Chapter XXIV: Epilogue: Spoken by Julio (7)

BOY. Dick Coomes, what difference is there between a blind man and he that cannot see?

FRAN. Peace, a pox on thee!

COOMES. Swounds, somebody spake.

MRS GOUR. Dick, look about; It may be here we may find them out.

COOMES. I see the glimpse[359] of somebody here.-- And ye be a sprite, I'll fray the bugbear.-- There a-goes, mistress.

MRS GOUR. O, sir, have I spied you?

FRAN. A plague on the boy! 'was he that descried[360] me.

[_Exeunt_.

[_Enter_ PHILIP.]

PHIL. How like a beautous lady mask'd in black Looks that same large circumference of heaven! The sky, that was so fair three hours ago, Is in three hours become an Ethiop; And being angry at her beauteous change, She will not have one of those pearled stars To blab her sable metamorphosis:[361] 'Tis very dark. I did appoint my sister To meet me at the coney-borough below, And Francis too; but neither can I see. Belike my mother happ'ned on that place, And fray'd them from it, and they both are now Wand'ring about the[362] fields: how shall I find them? It is so dark, I scarce can see my hand: Why, then, I'll hollow for them--no, not so; So will his voice betray him to our mothers, And if he answer, and bring them where he is. What shall I then do? it must not be so-- 'Sblood,[363] it must be so; how else, I pray? Shall I stand gaping here all night till day, And then be ne'er the near?[364] So ho, so ho!

[_Enter_ WILL.]

WILL. So ho! I come: where are ye? where art thou? here!

PHIL. How now, Frank, where hast thou[365] been?

WILL. Frank! what Frank? 'sblood, is Sir Ralph mad? [_Aside_.] Here's the bow.

PHIL. I have not been much private with that voice: Methinks Frank Goursey's talk and his doth tell me I am mistaken; especially by his bow; Frank had no bow. Well, I will leave this fellow, And hollow somewhat farther in the fields. [_Aside_.] --Dost thou hear, fellow? I perceive by thee That we are both mistaken: I took thee For one thou art not; likewise thou took'st me For Sir Ralph Smith, but sure I am not he: And so, farewell; I must go seek my friend. So ho! [_Exit_.

WILL. So ho, so ho! nay, then, Sir Ralph, so whore! For a whore she was sure, if you had her here So late. Now, you are Sir Ralph Smith![366] Well do ye counterfeit and change your voice, But yet I know ye. But what should be that Francis? Belike that Francis cosen'd him of his wench, And he conceals himself to find her out; 'Tis so, upon my life. Well, I will go, And help him ring his peal of so ho, so ho! [_Exit_.

_Enter_ FRANK.

FRAN. A plague on Coomes! a plague upon the boy! A plague, too--not on my mother for an hundreth pound! 'Twas time to run; and yet I had not thought My mother could have followed me so close, Her legs with age I thought had foundered; She made me quite run through a quickset hedge, Or she had taken me. Well, I may say, I have run through the briars for a wench; And yet I have her not--the worse luck mine. Methought I heard one hollow hereabout; I judge it Philip; O, the slave will laugh, When as he hears how that my mother scar'd me! Well, here I'll stand until I hear him hollow, And then I'll answer him; he is not far.

[_Enter_ SIR RALPH SMITH.]

SIR RALPH. My man is hollowing for me up and down, And yet I cannot meet with him. So ho!

FRAN. So ho!

SIR RALPH. Why, what a pox, wert thou so near me, man, And wouldst not speak?

FRAN. 'Sblood, ye're very hot.

SIR RALPH. No, sir, I am cold enough with staying here For such a knave as you.

FRAN. Knave! how now, Philip? Art mad, art mad?

SIR RALPH. Why, art not thou my man, That went to fetch my bow?[367]

FRAN. Indeed, a bow Might shoot me ten bows down the weather so: I your man!

SIR RALPH. What art thou, then?

FRAN. A man: but what's thy name?

SIR RALPH. Some call me Ralph.

FRAN. Then, honest Ralph, farewell.

SIR RALPH. Well-said, familiar Will! plain Ralph, i'faith.

[_Hollow within_ PHILIP _and_ WILL.][368]

FRAN. There calls my man.

SIR RALPH. But there goes mine away; And yet I'll hear what this next call will say, And here I'll tarry, till he call again. [_Retires_.][369]

[_Enter_ WILL.]

WILL. So ho!

FRAN. So ho! where art thou, Philip?

WILL. 'Sblood,[370] Philip! But now he call'd me Francis: this is fine. [_Aside_.]

FRAN. Why studiest thou? I prythee, tell me, Philip, Where the wench[371] is.

WILL. Even now he ask'd me (Francis) for the wench, And now he asks[372] me (Philip) for the wench. [_Aside_.] Well, Sir Ralph, I must needs tell ye now, 'Tis[373] not for your[374] credit to be forth So late a-wenching in this order.[375]

FRAN. What's this? so late a-wenching, doth he say? [_Aside_] --Indeed, 'tis true I am thus late a-wenching, But I am forc'd to wench without a wench.

WILL. Why, then, you might have ta'n your bow at first, And gone and kill'd a buck, and not have been So long a-drabbing, and be ne'er the near.[376]

FRAN. Swounds, what a puzzle am I in this night! But yet I'll put this fellow farther [question. _Aside_] --Dost thou hear, man? I am not Sir Ralph Smith, As thou dost think I am; but I did meet him, Even as thou sayest, in pursuit of a wench. I met the wench too, and she ask'd for thee, Saying 'twas thou that wert her love, her dear, And that Sir Ralph was not an honest knight To train her thither, and to use her so.

WILL. 'Sblood, my wench! swounds, were he ten Sir Ralphs--

FRAN. Nay, 'tis true, look to it; and so, farewell.
[_Exit_.

