Chapter XXV: Act I: , Scene 1

_Enter the_ CAPTAIN _in choler, and_ WANTON.

CAPT. No more; I'll sooner be reconciled to want or sickness than that rascal: a thing that my charity made sociable; one that when I smiled would fawn upon me, and wag his stern, like starved dogs; so nasty, the company cried foh! upon him, he stunk so of poverty, ale, and bawdry. So poor and despicable, when I relieved him, he could not avow his calling for want of a cassock, but stood at corners of streets and whispered gentlemen in the ear as they passed, and so delivered his wants like a message; which being done, the rogue vanished, and would dive at Westminster like a dabchick, and rise again at Temple-gate. The ingenuity of the rascal, his wit being snuffed by want, burnt clear then, and furnished him with a bawdy jest or two, to take the company; but now the rogue shall find he has lost a patron.

WAN. As I live, if I had thought you would have been in such a fury, you should never have known it.

CAPT. Treacherous rogue! he has always railed against thee to me, as a danger his friendship ought to give me warning of, and nightly cried, Yet look back, and hunt not, with good-nature and the beauties of thy youth, that false woman; but hear thy friend, that speaks from sad experience.

WAN. Did he say this?

CAPT. Yes, and swears ye are as unsatiate as the sea, as covetous, and as ungrateful: that you have your tempests too, and calms more dangerous than it.

WAN. Was the slave so eloquent in his malice?

CAPT. Yes, faith, and urged you (for your part) were never particular, and seldom sound.

WAN. Not sound! why, he offered to marry me, and swore he thought I was chaste, I was so particular; and proved it, that consent was full marriage by the first institution, and those that love and lie together, and tell, have fulfilled all ceremonies now.

CAPT. Did he offer to marry thee?

WAN. Yes, yes.

CAPT. If ever then I deserved from thee, or if thou be'st dear to thyself, as thou hast anything thou hop'st shall be safe or sound about thee, I conjure thee, take my counsel: marry him, to afflict him.

WAN. Marry him?

CAPT. If I have any power, I shall prevail. Thou know'st he has a fat benefice, and leave me to plague him till he give it me to be rid of thee.

WAN. Will you not keep me then?

CAPT. I keep thee! prythee, wilt thou keep me? I know not why men are such fools to pay: we bring as much to the sport as women. Keep thee! I'd marry thee as soon; why, _that's wedding sin_: no, no keeping, I: that you are not your own, is all that prefers you before wives.

WAN. I hope this is not real.

CAPT. Art thou such a stranger to my humour? why, I tell thee I should hate thee if I could call thee mine, for I loathe all women within my knowledge; and 'tis six to four, if I knew thy sign, I'd come there no more. A strange mistress makes every night a new; and these are your pleasing sins. I had as lief be good, as sin by course.

WAN. Then I am miserable.

CAPT. Not so, if you'll be instructed, and let me pass like a stranger when you meet me.

WAN. But have you these humours?

CAPT. Yes, faith; yet, if you will observe them, though you marry him, I may perchance be your friend: but you must be sure to be coy; for to me the hunting is more pleasant than the quarry.[194]

WAN. But, if I observe this, will you be my friend hereafter?

CAPT. Firm as the day. Hark, I hear him [_The_ PARSON _calls within_.]; I knew he would follow me. I gave him a small touch that wakened his guilt. Resolve to endear yourself to him, which you may easily do by taking his part when I have vexed him. No dispute; resolve it, or, as I live, here I disclaim thee for ever.

WAN. 'Tis well; something I'll do.

[_Exit_ WANTON.

CAPT. Open the door, I say, and let me in: your favourite and his tithes shall come no more here.

_Enter_ PARSON.

PAR. Yes, but he shall; 'tis not you, nor your braced drum, shall fright me hence, who can command the souls of men. I have read divine Seneca: thou know'st nothing but the earthly part, and canst cry to that, Faces about.[195]

CAPT. Thou read Seneca! thou steal'st his cover to clothe thee, naked and wicked, that for money wouldst sell the share of the Twelve, and art allowed by all that know thee fitter to have been Judas than Judas was, for treachery.

PAR. Rail, do rail, my illiterate captain, that can only abuse by memory; and should I live till thou couldst read my sentence, I should never die.

CAPT. No, ungrateful, live till I destroy thee; and, thankless wretch, did all my care of thee deserve nothing but thy malice and treacherous speaking darkly still? with thy fine, _No, not he_, when any malicious discourse was made of me; and by thy false faint, _No, faith; confess_, in thy denials, whilst thy smiling excuses stood a greater and more dangerous evidence against me than my enemies' affidavits could have done.

PAR. I'll lie for never a lean soldier of you all.

