Part 16

Thou shalt have all when I die; and that will be Even just at twelve a’ clock at night come three year. FIRE. And may you not have one a’ clock in to th’ dozen, mother? HEC. No. FIRE. Your spirits are, then, more unconscionable than bakers. You’ll have lived then, mother, sixscore year to the hundred; and, methinks, after sixscore years, the devil might give you a cast, for he’s a fruiterer too, and has been from the beginning; the first apple that e’er was eaten came through his fingers: the costermonger’s,[496] then, I hold to be the ancientest trade, though some would have the tailor pricked down before him. HEC. Go, and take heed you shed not by the way; The hour must have her portion: ’tis dear sirup; Each charmed drop is able to confound A family consisting of nineteen Or one-and-twenty feeders. FIRE. Marry, here’s stuff indeed! Dear sirup call you it? a little thing Would make me give you a dram on’t in a posset, And cut you three years shorter. [_Aside._ HEC. Thou art now About some villany. FIRE. Not I, forsooth.— Truly the devil’s in her, I think: how one villain smells out another straight! there’s no knavery but is nosed like a dog, and can smell out a dog’s meaning. [_Aside._]—Mother, I pray, give me leave to ramble abroad to-night with the Nightmare, for I have a great mind to overlay a fat parson’s daughter. HEC. And who shall lie with me, then? FIRE. The great cat For one night, mother; ’tis but a night: Make shift with him for once. HEC. You’re a kind son! But ’tis the nature of you all, I see that; You had rather hunt after strange women still Than lie with your own mothers. Get thee gone; Sweat thy six ounces out about the vessel, And thou shalt play at midnight; the Nightmare Shall call thee when it walks. FIRE. Thanks, most sweet mother. [_Exit._ HEC. Urchins, Elves, Hags, Satyrs, Pans, Fawns, Sylvans,[497] Kitt-with-the-candlestick, Tritons, Centaurs, Dwarfs, Imps, the Spoo[r]n, the Mare, the Man-i’-th’-oak, the Hellwain, the Fire-drake, the Puckle! A ab hur hus!

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN.

SEB. Heaven knows with what unwillingness and hate I enter this damn’d place: but such extremes Of wrongs in love fight 'gainst religion’s knowledge, That were I led by this disease to deaths As numberless as creatures that must die, I could not shun the way. I know what ’tis To pity madmen now; they’re wretched things That ever were created, if they be Of woman’s making, and her faithless vows. I fear they’re now a-kissing: what’s a’clock? ’Tis now but supper-time; but night will come, And all new-married couples make short suppers.— Whate’er thou art, I’ve no spare time to fear thee; My horrors are so strong and great already, That thou seemest nothing. Up, and laze not: Hadst thou my business, thou couldst ne’er sit so; 'Twould firk thee into air a thousand mile, Beyond thy ointments. I would I were read So much in thy black power as[498] mine own griefs! I’m in great need of help; wilt give me any? HEC. Thy boldness takes me bravely; we’re all sworn To sweat for such a spirit: see, I regard thee; I rise and bid thee welcome. What’s thy wish now? SEB. O, my heart swells with’t! I must take breath first. HEC. Is’t to confound some enemy on the seas? It may be done to-night: Stadlin’s within;[499] She raises all your sudden ruinous storms, That shipwreck barks, and tear[500] up growing oaks, Fly over houses, and take _Anno Domini_[501] Out of a rich man’s chimney—a sweet place for’t! He’d be hang’d ere he would set his own years there; They must be chamber’d in a five-pound picture, A green silk curtain drawn before the eyes on’t; His rotten, diseas’d years!—or dost thou envy The fat prosperity of any neighbour? I’ll call forth Hoppo, and her incantation Can straight destroy the young of all his cattle; Blast vineyards, orchards, meadows; or in one night Transport his dung, hay, corn, by reeks,[502] whole stacks, Into thine own ground. SEB. This would come most richly now To many a country grazier; but my envy Lies not so low as cattle, corn, or vines: 'Twill trouble your best powers to give me ease. HEC. Is it to starve up generation? To strike a barrenness in man or woman? SEB. Hah! HEC. Hah, did you feel me there? I knew your grief. SEB. Can there be such things done? HEC. Are these the skins Of serpents? these of snakes? SEB. I see they are. HEC. So sure into what house these are convey’d, [_Giving serpent-skins, &c. to_ SEBASTIAN. Knit with these charms[503] and retentive knots, Neither the man begets nor woman breeds, No, nor performs the least desires of wedlock, Being then a mutual duty. I could give thee Chirocineta,[504] adincantida, Archimedon, marmaritin, calicia, Which I could sort to villanous barren ends; But this leads the same way. More I could instance; As, the same needles thrust into their pillows That sew and sock[505] up dead men in their sheets; A privy gristle of a man that hangs After sunset; good, excellent; yet all’s there, sir. SEB. You could not do a man that special kindness To part 'em utterly now? could you do that? HEC. No, time must do’t: we cannot disjoin wedlock; ’Tis of heaven’s fastening. Well may we raise jars, Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements, Like a thick scurf o’er life, as did our master Upon that patient miracle;[506] but the work itself Our power cannot disjoint. SEB. I depart happy In what I have then, being constrain’d to this.— And grant, you greater powers that dispose men, That I may never need this hag agen![507] [_Aside, and exit._ HEC. I know he loves me not,[508] nor there’s no hope on’t; ’Tis for the love of mischief I do this, And that we’re sworn to the first oath we take.