WILL. Indeed, I do love Nan our dairymaid: And hath he traine[d] her forth to that intent, Or for another? I carry his crossbow, And he doth cross me, shooting in my bow. What shall I do? [_Exit_.][377]

_Enter_ PHILIP.

PHIL. So ho!

SIR RALPH. So ho!

PHIL. Francis, art thou there?

SIR RALPH. No, here's no Francis. Art thou Will, my man?

PHIL. Will Fool your man, Will goose[378] your man! My back, sir, scorns to wear your livery.

SIR RALPH. Nay, sir, I mov'd but such a question to you, And it hath not disparag'd you, I hope; 'Twas but mistaking; such a night as this May well deceive a man. God be w'ye,[379] sir. [_Exit_.]

PHIL. God's will, 'tis Sir Ralph Smith, a virtuous knight! How gently entertains he my hard answer! Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly: I cry him mercy. Well, but all this while I cannot find a Francis.--Francis, ho!

[_Enter_ WILL.]

WILL. Francis, ho! O, you call Francis now! How have ye us'd my Nan? come, tell me, how.

PHIL. Thy Nan! what Nan?

WILL. Ay, what Nan, now! say, do you not seek a wench?

PHIL. Yes, I do.

WILL. Then, sir, that is she.

PHIL. Art not thou [he] I met withal before?

WILL. Yes, sir; and you did counterfeit before, And said to me you were not Sir Ralph Smith.

PHIL. No more I am not. I met Sir Ralph Smith; Even now he ask'd me, if I saw his man.

WILL. O, fine!

PHIL. Why, sirrah, thou art much deceived in me: Good faith, I am not he thou think'st I am.

WILL. What are ye, then?

PHIL. Why, one that seeks one Francis and a wench.

WILL. And Francis seeks one Philip and a wench.

PHIL. How canst thou tell?

WILL. I met him seeking Philip and a wench. As I was seeking Sir Ralph and a wench.

PHIL. Why, then, I know the matter: we met cross, And so we miss'd; now here we find our loss. Well, if thou wilt, we two will keep together, And so we shall meet right with one or other.

WILL. I am content: but, do you hear me, sir? Did not Sir Ralph Smith ask ye for a wench?

PHIL. No, I promise thee, nor did he look For any but thyself, as I could guess.

WILL. Why, this is strange: but come, sir, let's away: I fear that we shall walk here, till't be day.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ BOY.

[BOY.] O God, I have run so far into the wind, that I have run myself out of wind! They say a man is near his end, when he lacks breath; and I am at the end of my race, for I can run no farther; then here I be in my breath-bed, not in my death-bed.[380]

_Enter_ COOMES.

COOMES. They say men moil and toil for a poor living; so I moil and toil, and am living, I thank God; in good time be it spoken. It had been better for me my mistress's angel had been light, for then perhaps it had not led me into this darkness. Well, the devil never blesses a man better, when he purses up angels by owl-light. I ran through a hedge to take the boy, but I stuck in the ditch, and lost the boy. [_Falls_.] 'Swounds, a plague on that clod, that molehill, that ditch, or what the devil so e'er it were, for a man cannot see what it was! Well, I would not, for the price of my sword and buckler, anybody should see me in this taking, for it would make me but cut off their legs for laughing at me. Well, down I am, and down I mean to be, because I am weary; but to tumble down thus, it was no part of my meaning: then, since I am down, here I'll rest me, and no man shall remove me.

_Enter_ HODGE.

HOD. O, I have sport in coney, i'faith! I have almost burst myself with laughing at Mistress Barnes. She was following of her daughter; and I, hearing her, put on my fellow Dick's sword-and-buckler voice and his _swounds_ and _sblood_ words, and led her such a dance in the dark as it passes.[381] "Here she is," quoth I. "Where?" quoth she. "Here," quoth I. O, it hath been a brave here-and-there night! but, O, what a soft-natured thing the dirt is! how it would endure my hard treading, and kiss my feet for acquaintance! and how courteous and mannerly were the clods[382] to make me stumble only of purpose to entreat me lie down and rest me! But now, and I could find my fellow Dick, I would play the knave with him honestly, i'faith. Well, I will grope in the dark for him, or I'll poke with my staff, like a blind man, to prevent a ditch. [_He stumbles[383] on_ DICK COOMES.

COOMES. Who's that, with a pox?

HOD. Who art thou, with a pestilence?

COOMES. Why, I am Dick Coomes.

HOD. What, have I found thee. Dick? nay, then, I am for ye, Dick, [_Aside_.] --Where are ye, Dick?

COOMES. What can I tell, where I am?

HOD. Can ye not tell? come, come, ye wait on your mistress well! come on your ways; I have sought you, till I am weary, and call'd ye, till I am hoarse: good Lord, what a jaunt I have had this night, heigho!

COOMES. Is't you, mistress, that came over me? 'Sblood, 'twere a good deed to come over you for this night's work. I cannot afford all this pains for an angel: I tell ye true; a kiss were not cast away upon a good fellow, that hath deserved more that way than a kiss, if your kindness would afford it him: what, shall I have't, mistress?

HOD. Fie, fie, I must not kiss my man.

COOMES. Nay, nay, ne'er stand; shall I, shall I? nobody sees: say but I shall, and I'll smack it[384] soundly, i'faith.

HOD. Away, bawdy man! in truth, I'll tell your master.

COOMES. My master! go to, ne'er tell me of my master: he may pray for them that may, he is past it: and for mine own part, I can do somewhat that way, I thank God; I am not now to learn, and 'tis your part to have your whole desire.

HOD. Fie, fie, I am ashamed of you: would you tempt your mistress to lewdness?

COOMES. To lewdness! no, by my troth, there's no such matter in't, it is for kindness; and, by my troth, if you like my gentle offer, you shall have what courteously I can afford ye.

HOD. Shall I indeed, Dick? I'faith, if I thought nobody would see--

COOMES. Tush, fear not that; swoons, they must have cats' eyes, then.

