Chapter XXIX: Act V: , Scene 1 (1)

_Enter_ FIDDLERS, JOLLY, _and_ WANTON.

JOLLY. O, are you ready, are you ready?

FID. Yes, an't like your worship.

JOLLY. And did you bid the cook chop lustily, and make a noise?

FID. Yes, sir, he's at it.

WAN. I hear the captain.

_Enter the_ CAPTAIN.

JOLLY. Have you brought clothes and ribands?

CAPT. Yes, yes, all is ready: did you hear them squeak yet?

WAN. No, by this light: I think 'tis an appointment, and we have been all abused.

CAPT. Give the fiddlers their ribands, and carry the rest in. Mistress Wanton, you must play my lady's woman to-day, and mince it to all that come, and hold up your head finely when they kiss you: and take heed of swearing when you are angry, and pledging whole cups when they drink to you.

WAN. I'll warrant you for my part.

CAPT. Go, get you in, then, and let your husband dip the rosemary.[271]

JOLLY. Is all ready?

CAPT. All, all; some of the company are below already. I have so blown it about, one porter is gone to the Exchange to invite Master Wild's merchant to his wedding, and, by the way, to bid two or three fruiterers to send in fruit for such a wedding; another in my lady's name to Sall's for sweetmeats. I swore at Bradborn in his shop myself, that I wondered he would disappoint Master Wild for his points, and having so long warning: he protested 'twas not his fault, but they were ready, and he would send John with them presently. One of the watermen is gone to the Melon garden; the other to Cook's, at the Bear, for some bottles of his best wine; and thence to Gracious Street to the poulterer's, and all with directions to send in provisions for Master Wild's wedding. And who should I meet at the door but apricock Tom and Mary, waiting to speak with her young master? They came to beg that they might serve the feast. I promised them they should, if they would cry it up and down the town, to bring company, for Master Wild was resolved to keep open house.

JOLLY. Why, then, here will be witnesses enough.

CAPT. But who should I meet at the corner of the Piazza, but Joseph Taylor:[272] he tells me there's a new play at the Friars to-day, and I have bespoke a box for Master Wild and his bride.

JOLLY. And did not he wonder to hear he was married?

CAPT. Yes; but I told him 'twas a match his aunt made for him when he was abroad.

JOLLY. And I have spread it sufficiently at court, by sending to borrow plate for such a wedding.

_Enter a_ SERVANT.

SER. There's half a dozen coachfuls of company lighted: they call for the bridelaces and points.

CAPT. Let the fiddlers play, then, and bid God give them joy by the name of my Lady Careless and Mistress Wild.

FID. Where shall we play, sir?

JOLLY. Come with us, we'll show you the window.

SCENE II.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play in the tiring-room; and the stage
curtains are drawn, and discover a chamber, as it were,
with two beds, and the ladies asleep in them_, MASTER
WILD _being at_ MISTRESS PLEASANT'S _bedside, and_ MASTER
CARELESS _at the_ WIDOW'S. _The music awakes the_ WIDOW.

WID. Niece, niece, niece Pleasant.

[_She opens the curtain and calls her: she is under a canopy_.

PLEA. Ha! I hear you, I hear you; what would you have?

WID. Do you not hear the fiddlers?

PLEA. Yes, yes; but you have waked me from the finest dream----

WID. A dream! what was't, some knavery!

PLEA. Why, I know not, but 'twas merry; e'en as pleasing as some sins. Well, I'll lie no more in a man's bed, for fear I lose more than I get.

WID. Hark! that's a new tune.

PLEA. Yes, and they play it well. This is your janty nephew: I would he had less of the father in him, I'd venture to dream out my dream with him. O' my conscience, he's worth a dozen of my dull servant; that's such a troublesome visitant, without any kind of conveniency.

WID. Ay, ay, so are all of that kind; give me your subject-lover; those you call servants are but troubles, I confess.

PLEA. What is the difference, pray, betwixt a subject and a servant lover?

WID. Why, one I have absolute power over, the other's at large: your servant-lovers are those who take mistresses upon trial, and scarce give them a quarter's warning before they are gone.

PLEA. Why, what do you subject-lovers do?--I am so sleepy.

WID. Do! all things for nothing: then they are the diligentest and the humblest things a woman can employ: nay, I ha' seen of them tame, and run loose about a house. I had one once, by this light, he would fetch and carry, go back, seek out; he would do anything: I think some falconer bred him.

PLEA. By my troth, I am of your mind.

WID. He would come over for all my friends; but it was the dogged'st thing to my enemies; he would sit upon's tail before them, and frown like John-a-Napes when the Pope is named. He heard me once praise my little spaniel bitch Smut for waiting, and hang me if I stirred for seven years after, but I found him lying at my door.

PLEA. And what became of him?

WID. Faith, when I married, he forsook me. I was advised since, that if I would ha' spit in's mouth sometimes, he would have stayed.

PLEA. That was cheap, but 'tis no certain way; for 'tis a general opinion that marriage is one of the certain'st cures for love that one can apply to a man that is sick of the sighings; yet if you were to live about this town still, such a fool would do you a world of service. I'm sure Secret will miss him, he would always take such a care of her, h' has saved her a hundred walks for hoods and masks.

WID. Yes, and I was certain of the earliest fruits and flowers that the spring afforded.

PLEA. By my troth, 'twas foolishly done to part with him; a few crumbs of your affections would have satisfied him, poor thing!

WID. Thou art in the right. In this town there's no living without 'em; they do more service in a house for nothing than a pair of those what-d'ye-call-'ems, those he-waiting-women beasts, that custom imposes upon ladies.