_Re-enter_ FIRESTONE.

FIRE. O mother, mother! HEC. What’s the news with thee now? FIRE. There’s the bravest[509] young gentleman within, and the fineliest drunk! I thought he would have fallen into the vessel; he stumbled at a pipkin of child’s grease; reeled against Stadlin, overthrew her, and in the tumbling-cast struck up old Puckle’s heels with her clothes over her ears. HEC. Hoyday! FIRE. I was fain to throw the cat upon her to save her honesty, and all little enough; I cried out still, I pray, be covered.[510] See where he comes now, mother.

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

ALM. Call you these witches? they be tumblers, methinks, Very flat tumblers. HEC. ’Tis Almachildes—fresh blood stirs in me— The man that I have lusted to enjoy; I’ve had him thrice in incubus already. [_Aside._ ALM. Is your name Goody Hag? HEC. ’Tis any thing: Call me the horrid’st and unhallow’d things That life and nature tremble[511] at, for thee I’ll be the same. Thou com’st for a love-charm now? ALM. Why, thou’rt a witch, I think. HEC. Thou shalt have choice of twenty, wet or dry. ALM. Nay, let’s have dry ones. HEC. If thou wilt use’t by way of cup and potion, I’ll give thee a remora shall bewitch her straight. ALM. A remora? what’s that? HEC. A little suck-stone; Some call it a sea-lamprey, a small fish. ALM. And must be butter’d? HEC. The bones of a green frog too, wondrous precious, The flesh consum’d by pismires. ALM. Pismires? give me a chamber-pot! FIRE. You shall see him go nigh to be so unmannerly, he’ll make water before my mother anon. [_Aside._ ALM. And now you talk of frogs, I’ve somewhat here; I come not empty-pocketed from a banquet, I learn’d that of my haberdasher’s wife: Look, goody witch, there’s a toad in marchpane[512] for you. [_Gives marchpane._ HEC. O sir, you’ve fitted me! ALM. And here’s a spawn or two Of the same paddock-brood too, for your son. [_Gives other pieces of marchpane._ FIRE. I thank your worship, sir: how comes your handkercher So sweetly thus beray’d?[513] sure ’tis wet sucket,[514] sir. ALM. ’Tis nothing but the sirup the toad spit; Take all, I prithee. HEC. This was kindly done, sir; And you shall sup with me to-night for this. ALM. How? sup with thee? dost think I’ll eat fried rats And pickled spiders? HEC. No; I can command, sir, The best meat i’ th’ whole province for my friends, And reverently serv’d in too. ALM. How? HEC. In good fashion. ALM. Let me but see that, and I’ll sup with you.

[HECATE _conjures; and enter a Cat playing on a fiddle, and Spirits with meat._

The Cat and Fiddle’s an excellent ordinary: You had a devil once in a fox-skin? HEC. O, I have him still: come, walk with me, sir. [_Exeunt all except_ FIRESTONE. FIRE. How apt and ready is a drunkard now to reel to the devil! Well, I’ll even in and see how he eats; and I’ll be hanged if I be not the fatter of the twain with laughing at him. [_Exit._

ACT II. SCENE I.

_A Hall in_ ANTONIO’S _House_.

_Enter_ ANTONIO _and_ GASPARO.

