Chapter VII: Introduction (1)

[This play is anonymous, although some of our earlier antiquaries, such as Coxeter and Oldys, have attributed it to this or that author without the slightest authority. It was originally licensed by Sir George Buc to Joseph Hunt and Thomas Archer on the 22d October 1607. As neither of these stationers'[231] names is to the first edition, there was probably a transfer, or possibly an earlier impression than any now known. This drama was suggested by, rather than founded on, the traditional account handed down in print of Peter Fabel, popularly known as the "Merry Devil of Edmonton." In 1631 Thomas Brewer published a prose tract on the same subject.[232] "The Merry Devil of Edmonton" had been acted before 1608], being mentioned in the "Blacke Booke" by T.M., 1604. "Give him leave to see 'The Merry Devil of Edmunton, or A Woman kill'd with Kindness;'" and that it was a favourite performance, may be concluded from the following lines in Ben Jonson's Prologue to "The Devil is an Ass"--

"If you'll come
To see new plays, pray you afford us room,
And show this but the game face you have done
_Your dear delight_, THE DEVIL OF EDMONTON. "[233]

A MS. note in Sir W. Tite's catalogue may be copied here with advantage:--"This is a dear little drama In manner it is broad and real; in situation, full of interest. The action, which is very bustling, is propelled merrily on by characters which are varied without end, and touched, the most inconsiderable of them, by strong individuality. _It has been ascribed to Shakespeare, and it reminds one constantly of the Merry Wives: it is decidedly in his manner, and though there is nothing that shows his greatest strength, there is certainly nothing unworthy of him._ We read it with gratification, and we rise from it with feelings of kindness towards human nature. How delightful, after the filth and atrocity which form the groundwork of so many contemporary publications!"

Hazlitt also speaks very highly of this play,[234] which he describes as "perhaps the first example of sentimental comedy we have." He adds: "'The Merry Devil of Edmonton,' which has been sometimes attributed to Shakespeare, is assuredly not unworthy of him. It is more likely, however, both from the style and subject-matter, to have been Heywood's than any other person's.... Romantic, sweet, tender, it expresses the feelings of honour, of love, and friendship in their utmost delicacy, enthusiasm, and purity."

FOOTNOTES:

[230] [In the centre is a large woodcut of a man on horseback, with two others looking at him, alluding probably to the incident regarding the sign in the latter end of the play.--_Collier._]

[231] According to the Stationer's Registers (as quoted in Chalmer's "Supp. Apol." 201), this play was licensed by Sir George Buc, Master of the Revels, on the 22d October 1607.--_Gilchrist._

[232] [See Hazlitt's "Handbook," 1867, pp. 61, 191, 471. Also Warton's "History of Poetry," by Hazlitt, iv. 76, 77.]

[233] It went through various editions (the titles of which are inserted above) in 1608, [1612], 1617, 1626, 1631, and 1655. The first of these is the most rare, and was not long since sold by auction for eight guineas. Mr Reed states that, the last edition of 1655 is "unworthy of any notice from the number of errors it contains;" but these errors are chiefly literal, and some corrections of considerable importance are made in it, of which Mr Reed availed himself without acknowledgment.

It seems to have been revived before 1692, but at what precise date is not known. The following cast of parts is written on the back of a copy of the edition of 1655, in the Garrick Collection, in a hand no doubt of the time when it was again brought upon the stage:--

Sir Arthur Clare Mr Sandford.
Sir R. Mounchensey Mr Freeman.
Sir R. Jerningham Mr Betterton.
Henry Clare Mr Hudgson.
Raymond Mounchensey Mr Mountfort.
Frank Jerningham Mr Alexander.
Sir John Mr Noakes.
Banks Mr Bright.
Smug Mr Underhill.
Bilbo Mr Bower.
Host Mr Leigh.
Brian Mr Bowman.
Fabel Mr Kingston.
Lady Clare Mrs Leigh.
Millicent Mrs Bracegirdle.
Abbess Mrs Cory.

--_Collier._

[234] ["Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth," 1820, p. 221.]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SIR ARTHUR CLARE.
SIR RICHARD MOUNCHENSEY.
SIR RALPH JERNINGHAM.
HENRY CLARE.
RAYMOND MOUNCHENSEY.
FRANK JERNINGHAM.
SIR JOHN, _a Priest_.
BANKS.
SMUG.
BILBO.
BLAGUE, _the Host_.
BRIAN.
RALPH.
SEXTON.
FRIAR HILDERSHAM.
BENEDIC.
CHAMBERLAIN.
FABEL, _the Merry Devil_.
COREB, _a Spirit_.

LADY CLARE.
MILLICENT.
ABBESS _of Cheston Nunnery_.
NUNS _and_ ATTENDANTS.

THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON

THE PROLOGUE.

Your silence and attention, worthy friends,
That your free spirits may with more pleasing sense
Relish the life of this our active scene:
To which intent, to calm this murmuring breath,
We ring this round with our invoking spells;
If that your list'ning ears be yet prepar'd
To entertain the subject of our play,
Lend us your patience.
'Tis Peter Fabel,[235] a renowned scholar,
Whose fame hath still been hitherto forgot
By all the writers of this latter age.
In Middlesex his birth and his abode:
Not full seven miles from this great famous city;
That, for his fame in sleights and magic won,
Was call'd the merry fiend of Edmonton.
If any here make doubt of such a name,
In Edmonton yet fresh unto this day,
Fix'd in the wall of that old ancient church,
His monument remaineth to be seen:
His memory yet in the mouths of men,[236]
That whil'st he liv'd he could deceive the devil.
Imagine now, that whilst he is retir'd
From Cambridge back unto his native home,
Suppose the silent sable-visag'd night
Casts her black curtain over all the world;
And whilst he sleeps within his silent bed,
Toil'd with the studies of the passed day,
The very time and hour wherein that spirit,
That many years attended his command,
And oftentimes 'twixt Cambridge and that town
Had in a minute borne him through the air,
By composition 'twixt the fiend and him,
Comes now to claim the scholar for his due. [_Draws the curtain._
Behold him here laid on his restless couch!
His fatal chime prepared at his head,
His chamber guarded with these sable sleights,
And by him stands that necromantic chair,
In which he makes his direful invocations,
And binds the fiends that shall obey his will.
Sit with a pleased eye, until you know
The comic end of our sad tragic show.