PLEA. Is there none of them to be had now, think you? I'd fain get a tame one to carry down into the country.

WID. Faith, I know but one breed of them about the town that's right, and that's at the court; the lady that has them brings 'em up all by hand: she breeds some of them from very puppies. There's another wit too in the town that has of them; but hers will not do so many tricks; good, sullen, diligent waiters those are which she breeds, but not half so serviceable.

PLEA. How does she do it? is there not a trick in't?

WID. Only patience; but she has a heavy hand with 'em (they say) at first, and many of them miscarry; she governs them with signs, and by the eye, as Banks breeds his horse.[273] There are some, too, that arrive at writing, and those are the right breed, for they commonly betake themselves to poetry: and if you could light on one of them, 'twere worth your money; for 'tis but using of him ill, and praising his verses sometimes, and you are sure of him for ever.

PLEA. But do they never grow surly, aunt?

WID. Not if you keep them from raw flesh; for they are a kind of lion-lovers, and if they once taste the sweet of it, they'll turn to their kind.

PLEA. Lord, aunt, there will be no going without one this summer into the country: pray, let's inquire for one, either a he-one to entertain us, or a she-one to tell us the story of her love; 'tis excellent to bedward, and makes one as drowsy as prayers.

WID. Faith, niece, this parliament has so destroyed 'em, and the Platonic humour, that 'tis uncertain whether we shall get one or no. Your leading members in the lower house have so cowed the ladies, that they have no leisure to breed any of late: their whole endeavours are spent now in feasting, and winning close committee men, a rugged kind of sullen fellows with implacable stomachs and hard hearts, that make the gay things court and observe them, as much as the foolish lovers use to do. Yet I think I know one she-lover; but she is smitten in years o' th' wrong side of forty. I am certain she is poor, too, and in this lean age for courtiers she perhaps would be glad to run this summer in our park.

PLEA. Dear aunt, let us have her. Has she been famous? has she good tales, think you, of knights, such as have been false or true to love, no matter which?

WID. She cannot want cause to curse the sex: handsome, witty, well-born, and poor in court, cannot want the experience how false young men can be: her beauty has had the highest fame; and those eyes, that weep now unpitied, have had their envy and a dazzling power.

PLEA. And that tongue, I warrant you, which now grows hoarse with flattering the great law-breakers, once gave law to princes: was it not so, aunt? Lord, shall I die without begetting one story?

WID. Penthesilea nor all the cloven knights the poets treat of, yclad in mightiest petticoats, did her excel for gallant deeds, and with her honour still preserved her freedom. My brother loved her; and I have heard him swear Minerva might have owned her language; an eye like Pallas, Juno's wrists, a Venus for shape, and a mind chaste as Diana; but not so rough: never uncivilly cruel, nor faulty kind to any; no vanity, that sees more than lovers pay, nor blind to a gallant passion. Her maxim was, he that could love, and tell her so handsomely, was better company, but not a better lover, than a silent man. Thus all passions found her civility, and she a value from all her lovers. But alas! niece, this _was_ (which is a sad word)--_was_ handsome and _was_ beloved are abhorred sounds in women's ears.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play again_.

PLEA. Hark! the fiddlers are merry still. Will not Secret have the wit to find us this morning, think you?

FID. [_Within._] God give you joy, Master Careless! God give your ladyship joy, my Lady Wild!

WID. What did the fellows say? God give me joy?

PLEA. As I live, I think so.

FID. God give you joy, Mistress Pleasant Wild!

WID. This is my nephew: I smell him in this knavery.

PLEA. Why did they give me joy by the name of Mistress Wild? I shall pay dear for a night's lodging if that be so; especially lying alone. By this light, there is some knavery afoot.

[_All the company confused without, and bid God give them
joy._

JOLLY. Rise, rise, for shame; the year's afore you.

CAPT. Why, Ned Wild; why, Tom, will you not rise and let's in? What, is it not enough to steal your wedding overnight, but lock yourselves up in the morning too? All your friends stay for points here, and kisses from the brides.

WILD. A little patience! you'll give us leave to dress us?

[_The women squeak when they speak_.

CARE. Why, what's o'clock, captain?

CAPT. It's late.

CARE. Faith, so it was before we slept.

WID. Why, nephew, what means this rudeness? As I live, I'll fall out with you. This is no jest.

WILD. No, as I live, aunt, we are in earnest; but my part lies here, and there's a gentleman will do his best to satisfy you. [_They catch the women in their arms._] And, sweet Mistress Pleasant, I know you have so much wit as to perceive this business cannot be remedied by denials. Here we are, as you see, naked,[274] and thus have saluted hundreds at the window that passed by, and gave us joy this morning.

PLEA. Joy! of what? what do you mean?

CARE. Madam, this is visible; and you may coy it, and refuse to call me husband, but I am resolved to call you wife, and such proofs I'll bring as shall not be denied.

[CARELESS _kisses the_ WIDOW.

WID. Promise yourself that; see whether your fine wits can make it good. You will not be uncivil?

CARE. Not a hair, but what you give, and that was in the contract before we undertook it; for any man may force a woman's body, but we have laid we will force your mind.

WILD. But that needs not, for we know by your discourse last night and this morning, we are men you have no aversion to; and I believe, if we had taken time, and wooed hard, this would have come o' course; but we had rather win you by wit, because you defied us.

WID. 'Tis very well, if it succeed.

CARE. And, for my part, but for the jest of winning you, and this way, not ten jointures should have made me marry.

WID. This is a new way of wooing.

