the Captain gone?

[_Exeunt_ WILD _and_ CARELESS.

WAN. Yes, yes, he's gone.

JOLLY. Come, Master Parson, let us see the cook in readiness. Where are the fiddlers? What will become of our plot? for the coachman, Master Sad, and his friend, will stink of their jest if this thrive.

PAR. They have slept all night, on purpose to play all day.

JOLLY. When the ribands and points come from the Exchange, pray see the fiddlers have some; the rogues will play so out of tune all day else, they will spoil the dancing, if the plot do take.

_Enter_ WILD _and_ CARELESS _in their shirts, with drawers under, nightgowns on, and in slippers_.

WAN. Let's see them in the chamber first, and then I shall go with some heart about the business. So, so, creep close and quietly: you know the way; the widow lies in the high bed, and the pallet is next the door.

[_They kneel at the door to go in; she shakes her coats over them._

WILD. Must we creep?

WAN. Yes, yes, down upon your knees always, till you get a woman, and then stand up for the cause: stay, let me shake my smock over you for luck's sake.

JOLLY. Why so? I warrant you [I'll] thrive.

PAR. A pox take you, I'll pare your nails when I get you from this place once.

WAN. Sweetheart, sweetheart, off with your shoes.

PAR. Ay, with all my heart, there's an old shoe after you.[270] Would I gave all in my shop the rest were furnished with wives too!

JOLLY. Parson, the sun is rising; go send in the fiddlers, and set the cook on work; let him chop soundly.

PAR. I have a tithe-pig at home, I'll e'en sacrifice it to the wedding.

[_Exit_ PARSON.

WAN. They will find them in good posture, they may take privy marks, if they please; for they said it was so hot they could endure no clothes, and my simplicity was so diligent to lay them naked, and with such twists and turns fastened them to the feet, I'll answer for't they find not the way into them in an hour.

_Enter_ SERVANT _and_ PARSON.

JOLLY. Why, then, they may pull up their smocks, and hide their faces.

SER. Master Jolly, there was one without would speak with you.

JOLLY. Who was it?

SER. It is the lady that talks so well.

JOLLY. They say, indeed, she has an excellent tongue; I would she had changed it for a face; 'tis she that has been handsome.

PAR. Who? not the poetess we met at Master Sad's?

JOLLY. Yes, the same.

PAR. Sure, she's mad.

JOLLY. Prythee, tell her I am gone to bed.

SER. I have done as well, sir: I told her Mistress Wanton was here; at which discreetly, being touched with the guilt of her face, she threw out a curse or two, and retreated.

WAN. Who is this you speak of? I will know who 'tis.

PAR. Why, 'tis she that married the Genoa merchant; they cozened one another.

WAN. Who? Peg Driver, bugle-eyes?

JOLLY. The same, the same.

WAN. Why, she is ugly now?

PAR. Yes; but I have known her, by this hand, as fine a wench as ever sinned in town or suburbs. When I knew her first, she was the original of all the wainscoat chambermaids with brooms and barefoot madams you see sold at Temple Bar and the Exchange.

WAN. Ah, th' art a devil! how couldst thou find in thy heart to abuse her so? Thou lov'st antiquities too: the very memory that she had been handsome should have pleaded something.

JOLLY. _Was handsome_ signifies nothing to me.

WAN. But she's a wit, and a wench of an excellent discourse.

PAR. And as good company as any's i' th' town.

JOLLY. Company! for whom? Leather-ears, his majesty of Newgate watch? There her story will do well, while they louse themselves.

PAR. Well, you are curious now, but the time was when you skipped for a kiss.

JOLLY. Prythee, parson, no more of wit and _was handsome_; but let us keep to this text--[_He kisses_ WANTON]--and with joy think upon thy little Wanton here, that's kind, soft, sweet, and sound: these are epithets for a mistress, nor is there any elegancy in a woman like it. Give me such a naked scene to study night and day: I care not for her tongue, so her face be good. A whore dressed in verse and set speeches tempts me no more to that sweet sin, than the statute of whipping can keep me from it. This thing we talked on, which retains nothing but the name of what she was, is not only poetical in her discourse, but her tears and her love, her health, nay, her pleasure, were all fictions, and had scarce any live flesh about her, till I administered.

PAR. Indeed, 'tis time she sat out, and gave others leave to play; for a reverend whore is an unseemly sight: besides it makes the sin malicious, which is but venial else.

WAN. Sure, he'll make a case of conscience on't: you should do well (sweetheart) to recommend her case to your brethren that attend the committee of affection, that they may order her to be sound and young again, for the good of the commonwealth.

## ACT V., SCENE 1.

_Enter_ FIDDLERS, JOLLY, _and_ WANTON.

JOLLY. O, are you ready, are you ready?

FID. Yes, an't like your worship.

JOLLY. And did you bid the cook chop lustily, and make a noise?

FID. Yes, sir, he's at it.

WAN. I hear the captain.

_Enter the_ CAPTAIN.

JOLLY. Have you brought clothes and ribands?

CAPT. Yes, yes, all is ready: did you hear them squeak yet?

WAN. No, by this light: I think 'tis an appointment, and we have been all abused.

CAPT. Give the fiddlers their ribands, and carry the rest in. Mistress Wanton, you must play my lady's woman to-day, and mince it to all that come, and hold up your head finely when they kiss you: and take heed of swearing when you are angry, and pledging whole cups when they drink to you.

WAN. I'll warrant you for my part.

CAPT. Go, get you in, then, and let your husband dip the rosemary.[271]

JOLLY. Is all ready?

CAPT. All, all; some of the company are below already. I have so blown it about, one porter is gone to the Exchange to invite Master Wild's merchant to his wedding, and, by the way, to bid two or three fruiterers to send in fruit for such a wedding; another in my lady's name to Sall's for sweetmeats. I swore at Bradborn in his shop myself, that I wondered he would disappoint Master Wild for his points, and having so long warning: he protested 'twas not his fault, but they were ready, and he would send John with them presently. One of the watermen is gone to the Melon garden; the other to Cook's, at the Bear, for some bottles of his best wine; and thence to Gracious Street to the poulterer's, and all with directions to send in provisions for Master Wild's wedding. And who should I meet at the door but apricock Tom and Mary, waiting to speak with her young master? They came to beg that they might serve the feast. I promised them they should, if they would cry it up and down the town, to bring company, for Master Wild was resolved to keep open house.

JOLLY. Why, then, here will be witnesses enough.

CAPT. But who should I meet at the corner of the Piazza, but Joseph Taylor:[272] he tells me there's a new play at the Friars to-day, and I have bespoke a box for Master Wild and his bride.

JOLLY. And did not he wonder to hear he was married?

CAPT. Yes; but I told him 'twas a match his aunt made for him when he was abroad.

JOLLY. And I have spread it sufficiently at court, by sending to borrow plate for such a wedding.

_Enter a_ SERVANT.

SER. There's half a dozen coachfuls of company lighted: they call for the bridelaces and points.

CAPT. Let the fiddlers play, then, and bid God give them joy by the name of my Lady Careless and Mistress Wild.

FID. Where shall we play, sir?

JOLLY. Come with us, we'll show you the window.

## SCENE II.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play in the tiring-room; and the stage curtains are drawn, and discover a chamber, as it were, with two beds, and the ladies asleep in them_, MASTER WILD _being at_ MISTRESS PLEASANT'S _bedside, and_ MASTER CARELESS _at the_ WIDOW'S. _The music awakes the_ WIDOW.

WID. Niece, niece, niece Pleasant.

[_She opens the curtain and calls her: she is under a canopy_.

PLEA. Ha! I hear you, I hear you; what would you have?

WID. Do you not hear the fiddlers?

PLEA. Yes, yes; but you have waked me from the finest dream----

WID. A dream! what was't, some knavery!

PLEA. Why, I know not, but 'twas merry; e'en as pleasing as some sins. Well, I'll lie no more in a man's bed, for fear I lose more than I get.

WID. Hark! that's a new tune.

PLEA. Yes, and they play it well. This is your janty nephew: I would he had less of the father in him, I'd venture to dream out my dream with him. O' my conscience, he's worth a dozen of my dull servant; that's such a troublesome visitant, without any kind of conveniency.

WID. Ay, ay, so are all of that kind; give me your subject-lover; those you call servants are but troubles, I confess.

PLEA. What is the difference, pray, betwixt a subject and a servant lover?

WID. Why, one I have absolute power over, the other's at large: your servant-lovers are those who take mistresses upon trial, and scarce give them a quarter's warning before they are gone.

PLEA. Why, what do you subject-lovers do?--I am so sleepy.

WID. Do! all things for nothing: then they are the diligentest and the humblest things a woman can employ: nay, I ha' seen of them tame, and run loose about a house. I had one once, by this light, he would fetch and carry, go back, seek out; he would do anything: I think some falconer bred him.

PLEA. By my troth, I am of your mind.

WID. He would come over for all my friends; but it was the dogged'st thing to my enemies; he would sit upon's tail before them, and frown like John-a-Napes when the Pope is named. He heard me once praise my little spaniel bitch Smut for waiting, and hang me if I stirred for seven years after, but I found him lying at my door.

PLEA. And what became of him?

WID. Faith, when I married, he forsook me. I was advised since, that if I would ha' spit in's mouth sometimes, he would have stayed.

PLEA. That was cheap, but 'tis no certain way; for 'tis a general opinion that marriage is one of the certain'st cures for love that one can apply to a man that is sick of the sighings; yet if you were to live about this town still, such a fool would do you a world of service. I'm sure Secret will miss him, he would always take such a care of her, h' has saved her a hundred walks for hoods and masks.

WID. Yes, and I was certain of the earliest fruits and flowers that the spring afforded.

PLEA. By my troth, 'twas foolishly done to part with him; a few crumbs of your affections would have satisfied him, poor thing!

WID. Thou art in the right. In this town there's no living without 'em; they do more service in a house for nothing than a pair of those what-d'ye-call-'ems, those he-waiting-women beasts, that custom imposes upon ladies.

