Chapter XVI: Introduction (3)

W. RASH. This is very good, i' faith: first give thee but opportunity, and let thee alone; then make her but speak, and let thee alone; now make her hold her tongue, and then let thee alone By my troth, I think I were best to let thee alone indeed: but come, follow me; the wild cat shall not carry it so away. Walk, walk, as we did.

JOYCE. What, have you fetched your champion? What can he do?
Not have you nor himself from out the storm
Of my incensed rage: I will thunder into your ears
The wrongs that you have done an innocent maid:
O, you're a couple of sweet----what shall I call you?
Men you are not; for, if you were,
You would not offer this unto a maid.
Wherein have I deserved it at your hands?

Have I not been always a kind sister to you, and in signs and tokens showed it? Did I not send money to you at Cambridge, when you were but a freshman? wrought you purses and bands; and since you came to th' inns-o'-court, a fair pair of hangers? Have you not taken rings from me, which I have been fain to say I have lost when you had pawned them; and yet was never beholden to you for a pair of gloves?

W. RASH. A woman's tongue, I see, is like a bell,
That, once being set agoing, goes itself.

JOYCE. And yet you, to join with my sister against me, send one here to play upon me, whilst you laugh and leer, and make a pastime on me. Is this brotherly done? No, it is barbarous; and a Turk would blush to offer it to a Christian. But I will think on't, and have it written in my heart, when it hath slipped your memories.

W. RASH. When will your tongue be weary?

JOYCE. Never.

W. RASH. How! never? Come, talk, and I'll talk with you:
I'll try the nimble footmanship of your tongue;
And if you can out-talk me, your's be the victory.
[_Here they two talk and rail what they list;
and then_ WILL RASH _speaks to_ STAINES.

ALL SPEAK. Ud's foot! dost thou stand by, and do nothing?
Come, talk, and drown her clamours.
[_Here they all three, talk, and_ JOYCE _gives over,
weeping, and Exit_.

_Enter_ GERTRUDE _and_ GERALDINE.

GERA. Alas! she's spent, i' faith: now the storm's over.

W. RASH. Ud's foot! I'll follow her, as long as I have any breath.

GERT. Nay, no more now, brother; you have no compassion; you see she cries.

STAINES. If I do not wonder she could talk so long, I am a villain. She eats no nuts, I warrant her; 'sfoot, I am almost out of breath with that little I talked: well, gentle brothers, I might say (for she and I must clap hands upon't) a match for all this. Pray, go in; and, sister, salve the matter, collogue with her again, and all shall be well: I have a little business that must be thought upon, and 'tis partly for your mirth, therefore let me not (though absent) be forgotten: farewell.

W. RASH. We will be mindful of you, sir; fare you well.

GERA. How now, man! what, tired, tired?

W. RASH. Zounds, and you had talked as much as I did, you would be tired, I warrant. What, is she gone in? I'll to her again, whilst my tongue is warm: and if I thought I should be used to this exercise, I would eat every morning an ounce of licorish.[207] [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ LODGE, _the master of the prison, and_ HOLDFAST, _his man_.

LODGE. Have you summed up those reckonings?

HOLD. Yes, sir.

LODGE. And what is owing me?

HOLD. Thirty-seven pound, odd money.

LODGE. How much owes the Frenchman?

HOLD. A fortnight's commons.

LODGE. Has Spendall any money?

HOLD. Not any, sir; and he has sold all his clothes.

_Enter_ SPENDALL.

LODGE. That fellow would waste millions if he had 'em:
Whilst he has money, no man spends a penny.
Ask him money, and if he say he has none,
Be plain with him, and turn him out o' th' ward.
[_Exit_ LODGE.

HOLD. I will, sir. Master Spendall, my master has sent to you for money.

SPEND. Money! why does he send to me? Does he think I have the philosopher's stone, or I can clip, or coin? How does he think I can come by money?

HOLD. Faith, sir, his occasions are so great, that he must have money, or else he can buy no victuals.

SPEND. Then we must starve, belike. Ud's foot, thou see'st I have nothing left that will yield me two shillings.

HOLD. If you have no money, you'd best remove into some cheaper ward.

SPEND. What ward should I remove in?

HOLD. Why, to the twopenny ward; it's likeliest to hold out with your means; or, if you will, you may go into the hole, and there you may feed, for nothing.

SPEND. Ay, out of the alms-basket, where charity appears in likeness of a piece of stinking fish, such as they beat bawds with when they are carted.

HOLD. Why, sir, do not scorn it; as good men as yourself have been glad to eat scraps out of the alms-basket.

SPEND. And yet, slave, thou in pride wilt stop thy nose,
Screw, and make faces, talk contemptibly of it,
And of the feeders, surly groom.

_Enter_ FOX.

HOLD. Well, sir, your malapertness will get you nothing.--Fox!

FOX. Here.

HOLD. A prisoner to the hole: take charge of him, and use him as scurvily as thou canst. You shall be taught your duty, sir, I warrant you.

SPEND. Hence, slavish tyrants, instruments of torture!
There is more kindness yet in whores than you;
For when a man hath spent all, he may go
And seek his way, they'll kick him out of doors,
Not keep him in as you do, and enforce him
To be the subject of their cruelty.
You have no mercy; but be this your comfort,
The punishment and tortures which you do
Inflict on men, the devils shall on you.

HOLD. Well, sir, you may talk, but you shall see the end, and who shall have the worst of it.

[_Exit_ HOLDFAST.

SPEND. Why, villain, I shall have the worst, I know it,
And am prepar'd to suffer like a stoic;
Or else (to speak more properly) like a stock;
For I have no sense left. Dost thou think I have?

FOX. Zounds, I think he's mad.

