part ii

. p. 303.]

[91] These four lines seem to be a quotation, probably from some old ballad.

[92] Here is an evident allusion to two passages in the Gospel of St Matthew.

## ACT IV., SCENE I.

_Enter_ MISTRESS JANE, GODFREY SPEEDWELL, _and_ MASTER LAMBSKIN.

JANE. Gentlemen, my father's not within; please you to walk a turn or two in the garden; he'll not be long.

LAMB. Your father, Mistress Jane? I hope you have observation in you, and know our humours; we come not a-wooing to your father.

SPEED. Experience must bear with folly; thou art all innocent, and thy name is Lambskin; grave sapience guides me, and I care not a pin for thy squibs and thy crackers. My old dry wood shall make a lusty bonfire when thy green chips shall lie hissing in the chimney-corner. Remember, mistress, I can make you a lady by mine own experience.

LAMB. Prythee, do not stand troubling the gentlewoman with thy musty sentences, but let her love be laid down betwixt us like a pair of cudgels, and into whose hands she thrusts the weapons first, let him take up the bucklers.[93]

SPEED. A match between us.

JANE. Must I be stickler, then?

LAMB. We are both to run at the ring of your setting-up, and you must tell us who deserves most favour.

JANE. But will you stand both at my disposing?

LAMB. Else let me never stand but in a pillory.

JANE. You love me both, you say?

SPEED. By this hand!

LAMB. Hand? Zounds! by the four-and-twenty elements.

JANE. Pray spare your oaths; I do believe you do, You would not else make all this stir to woo. Sir Godfrey, you are a knight both tough and old; A rotten building cannot long time hold.

LAMB. Speedwell, live well, die well, and be hanged well, change your copy well, your experience will not carry it else.

JANE. You're rich too, at least yourself so say; What, though you're but a gilded man of clay.

LAMB. A man of gingerbread; i' faith, I could find in my heart to eat him.

JANE. Should I wed you, the fire with frost must marry, January and May! I for a younger tarry.

LAMB. That's I! In troth, I'll be thy young Lambskin; thou shalt find me as innocent as a sucking dove. Speak, sweet mistress, am I the youth in a basket?

JANE. You are the sweet youth, sir, whose pretty eyes Would make me love; but you must first be wise.

SPEED. Ha, ha! Is your coxcomb cut? I see experience must board this fair pinnace. A word in private.

LAMB. I'll have no words in private, unless I hear too. [_Retire._

_Enter_ MASTER BREWEN, STEPHEN, _and_ ROBERT.

BREW. Come, gentlemen, we'll make few words about it: Merchants in bargaining must not, like soldiers Lying at a siege, stay moneths, weeks, days, But strike at the first parley. Broadcloths and wools, and other rich commodities, I lately from your brother brought, are all your own.

STEPH. 'Tis well.

BREW. Then be not angry, gentle sir, If now a string be touch'd, which hath too long Sounded so harshly over all the city; I now would wind it to a musical height.

STEPH. Good master alderman, I think that string Will still offend mine ear; you mean the jarring 'Twixt me and my brother?

BREW. In troth, the same.

STEPH. I hate no poison like that brother's name.

BREW. O fie! not so.

STEPH. Uncivil churl, when all his sails were up, And that his proud heart danc'd on golden waves----

BREW. As, heaven be thanked, it still does!

STEPH. Yet, sir, then, I being sunk, and drown'd in mine own misery, He would not cast out a poor line of thread, And bring me to the shore; I had been dead, And might have starv'd for him.

BREW. A better fate, sir, Stood at your elbow.

STEPH. True, sir: this was he, That lifted me from want and misery; Whose cruel father, for that [act of] good, Cast him away, scorning his name and blood; Lopp'd from his side this branch that held me dear; For which he's now my son, my joy, my heir. But, for his father, hang him!

BREW. Fie, fie!

STEPH. By heaven!

BREW. Come, come, Live in more charity, he is your brother; If that name offend, I'll sing that tune no more. Yonder's my daughter busy with her suitors; We'll visit them. Now, Jane, bid your friends welcome.

JANE. They must be welcome, sir, that come with you; To thee ten thousand welcomes still are due.

ROB. My sweet mistress! [_Kisses her._

LAMB. Zounds! Sir knight, we have stood beating the bush, and the bird's flown away; this city bowler has kissed the mistress[94] at first cast.

BREW. How fare ye, gentlemen? what cheer, sir knight?

SPEED. An adventurer still, sir, to this new-found land.[95]

LAMB. He sails about the point, sir; but he cannot put in yet.

BREW. The wind may turn, sir. [_To_ STEPHEN.] A word, Master Foster. [_They converse apart._

LAMB. You see, Sir Speedwell, what card is turned up for trump; I hold my life, this spruce citizen will forestall the market: O, these brisk factors are notable firkers.

SPEED. I doubt, sir, he will play the merchant[96] with us.

BREW. They both are suitors, sir, yet both shoot wide; My daughter, sure, must be your kinsman's bride.

STEPH. I'll give her a wedding-ring on that condition, And put a stone in't worth a thousand pound, sir.

BREW. You have my hand and heart to't, be she pleased so.

LAMB. 'Sfoot! let's show ourselves gallants or gallymawfries:[97] shall we be outbraved by a cockney? [_To_ ROBERT.] A word, my fair Zenocrates; do you see, sir, here be those that have gone a-fishing, and can give you a gudgeon?

ROB. You were best go fish for better manners, or I shall bob for eels[98] with you. [_Strikes him._

LAMB. Zounds! are you a striker? Draw, sir knight.

BREW. Not in my house; I pray, be quiet, gentlemen.

ROB. He dares not do't abroad, believe me, sir.

STEPH. Now, by my life, my boy, for this brave spirit I'll hug thee in mine arms: lose life and limbs, Ere thou forsake thy love.

LAMB. He is no rival he, sir,[99] has struck me; And we are gentlemen.

SPEED. And hear ye, sir; let him seek out his equals; for some of us are in danger to make her a lady shortly: I know what I speak; what I speak I'll do; yet I'll do nothing but what comes from grave experience.

STEPH. Speak what you please, sir; he's a gentleman As good as either of you both; and shall In list of love, for such a bedfellow, Brave him that dares; and here lay down more gold To win her love than both your states are worth.

SPEED. Ha! do you know us, sir? you grow too bold; my experience now hath found you: you were once a tattered fellow, your name is Foster; have you such gold to give?

LAMB. Yes, yes, 'has won it betting at the bowling-alleys, or at the pigeon-holes in the garden-alleys.

STEPH. You are muddy grooms[100] to upbraid me with that scorn Which virtue now gilds over. Pray ye, gentlemen, May I request your names?

LAMB. Our names are in the heralds' books, I warrant you; My name is Innocent Lambskin; and this knight, Simply though he stands here, is known to be Sir Godfrey Speedwell.

STEPH. Well may he speed, sir. Lambskin and Speedwell. Ha! is't so? I think I shall give you a medicine to purge this itch of love, sir.

LAMB. No itch neither, sir; we have no scabs here But yourself and your cousin.

STEPH. Very good, sir! my little Lambskin, I have you Here in sheep's-skin [_Produces a parchment_]; look you, 'tis so, i' faith. See, master alderman, these two crack'd gallants Are in several bonds to my predecessor For a debt of full two thousand a-piece. Cousin, fetch me a sergeant straight.

ROB. Yes, sir.

SPEED. O, let him: I have a protection, sir.

STEPH. I'll try that, sir.

SPEED. A sergeant? nay, then, Experience must work: legs be strong and bold:

When sergeants wait at feasts, the cheer's but cold. I'll shift for one. [_Exit._

LAMB. Knight, knight! 'Sfoot! if an errand-knight run away, I were an errand ass to tarry, and be catched in the lime-bush: I love the wench well; but if they have no hole to place me in but the hole in the counter, I'll be gone and leave 'em; that's flat. [_Exit._

BREW. You have scared the suitors from the mark, sir.

STEPH. I am glad on't, sir; they are but such as seek To build their rotten state on you, and with your wealth To underprop their weakness: Believe me, reverend sir, I had much rather You'd venture that my coz might call you father.

BREW. We'll talk of that anon. See, sir, here comes you wife.

_Enter_ STEPHEN'S WIFE.

The theme of all her time, with goodness mix'd, The happy woman that was never vex'd. You're welcome, Mistress Foster.

WIFE. I thank ye, sir.

STEPH. Wife, your two debtors Were here but now, Speedwell and Lambskin. A wolf could not have torn poor Lambskin worse Than the bare name of sergeant: the very thought Made them both take their heels and run away.

WIFE. 'Las! they are poor and lean, and being so, Kill them not till they are fatter.

STEPH. At thy girdle, sweet, hang the keys To lock the prison doors or let them loose: 'Twas my intent only (in way of mirth) To rid them from the presence of Mistress Jane, That our adopted son might have no bar Unto his love.

WIFE. The match is fair; and were that knot once tied, I'd send some angels to attend the bride.

_Enter_ GEORGE.

STEPH. Sir, here's your factor.

BREW. Are the wares ready?

GEORGE. Yes, and delivered, sir, to Master Foster's servants, who conveyed them in carts to the Custom House, there to be shipped; but going with them, sir, I met ill news.

BREW. Ill news? what is't?

GEORGE. Old Master Foster's ships, so richly laden, By strange misfortune, sir, are cast away.

BREW. Now heaven forbid!

ROB. O me!

STEPH. How? cast away? where?

BREW. 'Tis impossible; they rid at Dover safe When he outbought my full share in the fraught, And paid me down near thirty thousand pounds In wares and money.

GEORGE. Which, had he not done, you had lost your venture. By Master Foster's own appointment, sir, they weighed Their anchors up, and so to come for London; But by a merciless storm they all were swallowed, Even in the Thames's mouth: yet the men were sav'd, But all the goods were lost.

ROB. O my poor father! This loss will break his back.

STEPH. Ha! what is that to you? If in my favour You'll sit warm, then bury all love to him, Nay, duty; hear you, sir? What! shedd'st thou tears For him that had no care to see thy heart Drop blood? He was unnatural, and heaven Hath justly now rewarded him.

BREW. 'Tis a most strange fate! He needs would buy my part at any rate; And now all's lost.

STEPH. Greedy desire he swallowed, And now is swallowed: 'tis but his hire, And I'll not pity it no more than he In his abundance did my misery.

WIFE. I grieve for my poor gossip, his good wife; She never met good fortune all her life, And this will break her heart-strings: In good sooth, I'll go and comfort her.

STEPH. In good sooth, you shall not; Nor him, nor her, at this time, gentle wife; He scorn'd me in his height: now being poor, If that he needs my help, he knows my door. Sir, we'll for this time leave you; at fitter leisure We'll have this marriage talk'd of.

BREW. At your own good pleasure.

STEPH. Come, wife. Go not to see your father, sir, I charge you.

BREW. Jane, bring your friends to th' door.

ROB. [_Aside._] I'll help my father, though myself grow poor. [_Exeunt._

BREW. Where's my factor?

GEORGE. Here, sir.

BREW. What, are the square stones and timber brought, as I appointed?

GEORGE. Yes, sir, and the workmen that daily ply the work are in number fourscore at least.

BREW. My vows flew up to heaven, that I would make Some pious work in the brass book of fame, That might till doomsday lengthen out my name. Near Norton Folgate, therefore, have I bought Ground to erect this house, which I will call And dedicate St Mary's Hospital; And when 'tis finish'd, o'er the gates shall stand In capital letters, these words fairly graven, For I have given the work and house to heaven, And call'd it _Domus Dei_, God's house; For in my zealous faith I know full well, Where good deeds are, there heaven itself doth dwell. [_Exit._

_Enter_ OLD FOSTER, RICHARD _his factor, and the_ KEEPER OF LUDGATE.

RICH. Good sir, resolve not thus; return again, Your debts are not so great that you should yield Your body thus to prison unconstrain'd.

O. FOS. I will not trust the iron hearts of men; My credit's lost, my wealth the sea has swallowed, Wrack'd at my door, even in the mouth o' th' Thames; O my misfortune! never man like me Was so thrown down and cast to misery.

RICH. Dear sir, be patient!

O. FOS. I prythee, get thee gone, And with thy diligence assist thy mistress To keep that little left to help herself; Whilst here in Ludgate I secure my body From writs, arrests, and executions, Which, well I know, my cruel creditors Will thunder on me. Go, get thee gone! If what is left they'll take, do thou agree; If not, I am resolv'd here to stay and die.

RICH. I'll do my best, sir, to procure your peace. [_Exit._

O. FOS. Do so. [_To the_ KEEPER.] Come, sir, I yield myself your prisoner: You are the keeper of this Ludgate?

KEEPER. Yes, sir; Your name is register'd amongst the prisoners.

O. FOS. So! I have seen the fair outside of this tomb before; This goodly apple has a rotten core.

KEEPER. As all prisons have, sir.

O. FOS. I prythee, bar me of no privilege Due to a free citizen: thou knowest me well?

KEEPER. Yes, Master Foster, and I sorrow for your losses, Yet doubt not but your son and brother----

O. FOS. O, speak not of them! do not kiss and kill me; I have no son nor brother that esteems me, And I for ever hate their memory. Prythee, no more! I am come sick Into a bad inn, and look for worse attendance: I have taken a surfeit of misfortunes, and here Must swallow pills, with poison to recure me: I am sea-sick, sir, and heave my hands to heaven; Ne'er to so low an ebb was Foster driven.

KEEPER. There be some fees to pay, sir, at your coming in.

O. FOS. So, so! If this old walnut-tree, after all this cudgelling, Have but one cluster left, thou shalt have that too; If not, take off these leaves that cover me, Pull off these white locks! rend them from my head! And let them in my woes be buried.

KEEPER. 'Las, sir! this house is poor.

O. FOS. I think no less, For rich men seldom meet with such distress: Well, well! what book must I read over now? What servile oar must I be tied to here, Slave-like to tug within this Christian galley?

KEEPER. Sir, being the youngest prisoner in the house, You must beg at the iron grate above, As others do, for your relief and theirs.

O. FOS. For a beggar to beg, sir, is no shame; And for the iron grate, it bears an emblem Of iron-hearted creditors, that force men lie In loathsome prisons thus to starve and die.

_Enter_ ROBERT.

KEEPER. Who would you speak with, sir? O, cry you mercy! 'tis his son: I'll leave them. [_Exit._

O. FOS. O torment to my soul! what mak'st thou here? Cannot the picture of my misery Be drawn, and hung out to the eyes of men, But thou must come to scorn and laugh at it?

ROB. Dear sir, I come to thrust my back under your load, To make the burden lighter.

O. FOS. Hence from my sight, dissembling villain! go! Thine uncle sends defiance to my woe, And thou must bring it. Hence! thou basilisk, That kill'st me with thine eyes. Nay, never kneel; [ROBERT _kneels_. These scornful mocks more than my woes I feel.

ROB. Alas! I mock ye not, but come in love And natural duty, sir, to beg your blessing; And for mine uncle----

O. FOS. Him and thee I curse; I'll starve ere I eat bread [bought] from his purse Or from thy hand. Out, villain! tell that cur, Thy barking uncle, that I lie not here Upon my bed of riot, as he did, Cover'd with all the villanies which man Had ever woven; tell him I lie not so, It was the hand of heaven struck me thus low, And I do thank it. Get thee gone, I say, Or I shall curse thee, strike thee; prythee, away! Or if thou'lt laugh thy fill at my poor state, Then stay, and listen to the prison-grate, And hear thy father, an old wretched man, That yesterday had thousands, beg and cry To get a penny: O my misery!

ROB. Dear sir, for pity hear me.

O. FOS. Upon my curse I charge no nearer come: I'll be no father to so vile a son. [_Exit._

ROB. O my abortive fate! Why for my good am I thus paid with hate! From this sad place of Ludgate here I freed An uncle, and I lost a father for it; Now is my father here, whom if I succour, I then must lose my uncle's love and favour. My father once being rich, and uncle poor, I him relieving was thrust forth of door. Baffled, revil'd, and disinherited: Now mine own father here must beg for bread, Mine uncle being rich; and yet, if I Feed him, myself must beg. O misery, How bitter is thy taste! yet I will drink Thy strongest poison: fret what mischief can, I'll feed my father; though, like the pelican, I peck mine own breast for him.

[OLD FOSTER _appears above at the grate, a box_ _hanging down_.

O. FOS. Bread, bread! one penny to buy a loaf of bread for the tender mercy!

ROB. O me, my shame! I know that voice full well; I'll help thy wants, although thou curse me still.

O. FOS. Bread, bread! some Christian man send back Your charity to a number of poor prisoners. One penny for the tender mercy! [ROBERT _puts in money_. The hand of heaven reward you, gentle sir, Never may you want, never feel misery; Let blessings in unnumber'd measure grow, And fall upon your head where'er you go.

ROB. O happy comfort! curses to the ground First struck me: now with blessings I am crown'd.

O. FOS. Bread, bread, for the tender mercy! one penny for a loaf of bread!

ROB. I'll buy more blessings: take thou all my store, I'll keep no coin, and see my father poor. [_Puts in more money._

O. FOS. Good angels guard you, sir; my prayers shall be That heaven may bless you for this charity!

ROB. If he knew me, sure he would not say so; Yet I have comfort, if by any means I get a blessing from my father's hands. How cheap are good prayers! a poor penny buys That by which man up in a minute flies, And mounts to heaven.

_Enter_ STEPHEN.

O me! mine uncle sees me.

STEPH. Now, sir, what make you here So near the prison?

ROB. I was going, sir, To buy meat for a poor bird I have, That sits so sadly in the cage of late, I think he'll die for sorrow.

STEPH. So, sir; your pity will not quit your pains: I fear me, I shall find that bird to be That churlish wretch your father, that has taken Shelter here in Ludgate. Go to, sir! urge me not, You had best; I have given you warning; Fawn not upon him, nor come not near him, If you'll have my love.

ROB. 'Las, sir! that lamb Were most unnatural that should hate the dam.

STEPH. Lamb me no lambs, sir!

ROB. Good uncle! alas! You know, when you lay here, I succour'd you, So let me now help him.

STEPH. Yes, as he did me, To laugh and triumph at my misery; You freed me with his gold, but 'gainst his will: For him I might have rotted, and lain still: So shall he now.

ROB. Alack the day!

STEPH. If him thou pity, 'tis thine own decay.