PLEA. Is there none of them to be had now, think you? I'd fain get a tame one to carry down into the country.

WID. Faith, I know but one breed of them about the town that's right, and that's at the court; the lady that has them brings 'em up all by hand: she breeds some of them from very puppies. There's another wit too in the town that has of them; but hers will not do so many tricks; good, sullen, diligent waiters those are which she breeds, but not half so serviceable.

PLEA. How does she do it? is there not a trick in't?

WID. Only patience; but she has a heavy hand with 'em (they say) at first, and many of them miscarry; she governs them with signs, and by the eye, as Banks breeds his horse.[273] There are some, too, that arrive at writing, and those are the right breed, for they commonly betake themselves to poetry: and if you could light on one of them, 'twere worth your money; for 'tis but using of him ill, and praising his verses sometimes, and you are sure of him for ever.

PLEA. But do they never grow surly, aunt?

WID. Not if you keep them from raw flesh; for they are a kind of lion-lovers, and if they once taste the sweet of it, they'll turn to their kind.

PLEA. Lord, aunt, there will be no going without one this summer into the country: pray, let's inquire for one, either a he-one to entertain us, or a she-one to tell us the story of her love; 'tis excellent to bedward, and makes one as drowsy as prayers.

WID. Faith, niece, this parliament has so destroyed 'em, and the Platonic humour, that 'tis uncertain whether we shall get one or no. Your leading members in the lower house have so cowed the ladies, that they have no leisure to breed any of late: their whole endeavours are spent now in feasting, and winning close committee men, a rugged kind of sullen fellows with implacable stomachs and hard hearts, that make the gay things court and observe them, as much as the foolish lovers use to do. Yet I think I know one she-lover; but she is smitten in years o' th' wrong side of forty. I am certain she is poor, too, and in this lean age for courtiers she perhaps would be glad to run this summer in our park.

PLEA. Dear aunt, let us have her. Has she been famous? has she good tales, think you, of knights, such as have been false or true to love, no matter which?

WID. She cannot want cause to curse the sex: handsome, witty, well-born, and poor in court, cannot want the experience how false young men can be: her beauty has had the highest fame; and those eyes, that weep now unpitied, have had their envy and a dazzling power.

PLEA. And that tongue, I warrant you, which now grows hoarse with flattering the great law-breakers, once gave law to princes: was it not so, aunt? Lord, shall I die without begetting one story?

WID. Penthesilea nor all the cloven knights the poets treat of, yclad in mightiest petticoats, did her excel for gallant deeds, and with her honour still preserved her freedom. My brother loved her; and I have heard him swear Minerva might have owned her language; an eye like Pallas, Juno's wrists, a Venus for shape, and a mind chaste as Diana; but not so rough: never uncivilly cruel, nor faulty kind to any; no vanity, that sees more than lovers pay, nor blind to a gallant passion. Her maxim was, he that could love, and tell her so handsomely, was better company, but not a better lover, than a silent man. Thus all passions found her civility, and she a value from all her lovers. But alas! niece, this _was_ (which is a sad word)--_was_ handsome and _was_ beloved are abhorred sounds in women's ears.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play again_.

PLEA. Hark! the fiddlers are merry still. Will not Secret have the wit to find us this morning, think you?

FID. [_Within._] God give you joy, Master Careless! God give your ladyship joy, my Lady Wild!

WID. What did the fellows say? God give me joy?

PLEA. As I live, I think so.

FID. God give you joy, Mistress Pleasant Wild!

WID. This is my nephew: I smell him in this knavery.

PLEA. Why did they give me joy by the name of Mistress Wild? I shall pay dear for a night's lodging if that be so; especially lying alone. By this light, there is some knavery afoot.

[_All the company confused without, and bid God give them joy._

JOLLY. Rise, rise, for shame; the year's afore you.

CAPT. Why, Ned Wild; why, Tom, will you not rise and let's in? What, is it not enough to steal your wedding overnight, but lock yourselves up in the morning too? All your friends stay for points here, and kisses from the brides.

WILD. A little patience! you'll give us leave to dress us?

[_The women squeak when they speak_.

CARE. Why, what's o'clock, captain?

CAPT. It's late.

CARE. Faith, so it was before we slept.

WID. Why, nephew, what means this rudeness? As I live, I'll fall out with you. This is no jest.

WILD. No, as I live, aunt, we are in earnest; but my part lies here, and there's a gentleman will do his best to satisfy you. [_They catch the women in their arms._] And, sweet Mistress Pleasant, I know you have so much wit as to perceive this business cannot be remedied by denials. Here we are, as you see, naked,[274] and thus have saluted hundreds at the window that passed by, and gave us joy this morning.

PLEA. Joy! of what? what do you mean?

CARE. Madam, this is visible; and you may coy it, and refuse to call me husband, but I am resolved to call you wife, and such proofs I'll bring as shall not be denied.

[CARELESS _kisses the_ WIDOW.

WID. Promise yourself that; see whether your fine wits can make it good. You will not be uncivil?

CARE. Not a hair, but what you give, and that was in the contract before we undertook it; for any man may force a woman's body, but we have laid we will force your mind.

WILD. But that needs not, for we know by your discourse last night and this morning, we are men you have no aversion to; and I believe, if we had taken time, and wooed hard, this would have come o' course; but we had rather win you by wit, because you defied us.

WID. 'Tis very well, if it succeed.

CARE. And, for my part, but for the jest of winning you, and this way, not ten jointures should have made me marry.

WID. This is a new way of wooing.

CARE. 'Tis so, madam; but we have not laid our plot so weakly, though it were sudden, to leave it in anybody's power but our own to hinder it.

PLEA. Do you think so?

WILD. We are secure enough, if we can be true to ourselves.

CARE. Yet we submit in the midst of our strength, and beg you will not wifully spoil a good jest by refusing us. By this hand, we are both sound, and we'll be strangely honest, and never in ill humours; but live as merry as the maids, and divide the year between the town and the country. What say you, is't a match? Your bed is big enough for two, and my meat will not cost you much: I'll promise nothing but one heart, one purse betwixt us, and a whole dozen of boys. Is't a bargain?

WID. Not if I can hinder it, as I live.

WILD. Faith, Mistress Pleasant, he hath spoken nothing but reason, and I'll do my best to make it good: come, faith, teach my aunt what to do, and let me strike the bargain upon your lips.

PLEA. No, sir, not to be half a queen; if we should yield now, your wit would domineer for ever: and still in all disputes (though never so much reason on our side) this shall be urged as an argument of your master-wit to confute us. I am of your aunt's mind, sir, and, if I can hinder it, it shall be no match.

WILD. Why, then know it is not in your powers to prevent it.

WID. Why? we are not married yet.

CARE. No, 'tis true.

Wid. By this good light, then, I'll be dumb for ever hereafter, lest I light upon the words of marriage by chance.

PLEA. 'Tis hard, when our own acts cannot be in our own power, gentlemen.

WILD. The plot is only known to four: the minister, and two that stood for fathers, and a simple country maid that waited upon you last night, which plays your chambermaid's part.

PLEA. And what will all these do?

WILD. Why, the two friends will swear they gave you, the parson will swear he married you, and the wench will swear she put us to bed.

WID. Have you men to swear we are married?

PLEA. And a parson to swear he did it?

BOTH. Yes.

WID. And a wench that will swear she put us to bed?

BOTH. Yes, by this good light, and witness of reputation.

PLEA. Dare they or you look us in the face, and swear this?

CARE. Yes, faith; and all but those four know no other but really it is so; and you may deny it, but I'll make master constable put you to bed, with this proof, at night.

WID. Pray, let's see these witnesses.

WILD. Call in the four only.

[_Exit_ CARELESS.

PLEA. Well, this shall be a warning to me. I say nothing, but if ever I lie from home again----

WILD. I'll lie with you.

PLEA. 'Tis well. I daresay we are the first women, if this take, that ever were stolen against their wills.

WILD. I'll go call the gentlemen.

[_Exit_ WILD.

WID. I that have refused a fellow that loved me these seven years, and would have put off his hat, and thanked me to come to bed, to be beaten with watchmen's staves into another's!--for, by this good light, for aught that I perceive, there's no keeping these out at night.

PLEA. And unless we consent to be their wives to-day, master justice will make us their whores at night. O, O, what would not I give to come off? not that I mislike them, but I hate they should get us thus.

_Enter_ WILD, JOLLY, CAPTAIN, CARELESS, PARSON, WANTON, _with rosemary in their hands, and points in their hats_.

CARE. Follow. Will not you two swear we were married last night?

JOLLY _and_ CAPT. Yes, by this light, will we.

WILD. Will you not swear you married us?

PAR. Yea, verily.

CARE. And come hither, pretty one: will not you swear you left us all abed last night, and pleased?

WAN. Yes, forsooth; I'll swear anything your worship shall appoint me.

WID. But, gentleman, have you no shame, no conscience? Will you swear false for sport?

JOLLY. By this light, I'll swear, if it be but to vex you: remember you refused me. That [_Aside_] is contrary to covenants, though, with my brace of lovers: what will they do with their coachman's plot? But 'tis no matter, I have my ends; and, so they are cosened, I care not who does it.

CAPT. And faith, madam, I have sworn many times false to no purpose; and I should take it ill, if it were mine own case, to have a friend refuse me an oath upon such an occasion.

PLEA. And are you all of one mind?

PAR. Verily, we will all swear.

PLEA. Will you verily? What shall we do, aunt?

[PLEASANT _laughs_.

WID. Do you laugh? by this light, I am heartily angry.

PLEA. Why, as I live, let's marry them, aunt, and be revenged.

WID. Marry! Where's the parson?

CAPT. Here, here, master parson, come and do your office.

PLEA. That fellow! no, by my troth, let's be honestly joined, for luck's sake: we know not how soon we may part.

WILD. What shall we do for a parson? Captain, you must run and fetch one.