CARE. 'Tis so, madam; but we have not laid our plot so weakly, though it were sudden, to leave it in anybody's power but our own to hinder it.

PLEA. Do you think so?

WILD. We are secure enough, if we can be true to ourselves.

CARE. Yet we submit in the midst of our strength, and beg you will not wifully spoil a good jest by refusing us. By this hand, we are both sound, and we'll be strangely honest, and never in ill humours; but live as merry as the maids, and divide the year between the town and the country. What say you, is't a match? Your bed is big enough for two, and my meat will not cost you much: I'll promise nothing but one heart, one purse betwixt us, and a whole dozen of boys. Is't a bargain?

WID. Not if I can hinder it, as I live.

WILD. Faith, Mistress Pleasant, he hath spoken nothing but reason, and I'll do my best to make it good: come, faith, teach my aunt what to do, and let me strike the bargain upon your lips.

PLEA. No, sir, not to be half a queen; if we should yield now, your wit would domineer for ever: and still in all disputes (though never so much reason on our side) this shall be urged as an argument of your master-wit to confute us. I am of your aunt's mind, sir, and, if I can hinder it, it shall be no match.

WILD. Why, then know it is not in your powers to prevent it.

WID. Why? we are not married yet.

CARE. No, 'tis true.

Wid. By this good light, then, I'll be dumb for ever hereafter, lest I light upon the words of marriage by chance.

PLEA. 'Tis hard, when our own acts cannot be in our own power, gentlemen.

WILD. The plot is only known to four: the minister, and two that stood for fathers, and a simple country maid that waited upon you last night, which plays your chambermaid's part.

PLEA. And what will all these do?

WILD. Why, the two friends will swear they gave you, the parson will swear he married you, and the wench will swear she put us to bed.

WID. Have you men to swear we are married?

PLEA. And a parson to swear he did it?

BOTH. Yes.

WID. And a wench that will swear she put us to bed?

BOTH. Yes, by this good light, and witness of reputation.

PLEA. Dare they or you look us in the face, and swear this?

CARE. Yes, faith; and all but those four know no other but really it is so; and you may deny it, but I'll make master constable put you to bed, with this proof, at night.

WID. Pray, let's see these witnesses.

WILD. Call in the four only.

[_Exit_ CARELESS.

PLEA. Well, this shall be a warning to me. I say nothing, but if ever I lie from home again----

WILD. I'll lie with you.

PLEA. 'Tis well. I daresay we are the first women, if this take, that ever were stolen against their wills.

WILD. I'll go call the gentlemen.

[_Exit_ WILD.

WID. I that have refused a fellow that loved me these seven years, and would have put off his hat, and thanked me to come to bed, to be beaten with watchmen's staves into another's!--for, by this good light, for aught that I perceive, there's no keeping these out at night.

PLEA. And unless we consent to be their wives to-day, master justice will make us their whores at night. O, O, what would not I give to come off? not that I mislike them, but I hate they should get us thus.

_Enter_ WILD, JOLLY, CAPTAIN, CARELESS, PARSON, WANTON, _with
rosemary in their hands, and points in their hats_.

CARE. Follow. Will not you two swear we were married last night?

JOLLY _and_ CAPT. Yes, by this light, will we.

WILD. Will you not swear you married us?

PAR. Yea, verily.

CARE. And come hither, pretty one: will not you swear you left us all abed last night, and pleased?

WAN. Yes, forsooth; I'll swear anything your worship shall appoint me.

WID. But, gentleman, have you no shame, no conscience? Will you swear false for sport?

JOLLY. By this light, I'll swear, if it be but to vex you: remember you refused me. That [_Aside_] is contrary to covenants, though, with my brace of lovers: what will they do with their coachman's plot? But 'tis no matter, I have my ends; and, so they are cosened, I care not who does it.

CAPT. And faith, madam, I have sworn many times false to no purpose; and I should take it ill, if it were mine own case, to have a friend refuse me an oath upon such an occasion.

PLEA. And are you all of one mind?

PAR. Verily, we will all swear.

PLEA. Will you verily? What shall we do, aunt?

[PLEASANT _laughs_.

WID. Do you laugh? by this light, I am heartily angry.

PLEA. Why, as I live, let's marry them, aunt, and be revenged.

WID. Marry! Where's the parson?

CAPT. Here, here, master parson, come and do your office.

PLEA. That fellow! no, by my troth, let's be honestly joined, for luck's sake: we know not how soon we may part.

WILD. What shall we do for a parson? Captain, you must run and fetch one.

CAPT. Yes, yes: but, methinks, this might serve turn: by this hand, he's a Marshall and a Case,[275] by sire and dam; pray, try him: by this light, he comes of the best preaching-kind in Essex.

WID. Not I, as I live; that were a blessing in the devil's name.

PAR. A pox on your wedding! give me my wife, and let me be gone.

CAPT. Nay, nay, no choler, parson. The ladies do not like the colour of your beard![276]

PAR. No, no, fetch another, and let them escape with that trick, then they'll jeer your beards blue, i' faith.

CARE. By this hand, he's in the right; either this parson, or take one another's words: to bed now, and marry when we rise.

PLEA. As I live, you come not here till you are married; I have been nobody's whore yet, and I will not begin with my husband.

WILD. Will you kiss upon the bargain, and promise before these witnesses not to spoil our jest, but rise and go to church?

PLEA. And what will Master Constant and Master Sad say?

CAPT. Why, I'll run and invite them to the wedding, and you shall see them expire in their own garters.

JOLLY. No, no, ne'er fear't, their jest is only spoiled.

CAPT. Their jest! what jest?

