Chapter XII: Introduction: To Captain Underwit (2)

_Ri_. Well, away and get the horses readie, sirra, For I shall ride you and your witt together.

_Tho_. Alas, any foole may ride me, but I would faine see any man ride Mistres _Dorothy_.

_Do_. How, sirra?
[_Exit Thomas_.

_Ri_. I am sorry I must leave such a Companion. But more lament the cause. I wish him health; My presence cannot serve him. Morrow, wife: I cannot lose my sport. [_Exit_.

_Do_. Nor shee when you are gone. My Lady does expect another hunt's up.

_La_. Now I must trust thy secresie.

_Do_. You shall not doubt me, Madam, and t'assure you My faith, I have a suit to your Ladiship Whose grant, were there no other bonds upon me, Would tye me everlastinglie to silence.

_La_. What ist? but name, and I shall soone confirme thee.

_Do_. Our Captaine o'th traind band has been offring To chaffer Maidenheads with me. I must Confesse I can affect the foole upon Good tearmes, and could devise a plott to noose My amorous woodcock, if you privatlie Assist me and dare trust me with some Jewell Of price, that is not knowne, which shalbe faithfully Restor'd Madam.

_La_. I that dare trust my honour with thee sha'not Suspect thy faith in any treasure else. But prethe draw the Curtains close, while I Expect this friend: I needes must hide my blushes. Thou maist discover from the Gallory windowe When they are hors'd. I tremble to consider What I have promis'd.

_Do_. Tremble to meet a Ghost! You are more fearefull then a Virgin, Madam. Why this setts me a longing; but ile watch: This is the timerous world of flesh and blood. [_Exit_.

_Enter Sir Richard_.

_La. within_. Alas! What doe you meane? retire for heavens sake! My husband is not gone, I heare his voice yet; This rashnes will undoe my fame for ever Should he returne.

_Ri_. How's this? "Returne for heavens sake! my husband is not gone: I heard his voice; this will undoe my fame!" It was my wife, and this is sure my bed chamber.

_La_. (_looking forth_.) I have undone my selfe; it is my husband.

_Ri_. My forehead sweats: Where are you, Madam? Whome did you talke too or take me for? ha! Asleepe Alreadie, or doe I dreame? I am all wonder. Madam,--

_La_. You may kill him and please you, sweet heart; I cannot abide a Blackamore.

_Ri_. How's this, wife?

_La_. Helpe, helpe, deare husband, strangle him with one Of my Lute strings; doe, doe, doe.

_Ri_. If shee be a sleepe she was not us'd to talke thus: She has some hideous dreame. She spake to me, to; Whom should I strangle, sweet hart, with a lute string?

_La_. The King of _Morocco_, I thinke.

_Ri_. Tis so, she dreames. What strange Chimeras wee Doe fancie in our sleepe! I were best wake her. Madam, Madam!

_La_. O Murder, Murder!

_Ri_. Sweet heart, Madam, wake!

_La_. Whoes that?

_Ri_. Tis I.

_La_. Sir _Richard_? Oh you have delivered me From such a dreame I quake to thinke upon't.

_Ri_. I must confesse you frighted me at first.

_Enter Dorothy_.

_Do_.--My Master come back? if he had found the [sic] Sir _Francis_ here!

_Ri_. How now? art thou frighted too?

_Do_. Frighted, quoth a! Oh, Madam, the key of the Closet quickly. I must have some Cordiall water for Sir _Francis_; I feare this fitt will kill him.

_La_. Alas, good gentleman! make hast.

_Do_.--His appearance would betray all: I thus prevent it.

_La_. Nay, sweet hart, you sha'not leave me till I ha told What a cruell Dreame I had. Methought a king Of Blackamores was in love with me, and haveing By flattering Courtship drawne me to his bed chamber, With my consent or force swore to enjoy mee. I knew not by what reasons to divert The Ravisher, but told him that I heard Thy voice, and bid him if he lov'd his life Retire, for thou wouldst deere revenge my honour. But he pursueing me, I cry'd out Murder! At which sad noise methought I saw thee enter, But, having nere a sword, I counselld thee To strangle him with a Lute string, for which cruelty Of mine, me thought he threw an Arrow at me, Which, if thou hadst not wak'd me as thou didst, Would as I slept with my strong feares ha killd me.

_Ri_. This was the King of _Morocco_: well, I'me glad I came to take away thy fright.

_La_. But, sweet, you left me with a resolution To hunt this morning. Have you done already?

_Ri_. The theeves prevented me. My Stable has been rob'd to night; two geldings And my roane Nagg are vanished.

_La_. How?

_Ri_. Nay, doe not thou vexe: I have sent hue and cry that may oretake 'em. But come, Ile leave thee to my glasse, And visit Sir _Francis_ now shees return'd.--

[_Enter Dorothy_.

How does our Noble guest?

_Do_. Hees pretty well: he has voided one stone since And now finds ease.

_Ri_. Tis well: attend your Mistres. [_Exit_.

_La_. O, wench, I had almost undone my selfe, Come o'tother side, reach me that peticote; Ile tell the storie as I make me ready.

_Ex[eun]t_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Device, Sister_.

_Sis_. Ist possible you can talke thus and be no travailer?

_De_. I have traveld in my fancie, Ladie, and with the Muses, and do for my recreation of witt compose some wonders in verse, poeticall essaies, as once upon the report of a heate that was in _Egipt_.

_Sis_. Lets heare 'em.

_De_. _In Countreys I have been Under the Equinoctiall, where I have seene The Sunne disperse such a prodigious heat That made our sive-like skins to raine with sweat. Men would have given for an Ecclipse their lives, Or one whisper of Aire; yet each man strives To throw up grasse, feathers, nay women, too, To find the wind: all falls like lead, none blew. The Dogstarre spits new fire till't came to passe Each eye became his neighbours burning glasse. Leane men did burne to ashes presentlie, Fatt men did wast to leane Anatomye; Young womens heat did gett themselves with child, For none but they themselves themselves defild; Old women naturally to witches turne, And onely rubbing one another burne. The beasts were bak'd, skin turnd to crust, they say, And fishes in the River boild away. Birds in the aire were rosted and not burn'd, For, as they fell downe, all the way they turn'd_.