HOD. Then, kiss me, Dick.

COOMES. A kind wench, i'faith! [_Aside_.]--Where are ye, mistress?

HOD. Here, Dick. O, I am in the dark! Dick, go about.[385]

COOMES. Nay, I'll throw[386] sure: where are ye?

HOD. Here.

COOMES. A plague on this post! I would the carpenter had been hang'd, that set it up, for me.[387] Where are ye now?

HOD. Here.

COOMES. Here! O, I come. [_Exit_.] A plague on it, I am in a pond, mistress!

HOD. Ha, ha! I have led him into a pond.--Where art thou, Dick?

COOMES. [_Within_.] Up to the middle in a pond!

HOD. Make a boat of thy buckler, then, and swim out. Are ye so hot, with a pox? would you kiss my mistress? cool ye there, then, good Dick Coomes. O, when he comes forth, the skirts of his blue coat will drop like a pent[388]-house! O, that I could see, and not be seen; how he would spaniel it, and shake himself, when he comes out of the pond! But I'll be gone; for now he'll fight with a fly, if he but buzz[389] in his ear. [_Exit_.

_Enter_ COOMES.

COOMES. Here's so-ho-ing with a plague! so hang, and ye will; for I have been almost drown'd. A pox of your stones,[390] and ye call this kissing! Ye talk of a drowned rat, but 'twas time to swim like a dog; I had been serv'd like a drown'd cat else. I would he had digg'd his grave that digg'd the pond! my feet were foul indeed, but a less pail than a pond would have served my turn to wash them. A man shall be serv'd thus always, when he follows any of these females: but 'tis my kind heart that makes me thus forward in kindness unto them: well, God amend them, and make them thankful to them that would do them pleasure. I am not drunk, I would ye should well know it; and yet I have drunk more than will do me good, for I might have had a pump set up with as[391] good March beer as this was, and ne'er set up an ale-bush for the matter. Well, I am somewhat in wrath, I must needs say; and yet I am not more angry than wise, nor more wise than angry; but I'll fight with the next man I meet, and it be but for luck's sake; and if he love to see himself hurt, let him bring light with him; I'll do it by darkling else, by God's dines. Well, here will I walk, whosoever says nay.

_Enter_ NICHOLAS.

NICH. He that worse may, must hold the candle; but my master is not so wise, as God might have made him. He is gone to seek a hare in a hen's nest, a needle in a bottle of hay, which is as seldom seen as a black swan: he is gone to seek my young mistress; and I think she is better lost than found, for whosoever hath her, hath but a wet eel by the tail. But they may do, as they list; the law is in their own hands; but, and they would be rul'd by me, they should set her on the lee-land, and bid the devil split her; beshrew her fingers, she hath made me watch past mine hour; but I'll watch her a good turn for it.

COOMES. How, who's that? Nicholas!--So, first come, first serv'd; I am for him [_Aside_]. --How now, Proverb, Proverb? 'sblood, how now, Proverb?

NICH. My name is Nicholas, Richard; and I know your meaning, and I hope ye mean no harm. I thank ye: I am the better for your asking.

COOMES. Where have ye been a-whoring thus late, ha?

NICH. Master Richard, the good wife would not seek her daughter in the oven, unless she had been there herself: but, good Lord, you are knuckle-deep in dirt!--I warrant, when he was in, he swore Walsingham[392], and chaf'd terrible for the time. [_Aside_.] --Look, the water drops from you as fast as hops.

COOMES. What need'st thou to care, whip-her-Jenny[393], tripe-cheeks?[394], out, you fat ass!

NICH. Good words cost nought: ill words corrupt good manners, Richard; for a hasty man never wants woe. And I had thought you had been my friend; but I see all is not gold that glitters; there's falsehood in fellowship; _amicus certus in re certa cernitur_; time and truth tries all; and 'tis an old proverb, and not so old as true, bought wit is the best; I can see day at a little hole; I know your mind as well as though I were within you; 'tis ill halting before a cripple: go to, you seek to quarrel; but beware of had I wist[395]; so long goes the pot to the water, at length it comes home broken; I know you are as good a man as ever drew sword, or as was e'er girt in a girdle, or as e'er went on neat's leather, or as one shall see upon a summer's day, or as e'er look'd man in the face, or as e'er trod on God's earth, or as e'er broke bread or drunk drink; but he is proper that hath proper conditions[396]; but be not you like the cow, that gives a good sop of milk, and casts it down with her[397] heels; I speak plainly, for plain-dealing is a jewel, and he that useth it shall die a beggar; well, that happens in an hour, that happens not in seven years; a man is not so soon whole as hurt; and you should kill a man, you would kiss his--well, I say little, but I think the more. Yet I'll give him good words; 'tis good to hold a candle before the devil; yet, by God's dine[398], I'll take no wrong, if he had a head as big as Brass[399], or look'd as high as Paul's steeple. [_Aside_.]

COOMES. Sirrah, thou grasshopper, that shalt skip from my sword as from a scythe; I'll cut thee out in collops and eggs, in steaks, in slic'd beef, and fry thee with the fire I shall strike from the pike of thy buckler.

NICH. Ay, Brag's a good dog; threat'ned folks live long.

COOMES. What say ye, sir?

NICH. Why, I say not so much as, How do ye?

COOMES. Do ye not so, sir?

NICH. No, indeed, whatsoe'er I think; and thought is free.

COOMES. You whoreson wafer-cake, by God's dines, I'll crush ye for this!

NICH. Give an inch, and you'll take an ell; I will not put my finger in a hole, I warrant ye: what, man! ne'er crow so fast, for a blind man may kill a hare; I have known when a plain fellow hath hurt a fencer, so I have: what! a man may be as slow as a snail, but as fierce as a lion, and he be moved; indeed, I am patient, I must needs say, for patience in adversity brings a man to the Three Cranes in the Vintry.