_The chime goes, in which time_ FABEL _is oft seen to_
_stare about him, and hold up his hands_.

FAB. What means the tolling of this fatal chime?
O, what a trembling horror strikes my heart!
My stiffen'd hair stands upright on my head,
As do the bristles of a porcupine.[237]

_Enter_ COREB, _a spirit_.

COR. Fabel, awake! for[238] I will bear thee hence
Headlong to hell.

FAB. Ha, ha! why dost thou wake me?
Coreb, is it thou?

COR. Tis I.

FAB. I know thee well; I hear the watchful dogs
With hollow howling tell of thy approach:
The lights burn dim, affrighted with thy presence;
And this distemper'd and tempestuous night
Tells me the air is troubled with some devil.

COR. Come, art thou ready?

FAB. Whither, or to what?

COR. Why, scholar, this the hour my date expires:[239]
I must depart, and come to claim my due.

FAB. Ha! what is thy due?

COR. Fabel, thyself.

FAB. O, let not darkness hear thee speak that word,
Lest that with force it hurry hence amain,
And leave the world to look upon my woe:
Yet overwhelm me with this globe of earth,
And let a little sparrow with her bill
Take but so much as she can bear away,
That, every day thus losing of my load,
I may again in time yet hope to rise.

COR. Didst thou not write thy name with thine own blood?
And drew'st the formal deed 'twixt thee and me?
And is it not recorded now in hell?

FAB. Why com'st thou in this stern and horrid shape:
Not in familiar sort, as thou wast wont?

COR. Because the date of thy command is out,
And I am master of thy skill and thee.

FAB. Coreb, thou angry and impatient spirit,
I have earnest business for a private friend:
Reserve me, spirit, until some farther time.

COR. I will not for the mines of all the earth.

FAB. Then let me rise, and ere I leave the world,
Despatch[240] some business that I have to do;
And in meantime repose thee in that chair.

COR. Fabel, I will.

[_Sits down in the necromantic chair._

FAB. O, that this soul, that cost so dear a price
As the dear precious blood of her Redeemer,
Inspir'd with knowledge, should by that alone,
Which makes a man so mean unto the powers,
Ev'n lead him down into the depth of hell;
When men in their own pride strive to know more
Than man should know!
For this alone God cast the angels down.
The infinity of arts is like a sea,
Into which when man will take in hand to sail
Farther than reason (which should be his pilot)
Hath skill to guide him--losing once his compass,
He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirlpools,
As he doth lose the very sight of heaven:
The more he strives to come to quiet harbour,
The farther still he finds himself from land.
Man, striving still to find the depth of evil--
Seeking to be a god, becomes a devil.

COR. Come, Fabel, hast thou done?

FAB. Yes, yes, come hither.

COR. Fabel, I cannot.

FAB. Cannot! what ails your hollowness?

COR. Good Fabel, help me.

FAB. Alas! where lies your grief?--Some _aqua vitæ_!
The devil's very sick, I fear he'll die;
For he looks very ill.

COR. Dar'st thou deride the minister of darkness?
In Lucifer's great name, Coreb conjures thee
To set him free.

FAB. I will not for the mines of all the earth,
Unless thou give me liberty to see
Seven years more, before thou seize on me.

COR. Fabel, I give it thee.

FAB. Swear, damned fiend.

COR. Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee,
Till seven years from this hour be full expir'd.

FAB. Enough, come out.

COR. A vengeance take thy art!
Live and convert all piety to evil:
Never did man thus overreach the devil.
No time on earth, like Phaetonic flames,
Can have perpetual being. I'll return
To my infernal mansion: but be sure,
Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry;
But, Coreb, thou to hell shalt Fabel carry.

FAB. Then thus between us two this variance ends;
Thou to thy fellow-fiends, I to my friends. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, DORCAS _his lady_,
MILLICENT _his daughter, young_ HARRY CLARE;
_the men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and_
_safeguards;_[241] BLAGUE, _the merry host of the_
_George, comes in with them_.

HOST. Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham: my
freehold, my tenements, goods and chattels. Madam, here's a
room is[242] the very Homer and Iliads of a lodging, it hath
none of the four elements in it; I built it out of the centre,
and I drink ne'er the less sack. Welcome, my little waste of
maidenheads: what? I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.[243]

CLARE. God-a-mercy, my good host Blague!
Thou hast a good seat here.

HOST. 'Tis correspondent or so: there's not a Tartarian[244]
nor a carrier shall breathe upon your geldings: they have
villanous rank feet, the rogues, and they shall not sweat in my
linen. Knights and lords, too, have been drunk in my house, I
thank the Destinies.

H. CLARE. Prythee, good sinful innkeeper, will that corruption,
thine ostler, to look well to my gelding. Ha! a pox of these
rushes.[245]

HOST. You, St Denis, your gelding shall walk without doors,
and cool his feet for his master's sake. By the body of Saint
George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison:
now, when wast thou in the forest?

H. CLARE. Away, you stale mess of white broth! Come hither,
sister, let me help you.

CLARE. Mine host, is not Sir Richard Mounchensey come yet,
according to our appointment, when we last dined here?

HOST. The knight's not yet apparent. Marry, here's a forerunner
that summons a parley, and, faith, he'll be here top and
top-gallant presently.

CLARE. 'Tis well; good mine host, go down and see breakfast be
provided.

HOST. Knight, thy breath hath the force of a woman, it takes me
down; I am for the baser element of the kitchen: I retire like
a valiant soldier, face point-blank to the foeman, or, like a
courtier, that must not show his prince his posteriors: vanish
to know my canvasadoes and my interrogatories, for I serve the
good Duke of Norfolk. [_Exit._

CLARE. How doth my lady? are you not weary, madam?
Come hither, I must talk in private with you;
My daughter Millicent must not overhear. [_Speaking low._

MIL. Ay, whispering? pray God it tend to my good!
Strange fear assails my heart, usurps my blood.

[_Aside._

CLARE. You know our meeting with the knight Mounchensey
Is to assure our daughter to his heir.