CAPT. I have for thee, slave, when I have been wondered at for keeping company with such a face: but they were such as knew thee not; all which thy looks deceived, as they did me: they are so simple, they'd cosen a jury, and a judge that had wit would swear thou liedst, should thou confess what I know to be true, and award Bedlam for thee; 'tis so strange and so new a thing to find so much Rogue lodge at the sign of the Fool.

PAR. Leave this injurious language, or I'll lay off my cassock; for nothing shall privilege your bragger's tongue to abuse me, a gentleman, and a soldier ancienter than thyself.

CAPT. Yes, thou wert so: and now I think on't, I'll recount the cause which, it may be, thou hast forgot, through thy variety of sins. It was a hue-and-cry that followed thee a scholar, and found thee a soldier.

PAR. Thou liest: thou and Scandal have but one tongue; hers dwells with thy coward's teeth.

CAPT. O, do you rage? nay, I'll put the cause in print too: I am but a scurvy poet, yet I'll make a ballad shall tell how like a faithful disciple you followed your poor whore till her martyrdom in the suburbs.

PAR. I'll be revenged for this scandal.

CAPT. Then shall succeed thy flight from the university, disguised into captain, only the outside was worse buff, and the inside more atheist than they; furnished with an insolent faith, uncharitable heart, envious as old women, cruel and bloody as cowards: thus armed at all points, thou went'st out, threatening God, and trembling at men.

PAR. I'll be revenged, thou poor man of war, I'll be revenged.

_Enter_ WANTON.

WAN. And why so bitter? Whose house is this? Who dares tell this story?

CAPT. Why, sweet, hath he not treacherously broke into our cabinet, and would have stol'n thee thence? by these hilts, I'll hang him; and then I can conclude my ballad with _take warning, all Christian people, by the same_: I will, you lean slave; I'll prosecute thee, till thou art fain to hide in a servitor's gown again, and live upon crumbs with the robin redbreasts that haunt the hall (your old messmates). Do you snarl? I'll do't, I will, and put thee to fight with the dogs for the bones that but smell of meat--those that your hungry students have polished with their teeth.

WAN. If you do this, good captain, lieutenant, and company (for all your command, I think, is within your reach)--I say, if you dare do this, I shall sing a song of one that bad stand,[196] and made a carrier pay a dear rent for a little ground upon his majesty's highway.

CAPT. How now, Mistress Wanton! what's this? what's this?

PAR. This! 'tis matter for a jury; I'll swear, and positively. I'll hang thee, I'll do't, by this hand: let me alone to swear the jury out of doubt.

CAPT. But you are in jest, Mistress Wanton, and will confess (I hope) this is no truth.

WAN. Yes, sir, as great a truth as that you are in your unpaid-for scarlet. Fool! didst think I'd quit such a friend and his staid fortune, to rely upon thy dead pay and hopes of a second covenant?

CAPT. His fortune! what is't? th' advowson of Tyburn deanery?

PAR. No, nor rents brought in by long staff-speeches, that ask alms with frowns, till thy looks and speech have laid violent hands upon men's charity.

WAN. Let him alone; I'll warrant, he'll never be indicted of drawing anything but his tongue against a man.

CAPT. Very good.

PAR. Dear Mistress Wanton, you have won my heart, and I shall live to doat upon you for abusing this impetuous captain. Will you listen to my old suit? will you marry me, and vex him? say, dare you do't without more dispute?

CAPT. 'Twas a good question; she that dares marry thee, dares do anything: she may as safely lie with the great bell upon her, and his clapper is less dangerous than thine.

WAN. Why, I pray?

CAPT. What a miserable condition wilt thou come to? his wife cannot be an honest woman; and if thou shouldst turn honest, would it not vex thee to be chaste and poxed[197]--a saint without a nose? what calendar will admit thee by[198] an incurable slave that's made of rogue's flesh? consider that.

WAN. Why, that's something yet; thou hast nothing but a few scars and a little old fame to trust to; and that scarce thatches your head.

CAPT. Nay, then I see thou art base, and this plot not accident. And now I do not grudge him thee; go together, 'tis pity to part you, whore and parson, as consonant----

WAN. As whore and captain.

CAPT. Take her, I'll warrant her a breeder. I'll prophesy she shall lie with thy whole congregation, and bring an heir to thy parish; one that thou may'st enclose the common by his title, and recover it by common law.

PAR. That's more than thy dear dam could do for thee, thou son of a thousand fathers, all poor soldiers: rogues that ought mischiefs, no midwives, for their birth. But I cry thee mercy, my patron has an estate of old iron by his side, with the farm of old ladies he scrapes a dirty living from.

WAN. He earn from an old lady: hang him, he's only wicked in his desires; and for adultery he cannot be condemned, though he should have the vanity to betray himself. God forgive me for belying him so often as I have done; the weak-chined slave hired me once to say I was with child by him.