COOMES. Do ye hear? set down your torch; draw, fight, I am for ye.

NICH. And I am for ye too, though it be from this midnight to the next morn.

COOMES. Where be your tools?

NlCH. Within a mile of an oak, sir; he's a proud horse will not carry his own provender, I warrant ye.

COOMES. Now am I in my quarrelling humour, and now can I say nothing but, zounds, draw! but I'll untruss, and then have to it. [_Aside_.]

_Enter [severally]_ HODGE _and_ BOY.

HOD. Who's there? boy! honest boy, well-met: where hast thou been?

BOY. O Hodge, Dick Coomes hath been as good as a cry of hounds, to make a breath'd[400] hare of me! but didst thou see my master?

HOD. I met him even now, and he ask'd me for thee, and he is gone up and down, whooing like[401] an owl for thee.

BOY. Owl, ye ass!

HOD. Ass! no, nor glass, for then it had been Owlglass[402]: but who's that, boy?

BOY. By the mass, 'tis our Coomes and Nicholas; and it seems they are providing to fight.

HOD. Then we shall have fine sport, i'faith. Sirrah, let's stand close, and when they have fought a bout or two, we'll run away with the torch, and leave them to fight darkling, shall we?

BOY. Content; I'll get the torch: stand close.

COOMES. So now my back hath room to reach: I do not love to be lac'd in, when I go to lace a rascal. I pray God, Nicholas prove not a fly:[403] it would do me good to deal with a good man now, that we might have half-a-dozen good smart strokes. Ha, I have seen the day I could have danc'd in my fight, one, two, three, four, and five, on the head of him; six, seven, eight, nine, and ten on the sides of him; and, if I went so far as fifteen, I warrant I shewed[404] him a trick of one-and-twenty; but I have not fought this four days, and I lack a little practice of my ward; but I shall make a shift: ha, close [_Aside_]. --Are ye disposed, sir?

NICH. Yes, indeed, I fear no colours: change sides, Richard.

COOMES. Change the gallows! I'll see thee hang'd first.

NICH. Well, I see the fool will not leave his bable[405] for the Tower of London.

COOMES. Fool, ye rogue! nay, then, fall to it.

NICH. Good goose, bite not.

COOMES. 'Sblood, how pursy I am! Well, I see exercise is all: I must practice my weapons oft'ner; I must have a goal or two at foot-ball, before I come to my right kind [_Aside_]. Give me thy hand, Nicholas: thou art a better man than I took thee for, and yet thou art not so good a man as I.

NICH. You dwell by ill-neighbours, Richard; that makes ye praise yourself.

COOMES. Why, I hope thou wilt say I am a man?

NICH. Yes, I'll say so, if I should see ye hang'd.

COOMES. Hang'd, ye rogue! nay, then, have at ye.

[_While they fight, exeunt_ HODGE _and_ BOY _with the torch_.]

Zounds, the light is gone!

NICH. O Lord, it is as dark as pitch!

COOMES. Well, here I'll lie, with my buckler thus, lest striking up and down at randall[406] the rogue might hurt me, for I cannot see to save it, and I'll hold my peace, lest my voice should bring him where I am. [_Stand aside_.]

NICH. 'Tis good to have a cloak for the rain; a bad shift is better than none at all; I'll sit here, as if I were as dead as a door-nail. [_Stand aside_.][407]

_Enter_ MR BARNES _and_ MR GOURSEY.

MR GOUR. Hark! there's one hallooes.

MR BARNES. And there's another.

MR GOUR. And everywhere we come, I hear some halloo, And yet it is our haps to meet with none.

MR BAR. I marvel where your Hodge is and my man.

MR GOUR. Ay, and our wives? we cannot meet with them, Nor with the boy, nor Mall, nor Frank, nor Philip, Nor yet with Coomes, and yet we ne'er stood still. Well, I am very angry with my wife, And she shall find I am not pleas'd with her, If we meet ne'er so soon: but 'tis my hope[408] She hath had as blind a journey on't as we; Pray God, she have, and worse, if worse may be!

MR BAR. This is but short-liv'd envy[409], Master Goursey: But, come, what say ye to my policy?

MR GOUR. I'faith, 'tis good, and we will practise it; But, sir, it must be handled cunningly, Or all is marr'd; our wives have subtle heads, And they will soon perceive a drift device.

_Enter_ SIR RALPH SMITH.

SIR RALPH. So ho!

MR GOUR. So ho!

SIR RALPH. Who there?

MR BAR. Here's one or two.

SIR RALPH. Is Will there?

MR BAR. No. Philip?

MR GOUR. Frank?

SIR RALPH. No, no.-- Was ever man deluded thus like me? I think some spirit leads me thus amiss, As I have often heard that some have been Thus in the nights. But yet this mazes me; where e'er I come, Some asks me still for Frank or Philip, And none of them can tell me where Will is. [_Aside_.

WILL. So ho! |

PHIL. So ho! | [_They hallo within_.

HOD. So ho! |

BOY. So ho! |

SIR RALPH. Zounds, now I hear four halloo at the least! One had a little voice; then, that's the wench My man hath lost: well, I will answer all. [_Aside.] --So ho!

[_Enter_ HODGE.]

HOD. Whoop, whoop!

SIR RALPH. Who's there? Will?

HOD. No, sir; honest Hodge: but, I pray ye, sir, did ye not meet with a boy with a torch? he is run away from me, a plague on him!

SIR RALPH. Heyday, from Frank and Philip to a torch, And to a boy! nay, zounds, then, hap as 'twill. [_Aside_.

[_Exeunt_ SIR RALPH _and_ HODGE _severally_.

MR GOUR. Who goes there?

[_Enter_ WILL.]

WILL. Guess here.

MR BAR. Philip?

WILL. Philip! no, faith; my name's Will--ill-Will, for I was never worse: I was even now with him, and might have been still, but that I fell into a ditch and lost him, and now I am going up and down to seek him.