DOR. 'Tis without question. [_Speaking low._

CLARE. Two tedious winters have pass'd o'er, since first
These couple lov'd each other, and in passion
Glued first their naked hands with youthful moisture--
Just so long, on my knowledge.

DOR. And what of this?

CLARE. This morning should my daughter lose her name,
And to Mounchensey's house convey our arms,
Quartered within his 'scutcheon: the affiance made
'Twixt him and her this morning should be seal'd.

DOR. I know it should.

CLARE. But there are crosses,[246] wife; here's one in Waltham,
Another at the Abbey, and a third
At Cheston;[247] and it is ominous to pass
Any of these without a pater-noster.
Crosses of love still thwart this marriage,
Whilst that we two (like spirits) walk in night
About those stony and hard-hearted plots.

MIL. O God! what means my father? [_Aside._

CLARE. For look you, wife, the riotous old knight
Hath overrun his annual revenue,
In keeping jolly Christmas all the year:
The nostrils of his chimneys are still stuff'd
With smoke, more chargeable than cane-tobacco;
His hawks devour his fattest hogs,[248] whilst Simple,
His leanest cur, eats his hounds' carrion.
Besides, I heard of late his younger brother,
A Turkey merchant, hath sore[249] suck'd the knight,
By means of some great losses on the sea;
That (you conceive me), before God, all's naught,
His seat is weak: thus, each thing rightly scann'd,
You'll see a flight, wife, shortly of his land.

MIL. Treason to my heart's truest sovereign:
How soon is love smothered in foggy gain! [_Aside._

DOR. But how shall we prevent this dangerous match?

CLARE. I have a plot, a trick; and this it is.
Under this colour I'll break off the match--
I'll tell the knight, that now my mind is chang'd
For marrying of my daughter; for I intend
To send her unto Cheston nunnery.[250]

MIL. O me accurs'd! [_Aside._

CLARE. There to become a most religious nun.

MIL. I'll first be buried quick. [_Aside._

CLARE. To spend her beauty in most private prayers.

MIL. I'll sooner be a sinner in forsaking
Mother and father. [_Aside._

CLARE. How dost like my plot?

DOR. Exceeding well: but is it your intent
She shall continue there?

CLARE. Continue there? ha, ha! that were a jest:
You know a virgin may continue there
A twelvemonth and a day on trial.
There shall my daughter sojourn some three months,
And in meantime I'll compass a fair match
'Twixt youthful Jerningham, the lusty heir
Of Sir Ralph Jerningham, dwelling in the forest.
I think they'll both come hither with Mounchensey.

DOR. Your care argues the love your bear our child;
I will subscribe to anything you'll have me.

[_Exeunt_ SIR ARTHUR _and_ DORCAS.[251]

MIL. You will subscribe to it?--good, good,[252] 'tis well;
Love hath two chairs of state, heaven and hell.
My dear Mounchensey, thou my death shalt rue,
Ere to thy heart Millicent prove untrue. [_Exit._

_Enter_ BLAGUE.

HOST. Ostlers, you knaves and commanders, take the horses of
the knights and competitors: your honourable hulks have put
into harbour, they'll take in fresh water here, and I have
provided clean chamber-pots. _Via!_[253] they come.

_Enter_ SIR RICHARD MOUNCHENSEY, SIR RALPH
JERNINGHAM, _young_ FRANK JERNINGHAM,
RAYMOND MOUNCHENSEY, PETER FABEL, _and_
BILBO.

HOST. The destinies be most neat chamberlains to these
swaggering puritans, knights of the subsidy.

SIR RICH. God-a-mercy, good mine host.

SIR RALPH. Thanks, good host Blague.

HOST. Room for my case of pistols, that have Greek and Latin
bullets in them: let me cling to your flanks, my nimble
giberalters, and blow wind in your calves to make them swell
bigger. Ha! I'll caper in mine own fee-simple. Away with
punctilios and orthography! I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

BIL. _Tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi.[254]_ Truly,
mine host, Bilbo, though he be somewhat out of fashion, will be
your only blade[255] still; I have a villainous sharp stomach
to slice a breakfast.

HOST. Thou shalt have it without any more discontinuance,
release, or attournment. What! we know our terms of hunting and
the sea-card.

BIL. And do you serve the good Duke of Norfolk still?

HOST. Still and still, and still, my soldier of Saint
Quintin's. Come follow me. I have Charles's-wain[256] below in
a butt of sack: 'twill[257] glister like your crab-fish.

BIL. You have fine scholar-like terms: your Cooper's
Dictionary[258] is your only book to study in a cellar, a man
shall find very strange words in it. Come, my host, let's serve
the good Duke of Norfolk.

HOST. And still, and still, and still, my boy, I'll serve the
good Duke of Norfolk.

_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, HARRY CLARE, _and_
MILLICENT.[259]

SIR RALPH. Good Sir Arthur Clare!

CLARE. What gentleman is that? I know him not.

SIR RICH. 'Tis Master Fabel, sir, a Cambridge scholar,
My son's dear friend.

CLARE. Sir, I entreat you know me.

FAB. Command me, sir, I am affected to you
For your Mounchensey's sake.

CLARE. Alas! for him,
I not respect whether he sink or swim! [_Aside._
A word in private, Sir Ralph Jerningham.

RAY. Methinks your father looketh strangely on me:
Say, love, why are you sad?

MIL. I am not, sweet;
Passion is strong, when woe with woe doth meet.

CLARE. Shall's in to breakfast? After, we'll conclude
The cause of this our coming: in and feed,
And let that usher a more serious deed. [_Exit._

MIL. Whilst you desire his grief, my heart shall bleed. [_Exit._

Y. CLARE. Raymond Mounchensey, come, be frolic, friend;
This is the day thou hast expected long.

RAY. Pray God, dear Harry Clare, it prove so happy!

Y. CLARE. There's nought can alter it; be merry, lad.

FAB. There's nought shall alter it; be lively, Raymond:
Stand any opposition 'gainst thy hope,
Art shall confront it with her largest scope.

[_Exeunt, save_ FABEL.

PETER FABEL _solus_.