CAPT. This is pretty. Farewell; and may the next pig thou farrow'st have a promising face, without the dad's fool or gallows in't, that all may swear, at first sight, that's a bastard; and it shall go hard, but I'll have it called mine. I have the way; 'tis but praising thee, and swearing thou art honest before I am asked: you taught me the trick.

PAR. Next levy I'll preach against thee, and tell them what a piece you are. Your drum and borrowed scarf shall not prevail; nor shall you win with charms, half-ell long (hight ferret riband) the youth of our parish, as you have done.[199]

CAPT. No, lose no time: prythee, study and learn to preach, and leave railing against the surplice, now thou hast preached thyself into linen. Adieu, Abigail! adieu, heir-apparent to Sir Oliver Mar-text! to church, go; I'll send a beadle shall sing your epithalamium.

PAR. Adieu, my captain of a tame band. I'll tell your old lady how you abused her breath, and swore you earned your money harder than those that dig in the mines for't. [_Exit_ CAPTAIN.] A fart fill thy sail, captain of a galley foist.[200] He's gone: come, sweet, let's to church immediately, that I may go and take my revenge: I'll make him wear thin breeches.

WAN. But if you should be such a man as he says you are, what would my friends say when they hear I have cast myself away?

PAR. He says! hang him, lean, mercenary, provand[201] rogue: I knew his beginning, when he made the stocks lousy, and swarmed so with vermin, we were afraid he would have brought that curse upon the country. He says! but what matters what he says? a rogue by sire and dam! his father was a broad, fat pedlar, a what-do-you-lack, sir? that haunted good houses, and stole more than he bought: his dam was a gipsy, a pilfering, canting Sybil in her youth, and she suffered in her old age for a witch. Poor Stromwell, the rogue was a perpetual burthen to her, she carried him longer at her back than in her belly; he dwelt there, till she lost him one night in the great frost upon our common, and there he was found in the morning candied in ice--a pox of their charity that thawed him! You might smell a rogue then in the bud: he is now run away from his wife.

WAN. His wife?

PAR. Yes, his wife; why, do you not know he's married according to the rogues' liturgy? a left-handed bridegroom. I saw him take the ring from a tinker's dowager.

WAN. Is this possible?

PAR. Yes, most possible, and you shall see how I'll be revenged on him: I will immediately go seek the ordinance against reformadoes.

WAN. What ordinance?

PAR. Why, they do so swarm about the town, and are so destructive to trade and all civil government, that the state has declared no person shall keep above two colonels and four captains (of what trade soever) in his family; for now the war is done, broken breech, woodmonger, ragman, butcher, and linkboy (comrades that made up the ragged regiment in this holy war), think to return and be admitted to serve out their times again.

WAN. Your ordinance will not touch the captain, for he is a known soldier.

PAR. He a captain! an apocryphal modern one, that went convoy once to Brentford with those troops that conducted the contribution-puddings in the late holy war, when the city ran mad after their russet Levites, apron-rogues with horn hands. Hang him, he's but the sign of a soldier; and I hope to see him hanged for that commission, when the king comes to his place again.

WAN. You abuse him now he's gone; but----

PAR. Why, dost thou think I fear him? No, wench, I know him too well for a cowardly slave, that dares as soon eat his fox,[202] as draw it in earnest: the slave's noted to make a conscience of nothing but fighting.

WAN. Well, if you be not a good man and a kind husband----

PAR. Thou knowest the proverb, as happy as the parson's wife during her husband's life.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter_ MISTRESS PLEASANT, WIDOW WILD, _her aunt, and_
SECRET, _her woman, above in the music-room, as dressing
her: a glass, a table, and she in her night-clothes_.

PLEA. Secret, give me the glass, and see who knocks.

WID. Niece, what, shut the door? as I live, this music was meant to you: I know my nephew's voice.

PLEA. Yes, but you think his friend's has more music in't.

WID. No, faith, I can laugh with him, or so, but he comes no nearer than my lace.

PLEA. You do well to keep your smock betwixt.

WID. Faith, wench, so wilt thou, and thou be'st wise, from him and all of them; and, be ruled by me, we'll abuse all the sex, till they put a true value upon us.

PLEA. But dare you forbid the travelled gentlemen, and abuse them and your servant, and swear, with me, not to marry in a twelvemonth, though a lord bait the hook, and hang out the sign of a court Cupid, whipped by a country widow? then I believe we may have mirth cheaper than at the price of ourselves, and some sport with the wits that went to lose themselves in France.

WID. Come, no dissembling, lest I tell your servant, when he returns, how much you're taken with the last new fashion.