SPEND. Why, thou art in the right; for I am mad, indeed,
And have been mad these two years. Dost thou think
I could have spent so much as I have done
In wares and credit, had I not been mad?
Why, thou must know, I had a fair estate
Which, through my riot, I have torn in pieces,
And scatter'd amongst bawds, buffoons, and whores,
That fawn'd on me, and by their flatteries
Rock'd all my understanding faculties
Into a pleasant slumber; where I dreamt
Of nought but joy and pleasure: never felt
How I was lull'd in sensuality,
Until at last affliction waked me,
And, lighting up the taper of my soul,
Led me unto myself, where I might see
A mind and body rent with misery. [_A prisoner within._

PRIS. Harry Fox! Harry Fox!

FOX. Who calls?

_Enter_ PRISONER.

PRIS. Here's the bread-and-meat-man come.

FOX. Well, the bread-and-meat-man may stay a little.

PRIS. Yes, indeed, Harry, the bread-and-meat-man may stay; but you know our stomachs cannot stay.

_Enter_ GATHERSCRAP _with the basket_.

FOX. Indeed your stomach is always first up.

PRIS. And therefore by right should be first served: I have a stomach like _aqua fortis_, it will eat anything; O father Gatherscrap, here are excellent bits in the basket.

FOX. Will you hold your chaps farther? By and by, you'll drivel into the basket.

PRIS. Perhaps it may do some good; for there may be a piece of powdered beef that wants watering.

FOX. Here, sir, here's your share.

PRIS. Here's a bit indeed: what's this to a Gargantua stomach?

FOX. Thou art ever grumbling.

PRIS. Zounds! it would make a dog grumble to want his victuals: I pray, give Spendall none; he came into the hole but yesternight.

FOX. What, do you refuse it?

SPEND. I cannot eat, I thank you.

PRIS. No, no, give it me, he's not yet seasoned for our company.

FOX. Divide it then amongst you.
[_Exit_ FOX _and_ PRISONER.

SPEND. To such a one as these are must I come;
Hunger will draw me into their fellowship,
To fight and scramble for unsavoury scraps,
That come from unknown hands, perhaps unwash'd:
And would that were the worst; for I have noted
That nought goes to the prisoners, but such food
As either by the weather has been tainted,
Or children, nay, sometimes full-paunched dogs
Have overlick'd; as if men had determin'd
That the worst sustenance which is God's creatures'--
However they're abus'd--is[208] good enough
For such vild creatures as abuse themselves.
O, what a slave was I unto my pleasures!
How drown'd in sin, and overwhelm'd in lust!
That I could write my repentance to the world,
And force th' impression of it in the hearts
Of you of[209] my acquaintance: I might teach them
By my example, to look home to thrift,
And not to range abroad to seek out ruin.
Experience shows, his purse shall soon grow light,
Whom dice wastes in the day, drabs in the night.
Let all avoid false strumpets, dice and drink;
For he that leaps i' th' mud, shall quickly sink.

_Enter_ FOX _and_ LONGFIELD.

FOX. Yonder's the man.

LONG. I thank you.
How is it with you, sir? What, on the ground?
Look up, there's comfort towards you.

SPEND. Belike, some charitable friend has sent a shilling.
What is your business?

LONG. Liberty.

SPEND. There's virtue in that word; I'll rise up to you.
Pray, let me hear that cheerful word again.

LONG. The able and well-minded widow Raysby,
Whose hand is still upon the poor man's box,
Hath in her charity remember'd you;
And, being by your master seconded,
Hath taken order with your creditors
For day and payment; and freely from her purse,
By me her deputy, she hath discharg'd
All duties in the house: besides, to your necessities
This is bequeath'd, to furnish you with clothes.

SPEND. Speak you this seriously?

LONG. 'Tis not my practice to mock misery.

SPEND. Be ever praised that divinity,
That has to my oppressed state rais'd friends,
Still be his blessings pour'd upon their heads.
Your hand, I pray,
That have so faithfully perform'd their wills.
If e'er my industry, join'd with their loves,
Shall raise me to a competent estate,
Your name shall ever be to me a friend.

LONG. In your good wishes you requite me amply.

SPEND. All fees, you say, are paid? There's for your love.

FOX. I thank you, sir, and am glad you are releas'd. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ BUBBLE, _gallanted_.

BUB. How apparel makes a man respected! the very children in the street do adore me: for if a boy, that is throwing at his jack-a-lent,[210] chance to hit me on the shins, why, I say nothing but _Tu quoque_, smile, and forgive the child with a beck of my hand, or some such like token: so by that means I do seldom go without broken shins.

_Enter_ STAINES, _like an Italian_.

STAINES. The blessings of your mistress fall upon you;
And may the heat and spirit of her lip
Endue her with matter above her understanding,
That she may only live to admire you, or, as the Italian says:
_Que que dell fogo Ginni coxcombie_.

BUB. I do wonder what language he speaks.
Do you hear, my friend; are not you a conjuror?

STAINES. I am, sir, a perfect traveller, that have trampled over the face of the universe, and can speak Greek and Latin as promptly as my own natural language. I have composed a book, wherein I have set down all the wonders of the world that I have seen, and the whole scope of my journeys, together with the miseries and lousy fortunes I have endured therein.[211]

BUB. O Lord, sir, are you the man? give me your hand: how do ye? in good faith, I think I have heard of you.

STAINES. No, sir, you never heard of me; I set this day footing upon the wharf; I came in with the last peal of ordnance, and dined this day in the Exchange amongst the merchants. But this is frivolous, and from the matter: you do seem to be one of our gentile spirits that do affect generosity: pleaseth you to be instituted in the nature, garb, and habit of the most exactest nation in the world, the Italian? whose language is sweetest, clothes neatest, and behaviour most accomplished. I am one that have spent much money, and time, which to me is more dear than money, in the observation of these things: and, now I am come, I will sit me down and rest; and make no doubt but to purchase and build, by professing this art or human science (as I may term it) to such honourable and worshipful personages as mean to be peculiar.