_Sis_. Most excellent!

_De_. I have seene Larkes in that motion at fire With an Engine of packthread perpendicular.

_Sis_. What would they have given for a shower in those Cuntries?

_De_. Now you talke of a Shower you shall heare Another coppie of Verses that I made Of a mighty raine which fell once in the _Indies_.

_Sis_. That you made? If you will venture your lungs let me heare more impossible stories to passe away the tyme.

_De. _Heaven did not weepe, but in its swelling eye Whole Seas of Rhume and moist Catarrs did lie, Which so bespauld the lower world, men see Corne blasted and the fruit of every tree; Aire was condenst to water gainst their wish, And all their foule was turn'd to flying Fish; Like watermen they throng'd to ply a fare, As though it had been navigable Aire. Beasts lost the naturall motion of each limbe, Forgott to goe with practiseing to swime: A trout now here you would not thinke how soone Taken and drest for th'Emperour o'the Moone, The fixed Starres, though to our eyes were missing Wee knew yet were by their continuall hissing. Weomen were mermaides sailing with the wind, The greatest miracle was fish behind: But men were all kept chast against their wish, And could comitt but the cold sin of fish_.

_Sis_. And that synne would puzzle all the Civell Lawyers in the kingdome. Sinns of the flesh they are perfect in; they know well enough what belongs to Adultery and simple fornication, but you would much improve and oblige the practise of the Court, if you could bring this sinne of fish under the Commission. But now, I hope, the raine is over we shall have faire weather.

_De_. Now I can tell you, Lady, what a strange frost was in one part of the world--

_Sis_. I shall cry out fire if you doe; I had rather have some discourse to keepe me warm still.

_De_. Or how the whole world was troubled with the wind Collick.

_Sis_. No more Earthquakes, I beseech you. Some frends of myne lost a great deale of land the last terme, and for ought I know tis never like to be recover'd. Why, all these verses you have honourd me to heare were translated out of _French_.

_De_. You say very right, Lady.

_Sis_. No, no; they are out of _Spanish_, as I remember.

_De_. I thinke it be out of _Spanish_, indeed.

_Sis_. Or else the _Italian_.

_De_. Troth, I know not which very well.

_Sis_. And yet you made 'em! Some gentlemen have the faculty to make verses and forgett what language was the Originall: tis Alamode, I confesse, sir.

_De_. Thers the mischiefe in poetry: a man might have told 200 lies in prose upon his owne name, and never miscaried.--But, leaving these rude rymes, Ladie, how do you like the novice that Sir _Richard_ comended.

_Sis_. Mr. _Courtwell_?

_De_. Is he not a pretty Chrisome[249]? I could not choose but laugh to observe in what rurall deportment he came to salute you, that should have made his address in theis postures.

_Sis_. Tis enough, sir; I apprehend what you would doe. The truth is, touching that thing in black, I doe not love him.

_De_. I know't; tis impossible.

_Sis_. Why is't impossible? The man's a pretty indifferent meaning man, but I must have one of a more active spiritt. No, no, the man's a Coward.

_De_. He lookes like one.

_Sis_. I put him to't, he dares not fight; and he that expects my favour to so high a degree as marriage must be none of my lord Maiors whifflers[250]; he must be valiant in Armes. I am not taken with a ring or Caskanet, as some avaritious Ladies; he that presents me with the sword of his rivall is more welcome then all the silken soft natur'd six hundreds a yeere, that will be baffeld in their best clothes and goe downe into the Country every Vacacon like Atturneys to be beaten against next terme and get damage by it, but I forget some affaires that concerne me. I take my leave. Your deserts upon me are eminent and many, and for all your noble services I--will promise you nothing: you apprehend me?

_De_. O, sweet Lady, tis too much.

_Sis_. I am so weary I can stay no longer w'ee. [_Exit_.

_De_. You make mee over happie.--So, so; the matters done. I may write my friends. Hum: well thought upon! I shall leave her joyes without any bound to entertaine me if I first beat this foolish rivall of mine and present her with his sword. She assures me he dares not fight: it shall be so. Thus with one baffling and disarming him I shall secure my Mistresse and get the reputation of a fighting Cavallier, which may save me many a knock hereafter among men of strong faith that shall heare how much honour I have elsewhere taken upon the ticket.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Captaine and Underwit_.

_Un_. Stand right to your files, make even your rankes, silence! Front to the right hand. As you were. To the right hand about. By the left hand. As you were. Rankes to the right double. Rankes as you were. Rankes to the left double. Midlemen to the right hand double the front; as you were,--to the left, --double the front; middle-men to the right entire [or[251] by division] double the front; files to the right,--to the left,--to the right hand countermarch,--to the right,--to the left,--wheele about--

_Cap_. Ran tan: enough,--you must not wast your lunges Too much at once. March faire and make a Captaine. When these words of Command are rotten (rooted?) wee Will sowe some other military seeds. You beare[252] a braine and memory.

_Un_. I hope so.

[_Cap_.[253]] And now you are chose a Captaine for your Countrey You must give good example to your Soldiers And cherish nature after exercise: You must drinke sack, sack is a fortifier. Come, wee'le to the taverne.

_Un_. With all my heart.

[_Enter Mr. Courtwell_.

Here's Mr. _Courtwell_: lett's take him with us.

_Cap_. My costive Countrey man? hee's an Anabaptist: he wonot drinke, and yet kist the Cupp of last night, me thought, when his Mistres-- drank to him: wee'le try. How ist, my man of mortall breeding?

_Cou_. My man of warre, trebonn.--Your servant, Captaine.

_Cap_. Why, this was spoke like one of us; canst doo't Agen? thy voice is more authentick, soundes As I have heard a Cavalliers in taverne, Or like the merry master of the _Dragon_, Small _Neptune_, that controlls the rich Canaries, When he Comaunds the Tritons of his cellar 'Skud, and bring wine, you varlotts, with a flavour For my Nobilitie.' Wee were conspiring To goe to'th taverne.