FAB. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill,
That for thy bounty and thy royal parts
Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn,
And after all these promises, my[260] Clare,
Refuse to give his daughter to thy son,
Only because thy revenues cannot reach
To make her dowage of so rich a jointure
As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham?
And therefore is the false fox now in hand
To strike a match betwixt her and the other;
And the old grey-beards now are close together,
Plotting it in the garden. Is't even so?
Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I
Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts,
The metaphysics, magic, and those parts
Of the most secret deep philosophy?
Have I so many melancholy nights
Watch'd on the top of Peter-house highest tower,
And come we back unto our native home,
For want of skill to lose the wench thou lov'st?
I'll first hang Enfield[261] in such rings of mist
As never rose from any dampish fen:
I'll make the brined sea to rise at Ware,
And drown the marshes unto Stratford Bridge:
I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks,
And scatter them (like sheep) in every field.
We may perhaps be cross'd; but, if we be,
He shall cross the devil, that but crosses me.

_Enter_ RAYMOND _and_ YOUNG JERNINGHAM.

But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad;
And here's the gallant that must have the wench.

JER. I prythee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps:
Revive thy spirits. Thou, that before hast been
More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock:
As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry
As mirth herself!
If aught in me may thy content procure,
It is thine own, thou mayst thyself assure.

RAY. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself
Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold
As the bleak northern winds upon the face
Of winter. From thee they have some power
Upon my blood; yet being from thee,
Had but that hollow sound come from the lips
Of any living man, it might have won
The credit of mine ear; from thee it cannot.

JER. If I understand thee, I am a villain:
What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend?

_Enter_ YOUNG CLARE.

Come, boy, and make me this same groaning love,
Troubled with stitches and the cough o' th' lungs,
That wept his eyes out, when he was a child,
And ever since hath shot at hoodman-blind:[262]
Make her leap, caper, jerk, and laugh, and sing,
And play me horse tricks.
Make Cupid wanton as his mother's dove;
But in this sort, boy, I would have thee love.

FAB. Why, how now, madcap? what, my lusty Frank,
So near a wife, and will not tell your friend?
But you will to this gear in hugger-mugger:[263]
Art thou turn'd miser, rascal, in thy loves?

JER. Who, I? s'blood, what should all you see in me, that I
should look like a married man, ha? Am I bald? Are my legs too
little for my hose? If I feel anything in my forehead, I am a
villain. Do I wear a nightcap? do I bend in the hams? what dost
thou see in me, that I should be towards marriage, ha?

Y. CLARE. What, thou married? let me look upon thee; rogue, who
has given this out of thee? how cam'st thou into this ill-name?
what company hast thou been in, rascal?

FAB. You are the man, sir, must have Millicent,
The match is making in the garden now;
Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men,
Your fathers, mean to launch their busy bags;[264]
But in the meantime to thrust Mounchensey off.
For colour of this new-intended match,
Fair Millicent to Cheston must be sent,
To take the approbation for a nun.
Ne'er look upon me, lad: the match is done.

JER. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief
With the true feeling of a zealous friend.
And as for fair and beauteous Millicent,
With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber[265]
Her angel-like perfections: but thou know'st
That Essex hath the saint that I adore:
Where-e'er didst meet me, that we two were jovial,
But like a wag thou hast not laugh'd at me,
And with regardless jesting mock'd my love?
How[266] many a sad and weary summer night
My sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth,
And I have taught the nightingale to wake,
And from the meadows sprung the early lark
An hour before she should have list to sing:
I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans,
That I have made the heavy slow-pac'd hours
To hang like heavy clogs upon the day.
But, dear Mouncheusey, had not my affection
Seiz'd on the beauty of another dame,
Before I'd wrong the chase, and leave the love
Of one so worthy and so true a friend,
I will abjure both beauty and her sight,
And will in love become a counterfeit.

MOUN. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life,
And from the mouth of hell, where now I sat,
I feel my spirit rebound against the stars,
Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, in my free soul,
There time nor death can by their power control.

FAB. Frank Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy;
And were he not my pupil, I would say
He were as fine a metall'd gentleman,
Of as free spirit and of as fine a temper,
As is in England; and he is a man
That very richly may deserve thy love.
But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse,
What may Mounchensey's honour to thyself
Exact upon the measure of thy grace?

Y. CLARE. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know,
He does not breathe this air, whose love I cherish,
And whose soul I love more than Mounchensey's:
Nor ever in my life did see the man
Whom, for his wit and many virtuous parts,
I think more worthy of my sister's love.
But since the matter grows unto this pass,
I must not seem to cross my father's will;
But when thou list to visit her by night,
My horse is saddled, and the stable door
Stands ready for thee; use them at thy pleasure.
In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy,
And if thou gett'st her, lad, God give thee joy.

MOUN. Then, care away! let fate my fall pretend,
Back'd with the favours of so true a friend!

FAB. Let us alone, to bustle for the set;
For age and craft with wit and art have met.
I'll make my spirits to dance such nightly jigs
Along the way 'twixt this and Tot'nam Cross,
The carriers' jades shall cast their heavy packs,
And the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in:
The milkmaids' cuts[267] shall turn the wenches off,
And lay their dossers[268] tumbling in the dust:
The frank and merry London 'prentices,
That come for cream and lusty country cheer,
Shall lose their way; and, scrambling in the ditches
All night shall whoop and hallo, cry and call,
Yet none to other find the way at all.

MOUN. Pursue the project, scholar: what we can do
To help endeavour, join our lives thereto. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ BANKS, SIR JOHN, _and_ SMUG.

BANKS. Take me with you,[269] good Sir John:[270] a plague
on thee, Smug, and thou touchest liquor, thou art foundered
straight. What! are your brains always watermills? must they
ever run round?

SMUG. Banks, your ale is as a Philistine fox; nouns! there's
fire i' th' tail on't; you are a rogue to charge us with mugs
i' th' rearward; a plague of this wind! O, it tickles our
catastrophe![271]

SIR JOHN. Neighbour Banks of Waltham, and goodman Smug, the
honest smith of Edmonton, as I dwell betwixt you both at
Enfield, I know the taste of both your ale-houses; they are
good both, smart both. Hem! grass and hay! we are all mortal;
let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end.

BANKS. Well said, Sir John, you are of the same humour still;
and doth the water run the same way still, boy?