O. FOS. Bread, bread! some charitable man remember the poor prisoners: bread for the tender mercy! one penny!

ROB. O listen, uncle! That's my poor father's voice.

STEPH. There let him howl. Get you gone, and come not near him.

ROB. O my soul, What tortures dost thou feel! Earth ne'er shall find A son so true, yet forc'd to be unkind. [_Exit._

STEPH. Well, go thy ways, thou pattern of true virtue; My heart is full: I could e'en weep, (And much ado I had to forbear.) To hear a brother begging in a jail, That but erewhile spread up a lofty sail As proudly as the best. O, 'twere a sin Unpardonable in me, should I not succour him! Yes, I will do't, yet closely it shall be done, And he not know from whence his comforts come. What ho! keeper, there! a word, I pray.

_Enter_ KEEPER.

KEEPER. What's your pleasure, sir?

STEPH. What's he that at the grate there begg'd even now?

KEEPER. One Master Foster, sir, a decayed citizen new-come in. Cry you mercy, sir, you know him better than myself, I think.

STEPH. I should do, knew he me, as I would know him. Prythee, take him from the grate; and that No more he stand to beg, there is ten pound To pay his score and take off all his wants: If he demand who sends it, tell him 'tis Thine own free hand to lend him money.

KEEPER. Well, sir, I shall.

STEPH. Spend what he will, my purse shall pay it all; And at his parting hence the poorest prisoner, And all free citizens that live in Ludgate, Shall bless his coming in: I'll for his sake Do something now that, whilst this city stands, Shall keep the Fosters' name engraven so high, As no black storm shall cloud their memory.

KEEPER. Heaven bless your purpose, sir! [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ STEPHEN'S WIFE, _and her Sister_, OLD FOSTER'S WIFE.

WIFE. Sister, there's no way to make sorrow light But in the noble bearing; be content. Blows given from heaven are our due punishment: All shipwrecks are no drownings: you see buildings Made fairer from their ruins: he that I married-- The brother to your husband--lay, you know, On the same bed of misery; yet now He's rank'd with the best citizens.

MRS FOS. O, you were born to wealth and happiness; I, to want and scorn!

WIFE. Come, I will work my husband: stay this grief. The longest sorrow finds at last relief.

_Enter_ CLOWN.

Now, sir, your business?

CLOWN. Marry, mistress, here are two creatures, scarce able to make one man, desire to speak with you.

WIFE. What are they? Know their names.

CLOWN. Nay, I know that already: the one is a thing that was plucked into the world by the head and shoulders to be wondered at, and 'tis called a knight; the other is a coach-horse of the same overridden race, and that's a foolish gentleman.

WIFE. O, they are my old debtors, Speedwell and Lambskin: Go, call them in: and, my gentle sister, Comfort yourself and my imprison'd brother, To whom commend me; give to him this gold; What good I can I'll do for him, be bold.

MRS FOS. May heavenly blessings guard you from all ill: Never was woman vex'd as I am still. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SPEEDWELL _and_ LAMBSKIN.

WIFE. Now, good Sir Godfrey and Master Innocent.

LAMB. I put my innocent case into your hands, mistress, as a simple country client thrusts his money into a lawyer's, who stands upon no great terms to take it.

SPEED. We come about the old business, the sickness of the purse, lady.

CLOWN. And they'd be loth to keep their beds i' th' counter, mistress; they are afraid of sergeants; Master Lambskin knows that mace[101] is a binder.

LAMB. No, truly it makes me loose, for I never smell it, though it be two streets off, but it gives me a stool presently.

CLOWN. Ay, you have been a loose liver always: 'tis time to look to you.

SPEED. Fair lady, we are your debtors, and owe you money: Experience tells us that our bonds are forfeit, For which your husband threaten'd to arrest us; My shoulders love no such clappings; I love tobacco, But would be loth to drink in Wood Street pipes:[102] Some money we will pay ere we go hence: I speak, you see, with grave experience.

WIFE. I know it well, sir.

LAMB. Had not your husband (when he went about fowling For the alderman's daughter) driven away the bird,

We might have bidden you to a better breakfast; But now you must take what we can set before you.

_Wife._ I am content to do so: you shall find Nor me nor my husband carry a griping mind.

_Enter_ ROBERT.

Now, coz, where's your uncle?

ROB. He's hard at hand, I saw him coming With the Lord Mayor and Aldermen.

LAMB. Zounds! knight, if the mayor come, The shoulder-clappers are not far off.

WIFE. O, fear not, I'll be your surety, sir.

CLOWN. Do you not smell Poultry ware, Sir Godfrey?

SPEED. Most horribly; I'll not endure the scent on't.

WIFE. Upon my trust, none here shall do you wrong. [_To_ ROBERT.] What is his business with the aldermen?

ROB. About the entertainment of the king, That means to visit London.

WIFE. Saw you your sad father?

ROB. I did; would I might never see man more, Since he so hates my sight! the prison door, Which gapes for comers-in, that mouth of hell, Shut me out with a churlish cold farewell: After my father's most unnatural part Was play'd on misery's stage, mine uncle comes In thunder on me, threatening with black storms To nail me to the earth, if I relieved My poor old father.

_Enter_ STEPHEN.

CLOWN. Here's my master now, gentlemen.

STEPH. O gentlemen, you're both welcome; Have you paid this money on your bonds yet?

WIFE. Not yet, sir; but here they come like honest gentlemen To take some order for it: good sweetheart, Shall it be put to me?

STEPH. Do as you please; In all thy deeds thou'rt govern'd with good stars; Therefore, if thou cry'st peace, I'll not raise wars. E'en order it how thou wilt.

WIFE. I thank ye, sir: then tell me, gentlemen, What present money can you pay?

SPEED. Two hundred pound we can lay down.

LAMB. And take up seven times as much if we knew where to get it; but there's our lamentable case: mistress, if you strip us any nearer, you'll strip the skin and all, I'll assure you.

WIFE. We'll shear no sheep so close.

LAMB. No sheep, forsooth, but a poor Innocent Lambskin.

CLOWN. You should be a calf by your white face.

WIFE. All your two thousand pound, gentlemen, we quit For your two hundred: go, pay the money to my coz, And receive your two bonds cancell'd. [_To_ STEPHEN.] Say, sir, are ye content?

STEPH. Wife, I must stand to the arbitrament. Go, cousin, receive their money: [_To_ CLOWN] and, sirrah, Make them drink.

CLOWN. I'll make them drink, if they will. Come, gallants, empty your bags, and I'll bumbast your bellies: this lean gentleman looks as if he had no lining in's guts; I could take him by the leg, and hurl him into the dog-house.

[_Exeunt_ ROBERT, SPEEDWELL, LAMBSKIN, _and_ CLOWN.

STEPH. How now, sweet wife, what art thou musing on?

WIFE. I must come a-wooing to you, sir.

STEPH. A-wooing, sweet, for what?

WIFE. For your brother: O, 'tis unmeet For souls fram'd by one square to grow uneven! 'Tis like a war 'mongst the great lights of heaven; One cannot lose his beauty, but the other Suffers eclipse--so brother against brother.

STEPH. Wouldst have me kiss him that would kill me?

WIFE. Would you kill a man lying at your feet? Do good for ill.

STEPH. Thy songs are angels' tunes, And on thy wings I'll fly with thee to heaven. Thou speakest as I would have thee; His debts I have justly weighed, and find them light.

WIFE. The easier then ta'en off.

STEPH. Thou sayest most right: But I of purpose keep aloof to try My kinsman, whom I spied most dolefully Hovering about the grate, where his father cried With piteous voice for bread; yet did I chide, And rail'd against the boy, but my heart says (Howe'er my tongue) it was drown'd in tears, To see such goodness in a son.

WIFE. Such wheels in children's bosoms seldom run.

STEPH. I'll lay a wager, wife, that this two hundred pounds, Paid by these foolish fellows, will by the boy Be given his father.

WIFE. Troth, would it might!

STEPH. In doing me such wrong he does me right. Ludgate was once my dwelling, and to shew That I true feeling of his misery knew, Albe't long since blown o'er, so thou'lt consent, Within that place I'll raise some monument, Shall keep our names alive till doomsday.

WIFE. I gladly shall agree To any act that tends to charity.

_Enter_ MASTER BREWEN.

BREW. Come, where's Master Foster? O, you lose time, sir, Not meeting fortune that comes to kiss you! The Lord Mayor and Aldermen stay at the Guildhall Expecting you, as well to set down order Touching the entertainment of the king, As to elect you for the following year A sheriff of London.

STEPH. Their loves outstrip my merit: Yet, since they lay that load on me, I'll bear it, And wait in scarlet on my liege and king. But pray resolve me, master alderman, Why makes the king this visitation?

BREW. Troth, sir, to honour me, I thank his highness, Who with my lord the Cardinal comes along To see the dedication of my house, Built for the weary travellers to rest in; Where stands three hundred beds for their relief, With meat, drink, and some money, when they part; Which I'll give freely with a willing heart.

STEPH. A pious, worthy, and religious act. Come, sir, to th' Guildhall. Wife, look to your kinsman; Watch him near, but do not hinder him If he relieve his father. Come, master alderman: With such sweet incense up your offerings fly, I'll build one altar more to charity. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[93] _i.e._, Let him be declared victor. The expression is not uncommon in our old dramatic writers.

[94] This phrase is, I believe, still common among bowlers, with the exception that the _mistress_ is now called the _jack_.

[95] [An apparent allusion to the then recent settlement of Newfoundland, an account of which is to be found in Vaughan's "Golden Fleece," 1626, and "Newlander's Cure," 1630, besides other works.]

[96] [The word began, even before this, to acquire a bad sense, and was used contemptuously, as we use _chapman_ or _chap_ now.]

[97] This word seems used here with no very definite meaning. Pistol, in the "Merry Wives of Windsor," ii. 1, applies it to Mrs Ford--

"He loves thy gally-mawfrey; Ford, perpend."

[98] [A play on _eels_ and _heels_.]

[99] [Old copy and Dilke read--

"He's no rival here, sir; has struck me."]

[100] [Men, fellows.]

[101] I scarcely need observe that the Clown puns between the _sergeant's mace_ and _the spice_ of that name. Poor as it is, it is common enough.

[102] One of the counters was situated in Wood Street, Cheapside.

## ACT V., SCENE I.

_Ludgate. Enter_ OLD FOSTER, _his_ WIFE, _and_ KEEPER.

KEEPER. Come, come, be merry, sir; do as mourners do at funerals, wear your hat in your eyes, and laugh in your heart.

O. FOS. I have no such fat legacy left me, To teach me how to play the hypocrite.

KEEPER. No? Why, look ye, sir, you shall want neither meat, drink, money, nor anything that the house affords; or if anything abroad like ye, sir, here's money, send for what you will, sir. Nay, you shall beg no more at the grate neither.

O. FOS. Ha! is not this Ludgate?

KEEPER. Yes, sir.

O. FOS. A jail, a prison, a tomb of men lock'd up, Alive and buried?

KEEPER. 'Tis what you please to call it.

O. FOS. O, at what crevice, then, hath comfort, Like a sunbeam, crept in? for all the doors And windows are of iron, and barr'd to keep Her out. I had a limb cut from my body Dear to me as [my] life; I had a son And brother, too. O grief! They both would give me poison first in gold, Before their hollow palms ten drops should hold Of nature's drink, cold water, but to save My life one minute: whence should pity come, When my best friends do beat it from this room?

KEEPER. No matter, sir; since you have good meat set before you, never ask who sent it. If heaven provide for you, and make the fowls of the air your caters, feed you fat, and be thankful; and so I leave you. [_Exit._

MRS FOS. The keeper is your friend, and pours true balm Into your smarting wounds; therefore, dear husband, Endure the dressing with patience.

O. FOS. O wife, my losses are as numberless As the sea-sands that swallowed them! And shall I, In reckoning them, my sad griefs multiply?

MRS FOS. You may, sir; But your dim eyes so thick with tears do run, You cannot see from whence your comforts come: Besides, your debts being truly counted Cannot be great.

O. FOS. But all my wealth and state lies in the sea's bottom.

MRS FOS. It again may rise.

O. FOS. O, never!

MRS FOS. Good sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy An arm to pluck you from this misery.

_Enter_ KEEPER.

KEEPER. Sir, there's one without desires to speak with you.

O. FOS. Go, send him in. [_Exit_ KEEPER.] None comes to do me good, My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood.

_Enter_ ROBERT.

Ha! what art thou? Call for the keeper there, And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up.

MRS FOS. O, 'tis your son, sir!

O. FOS. I know him not: [ROBERT _kneels_. I am no king, unless of scorn and woe; Why kneel'st thou, then? Why dost thou mock me so?

ROB. O my dear father, hither am I come, Not like a threat'ning storm t' increase your wrack, For I would take all sorrows from your back, To lay them all on my own.

O. FOS. Rise, mischief, rise! Away, and get thee gone!

ROB. O, if I be thus hateful to your eye, I will depart, and wish I soon may die; Yet let your blessing, sir, but fall on me.

O. FOS. My heart still hates thee.

MRS FOS. Sweet husband!

O. FOS. Get you both gone! That misery takes some rest that dwells alone; Away, thou villain!

ROB. Heaven can tell, Ache but your finger, I, to make it well, Would cut my hand off.

O. FOS. Hang thee, hang thee!

MRS FOS. Husband!

O. FOS. Destruction meet thee! Turn the key there, ho!

ROB. Good sir, I'm gone; I will not stay to grieve you. O, knew you for your woes what pains I feel, You would not scorn me so. See, sir, to cool Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot To lay it down with reverence at your feet; No comfort in the world to me is sweet, Whilst thus you live in moan.

O. FOS. Stay!

ROB. Good troth, sir, I'll have none on't back, Could but one penny of it save my life.

MRS FOS. Yet stay and hear him. O unnatural strife In a hard father's bosom!

O. FOS. I see mine error now. O, can there grow A rose upon a bramble? Did there e'er flow Poison and health together in one tide? I'm born a man: reason may step aside, And lead a father's love out of the way: Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray: Look, on my knees I beg it--not for joy Thou bring'st this golden rubbish, which I spurn; But glad in this, the heavens mine eyeballs turn, And fix them right to look upon that face, Where love remains with pity, duty, grace. O my dear wronged boy!

ROB. Gladness o'erwhelms my heart! With joy I cannot speak!

MRS FOS. Crosses of this foolish world Did never grieve my heart with torments more, Than it is now grown light With joy and comfort of this happy sight.

O. FOS. Yet, wife, I disinherited this boy.

ROB. Your blessing's all I crave.

O. FOS. And that enjoy For ever: evermore my blessings fly To pay thy virtues, love and charity.

_Enter_ STEPHEN'S WIFE.

MRS FOS. Here comes your brother's wife. Welcome, dear sister.

WIFE. I thank you. How fare you, brother?

O. FOS. Better than your husband's hate could wish me, That laughs to see my back with sorrows bow: But I am rid of half my ague now.

WIFE. Had you an ague, then?

O. FOS. Yes, and my heart had every hour a fit; But now't has left me well, and I left it.

WIFE. O, 'tis well. Cousin, what make you here, I pray?

ROB. To support a weak house falling to decay.

WIFE. 'Tis well if you can do't, and that the timber You underprop it with be all your own. Hark, coz, where's your uncle's money?

ROB. Faith, aunt, 'tis gone; But not at dice nor drabbing.

WIFE. Sir, I believe, With your uncle's gold your father you relieve.

ROB. You are sav'd, believing so: your belief's true.

WIFE. You cut large thongs of that's another's due, And you will answer't ill. Now, in good troth, I laugh at this jest: much good do them both: My wager I had won, had I but laid. [_Aside._

O. FOS. What has my poor boy done, that you have made So much blood rise in's cheeks?

WIFE. Nothing, dear brother; Indeed all's well: the course that he has run I like and love; let him hold on the same; A son's love to a father none can blame: I will not leave your brother's iron heart, Till I have beat it soft with my entreats.

O. FOS. 'Twill ne'er be music, 'tis so full of frets.

WIFE. Frets make best music: strings the higher rack'd Sound sweetest.

O. FOS. And sound nothing when they are crack'd, As is his love to me, and mine to him.

WIFE. I hope you both in smoother streams shall swim. He's now the Sheriff of London, and in council Set at the Guildhall in his scarlet gown, With mayor and aldermen, how to receive the king, Who comes to see Master Brewen's hospital To-morrow, consecrated by th' Cardinal, And old St Mary's Spital, here by Shoreditch.

MRS FOS. Ay, sister, he and you may set 'Bout what you will; heav'n, I am sure, prospers it; But I am ever cross'd: you have been bound For three great voyages, yet ne'er run aground-- Maid, wife, and widow, and wife again--have spread Full and fair sails, no wrecks you e'er did dread, Nor e'er felt any; but even close ashore, I'm sunk, and 'midst of all my wealth made poor.

WIFE. You must thank heaven.

MRS FOS. I do, indeed, for all.

WIFE. Sister, that hand can raise that gives the fall.

_Enter_ KEEPER.

KEEPER. Master Foster, the new sheriff, your brother, Is come to Ludgate, and I am come in haste To know your pleasure, if you would see him.

O. FOS. I'll see a fury first; hence! clap to the door, I pray thee.

WIFE. Why, 'tis your brother, sir.

ROB. Father, let's fly the thunder of his rage.

WIFE. Stand valiantly, And let me bear the storm: all hurts that are, And ruins in your bosoms I'll repair.

_Enter_ STEPHEN FOSTER.

STEPH. Where's the keeper? Go, sir, take my officers And see your prisoners presently convey'd From Ludgate unto Newgate and the Counters.

KEEPER. I shall, sir.

STEPH. Let the constables of the wards Assist you. Go, despatch! and take these with you. [_To_ ROBERT.] How now! what mak'st thou here, thou caitiff? Ha! Com'st thou to stitch his wounds that seeks to cut My throat? Darest thou in despite Relieve this dotard?

O. FOS. Get thee from my sight, Thou devil in red: com'st thou in scarlet pride To tread on thy poor brother in a jail? Is there but one small conduit-pipe that runs Cold water to my comfort, and wouldst thou Cut off that, thou cruel man?

STEPH. Yes; I'll stop that pipe that thou may'st pining sit; When drops but fell on me, thou poison'd it: Thou thrust'st a son's name from thy cruel breast For clothing of his uncle; now that uncle Shall thrust him naked forth for clothing thee; Banish'd for ever from my wealth and me.