JOLLY. Faith, now you shall know it, and the whole plot. In the first place, your coachman is well, whose death we, by the help of Secret, contrived, thinking by that trick to prevent this danger, and carry you out of town.

CAPT. But had they this plot?

Jolly. Yes, faith, and see how it thrives! They'll fret like carted bawds when they hear this news.

PLEA. Why, aunt, would you have thought Master Sad a plotter? well, 'tis some comfort we have them to laugh at.

WID. Nay, faith, then, gentlemen, give us leave to rise, and I'll take my venture if it be but for revenge on them.

CARE. Gentlemen, bear witness.

CAPT. Come, come away, I'll get the points. I'm glad the coachman's well; the rogue had like to have spoiled our comedy.

[_Exeunt omnes._

SCENE III.

_Enter the_ LADY LOVEALL, MASTER SAD _and_ CONSTANT,
_undressed, and buttoning themselves as they go_.

SAD. Married?

CON. And to them?

LOVE. Ay, married, if you prevent it not: catched with a trick, an old stale trick; I have seen a ballad on't.

SAD. We shall go near to prevent 'em. Boy, my sword.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. Whither so fast?

SAD. You guess.

CAPT. If you mean the wedding, you come too late.

CON. Why, are they married?

CAPT. No, but lustily promised.

SAD. We may come time enough to be revenged, though----

CAPT. Upon whom? yourselves, for you are only guilty. Who carried them thither last night? who laid the plot for the coachman?

SAD. Why, do they know it?

LOVE. Well, you'll find the poet a rogue, 'tis he that has betrayed you; and if you'll take my counsel, be revenged upon him.

CON. Nay, we were told he did not love us.

CAPT. By my life, you wrong him: upon my knowledge, the poet meant you should have them.

SAD. Why, who had the power to hinder, then?

CAPT. I know not where the fault lies directly: they say the wits of the town would not consent to't; they claim a right in the ladies as orphan wits.

CON. The wits! hang 'em in their strong lines.

CAPT. Why, ay, such a clinch as that has undone you, and upon my knowledge 'twere enough to hinder your next match.

SAD. Why, what have they to do with us?

CAPT. I know not what you have done to disoblige them, but they crossed it: there was amongst 'em too a pair of she-wits, something stricken in years; they grew in fury at the mention of it, and concluded you both with an authority out of a modern author: besides, 'tis said you run naturally into the sixpenny-room, and steal sayings, and a discourse more than your pennyworth of jests every term. Why, just now you spit out one jest stolen from a poor play, that has but two more in five acts; what conscience is there in't, knowing how dear we pay poets for our plays?

CON. 'Twas madam with the ill face, one of those whom you refused to salute the other day at Chipp's house: a cheesecake had saved all this.

LOVE. Why do you not make haste about your business, but lose time with this babbler?

SAD. Madam, will you give us leave to make use of your coach?

LOVE. You may command it, sir: when you have done, send him to the Exchange, where I'll despatch a little business, and be with you immediately.

[_Exeunt all but the_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. So, this fire is kindled; put it out that can. What would not I give for a peeper's place at the meeting? I'll make haste, and it shall go hard, but I'll bear my part of the mirth too.

[_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_Enter_ WIDOW, PLEASANT, CARELESS, WILD, PARSON, JOLLY,
WANTON, _and_ SECRET: _the_ FIDDLERS _play as they
come in_.

PAR. Master Jolly, I find I am naturally inclined to mirth this day, and methinks my corns ache more than my horns; and to a man that has read Seneca, a cuckold ought to be no grief, especially in this parish, where I see such droves of St Luke's clothing. There's little Secret too, th' allay of waiting-woman, makes me hope she may prove metal of the parson's standard. Find a way to rid me of Wanton, and I'll put in to be chaplain to this merry family: if I did not inveigle formal Secret, you should hang me. I know the trick on't; 'tis but praying to, and preaching of the waiting-woman, then carefully seeing her cushion laid, with her book and leaf turned down, does it, with a few anagrams, acrostics, and her name in the register of my Bible: these charm the soft-souled sinner: then sometimes to read a piece of my sermon, and tell her a Saturday where my text shall be, spells that work more than philtres.

JOLLY. If you can be serious, we'll think of this at leisure. See how they eye Wanton!

CARE. What! consulting, parson? let us be judges betwixt you. D'ye hear, Jack? if he offers ready money, I counsel, as a friend, take it; for, by this light, if you refuse it, your wife will not. D'ye see those gay petticoats?

PAR. Yes, if you mean my wife's.

CARE. You know they're his, and she only wears 'em for his pleasure: and 'tis dangerous to have a wife under another man's petticoats. What if you should find his breeches upon her?

PAR. Are not you married too? take care that yours does not wear the breeches, another kind of danger, but as troublesome as that, or sore eyes; and if she get but a trick of taking as readily as she's persuaded to give, you may find a horn at home. I have seen a cuckold of your complexion; if he had had as much hoof as horn, you might have hunted the beast by his slot.[277]

PLEA. How fine she is! and, by this light, a handsome wench. Master Jolly, I am easier persuaded to be reconciled to your fault than any man's I have seen of this kind: her eyes have more arguments in 'em than a thousand of those that seduce the world; hang me, if those quivers be not full of darts; I could kiss that mouth myself. Is this she my aunt quarrelled with you for?

