Chapter IV: Act III: , Scene I

_Enter_ STRANGE, _knocking at a door_.

STRANGE. Lies Captain Pouts here, pray?

_Enter a_ SERVINGMAN.

SER. Sir, he does.

STRANGE. I prythee, tell him here's a gentleman would speak with him.

SER. What may I call your name, sir?

STRANGE. No matter for my name.

SER. Troth, sir, the Captain is somewhat doubtful of strangers; and being, as most captains are, a little in debt, I know he will not speak with you, unless you send your name.

STRANGE. Tell him my name is Strange; that I am come
About that business he spake of to-day. [_Exit_ SERVANT.
To have sent a formal challenge by a gentleman,
He being to choose his time, might peradventure
Have made him shift himself the sooner over.

_Enter_ POUTS _above_.

CAPT. POUTS. Sir, I know your business. You are come to serve a warrant or a citation: I will not speak with you; and get you gone quickly too, or I may happen send a bullet through your mazzard. [_Exit._

STRANGE. Strange cross! past expectation! well, I'll try;
My other course may speed more happily. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Music. Enter with table-napkins_, COUNT FREDERICK, SIR JOHN WORLDLY, NEVILL, PENDANT, SIR INNOCENT NINNY, LADY NINNY, SIR ABRAHAM. _Servants with wine, plate, tobacco, and pipes._

SIR J. WOR. Sir, had you borne us company to church,
You had been the better welcome.

C. FRED. Faith, you had; I must needs say so too.

PEN. And I must needs say as my lord says.

NEV. Sir John, I thank you and my honour'd lord:
But I am sorry for this other news
Concerning Mistress Kate and my good friend.

SIR J. WOR. Tis certain true: he keeps his word well too!
He said he would come to dinner.

L. NIN. All we cannot get Mistress Katherine out of her chamber.

SIR J. WOR. O good old woman, she is top-shackled.

L. NIN. 'Tis pestilence sack and cruel claret: knight, stand to me, knight, I say: up, a cold stomach! give me my aqua-vitæ bottle.

SIR INN. O Guiniver! as I am a justice of peace and quorum, 'twere a good deed to commit thee. Fie, fie, fie!

ABRA. Why, alas! I cannot help this, and I should be hanged: she'll be as drunk as a porter. I'll tell you, my lord, I have seen her so be-piss the rushes, as she has danced at a wedding. Her belly and that aqua-vitæ bottle have almost undone my father. Well, I think in conscience she is not my natural-begotten mother.

OMNES. Ha, ha, ha!

NEV. Well said, my wise Sir Abraham.[34]

C. FRED. O, this music
And good wine is the soul of all the world.

SIR J. WOR. Come, will your lordship make one at primero,
Until your bride come forth?

NEV. You can play well, my lord.

C. FRED. Who, I?

PEN. Who? my lord? the only player at primero i' the court.

ABRA. I'd rather play at bowls.

PEN. My lord's for you for that, too: the only bowler in London that is not a churchwarden.

NEV. Can he fence well, too, Master Pendant?

PEN. Who? my lord? the only fencer in Christendom. He'll hit you.

ABRA. He shall not hit me, I assure you, now.

NEV. Is he good at the exercise of drinking, sir?

PEN. Who? my lord? the only drunkard i' th' world--drinker, I would say.

ABRA. God-a-mercy for that.

NEV. I would he heard him.

ABRA. I know a better whoremaster than he.

NEV. O fie! no: none so good as my lord.

PEN. Hardly, by'r Lady, hardly.

C. FRED. How now! who's this?

_Enter_ SCUDMORE, _like a servingman, with a letter_.

SIR J. WOR. What would you?

SCUD. I would speak with the Lady Bellafront from the young Lady Lucy.

SIR J. WOR. You had best send in your letter; she is withdrawn.

SCUD. My lady gave me charge of the delivery, And I must do't myself, or carry it back.

SIR J. WOR. A trusty servant. That way leads you to her.

C. FRED. This trust in servants is a jewel. Come,
Let us to bowls i' th' garden. [_Exeunt._

SCUD. Blessed fate!