O. FOS. Thou canst not be to nature so uneven, To punish that which has a pay from heaven: Pity, I mean, and duty. [STEPHEN _offers to strike_ ROBERT.] Wouldst thou strike? Wound me, then, that will kill thee, if I can:

STEPH. Thou ravest.

O. FOS. How can I choose? Thou makest me mad: For shame thou shouldst not make these white hairs sad: Churl, beat not my poor boy; let him not lose Thy love for my sake; I had rather bruise My soul with torments for a thousand years, Could I but live them, rather than salt tears Thy malice draw from him: see, here's thy gold; Tell it: none's stole. My woes can ne'er be told!

ROB. O misery! is nature quite forgot?

O. FOS. Choke with thy dunghill-muck! and vex me not.

STEPH. No, keep it; he perhaps that money stole To give it thee; for which, to vex thy soul, I'll turn him forth of doors: make him thy heir, Of jails, miseries, curses, and despair, For here I disinherit him of all.

O. FOS. No matter; lands to him in heaven will fall.

WIFE. Good husband.

MRS FOS. Gentle brother.

ROB. Dear uncle.

STEPH. I am deaf.

O. FOS. And damn'd; the devil's thumbs stop thine ears!

STEPH. I'll make thee wash those curses off with tears. Keeper, away with him out of my sight; And do, sir, as I charg'd you.

KEEPER. Yes, sir, I will.

O. FOS. Poor tyranny! when lions weak lambs kill. [_Exeunt all but_ STEPHEN _and his_ WIFE.

STEPH. How now, wife, art vex'd yet?

WIFE. Never so well content, believe me, sir; Your mildness wears this mask of cruelty well.

STEPH. I am glad they're gone; mine eyes with rain did swell, And much ado they had from pouring down. The keeper knows my mind. Wife, I have paid My brother's debts; and when he's out of door To march to Newgate, he shall be set free.

WIFE. O let me kiss thee for this charity. But for your cousin, sir?

STEPH. He's my life's best health. The boy shall not miscarry for more wealth Than London gates lock safe up every night. My breath in black clouds flies: my thoughts are white.

WIFE. Why from Ludgate do you remove [the] prisoners?

STEPH. This is my meaning, wife: I'll take the prison down, and build it new, With leads to walk on, [and] rooms large and fair; For when myself lay there, the noisome air Chok'd up my spirits; and none better know What prisoners feel than they that taste the woe. The workmen are appointed for the business; I will have't despatched, before 'tis thought on.

WIFE. In good deeds I'll walk hand in hand with you; There is a fair tenement adjoining Close to the gate, that was my father's, I'll give it freely; take it down, and add So much ground to the work.

STEPH.[103] 'Tis fairly given; Thy soul on prisoners' prayers shall mount to heaven. The plumbers and the workmen have survey'd The ground from Paddington; whence I'll have laid Pipes [all along] to London, to convey Sweet water into Ludgate from fresh springs: When charity tunes the pipe, the poor man sings.

_Enter_ KEEPER.

How now, keeper?

KEEP. The prisoners are remov'd, sir.

STEPH. What did you with my brother?

KEEP. As you commanded, sir, I have discharged him.

STEPH. How did he meet that unexpected kindness?

KEEP. Troth, sir, as a man o'ercome 'twixt grief and gladness; But, turning to his son, he fetch'd a sigh So violent as if his heart would break, And (silent) wept, having no power to speak.

WIFE. Alas! good old man, some sweet bird must sing, And give his sorrows present comforting.

STEPH. Not yet, I'll wrack his sorrows to the height, And of themselves they'll then sink softly down. Keeper, go thou again after my brother, Charge in my name him and his son to appear Before the king; to whom I will make known Their wrongs against me, showing just cause To disinherit both by course of law. Begone!

KEEP. I am gone, sir. [_Exit._

STEPH. Come, wife.

WIFE. What's your meaning, sir?

STEPH. Thou shalt know that anon. The heavens oft scowl, clouds thicken, winds blow high, Yet the brightest sun clears all, and so will I. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HENRY III., _attended by_ MONTFORT, PEMBROKE, _and_ ARUNDEL, LORD MAYOR, STEPHEN FOSTER _as Sheriff_, ALDERMAN BREWEN, _&c._

KING. O, welcome is all love; our people's shouts In their heart's language makes our bienvenues Most high and sovereign: we return all thanks Unto our loving citizens; [_To_ BREWEN] chiefly to you, sir, Whose pious work invites our majesty To royalise this place with our best presence, Accompanied with this reverend Cardinal: Would [that] me might, after [so] many broils, End our days [too] in these religious toils: We would work most faithfully. But, bounteous sir, How do you call your buildings?

BREW. Unless it please your majesty to change it, I call it _Domus Dei_.

KING. The house of God; It is too good to change: pray you, proceed.

BREW. These are my ends: to all distressed Christians, Whose travels this way bend, the hospital shall Free succour be for three days and three nights Sojourn: diet[104] and lodging, both sweet and satisfying:

And (if their need be such) as much in coin As shall, for three days more, defray their further travel: This unto heaven--be you testator, good my liege, And witness with me, noble gentlemen-- Most free and faithfully I dedicate.

KING. An honourable work, and deserves large memory.

MONT. 'Tis a good example, 'tis pity 'tis no better followed.

ARUN. But say, sir: now in some future age, Perhaps some two or three hundred year behind us, This place, intended for a use so charitable, Should be unhallow'd again by villanous inhabitants, Say whores instead of Christians, and Your hospital tenements turn'd into stews, Would not this grieve you in your grave?[105]

BREW. If my grave were capable of grief, sure it would, sir.

KING. Prythee, be a false prophet.

ARUN. I will, if I can, my lord.

KING. Let now our heralds in the streets proclaim The title and [the] office of this hospital; Make known to all distressed travellers, That we'll accept his charitable house; This _Domus Dei_ shall be their free sojourn, As is proposed.

_Enter on the one side_ STEPHEN'S WIFE; _on the_ _other_ OLD FOSTER, MISTRESS FOSTER, JANE, ROBERT, _and_ KEEPER. _All kneel._

KING. What are these petitioners?

ROB. Each hath a knee for duty, the other for petition.

KING. Rise, your duty's done; your petitions Shall need no knees, so your intents be honest: Does none here know them?

STEPH. Yes, my good lord, There's now a wonder in your sight.

KING. A wonder, Master Sheriff? You mean for beauty?

STEPH. No, my liege, I would not So boast mine own wife; but it is a wonder That excels beauty.

KING. A wonder in a woman! What is't, I prythee?

STEPH. Patience, my liege; This is a woman that was never vex'd.

KING. You may boast it largely; 'tis a subject's happiness Above a queen's. Have you suits to us?

ROB. I am the suppliant plaintiff, royal Henry; From me their griefs take their original.

KING. What art thou?

ROB. Even what your grace shall please to make of me: I was the son to this distressed father, Until he took his paternity off, And threw me from his love; then I became Son to mine uncle by adoption; Who likewise that hath ta'en away again, And thrown me back to poverty: never was son So toss'd betwixt two fathers, yet knows not one; For still the richest does despise his heir, And I am back expuls'd into despair.

KING. This may your vices cause.

ROB. For that I come To your impartial censure for a doom.

KING. We hear; speak on: we know the parties; Each one relate his grief, and if it lie in us, We'll yield relief: it is first requisite That we know of you, sir, the cause Of this your son his disinheritance.

O. FOS. Before I understood his virtuous mind, Or weighed his disposition to be kind, I did that froward work; this now great man Was an unthrifty wretch, a prodigal then, And I disdain'd to know his brotherhood, Denied relief to him; this child, kind and good, Against my contradiction, did him relieve, As his distressed uncle; at this I chid, forbad. Still he holds on his course, He grows more kind, and he in wasting worse; My rage continued, as it had begun, And in that rage I threw away my son.

STEPH. The like plead I, my lord: for when my state Had rais'd itself by an uncertain fate, I took this outcast child, made him my own, As full and free as I myself had sown The seed that brought him forth; for this my love His oblig'd duty presently did prove A traitor to my trust, against my will Succouring that foe which I did love so ill Only for hating him. My charity being thus Abus'd, and quit with injury, what could I then But, as his father erst, so I again Might throw him from my love? for worse is love abus'd Than new-born hate, and should be so refus'd: I did a father's part, if it were bad, Blame him for both, there I my pattern had.

KING. You fall betwixt two pillars, sir; is't not so?

ROB. Unhappy fate, my lord; yet thus I plead: For this my father's hate I might deserve, I broke his precepts, and did unchildly swerve From his commission; I to my uncle gave What was my father's, striving thereby to save His fall'n repute; he rag'd; I did it still, Yet must confess, as it was well, 'twas ill; Well in my love, methought, ill to my fate, For I thereby ruin'd my own estate: But that mine uncle throws me forth of door, For the same cause he took me in before, Beats sorest 'gainst my bosom. If 'twere good To take from a father for an uncle's food In laws of love and nature, how much rather Might I abridge an uncle for a father? Charity's a virtue generally stands, And should dispersed be through all men's hands. Then would you keep't alone? For when your heir I first adopted was, charity was there: How errs your judgment then? seeing, you see, What was good in you, makes sin in me. You'll say my father did it: O, throw away That foul excuse; let not discretion stray So far aside; if custom lawful make, Then sin were lawful for example sake; Nor were those wasted goods only your own, Since part was mine having adoption; Then do me right, my lord, yet do no wrong, For where my duty fail'd, my love was strong.

KING. With an impartial ear we have heard Your loving story; 'tis both fair and honest.

STEPH. O, let me now anticipate your grace, And, casting off the shadow of a face, Show my heart's true figure; how have I striv'd To make this forced counterfeit long-liv'd, And now it bursts. Come (both) into my heart, I have two jewels here shall never part From my love's eye-watch; too worthy to be fil'd On time's best record, a woman and a child. (_To_ O. FOS). Now, sir, to you I come; we must be friends, Though envy wills not so, yet love contends 'Gainst envy and her forces; my young years Say I must offer first a peace in tears.

O. FOS. O, let my shame my bosom's centre break! Love is so young, it coys, but cannot speak.

KING. You bless mine eyes with objects that become The theatre of kings to look upon.

STEPH. The keeper is discharg'd, sir; your debts are paid, And from the prison you're a free man made: There's not a creditor can ask you ought. As your son did for me, so have I bought Your liberty with mine; and to increase it more, Because I know bare liberty is poor Without assistance: to raise your state again, The thirds of mine are yours, [_To_ WIFE] say you amen?

WIFE. No, not to that, you are kind brothers now, Divide by halves that love, and I'll allow.

STEPH. Thou art only wise in virtue; as thou sett'st down, So let it be. Half my estate's your own.

O. FOS. It whole redounds again, for I am yours; Forget this minute my forgetful hours.

STEPH. O, they are buried all, sir!

KING. This union's good; Such league should ever be in brotherhood.

STEPH. Yet without boast, my liege, let me relate One small thing more--remorse of my own state, And my dear brother's worse succession: For that we both have prisoners been in one Selfsame place of woe, and felt those throes, That Ludgate yields: my charity bestows Some alms of comfort: keeper, you can speak it.

KEEP. And many hundred more, sir: you have re-edified And built it fair, adding more ground to it, And by pipes of lead from Paddington, drawn Water thither free for all prisoners: lodgings Likewise free, and a hundred pounds yearly, to make Them fires for better comfort: all this is almost finish'd.

KING. A worthy work! the better being done In the founder's eye, not left unto succession.

STEPH. O my good lord, I ever kept in mind An English sentence, which my tutor is, And teaches me to act my charity With mine own hands; so doubtful is performance, When the benefactor's dead.

KING. What is't, I prythee?

STEPH. This, my good lord: _Women are forgetful, children unkind,_ _Executors covetous, and take what they find;_ _If any man ask, where the dead's goods became,_ _The executor swears he died a poor man_.[106]

KING. You have prevented well, so has this good alderman; I wish you many scholars.

WIFE. [_To_ STEPH.] You make some doubts of me in this, sir: Did you not say that women are forgetful?

KING. You have vex'd her now, sir: how do you answer that?

STEPH. No, my lord, she's exempt from the proverb.

WIFE. No, my lord, I'll help it better: I do confess That women are forgetful, yet ne'ertheless I am exempt: I know my fate, and find My dear husband must not leave me behind, But I must go before him;[107] and 'tis said, The grave's good rest when women go first to bed.

STEPH. Thanks for thy excuse, good wife, but not thy love To fill my grave before me: I would not live to see that day.

WIFE. Prythee, no more, I had rather be angry than flatter'd.

KING. You have a wonder, master sheriff; a priceless jewel.

STEPH. Many jewels, my good lord; a brother, wife, and child, For this I would have strove even with a father: Howe'er rough storms did in my brows appear, Within my bosom it was always clear.

O. FOS. I give him to you now, sir.

STEPH. I take him, and to him back do give All that myself behind in 'state shall leave.

O. FOS. And all that you gave me, I do bestow; So in one hour become full heir to two.

BREW. I claim a third by this bond's virtue; [_Pointing to_ JANE. See, as a father thou art heir to those.

JANE. I will not go to him, father, on any of these conditions.

ROB. You shall have love to boot too, sweet Jane.

JANE. Nay, an' you play booty, I dare not trust you.

ROB. What shall I say? Accept my hand and heart,[108] Tied in a true love's knot, never to part.

JANE. Ay, marry, sir, these are better conditions than the inheritance of three fathers. Let me have love in _esse_; let lands follow in _posse_. Now I'll have thee as fast as the priest can despatch us, let him read as fast as he can.

KING. The liveliest harmony that e'er I heard! All instruments compar'd to these sweet tunes Are dull and harsh: I joy to see so good a child, A woman wonder; brothers reconciled. [_To_ BREWEN.] You, worthy sir, did invite us to a feast, We'll not forget it, but will be your guest; Because we'll view these wonders o'er again, Whose records do deserve a brazen pen; But this above the rest in golden text Shall be insculp'd, _A woman never vex'd_.

FOOTNOTES:

[103] This speech is not appropriated in the original, although divided from the wife's: neither are the words between brackets altogether an insertion of my own. The speech appears thus in the original:--

'Tis fairely given. Thy soule on prisoners prayers shall mount to heaven: The Plummers and the Workemen have survey'd the ground From _Paddington_; from whence I'l have laid pipes Long to London to convey sweet water into _Ludgate_; From fresh Springs: when charity tunes the pipe, the Poore man sings. _Enter Keeper_. How now, Keeper.

As I had occasion to give a note here, I thought one sample of the original might gratify the reader's curiosity, and he _has a miniature of the whole work_. The poet, who is here very minute in the description of Stephen's charity, is justified by the inscription on the wall quoted by Stow. On this subject, however, Strype observes, "The water _I find not to be altogether his gift_; for that I perused lately a book, wherein I found a memorandum, that Sir Robert Knowles [Lord Mayor in 1400] gave maintenance for the supply of the prisoners of _Ludgate_ and Newgate for ever" ("Appendix," p. 26). There can be little doubt, however, that this excellent man did something for the benefit of the prisoners, in regard to the supplying them with water.--_Dilke._

[104] [Old copy, _for diet_.]

[105] I suspect Arundel to have been of Cranmer's school, and to have _prophesied of what had actually happened_. The following extract from a pamphlet of that time called, "Thieves falling out, true Men come by their Goods," [1615,] justifies the supposition: "And _Shoreditch_ will complain to Dame Ann a Clear, _if we of the sisterhood, should not uphold her jollity_." It is not through the _inattention_ of the editor that this, and the preceding speech of Brewen's, _halt so_ _lamentably_; he has, in fact, exercised his utmost skill; but, as with many other passages in this drama, his success has not equalled his exertion. [The pamphlet cited by Dilke is a re-issue, under a changed title, of Robert Greene's "Disputation between a He-Coneycatcher and a She-Coneycatcher," 1592.]

[106] [This is a somewhat corrupt form of a saying to be found in Stowe. See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 480.]

[107] This lady proved a false prophetess.

[108] The 4o reads, "What shall I say, _except_ my hand and heart;" and Stephen may mean, What shall I offer except, &c.; but it seems a forced construction.

THE ORDINARY

_EDITION._

_The Ordinary, a Comedy, Written by William Cartwright, M.A. Ch. Ch. Oxon. London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his shop at the Sign of The Princes Armes in St Paul's Churchyard. 1651._ 8o.[109]

FOOTNOTES:

[109] [This forms part of a somewhat thick volume, containing the author's poems and plays, with his portrait by Lombart, and an extraordinarily long series of introductory verses.] Among them are verses by a number of men of little note; but this can hardly be said of the contributions of Jasper Mayne, James Howell, Sir R. Stapylton, H. Vaughan (Silurist), Alexander Brome, and Izaak Walton. M. Lluellin has also added an ode to the collection; and another poem on Cartwright is to be found in his, "Men, Miracles, and other Poems," 1646.--_Collier._

INTRODUCTION

William Cartwright was, according to Lloyd,[110] born the 16th of August 1615, though Wood[111] says he was born at Northway, near Tewksbury, Gloucestershire, in September 1611, and christened on the 26th of the same month. There is as much difference between these two writers, with respect to his father, as there is concerning the time of his birth. Lloyd says he was the son of Thomas Cartwright of Burford, in Oxfordshire. Wood asserts that his father's name was William Cartwright, one who had dissipated a fair inheritance, and was at last reduced to keep an inn at Cirencester. These contradictory accounts are totally irreconcilable. Wood's, however, is probably the true one.[112] That author says that Cartwright received part of his education under Mr William Top, master of the Free School at Cirencester; was from thence sent to Westminster, where he completed his education under Mr Lambert Osbaldiston; and in the year 1628[113] was chosen a student of Christ Church in Oxford, and placed under the care of Mr Terrent. He took his several degrees of Bachelor and Master of Arts--the latter in 1635; and afterwards entering into holy orders, became, as Wood[114] expresses it, "the most florid and seraphical preacher in the University." In October 1642, Bishop Duppa conferred on him the place of Succentor in the Church of Salisbury; and on the 12th of April 1643, he was admitted junior proctor of the University. He died the 29th of November following of a malignant fever, universally lamented by every person who knew him, even by his sovereign, who showed him particular marks of his respect.[115] He was buried at the upper end of the south aisle, adjoining to the choir of the cathedral of Christ Church. "He was," says Langbaine, "extremely remarkable both for his outward and inward endowments, his body being as handsome as his soul. He was an expert linguist, understanding not only Greek and Latin, but French and Italian, as perfectly as his mother tongue. He was an excellent orator, and yet an admirable poet, a quality which Cicero, with all his pains, could not attain to. Nor was Aristotle less known to him than Cicero and Virgil; and those who heard his metaphysical lectures gave him the preference to all his predecessors, the present Bishop of Lincoln (Dr Barlow) excepted. His sermons were as much admired as his other composures; and one fitly applied to our author that saying of Aristotle concerning Æschrion the poet, _that he could not tell what Æschrion could not do_."