JOLLY. The same, selfsame: and, by this hand, I was barbarous to her, for your aunt's sake; and had I not 'scaped that mischief of matrimony, by this light, I had never seen her again. But I was resolved not to quit her till I was sure of a wife, for fear of what has followed. Had I been such an ass to have left her upon the airy hopes of a widow's oaths, what a case had I been in now! You see your aunt's provided of a man. Bless him, and send him patience! 'Twould have been fine to have seen me walking, and sighing upon cold hunting, seeking my whore again, or forced to make use of some common mercenary thing, that sells sin and diseases, crimes, penance, and sad repentance together! Here's consolation and satisfaction in Wanton, though a man lose his meal with the widow. And faith, be free--how do you like my girl? Rid thee of her! What does she want now, pray, but a jointure, to satisfy any honest man? Speak your conscience, ladies: don't you think a little repentance hereafter will serve for all the small sins that good-nature can act with such a sinner?

PAR. Pray, sir, remember she's my wife, and be so civil to us both, as to forget these things.

JOLLY. For that, Jack, we'll understand hereafter. 'Tis but a trick of youth, man, and her jest will make us both merry, I warrant thee.

PAR. Pray, sir, no more of your jests, nor your Jack. Remember my coat and calling. This familiarity, both with my wife and myself, is not decent: your clergy with Christian names are scarce held good Christians.

WID. I wonder at nothing so much as Master Jolly's mirth to-day! Where lies his part of the jest? Cosened or refused by all, not a fish that stays in's net.

JOLLY. No; what's this? [JOLLY _hugs_ WANTON.] Show me a fairer in all your streams. Nor is this my single joy, who am pleased to find you may be cosened; rejoice to see you may be brought to lie with a man for a jest. Let me alone to fit you with a trick too.

CARE. Faith, it must be some new trick; for thou art so beaten at the old one, 'twill neither please thee nor her; besides, I mean to teach her that myself.

PLEA. I shall never be perfectly quiet in my mind till I see somebody as angry as myself: yet I have some consolation, when I think on the wise plot that killed the coachman. How the plague, red cross, and halbert has cut their fingers that designed it! their anger will be perfect. Secret says they are coming, and that the Lady Loveall has given 'em the alarm.

_Enter_ SAD _and_ CONSTANT.

WILD. And see where the parties come!--storms and tempests in their minds! their looks are daggers.

PLEA. Servant, what, you're melancholy, and full of wonder! I see you have met the news.

SAD. Yes, madam; we have heard a report that will concern both your judgment and your honour.

PLEA. Alas, sir! we're innocent; 'tis mere predestination.

CON. All weddings, Master Sad, you know, go by chance, like hanging.

PLEA. And, I thank my stars, I have 'scaped hanging. To ha' been his bride had been both.

CON. This is not like the promise you made us yesterday.

WID. Why, truly, servant, I scarce know what I do yet. The fright of the plague had so possessed my mind with fear, that I could think and dream of nothing last night but of a tall black man that came and kissed me in my sleep, and slapped his whip in mine ears. 'Twas a saucy ghost, not unlike my coachman that's dead, and accused you of having a hand in his murder, and vowed to haunt me till I was married. I told my niece the dream.

PLEA. Nay, the ghost sighed, and accused Secret and Master Sad of making him away. Confess, faith, had you a hand in that bloody jest?

WID. Fie, servant! Could you be so cruel as to join with my woman against me?

CON. 'Tis well, ladies. Why a pox do you look at me? This was your subtle plot; a pox on your clerk's wit! You said the jest would beget a comedy when 'twas known, and so I believe 'twill.

SAD. Madam, I find you have discovered our design, whose chief end was to prevent this mischief, which I doubt not but you'll both live to repent your share of, before you have done travelling to the Epsoms, Bourbonne,[278] and the Spaws, to cure those travelled diseases these knights-errant have with curiosity sought out for you. 'Tis true, they are mischiefs that dwell in pleasant countries, yet those roses have their thorns; and I doubt not but these gentlemen's wit may sting as well as please sometime; and you may find it harder to satisfy their travelled experience than to have suffered our home-bred ignorance.

CARE. Hark, if he be not fallen into a fit of his cousin! these names of places he has stolen out of her receipt-book: amongst all whose diseases find me any so dangerous, troublesome, or incurable as a fool; a lean, pale, sighing, coughing fool, that's rich and poor both; being born to an estate, without a mind or heart capable to use it; of a nature so miserable, he grudges himself meat; nay, they say, he eats his meals twice: a fellow whose breath smells of yesterday's dinner, and stinks as if he had eat all our suppers over again. I would advise you, Master Sad, to sleep with your mouth open to air it, or get the brewer to tun it. Foh! an empty justice, that stinks of the lees and casks, and belches Littleton and Plowden's cases! Dost thou think any woman, that has wit or honour, would kiss that bung-hole? By this light, his head and belly look as blue and lank as French rabbits or stale poultry! Alas, sir! my lady would have a husband to rejoice with; no green-tailed lecturer, to stand sentry at his bedside, while his nasty soul scours through him, sneaking out at the back-door! These, sir, are diseases which neither the Spaw or Bath can cure: your garters and willow are a more certain remedy.

CON. Well, sir, I find our plot's betrayed, and we have patience left. 'Tis that damned captain has informed.

SAD. Yet 'tis one comfort, madam, that you have missed that man of war, that knight of Finsbury. His dowager, with ale and switches, would ha' bred a ballad.

PLEA. Faith, sir, you see what a difficulty it is in this age for a woman to live honest, though she have a proper man for her husband; therefore, it behoves us to consider whom we choose.