CAPT. Yes, yes: but, methinks, this might serve turn: by this hand, he's a Marshall and a Case,[275] by sire and dam; pray, try him: by this light, he comes of the best preaching-kind in Essex.

WID. Not I, as I live; that were a blessing in the devil's name.

PAR. A pox on your wedding! give me my wife, and let me be gone.

CAPT. Nay, nay, no choler, parson. The ladies do not like the colour of your beard![276]

PAR. No, no, fetch another, and let them escape with that trick, then they'll jeer your beards blue, i' faith.

CARE. By this hand, he's in the right; either this parson, or take one another's words: to bed now, and marry when we rise.

PLEA. As I live, you come not here till you are married; I have been nobody's whore yet, and I will not begin with my husband.

WILD. Will you kiss upon the bargain, and promise before these witnesses not to spoil our jest, but rise and go to church?

PLEA. And what will Master Constant and Master Sad say?

CAPT. Why, I'll run and invite them to the wedding, and you shall see them expire in their own garters.

JOLLY. No, no, ne'er fear't, their jest is only spoiled.

CAPT. Their jest! what jest?

JOLLY. Faith, now you shall know it, and the whole plot. In the first place, your coachman is well, whose death we, by the help of Secret, contrived, thinking by that trick to prevent this danger, and carry you out of town.

CAPT. But had they this plot?

Jolly. Yes, faith, and see how it thrives! They'll fret like carted bawds when they hear this news.

PLEA. Why, aunt, would you have thought Master Sad a plotter? well, 'tis some comfort we have them to laugh at.

WID. Nay, faith, then, gentlemen, give us leave to rise, and I'll take my venture if it be but for revenge on them.

CARE. Gentlemen, bear witness.

CAPT. Come, come away, I'll get the points. I'm glad the coachman's well; the rogue had like to have spoiled our comedy.

[_Exeunt omnes._

## SCENE III.

_Enter the_ LADY LOVEALL, MASTER SAD _and_ CONSTANT, _undressed, and buttoning themselves as they go_.

SAD. Married?

CON. And to them?

LOVE. Ay, married, if you prevent it not: catched with a trick, an old stale trick; I have seen a ballad on't.

SAD. We shall go near to prevent 'em. Boy, my sword.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. Whither so fast?

SAD. You guess.

CAPT. If you mean the wedding, you come too late.

CON. Why, are they married?

CAPT. No, but lustily promised.

SAD. We may come time enough to be revenged, though----

CAPT. Upon whom? yourselves, for you are only guilty. Who carried them thither last night? who laid the plot for the coachman?

SAD. Why, do they know it?

LOVE. Well, you'll find the poet a rogue, 'tis he that has betrayed you; and if you'll take my counsel, be revenged upon him.

CON. Nay, we were told he did not love us.

CAPT. By my life, you wrong him: upon my knowledge, the poet meant you should have them.

SAD. Why, who had the power to hinder, then?

CAPT. I know not where the fault lies directly: they say the wits of the town would not consent to't; they claim a right in the ladies as orphan wits.

CON. The wits! hang 'em in their strong lines.

CAPT. Why, ay, such a clinch as that has undone you, and upon my knowledge 'twere enough to hinder your next match.

SAD. Why, what have they to do with us?

CAPT. I know not what you have done to disoblige them, but they crossed it: there was amongst 'em too a pair of she-wits, something stricken in years; they grew in fury at the mention of it, and concluded you both with an authority out of a modern author: besides, 'tis said you run naturally into the sixpenny-room, and steal sayings, and a discourse more than your pennyworth of jests every term. Why, just now you spit out one jest stolen from a poor play, that has but two more in five acts; what conscience is there in't, knowing how dear we pay poets for our plays?

CON. 'Twas madam with the ill face, one of those whom you refused to salute the other day at Chipp's house: a cheesecake had saved all this.

LOVE. Why do you not make haste about your business, but lose time with this babbler?

SAD. Madam, will you give us leave to make use of your coach?

LOVE. You may command it, sir: when you have done, send him to the Exchange, where I'll despatch a little business, and be with you immediately.

[_Exeunt all but the_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. So, this fire is kindled; put it out that can. What would not I give for a peeper's place at the meeting? I'll make haste, and it shall go hard, but I'll bear my part of the mirth too.

[_Exit._

## SCENE IV.

_Enter_ WIDOW, PLEASANT, CARELESS, WILD, PARSON, JOLLY, WANTON, _and_ SECRET: _the_ FIDDLERS _play as they come in_.

PAR. Master Jolly, I find I am naturally inclined to mirth this day, and methinks my corns ache more than my horns; and to a man that has read Seneca, a cuckold ought to be no grief, especially in this parish, where I see such droves of St Luke's clothing. There's little Secret too, th' allay of waiting-woman, makes me hope she may prove metal of the parson's standard. Find a way to rid me of Wanton, and I'll put in to be chaplain to this merry family: if I did not inveigle formal Secret, you should hang me. I know the trick on't; 'tis but praying to, and preaching of the waiting-woman, then carefully seeing her cushion laid, with her book and leaf turned down, does it, with a few anagrams, acrostics, and her name in the register of my Bible: these charm the soft-souled sinner: then sometimes to read a piece of my sermon, and tell her a Saturday where my text shall be, spells that work more than philtres.

JOLLY. If you can be serious, we'll think of this at leisure. See how they eye Wanton!

CARE. What! consulting, parson? let us be judges betwixt you. D'ye hear, Jack? if he offers ready money, I counsel, as a friend, take it; for, by this light, if you refuse it, your wife will not. D'ye see those gay petticoats?

PAR. Yes, if you mean my wife's.

CARE. You know they're his, and she only wears 'em for his pleasure: and 'tis dangerous to have a wife under another man's petticoats. What if you should find his breeches upon her?

PAR. Are not you married too? take care that yours does not wear the breeches, another kind of danger, but as troublesome as that, or sore eyes; and if she get but a trick of taking as readily as she's persuaded to give, you may find a horn at home. I have seen a cuckold of your complexion; if he had had as much hoof as horn, you might have hunted the beast by his slot.[277]

PLEA. How fine she is! and, by this light, a handsome wench. Master Jolly, I am easier persuaded to be reconciled to your fault than any man's I have seen of this kind: her eyes have more arguments in 'em than a thousand of those that seduce the world; hang me, if those quivers be not full of darts; I could kiss that mouth myself. Is this she my aunt quarrelled with you for?

JOLLY. The same, selfsame: and, by this hand, I was barbarous to her, for your aunt's sake; and had I not 'scaped that mischief of matrimony, by this light, I had never seen her again. But I was resolved not to quit her till I was sure of a wife, for fear of what has followed. Had I been such an ass to have left her upon the airy hopes of a widow's oaths, what a case had I been in now! You see your aunt's provided of a man. Bless him, and send him patience! 'Twould have been fine to have seen me walking, and sighing upon cold hunting, seeking my whore again, or forced to make use of some common mercenary thing, that sells sin and diseases, crimes, penance, and sad repentance together! Here's consolation and satisfaction in Wanton, though a man lose his meal with the widow. And faith, be free--how do you like my girl? Rid thee of her! What does she want now, pray, but a jointure, to satisfy any honest man? Speak your conscience, ladies: don't you think a little repentance hereafter will serve for all the small sins that good-nature can act with such a sinner?

PAR. Pray, sir, remember she's my wife, and be so civil to us both, as to forget these things.

JOLLY. For that, Jack, we'll understand hereafter. 'Tis but a trick of youth, man, and her jest will make us both merry, I warrant thee.

PAR. Pray, sir, no more of your jests, nor your Jack. Remember my coat and calling. This familiarity, both with my wife and myself, is not decent: your clergy with Christian names are scarce held good Christians.

WID. I wonder at nothing so much as Master Jolly's mirth to-day! Where lies his part of the jest? Cosened or refused by all, not a fish that stays in's net.

JOLLY. No; what's this? [JOLLY _hugs_ WANTON.] Show me a fairer in all your streams. Nor is this my single joy, who am pleased to find you may be cosened; rejoice to see you may be brought to lie with a man for a jest. Let me alone to fit you with a trick too.

CARE. Faith, it must be some new trick; for thou art so beaten at the old one, 'twill neither please thee nor her; besides, I mean to teach her that myself.

PLEA. I shall never be perfectly quiet in my mind till I see somebody as angry as myself: yet I have some consolation, when I think on the wise plot that killed the coachman. How the plague, red cross, and halbert has cut their fingers that designed it! their anger will be perfect. Secret says they are coming, and that the Lady Loveall has given 'em the alarm.

_Enter_ SAD _and_ CONSTANT.

WILD. And see where the parties come!--storms and tempests in their minds! their looks are daggers.

PLEA. Servant, what, you're melancholy, and full of wonder! I see you have met the news.

SAD. Yes, madam; we have heard a report that will concern both your judgment and your honour.

PLEA. Alas, sir! we're innocent; 'tis mere predestination.

CON. All weddings, Master Sad, you know, go by chance, like hanging.

PLEA. And, I thank my stars, I have 'scaped hanging. To ha' been his bride had been both.

CON. This is not like the promise you made us yesterday.

WID. Why, truly, servant, I scarce know what I do yet. The fright of the plague had so possessed my mind with fear, that I could think and dream of nothing last night but of a tall black man that came and kissed me in my sleep, and slapped his whip in mine ears. 'Twas a saucy ghost, not unlike my coachman that's dead, and accused you of having a hand in his murder, and vowed to haunt me till I was married. I told my niece the dream.

PLEA. Nay, the ghost sighed, and accused Secret and Master Sad of making him away. Confess, faith, had you a hand in that bloody jest?

WID. Fie, servant! Could you be so cruel as to join with my woman against me?

CON. 'Tis well, ladies. Why a pox do you look at me? This was your subtle plot; a pox on your clerk's wit! You said the jest would beget a comedy when 'twas known, and so I believe 'twill.