Ben Jonson said of him with some passion, _My son Cartwright writes all like a man_; and Dr Fell, Bishop of Oxford, gave him this character: _Cartwright was the utmost man could come to_.

Besides a sermon and some Greek and Latin poems, he was the author of four plays, one only of which, I believe, was published in his lifetime, viz.--

1. "The Royal Slave, a Tragi-Comedy, presented to the king and queen by the students of Christ Church in Oxford, August 30, 1636; presented since to both their majesties, at Hampton Court, by the king's servants." 4o, 1639-40; 8vo, 1651.

This play, in which the celebrated Dr Busby performed a part, gave so much satisfaction to their majesties, that it was by their orders performed at Hampton Court by their own servants. Langbaine says the preference was given to the representation by the collegians, as much superior to that of the players.

2. "The Lady Errant, a Tragi-Comedy."

3. "The Ordinary, a comedy," [probably written in 1634.]

4. "The Siege; or, Love's Convert, a Tragi-Comedy."

FOOTNOTES:

[110] "Memoirs," p. 422.

[111] "Athen. Oxon." p. 34.

[112] _Ibid._

[113] Langbaine, p. 51, says 1631.

[114] "Athen. Oxon." ii. p. 35.

[115] Oldys, in his MSS. notes on Langbaine, says that the king being asked why he appeared in black the day Cartwright was buried, answered, that since the Muses had so much mourned for the loss of such a son, it would be a shame for him not to appear in mourning for the loss of such a subject.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

HEARSAY, _an intelligencer_. } SLICER, _a lieutenant_. } _complices in_ MEANWELL, (_Littleworth disguised_), } _the Ordinary_ _a decayed knight's son_. } SHAPE, _a cheater_. SIR THOMAS BITEFIG, _a covetous knight_. SIMON CREDULOUS, _a citizen_. ANDRES, _his son, suitor to Mistress Jane_. ROBERT MOTH, _an antiquary_. CASTER, } _gamesters_. HAVE-AT-ALL, } RIMEWELL, _a poet_. BAGSHOT, _a decayed clerk_. } SIR CHRISTOPHER, _a curate_. } _clubbers at_ VICAR CATCHMEY, _a cathedral_ } _the Ordinary_. _singing-man_. } MISTRESS JANE, _daughter to Sir Thomas_. PRISCILLA, _her maid_. JOAN POTLUCK, _a vintner's widow_.

_Shopkeeper, Chirurgeon, Officers, Servants._

_The scene, London._

THE PROLOGUE.

'Twould wrong our author to bespeak your ears; Your persons he adores, but judgment fears: For where you please but to dislike, he shall Be atheist thought, that worships not his fall. Next to not marking, 'tis his hope that you, Who can so ably judge, can pardon too. His conversation will not yet supply Follies enough to make a comedy: He cannot write by th' poll; nor act we here Scenes, which perhaps you should see liv'd elsewhere. No guilty line traduceth any; all We now present is but conjectural; 'Tis a mere guess: those then will be to blame Who make that person, which he meant but name. That web of manners which the stage requires, That mass of humours which poetic fires Take in, and boil, and purge, and try, and then With sublimated follies cheat those men That first did vent them, are not yet his art; But, as drown'd islands or the world's fifth part, Lie undiscover'd; and he only knows Enough to make himself ridiculous. Think, then, if here you find nought can delight, He hath not yet seen vice enough to write.

THE ORDINARY.

## ACT I., SCENE I.

HEARSAY, SLICER, SHAPE, MEANWELL.

HEAR. We're made, my boys, we're made! methinks I am Growing into a thing that will be worshipp'd.

SLICER. I shall sleep one day in my chain and scarlet At Spital-sermon.

SHAPE. Were not my wit such, I'd put out moneys of being Mayor. But, O this brain of mine! that's it that will Bar me the city honour.

HEAR. We're cri'd up O' th' sudden for the sole tutors of the age.

SHAPE. Esteem'd discreet, sage trainers up of youth.

HEAR. Our house becomes a place of visit now.

SLICER. In my poor judgment, 'tis as good my lady Should venture to commit her eldest son To us as to the Inns-of-Court: He'll be Undone here, only with less ceremony.

HEAR. Speak for our credit, my brave man of war. What, Meanwell, why so lumpish?

MEAN. Pray you, be quiet.

HEAR. Thou look'st as if thou plott'st the calling in O' th' Declaration, or the abolishing[116] O' th' common prayers. Cheer up; say something for us.

MEAN. Pray, vex me not.

SLICER. These foolish, puling sighs Are good for nothing, but to endanger buttons. Take heart of grace, man.[117]

MEAN. Fie, y' are troublesome!

HEAR. Nay, fare you well then, sir. [_Exeunt_ HEARSAY, SLICER, SHAPE.

MEAN. My father still Runs in my mind, meets all my thoughts, and doth Mingle himself in all my cogitations. Thus to see eager villains drag along Him unto whom they crouch'd! to see him hal'd, That ne'er knew what compulsion was, but when His virtues did incite him to good deeds, And keep my sword dry! O unequal nature! Why was I made so patient as to view, And not so strong as to redeem? Why should I Dare to behold, and yet not dare to rescue? Had I been destitute of weapons, yet Arm'd with the only name of son, I might Have outdone wonder. Naked piety Dares more than fury well-appointed[118]; blood Being never better sacrificed, than when It flows to him that gave it. But, alas! The envy of my fortune did allow That only which she could not take away-- Compassion, that which was not in those savage And knowing beasts, those engines of the law That even killed as uncontroll'd as that. How do I grieve when I consider from What hands he suffer'd! Hands that do excuse Th' indulgent prison, shackles being here A kind of rescue. Young man, 'tis not well To see thy aged father thus confin'd. Good, good old man! alas! thou'rt dead to me, Dead to the world, and only living to That which is more than death, thy misery! The grave could be a comfort: and shall I-- O, would this soul of mine--But death's the wish Of him that fears; he's lazy that would die. I'll live and see that thing of wealth, that worm Bred out of splendid muck, that citizen, Like his own sullied wares thrown by into Some unregarded corner; and my piety Shall be as famous as his avarice. His son, whom we have in our tuition, Shall be the subject of my good revenge: I'll count myself no child, till I have done Something that's worth that name. My brain shall be Busy in his undoing; and I will Plot ruin with religion: his disgrace Shall be my zeal's contrivement; and when this Shall style me son again, I hope 'twill be Counted not wrong, but duty. When that time Shall give my actions growth, I will cast off This brood of vipers, and will show that I Do hate the poison which I meant t' apply. [_Exit._

## SCENE II.

MISTRESS POTLUCK.

POT. Now help, good heaven! 'tis such an uncouth thing To be a widow out of term-time: I Do feel such aguish qualms and dumps, and fits, And shakings still an end! I lately was A wife, I do confess; but yet I had No husband; he, alas! was dead to me, Even when he lived unto the world: I was A widow, whilst he breath'd. His death did only Make others know so much; but yet--

_Enter_ HEARSAY.

HEAR. How now? So melancholy, sweet?

POT. How could I choose, Being thou wert not here? The time is come: Thou'lt be as good unto me as thy word?

HEAR. Nay, hang me, if I e'er recant. You'll take me Both wind and limb at th' venture, will you not?

POT. Ay, good chuck, every inch of thee; she were no true woman that would not.

HEAR. I must tell you one thing--and yet I'm loth.

POT. I am thy rib, Thou must keep nothing from thy rib, good chuck: Thy yoke-fellow must know all thy secrets.

HEAR. Why then, I'll tell you, sweet. [_He whispers her._

POT. Heaven defend!

HEAR. 'Tis true.

POT. Now, God forbid! and would you offer T' undo a widow-woman so? I had As lief the old vintner were alive again.

HEAR. I was born[119] with it, I confess; but lying In Turkey for intelligence, the Great Turk, Somewhat suspicious of me, lest I might Entice some o' th' seraglio, did command I should be forthwith cut.

POT. A heathen deed It was! none but an infidel could have The heart to do it.

HEAR. Now you know the worst That you must trust to. Come, let's to the church.

POT. Good Master Hearsay, nature ne'er intended One woman should be joined to another: The holy blessing of all wedlock was T' increase and multiply, as Master Christopher Did well observe last Sabbath. I'll not do Anything 'gainst God's word. I do release you Of all your promises; and that it may not Be said you lost by loving me, take this. Perhaps I may get you a contribution O' th' women of the parish, as I did The broken-bellied man the other day.

HEAR. Seeing you needs will cast me off, let me Entreat this one thing of you: that you would not Make me your table-talk at the next gossiping. [_Exit._

POT. Indeed I pity thee, poor thing; or rather I pity thee, poor nothing!

_Enter_ SLICER.

Good lieutenant, How dost thou? Thou art mindful of thy promise.

SLICER. What else, my jolly wench?

POT. Good sweet lieutenant, Give me but leave to ask one question of you: Art thou entire and sound in all thy limbs?

SLICER. To tell the very truth, ere now I've had A spice o' the pox or so; but now I am sound As any bell--hem! was't not shrill, my girl? ha!

POT. I do not ask thee about these diseases: My question is, whether thou'st all thy parts?

SLICER. Faith, I have lost a joint or two; as none Of our profession, come off whole, unless The general and some sneaks.

POT. My meaning is, Whether that something is not wanting that Should write thee husband?

SLICER. Ne'er fear that, my wench: Dost think the king would send me to the wars Without I had my weapons? Eunuchs are not Men of employment in these days. His majesty Hath newly put me on a piece of service; And if I e'er come off (which I do fear I sha'n't, the danger is so great) brave widow, We'll to't, and get commanders.

POT. If you can Leave me, I can leave you. There are other men That won't refuse a fortune when 'tis proffer'd.

SLICER. Well, I must to his majesty: think on't: So fare thee well. Thine, to his very death, That is, a month or two, perhaps, D. Slicer. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SHAPE.

POT. Kind Master Shape, you are exceeding welcome. Here hath been Master Hearsay and Lieutenant Slicer: you may guess at their business, but I hope you think me faithful.

SHAPE. I believe The memory of your husband's ashes, which Scarce yet are cold, extinguisheth all flames That tend to kindling any love fire. 'Tis A virtue in you which I must admire, That only you, amongst so many, should Be the sole turtle of the age.

POT. I do Bear him in memory, I confess; but when I do remember what your promise was When he lay sick, it doth take something from The bitterness of sorrow. Woman was Not made to be alone still.

SHAPE. Tender things At seventeen may use that plea; but you Are now arriv'd at matron. These young sparks Are rak'd up, I presume, in sager embers.

POT. Nay, don't abuse her that must be your wife. You might have pity, and not come with your nicknames, And call me turtle. Have I deserved this?

SHAPE. If that you once hold merits, I have done. I'm glad I know what's your religion.

POT. What's my religion? 'Tis well known there hath Been no religion in my house, e'er since My husband died.

_Enter_ SLICER, HEARSAY.

HEAR. How now, sweet Shape'! So close alone Wi' your widow!

SHAPE. Sirs, dare you believe it? This thing, whose prayer it hath been these ten Years that she may obtain the second tooth And the third hair, now doats on me; on me, That do refuse all that are past sixteen.

SLICER. Why, faith, this was her suit to me just now.

HEAR. I had the first on't, then. A coachman or A groom, were fitter far for her.

SLICER. You do Honour her too much to think she deserves A thing that can lust moderately: give her The sorrel stallion in my lord's long stable.

SHAPE. Or the same-colour'd brother, which is worse.

POT. Why, gentlemen----

HEAR. Foh, foh! She hath let fly.

POT. D'you think I have no more manners than so?

SHAPE. Nay, faith, I can excuse her for that; but I must confess she spoke, which is all one.

SLICER. Her breath would rout an army sooner than That of a cannon.

HEAR. It would lay a devil Sooner than all Trithemius' charms.[120]

SHAPE. Hark how It blusters in her nostrils, like a wind In a foul chimney!

POT. Out, you base companions, You stinking swabbers!

HEAR. For her gait, that's such As if her nose did strive t' outrun her heels.

SHAPE. She's just six yards behind when that appears. It saves an usher, madam.

POT. You are all Most foul-mouth'd knaves to use a woman thus.

SLICER. Your plaster'd face doth drop against moist weather.

SHAPE. Fie, how you writhe it! Now it looks just like A ruffled boot.

SLICER. Or an oil'd paper-lantern.

HEAR. Her nose the candle in the midst of it.

SHAPE. How bright it flames! Put out your nose, good lady; You burn daylight.[121]

POT. Come up, you lousy rascals.

HEAR. Not upon you for a kingdom, good Joan. The Great Turk, Joan, the Great Turk!

SLICER. Kiss him, chuck; Kiss him, chuck, open-mouth'd, and be reveng'd.

POT. Hang you, base cheating varlet!

SLICER. Don't you see December in her face?

SHAPE. Sure, the surveyor Of the highways will have to do with her For not keeping her countenance passable.

HEAR. There lies a hoar-frost on her head, and yet A constant thaw in her nose.

SHAPE. She's like a piece Of firewood, dropping at one end, and yet Burning i' th' midst.

SLICER. O that endeavouring face! When will your costiveness have done, good madam?

HEAR. Do you not hear her guts already squeak Like kit-strings?

SLICER. They must come to that within

This two or three years: by that time she'll be True perfect cat. They practise beforehand.

POT. I can endure no longer, though I should Throw off my womanhood.

HEAR. No need, that's done Already: nothing left thee that may style thee Woman, but lust and tongue: no flesh but what The vices of the sex exact, to keep them In heart.

SHAPE. Thou art so lean and out of case, That 'twere absurd to call thee devil incarnate.

SLICER. Th' art a dry devil, troubled with the lust Of that thou hast not, flesh.

POT. Rogue, rascal, villain! I'll show your cheating tricks, i' faith: all shall Be now laid open. Have I suffer'd you Thus long i' my house, and ne'er demanded yet One penny rent for this? I'll have it all: By this good blessed light, I will!

HEAR. You may, If that you please undo yourself; you may: I will not strive to hinder you. There is Something contriving for you, which may be Perhaps yet brought about: a match or so; A proper fellow: 'tis a trifle, that; A thing you care not for, I know. Have I Plotted to take you off from these, to match you In better sort, and am us'd thus? As for The rent you ask, here take it; take your money; Fill, choke your gaping throat: but if as yet You are not deaf to counsel, let me tell you, It had been better that you ne'er had took it; It may stop some proceedings.

POT. Master Hearsay, You know you may have even my heart out of My belly (as they say), if you'll but take The pains to reach it out. I am sometimes Peevish, I do confess. Here, take your money.

HEAR. No.

POT. Good sir.

HEAR. No, keep it and hoard it up; My purse is no safe place for it.

POT. Let me Request you that you would be pleas'd to take it.

HEAR. Alas! 'twould only trouble me: I can As willingly go light as be your treasurer.

POT. Good Master Slicer, speak to him to take it. Sweet Master Shape, join with him.[122]

SLICER. Nay, be once O'errul'd by a woman.

SHAPE. Come, come; you shall take it.

POT. Nay, faith you shall. Here, put it up, good sir.

HEAR. Upon entreaty, I'm content for once; But make no custom of't. You do presume Upon my easy foolishness: 'tis that Makes you so bold. Were it another man, He ne'er would have to do with you. But mark me-- If e'er I find you in this mood again, I'll dash your hopes of marriage for ever.

[_Exeunt all but_ HEARSAY.

## SCENE III.

_To him_ MEANWELL, ANDREW.

AND. God save you, tutors both!

MEAN. Fie, Andrew, fie! What, kiss your hand! You smell not compliment.

HEAR. Besides you come too near, when you salute. Your breath may be discover'd; and you give Advantage unto him you thus accost To shake you by the hand: which often doth Endanger the whole arm. Your gallant's, like The crystal glass, brittle; rude handling cracks him. To be saluted so were to be wounded: His parts would fall asunder like unto Spill'd quicksilver. An ear, an eye, a nose, Would drop, like summer fruit from shaken trees.

MEAN. For the same reason, I'd not have you dance. Some courtiers, I confess, do use it; but They are the sounder sort; those foolish ones That have a care of health, which you shall not, If you'll be rul'd by me. The hazard's great: 'Tis an adventure, an exploit, no[123] piece Of service for a gentleman, to caper.

HEAR. A gallant's like a leg of mutton boil'd By a Spanish cook: take him but by the one end, And shake him, all the flesh falls from the bones, And leaves them bare immediately.

AND. I would Not be a leg of mutton here.

HEAR. I saw In France a monsieur, only in the cutting Of one cross caper, rise a man, and come Down, to th' amazement of the standers-by, A true extemporary skeleton; And was straight read on.[124]

AND. Sure, this man, Good tutor, was quite rotten.

MEAN. See how you Betray your breeding now. Quite rotten! 'Tis Rottenness, perhaps, in footmen or in yeomen:

'Tis tenderness in gentlemen; they are A little over-boil'd, or so.

HEAR. He is A churl, a hind, that's wholesome; some raw thing That never was at London: one in whom The clown is too predominant. Refin'd People feel Naples in their bodies; and An ache i' th' bones at sixteen passeth now For high descent: it argues a great birth. Low bloods are never worthy such infection.

AND. Ay, but my father bid me I should live Honest, and say my prayers; that he did.

HEAR. If that you cannot sleep at any time, we do Allow you to begin your pray'rs, that so A slumber may seize on you.

MEAN. But as for Your living honest, 'twere to take away A trade i' th' commonwealth! the surgeons' Benefit would go down. You may go on In foolish chastity, eat only salads, Walk an unskilful thing, and be to learn Something the first night of your wife; but that's To marry out of fashion.

AND. Here's no proofs, No doctrines, nor no uses. Tutor, I Would fain learn some religion.