BUB. This fellow has his tongue at his fingers' ends. But, hark ye, sir; is your Italian the finest gentleman?

STAINES. In the world, signior; your Spaniard is a mere bumbard to him: he will bounce, indeed, but he will burst. But your Italian is smooth and lofty, and his language is cousin-german to the Latin.

BUB. Why, then he has his _Tu quoque_ in his salute?

STAINES. Yes, sir, for it is an Italian word as well as a Latin, and enfolds a double sense; for one way spoken, it includes a fine gentleman, like yourself; and another way it imports an ass, like whom you will.

BUB. I would my man Gervase were here, for he understands these things better than I. [_Aside._] You will not serve?

STAINES. Serve! no, sir; I have talked with the great Sophy.

BUB. I pray, sir, what's the lowest price of being Italianated?

STAINES. Sir, if it please you, I will stand to your bounty: and, mark me, I will set your face like a grand signior's, and you shall march a whole day, until you come opunctly[212] to your mistress, and not disrank one hair of your physiognomy.

BUB. I would you would do it, sir; if you will stand to my bounty, I will pay you, as I am an Italian, _Tu quoque_.

STAINES. Then, sir, I will first disburthen you of your cloak; you will be the nimbler to practise. Now, sir, observe me: go you directly to the lady to whom you devote yourself.

BUB. Yes, sir.

STAINES. You shall set a good staid face upon the matter then. Your band is not to your shirt, is it?

BUB. No, sir, 'tis loose.

STAINES. It is the fitter for my purpose. I will first remove your hat. It has been the fashion (as I have heard) in England to wear your hat thus, in your eyes; but it is gross, naught, inconvenient, and proclaims with a loud voice that he that brought it up first stood in fear of serjeants. Your Italian is contrary: he doth advance his hat, and sets it thus.

BUB. Excellent well: I would you would set it on my head so.

STAINES. Soft; I will first remove your band, and set it out of the reach of your eyes; it must lie altogether backward. So: your band is well.

BUB. Is it as you would have it?

STAINES. It is as I would wish; only, sir, this I must caution you of, in your affront[213] or salute, never to move your hat; but here, here is your courtesy.

BUB. Nay, I warrant you; let me alone, if I perceive a thing once, I'll carry it away. Now, pray, sir, reach my cloak.

STAINES. Never, whilst you live, sir.

BUB. No! what, do you Italians wear no cloaks!

STAINES. Your signiors, never: you see I am unfurnished myself.

_Enter_ Sir Lionel, WILL RASH, GERALDINE, WIDOW, GERTRUDE, _and_ JOYCE.

BUB. Say ye so? prythee, keep it, then. See! yonder's the company that I look for; therefore, if you will set my face of any fashion, pray do it quickly.

STAINES. You carry your face as well as e'er an Italian in the world; only enrich it with a smile, and 'tis incomparable: and thus much more--at your first appearance, you shall perhaps strike your acquaintance into an ecstasy, or perhaps a laughter; but 'tis ignorance in them, which will soon be overcome, if you persevere.

BUB. I will persevere, I warrant thee: only do thou stand aloof, and be not seen; because I would not have them think but I fetch it out of my own practice.

STAINES. Do not you fear; I'll not be seen, I warrant you. [_Exit._

SIR LIONEL. Now, widow, you are welcome to my house,
And to your own house too, so you may call it;
For what is mine is yours: you may command here
As at home, and be as soon obey'd.

WID. May I deserve this kindness of you, sir?

BUB. Save you, gentlemen. I salute you after the Italian fashion.

W. RASH. How! the Italian fashion? Zounds! he has dressed him
rarely.

SIR LIONEL. My son Bubble, I take it?

W. RASH. The nether part of him I think is he;
But what the upper part is, I know not.
[GER.] By my troth, he's a rare fellow.

BUB. He said true;
They are all in an ecstasy. [_Aside._]

GERT. I think he's mad. [_Aside._]

JOYCE. Nay, that cannot be; for they say, they that are mad lose their wits, and I am sure he had none to lose. [_Aside._]

_Enter_ SCATTERGOOD.

SIR LIONEL. How now, son Bubble? how come you thus attir'd?
What! do you mean to make yourself a laughing-stock, ha?

BUB. Um! Ignorance, ignorance. [_Aside._]

GERA. For the love of laughter, look yonder:
Another herring in the same pickle.

W. RASH. T'other hobby-horse, I perceive, is not forgotten.[214]

BUB. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

SCAT. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

BUB. Who has made him such a coxcomb, trow?
An Italian _Tu quoque_?

SCAT. I salute you according to the Italian fashion.

BUB. Puh! the Italian fashion! The tattered-demalian fashion he
means.

SCAT. Save you, sweet bloods, save you.

SIR LIONEL. Why, but what jig is this?

SCAT. Nay, if I know, father, would I were hanged. I am e'en as innocent as the child new-born.

SIR LIONEL. Ay, but son Bubble, where did you two buy your felts?

SCAT. Felts! By this light, mine is a good beaver:
It cost me three pounds this morning upon trust.

SIR LIONEL. Nay, I think you had it upon trust, for no man that has any shame in him would take money for it. Behold, sir.

BUB. Ha, ha, ha!

SIR LIONEL. Nay, never do you laugh, for you're i' th' same block.

BUB. Is this the Italian fashion?

SCAT. No, it is the fool's fashion:
And we two are the first that follow it.

BUB. _Et tu quoque_. Are we both cosened? Then let's show ourselves brothers in adversity, and embrace.

SIR LIONEL. What was he that cheated you?

BUB. Marry, sir, he was a knave that cheated me.