SEC. Madam, 'tis almost noon; will you not dress yourself to-day?

WID. She speaks as if we were boarders; prythee, wench, is not the dinner our own I sure, my cook shall lay by my own roast till my stomach be up!

PLEA. But there may be company, and they will say we take too long time to trim. Secret, give me the flowers my servant sent me: he sware 'twas the first the wench made of the kind.

WID. But when he shall hear you had music sent you to-day, 'twill make him appear in his old clothes.

PLEA. Marry, I would he would take exception, he should not want ill-usage to rid me of his trouble. As I live, custom has made me so acquainted with him, that I now begin to think him not so displeasing as at first; and if he fall out with me, I must with him, to secure myself. Sure, aunt, he must find sense and reason absent; for when a question knocks at his head, the answer tells that there is nobody at home. I asked him th' other day if he did not find a blemish in his understanding, and he sware a great oath, not he. I told him 'twas very strange, for fool was so visible an eyesore, that neither birth nor fortune could reconcile to me.

WID. Faith, methinks his humour is good, and his purse will buy good company; and I can laugh, and be merry with him sometimes.

PLEA. Why, pray, aunt, take him to yourself, and see how merry we will be. I can laugh at anybody's fool but mine own.

WID. By my troth, but that I have married one fool already, you should not have him. Consider, he asks no portion, and yet will make a great jointure. A fool with these conveniences, a kind, loving fool, and one that you may govern, makes no ill husband, niece. There are other arguments, too, to bid a fool welcome, which you will find without teaching. Think of it, niece: you may lay out your affection to purchase some dear wit or judgment of the city, and repent at leisure a good bargain in this fool.

PLEA. Faith, aunt, fools are cheap in the butchery and dear in the kitchen; they are such unsavoury, insipid things, that there goes more charge to the sauce than the fool is worth, ere a woman can confidently serve him, either to her bed or board. Then, if he be a loving fool, he troubles all the world a-days, and me all night.

SEC. Friendship-love, madam, has a remedy for that.

PLEA. See if the air of this place has not inclined Secret to be a bawd already! No, Secret, you get no gowns that way, upon my word. If I marry, it shall be a gentleman that has wit and honour, though he has nothing but a sword by his side: such a one naked is better than a fool with all his trappings, bells, and baubles.

WID. Why, as I live, he's a handsome fellow, and merry: mine is such a sad soul, and tells me stories of lovers that died in despair, and of the lamentable end of their mistresses (according to the ballad), and thinks to win me by example.

PLEA. Faith, mine talks of nothing but how long he has loved me; and those that know me not think I am old, and still finds new causes (as he calls them) for his love. I asked him the other day, if I changed so fast, or no.

WID. But what think'st thou, Secret? my nephew dances well, and has a handsome house in the Piazza.

PLEA. Your nephew! not I, as I live; he looks as if he would be wooed. I'll warrant you, he'll never begin with a woman, till he has lost the opinion of himself; but since you are so courteous, I'll speak to his friend, and let him know how you suffer for him.

WID. Him! marry, God bless all good women from him. Why, he talks as if the dairymaid and all her cows could not serve his turn. Then they wear such bawdy breeches, 'twould startle an honest woman to come in their company, for fear they should break, and put her to count from the fall of them; for I'll warrant the year of the Lord would sooner out of her head than such a sight.

PLEA. I am not such an enemy now to his humour as to your nephew's. He rails against our sex, and thinks, by beating down the price of a woman, to make us despair of merchants; but if I had his heartstrings tied on a true-lover's knot, I would so firk him, till he found physic in a rope.

SEC. He's a scurvy-tongued fellow, I am sure of that; and if I could have got a staff, I had marked him.

WID. What did he do to thee, Secret?

PLEA. Why, he swore he had a better opinion of her than to think she had her maidenhead; but if she were that fool, and had preserved the toy, he swore he would not take the pains of fetching it, to have it. I confess, I would fain be revenged on them, because they are so blown up with opinion of their wit.

WID. As I live, my nephew travels still: the sober, honest Ned Wild will not be at home this month.

PLEA. What say you? will you abuse them and all the rest, and stand to my first proposition?

WID. Yes, faith, if it be but to bury my servant Sad; for he cannot last above another fall. And how, think you, will your servant take it?

PLEA. Mine! O, God help me, mine's a healthy fool. I would he were subject to pine, and take things unkindly: there were some hope to be rid of him; for I'll undertake to use him as ill as anybody.

WID. As I live, I am easily resolved: for if I would marry, I know neither who nor what humour to choose.

SEC. By my troth, madam, you are hard to please, else the courtier might have served turn.