HEAR. Religion! Yes, to become a martyr, and be pictur'd With a long label out o' your mouth, like those In Fox's book;[125] just like a juggler drawing Riband out of his throat.

AND. I must be gone.

MEAN. Obedience is the first step unto science: Stay, and be wise.

AND. Indeed, I dare not stay; The clyster works you sent to purge gross humours. [_Exit._

MEAN. Being you will not take your lecture out, Good-morrow to y', good Andrew. This soft fool Must swim in's father's wealth! It is a curse That fortune justly makes the city's lot; The young fool spends whate'er the old knave got. [_Exit_ MEANWELL.

## SCENE IV.

_To_ HEARSAY _enter_ SLICER _and_ CREDULOUS.

HEAR. Sir, let me tell you, this is not the least Of things wherein your wisdom shows itself, In that you've plac'd your son in this good sort.

CRE. Nay, nay, let me alone to give him breeding: I did not hold the university Fit for the training up of such a spirit.

SLICER. The university! 'T had been the only way T' have took him off his courage and his mettle: He had return'd, as slaves do from the galleys: A naked shorn thing, with a thin-dock'd top, Learnedly cut into a logic mode.

HEAR. A private oath given him at first entrance, Had sworn him pilgrim unto conventicles; Engag'd him to the hate of all, but what Pleaseth the stubborn, froward elect.

SLICER. But we, Following another model, do allow Freedom and courage, cherish and maintain High noble thoughts----

HEAR. Set nature free, and are Chemists of manners----

SLICER. Do instruct of states----

HEAR. And wars. There's one, look on him----

SLICER. Do but view That searching head----

HEAR. The very soul of battle: True steel.

SLICER. H' hath been an agent some few years (A score or so) for princes, and as yet Doth not write forty.

HEAR. I confess I can Discover th' entrails of a state perhaps. Lay open a kingdom's paunches, show the bowels And inwards of a signiory or two; But for your deeds of valour, there is one, Although I speak it to his face, that can Write a geography by his own conquests: H' hath fought o'er Strabo,[126] Ptolemy,[127] and Stafford;[128] Travell'd as far in arms as Lithgow[129] naked; Borne weapons whither Coriat[130] durst not Carry a shirt or shoes. Jack Mandevile[131] Ne'er sail'd so far as he hath steer'd by land, Using his colours both for mast and sail.

CRE. I'd thought h' had been lieutenant.

HEAR. That's all one.

SLICER. I've worn some leather out abroad, let out A heathen soul or two, fed this good sword With, the black blood of pagan Christians, Converted a few infidels with it; But let that pass. That man of peace there hath Been trusted with kings' breasts--

HEAR. His name is heard Like thunder, and that mere word Slicer hath Sufficed unto victory.

SLICER. He's close, Reserv'd, lock'd up. The secrets of the King Of Tartary, of China, and some other Counsels of moment, have been so long kept In's body without vent, that every morning, Before he covers them with some warm thing Or other, you may smell 'em very strongly; Distinguish each of them by several scents--

HEAR. A grove of pikes are rushes to him: hail More frights you than a shower of bullets him--

SLICER. The Dutch come up like broken beer;[132] the Irish Savour of usquebaugh; the Spanish they Smell like unto perfume at first, but then After a while end in a fatal steam--

HEAR. One drum's his table, the other is his music: His sword's his knife; his colours are his napkins; Carves nourishing horse, as he is us'd to do The hostile paynim,[133] or we venison; eats Gunpowder with his meat instead of pepper, Then drinks o'er all his bandoleers, and fights--

SLICER. Secrets are rank'd and order'd in his belly, Just like tobacco-leaves laid in a sweat. Here lies a row of Indian secrets, then Something of's own on them; on that, another Of China counsels, cover'd with a lid Of Newfoundland discoveries: next, a bed Of Russia policies; on them, a lay Of Prester-Johnian whispers--

HEAR. Slights a tempest; Counts lightning but a giving fire, and thunder The loud report when heaven hath discharg'd. H' hath with his breath[134] suppli'd a breach: When he's once fix'd, no engine can remove him.

SLICER. 'Twould be a policy worth hatching to Have him dissected, if 'twere not too cruel. All states would lie as open as his bowels: Turkey in's bloody liver; Italy Be found in's reins; Spain busy in his stomach; Venice would float in's bladder; Holland sail Up and down all his veins; Bavaria lie Close in some little gut, and _ragioni_ _Di Stato_[135] generally reek in all.

CRE. I see my son's too happy: he is born To be some man of action; some engine For th' overthrow of kingdoms.

HEAR. Troth, he may Divert the torrent of the Turkish rule Into some other track: dam up the stream Of that vast headlong monarchy, if that He want not means to compass his intents.

CRE. The Turkish monarchy's a thing too big For him to manage: he may make perhaps The governor of some new little island, And there plant faith and zeal; but for the present, M' ambition's only to contrive a match Between Sir Thomas Bitefig's only daughter And (if I may so call him now) my son: 'Twill raise his fortunes somewhat.

SLICER. We have got One that will do more good with's tongue that way Than that uxorious show'r that came from heaven: But you must oil it first.

CRE. I understand you: Grease him i' th' fist, you mean? There's just ten pieces; 'Tis but an earnest: if he bring 't about, I'll make those ten a hundred.

HEAR. Think it done.

[_Exit_ CREDULOUS, _and enter_ SHAPE _and_ MEANWELL.

## SCENE V.

HEARSAY, SLICER, MEANWELL, SHAPE.

HEAR. Our life, methinks, is but the same with others: To cosen and be cosen'd makes the age. The prey and feeder are that civil thing That sager heads call body politic. Here is the only difference: others cheat By statute, but we do't upon no grounds. The fraud's the same in both; there only wants Allowance to our way. The commonwealth Hath not declar'd herself as yet for us; Wherefore our policy must be our charter.

MEAN. Well-manag'd knav'ry is but one degree Below plain honesty.

SLICER. Give me villany, That's circumspect and well-advis'd, that doth Colour at least for goodness. If the cloak And mantle were pull'd off from things, 'twould be As hard to meet an honest action as A liberal alderman or a court-nun.

HEAR. Knowing, then, how we must direct our steps, Let us chalk out our paths: you, Shape, know yours.

SHAPE. Where'er I light on fortune, my commission Will hold to take her up: I'll ease my silken Friends of that idle luggage we call money.

HEAR. For my good toothless countess, let us try To win that old eremite thing that, like An image in a German clock,[136] doth move, Not walk--I mean, that rotten antiquary.

MEAN. He'll surely love her, 'cause she looks like some Old ruin'd piece, that was five ages backward.

HEAR. To the great vestry-wit, the livery-brain, My common-council pate, that doth determine A city-business with his gloves on's head, We must apply good hope of wealth and means.

SLICER. That griping knight Sir Thomas must be call'd With the same lure: he knows t' a crumb how much Loss is in twenty dozen of bread, between That which is broke by th' hand and that is cut. Which way best keep his candles, bran or straw: What tallow's lost in putting of 'em out By spittle, what by foot, what by the puff, What by the holding downwards, and what by The extinguisher; which wick will longest be In lighting, which spend fastest. He must hear Nothing but moieties, and lives, and farms, Copies, and tenures; he is deaf to th' rest.

MEAN. I'll speak the language of the wealthy to him; My mouth shall swill with bags, revenues, fees, Estates, reversions, incomes, and assurance[s]. He's in the gin already; for his daughter, She'll be an easy purchase.[137]

HEAR. I do hope We shall grow famous; have all sorts repair As duly to us, as the barren wives Of aged citizens do to St Antholin's. Come, let us take our quarters; we may come To be some great officers in time, And with a reverend magisterial frown Pass sentence on those faults that are our own. [_Exeunt omnes._

FOOTNOTES:

[116] The Declaration concerning "The Book of Sports," set forth some time before. This was a matter very disgusting to the Puritans, who had an equal dislike to the Book of Common Prayer.

[117] This phrase signifies _take courage_, or _summon up resolution_. It is at present always written in this manner; formerly it used, [very erroneously,] to be, _take heart at grass_; as in "Euphues," p. 18: "Rise, therefore, Euphues, and _take heart at grasse_, younger thou shalt never bee: plucke up thy stomacke, if love have stong thee, it shall not stifle thee."

Again, in Tarlton's "Newes out of Purgatory," p. 4: "Therefore _taking heart at grasse_, drawing more neere him," &c.

And _Ibid._, p. 24: "Seeing she would take no warning: on a day _tooke heart at grasse_, and belabour'd her well with a cudgel."

[118] _Well-appointed_ is _completely accoutred_. So in "The Miseries of Queen Margaret," by Drayton--

"Ten thousand valiant _well-appointed_ men;"

and in the "Second Part of Henry IV." act iv. sc. 1--

"What _well-appointed_ leader fronts us here?"

--Mr Steevens's note on the last passage.

[119] [Old copy, _not born_.]

[120] See Wolfii "Opera," 1672, ii. 592.

Johannes Trithemius, abbè of the order of St Benedict, and one of the most learned men of the fifteenth century, was born at Tritenheim, in the diocese of Treves, the 1st of February 1462. After having studied for some time, he became a Benedictine friar, and abbot of Spanheim, in the diocese of Mayence, in 1483. He governed the abbey until the year 1506, when he joined the abbey of St James, at Wurtzburgh. He was learned in all sciences, divine and human, and died the 13th of December 1516.

Thevet calls him a _subtle philosopher, an ingenious mathematician, a famous poet, an accomplished historian, a very eloquent orator, and eminent divine_. Naudius says that those who would make him a magician ground their right on a little book of three or four sheets, printed in 1612, entitled, "Veterum Sophorum sigilla et imagines magicæ, sive sculptura lapidum aut gemmarum ex nomine Tetragrammaton cum signatura planetarum authoribus Zoroastre, Salomone Raphaele, Chaele Hermete Thelete, ex Joan Kithemii manuscripto erutæ." Secondly, his speaking so pertinently of magic, and giving himself the title of magician in some of his epistles. Thirdly, his writing the book of Steganography, a treatise stuffed with the names of devils, and full of invocations, and as very pernicious condemned by Boville as worse than Agrippa. To these Naudius answers that the pamphlet of making images and characters upon stones, under certain constellations, is a pure imposture and cheat of booksellers, it being printed above 120 years before by Camillus Lienard, as the third book of his "Mirror of Precious Stones, De Unguento Armario." From a letter then to a Carmelite of Gaunt, Arnoldus Bostius, the suspicion of his being a magician must be collected, wherein he specified many miraculous and extraordinary effects performed in his treatise of Steganography. This, however, is defended by several writers only as the means to decipher.--Naudius's "History of Magick," translated by Davies, p. 237, &c.

[121] See note on the "Spanish Tragedy," [v. 115]

[122] "Join with _me_," would suit the sense better, as she is asking Shape to unite his solicitations with hers. The old copy reads as it is reprinted.--_Collier._

[123] [Old copy, _a_.]

[124] [A lecture, probably, was delivered on the phenomenon.]

[125] [The "Book of the Acts and Monuments," &c., 1563, &c. The woodcuts have the dying words of the martyrs printed on labels out of their mouths, in the way mentioned in the text.]

[126] Strabo, a philosopher of Crete and a geographer in the time of Augustus.

[127] Born at Pelusium, flourished about the year 140, and died 162, aged 78.

[128] Robert Stafford, born at Dublin, was of Exeter College, Oxford, and published "A Geographical and Anthological description of all the Empires and Kingdoms, both of Continent and Islands, in this terrestial Globe," &c., 1607. Wood says it was reported that John Prideaux, who was Stafford's tutor, had the chief hand in this work.

[129] [_Naked_, _i.e._, unarmed.] William Lithgow, a Scotsman, whose sufferings by imprisonment and torture at Malaga, and whose travels on foot over Europe, Asia, and Africa, seem to raise him almost to the rank of a martyr and a hero, published an account of his peregrinations and adventures, 1614; reprinted in 1616, &c., with additions. At the conclusion of this work he says, "Here is the just relation of nineteene yeares travells, perfited in three deare bought voyages: the generall computation of which dimmensions spaces in my goings, traversings, and returnings through kingdomes, continents, and ilands, which my payneful feet traced over (besides my passages of seas and rivers) amounteth to _thirty-six thousand and odde miles; which draweth neare to twice the circumference of the whole earth_." [A list of his other works may be found in Hazlitt's "Handbook," 1867, in _v._]

[130] The celebrated Thomas Coriat who, except Lithgow, is supposed to have travelled more miles on foot than any person of his times, or indeed in any period since. From his writings, and many parts of his conduct, he cannot be supposed to have been in his perfect senses. He was, notwithstanding, a man of considerable learning, and rendered himself ridiculous, chiefly by dwelling with too much attention on the trifling accidents which happened to him during his journey. In the year 1608 he left England and went to Venice and back again; a journey performed on foot in five months. On his return, he published an account of it in a large quarto volume, 1611, containing 655 pages, besides more than 100 filled with commendatory verses by Ben Jonson and other wits of the age, who both laughed at and flattered him at the same time. He afterwards travelled into Persia, and from thence into the East Indies (still on foot), and died at Surat in the year 1617.

[131] Sir John Mandevile, Knight, born at St Albans. He was a traveller for the space of thirty-four years, visiting in that time Scythia, Armenia the Greater and Less, Egypt, both Libyas, Arabia, Syria, Media, Mesopotamia, Persia, Chaldæa, Greece, Illyrium, Tartary, and divers other kingdoms. He died at Liege, November 17, 1371. An edition of his travels was printed in 8o, 1725, from a MS. in the Cotton Library.

[132] ["The leavings of what has been drawn for others"--_Gifford_ (edit. of Ben Jonson, vii. 433).] So in Jonson's "Masque of Augurs:" "The poor cattle yonder are passing away the time with a cheat loaf and a bumbard of _broken beer_."

Again, in the "Masque of Gypsies:" "He were very carefully carried at his mother's back, rocked in a cradle of Welsh cheese, like a maggot, and there fed with _broken beer_ and blown wine of the best daily."

And in Scot's "Belgicke Pismire," 1622, p. 76: "Having before fed themselves full with the sweat of other mens browes, even to gluttonie, drunkenesse, and surfetting, may releeve with their scraps, crummes, bones and _broken beere_, the necessities of such as they or their predecessors have before undone and made beggers."

[133] [Old copy, _paguim_.]

[134] Qy. breadth, _i.e._, stopped a breach by his person.--_Collier._

[135] [Reasons or policies of state.]

[136] _German clocks_ were about this time much in use. They are frequently mentioned by Ben Jonson and other writers.--See "Epicæne,"

## act iv. sc. 2.

## ACT II., SCENE I.

HAVE-AT-ALL, SLICER, HEARSAY _having rescued him_ _in a quarrel._

HAVE. 'Tis destin'd; I'll be valiant: I am sure I shall be beaten with more credit then Than now I do escape. Lieutenant, has't Bethought thyself as yet? Has't any way To make my sword fetch blood?

SLICER. You never yet Did kill your man, then?

HAVE. No.

HEAR. Nor get your wench With child, I warrant?

HAVE. O sir!

SLICER. You're not quite Free of the gentry, till y' have marr'd one man And made another. When one fury hath Cried quit with t'other, and your lust repair'd What anger hath destroy'd, the title's yours; Till then you do but stand for't.

HAVE. Pox! who'd be That vile, scorn'd name, that stuffs all court-gate bills? Lieutenant, thou may'st teach me valour yet.

SLICER. Teach thee! I will inspire thee; man, I'll make Thy name become a terror; and to say That Have-at-all is coming shall make room, As when the bears are in procession. Hark hither, Frank--[_They consult._

HEAR. That's good, but--

SLICER. How think'st now?

HEAR. Nay, he will pay you large--ly. [_Aloud._

HAVE. Pay, what else?

HEAR. Make him believe the citizen's his guest; The citizen, that he is his.

SLICER. Concluded. Would you fight fair, or conquer by a spell?

HAVE. I do not care for witchcraft; I would have My strength rely merely upon itself.

SLICER. There is a way, though I ne'er show'd it yet But to one Spaniard, and 'twas wondrous happy.

HAVE. Think me a second Spaniard, worthy sir.

SLICER. Then listen. The design is by a dinner-- An easy way, you'll say: I'll say, a true. Hunger may break stone walls, it ne'er hurts men: Your cleanly feeder is your man of valour. What makes the peasant grovel in his muck, Humbling his crooked soul, but that he eats Bread just in colour like it? Courage ne'er Vouchsaf'd to dwell a minute where a sullen Pair of brown loaves darken'd the dirty table; Shadows of bread, not bread. You never knew A solemn son of bag-pudding and pottage Make a commander, or a tripe-eater Become a tyrant. He's the kingdom's arm That can feed large and choicely.

HAVE. If that be The way, I'll eat myself into courage, And will devour valour enough quickly.

SLICER. 'Tis not the casual eating of those meats That doth procure those spirits, but the order And manner of the meal--the ranking of The dishes, that does all; else he that hath The greatest range, would be the hardiest man. Those goodly juments of the guard would fight (As they eat beef) after six stone a day; The spit would nourish great attempts: my lord Would lead a troop, as well as now a masque; And force the enemy's sword with as much ease As his mistress's bodkin: gallants would Owe valour to their ordinaries, and fight After a crown meal.

HAVE. I do conceive The art is all in all. If that you'll give A bill of your directions, I'll account Myself oblig'd unto you for my safety.

SLICER. Take it then thus. All must be soldier-like; No dish but must present artillery; Some military instrument in each. Imprimis, six or seven yards of tripe Display'd instead o' th' ensign.

HAVE. Why, you said Tripe-eaters ne'er made tyrants.

SLICER. Peace, sir: learners Must be attentive, and believe. Do y' think We'll eat this? 'Tis but for formality. Item, a collar of good large fat brawn Serv'd for a drum, waited upon by two Fair long black-puddings, lying by for drumsticks. Item, a well-grown lamprey for a fife; Next some good curious march-panes[138] made into The form of trumpets. Then in order shall Follow the officers: the captain first Shall be presented in a warlike cock, Swimming in white broth, as he's wont in blood: The serjeant-major he may bustle in The shape of some large turkey: for myself, Who am lieutenant, I'm content there be A buzzard only. Let the corporal Come sweating in a breast of mutton, stuff'd[139] With pudding, or strut in some aged carp: Either doth serve, I think. As for perdues,[140] Some choice sous'd fish brought couchant in a dish Among some fennel or some other grass, Shows how they lie i' th' field. The soldier then May be thus rank'd: the common one, chicken, Duck, rabbit, pigeon; for the more genteel, Snipe, woodcock, partridge, pheasant, quail, will serve.