SAD. Madam, I find you have discovered our design, whose chief end was to prevent this mischief, which I doubt not but you'll both live to repent your share of, before you have done travelling to the Epsoms, Bourbonne,[278] and the Spaws, to cure those travelled diseases these knights-errant have with curiosity sought out for you. 'Tis true, they are mischiefs that dwell in pleasant countries, yet those roses have their thorns; and I doubt not but these gentlemen's wit may sting as well as please sometime; and you may find it harder to satisfy their travelled experience than to have suffered our home-bred ignorance.

CARE. Hark, if he be not fallen into a fit of his cousin! these names of places he has stolen out of her receipt-book: amongst all whose diseases find me any so dangerous, troublesome, or incurable as a fool; a lean, pale, sighing, coughing fool, that's rich and poor both; being born to an estate, without a mind or heart capable to use it; of a nature so miserable, he grudges himself meat; nay, they say, he eats his meals twice: a fellow whose breath smells of yesterday's dinner, and stinks as if he had eat all our suppers over again. I would advise you, Master Sad, to sleep with your mouth open to air it, or get the brewer to tun it. Foh! an empty justice, that stinks of the lees and casks, and belches Littleton and Plowden's cases! Dost thou think any woman, that has wit or honour, would kiss that bung-hole? By this light, his head and belly look as blue and lank as French rabbits or stale poultry! Alas, sir! my lady would have a husband to rejoice with; no green-tailed lecturer, to stand sentry at his bedside, while his nasty soul scours through him, sneaking out at the back-door! These, sir, are diseases which neither the Spaw or Bath can cure: your garters and willow are a more certain remedy.

CON. Well, sir, I find our plot's betrayed, and we have patience left. 'Tis that damned captain has informed.

SAD. Yet 'tis one comfort, madam, that you have missed that man of war, that knight of Finsbury. His dowager, with ale and switches, would ha' bred a ballad.

PLEA. Faith, sir, you see what a difficulty it is in this age for a woman to live honest, though she have a proper man for her husband; therefore, it behoves us to consider whom we choose.

JOLLY. The lady has reason: for, being allowed but one, who would choose such weasels as we see daily married? that are all head and tail, crooked, dirty, sordid vermin, predestined for cuckolds, painted snails, with houses on their backs, and horns as big as Dutch cows! Would any woman marry such? Nay, can any woman be honest that let's such hodmandods crawl o'er her virgin breast and belly, or suffer 'em to leave their slimy paths upon their bodies only for jointures? Out! 'tis mercenary and base! The generous heart has only the laws of nature and kindness in her view, and when she will oblige, Friend is all the ties that Nature seeks; who can both bear and excuse those kind crimes. And, I believe, one as poor as the despised captain and neglected courtier may make a woman as happy in a friendship as Master Sad, who has as many faults as we have debts: one whose father had no more credit with Nature than ours had with Fortune; whose soul wears rags as well as the captain's body.

SAD. Nay, then, I'll laugh; for I perceive y' are angrier than we. Alas! h' has lost both ventures--Wanton and the widow.

JOLLY. Both; and neither so unlucky as to be thy wife. Thy face is hanged with blacks already: we may see the bells toll in thy eyes. A bride and a wedding-shirt, a sexton and a winding-sheet. A scrivener to draw up jointures, a parson to make thy will, man. By this light, he's as chap-fallen as if he had lain under the table all night.

CARE. Faith, Master Sad, he's parlously in the right. Ne'er think of marrying in this dull clime. Wedlock's a trade you'll ne'er go through with. Wives draw bills upon sight, and 'twill not be for your credit to protest them. Rather follow my counsel, and marry _A la Venetiano_, for a night and away; a pistole jointure does it: then, 'tis but repenting in the morning, and leave your woman and the sin both i' th' bed. But if you play the fool, like your friends, and marry in serious earnest, you may repent it too, as they do; but where's the remedy?

[_This is spoken a little aside._

WID. What was't you said, sir? Do you repent?

CARE. By this hand, widow, I don't know: but we have pursued a jest a great way. Parson, are you sure we are married?

PAR. Yes, I warrant you, for their escaping.

CARE. Their escaping! Fool, thou mistakest me; there's no fear of that! But I would fain know if there be no way for me to get out of this noose? no hole to hide a man's head in from this wedlock?

PAR. Not any, but what I presume she'll show you anon.

CARE. Hum! now do I feel all my fears flowing in upon me. Wanton and Mistress Pleasant both grow dangerously handsome. A thousand graces in each I never observed before. Now, just now, when I must not taste, I begin to long for some of their plums.

WID. Is this serious, sir!

CARE. Yes, truly, widow, sadly serious. Is there no way to get three or four mouthfuls of kisses from the parson's wife?

WID. This is sad, sir, upon my wedding-day, to despise me for such a common thing.

SAD. As sad as I could wish. This is a jest makes me laugh.--Common! No, madam, that's too bitter; she's forest only, where the royal chase is as free as fair.

WAN. Were not you a widow to-day?

SAD. Yes, faith, girl, and as foolish a one as ever coach jumbled out of joint.

WAN. Stay, then, till to-morrow, and tell me the difference betwixt us.

SAD. I hope thou'lt prove a she-prophet. Could I live to see thee turn honest wife, and she the wanton widow!

WAN. I cannot but laugh, to see how easy it is to lose or win the opinion of the world. A little custom heals all; or else what's the difference betwixt a married widow and one of us? Can any woman be pure, or worth the serious sighing of a generous heart, that has had above one hand laid upon her? Is there place to write above one lover's name with honour in her heart? 'Tis indeed for one a royal palace; but if it admits of more, an hospital or an inn at best, as well as ours: only off from the road and less frequented.

PLEA. Shrewdly urged.

WAN. And though the sins of my family threw me into want, and made me subject to the treachery of that broken faith, to whose perjury I owe all my crimes, yet still I can distinguish betwixt that folly and this honour, which must tell you: _He or she, that would be thought twice so, was never once a lover._

CON. Parson, thou art fitted! a whore and apothegms! What sport will she make us under a tree with a salad and sayings in the summer!

WILD. Come, Wanton, no fury; you see my aunt's angry.

WAN. So am I, sir, and yet can calmly reason this truth. Married widows, though chaste to the law and custom, yet their second Hymens make that, which was but dyeing in the first husband's bed, a stain in the second's sheets; where all their kindness and repeated embraces want their value, because they're sullied, and have lost their lustre.

SAD. By this light, I'll go to school to Wanton; she has opened my eyes, and I begin to believe I have 'scaped miraculously. By this hand, wench, I was within an inch of being married to this danger; for what can we call these second submissions, but a tolerated lawful mercenariness which though it be a rude and harsh expression, yet your carriage deserves it?

PLEA. Fie, Master Sad! pray leave being witty. I fear 'tis a mortal sin to begin in the fifth act of your days: upon an old subject, too--abusing of widows because they despise you!

WID. Alas, niece! let him alone: he may come in for his share: the parson, that has so oft received 'em, will not refuse him tithes there in charity.

WAN. That or conveniency, interest or importunity, may by your example prevail: but 'tis not fair play, madam, to turn your lover to the common, as you call it, now he's rid lean in your service. Take heed, Master Careless, and warning, Master Sad; you see how fit for the scavenger's team your lady leaves her lovers!

CARE. Such a lecture, before I had married, would ha' made me have considered of this matter. Dost thou hear, Wanton? Let us forgive one another being married, for that folly has made us guilty alike.

WAN. And I would fain know the difference betwixt ours and a wedding crime, which is worst: to let love, youth, and good-humour betray us to a kindness, or to be gravely seduced by some aunt or uncle, without consideration of the disparity of age, birth, or persons, to lie down before a jointure. Ladies, you may flatter yourselves; but the ingenuous part of the world cannot deny but such minds, had they been born where our faults are not only tolerated but protected, would have listened to the same things: interest counsels thereto.

CARE. Parson, what boot betwixt our wives? either come to a price, or draw off your doxy.

PAR. Propose, propose: here will be mirth anon.

SAD. Yes, yes, propose, while I break it to your lady. Madam, you see, here's a proper man to be had, and money to boot. What, dumb?

WAN. No, she's only thinking. Faith, madam, try 'em both to-night, and choose to-morrow.

WILD. Come, no more of this. Aunt, take my word for your husband, that have had more experience of him than all these: 'tis true he will long for these girls, as children do for plums; and when h' has done, make a meal upon cheese. And you must not wonder nor quarrel at what he says in his humour, but judge him by his

## actions; and when he is in his fit, and raves most, put him into

your bed, and fold him close in your arms, aunt: if he does not rise as kind and as good a husband as he that sings psalms best, hang me? Why, you're a fool, aunt: a widow, and dislike a longing bridegroom! I thought you had known better. Do you love a spurred horse rather than a ducker, that neighs and scrapes? I would not say this, but that I know him. Let him not go out of your sight, for he's now in season--a ripe, mature husband. No delays: if you let him hang longer upon hope, his fruit will fall alone.

WID. You are merry, sir; but if I had known this humour----

WILD. You'd ha' kissed him first; but, being ignorant, let me make you blush. Come, a kiss, and all's friends. [_She kisses_ CARELESS, _and he kisses her twice_.] How now, sir, again! again!

PLEA. Aunt, look to yourself.

CARE. Um! By this light, sweetheart, and I thank thee. Nay, widow, there's no jesting with these things--[_Kisses her again_]--nay, I am a lion in my love. Aware, puss, if you flatter me, for I shall deceive you.

PAR. Since all are cosened, why should I be troubled at my fortune? Faith, gentlemen, what will you two give for a wife betwixt you?

CON. Faith, they're mischiefs dear bought, though a man get 'em for nothing.

PAR. I'm almost of his mind; and if other people find no more pleasure in a married life than I upon my wedding-day, I'd pass my time in the Piazza with the mountebank, and let him practise upon my teeth, and draw 'em too, ere he persuades the words of matrimony out of my mouth again. Ay, ay, Master Constant, you may laugh, you ha' missed a wife; would I were in your case, the world should see how cheerfully I should bear such an affliction.