SCAT. And I think he was no honest man that cheated me.

SIR LIONEL. Do you know him again if you see him?

_Enter_ STAINES [_in his own costume._]

BUB. Yes, I know him again, if I see him; but I do not know how I should come to see him. O Gervase, Gervase! Do you see us two, Gervase?

STAINES. Yes, sir, very well.

BUB. No, you do not see us very well, for we have been horribly abused. Never were Englishmen so gulled in Italian as we have been.

STAINES. Why, sir, you have not lost your cloak and hat?

BUB. Gervase, you lie; I have lost my cloak and hat; and therefore you must use your credit for another.

SCAT. I think my old cloak and hat must be glad to serve me till next quarter-day.

SIR LIONEL. Come, take no care for cloaks: I'll furnish you.
To-night you lodge with me; to-morrow morn,
Before the sun be up, prepare for church;
The widow and I have so concluded on't.
The wenches understand not yet so much,
Nor shall not until bedtime: then will they
Not sleep a wink all night for very joy.

SCAT. And I'll promise the next night they shall not sleep for joy neither. [_Aside._]

SIR LIONEL. O Master Geraldine, I saw you not before:
Your father now is come to town, I hear.

GERA. Yes, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Were not my business earnest, I would see him:
But pray entreat him break an hour's sleep
To-morrow morn t'accompany me to church;
And come yourself, I pray, along with him.

_Enter_ SPENDALL.

GERA. Sir, I thank you.

SIR LIONEL. But look, here comes one,
That has but lately shook off his shackles.--
How now, sirrah! wherefore come you?

SPEND. I come to crave a pardon, sir, of you;
And with hearty and zealous thanks
Unto this worthy lady, that hath given me
More than I e'er could hope for--liberty.

WID. Be thankful unto heaven and your master:
Nor let your heart grow bigger than your purse,
But live within a limit, lest you burst out
To riot and to misery again:
For then 'twould lose the benefit I mean it.

SIR LIONEL. O, you do graciously; 'tis good advice:
Let it take root, sirrah, let it take root.
But come, widow, come and see your chamber:
Nay, your company too, for I must speak with you. [_Exeunt._

SPEND. 'Tis bound unto you, sir.

BUB. And I have to talk with you too, Mistress Joyce. Pray, a word.

JOYCE. What would you, sir?

BUB. Pray, let me see your hand. The line of your maidenhead is out. Now for your fingers. Upon which finger will you wear your wedding-ring?

JOYCE. Upon no finger.

BUB. Then I perceive you mean to wear it on your thumb.
Well, the time is come, sweet Joyce; the time is come.

JOYCE. What to do, sir?

BUB. For me to tickle thy _Tu quoque;_ to do the act
Of our forefathers: therefore prepare, provide,
To-morrow morn to meet me as my bride. [_Exit._

JOYCE. I'll meet thee like a ghost first.

GERT. How now, what matter have you fished out of that fool?

JOYCE. Matter as poisoning as corruption,
That will without some antidote strike home,
Like blue infection, to the very heart.

W. RASH. As how, for God's sake?

JOYCE. To-morrow is the appointed wedding-day.

GERT. The day of doom, it is?

GERA. 'Twould be a dismal day indeed to some of us.

JOYCE. Sir, I do know you love me; and the time
Will not be dallied with: be what you seem,
Or not the same; I am your wife, your mistress,
Or your servant--indeed, what you will make me.
Let us no longer wrangle with our wits,
Or dally with our fortunes; lead me hence,
And carry me into a wilderness:
I'll fast with you, rather than feast with him.

STAINES. What can be welcomer unto these arms?
Not my estate recover'd is more sweet,
Nor strikes more joy in me than does your love.

W. RASH. Will you both kiss then upon the bargain?
Here's two couple on you, God give you joy;
I wish well to you,
And I see 'tis all the good that I can do you:
And so to your shifts I leave you.

JOYCE. Nay, brother, you will not leave us thus, I hope.

W. RASH. Why, what would you have me do? you mean to run away together: would you have me run with you, and so lose my inheritance? no, trudge, trudge with your backs to me, and your bellies to them. Away!

GERA. Nay, I prythee, be not thus unseasonable:
Without thee we are nothing.

W. RASH. By my troth, and I think so too. You love one another in the way of matrimony, do you not?

GERA. What else, man?

W. RASH. What else, man? Why, 'tis a question to be asked; for I can assure you, there is another kind of love. But come, follow me; I must be your good angel still: 'tis in this brain how to prevent my father and his brace of beagles; you shall none of you be bid to-night: follow but my direction, if I bring you not, _To have and to hold, for better for worse_, let me be held an eunuch in wit, and one that was never father to a good jest.

GERT. We'll be instructed by you.

W. RASH. Well, if you be, it will be your own another day.
Come, follow me.
[SPENDALL _meets them, and they look strangely upon him,
and go off_.

SPEND. How ruthless men are to adversity!
My acquaintance scarce will know me; when we meet,
They cannot stay to talk, they must be gone,
And shake me by the hand as if I burnt them.
A man must trust unto himself, I see;
For if he once but halt in his estate,
Friendship will prove but broken crutches to him.
Well, I will lean to none of them, but stand
Free of myself: and if I had a spirit
Daring to act what I am prompted to,
I might thrust out into the world again,
Full-blossom'd, with a sweet and golden spring.
It was an argument of love in her
To fetch me out of prison; and this night
She clasp'd my hand in hers, as who should say,
Thou art my purchase, and I hold thee thus.
The worst is but repulse, if I attempt it.
I am resolv'd: my genius whispers to me,
Go on, and win her; thou art young and active,
Which she is apt to catch at; for there's nought
That's more unsteadfast than a woman's thought. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SIR LIONEL, WILL RASH, SCATTERGOOD, BUBBLE, WIDOW, GERTRUDE, JOYCE, PHILLIS, _and_ SERVANT.