HEAR. Bravely contriv'd!

SLICER. That weapons be not wanting, We'll have a dozen of bones well-charg'd with marrow For ordnance, muskets, petronels, petards; Twelve yards of sausage by, instead of match; And caveary[141] then prepar'd for wild-fire.

HEAR. Rare rogue! how I do love him now, methinks!

SLICER. Next we'll have true fat eatable old pikes, Then a fresh turbot brought in for a buckler, With a long spitchcock for the sword adjoin'd. We'll bring the ancient weapons into play.

HAVE. Most rare, by heaven!

SLICER. Peaches, apricocks, And malecotoons,[142] with other choicer plums, Will serve for large-sized bullets; then a dish Or two of peas for small ones. I could now Tell you of pepper in the stead of powder, But that 'tis not in fashion 'mongst us gallants. If this might all stand upon drum-heads, 'twould Work somewhat better.

HAVE. Will't so? Then we'll have 'em From every ward i' th' city.

SLICER. No, I'm loth To put you to such charge. For once a long Table shall serve the turn; 'tis no great matter. The main thing's still behind. We must have there Some fort to scale; a venison-pasty doth it. You may have other pies instead of outworks: Some sconces would not be amiss, I think. When this is all prepar'd, and when we see The table look like a pitch'd battle, then We'll give the word, fall to, slash, kill and spoil: Destruction, rapine, violence! spare none.

HEAR. Thou hast forgotten wine, lieutenant--wine.

SLICER. Then to avoid the gross absurdity Of a dry battle, 'cause there must some blood Be spill'd (on th' enemies' side, I mean) you may Have there a rundlet of brisk claret, and As much of alicant; the same quantity Of tent would not be wanting--'tis a wine Most like to blood. Some shall bleed fainter colours, As sack and white wine. Some that have the itch (As there are tailors still in every army), Shall run with Rhenish that hath brimstone in't. When this is done, fight boldly: write yourself The tenth or 'leventh worthy--which you please: Your choice is free.

HAVE. I'll be the gaming worthy; My word shall be twice twelve. I think the dice Ne'er mounted any upon horseback yet.

SLICER. We'll bring your friends and ours to this large dinner: It works the better, eaten before witness. Beware you say 'tis yours; confession is One step to weakness; private conscience is A theatre to valour. Let's be close: Old Credulous and his son, and Master Caster, Shall all be there.

HAVE. But then they will grow valiant All at my charge.

SLICER. Ne'er fear't: the unknowing man Eats only flesh, the understanding, valour: His ignorance i' th' mystery keeps him coward. To him 'tis but a meal; to you 'tis virtue. It shall be kept here.

HAVE. No fitter place. There is An old rich clutch-fist knight, Sir Thomas Bitefig, Invite him too; perhaps I may have luck, And break his purse yet open for one hundred. A usurer is somewhat exorable, When he is full; he ne'er lends money empty.

SLICER. Discreet, and wisely done: I was about T' have prompted it.

HEAR. Stout Master Have-at-all, Let's be sworn brothers.

HAVE. Pox! thou fear'st I'll beat thee, After I've eaten. Dost thou think I'll offer't? By my next meal, I won't; nay, I do love My friends howe'er. I do but think how I Shall bastinado o'er the ordinaries. Arm'd with my sword, battoon and foot, I'll walk To give each rank its due. No one shall 'scape, But he I win of.

HEAR. You shall have at least Some twenty warrants sign'd upon you straight: The trunk-hose justices will try all means To bind you to the peace, but that your strength Shall not be bound by any.

SLICER. Surgeons will Pray for your health and happiness: you may Bring them to be your tributaries, if You but deny to fight awhile.

HAVE. My teeth Are on an edge till I do eat. Now will I cosen all men without opposition: I feel my strength increase with very thought on't. Sword, sword, thou shalt grow fat; and thou, battoon, Hold out, I prythee: when my labour's done, I'll plant thee in the Tower-yard, and there, Water'd with wine, thou shalt revive, and spring In spite of nature with fresh succulent boughs, Which shall supply the commonwealth with cudgels. Thou I first meet after this meal I do Pronounce unhappy shadow--happy yet In that thou'lt fall by me. Some men I will Speak into carcase; some I'll look to death; Others I'll breathe to dust: none shall hold back This fatal arm. The Templars shall not dare T' attempt a rescue; no mild words shall bury My splitted, spitchcock'd----

SLICER. Oliv'd,[143] hash'd----

HEAR. Dri'd, powder'd----

HAVE. Roasted fury. [_Exeunt._

## SCENE II.

MEANWELL, MOTH.

MEAN. If what I speak prove false, then stigmatise me.

MOTH.[144] I was not what you mean; depardieu,[145] You snyb[146] mine old years, sans fail I wene[147] you bin A jangler[148] and a golierdis.[149]

MEAN. I swear By those two Janus' heads you had of us, And your own too, as reverend as those, There is one loves you that you think not on.

MOTH. Nad be, none pleasaunce is to me ylaft,[150] This white top writeeth much my years, i-wis, My fire yreken is in ashen cold.[151] I can no whit of dalliance: if I kissen, These thick stark bristles of mine beard will pricken Ylike the skin of hound-fish. Sikerly[152] What wends against the grain is lytherly.[153]

MEAN. Methinks y' are strong enough and very lusty, Fit to get heirs: among your other pieces Of age and time let one young face be seen May call you father.

MOTH. Wholesome counsel! But The world is now full tickle[154] sykerly; 'Tis hard to find a damosel unwenned;[155] They being all coltish and full of ragery,[156] And full of gergon[157] as is a flecken[158] pie. Whoso with them maketh that bond anon, Which men do clyppen[159] spousail or wedlock, Saint Idiot is his lord, i-wis.

MEAN. This is No tender and wanton thing; she is a staid And settled widow, one who'll be a nurse Unto you in your latter days.

MOTH. A norice[160] Some dele ystept in age! So mote[161] I gone, This goeth aright: how highteth[162] she, say you?

MEAN. Mistress Joan Potluck, vintner Potluck's widow.

MOTH. Joan Potluck, spinster? Lore me o' thing mere Alouten: what time 'gan she brendle thus?

MEAN. On Thursday morning last.

MOTH. Y' blessed Thursday, Ycleped so from Thor the Saxon's god.

Ah, benedicite! I might soothly sayn, Mine mouth hath itched all this livelong day; All night me met[163] eke, that I was at kirk; My heart gan quapp[164] full oft. Dan Cupido Sure sent thylke sweven[165] to mine head.

MEAN. You shall Know more, if you'll walk in. [_Exit_ MEANWELL.

MOTH. Wend you beforne; Kembeth[166] thyself, and pyketh[167] now thyself; Sleeketh thyself; make cheer much digne,[168] good Robert: I do arret thou shalt acquainted bin With nymphs and fauns, and hamadryades: And yeke the sisterne nine Pierides That were transmued into birds, nemp'd[169] pyes Metamorphoseos wot well what I mean: I is as jollie now as fish in Seine. [_Exeunt._

## SCENE III.

HEARSAY, CASTER, SHAPE.

HEAR. Can I lie hid nowhere securely from The throng and press of men? Must every place Become a theatre, where I seek shelter, And solitudes become markets, 'cause I'm there? Good sir, I know your tricks; you would entrap: This is your snare, not your request.

SHAPE. Take heed; He's nois'd about for a deep-searching head. I'll pawn my life 'tis a trick.

HEAR. Leave off these gins, You do not do it handsomely. You think Y' have met with fools, I warrant.

SHAPE. On my life, a spy, a mere informer.

CAS. As I hope For fortunes, my intentions are most fair.

SHAPE. A gamester's oath! he hath some reservation.

HEAR. Yet did I think you true----

CAS. By all that's good, You do me wrong, to think that I'd wrong you.

HEAR. When I lay agent last in New Atlantis, I met with, what you now desire, a strange New way of winning, but yet very sure. Were not the danger great, I'd----

CAS. Do you think I will betray myself or you, whom I Esteem above myself? I have as yet One hundred left, some part of which----

SHAPE. Faith, sir, These times require advice: if it should come Unto the council's ear once, he might be Sent into other kingdoms, to win up Money for the relief o' th' state, and so Be as it were an honest kind of exile.

CAS. If I do e'er discover, may I want Money to pay my ordinary: may I At my last stake (when there is nothing else To lose the game) throw ames-ace[170] thrice together! I'll give you forty pound in hand----

HEAR. I may Show you the virtue of't, though not the thing: I love my country very well. Your high And low men are but trifles;[171] your pois'd dye, That's ballasted with quicksilver or gold, Is gross to this----

SHAPE. Proffer him more, I say. [_Aside._

CAS. Here's fifty----

HEAR. For the bristle dye, it is Not worth that hand that guides it: toys fit only For clerks to win poor costermongers' ware with.

SHAPE. You do not come on well. [_Aside._

CAS. Here's threescore----

HEAR. Then Your hollowed thumb join'd with your wriggled box-- The slur and suchlike are not to be talk'd of; They're open to the eye. For cards, you may Without the help of any secret word Or a false hand, without the cut or shuffle, Or the pack'd trick, have what you will yourself; There's none to contradict you.

CAS. If you please But to instruct me, here is fourscore pound.

HEAR. Do you think 'tis money I esteem? I can Command each term by art as much as will Furnish a navy. Had you but five pound Left you in all the world, I'd undertake Within one fortnight you should see five thousand. Not that I covet any of your dross, But that the power of this art may be More demonstrably evident, leave in My hands all but some smaller sum to set, Something to stake at first.

SHAPE. He'll tell you all, If you but seem to trust him. [_Aside._

CAS. Here I'll lay Down in your hands all but this little portion, Which I reserve for a foundation.

HEAR. Being y' are confident of me, and I Presume your lips are sealed up to silence, Take that, which I did never yet discover: So help you fortune, me philosophy. (I must intreat your absence, Master Shape.) [_Exit_ SHAPE. I do presume you know the strength and power That lies in fancy.

CAS. Strange things are done by it.

HEAR. It works upon that which is not as yet: The little Ethiop infant would have been Black in his cradle,[172] had he not been first White in the mother's strong imagination. 'Tis thought the hairy child, that's shown about, Came by the mother's thinking on the picture Of Saint John Baptist in his camel's coat. See we not beasts conceive, as they do fancy The present colours plac'd before their eyes? We owe pied colts unto the varied horse-cloth, And the white partridge to the neighbouring snow. Fancy can save or kill: it hath clos'd up Wounds,[173] when the balsam could not; and without The aid of salves, to think hath been a cure. For witchcraft then, that's all done by the force Of mere imagination. That which can Alter the course of nature, I presume, You'll grant shall bear more rule in petty hazards.

CAS. It must, it must, good sir. I pray, go on.

HEAR. Now the strongest fancies still are found to dwell In the most simple; they being easiest won To the most firm belief, who understand not Why[174] 'tis they do believe. If they think 'twill Be so, it will be so: they do command And check the course of fortune: they may stop Thunder, and make it stand, as if arrested In its mid-journey. If that such a one Shall think you'll win, you must win: 'tis a due, That nature pays those men in recompense Of her deficiency that, whate'er they think, Shall come to pass. But now the hardest will be To find out one that's capable of thinking.

CAS. I know you can produce an instrument To work this your design by: let me owe you The whole and entire courtesy.

HEAR. I've one

Committed to my custody but lately, The powerfull'st that way I e'er found yet: He will but think he shall be abus'd in such A company, and he's abus'd: he will Imagine only that he shall be cheated, And he is cheated: all still comes to pass. He's but one pin above a natural: but----

CAS. We'll purchase him; I'll take up for't. Old Simon Shall have my farm outright now. What's a piece Of dirty earth to me? a clod! a turf!

HEAR. Because I see your freer nature's such As doth deserve supplies, I'll do my best To win him o'er awhile into your service.

CAS. If I should strive to pay you thanks, I should But undervalue this great courtesy. Sir, give me leave to think and worship. Stay: First, will I beggar all the gentlemen That do keep terms; then build with what I win. Next, I'll undo all gaming citizens, And purchase upon that. The foreman shall Want of his wonted opportunities; Old Thomas shall keep home, I warrant him. I will ascend to the groom-porters next, Fly higher games, and make my mincing knights Walk musing in their knotty freeze abroad; For they shall have no home. There shall not be That pleasure but I'll balk: I'll run o'er Nature; And when I've ransack'd her, I'll weary art: My means, I'm sure, will reach it. Let me see, 'Twill yearly be--by heaven, I know not what----

HEAR. Ne'er think to sum it, 'tis impossible: You shall ne'er know what angels, pieces, pounds, Those names of want and beggary, mean: your tongue Shall utter nought but millions; you shall measure, Not count your moneys; your revenues shall Be proud and insolent, and unruly; They shall increase above your conquer'd spendings, In spite of their excess. Your care shall be Only to tame your riches, and to make them Grow sober and obedient to your use.

CAS. I'll send some forty thousand unto Paul's; Build a cathedral next in Banbury;[175] Give organs to each parish in the kingdom; And so root out th' unmusical elect. I'll pay all soldiers, whom their captains won't; Raise a new hospital for those maim'd people That have been hurt in gaming: then build up All colleges that ruin hath demolish'd, Or interruption left unperfect.

HEAR. 'Twill Never be done, I think, unless you do it. Provide the wealthiest gamesters: there's but one That can do us wrong--discovery. You have no enemy but frailty.

CAS. Night And silence are loud names compar'd with me.

HEAR. I see the tide of fortune rolling in Without resistance. Go, be close and happy. [_Exeunt._

## SCENE IV.

ANDREW, MEANWELL.

AND. Upon my conscience, now he cheated me; I could have never lost it else so strangely.

MEAN. What is a paltry cloak to a man of worth?

It barr'd men only o' th' sight of your body; Your handsomeness will now appear the better.

AND. He was as like our Master Shape as could be; But that he had a patch upon his cheek And a black beard, I should have sworn 'twere he: It was somebody in his clothes, I'm sure.

MEAN. Some cunning cheater, upon my life, won His cloak and suit too!

AND. There it is for certain, Pyes take him! doth he play for cloaks still? Surely He hath a fly only to win good clothes.

_Enter_ SHAPE.

SHAPE. The pox and plague take all ill-fortune! this The second time that he hath cheated me; My very best suit that I had!

AND. How now! What, lost your cloak and suit? A jest, I vow; I vow, a pretty jest. 'Odsnigs, I guess'd so; I saw him have it on: it made him look as like you, As like you--'tis a rogue, a mere decoy. [_Aside._

SHAPE. A rogue, a mere decoy! and yet like me?

AND. Nay, hold, I mean he is a rogue, when that He hath his own clothes on. D' y' think that I Would call him so when he is in your suit?

SHAPE. No more of that, good Andrew, as you love me; Keep in your wit.

AND. Speak, tutor, do I use To quarrel? Speak, good tutor.

MEAN. That wit, Andrew, Of yours will be th' undoing of you, if You use't no better.

AND. Faith, I thought I might Have broke a witty jest upon him, being I've lost my cloak.

MEAN. True; but he has lost his too, And then you know that is not lawful wit.

_Enter_ HEARSAY.

HEAR. Here's Master Credulous and old Sir Thomas; They have some business with you.

MEAN. Bring 'em in.

SHAPE. My business lies not here, sirs, fare you well.

[_Exit_ SHAPE.

AND. For God's sake, don't you tell old Sim on't, now.

## SCENE V.

_To them_ SIR THOMAS BITEFIG, CREDULOUS.

MEAN. God save you, good Sir Thomas.

SIR T. Save you, sir.

MEAN. Your welcome, Master Credulous.

CRE. Come hither: Whither do you steal now? What! Where's your cloak?

AND. Going to foils e'en now, I put it off.

MEAN. To tell you truth, he hath lost it at doublets.

CRE. With what a lie you'd flap me in the mouth! Thou hast the readiest invention To put off anything: thou hadst it from Thy mother, I'll be sworn: 't ne'er came from me.

MEAN. Peace, as you love yourself: if that the knight Should once perceive that he were given to gaming, 'Twould make him break the match off presently.

CRE. Sir Thomas, here's my son; he may be yours, If you please to accept him.

AND. Father, don't Give me away for this: try me once more.

SIR T. I like his person well enough, if that You'll make him an estate convenient.

MEAN. He hath more in him, sir, than he can show. He hath one fault: he's something covetous.

SIR T. Marry, a very commendable fault.

CRE. He is descended of no great high blood: He hath a house, although he came of none. His grandfather was a good livery-man, Paid scot and lot, old Timothy Credulous My father--though I say it, that should not.

SIR T. I don't regard this thing that you call blood; 'Tis a mere name, a sound.

MEAN. Your worship speaks Just like yourself: methinks he's noble That's truly rich. Men may talk much of lines, Of arms, of blood, of race, of pedigree: Houses, descents and families; they are But empty noise, God knows; the idle breath Of that puff nothing, honour; formal words, Fit for the tongues of men that ne'er knew yet What stem, what gentry, nay, what virtue lies In great revenues.

SIR T. Well and pithy said! You may work on my daughter, and prevail For that young stripling. 'Tis a foolish wench, An unexperienc'd girl; she'd like to have been Caught by Sir Robert Littleworth's son, if that I had not banish'd him my house; a youth Honest enough, I think, but that he's poor; Born to more name than fortune.

CRE. He is safe For ever wooing. I have laid his father Out of harm's way; there's picking meat for him, And God knows where he's gone: he hath not been Seen this long while; he's, sure, turn'd vagabond; No sight of him since the arrest of his father. Andrew, address yourself to good Sir Thomas.

AND. 'Slid, father, you're the strangest man--I won't.

CRE. As God shall mend me, thou'rt the proudest thing---- Thou can'st not compliment, but in caparisons.

AND. What's that to you? I'd fain say something yet, But that I can't, my losses do so vex me.

CRE. Come, think not on't, my boy; I'll furnish thee.

AND. Sir, though----

CRE. Nay, to't, I say: help him, sir, help him.

AND. Sir, though without my cloak at this time-- To-morrow I shall have one--give me leave Barely to say I am your servant, sir---- In hose and doublet.

CRE. I'll do what you told me.