_Cou_. Ile make one, gentlemen, to wash away some melancholy.

_Cap_. Spoke boldlie, like an _Argonaute_.

_Cou_. I am not now in _London_, Upon a hall day marching with the puisnes, Twenty on's in a teame, to _Westminster_ In our torne gownes, embroiderd with _Strand_ dirt, To heare the Law.

_Cap_. Is not thy father dead, thou talkst so well? How I was cosend in thee: come away.

_Enter Thomas_.

_Un_. Here's my man _Thomas_.

_Cap_. Now the Newes, Sir _Tristram_.

_Tho_. Oh the Gentleman is mad.

_Un_. What gentleman?

_Tho_. Why, Mr. Engine that did faint last night.

_Un_. With feare of being hang'd for his projections.

_Cou_. My Uncle told me of him.

_Cap. Let him to _Bedlam_ then; what makes he here? Clean straw and a good whip are held restoratives.

_Tho_. He walkes and talkes the madliest; twenty midwives Are nothing to him, he drownes all their noise. His tongue is twenty ring of Bells, and yett He seemes so merry.

_Enter Engine_.

_En_. Save you, gentlemen, gallants, Cavalliers. How farre travell you: me thinkes you are very finely accomodated. Are you a Doctor, sir?

_Cap_. No, but I can tell you how to purge, and please you.

_En_. You say very well. Troth, gentlemen you must pardon me: cry you mercy, your name is Captaine _Underwit_.

_Un_. Yes, sir, but my mother came of the _Over-muches_ by the _Peake_. She broke my father's hart, and Sir _Richard_ buried her: things must be as please the starres.

_En_. What thinke you of the blazeing starre in _Germany_? according to _Ptolmy_ tis very strange. Does the race hold at _Newmarket_ for the Cup[254]? When is the Cocking, gentlemen? There are a parcell of rare Jewells to be sold now, and a man had money. I doe meane to build a very fine house next summer and fish ponds. What did you heare of the new play. I am afraid the witts are broke; there be men will make affidavit that [they] have not heard a good jest since _Tarleton_[255] dyed. Pray, may I crave your name, sir?

_Cou_. My name is _Courtwell_, sir.

_En_. In your eare; I have a cast of the best Marlins[256] in England, but I am resolv'd to goe no more by water but in my Coach. Did you ever see the great ship?[257]

_Cap_. I have been one of twenty that have dind in her lanterne.

_En_. It may be so; she is a good sailer. But ile tell you one thing: I intend to have the best pack of hounds in _Europe_; Sir Richard loves the sport well. And then if I can but find out the reason of the loadstone I were happie and would write _Non Ultra_.

_Cap_. The philosophers stone were better in my opinion. Have you no project to gett that?

_Cou_. That has startled him: I doubt this fellow does but counterfeit.

_Un_. What thinke you of the Dromedary that was to be seene at the back side[258] of the _Bell_.

_En_. I have seene a stranger beast.

_Cap_. So have I; I have seene you before now, sir.

_En_. Why then, ile tell you: the strangest beast that ever I saw was an Ostridge that eate up the Iron mynes. But now you talke of birds I saw an Elephant beat a Taylor in the fenceing schoole at his owne weapon.

_Tho_. The _Spanish_ needle?

_En_. He did out eat him in bread, and that was miraculous. I have seene a Catamountaine[259] once; but all was nothing to the wench that turnd round and thred needles.

_Cou_. Troth, sir, I thinke you have turnd round, too, and are not setled yet.

_En_. Now you talke of setling I knew a gentleman, that was borne to a good fortune, sold all his land, went to sea in a _Hollander_, was taken by the _Dunkirke_; at seaven yeares end stole away in an _English_ botome; after that saw both the _Indies_; for all this was taken by a _Turks_ man of warre, put into the Gallies, and for ought I heare by credible report is not setled yet.

_Tho_. Sure he is a great scholler; a man cannot understand him.

_Un_. His braines are out of tune.

_En_. Now you talke of Musick theres no man in the world loves musick better then I,--ile give you the reason: I have been deafe almost this halfe yeare, and it came with a cold sitting up a primero.

_Co_. Now you talke of the cold it puts me in mind of the new device of fire for brewing and bakeing. Had you no hand in the project?

_Cap_. Againe hees startled: come, he shall to taverne with us and confess all. If he do not strip his soule stark naked to us, say I am no fortune teller.--Please you to honour our society: we are going to indulge at the taverne hard by.

_En_. You shall comand me, sir. Oh the Neats tongues and partargoes that I have eaten at Stillyard, but of all things in the world I do not love a black catt: next a brewers cart, there's nothing will stay a man so much in the night as a Constables. One word before you go, and I beseech you give me your opinion cleerely: was not the _Morocco_ Ambasadour a very fine gentleman for a pagan?

_Cap_. Yes, surely, and the lead mines in _Darbishire_ hold still for the Allom businesses. But come; will you walke, Sir?

_En_. I do use to goe a foote sometymes but when I ride; and then I must confesse there is no striving with the streame. You were in _London_ lately: they say the people are more affected to beare baiting then in former tyme.

_Cap_. There are some a late are drawne like beares to the stake; but for your owne part the gout and the grand pox are all one to you. What price beare[s] meat in the shambles?

_En_. Flesh rises and falls as it us'd to doe, sir; but a Countrey life is the best when all's done. What thinke you of a bridg from _Lion_ key to _Flaunders_? You may guess I talke at randum, gentlemen; but you must not interpret all foolish discourse a distemper of the braine: Lords would take it for a _Scandalum Magnatum_ and your Ladies would bee angry too.

_Enter Sir Francis and Lady_.

Now you talke of Ladies--

_Cap_. By no meanes, Mr. _Engin_; that gentleman loves you not. Come, ile bring up the rere. Where's _Thomas_?

[_Exeunt Underwit, Captain, Courtwell and Engine_.

_Tho_. Ile follow, sir.--I would give my fower marks a yeare that I could talke like that mad gentleman. Hee's here and there and everywhere. How will his tongue run when his Coggs are oild; theile drench him! [_Exit_.