WID. Serve turn! Prythee, what haste, Secret, that I should put myself to bed with one I might make a shift with? When I marry, thou shalt cry, _Ay marry, madam, this is a husband!_ without blushing, wench, and none of your so-so husbands. Yet he might have[203] overcome my aversion, I confess.

PLEA. Overcome! I think so: he might have won a city his way; for when he saw you were resolved he should not eat with you, he would set himself down as if he meant to besiege us, and had vowed never to rise till he had taken us in; and because our sex forbad force, he meant to do it by famine. Yet you may stay, and miss a better market; for, hang me, I am of Secret's opinion, he had but two faults--a handsome fellow, and too soon denied.

WID. 'Tis true, he was a handsome fellow, and a civil, that I shall report him; for as soon as it was given him to understand I desired he would come no more, I never saw him since, but by chance.

PLEA. Why did you forbid him?

WID. There were divers exceptions; but that which angered me then was, he came with the king's letters patents, as if he had been to take up a wife for his majesty's use.

PLEA. Alas! was that all? Why, 'tis their way at court, a common course among them. And was it not one the king had a great care of? When my mother was alive, I had such a packet from the court: directed unto me: I bid them pay the post, and make the fellow drink; which he took as ill as I could wish, and has been ever since such a friendly enemy----

WID. Nay, as I live, she was for the captain too: his scarf and feather won her heart.

SEC. Truly, madam, never flatter yourself; for the gentleman did not like you so well as to put you to the trouble of saying no.

PLEA. Lord, how I hated and dreaded that scarf and buff-coat!

SEC. Why, Mistress Pleasant, a captain is an honourable charge.

WID. Prythee, Secret, name them no more. Colonel and captain, commissioner, free-quarters, ordnance and contribution. When Buff utters these words, I tremble and dread the sound: it frights me still when I do but think on them. Cud's body, they're twigs of the old rod, wench, that whipped us so lately.

PLEA. Ay, ay, and they were happy days, wench, when the captain was a lean poor humble thing, and the soldier tame, and durst not come within the city for fear of a constable and a whipping-post. They know the penal statutes give no quarter. Then Buff was out of countenance, and skulked from alehouse to alehouse, and the city had no militia but the sheriff's men. In those merry days, a bailiff trod the streets with terror, when all the chains in the city were rusty but Master Sheriff's; when the people knew no evil but the constable and his watch. Now every committee has as much power and as little manners, and examines with as much ignorance, impertinence, and authority, as a constable in the king's key.

[_People talking without._

WID. See who's that so loud?

SEC. The men you talked of, newly come to town.

[_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ JACK CONSTANT, WILL SAD, JOLLY, _and a_ FOOTMAN:
_they comb their heads and talk_.[204]

JOLLY. Remember our covenants, get them that can all friends; and be sure to despatch the plot to carry them into the country, lest the brace of newcome monsieurs get them.

CON. Those flesh-flies! I'll warrant thee from them: yet 'twas foolishly done of me to put on this gravity. I shall break out, and return to myself, if you put me to a winter's wooing.

SAD. A little patience does it, and I am content to suffer anything, till they're out of town. Secret says they think my pale face proceeds from my love.

JOLLY. Does she? That shall be one hint to advance your designs and my revenge: for so she be cosened, I care not who does it, for scorning me, who (by this hand) lov'd her parlously.

FOOT. Sir, what shall I do with the horses?

SAD. Carry them to Brumsted's.

FOOT. What shall I do with your worship's?

JOLLY. Mine? Take him, hamstring him, kill him, anything to make away with him; lest, having such a conveniency, I be betrayed to another journey into the country. Gentlemen, you are all welcome to my country house. Charing Cross, I am glad to see thee, with all my heart.

CON. What! not reconciled to the country yet?

SAD. He was not long enough there to see the pleasure of it.

JOLLY. Pleasure! what is't called? walking, or hawking, or shooting at butts?

CON. You found other pleasures, or else the story of the meadow is no gospel.

JOLLY. Yes, a pox upon the necessity! Here I could as soon have taken the cow as such a milk-maid.

SAD. The wine and meat's good, and the company.

JOLLY. When, at a Tuesday meeting, the country comes into a match at two-shillings rubbers, where they conclude at dinner what shall be done this parliament, railing against the court and Pope, after the old Elizabeth-way of preaching, till they are drunk with zeal; and then the old knight of the shire from the board's end, in his coronation breeches, vies clinches with a silenced minister--a rogue that railed against the reformation, merely to be eased of the trouble of preaching.

CON. Nay, as I live, now you are to blame, and wrong him. The man's a very able man.

JOLLY. You'll be able to say so one day, upon your wife's report. I would he were gelt, and all that hold his opinion: by this good day, they get more souls than they save.