CON. Jack, I ha' made my peace at home: and by seeing others shipwrecked, will avoid the danger, and here resolve never to sigh again for any woman: they're weeds grow in every hedge; and transplanting of 'em thus to our beds gives certain trouble, seldom pleasure, never profit.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

PAR. See where the enemy comes! Now, if you be wise, arm, and unite against him as a common foe. He's come from his old lady, designing a reconciliation. The rogue's provident, and would fain have a nest for his age to rest in. Buff and feathers do well in the youth and heat of thirty; but in the winter of old age captain at threescore, lame and lean, may lie with the almanac out of date.

CAPT. The parson's grown witty, and prophesies upon the strength of bridecake. If I guess aright, thou'lt be hanged: for 'tis a truth, I have been endeavouring to make it appear her fears were mistaken in me; but I find the witch more implacable than the devil. The waiting-woman is harder to forgive [for] her part than my lady. Faithful will not be reconciled: the merciless bawd is all fire and sword, no quarter. Bless me from an old waiting-woman's wrath! She'll never forgive me the disappointing her of a promise when I was drunk. Her lady and she are coming, but in such a fury, I would not have the storm find you out in the street: therefore I counsel you to avoid the boys, and take shelter in the next house.

WILD. No, let's home, and with all diligence get our dinner to defend us; and let the porter dispute it at the wicket, till she signs articles of peace.

OMNES. Agreed.

[CARELESS _is kind to the_ WIDOW. _As he goes out_, WILD _and_ PLEASANT _go together_; JOLLY _and the_ PARSON'S _wife go together_.

WILD. See how they pair now! 'Tis not threescore year will part 'em, now he has tasted a kiss or two.

JOLLY. Parson, I'll be your brideman.

PAR. 'Tis well, sir; I shall ha' my time too.

JOLLY. Ay, by this hand. Nay, we'll share fairly.

CAPT. That's but reason, Wanton; and since he grows tame, use him kindly, for my sake.

PAR. Can any of you digest sponge and arsenic?

CAPT. Arsenic! what's that?

PAR. An Italian salad, which I'll dress for you, by Jove, ere I'll walk in my canonical coat lined with horn. Death! if I suffer this, we shall have that damned courtier pluck on his shoes with the parson's musons. Fine, i' faith! none but the small Levite's brow to plant your shoeing-horn seed in? How now?

[_As he is going off, the_ CAPTAIN _stays him_.

CAPT. Prythee, Jack, stay, and say something to the gentlemen by way of epilogue. Thou art a piece of scurvy poet thyself; prythee, oblige the author, and give us a line or two in praise of his play.

PAR. I oblige him! hang him and all his friends, and hurt nobody. Yes, I am likely to speak for him. You see how I ha' been used to-day betwixt you. I shall find a time to be revenged. Let go my cloak; I have a province within of mine own to govern: let me go.

CAPT. Who, thy wife? Faith, stay and give them an opportunity; thy pain will be the sooner over. You see, 'tis a thing resolved betwixt 'em; and now thou'rt satisfied in the matter, be wise and silent; who knows what good she may do thee another time? I dare say, if she had as many souls in her as she had men, she'd bring thee a cure of herself.

PAR. Let me go, or I shall be as troublesome as you are injurious, for all your titles, sir.

CAPT. Lend me your cloak then, to appear more decent; you'd not ha' me present epilogue in buff,[279] whoreson dunce, with a red nose?

PAR. Sir, my business is praying, not epilogues.

CAPT. With that face? By this light, 'tis a scandal to see it flaming so near the altar: thou look'st as if thou'dst cry _Tope_ in the face of the congregation, instead of _Amen_.

PAR. Thou'rt an ass, 'tis proper there; 't has zeal and fervour in't, and burns before the altar like the primitive lamps.

CAPT. I cry thee mercy. By this light, he'll make it sacrilege anon to steal his nose! thou'lt entitle the altar to that coal. Was't not kindled _ex voto_? Nay, I will have your cloak.

PAR. Take it; would 'twere Nessus's shirt, for you and your poet's sake.

[_Exit_ PARSON.

CAPT. What, does the rogue wish 'twere made of nettles?[280]

[CAPTAIN _puts on his cloak, and addresses himself to speak the epilogue, and is interrupted by_ LADY LOVEALL, _and_ FAITHFUL _her woman, who, in haste and full of anger, pull him by the cloak_.

LOVE. By your favour, sir, did you see any company pass this way?

CAPT. None but the three brides, and they are gone just before you. Hark! the music will guide you.

[_The music plays._

LOVE. Is it certain, then, they're married?

CAPT. Yes, lady; I saw the church's rites performed.

FAITH. Why does your ladyship lose time in talking with this fellow? don't you know him, madam? 'tis the rascally captain, hid in a black cloak. I know you, sirrah.

LOVE. She has reason; now I mark him better, I should know that false face too. See, Faithful, there are those treacherous eyes still.

CAPT. Alas! you mistake me, madam, I am Epilogue now. The captain's within, and as a friend, I counsel you not to incense the gentlemen against the poet, for he knows all your story, and if you anger him, he'll put it in a play; but if you'll do friendly offices, I'll undertake, instead of your pearl you lost, to help you to the jewel; the Scotch Dictionary will tell you the value of it. Let them go alone, and fret not at their loss. Stay, and take my counsel: it shall be worth three revenges.

LOVE. Well, what is't, sir?

CAPT. They say you have a great power over the parson: if you can prevail with him to express his anger in some satiric comedy (for the knave has wit, and they say his genius lies that way), tell him 'tis expected he should be revenged upon the illiterate courtier that made this play. If you can bring this business about, I may find a way, as Epilogue, to be thankful, though the captain abused you to-day. Think on't: Stephen[281] is as handsome, when the play is done, as Master Wild was in the scene.

LOVE. There's something of reason in what he says. [_Aside._] But, my friend, how shall one believe you? you that were such a rascal to-day in buff, is it to be hoped you can be honest only with putting on a black cloak? Well, I'll venture once again; and if I have any power, he shall sting the malicious rascal, and I think he is fit for such a business. I'm sure he has the worst tongue, and a conscience that neither honour nor truth binds; and therefore 'tis to be believed, if he will rail in public, he may be even with your poet. I will clothe and feed him and his muse this seven years, but I will plague him. Secret tells me, 'twas your poet too that pawned me to-day in the tavern.

CAPT. By my faith, did he; nay, 'twas he that told me of your friendship with Jolly.

LOVE. I wonder the parson has been so long silent; a man of his coat and parts to be beaten with a pen by one that speaks sense by rote, like parrots! one that knows not why sense is sense, but by the sound! one that can scarce read, nay, not his own hand! Well, remember your promise.

CAPT. Leave it to me, he is yours; and if our plot take, you shall have all your shares in the mirth, but not the profit of the play; and the parson more than his tithe, a second day.

LOVE. We will discourse of this some other time. And pray despatch what 'tis you have to say to this noble company, that I may be gone; for those gentlemen will be in such fury if I stay, and think, because we are alone, God knows what.

CAPT. 'Tis no matter what they think; 'tis not them we are to study now, but these guests, to whom pray address yourself civilly, and beg that they would please to become fathers, and give those brides within. What say you, gentlemen, will you lend your hands to join them? The match, you see, is made. If you refuse, Stephen misses the wench, and then you cannot justly blame the poet; for, you know, they say that alone is enough to spoil the play.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: THE REBELLION

[1] [This play was reprinted in 1654, 4^o, but not again till it was included in the "Ancient British Drama," 1810, 3 vols. 8^o, with a curious mixture of old and modern spelling, a series of the most atrocious blunders, and without any attention to the punctuation; in fact, the text of 1810 is almost unintelligible.]

[2] [See further in Walpole's "Anecdotes," edit. 1862, pp. 400-1; but a comedy entitled "Tom Essence," printed in 1677, is there ascribed to his pen.]

[3] [He has commendatory verses to Chamberlain's "Jocabella," 1640, and the same writer's "Swaggering Damsel," printed in that year.]

[4] [Respecting the Ducie family, see Lysons's "Environs of London," first edit., iv. 327; Walpole's "Anecdotes of Painting," edit. 1862, p. 401; and "Inedited Poetical Miscellanies," 1870.]

[5] [A well-known poet and playwright]

[6] [Probably Charles Gerbier, author of "Elogium Heronium," 1651, and other works.]

[7] [The dramatist.]

[8] [It is difficult to appropriate these initials, unless they belong to Robert Wild.]

[9] [The author of "Nocturnal Lucubrations," 1637, the "Swaggering Damsel," 1640, &c.]

[10] [Thomas Jordan, the well-known poet and pageant-writer.]

[11] [John Gough, author of the "Strange Discovery," 1640.]

[12] [Possibly Edward Benlowes.]

[13] [The author of these wretched lines was the well-known pageant-writer.]

[14] [The writer of these lines does not seem to be otherwise known.]

[15] [This writer is not otherwise known.]

[16] [Editor of "A. B. D." printed (with old copy) _commandy the all_.]

[17] [Evadne alludes, of course, to the old nurse.]

[18] [The editor of the "A. B. D." printed _atticke_.]

[19] [Probably an intentional corruption (with old copy).]

[20] [Former edit., _confess_.]

[21] [_Her._--Old copy and "A. B. D."]

[22] [Former edit., _their_.]

[23] [He alludes to the helmets or casquets of Fulgentio, Alerzo, and Pandolpho, plumed with ostrich feathers.]

[24] [He evidently leaves the stage, yet his _Exit_ is not marked.]

[25] [Former edit., _our_.]

[26] [Former edit., _Assended_.]

[27] [Former edit., prints this passage thus--

"See, how he strugles, as if some visions Had assum'd a shape fuller of horrour Than his troubled thoughts."]

[28] [Former edit., _strangling_.]

[29] [_i.e., Cum suis._]

[30] [_Slick_ is not obsolete in the sense of smooth, _clean_; it appears to be identical with _sleek_, and in the present place carries the meaning of softness.]