_Fra_. Although I mist a happines, I applaud Your nimble wit that securd both our honours. You have an excellent Instrument too o' your gentlewoman.

_La_. Oh she deliver'd to the life how you Were troubled with the Stone. At first I did Beleev't my selfe, and thinke of the sad consequence. But tyme is pretious now: although our Starres Have not been yet propitious to our meeting Ile try my art to night to make 'em shine. With happie influence on our Loves.

_Fra_. Most excellent Madam, how?

_La_. Ile not engage Your visit to my chamber, since the first Prov'd so unfortunate, but come to youres.

_Fra_. This night? wonot your husband be at home.

_La_. Yes.

_Fra_. You enjoy but one bed.

_La_. Without witchcraft, sir, I have a stratageme to delude my husband And all his jealous waking eyes, a plott That cannot faile if you dare but expect me.

_Fra_. I grow immortall with my hopes and fancie More than the worlds most pretious Empire in Our first embrace. I should runne back into An Infant once agen, and by degrees And tyme grow up to meet so vast a happines. Ages in expectation spent were poore And easy sufferings weigh'd against this triumph! Methinkes I am not man but something of A more exalted essence: humane nature Hath not capacity to understand And owne theis spatious blessings.

_La_. No more rapture; But with the confidence of a lover spread Your equall thoughts, and in your heart and armes Prepare an entertainement for that guest That hath no life or name but what you give. A kisse! and leave our soules to thinke upon The joyes this night attend us.

_Fra_. Sullen day, Do not tire now; tis downehill all the way.

[_Exeunt severally_.

_Act the Fourth_.

[SCENE 1.[260]]

[_Captain,[261] Underwit, Courtwell and Musicians,
discovered in the Tavern_.]

_Capt_. Come, my _Apollos_, my _Orpheuses_ or my _Bacchus_ his Minst[rels], which, to leave poeticall expressions, in broader phrase is Taverne fidlers, some of your new tunes, my Masters; doe you heare?

1. Do you meane Mr. _Adson_'s[262] new ayres, Sir?

_Cap_. I, Sir; but they are such phantasticall ayres as it putts a Poet out of his witts to rhime to them; but let mee heare.

1 _Play_.

_Capt_. No, I doe not like that.

1 _Play againe_.

_Capt_. Nor that. (_Play againe_)--No, no, no, neither.

1. An't please your Worship, Mr. _Capt_., our Boyes can singe songs to these.

_Cap_. No, no, saveing your presence, your Boyes have nothing, sarreverence,[263] but Love songs, and I hate those monstruously, to make thinges appeare better then they are, and that is but _deceptio Visus_, which after some embraceings the parties see presently what it is. _The Musique Playes_.

(_Hee sings and reeks and fillips all the time
with his finger, then sayees_:)

_Cap_. I, I, this thumping tune I like a life; a Song, a Song to it!

_One Singes.
This Song.

_The Juice of Spanish squeez'd Grapes is It
That makes a dull Braine so full of witt;
The Lemonades cleere sparkling wine
The grosser witts too, doth much refine.
Then to bee foxd[264] it is no crime,
Since thickest and dull Braines It makes sublime.
The Stillyards Reanish wine and Divells white,
Who doth not in them sometimes take delight?
If with Mimique Gestures you'le keep you from sadnes,
Then drinke lusty Clarett twill put you in Madnes;
And then to settle you no hopes in Beer
But wholesome Potts of Scotch ale though its deere_.

_Cap_. But looke you, Child, you say the Divells white in your Song. You have beene ill catechiz'd, Boy, for a _White Divell_ is but a poeticall fiction[265]; for the Divell, God bless us, Child, is blacke.

_Boy_. No, Captaine, I say white wine at the Divell.

_Cap_. That's true; thats a good Boy, indeed. _Underwit_, lend mee a Peice to give these harmonious men there. And now begon, my Masters, without noise, for I will have no more fiddle-faddle for my money, no tunes of supererrogation after the Musicall Bill is paid.

[_Exeunt[266] omnes_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Thomas_.

_Tho_. They are all drunke already, and such Confusion in their heads and tongues, my master kisses the next man and calls him Mistres _Dorothy_; Mr. _Courtwell_, possest with the spiritt of defiance to _Cupid_, is ready to beat him for being in love; my Projector dead drunk in a Chaire, and the Captaine peepeing into his mouth like a tooth drawer and powring downe sack which he feeles not, but his chapps shut againe like a spring lock till he returne with a key to open his teeth, to poure in the next health.

_Enter Courtwell_.

_Cou_. My Cloake and sword, Drawer.

_Tho_. Tis here, sir.

_Cou_. Thou art a pretty fellow; here's half a Crowne, say I am gone _Thomas_.

_Tho_. You are pretty well.

_Enter Captaine and Underwit_.

_Un_. What shalls doe with him; this Engine burnes like _Etna_.

_Cap_. Throw him into the River.

_Un_. Hee's able to mull the _Thames_ well, for my owne part would Mistresse _Dorothy_ were here to open her files.

_Cou_. Did you not name a woman. I will have no mention of any thing that's female.

_Un_. May not a man talke of Sack?

_Cap_. Sack is a soveraigne medicine.

_Un_. Oh very Soveraigne.

_Cap_. Is it not _hic et hec_ sack, both for he and she. Stay, is my Countryman gone? come hither, _Thomas_; do you thinke I am drunke?

_Tho_. Truly, Captaine, I cannot tell.

_Cap_. You cannot tell? there's your ignorance. Drink is a vice I am as little given to as another man, for I doe abhorre it in my selfe. I do wonder how any reasonable man can be drunk; therefore every wise man take Counsell and example by me, and he may see very plainely what an odious thing it is; for you must follow your leader, and vertue, which is an Antient--

_Tho_. Vertue an Antient?

_Cap_. I, an Antient old gentlewoman that is growne very poore, and nobodie knowes where she dwells very hard to find her out, especially for a Capt.; you will find it very difficult for a Livetenent. But wee will endeavour the best wee can; you see my courses, I have travel'd to find her out, and I could never yet see her at a baudihouse.