GAS. Good sir, whence springs this sadness? trust me, sir, You look not like a man was married yesterday: There could come no ill tidings since last night To cause that discontent. I was wont to know all, Before you had a wife, sir: you ne’er found me Without those parts of manhood, trust and secrecy. ANT. I will not tell thee this. GAS. Not your true servant, sir? ANT. True? you’ll all flout according to your talent, The best a man can keep of you; and a hell ’tis For masters to pay wages to be laugh’d at. Give order that two cocks be boil’d to jelly. GAS. How? two cocks boil’d to jelly? ANT. Fetch half an ounce of pearl. [_Exit._ GAS. This is a cullis[515] For a consumption; and I hope one night Has not brought you to need the cook already, And some part of the goldsmith: what, two trades In four-and-twenty hours, and less time? Pray heaven, the surgeon and the pothecary Keep out! and then ’tis well. You’d better fortune, As far as I see, with your strumpet sojourner, Your little four nobles[516] a-week: I ne’er knew you Eat one panado[517] all the time you’ve kept her; And is’t in one night now come up to two cockbroth[s]? I wonder at the alteration strangely.

_Enter_ FRANCISCA.

FRAN. Good morrow, Gaspar. GAS. Your hearty wishes, mistress, And your sweet dreams come upon you! FRAN. What’s that, sir? GAS. In a good husband; that’s my real meaning. FRAN. Saw you my brother lately? GAS. Yes. FRAN. I met him now, As sad, methought, as grief could make a man: Know you the cause? GAS. Not I: I know nothing, But half an ounce of pearl, and kitchen business, Which I will see perform’d with all fidelity: I’ll break my trust in nothing, not in porridge, I. [_Exit._ FRAN. I have the hardest fortune, I think, of a hundred gentlewomen:

Some[518] can make merry with a friend seven year, And nothing seen; as perfect a maid still, To the world’s knowledge, as she came from rocking. But ’twas my luck, at the first hour, forsooth, To prove too fruitful: sure I’m near my time; I’m yet but a young scholar, I may fail In my account; but certainly I do not.

These bastards come upon poor venturing gentlewomen ten to one faster than your legitimate children: if I had been married, I’ll be hanged if I had been with child so soon now. When they are our husbands, they’ll be whipt ere they take such pains as a friend will do; to come by water to the back-door at midnight, there stay perhaps an hour in all weathers, with a pair of reeking watermen laden with bottles of wine, chewets,[519] and currant-custards. I may curse those egg-pies, they are meat that help forward too fast.

This hath been usual with me night by night, Honesty forgive me! when my brother has been Dreaming of no such juncket; yet he hath far’d The better for my sake, though he little think For what, nor must he ever. My friend promis’d me To provide safely for me, and devise A means to save my credit here i’ th’ house. My brother sure would kill me if he knew’t, And powder up my friend, and all his kindred, For an East Indian voyage.

_Enter_ ISABELLA.

ISA. Alone, sister? FRAN. No, there’s another with me, though you see’t not.— [_Aside._

Morrow, sweet sister: how have you slept to-night? ISA. More than I thought I should; I’ve had good rest. FRAN. I am glad to hear’t. ISA. Sister, methinks you are too long alone, And lose much good time, sociable and honest: I’m for the married life; I must praise that now. FRAN. I cannot blame you, sister, to commend it; You’ve happen’d well, no doubt, on a kind husband, And that’s not every woman’s fortune, sister: You know if he were any but my brother, My praises should not leave him yet so soon. ISA. I must acknowledge, sister, that my life Is happily blest with him: he is no gamester,[520] That ever I could find or hear of yet, Nor midnight surfeiter; he does intend To leave tobacco too. FRAN. Why, here’s a husband! ISA. He saw it did offend me, and swore freely He’d ne’er take pleasure in a toy[521] again That should displease me: some knights’ wives in town Will have great hope, upon his reformation, To bring their husbands’ breaths into th’ old fashion, And make 'em kiss like Christians, not like Pagans. FRAN. I promise you, sister, 'twill be a worthy work To put down all these pipers; ’tis great pity There should not be a statute against them, As against fiddlers. ISA. These good offices, If you had a husband, you might exercise, To th’ good o’ th’ commonwealth, and do much profit: Beside, it is a comfort to a woman T’ have children, sister; a great blessing certainly. FRAN. They will come fast enough. ISA. Not so fast neither As they’re still welcome to an honest woman. FRAN. How near she comes to me! I protest she grates My very skin. [_Aside._ ISA. Were I conceiv’d with child, Beshrew my heart, I should be so proud on’t! FRAN. That’s natural; pride is a kind of swelling:— But yet I’ve small cause to be proud of mine. [_Aside._ ISA. You are no good companion for a wife: Get you a husband; prithee, sister, do, That I may ask your counsel now and then: 'Twill mend your discourse much; you maids know nothing. FRAN. No, we are fools; but commonly we prove Quicker mothers than you that have husbands:— I’m sure I shall else: I may speak for one. [_Aside._

_Re-enter_ ANTONIO.