[31] [_i.e._, Medoro, the character so called in the "Orlando Furioso." Trotter has just called Giovanno _Orlando_, which was, by the way, a common name for any mad-brained person, and often occurs in poems and plays.]

[32] [Shaken me by the nape of the neck; from _nudder_, the nape.]

[33] [The pin of the wheel by which Antonio was to be executed. Aurelia pretends to desire to tread it herself.]

[34] [St. James.]

[35] [_i.e._, The customary garb.]

[36] [_i.e._, An astrologer and a physician.]

[37] [Former edition, _vorke_.]

[38] [This gibberish is left much as it stands in the old copy.]

[39] [The editor of 1810 printed deliberately _sweet must seat me easie_.]

[40] [Old copy has _as plain--'tis true_.]

[41] [Here used, apparently, in the sense of something of no value, and from the context it may be surmised that _vermin_ is intended.]

[42] [Old copy, _a resurrection_.]

[43] [_i.e._, Vermin.]

[44] [Former edit., _flower_.]

[45] [He quotes a passage from the "First Part of Hieronimo," 1605.]

[46] [Former edit., _And_.]

[47] [_i.e._, The left remnant of thy days.]

[48] [Former edit., _unto_.]

[49] ["This strange jumble (which it seems was acted with applause) may be taken as the most singular specimen extant of the serious mock-heroic. There is nothing in "The Tailors" itself so ludicrous as the serious parts in which the tailors appear. Nevertheless there are a few happy passages in the play."--_MS. note in a copy of the former edit._]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: LUST'S DOMINION or THE LACIVIOUS QUEEN.

[50] "History of English Dram. Poetry," iii. p. 97.

[51] The curtain in front of the old theatres divided in the middle, and was drawn to the sides; but it may save further explanation to add here that, "beside the principal curtain, they sometimes used others as substitutes for scenes."--_Malone._

[52] [Former edit., _sick, heavy, and_.]

[53] [Old copy, _I'll lay there away_.]

[54] [The Moor pretends that he meant to refer to the dead King.]

[55] [Edits., _That seeing_.]

[56] [Old copy, _Here_.]

[57] [The edits., give this speech to Balthazar, but he was not present when the arrangement with the friars was concluded.]

[58] [Bowing.]

[59] In the original this speech is given to Alvero; but it is evidently an error, as he does not enter till some time after.

[60] In the original it runs, _This music was prepar'd thine ears_. An omission was evident. I trust the right reading is restored.--_Dilke._

[61]

"And none of you will bid the winter come, To thrust his icy fingers in my maw."

--"King John," act v. sc. 7.

[62] In the original this is given to Alvero, but evidently in error.

[63] _i.e._, Unchaste.

[64] Muskets.

[65] "The mark at which an arrow is shot, which used to be painted white."--_Johnson._

[66] [An abbreviated form of _God's sonties_, which again is a corruption, though of what is rather doubtful; probably, however, of _God's saints_.]

[67] [Edits., _See_.]

[68] [Hamstring me.]

[69] _Under show of shrift_, or, in other words, as coming to hear me confess.

[70] Thirty masses on the same account.

[71] Despatch.

[72] Strut.

[73] [Edits., give these words to Eleazar.]

[74] With force, vigour, energy, vehemence.

[75] In the original the remainder of this play is jumbled together in strange confusion.

[76] [Edits., _rowls_.]

[77] [Nemesis.]

[78] [Old copies, _they_.]

[79] For that piece of mockery.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: ANDROMANA or THE MERCHANT'S WIFE

[80] [It is, however, printed in the "Ancient British Drama," 1810, and it formed part of the original edition of Dodsley, 1744.]

[81] [Edits., _hangs_.]

[82] [Old copy, _quait_.]

[83] [Edits., _my son_.]

[84] [Edits., _And_.]

[85] [Edits., _There to try it with him_.]

[86] [Old copy, _at first_.]

[87] [Edits., _were_.]

[88] [Edits., _now_.]

[89] [Edits., _word or two_, which seems to be a redundancy, both in the metre and sense.]

[90] [Edits., _not to_.]

[91] [Edits., _and could_.]

[92] [Edits., _And shew_.]

[93] [Edit. 1810 prints _Consequently distate_.]

[94] _Mischievously_ or _wickedly_. So in "All's Well that Ends Well," act iv. sc. 5--

"A shrewd knave and an _unhappy_."

See also Mr Steevens's note on "Henry VIII.," act i. sc. 4.

[95] A tragedy by Sir John Denham, acted at Blank Friars, and printed in folio, 1642.

[96] [A very common phrase, in the sense of _accorded_, _agreed_.]

[97] [_i.e._, No skill in physiognomy.]

[98] [Edits., _so much_.]

[99] [Edits., _fright_.]

[100] [Edits., _I must confess, had I_.]

[101] [Edits., _Friends here, been_.]

[102] [Edits., _I wish that he might live, my lords_.]

[103] [Edits., _the_.]

[104] [Edits., _upon_.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: LADY ALIMONY

[105] [The author of a curious satire on the female sex, printed in 1616. See Hazlitt, in _v._]

[106] [Ingenuously.]

[107] [Notwithstanding the explanation found in Nares and Halliwell, it appears to me that this term is here, at least, intended in the sense of _bully_ or _ruffian_, especially when we compare the next speech of the Messenger.]

[108] [Literally, an inferior kind of hawk, but here used to signify a coward, a poor creature.]

[109] [This term, borrowed from the old romance so called, is frequently employed in the sense of an adventurer or knight-errant.]

[110] [This word seems here to signify an infinitessimal quantity, a cypher, a nonentity, in which sense it is apparently unglossed.]

[111] [Figgaries.]

[112] [Query, a page who walks behind a lady in the street. Compare Halliwell in _v._]

[113] [Sheldrake, or shieldrake.]

[114] [A play on the similarity of sound between _meddler_ and _medlar_.]

[115] [Tobacco. Old copy, _mundungo's_.]

[116] [Old copy, _her_.]

[117] [Old copy, _him_.]

[118] [Old copy, _Ciens_.]

[119] [Old copy, _with_.]

[120] [Old copy, _century_.]

[121] [An equivoque may be intended.]

[122] [Old copy, _Apozems_. Perhaps the boy means _pozzets_.]

[123] [Old copy, _masquerellas_.]

[124] [Capricious, fanciful.]

[125] [Old copy, _breath'd_.]

[126] [Old copy, _not my sad fate t' observe_.]

[127] [Old copy, _Gothsemay_.]

[128] [Moustachoes.]

[129] [Loose, scattered.]

[130] [Sporter, if indeed it is not to be taken in an obscene sense, as suggested by one of the interpretations in Nares.]

[131] [See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 301.]

[132] [Trifling.]

[133] [Of course a play on the similarity between _folio_ and _foolio_.]

[134] [Old copy, _small to_.]

[135] [Old copy, _all that was all_.]

[136] [See Nares, arts, _lave-eared_, and _loave-ears_.]

[137] [Old copy, _hair_. See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," p. 392.]

[138] [Literally, to lie on the ground, like game; but it is here used in the sense _to lie_.]

[139] [This passage seems to corroborate the explanation already given of this word.]

[140] [Old copy, _Nor_.]

[141] [Old copy, _that endeared_.]

[142] [Leopard.]

[143] [More usually spelt _carricks_.]

[144] [Successful.]

[145] [The two Citizens appear to retire only, while the events occupying the two next scenes take place, after which they come forward again.]

[146] [Attempt, enterprise.]

[147] [A not unusual form of Algiers.]

[148] [_i.e._, Is that thy cue.]

[149] [Old copy, _land prisado_. See Dyce's Middleton, iii. 532.]

[150] [Old copy, _Elose_.]

[151] [Old copy, _out a_.]

[152] [This song is not noticed in Mr Halliwell's "Early Naval Ballads," 1841.]

[153] [Staunch.]

[154] [In 1641 appeared a tract entitled "The Brothers of the Blade answerable to the Sisters of the Scabbard," &c., but the phrase was, no doubt, older.]

[155] [Old copy, _yet_.]

[156] [An allusion to the well-known practice of chalking up scores at taverns. See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 386.]

[157] [Housewife. Perhaps it had already, however, become in vogue in a contemptuous sense.]

[158] [An obvious imitation of Shakespeare's Dogberry.]

[159] [The island of Bermuda was formerly supposed to be enchanted, and was sometimes called by the sailors the Isle of Devils. This is a curious passage: the writer had perhaps in his recollection the speech of Ariel in the "Tempest," act i. sc. 2. The old copy has _Barmondes_. See Hunter's "New Illustrations of Shakespeare," i. 149.]

[160] [Without weapons.]

[161] [Old copy, _Sought_.]

[162] [Old copy, _mine_.]

[163] [Mares.]

[164] [The names of rooms in the tavern.]

[165] [Perhaps a portion of the garden reserved for lady-guests.]

[166] [Light skirt. Compare Halliwell in _v._]

[167] [An indelicate equivoque.]

[168] [Probably the same as _demaynes_, possessions. See Halliwell in _v._]

[169] [Entertainment.]

[170] [The Spring Garden.]

[171] [Dispersed.]

[172] [_i.e._, To the life.]

[173] [Cowardice.]

[174] [A word formed from _staniel_, a base kind of hawk, and thence used figuratively as a term of contempt.]

[175] [Nares quotes this passage only for the word; compare Halliwell, _v._ Stichall.]

[176] [Wiseacre.]

[177] [Alimony.]

[178] [_i.e._, More calf.]

[179] [A play is intended on the words _Seville_ and _civil_.]

[180] [Property.]

[181] [Perhaps we should read _lo, infinitely_ as spoken aside, and possibly the author wrote _infinite lie_.]

[182] [An adaptation of the often-quoted _Amantium irA|_, &c.]

[183] [Old copy, _adventurers_.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: THE PARSON'S WEDDING

[184] "Sidney Papers," vi. 373.--_Gilchrist._

[185] No. 8383.