_Un_. Who is to be seene at a baudihouse? to the right hand countermarch.

_Tho_. He talkes of vertue, sir.

_Un_. Vertue? she never comes there; why do you thinke she should be there, Captaine?

_Cap_. Why, because she is an old gentlewoman and might keepe the house.

_Tho_. Alas, Captaine, Mistris _Vertue_ is poore and leane.

_Cap_. Nay, then she is not fit to be a baud, but tell me did you ever see her, or if so did you ever doo't with her?

_Un_. No, but twas none of my fault; I know not what I may do in time when she understands the wordes of Command.

_Tho_. He does not meane Mistris _Dorothy_: but, Captaine, I would faine know the reason why your baudes are so fat still.

_Cap_. A plaine case: they lie fallow and get hart, then they keepe themselves so in health and so soluble with stewd prunes; and then sipping of sack is a great matter to fatten 'em. But they are as good people as a man shall keepe company withall, and bring up the young gentlewomen so vertuously. I came into one of their houses tother day for a carreere, and I found the baud sick upon her death bed, very religious and much given to repentance for those poore sins she had comitted. When she had taken order for her soule, she told me the young gentlewoman I look'd for was in the next roome; and desiring her upon her blessing to give me content, she turnes herselfe to the wall and gives up the ghost very privatly, because she was loth to trouble us.

_Un_. By your relation theis appeare to be very good people. What if we went to visit one of these Matrons? I have a great mind--

_Cap_. Wy, now you speake like an understanding soldier, and one that may come to something in the end. Lett us therefore march on.

_Un_. March on to _Venus_ Warres.

_Cap_. For you know, _Thomas_, that the Spider and the Bee, the Spider and the Bee, do both--something, but in troth I have forgott what tis.

_Un_. Tis no matter what; let us goe.

_Cap_. Goe? no more but goe? though I be a Captaine, if I be not chosen in this imployment--

_Tho_. What, then, Captaine?

_Cap_. Why, then--I cannot goe.

_Tho_. Very right; but wo' not those young gentlewomen you talk'd of give a man something to make a man afraid of pepper upon occasion?

_Cap_. You will be prating so long till I breake your head for pretending to that which you have not, sirra.

_Tho_. Alas, I never had it in my life.

_Un_. What's that, Captaine?

_Cap_. Wit, I talke of wit.

_Un_, Who has any wit? does my man offer to have wit?

_Cap_. Nay, take no offence at it, for I meant none to either of you by this sack. Drawer, give me my oath, cannot you drinke without wit? cannot you game without wit?

_Un_. And yet by your favour the gamesters are cald the wits now.

_Cap_. Tis no wit to cozen; confederacy and dishonesty will doo't without wit. Ile iustifie it: do not you know the receit of Cozenage? take an ounce of knavery at the least,--and confederacie is but so many knaves put together,--then you must take a very fine young Codling heire and pound him as small as you can.

_Un_. And what then, Captaine?

_Cap_. Why, then you must cozen him.

_Un_. But which way?

_Cap_. Which way? Why, which way you will: is not cozen him enough? thou art a pretty fellow, ile talke with thee. Thy name's _Thomas_; take heed, I say still, _Thomas_, of being drunke, for it doth drowne the mortall soule; and yours cannot swim, _Thomas_,--can it?

_Tho_. Not as I know, Captaine; if it scape fire tis as much as I looke for.

_Within Eng_. Oh--oh--

_Cap_. What's that?

_Tho_. Tis Mr. _Engine_ recovered from his dead sleepe. [_Exit_.

_Un_. D'ee heare, Captaine, for all this I have a great mind to a wench, and a wench I must have if there be one above ground. Oh _London, London_, thou art full of frank tenements, give me _London_. Shall we wheele about yet?

_Cap_. Give you _London_? Wo'nott _Cheapeside_ serve your turne, or the _Exchange_?

_Enter Thomas_.

_Tho_. Oh, gentlemen, Mr. _Engine_ is surely bewitch'd.

_Cap_. What, what's the matter? bring the witch and Mr. _Engine_ before us.

_Tho_. He does vomit the strangest things yonder.

_Cap_. Did not I say, murder will out?

_Tho_. I thinke he has eaten and drunke nothing but Monopolies, and too hard to be digested they come up againe.

_Within Eng_. Oh!

_Tho_. Harke, I must hold his head. [_Exit_.

_Cap_. Did not I tell you something would come out?

_Tho_. Pins, pins, they lay across his throat. I told you he was bewitch'd. Heyday! cards and dice, out with 'em, the Divells a gamester and paies the box soundly--Now, now, now.

_Un_. Whats that?

_Tho_. Tis something clammy,--now,--oh, tis sope!

_Cap_. Sope? give a man leave to wash his mouth.

_Un_. Does not the lyme burne his throat, _Thomas_?

_Tho_. Alas, poore gentleman, something now agen is ready to strangle him; out with em,--hides, hides,--it was the hornes stuck in his gullett.

_Within_. Oh--

_Tho_. Well straind; what a foule stomack he has! open your mouth, Mr. _Engine_.

_Cap_. Throw downe a pottlepot.

_Tho_. I have, sir, and it has come up full of medium wine; if you have any charity come and helpe me to hold his head; now agen!

_Within_. Oh, oh, oh!

_Un_. This is very strange, Captaine; the man is certainely enchanted.

_Tho_. Master, master, tis _Shrovetuesday_[267] and the prentices are pulling downe _Covent Garden_; the Brickes come as whole out as if he had swallowed Cherristones. Hey! will you take Tobacco in the Roll? here is a whole shiplading of _Bermudas_ and one little twopenny paper of berrinas, with a superscription 'To my very loving friends the Custome-house.'

_Cap_. Put up that for a relique, _Thomas_, and open it upon high dayes to clear the sore eyes of our _Spanish_ Marchants. _Thomas_, no more, but call the Drawer, an understanding Drawer and one that writes orthographie.

[_Enter Drawer_.