SMUG. Vulcan was a rogue to him; Sir John, lock, lock, lock
fast, Sir John; so, Sir John. I'll one' of these years, when it
shall please the goddesses and the destinies, be drunk in your
company; that's all now, and God send us health. Shall I swear
I love you?

SIR JOHN. No oaths, no oaths, good neighbour Smug. We'll wet
our lips together, and hug; Carouse in private, and elevate
the heart, and the liver, and the lights--and the lights, mark
you me--within us: for, hem! grass and hay! we are all mortal;
let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end.

BANKS. But to our former motion about stealing some venison;
whither go we?

SIR JOHN. Into the forest, neighbour Banks: into Brian's walk,
the mad-keeper.

SMUG. Blood! I'll tickle your keeper.

BANKS. I' faith, thou art always drunk when we have need of
thee.

SMUG. Need of me! heart! you shall have need of me always,
while there is iron in an anvil.

BANKS. Master Parson, may the smith go (think you), being in
this taking?

SMUG. Go! I'll go, in spite of all the bells in Waltham.

SIR JOHN. The question is good, neighbour Banks--let me see:
the moon shines to-night,--there's not a narrow bridge betwixt
this and the forest,--his brain may be settled ere night: he
may go, he may go, neighbour Banks. Now we want none but the
company of mine host Blague, of the George at Waltham: if he
were here, our consort were full. Look where comes my good
host, the Duke of Norfolk's man! And how? and how? Ahem! grass
and hay! we are not yet mortal; let us live till we die, and be
merry; and there's an end.

_Enter_ HOST.

HOST. Ha! my Castilian dialogues; and art thou in breath still,
boy? Miller, doth the match hold? Smith, I see by thy eyes
thou hast been reading a little Geneva print: but wend[272]
we merrily to the forest, to steal some of the king's deer?
I'll meet you at the time appointed. Away, I have knights and
colonels at my house, and must tend the Hungarians.[273] If
we be scared in the forest, we'll meet in the church-porch at
Enfield: is't correspondent?

BANKS. 'Tis well; but how, if any of us should be taken?

SMUG. He shall have ransom, by my sword.

HOST. Tush, the knave keepers are my bona socias[274] and my
pensioners. Nine o'clock! Be valiant, my little Gogmagogs;
I'll fence with all the justices in Hertfordshire. I'll have a
buck, till I die; I'll slay a doe, while I live. Hold your bow
straight and steady: I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

SMUG. O rare! who-ho-ho, boy!

SIR JOHN. Peace, neighbour Smug. You see this boor, a boor
of the country, an illiterate boor, and yet the citizen of
good-fellows. Come, let's provide: ahem! grass and hay! we are
not yet all mortal; we'll live till we die, and be merry; and
there's an end. Come, Smug.

SMUG. Good night, Waltham--who-ho-ho, boy! [_Exeunt._

_Enter the Knights and Gentlemen from breakfast again._

O. MOUN. Nor I for thee, Clare, not of this:
What! hast thou fed me all this while with shalls[275]
And com'st to tell me now, thou lik'st it not?

CLARE. I do not hold thy offer competent:
Nor do I like the assurance of thy land,
The title is so brangled with thy debts.

O. MOUN. Too good for thee: and, knight, thou know'st it well,
I fawn'd not on thee for thy goods, not I,
'Twas thine own motion; that thy wife doth know.

L. CLARE. Husband, it was so; he lies not in that.

CLARE. Hold thy chat, quean.

O. MOUN. To which I hearkened willingly, and the rather,
Because I was persuaded it proceeded
From love thou bor'st to me and to my boy;
And gav'st him free access unto thy house.
Where he hath not behav'd him to thy child,
But as befits a gentleman to do:
Nor is my poor distressed state so low,
That I'll shut up my doors, I warrant thee.

CLARE. Let it suffice, Mounchensey. I mislike it;
Nor think thy son a match fit for my child.

O. MOUN. I tell thee, Clare, his blood is good and clear,
As the best drop that panteth in thy veins:
But for this maid, thy fair and virtuous child,
She is no more disparag'd by thy baseness,
Than the most orient and most[276] precious jewel,
Which still retains his lustre and his beauty.
Although a slave were owner of the same.

CLARE. She is the last is left me to bestow;
And her I mean to dedicate to God.

O. MOUN. You do, sir?

CLARE. Sir, sir, I do; she is mine own.

O. MOUN. And pity she is so:
Damnation dog thee and thy wretched pelf! [_Aside._

CLARE. Not thou, Mounchensey, shalt bestow my child.

O. MOUN. Neither shall'st[277] thou bestow her where thou meanest.

CLARE. What wilt thou do?

O. MOUN. No matter, let that be;
I will do that, perhaps, shall anger thee:
Thou hast wrong'd my love, and, by God's blessed angel,
Thou shalt well know it.

CLARE. Tut, brave not me.

O. MOUN. Brave thee, base churl! were't not for manhood sake--
I say no more, but that there be some by
Whose blood is hotter than ours is,
Which, being stirr'd might make us both repent
This foolish meeting. But, Harry Clare,
Although thy father hath abus'd my friendship,
Yet I love thee--I do, my noble boy,
I do, i' faith.

L. CLARE. Ay, do, do: fill all the world with talk of us, man;
man, I never looked for better at your hands.

FAB. I hop'd your great experience and your years
Would have prov'd patience rather to your soul,
Than with this frantic and untamed passion
To whet their skeins;[278] and, but for that
I hope their friendships are too well confirm'd.
And their minds temper'd with more kindly heat,
Than for their forward parent's frowardness,
That they should break forth into public brawls.
Howe'er the rough hand of the untoward world
Hath moulded your proceedings in this matter,
Yet I am sure the first intent was love:
Then since the first spring was so sweet and warm,
Let it die gently: ne'er kill it with scorn.

RAY. O, thou base world! how leprous is that soul,
That is once lim'd in that polluted mud!
O Sir Arthur! you have startled his free active spirit
With a too sharp spur for his mind to bear.
Have patience, sir; the remedy to woe
Is to leave that of force we must forego.