[186] Carew's Poems, [edit. Hazlitt, pp. 103-4.]

[187] "Life of Lord Clarendon," p. 116.

[188] P. 41, edit. 1719. The stanza which relates particularly to his authorship is the following:--

"But who says he was not A man of much plot May repent the false accusation; Having plotted and penn'd Six plays, to attend The Farce of his negotiation."

--_Collier._

[189] Query; Lysons says 1684.--_Gilchrist._

[190] [Both these plays were printed in 12^o, 1641, with verses prefixed by H. Bennet, afterwards the celebrated Earl of Arlington, Robert Waring, and William Cartwright.]

[191] An account of Sir W. Killigrew will be found in Restituta, ii. 130. The three first of his plays here mentioned were published together in 8^o in 1664 or 1665, for the title-pages bear both these dates. Pandora was "not approved upon the stage as a tragedy," and therefore the author turned it into a comedy, and Waller wrote some lines upon the change.--_Collier._

[192] A play called The Imperial Tragedy has also been assigned to him upon no adequate authority.--_Collier._

[193] This play was originally represented wholly by women. See Wright's "Historia Histrionica," 1690, _post_, and Grainger's "Hist. Engl." iv. On this occasion a Prologue and Epilogue were spoken by Mrs Marshall (of whom see "Memoires de Grammont," p. 202, edit. 4^o. Strawberry Hill), which are printed in "Covent Garden Drollery," 1672, p. 3.--_Gilchrist._

[194] _i.e._, The game. _Quarry_ is a term both of hunting and falconry. The allusion here is to the former. _Quarrie_ (as referring to the latter), according to Latham's explanation, "is taken for the fowle which is flowne at, and slaine at any time, especially when young hawks are flowne thereunto."

[195] So in "Every Man in his Humour," act iii. sc. 1--

"Good captain _faces about_."

And in Fletcher's "Scornful Lady," act v.--

"Cutting Morecraft _faces about_."

And again, in "The Knight of the Burning Pestle," Ralph, exercising his men, says--

"Double your files: as you were; _faces about_."

[196] The exclamation of a highwayman on stopping a passenger, as many examples would prove. It is only noticed now for the sake of mentioning an ingenious turn given to it in Middleton's "Phoenix," 1607, where one of the characters justifies robbery by observing, "As long as drunkenness is a vice, _stand_ is a virtue."--_Collier._

[197] [The folio reads _Paxat_.]

[198] [? By the side of.]

[199] [The Parson is describing the Captain as a recruiting officer.]

[200] A _galley foist_ was the name of a pleasure-boat, or one used on particular days for pomp and state. The Lord Mayor's and Companies' barges were sometimes formerly called "The City Galley Foists." See Wood's "South-East View of the City and part of Southwark, as it appeared about the year 1599."

[201] [Common. See Nares, edit. 1859, in _v._] This epithet of contempt is of frequent occurrence: _provand_, as all the commentators on "Romeo and Juliet," act ii. sc. 1, agree, means _provision_. In Massinger's "Maid of Honour," act i. sc. 1, we meet with it applied to a sword, and Mr. Gifford explains it to mean there _plain, unornamented_, such a sword as the troops were provided with....--_Collier._

[202] A _fox_ was formerly a cant word for a sword. So in Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair," act ii. sc. 6: "What would you have, sister, of a fellow that knows nothing but a basket-hilt and an _old fox_ in't?" Again, in "Philaster," by Beaumont and Fletcher,

## act iv.--

"I made my father's _old fox_ fly about his ears."

And in "Henry V.," by Shakespeare, act iv. sc. 4--

"Thou diest on point of _fox_."

See Steevens's note on the latter passage, where many passages of our ancient writers are produced to prove the explanation.

[203] [Old copy, _half_.]

[204] This custom, strange as it would now appear, was the constant practice of gentlemen in the 17th century. When on visits, either of ceremony or business, or even in company of ladies and at public places, their constant amusement was to comb their hair or wigs, and the fashion continued until the reign of Queen Anne. Dryden alludes to it in the Prologue to "Almanzor and Almahide"--

"But, as when vizard masque appears in pit Straight every man, who thinks himself a wit, Perks up; and managing _his comb_ with grace, With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face."

And Mincing, in "The Way of the World," says--

"The gentlemen stay but to _comb_, madam, and will wait on you."

These instances I am indebted for to Mr Steevens.--_Reed._

To the above instances may be added the following, which will show that the fashion mentioned in the text kept its ground a considerable length of time.

"How we rejoic'd to see 'em in our pit! What difference, methought, there was Betwixt a country gallant and a wit. When you did _order perriwig with comb_, They only us'd four fingers and a thumb."

--Epilogue to "The Wrangling Lovers," 1677.

"He looked, indeed, and sighed and set his cravat-string, and sighed again, and _combed his perriwig_: sighed a third time, and then took snuff, I guess to shew the whiteness of his hand."--"The Fortune Hunters," act i. sc. 2, 1689.

"How have I shook and trembling stood with awe, When here, behind the scenes, I've seen 'em draw ----A _comb_; that dead-doing weapon to the heart, And turn each powder'd hair into a dart."

--Prologue to "The Relapse," 1697.

[205] Terms at the game of gleek, which she is supposed to love immoderately.--_Pegge._

[206] William Lilly gives the following account of John Booker, the person here mentioned:--He "was born in Manchester, in the year 1601; was in his youth well instructed in the Latin tongue, which he understood very well. He seemed, from his infancy, to be designed for astrology; for, from the time he had any understanding, he would be always poring on and studying almanacks. He came to London at fitting years, and served an apprenticeship to an haberdasher in Lawrence Lane, London: but either wanting stock to set up, or disliking the calling, he left his trade, and taught to write, at Hadley, in Middlesex, several scholars in that school. He wrote singularly well both secretary and Roman. In process of time he served Sir Christopher Clethero, Knight, alderman of London, as his clerk, being a city justice of peace. He also was clerk to Sir Hugh Hammersley, alderman of London: both which he served with great credit and estimation, and, by that means, became not only well known, but as well respected, of the most eminent citizens of London, even to his dying day.

"He was an excellent proficient in astrology; whose excellent verses upon the twelve months, framed according to the configurations of each month, being blessed with success according to his predictions, procured him much reputation all over England. He was a very honest man; abhorred any deceit in the art he studied; had a curious fancy in judging of thefts, and as successful in resolving love-questions. He was no mean proficient in astronomy; he understood much in physic; was a great admirer of the antimonial cup; not unlearned in chymistry, which he loved well, but did not practise. He died in 1667."

[207] The etymology of this word is doubted; but as it was not used in English until about the time of the Restoration, it is most probably from the French _gentil_, and not from the Teutonic.--_Collier._ [The word is sometimes, but incorrectly, spelt _jaunty_.]

[208] A _bay-window_ is a [recess of a square or polygonal form, serving as a window, and is strictly distinct from a _bow_-window, the name of which indicates its character and shape; the two are often confounded.] The term frequently occurs in ancient writers. So in the "Second Part of Antonio and Melida," by Marston, act i. sc. 3--

"Three times I grasp'd at shades: And thrice deluded by erroneous sense, I forc'd my thoughts make stand; when, lo! I op'd A large _bay-window_, thorough which the night Struck terror to my soul."

Again, in "Cynthia's Revels," act iv. sc. 3: "In which time (retiring myself into a _bay-window_) the beauteous lady Annabel," &c.

And in "A Chast Mayd in Cheape-side," by Middleton, 1630, p. 62--

"In troth a match, wench: We are simply stock'd with cloth of tissue, cushions, To furnish out _bay-windows_."

[209] So in the epilogue to "Evening Love, or the Mock Astrologer," by Dryden--

"Up starts a _Monsieur_, new come o'er; and warm In the _French stoop_, and the pull back o' th' arm; Morbleu, dit il," &c.]

[210] [The sign of an inn there. See x. 212.]

[211] The manner in which houses were marked in which the plague was raging.--_Collier._

[212] The usual manner in which ladies formerly addressed their lovers. See Ben Jonson's "Every Man in his Humour," act iv. sc. 2, and "Every Man out of his Humour," act iii. sc. 9; Massinger's "Fatal Dowry," act ii. sc. 2; "Bashful Lover," act iv. sc. 1; "A Very Woman," act i. sc. 1; Shakespeare's "Two Gentlemen of Verona," act ii. sc. 1, and the same is to be seen in most of the dramatic productions of the times.--_Reed._

This title, which was a mark of favouritism tolerated by married women towards unmarried gentlemen in the reigns of James and Charles, is found in almost every old play. The plot of Chapman's "Monsieur D'Olive," turns upon the not very unnatural jealousy of a husband towards this equivocal service in a friend. See [the new edition of Chapman's plays.]--_Gilchrist._

[213] [A translation from the French by the Honourable Walter Montague, 8^o, 1656.]

[214] [Medlars.]

[215] The weight of a wedding-ring, in Middleton's time (a little earlier than that of Killigrew), may be seen by the following part of a dialogue from his "Chaste Maid in Cheapside," 1630, p. 7--

"TOUCHWOOD, _jun_. I would have a wedding-ring made for a gentlewoman, with all speed that may be.

"YELLOWHAMMER. Of what _weight_, sir?

"TOUCHWOOD, _jun_. Of some _half ounce_."

--_Collier._

[216] A _gredaline petticoat_ is probably a petticoat _puckered_, or _crumpled_, from the French word _grediller_. See Cotgrave. In Boyer's Dictionary it is explained, _Gris de lin, sorte de couleur_.

[217] Paulo Purganti's wife has the same sentiment. She

"thought the nation ne'er wou'd thrive, Till all the whores were burnt alive."

--_Prior._

[218] [Pearl here, and in three or four other places below, is used as a plural, _quasi_ a rope of pearl.]

[219] Or lief.

[220] [_i.e._, On all sides, both by the bye and the main passages.]

[221] [Old copy, _your_.]

[222] See note to "Albumazar" [xi. 328].

[223] [Old copy, _your_.]