MR GOUR. What would'st thou do with him?

WILL. Why, I would have him go with me to my master's.

MR GOUR. Who's thy master?

WILL. Why, Sir Ralph Smith; and thither he promis'd me he would come; if he keep his word, so 'tis.

MR BAR. What was a[410] doing, when thou first found'st him?

WILL. Why, he halloo'd for one Francis, and Francis halloo'd for him; I halloo'd for my master, and my master for me; but we miss'd still, meeting contrary, Philip and Francis with me and my master, and I and my master with Philip and Frank.

MR GOUR. Why, wherefore is Sir Ralph so late abroad?

WILL. Why, he meant to kill a buck; I'll say so to save his honesty, but my Nan was his mark [_Aside_]. And he sent me for his bow, and when I came, I halloo'd for him; but I never saw such luck to miss him; it hath almost made me mad.

MR BAR. Well, stay with us; perhaps Sir Ralph and he will come anon: hark! I do hear one halloo.

_Enter_ PHILIP.

PHIL. Is this broad waking in a winter's night? I am broad walking in a winter's night-- Broad indeed, because I am abroad-- But these broad fields, methinks, are not so broad That they may keep me forth of narrow ditches. Here's a hard world! For I can hardly keep myself upright in it: I am marvellous dutiful--but, so ho!

WILL. So ho!

PHIL. Who's there?

WILL. Here's Will.

PHIL. What, Will! how 'scap'st thou?

WILL. What, sir?

PHIL. Nay, not hanging, but drowning: wert thou in a pond or a ditch?

WILL. A pestilence on it! is't you, Philip? no, faith, I was but dirty a little: but here's one or two ask'd for ye.

PHIL. Who be they, man?

MR BAR. Philip, 'tis I and Master Goursey.

PHIL. Father, O father, I have heard them say The days of ignorance are pass'd and done; But I am sure the nights of ignorance Are not yet pass'd, for this is one of them. But where's my sister?

MR BAR. Why, we cannot tell.

PHIL. Where's Francis?

MR GOUR. Neither saw we him.

PHIL. Why, this is fine. What, neither he nor I, nor she nor you, Nor I nor she, nor you and I, till[411] now, Can meet, could meet, or e'er, I think, shall meet! Call ye this wooing? no, 'tis Christmas sport Of Hob-man-blind[412], all blind, all seek to catch, All miss--but who comes here?

_Enter_ FRANK _and his_ BOY.

FRAN. O, have I catch'd ye, sir? It was your doing That made me have this pretty dance to-night; Had not you spoken, my mother had not scar'd me: But I will swinge ye for it.

PHIL. Keep the king's peace!

FRAN. How! art thou become a constable? Why, Philip, where hast thou been all this while?

PHIL. Why, where you were not: but, I pray [you], where's my sister?

FRAN. Why, man, I saw her not; but I have sought her, As I should seek--

PHIL. A needle, have ye not? Why you, man, are the needle that she seeks To work withal! Well, Francis, do you hear? You must not answer so, that you have sought her; But have ye found her? faith, and if you have, God give ye joy of that ye found with her!

FRAN[413]. I saw her not: how could I find her?

MR GOUR. Why, could ye miss from Master Barnes's house Unto his coney-burrow?

FRAN. Whether I could or no, father, I did.

PHIL. Father, I did! Well, Frank, wilt thou believe me? Thou dost not know how much this same doth grieve me: Shall it be said thou miss'd so plain a way, When as so fair a wench did for thee stay?

FRAN. Zounds, man!

PHIL. Zounds, man! and if thou hadst been blind, The coney-burrow thou needest must find. I tell, thee, Francis, had it been my case, And I had been a wooer in thy place, I would have laid my head unto the ground, And scented out my wench's way, like a hound; I would have crept upon my knees all night, And have made the flintstones links to give me light; Nay, man, I would.

FRAN. Good Lord, what you would do! Well, we shall see one day, how you can woo.

MR GOUR. Come, come, we see that we have all been cross'd; Therefore, let's go, and seek them we have lost. [_Exeunt_

_Enter_ MALL.

[MAL.] Am I alone? doth not my mother come? Her torch I see not, which I well might see, If any way she were coming toward me: Why, then, belike she's gone some other way; And may she go, till I bid her [to] turn! Far shall her way be then, and little fair, Foe she hath hindered me of my good turn; God send her wet and weary, ere she turn! I had been at Oxenford, and to-morrow Have been releas'd from all my maiden's sorrow, And tasted joy, had not my mother been; God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sin! How many maids this night lies in their beds, And dream that they have lost their maidenheads! Such dreams, such slumbers I had too enjoy'd, If waking malice had not them destroy'd. A starved man with double death doth die, To have the meat might save him in his eye, And may not have it: so am I tormented, To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented. Well, Frank, although thou wooedst and quickly won, Yet shall my love to thee be never done; I'll run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and briars, To come to thee, sole lord of my desires: Short wooing is the best, an hour, not years, For long-debating love is full of fears. But, hark! I hear one tread. O, were't my brother, Or Frank, or any man, but not my mother!

[_Enter_ SIR RALPH SMITH.]

SIR RALPH. O, when will this same year of night have end? Long-look'd for day's sun, when wilt thou ascend? Let not this thieve[414] friend, misty veil of night, Encroach on day, and shadow thy fair light, Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetis' bed, Blushing forth golden hair and glorious red; O, stay not long, bright lanthorn of the day, To light my miss'd-way feet to my right way!

MAL. It is a man, his big voice tells me so, Much am I not acquainted with it, tho'; And yet mine ear, sound's true distinguisher, Boys[415] that I have been more familiar With it than now I am: well, I do judge, It is no envious fellow, out[416] of grudge; Therefore I'll plead acquaintance, hire his guiding, And buy of him some place of close abiding, Till that my mother's malice be expir'd, And we may joy in that is long desired [_Aside_] --Who's there?