SAD. And what think you of the knight's son? I hope he's a fine gentleman, when his green suit and his blue stockings are on; and the welcomest thing to Mistress Abigail, but Tib and Tom in the stock.[205]

JOLLY. Who, Master Jeffrey? Hobbinol the second! By this life, 'tis a very veal, and he licks his nose like one of them. By his discourse you'd guess he had eaten nothing but hay. I wonder he doth not go on all four too, and hold up his leg when he stales. He talks of nothing but the stable. The cobbler's blackbird at the corner has more discourse. He has not so much as the family jest which these Corydons use to inherit. I posed him in Booker's prophecies,[206] till he confessed he had not mastered his almanac yet.

CON. But what was that you whispered to him in the hall?

JOLLY. Why, the butler and I, by the intercession of Marchbeer, had newly reconciled him to his dad's old codpiece corslet in the hall, which, when his zeal was up, he would needs throw down, because it hung upon a cross.

CON. But what think you of my neighbour? I hope her charity takes you.

JOLLY. Yes, and her old waiting-woman's devotion: she sighed in the pew behind me. A Dutch skipper belches not so loud or so sour. My lady's miserable sinner with the white eyes, she does so squeeze out her prayers, and so wring out, _Have mercy upon us_. I warrant her she has a waiting-woman's sting in her conscience. She looks like a dirty-souled bawd.

CON. Who? is this my Lady Freedom's woman that he describes?

JOLLY. The same, the independent lady. I have promised to send her a cripple or two by the next carrier. Her subject-husband would needs show me his house one morning. I never visited such an hospital: it stank like Bedlam, and all the servants were carrying poultices, juleps, and glisters, and several remedies for all diseases but his. The man sighed to see his estate crumbling away. I counselled him either to give or take an ounce of ratsbane, to cure his mind.

CON. She is my cousin; but he made such a complaint to me, I thought he had married the company of Surgeons' Hall: for his directions to me for several things for his wife's use were fitter for an apothecary's shop than a lady's closet.

JOLLY. I advised him to settle no jointure but her old stills and a box of instruments upon her. She hates a man with all his limbs: a wooden leg, a crutch, and _fistula in ano_, wins her heart. Her gentleman-usher broke his leg last dogdays merely to have the honour to have her set it. A foul, rank rogue! and so full of salt humours, that he posed a whole college of old women with a gangrene, which spoiled the jest, and his ambling before my lady, by applying a handsaw to his gart'ring-place; and now the rogue wears booted bed-staves, and destroys all the young ashes to make him legs.

SAD. I never saw such a nasty affection: she would ha' done well in the incurable--a handmaid to have waited on the cripples.

JOLLY. She converses with naked men, and handles all their members, though never so ill affected, and calls the fornication charity. All her discourse to me was flat bawdry, which I could not chide, but spoke as flat as she, till she rebuked me, calling mine beastliness, and hers natural philosophy. By this day, if I were to marry, I would as soon have chosen a drawn whore out of mine own hospital, and cure the sins of her youth, as marry a she-chirurgeon--one that, for her sins in her first husband's days, cures all the crimes of her sex in my time. I would have him call her Chiron, the Centaur's own daughter: a chirurgeon by sire and dam, Apollo's own colt. She's red-haired too, like that bonny beast with the golden mane and flaming tail.

SAD. You had a long discourse with her, Jolly: what was't about?

JOLLY. I was advising her to be divorced, and marry the man in the almanac: 'twould be fine pastime for her to lick him whole.

SAD. By this day, I never saw such a mule as her husband is, to bear with her madness. The house is a good house, and well furnished.

JOLLY. Yes; but 'tis such a sight to see great French beds full of found children, sons of bachelors, priests' heirs, Bridewell orphans: there they lie by dozens in a bed, like sucking rabbits in a dish, or a row of pins; and then they keep a whole dairy of milch-whores to suckle them.

SAD. She is successful; and that spoils her, and makes her deaf to counsel. I bad him poison two or three, to disgrace her; for the vanity and pride of their remedies make those women more diligent than their charity.

JOLLY. I asked him why he married her; and he confessed, if he had been sound, he had never had her.

CON. He confessed she cured him of three claps before he married her.

JOLLY. Yes, and I believe some other member (though then ill-affected) pleaded more than his tongue; and the rogue is like to find her business still, for he flies at all. My God, I owe thee thanks for many things; but 'tis not the least I am not her husband nor a country gentleman, whither, I believe, you cannot easily seduce me again, unless you can persuade London to stand in the country. To Hyde Park, or so, I may venture upon your Lady-fair days, when the filly foals of fifteen come kicking in, with their manes and tails tied up in ribands, to see their eyes roll and neigh, when the spring makes their blood prick them: so far I am with you, by the way of a country gentleman and a beer-drinker.