[SCUDMORE _passeth one door, and entereth the other, where_
BELLAFRONT _sits asleep in a chair, under a taffata canopy_.

SCUD. O thou, whose words and actions seem'd to me
As innocent as this smooth sleep which hath
Lock'd up thy powers! Would thou hadst slept, when first
Thou sent'st and profferedst me beauty and love!
I had been ignorant, then, of such a loss.
Happy's that wretch, in my opinion,
That never own'd scarce jewels or bright sums:
He can lose nothing but his constant wants;
But speakless is his plague, that once had store,
And from superfluous state falls to be poor.
Such is my hell-bred hap! could nature make
So fair a superficies to enclose
So false a heart? This is like gilded tombs,
Compacted of jet pillars, marble stones,
Which hide from 's stinking flesh and rotten bones.
Pallas so sat (methinks) in Hector's tent.
But time, so precious and so dangerous,
Why do I lose thee? Madam, my lady, madam.

BEL. Believe me, my dear friend, I was enforc'd.
Ha! I had a dream as strange as thou art, fellow.
How cam'st thou hither? what's thy business?

SCUD. That letter, madam, tells you.

BEL. Letter? ha!
What, dost thou mock me? here is nothing writ.

SCUD. Can you read anything, then, in this face?

BEL. O basilisk! remove thee from my sight,
Or thy heart's blood shall pay thy rash attempt!
Ho! who attends us there?

SCUD. Stir not a foot,
And stop your clamorous acclamations,
Or, by the bitterness of my fresh wrongs,
I'll send your ladyship to the devil quick!
I know the hazard I do undergo,
And whatsoe'er after becomes of me,
I'll make you sure first. I am come to speak--
And speak I will freely--and to bring back
Your letters and such things you sent; and then
I'll ne'er see those deceiving eyes again.

BEL. O, I am sick of my corruption!
For God's sake, do not speak a word more to me.

SCUD. Not speak? yes, woman, I will roar aloud:
Call thee the falsest fair that ever breath'd;
Tell thee, that in this marriage thou hast drown'd
All virtue left to credit thy weak sex,
Which being (as 'twere) committed to thy trust,
Thou traitorously hast betray'd it thus!
Did I entice, or ever send thee gifts,
To allure thee to reflect a beam on me?
Nay, didst not thou thyself send and invent,
Past human wit, our means of intercourse?
Why dost thou then prove base unto thyself,
Perjur'd and impious? know, the good thou hast lost
In my opinion, doth outvalue far
The airy honours thou art married to.

BEL. O, peace! for you speak sharpness to my soul,
More torturous than hell's plagues to the damn'd.
For love's sake, hear me speak!

SCUD. For love's sake? no:
Love is my surfeit, and is turn'd in me
To a disease.

BEL. Tyrant! my knees shall beg,
Till they get liberty for my tongue to speak,
Drown'd, almost, in the rivers of mine eyes.

SCUD. What canst thou say? art thou not married?

BEL. Alas! I was enforc'd; first by the threats
Of a severe father, that in his hand
Did gripe my fortunes: next to that, the fame
Of your neglect and liberal-talking tongue,
Which bred my honour an eternal wrong.

SCUD. Pish! these are painted causes. Till this morn
He liv'd not in this land, that durst accuse
My integrity of such an ignorance.
But take your letters here, your paper vows,
Your picture and your bracelets; and if ever
I build again upon a woman's faith,
May sense forsake me! I will sooner trust
Dice or a reconciled enemy: O God!
What an internal joy my heart has felt,
Sitting at one of these same idle plays,
When I have seen a maid's inconstancy
Presented to the life! how my glad eyes
Have stole about me, fearing lest my looks
Should tell the company convented there
The mistress that I had free of such faults.

BEL. O, still retain her so! dear Scudmore, hear me.

SCUD. Retain thee so? it is impossible!
Art thou not married? 'tis impossible!
O no! I do despise thee, and will fly
As far on earth as to the Antipodes,
And by some learn'd magician, whose deep art
Can know thy residence on this hemisphere,
There I'll be plac'd, my feet just against thine,
To express the opposite nature, which our hearts
Must henceforth hold.