SIR RALPH. Are ye a maid? No question, this is she My man doth miss: faith, since she lights on me, I do not mean till day to let her go; For whe'er[417] she is my man's love, I will know [_Aside_ Hark ye, maid, if [a] maid, are ye so light, That you can see to wander in the night?

MAL. Hark ye, true man, if true, I tell ye, no; I cannot see at all which way I go.

SIR RALPH. Fair maid, is't so? say, had ye ne'er a fall?

MAL. Fair man, not so; no, I had none at all.

SIR RALPH. Could you not stumble on one man, I pray?

MAL. No, no such block till now came in my way.

SIR RALPH. Am I that block, sweet tripe; then, fall and try.

MAL. The ground's too hard a feather-bed; not I.

SIR RALPH. Why, how, and you had met with such a stump?

MAL. Why, if he had been your height, I meant to jump.

SIR RALPH. Are ye so nimble?

MAL. Nimble as a doe.

SIR RALPH. Bak'd in a pie.

MAL. Of ye.

SIR RALPH. Good meat, ye know.

MAL. Ye hunt sometimes?

SIR RALPH. I do.

MAL. What take ye?

SIR RALPH. Deer.

MAL. You'll ne'er strike rascal[418]?

SIR RALPH. Yes, when ye are there.

MAL. Will ye strike me?

SIR RALPH. Yes: will ye strike again?

MAL. No, sir: it fits not maids to fight with men.

SIR RALPH. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might know.

MAL. Why, you may find it, sir, in th'Christcross row[419].

SIR RALPH. Be my schoolmistress, teach me how to spell it.

MAL. No, faith, I care not greatly, if I tell it; My name is Mary Barnes.

SIR RALPH. How, wench? Mall Barnes!

MAL. The very same.

SIR RALPH. Why, this is strange.

MAL. I pray, sir, what's your name?

SIR RALPH. Why, Sir Ralph Smith doth wonder, wench, at this; Why, what's the cause thou art abroad so late?

MAL. What, Sir Ralph Smith! nay, then, I will disclose All the whole cause to him, in him repose My hopes, my love: God him, I hope, did send Our loves and both our mothers' hates to end. [_Aside_.] --Gentle Sir Ralph, if you my blush might see, You then would say I am ashamed to be Found, like a wand'ring stray, by such a knight, So far from home at such a time of night: But my excuse is good; love first by fate Is cross'd, controll'd, and sundered by fell hate. Frank Goursey is my love, and he loves me; But both our mothers hate and disagree; Our fathers like the match and wish it done; And so it had, had not our mothers come; To Oxford we concluded both to go; Going to meet, they came; we parted so; My mother followed me, but I ran fast, Thinking who went from hate had need make haste; Take me she cannot, though she still pursue: But now, sweet knight, I do repose on you; Be you my orator and plead my right, And get me one good day for this bad night.

SIR RALPH. Alas, good heart, I pity thy hard hap! And I'll employ all that I may for thee. Frank Goursey, wench! I do commend thy choice: Now I remember I met one Francis, As I did seek my man,--then, that was he,-- And Philip too,--belike that was thy brother: Why, now I find how I did lose myself, And wander[420] up and down, mistaking so. Give me thy hand, Mall: I will never leave, Till I have made your mothers friends again, And purchas'd to ye both your hearts' delight, And for this same one bad many a good night. 'Twill not be long, ere that Aurora will, Deck'd in the glory of a golden sun, Open the crystal windows of the east, To make the earth enamour'd of her face, When we shall have clear light to see our way: Come; night being done, expect a happy day.

[_Exeunt.

Enter_ MISTRESS BARNES.

MRS BAR. O, what a race this peevish girl hath led me! How fast I ran, and now how weary I am! I am so out of breath I scarce can speak,-- What shall I do?--and cannot overtake her. 'Tis late and dark, and I am far from home: May there not thieves lie watching hereabout, Intending mischief unto them they meet? There may; and I am much afraid of them, Being alone without all company. I do repent me of my coming forth; And yet I do not,--they had else been married, And that I would not for ten times more labour. But what a winter of cold fear I thole[421], Freezing my heart, lest danger should betide me! What shall I do to purchase company? I hear some halloo here about the fields: Then here I'll set my torch upon this hill, Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it; They that have lost their way, seeing a light, For it may be seen far off in the night, Will come to it. Well, here I'll lie unseen, And look who comes, and choose my company. Perhaps my daughter may first come to it.

[_Enter_ MISTRESS GOURSEY.]

MRS GOUR. Where am I now? nay, where was I even now? Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I. I think I am going home: I may as well Be[422] going from home; 'tis[423] so very dark, I cannot see how to direct a step. I lost my man, pursuing of my son; My son escap'd me too: now, all alone, I am enforc'd[424] to wander up and down. Barnes's wife's[425] abroad: pray God, that she May have as good a dance, nay, ten times worse! O, but I fear she hath not; she hath light To see her way. O, that some[426] bridge would break, That she might fall into some deep digg'd ditch, And either break her bones or drown herself! I would these mischiefs I could wish to her Might light on her!--but, soft; I see a light: I will go near; it is comfortable, After this night's sad spirits-dulling darkness. How now? what, is it set to keep itself?

MRS BAR. A plague on't, is she there? [_Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. O, how it cheers and quickens up my thoughts!

MRS BAR. O that it were the basilisk's fell eye, To poison thee! [_Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. I care not, if I take it-- Sure none is here to hinder me-- And light me home.

MRS BAR. I had rather she were hang'd Than I should set it there to do her good. [_Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. I'faith, I will.

MRS BAR. I'faith, you shall not, mistress; I'll venture a burnt finger but I'll have it. [_Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. Yet Barnes's wife would chafe, if that she knew, That I had this good luck to get a light.