--Sirra, I charge you set a padlock upon that Chamber doore; there is a dangerous fellow must be brought to his purgation. And looke all the goods that he hath vomitted be forthcomeing, while we discreetly goe and enforme the Magistrates.--At your perill, sirra, at your perill seale up the Doore; and do you pay the reckoninge.

_Un_. Sir _Richard_ is a Justice. There's your money, and yet wee need not pay; the gentleman hath left enough for the Reckoning in the next Roome.

_Un_. I ha made him fast, you are very welcome, gentlemen. All's paid in the Percullis.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Courtwell and Sister_.

_Sis_. Ile walke no further; if you have a secret To impart, you need not feare this place; the trees And hedges will not listen. What's the business? I hope your phlegmatick stock of verse is spent.

_Cou_. Why then in prose, the worst that I can speake in, I doe not love you, Lady.

_Sis_. How? you ha not Traind me thus farr to tell me that?

_Cou_. You are Of all your sex the poorest emptiest trifle, And one with whome tis most impossible I ere should change Affection; theres nothing To invite me too't, not so much as that Wee call a seeming reason, upon which All Love is built, seeming, I say, not it, My understanding Ladie.

_Sis_. You thinke I am very dull that you expound Your witt thus, but it needes no Comentator, Not by the Author, tis so very plaine; But to despise me most of all the sexe Is something oversaid. Though I affect No flattery, I hate uncivill Language. You do not meane to quarrell, now you have Betraid me to the feilds, and beat me, Sir?

_Cou_. What is there in your face more to attract mee Then that Red Cowes complexion? Why the Divell Do you thinke I should dote upon your person? That thing when she is stroak'd gives milke.

_Sis_. By that I understand all this revenge, because You thinke I did neglect you. Pray, sir, tell me, And tell me seriouslie, put the Case that I Should love you now, could not you love agen?

_Cou_. In troth I thinke I could not.

_Sis_. You do but thinke.

_Cou_. Nay, ile bind it with an oath before the parish, And when I have given my reasons, too, the Clarke Shall praise me fort and say Amen.

_Sis_. What reasons?

_Cou_. I shall be very loath To say your eyes are twinckling Starres agen, Your lipps twin cherries and out blush the rubie, Your azure veines vye beauty with the Saphire Or that your swelling breasts are hills of Ivory, Pillowes for Jove to rest his amorous head, When my owne Conscience tells me that _Bunhill_ Is worth a hundred on 'em, and but _Higate_ Compar'd with 'em is Paradice. I thanke you; Ile not be vext and squeez'd about a rime Or in a verse that's blanke, as I must be, Whine love unto[268] a tune.

_Sis_. This all your feare?

_Cou_. No, I doe feare to loose my tyme, my businesse, And my witts too, jolting them all away To waite on you in prouder Coaches.

_Sis_. Is this all?

_Cou_. To spend my selfe to nothing and be laugh'd at By all the world when I shall come at last To this reward for all my services, To bee your lay Court Chaplaine and say gravely A hastie grace before your windowes breakfast.

_Sis_. But how Came you thus cur'd? You were a passionate (I may say) foole, in hope you will deserve it. What phisick tooke you that hath thus restor'd you?

_Cou_. A little sack had power to cure this madnes.

_Sis_. I hope you are not sober yet, the humour May change when you ha slept.

_Cou_. Ile rather stick My Eyelids up with Sisters[269] thread and stare Perpetually.

_Sis_. Then you may see me agen.

_Cou_. I thinke I sha'not, unless it be to wonder, When you are in the Ivie bush, that face Cut upon Tafata, that creame and prunes, So many plums in white broth, that scutcheon of Pretence powderd with ermines. Now I looke upon't, With those black patches it does put me in mind Of a white soule with sinns upon't, and frights me. How sell you grapes? Your haire[270] does curle in bunches; You[r] lipps looke like the parsons glebe, full of Red, blew and yellow flowers; how they are chopt And looke like trenches made to draine the meadowe.

_Sis_. This rudenes Is beyond the manners of a gentleman.

_Cou_. I cannot helpe it, and I hope you thinke so.

_Sis_. I am confirm'd that now I am forsaken, But if your passion have not drownd all reason I pray let us part civilly.

_Cou_. With all my heart; I dare then take my leave, to[o].

_Sis_. Whoe's there?

_Cou_. Where?

_Sis_. Behind that tree?

_Cou_. You have no plott to accuse me for a rape? Twas at the worst but felony, for cherries That look'd as they had been a fortnight gather'd.

_Sis_. I know youle bring me home in Curtesie.

_Cou_. Not I, I wo' not trust my selfe; and you Will hardly meet a worse to interrupt you. Fare you well, Ladie.--Do you see that Bull?

_Sis_. Yes, Sir.

_Cou_. That is a happie beast

_Sis_. Why happie, sir?

_Cou_. He writes no verses to his Mistresse, is Not cosend nor forsworne to gett her favour, Bestowes no rings nor empties his Exchequer To appear still in new rich suites, but lives Free o' the stock of Nature, yet loves none. Like the great _Turke_ he walkes in his Seraglio, And doth command which concubine best pleases; When he has done he falls to graze or sleepe, And makes as he had never knowne the Dun, White, Red or Brindled Cowe.

_Sis_. You are unmanly.

_Cou_. Nay, I know you will raile now; I shall like it. Call me a scurvy fellow, proud and saucie, An ill bred, crooked Clowne; ile here this rather Then live upon your pitty. And yet doe not; For, if you raile, too, men that know you can Dissemble, may beleeve you love me, and Tis not my ayme.

_Sis_. You are a fine man!

_Cou_. I am in my best clothes?

_Sis_. I perceave That tis truth now what the world saies of you, And yet tis strange.

_Cou_. 'Twere strange it should be otherwise.

_Sis_. You give your tongue a licence, nor will I hope Your malice should spare me abroad that have So prodigally abus'd a Ladies fame That deserv'd nobly from you; but you men Care not whose name you blast with a loose character, So you maintaine your pride of talke.

_Cou_. Howe's this? It is confess'd I have talk'd in my tyme And talk'd too much, but not too much of you; For I but seldome thought of such a woman: For any other--

_Sis_. Nay, sir, I am satisfied; You can talke your pleasure.