JOLLY. The lady has reason: for, being allowed but one, who would choose such weasels as we see daily married? that are all head and tail, crooked, dirty, sordid vermin, predestined for cuckolds, painted snails, with houses on their backs, and horns as big as Dutch cows! Would any woman marry such? Nay, can any woman be honest that let's such hodmandods crawl o'er her virgin breast and belly, or suffer 'em to leave their slimy paths upon their bodies only for jointures? Out! 'tis mercenary and base! The generous heart has only the laws of nature and kindness in her view, and when she will oblige, Friend is all the ties that Nature seeks; who can both bear and excuse those kind crimes. And, I believe, one as poor as the despised captain and neglected courtier may make a woman as happy in a friendship as Master Sad, who has as many faults as we have debts: one whose father had no more credit with Nature than ours had with Fortune; whose soul wears rags as well as the captain's body.

SAD. Nay, then, I'll laugh; for I perceive y' are angrier than we. Alas! h' has lost both ventures--Wanton and the widow.

JOLLY. Both; and neither so unlucky as to be thy wife. Thy face is hanged with blacks already: we may see the bells toll in thy eyes. A bride and a wedding-shirt, a sexton and a winding-sheet. A scrivener to draw up jointures, a parson to make thy will, man. By this light, he's as chap-fallen as if he had lain under the table all night.

CARE. Faith, Master Sad, he's parlously in the right. Ne'er think of marrying in this dull clime. Wedlock's a trade you'll ne'er go through with. Wives draw bills upon sight, and 'twill not be for your credit to protest them. Rather follow my counsel, and marry _Ã la Venetiano_, for a night and away; a pistole jointure does it: then, 'tis but repenting in the morning, and leave your woman and the sin both i' th' bed. But if you play the fool, like your friends, and marry in serious earnest, you may repent it too, as they do; but where's the remedy?

[_This is spoken a little aside._

WID. What was't you said, sir? Do you repent?

CARE. By this hand, widow, I don't know: but we have pursued a jest a great way. Parson, are you sure we are married?

PAR. Yes, I warrant you, for their escaping.

CARE. Their escaping! Fool, thou mistakest me; there's no fear of that! But I would fain know if there be no way for me to get out of this noose? no hole to hide a man's head in from this wedlock?

PAR. Not any, but what I presume she'll show you anon.

CARE. Hum! now do I feel all my fears flowing in upon me. Wanton and Mistress Pleasant both grow dangerously handsome. A thousand graces in each I never observed before. Now, just now, when I must not taste, I begin to long for some of their plums.

WID. Is this serious, sir!

CARE. Yes, truly, widow, sadly serious. Is there no way to get three or four mouthfuls of kisses from the parson's wife?

WID. This is sad, sir, upon my wedding-day, to despise me for such a common thing.

SAD. As sad as I could wish. This is a jest makes me laugh.--Common! No, madam, that's too bitter; she's forest only, where the royal chase is as free as fair.

WAN. Were not you a widow to-day?

SAD. Yes, faith, girl, and as foolish a one as ever coach jumbled out of joint.

WAN. Stay, then, till to-morrow, and tell me the difference betwixt us.

SAD. I hope thou'lt prove a she-prophet. Could I live to see thee turn honest wife, and she the wanton widow!

WAN. I cannot but laugh, to see how easy it is to lose or win the opinion of the world. A little custom heals all; or else what's the difference betwixt a married widow and one of us? Can any woman be pure, or worth the serious sighing of a generous heart, that has had above one hand laid upon her? Is there place to write above one lover's name with honour in her heart? 'Tis indeed for one a royal palace; but if it admits of more, an hospital or an inn at best, as well as ours: only off from the road and less frequented.

PLEA. Shrewdly urged.

WAN. And though the sins of my family threw me into want, and made me subject to the treachery of that broken faith, to whose perjury I owe all my crimes, yet still I can distinguish betwixt that folly and this honour, which must tell you: _He or she, that would be thought twice so, was never once a lover._

CON. Parson, thou art fitted! a whore and apothegms! What sport will she make us under a tree with a salad and sayings in the summer!

WILD. Come, Wanton, no fury; you see my aunt's angry.

WAN. So am I, sir, and yet can calmly reason this truth. Married widows, though chaste to the law and custom, yet their second Hymens make that, which was but dyeing in the first husband's bed, a stain in the second's sheets; where all their kindness and repeated embraces want their value, because they're sullied, and have lost their lustre.

SAD. By this light, I'll go to school to Wanton; she has opened my eyes, and I begin to believe I have 'scaped miraculously. By this hand, wench, I was within an inch of being married to this danger; for what can we call these second submissions, but a tolerated lawful mercenariness which though it be a rude and harsh expression, yet your carriage deserves it?

PLEA. Fie, Master Sad! pray leave being witty. I fear 'tis a mortal sin to begin in the fifth act of your days: upon an old subject, too--abusing of widows because they despise you!

WID. Alas, niece! let him alone: he may come in for his share: the parson, that has so oft received 'em, will not refuse him tithes there in charity.

WAN. That or conveniency, interest or importunity, may by your example prevail: but 'tis not fair play, madam, to turn your lover to the common, as you call it, now he's rid lean in your service. Take heed, Master Careless, and warning, Master Sad; you see how fit for the scavenger's team your lady leaves her lovers!

CARE. Such a lecture, before I had married, would ha' made me have considered of this matter. Dost thou hear, Wanton? Let us forgive one another being married, for that folly has made us guilty alike.

WAN. And I would fain know the difference betwixt ours and a wedding crime, which is worst: to let love, youth, and good-humour betray us to a kindness, or to be gravely seduced by some aunt or uncle, without consideration of the disparity of age, birth, or persons, to lie down before a jointure. Ladies, you may flatter yourselves; but the ingenuous part of the world cannot deny but such minds, had they been born where our faults are not only tolerated but protected, would have listened to the same things: interest counsels thereto.