MRS BAR. And so she doth; but praise your[427] luck at parting.
[_Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. O, that it were[428] her light, good faith, that she Might darkling walk about as well as I!

MRS BAR. O, how this mads me, that she hath her wish! [_Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. How I would laugh to see her trot about!

MRS BAR. O, I could cry for anger and for rage! [_Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. But who should set it here, I marv'l, a God's name.

MRS BAR. One that will have't from you in the devil's name. _Aside_.]

MRS GOUR. I'll lay my life that it was Barnes's son.

MRS BAR. No, forsooth, it was Barnes's wife.

MRS GOUR. A plague upon her, how she made me start! [_Aside_.] Mistress, let go the torch.

MRS BAR. No, but I will not.

MRS GOUR. I'll thrust it in thy face, then.

MRS BAR. But you shall not.

MRS GOUR. Let go, I say.

MRS BAR. Let you go, for 'tis mine.

MRS GOUR. But my possession says, it is none of thine.

MRS BAR. Nay, I have hold too.

MRS GOUR. Well, let go thy hold, Or I will spurn thee.

MRS BAR. Do; I can spurn thee too.

MRS GOUR. Canst thou?

MRS BAR. Ay, that I can.

_Enter_ MASTER GOURSEY _and_ MASTER BARNES,
[PHILIP, FRANK, &c.]

MR GOUR. Why, how now, women? how unlike to women Are ye both now! come, part, come, part, I say.

MR BAR. Why, what immodesty is this in you! Come, part, I say; fie, fie.

MRS BAR. Fie, fie? I say she shall not have my torch.-- Give me thy torch, boy:--I will run a-tilt, And burn out both her eyes in my encounter.

MRS GOUR. Give room, and let us have this hot career[429].

MR GOUR. I say ye shall not: wife, go to, tame your thoughts, That are so mad with fury.

MR BAR. And, sweet wife, Temper your rage with patience; do not be Subject so much to such misgovernment.

MRS BAR. Shall I not, sir, when such a strumpet wrongs me?

MR GOUR. How, strumpet, Mistress Barnes! nay, I pray, hark ye: I oft indeed have heard ye call her so, And I have thought upon it, why ye should Twit her with name of strumpet; do you know Any hurt by her, that you term her so?

MR BAR. No, on my life; rage only makes her say so.

MR GOUR. But I would know whence this same rage should come; Where's smoke, there's fire; and my heart misgives My wife's intemperance hath got that name;-- And, Mistress Barnes, I doubt and shrewdly[430] doubt, And some great cause begets this doubt in me, Your husband and my wife doth wrong us both.

MR BAR. How, think ye so? nay, Master Goursey, then, You run in debt to my opinion, Because you pay not such advised wisdom, As I think due unto my good conceit.

MR GOUR. Then still I fear I shall your debtor prove.

[MR BAR.] Then I arrest you in the name of love; Not bail, but present answer to my plea; And in the court of reason we will try, If that good thoughts should believe jealousy.

PHIL. Why, look ye, mother, this is 'long of you.-- For God's sake, father, hark? why, these effects Come still from women's malice: part, I pray.-- Coomes, Will, and Hodge, come all, and help us part them!-- Father, but hear me speak one word--no more.

FRAN. Father, but hear him[431] speak, then use your will.

PHIL. Cry peace between ye for a little while.

MRS GOUR. Good husband, hear him speak

MRS BAR. Good husband, hear him.

COOMES. Master, hear him speak; he's a good wise young stripling for his years, I tell ye, and perhaps may speak wiser than an elder body; therefore hear him.

HOD. Master, hear; and make an end; you may kill one another in jest, and be hanged in earnest.

MR GOUR. Come, let us hear him. Then speak quickly, Philip.

MR BAR. Thou shouldst have done ere this; speak, Philip, speak.

MRS BAR. O Lord, what haste you make to hurt yourselves!-- Good Philip, use some good persuasions To make them friends.

PHIL. Yes, I'll do what I can.-- Father and Master Goursey, both attend. It is presumption in so young a man To teach where he might learn, or to[432] direct, Where he hath had direction; but in duty He may persuade as long as his persuase Is back'd with reason and a rightful suit. Physic's first rule is this, as I have learned: Kill the effect by cutting off the cause. The same effects of ruffian outrages Comes by the cause of malice in your wives; Had not they two been foes, you had been friends, And we had been at home, and this same war In peaceful sleep had ne'er been dreamt upon. Mother and Mistress Goursey, to make them friends, Is to be friends yourselves: you are the cause, And these effects proceed, you know, from you; Your hates gives life unto these killing strifes, But die, and if that envy[433] die in you.-- Fathers, yet stay.--O, speak!--O, stay a while!-- Francis, persuade thy mother.--Master Goursey, If that my mother will resolve[434] your mind[435] That 'tis but mere suspect, not common proof, And if my father swear he's innocent, As I durst pawn my soul with him he is, And if your wife vow truth and constancy, Will you be then persuaded?

MR GOUR. Philip, if thy father will remit The wounds I gave him, and if these conditions May be performed, I banish all my wrath.

MR BAR. And if thy mother will but clear me, Philip, As I am ready to protest I am, Then Master Goursey is my friend again.

PHIL. Hark, mother; now you hear that your desires May be accomplished; they will both be friends, If you'll perform these easy articles.

MRS BAR. Shall I be friends with such an enemy?

PHIL. What say you[436] unto my persuase?

MRS BAR. I say she's[437] my deadly enemy.

PHIL. Ay, but she will be your friend, if you revolt.

MRS BAR. The words I said! what, shall I eat a truth?

PHIL. Why, hark ye, mother.

FRAN. Mother, what say you?

MRS GOUR. Why, this I say, she slandered my good name.

FRAN. But if she now deny it, 'tis no defame.

MRS GOUR. What, shall I think her hate will yield so much?

FRAN. Why, doubt it not; her spirit may be such.