BEL. O, rather shoot me, friend,
Than let me hear thee speak such bitterness!
O, pity me! redeem me from the hell,
That in this marriage I am like to feel!
I'll rather fly to barren wildernesses,
And suffer all wants with thee, Scudmore, than
Live with all plenty in this husband's arms.
Thou shalt perceive I am not such a woman,
That is transported with vain dignities.
O, thy dear words have knock'd at my heart's gates,
And enter'd. They have pluck'd the devil's vizard
(That did deform this face, and blind my soul)
Off, and thy Bellafront presents herself,
Lav'd in a bath of contrite virginal tears:
Cloth'd in the original beauty that was thine!
Now, for thy love to God, count this not done:
Let time go back, and be as when before it,
Or from thy memory rase it for ever!

SCUD. Ha, ha! heart! was there ever such strange creatures fram'd?
Why dost thou speak such foolish, senseless things?
Can thy forsaking him redeem thy fault?
No, I will never mend an ill with worse.
Why, thy example will make women false,
When they shall hear it, that before were true;
For after ill examples we do fly,
But must be vow'd to deeds of piety.
O woman, woman, woman, woman, woman!
The cause of future and original sin,
How happy (had you not) should we have been!
False, where you kiss, but murdering in your ire;
Love all can woo, know all men you desire:
Ungrateful, yet most impudent to crave,
Torturous as hell, insatiate as the grave:
Lustful as monkeys, grinning in your ease,
Whom if we make not idols, we ne'er please:
More vainly proud than fools, as ignorant;
Baser than parasites: witches that enchant
And make us senseless, to think death or life
Is yours to give, when only our belief
Doth make you able to deceive us so:
Begot by drunkards to breed sin and woe;
As many foul diseases hide your veins,
As there are mischiefs coin'd in your quick brains:
Not quick in wit, fit to perform least good,
But to subvert whole states, shed seas of blood:
Twice as deceitful as are crocodiles,
For you betray both ways, with tears and smiles.
Yet questionless there are as good, as bad.
Hence! let me go.

BEL. Hear me, and thou shalt go.
I do confess I do deserve all this,
Have wounded all the faith my sex doth owe,
But will recover it, or pay my life.
Strive not to go, for you shall hear me first.
I charge thee, Scudmore, thou hard-hearted man,
Upon my knees-- [_Kneels._]
Thou most implacable man, since penitence
And satisfaction too gets not thy pardon,
I charge thee use some means to set me free, [_Rises again._]
Before the revels of this night have end.
Prevent my entering to this marriage-bed;
Or by the memory of Lucretia's knife,
Ere morn I'll die a virgin, though a wife. [_Exit._

SCUD. Pish! do: the world will have one mischief less.
[_Exit._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ SIR ABRAHAM NINNY, _throwing down his bowl_.

ABRA. Bowl they that list, for I will bowl no more.
Cupid, that little bowler, in my breast
Rubs at my heart, and will not let me rest.
[_Within: Rub, rub, fly, fly._[35]
Ay, ay, you may cry _Rub, fly_, to your bowls,
For you are free: love troubles not your jowls,
But from my head to heel, from heel to heart:
Behind, before, and roundabout I smart.
Then in this arbour, sitting all alone,
In doleful ditty let me howl my moan.
O boy![36] leave pricking, for I vail my bonnet:[37]
Give me but breath, while I do write a sonnet.

_Enter_ PENDANT.

PEN. I have lost my money, and Sir Abraham too. Yonder he sits at his muse, by heaven, drowned in the ocean of his love. Lord! how he labours, like a hard-bound poet whose brains had a frost in 'em. Now it comes.

ABRA. _I die, I sigh_.

PEN. What, after you are dead? very good.

ABRA. _I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel_.

PEN. Good; because she is hard-hearted.

ABRA. _I die_. [_Write._

PEN. He has died three times, and come again.

ABRA. ----_I sigh, thou precious stony jewel.
Wearing of silk, why art thou still so cruel_. [_Write._

PEN. O Newington conceit!
And quieting eke.[38]

ABRA. _Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish ditty_.

PEN. You say true, in troth, sir.