MIL. And I must take a twelvemonth's approbation,
That in the meantime this sole and private life
At the year's end may fashion me a wife.
But, sweet Mounchensey, ere this year be done,
Thou'st be a friar, if that I be a nun.
And, father, ere young Jerningham's I'll be.
I will turn mad to spite both him and thee. [_Aside._

CLARE. Wife, come to horse; and, huswife, make you ready:
For if I live, I swear by this good light,
I'll see you lodg'd in Cheston House to-night. [_Exeunt._

O. MOUN. Raymond, away; thou see'st how matters fall.
Churl, hell consume thee, and thy pelf and all!

FAB. Now, Master Clare, you see how matters fadge;[279]
Your Millicent must needs be made a nun.
Well, sir, we are the men must ply the match:
Hold you your peace, and be a looker-on:
And send her unto Cheston, when[280] he will,
I'll send me fellows of a handful high
Into the cloisters, where the nuns frequent,
Shall make them skip like does about the dale;
And make the lady prioress of the house
To play at leap-frog naked in her smock,[281]
Until the merry wenches at their mass
Cry teehee, weehee;
And tickling these mad lasses in their flanks,
Shall sprawl and squeak, and pinch their fellow-nuns.
Be lively, boys, before the wench we lose,
I'll make the abbess wear the canon's hose. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HARRY CLARE, FRANK JERNINGHAM.
PETER FABEL, _and_ MILLICENT.

H. CLARE. Spite now hath done her worst; sister, be patient.

JER. Forewarn'd poor Raymond's company! O heaven!
When the composure of weak frailty meet[s]
Upon this mart of dirt, O, then weak love
Must in her own unhappiness be silent,
And wink on all deformities.

MIL. 'Tis well:
Where's Raymond, brother? Where's my dear Mounchensey?
Would we might weep together, and then part,
One[282] sighing parley would much ease my heart.

FAB. Sweet beauty, fold your sorrows in the thought
Of future reconcilement: let your tears
Show you a woman, but no[283] farther spent
Than from the eyes: for sweet experience says
That love is firm, that's flatter'd with delays.

MIL. Alas! sir, think you I shall e'er be his?

FAB. As sure as parting smiles on future bliss.
Yond comes my friend; see, he hath doated
So long upon your beauty, that your want
Will with a pale retirement waste his blood:
For in true love music doth sweetly dwell:
Sever'd, these less worlds bear within them hell.

_Enter_ MOUNCHENSEY.

MOUN. Harry and Frank, you are enjoined to wean
Your friendship from me: we must part; the breath
Of ill[284] advis'd corruption, pardon me.
Faith, I must say so; you may think I love you,
I breathe not rougher spite to sever us;
We'll meet by stealth, sweet friend, by stealth you twain;
Kisses are sweetest got by struggling pain.

JER. Our friendship dies not, Raymond.

MOUN. Pardon me:
I am busied; I have lost my faculties,
And buried them in Millicent's clear eyes.

MIL. Alas! sweet love, what shall become of me?
I must to Cheston to the nunnery,
I shall ne'er see thee more.

MOUN. How, sweet!
I'll be thy votary, we'll often meet:
This kiss divides us, and breathes soft adieu--
This be a double charm to keep both true.

FAB. Have done: your fathers may chance spy your parting.
Refuse not you by any means, good sweetness,
To go into the nunnery, for from hence
Must we beget your love's sweet happiness.
You shall not stay there long: your harder bed
Shall be more soft, when nun and maid are dead.

_Enter_ BILBO.

MOUN. Now, sirrah, what's the matter?

BIL. Marry, you must to horse presently; that villanous old
gouty churl, Sir Arthur Clare, longs till he be at the nunnery.

H. CLARE. How, sir?

BIL.[285] O, I cry you mercy, he is your father, sir, indeed;
but I am sure that there's less affinity betwixt your two
natures than there is between a broker and a cutpurse.

MOUN. Bring me my gelding, sirrah.

BIL. Well, nothing grieves me, but for the poor wench; she must
now cry _vale_ to lobster-pies, artichokes, and all such meats
of mortality. Poor gentlewoman! the sign must not be in _virgo_
any longer with her, and that me grieves: farewell.

Poor Millicent
Must pray and repent:
O fatal wonder!
She'll now be no fatter,
Love must not come at her,
Yet she shall be kept under. [_Exit._

JER. Farewell, dear Raymond.

H. CLARE. Friend, adieu.

MIL. Dear sweet.
No joy enjoys my heart till we next meet. [_Exeunt._

FAB. Well, Raymond, now the tide of discontent
Beats in thy face; but, ere't be long, the wind
Shall turn the flood. We must to Waltham Abbey.
And as fair Millicent in Cheston lives
A most unwilling nun, so thou shalt there
Become a beardless novice, to what end,
Let time and future accidents declare.
Taste thou my sleights: thy love I'll only share.

MOUN. Turn friar? Come, my good counsellor, let's go,
Yet that disguise will hardly shroud my woe. [_Exeunt._

_Enter the_ PRIORESS OF CHESTON, _with a nun or_
_two_, SIR ARTHUR CLARE, SIR RALPH JERNINGHAM,
HENRY _and_ FRANK, LADY CLARE,
BILBO, _with_ MILLICENT.

L. CLARE. Madam,
The love unto this holy sisterhood
And our confirm'd opinion of your zeal
Hath truly won us to bestow our child
Rather on this than any neighbouring cell.

PRI. Jesus' daughter, Mary's child,
Holy matron, woman mild,
For thee a mass shall still be said,
Every sister drop a bead;
And those again succeeding them
For you shall sing a _Requiem_.

FRANK. The wench is gone, Harry; she is no more a woman of
this world. Mark her well, she looks like a nun already: what
think'st on her?

HAR. By my faith, her face comes handsomely to't.
But peace, let's hear the rest.

SIR ARTH. Madam, for a twelvemonth's approbation,
We mean to make this trial of our child.
Your care and our dear blessing, in meantime,
We pray may prosper this intended work.

PRI. May your happy soul be blithe,
That so truly pay your tithe:
He that many children gave,
'Tis fit that he one child should have.
Then, fair virgin, hear my spell,
For I must your duty tell.