SIR LIONEL. Here's ill-lodging, widow; but you must know,
If we had better, we'd afford it you.

WID. The lodging, sir, might serve better guests.

SIR LIONEL. Not better, widow, nor yet welcomer:
But we will leave you to it and the rest.
Phillis, pray let your mistress not want anything.
Once more, good night; I'll leave a kiss with you,
As earnest of a better gift to-morrow.
Sirrah, a light.

WID. Good rest to all.

BUB. _Et tu quoque_, forsooth.

SCAT. God give you good night, forsooth,
And send you an early resurrection.

WID. Good night to both.

SIR LIONEL. Come, come away, each bird unto his nest;
To-morrow night's a time of little rest.
[_Exeunt. Manent_ WIDOW _and_ PHILLIS.

WID. Here, untie: soft, let it alone;
I have no disposition to sleep yet:
Give me a book, and leave me for a while,
Some half-hour hence look in to me.

PHIL. I shall, forsooth. [_Exit_ PHILLIS.

_Enter_ SPENDALL.

WID. How now! what makes this bold intrusion?

SPEND. Pardon me, lady, I have business to you.

WID. Business! from whom? Is it of such importance,
That it craves present hearing?

SPEND. It does.

WID. Then speak it, and be brief.

SPEND. Nay, gentle widow, be more pliant to me:
My suit is soft and courteous; full of love.

WID. Of love?

SPEND. Of love.

WID. Why, sure, the man is mad! bethink thyself;
Thou hast forgot thy errand.

SPEND. I have indeed, fair lady; for my errand
Should first have been deliver'd on your lips.

WID. Why, thou impudent fellow, unthrift of shame,
As well as of thy purse. What has mov'd thee
To prosecute thy ruin? hath my bounty,
For which thy master was an orator,
Importun'd thee to pay me with abuse?
Sirrah, retire, or I will, to your shame,
With clamours raise the house, and make your master
For this attempt return you to the dungeon,
From whence you came.

SPEND. Nay, then I must be desperate:
Widow, hold your clapdish,[215] fasten your tongue
Unto your roof, and do not dare to call;
But give me audience with fear and silence.
Come, kiss me--No?
This dagger has a point, do you see it?
And be unto my suit obedient,
Or you shall feel it too:
For I will rather totter, hang in clean linen,
Than live to scrub it out in lousy linings.
Go to, kiss: you will! why, so: again, the third time;
Good; 'tis a sufficient charm: now hear me.
You are rich in money, lands, and lordships,
Manors and fair possessions, and I have not so much
As one poor copyhold to thrust my head in.
Why should you not then have compassion
Upon a reasonable handsome fellow,
That has both youth and liveliness upon him,
And can at midnight quicken and refresh
Pleasures decay'd in you? You want children;
And I am strong, lusty, and have a back
Like Hercules; able to get them
Without the help of muscadine and eggs,
And will you then, that have enough,
Take to your bed a bundle of diseases,
Wrapp'd up in threescore years, to lie a-hawking,
Spitting and coughing backwards and forwards,
That you shall not sleep; but, thrusting forth
Your face out of the bed, be glad to draw
The curtains, such a steam shall reek
Out of this dunghill? Now, what say you?
Shall we, without farther wrangling, clap it up,
And go to bed together?

WID. Will you hear me?

SPEND. Yes, with all my heart,
So the first word may be, untruss your points--
Zounds, one knocks; do not stir, I charge you,
[_Knock within._
Nor speak, but what I bid you:
For, by these lips which now in love I kiss,
If you but struggle or but raise your voice,
My arm shall rise with it, and strike you dead.
Go to, come on with me, and ask who's there!

WID. It is my maid.

SPEND. No matter; do as I bid you: say, who's there?

WID. Who's there?

PHIL. (_Within._) 'Tis I, forsooth.

SPEND. If it be you, forsooth, then pray you stay,
Till I shall call upon you.

WID. [_Repeats._] If it be you, forsooth, then pray you stay,
Till I shall call upon you.

SPEND. Very well: why, now I see
Thou'lt prove an obedient wife. Come, let's undress.

WID. Will you put up your naked weapon, sir?

SPEND. You shall pardon me, widow, I must have you grant first.

WID. You will not put it up?

SPEND. Not till I have some token of your love.

WID. If this may be a testimony, take it. [_Kisses him._
By all my hopes, I love thee: thou art worthy
Of the best widow living: thou tak'st the course:
And those that will win widows must do thus.

SPEND. Nay, I knew what I did when I came with my naked weapon in my hand; but come, unlace.

WID. Nay, my dear love: know that I will not yield
My body unto lust, until the priest
Shall join us in Hymen's sacred nuptial rites.

SPEND. Then set your hand to this: nay, 'tis a contract
Strong and sufficient, and will hold in law.
Here, here's pen and ink; you see I come provided.

WID. Give me the pen.

SPEND. Why, here's some comfort.
Yet write your name fair, I pray, and at large.
Why, now 'tis very well. Now, widow,
You may admit your maid,
For i' th' next room I'll go fetch a nap.

WID. Thou shalt not leave me so: come, prythee, sit,
We'll talk awhile, for thou hast made my heart
Dance in my bosom, I receive such joy.

SPEND. Thou art a good wench, i' faith; come, kiss upon't.

WID. But will you be a loving husband to me?
Avoid all naughty company, and be true
To me and to my bed?

SPEND. As true to thee as steel to adamant.
[_Binds him to the post._

WID. I'll bind you to your word: see that you be,
Or I'll conceal my bags. I have kinsfolk,
To whom I'll make't over, you shall not have a penny.

SPEND. Pish, prythee, do not doubt me.
How now! what means this?