_Cou_. Have I not done it, too?

_Sis_. Yes, by your own report, and with a lady So much in vertue and in birth above you; And therefore I expect not--

_Cou_. Stay; this moves me. I never tooke a pleasure yet to lie With Ladies fames, or ever thought that sport Lay in the tongue. Such humours are for men That live by brothell offices: let me know Who hath traduc'd me to you thus, he shall Be knowne no more.

_Sis_. Ile not be guiltie, sir, Of any murder; when we meet agen, And you in better humour, I may tell you. So farewell, _Gondarino_,[271] nothing's lost When you turne _Woman Hater_. [_Exit_.

_Cou_. She has vext me. If we make Matrimony after this rate, The Divell is like to dance at our wedding. Ho!

_Enter Device_.

_De_. Hee's here, Alone too, and the place most opportune. How shall I beginne?--Mr. _Courtwell_, do you love Any friend of mine?

_Cou_. Not to my knowledge, Sir; I should be sorry.

_De_. Do not you love a gentlewoman?

_Cou_. If she be a friend of yours ile take the first Occasion to neglect her for your sake.

_De_. It will become your wisdome and your safety.

_Cou_. What mischiefe have done to your face?

_De_. My face?

_Cou_. You looke so scurvily; come hither, thou New Monster, with more feet then a Caterpiller; What tyme a day ist? you that move upon So many wheeles, say, Monsier, are you not A walkeing Clock? I have a mighty mind To see you tooke a peeces.

_De_. I doe not like this.-- You wo'not put me, sir, together againe.

_Cou_. I wo'not take the paines. Why do you smile now?

_De_. At your conceite to thinke I was a Clock: I am a watch, I never strike.--Hee's valiant.

_Cou_. You have pretty colours there; are these your Mistresses?

_De_. If you did know the mistery you would applaud 'em. Have you read _Livre de blason_? What meane you?

_Cou_. I will bestow 'em, sir, upon some forehorse? They will become a countrey teame rarely.

_De_. Mor bleu! Why, you dare fight, it seemes, and I was told You were no Cavellier, a very dreame [droane?] A wedg for men to breake their swords upon. I shall never trust fame agen for your sake.

_Cou_. Thou never cosendst me.

_De_. I was never so illiterate in man.

_Cou_. For I did ever thinke thou durst not fence But at a complement; a glittering vapour, A thing of clothes and fitt for chambermaides To whet their witts upon, but now resolve Either to have your skin flead of or fight wo' me For troubling my present meditations.

_De_. Why, sir, if you be serious I shall quit That prejudice you have upon my valour. Looke you, sir, I can draw, and thus provok'd I dare chastise you, too. Cause I was merry I was not bound to feed your spleen eternally With laughter; yet I am not ignorant What an advantage, sir, your weapon gives you In length.

_Cou_. Wee'le change; why, this is honour in thee.

[_They measure and Device getts both weapons_.

_De_. Now, sir, keepe of.

_Cou_. Th'art not so base?

_De_. I never cosen'd you, do you remember? These two will guide me on the rope.

_Cou_. You meane to dance, then?

_De_. Yes, the Canaries,[272] but with quicker tyme Then you, I hope, can follow: thus I begin. Fa, la, la, &c. [_Excurrit_.

_Cou_. What a heathen Coward's this? how the rogue tripps like a fairie to the towne with 'em! He has been a footman, sure; I have not aire enough to overtake him, and twill be darke presently. If I loose the sight on him ile search the towne, and if I find him not there, pursue him with hue and cries and after hang him.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 4.]

_Enter Sir Francis, a taper prepar'd_.

_Fra_. The sun whose busie eye is still employ'd A spie upon our actions, tir'd with waiting, Is drowsie gone to bed, about whose pillow Night hath hung all her wings and set up tapers As if the Day were timerous like a Child And must have lights to sleepe by. Welcome all The houres that governe pleasure, but be slow When you have blest me with my wishes. Time And Love should dwell like twins; make this your bower And charme the aire to sweetnes and to silence. Favour me now and you shall change your states; Time shall be old no more, I will contract With Destiny, if he will spare his winges To give him youth and beauty, that we may Find every minute a fresh child of pleasure. Love shall be proud to be no more a boy But grow to perfect strength and bold consistence[273]; For when too Active Lovers meet, so happie As wee, whose equall flames light to embraces, Twill be no weight to number many yeares In our delights and thinke all age a blessing. But language is to narrow to expresse What I expect, tis fitt my soule retire Till she present her selfe; and, if it can Measure my hop'd for ioyes with thought, prepare To entertaine the happines.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 5.]

_Sir Richard and his Lady abed. Enter Dorothy with a Light_.

_Do_. I have set already my designe a moveing To take my Captaine _Underwit_, who in wine Was late more feirie upon me. I'th meane tyme I cannot choose but laugh at the device Wee have to cheat my Master; sure the Divell Is a great friend to women that love men, He doth so furnish us with quaint inventions. Presently after supper she began Her fitt othe toothach, and did counterfeit So naturally; but since she went to bed She almost rav'd by turnes:--I heare her at it.

_La_. Oh--oh, whoe's there?

_Do_. Tis I forsooth, I heard you groane and I Have not the hart to sleepe. Shall I watch by you?

_La. Oh, no, no, no; get you to bed, make fast the Chamber; I cannot endure the candle.

[_Dorothy towards the dore putts out the Candle and returnes_.

_Ri_. Deare hart be patient.

_La_. I, you have your homilies of patience, but if you had my paine twould make you wild. Oh!

_Ri_. Ile send for the _french_ toothdrawer in the morning.

_La_. Oh, there is no rack nor torture like it. What shall I do? I shall never sleepe agen.

_Ri_. Which tooth ist?

_Do_.--The sweet one you may be sure which troubles her.

_La_. This, this, O that there.

_Ri_. They are happie that are old and have no teeth.

_La_. Oh, take heed, now it shoots up to my head.

_Ri_. Thou dost make my head ake with the noise.

_La_. If you knew what I suffer your head would ake indeed. I must rise and walke in the Chamber; there is no remedy.