HEAR. Take heed: if that you do't, he'll guess you're given To idle spendings, and so cross the match. I will invite him as to myself.

CRE. Do so.

HEAR. Sir Thomas, if you'll please so far to grace us, As be a guest to-morrow here, we shall Study hereafter to deserve the favour.

SIR T. Although I do not use to eat at ordinaries; Yet to accept your courtesy, good friends, I'll break my wonted custom.

HEAR. You shall have it With a free heart.

SIR T. If I thought otherwise, I do assure you, I'd not venture hither. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[137] _i.e._, Prize [or acquisition.]--_Collier._

[138] _March-pane_ was a confection made of pistachio nuts, almonds, sugar, &c., formerly in high esteem, and a constant article in the deserts of our ancestors. See the notes of Dr Gray, Mr Hawkins, and Mr Steevens, to "Romeo and Juliet," act i. sc. 5.

[139] This is called a St Stephen's pudding: it used formerly to be provided at St John's College, Cambridge, uniformly on St Stephen's day.--_Pegge._

[140] See [Suckling's Works, by Hazlitt, ii. 33.]

[141] Or, caveare. Giles Fletcher, in his "Russe Commonwealth," 1591, p. 11, says: "In Russia they have divers kinds of fish, very good and delicate: as the Bellouga or Bellougina, of four or five elnes long; the Ostrina or Sturgeon, but not so thicke nor long. These four kinds of fish breed in the Volgha, and are catched in great plenty, and served thence into the whole realme for a great food. Of the roes of these foure kinds, they make very great store of _Icary_, or caveary."

The introduction of these foreign delicacies is ridiculed by several writers of the times; as Ben Jonson's "Cynthia's Revels," act iii. sc. 1: "Come; let us go and taste some light dinner, a dish of sliced _caviare_, or so."

And in Marston's "What you Will," act ii. sc. 1--

"A man can scarce put on a tuckt-up cap, A button'd frizado sute; scarce eate good meate, Anchovies, _caviare_, but hee's satired, And term'd phantasticall."

[142] The malacoton is one of the late _peaches_. So in Ben Jonson's "Bartholomew Fair"--

"A soft velvet head like a _mellicotton_."

--_Steevens._

[143] _Olived_ is a term of cookery. In Murrell's "New Book of Cookery," [1630,] is a receipt to make an _olive_-pie to be eaten hot. _Olives_ are _collops_ of any meat.--_Steevens._

[144] Cartwright has fetched most of his antiquated terms from Chaucer. I have therefore given the explanation of them from Mr Tyrwhitt's excellent glossary on that author.

[145] [For God's sake.]

[146] Snub, reprove.--_T._

[147] Think, suppose.--_T._

[148] A prater.--_T._

[149] Fr. _Goliardus_, or Goliardensis, Lat. "This jovial sect seems to have been so called from Golias, the [representative] name of a man of wit, toward the end of the 12th century, [under which pass] "Apocalypsis Goliæ" and other pieces, in burlesque Latin rhymes, some of which have been falsely attributed to Walter Mapes. In several authors of the 13th century, quoted by Du Cange, the Goliardi are classed with the _joculatores_ or _buffones_."--_T._ [See "Poems of Walter Mapes," edit. Wright, p. ix. _et seq._]

[150] Left.--_T._

[151] So in Chaucer's "Reve's Prologue," v. 3880--

"Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken." --_Steevens._

On this last line Mr Tyrwhitt observes: "There is so great a resemblance between this line and the following in 'Gray's Elegy,' [edit. Mitford, i. 106]--

"Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires,"

that I should certainly have considered the latter as an imitation, if Mr Gray himself had not referred us to the 169 (170) sonnet of Petrarch, as his original 'Ch'i veggio nel pensier,' &c.

[152] Surely.--_T._

[153] Very ill.--_T._

[154] Uncertain.--_T._

[155] Unspotted.--_T._

[156] Wantonness.--_T._

[157] Jargon, chattering.--_T._

[158] Spotted.--_T._

[159] Call, name.--_T._

[160] A nurse.--_T._

[161] [Might.]

[162] Is she called.--_T._

[163] Dreamed.--_T._

[164] Tremble or quake.--_T._

[165] Dream.--_T._

[166] Combeth.--_T._

[167] Pick as a hawk does his feathers.--_T._

[168] Worthy.--_T._

[169] Named.--_T._

[170] ["Both aces, the lowest throw upon the dice."--Dyce's "Shakespeare Glossary," 1868.]

[171] High men and low men are false dice. See Florio's "Dictionary," 1598, _v._ Pise. These terms so very oft occur in our ancient dramatic writers, that to quote examples would be endless.

[172] The epithet _black_ does not agree with Sir Kenelm Digby's "Discourse touching the Cure of Wounds by the Power of Sympathy," 4th edition, 1664, p. 104: "I told her sundry stories upon this subject; as that of the Queen of Ethiopia, who was delivered of a white boy; which was attributed to a picture of the Blessed Virgin, which she had always near the tester of her bed, whereunto she bore great devotion. I urged another, of a woman who was brought to bed of a child all hairy, because of a portrait of St John the Baptist in the wilderness, where he wore a coat of camel's hair."

Perhaps the original reading is the true one, and the corruption lies in the former line. I would read--

"It works upon that which is not as yet: The little Ethiop infant _would have_ been _Black_ in his cradle, had he not been first White in the mother's strong imagination."

The compositor's eye might have caught _had not_ from the following line--a very common accident. Without this emendation we have too much of _not_ and _had not_ in the course of three verses.--_Steevens's note_ (_altered_.) [Cartwright and Digby probably derived the story of the Ethiop mother and her white offspring from a common source; but Digby's work was not published till several years after Cartwright's death.]

[173] See Sir Kenelm Digby's "Discourse," p. 6.

[174] [Old copy, _who_. Mr Collier's correction.]

[175] From Bishop Corbet's "Iter Boreale," this town appears to have been inhabited chiefly by Puritans. Mr Dodd, mentioned in act iv. sc. 3, was minister there.

## ACT III, SCENE I.

MOTH. Harrow,[176] alas! I swelt[177] here as I go; Brenning[178] in fire of little Cupido. I no where hoart yfeel but on mine head. Huh, huh, huh, so; ycapred very wele. I am thine leek, thou Chaucer eloquent; Mine head is white, but, O, mine taile is green. This is the palyes, where mine lady wendeth. _Saint Francis[179] and Saint Benedight,_ _Blesse this house from wicked wight;_ _From the night-mare and the goblin,_ _That is hight Good-fellow Robin;_ _Keep it from all evil spirits,_ _Fairies, weazels, rats, and ferrets:_ _From curfew-time_ _To the next prime._ Come forth, mine duck, mine bride, mine honeycomb; Come forth, mine cinnamon.

_Enter_ MISTRESS POTLUCK.

POT. Who is't that calls?

MOTH. A knight most gent.

POT. What is your pleasure, sir?

MOTH. Thou art mine pleasure, by dame Venus brent; So fresh thou art, and therewith so lycand.[180]

POT. Alas! I am not any flickering thing: I cannot boast of that slight-fading gift You men call beauty; all my handsomeness Is my good-breeding and my honesty. I could plant red where you now yellow see; But painting shows an harlot.

MOTH. Harlot! so Called from one Harlotha, concubine To deignous[181] Wilhelm, hight the Conqueror.

POT. Were he ten Williams and ten conquerors, I'd have him know't, I scorn to be his harlot. I never yet did take press-money to Serve under any one.

MOTH. Then take it now. Werme kiss! Thine lips ytaste like marrow-milk; Me-thinketh that fresh butter runneth on them. I grant well now, I do enduren woe, As sharp as doth the Tityus in hell, Whose stomach fowls do tyren[182] ever more, That highten vultures, as do tellen clerks.

POT. You've spoke my meaning, though I do not know What 'tis you said. Now see the fortune on't; We do know one another's souls already; The other must needs follow. Where's your dwelling?

MOTH. Yclose by Aldersgate there dwelleth one Wights clepen Robert Moth; now Aldersgate[183] Is hoten so from one that Aldrich hight; Or else of elders, that is, ancient men; Or else of aldern-trees, which growden there; Or else, as heralds say, from Aluredus: But whencesoe'er this yate[184] ycalled is, There dwelleth Robert Moth, thine paramour.

POT. Can you be constant unto me, as I Can be to you?

MOTH. By Woden, god of Saxons, From whence comes We'nsday, that is, Woden'sday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep, Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre; I'll be as faithful to thee, As Chaunticleer to Madam Partelot.[185]

POT. Here then I give away my heart to you; As true a heart as ever widow gave.

MOTH. I Robert Moth, this tenth [year] of our king,[186] Give to thee, Joan Potluck, my bigg'st cramp-ring:[187]

And with it my carcase entire I bequeathen Under my foot to hell, above my head to heaven; And to witnesse[188] that this is sooth, I bite thy red lip with my tooth.

POT. Though for a while our bodies now must part, I hope they will be join'd hereafter.

MOTH. O! And must we part? Alas! and must we so? Sin it may be no bet,[189] now gang in peace.

[_Exit_ POTLUCK.

Though soft into my bed I gin to sink To sleep long as I'm wont to done,[190] yet all Will be for nought; I may well lig and wink, But sleep shall there none in this heart ysink. [_Exit._

## SCENE II.

CREDULOUS, _and_ SHAPE _dogging him_.

CRE. So now the mortgage is mine own outright; I swear by the faith of my body now, It is a pretty thing--o' my corporal oath, A very pretty thing. Besides the house, Orchards, and gardens, some two hundred acres Of land, that beareth as good country corn, For country corn, as may be.

SHAPE. As I'd have it.

CRE. How now, good friend? Where dost thou live? Dost thou know Caster's farm?

SHAPE. Yes, sir; I fear 'tis gone: Sure, Caster's farm is cast away!

CRE. A jest! Good troth, a good one of a country one; I see there's wit there too. Then thou dost know it?

SHAPE. I am afraid I shall not know it long; I shall lose my acquaintance.

CRE. 'Snigs, another! A very perilous head! a dangerous brain!

SHAPE. God bless my master, and the devil take Somebody else.

CRE. Um! that's not quite so good As th' other two; that somebody else is me: Now you shall see how he'll abuse me here To mine own face. [_Aside._] Why somebody else, good brother?

SHAPE. The rich gout rot his bones! An hungry, old, Hard-griping citizen, that only feeds On heirs' and orphans' goods, they say must have it: One that ne'er had the wisdom to be honest, And's therefore knave, 'cause 'tis the easier art. I know he hath not given half the worth on't: 'Tis a mere cheat.

CRE. 'Slid, brother, thou hast paid him To th' utmost, though he hath not paid thy master. Now is my wit up too. This land, I see, Will make men thrive i' th' brain. [_Aside._

SHAPE. Would he were here, Whoe'er he be, I'd give him somewhat more Into the bargain: a base, thin-jaw'd sneaksbill, Thus to work gallants out of all! It grieves me, That my poor tenement too goes into th' sale.

CRE. What have I done? Now, wit, deliver me! If he know I am he, he'll cut my throat; I never shall enjoy it. [_Aside._] Sure, it was Your master's seeking, friend; he would ne'er else Have had to do with it: he that bought it is A very honest man, and if you please him, Will deal with you. I may speak a word In your behalf; 'twon't be the worse for you.

SHAPE. I'm going, sir, unto him; do you know Where I may find him?

CRE. What if I am he?

SHAPE. I am afraid he is not half so honest As you do seem.

CRE. Faith, I'm the same. I tried What metal thou wast made of: I perceive Thou wilt not flinch for th' wetting;[191] thou may'st be My bailiff there, perhaps.

SHAPE. An't please your worship! [_Aside._

CRE. So now the case is alter'd.

SHAPE. I do know It was my master's seeking; you would ne'er Have had to do with't else. He sent me to you For the last hundred pound by the same token That you invited him to th' eating-house.

CRE. O, this simplicity! He does not know Yet what an ordinary means. [_Aside._] I was now coming To have paid it in.

SHAPE. I'll save your worship that Labour, an't please you. Let me now begin My bailiffship.

CRE. 'Snigs, wiser yet than so. Where is thy master?

SHAPE. Sir, my master's here, I thank my stars; but Master Caster is At an horse-race some ten miles off.

CRE. Why, then, I'll stay till he returns: 'twill be by dinner.

SHAPE. Your best way's now to send it: if by chance The race go on his side, your worship may Fail of your purchase.

CRE. 'Snigs, and that's considerable. Here, here, make haste with it; but, ere thou goest, Tell me, is it a pretty thing?

SHAPE. O' my corporal oath, A very pretty thing. Besides the house, Orchards, and gardens, some two hundred acres Of land that beareth as good country corn-- God give you luck on't!

CRE. Right, as I did say, Ev'n word by word. But prythee, stay a little; What meadow-ground's there? Pasture in proportion?

SHAPE. As you would wish, sir, I'm in haste.

CRE. Nay, bailiff, But one word more, and I have done: what place Is there to dry wet linen in?

SHAPE. O, twenty, To hang up clothes or anything you please; Your worship cannot want line-room. God be wi' you!

CRE. But this once, and--

SHAPE. I must be gone--The race! [_Exit_ SHAPE.

CRE. Little think'st thee, how diligent thou art To little purpose. 'Snigs, I pity him: What haste he makes to cheat himself, poor fool! Now I am safe, the wretch must pardon me For his poor tenement; all's mine. I'll sow One ground or other every month with pease; And so I will have green ones all the year. These yeomen have no policy i' th' world. [_Exit._

## SCENE III.

PRISCILLA, MEANWELL.

PRIS. Pray y', entertain yourself awhile, until I give my mistress notice of your presence. I'd leave a book with you, but that I see You are a gentleman: perhaps you'll find Some pretty stories in the hangings there.

MEAN. Thank you, sweetheart.

PRIS. A very proper man! [_Aside._ If't lie in me to do you any pleasure, Pray you, sir, use me; you shall find me ready.

[_Exit_ PRISCILLA.

MEAN. I make no doubt of that. These implements, These chamber-properties are such ripe things, They'll fall with the least touch: from twelve to twenty They think that others are to sue to them; When once they've pass'd these limits, they make bold-- I cannot say to woo, that's something modest-- But ask downright themselves.

_Enter_ MISTRESS JANE.

JANE. Leave us, Priscilla, And wait without awhile.

MEAN. Fair mistress, pardon The boldness of a stranger, who uncivilly Thus interrupts your better thoughts.

JANE. May I Demand your business?

MEAN. Under favour thus: Not to use farther circumstance, fair virgin (And yet less fair, 'cause virgin), you are one That are the thought, the care, the aim, the strife-- I should not err, if I should say the madness-- Of all young men: all sighs, all folded arms, All o'ercast looks, all broken sleeps are ow'd Only to you.

JANE. I'm sorry I should be A trouble unto any: if I could Afford the remedy as well as now I do your grief, assure yourself that cure Shall be the birth of my next action.

MEAN. That cure is my request. If that this were Mine own suit, I had us'd no circumstance. Young Master Credulous, a proper man-- For sure he shall be rich--one whom the whole List of our city virgins doat on--you Conceive the rest, I know.

JANE. Alas! what ails him? I'll not be slack to do him any good.

MEAN. 'Tis in your power. He is very much, If you will know't--but, sure, you will not grant If I should tell you.

JANE. If you thus presume That I am hard, you only ask denial; Your expectation's cross'd, except you fail.

MEAN. If you will know it, then, he is in love.

JANE. I pity him indeed, poor heart. With whom?

MEAN. Even with your beauteous self.

JANE. 'Tis not well done To scoff one ne'er did injure you.

MEAN. I vow By all that's good, by your fair self, I am As tender of you as that bless'd one is, Whoe'er he be, that loves you most. If I In any case abuse you, let me be More miserable than Littleworth.

JANE. Is he become expression?[192] Is his fate The period of ill-wishes? Sure, he never Deserv'd so ill from you!

MEAN. I don't reflect Upon his ruin'd fortunes, but your coldness; And, sure, I may call him unhappy whom You do neglect.

JANE. That man, where'er he be,

Is happier than yourself; and were he here, You should see him receiv'd, and yourself scorn'd.

MEAN. I do not think so, lady; sure, you would Make more of me than so. I'll bring the man, And so confute you.

JANE. It may be I might Love you the better something for that office, If he might enter here.

MEAN. Nay, I could tell Y' had cast him off: alas! you need not hide it: I have it from himself.

JANE. Doth he think so? Could I but see him----

MEAN. If his sight can bring But the least joy unto you--as perhaps You'll take some pleasure in his misery-- You shall enjoy it.

JANE. I do fear you promise Only to raise my hopes awhile, and then To triumph in their ruin.

MEAN. That you may See how my breast and tongue agree, I'll leave This ring with you, till I return again.

JANE. My Littleworth! Fool that I was, could I Not all this while perceive 'twas thee? Why didst thou Defer my joy thus long by suffering me To stand i' th' cloud?

MEAN. Alas! I guess'd I'd been Infectious to thee now; that thou wouldst look On a disease more mildly than on me; For poverty is counted a contagion.

JANE. I call this kiss to witness--which I wish, If I prove false, may be the last to me Which friends pay dying friends--I ne'er will be Other's than thine.

MEAN. I like the vow so well, That the same way I'll seal my promise too. If I prove not as thou (that is, most constant), May this kiss be--that I may wish it worse, Than that which is due to departing souls-- The last that I shall take from thee. I am Sent here, but yet unknown to them that send me, To be another's spokesman: the man is That foolish son of Master Credulous. Thou must pretend some liking. 'Twas thy father Granted me this access to win thee for him: Be thou no way averse; 't shall be my care So to bring things about that thou shalt be Mine by consent in spite of misery.

JANE. Be secret, and love prosper thy design!

[_Exit_ JANE.

MEAN. Happy that man that meets such faithfulness! I did not think it had been in the sex. I know not now what's misery. Peace! my fair [_Music._ Is hallowing the lute with her bless'd touch.

_A Song within._

1. _Come, O, come, I brook no stay:_ _He doth not love that can delay._ _See how the stealing night_ _Hath blotted out the light,_ _And tapers do supply the day._

2. _To be chaste is to be old;_ _And that foolish girl that's cold_ _Is fourscore at fifteen:_ _Desires do write us green,_ _And looser flames our youth unfold._

MEAN. 'T cannot be her, her voice was ne'er profan'd With such immodest numbers.