MIL. Good men and true, stand together,
And hear your charge. [_Aside._

PRI. First, a-mornings take your book,
The glass wherein yourself must look;
Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly,
Must be turn'd to motions holy;
For your busk attires and toys,
Have your thoughts on heavenly joys:
And for all your follies past,
You must do penance, pray and fast.

BIL. Let her take heed of fasting; and if ever she hurt herself
with praying, I'll ne'er trust beast.

[_Aside._

MIL. This goes hard, by'r Lady!

PRI. You shall ring the sacring-bell,[286]
Keep your hours and toll[287] your knell,
Rise at midnight to your matins,
Read your psalter, sing your latins;
And when your blood shall kindle pleasure,
Scourge yourself in plenteous measure.

MIL. Worse and worse, by Saint Mary! [_Aside._

FRANK. Sirrah Hal, how does she hold her countenance? Well,
go thy ways, if ever thou prove a nun, I'll build an abbey.
[_Aside._

HAR. She may be a nun; but if ever she prove an anchoress,
I'll dig her grave with my nails.

[_Aside._

FRANK. To her again, mother. [_Aside._

HAR. Hold thine own, wench. [_Aside._

PRI. You must read the morning mass,
You must creep unto the cross,[288]
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair-cloth for your bed.

BIL. She had rather have a man in her bed.

PRI. Bind your beads, and tell your needs,
Your holy _aves_ and your creeds:
Holy maid, this must be done,
If you mean to live a nun.

MIL. The holy maid will be no nun. [_Aside._

SIR ARTH. Madam, we have some business of import,
And must be gone;
Will't please you take my wife into your closet,
Who farther will acquaint you with my mind:
And so, good madam, for this time adieu.

[_Exeunt women and_ SIR ARTHUR.

SIR RALPH. Well now, Frank Jerningham, how sayest thou?[289]
To be brief--
What wilt thou say for all this, if we two,
Her father and myself, can bring about,
That we convert this nun to be a wife,
And thou the husband to this pretty nun?
How then, my lad, ha? Frank, it may be done.

HAR. Ay, now it works.

FRANK. O God, sir! you amaze me at your words;
Think with yourself, sir, what a thing it were
To cause a recluse to remove her vow:
A sainted,[290] contrite, and repentant soul,
Ever mortified with fasting and with prayer,
Whose thoughts, even as her eyes, are fix'd on heaven.
To draw a virgin thus devout with zeal
Back to the world: O impious deed!
Nor by the canon-law can it be done
Without a dispensation from the church;
Besides, she is so prone unto this life,
As she'll even shriek to hear a husband nam'd.

BIL. Ay, a poor innocent, she! Well, here's no knavery;
He flouts the old fools to their teeth. [_Aside._

SIR RALPH. Boy, I am glad to hear
Thou mak'st such scruple of thy[291] conscience;
And in a man so young as is yourself,
I promise you 'tis very seldom seen.
But, Frank, this is a trick, a mere device--
A sleight plotted betwixt her father and myself
To thrust Mounchensey's nose beside the cushion;[292]
That being thus debarr'd of all access.
Time yet may work him from her thoughts,
And give thee ample scope to thy desires.

BIL. A plague on you both for a couple of Jews.

[_Aside._

HAR. How now, Frank, what say you to that?

FRANK. Let me alone, I warrant thee.
[_To_ HARRY.
Sir, assured that this motion doth proceed
From your most kind and fatherly affection.
I do dispose my liking to your pleasure:
But for it is a matter of such moment
As holy marriage, I must crave thus much,
To have some conference with my ghostly father,
Friar Hildersham hereby at Waltham Abbey,
To be absolv'd of things, that it is fit
None only but my confessor should know.

SIR RALPH. With all my heart. He is a reverend man.
And to-morrow morning we will meet all at the abbey,
Where by the opinion of that reverend man
We will proceed; I like it passing well.
Till then we part, boy. Ay, think of it; farewell.
A parent's care no mortal tongue can tell. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, _and_ RAYMOND MOUNCHENSEY
_like a friar_.

SIR ARTH. Holy young novice, I have told you now
My full intent, and do refer the rest
To your professed secrecy and care:
And see,
Our serious speech hath stolen upon the way,
That we are come unto the abbey gate.
Because I know Mounchensey is a fox,
That craftily doth overlook my doings,
I'll not be seen, not I; tush, I have done,
I had a daughter, but she's now a nun.
Farewell, dear son, farewell. [_Exit._

MOUN. Fare you well. Ay, you have done?
Your daughter, sir, shall not be long a nun.
O my rare tutor! never mortal brain
Plotted out such a mesh[293] of policy;
And my dear bosom is so great with laughter,
Begot by his simplicity and error,
My soul is fall'n in labour with her joy.
O my friends, Frank Jerningham and Clare!
Did you but know but how this jest takes fire--
That good Sir Arthur, thinking me a novice,
Hath even pour'd himself into my bosom,
O, you would vent your spleens with tickling mirth!
But, Raymond, peace, and have an eye about,
For fear perhaps some of the nuns look out.
Peace and charity within,
Never touch'd with deadly sin;
I cast holy water pure
On this wall and on this door,
That from evil shall defend,
And keep you from the ugly fiend:
Evil sprite, by night nor day,
Shall approach or come this way;
Elf nor fairy, by this grace,
Day nor night shall haunt this place.
Holy maidens--[294] [_Knocks._

[_Answer within._] Who's that which knocks? ha, who's there?

MOUN. Gentle nun, here is a friar.

_Enter_ NUN.

NUN. A friar without? now Christ us save!
Holy man, what wouldst thou have?

MOUN. Holy maid, I hither come
From friar and father Hildersham,
By the favour and the grace
Of the prioress of this place,
Amongst you all to visit one
That's come for approbation;
Before she was as now you are,
The daughter of Sir Arthur Clare,
But since she now became a nun,
Call'd Millicent of Edmonton.[295]

NUN. Holy man, repose you there;
This news I'll to our abbess bear,
To tell her what a man is sent,
And your message and intent.

MOUN. Benedicite.

NUN. Benedicite. [_Exit._

MOUN. Do, my good plump wench; if all fall right,
I'll make your sisterhood one less by night.
Now, happy fortune, speed this merry drift,
I like a wench comes roundly to her shrift.

_Enter_ LADY _and_ MILLICENT.