_Ri_. You will catch more cold.

_La_. Oh, no, no, deere life, do not crosse me; and you were in my torment you would rise and trie any thing for a little ease. It cannot be worse; the paine sure came with a cold, and who knowes but an other cold may cure me.

_Ri_. I prethe come to bed agen.

_La_. So, so, do not troble me; I am now in some little ease; its a heavenly thing to be goeing.

_Ri_. Dost heare?

_La_. Your noise will bring my paine back agen; if you knew what a vexation it were for me to speake, You wo'not put me too't so. If you doe talke I wo'not answere a word more, oh!

_Ri_. Well by this no light ile to _London_ tomorrow.

[_She takes Dorothy by the hand and exit_.

Now do I see it is possible that a womans teeth should be as troublesome as her tongue.

_Do_. Oh, oh!

_Ri_. I cannot choose but pitty her, that any woman should hold so much paine in a hollow tooth.

_Do_.--If my Mr. touched with so much compassion should rise and force me to bed with him, I must not cry out a rape; tis at the worst on my side but fornication in my owne defence.

_Ri_. I prethe come to Bed.

_Do_. Oh, oh, oh!

_Ri_. The musick at a convocation of Catts upon a witches upsetting is the spheres to this Catterwalling. I will thrust my head into the pillow, as _Dametas_[274] did in a bush when the beare was a comeing, and then I shanot heare her.

_Do_. Oh, this is a kind of Purgatory for sins of the flesh. If she should fall asleepe with the tother knight it is not possible I should hold out till morning; that which would fright away an Ague would put me into a feare, I shall ha the toothache indeed with counterfeiting; I have knowne some men caught the stammers so; my gums begin to murmure, there is a feare all over my flesh, she will stay so long, and then---

_Ri. coughs_.--Uh, uh!

_Do_. Oh, oh!--Ile shift places to shew more distraction; at the worst my noise shall be within his reach; it may give her notice to returne too. [_Exit_.

[SCENE 6.]

_Sir Francis a sleepe; a table, inke, and paper. Enter Lady_.

_La_. I am full of feares, and my owne motion frights me; This furious love is a strange pilot. Sir, Where are you? ha! asleepe! can any dulnes That is not Death possess a gentleman, So valiant in desires, when he expects To meete his Mistresse? How I blush to raise him! Was I not worth thy waking expectation? Farewell; yet something that [like?] a charme that's fastned To my poore hart restraines me. Inke and paper! Ile leave him a short monument of this shame And my neglected Love. [_Writes_. He knowes my hand: farwell, forgetfull Lover. [_Exit_.

_Fra_. What? have I slept? some witchcraft did betray My eyes to so much darkenes; yet my dreame Was full of rapture, such as I with all My wakeing sence would flie to meet. Me thought I saw a thousand Cupids slide from heaven, And landing here made this their scene of revells, Clapping their golden feathers which kept tyme While their owne feet strook musike to their dance, As they had trod and touched so many Lutes. This done, within a Cloud formd like a Throne, She to whom love had consecrate this night, My Mistresse, did descend and, comeing toward me, My soule that ever wakes, angrie to see My body made a prisoner and so mock'd, Shook of the chaines of sleepe, least I should loose Essentiall pleasure for a dreame. Tis happie; I will not trust my selfe with ease and silence, But walke and waite her comeing that must bless me. Forgive me, you bright starres, and do not frowne That I have not attended as became One that must live by your kind influence. Not yet appeard? She did comand I should With confidence expect her. Ha! what's here? This Character, was not visible before. _That man's too much compos'd of phleame Will loose his Mistress for a Dreame_. [_Reades_. Tis her's, I know't; she has been here, oh fatall! And finding me asleepe scorn'd to uncharme My dull and cursed silence. This distracts me: Have I so long, with so much Art and study, Labour'd this honour, and obtaind what my Ambition look'd at, her consent; and when The tree it selfe bowed downe its golden fruit And tempted me to gather, must I make My selfe uncapable and be guilty of So black, so base a forfeit? I could teare My eyelids of, that durst let in a Mist So darke and so destroying, must I sleepe At such a tyme that the Divell must be over Watche too! This houre hath blasted such a hope As the Earth never teemd with nor the spring Gave up in smileing blosomes to the breath Of those sweet windes that whisper from the West A tale of triumph to the yeere. I could Dissolve with curseing of my Lathargie. How shall I looke upon her face whose love And bold adventure I have thus rewarded? But passion cannot cure my wound; which must Bleed till I see her, and then either cease, Blest by her pardon, or dismiss a life (Though iust) too poore a Sacrifice for her anger. Where shall I hide my selfe and shame for ever!

[_Exit_.

_The Fifth Act_.

_Enter Sister_.

_Sis_. I cannot forgett my carelesse gentleman: his neglect and reproaches have wrought strangely upon me.--Hee's here.

_Enter Courtwell_.

_Cou_. Is there not a weesill crept into your Chamber, lady?

_Sis_. A weesill, sir?

_Cou_. A Mounsier sucklegge.

_Sis_. Do you take my Chamber for a henns neast?

_Cou_. There is a thing that calls himselfe _Device_, One that will break the hart of a post horse To continue a hand gallop with him; your Alamode, Your fighting faery feather'd footed servant,-- When saw you him?

_Sis_. My fighting servant? has he beaten you, sir? Perhapps he thought you were his Rivall; surely I saw him not since yesterday.

_Cou_. Bu'y, Ladie.-- How many mile ist to the next Cutlers? The rogue has pawn'd or sold my sword. [_Offers to go forth_.

_Sis_. Dee heare, sir? I can tell you now what Lady twas you did Abuse so.

_Cou_. I abuse a Ladie! tell me the slave Reported it. I hope twill prove this Mounsieur. If ere we meet agen! Who wast?

_Sis_. Upon condition, sir, you will requite me But with one gentle favour.

_Cou_. Any thing--

_Sis_. You must sitt downe and heare me then while I At a distance thus deliver--

_Cou_. Tis more state.

_Sis_. I am most unfortunate.