3. _See, the first taper's almost gone;_ _Thy flame like that will straight be none,_ _And I as it expire,_ _Not able to hold fire:_ _She loseth time that lies alone._

MEAN. 'Tis the breath Of something troubled with virginity.

4. _O, let us cherish then these powers,_ _Whiles we yet may call them ours:_ _Then we best spend our time,_ _When no dull zealous chime,_ _But sprightful kisses strike the hours._

_Enter_ PRISCILLA.

MEAN. What dost thou mean?

PRIS. Only to please you, sir.

MEAN. Sweetest of things, was't thou? I' faith, I guess'd 'T could be no other's melody but yours. There have been many of your sex much given Unto this kind of music.

PRIS. Sappho was Excellent at it; but Amphion he-- He was the man that outdid all: 'tis said Of him that he could draw stones with the sound Of his sweet strings. I'd willingly arrive At some perfection in the quality.

MEAN. I do acknowledge your desires most prone. This for your trouble.

PRIS. I am not mercenary; Your acceptation is reward enough.

MEAN. You have it, then.

PRIS. Beauty go with you, sir. [_Exeunt several ways._

## SCENE IV.

CREDULOUS, HEARSAY, SLICER; _to them_ SIR THOMAS BITEFIG, HAVE-AT-ALL, CASTER, _as_ _to the Ordinary_.

CRE. You're welcome, friends, as I may say----

HEAR. You do forget----

CRE. That am a guest as well as you.

SLICER. Most noble sons of fortune and of valour, You grace us with your presence: you must pardon Our small provision.

HEAR. No variety here, But you, most noble guests, whose gracious looks Must make a dish or two become a feast.

HAVE. I'll be as free as 'twere mine own.

CAS. Who thinks On anything that borders upon sadness, May he ne'er know what's mirth, but when others Laugh at his sullen wrinkles.

HAVE. We will raise A noise enough to wake an alderman, Or a cast captain when the reck'ning is About to pay.

CRE. Hang thinking; 'snigs, I'll be As merry as a pismire. Come, let's in.

SLICER. Let's march in order military, sirs.

HAVE. That's well remember'd, most complete lieutenant.

[_Exeunt as to the Ordinary._

## SCENE V.

RHYMEWELL, BAGSHOT, VICAR CATCHMEY, SIR CHRISTOPHER.

RHYME. Come, my most noble order of the club, 'Cause none will else, let's make much of ourselves: His letter may procure a dinner yet.

BAG. Cheer up, Sir Kit, thou look'st too spiritually: I see too much of the tithepig in thee.

CHRIS. I'm not so happy: Kit's as hungry now As a besieged city, and as dry As a Dutch commentator. This vile world Ne'er thinks of qualities: good truth, I think 'T hath much to answer for. Thy poetry, Rhymewell, and thy voice, Vicar Catchmey, and Thy law too, Bagshot, is contemn'd: 'tis pity Professions should be slighted thus. The day Will come perhaps, when that the commonwealth May need such men as we. There was a time When cobblers were made churchmen; and those black'd Smutch'd creatures thrust into white surplices, Look'd like so many magpies, and did speak Just as they [did], by rote. But now the land Surfeits forsooth: poor labourers in divinity Can't earn their groat a day, unless it be Reading of the Christian burial for the dead; When they, ev'n for that reason, truly thank God for thus taking this their brother to him.

CATCH. Something profane, Sir Christopher!

CHRIS. When I Level my larger thoughts unto the basis Of thy deep shallowness, am I profane? Henceforth I'll speak, or rather not speak, for I will speak darkly.

CATCH. There's one comfort then: You will be brief!

CHRIS. My briefness is prolix. Thy mind is bodily, thy soul corporeal, And all thy subtle faculties are not subtle: Thy subtlety is dulness. I am strong; I will not be conceiv'd by such mechanics.

RHYME. I do conceive you, though, Sir Christopher; My muse doth sometimes take the selfsame flight.

CHRIS. _Pauci, pauci quos æquus amavit._ But quadragesimal wits[193] and fancies, lean As ember weeks (which therefore I call lean, Because they're fat), these I do doom unto A knowing ignorance: he that's conceiv'd By such is not conceiv'd; sense is non-sense, If understood by them. I'm strong again.

RHYME. You err most orthodoxly, sweet Sir Kit.

CHRIS. I love that, though I hate it; and I have A kind of disagreeing consent to't. I'm strong, I'm strong again. Let's keep these two In desperate hope of understanding us: Riddles and clouds are very lights of speech. I'll veil my careless anxious thoughts, as 'twere In a perspicuous cloud, that I may Whisper in a loud voice, and ev'n be silent, When I do utter words. Words did I call them? My words shall be no words, my voice no voice, My noise no noise, my very language silence. I'm strong, I'm strong. Good sir, you understand not!

BAG. Nor do desire: 'tis merely froth and barm, The yeast that makes your thin small sermons work.

CHRIS. Thou hold'st thy peace most vocally. Again!

CATCH. I hate this bilk.

CHRIS. Thou lov'st, 'cause thou dost hate: Thy injuries are courtesies. Strong again!

CATCH. Good Samson, use not this your ass's jaw-bone.

CHRIS. Thou'st got my love by losing it: that earnest Jest hath regain'd my soul. Samson was strong; He killed a thousand with an ass's jaw-bone,

_Enter a_ SERVANT, _as passing by_.

And so will I. 'St! 'st!--good friend, d' y' hear? Here is a letter, friend, to Master Meanwell.

BAG. Any reversions yet? Nothing transmiss'd?

RHYME. No gleanings, James? No trencher-analects?[194]

SER. Parley a little with your stomachs, sirs.

CATCH. There's nothing so ridiculous as the hungry: A fasting man is a good jest at any time.

SER. There is a gentleman without, that will'd me To ask if you'll admit of him among you: He can't endure to be in good company.

CATCH. You're merry, James. Yes, by all means, good James. Admit, quoth he! What else? Pray, send him in. [_Exit_ SERVANT. Let's be resolv'd to fall out now; then he Shall have the glory to compose the quarrel By a good dozen of pacifical beer.

RHYME. BAG. Agreed, agreed.

CHRIS. My coat allows no quarrel.

RHYME. The colour bears't, if you'll venture the stuff. The tenderness of it, I do confess, Somewhat denies a grappling.

CHRIS. I will try: Perhaps my spirit will suggest some anger.

_Enter_ ANDREW.

AND. Save you, boon sparks! Will't please you to admit me?

CHRIS. Your worship graceth us in condescending To level thus your presence, noble[195] sir.

AND. What may I call your name, most reverend sir?

BAG. His name's Sir Kit.

CHRIS. My name is not so short: 'Tis a trisyllable, an't please your worship; But vulgar tongues have made bold to profane it With the short sound of that unhallow'd idol They call a kit. Boy, learn more reverence.

BAG. Yes, to my betters.

AND. Nay, friends, do not quarrel.

CHRIS. It is the holy cause, and I must quarrel. Thou son of parchment, got between the standish And the stiff buckram-bag! thou, that may'st call The pen thy father and the ink thy mother, The sand thy brother and the wax thy sister, And the good pillory thy cousin [once] remov'd-- I say, learn reverence to thy betters.

BAG. Set up an hour-glass; he'll go on, until The last sand make his period.

CHRIS. 'Tis my custom; I do approve the calumny: the words I do acknowledge, but not the disgrace, Thou vile ingrosser of unchristian deeds.

BAG. Good Israel Inspiration, hold your tongue; It makes far better music when you nose Sternhold's or Wisdom's metre.[196]

CATCH. By your leave, You fall on me now, brother.

RHYME. 'Tis by cause You are too forward, brother Catchmey.

CATCH. I too forward!

RHYME. Yes, I say you are too forward-- By the length of your London-measure beard.

CATCH. Thou never couldst entreat that respite yet Of thy dishonesty as to get one hair To testify thy age.

BAG. I'm beardless too; I hope you think not so of me[197].

CHRIS. Yes, verily; Not one hair's difference betwixt you both.

RHYME. Thou violent cushion-thumper, hold thy tongue; The Furies dwell in it!

CATCH. Peace, good Sir Kit.

CHRIS. Sir Kit again! thou art a Lopez. When One of thy legs rots off (which will be shortly), Thou'lt bear about a quire of wicked paper, Defiled with [un]sanctified rhymes And idols in the frontispiece--that I May speak to thy capacity, thou'lt be A ballad-monger.

CATCH. I shall live to see thee Stand in a playhouse door with thy long box, Thy half-crown library, and cry small books. _Buy a good godly sermon, gentlemen--_ _A judgment shown upon a knot of drunkards:_ _A pill to purge out popery: The life_ _And death of Katharine Stubbs._[198]

CHRIS. Thou wilt visit windows. Methinks I hear thee with thy begging tone, About the break of day, waking the brethren Out of their morning-revelations.

AND. Brave sport, i' faith!

RHYME. Pray y', good sir, reconcile them. If that same Justice be i' th' ordinary now, He'll bind them to the peace for troubling him.

BAG. Why should he not, good sir? It is his office.

AND. Now 'tis o' this side: O, for a pair of cudgels!

RHYME. Peace, inkhorn; there's no music in thy tongue.

CATCH. Thou and thy rhyme lie both: the tongue of man Is born to music naturally.

RHYME. Thou thing, Thy belly looks like to some strutting hill, O'ershadow'd with thy rough beard like a wood.

CHRIS. Or like a larger jug, that some men call A Bellarmine, but we a Conscience; Whereon the lewder hand of pagan workman Over the proud ambitious head hath carv'd An idol large with beard episcopal, Making the vessel look like tyrant Eglon.

CATCH. Profane again, Sir Christopher, I take it.

CHRIS. Must I be strong again? Thou human beast, Who'rt only eloquent when thou say'st nothing, And appear'st handsome while thou hid'st thyself, I'm holy, 'cause profane.

AND. Courageous rascals! Brave spirits! soldiers in their days, I warrant!

BAG. Born in the field, I do assure your worship. This quarrelling is meat and drink to them.

RHYME. Thou liest.

BAG. Nay, then I do defy thee thus.

[BAGSHOT _draws his inkhorn, and_ RHYMEWELL _catcheth off_ SIR CHRISTOPHER'S _hat and_ _spectacles_.

RHYME. And thus I am prepar'd to answer thee.

CHRIS. For the good saint's sake, part them: I am blind, If that my spectacles should once miscarry.

RHYME. Caitiff, this holy instrument shall quail thee.

BAG. And this shall send thee to thy cousin furies.

CHRIS. I feel a film come o'er mine eyes already: I must look out an animal conductive-- I mean a dog.

AND. Pray y', beat not out his eyes in Another's hands.

CHRIS. Most strongly urg'd!

CATCH. Your words Are merely wind. James, ho! what, James, some beer. They're mastiff dogs; they wont be parted, sir, Without good store of liquor.

_Enter_ SERVANT, _with beer_.

AND. I will souse them:

SER. Drink to 'em, sir, if that you'll have 'em quiet.

AND. Is that the way? Here's to you, my friends, a whole one.

BAG. Were't not for that good gentleman, thou'dst smoke for't.

RHYME. Had I not vow'd some reverence to his presence, Thou hadst been nothing.

BAG. 'Fore Mars, I was dry. This valour's thirsty: fill to my antagonist.

RHYME. No, mine own dish will serve; I'm singular. Few vessels still do well. I carry this To drink my beer, while others drink their sack. I am abstemious Rhymewell: I hate wine, Since I spake treason last i' th' cellar. Here, Give me thy hand, thou child of fervency. Didst thou mistrust thy spectacles? It was no anger, 'twas a rapture merely.

CHRIS. Drink, and excuse it after. James, your help! Come, man of voice, keep time, while that I drink. This moisture shall dry up all injuries, Which I'll remember only to forget; And so hereafter, which I'm wont to call The future now, I love thee stubbornly. Your beer is like my words, strong, stinging gear.

CATCH. Here, little lawyer, let's be friends hereafter; I love this reconcilement with my heart.

AND. 'Tis the best deed that e'er I did. O' my conscience, I shall make a good justice of the peace. There had been blood shed if I had not stickled.[199]

SER. More blood been spill'd, I warrant, than beer now.

AND. That inkhorn is a deadly dangerous weapon: It hath undone one quarter of the kingdom.

CHRIS. Men should forgive; but thou art far, yea far From it, O Bagshot: thou'rt in 'love with hate. Bless me! I see the fiend still in his looks; He is not reconcilable with drink: He'll ne'er love truly till he eat with me. The nature of his spirit asketh meat; He hath a wolf in's breast: food must appease him.

AND. Cold meat will do it, will't not?

RHYME. Anything That may employ the teeth.

AND. Go, James, provide. You are not merry yet.

CATCH. To satisfy you In that point, we'll sing a song of his.

AND. Let's ha't; I love these ballads hugeously.

_The Song._

1. CATCHMEY.

_Then our music is in prime,_ _When our teeth keep triple time;_ _Hungry notes are fit for knells._ _May lankness be_ _No guest to me:_ _The bagpipe sounds when that it swells._

CHORUS. _May lankness, &c._

2. BAGSHOT.

_A mooting-night[200] brings wholesome smiles,_ _When John-a-Nokes and John-a-Styles_ _Do grease the lawyer's satin._

_A reading-day_ _Frights French away,_ _The benchers dare speak Latin._

CHORUS. _A reading, &c._

3. RHYMEWELL.

_He that's full doth verse compose;_ _Hunger deals in sullen prose:_ _Take notice and discard her._ _The empty spit_ _Ne'er cherish'd wit;_ _Minerva loves the larder._

CHORUS. _The empty spit, &c._

4. CHRISTOPHER.

_First to breakfast, then to dine,_ _Is to conquer Bellarmine:_ _Distinctions then are budding._ _Old Sutcliff's wit_[201] _Did never hit,_ _But after his bag-pudding._

CHORUS. _Old Sutcliffs wit, &c._

AND. Most admirable! A good eating song!

CHRIS. Let's walk in and practise it; my bowels Yearn till I'm in charity with all.

AND. A christian resolution, good Sir Christopher!

[_Exeunt._

## SCENE VI.

MEANWELL _with a letter in his hand_, HEARSAY, SLICER. MEANWELL _reads_.

_Sweet sir, I am most passionately yours,_ _To serve you all the ways I can: Priscilla._ Very well penn'd of a young chambermaid. I do conceive your meaning, sweet Priscilla. You see I have the happy fortune on't; A night for nothing, and entreated, too.

SLICER. Thou dost not know how I do love thee. Let me Make use of this; thou'lt have the like occasion.

HEAR. Thou art the fawning'st fellow, Slicer! Meanwell, Hark here.

MEAN. For God's sake, be contented, sirs; I'm flesh and blood as well as you. Lieutenant, Think on your suburb beauties. Sweet intelligencer, I will by no means bar you of your lady: Your sin, I assure you, will be honourable. [_Exit_ MEANWELL.

SLICER. Pox o' your liquorish lips! If that she don't After this sealing forty weeks, deliver Something unto thee as thy act and deed, Say I can't prophesy.

HEAR. If I don't serve him A trick he thinks not of----

SLICER. Didst mark how he Did apply himself to the knight all dinner! I am afraid he plays the cunning factor, And in another's name wooes for himself.

HEAR. Let it go on; let it work something farther: 'Tis almost ripe enough to crush. He hath not Crept high enough as yet to be sensible Of any fall.

SLICER. Now is the time, or never. This night, you know, he and his doxy meet; Let me alone to give them their good-morrow. If that we carry things but one week longer Without discovery, farewell London then: The world's our own. He ne'er deserves to thrive That doth not venture for it: wealth's then sweet, When bought with hazard. Fate this law hath set; The fool inherits, but the wise must get.

FOOTNOTES:

[176] [See Halliwell's Dictionary, _v._ Haro--the same word, and Littrè's French Dictionary. A case occurred a few years ago, in which the ancient _Clameur de Haro_ was raised at Jersey, in the Presbyterian Church there. But the word is here employed as a mere ejaculation or exclamation, and, it must be added, without much propriety.]

[177] Faint.--_T._

[178] Burning.--_T._

[179] See notes to "Midsummer Night's Dream," act ii. sc. 1, [and "Popular Antiquities of Great Britain," 1870, iii. 39 _et seq._]

[180] Agreeable, pleasing.

[181] Disdainful.--_T._

[182] [Tear.]

[183] See Stowe's "Survey of London," Strype's edition, 1720, vol. I. bk. ii. p. 18.

[184] Gate.

[185] The name of Chaucer's cock and hen.--_Steevens._

[186] So that this play was written in 1634.--_Pegge._

[187] These rings were sometimes made out of the handles of decayed coffins, and in more ancient times were consecrated at the ceremony of _creeping [to] the cross_, of which an account is given in a note on the "Merry Devil of Edmonton," with reference to the observations of Dr Percy on the "Northumberland Household Book," 1512.--_Steevens._

Cramp-rings were formerly worn as charms for curing of the cramp. See Brookes's "Natural History," vol. i. p. 206.--_Pegge._

Andrew Borde, in his "Book of the Introduction of Knowledge," 1542, says: "The kynges of Englande ... doth halowe every yere _crampe rynges_, the which rynges worne on ones fynger doth helpe them the whyche hath the crampe." Dr Percy, in his notes on the "Northumberland Household Book," speaking of these rings observes "that our ancient kings even in those dark times of superstition, do not seem to have affected to cure the king's evil; at least in the MSS. above quoted there is no mention or hint of any power of that sort. This miraculous gift was left to be claimed by the Stuarts: our ancient Plantagenets were humbly content to cure the _cramp_." I cite this passage merely to remark that the learned editor of the above curious volume has been betrayed into a mistake by the manner in which the _cramp rings_ are mentioned in Mr Anstis's MSS. The power of curing the king's evil was certainly claimed by many of the Plantagenets. The above Dr Borde, who wrote in the time of Henry VIII., says, "The kynges of England, by the power that God hath given to them, doth make sicke men whole of a sickness called the _Kynges Evyll_." In Laneham's "Account of the Entertainment of Kennilworth Castle," it is said, "And also by her highness accustomed mercy and charitee, nyne cured of the paynful and dangerous diseaz called the _King's Evil_, for that kings and queens of this realm withoout oother medsin (save only by handling and prayer) only doo cure it." Polydore Virgil asserts the same, and William Tooker, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, [1597,] published a book on this subject. For the knowledge of this last