MR GOUR. Why, will it be?

PHIL. Yet stay, I have some hope. Mother, why, mother, why, hear ye[438]: Give me your hand; it is no more but thus; 'Tis easy labour to shake hands with her: Little[439] breath is spent in speaking of fair words, When wrath hath violent delivery.

MR BAR. What, shall we be resolv'd?

MRS BAR. O husband, stay!-- Stay, Master Goursey: though your wife doth hate me, And bears unto me malice infinite And endless, yet I will respect your safeties; I would not have you perish by our means: I must confess that only suspect, And no proof else, hath fed my hate to her.

MRS GOUR. And, husband, I protest by heaven and earth That her suspect is causeless and unjust, And that I ne'er had such a vild[440] intent; Harm she imagin'd, where as none was meant.

PHIL. Lo, sir, what would ye more?

MR BAR. Yes, Philip, this; That I confirm him in my innocence By this large universe.

MR GOUR. By that I swear, I'll credit none of you, until I hear Friendship concluded straight between them two: If I see that they willingly will do, Then I'll imagine all suspicion ends; I may be then assured, they being friends.

PHIL. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so.

MRS BAR. What, shall I sue for friendship to my foe?

PHIL. No: if she yield, will you?

MRS BAR. It may be, ay.

PHIL. Why, this is well. The other I will try.-- Come, Mistress Goursey, do you first agree.

MRS GOUR. What, shall I yield unto mine enemy?

PHIL. Why, if she will, will you?

MRS GOUR. Perhaps I will

PHIL. Nay, then, I find this goes well forward still. Mother, give me your hand [_to_ MRS G.], give me yours too-- Be not so loth; some good thing I must do; But lay your torches by, I like not them; Come, come, deliver them unto your men: Give me your hands. So, now, sir, here I stand, Holding two angry women in my hand: And I must please them both; I could please tone[441], But it is hard when there is two to one, Especially of women; but 'tis so, They shall be pleas'd, whether they will or no.-- Which will come first? what, both give back! ha, neither! Why, then, yond help that both may come together[442]. So, stand still, stand [still] but a little while, And see, how I your angers will beguile. Well, yet there is no hurt; why, then, let me Join these two hands, and see how they'll agree: Peace, peace! they cry; look how they friendly kiss! Well, all this while there is no harm in this: Are not these two twins? twins should be both alike, If tone speaks fair, the tother should not strike: Jesus, the warriors will not offer blows! Why, then, 'tis strange that you two should be foes. O yes, you'll say, your weapons are your tongues; Touch lip with lip, and they are bound from wrongs: Go to, embrace, and say, if you be friends, That here the angry women's quarrels ends.

MRS GOUR. Then here it ends, if Mistress Barnes say so.

MRS BAR. If you say ay, I list not to say no.

MR GOUR. If they be friends, by promise we agree.

MR BAR. And may this league of friendship ever be!

PHIL. What say'st thou, Frank? doth not this fall out well?

FRAN. Yes, if my Mall were here, then all were well.

_Enter_ SIR RALPH SMITH _with_ MALL. [MALL _stays behind_.]

SIR RALPH. Yonder they be, Mall: stay, stand close, and stir not Until I call. God save ye, gentlemen!

MR BAR. What, Sir Ralph Smith! you are welcome, man: We wond'red when we heard you were abroad.

SIR RALPH. Why, sir, how heard ye that I was abroad?

MR BAR. By your man.

SIR RALPH. My man! where is he?

WILL. Here.

SIR RALPH. O, ye are a trusty squire!

NICH. It had been better, and he had said, a sure card.

PHIL. Why, sir?

NICH. Because it is the proverb.

PHIL. Away, ye ass!

NICH. An ass goes a four legs; I go of two, Christ cross.

PHIL. Hold your tongue.

NICH. And make no more ado.

MR GOUR. Go to, no more ado. Gentle Sir Ralph, Your man is not in fault for missing you, For he mistook by us, and we by him.

SIR RALPH. And I by you, which now I well perceive. But tell me, gentlemen, what made ye all Be from your beds this night, and why thus late Are your wives walking here about the fields[443]: 'Tis strange to see such women of accompt Here; but I guess some great occasion [prompt.]

MR GOUR. Faith, this occasion, sir: women will jar; And jar they did to-day, and so they parted; We, knowing women's malice let alone Will, canker-like, eat farther in their hearts, Did seek a sudden cure, and thus it was: A match between his daughter and my son; No sooner motioned but 'twas agreed, And they no sooner saw but wooed and lik'd: They have it sought to cross, and cross['d] it thus.

SIR RALPH. Fie, Mistress Barnes and Mistress Goursey both; The greatest sin wherein your souls may sin, I think, is this, in crossing of true love: Let me persuade ye.

MRS BAR. Sir, we are persuaded, And I and Mistress Goursey are both friends; And, if my daughter were but found again, Who now is missing, she had my consent To be dispos'd of to her own content.

SIR RALPH. I do rejoice that what I thought to do, Ere I begin, I find already done: Why, this will please your friends at Abington. Frank, if thou seek'st that way, there thou shalt find Her, whom I hold the comfort of thy mind.

MAL. He shall not seek me; I will seek him out, Since of my mother's grant I need not doubt.

MR[S] BAR. Thy mother grants, my girl, and she doth pray To send unto you both a joyful day!

HOD. Nay, Mistress Barnes, I wish her better: that those joyful days may be turn'd to joyful nights.

COOMES. Faith, 'tis a pretty wench, and 'tis pity but she should have him.

NICH. And, Mistress Mary, when ye go to bed, God send you good rest, and a peck of fleas in your nest, every one as big as Francis!

PHIL. Well said, wisdom! God send thee wise children!

NICH. And you more money.

PHIL. Ay, so wish I.

NICH. 'Twill be a good while, ere you wish your skin full of eyelet-holes.