WID. It means my vengeance; nay, sir, you are fast,
Nor do not dare to struggle: I have liberty
Both of my tongue and feet; I'll call my maid.

_Enter_ PHILLIS.

Phillis, come in, and help to triumph
Over this bold intruder. Wonder not, wench,
But go unto him, and ransack all his pockets,
And take from thence a contract which he forc'd
From my unwilling fingers.

SPEND. Is this according to your oath?

PHIL. Come, sir, I must search you.

SPEND. I prythee, do.
And when thou tak'st that from me, take my life too.

WID. Hast thou it, girl?

PHIL. I have a paper here.

WID. It is the same: give it me. Look you, sir,
Thus your new-fancied hopes I tear asunder.
Poor wretched man! thou'st had a golden dream,
Which gilded over thy calamity;
But, being awake, thou find'st it ill-laid on,
For with one finger I have wip'd it off.
Go, fetch me hither the casket that contains
My choicest jewels, and spread them here before him.
Look you, sir;
Here's gold, pearls, rubies, sapphires, diamonds;
These would be goodly things for you to pawn,
Or revel with amongst your courtesans,
Whilst I and mine did starve. Why dost not curse,
And utter all the mischiefs of thy heart,
Which I know swells within thee? pour it out,
And let me hear thy fury.

SPEND. Never, never!
Whene'er my tongue shall speak but well of thee,
It proves no faithful servant to my heart.

WID. False traitor to thy master and to me,
Thou liest, there's no such thing within thee.

SPEND. May I be burn'd to ugliness, to that
Which you and all men hate, but I speak truth.

WID. May I be turn'd a monster, and the shame
Of all my sex, and if I not believe thee.
Take me unto thee: these and all that's mine.
Were it thrice trebled, thou wert worthy all.
And do not blame this trial, 'cause it shows
I give myself unto thee, am not forc'd,
And with it love, that ne'er shall be divorc'd.

SPEND. I am glad 'tis come to this; yet, by this light,
Thou putt'st me into a horrible fear.
But this is my excuse: know that my thoughts
Were not so desperate as my action seem'd;
For, 'fore my dagger should ha' drawn one drop
Of thy chaste blood, it should have sluic'd out mine,
And the cold point stuck deep into my heart.
Nor better be my fate, if I shall move
To any other pleasure but thy love.

WID. It shall be in my creed: but let's away.
For night with her black steeds draws up the day. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ WILL RASH, STAINES, GERALDINE, GERTRUDE, JOYCE, _and a boy with a lanthorn_.

W. RASH. Softly, boy, softly; you think you are upon firm ground; but it is dangerous. You'll never make a good thief, you rogue, till you learn to creep upon all four. If I do not sweat with going this pace! everything I see, methinks, should be my father in his white beard.

STAINES. It is the property of that passion; for fear
Still shapes all things we see to that we fear.

W. RASH. Well said, logic: sister, I pray, lay hold of him; for the man, I see, is able to give the watch an answer if they should come upon him with interrogatories.

_Enter_ SPENDALL, WIDOW, _and_ PHILLIS.

Zounds, we are discovered! boy, come up close, and use the property of your lanthorn. What dumb show should this be?

GERA. They take their way directly, [and] intend nothing against us.

STAINES. Can you not discern who they are?

JOYCE. One is Spendall.

GERT. The other is the widow, as I take it.

STAINES. 'Tis true, and that's her maid before her.

W. RASH. What a night of conspiracy is here! more villany? there's another goodly mutton going: my father is fleeced of all; grief will give him a box, i' faith--but 'tis no great matter; I shall inherit the sooner. Nay, soft, sir; you shall not pass so current with the matter, I'll shake you a little. Who goes there?

SPEND. Out with the candle [_Aside._]: who's that asks the question?

W. RASH. One that has some reason for't.

SPEND. It should be, by the voice, young Rash. Why, we are honest folks.

W. RASH. Pray, where do you dwell? Not in town, I hope?

SPEND. Why, we dwell--zounds! where do we dwell? I know not where.

W. RASH. And you'll be married, you know not when--zounds, it were a Christian deed to stop thee in thy journey: hast thou no more spirit in thee, but to let thy tongue betray thee? Suppose I had been a constable, you had been in a fine taking, had you not?

SPEND. But, my still worthy friend,
Is there no worse face of ill bent towards me
Than that thou merrily putt'st on?

W. RASH. Yes, here's four or five faces more, but ne'er an ill one, though never an excellent good one. Boy, up with your lanthorn of light, and show him his associates, all running away with the flesh, as thou art. Go, yoke together, you may be oxen one day, and draw altogether in a plough; go, march together, the parson stays for you; pay him royally. Come, give me the lanthorns, for you have light sufficient, for night has put off his black cap, and salutes the morn. Now farewell, my little children of Cupid, that walk by two and two, as if you went a-feasting: let me hear no more words, but be gone.

SPEND. _and_ STAINES. Farewell.

GERT. _and_ JOYCE. Farewell, brother.

[_Exeunt. Manet_ WILL RASH.

W. RASH. Ay, you may cry farewell; but if my father should know of my villany, how should I fare then? But all's one, I ha' done my sisters good, my friends good, and myself good; and a general good is always to be respected before a particular. There's eightscore pounds a year saved by the conveyance of this widow. I hear footsteps: now, darkness, take me into thy arms, and deliver me from discovery. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SIR LIONEL.

SIR LIONEL. Lord, Lord, what a careless world is this! neither bride nor bridegroom ready; time to go to church, and not a man unroosted: this age has not seen a young gallant rise with a candle; we live drowned in feather-beds, and dream of no other felicity. This was not the life when I was a young man. What makes us so weak as we are now? A feather-bed. What so unapt for exercise? A feather-bed. What breeds such pains and aches in our bones? why, a feather-bed or a wench--or at least a wench in a feather-bed. Is it not a shame that an old man as I am should be up first, and in a wedding-day? I think, in my conscience, there's more mettle in lads of threescore than in boys of one-and-twenty.