CARE. Parson, what boot betwixt our wives? either come to a price, or draw off your doxy.

PAR. Propose, propose: here will be mirth anon.

SAD. Yes, yes, propose, while I break it to your lady. Madam, you see, here's a proper man to be had, and money to boot. What, dumb?

WAN. No, she's only thinking. Faith, madam, try 'em both to-night, and choose to-morrow.

WILD. Come, no more of this. Aunt, take my word for your husband, that have had more experience of him than all these: 'tis true he will long for these girls, as children do for plums; and when h' has done, make a meal upon cheese. And you must not wonder nor quarrel at what he says in his humour, but judge him by his actions; and when he is in his fit, and raves most, put him into your bed, and fold him close in your arms, aunt: if he does not rise as kind and as good a husband as he that sings psalms best, hang me? Why, you're a fool, aunt: a widow, and dislike a longing bridegroom! I thought you had known better. Do you love a spurred horse rather than a ducker, that neighs and scrapes? I would not say this, but that I know him. Let him not go out of your sight, for he's now in season--a ripe, mature husband. No delays: if you let him hang longer upon hope, his fruit will fall alone.

WID. You are merry, sir; but if I had known this humour----

WILD. You'd ha' kissed him first; but, being ignorant, let me make you blush. Come, a kiss, and all's friends. [_She kisses_ CARELESS, _and he kisses her twice_.] How now, sir, again! again!

PLEA. Aunt, look to yourself.

CARE. Um! By this light, sweetheart, and I thank thee. Nay, widow, there's no jesting with these things--[_Kisses her again_]--nay, I am a lion in my love. Aware, puss, if you flatter me, for I shall deceive you.

PAR. Since all are cosened, why should I be troubled at my fortune? Faith, gentlemen, what will you two give for a wife betwixt you?

CON. Faith, they're mischiefs dear bought, though a man get 'em for nothing.

PAR. I'm almost of his mind; and if other people find no more pleasure in a married life than I upon my wedding-day, I'd pass my time in the Piazza with the mountebank, and let him practise upon my teeth, and draw 'em too, ere he persuades the words of matrimony out of my mouth again. Ay, ay, Master Constant, you may laugh, you ha' missed a wife; would I were in your case, the world should see how cheerfully I should bear such an affliction.

CON. Jack, I ha' made my peace at home: and by seeing others shipwrecked, will avoid the danger, and here resolve never to sigh again for any woman: they're weeds grow in every hedge; and transplanting of 'em thus to our beds gives certain trouble, seldom pleasure, never profit.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

PAR. See where the enemy comes! Now, if you be wise, arm, and unite against him as a common foe. He's come from his old lady, designing a reconciliation. The rogue's provident, and would fain have a nest for his age to rest in. Buff and feathers do well in the youth and heat of thirty; but in the winter of old age captain at threescore, lame and lean, may lie with the almanac out of date.

CAPT. The parson's grown witty, and prophesies upon the strength of bridecake. If I guess aright, thou'lt be hanged: for 'tis a truth, I have been endeavouring to make it appear her fears were mistaken in me; but I find the witch more implacable than the devil. The waiting-woman is harder to forgive [for] her part than my lady. Faithful will not be reconciled: the merciless bawd is all fire and sword, no quarter. Bless me from an old waiting-woman's wrath! She'll never forgive me the disappointing her of a promise when I was drunk. Her lady and she are coming, but in such a fury, I would not have the storm find you out in the street: therefore I counsel you to avoid the boys, and take shelter in the next house.

WILD. No, let's home, and with all diligence get our dinner to defend us; and let the porter dispute it at the wicket, till she signs articles of peace.

OMNES. Agreed.

[CARELESS _is kind to the_ WIDOW. _As he goes out_, WILD _and_
PLEASANT _go together_; JOLLY _and the_ PARSON'S _wife go
together_.

WILD. See how they pair now! 'Tis not threescore year will part 'em, now he has tasted a kiss or two.

JOLLY. Parson, I'll be your brideman.

PAR. 'Tis well, sir; I shall ha' my time too.

JOLLY. Ay, by this hand. Nay, we'll share fairly.

CAPT. That's but reason, Wanton; and since he grows tame, use him kindly, for my sake.

PAR. Can any of you digest sponge and arsenic?

CAPT. Arsenic! what's that?

PAR. An Italian salad, which I'll dress for you, by Jove, ere I'll walk in my canonical coat lined with horn. Death! if I suffer this, we shall have that damned courtier pluck on his shoes with the parson's musons. Fine, i' faith! none but the small Levite's brow to plant your shoeing-horn seed in? How now?

[_As he is going off, the_ CAPTAIN _stays him_.

CAPT. Prythee, Jack, stay, and say something to the gentlemen by way of epilogue. Thou art a piece of scurvy poet thyself; prythee, oblige the author, and give us a line or two in praise of his play.

PAR. I oblige him! hang him and all his friends, and hurt nobody. Yes, I am likely to speak for him. You see how I ha' been used to-day betwixt you. I shall find a time to be revenged. Let go my cloak; I have a province within of mine own to govern: let me go.

CAPT. Who, thy wife? Faith, stay and give them an opportunity; thy pain will be the sooner over. You see, 'tis a thing resolved betwixt 'em; and now thou'rt satisfied in the matter, be wise and silent; who knows what good she may do thee another time? I dare say, if she had as many souls in her as she had men, she'd bring thee a cure of herself.