LADY. Have friars recourse then to the house of nuns?

MIL. Madam, it is the order of this place,
When any virgin comes for approbation
(Lest that for fear or such sinister practice
She should be forc'd to undergo this veil,
Which should proceed from conscience and devotion),
A visitor is sent from Waltham House,
To take the true confession of the maid.

LADY. Is that the order? I commend it well:
You to your shrift, I'll back unto the cell. [_Exit._

MOUN. Life of my soul! bright angel!

MIL. What means the friar?

MOUN. O Millicent, 'tis I.

MIL. My heart misgives me: I should know that voice.
You? who are you? the holy virgin bless me!
Tell me your name: you shall, ere you confess me.

MOUN. Mounchensey, thy true friend.

MIL. My Raymond! my dear heart!
Sweet life, give leave to my distracted soul
To wake a little from this swoon of joy.
By what means cam'st thou to assume this shape?

MOUN. By means of Peter Fabel, my kind tutor,
Who in the habit of friar Hildersham,
Frank Jerningham's old friend and confessor,
Plotted by Frank, by Fabel, and myself,
And so delivered to Sir Arthur Clare,
Who brought me here unto the abbey-gate,
To be his nun-made daughter's visitor.

MIL. You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father.
O my dear life! I was a-dreamed to-night
That, as I was praying in my psalter,
There came a spirit unto me as I kneel'd,
And by his strong persuasions tempted me
To leave this nunnery: and methought
He came in the most glorious angel-shape,
That mortal eye did ever look upon.
Ha! thou art sure that spirit, for there's no form
Is in mine eye so glorious as thine own.

MOUN. O thou idolatress, that dost this worship
To him whose likeness is but praise of thee!
Thou bright unsetting star, which through this veil
For very envy mak'st the sun look pale.

MIL. Well, visitor, lest that perhaps my mother
Should think the friar too strict in his decrees,
I this confess to my sweet ghostly father;
If chaste pure love be sin, I must confess,
I have offended three years now with thee.

MOUN. But do you yet repent you of the same?

MIL. I' faith, I cannot.

MOUN. Nor will I absolve thee
Of that sweet sin, though it be venial:
Yet have the penance of a thousand kisses;
And I enjoin you to this pilgrimage:--
That in the evening you bestow yourself
Here in the walk near to the willow ground,
Where I'll be ready both with men and horse
To wait your coming, and convey you hence
Unto a lodge I have in Enfield Chase:
No more reply, if that you yield consent--
I see more eyes upon our stay are bent.

MIL. Sweet life, farewell, 'tis done, let that suffice;
What my tongue fails, I send thee by mine eyes. [_Exit._

_Enter_ FABEL,[296] YOUNG CLARE, _and_ JERNINGHAM.

JER. Now, visitor, how does this new-made nun?

Y. CLARE. Come, come, how does she, noble capuchin?

MOUN. She may be poor in spirit, but for the flesh,

'Tis fat and plump, boys. Ah! rogues, there is
A company of girls would turn you all friars.

FAB. But how, Mounchensey, how, lad, for the wench?

MOUN. Zounds, lads, i'faith I thank my holy habit--
I have confess'd her, and the lady prioress
Hath given me ghostly counsel with her blessing.
And how say ye, boys,
If I be chose the weekly visitor?

Y. CLARE. Blood! she'll have ne'er a nun unbagg'd to sing mass
then.

JER. The Abbot of Waltham will have as many children to put to
nurse as he has calves in the marsh.

MOUN. Well, to be brief, the nun will soon at night turn
tippet;[297] if I can but devise to quit her cleanly of the
nunnery, she is mine own.

FAB. But, sirrah Raymond, what news of Peter Fabel at the house?

MOUN. Tush, he is the only man, a necromancer and a conjuror,
that works for young Mounchensey altogether; and if it be not
for friar Benedic, that he can cross him by his learned skill,
the wench is gone, Fabel will fetch her out by very magic.

FAB. Stands the wind there, boy? keep them in that key,
The wench is ours before to-morrow day.
Well, Harry[298] and Frank, as ye are gentlemen,
Stick to us close this once; you know your fathers
Have men and horse lie ready still at Cheston,
To watch the coast be clear, to scout about,
And have an eye unto Mounchensey's walks:
Therefore you two may hover thereabouts,
And no man will suspect you for the matter:
Be ready but to take her at our hands,
Leave us to scamble[299] for her getting out.

JER. Blood! if all Hertfordshire were at our heels, we'll
carry her away in spite of them.

Y. CLARE. But whither, Raymond?

MOUN. To Brian's upper lodge in Enfield Chase;
He is mine honest friend, and a tall keeper;
I'll send my man unto him presently,
To acquaint him with your coming and intent.

FAB. Be brief and secret.

MOUN. Soon at night remember
You bring your horses to the willow ground.

JER. 'Tis done, no more.

Y. CLARE. We will not fail the hour:
My life and fortune now lie in your power.

FAB. About our business! Raymond, let's away,
Think of your hour: it draws well off the day. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ BLAGUE, BANKS, SMUG, _and_ SIR JOHN.

BLAGUE. Come, ye Hungarian[300] pilchers, we are once more
come under the Zona Torrida of the forest; let's be resolute;
let's fly to and again; and the devil come, we'll put him to
his interrogatories, and not budge a foot. What! foot, I'll
put fire into you, ye shall all three serve the good Duke of
Norfolk.

SMUG. Mine host, my bully, my precious consul, my noble
Holofernes, I have been drunk in thy house twenty times and
ten; all's one for that: I was last night in the third heaven,
my brain was poor, it had yeast in't, but now I am a man of
action; is't not so, lad?

BANKS. Why, now, thou hast two of the liberal sciences about
thee, wit and reason, thou mayest serve the Duke of Europe.

SMUG. I will serve the Duke of Christendom, and do him more
credit in his cellar than all the plate in his buttery; is't
not so, lad?

SIR JOHN. Mine host and Smug, stand there: Banks, you and your
horse keep together, but lie close, show no tricks for fear of
the keeper. If we be scared, we'll meet in the church-porch at
Enfield.

SMUG. Content, Sir John.

BANKS. Smug, dost not thou remember the tree thou fellest out
of last night?