ABRA. _Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish dit-
Ty unto thee, pity both him and it_. [_Write._

PEN. _Ty unto thee:_ well, if she do not pity both, 'tis pity she
should live.

ABRA. _But if thou still wilt poor Sir Abraham frump,
Come, grim death, come! here give thy mortal thump_. [_Write._
So; now I'll read it together.
_I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel,
O, wherefore wear'st thou silk, yet art so cruel?
To thee thy Ninny sends this foolish dit-
Ty, and pity both him and it._[39]
_If thou deny, and still Sir Abraham frump,
Come, grim death, come! here give thy mortal thump._
Let me see, who shall I get now to set it to a dumpish note.

PEN. In good faith, I do not know; but nobody that is wise, I am sure of that. It will be an excellent matter sung to the knacking of the tongs. But to my business. God save thee, worthy and right worshipful Sir Abraham! what, musing and writing? O, this love will undo us all, and that made me prevent love, and undo myself. But what news of Mistress Lucida? ha! will she not come off, nor cannot you come on, little Abraham?

ABRA. Faith, I have courted her, and courted her; and she does, as everybody else does, laughs at all I can do or say.

PEN. Laughs; why that's a sign she is pleased. Do you not know, when a woman laughs, she's pleased?

ABRA. Ay, but she laughs most shamefully and most scornfully.

PEN. Scornfully! hang her, she's but a bauble.

ABRA. She's the fitter for my turn, sir; for they will not stick to say, I am a fool, for all I am a knight.[40]

PEN. Love has made you witty, little Nab; but what a mad villain art thou, a striker, a fiftieth part of Hercules, to get one wench with child, and go a-wooing to another.

ABRA. With child! a good jest, i' faith: whom have I got with child?

PEN. Why, Mistress Wagtail is with child, and will be deposed 'tis yours. She is my kinswoman, and I would be loth our house should suffer any disgrace in her; if there be law in England, which there should be, if we may judge by their consciences, or if I have any friends, the wench shall take no wrong. I cannot tell: I think my lord will stick to me.

ABRA. D'ye hear? talk not to me of friends, law, or conscience: if your kinswoman say she is with child by me, your kinswoman is an errant whore. Od's will, have you nobody to put your gulls upon but knights? That Wagtail is a whore, and I'll stand to it.

PEN. Nay, you have stood to it already. But to call my cousin whore! you have not a mind to have your throat cut, ha' you?

ABRA. Troth, no great mind, sir.

PEN. Recant your words, or die. [_Draws his sword._

ABRA. Recant? O, base! out, sword, mine honour keep:
Love, thou hast made a lion of a sheep.

PEN. But will you fight in this quarrel?

ABRA. I am resolved.

PEN. Heart! I have pulled an old house over my head: here's like to be a tall fray. I perceive a fool's valianter than a knave at all times. Would I were well rid of him: I had as lief meet Hector, God knows, if he dare fight at all: they are all one to me; or, to speak more modernly, with one of the roaring boys. [_Aside._

ABRA. Have you done your prayers?

PEN. Pray give me leave, sir: put up, an't please you. Are you sure my cousin Wagtail is a whore?

ABRA. With sword in hand I do it not recant.

PEN. Well, it shall never be said Jack Pendant would venture his blood in a whore's quarrel. But, whore or no whore, she is most desperately in love with you: praises your head, your face, your nose, your eyes, your mouth: the fire of her commendations makes the pot of your good parts run over; and to conclude, if the whore have you not, I think the pond at Islington will be her bathing-tub, and give an end to mortal misery. But if she belie you----pray, put up, sir; she is an errant whore, and so let her go.

ABRA. Does she so love me, say you?

PEN. Yes, yes: out of all question, the whore does love you abominable.

ABRA. No more of these foul terms: if she do love me,
That goes by fate, I know it by myself.
I'll not deny but I have dallied with her.

PEN. Ay, but hang her, whore; dallying will get no children.

ABRA. Another _whore_, and draw! Where is the girl?

PEN. Condoling her misfortune in the gallery;
Upon the rushes sitting all alone,
And for Sir Abraham's love venting her moan.