ANT. I will not look upon her; I’ll pass by, And make as though I see her not. [_Aside._ ISA. Why, sir,— Pray, your opinion, by the way, with leave, sir: I’m counselling your sister here to marry. ANT. To marry? soft; the priest is not at leisure yet; Some five year hence.—Would you fain marry, sister? FRA. I’ve no such hunger to’t, sir,—for I think I’ve a good bit that well may stay my stomach, As well as any that broke fast, a sinner. [_Aside._ ANT. Though she seem tall of growth, she’s short in years Of some that seem much lower.—How old, sister? Not seventeen, for a yard of lawn! FRAN. Not yet, sir. ANT. I told you so. FRAN. I would he’d laid a wager of old shirts rather; I shall have more need of them shortly; and yet, A yard of lawn will serve for a christening-cloth; I’ve use for every thing, as my case stands. [_Aside._ ISA. I care not if I try my voice this morning; But I have got a cold, sir, by your means. ANT. I’ll strive to mend that fault. ISA. I thank you, sir. [_Sings._ _In a maiden-time profest,_ _Then we say that life is best;_ _Tasting once the married life,_ _Then we only praise the wife:_ _There’s but one state more to try,_ _Which makes women laugh or cry—_ _Widow, widow: of these three_ _The middle’s best, and that give me._ ANT. There’s thy reward. [_Kisses her._ ISA. I will not grumble, sir, Like some musician; if more come, ’tis welcome. FRAN. Such tricks have[522] made me do all that I have done: Your kissing married folks spoil[523] all the maids That ever live i’ th’ house with 'em. O, here He comes with his bags and bottles; he was born To lead poor watermen[524] and I. [_Aside._

_Enter_ ABERZANES, _and Servants carrying baked meats and bottles_.

ABER. Go, fellows, into th’ larder; let the bake-meats Be sorted by themselves. ANT. Why, sir— ABER. Look the canary-bottles be well stopt; The three of claret shall be drunk at dinner. [_Exeunt Servants._ ANT. My good sir, you’re too plenteous of these courtesies, Indeed you are; forbear 'em, I beseech ye: I know no merit in me, but poor love And a true friend’s well-wishing, that can cause This kindness in excess.—I’ th’ state that I am, I shall go near to kick this fellow shortly, And send him down stairs with his bag and baggage: Why comes he now I’m married? there’s the point. [_Aside._ I pray, forbear these things. ABER. Alas, you know, sir, These idle toys,[525] which you call courtesies, They cost me nothing but my servants’ travail! One office must be kind, sir, to another: You know the fashion. What! the gentlewoman Your sister’s sad, methinks. ANT. I know no cause she has. FRAN. Nor shall you, by my good will. [_Aside._] —What do you mean, sir? Shall I stay here, to shame myself and you? The time may be to-night, for aught you know. ABER. Peace; there’s means wrought, I tell thee.

_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and Gentleman_.