_Enter_ BASKETHILT.

Why, Baskethilt!

BAS. Here, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Shall I not be trussed to-day?

BAS. Yes, sir; but I went for water.

SIR LIONEL. Is Will Rash up yet?

BAS. I think not, sir; for I heard nobody stirring in the house.

SIR LIONEL. Knock, sirrah, at his chamber. [_Knock within._

The house might be pluck'd down and builded again
Before he'd wake with the noise. [WILL RASH _aloft_.

W. RASH. Who's that keeps such a knocking; are you mad?

SIR LIONEL. Rather thou art drunk, thou lazy slouch,
That mak'st thy bed thy grave, and in it buryest
All thy youth and vigour: up, for shame.

W. RASH. Why, 'tis not two a-clock yet.

SIR LIONEL. Out, sluggish knave; 'tis nearer unto five: The whole house has outslept themselves, as if they had drunk wild poppy. Sirrah, go you and raise the maids, and let them call upon their mistresses.

BAS. Well, sir, I shall. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SCATTERGOOD _and_ BUBBLE.

SCAT. Did I eat any lettuce to supper last night, that I am so sleepy? I think it be daylight, brother Bubble.

BUB. What sayest thou, brother? heigh-ho!

SIR LIONEL. Fie, fie! not ready yet? what sluggishness
Hath seiz'd upon you? why, thine eyes are close still.

BUB. As fast as a Kentish oyster. Surely I was begotten in a plum-tree, I ha' such a deal of gum about mine eyes.

SIR LIONEL. Lord, how you stand! I am asham'd to see
The sun should be a witness of your sloth.

[_Enter_ BASKETHILT.]

Now, sir, your haste?

BAS. Marry, sir, there are guests coming to accompany you to church.

SIR LIONEL. Why, this is excellent; men, whom it not concerns,
Are more respective than we, that are main actors.

BUB. Father Rash, be not so outrageous: we
will go in and buckle ourselves all in good time.
How now! what's this about my shins?

_Enter_ OLD GERALDINE _and_ LONGFIELD.

SCAT. Methought our shanks were not fellows: we have metamorphosed our stockings for want of splendour.

BUB. Pray, what's that _splendour_?

SCAT. Why, 'tis the Latin word for a Christmas candle. [_Exeunt._

SIR LIONEL. O gentlemen, you love, you honour me. Welcome, welcome, good Master Geraldine; you have taken pains to accompany an undeserving friend.

_Enter_ PHILLIS.

OLD GERA. You put us to a needless labour, sir,
To run and wind about for circumstance;[216]
When the plain word, "I thank you," would have serv'd.

SIR LIONEL. How now, wench; are the females ready yet?
The time comes on upon us, and we run backward:
We are so untoward in our business,
We think not what we have to do, nor what we do.

PHIL. I know not, sir, whether they know what to do; but I am sure they have been at church well-nigh an hour. They were afraid you had got the start of them, which made them make such haste.

SIR LIONEL. Is't possible? what think you, gentlemen,
Are not these wenches forward? is there not virtue in a man
Can make young virgins leave their beds so soon?
But is the widow gone along with them?

PHIL. Yes, sir; why, she was the ringleader.

SIR LIONEL. I thought as much, for she knows what belongs to't.
Come, gentlemen; methinks 'tis sport to see
Young wenches run to church before their husbands.

_Enter_ WILL RASH.

Faith, we shall make them blush for this ere night.
Ah, sirrah, are you come? why, that's well-said:
I marl'd indeed that all things were so quiet,
Which made me think th' had not unwrapp'd their sheets;

_Enter Servant, with a cloak._

And then were they at church, I hold my life:
Maids think it long, till each be made a wife.
Hast thou my cloak, knave? well-said, put it on;
We'll after them: let me go, hasten both,
Both the bridegrooms forward; we'll walk a little
Softly on afore. But see, see, if they be not come
To fetch us now! We come, we come.
Bid them return, and save themselves this labour.

_Enter_ SPENDALL, STAINES, GERALDINE, WIDOW, GERTRUDE, _and_ JOYCE.

W. RASH. Now have I a quartan ague upon me.

SIR LIONEL. Why, how now! why come you from church to kneel thus publicly? what's the matter?

GERA. We kneel, sir, for your blessing.

SIR LIONEL. How! my blessing? Master Geraldine, is not that your son?

OLD GERA. Yes, sir; and that, I take it, is your daughter.

SIR LIONEL. I suspect knavery. What are you? Why do you kneel hand-in-hand with her?

STAINES. For a fatherly blessing too, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Heyday! 'tis palpable, I am gull'd, and my sons Scattergood and Bubble fooled. You are married.

SPEND. Yes, sir, we are married.

SIR LIONEL. More villany! everything goes the wrong way.

SPEND. We shall go the right way anon, I hope.

SIR LIONEL. Yes, marry shall you; you shall e'en to the
Compter again, and that's the right way for you.

WID. O, you are wrong;
The prison that shall hold him are these arms.

SIR LIONEL. I do fear that I shall turn stinkard, I do smell such a matter. You are married then?

_Enter_ SCATTERGOOD _and_ BUBBLE.

SPEND. _Ecce signum!_ here's the wedding-ring t' affirm it.

SIR LIONEL. I believe the knave has drunk ipocras,
He is so pleasant.

SCAT. Good-morrow, gentlemen.

BUB. _Tu quoque_ to all: what, shall we go to church?
Come, I long to be about this gear.

SIR LIONEL. Do you hear me; will you two go sleep again I take out the t'other nap; for you are both made coxcombs, and so am I.