SAD. For all this dislike, Master Jolly, your greatest acquaintance lies amongst country gentlemen.

JOLLY. Ay, at London: there your country gentlemen are good company; where to be seen with them is a kind of credit. I come to a mercer's shop in your coach: _Boy, call your master_: he comes bare; I whisper him, _Do you know the Constants and the Sads of Norfolk_? _Yes, yes_, he replies, and strokes his beard. _They are good men_, cry I. _Yes, yes. No more; cut me off three suits of satin._ He does it, and in the delivery whispers, _Will these be bound? Pish! drive on, coachman; speak with me to-morrow._

CON. And what then?

JOLLY. What then? why, come again next day.

SAD. And what if the country gentleman will not be bound?

JOLLY. Then he must fight.

SAD. I would I had known that, before I had signed your bond: I would have set my sword sooner than my seal to it.

JOLLY. Why, if thou repent, there's no harm done: fight rather than pay it.

SAD. Why, do you think I dare not fight?

JOLLY. Yes, but I think thou hast more wit than to fight with me; for if I kill thee, 'tis a fortune to me, and others will sign in fear: and if thou shouldst kill me, anybody that knows us would swear 'twere very strange, and cry, There's God's just judgment now upon that lewd youth, and thou procur'st his hangman's place at the rate of thy estate.

CON. By this hand, he is in the right; and, for mine, I meant to pay when I signed. Hang it, never put good fellows to say, _Prythee, give me a hundred pounds._

SAD. 'Tis true, 'tis a good janty[207] way of begging; yet, for being killed if I refuse it--would there were no more danger in the widow's unkindness than in your fighting, I would not mistrust my design.

JOLLY. Why, ay, there's a point now in nicety of honour. I should kill you for her, for you know I pretended first; and it may be, if I had writ sad lines to her, and hid myself in my cloak, and haunted her coach--it may be in time she would have sought me. Not I, by this hand, I'll not trouble myself for a wench; and married widows are but customary authorised wenches.

CON. Being of that opinion, how canst thou think of marrying one?

JOLLY. Why, faith, I know not: I thought to rest me, for I was run out of breath with pleasure, and grew so acquainted with sin, I would have been good, for variety: in these thoughts 'twas my fortune to meet with this widow--handsome, and of a clear fame.

CON. Didst love her?

JOLLY. Yes, faith: I had love, but not to the disease that makes men sick; and I could have loved her still, but that I was angry to have her refuse me for a fault I told her of myself; so I went no more.

SAD. Did she forbid you but once?

JOLLY. Faith, I think I slipped a fair opportunity: a handsome wench and three thousand pounds _per annum_ in certainty, besides the possibility of being saved.

CON. Which now you think desperate?

[WIDOW _and_ PLEASANT _looking out at a window_.

PLEA. That is you: cross or pile, will you have him yet, or no?

WID. Peace! observe them.

JOLLY. Faith, no, I do not despair; but I cannot resolve.

_Enter_ WILD, CARELESS, _and the_ CAPTAIN, _going in haste;
he comes in at the middle door_.

WID. Who are those?

CARE. Captain, whither in such haste? What, defeated? Call you this a retreat, or a flight from your friends?

PLEA. Your nephew, and his governor, and his friend! Here will be a scene! Sit close, and we may know the secret of their hearts.

WID. They have not met since they returned: I shall love this bay-window.[208]

CAPT. Prythee, let me go: there's mischief a-broiling; and if thou shak'st me once more, thou wilt jumble a lie together I have been hammering this hour.

CARE. A pox upon you! a-studying lies?

CAPT. Why, then they are no lies, but something in the praise of an old lady's beauty: what do you call that?

JOLLY. Who are those?

[_They spy each other._

SAD. Is't not the captain and my friend?

[JOLLY _salutes them; then he goes to the_ CAPTAIN _to
embrace him: the_ CAPTAIN _stands in a French posture_,[209]
_and slides from his old way of embracing._

JOLLY. Ned Wild! Tom Careless! what ail'st thou? dost thou scorn my embraces?

CAPT. I see you have never been abroad, else you would know how to put a value upon those, whose careful observation brought home the most exquisite garb and courtship that Paris could sell us.

JOLLY. A pox on this fooling, and leave off ceremony!

CAPT. Why, then, agreed: off with our masks, and let's embrace like the old knot.

[_They embrace._

JOLLY. Faith, say where have you spent these three years' time?--in our neighbour France? or have you ventured o'er the Alps, to see the seat of the Cæsars?

SAD. And can tell us ignorant (doomed to walk upon our own land), how large a seat the goddess fixed her flying Trojans in.

CON. Yes, yes, and have seen and drunk (perhaps) of Tiber's famous stream.