[224] [Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 343, and note to Tomkis's "Albumazar," xi. 334-5.]

[225] [Platonic lovers.]

[226] [A very ancient office at the court; but here, of course, intended in another sense.]

[227] This word is seldom used as a verb: as an adjective it is not uncommon. See note to "Cornelia," [v. 230]. In this place it ought to be understood as "_was haught_ among the men." It was anciently printed _hault_ and _halty_, to be nearer the etymology: thus in Wilson's "Rhetorique," 1558, fol. 9, in the eulogy upon the Duke of Suffolk and his brother, we are told that they were "_hault_ without hate, kynde without crafte:" and in "The Orator, handling a hundred severall Discourses," by L. Piot [_i.e._, Anthony Munday], Decl. 81, p. 327, "for to say the truth, every _haulty_ spirit are in that like unto women, who do for the most part covet after that which they are forbidden to touch."--_Collier._

[228] Bows. So in the "Wonderful Yeare, 1603" [attributed to Dekker]: "Janus (that beares two faces under one hood) made a very mannerly _lowe legge_," &c. And again--

"He calls forth one by one, to note their graces; Whilst they _make legs_, he copies out their faces."

--_Ibid._

[229] [Pother.]

[230] _Outcry_ was the ancient term for _an auction_. As in Massinger's "City Madam," act i. sc. 3--

"The goods of this poor man sold at an _out-cry_. His wife turn'd out of doors, his children forc'd To beg their bread."

And again in Middleton's "Chast Mayd in Cheape-side" [Dyce's edit. iv. 58:]

"I'll sell all at an _out-cry_."

Again in Ben Jonson's "Catiline," act ii. sc. 3--

"Their houses, and fine gardens, given away, And their goods, under the spear at _outcry_."

Upon which last passage Mr Whalley observes, that "the Roman way of selling things by auction was setting up a spear; and hence the phrase _sub hasta vendere_."

[231] See Evans's "Collection of Old Ballads," i. 292.

The story of Whittington and his Cat, though under different names, is common to various languages. Messrs Grim have pointed it out in German, and it is given in Italian as one of [the "Facetie" of the] celebrated Arlotto under the following title: "_Il Piovano, a un prete che fece mercantia di palle, dice la novella della gatte._" He relates it of a _mercante Genovese avventurato il quale navigando fu portato dalla fortuna a una isola lontanissima_. The story was probably borrowed in English and assigned to Whittington: it is noticed in "Eastward Hoe" as "the famous fable of Whittington and his Puss." This play was written soon after 1603, and the ballad in Evans's collection is [certainly in its present form] not so old. The "Novella" was printed in Italy [soon after 1500]; and Arlotto, to whom it is attributed, died in 1483.

[232] [Old copy, _Hope, a half peny_, &c. This appears to be an allusion to the proverb,

"At the west-gate came Thornton in, With a hop, a halfpenny, and a lamb's skin."

See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," p. 78. Thornton was a merchant of Newcastle.]

[233] [In the modern editions, this speech improperly makes part of the next scene.]

[234] [The folio reads _Mistress_.]

[235] An _aunt of the suburbs_ was synonymous with _bawd_. See [Dyce's Middleton, i. 444.]

[236] [From the context, evidently a place of entertainment, a kind of restaurant. Perhaps the modern Glass-House Street may fix the site.]

[237] _i.e._, The bill of the mortality by the plague. The theatres were sometimes closed, in consequence of the prevalence of the disease. Such was the case in the latter end of the reign of Elizabeth. See note to Nash's "Summer's Last Will and Testament [viii. 15]."--_Collier._

[238] [The folio reads _hogough_.]

[239] [In old copy this word forms part of the next sentence.]

[240] [Probably a tavern so called.]

[241] [The weight inserted in a bowl.]

[242] This probably is the same tavern mentioned in "A Match at Midnight," act i.: "My master means the _sign of the Devil_," &c.--_Collier._

[243] [_i.e._, It is presumed, put a quart of sack into your head at my expense. He afterwards gives him an angel. A _half-moon_ was an old cant term for a wig. See Dyce's Middleton, ii. 382.]

[244] _i.e._, _Who_ can that be? In this manner the word _who_ is pronounced in some parts of the kingdom, particularly in the county of Kent.--_Pegge._

[245] _i.e._, The Tailor, who very suddenly got drunk, and as suddenly drowsy.--_Collier._

[246] Jolly makes his _exit_ at the same time, and returns again where his entrance is marked.--_Collier._

[247] [Probably Faithful's Christian name was _Moll_, which Jolly pronounces _Mull_.]

[248] [See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 141.]

[249] [This word was perhaps then, as now, understood in a cant sense.]

[250] [A crowd had assembled outside, it appears, inquisitive to know what was going on within.]

[251] [Old copy, _thy_.]

[252] [A proverbial expression for a simpleton.]

[253] [In how stately a fashion she carries herself.]

[254] [Drunken, from the Dutch _op zee_, which means literally _at sea_, and thence drunk, like our own _half-seas-over_.]

[255] [Summoner.]

[256] [A play on words.]

[257] [Alluding to the common expression, Fools have fortune.]

[258] [The folio, _you he_.]

[259] Alluding to the acts of Oliver Cromwell's parliament for punishing adultery, incest, and fornication; by which it was declared that the two former should be punishable with death on the first offence, and the latter upon the second conviction. "These acts," an excellent writer (Mr Barrington on the Statutes) observes, "could not have continued long unrepealed, _even if Charles II._ had not succeeded to the throne." It has been doubted whether there were any instances of carrying them into execution, notwithstanding the rigidness of the times wherein they were enacted. A newspaper, however, of that period furnishes an example which, from the extraordinary circumstances attending it, may perhaps be considered as not unworthy of being preserved. In _Mercurius Politicus_, No. 168, from Thursday, Aug. 25, to Thursday, Sept. 1, 1653, p. 2700, is the following passage:--"At Monmouth Assize an old man of _eighty-nine years_ was put to death for adultery, committed with a woman above _sixty_."

[260] [Lindabrides is a character in the "Mirror of Knighthood," once a famous romance. The name was afterwards applied to women of a certain class. She is mentioned in act ii. of "A Match at Midnight."]

[261] [Dragged.]

[262] This incident is borrowed from the Italian, and it is employed by many of their novelists. It also forms the eighth story of "Les Comptes du Monde adventureux," printed at [Paris in 1555, and a translation from the Italian.] Casti founded his tale of "La Celia" upon it, with the variation of making the old woman a negress; but in this change he was not original. Richard Brome employed it in his "Novella," acted at the Blackfriars Theatre thirty years before Killigrew's play was published.--_Collier._

[263] [A hit at some of the frivolous poetry of an earlier period. See Hazlitt's "Handbook" _v._ Lenton.]

[264] The _sickness_ was the common name for the plague. See Gifford's Ben Jonson, iii. 353, iv. 9, &c.--_Collier._

[265] This alludes to one of the regulations made to prevent the spreading of the plague. When a house became infected, the officers empowered for that purpose immediately placed a guard before it, which continued there night and day, to prevent any person going from thence until the expiration of forty days. At the same time, _red crosses, of a foot long_ were painted on the doors and windows, with the words LORD HAVE MERCY UPON US, in great letters, wrote over them, to caution all passengers to avoid infected places.

In a collection of epigrams, entitled, "More Fools Yet," written by R. S. (Roger Sharpe), 1610, 4^o, is the following--

"Rusticus, an honest country swayne, Whose education simple was, and plaine, Having survey'd the citie round about, Emptyed his purse, and so went trudging out. But by the way he saw, and much respected, A doore belonging to a house infected; Whereon was plac't (as 'tis the custome still) _Lord have mercy upon us!_ This sad bill The sot perusde; and having read, he swore, All London was, ungodly, but that doore. Here dwells some vertue yet, sayes he; for this A most devout religious saying is: And thus he wisht (with putting off his hatte) That every doore had such a bill as that."

[266] Robert Gomersall, in 1628, published a poem, in three cantos, called "The Levite's Revenge." It arrived at a second edition in 1633, and seems to have been popular.--_Collier._

[267] This is probably meant to ridicule John Ball, a celebrated puritan divine, born in 1585, and died in 1640, after publishing many religious controversial works.--_Collier._

[268] It seems doubtful whether the preceding part of this speech does not belong to Wanton.--_Collier._

[269] [Mistress.]

[270] _To fling an old shoe_ after a person to produce good luck is a custom still spoken of, and hardly yet disused. It is mentioned in many writers: as in "The Wild Goose Chase," act ii. sc. 1--

"If ye see us close once, Begone, and leave me to my fortune suddenly, For I am then determined to do wonders. Farewell, _and fling an old shoe_."

[271] See note to "A Match at Midnight" [xiii. 81].

[272] One of the original actors in the plays of Shakespeare. See an account of him in Wright's "Historia Histrionica" _infrAc_, vol. xv.

[273] Banks, who was famous for a horse, which was taught to show tricks, and perform several feats of art, to the great admiration of the virtuoso spectator. This celebrated horse is mentioned by several writers of Queen Elizabeth's time, as Ben Jonson, in "Every Man out of his Humour," act iv. sc. 6: "He keeps more ado with this monster than ever _Banks_ did with his horse, or the fellow with the elephant."

Again, in "Jack Drum's Entertainment," sig. B 3: "It shall be chronicled next after the death of _Bankes his horse_."

Again, in Dekker's "Satiromastix," 1602: "I'll teach thee to turn me into _Bankes_ his horse, and to tell gentlemen I am a juggler, and can show tricks."

And in Dekker's "Wonderfull Yeare," 1603: "These are those ranck riders of art, that have so spur gal'd your lustie wing'd Pegasus, that now he begins to be out of flesh, and (even only for provander sake) is glad to show tricks like _Bankes_ his curtall."

See Digby "On Bodies," c. 37, p. 393. Sir Walter Raleigh's "History of the World," 1st part, p. 178. Gayton's "Notes on Don Quixote,"