ABRA. I know not what to say: fate's above all.
Come, let's go overbear her. Be this true,
Welcome, my Wagtail: scornful Luce, adieu. [_Exit._

PEN. One way it takes yet. 'Tis a fool's condition,
Whom none can love, out of his penury
To catch most greedily at any wench
That gives way to his love, or feigns her own
First unto him: and so Sir Abraham now,
I hope, will buy the pool where I will fish.
Thus a quick knave makes a fat fool his dish. [_Exit._

_Enter_ CAPTAIN POUTS.

CAPT. POUTS. I have played the melancholy ass, and partly the knave, in this last business, but as the parson said that got the wench with child, "'Tis done now, sir; it cannot be undone, and my purse or I must smart for it."

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SER. Your trunks are shipped, and the tide falls out about twelve to-night.

CAPT. POUTS. I'll away. This law is like the basilisk, to see it first is the death on't.[41] This night and, noble London, farewell; I will never see thee more, till I be knighted for my virtues. Let me see, when shall I return? and yet I do not think, but there are a great many dubbed for their virtues; otherwise, how could there be so many poor knights?[42]

_Enter_ STRANGE, _like a soldier, amazedly_.

What art thou? what's thy news?

STRANGE. 'Zoons; a man is fain to break open doors, ere he can get in to you. I would speak with a general sooner.

CAPT. POUTS. Sir, you may: he owes less, peradventure; or if more, he is more able to pay't. What art?

STRANGE. A soldier; one that lives upon this buff jerkin: 'twas made of Fortunatus's pouch; and these are the points I stand upon. I am a soldier.

CAPT. POUTS. A counterfeit rogue you are.

STRANGE. As true a rogue as thyself. Thou wrong'st me. Send your man away: go to, I have strange and welcome business to impart. The merchant is dead for shame: let's walk into the fields: send away your man.

CAPT. POUTS. How?

STRANGE. Here is a letter from the lusty Kate,
That tells you all: I must not give it you,
But upon some conditions. Let us walk,
And send away your man.

CAPT. POUTS. Go, sirrah, and bespeak supper at the Bear, and provide
oars: I'll see Gravesend to-night. [_Exit_ SERVANT.

STRANGE. The gentlewoman will run mad after you then. I'll tell you
more: let's walk. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[34] This remark, and a question below, in the old copy are given to
Luce; but Lucida is not upon the stage, and could not be there, as
Scudmore afterwards enters, pretending to be the bearer of a letter
from her. The name of _Nevill_ has been substituted for Luce, and at
least there is no impropriety in assigning what is said to him. Two
other speeches, attributed to her, obviously belong to Sir Abraham.

[35] The exclamations of the bowlers, whom Sir Abraham has just
quitted.

[36] [Addressing Cupid.]

[37] The French phrase is _avaler le bonnet_, _i.e._, to lower the
bonnet. The etymology of _avaler_ is disputed; but our _vale_, or as
it is usually spelt, _vail_, is from _avaler_.

[38] This was probably a hit at the sort of "_worsted_ conceits" in
plays represented at the old Newington theatre, which appears at one
time to have been under the management of Philip Henslowe.

[39] There is a blank in this line in the old copy. Sir Abraham seems
as fastidious as most versifiers, and it will be observed, that in
reading over his "sonnet" he makes a variety of alterations. Perhaps
the blank was left to show that he could not fill it up to his
satisfaction, not liking the line as it stood, when he first committed
it to paper--

"Ty _unto thee_, pity both him and it."

[40] Alluding to the _bauble_ or truncheon, usually with a head carved
at the top of it, part of the _insignia_ of the ancient licensed fool
or jester.

[41] Should we not read "is the death on us," or "of us?"

[42] This is one out of innumerable hits, in our old dramatists, at
the indiscriminate creation of knights by James I. Their poverty was a
constant subject of laughter. See Ben Jonson's "Alchemist," act ii.;
Chapman's "Monsieur d'Olive," act i., and "Widows' Tears," act iv.;
Barry's "Ram Alley," act i.; and Middleton's "Mad World, my Masters,"
act i., &c. Field's satire is as pungent as that of the best of them.