JOLLY. And have been where. Ãneas buried his trumpeter and his nurse. Tom looks as if he had sucked the one, and had a battle sounded by the other, for joy to see our nation ambitious not to be understood or known, when they come home.

CAPT. So, now I'm welcome home: this is freedom, and these are friends, and with these I can be merry; for, gentlemen, you must give me leave to be free too.

JOLLY. So you will spare us miserable men, condemned to London and the company of a Michaelmas term, and never travelled those countries that set mountains on fire a-purpose to light us to our lodging.

WILD. Why, this is better than to stay at home, and lie by hearsay, wearing out yourselves and fortunes like your clothes, to see her that hates you for being so fine; then appearing at a play, dressed like some part of it, while the company admire the mercer's and the tailor's work, and swear they have done their parts to make you fine gentlemen.

CARE. Then leap out of your coach, and throw your cloak over your shoulder, the casting-nets to catch a widow, while we have seen the world, and learned her customs.

CAPT. Yes, sir, and returned perfect monsieurs.

SAD. Yes, even to their diseases. I confess my ignorance; I cannot amble, nor ride like St George at Waltham.[210]

JOLLY. Yet, upon my conscience, he may be as welcome with a trot as the other with his pace. And faith, Jack (to be a little free), tell me, dost thou not think thou hadst been as well to pass here, with that English nose thou carriedst hence, as with the French tongue thou hast brought home?

[_The_ CAPTAIN _has a patch over his nose_.

CAPT. It is an accident, and to a soldier 'tis but a scar. 'Tis true, such a sign upon Master Jolly's face had been as ill as a _red cross_, and _Lord have mercy upon us_,[211] at his lodging-door, to have kept women out of court.

JOLLY. For aught you know of the court.

CAPT. I know the court, and thee, and thy use, and how you serve but as the handsomest movables; a kind of implement above-stairs, and look much like one of the old court-servants in the hangings.

WILD. But that they move and look fresher, and your apparel more modern.

CARE. Yes, faith, their office is the same, to adorn the room, and be gazed on. Alas! he's sad: courage, man, these riding-clothes will serve thee at the latter day.

CAPT. Which is one of their grievances; for nothing troubles them more than to think they must appear in a foul winding-sheet, and come undressed.

JOLLY. Gentlemen, I am glad to find you know the court: we know a traveller too, especially when he is thus changed and exchanged, as your worships, both in purse and person, and have brought home foreign visages and inscriptions.

CON. Why, that's their perfection: their ambition to have it said: There go those that have profitably observed the vices of other countries, and made them their own; and the faults of several nations, at their return, are their parts.

JOLLY. Why, there's Jack Careless--he carried out as good staple-manners as any was in Suffolk, and now he is returned with a shrug, and a trick to stand crooked, like a scurvy bow unbent; and looks as if he would maintain oil and salads against a chine of beef. I knew a great beast of this kind; it haunted the court much, and would scarcely allow us (fully reduced to civility) for serving up mutton in whole joints.

CON. What, silent?

SAD. Faith, the captain is in a study.

JOLLY. Do, do, con the rivers and towns perfectly, captain: thou may'st become intelligencer to the people, and lie thy two sheets a week in Corrantos too.

CON. And could you not make friends at court to get their pictures cut ugly, in the corner of a map, like the old navigators?

JOLLY. We'll see, we'll see.

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ PLEASANT _above_.

WID. I'll interrupt them. Servant, you're welcome to town. How now, nephew? what, dumb? where are all our travelled tongues?

JOLLY. Servant![212] who doth she mean? by this hand, I disclaim the title!

PLEA. Captain, Secret has taken notes, and desires you would instruct her in what concerns a waiting-woman and an old lady.

CAPT. Very good! yet this shall not save your dinner.

WID. Nay, while you are in this humour, I'll not sell your companies; and though Master Jolly be incensed, I hope he will do me the favour to dine with me.

JOLLY. Faith, lady, you mistake me if you think I am afraid of a widow; for I would have the world know I dare meet her anywhere, but at bed.

[_Exit_ JOLLY.

WILD. No more, aunt, we'll come: and if you will give us good meat, we'll bring good humours and good stomachs.

[WIDOW _shuts the curtain_.

CARE. By this day, I'll not dine there: they take a pleasure to raise a spirit that they will not lay. I'll to Banks's.

CAPT. A pox forbid it! you shall not break company, now you know what we are to do after dinner.

CARE. I will consent, upon condition you forbid the spiritual nonsense the age calls Platonic love.

CAPT. I must away too; but I'll be there at dinner. You will join in a plot after dinner?

WILD. Anything, good, bad, or indifferent, for a friend and mirth.

[_Exeunt all but the_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. I must go and prevent the rogue's mischief with the old lady.

[_Exit_ CAPTAIN.