PAR. Let me go, or I shall be as troublesome as you are injurious, for all your titles, sir.

CAPT. Lend me your cloak then, to appear more decent; you'd not ha' me present epilogue in buff,[279] whoreson dunce, with a red nose?

PAR. Sir, my business is praying, not epilogues.

CAPT. With that face? By this light, 'tis a scandal to see it flaming so near the altar: thou look'st as if thou'dst cry _Tope_ in the face of the congregation, instead of _Amen_.

PAR. Thou'rt an ass, 'tis proper there; 't has zeal and fervour in't, and burns before the altar like the primitive lamps.

CAPT. I cry thee mercy. By this light, he'll make it sacrilege anon to steal his nose! thou'lt entitle the altar to that coal. Was't not kindled _ex voto_? Nay, I will have your cloak.

PAR. Take it; would 'twere Nessus's shirt, for you and your poet's sake.

[_Exit_ PARSON.

CAPT. What, does the rogue wish 'twere made of nettles?[280]

[CAPTAIN _puts on his cloak, and addresses himself to speak
the epilogue, and is interrupted by_ LADY LOVEALL, _and_
FAITHFUL _her woman, who, in haste and full of anger,
pull him by the cloak_.

LOVE. By your favour, sir, did you see any company pass this way?

CAPT. None but the three brides, and they are gone just before you. Hark! the music will guide you.

[_The music plays._

LOVE. Is it certain, then, they're married?

CAPT. Yes, lady; I saw the church's rites performed.

FAITH. Why does your ladyship lose time in talking with this fellow? don't you know him, madam? 'tis the rascally captain, hid in a black cloak. I know you, sirrah.

LOVE. She has reason; now I mark him better, I should know that false face too. See, Faithful, there are those treacherous eyes still.

CAPT. Alas! you mistake me, madam, I am Epilogue now. The captain's within, and as a friend, I counsel you not to incense the gentlemen against the poet, for he knows all your story, and if you anger him, he'll put it in a play; but if you'll do friendly offices, I'll undertake, instead of your pearl you lost, to help you to the jewel; the Scotch Dictionary will tell you the value of it. Let them go alone, and fret not at their loss. Stay, and take my counsel: it shall be worth three revenges.

LOVE. Well, what is't, sir?

CAPT. They say you have a great power over the parson: if you can prevail with him to express his anger in some satiric comedy (for the knave has wit, and they say his genius lies that way), tell him 'tis expected he should be revenged upon the illiterate courtier that made this play. If you can bring this business about, I may find a way, as Epilogue, to be thankful, though the captain abused you to-day. Think on't: Stephen[281] is as handsome, when the play is done, as Master Wild was in the scene.

LOVE. There's something of reason in what he says. [_Aside._] But, my friend, how shall one believe you? you that were such a rascal to-day in buff, is it to be hoped you can be honest only with putting on a black cloak? Well, I'll venture once again; and if I have any power, he shall sting the malicious rascal, and I think he is fit for such a business. I'm sure he has the worst tongue, and a conscience that neither honour nor truth binds; and therefore 'tis to be believed, if he will rail in public, he may be even with your poet. I will clothe and feed him and his muse this seven years, but I will plague him. Secret tells me, 'twas your poet too that pawned me to-day in the tavern.

CAPT. By my faith, did he; nay, 'twas he that told me of your friendship with Jolly.

LOVE. I wonder the parson has been so long silent; a man of his coat and parts to be beaten with a pen by one that speaks sense by rote, like parrots! one that knows not why sense is sense, but by the sound! one that can scarce read, nay, not his own hand! Well, remember your promise.

CAPT. Leave it to me, he is yours; and if our plot take, you shall have all your shares in the mirth, but not the profit of the play; and the parson more than his tithe, a second day.

LOVE. We will discourse of this some other time. And pray despatch what 'tis you have to say to this noble company, that I may be gone; for those gentlemen will be in such fury if I stay, and think, because we are alone, God knows what.

CAPT. 'Tis no matter what they think; 'tis not them we are to study now, but these guests, to whom pray address yourself civilly, and beg that they would please to become fathers, and give those brides within. What say you, gentlemen, will you lend your hands to join them? The match, you see, is made. If you refuse, Stephen misses the wench, and then you cannot justly blame the poet; for, you know, they say that alone is enough to spoil the play.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES: THE REBELLION

[1] [This play was reprinted in 1654, 4^o, but not again till it was included in the "Ancient British Drama," 1810, 3 vols. 8^o, with a curious mixture of old and modern spelling, a series of the most atrocious blunders, and without any attention to the punctuation; in fact, the text of 1810 is almost unintelligible.]

[2] [See further in Walpole's "Anecdotes," edit. 1862, pp. 400-1; but a comedy entitled "Tom Essence," printed in 1677, is there ascribed to his pen.]

[3] [He has commendatory verses to Chamberlain's "Jocabella," 1640, and the same writer's "Swaggering Damsel," printed in that year.]

[4] [Respecting the Ducie family, see Lysons's "Environs of London," first edit., iv. 327; Walpole's "Anecdotes of Painting," edit. 1862, p. 401; and "Inedited Poetical Miscellanies," 1870.]

[5] [A well-known poet and playwright]

[6] [Probably Charles Gerbier, author of "Elogium Heronium," 1651, and other works.]

[7] [The dramatist.]

[8] [It is difficult to appropriate these initials, unless they belong to Robert Wild.]

[9] [The author of "Nocturnal Lucubrations," 1637, the "Swaggering Damsel," 1640, &c.]