FRAN. Ay, sir, when? ANT. How now? what’s he? ISA. O, this is the man, sir, I entertain’d this morning for my service; Please you to give your liking. ANT. Yes, he’s welcome; I like him not amiss.—Thou wouldst speak business, Wouldest thou not? SEB. Yes; may it please you, sir, There is a gentleman from the northern parts Hath brought a letter, as it seems in haste. ANT. From whom? GENT. Your bonny lady mother, sir. [_Giving letter to_ ANTONIO. ANT. You are kindly welcome, sir: how doth she? GENT. I left her heal[526] varray well, sir. ANT. [_reads_] _I pray send your sister down with all speed to me: I hope it will prove much for her good in the way of her preferment. Fail me not, I desire you, son, nor let any excuse of hers withhold her: I have sent, ready furnished, horse and man for her._ ABER. Now, have I thought upon you? FRAN. Peace, good sir; You’re worthy of a kindness another time. ANT. Her will shall be obey’d.—Sister, prepare yourself; You must down with all speed. FRAN. I know, down I must; And good speed send me! [_Aside._ ANT. ’Tis our mother’s pleasure. FRAN. Good sir, write back again, and certify her I’m at my heart’s wish here; I’m with my friends, And can be but well, say. ANT. You shall pardon me, sister; I hold it no wise part to contradict her, Nor would I counsel you to’t. FRAN. ’Tis so uncouth Living i’ th’ country, now I’m us’d to th’ city, That I shall ne’er endure’t. ABER. Perhaps, forsooth, ’Tis not her meaning you shall live there long: I do not think but after a month or so, You’ll be sent up again; that’s my conceit. However, let her have her will. ANT. Ay, good sir, Great reason ’tis she should. ISA. I’m sorry, sister, ’Tis our hard fortune thus to part so soon. FRAN. The sorrow will be mine. ANT. Please you walk in, sir; We’ll have one health unto those northern parts, Though I be sick at heart. [_Exeunt_ ANTONIO, ISABELLA, _and Gentleman_. ABER. Ay, sir, a deep one— Which you shall pledge too. FRAN. You shall pardon me; I have pledg’d one too deep already, sir. ABER. Peace; all’s provided for: thy wine’s laid in, Sugar and spice; the place not ten mile hence. What cause have maids now to complain of men, When a farm-house can make all whole agen?[527] [_Exeunt_ ABERZANES _and_ FRANCISCA. SEB. It takes; has no content: how well she bears it yet! Hardly myself can find so much from her That am acquainted with the cold disease: O honesty’s a rare wealth in a woman! It knows no want, at least will express none, Not in a look. Yet I’m not throughly happy: His ill does me no good; well may it keep me From open rage and madness for a time, But I feel heart’s grief in the same place still. What makes the greatest torment 'mongst lost souls? ’Tis not so much the horror of their pains, Though they be infinite, as the loss of joys; It is that deprivation is the mother Of all the groans in hell, and here on earth Of all the red sighs in the hearts of lovers. Still she’s not mine, that can be no man’s else Till I be nothing, if religion Have the same strength for me as 't has for others: Holy vows, witness that our souls were married!

_Re-enter_ GASPARO, _ushering in Lord Governor attended by Gentlemen_.

GAS. Where are you, sir? come, pray, give your attendance; Here’s my lord governor come. GOV. Where’s our new kindred? Not stirring yet, I think. GAS. Yes, my good lord: Please you, walk near. GOV. Come, gentlemen, we’ll enter. SEB. I ha’ done’t upon a breach; this a less venture. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_A Gallery in the Duke’s House._

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

ALM. What a mad toy[528] took me to sup with witches! Fie of all drunken humours! by this hand, I could beat myself when I think on’t: and the rascals Made me good cheer too; and to my understanding then Eat some of every dish, and spoil’d the rest: But coming to my lodging, I remember I was as hungry as a tirèd foot-post. What’s this? [_Takes from his pocket a ribbon._

O, ’tis the charm her hagship gave me For my duchess’ obstinate woman; round about A threepenny silk ribbon of three colours, _Necte tribus nodis ternos Amoretta colores_; Amoretta! why, there’s her name indeed: _Necte Amoretta_; again, two boughts,[529] _Nodo et Veneris dic vincula necte_; Nay, if Veneris be one, I’m sure there’s no dead flesh in’t. If I should undertake to construe this now, I should make a fine piece of work of it, For few young gallants are given to good construction Of any thing, hardly of their best friends’ wives, Sisters, or nieces. Let me see what I can do now. _Necte tribus nodis_,—Nick of the tribe of noddies; _Ternos colores_,—that makes turned colours; _Nodo et Veneris_,—goes to his venery like a noddy; _Dic vincula_,—with Dick the vintner’s boy.

Here were a sweet[530] charm now, if this were the meaning on’t, and very likely to overcome an honourable gentlewoman. The whorson old hellcat would have given me the brain of a cat once in my handkercher; I bade her make sauce with’t, with a vengeance! and a little bone in the hithermost part of a wolf’s tail; I bade her pick her teeth with’t, with a pestilence! Nay, this is somewhat cleanly yet and handsome; a coloured ribbon, a fine, gentle charm! a man may give’t his sister, his brother’s wife, ordinarily. See, here she comes, luckily.

_Enter_ AMORETTA.