SCAT. How! coxcombs?

SIR LIONEL. Yes, coxcombs.

SCAT. Father, that word coxcomb goes against my stomach.

BUB. And against mine; a man might ha' digested a woodcock better.

SIR LIONEL. You two come now to go to church to be married;
And they two come from church, and are married.

BUB. How! married? I would see that man durst marry her.

GERA. Why, sir, what would you do?

BUB. Why, sir, I would forbid the banns.

SCAT. And so would I.

SIR LIONEL. Do you know that youth in satin? he's the pen that belongs to that inkhorn.

BUB. How! let me see; are not you my man Gervase?

STAINES. Yes, sir.

_Enter a_ SERJEANT.

BUB. And have you married her?

STAINES. Yes, sir.

BUB. And do you think you have us'd me well?

STAINES. Yes, sir.

BUB. O intolerable rascal! I will presently be made a justice of peace, and have thee whipped. Go, fetch a constable.

STAINES. Come, y' are a flourishing ass: serjeant, take him to thee, he has had a long time of his pageantry.

SIR LIONEL. Sirrah, let him go; I'll be his bail for all debts which come against him.

STAINES. Reverend sir, to whom I owe the duty of a son,
Which I shall ever pay in my obedience;
Know, that which made him gracious in your eyes,
And gilded over his imperfections,
Is wasted and consumed even like ice,
Which by the vehemence of heat dissolves,
And glides to many rivers: so his wealth,
That felt a prodigal hand, hot in expense,
Melted within his gripe, and from his coffers
Ran like a violent stream to other men's.
What was my own, I catch'd at.

SIR LIONEL. Have you your mortgage in?

STAINES. Yes, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Stand up: the matter is well amended.
Master Geraldine, give you sufferance to this match?

OLD GERA. Yes, marry do I, sir; for, since they love,
I'll not have the crime lie on my head,
To divide man and wife.

SIR LIONEL. Why, you say well: my blessing fall upon you.

WID. And upon us that love, Sir Lionel.

SIR LIONEL. By my troth, since thou hast ta'en the young knave,
God give thee joy of him, and may he prove
A wiser man than his master.

STAINES. Serjeant, why dost not carry him to prison?

SER. Sir Lionel Rash will bail him.

SIR LIONEL. I bail him, knave! wherefore should I bail him?
No, carry him away, I'll relieve no prodigals.

BUB. Good Sir Lionel, I beseech you, sir! gentlemen, I pray, make a purse for me.

SER. Come, sir, come, are you begging?

BUB. Why, that does you no harm. Gervase--master, I should say--some compassion.

STAINES. Serjeants, come back with him. Look, sir, here is
Your livery;
If you can put off all your former pride,
And put on this with that humility
That you first wore it, I will pay your debts,
Free you of all encumbrances,
And take you again into my service.

BUB. Tenterhook, let me go. I will take his worship's offer without wages, rather than come into your clutches again: a man in a blue coat may have some colour for his knavery; in the Compter he can have none.

SIR LIONEL. But now, Master Scattergood, what say you to this?

SCAT. Marry, I say, 'tis scarce honest dealing, for any man to coneycatch another man's wife: I protest we'll not put it up.

STAINES. No! which _we_?

SCAT. Why, Gertrude and I.

STAINES. Gertrude! why, she'll put it up.

SCAT. Will she?

GERA. Ay, that she will, and so must you.

SCAT. Must I?

GERA. Yes, that you must.

SCAT. Well, if I must, I must; but I protest I would not,
But that I must: so _vale, vale: et tu quoque_. [_Exit._

SIR LIONEL. Why, that's well said:
Then I perceive we shall wind up all wrong.
Come, gentlemen, and all our other guests,
Let our well-temper'd bloods taste Bacchus' feasts;
But let us know first how these sports delight,
And to these gentlemen each bid good night.[217]

W. RASH. Gentles, I hope, that well my labour ends;
All that I did was but to please my friends.

GERA. A kind enamoret I did strive to prove,
But now I leave that and pursue your love.

GERT. My part I have performed with the rest,
And, though I have not, yet I would do best.

STAINES. That I have cheated through the play, 'tis true:
But yet I hope I have not cheated you.

JOYCE. If with my clamours I have done you wrong,
Ever hereafter I will hold my tongue.

SPEND. If through my riot I have offensive been,
Henceforth I'll play the civil citizen.

WID. Faith, all that I say is, howe'er it hap,
Widows, like maids, sometimes may catch a clap.

BUB. To mirth and laughter henceforth I'll provoke ye,
If you but please to like of Green's _Tu quoque_.[218]

FOOTNOTES:

[153]: See note 76 to "The Ordinary," [vol. xii.]

[154] [_i.e._, shillings. See the next page.]

[155] At the time this play was written, the same endeavours were
used, and the same lures thrown out, to tempt adventurers to migrate
to each of these places.

[156] Pirates are always hanged at Execution Dock, Wapping; and at the
moment when the tide is at the [ebb].--_Steevens_.

The following passage is from Stow's "Survey," vol. ii. b. 4, p. 37,
edit. 1720: "From this Precinct of St Katharine to Wappin in the Wose,
and Wappin it self, the usual Place of Execution for hanging of
Pirates and Sea-Rovers _at the low-Water Mark_, there to remain till
three Tides had overflowed them, was never a House standing within
these Forty Years (_i.e._, from the year 1598), but (since the Gallows
being after removed further off) is now a continual Street, or rather
a filthy straight Passage, with Lanes and Alleys of small Tenements or
Cottages, inhabited by Saylors and Victuallers along by the River of
Thames almost to Radcliff, a good Mile from the Tower."

[157] The old copies give it--

"_We_ suck'd a white leaf from my black-lipp'd pen."

--_Collier._